#sansa stark imagines

[vintrage]

can someone please get this girl her dog back

[wraithwen]

northern birds

[myladysapphire]

Love, the death of duty

duty part two

married near six years, you learn that duty is truly the death of love, and yet when Robbs brother, jon, returns to winterfell, you find that perhpas you where wrong, perhaps love is the death of duty.

You can find the requests here and here

word count: 3,838

CW: MDI, 18+, Smut, cheating, p in v, fingering, oral (f reciving), slight breeding kink (if you squint), not beta read!

Jon Snow x Frey!reader/ Robb Stark x Frey!reader

Masterlist | Part one

dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Jon snow had been at the wall for near ten years before he returned home. Ten years, six as lord commander before he was betrayed by his own men. And though he had gone to the wall of his own volition, a choice he made to better himself, to find a place in the world, he knew it was time to return to Winterfell. His brother Rob had written him begging him and asking for his homecoming, and even declaring as King he could commanded him home, and now he was finally listening.

He didn’t know what to expect, if he would be welcomed or scorned.

But one thing he did not expect was you.

He knew his brother had married, had had children, but never did he expect you to be his wife.

Someone of such beauty and kindness, and with such a profound view of duty it made his heart ache.

He had expected you to be harsh, almost too similar to the lady Catelyn. But instead, you had shown him nothing but kindness.

“Jon Snow?” you asked, approaching his as he brought his horse into the stable.

“My lady” he greeted, head bowing in recognition.

“It’s an honour to finally meet you” she spoke, a soft smile on her lips. And Jon had been struck instantly by you, you smile had stirred something in him that he had never felt before. And the way you had gone out of your way to greet him, even walking him to his rooms, rooms you had picked and had made ready for him.

You had made him feel welcomed in a way no one had before at Winterfell. Of course, his half siblings had always welcomed him, but he never found a home here, until you made sure he did.

“How far along are you” he asked, as you walked him to his chambers.

“Near eight moons now.”

“And it is your third?”

You flinched, had his eyes never left yours, stuck on you at every moment, he was sure he would have missed it.

“No, my second” you spoke that part with happiness, the second however was a tone he had hear many times, the tone of a lady fulfilling her duty, “Robbs third��.

He had never thought Robb would father a bastard, he knew of Jons woes and how hard his life had been, and yet he had actively gone about it. He felt nothing but anger at the fact and even more at the clear pain in your eyes. It was clear from the start what your marriage was, there was no love or respect, simply wedding vows long broken.

He shook his head in disappointment, “I am sorry, my lady, I did not know” he hesitated for a moment, as the doors to his chambers opened. They were different from his youth, where he now slept in the same halls as his half siblings and not in the servants quarters as he once had, “Robb only spoke of a wife and two children, I never thought-“

“Do not worry, Jon…I am not offended” you shook your head, turning to face him, “it is something I must bear…not you”.

“I am sorry, my lady” he bowed his head, as he entered his room.

“I hope it is to your liking, I…Sansa told me a few things that you liked in her visit a few moons ago, and Arya helped find the things you had left from before”.

“It is perfect, my lady…truly it is more than enough”.

You smiled, insisting he call you by your name, “let me know of anything you may need” you said turning to leave.

And Jon remained struck by you and your kindness, not many would make a bastard feel so welcome, especially one scorned as you had been.

They say that duty is the death of love, and that love is the death of duty.

You believed you were the very meaning of this statement.

Your marriage was a one of duty, such duty that love had died before it could even blossom, and where Robb had neglected his own duty to you, in favour of love, causing duty to die for him, and love to blossom. But not with you, never with you.

You had known that every day of your marriage.

Even more so the day she had died.

He had spent every moment of her labours beside her, a vast contrast to yours.

Holding her hand and crying tears of joy and then of grief.

And you realised you were only a duty, a duty he happily forgot of.

And yet for a year you had chosen to ignore it, only for more hurt to be caused.

And in the  five moons since that day, the day where he chooses the ghost of a dead woman over his wife, you realised there would never be love where there was duty.

Though you painted the image of the dutiful wife, happy and content to be a wife, mother and lady, you still craved love.

Desired it.

Even if it was not with your husband.

There was nothing, not even respect to be found with him.

Not when know you lost all hope of ever having a marriage of love. It seemed to be the burden of woman. Where men can fuck and love as many women as they desire, woman are more often than not left with the duty of marriage.

You and Robb were strangers now, you had moved away from your old chambers, though still in the great keep, your rooms were now closer to Jon’s quarters than his.

Jon.

Your mind was stuck on him, though he seemed shy and guarded, you couldn’t stop of thinking of him. Assessing every detail of him, taking in every word he spoke, every action he did.

Of the ways his eyes followed you, how he seemed to hang on every word you said.

In all honestly, she sought him out more often than not, they even developed a routine. Spending their lunches together and always at beside each other at dinner.

And though you both had your duties, he had been given as hand of the king, and yet despite his ever-building duties, you both saw each other much more often than what was appropriate.

He made time for you where Robb neglected you.

He cared for you where Robb scorned you.

And as time passed, you found Cregan more in the presence of Jon than his own father, found yourself looking for Jon wherever you went you slowly realised that you loved Jon in a way you had only dreamt about loving Robb.

He was always there, either by your side or in your thoughts.

Whereas your husband was never there either in presence or thought, even less in the lives of his children.

He had no quells when Talissa mother came from the summer isles and took Minisa away, eland you had even less. A part of you wished you had cared more, having taken care of her for the past two years and yet you only felt slight relief when she left, though you would never admit it.

Even as you remember the conversation you and her had had years before.

“do you hate me?” you remember her asking, as she bounced baby Minisa in her arms, and you Cradled Cregan in yours.

“why do you think that?” you sighed, having only been civil, out of fear of facing a side of your husband you did not think existed.

“why shouldn’t i?”

“you are the reason I will never find love in my marriage, I resent you for it but I suppose you resent me for marrying Robb, for being his duty”

“I am more jealous, I am simple a mistress, the mother of his bastard, you are the wife the mother of his heir. You have everything-“

“no I don’t” you spoke softly, “I do not have love, respect or happiness in my marriage, I do not have a husband that wants me” you placed Cregan softly in his crib. “I do not hate you, but I will not be your friend…I can’t not when you have stolen the one thing I wanted…love”

“I didn’t mean too”

“I know, and that’s why I don’t hate you…Robb is the one at fault here, not us…and yet I must face the burden of his mistakes, I must act for duty where he can act for love…if I hate anyone it is him”

She nodded in understanding.

You stood in silence, watching your babes as they fell to sleep, neither of you saying a word.

As most of your time was spent with her.

“would you keep them apart?” she spoke after moments.

“they are siblings, half or not…I would not keep them apart if they did not want to be”

“good” she smiled.

And yet that had changed.

The day she died, the bed fever taking her and yet she had asked for you as she suffered in pain.

“do not hate her” she breathed, “I do not ask you to love her…but please don’t hate her” “I won’t” you swallowed, a feeling of sadness washing over you.

“my mother- my mother will come for her…please don’t let her” she breathed heavily, “I want her with Robb…please” she coughed, her eyes drooping.

Robb barged back in the room, stopping the conversation. And moons later you could do little to respect her final words as her mother took Minisa, little as Robb command her gone, and even less as a weight began to lift of your shoulder.

You hated it, how easy it was to forgo a dying woman’s final words, but you had forced her mother to write to Robb and allow Minisa to write to Creagan. You would let them know there sibling even if they were an ocean apart.

Your marriage was a farce and the birth of your second child was all the proof you needed to show that.

A moon since Jon return and yet you had grown more closer to him in a moon than you had with your husband in six years.

Where Robb had left both times you went into labour, taking days to visit, Jon had held your hand through it all, and had been the first after you and the midwife to hold the babe.

If anyone saw you both, the way he was with you every day and night, sleeping in your rooms, albeit on a coat, it  would have been easy to assume he was your husband, especially with the way his gaze never left yours, his hand holding yours through your pains and never letting go, even after.

“What will you name him?” he asked, after you had finally been left alone, the babe cradled in his arm.

“Eddard, mayhaps” you started, though there was hesitation at the name, “I know Robb wanted to name…to name Minisa that is she were a boy”.

“So not Eddard” Jon spoke, handing the babe to you, he crouched to your side, “mayhaps Edric or Benjen?” he suggested, Benjen you assumed after his uncle.

You hummed, “Edric is a good name” tasting the name on your tongue, “Cregan and Edric”

“So, Edric Stark?” he spoke, tone soft as he gazed up at you.

“yes”

With the birth of your second, you deemed your Marriage officially over, you had given him and heir and a spare and even then, his sister Sansa had married Willis Tyrell and birthed her own sons, and Rickon had begun to court an Erena Glover. You were sure Robb would find no shortage of heirs and so was he. And he was more than content to let you be, ignoring your presence at any time bar feasts and officially Gatherings, or on occasion the few times he and you were in the same room with your children.

You and Jon however, your friendship had blossomed into so much more.

With lingering stares and casual touches, you felt your heart blossom in his presence.

no longer did you feel the chains of duty, no longer did the word duty fill your mind and taunt your nights.

Now the word love did.

Jon had been here six moons now and you were thoroughly and completely in love with him.

Your mind was always on him, you time spent with him or your children. Even Cregan and Edric spent more time with him than Robb.

Robb seemed to care little for the family, stuck in his own misery, misery he made himself and every effort to get out of it was half arsed and only done as a distraction with no true meaning to it.

But Love, you finally knew what it was, you felt it when Jon looked at you and when you looked at him and yet neither of you said it.

Neither of you were prepared to cross the line.

You were still married by law and in the eyes of the gods, and yet there was no marriage. Nothing of your marriage followed the meaning of the word.

Your heart belonged to Jon, you just needed to tell him.

A year into Jons homecoming and your fleeting romance though nothing ever was said or acted upon.

But now you stood under the weirwood tree, your heart bared to Jon.

“Jon” you whispered, his head in your lap, your hand running through his curls.

“yes?” he hummed, focusing his gaze away from the book he had been reading.

“I…I love you” you final spoke, after moons of feeling it, of the sheer desire for him and want to bare yourself to him. And yet you had waited, for what you did not know, but today, in this moment it felt perfect.

He smiled, a pure smile of joy at your words, as he quickly moved of your lap “I love you” he spoke in return, his face moving inches away from yours, your breaths becoming one for a moment before your lips where on his.

You had never kissed anyone before, even after all these years of marriage, only a small peck on your wedding day.

But this, a slow passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of your emotions, your love into it was so different than a small dutiful peck.

Your lips followed his movements, moving with his, as he pulled you into his lap. Your hands moving to his hair as you continued to kiss.

A low moan left you, only to be swallowed by Jon as he began to kiss you harder, more passionately.

“Jon” you whimpered, separating your lips from his.

His face chasing yours as you moved away.

“what is it?” he hummed, his hands caressing your sides.

“anyone could see us…” though the thrill of being caught was not lost on you, you were still a married woman, and your children’s legitimacy would be put into question if you were caught.

He hummed, “come with me” he spoke, moving you off his lap before standing a reaching for your hand.

You had thought you had explored the gods woods in its entirety, found every nook and cranny and yet it seemed a youth spent running the woods had allowed Jon to find a spot only years spent getting lost in the woods would allow you to find.

It was a small cave, covered in leaves and blocked off by trees and endless bushes.

A small whole a the top allowed the summer sun to shine through, lighting up the small space and to reveal a moss covered floor.

“we could go back to your rooms…or mine” he spoke, hesitantly, unsure if you would approve of his small little space. It was clear that he had been here a good few time, like this was his space away from everyone, and the basket sat in the corner was a clear indicator of it. With a blanket, a book and an old bottle of wine.

you turned to face him, “its fine…we can save a bed for another time” you said, before leaning up and pressing your lips to his once more, in a heated, sloppy kiss.

He slowly backed you into the wall as he kissed you back, his hands gripping your waist as he began to play the laces on the side of your dress.

You gently pushed him off you, sending him a teasing smile as you started to undress in front of him.

You had never been fully naked in front of anyone, not even Robb, something always stayed on, a barrier from truly being intimate.

And as Jon joined you, undressing himself and allowing you both to stand bare before the other, you had never felt more intimate. Never felt that a moment was more right.

With you sat upon the blanket, Jon moved towards you, caressing your face and leaning his body over yours.

Your eyes locked in a heated gaze as your lips modelled together in a heated, passionate kiss.

His body grinding against yours as his hands moved to cup your breasts.

“your beautiful” he spoke, placing soft kisses on your lips, before moving down your body towards your breasts and placing soft kisses around your nipple, before taking your breast in to his mouth, licking and sucking as he did.

You moaned as he alternated between your breasts, Your gripped his hair, tugging softly at each flick of his tongue.

“your perfect” he spoke once more, letting go of your breast, “I love you” he whispered before moving down your body and licked at your folds, causing you to whimper and moan even more.

Your hands found there way to his hair once more. And they always seemed to, you loved his hair, his curls, even more so now as the peeped out between your thigsh as he lapped at your cunt.

“Jon” you moaned, as you felt a pleasure your own fingers nor Robb had ever given you before, it was overwhelming, the sensation filling your senses as he continued to lick at your clit, and slowly brought his fingers to your entrance.

Groaning as his fingers entered your, he relished in the tightness of your cunt.

He continued to lap at your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of you, licking at your heat as if he was a man starved and you were his last meal.

You felt your peak fast approaching, your hands gripping and tugging his hair harder, your legs wrapping around his head in away you were sure would choke him.

“JON!” you screamed as your peak finally hit your cunt clenching tightly around his fingers as you came.

You swallowed roughly as he moved up your body, taking your mouth with his in a possessive kiss, the taste of you evident on your tongue.

His hard cock was positioned between your thighs.

“can i?” he breathed against your lips.

“yes.” You breathed, and he finally entered you.

He slowly rocked his hips into yours, allowing you time to adjust to his cock.

After so long, with only your fingers, the feeling of a cock, of Jon was more than enough to send you over the edge as he became to thrust in and out of you, hi space moving picking up, as your legs wrapped around his waist.

He groaned into your neck, as your cunt tightened around him.

Your peak fast approaching.

“I’m going to cum” he moaned into you, as your cunt fluttered around his cock.

“gods” you moaned, your arms pulling hi closer to you, urging him to finish inside of you.

“where?” he breathed, his pace moving faster and faster as he chased his pleasure, as you came down from your own.

“Inside!” you moaned.

He looked at you unsure, but as your legs pushed in closer to you, your hands arms pulling you in as you urged him to cum, he let go and his seed filled you.

And a part of you hoped it took root.

Days blurred together as your affair blossomed.

You woke up and fell asleep in his arms every night. Every meal was shared. And you treated Jon like a husband, and you were treated as a wife.

Words of love and acts of affection was shared and no ounce of you regretted your actions.

Love.

The word circled his mind when he looked at you and Jon.

 Robb Stark, with all his faults and flaws, would be the first to admit he had ruined all chances of being a good husband the day he feel in love with Talisa, and now, when he had given himself into the desires of wanting you for a wife, of the comforts that came with it, he had gone and ruined it, worse than he ever could of imagined he would.

He was not cruel or cunning and yet too you he was.

To you he was a neglectful man, and absent father and a terrible husband.

He would be the first to admit that part was true.

But he was a good king, that had to account for something?

But now you had found love as he once had, but with his own brother and no part of him wanted to stop it, though he craved the idea of him in Jons place, as he was sure a part of Jon craved his own place.

He watched you both, how your eyes danced with one another in silent conversation only you both understood, how your hand was always touching him or his was always touching you.

That he thought he could live with, he himself a cheating husband. First a mistress now whores in brothels.

A wife having and affair with his brother was fine, as long as they were happy.                                                                      

Even after he had caught them in bed, or as she told him of the babe in her belly.

But then he started to watch you both carefully, how you interacted together in public and in private, of the makeshift marriage you had made, and of how Jon had become what he had failed at.

And he realised just how bad of a father he had become.

“father!” Cregan shouted in greeting, but not at him, at Jon.

He hadn’t even seen him, and had ran straight for Jon, who had swept him up in his arms and placed a kiss to his cheek.

It wasn’t his first time calling Jon father, and Robb was sure it wouldn’t be the last, not as you walked over, Edric in your arms, only for him to say “papa” at the sight of Jon.

He swallowed harshly, storming out of the room before they could see or hear him.

And he suffered the harsh reality that you once had, but this time, it was deserved.

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[lumillsie]

ೃ⁀➷ all my life. ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

jon snow x f!arryn!reader headcanons

╰┈➤ in which lady catelyn's niece is brought to winterfell as a ward, and grows to care for her misliked stepson.

a/n : I put jon's birth year as 283 ac, whereas in the show he was born in 281ac - so I struggled a bit on which to choose, but ultimately 283ac suited my outline for the story a bit better. the characters are still aged up as per their show versions. I've also aged down robin arryn, implying that both jon and reader would be in their adolescence during his birth, whereas in the source material, jon is only a few years older than robin.

massive, massive shoutout to @angelseraphines for being my greatest support as always, and I'm not sure if I would've gone ahead and published this if not for her encouragement 🩷

╰┈➤ in 285ac, lord jon arryn and his lady wife lysa welcomed the first of their living children.

╰┈➤ you were a beautiful babe, bright-eyed with a lovely smile, truly the apple of the hand's eye. lord arryn had been married three times in his lifetime, and you were the first of his children to live to term. the graying man was enamored with your newborn-self, and he wished for nothing but your safety and joy.

╰┈➤ for all his love for you, the hand of the king knew how venomous the environment of the royal court to be. the halls were dripping with the schemes of those who wished to advance their positions, and a man of his position knew that the only living child, let alone a girl, of his would be treated as no more than a tool of the court's most cunning.

╰┈➤ your father wished to see you happy and contented, and he wished to keep you safe from the treachery of red keep. and so, on the eve of your sixth nameday, your father wrote to the boy he once fostered in the vale, now a lord paramount in his own right. eddard stark was possibly the only man jon arryn trusted to the same extent he trusted his grace, the king. it was a difficult decision to make, but he was acting in your best interests. life at winterfell would suit his little falcon better, for you would grow strong and you'd be well-looked after. you'd be far away from the glances of power-hungry, lecherous men who wished for nothing but power. you would be with family as well, as the lady catelyn was your mother's only sister - and her children your closest blood. it was a great honour in westeros, to be trusted with the upbringing of one's child, and it was an honour lord arryn would bestow upon lord stark.

╰┈➤ lysa was resistant to the idea of sending away her only living child - the years of losing babe after babe had taken their toll on her, but she eventually relented. you would be safer in winterfell, and catelyn was still her sister - for all the distance between them.

╰┈➤ mere days after lord stark accepted your father's offer, you were sent to winterfell as a ward with a kiss on the forehead from your mother and an unusually tight hug from your father.

╰┈➤ the first couple of weeks were rough - for you were often coddled by your parents. you missed tugging on your mother's skirts and resting in your father's arms. you weren't used to the absence of them, and while you tried not to cause trouble for your caretakers - they could tell you had a hard time adjusting.

╰┈➤ there were two people in winterfell whose presence brought you comfort during that trying time. the first was your aunt, lady catelyn stark, your mother's only sister. you knew little else of winterfell, but you were comforted by the familiar shade of auburn that cascaded down her shoulders and the unique cadence to her voice that could only be ascribed to a woman born of riverrun. she wasn't your mother, but she was the closest to her anyone could get. she sung you lullabies only your mother knew, and the gentle manner in which she treated you was that of a mother towards her child. the second was the boy named after your father, jon snow. you latched onto him early on in your stay in winterfell, and nobody was quite sure as to why. perhaps it was for his name, for you often called for him - at first you were calling for your father, but jon always answered. he was two years your senior and still a boy unsure of his place in his own home - for all the love of his father and the acceptance of his siblings was matched evenly with pointed looks and whispers of bastardy, as well as lady catelyn's cold distance and her decision to ignore his existence the best he could. some would say that it was your insistence on seeking him out that helped reassure the dark-haired boy of his place. of all the nobles and commonfolk at winterfell, you gravitated towards him.

╰┈➤ at first you were content to spend your time with him in silence, and he never appeared opposed to that. within a few weeks, you were talking to him about your life back in the crownlands. you talked about your mother, and her watchful, protecting eyes that seemed to follow you everywhere. you talked about your father, and his insistence on making time for your regardless of how pertinent his responsibilities may have been at any given point. you talked about the king too, and his tales of the valour and glory he experienced side by side with jon's own father. he spoke to you too, of how lovely his father and siblings were, of winterfell's hidden gems and it's most well-known attractions. he promised to take you to the weirwood tree in the godswood when the opportunity arose, and he followed through on his promise. jon snow had become, aside for the lady catelyn whom you'd grown to love as you loved your mother, your dearest person.

╰┈➤ your aunt catelyn was not fond of your budding friendship with the reminder of her husband's indiscretion - that much was plain to see by the harsh manner in which her brows furrowed and frown of her lips, and yet she made no move to disallow it. she could see that his presence helped you get used to your new home, and soon enough you were playing with sansa, teaching arya and bran how to say your name and often fetching robb to speak with him on the way to break your fast. it pleased to see your aunt to see you and her own children bond so quickly, and she kept her dissatisfaction of your bond with jon to herself.

╰┈➤ jon was there for many of the major moments of your life, with the most notable being the first letter you'd written your parents. you had just started learning how to read in the red keep, but lord stark made sure to place you with septa mordane alongside his daughters and he kept an eye on you to make sure your education was advancing. not to mention, lord and lady stark were adamant in ensuring that you remained in touch with your parents - making sure you became literate was the most important factor in that. early on, you would ask jon to re-read your letters before you were to show them to lord stark, and your friend was always glad to do it. the faint red hue that enveloped his cheeks as he read the parts where you mentioned him to your father went unnoticed by you, too focused on making sure that your letter was presentable to lord eddard.

╰┈➤ you remained close through your childhood and closer into adolescence, but it wasn't until one fateful evening that somebody changed between the two of you.

╰┈➤ the letter you received from your parents was unlike any other you had received in the past. the words seemed to swirl on the yellowed paper, and you could feel a headache in coming. your mother had given birth to a son - a proper heir to the vale. you should have felt happy, overjoyed even. a part of you, unfortunately, felt overwhelmed by misery and you could not quite understand why. you were content in winterfell, loved even - and you knew you were never to be heir to begin with, for you were a daughter and your father had plenty of nephews to choose from. so, why did you feel so unhappy? you couldn't quite figure it out, at least not until you spoke to the one person who understood why you felt the way you did, even when you yourself could not.

╰┈➤ you'd skipped supper in favor of spending the evening by the godswood, and truthfully, you expected aunt catelyn to send robb to retrieve you when it was due time for you to return to your chambers. instead, you were surprised to see that jon came for you instead. as you rose from beneath the weirwood tree, red leaves giving way to a darkened sky, you walked side by side with jon towards the great keep. he spoke to you quietly then, of things you never dared ask and he never dared to say outloud. he spoke to you of the mystery of his mother, of wanting to know who she was and if she had wanted him, of wanting to know what kind of person she was. it was only then that the truth of your misery dawned on you. you wished to truly know your parents, and your brother - but you never truly could. for all the letters in the world cannot bring you the closeness of having your family near. robin would know your parents in the ways that you never would, and they would know him in ways that they never knew you. it was a bitter pill to swallow, but you felt as if you could breathe easier - with the realisation clear in your mind.

╰┈➤ you were grateful to jon as well, for his vulnerability with you and for his kindness. you thanked him for walking you back to your chambers, and left a chaste peck on his cheek before retreating. "I am grateful... for you, and all that you are" were the words you spoke to him. a silent acknowledgement hung in the air between the two of you. he was still your dearest friend, and you were his - but something had changed. the way in which you regarded one another had changed.

╰┈➤ it was as if the wall that you two had carefully placed between yourselves had found itself with holes in it. you were still careful, chaste even - but it was apparent to those around you that you two loved eachother. you'd make handkerchiefs for him in your embroidery classes and he'd gently hold onto your hand in the privacy of the godswood.

╰┈➤ none were truly aware of the extent of your affections for one-another, for you were both aware of your positions. you were a noble-man's daughter, entrusted in the care of jon's father who was meant to find you a suitable match and marry you off well. you were considered a bride for theon greyjoy or willas tyrell, but not jon. not a baseborn son of your noble caretaker, with no titles to his name and no inheritance to claim. furthermore, were you to rebel and marry jon without anyone's knowledge - you would soil not only the reputations of your fathers, but the goodwill and bond they shared, for lord arryn entrusted lord stark with your upbringing.

╰┈➤ you two grew closer over the following year, and it was apparent to both of you that you would not have the time to properly court one another before pursuing a way to convince your fathers to allow marriage. you were a woman grown, of marrying age. not to mention, you were lord arryn's only daughter, and a marriage to you was the most effective manner in which a noble house could strengthen its ties to the vale. lord and lady stark, with minor interference from your parents, were close to making their decision - and your aunt made sure to consult you often in subtle manners, asking whether you'd prefer to remain in winterfell when you marry, asking if you'd like to return to the red keep once you are to have a family of your own. you could not avoid your fates any longer.

╰┈➤ you pondered over what to do for a couple of days, but you knew you had no time to wait. without informing jon, you decided to plea your case to your aunt catelyn - the person you'd always felt closest to in winterfell, from the day you arrived to the present. you knew of her mislike for jon, there wasn't a singular person in winterfell who wasn't aware of it - and yet, during all these years, she hadn't said a word to you of your closeness. you asked for an audience with her in the evening, and you told her everything as you sat with your hands in hers atop the fur carpets by the roar of the fire. you confided in her about how precious jon had always been to you, of how you felt the evening of robin's birth and of how you had love for jon in a way a lady should only have love for her husband. your eyes glistened with unshed tears as you spoke to her of how you feared a betrothal, as you didn't think you could bare being married to anyone else. she listened to you as you spoke. when you finished, she leaned down to give you a kiss on the forehead and exited the room. you never got an answer from her.

╰┈➤ lady catelyn's heart ached from the weight of what she had to do. she resented jon, but she could never truly hate him as a person. she feared what his existence, and the way he looked, may mean for her own children but she could never begrudge you for befriending him. this, however, could be disastrous for all of you - and she needed to put a stop to it. she sought jon out the following morning, before it was time for the family to break their fast. she warned him of what his involvement with you could do to your reputation, and of how marrying him would cause you to lose all that you were born with. a woman has little choice in this world but to marry well, and your singular status as lord arryn's only daughter provided you with a privilege not many women could afford - a privilege you would lose were you to marry him. she urged him to put distance between the two of you, if he cared for you as you claimed he did. it was the first time she'd really acknowledged him, and her words stung - perhaps nearly as deep as her resentment and distance once did.

╰┈➤ you were unaware of the fact that this conversation had even taken place to begin with, and jon's insistence on ignoring you came as a shock. you couldn't tell what you had done wrong and you were unsure of how to reason with him.

╰┈➤ it wasn't easy for him to keep his distance from you either, but he took lady catelyn's words to heart. he truly believed that if he kept his distance from you, then you would have an easier time accepting a potential betrothal - as you were always meant to do. now that he was at a distance from you, he was free to confide in robb - and he found comfort in his brother. it was difficult, keeping his feelings from the man he trusted most to begin with and robb's brotherly teasing, as well as his unspoken understanding helped him cope with his decision. for a time at least.

╰┈➤ this tense situation and the distance between you was broken by the most tragic news of your life - your father and the hand of the king, lord jon arryn, had passed away. in addition to your grief, added pressure was placed upon your shoulders as the news of the royal family's impending visit to winterfell reached you. all of this proved to be too much for you, and you crumbled once again, for the first time since your arrival to the north. it was jon whom you turned to once again, and he couldn't find it in him to turn you down. he held you in his arms as you wept, and as you turned to look to him - you made the bold move you'd never dared to make. you leaned upwards and planted a kiss upon his lips, the salty taste of tears staining both of you. he gave in for a split second, before pulling away - remembering lady catelyn's words. "I intend to promise myself to the night's watch. I've already made my father aware of my decision" he confessed to you, his tone gentle yet final. it was then that you asked him why, your voice on the brink of shattering. he spoke to you of his conversation with lady catelyn, and of the steps he took to make sure your reputation wasn't soiled - of the steps he took to make sure you could still have a good life.

╰┈➤ you left him wordlessly then, anger coursing through every inch of your body. you were angry for a multitude of reason - at your father, for sending you to winterfell to begin with. at the world, for taking your father from you before you'd had the chance to see him once more. at your aunt catelyn and jon, for making decisions that concerned you without even thinking to consult you.

╰┈➤ you withdrew to yourself, simply going through the motions as you prepared for the king and his family to arrive at winterfell. you felt no joy at the prospect of seeing him once again, and the thought of his visit served as nothing more than a reminder that you were truly never going to see your father again. you were courteous but curt in all your exchanges, but you exchanged nothing more than pleasantries with all those around you. jon tried to speak with you often, to ensure that you two weren't going to go your separate ways on such poor terms - but he was unsuccessful. you had switched places, with you now ignoring his attempts to speak with you as he had done weeks before.

╰┈➤ the issues between you two and your pointed attempts to ignore him are once again put on hold with all the madness that follows the royal family's visit - bran's accident, your mother's letter to catelyn and the king's offer to lord stark all become topics much more pertinent than jon's upcoming departure and your potential betrothals, and the two of you settle into a peaceful coexistence within the last few days of his stay at winterfell. in truth, as you came to accept your father's death and the unfortunate fate that befell bran, you came to the conclusion that the short time you had with one another was a precious thing, not to be wasted - and you sought him out often, just as you once did.

╰┈➤ the morning he was set to leave for the night's watch, you rose early in the hour of the nightingale- and you sought him out. you walked to the godswood once more, your arm brushing against his. "I believe that I have loved you all my life. I believe that I will love you for the rest of it" you admitted to him as he reached out to grasp your hands in his, a sad smile making its way across your face. "I have loved you all my life, and I will love you for the rest of it" he vowed to you as he leaned down to press his final, gentle kiss upon your lips. you needn't have spoken words of forgiveness or talked much of anything else. you were overcome with a melancholic contentedness in that very moment. jon left his home with his uncle benjen within the next few hours, but he left his heart in winterfell with you.

╰┈➤ that very same evening, you wept in your aunt catelyn's arms. her kiss upon your forehead felt the same as your mother's on the day you last saw her - on the day you left your home behind.

a/n : and that's where I think I'm going to end this! if I ever feel like it, I may revisit jon and arryn!reader later down the line - perhaps with a quick rewrite of season and a happier ending than I gave them here. the original version of this fic is still in my drafts, but I legitimately hated the pacing and the dynamic between jon and reader felt rushed so I rewrote the whole thing - I'm still not fully happy with it, but I much prefer this version and I'm more comfortable publishing it. I hope you enjoy reading this, and please be sure to leave some constructive criticism as I do think there are some parts here that I think can be improved. please do forgive me if the pacing feels slightly off, I struggled quite a bit with this prompt and I legitimately could not write this fic a third time nor expand on it more to try and make it more sensible.

as always, I'm tagging several different characters to help get the post out to as many people as possible, but I do write for all of the characters tagged below so please feel free to request something for them.

[axelsagewrites]

Main Masterlist Here

House of the Dragon Masterlist Here

Warnings/Guides

【P】Platonic【P】 🆇Smut 18+🆇

Request Line Up and Request Rules

♡ Jon Snow ♡

🆇What he's like in bed🆇

Blind date

🆇Milady🆇

🆇Home Alone🆇

🆇Price of My Secrecy 🆇

Relationship Moodboard

🆇Couldn't Resist🆇

♡ Robb Stark ♡

Best Friend

Marriage night

🆇Dream🆇 🆇part two🆇

Frey Girl 🆇part two🆇

🆇I miss you🆇

Cloak

Honey Cakes (cloak part two or standalone)

Comfort

Sweet Girl

🆇NSFW Alphabet🆇

🆇Good girl🆇

Yearbook

Don't Die For Me

🆇Little Secret🆇

🆇Can't Catch a Break🆇

Goodnight Dear Husband

♡ Sandor Clegane ♡

Most People Say Goodbye Part One - Part Two

🆇Brat🆇

♡ Beric Dondarrian ♡

Home

♡ Thoros of Myr ♡

Favourite Friend

♡ Brienne of Tarth ♡

【P】Queen in the North and South【P】

♡Ned Stark♡

🆇MiLord🆇

🆇Wife🆇

♡Ramsay Bolton♡

🆇My Father Would Kill Me🆇

🆇Catch You🆇

🆇How Far Would You Go🆇

🆇Appreciate You🆇

🆇Bath🆇

🆇Little Mouse🆇

♡Roose Bolton♡

Perhaps

Not Yet

♡Edmure Tully♡

【P】Who We Call Family【P】

My Queen My Love

♡Theon Greyjoy♡

Dream of Sweet Memories

🆇Give it back🆇

♡Sansa Stark♡

Roommates

🆇NSFW Alphabet🆇

🆇What's This?🆇

Surprise Visit

♡Podrick Payne♡

🆇Praise🆇

♡Daenereys Targaryen♡

🆇My Queen🆇

♡Jamie Lannister♡

🆇Extra Credit🆇

♡Oberyn Martell♡

🆇Duty🆇

♡Margaery Tyrell♡

🆇Ropes🆇

♡Cersei♡

🆇Morning🆇

♡Tormund♡

🆇Real Man🆇

🆇Use your words🆇

♡ Yara Greyjoy ♡

Flirting

Preferences/Multicharacter

🆇Company🆇 - Yara and Ellaria threesome

🆇What they're like in bed🆇 – Robb, Jon, Sandor, Podrick

How they react to teasing – all

🆇What They're Like in Bed🆇 – Margaery, Sansa, Danny, Yara

Share pt1 🆇Competition pt2🆇 🆇Wait p3🆇 - Robb and Jon

🆇Hook ups🆇 - Theon and Jon

Love Languages - Jon, Robb, Bran, Tormund, Podrick, Oberyn

Thanks for any support I appreciate it all xoxo Sage

Dividers from here and here from @saradika

Post topper made on Canva

[charliedawn]

"Marry me."

How I think marriage proposals would go for those characters.

Sandor Clegane:

"…Wanna get married ?" You asked as both you and Sandor were sleeping side by side in the forest. Sandor blinked—half asleep. He had back pain and a headache. He had hoped that the wine would help him to fall asleep quicker, as to not have to hear you say any other crazy thing or request for the day. But, of course. He was mistaken.

"Huh ?" When the information seemed to eventually settle in his brain, his whole face seemed a perfect depiction of confusion. He finally turned around and you could see in his eyes that he wasn’t exactly sober either. You decided this was the perfect moment to ask—since he would probably not even remember you asked the next morning. It gave you courage to ask again.

"Wanna get married ?" You repeated with a little more determination and this time, he answered.

"No."

"Ah."

"…"

"…"

"…You. Wanna get married ?" He asked this time—more because he was curious than awaiting an actual answer. But, you took your chance and answered truthfully.

"Sure."

He was momentarily surprised by your confidence before he huffed a laugh and wrapped an arm around you.

"…Fine. We’ll get married in the morning. Now, hush."

There was then a moment of silence before you both bursted out laughing. Just two drunks having the most normal conversation ever. You knew that by tomorrow, he would have surely forgotten all about tonight. But for now, you were satisfied with the knowledge that his subconscience hadn’t said no.

Oberyn Martell:

"Would you like to marry me ?" You asked Oberyn while he wad writing and whose lips curved slightly into a small smirk at the request. He was used to your rather straightforward nature. He liked it even. It made him laugh and enjoy your presence at parties. You were curious and completely unashamed or afraid of any consequences your requests or demands would bring. This is why he always caved. But, he could also be playful and this is why he answered with a small grin:

"No."

He was curious to see your reaction, but his smile slightly faltered when he saw the hurt in your eyes at his rejection. It was the first time he had seen you so upset and he immediately regretted his words.

"Oh. Okay then." You were embarrassed and turned around quickly to get back to your own private quarters. But he was by your side in an instant and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

"I was only kidding. I would LOVE to marry you, sweet peach."

He then kissed the back of your neck lovingly. You let out a sigh of relief as you leaned back against him.

"…Really ?"

He chuckled.

"Yes. Really."

He then kissed your temple and you stayed in his arms for a while before he started nuzzling the back of your neck.

"But what brought the subject, sweet peach ?"

You sighed before closing your eyes.

"…You’re the only one who truly enjoys my presence. You laugh and smile at me, even when my words are nonsense. So I thought…why not ask ?"

Oberyn seemed taken aback for a moment before his smile widened and he pressed your back further against him to kiss your shoulder and whisper in your ear.

"Let me tell you a little secret. I would marry you for your nonsense, my dear. Because your nonsense makes more sense to me than this whole world does…"

Tyrion Lannister:

"Do you want to marry me ?" You asked Tyrion one night and the man was so stunned that he spilled his cup of wine.

"What ?"

Tyrion was the most decent between all the Lannisters. He had helped you more than once and there was no doubt in your proposal. You would never find better husband.

"You heard me."

He stayed silent again and made you nervous. Would he refuse ? Would he tell you that he has already found someone ? Would he tell you that he has no interest in you ? But, he didn’t. He simply sighed.

"…Why ?"

Why ? You could tell him a thousand reasons why. Because he was one of the few good men you knew. Because you had no intention of marrying any other. Because you knew he could be gentle. Because he was funny. Because he could be brave. Because he had the heart of a true lion…but no. You wouldn’t tell him like that. Because even if you did, he wouldn’t believe you.

"Because I want to." You settled for instead and his eyes widened slightly in surprise before he smiled a little and shook his head.

"Why would you want to marry an imp ?"

"It is not an imp that I am marrying, but a prince." You retorted. You both stared at each other and his gaze softened as he started actually considering it for a moment.

"You would be miserable." You frowned in incomprehension at his words.

"Why ?" He glanced away for a second.

"Because I am not a good man."

You huffed a bitter laugh at his words.

"Haven’t you heard ? There are no good man left, my prince."

Tyrion seemed taken aback, but he couldn’t deny the truth behind your words and drank a little of his wine.

"Tell me, Tyrion. If I was to become your wife/husband. Would you hit me ? Would you abuse me ? Would you lie to me ?"

He shook his head with a small smile. No. He wouldn’t. You smiled back and Tyrion finally nodded understandingly. It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about finding a good man. It was always about finding the one who wouldn’t hurt you…And hence, he understood and maybe…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a wife/husband ?

Jaime Lannister:

"Jaime…" You sat down next to him at the feast prepared for the Lannisters and even though you could feel Cersei glaring daggers at you—you grabbed his hand. He didn’t react, but you could feel his fingers slightly curving to hold yours.

"Hello, buttercup." He finally greeted you in a whisper and you couldn’t help but smile weakly. You knew of his heart and his loyalty to his sister. It wasn’t really your business to interfere, but you didn’t like how Cersei was treating him. And, you also knew that his heart could maybe be won over.

So, you did the most nonsense ever and challenged him. You stood up and faced him—catching the attention of everyone in the room as you declared loudly.

"Jaime Lannister. I challenge you to an arm wrestling competition !"

That ought to have gained his attention as his eyes finally met yours and what he found in there made his eyes widen in surprise. You were determined and even though he was a knight—you didn’t seem scared of losing. He tried to laugh and wave it off as a mere joke—but you didn’t back down and even provoked him.

"Are you perhaps not a lion ? But a scared chicken ?"

That oughta do it. He was up before you could even pronounce another word and the fury in his eyes made you smile. He had taken the bait.

"If I win, you must agree to one single demand of my choice without knowing what it is !"

"And if I win ?" He quickly shot back and you bit back a laugh.

"Then I will give you whatever you want."

In a matter of minutes, everything was settled and you were both in position. Everyone assumed you were mad or had consumed too much wine to challenge Jaime Lannister—but it couldn’t be further from the truth. You had planned it carefully. You had trained and trained your body and your mind. You had worn big sleeves to hide the muscles hidden underneath. This could be the most important challenge of your life and you wanted to win. More than anything.

The moment Jaime gripped your hand, his eyes stared straight at you as he realised what you had done. This was not the strength of the Y/N he was accustomed to…but it was too late to stop and in a matter of seconds—Jaime Lannister was on the floor.

Everyone was stunned.

But, you only gracefully stood up from your seat and looked down at him before smirking.

"…I will be waiting for that marriage proposal." And with that, you were out of the room—leaving a very confused Jaime and a very angry Cersei behind. But, you knew that a lion never backed down from his word. And Jaime would be yours.

Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger) :

"Marry me." Littlefinger didn’t even seem surprised by you sudden demand. Everyone knew that your father wished to marry you off to Ramsay Bolton. And even though Littlefinger wasn’t sure why you would come to him with such a request, he didn’t show it.

He didn’t even look up as he simply asked.

"Why ?"

You huffed a bitter laugh. The man would sell mother and father for a throne. And he dared to ask why ?

"Does it matter ?"

He licked his thumb to turn the page of the book he was reading nonchalantly, even though you knew that he was secretly weighing the pros and cons of such an alliance.

"Depends. What will it bring me ?"

You looked away.

"Don’t pretend not to realise how advantageous it would be for you to be a part of the Lannister family. You’d have an easy access to the iron throne."

He hummed and pretended to think about it. It was true marrying you would be a fast way to get access to all the nice advantages of being a part of the so-called prestigious Lannister family. But, it had its own set of disadvantages to consider. He would become more than just a little man in the shadows that no one would deem worthy of being a threat, he would become a lion. A black lion.

"…Tell me why you would lower yourself to such an alliance with me. Surely, there would be one handsome young man who would say yes to such a proposal without even blinking. Why go to me, princess/prince ?"

You hesitated before sighing in defeat.

"…Because if I am to marry a snake, better be one I know than one chosen by Tywin Lannister."

At that, Petyr finally dignified you with a glance. You held his gaze and after a few seconds, he smiled.

"Very well, my beauty. Lead the snake to the lion’s den then."

Sansa Stark:

You and Sansa had been longtime allies and friends. You were maybe the only friend she had ever had after the almost complete destruction of House Stark. You had developed feeling for her over time and knew that asking her for her hand wouldn’t be easy—but you were willing to try.

"Please, Sansa of House Stark." You knelt on one knee before her with a rose in your hand and the other hand on your heart. "Would you marry me ?"

Sansa was surprised by the proposal. She had married twice and both marriages weren’t a success. She had lived through nightmares and pain out of such a dream as marriage. She used to want to get married with someone she loved so badly, but not anymore.

"My heart is not so easily won by a rose and pretty words anymore." She replied instead—thinking that she would succeed in breaking your resolve. But, she was mistaken.

"I know. I know that I may never be worthy of even your eyes on me. But…I am a fool, and my heart beats for you. And if you want it ? Then it’s yours. And even if you don’t want it. Let me fight for you. And prove my loyalty to the most beautiful and strong lady the North has ever seen." You pleaded and Sansa was rendered speechless.

She looked into your eyes and saw only love and adoration. She then glanced down at the rose you offered her and after a moment of hesitation, she finally took it.

"…You may try to win my heart, Y/N. But, I cannot promise you success."

You smiled and shook your head.

"Just having you acknowledge my feelings is enough for hope to enter my heart."

Sansa smiled back.

Maybe…romance wasn’t utterly dead.

Jon Snow: (Before the tragedy 😭)

"Marry me." It was said with such confidence that Jon himself was stunned as he looked up at you with widened eyes.

"What ?"

"You heard me."

There was a moment of silence before Jon smiled and he suddenly pulled you into his arms. There was no yes or no. Just a moment of pure euphoria as he couldn’t stop laughing as he buried his face in your chest. He was so happy, he forgot to form words.

When he was finally calm once more, he kissed you passionately.

"Yes. Yes. Yes, I will."

You both started laughing together and Jon even fell back on the snow as you held him tightly.

Daenerys:

"Marry me." You demanded and Daenerys looked back at you. She didn’t seem surprised or even mildly confused by the demand. She knew of your feelings for her—and she was more than happy to reciprocate.

But, marriage ?

Marriage meant boundaries. Marriage meant attachment. Marriage meant she would have to think about you and a possible future where she wasn’t all powerful.

She sighed before stroking your cheek and offering you an apologetic smile.

"My dear Y/N…If only I could, do not believe for a second that I would say no. But, as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms…I cannot."

You closed your eyes and a few tears rolled down your cheeks. You had expected such an answer of course, but still…your heart ached.

"I…understand." You forced yourself to say and Daenerys nodded. She was a queen. A khaleesi. And you were just…human.

Ser Jorah:

"Please. Marry me." Ser Jorah was stunned at the unexpected request and turned towards you with widened eyes. He was about to answer when you quickly added.

"Love me. Hate me. I want you and you want her. But, I am not asking for your love. But for your protection, kind ser Jorah." He closes his mouth and seemed to think about it for a moment. He knew that you were a young lady/man who had left her/his family to join Daenerys. He had no idea you held such feelings for him…

"You can have my protection, but why go to such lengths to have it ?" He finally asked and you sighed before taking his hand in yours.

"Because it is not only physical protection I seek." You then laid his hand flat upon your heart and Ser Jorah seemed taken aback once more. He looked at you and you didn’t shy away from his gaze.

You knew Ser Jorah was honourable and even if he would never return your feelings, he would make a far greater husband than anyone you ever knew. He would respect you and your heart. And that was more than you could ever wish for…

Ser Jorah accepted.

After all, it was only his name that you were going to bear and his sword that would protect you. You would call him husband, but only in name.

[cdragons]

❄︎ House Stark & Spicy Food ❄︎ - w/ spicy loving reader

Cries if there's too much pepper:

All of them, Sansa and Robb - these two will actually die if they have the slightest sense of heat to any food they try. Like their hair, they get it from their mother.

Robb will try so hard to pretend that he has any spice tolerance...he doesn't...he REALLY doesn't

This boy wants to impress you so badly while also dying and you are not being very helpful bc you keep laughing at how red his face gets

You didn't even put that much in, it was barely a dash of cayenne or one jalapeno seed and he will DIE

If you ever try to put spice in his dishes, he will look at you with the biggest look of betrayal

Redding Wedding what? Nope, the real, most unforgivable act of treason against this King of the North was putting a ghost pepper in his stew after he pissed you off and drinking all his water to make sure that there wasn't any left near him.

Are the two of you married? Does not matter - off to the dungeons with you.

Okay, not really, but he will be seriously pissed and have a huge pouty face for the rest of the week.

He feels even more betrayed when he sees Grey Wind sleeping next to you after you put the pepper in his food.

"Are you on my side or hers?" - Grey Wind is on Team Cuddles and Being Spoiled.

If you end up eating something too spicy for you, he WILL be the most insufferable person about it

Sansa is literally no different, if not worse, than her brother.

Everything that was written above -> multiply that by 10000 in terms of spice intolerance, and you get Sansa.

She does NOT care about impressing you with improving her spice tolerance.

You could try to convince her that spicy food is better for her body and there are a ton of health benefits, but you will FAIL

You once gave her a Cubanelle pepper (About 1,000 SHU) bc the only less spicy option was a bell pepper and bell peppers are only peppers in name and not in spirit

She did not react well

She RAN 🏃‍♀️ to the well and drank the water out of the pail.

...Was it bad that you laughed at her reaction? Yes

Would you do it again? Also, yes

Was it totally worth being banned from nighttime cuddles and kisses for an entire month?...Okay, maybe you won't do it again

You could make fun of her unseasoned potatoes and closer-to-water soup all you want. She is not interested in damaging her stomach lining and developing stomach cancer.

She WILL make fun of you if you end up eating something too spicy for YOU, and you let her because you love seeing her more childish smile and side.

Slightly Dying, but Otherwise Okay and Kind of Digs It:

Jon can eat spicy foods...theoretically.

He's eaten Wilding food and the rotten food from Castle Black -> compared to that, he can take a little heat.

He was wrong - He was so very, VERY wrong. Your level of heat and spice was something that only a demon could take.

Jon was convinced that you were part dragon bc he can't think of any other reason as to how and WHY you put yourself through this?

Eventually, he DOES develop a bit of spice tolerance, and you take full credit for it, especially because this means his taste palette is more on your level. You aren't as afraid of accidentally killing him with your cooking preferences.

But it ends up lowkey backfiring on him bc you won't stop sneaking spicy food into his meals, and sometimes Tormund and his brothers in Black will sneak a bite off his plate (no one died...everyone lives...shhhhhhhhh)

Sam is dead - he died, you killed him. Gilly is officially out for your blood, and little Sam is raised with the single goal of piercing you with a pointy stick bc you killed his dad.

Pyp and Edd are also lowkey dying. Still, they actually enjoy the heat and are always happy to taste test for your dishes...despite their bowels hating them for it

Grenn and Tormund fucking LOVE the heat. They can easily down bowl after bowl after bowl of your cooking.

Bran SHOULD not eat spicy food...but he does because it makes you so happy, and he will literally do anything for your smile and cuddles.

Like his love of climbing and scary stories, he honestly lives for the thrill of taking the heat.

All of his siblings are terrified he's going to get a stomach ulcer one day because he keeps adding more spice to his food, and they are ALL blaming you, and you're just like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

While he's traveling with Osha, Hodor, Rickon, and Reed Siblings, it's your cooking that helps keep them warm.

When he becomes the Three-Eyed Raven and King of the Seven Kingdoms, he and you will go to the kitchens to make your favorite dishes from your shared past because it brings a little of the old Bran back.

It's only around you that he can still smile and laugh, and you love him no matter what.

Love Spicy Food and Can ACTUALLY Take it

Arya LOVESSSSS the heat - All Day, Everyday Baby

While she was in Braavos and training in the House of Black and White, she sampled so many dishes and spices from the markets.

This opened a whole new world to her tastebuds, and when she returned to Winterfell - she still loved the food because it was all the food of her childhood, but it just tasted...boring.

You and her actually met while she was training in Braavos, and your family ran a spice stall in one of the markets.

You were fascinated by the girl and always offered a warm meal and housing if she ever needed it. While cooking for her, Arya would tell you stories about Ned and Jon and all her other siblings.

When she reunited with her family at Winterfell, she thought it was adorable how happy and excited you were to meet them. She also highly encouraged you to share one of your spiciest dishes with them.

Bran didn't have much of a reaction save for a small cough, but Jon immediately reached for his water while Sansa just fainted from the shock of the heat assault in her mouth.

Rickon is the only sibling who can actually eat your food and so he automatically becomes your favorite Stark after Arya.

Rickon and you met while traveling with your siblings (Meera and Jojen) to find Bran. You carried many foreign spices with you (for whatever reason).

Immediately, he was smitten with you because you were the youngest sibling around his age. Shaddydog also loved you from the beginning, which helped your case.

A lot of the spices you carried also had medicinal purposes, so you were in charge of cooking while Meera handled the weapons and Jojen helped guide Bran to the 3ER.

It was during the coldest and most freezing blizzard nights, you used one of your hottest spices to make a stew. It was a miracle by fate that Rickon LOVED it.

Since then, he's always begging you to put hotter spices in the meals, but you refuse bc your spices are expensive and because you don't want to accidentally kill the rest of the "Save The World" Gang.

Shaddydog is a huge issue when you're making food because he's very curious about all the different smells and tastes, and you have to keep booping his nose out of the way because you love adding garlic, and it's not good for canines to eat garlic and salt.

*BONUS*

Catelyn - cannot eat anything spicy for the life of her

Ned - same as his wife, tbh lol

[entitled-fangirl]

A change of sigil.

Robb Stark x Baratheon!reader

Summary: After wedding Robb Stark and becoming the Lady of Winterfell, the reader learns about the king's death and the treason of Ned.

Masterlist

..............................................................

The newly wedded Y/N Stark (once Baratheon) ran through the corridors of Winterfell. 

Her eyes fell upon the Stark's Maester. Her eyes lit up. "A letter from my father? Has he finally written me back?"

The older man's eyes softened with guilt, "I'm afraid not, my lady."

Her face fell but she quickly recovered it, "oh. M… May I still see it?"

"This," He held it back from her, "Is for Lord Stark to read."

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks and she nodded. "Right. How foolish of me."

His lips pulled into a smile and he held his arm out. The North did like the gentle girl, after all, "C'mon, my lady. Walk to me to him so we may discuss the reason for such a letter."

She smiled back and took his arm.

…

"Treason?" Robb's brows furrowed and his teeth grit, "Sansa wrote this?"

"It is your sister's hand, but the queen's words."

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, unsure of what to think. Her mother was a cunning woman, and it did not surprise her of such a thing.

"You are summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king."

"My father is dead?" She interrupted quietly.

The men's eyes flickered to her.

Robb's anger did not falter, "Joffrey puts my father in chains, now he wants his ass kissed?"

The Maester sighed, "This is a royal command, my lord." His eyes flickered between the lord and lady, "If you should refuse to obey-"

"-I won't refuse," Robb quickly butted in. "His grace summons me to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing. But not alone."

He rolled the letter up and handed it back to the maester. "Call the banners."

"All of them, my lord?"

"They've all sworn to defend my father, have they not?"

"They have."

"Now, we see what their words are worth."

"Very well." The maester left quickly.

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, not once wavering. Robb noticed it and rounded the table to sit by her. His head tilted to study her further. His hand reached up to gently grab her jaw, moving her head to face him.

Her eyes connected with his, and they were filled with tears, "My father is dead?"

His lips pull into a line as he looks to Theon and back, "I'm afraid so."

She took a shaky breath in to keep the tears from falling. "Murdered?"

Theon stood at her words, angered a bit inside. He quickly bowed his head and left the room in a huff.

Robb shook his head, "No. Animal attack while hunting is all Sansa wrote."

She was quiet a while before she spoke again, "He loved me."

Robb gritted his teeth. "He had a funny way of showing it."

"But he did love me. I am worth nothing now."

"Hey." His voice lowered at his words. His grip on her jaw tightened. "Do not say such things. You are worth everything to me. Winterfell is your home. Its people are your people. They are loyal."

"Loyal to you. To your name."

"No." He pushed. "They will be loyal to you. You are still a princess after all, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"And more importantly," he kissed her forehead gently, "You are my wife."

She nodded again before a thought came to her. "What is keeping those that rule from killing your father and sisters just the same?"

His eyebrows raised and he shook her head, "Nothing, I suppose. I must hope they fear the North enough or I drive my sword through your brother before they can touch the Starks." He tilted his head, "I need your loyalty. I know I have it. But the people need it."

"I am loyal to you, Robb. You are all I have."

He smiles and caresses her face before shaking his head, "I don't want loyalty for fear or power. Your loyalty should be of trust and honor. I ask again, are you loyal to me, my love?"

"Without my father, the Baratheon sigil means nothing to me. I belong to House Stark now."

His smile grows and he kisses her gently, "I will win this. For you. For my family. I promise you."

..............................................................

A/N: I feel a series coming onnnnn

[k4marina]

— 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧ཉྀ

— Game Of Thrones x Modern!Reader

During a trip to Dragonstone, you suddenly find yourself in the era of the Game of Thrones. As all eyes fall onto you, the mysterious person that seemed to appear out of no where, what do you do? Do you try to find a way back to your time or do you gamble it all and play the Game of Thrones?

Prologue: Dragonstone

i. Bloodline

ii. Dragon Rider

iii. Stormborn

iv. The Queens Justice

v. The Spoils of War

vi. Secrets and the Moon

vii. Eastwatch

viii. Beyond the Wall

ix. The Dragon and the Wolf

x. Winterfell

new series, lesgooooooo :)

[feyhunter78]

Description: During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival. A thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together. Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion sees the need for a sworn sword in his beloved daughter's life.

Ch 2

You should know better, truly you should, but you’ve always had a weakness for pitiful-looking creatures, or at least that’s what your father has always said. He stands a pace ahead of you, watching as your uncle, the King Robert, embraces Lord Ned Stark with a boyish joy you have never seen in your uncle. Your Aunt Cersei stands to the side of them, smiling politely at the Lady Catelyn Stark, Joffery all but hanging from her skirts, demanding attention. Usually, you would scowl at the back of the boy’s head, but the sight of Ned Stark’s bastard son has you quite distracted.

He is pitiful, even his name, Jon, it’s so common, so often used it cannot differentiate him from others. He stands stiffly, with gray eyes so dark they almost seem black set beneath thick brows. He has curly dark hair that frames his face, an unchanging frown upon his face, and his hands clasp and unclasp nervously as he watches the mingling of your two families. Jon’s dressed like all the other Starks, but somehow lesser, as if he has chosen only the drabbest of colors in an effort to blend into the dreary landscape. There’s a solemn softness to him that intrigues you. What secrets does he keep? Why does he look so mired in grief? He notices your gaze, and his face tints pink as he ducks his head further into the fur collar of his cloak. You bite back a laugh, for a moment he looked like a turtle.

The boy beside him, Robb, stands an inch or so taller with cornflower blue eyes, and auburn hair. The clear son of Lady Catelyn radiates confidence, nearly bordering on arrogance, as he surveys the servants unloading your family’s belongings from the wheelhouses. Beside him stands a boy whose arrogance you wouldn’t mistake for confidence, even if you were less astute than you are. But the arrogance rings false, you can see the cracks in his bravado, the insecurity leaking from every pore. It’s in the way he hovers so close to Robb, as if he fears to be away from him would be his undoing. This one you know inside and out; your father had drilled you on everyone you were going to meet before you even stepped foot outside King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, a war prisoner disguised as a ward, the closest companion to Robb Stark, both accepted and held at a distance, Lord Stark’s sword an ever-looming threat should his father ever revolt once more. Theon has eyes like the sea and tousled hair the color reminiscent of the mahogany desk in your father’s study. He is lankier than the other two, hungrier, and when your eyes meet his, he winks. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose in response, you were a lady, a Lannister, you were not so easily swayed. Theon is handsome, but if your father’s reports were true, he spent much of his time in brothels. The tactics that worked there would not work on you.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.” Lord Stark says, motioning to a girl that was perhaps two or so years younger than you. She is beautiful, with fiery red hair, eyes like Robb’s, and high, graceful cheekbones. She curtsies with the air of a Southern lady, and smiles when you do the same. This is who you are meant to befriend, and it does not seem it will be too difficult, Sansa’s eyes eagerly drink in every aspect of your being, as if she wishes to glen all she can of Southern life before it is ripped away from her.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Your father says, giving her then Lady Catelyn a smile.

They both thank him, Lady Catelyn beaming at the praise, while you notice Sansa’s cheeks flush with color. She is easily flattered; you must remember that.

“Allow me to introduce my own daughter, Y/N Lannister.” Your father introduces you, putting emphasis on your surname, the very fact that you have one. You are not a bastard, no matter what awful Joffrey likes to say. Your mother and father had married in secret, she died giving birth to you, it was tragic and left your father quite saddened, but you were not a bastard.

Your eyes dart back to Jon taking him in subtlety. You wish to see him blush again, but you will not make your actions so easily observed.

“It is too cold, why must we stand here all day?” Joffrey whines, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot resoundingly.

Your aunt fusses over him, and Lord Stark leads you all inside, talking jovially with your uncle as you hurry to catch up with your father.

It is loud in the Great Hall of Winterfell, made of gray stone and smelling of smoke, meat, and a hint of dog, which you must assume is from the Direwolves. It is well lit and filled with people, all enjoying the bountiful feast set before them on long wooden tables. You’re seated away from your father, something you despise. He is closer to your Uncle Jaime, nearer to the King and Lord Stark, while you have been seated with the other children. It has only been you and your father for so very long, a part of you feels anxious to be separated from him, but you are a Lannister, if you cannot charm the strangers around you then can you truly call yourself such?

“Will you tell me more of King’s Landing, Lady y/n?” Sansa asks, looking enraptured by the mere thought of it. She is dressed in a gown of blue silk, her fur lined cloak on the back of her chair, her hair done up in a style you’re quite familiar with. She is very beautiful, and you spot many men staring at her, one of them being Theon who is seated at the lower tables. You catch his eye and smile knowingly. In response, he scowls and ducks his head.

You must mention this observation to your father.

You smile and return your attention to Sansa, regaling her with tales of festivals and feasts, of tourneys and services in the Great Sept. Her siblings either listen as well or turn their attention elsewhere, which you don’t mind. They are not who you are here to befriend.

Sansa sighs dreamily and turns her gaze to Joffrey, who is seated next to his mother further up the table and is staring down at his food as if it has offended him. “And what of Joffrey? Surely you must be close?”

Your cousin, and closest companion, Myrcella snorts into her drink, and you shoot her a look. Myrcella was meant to be sitting next to Joffrey but had convinced someone to switch with her so that she could be next to you.

“Joffrey is a…spirited boy, he has many…passions.” You say carefully, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

Your father suspects Robert will wish to wed Sansa and Joffrey. It’s a strategic match, but your cousin is a horrible bully, you have marks hidden beneath your sleeves to prove your words, and you do not wish to see innocent Sansa suffer in such a way. True, you have not spent much time with her, but she has been warm and welcoming, her innocence shining through like the sun on a spring day.

“Does he enjoy tourneys? I have heard the King was quite the warrior, he and father fought together.” Sansa continues, resting her chin in her hand.

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your skirts. “Joffrey has not competed in any tourneys quite yet, Lady Sansa, he is too young.”

“He is three and ten, is he not? Most squire by one and ten, why has he not been sent to one of your bannermen like his uncle?” Robb says, taking a long drink from his glass.

“My mother does not wish for him to get injured; he is heir to the throne, after all.” Myrcella chimes in, saving you from coming up with another excuse for why Joffrey has not been allowed to leave King’s Landing.

Sansa nods and gazes longingly at Joffrey once more. “That seems most wise, what a dutiful mother Queen Cersei is.”

“Where is your mother, Lady y/n? I did not see anyone else arrive.” Bran, one of the younger Starks asks, his round innocent face not dulling the sting of his words at all.

Myrcella takes your hand under the tables and squeezes it. She has been privy to the nights of crying, of mourning the mother you would never know.

“Bran, that is not polite.” Sansa hisses.

You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “My mother died giving birth to me, but I am told she held me in her arms before the Stranger came for her, that she named me and spoke of how dearly she loved me.”

Bran makes a soft noise of apology, and the conversation lulls, until finally you have finished your meal and are free to retire to your chambers.

You wave off any offer to escort you, telling them all you wish to admire the architecture of Winterfell in solitude.

It’s not wholly a lie, though you cannot say you ever wish to be alone , you enjoy the company of others, are invigorated by it, but tonight feels different. Perhaps it is the mention of your mother, or the false face Joffrey is putting on for the Starks and their bannermen, the sound of his laughter ringing about the hall. You wander the halls of Winterfell with a faint knowledge of where the guest chambers lie, when you find yourself approaching the training yard. The night is quiet, snow falling gently, the brisk air seizes your lungs, purifying them with an icy chill.

You are not alone, the thud of blunt metal upon wood, the sounds of exertion, the turn of boots in snow covered dirt. You slowly move towards the sound, knowing your father will scold you later for such carelessness. There are countless people here, and you cannot be assured they all wish you well.

Jon Snow, the ever so distracting bastard, stands in the middle of the yard, training alone, the moonlight shining down on him, making his pale skin glisten. You rest your hand on the stone archway, one foot on the dirt, the other still firmly planted on the stone. You should leave him alone, you know it, but you’re mesmerized by the sight, the tension in his muscles, the expanse of his back, the strength in his arms. He is a little older than you, six and ten to your five and ten, both old enough to be married, yet both remaining unbetrothed.

There had been offers for your hand, even though you were the imp’s child, and many wondered if you would sire broken children, if you would pass on your father’s curse. But for the gold that backed your name many were willing to risk it. You didn’t like your suitors, they were too brash, too lewd, too old, or simply just not right.

Jon stops and lifts his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow. His stomach is toned, his skin mostly smooth, though there are some faded scars.

Yes, they were simply not right, they did not look like that.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you avert your eyes. What were you, a child? A lovesick maid? You have spent no more than mere minutes in his presence, and already you are lusting after him like some silk street whore? It must be the chill that is muddling your mind, yes, the chill. Not the kindness that you saw within him as he played with Arya and Bran in the courtyard earlier in the day. Or the way he stood stiff lipped while Joffrey threw barbed insults at him as he passed him in the hall, or the stack of novels you had overheard the maester say were to be set aside for him. Merely the chill. The chill and the flights of fancy all young girls are prone to.

With that in mind, you wait until he has returned his tunic to its rightful place and step fully into the snow.

He turns on his heel, weapon at the ready. He is perceptive, you note, good reflexes, excellent hearing, fine form, carved from marble, glowing like a god in the moonlight.

Gods y/n, pull yourself together.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” You say, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. It is thin, far too thin to wear in the chill of night.

Jon lowers his sword. “Lady Lannister, why are you not inside at the feast? Are you lost?”

“Yes.” You lie, batting your eyelashes at him, crafting your expression into one of helplessness. “I wished to return to my chamber, but I lost my way.”

Jon stows his sword and retrieves his cloak from a nearby rack. “I will escort you, if you do not take offense?”

You tilt your head in faux confusion. “Why would I take offense?”

He shuffles his feet and busies himself with his cloak. “You are a lady of a great house, and I am…” He lets the unspoken words hang in the air, and you have the grace to act surprised.

“Oh, yes, right, you are a Snow.” You say, taking a step towards him and extending your hand, waiting to set it on his arm. “Well, I care not if you are a Stark or a Snow, I am sure you are more than capable of escorting me to the guest chambers of your home.”

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

You take it gratefully, allowing him to guide you back towards the way you came. The wind blows through the yard as you walk and cuts straight through your thin cloak, a shiver shooting down your spine.

Before you can blink, Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again…might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly, then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

Yes I used a Hozier line bc it's perfect for the vibe of this fic

[seejayseattle]

You, Therefore

Sansa Stark x fem!reader

summery: The first time Sansa sees you is in the Sept and she cannot help but feel like you do not belong somewhere so solemn.

warning: !TW! implied non-con/SA (non-descriptive + mentioned very briefly), language, time-period homophobia, violence and gore, angst, implied smut

word count: 9.13k

The Sept in Winterfell is always quiet. Sansa never had known it to be anything other than quiet and uninhabited. She thinks that none of the other southern wives visit because of its nature. A gift to the newly wedded Lady Stark from her greener-than-summer grass Lord husband. Or mayhaps it was not a gift at all, but an apology for bringing a bastard home from war.

Sansa does not think of faith often, but she has always dreamt of marrying a southern prince, and following his gods would likely please him. So, here she kneels on the cold hard stone and listlessly watches wax tears roll down the candle as it melts.

Her eyes start to grow hazy and her hands that were firmly pressed together start to go limp, but then-

“Do the gods bore you?” 

Sansa goes rigid. She turns her neck so sharply that the tendons and muscles pull tight and strained. She is expecting someone she knows, a serving girl or a bannerman’s young wife. You are neither. You are unfamiliar. A stranger lurking in the dark, only the light of a dying flame allows her to see your face. 

You are very pretty, she thinks to herself. Your hair is braided in an elaborate way she had never seen before, and your clothes are made of a fabric that her fingers had never touched.

Still standing far enough away that your presence is not towering, you take a step forward and tilt your head in a way she had seen hounds do. She suddenly remembers you had asked her a question. 

Do the gods bore you?

She ponders the question with the same lightness it was asked with. Sansa has no obligation to answer you, let alone speak to you. Although, there is something interesting about you. The two of you are the same age, she’s sure of it, but you have an air of flippancy that she has never seen any woman wear.

Sansa hums before she speaks. “How could they not? They never say anything back.”

“Mayhaps they do and you do not listen well enough.” 

Sansa feels her face go hot at your teasing tone. She scoffs, looking away from you while mumbling, “You should address me as ‘my lady’.”

Your brows pull together in confusion. “But you are not my lady.” squinting your eyes at her, you huff a laugh. “You are not a lady at all really, just a girl.” 

She has decided that she dislikes you greatly.

Do you not know that she will be queen one day? The King and her father are brothers in all but blood. The golden prince will whisk her away South to wed her and the people of King's Landing will sing songs dedicated to their love and beauty. Moreover, you seem to be oblivious that she's a Stark, highest birth in the North. 

Pressing her palms together and clenching her eyes shut, Sansa feigns quietude whilst attempting to disregard your presence entirely. 

You laugh, and she decides that she truly hates you.

“May I kneel with you?” 

She opens one eye to peek at you from the corner of it. Your own eyes blaze with amusement, so bright that she thinks they might burn her if you are any closer. Without waiting for the invitation, you walk to her side.  

Your boots make a horrid gritty sound when you drop to your knees and Sansa winces as it scrapes against her ears. This close she can see your dress properly, pink silks with detailed orange and yellow embroidery. She has to resist the aching desire to run her finger over the intricate pattern of each stitch. 

It is something one would never catch eye of in the north and Sansa is struck with the realization that you are likely a Southerner who has traveled here for trade.

Even though she finds you rather annoying, her curiosity of the dress's origins and the excitement of conversing with a true Southern girl makes her speak.

“Are you from Dorne?” She questions, feeling as though the vibrancy of those colors would likely come from there. 

You simply smile, “Sometimes.”

“Something?” She repeats incredulously.

“Aye.”

Sansa feels a strong urge to do something unladylike, like calling you a name or shoving you. But she is a lady and will not deign herself. She is about to say something haughty to put you in your place, the way she often does with Arya, but you speak first. 

“What do you pray for?” You ask, eyes fixated on the few unlit candles in the sentry of the Sept. Your grin is so wide, Sansa notices. Although you two have only just met, she feels as though the giddiness on your face is genuine.

She shrugs. “I pray for what every lady prays for.” At your encouraging look, she continues. “To marry the prince and give him many healthy sons.”

Your smile dampens and you shake your head, but you say nothing else.

After a few moments of silence, Sansa wished to quench her curiosity.

“What do you pray for?” She asks.

You turn, fully facing her. She is truly caught by how beautiful you are. Sansa should feel envious, for she has always been the most comely in Winterfell. 

The grin on your lips turns sly, countering the whore-Ros that Theon favors. Secretive and inviting. 

“Nothing.” You say, “I do not follow the Seven.” 

Sansa cannot help the girlish giggle that burst from her mouth. You laugh along with her, and she is even more sure that you do not belong here.

°°°

She sees you around Winterfell. Sometimes trailing after a man who looks much too young to be your father and other times she sees you gallivanting around the courtyard as if you are Lord Stark himself. 

Robb seems to enjoy you, well he enjoys the crumbs you throw at him now and then. Her older brother always seeks you out when he goes to the yard to practice his sword skills and he laughs a bit too loud when you jest. Jeyne has been practically tearing her hair out with envy because of it.

Sansa cannot find it in herself to comfort her friend, for she should have known that Robb could never marry a steward’s daughter.

Even with his constant attention, your eyes always find hers. You always come find her, in the keep or the dining hall or in the yard. It would be quite the inconvenience considering Sansa’s dearest friend despises your very existence, but she thrives on attention. Her Lady mother used to say that praise to Sansa was sunlight to a rose.

The library is not a setting she can imagine you in, but you rarely achieve predictability. She watches you for a moment in hopes that you have not noticed another presence. 

You sit curled up against a shelf with a book in your lap. You pinch the corner of the page and lightly roll it between your fingers. It's as if you are already anticipating turning the page. 

“Do you intend to join me? Or is watching from the darkness something you enjoy?” You ask while finally flipping that page. Eyes never straying. 

Sansa sniffs and walks forward into the golden light. Her dress glides too close to the hearth and for a small moment, it looks as if the flames from the fireplace are reaching out to grab the fabric, crackling in anger when Sansa jumps away from it. Looking up, your eyes meet hers.

A blaze of yellow and orange glows against your pupils. 

You smile and tilt your head in that strange knowing way. “You should be more careful, Dearest. The fire has few masters and you are not one.” 

The words are strangely shrewd for the teasing tone, but Sansa waves her hand at you dismissively. She rarely listens to the odd things that pour from your mouth like soured sick. Unlike Robb, who will grip onto every word with snow-white knuckles. She walks to the space in front of you and sits down gracefully. 

Sansa reaches forward and uses the tip of her finger to lift the book away from your lap just enough to see the cover. The book is one she has seen Jon reading as of late, although she has no knowledge of what it's about. 

“Whatever are you reading?”

“Tis about Old Valyria.” You say while shutting the very book and placing it beside you. She hums because she has nothing else to say. She has never cared for history or sums or anything other than the pretty things of being a lady. Her mother worries but she will have a council of Lords to do the boring things for her when she is queen. 

Readjusting her position, Sansa clears her throat. “I came to find you for a purpose.”

“Oh, how flattering it is to be sought out.”

She pinches your leg. “Quiet you.” Waiting until you stop laughing, she continues. “I wished to speak to you about Robb.”

“What about him?”

“He is besotted with you.”

“He is a man, next moon he will be besotted with a barmaid with big eyes and bigger teats.” 

Sansa gasps and pinches you again. “Do not be crude!”

You laugh and she finds herself restraining her own giggle. It is moments like this that Sansa is so very glad you are a friend. Jeyne is lovely but Sansa would never dare share a true secret with her, as it would end up in every young lady's ears by the time the sun dies. Arya is simply awful and quick to anger. 

Father always smiles fondly and says wolf blood. She wonders if she looked more like her dead aunt if father would indulge her tantrums just as often. 

Their laughs subside and Sansa takes a breath, “As I was saying. Robb wants you but I encourage you to deny him.”

You tsk. “And why should I deny the next Warden of the North?” 

“You are not a highborn lady, Robb cannot marry you.”

“That only makes me want to marry him, Sansa.” 

She huffs. “Out of spite and stubbornness?”

You shrug and smile at her easily. “There is little other reason I would wish to marry him. I find him rather foolish.” Sansa opens her mouth to defend her brother and mayhaps reminds you of your stature, but you quickly press your hand over her lips.

“Hush, I meant no offense.” You say swiftly. You slowly drag your hand away from Sansa’s face and place it in your lap. She is almost shocked into silence at your words. You say many unorthodox things, but an apology has never tumbled off your tongue. That was the closest thing akin to one. 

“Besides, Robb is not mine.”

Her curiosity peaks. “Oh, and who’s is he? Do not say Jeyne, he finds her plain.” While teasing, it is the truth. Her brother only entertains Jeyne’s affections out of politeness and boredom. She waits for you to say something, but you are silent. 

You stare at her, then blink, open your mouth, and close it. 

“He will be the strangers.” 

You blink again, shake your head, and smile brightly enough to blind. Sansa watches your odd actions with a scrunched nose. She would ask, but instead, she starts to talk about how horrid Arya had been while they were at lessons.

°°°

The prince will be at Winterfell in just a few weeks. Jon Arryn's death brings her father heartache but she cannot help the feeling of her dream being on the horizon. Sansa feels sick with nerves and anticipation. Her hands are unsteady while she stitches the details of her new dress. 

She stitches lions around the neck, to win the Lannister queen's favor and express loyalty. When she told you of her plans, you had told her that gold would look horrid with her hair and gray direwolves would look lovely embroidered on her dress collar. She had not listened. 

So, the two of you sit in silence while she carefully constructs the snout of a lion. Sansa hisses and drops the needle when she pricks her finger once again. In truth, she is starting to believe that this dress will never be completed. That thought makes her even more frustrated. 

With a huff you reach over and take her shaken hand, cradling it between your own. “That is the fifth time you have done that. What ails you?” 

Sansa lets you caress her fingers while she wills herself not to burst into tears. 

“The prince will be here very soon.” 

“Yes.” You respond as if that means nothing.

She lets out a cry and smacks her hand against the floor. “That is the problem, silly girl. The prince will be here soon and I'm dreadfully unprepared.” Tears start to track down her cheeks and her breath shutters like the winds of winter.

You move yourself closer to her, where your knees are touching and she can feel your warmth. “No need to be upset.” You say. “Even if you are betrothed, a wedding shall not take place until you are of age.” 

“That is not what upsets me!”

“Then tell me what does.”

Sansa sniffs and wipes her wet nose with the back of her hand. “What if he does not like me? What if he has been with other ladies, older ladies that are more experienced than me?” She cries miserably and hides her face behind her hands. The thought of not being enough for the golden prince makes her cry harder.

You sigh, annoyed, then she feels your hands prying hers away from her face. Your pursed lips and incredulous expression make her feel a bit childish even though you are the same age as she.

“Sansa.” Your voice is stern and demanding of attention. “If the prince does not like you then he is a fool.”

“But how can I be enough? I have never even been kissed. What if I'm no good at kissing and he hates me!” She yells in your face. In the back of her mind, she knows she will have to apologize to you for being so rude.

“I’ll kiss you.”

Sansa’s breath stops altogether and stares at you utterly flummoxed. You stare back unflinchingly, eyes never straying from hers. She could not have heard right, but then again you are rather crude and unpredictable. Pressing her finger against her eyes to dry the wetness, Sansa opens her mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, beautiful hair swaying with the motion. “You are not hard of hearing, dearest.” 

Denying the offer would be the most sensible, the most ladylike. She would deny you for many reasons, you are rather opinionated, you give little knowledge about your life even though you know every inkling of hers, you do not respect titles nor the people that hold them, but most of all, you are a girl.

She wonders if you have been kissed by many. Sansa watches your big smile turn a bit more earnest. Knowing that it is wrong can be avoided with her distress of wanting to impress the prince. 

She nods, thinking about how much her embarrassment can be quelled with just one minuscule lesson. “Alright, kiss me then.”

“Are you certain?”

“I said kiss me, did I not?”

It seems you do not need to be told a third time because you lean forward and kiss her. It’s nothing more than a brush of lips really, a whisper of what a real kiss should be. It makes Sansa blush red hot all the same. You pull back sharply as if her mouth stung

So, here the two of you are. Sitting on the floor of her chamber with flushed faces, cloth and string scattered around and Sansa's dried blood on both you and her hands. 

A moment of quiet, then-

“That was hardly a kiss!” Sansa says loudly, then shrieks at her volume. She turns to make certain her chamber door is shut and lets out a long-suffering sigh of relief when she sees it is. Facing you again is much less intimidating when she hears you start cackling. 

You laugh and laugh until tears run streams down your cheeks. They drip off your jaw, one after the other. She watches, bewildered and terribly confused but she finds her own laugh begins to rise up her throat.

°°°

You leave only 3 days before the king's carriage arrives. She cries fat bellowing tears, you kiss her cheek and tell her that you will meet again. You also gift her one of your dresses, the one you wore during that first meeting almost a year ago in the sept. 

Sansa starts stitching the direwolves onto a new dress. Her blood had stained the lion's mouth and made it unsalvageable. 

“What are your favorite flowers? I'll stitch them onto the dress since I am already using your brilliance.” She asks you as your brother says his goodbye and thanks to her Lord father.

“Red fennel flowers.” 

“Whyever would those be your favorite?"

“It is what they signify.”

“And what do they signify?”

Your brother calls your name while he climbs onto the wagon, but you seem keen on pretending he does not. You reach forward and take her hands, leaning as if sharing a secret.

“Victory.” You whisper.

Later that day, Jon places a direwolf in Sansa's eager arms.

°°°

When Joffrey kisses her for the first time, she thinks of how thankful she is to you for preparing her.

And a moon later, in the hours after her father’s head tumbled to the ground, she thinks about how thankful she is that Joffrey was not her first kiss.

°°°

Margaery reminds Sansa of you. Tis a foolish thing for the two of you are not alike. Margaery is nothing but a mummer's mask, a beautiful venomous snake covered in honey. While you were raw and still sweet to the bone.

But as she walks in the Redkeep's garden with the soon-to-be queen arm and arm, she thinks the two of you would get along well. You would both talk endlessly about all the strange things you know and how you know them.

She catches Sansa staring at the side of her face, she must feel the burning of her eyes.

“What is it, sweet girl?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I did not mean to stare, it's just..”

“You remind me of an old friend, is all.”

“Oh, how lovely. Well, you must tell me of her.”

She does. She talks about your buoyancy and terrible insolence. She talks about your beautiful dresses and the one you gifted her before you left.

Margaery does not interrupt, allowing Sansa the freedom to speak openly about the girl she has not thought of in moons. She regrets it later, while she lays in a featherbed that feels like gravel against her back. She regrets pulling you from the depths of her mind. Regrets dragging you from the black water of memories and tugging you onto her ship. It's painful, remembering how much she misses you.

She briefly wonders if you are even alive. That would be quite the jest, wouldn't it? If her closest friend was simply no more. Dead. Mayhaps someone heard her speak of you to Lady Margaery and is out trying to find you.

Joffrey would jump with glee to find something to punish Sansa with. She thinks of all the things he would do to you in her name.

Sansa vomits in her chamber pot while Shae holds back her hair and coos sweet sentiments.

°°°

Ramsey says your name once. He calls you a ‘little pet’ and thanks Theon for telling him all about yours and Sansa's companionship.

She tries to refrain from reacting but cannot withhold the shudder when he tells her of all the things he will do to you.

In that moment, she wishes to never see you again, she prays to any gods listening that you are already dead and the only thing Ramsey can torment her with is your bones.

He never does bring you up again, most likely angry in his fallen attempts to find even a whisper of you.

°°°

Once, while she is at castle black, she hears one of the wildling women speak of bedding another woman. The woman is crude with her words and detailed with the actions they two committed between their furs.

The old Sansa would find it horribly disturbing. Two women together. But now, all she can feel is envy of women finding pleasure in bed and bitterness for all the pain she has gone through. She feels bitter most times when she sees two people happy with one another. She wants so desperately to feel that, feel anything good at all.

While the dreary castle sleeps, Sansa trails her icy fingertips up her thigh, between her legs, and feels.

She thinks of your pretty face behind her closed eyelids. And when she comes, there is not a shred of shame in her chest.

Sansa laughs hysterically when breath returns her.

°°°

The wind carries like a sweet sigh, a whisper against the skin of her cheek. Sansa watches with careful eyes as the dragon queen trots along on her horse. The woman is much smaller than she would have anticipated with all the roaring praise Tyrion's ravens are loud with.

Jon swings over his own steed, boots sloshing into the snow beneath him. His bottomless Stark eyes peer into Sansa’s and she is quite astonished to see him grinning. Tis a silly boyish grin she remembers from when they were children and he wanted to show her a game.

Something with rocks or sticks. Something she turned her nose up at.

Her brother does not help the dragon queen from her horse, nor does he wait to greet his family. Jon is before her and sweeping her into a crushing embrace before the Targaryen’s boots make temporary marks in the snow.

His mouth is cold when it presses into the shell of Sansa's ear but his breath is warm when he whispers, “I have a gift for you.”

Pulling away, he leaves her with a kiss pressed into her hair and moves on to engulf Bran in his arms. It’s like he might just hold their brother until they are nothing but bones and ash.

There is scarce time to taste his words, less to chew them. Raising her chin, she watches as the Targaryen walks unsteadily to her.

She can see the unease riddling this woman, precarious and glancing at Jon for guidance he does not have. This woman must discern that Jon willn't give her what she is seeking, for she swallows down something Sansa could call bitter and smiles kindly at her.

She should not leave her face so vulnerable, so susceptible to having her grievances and sorrow torn into like one would pry open a clam to find the pearl.

A mummer's mask is the only way to survive court, the only way to win this torturous game.

“Lady Stark.” She says, rather personally than diplomatic. This woman speaks her words and molds her face as though they know one another, sweetly and sisterly and for a fleeting moment, Sansa wants to believe in it.

It's been so long since she has believed in anything other than herself, and it would be oh-so lovely to put faith in another.

Daenerys tilts her chin to peer around the stone and snow. “Winterfell is as beautiful as your brother claims,” She faces her again, smiling tenderly. “As are you.”

Sansa can see these pleasantries for what they are, an olive branch. She knows what her position must look like, desperate for allies as the dead march with little regard for the North's readiness. This woman must feel as though she is reaching forward to offer a hand to Sansa as she balances on a damp plank of a sinking ship.

Fortunately, Sansa learned how to swim in angry waters long ago.

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.”

Crestfallen, her silver brows crease, and Sansa almost feels the clams insides wet her harsh digging fingers.

Jon’s hand reaches out to grip Sansa's shoulder. “Let us move into the hall, but Sansa, I must tell you-”

Bran says your name with the same eerie coldness he does everything else.

Her breath catches in her throat and suddenly she sees you.

You sit upon a sand-colored horse that is littered with white spots. You are already watching her, she realizes. You have been watching the entirety of this exchange.

She feels her own face crack open, tongue spitting the pearl into your hands like she had done at the green age of three-and-ten.

You've changed. The purity of youth has been shaven off your face, your hair is different than it once was and there is a scar that drags down your lips as if it's trying to sew them together.

It frightens her, that you are no longer the ungraspable thing that she can look to for comfort, that you are no longer just a memory she keeps on a throne.

“Yes, She is an adviser of mine, my Lady of Whispers.” The dragon queen says softly, and Sansa feels as though a blade has just sheathed into her gut. She does not turn away from your gaze, even when your lips curl into a smirk that she can only describe as predatory.

You do not look away, not even when Bran tells them of the rogue dragon and the shattered wall.

°°°

The halls are silent as she walks to her bedchambers. Although approaching doom has become a recurring presence in her life, Sansa has still not become accustomed to it. Nervously twisting around the ring on her finger she arrives in front of her door.

It's open, just enough to put her finger between the door and framing but not nearly enough for her to peek into. She glances around, but there is not a guard in sight, all most likely sleeping before they see battle.

Placing her hand on the heavy wood, she wrenches it open with a horrid ear-stabbing creak.

You sit on her bed. The dress you wear is black, with beautiful Stark gray embroidery. Sansa noticed the color when you scurried into the hall with the others; now, she sees what the stitching is. Detailed patterns of wolves, all connected by the same stitch, seem to prance across your breast to your back.

The dress itself is rather strange, with sharp pointed shoulders that counter the beast that had flown over Winterfell. The skirt parts into a cape-like thing at your hips, trousers wrapped around your crossed legs and boots cover your feet. You do not meet her eyes.

“You took your Lord Father and Lady Mother's chambers.” You speak with no true inflection, only a soft slyness that reminds her achingly of her girlhood.

The tip of your boots moves in union with your head as you greedily take in the decor of her chamber.

There is something unsettling about you, she thinks there always has been, truly. Sansa remembers Jeyne being envious of you, but she had always forgotten how perturbed she was with you near.

“Yes.” She agrees. Sansa brings her hands behind her back and raises one eyebrow at the woman lounging on her bed. “Why are you here?”

You blink, eyes fluttering as though you did not expect the question. “I wished to see you,” you tell her, words slow like falling snow.

You say it with an obvious tilt like Sansa is simply supposed to know one single thread in the mess of your mind. She imagines it to look like Arya's old stitching basket, a clutter of silk ribbons, furry yarn, and fine threads all crumpled into one pretty woven basket.

You do not seem to understand that you are a stranger now, another foreigner who has invaded her home with intent to snatch it from Sansa’s dying grip.

She parts her lips, and says, “How flattering it is to be sought out.” Instead of voicing her grief with you.

A loud surprised laugh jolts from your mouth, it sounds a bit like someone has squeezed it right from your chest. Fingers digging into the soft linen of her bedding, you shake your head. Sighing long and loud, you look up at her with starry wet eyes.

“Fuck, I had forgotten what a rude child I’d been.” You gasp out, something caught between a laugh and cry scratching your voice.

Sansa watches as you bring your hand up to your face and wipe at the wetness beneath your nose. One of your fingers is missing on that hand, all the way down like someone had plucked it from the bone. She pretends not to notice for her own sanity.

Grimacing, Sansa makes a disgruntled noise. “Yes, well, I can see little has changed.”

Again, you laugh. “Too much has changed, dearest. Too much for even myself to understand.” Your voice trembles into a whisper, like the wind against the glass of her window. She says nothing, for there is nothing she knows how to say. You have always been shrouded in mystery.

Gracefully leaping around any question of your life, but bearing your heart wide open, prying it apart like an overly ripened fruit and gifting the mush mess to Sansa.

Swinging your foot, you lift yourself from her bed. She is close now, like when you were girls and only sat with brushing knees and fingers twisting in one another's hair. You do not step forward, studiously keeping distance.

“I missed you.” You tell her so earnestly she feels sick.

She steps into your space and practically collapses into you.

“I missed you too.”

°°°

There is very scarce time to speak when the army of dead march, though you and Sansa seem to steal time between bearing the weight of Lady Stark and the Lady of Whispers.

Stolen moments like now, as she follows you out into the snow after you insisted she must meet your steed. It amuses her greatly that you have not grown out of that petulant way of demanding things instead of asking. It reminds her of Robb.

You glance behind at her many times as if to make certain she is still following.

“You have been rather quiet.” You say softly after approaching your speckled horse. You give him a firm pat on the snout. Sansa chooses her words very carefully when she converses with you.

The Lady of Whispers is not a person she can afford to trust. No matter how much she aches to.

“The dead are very close. All words seem wasted, don't you think?” She responds thinly. Sansa is aware that you can sense her distrust like a hound can sniff out blood, but it seems you are willing to eat any words Sansa feeds you. Even if they are terribly cold.

The timidly hopeful look on your face washes away into something incredulous. “When would words matter, if not now?”

Sansa huffs through her nose, “Foolish words could be your last.”

“That is for all of time.” You tell her with a haughty flick of the wrist. “Death has no bonds. The Stranger is greedy and constantly reaching out to take.”

A memory clings to her mind, when she was a girl and you had interrupted her prayer. You had confessed to not following the seven gods, and somehow Sansa cannot fathom that you have found faith in your years of travel.

Staring at the side of your face, she says, "I did not think you followed The Seven.”

Startling her, you throw your head back and cackle as if it is the most humorous ridiculous thought. Snow falls into the tendrils of your hair, melting instantly after it touches your warmth.

“Oh dearest, I do not.” You reach up and press your fingers into your eye. “You do not need to follow something to know it is real.”

“And how do you know it is real?” The query is spoken lightly, but she is truly curious. She wishes to know how it is you simply know. How you say things with such certainty that she has no choice but to believe.

She longs to know you. Not the girlish giggling memory she has held close for so many years, but the woman who stands before her. She longs to know you as you are. She thinks that you wish to know her as well, for you are the one who has always sought her out.

You do not answer her, strangely solemn and quiet as you pet your horse. And then she sees it, a tear rolls down your cheek. Without thought, she is touching your skin and caresses the drop of salt and sadness away.

The wet clings to her thumb.

“Do you know what a greenseer is, Sansa?” Your voice is much like the tear that fell, like the snow that drops from the sky. Serene and sad and twisted with the approach of something dreadful. She cannot recall the last time she heard her true name on your tongue.

Her hand does not leave your face. “I..” She hesitates and is reminded of Bran. Her brother who is not her brother at all, but a hollow-eyed creature that wears her brother's flesh.

“Yes. I- I believe I do.” The words are small and breathy. Akin to confession to the gods. You smile, a true smile with no slyness, no cajolery hidden in the curves of your teeth. It pulls on a thread of desire she had not known was left in her.

“Is that what you are? Do you see all, know all?” She asks, with less caution than she had with Bran. He had been thoughtlessly cruel, intending to tell her something only she and Theon could possibly know.

But you are only cruel with purpose, only sharpened your words when you intended to pierce.

You laugh wetly, nose scrunching up with a sniffle. “Goodness, no. Truly, I believe I know very little compared to some.” Your hand reaches up to where hers cradles your cheek.

You place your atop hers, completely trapping her in warmth. “I am not like Bran. My dreams have never been clear. Tis like reading a book through torn out crumpled pages.”

Sansa suppresses a sigh when you remove her hand from your face, but smiles when you continue to hold it tightly. In truth, Sansa does not know what to say. You are not one to take pity without feeling sour, and she is glad for that.

Rarely is she content with a secret shared with her,

Jon and his true parentage, Arya’s whereabouts over the years, The raven that speaks through her brother's voice.

But this, you. You she can accept. You she can continue with as if the secret had never been one at all. She had always known you were odd.

Mayhaps if she was not so consumed with herself as a girl, she would have surmised this. You never hid it from her, simply never spoke the words.

“That must be confusing.” Is all she says. If you are relieved by her nonplussed response, you do not show. You swing your and her connected hands.

“T’was, but I find that trying to make sense of it is a futile task.” You lick your lips and look up, gazing into Sansa’s eyes like you are searching in her soul. “Although, there has been one clear thing in all my years alive.”

She does not look away, intent on seeing your soul as well. “And what is that?”

“You.”

Sansa blinks, “Pardon?”

You sigh, “Oh dearest, it's always been you. Before I knew me I knew you.” Stepping closer, your breath makes a fog against her mouth. “There was no other, no gods, no words that I knew before you.”

Sansa can feel tears welling in her eyes and her chest shake with the weight of confession. The moment is happening so fast, but she has waited so long for something that it does not feel fast at all.

“How..”

You bring your hand up, pressing it against her cheek and caressing her bottom lip with your thumb. It's a mirror of what she had just done to you, but it makes her gasp all the same.

“I have always known your name, Sansa Stark. I know not what entity has given me this sight, mayhaps the stars, mayhaps the gods, but they told me your name when I knew not else.”

And then you are kissing her. Sansa gasps into your mouth, caught between kissing you back and crying out for a reason she knows not. She brings her hands up, placing them on your neck, feeling the thunderous pulsing of your heart.

She's kissing you back. The kiss is rushed and messy and desperate, both of you seem to be gasping for breath whilst diving in for more. She has never been kissed like this, and she thinks of her first kiss.

She wonders if you had known then, if you had felt this against your lips instead of a soft brush of curiosity. She forgets her thoughts when your tongue curls around hers.

It feels so good, Sansa never wants it to end, never wants to come up for air. Drown me please, let me swim in you forever, she thinks and moans when your hand flutters down to her waist, tugging her closer.

A throat clearing behind you and she makes her pull apart.

Jon has his hand covering over his eyes and Daenerys Targaryen’s lips are pressed together like she is desperately trying not to smile.

Daenerys is the first to speak. She clears her throat and pats her chest with a gloved hand. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting. Please, continue." The dragon queen giggles at the end of her words and Sansa hears you huff in what she assumes annoyance.

Jon squawks, “Dany! They cannot-you cannot!" He waves his hand wildly between the Targaryen and the two women beside the speckled horse.

Daenerys seems keen on ignoring him and says your name instead, “Please find me when you return. There is something we need to discuss.” She says and then she picks up her skirts and turns to walk the way she came. Jon does not move, looking humorously betrayed as if he has caught his closest friend with a hand up his sister's dress.

Mayhaps his feelings are justified, she has always known that you and Jon were close but she never thought much about it.

The dragon queen calls over her shoulder. “Come along, Jon. Leave them be.”

He begrudgingly follows after her.

“She will be a good queen.”

Sansa glances at you, bruised mouth and blushing cheeks. She imagines she looks quite similar. She does not answer you, it feels rather futile to argue after what you have just confided in her.

Leaning forward, she presses a sweet kiss against your mouth and pulls away when you try to deepen it.

“Go to your queen.” She says, patting down her dress as she walks back toward the Keep.

Sansa feels strangely at ease. Everything is changing, falling apart, and growing all at once. But she feels sure and content in a way she has not since her father was alive. She can not imagine you would kiss her if she were to die. It gives her a comforting reassurance.

Your taste is still on her tongue when the horn blows.

°°°

They lose many in the battle of dead and living. Good men, good women, bad men, redeemed men, Sansa has stopped counting the corpses. She looks through the bodies, looks for your face, wide-open eyes and lips bluer than the fresh morning sky.

She does not find your body, nor anything that would indicate you have fallen. In the midst of her search, a hand curls around her arm. When she turns, she comes face-to-face with her sister. 

Arya has blood crusting all over her face, and the rest of her is covered in soot. Arya must see her crestfallen face, for she chuckles. T’is an unnerving sound Sansa has not grown accustomed to yet.

“Are you not pleased to see me, Sansa?” Her sister tilts her head with the query. Sansa swallows her unease and bile, the smell of death too strong. 

“Of course, I am. Do not be foolish.”

Arya hums, "I am not the one you were looking for.” It is not a question, but Sansa feels as though she must disagree. It feels sinful, to be less pleased with her sister's survival than she would be yours. But Arya is a child no longer and does not need Sansa to water down truths in fear that it will be too strong for her little sister to swallow. 

“No.” She whispers, “No, I was not looking for you.” The confession makes Arya let go of her arm. The younger takes a step away and hums once again. Sansa feels her skin crawl under the Stark grey gaze of her sister, but she does not cower.

Instead, she strains her chin up and shows some lion-like pride. “Well done, NightKing Slayer. Allow the maesters to look after your wounds after you bathe." She then picks up her dress and moves to walk away, but Arya’s voice cuts through.

“I saw her, she is alive.” The younger says, voice smooth like the finest silks. Arya seems to have absorbed an accent from her days in Braavos. Sansa wonders what that would have been like, to shed the gown of girlhood whilst under the warm sun and splash in the sea as a woman grown.

It sounds like a lovely sentiment, something she might have longed for in the prison of the Red-Keep.

“She is well?”

Arya scoffs, “I believe I said ‘alive’. She will need to see a maester, and she will have scars.” She raises a bloodied battered eyebrow. “I know you have always been quite vain bu-” 

“You do not.” Sansa interrupts. She does not intend to, truly, but the words slip off her tongue and she cannot remember the last time she allowed herself to speak so freely with anyone other than you. The younger says nothing in clear expectation of more. 

“You do not know me. Not anymore, Mayhaps you never have.” It is calm and even, not quite cold but never warm. Sansa does not mean for the words to pierce, but for a moment she thinks that Arya’s mummer's mask of indifference slips.

Big steel eyes stare up at her, a telltale shine of hurt pooling in her lashes. 

She nods, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “You are right, I…I do not know you. The girl I knew would never have been in love with a woman.” She says it with a playfulness that she has always reserved for Jon. Sansa smiles back.

“As I said, mayhaps you never knew me.” Because she has always loved you. When she was a girl as green as summer grass, she would get on her knees and pray for a sweet love. The gods sent you to her. Right there in the sept, they gave her what she prayed for. No matter the tribulation she endured, you had always been there. Kept close to her beating heart.

“It has always been her, always.” She repeats in attempt to quell the prior baleful words. 

Arya stares at her, as though she is witnessing her again for the first time. “Then go to her, Sansa.” She steps forward, clutches Sansa's hands in her own and squeezes. “Go find your knight and dress her wounds, kiss the battle from her brow, and sing her songs of victory.” 

She moves closer and presses a kiss on Sansa's cheek. “She’s a lovely knight, Sans. I’m happy you get this dream, I am truly sorry for what others became.”

The younger drops her hands and turns, walking in the blood soaked sludge towards the Keep. 

Sansa never quite knows what Arya is thinking, cannot read her mind the way she can do others. But at this moment, she thinks that Arya understands her much better than she imagined. 

She thinks that her sister finally understands the appeal of what poets have named love.

°°°

The door of Sansa’s bedchambers is ajar, once again. There is much less finesse than the first time you pushed through her door. She speaks not as her feet carry her through the sanctity of her room. There is warmth, the hearth crackles over her thundering heart. 

She had prepared her hurt in lest you chose to abandon her for another queen. But you sit in front of the flames, red stained and leather bound. 

“Have you not bathed?” Sansa says and feels frivolous for it. You throw your head back and let out a gritty laugh. She shut the door, sliding the lock in place before she carries on. There is leftover water in the basin, and a cloth somewhere in her oak chest of fabrics. 

She can feel your eyes follow as she pulls a thin net cloth from the chest.

“Whatever are you doing?” Your question is so very soft, it makes her smile. Collecting the water in an iron chalice, she comes to you and sets the cup near the fire. Looking at your face so close, she can now see all the cuts and bruises. 

“Do you have any other wounds?”

“Nah.” You scoff “Those ice fucker only got in some blows. Nothing that will not heal on its own.” 

There is something wrought in your cavalier retort. The delight of victory does not quite reach your eyes. She hums and dips the cloth into the water, bringing it to the burst of blood congealed on your lips. When you were girls, you would squirm like a caught rodent while the 

Septa tried to brush the tangles of sleep from your hair. 

As she swipes the blood from your mouth, you are unmoving. Tranquil in your contentment. If only Septa Mordane had allowed Sansa a try then mayhaps they would have been to lessons sooner.

She can see much in your eyes this close, the love, the quiet, the melancholy.

Sansa scrubs at a partially dry flake of blood on your cheekbone. “War is not over, is it?” She asks, not ceasing her ministrations. 

You do not look away from her, “No.”

You give her no other explanation, and there is nothing in your manner that would inflict worry upon her. It is calm and faint just as the chamber's atmosphere.

Whilst serene, there is a thick tension that has consumed the air like smoke. Sansa feels no wariness for she could simply sooth the taunt if she pressed her lips to yours.

She does not.

“Will you go to Kingslanding?” She breaks through the silence, “Will you follow Daenerys?”  

You do not respond with an instant denial and she feels a petulant anger bubble up in her core. She wants you to not need to think. She wants you to know which queen you would follow. She wants you to seek her out like you have always done.

She wants you.

With a hesitant sigh, you open your mouth. “I…I wish things were simple, though they never are.” 

Hearth glowing against the pits in your eyes, you stare into Sansa’s.

“What would I be?” You ask, a hysterical thread of desperation sewn into your voice. “What- What shall I be if I stay?” 

“Mine.” Sansa says, “You shall be mine.” And she dives forward, head first into warm waters. Sansa Stark learned how to swim in thrashing frigid water long ago, but now she thinks kissing you is akin to swimming in the balmy Dornish sea. 

You taste of blood and peach and home. 

The two collide atop the furs in front of the firelight. Between kisses, Sansa tentatively tugs at the laces of our leather jerkin. You disjoin your mouth from hers, but your hands stay put in the tendrils of her vibrant hair. 

Swallowing, she watches the fast rise and fall of your chest. She moves her hand to press against the motion and feels the heavy rapid pound of your heart on her palm. Your eyes flutter as you sigh, she is so close that she feels every move you make. 

“I love you.” You whisper into her. 

She gasps, “Yes, yes, I love you as well.” And bears up to kiss any other words from your tongue.

“I covet you.” The words are slid into her mouth and she wants to taste them forever. The kisses become frantic and your hands are digging into her skin deliciously.

Sansa pulls at your laces until she can see your lovely skin peaking out. “So many words, too many words.” She moans into the kiss and only breaks apart to continue, “So many things to be said, let us say them on the morrow.”

“Sansa-” You breathe against her throat and she shutters. Her whole body feels not unlike a piece of flit being scraped against steel, desperately trying to catch spark.

“Show me.” She says as she unclasps her cloak. Sansa lays down on her back against the furs. 

The fire reflects against your skin, and she remembers all those years ago in the sept when the candle made you glow and she thought about touching your dress. 

“Show me,” She whispers, “Show me how you covet me. I want to feel it.” You are above her, your hand pressed flat beside her head.

Pulling apart your jerkin, she presses her hand on your naked breastbone and drinks in the sigh you let out. It sinks into her skin and settles in the marrow of her bones.

Sansa likes this, that you are letting her spread you open with no uncertainty. 

You dip down and press delicate kisses against her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and then her mouth. Your tongue twists against hers as your hand digs underneath her to tug at the laces of her dress. 

The fire burns hot and she knows what it is to be coveted. 

°°°

You stay. 

°°°

The Dragon Queen's reign is fleeting and not without madness. Sansa knows not what has happened between her and Jon, but she does know that he stuck a knife into her belly. She knows that he loved her.

Her brother sits solemnly in the snow, staring up at the Weirwood tree as though the face in it shall speak its wisdom to him. She walks over and sits on one of the ancient trees protruding roots. 

He does not glance away from the face in the wood. “Do you think there was another way?” He asks, and she does not know if he is speaking to her or the gods. Jon turns his head and she is struck with a sadness of how much he looks like father. 

“Do you think I could have saved her?” He says again.

Sansa has no thoughtful answer for him, for she is rather glad Daenerys is gone. She thinks the woman caused more harm than good, but she is well aware that Jon is not alone in his mourning. You had shed many tears when you heard of Missandei’s demise.

She has a strong inquiry that you knew then. You knew what the Dragon Queen would become.

“She was going to be the greatest who ever lived. She who was promised.” You had whispered to the dark starry sky as Sansa dragged her fingertips up your arms in tries of comfort. 

“No.” She decides. “You cannot save someone from their own madness, Jon. You cannot reach into their skull and pull out the rot piece by piece.” 

Jon says nothing, but he starts to smile in a pained way. 

“When did you become so wise?” 

She laughs, “Mayhaps I have always been wise, and you never took note.”

They are both smiling and she feels this lovely bittersweet moment soak into her like sunshine. 

She will most likely never see her brother again, but was that not always what she was meant for? She was always meant to leave, to fly away and only speak to her family through ink and parchment. 

For that is the life of a woman. 

Jon stands, smile never ceasing. “I am surprised you are here with me, and not letting your lover fawn over you before your coronation.” Reaching her, he takes her hand and puts it in the crease of his arm, linking them as they walk the old path of childhood to the rest of their lives. 

Sansa hums, “She will be pleased I am here with you.” She gently knocks her shoulder into his. “She loves you, you know.” 

Those words seem to make Jon choke on a sob, for he turns his face away from Sansa's watch. “She is my oldest friend.” Is all he says in return. 

“Well then, I shall send her when I need your council. I will be quite busy as queen, you see.” She leans her chin up in mock of your particular haughtiness.  

“Ah yes.” He chuckles. “The men of castle black will learn respect in lest she eat them for sup.” 

Her coronation is close calling by the sudden falling of the sun. They come close to the Keep, still gripping one another tightly enough to leave a remembrance in bruises. Jon’s steps come to a halt.

“Well, won't you look at that.” He conveys in awe. Sansa looks to where his eyes are gazing.

A little patch of green grass under the wet sludge of ice and snow. The flowers are long blossoms that are connected but thin stems. The plant is a rather bronze color, and she feels as though she has seen these flowers before but cannot place where.

“Red fennel flowers.” 

Sansa blinks, startled. “Pardon?”

“Red fennel flowers.” He repeats, light with a buoyancy that comes with the start of spring. 

“Those signify-”

“Victory.” Sansa whispers. 

She stitches bronze blossoms into the lining of her dress only moments before she is to be presented as queen.

When she sits on the Northern throne, a Direwolf crown on her head, she looks for you in the crowd and suppresses a smile when she sees tears flowing down your face.

You always knew, in life and death, you always knew it would always be you and Sansa Stark.

End

[myladysapphire]

Duty

Robb Stark had kept his oath to house Frey and married you as a result allowing him to win the north’s independence however he now has to live with the sacrifices of duty and must find out if duty is truly the death of love.

word count: 3,992

CW: MDI 18+, slight smut, p in v, angst, arranged marriage, infidelity, childbirth, unhealthy dynamic, toxic relationship? open ending, pregancy, not proofread!

Robb Stark x Frey!Reader

Masterlist | part two

dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Duty.

The word rang in your head as you stared at your husband.

He was yours; you were his but as his eyes wandered across the hall you knew he was not entirely yours.

A mere hour into your marriage and you already felt the strain of an unfaithful husband.

The longing looks he gave her form across the room were the looks you had wished to feel.

You were the youngest daughter of Walder Frey and his sixth wife, Bethany Rosby, and though your older sister Roslin was often called beautiful, you were considered beautiful. It was the one-word Robb stark had said when he saw you, the only word he had said to you beside your wedding vows.

He hadn’t even spared you a glance since the ceremony, most of your conversations had been with his mother, Catelyn. She had been kind, having been the one that choose you as his bride. But you knew it was not your beauty that she chose you for, it helped of course, pleasing Robb if only by a little. You were neither smart, cunning or wise. You were simple normal, with no special skills to sway the eyes of suitors or to persuade your husband. She choose you, the often forgotten daughter, with no influence or means to gain any, for that reason alone.

It was clear to anyone the marriage and alliance was an unwanted one. Especially to your husband and the woman he loved.

He did not dance with you once, offering no words beside the necessary pleasantries, the kindest act he seemed to do was forbade the bedding ceremony. Though there was little bedding done that night, though the act was done, he neither spoke a word to her or stayed the night. And from the whispers she heard the next day it seemed he had gone to her swiftly after.

He had left after that, though he did not say goodbye, or offer to write to you. You were simply left with his mother, set to journey to the Winterfell.

The journey as not long, taking less than two weeks before you saw the peak of Winterfell’s towers. It was a wonderful sight, having never left the twins, and rarely being allowed outside. Seeing the castle of Winterfell was a freeing experience. There seemed to be endless halls, some bare and empty allowing the privacy you had never once had in the twins. The god’s woods was even more magnificent than you had expected, it expanded for acres, with endless trees and countless springs waring both the gods woods and the castle. You felt some peace here, but you had also never felt more alone.

You were looked at as an outsider, talked to as one, and it was clear you were unwanted.

As the moons passed, you felt even more alone, you only heard about Robbs victory through his mother, the one person who didn’t talk to you with resentment.

Then you realised you had yet to bleed since your wedding.

And the word duty once again rang in your head.

You were pregnant, a fact that made you seemed more welcome, people were kinder to you. And yet you felt more alone, suddenly surrounded by people who only cared for you know you cared the heir.

The heir to a man you did not know, the heir to a man who scorned you on the day of your wedding for another woman. He didn’t even have the respect to at least act like a loyal husband.

You had done your duty, but he had not.

For it seemed she was also pregnant.

You were far along in your pregnancy, near eight moons when you heard the news. The news that was accompanied by your husband’s victory. And the norths independence. Yet you felt little joy only envy at the news of her pregnancy. Envy that she gets to know him and he never once tried to let you know him, even in the fleeting hours they did have together.

The next month was lively, the keep full of servants and lords from all over the north preparing for their kings arrival. The planning of feasts and several other northern events to be held. And you did not know what to think, you had long craved to know your husband, but he seemed to want to forget you even existed, and even more so when he arrived, with her on his arm and a babe in hers.

You bowed your head, clutching your belly protectively as if their presence would harm the babe somehow, and greeted him “husband.” You spoke plainly, not in joy, nor as a move of possessiveness towards her.

He nodded his head, going to greet you in the same fashion but stopping himself at the sight of your belly. “wife” he said in shock, as if the very idea of you being pregnant or here for that matter was shocking.

You smiled, a forced smile and spoke softly, “come, husband we have much to discuss”

She had stayed put, looking lost among the faces of Winterfell.

Though you had started out a stranger those first few months, after your pregnancy was announced, though you had at first received false pleasantries to win your favour, a time that made you feel even more alone. Now you felt rather comforted by the halls and the people with in it.

You took your time to win over the people inside the walls, though you never felt that you could truly be yourself ,as you did not know entirely who you were anymore, but none the less, you no longer felt like a stranger, even Catelin had even started to heavily involve you into the running of Winterfell, and her kindness became truer to you, even more so when news of your husbands bastard spread.

Your basic and natural kind behaviour had one the loyalty of many of the people of the north as they sneered at her, shunning her away as they welcomed the victors back from war.

And from the kind smiles you received as you walked the halls to your chambers, chambers the lord and lady of Winterfell had traditionally shared. It had not crossed your mind about were you would know sleep. Never having shared the bed with another, not knowing what it is to share a bed, let alone with a man. It was also your belongings that filled the room, your tapestries and art, your nicknacks and clothes. His had either gone with him or remained in his old chambers, but know she supposed he was fully with in his rights to move in and perhaps even throw her out.

She did not know if he weas cruel enough to do so, or kind enough to let her stay. You only knew of him through the view of others, mainly his mother. An opinion you held   with restraint, seeing as what mother would not love her son.

He stared at you awkwardly once you entered the room, the realisation of never once talking alone coming to light for you both.

“your with child?” he asked after a moment.

You snorted “of course” you said “though I doubt you care much, seeing as you already have a babe”

“i…” he looked down ashamed, “I do care, though….though we barley know one another… I am your husband”

You snorted again, “really? And where exactly has my husband been? Not once have you acted like one, the only husbandly act you had done was to take my maidenhead!” you were mad, for so long you had been nice and kind, acting as if you cared not for his actions and now months of anger was finally spilling out of you.

He coughed awkwardly, clearly not expecting you to say something like that, especially as one of the first things you had said to him.

“i…I you are right?” he said, clearly unsure of what exactly to say, “I should have said something to you, told you of Talisa”

Talisa.

So that was her name.

“or at least have waited until after we were- “

“until it wasn’t our wedding day?

“yes” he looked down, “though I… I will admit I do not regret loving her”

Loving her.

Hearing it hurt, though you supposed you had to right to feel hurt.

You huffed, your eyes downcast, “must you admit it so freely? I understand we do not know each other, that you did not want this marriage, but it is our duty, and I…” you took a deep breath, looking up at him “I want respect, I want to be treated like a wife, and not” you couldn’t bring her self to say it, you were a woman scorned, scorned by your husband and yet he was a stranger, and in his eyes you hadn’t earns the respect you deserved. “…not like-“ you didn’t say it, he did.

“Like a duty?” He looked at you, “because that’s all that you are, a duty” he seemed to sneer “I once desired a marriage of love and then I was told I would have to marry a Frey” he hissed the name, ‘at first I hoped to find love with my wife, a wife I would not little say in, then I met her” you knew he didn’t mean you, how could he? “Talisa” he whispered “I love her more than I thought possible, and then I met you.” He shook his head “ you are beautiful, more so than she I will admit that, but I do not love you, and I very much doubt I ever will.”

“Why?” You asked, stopping him before he could saying anything more.

He swallowed “how can i? I do not know you-“

“Then get to know me!” You interrupted, moving closer to him, “we are to have a child of our own soon, do you not want to know its mother?”

He shook his head, “let me finish.” He spoke sternly, causing you to step back again.”I do not know if I want to know you, I have her and she for months was all I needed…” he stopped talking then, looking at you, as if hoping you would interrupt despite his words.

“And now i… she had a babe, our babe, a girl. And perhaps some part of me feels And perhaps some part of me the guilt of loving her, despite my duty to you.”

You shook your head, “I am your wife, you should feel more-“ you clutched your belly in pain, as a contraction hit.

 “are you alright?” He asked moving to you.

“I have been having them all day, it is nothing to worry about” you said as you shook it off only to be hit with another contraction.

“Are they meant to come that close together?” He asked worry clear in his voice.

You sneered “I don’t know you’re the one with a bastard, weren’t you there went she gave birth?”

“I… no we haven’t been together since the wedding”

You laughed “oh Im so sorry our marriage was such a inconvenience for your mistress”

He said nothing at that, leading you to believe that perhaps he wanted to continue his relationship with her and she was the one to stop it.

“I’ll fetch the midwives” he spoke suddenly, leaving before you could say anything.

Soon you were on your bed, a midwife between your legs telling you to push.

It was just you and them, woman you had never met, wishing you had met your mother so that she could be here for you and not strangers.

And it seemed the gods were cruel as they sent her in, she walked in saying she was a healer and was simply there to help, and by the worried looks the midwives gave her it seemed you needed it.

She went to touch you, and you flinched back.

“No” you whispered.

“The babe is breached” she said hoping to sway you, but the constant shaking of your head caused her to bite her lip a concerned look filling her face “I have experienced with breached briths, I can help you” she insisted.

“No” you simply said again, but this time she ignored your pleas, moving to sit on the bed and take your hand in hers.

You tried to pull your hand back but she only held on tighter, and leaned in.

“Please let me help you” she begged “neither of us want to be in this situation and I am only trying to help you”

“What so the gods aren’t cruel on you as they have been on me?”

She laughed “sort of I suppose, but also because I have caused you enough pain and wish to mend it.”

You looked at her, she was sincere, it seemed she too hated the situation they were both in, trapped feeling like the other woman, “fine” you gritted out.

She nodded “I need to move the babe” she said placing her hand on your belly and started to turn the babe.

The pain was terrible, the want to push and being unable to and the feeling of you babe moving inside of you, and then finally she said you could push, after that is was swift, and before you knew it cries filled the room, and your baby was placed in your arms, a boy, an heir.

“Congratulations” Talisa breathed, “he looks just like you” she said softly, you smiled nodding you head. He did, he lacked all the Tully features Robb ware, though it was clear the stark genes that skipped him wen to the babe, as he had a tuft of Black hair, and a part of you hoped for the grey eyes most Starks bore. But other than that he was every bit yours, your eyes and nose, he was all you.

“Should we fetch the king?” A midwife asked, and you shook you head,

“no, he knows I am here, let him come to me.” You said, as Talisa went to stand, “thank you,” you whispered.

She smiled “just because we are tied in the same way does not mean we must hate one another” she said, looking at you kindly, and you hoped she was right, because you hated the envy you felt towards her.

“We shall speak on this soon, but for now I shall rest” you said, focusing your attention back on your son.

“Of course,” she nodded. Leaving the room.

Robb did not visit you for ten days. No one did really.

It was just you and your son, Cregan. A stark name, though not a common one, you may know little history but the little you did know was about the dance of the dragons, and about Cregan stark. He was your honourable and loyal, traits you would raise your son with.

“Hello” you heard suddenly, as you Cregan was placed in your arms.

It was robb.

“Finally come to meet your child?” You sneered.

“I apologise” he whispered, coming towards you and looking down at your child. “I had matters to deal with”

“of course” you nodded not that you could see how he had not once found the time to visit you and your child.

“I here you named him Cregan” he spoke, softly smiling down at your son.

“yes, I thought it to be a good stark name.”

He nodded, caressing the babes head. “I had hoped to name him Eddard, or Ned…. After my father” he said softly.

“Was that what you were going to name your daughter had she been a boy?” You asked, though your tone was neither dripped with envy or anger, you had said it so nonchalantly, as if you cared not for the answer.

Both the question and your behaviour confused him, he did not know what to make of you, your personality, or how to even start a marriage with you. Or even if he wanted to have one with you. “Yes” he mumbled, “though we ended up naming her Minisa, after my mothers mother” he spoke with such a tenderness, and you realised you could never compete with her, no matter how kind she was, you hated her.

Hated that she was the only reason you could never know your husband, who he was and what he liked. How he looked when you woke up beside him or how it felt for him to hold you lovingly. Your heart broke at the future you would never have.

“Leave” you demanded, pulling Cregan away from Robb. As if Robb being close to him would hurt him the same way Robb being apart from you, had hurt you.

“What?” He asked in alarm.

“I can’t do this” you said, “I can’t, every moment of our marriage has been shadowed by here, I am your wife, not her”

“gods, I know that, and I hate it” he angry spoke back, “we both know neither of us had a choice in who we marry!”

“but you have a choice in who you love, why not try and love me!”

“Because you’ll never be her” He pulled back completely, “I do not want to know you, I only ever wanted her and I will only ever choose her.”

“then leave!” you spoke as tears fell down your face, “I will move out and into one of your over holdings as soon as I am able, and we will not have to put up with this farce any longer”

“good.”

And just like that any hope for a marriage was lost, your son would only know your face and not his fathers for years to come.

As the years passed your rarely saw your husband. With Cregan now five, all hopes of giving him another sibling had disappeared, as you and Robb could scarcely spend longer than a few minutes in a room together.

And though Cregan got along well enough with his siter, Minisa, a part of you resented her. Resented how she was Robbs whole world and Cregan wasn’t.

perhaps it was because you had pushed him away so thoroughly.

That your relation to his heir caused him to resent your son in turn.

And perhaps he hated you more now that Talisa had passed.

The birth of their second child had killed both mother and babe.

Robb had raged.

For months he seemed to only act in anger.

And then it all stopped.

He seemed to return to normal, expect he know insisted he do his duty to you.

Duty.

You hated the word.

Especially as you lay now on the bed, his cock thrusting in and out of you and your moans filling the room.

There was no emotion but hate in the way he fucked you. As if you were the very reason for her death.

As if you were the guilty one in the marriage, when all you had ever done was your duty. As if you existing had caused her death, as if you had killed her and not the winter sickness.

He seemed to fuck you as if you had killed her, pounding into you at a relentless pace.

There was no part about it that could make it seem like he was making love to you.

Not as he bent you over a desk, or pushed you to the floor and hicked up your dress.

Or as he barged into your room as your maids were preparing you for bed, dismissed them and instantly started fucking you.

You hated it. But you also loved it.

Hated how gave you every opportunity to top him, and not once had you.

You happily let him fuck you.

Enjoying the touch of your husband.

The pleasure of sex.                     

“fuck” he groaned as he came, releasing you from his vice like grip.

He rested his head against yours, catching his breath.

It was rare he fucked you on your back, often choosing you to face away from him as he fucked you.

You pulled back from him awkwardly, waiting for what always happened next.

Him leaving.

But this time he didn’t leave.

Perhaps it was because it had been over a year since her death, over a year since her name was mentioned.

Perhaps he had somehow forgiven you for whatever crime you had committed against him in his head.

He had been more…pleasant?

He had been able to spend time in your company without shouting or yelling at you for no reason.

He had had spent more time with his son, though perhaps that had been because you had taken his daughter under your care.

It hurt almost to care for her but apart of you loved her. Having always wanted a daughter for yourself, and for so long believing you would only ever have your son, Cregan. She was the image of her father, with little trace or her mother on her features. She was quite and shy though she liked you. Perhaps it was because Talisa had always been kind to you, at least to your face.

“the maester tells me you are pregnant” he spoke, as he moved to lie beside you.

“what?” you asked in shock. You had only just found out for yourself this morning.

He sighed, turning to look at you, “he said you were pregnant, about three moons” he said as he moved to make himself comfortable in your bed. “i..yes I am…I only just found out this morning”

“as did I”

It was awkward, neither of you knew how to talk to the other. Neither of you had cared to try until now.

you too moved to make yourself comfortable, tucking your self into bed, and turning your back to him. He sighed before moving towards you, blowing out the candle and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“what are you doing?” you asked.

“sleeping with my wife” he said as if it was obvious. You had never shared a bed with a man, and feeling him pressed against you felt strange. It wasn’t comforting, nor was it uncomfortable.

“oh”

“oh?” he mimicked.

“why?”

“well…we are husband and wife it is time we started acting as such”

You huffed, “ we have been husband and wife for nearly six years now and not once have you slept in my bed.

“well that’s going to change” he said, and before you knew it you were both fast asleep.

The next few months had been so different from the previous years.

Though you had not stopped your previous duties as lady of Winterfell. It seemed now with Robb instant on being a dotting husband you had more duties.

He had moved into your chambers, though you supposed they were rightfully his.

He insisted on taking all your meals together, walking in the gods woods every day together.

He had become kind, and for those few moons you thought perhaps you could grow to tolerate his misgivings and be husband and wife.

Then he called you, “Talisa”

He had said it in passing, not even noticing it at first. And then he saw how your froze and realised his mistake.

He had sighed your name in apology.

But you had ignored him. And realised that perhaps it would be better, not to have hope that you were more than a duty to Robb.

That to him you would never be her. Never be the wife he wanted, only his duty.

It didn’t matter how much he liked to play pretend. Giving you flowers and sweet kisses on your cheek. Deep down you knew you could never forgive him, never find the love and happiness you had long craved, that you deserved.

That you would be a wife of duty, and love was always the death of duty, and duty is the death of love.

And he would never stop loving her.

authors note: this took me 3 weeks to write because i couldn’t figure out to make it have a happy ending. it was far to angsty and i couldn’t justify her forgiving him.

taglist

@now-i-have-a-new-obsession @apollonshootafar @flrboyd @theanxietyqueen17 @dark-night-sky-99 @zillahvathek @leavesmealobe @winter-soldier-101 @bunbunbl0gs @ka1afbr @tesha-i-guess @aemondwhoresworld RAYNETARGARYEN2 @littlebirdgot @eddieslut69 @beebeechaos

to be added to taglist

[lumillsie]

ೃ⁀➷ theon greyjoy x mermaid!reader headcanons ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

╰┈➤ in which something has always called theon greyjoy to winterfell's strange lake

a/n : seeing as winterfell is a landlocked city, I did have to improvise a bit, but I'm hoping you will find my take on this request reasonable <3

a special thank you to @angelseraphines for reading this for me as I was writing and making sure that my portrayal of theon didn't stray too far from his canon-self

╰┈➤ it is a strange thing - that the lake outside the city walls never appears to freeze over. the people of winterfell have speculated as to why for centuries. some say that the lake remaining as it is is a blessing from the old gods, a reassurance that the people will always have water to drink and a reminder that their gods will never abandon them. others pass down tales to their children of the children of the forest, and the traces they left behind - the weirwood tree and its roots dipped into soil, the soil that leads into the lake.

╰┈➤ theon greyjoy was not born of winterfell, but he had done his best to see it as his home. he had grown to see robb as his brother, and he cared for the rest of the starks too.

╰┈➤ in spite of his great desire to be a stark, a true part of the family, theon was always aware that his position as a ward was in truth the position of a political hostage, dangled in front of his father to ensure his loyalty to the crown.

╰┈➤ even as a boy, he was drawn to the lake. he would climb atop the city walls and sit in silence for quite some time, simply gazing pensively at the lake. it too was a strange and different thing - just as he himself was.

╰┈➤ as he grew older, his visits to the lake became less frequent - he found other ways to mitigate the strain on his heart. he would oft visit ros at the pleasure house, he'd practice his archery, he'd join tourneys. and yet, there was still something within the lake calling out to him, drawing him in - and he never truly could forgo his visits.

╰┈➤ it was on the eve of his eighteenth nameday that he encountered you for the first time. you had noticed him long ago, and you watched him during every of his visits, even allowed him to get a glimpse of the shine of your tail a handful of times. most of the mermaids beneath the lake were old and uninterested in the people that walked on land. there was a time when they lived in harmony with the children of the forest, but as the children were hunted down and brought to extinction, the mermaids of winterfell lake swore not to allow the first men or their descendants to ever lay eyes upon them.

╰┈➤ you understood their fears, truly you did - you could see the sorrow in the eyes of the eldest of your cove, a sorrow you know dates back six millenia. you feared the people that walked on land too, but you didn't fear theon. you sensed the war in his mind, you recognised the sense of not belonging. you sensed it because you felt it too, a young, naive mermaid in a lake of ancient beings - a young, naive mermaid, the first to be born in a thousand years.

╰┈➤ his eighteenth nameday was the first time he rode out of the city to spend his day on the shore of the lake, and you knew that this was the only opportunity you would ever get to see him up close. you crept closer to the shore, allowing your tail and the top of your head to rise slightly above the water's surface and keeping your eyes glued to the image of the man before you.

╰┈➤ he noticed you then, as you unassumingly lifted your head above the water - allowing yourself to glance at him. you knew your elders could not hear of this moment, for you knew how enraged they would be with you. you could not bring yourself to care, for as enamored as theon was with the lake, you were just as enamored with the towering, thick castle walls and the mystery of what lies beyond them. just as something kept calling the greyjoy lad to the lake, something kept calling you to the city.

╰┈➤ a man often accused of vanity by the whispers that surrounded him, theon was enraptured by the otherworldly atmosphere that seemed to surround you. your features were different to what he had been used to considering beautiful, but he found them enchanting to look at nonetheless. he considered capturing you, for a brief moment - he wondered if it would prove something to the starks, that it was only him that could lure a creature of the deep to the surface. he wondered if it would make lord eddard proud, or if it would solidify him as the ironborn he was supposed to be.

╰┈➤ he called out to you then, beckoning you to draw nearer. the people of the iron islands oft spoke of mermaids - of how the grey king was one, and of how he became the king of the western islands and all seas beyond, as well of the drowned god and the mermaids that serve him within the confines of his watery walls. his mother spoke to him of mermaids too, but her tales were always much gentler. she would say that the ironborn would find the most beautiful of mermaids and take them to bride, that the half-fish women would shed their tails for legs and bear their husbands the most beautiful of children, part sea and part land - as all ironborn were meant to be.

╰┈➤ you crept closer to land, nearly close enough that he could reach a hand out to touch your shimmering skin, and yet with enough of a distance between you that you could turn around and return to the depths of your home. your first conversation could hardly be called much of a conversation, and while you could speak the common tongue ( you oft listened to the people speak within the walls, their voices booming and echoing through the cove beneath the city), you had a hard time figuring out what to say to him. for the most part, you simply looked at one another that very first day - until the day's end was near and the hour of the bat was drawing close.

╰┈➤ "I will return. when the sun's returned to the skies on the morrow, I will return. you best be here then." he spoke to you, a tinge of arrogance in his voice. it was as if he knew that you wouldn't defy his request, as if he knew his presence held some power over you - and it pleased him. he held so little power within the stark household, so the hint of it always inflated his sense of self. he knew that you too held some power over him, but he would not speak of it outloud.

╰┈➤ before he had encountered you, he had intended to visit ros that evening. instead, he returned to his chambers rather soon after dinner, content to sleep through the night and wait for the morning to come - the following morning he rose much earlier, quite soon into the hour of the nightingale. it was still dark out, but he wished to fulfill his duties for the day before he set out to see the lake, and the vision discovered the day before, once again. he usually wouldn't be permitted to leave the walls of the city two days in a row, but his nameday had just passed and lord stark was more lenient towards him during that time of the year.

╰┈➤ you waited for him until he arrived, choosing to draw near to the shore just as the sun appeared on the horizon. on this day, you were both much more relaxed. the moment he saw you smile he knew he had no intention of capturing you and bringing you to winterfell, content to keep these peaceful moments to himself - reluctant to share them with anyone else. you felt safer too, now that you had broken the ice and knew he wished you no harm.

╰┈➤ "speak to me of life beneath the waves" he demanded boyishly, that vein of arrogance pouring off his tongue. you minded not, noticing the sorrow beneath his gaze. you knew he was not born of here, and the people of the town oft whispered of the seaside boy taken from his home to come here. you knew it to be him the first moment you saw him dangling his legs off the castle walls. and so you spoke to him of life beneath the waves - of your sisters and brothers, all at least a millenium older than you, of the beautiful cove protected from the human eye and the ephemeral sights only you and your kin could lay eyes upon, of the elders and their refusal to allow you to draw near. he listened intently to all of it, hanging off every word of yours. he wanted to know all of it - wanted to know you more and more with every passing word that left your mouth.

╰┈➤ you spoke to him for hours on end. each time you declared to ask him a question too, he urged you to keep speaking. you spoke until the night drew nearer. he told you that he would return in half a moon's time, as he could not afford to leave the castle walls quite so often. "I will be here when you return, only if you will speak to me of life behind the castle walls" was what you said to him as he prepared to leave. he felt indignant at your words for a few passing moments, but reluctantly agreed to your request as he wished to see you again.

╰┈➤ the next time he returned, he had brought you something. a small iron pendant he acquired at the market, and he had given it to you teasingly, remarking that you should be flattered that the heir to the iron islands had deemed you worthy of such a gift. in truth, he spent the whole way to the lake pondering over if you would like it - and determining that you would with a small huff as his journey drew to a close. this time, he too spoke more freely - of his memories of the iron islands, of his family - mostly of his mother and her tales of mermaids. you laughed then and asked him if that was what he would desire, to which he winked at you playfully and told you that the possibility wasn't far off his mind.

╰┈➤ he spoke to you of what you asked of him too, of life in winterfell, beyond the walls you so often stared at. he spoke to you off lord stark, of his children and namely the boy he grew to consider his brother, robb stark. he spoke to you of archery, of his tourneys and his journeys. you listened just as intently as he had listened to you the last time you saw him. he didn't think he had ever felt this peaceful - at least not since the first time he sat atop the castle walls, the moment he first discovered the lake. as the pale hint of orange seeped into the blues of the sky, you reached out to him once and he grasped your hand in his for a few moments, opting to leave a kiss on the palm of your hand before he retreated to the city as the gentle dusk gave way to the dark night.

╰┈➤ he visited you as often as he could, without causing the stark family to worry whether or not he too was planning to incite a rebellion. he spoke to robb of you once, to assuage the concern his dear friend was beginning to show. he couldn't tell him the full truth, but he told him he met a girl who lived outside the castle walls near the city, and that he found pleasure in your company. he didn't give away too many details, but he was content knowing that robb wouldn't be too concerned with his frequent journeys. he didn't know that it was the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes that reassured his friend, as opposed to the words he so craftfully weaved together.

╰┈➤ it was during his seventh visit to the lake that he kissed you for the first time. you were confiding your sorrows of your elders' distrust to him, and he leaned down to place a kiss upon your brow, as he had begun to do from his fifth visit onwards. you looked up at him then, and he couldn't help leaning down and placing a chaste peck upon your lips, before returning to deepen it. something changed between you and him then, and you began to behave more like lovers from then on.

╰┈➤ his visits to the pleasure house had already grown infrequent the moment he met you. he still had his needs, of course - but he found it hard to find time for them as he was oft attempting to finish with his duties on time to come visit you or attempting to find something in the city that he believed you would like and hide in your cove, to keep only for yourself as he had kept your encounters only for himself. now, however, he was content to accept that he wouldn't be returning there anytime soon, thoughts of you drowning out the idea of anyone else.

╰┈➤ your relationship with theon was a playful one. he oft teased you and you'd respond by splashing water onto his tail in response. his touches were rough but kind, and his kisses were sloppy but loving. you were both content to behave as if there was no distance between what you both were, preferring to banish the question of 'what comes next?' to the back of your minds.

╰┈➤ on his nineteenth nameday, a year into knowing you - theon brought you a small cloth with the image of a yellow kraken sown into it. it was the symbol of his house, and as he couldn't quite cloak you in the traditions of westerosi weddings, he deemed this to be the most likely way to proclaim his devotion. you could wear it on your wrist, claim to your elders that you happened upon it on the shores of the lake and kept it to yourself. you didn't consider yourselves wedded, but theon's prideful exclamations of binding the world's most beautiful creature to himself would stay with you evermore.

╰┈➤ this lighthearted atmosphere was unfortunately not to last. when theon informed you of the king's family arriving to winterfell within a few days' time, you felt an inexplicable feeling of dread come over you. he had noticed it then and assured you that all would be well, that they wouldn't stay that long and that he'd return soon. nothing could keep him away from you, now could it?

╰┈➤ it would be weeks before he'd come to see you again and the sight of him twisted and turned your heart as if tearing it apart. he appeared as lonely and conflicted as he was on the day you first encountered him, the sorrow in his eyes as prominent as ever, dark lines appearing under them. he spoke to you of bran and his accident, of lord stark's capture and of robb's intention to raise the banners and march down south. this time you were the one attempting to reassure him, right up until the very moment he told you that he intended to march down south with robb. you knew that you shouldn't have been as shocked and opposed as you were, but you were afraid. you didn't know much of land, but you always knew of war - of bloodshed, demise and misery. you promised to pray for him then, even if your kind hadn't truly prayed since the vanishing of the children of the forest. you promised to pray to the old gods and the drowned god, to the faith of the seven and any others of whose existence you would come to know of. you saw him off with a heavy heart then.

╰┈➤ you attempted to listen to the people of the city from within your cove for months on end, keeping your ear to the ground for any new information on theon's wellbeing. the townspeople were just as in the dark as you were, and it only made you feel more helpless. you could slowly feel the hope within you begin to fade away as the days dragged on - that was until you finally heard his name from within the city. what you heard however, wasn't what you were expecting to hear. theon greyjoy had captured winterfell.

a/n : and that's it for my first post on this platform! I wasn't quite sure how to end it, but I'm quite content with the way I did. if you guys do want a part 2 that deals with this dynamic with post-reek!theon, please do let me know 🩷 I hope you've enjoyed reading this, and if you did - please do make sure to let me know as feedback is so incredibly important to me. thank you so very much for your time and I hope that you'll consider reading other works of mine that I hope to post on this page soon <33

PS. please do forgive me for adding tags of other characters to this post - it's the first one I've ever made and I'm trying to get my page out for people to see. That being said, I have no intention of tagging characters I don't write for, so please make sure to request them as well if you're interested in seeing more from me.

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

Valaenatargaryensdragon Navigation

about me: (early) twenties, she/Her, Arab, Aquarius, Only child, Currently studying

information: writes for:

House of the Dragon: Daemon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Aegon II Targaryen, Rhaenyra I Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, Viserys I Targaryen, Viserys III Targaryen, Helaena Targaryen, Jacerys Valeryon, Cregan Stark, Harwin Strong, Lucerys Valeryon

Game of Thrones: Daenerys I Targaryen, Jon Snow, Robert Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Margaery Tyrell, Oberyn Martell

The Conquerors and Maegor: Visenya Targaryen, Rhaenys I Targaryen, Aegon I Targaryen, Maegor I Targaryen

Kinktober 2023-2024

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WIP

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON:

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Helaena Targaryen Masterlist

Alicent Hightower Masterlist

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Jacerys Valeryon Masterlist

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THE CONQUERORS AND MAEGOR:

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GAME OF THRONES:

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Robert Stark Masterlist

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Arya Stark Masterlist

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Oberyn Martell Masterlist

Cersei Lannister Masterlist

[charliedawn]

Their last words to you:

Sandor Clegane:

You had been ambushed and attacked by a bunch of thieves. Sandor had had no choice but to fight back and try to kill all of them—but he had suffered through numerous stabbing wounds and at the end, he knew he wasn’t gonna make it. He fell to the ground as you screamed and cried out his name. You tried to stop the blood from flowing, but you couldn’t. He had too many injuries and you could only sob as you desperately tried to find a solution.

But…

Sandor lifted a hand to your cheek and his eyes met yours. You both knew that he wouldn’t last much longer and there was so many things he had to say and that he wouldn’t have the time to say. So many things he had hoped he would get to do and experience with you. And now, he felt that tell-tale pang in his chest.

He could almost laugh at the irony. For so long, he had laughed at the face of death and taunted it to come get him. But now, he was willing to pray for just another day with you.

He swallowed with difficulty before speaking up—his voice low and shaky.

"…You are…everything I never deserved. Everything I never thought I’d ever find in this fucked up world. And fuck…You made me want to live, Y/N. But now…I have no choice but to ask you. Please. Please, Y/N. Do not let me suffer. I hate pain. So, you gonna have to cut our goodbyes short—yeah ?"

You shook your head at first. No. No. You wouldn’t do it. You refused to do it. There had to be another way. A way to save him. Anything.

"Y/N. I need ya. I need ya. Please." He insisted and you sobbed harder. No. You didn’t want to say goodbye to Sandor. But when he stared at you with pleading eyes and blood stained your hands…you knew that there was nothing to be done. You sighed and took out your knife. You pressed your forehead against his.

"…See you soon, Sandor."

You then kissed his forehead before stabbing him in the heart.

Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger):

"Y/N…" He started and you looked up to meet his gaze. "I warned you when we first met. Falling in love with me would be a mistake, that I would only end up disappointing you."

His eyes were empty. Gone was the arrogant and manipulative little weasel you had grown to love and respect. Only Petyr remained now. He looked at you without actually seeing you. He seemed so pitiful now…Had he always been that way inside ? Lost and empty and miserable ? Had you really fallen for that man ?

"I never regretted choosing you, Petyr." You still replied and a small smile graced his features—sad and pitiful.

"Petyr…" You whispered. "Is this…Is this really goodbye ?"

He took a shuddering breath and addressed you a saddened smile.

"I am afraid so, sweetheart."

Sweetheart…That name. That affectionate little name which made your heart happy and your mind content. He was trying to tell you something. Petyr Baelish had never told that he loved you. He had never been able to get through that obstacle as long as you had known him.

But that little sweetheart had still managed to wrap you around his little finger.

He had you eating out of the palm of his hand.

And now, you were sitting across from him. It was almost time for the execution. You didn’t look each other in the eyes. You knew you should be afraid, but you weren’t. You knew it didn’t matter anymore.

Too late to change fate now.

A guard came.

"Lord Petyr Baelish. Lady Y/N Baelish. It is time."

You both looked at the guard before looking at each other. Petyr stood up and offered you his hand.

"…Shall we, my Lady wife ?"

You looked at his outstretched hand and smiled before taking it.

"Lead the way, my Lord husband."

Even after the execution…rumours has it that you and Petyr’s hands stayed firmly locked together—united until death and beyond.

Oberyn Martell:

"Come on, little flower. We had our fun, didn’t we ?"

When Oberyn said those words, you knew. You knew that this was the end. He had grown bored of you. It was to be expected of course, but it still hurt. You forced yourself to smile.

"Very well. I hope we can still remain friends, my Prince ?" You asked—hopeful. His friendship was dear to you and you so loved his company. If he thought that he didn’t desire your body anymore, but you still wanted to enjoy his company and hear his wonderful poetry…

He smiled—but it seemed so fake.

"Of course, my little flower. I would like that."

Liar.

The word echoed in his own head. He was a liar. Being your friend was far from what he wanted. He wanted your brain, your heart and your beautiful soul to belong to him and for it to remain so until you both grew old and withered.

But…he had to protect you.

He knew he would be fighting the Mountain soon. Ellaria was strong enough to withstand his possible defeat and death. But, you ? You were such a lovely and delicate little flower. If he was to disappear and break your heart upon his death, then you would certainly lose your mind. Oberyn loved you enough to realise that the best was to break your heart instead of your mind. He hence decided to prepare you for the perspective that he may not survive.

He saw you turn around to leave and he lifted a hand towards your retreating form. He opened his mouth to speak up, but reconsidered and lowered his arm. It was…better this way. And if he was to win the fight ? Then, he would explain everything to you and you would laugh it off together…

A few days later, he faced Ser Gregor Clegane.

He managed to stay on top for most of the fight and both you and Ellaria were happy to see Oberyn finally get revenge for Elia and her children.

But then…Oberyn’s eyes met yours.

He smiled at you and before you knew it, Ser Gregor had cut off his head. You felt your heart stop in your chest. Unlike Ellaria, you didn’t scream—not a sound managed its way past your lips at that moment. You just stared as your ex-lover’s head rolled down his shoulders and kept rolling until it stopped a few feet away from you. He was still smiling. That smile. That lovely and sweet and warm smile that made you feel as if everything would be alright…

You then wordlessly got out a crossbow you had been hiding and aimed at Gregor’s head before unhesitatingly shooting. The arrow went straight through his skull and the giant dropped dead on the sand right next to Oberyn’s body. Before anyone could stop you, you then picked up Oberyn’s head and cradled it in your arms before walking away.

No one dared to stop you.

Tyrion Lannister:

When Tyrion had asked to meet with you in the Red Keep’s gardens…you had been so excited—happy to see him again after all those days of absence working for Daenerys. You had prepared yourself to welcome him with a warm embrace and a long dialogue under the shades of trees. But…you would have never expected his first words to you after such a long time apart to be the following:

"It is best we keep it at that."

Your eyes widened as you heard Tyrion reject you. You were stunned for a moment. Then, you laughed. You thought it was a joke. But, he didn’t laugh—he didn’t even smile at you. Your amusement immediately vanished. You couldn’t understand why he would say something like that. Had you done something wrong ? What was going on ? He couldn’t…He wouldn’t possibly…But you looked him in the eyes and you gasped as you realised that he was serious. It was over. He was ending it. After everything you had been through, after everything…He was just ending it all.

"I am sorry." He added and your eyes watered.

"No. No. Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that." You seethed and felt bile rise up in your throat. You should have expected it, but you surprised yourself by being genuinely shocked by his sudden decision to set you aside.

"Y/N. Please…" He started before you interrupted him.

"I LOVE YOU !"

His mouth remained opened in shock by your words and you hoped that he would believe you and realise the humongous mistake he was making—but his answer was ten times worse than if he had just rejected you.

"…Yes. I know." He confessed before looking at you apologetically. "I am sorry. Goodbye, Y/N."

And with that, he turned away and walked away. Once he was out of sight, you dropped to the ground—hot tears running down your cheeks. Why ? You didn’t understand. Why did you have to fall in love with that man ? That absolutely brilliant, but cruel man. You thought he would be different, that he wouldn’t leave you, that he would be your forever and you would be his…

How wrong you were…

Sansa Stark:

Sansa doesn’t know when it happened exactly. The moment she had fallen in love with you. Perhaps at the very beginning. Before she had learnt about the hardships of life and womanhood. You had grown up together and she knew that you were the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. You were the person she had begged her father to betroth her to. And you were the one willing to go far and wide to make her happy. When you were both together, only smiles remained on both of your faces.

But then…She had attracted King Joffrey’s attention and from that moment on, everything had changed for the worse. She had had to watch her father be executed and many people of their closed entourage.

But, not you. No. Joffrey had had much better planned for you. He had dragged you through King’s Landing—your wrists bound to his horse as you were forced to follow as rotten vegetables were thrown your way. You were then brought to a pile of wood and attached to a wooden pole—for all to witness. Joffrey had then set fire to the pile of wood you were standing on and as you were about to burn into ashes, your eyes sought out the ones of your beloved in the assembly.

When your eyes met hers, the only thought that crossed your mind was that you weren’t going to make it and that you wanted to see her beautiful smile one last time. You smiled at her through your tears and Sansa understood. She forced herself to smile back—even though all she wanted was to break down in tears and scream for the mercy she knew you would never receive from the Lannisters.

You were embraced by the flames right in front of her eyes.

From that very moment, all her smiles were cold and grim—without the person she had decided to share her heart with. Joffrey had asked her many times to smile at him the way she had smiled at her traitor of a fiancé/e. But, she was never capable of repeating it ever again. You were gone—the source of all her happiness and hopes—and she had no reason to smile anymore.

Or she would, once this whole place burnt to the ground.

Brienne of Tarth:

"Please. Stay. Do not leave me." Brienne begged you as she looked into your eyes. She was scared and horrified by the thought of losing you. You had been bitten by one of the white walkers and you could feel the blood slowly freeze up in your veins. You knew you were dying and you looked at Brienne with cold tears running down your cheeks.

"…I am sorry, Brienne. But I won’t be able to obey your command." You smiled sadly at her and she sobbed—her eyes holding all the sorrows of this world. You had been the only one to support her in her journey as a knight and even offer to be her esquire when none would agree to serve a female knight. But you had believed in her and learnt to love her. She held you closer and cried against your chest as you started stroking her hair soothingly.

"Live, Brienne. Live for me." You whispered to her.

It was too late for you. But, you wanted her to keep fighting until the very end. Your eyes then looked up to see Jaime standing behind her. He had a sorrowful expression on and you smiled at him before addressing him one command.

"Protect…each other."

You then closed your eyes and managed to stay long enough to hear Jaime answer you that he would. You smiled as life left your body. You wouldn’t be there to help or support her, but you were certain that Brienne would fight her hardest till the end—because that was who she was. Before your last breath, you felt warm lips meet your freezing ones. You knew whose they were. You tried to reciprocate the kiss, but darkness overwhelmed you and you knew that this was the end…

‘Goodbye, my love.’ You thought before all disappeared and you took your final breath in the arms of your beloved.

Jaime Lannister:

Jaime had just returned victorious from a battle and had rode faster than the wind to return to King’s Landing and tell you all about it. Only for his smile to drop as he finally reached the castle to see a funeral procession making its way towards the sea. He got off his horse and asked a nearby old woman who they had died. The old woman turned towards him with tearful eyes.

"Alas—my young Prince. Today is a sad day indeed. For we bury our dearest Lady/Lord Y/N."

Jaime was stunned and he couldn’t move for a few seconds. The old woman followed the procession and Jaime looked at them go—his eyes having lost their enthusiastic spark. He had waited and prayed to go home to see you again. He wanted to laugh with you and tell you all about his strange encounters and how he had managed to lead the army to glorious victory. He looked as your carefully wrapped body was carried through the streets of King’s Landing towards the water and laid down gently on a bed of flowers in a large wooden boat.

Jaime had followed as you were mourned by all of King’s Landing. You had been born a commoner, but had succeeded in becoming a valued member of Cersei’s court. He had met you at your beginnings as a member of the High Council. You had studied hard and supported all mocking jeers and taunts surrounding you to help your people. And now, they were the ones who were to see you go and bide you farewell.

He stared as your pretty little boat floated away.

His jaw twitched and he restrained tears as he saw the only person he had ever loved beside Cersei disappearing in the distance. He was the last one to leave the port and as people walked by to their homes around him—he heard multiple echoes of what had actually happened. You had died—killed by Cersei. She had waited until he was gone before sending the Mountain to kill you. And you had suffered. Days and days of tortured and screaming and tears left unheard which the entire of King’s Landing had been unaware of…And you had had to face your last moments alone and scared and in pain.

He didn’t even try to defend Cersei.

He knew she was capable of it. But what he didn’t understand was…why ?

And then, he returned to the castle and found Cersei in her room—arranging her hair. She looked completely unbothered and smiled as she saw Jaime’s reflection in her mirror.

"Jaime. You are back." She then dared to smile at him—as if she didn’t know. But, she knew. She knew. He knew she knew. His eyes were red-rimmed and he asked with a broken voice:

"Why ?"

Cersei didn’t even attempt to pretend that she didn’t know what he was referring to. She only kept a smile on and replied simply:

"Because they annoyed me. That’s why."

His eyes widened at his sister’s monstrous words…He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

Jon Snow:

Jon died and was reborn by the red witch.

But you ? They had killed you. You hadn’t been deemed important enough to be brought back to life and your body had been in such a pitiful state that even if he was to ask the red witch to bring you back—there wouldn’t be anything for your soul to return into. Jon had to wake up to the cruel realisation that he wouldn’t get to see you ever again.

You had stood by him. Until the very end.

You had both tried to fight off the rogue night watchers who had decided to get rid of Jon. You had fought valiantly with your sword withdrawn and blood spilling from both you and the other guards. You had fought like a lion. Refusing to back down and let them kill him.

You and him knew it was a lost battle.

But as he had felt his brothers’ daggers pierce him from all directions—all he could see was you. You had screamed as you were held down and forced to watch as he was robbed of his life first. Jon could have forgiven them for that. For killing him. But you ? The fact that they had forced you to watch before slashing your throat and feeding your body to the hounds…

That. He could never forgive.

It was your sword he used to cut the rope and hang all the traitors in one instant. They all squirmed and thrashed as they desperately tried to survive. Some even looked at Jon with pleading eyes—but found no mercy in his eyes. Once the last one had stopped moving, he took a deep breath and looked up at the dark and cloudy sky.

Daenerys:

"Please. Forgive me, my love." You whispered—tears rolling down your cheeks as you were forced to watch the woman you loved slowly die by your own hand. You had been by her side from the very beginning. You had fought alongside her to achieve her slow and glorious ascent to the top. You had watched and smiled as she had burnt down King’s Landing to the ground. You had hoped that this would finally be the end of the suffering and misery.

But…

You had then seen the people who had died. People who didn’t deserve it. People who had tried to protect and soothe their crying children as they were burnt alive and whose statues of ashes would remain forever interlocked. You brought a hand to your face at the stench of death and burning flesh. Then, you looked up at her. At your queen. Your khaleesi. Your heart. She was looking at the carnage with such intensity and satisfaction that it sent a shiver down your spine.

No…

You couldn’t. You couldn’t let her rule over Westeros—no matter how much your heart ached at the thought and how long you had fought for her to get there. You knew Ser Jorah would be disappointed in you and that all the people who had died to get her where she was would be cursing your name from their resting place for all of eternity…but not as loud as your own voice as you plunged that dagger into her heart.

The surprise in her eyes was the worst part. That…genuine shock. As if she really hadn’t expected it. You kissed her forehead. Oh…How you loved her. You loved her so much. But, even though your heart was shattered and your tears were true, you couldn’t let the world suffer through another Cersei—or worse. You simply couldn’t. And you hated yourself for it. You hated yourself for not seeing earlier what or who she was becoming and the pain it would cause you both. You hated yourself for not being able to protect her, or for not having the same blinding love than Ser Jorah had for her. Your eyes saw. And what they had seen was a world of ashes that she would rule over. And then, Littlefinger’s words came back to you.

"Chaos is a ladder…"

How right he was…but love was as much a ladder. And one who rarely led you up or where you wanted to be.

Ser Jorah:

During the final battle, just as sunrise painted the sky with touches of warm colours, you found yourself still standing. Your eyes met with Ser Jorah’s and you smiled at each other. You were alive. You walked forward to join him when your eyes caught sight of a white walker running towards him. You had but a few seconds to act. You ran forward to push Ser Jorah out of the way and got impaled by the spear instead. Ser Jorah’s eyes widened in shock and he gritted his teeth before cutting the white walker’s head off and catching you in his arms before you could hit the ground.

"No. My Lady/My Lord." He whispered sorrowfully and stroked your cheek—tears gathering in his eyes. He looked at your wound and the blood dripping down your chin.

But, you chuckled.

"Come on, Ser Jorah. Won’t you call me by my name ? There will never be another chance for me to hear it from your lips."

He wanted to deny your words and tell you that you were going to be alright. But, that would have been a lie. He gripped your hand and pressed his forehead against yours before asking—his heart hammering in his chest at the realisation that you had sacrificed yourself for him. Him who had never done anything to deserve it. Him who had rejected you time and time again. Him who had never been able to return the love you seemed to harbour towards him within your heart…

"Y/N. Why ?" He finally asked and you smiled up tenderly at him.

"You protected me." You replied with nothing but adoration in your eyes. "You respected me. I know your heart and eyes belong to Daenerys, but you stole mine—Ser Jorah. You made me happy. You always did what you thought was right and offered me someone to care about. And so, you swore to serve Daenerys. Unaware that I—myself—had made an oath of my own. To protect…you." You whispered as your eyes slowly closed in his arms—the place you cherished most. You nestled your face against him. Just for a moment, you would bask in his warmth…Ser Jorah had never pretended to love you or lied to you about his feelings towards the queen of dragons. But…you didn’t even resent him for it. He had offered you friendship and affection beyond anyone you had ever came across…If you were to die for someone—then you were fine with it being him.

You looked up and smiled before lifting your lips to his. If he was to be so kind as to grant a dying soul one last wish…He seemed to hesitate for a second before planting his lips against yours. And then, Ser Jorah felt a cruel warmth ignite within his very being. His eyes fluttered shut and he brought you closer…taking your first kiss and last breath in one instant…

Your eyes stayed closed and your arms dropped to the ground.

Ser Jorah opened his eyes and his heart clenched as he glanced down at the person who he had failed to protect and his sorrow only grew as he realised that he had also failed himself. For in your last breath, he had found something that he had denied you all this time, and his tears only turned even more bitter at the terrible reality that he could have had you. That he had you and your love. And had lost both because of his own blindness…

"Forgive me…my dear Lady/Lord Y/N."

[dumbkiri]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄

𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐗 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄! 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

+ Sansa's direwolf is supposed to be used as retribution for injuring a prince. [Name] shoulders the true pain of it all and demands a duel to solve this problem.

+ Song that I took inspo from The Throne Is Mine by Ramin Djawadi

“No, no, no, Lady wasn’t there! She didn’t bite anyone! She’s good!” 

Sansa’s strained anger heated Arya up as she stepped up for her sister and glared a hateful look at the Queen, “Lady wasn’t there! You leave her alone!” The young stark girl continued to glare at Cersei even when Sansa blocked her line of sight by reaching out to their father. 

“Stop! Don’t let them do this,” She begged her father then looked back at the Lannisters, “Please! Please, it wasn’t Lady!” 

Ned looked back at Robert with a storm brewing in his brown eyes, “Is this your command? Your Grace?” 

Arya flicked her eyes between her father and his best friend. She saw the settled look in the King’s eyes and she jumped up before he could speak or walk away. Her solution to saving her sister’s direwolf was the eldest Baratheon son, Sansa’s betrothed. 

“[Name]! He can tell you what happened, he accompanied Sansa by the creek! You have to ask him what really happened!” Arya looked at the King and the big man hummed, deep in thought. He considered Arya’s suggestion in silence, the soldiers around him waiting for his word. 

Robert’s eldest son never lied to him and if he did, he was damn good at it. So he walked back over to the Stark family and told Ned, “I will hear my son out then this will be solved.” 

The King walked over to his seat and ordered for [Name]’s appearance. Everyone waited in a tense atmosphere waiting for the Stag Prince and his point of view of what happened today. 

A whistle broke the silence and the majority of the bystanders understood this melody that they heard. With his short style brown hair and striking brown eyes, [Name] walked into the room whistling the Rains of Castamere theme. He walked with poised authority and every man he passed greeted him with murmurs of ‘My Prince’. 

He casted a quick glance at the Stark family and grew strangely upset at the tears Sansa has cried while waiting for the fate of her direwolf. The whistling seized as he slowed his pace down to observe the streaks running down his future wife’s face. His apparent confusion didn’t waver his stride and he continued onward to address Ned with a formal greeting, “My Lord.” 

“My Prince,” Ned returned the small greeting then turned over to Robert. 

The King moved in his seat and gestured to Joffrey, “What happened to your brother?” 

[Name] looked over at Joffrey and noticed his right hand in some kind of bandage. He covered his chuckle with a clearing of his throat and asked, “He really needs to bandage a small nip from a direwolf?” 

“So it is true,” His mother questioned with a frown, “the beast did maim your brother.” 

“Maim?” [Name] didn’t hide his chuckle this time after his mother spoke. Truth be told, [Name] took the bite from Nymeria protecting Joffrey from the vicious bite. His eyes crinkled with humor tickling his spine, “Oh, come on, my brother prattles on about being a Stag and a Lion, but he can’t handle a nip from a Wolf? Mother really did raise you to be as soft as a-”

“You will insult your brother no more,” Cersei commanded, steering her eldest son’s attention away from Joffrey to her. 

[Name] listened to her demand and resorted to telling his father what happened between Arya Stark and his young brother; Joffrey.

“Nymeria did not attack Joffrey on behalf of Arya’s order. She did nothing to instigate the direwolf into an attack.” 

“So your brother is a liar?” Robert straightened in his seat, ready to end this whole ordeal with his eldest son’s words. 

“Father, you know as well as I do that Joffrey cries wolf the moment he can. He tried to tattle on me when I knocked him off his horse for insulting my lady. Now he stands there trying to diminish her sister’s dignity? I won’t stand for this slander against my lady’s sister.”

[Name] stepped closer to his father and stretched his arm out. Pulling the sleeve of his tunic up, everyone gasped at the actual bite [Name] took from Nymeria. The bite was more severe than Joffrey’s nip and [Name] quieted everyone’s gasps and tamed the blood boiling in his father’s stomach. 

“Ned, your daughter-” Robert snapped his glare full of fury at his friend. 

“Father, let me tell you the whole story,” [Name] interrupted and covered the bite again, “Joffrey tried to impress Sansa, by challenging Arya’s friend to an unfair duel. Our coddled prince demanded a butcher’s boy to pick up his sword and fight him; wood against steel. When the boy refused to do so, Joffrey enforced his authority as prince and wounded the butcher’s boy. 

“Arya could not stand this treatment her friend received and-” [Name] did his best to keep a straight face. Remembering the look on Joffrey’s face when Arya swung a stick at him brought [Name] great joy. “She whacked my brother with a stick needless to say.” 

A chorus of chuckles echoed in the room and Cersei silenced them with a stern glare around the room. 

“Really?” Robert grumbled and gave Joffrey a side glance, “not only did this girl disarm you, she landed an attack on you?” 

“F-father, she hit me from behind!” Joffrey protested. 

“And so what!” Robert shouted back, pointing at [Name]’s arm, “Your brother took most of the brutal attack from the damn wolf and I don’t see him crying to me about it! Are you so weak as to challenge a butcher’s boy who wields a stick? So weak that you have to whine about a nip from a wolf when your brother stands there terribly wounded?” 

[Name] casted a daring look at his mother and her steely eyes were already on him. He knew she had some questions for him. He already told the truth, and he hoped his father wouldn’t be swayed by her words. 

“And why didn’t you come immediately to defend your lady or her sister?” Cersei mocked.

Robert caught onto this and he shook his head knowing what kind of crap his queen tried to pull on their son. 

[Name] gawked at his mother and showed off his bite again, “I believe my open wound takes prejudice over this argument. Also I didn’t finish the telling of the events today.”

His wound stung with the open air caressing it and he pulled the sleeve over it. Then he said, “Joffrey, in a childish rage, swung his sword with the intent to wound Arya. He had her on the floor whilst he pointed the tip of his sword at her, a girl five years younger than him. As a dog or any other loyal beast would do, Nymeria jumped to protect her owner. And as an older brother would do, I took the majority of the attack from Nymeria. Yes, the direwolf grazed Joffrey, but it’s nothing serious.” 

“Nothing serious?” Cersei scoffed and pointed at his arm, “It tore your arm up.” 

“Yes,” [Name] agreed, “but Nymeria knows me. When she felt my flesh, she let go as quickly as she could knowing that I wasn’t the one threatening her owner. Mother, please don’t coddle Joff any longer and don’t try to do the same for me. I have great respect for you, yet it pains me to see my own lady cry.” 

Cersei blinked and knew what her eldest son referred to. She suffered in the red keep knowing the whores Robert took to bed. But her kind son, [Name], stood by her side and kept her company knowing his father whored around. He promised her that he wouldn’t let his lady endure any slights from anyone and she kissed the top of his head for it. 

“What is going on?” Joffrey spat, then pointed at Arya, “Her wolf has to pay the price for hurting two princes!”

“Lady didn’t do anything wrong,” Sansa whimpered and [Name] stood in his spot, struck by surprise. Then his glare settled on his father. 

Robert knew that look well and he sighed, “Your mothers wants a beast’s head and-” 

“No, I won’t allow it.” 

Everyone looked over at the Stag Prince who walked over to the Stark family with his hand on the pommel of his sword. He stood protectively in front of the wolves and explained himself, “I won’t let you kill my lady’s wolf over a squabble between children.” 

“What would you do then?” Robert questioned harshly, “You have been wounded and a direwolf is no pet. Tell me, son, would you rather this not be resolved and forgotten?” 

Ned knew Robert favored his eldest son and [Name] showing off his wound did not help the Starks in their case to let the direwolf live. Robert would do anything to protect [Name] and give his son whatever he wanted. But sparing a direwolf’s life may have been too much to ask. 

[Name] looked behind him and saw Ned giving him a warning stare. This old wolf would listen to his king’s command, even if that meant beheading Lady. So [Name] moved his eyes away from the lord and declared to his father, “I want this rightfully resolved and it shall not be forgotten by my lady, her family or me. I’m the one who should be slighted, the one who decides what happens as I am the one bearing the scar of a beast. Yet I seek no retribution for what happened near the creek. 

“So here is my proposition: I will fight for the direwolf to remain untouched and unharmed for the entirety of Sansa’s stay with me. I challenge Joffrey to a duel for the fate of this beast.” 

“This is not how-” Cersei began, yet Robert cut her off with a growl. 

“Fine then, a fight is what started this and now a fight will end it,” The king stood up from his chair and demanded everyone to back away from his sons. Robert agreed to this proposition because this problem would not be solved without a fight between his sons. 

Joffrey stood by his mother nursing his wrist, hoping that the woman would protect him from his brother. His eyes moved frantically between the queen and his princely brother, to his disappointment his mother moved away and his brother stood his ground. 

Meanwhile [Name] pushed his emotions to the side. He couldn’t allow his anger to cloud his vision or ruin his senses. He had to win this duel for the life of the innocent Lady; for his betrothed. He would end it quickly using his strength as it always was too much for Joffrey to handle. 

Quickly every man hugged the walls and made more room for the princes who would fight each other. They didn’t know which way this duel would go. If [Name] had been at his best, obviously the Stag Prince would easily overpower the Lion Prince as he’s done plenty of times before. But they all saw his gruesome wound. The torn up flesh had to be tensed and hurting the boy. 

“M-mother, this isn’t fair.” Joffrey muttered and Robert heard him as clear as day. 

“Fair?” Robert sneered, then he gestured to a determined [Name] and said, “your brother’s sword hand is more wounded than yours. If you cannot defeat him then you get to be made fun of by the soldiers watching. Now pick up your sword and get this over with already.” 

[Name] followed his father’s orders and pulled his sword out of its sheath. His arm twitched in pain, but one solemn glance at the worried Stark family fueled him to push through the aches. Steadfastly, [Name] took a stance and readied himself for Joffrey’s pathetic lunge at him. 

Joffrey always made the first move, his attack had been fast yet weak. 

[Name] blocked the sword away from his neck and pushed down on the blade. Since Joffrey maintained an unsteady stance, he lost balance quickly from [Name]’s unwavering strength. The blonde haired prince stumbled backwards with a pitiful grunt, and [Name] landed a kick on Joffrey’s chest. 

It hit his brother with so much force that when he collided with the ground, the air in Joffrey’s lungs left in one swoop. [Name] stalked over to his gasping brother and stepped on his sword hand to which Joffrey let out a painful cry. 

“Yield,” [Name] demanded putting more pressure on Joffrey’s wounded hand. He pointed his sword at Joffrey’s neck like how he did to Ayra earlier in the day. The blood from [Name]’s wound leaked down his arm and slowly painted the handle of his sword and hand red. 

With a strained coughing fit, Joffrey cried out miserably, “I-I…Yie…I yield!” 

[Name] removed his foot off of Joffrey’s hand and backed away sheathing his sword. Then he looked at his parents with a grim nod, “The direwolf lives and if something happens to it, he will lose his sword hand. Honor this duel, mother, Joffrey lost in a fair fight.” 

He knew his mother was cunning and she would do something to exact revenge on the Starks, so he threatened one of the important body parts belonging to any man. She gave him a nod that meant she heard him loud and clear. 

“Alright, son,” Robert stepped up and nodded his head, “the beast lives, now go have a maester stitch your arm up. Your blood leaves a trail.”

“Ned, your family owes my son a great debt now.” The king turned his attention to the Stark family after [Name] left the room. His dark eyes watched Ned bow his head with his daughters following in suit. 

“Of course, we shall thank him soon enough.” 

Sansa watched her future husband walk away with his trail of blood being left behind on the floor. Her bright blue eyes admired the way he carried himself even when wounded. He walked with pride like a lion, yet his steps were swift and light like a Stag. 

She admired him for stepping in between Joffrey and Nymeria, and protecting Arya all at once. Then when Joffrey ran away with his tail tucked between his legs, the Stark girls fumbled over the injured Stag Prince. He calmed them down with a charming smile and showed off his wound saying that it would be a badass scar in the future, he didn’t curse at them like Joffrey did.

From the bottom of her heart, Sansa knew that [Name] was the right one to be betrothed to. She knew that staying by his side would grant her protection, freedom and possibly love when they get to know each other more. 

“We will thank him when the sun rises,” Ned stretched his arms out to his girls and began leading them to their room, “It is time to get some well needed rest now.”

Yes, she agreed with her father. The events of today have severely drained her. Her thoughts were full of [Name], even her dreams were of their future together. 

The Stag and the Wolf would make a fine union.