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ichorai · 2 months

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i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one.

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind.

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?”

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground.

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along.

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend.

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed.

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children.

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose.

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance.

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb.

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother.

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything.

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you.

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror.

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell.

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end.

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys.

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak.

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them.

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd.

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them.

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod.

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once.

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story.

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you.

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril.

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods.

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder.

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow.

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak.

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon.

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them.

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off.

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted.

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm.

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied.

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look.

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters.

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.”

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror.

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done?

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more.

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances.

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs.

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.”

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.”

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage?

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected.

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air.

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me.

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants.

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father.

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little.

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that.

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever.

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye.

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago.

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well.

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered.

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally.

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words.

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper.

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

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catsteeth · 4 months

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The Caged Bird & The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 11 ✿:+ A War for a War

Chapter Index | Next Chapter

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: MDNI, NSFW themes, VIOLENCE, misogyny, angst, the boltons, drugged, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mentions of arranged marriage, minor character death

A/N: did i say this would be published monday? yeah. is it 3am on tuesday? yeah.

Word Count: 4.6K

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As Sandor laid on that rock in agony. He was bloodied and his bones were broken, his leg was the worst of it. He laid there and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get up and walk out from those Vale mountains.

The Falcon was his only company. You sent Lenaera to him as a signal to him that you were alive, that you were in the Eyrie, that you knew he had come, that you needed him.

Though he already knew. He already knew all of that before the bird came.

But now that he lay on that rock at the bottom of a cliff, he laid there thinking of all the terrible things he had done. How he deserved what he was given. And the worst thing he could think of that he had done was failing you.

That horse he saw in the stables could have been some other high bred white mare, or it could’ve been found by a Knight of the Vale and brought back without its rider.

You could have been murdered, you could have been sold, you could have been.. Something even worse.

And if you were, what was this bird? A beautiful, strong Falcon with a blue ribbon around her ankle.

He groaned in pain and shouted and the bird did not leave. It hardly fluttered its wings. He did not scare it. Maybe because the bird could recognize he was a dying man. Maybe because it was waiting for him to die so it could eat him.

But, he thought, if you did die, Gods forbid it, but if you did, maybe that bird was you. Or some form of you, a sign sent by you in the Seven Heavens. Maybe, or maybe his agony and blood loss made him think silly sentimental thoughts. Death does that.

He looked at the falcon perched on a rock. As the sun shined down on the magnificent creature he let out a labored breath, giving in to his sentimentality, “Are you here?” He asked you, only you weren’t there. “I keep seeing that bird, a fucking falcon with a blue ribbon.” He grumbled, “Is that you? You die, and you come back like that? How fucking cruel is that.” He laughed but the laugh forced a bloody cough out of him, once the cough settled he sighed, looking at the bird. “I miss you.” He admitted reluctantly, even when the Stranger was approaching he found it hard to admit it. “I think about you all the time.” He felt the emotion rise in his throat and tears well up, “I hear you in my dreams, your voice.” He shook his head, “I just miss you, simple as that.” When he finished, Lenaera let out a loud caw! And fluttered her wings, still staying by the dying man. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Can’t hear your voice.” He said, still wanted to believe that bird was for you. Lenaera tilted her head at Sandor. He sniffed and swallowed his emotion and nodded, “Aye, it’s time. I’ll be seeing you. Maybe. Or Maybe I’ll be in the Seven Hells and you the Heavens. Maybe I’ll be lucky and keep hearing your voice.” He said, closing his eyes. He was content to die now, his eyes were closed and he was at rest as the stranger approached him. But only it was a real stranger, not the old god.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Your body felt slightly numb, and your nerves calmed. You began to open your eyes slightly fluttering open, when you finally mustered the strength to open your eyes you looked around at the blue and silver carriage. The same one that you and your father took to King's Landing. You could tell that the carriage was not moving, and from the light coming in from the closed blinds of the carriage you could gather it was nearly night.

You rubbed your eyes and groaned, “Where-” You began until an armored glove covered your mouth.

“Sh!” You looked up at the man who silenced you, in full armor but his eyes shining through his silver helmet were familiar.

“Ser Cole?” You whimpered, still under the heavy fog of whatever had taken you.

He lifted the helmet so you may look upon his face, to see his true concern. “My Lady, please listen to my words. It is important that you listen.” You tried to widen your eyes, blinking hard in an attempt to focus them. “Baelish arranged your marriage to Ramsay Bolton. You were to leave this morning however, Baelish said that you were feeling ill and that you’d better be taken to Winterfell and examined by a maester. However I believe it was an illness brought upon you intentionally. Because you’d not accept it so easily.”

“Where am I now?” You asked sitting up from the plush silk seat that you were laying on, Ser Cole knowing better didn’t help you.

“You’re in your carriage, halfway to Winterfell.” He held his head lower, “Baelish has stepped out to…” He stopped trying to find a more delicate way of phrasing it.

“Just speak,” You whined as you held yourself up

“Piss, my Lady.” He spoke quickly

“Right.” You nodded,

“When he returns, be agreeable.” His speech picked up, he knew his time was limited, “Play along.” He must have gathered a plan while you were deep in a drug induced sleep.

“I can’t go there, Ser Cole.” Fear rose in you. You knew if you walked into Winterfell you wouldn’t be leaving it.

He nodded, “I know that. I will not let them.” His conviction was strong.

“How many men are out there?” You questioned,

“Fifthteen.”

“You can’t cut through that many men.” You said to him as if you were pleading he’d see reason.

“Command them.” He said as if he were tried to plead with you to see reason

“I’ve no power, I tell them to stop and Baelish will tell them to continue-”

He boldly interrupted you, “You have more sway than you may believe.”

Your eyes narrowed on him, “Tell me what you know,”

He looked behind him to be sure Baelish wasn’t approaching yet, “In short summary, My Lady, a little over half the men would follow you if you commanded.” He turned back to you, “Believe that. Believe in your blood.”

Ser Cole heard the “She has awoken…” He said calmly as he stepped to the side, allowing Lord Baelish to enter the carriage. He looked over at Baelish who was looking at Ser Cole with an expectant look, “My Lord.” He finished.

“Thank you, you are dismissed.” Baelish said insincerely, his voice filled with annoyance.

“The Lady wanted water.” He said handing you his pouch of water. You grabbed it with hast. You drank it down quickly, you hadn’t asked for it but it was true you needed it. Ser Cole starred at Baelish as you chugged it down with desperation.

As you wiped your mouth with your sleeve finally finished with your drink, “Alright, now you are dismissed.” Ser Cole of course looked to you, waiting for your decision. An action that did not go unnoticed by Baelish, “No, Ser Cole will ride with us.” you said confidently.

Baelish shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “My dear, I believe we’ve important matters to discuss, best discussed in private-”

You interrupted him, your eyes sharp and your tone dark and unfitting with your formal words. “Ser Varys Cole is sworn to me.” You lied, “He rides with me.” You said sternly as you moved over, allowing room for him to sit beside you.

As Ser Cole sat beside you, he slammed the carriage door closed. Almost making Baelish flinch. As he closed the door the carriage began to move again.

Bealish tried to assess the situation best he could, “How’re you feeling?”

“Is that the matter of importance you wished to discuss?” You practically spit your words at him. You knew Ser Coke had a plan but you’d a better and much more satisfying one.

His eyes lowly gazed on you, narrowed and predatory, “Please.”

“I feel anger.” You said plainly, “Though It is creeping toward a contemptuous homicidal rage.” You said with dark and intense eyes.

He took a moment, finally speaking, “I can understand-”

You interrupted him again, unwilling to hear his words. “Can you?”

“A House without change is a dead House. And there is an air of quiet death in this house and I do not like the way it smells.” He attempted to once again rationalize his stance.

“Is that why you slipped something in my tea?” You questioned. Baelish looked at Ser Cole who only stared back at him with the same venom that you had.

Baelish’s eyes returned to you, “You felt ill, no doubt from your overindulgence the night before.” Ser Cole’s grip on his sword tightened.

“And you used the opportunity to throw me in a carriage.” You responded quickly.

“The Maester was in the Gates of the Moon. You are aware of how long he takes.” You knew what he meant. Your mother. When she labored you were with her alone with a few handmaidens. The Maester was at the bottom of the Gates of the Moon. It took him far too long to come, by the time he did your mother was already gone and the babe was in your arms taking labored breaths. The memory surged through you. But instead of despair filling you, only more and more rage did. “Besides, we were meant to leave for the North this morning. Having you sleep off whatever was burdening you until we arrived in Winterfell seemed best.” His tone was careful and calculated.

“I am not going to Winterfell.” You were stern, and your anger created a dark cloud over you. “You will take me to Castle Black.” It was a split decision but a smart one.

He smirked slightly, letting go of whatever facade he had, “You forget whose carriage you sit in, you forget the direction you are headed.”

“The Lady of the Vale has commanded you.” Ser Cole spoke with a deep and low conviction.

“The Lord of the Vale has commanded her.” Baelish snapped at him,

As he did, you grabbed the dagger from Ser Cole’s belt. You lunged forward on top of Baelish placing the blade to his throat. You felt your own spirit split into two. Battling one another. If you killed Baelish, the power would not be left to you, no you would be thrown in a sky cell and left with Robin to decide your fate. But Gods you wanted to. Wanted to rip his throat out, watch the light in him fade. His memory dwindles over time. You wanted him dead and you needed to be the one to do it. But it would cost you the Vale.

Baelish began to reason with you, pleading. “I have been loyal to you. I took you away from danger and sheltered you from your enemy. I put my own life at reset sheltering you within the Eyrie, I put the Vale at risk doing so. I protected you-” “By killing my aunt.” You almost growled at him.

“She was going to kill you, not to mention she’d admitted to the murder of your father.”

“A murder she'd committed for you?” You pressed the blade against his throat harder, slightly drawing blood, Baelish winced, you took ultimate pleasure from it.

“Not by request.” He pleaded.

“She was mine to kill.” Your eyes were wide, terrifying.

His breathing picked up, “I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say.

“I will give you an opportunity. Explain to me your intentions.” You needed to hear it, needed to know what he had in mind, maybe it would give you the motivation you needed to finally kill him.

“Marry Ramsay Bolton. Poison his father, soon thereafter Ramsay himself. You’ll be Queen of the North.” He spoke with hast

“I don’t want the North.”

“The Vale. You want the Vale.” He spoke erratically as your blade still pressed deeply against his throat. “Once the Boltons are dead, you’ll marry me.” You sneered in disgust, “You’ll be queen of the North and restored Lady of the Vale. You’ll be more powerful than any woman in the realm.” He forced a smile,

You leaned towards the carriages window, “Stop the carriage!” You shouted, leaning forward into Petyr again, “If you won’t give it to me, I shall take it myself.” You spoke sternly as you removed the blade. He grasped at his throat, a small amount of blood trickling down his throat and hand.

You turned to open the carriage door when you looked over to Ser Cole. His face was one of not shock but a pleasantly surprised one.

You opened the carriage and stepped out.

“Lady (Y/N), are you alright?” A knight asked as Ser Cole followed after you.

You looked to the white horse tied to the back of your carriage, Lika.

You pointed to her, “Untie that Horse.” You commanded but the Knights attention was diverted when Baelish stumbled out of the carriage.

He began to loudly scold, “(Y/N), If you abandon your arrangement-”

“Your arrangement.” You loudly corrected back as Ser Cole mounted his own horse.

“If you abandon it, it will leave me in an uncomfortable position.” He pathetically pled,

You scoffed, “Don’t turn this on me, I don’t want your cloud over my head.” You looked again to a knight, “My horse,” you commanded again.

“(Y/N), Tyrion Lannister has wed Sansa Stark.” The words hit your heart like a steel blade. Though she’d be better off with Joffrey, she was a child, “I hear she is very eager to flee her own cage.” He said with a dark and devious tone.

“My horse!” You ignored him, commanding once more.

The knights did not budge, some were conflicted and confused by the scene laying out before them. Ser Cole then loudly reaserted, “The Lady of the Vale has commanded you.”

The knight looked at Ser Cole with disdain, “We’re under the command of Lord Baelish.”

You held your head high, and spoke with clear conviction, “You are sworn to serve the Vale under House Arryn. My father Jon Arryn is dead but the Arryn blood is not. You’ve sworn allegiance to my blood, to me. Let it be known I (Y/N) Arryn, rebuke the succession. You can either stand with me, or against me.” As you finished another Knight climbed off his horse and retrieved Lika from the back of the Carriage. Baelish stared daggers at the Knight but he did not care. As you Mounted Lika, Ser Cole then announced,

“Swear anew your oath to (Y/N) Arryn as your rightful Lady of The Vale, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. If you support the usurper let it be known now. But let this be known if you swear loyalty only to choose treachery later, you’ll die a dishonorable death.” As he finished, nine of the fifteen Knights left their positions and aligned with yours.

“(Y/N), my little dove.” He attempted once more to manipulate you, using the name your late mother would call you.

“I want you to remember these words. If you choose this fight. You will die, screaming.” You said, as you tugged on Lika’s reins, turning her away and pushing her forward. The men followed, and of course Ser Cole was by your side.

“My Lord?” A knight asked, wondering if he should detain you.

“Let them go.” Baelish said, still holding onto his bleeding neck.

And so began the war

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Sandor opened his eyes, he was in a warm tent, surrounded by candle light, in a comfortable cot wrapped in a blanket.

He coughed, getting the attention of a shorter man with hard hair, “The fuck am I?” He asked, his voice was hoarse.

The man looked a bit surprised to be hearing the wounded man speaking, “In a small hut.” He replied with an amused smirk.

Sandor looked around with only his eyes, he hardly even had the strength for that, “(Y/N), (Y/N) where is she?” He asked, his words shaky and unstable.

“No one by that name here.” The man shook his head, his eyes narrowed on him. Curious of him.

“I gotta- got to find her.” he spoke as he shook his head restlessly attempting to get up,

The man placed a single hand on his chest, pushing him back into the cushioned cot below him, “You’ll find her later. Your bone snapped in half, you need rest.”

Sandor was slightly breathless, “Thought I was dead.”

The man nodded, “Thought you did a few times. Even when I found you, your leg was broken and you were covered in blood and bugs. Tried burying you but you coughed, nearly shit myself.” He laughed to himself,

Sandors eyes weakly tried to focus on the man looming over him, “Who are you?”

“They call me Ray, I’m a septon.” His tone was calming to Sandor,

Sandor closed his eyes, wincing from the pain in his now bandaged leg, “I don’t want to hear a sermon.”

Ray laughed again, “Wasn’t planning on telling one.”

“Ye all are.” Sandors voice was gruff and deep.

“You’ve met many?”

His eyes still closed tightly from the pain, “Met enough to know.”

“Must’ve been a big man to cut you down.” He said, looking at the massive man who laid on the cot in front of him.

He shook his head “It was a woman.” He corrected weakly,

Ray laughed as he left the tent that held the wounded Hound. Leaving him to only stew more on the thought of you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you rode on now further North than you’d ever been, you looked behind you. You felt a growing sense of power. Two of your men had left you, going back to Eyrie to gather more men. And even though you’d only seven men, you knew there’d be more. And only more would follow.

You looked then to your new companion, he was the closest thing to a Hand that you had. So you might as well treat him as such. “Ser Cole,”

“Varys, my lady.” He smiled at you, you smiled back slightly. Pleased with his insistence of familiarity with you.

“Varys, tell me about Jon Snow. Do you know anything about him?” You asked, your eyes narrowing slightly.

He nodded, “Yes my lady. Words have crinkled down from the North that he rose from the dead. Rumors of course but as I have heard it’s been done before. He’s been released from the Night's Watch and is forming an army.”

You looked at him somewhat confused, “An army? An army for what?”

“An army for the dead, my Lady.”

You raised an eyebrow and scoffed a bit, “The dead? Ser Varys, am I traveling to see a mad man?” You teased,

“Less mad than the man you were originally traveling north for.” You nodded in acknowledgment.

You looked back at him, with a soft earnestness in your eyes. “What of Sandor Clegane? Has there been any news of him?” You asked as if there was no emotion. But there was indeed quite a bit.

“No my Lady.” He spoke softly,

“Arya Stark?” You asked again, emotionless. Though your tone deceived your true emotion. And Ser Cole knew that.

“No my lady.” He spoke again in the same softness.

You took a deep breath in, allowing all your anxieties and sorrows to be pushed down, changing the subject to avoid more emotion, “Well if an army he needs he shall get it.” You looked back at the road ahead of you, “A war for a war.” You said as you tighten your grip on Lika’s reins.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

A week had passed, Sandor had made a surprisingly quick recovery, however his leg was still too weak to journey yet. So he took it upon himself to help the struggling sept build their community.

As he sat alone, eating the meal the commune had prepared. He looked up at the sky, blue and bright. It, as all things did now, reminded him of you.

He wondered where that falcon had gone, he missed it somewhat. Maybe it was you, maybe- he couldn’t finish his thought before he heard a familiar voice behind him,

“I think some of the other men are a bit afraid of you.” Ray said, stepping towards Sandor, handing him a drink.

“I’m used to it.” He said washing down a mouth full of bread with a cup of ale.

“(Y/N)” Ray said softly, Sandor looked up at him quickly, his eyes filled with anticipation, “You mentioned her name a few times when you were laid up.” Ray questioned softly, He pointed to Sandors bad leg. “She does that, do you?”

“No.” He asserted quickly, he looked back down to his bowl, “She was…” He struggled to admit it,

“Your woman?” Ray gathered,

Sandor nodded softly, “Aye. Got separated a ways back. Could be alive or not, don't know really.” He shook his head as he held it low.

Ray sighed, “If she’s meant to be here she will be. I thought you died a dozen times. You were stinking and covered in bugs. A bone sticking out here. But you kept breathing.” Sandor looked at him, “What kept you going?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Hate.” He nodded.

It wasn’t really a lie. He hated what the brotherhood did to keep him from you, hated the Lannisters for what they’d done to you, hated Baelish for stealing your land, Hated his brother for what he’d done to him. But mostly he hated whoever might have harmed you.

“No, there's a reason you’re still here.” Ray studied Sandor,

“Yeah I’m a big fucker and tough to kill.” He said, taking another bite of the bread in his bowl.

“No, the reason.” Ray asserted, standing in front of Sandor, “God’s not done with you yet.”

Sandor scoffed, “I've heard that before, man was talking about a different god though.”

“Maybe he was right, I don’t know much about gods.”

Sandor chuckled slightly, “You’re in the wrong line of work.”

“Oh, there's plenty of pious sons of bitches who think they know the word of god, or gods. I don't. I don't know their real names. Maybe it is the Seven. Or maybe it's the Old Gods. Or maybe it's the Lord of Light, or maybe they're all the same fucking thing. I don't know. What matters, I believe, is that there's something greater than us. And whatever it is, it's got plans for Sandor Clegane." Ray hasn't revealed that he knew who he was before. Sandor was slightly taken aback.

But Sandor sat with the words for a moment.

He looked at him, his gaze vulnerable but hard, “You didn’t know me back in my time, you don’t know the things I’ve done.”

Ray looked at him with a deep look, a darker one, “I’ve heard stories.”

“If Gods were real, why haven’t they punished me?” He found himself asking genuinely,

“They have.” Ray said, before walking away.

He wasn’t wrong. He was left not knowing if the love of his life was dead or alive. Left haunted by your scent and your memory. Haunted by the touch you gave to him.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you approached the looming black castle. You’d never seen such a thing.

You turned to Ser Cole beside you.

“Grimm looking place.” You said wearily.

He leaned in closer to you, “You can do this, My Lady.” he said quietly only to you.

Your eyes focused on Castle Black, assessing it, “Even if I can’t, I have to.” You said quietly but sternly.

And with that you pulled the reins of Lika, pushing her forward, and your men followed behind you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Jon walked across the training yard to his commander’s chamber when he noticed Tormund looking into the Dining Halls.

Tormound turned around and noticed Jon walking closer, giving a look of confusion.

“You’ve a beauty waiting for ye’” Tormound said,

Jon raised an eyebrow as he opened the door to the Dining Hall. He saw you and Ser Cole, with seven other knights. You and your men stood.

“Lady Arryn?” He asked, taken aback by your unannounced presence.

“Lord Commander.” You lowered your head in respect,

“I’m not the Commander anymore.” He said walking towards you,

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.” You smiled softly, trying your best to be friendly. “You are my cousin's blood. And so by some length I suppose you and I share some kind of… familiarity.”

“We don’t.” He said

You took a brief pause, giving up on an attempt to establish any kind of familiar relationship. “I hear you’ve seen the dead, walking.” Your eyes narrowed,

“Aye. Beyond the wall they march.” He spoke with an earnest fear.

“You’re building an army?” You asked

He nodded, “Aye, My Lady. I’ve been traveling to many great houses to ask for their aid.”

“But not mine?” Your eyes narrowed even more,

“Northern Houses. Besides, I’d rather not do dealings with Littlefinger.”

You almost interrupted him “Littlefinger is not head of House Arryn, Jon Snow, I am.” You said defensively, Jon was slightly taken aback, he nodded to your words, “I’ve not seen what you have. I cannot say that I am convinced, though I’ve no reason to assume you’d lie.”

“You’ll give your men?” He asked with a raised brow,

“I will.” You nodded, but before Jon could thank you, you continued, “But this exchange would need to be mutual.” You held your head high, “As you said you rather not do dealings with Littlefinger and recently I as well as more than half of the Knights of the Vale have decided the same.”

“You’ve rebuked the succession?” He took a step closer, his words sounded somewhat accusatory.

“The Lady of The Vale has claimed what she is owed.” Ser Cole spoke,

You raised a hand implying for Ser Cole to stop, “I have. The vale is a large and strong land. The Eyrie itself has never in three thousand years been breached. It would be invaluable to you and your armies.” You spoke with confidence, “If the house swayed in my favor, I would sever all ties with house Lannister. I would do it whether you offered aid or not. But I would join your forces. My house would swear obedience to yours. The Knights of the Vale would be at your service.”

“But you don’t have that?” His voice again turned to one of accusatory.

“I have half that.” Your confidence unwavering

“But not all of that?”

“Do you want the men or not?” You brought the confrontation to a dead end.

He thought about it in deep thought. “Will it be enough?”

“It will be.” ‘it would have to be’ you thought, you held out your hand “A war for a war.” He shook it.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As Sandor laid in that cot that was far too small for his body whilst being nursed back to health, he would often hold a pillow against his chest. Pretending it was you. Though it didn’t have your scent, your body's warmth, your plumpness, your weight, but it was all he had. He tried to remember the way your ways would look into his.

Your eyes always spoke loudly, they told him everything you felt.

From anger, sadness, fear, lust, ecstasy, and his favorite was joy.

Gods he wanted you badly. Like water, or wine preferably.

He laid there and thought of you, of all of the gentleness you gave to him. He didn’t deserve it, he knew that. And yet here he was dreaming of it at night. With his cock hardening against the soft fabric of the cott he laid in.

He moved off his bad leg rolling onto his stomach, using his strong leg to hold himself up as he clutched the pillow in his arms and grinded into the cott.

The pressure against his aching length was good, but it did not compare to the satisfaction only your cunt provided.

Gods he thought of how perfectly you fit with him. Your body molded to his and his to yours.

He rocked himself into the cot whilst he tried his best to remember how your walls would tighten against his cock, how your lips would find his.

He missed the wetness of your cunt, the plumpness of your breasts, the softness of your body.

He remembered the first time he’d taken you, truly and properly. You’d taken him so well, it was as if he’d been made for you. You held him so sweetly as his cock pushed in and out of you.

A sweetness he’d not ever forget. He needed you badly that was for certain and all he had not was a pillow and a cot.

“Seven hells” he hissed as he reluctantly filled back back into his back and pulled himself out of his breeches and began to stroke his length. He imagined the sounds you’d make. The beautiful moans of pleasure that you’d sing to him, the lustful and vulgar sounds your cunt made when his cock slipped in and out of you.

But what always had done him in was your eyes. Gods your beautiful beautiful eyes. They showed no fear, pity, or disgust. They showed a love he’d never seen before. How warm and soft they were- “Fuck!” Sandor hissed as he spilt his seed out onto his stomach.

Perhaps now he’d be able to sleep. But of course he couldn’t.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Later the next morning, Sandor was deep within the woods and far from the community. He was finally well enough to walk and run further and further from the commune. That’s the way he liked it. Being far from the rest. He didn’t need any men and he certainly didn’t need any women.

As Sandor chopped wood, he heard a scream, a scream of a woman. Sandor dropped what he was doing and ran as well as he could with his limp he still had.

When he finally reached the sept everyone was massacred, and Ray, the closest thing to a friend he’d had since you or Arya, was hanged in the middle of the sept he helped build.

He picked up his ax and went hunting.

Hunting for the men who did what they did.

NOTE:

Does this one lowkey suck? Yeah. And what about it? This is going to serve as a good catalyst for the next chapter I promise.

K love you, xoxo

Bambi

Beloved Tags:

@dontfollowjuststuff @helpmeescapethisreality @merfic @broadsdrinkwhisky

@the-queen-of-sorrows @eddiesbongwater @not-neverland06 @symonedoesart

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@drymushroomfics

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nightswatchdisbandmentera · 21 days

Text

This part in Jon III AGoT when he’s realizing that he means to swear his life to a celibate institution at only the age of 14, before he could explore all the options the world has to offer him.

“I don’t care,” Jon said. “I don’t care about them and I don’t care about you or Thorne or Benjen Stark or any of it. I hate it here. It’s too… it’s cold.” “Yes. Cold and hard and mean, that’s the Wall, and the men who walk it. Not like the stories your wet nurse told you. Well, piss on the stories and piss on your wet nurse. This is the way it is, and you’re here for life, same as the rest of us.” “Life,” Jon repeated bitterly. The armorer could talk about life. He’d had one. He’d only taken the black after he’d lost an arm at the siege of Storm’s End. Before that he’d smithed for Stannis Baratheon, the king’s brother. He’d seen the Seven Kingdoms from one end to the other; he’d feasted and wenched and fought in a hundred battles. They said it was Donal Noye who’d forged King Robert’s warhammer, the one that crushed the life from Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He’d done all the things that Jon would never do, and then when he was old, well past thirty, he’d taken a glancing blow from an axe and the wound had festered until the whole arm had to come off. Only then, crippled, had Donal Noye come to the Wall, when his life was all but over.

This part in Jon V, only two chapters later, when he’s finally about to become a man of the Watch but he can’t get too excited because he’s realizing that there’s a great big world down there, yet he’s all the way up here at the Wall - a cold, unwelcoming home; a prison with no escape unless he wishes to die.

He had no destination in mind. He wanted only to ride. He followed the creek for a time, listening to the icy trickle of water over rock, then cut across the fields to the kingsroad. It stretched out before him, narrow and stony and pocked with weeds, a road of no particular promise, yet the sight of it filled Jon Snow with a vast longing. Winterfell was down that road, and beyond it Riverrun and King’s Landing and the Eyrie and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isle of Faces, the red mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of old Valyria. All the places that Jon would never see. The world was down that road… and he was here. Once he swore his vow, the Wall would be his home until he was old as Maester Aemon. “I have not sworn yet,” he muttered. He was no outlaw, bound to take the black or pay the penalty for his crimes. He had come here freely, and he might leave freely… until he said the words. He need only ride on, and he could leave it all behind. By the time the moon was full again, he would be back in Winterfell with his brothers. Your half brothers, a voice inside reminded him. And Lady Stark, who will not welcome you. There was no place for him in Winterfell, no place in King’s Landing either. Even his own mother had not had a place for him. The thought of her made him sad. He wondered who she had been, what she had looked like, why his father had left her. Because she was a whore or an adulteress, fool. Something dark and dishonorable, or else why was Lord Eddard too ashamed to speak of her? Jon Snow turned away from the kingsroad to look behind him. The fires of Castle Black were hidden behind a hill, but the Wall was there, pale beneath the moon, vast and cold, running from horizon to horizon. He wheeled his horse around and started for home.

Yes Jon could leave the Watch, but he has no place! Because where would he go, bastard that he is?

That’s why the most underrated endgame theory is ‘Traveling Diplomat Jon’. Yes he’s a talented politician and he would do very well as a ruling lord, but there’s so much he’s yet to discover because he struggled to see where his illegitimate status could take him. But even in his bastardy, Jon is connected to so many important locations all around Westeros. Forget Winterfell. He could visit Harrenhall where his parents met. He could go look for rubies in the Trident and see where his father died. He could visit the Vale, the place that raised his adoptive father and the man he’s named after. He could take a trip to Starfall and visit his milkbrother, then visit the Tower of Joy’s ruins. He could got to Dragonstone and Summerhall, his father’s birthplace and home. If he wishes, he can cross the Narrow Sea and visit his friend (and personal banker) Tycho Nestoris in Braavos. And if his suicidal tendencies get stronger, why not visit the smoky ruins of Valyria where sleeping dragons were once brought to life, just like himself?

Jon has spent five books earning his ‘Lord Snow’ title. And though it’s an oxymoron everyone, from baseborn bastards to mighty kings, calls him that and not all of them do it as a sign of mockery. He’s put in a lot of work towards coming to terms with his bastardy. So it’s finally time for him to take that in consideration and realize that there’s a great big world out there that’s ready to welcome him, bastard as he is.

#jonposting #sometimes I think about this lad and just burst into tears #like that’s ma boyyyy ma baby boy 😭😭😭😭#let jon explore planetos 2000 AND FOREVER 🗣️#asoiaf #jon snow #valyrianscrolls

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huramuna · 10 months

Text

a maid's folly - chapter 1.

dark aemond x maid ofc minor aemond x floris baratheon work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

summary: a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

word count: 2k

i got a few requests for dark aemond x maid / servant / lowborn so here is my amalgamation of all of those! this will be a mini series!

warnings: smut (eventually, will add further tags on chapters with smut), power imbalance, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

guilded lily - cults • christmas kids - roar

It was an eve of spring, a gentle breeze whistling through the corridors of the Red Keep. A particularly strong gust rippled the bandanna atop the maid’s head– she slapped a hand to the crown of her skull, pulling it taut once more.

She shouldn’t be getting knocked over by a mere gust of wind– in the South, no less. The newly appointed maid was a young girl of nineteen name-days passed. She was known by Rosemary; Rosemary Stone. Originally from the Vale, more specifically, she was raised in the Eyrie. Her mother was a handmaiden to Lady Jeyne Arryn– the two women were particularly close and Jeyne took Rosemary under her wing as if she were her own after her mother passed. Rosemary knew there had been a deep love between her lowborn mother and the Lady of the Vale.

Rosemary’s mother spoke little of her father, if at all– she had heard rumors swirling around the Eyrie that it was a bannerman of Lady Jeyne’s, but she paid no mind to it, it didn’t matter to her either way. She was raised as well as a bastard could be and received much love from Lady Jeyne and her mother.

“Rosemary, you must listen to me, my dear,” Lady Jeyne had said just a few moons prior, “The world is changing. You’ve grown in the safety of the Vale, but I fear that… you are unprepared for your future. You’re a young girl, beautiful and you could become something one day, something beyond your name,” she paused, taking Rosemary’s hand in her own, “You must leave the Vale.”

Rosemary blinked, recoiling slightly as if she’d been hit with a physical blow, “W-what? What do you mean, ‘leave the Vale’?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly, “All I know is the Eyrie— all I know is you, all I know is… is…” she sniffled, clenching on Jeyne’s hand tightly before letting go.

Jeyne let out a small sigh, getting a bit closer to her, their knees touching, “My sweet girl— that is exactly my point. I… cannot in good conscience let you live out the rest of your life here. You’re young, you have no titles, no land,” she paused, “No blood relatives keeping you here— you may see your bastardry as a hindrance and in some ways, it may be— but you have more freedom than anyone else in this Keep. More than I have, more than your mother had.”

The girl wiped the tears now pooling at her lashes, “I don’t wish to go— I don’t know anyone, and if… if I do, where would I go?”

Lady Arryn took Rosemary’s hands in her own once more, rubbing small circles on them in a soothing manner, “I’ve been corresponding with King’s Landing— I believe you may be a good fit in the Red Keep, mayhaps as a handmaiden or a servant. I will make the necessary arrangements,” she let out a small sigh, “Between you and I— I’ve heard that King isn’t well, and that it is the Hightowers who sit the Iron Throne now. The Vale is impregnable— but it is also where information goes to die. I shan’t be uninformed, up here in the Eyrie with none the wiser if a war is brewing right under our noses— I wish for you to send me letters of anything you deem noteworthy. We are safe from legions of soldiers but we are nothing against dragons— Maegor saw to that.”

Rosemary’s brow furrowed, “You wish for me to… spy?”

“In a way— think of it as your secondary goal,” Jeyne hummed, “Your priority is socializing, getting acquainted with other people and mayhaps finding a nice lover or two along the way, hm? You shan’t find any of those in the Eyrie, dear.”

The girl cracked a smile, albeit a small one. Slowly, she nodded. She didn’t wish to disappoint Jeyne. In a way, she was another mother to her, and she felt a strong desire to please her.

But she still felt a deep pit in her stomach— she didn’t know what to expect in King’s Landing.

Rosemary was pulled from her reverie by a tap on her shoulder. It was Magelle, one of the older serving ladies.

“Wake up, girl,” she whispered in a harsh tone, “Take this tray to the prince.” the older woman shoved a silver platter of hot water and tea leaves at her.

“The… prince— y-yes, the prince,” Rosemary stumbled, “Which one?”

Magelle rolled her eyes, “Do ye see wine on this tray? I told ye— the older prince only drinks wine. I’ll be rolling in my grave when that boy asks for tea. This is for the younger prince, Aemond. Remember what I told ye— no eye contact, especially with the second son. Ain’t a pretty sight none anyhow. Now get goin’.” she huffed, swatting the younger maid on the bottom, practically spurring her into action like a horse.

Rosemary stumbled through the halls with the tray, getting lost a few times— what was the point of all of these damnable hallways?

Eventually, she found her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, where the royal apartments were. She counted, Aemond’s chambers were third from last.

A gentle knock on the door was heard as she walked up to it. Her hand was shaking ever so slightly as she adjusted the hood of her kerchief , pushing up a single, errant hair. The teacups rattled on the tray she was balancing with her other hand. She was to serve the prince– the second prince, to be clear. If she were to serve the first prince, she would’ve just had to come with a decanter of wine and call it a day. But this prince– Prince Aemond ‘One Eye’-- was an enjoyer of tea, apparently. Rosemary thought it a much better choice than wine— she found the liquid to be sour and unappealing.

“Your g-grace,” she murmured, then cleared her throat, enunciating once more, “Your grace– your tea.”

“Enter.” a voice said– it was quiet, but something about it made her want to prick at her nail beds.

She opened the door with her shoulder, scurrying into the room with her head down. As a servant of the Red Keep, she was taught to not make eye contact with her betters unless addressed, especially Aemond, as Magelle had warned.

“Do you require sugar or cream, your grace?” Rosemary asked, putting the tray to the small wooden table, looking down at her feet.

She heard shuffling from her right, the creaking of leather and light footsteps growing closer. The scent of sandalwood and fire permeated her nostrils— it wasn’t unpleasant, just different.

“You’re new,” Aemond said, not even facing her. He walked past her to the table she placed the tray upon, pouring the rich brown liquid into his cup, “Are you not?”

Rosemary put her hands together, sinking her thumb nail in the soft of her palm, “Y-yes, your grace,” she replied, blinking profusely, “I’ve just come from the Vale less than three days ago.”

“The Vale?” he hummed, “Hm,” he dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup, stirring it, tasting it, before adding another two cubes.

She watched from below fettered lashes, her eyes landing upon his hands— they were large and calloused. She heard that he was a proficient swordsman and rode the largest dragon in the world— and yet he took his tea with four sugars. Quite curious.

“If… you needn’t anything else, my prince,” she bowed slightly, “I will leave you to your tea.” Rosemary began to move, eager to escape. He was quiet enough, but something about him unnerved her— as if she was being taken apart in his head.

“Wait,” his voice broke through the silence like a whip, “Come here, girl.”

Her heart stopped in her chest— she was surely dead. She must’ve done something wrong, and he was to execute her. Rosemary was not an optimistic thinker. The maid turned towards him, head bowed.

“Eyes up, little lamb,” he murmured, his already quiet voice rasping slightly, like flames licking at his throat. His hand, calloused and all, tucked under her chin, tipping her head up.

Rosemary, ever diminutive, raised her eyes to him— her two deep, brown eyes met his one violet. She wasn’t breathing, her fingertips shaking ever so slightly.

From her briefing about the royal family, she thought she was to look out for the older prince, Aegon, as he was known to be handsy with maids and servants alike. But no one had told her of Aemond except the warning not to look at him— and if they had, they said he was reserved, quiet and broody.

Magelle said that he was a sight for sore eyes— and after looking at him now, she wondered if the old bat was blind. He had chiseled features and a pleasantly shaped mouth, like a taut bowstring. She glazed over the nasty scar over the right of his face, but didn’t pay it much mind.

“Your name, little lamb?” he asked then, turning her head to the side, up and down, back and forth, as if appraising her like a slab of meat.

“Rosemary, my prince,” the shaking maid replied, so quickly and quietly that she thought that she almost didn’t speak at all.

The only indication that she had spoken was the tug of the prince’s upper lip in something akin to a grin. “Fitting. Lamb goes well with rosemary— or so I’ve heard.”

She felt a bead of sweat fall from her brow, “I don’t much like lamb, your grace.”

He snorted at that, “You valemen, or valewomen, raise sheep, do you not? My uncle once said that the sheep of the Vale are prettier than their women,” he let go of her face, but not without looking at her a bit more, “He never had any taste, truly.”

Rosemary felt her hands twitch as they came back together. What on earth did that mean? Was he calling her a sheep— more beautiful than a sheep? Was he calling her ugly? She was truly puzzled by the prince’s words, but said nothing of it.

“Thank you for the tea. You may go now.” he hummed, turning away from her, attending back to his tea.

A sigh of relief was felt throughout her body as she curtsied— it was still shaky from her nerves, but she managed to keep herself upright. “Have a good evening, my prince.” she murmured at last, leaving his chamber.

She heard him once more, emitting a small ‘hm’. She could practically see the twitching sneer on his face like before.

As she descended down the hallways, she unwrapped her kerchief from her head, her light cream colored braids falling out of their delicate shape and strewing across her back. Something about Aemond unnerved Rosemary so completely and her skin crawled as she left.

She had never met a dragon before— how could she have? — but she felt as if he was an embodiment of one, bones made of obsidian and ash. And she was just a lamb in the face of a dragon.

Descending back to her room— a chambered closet with a straw filled mattress— she curled into her bed, tossing her apron and dress aside. One of the things she brought from home— if she could even consider the Eyrie ‘home’ anymore— was a quilt sewed with thick, blue threads. It had depictions of the stars and moon, with little lambs and nightingales and dusk roses, sewn by her mother— with contributions from Jeyne— before her birth. Her hands traced the stitches, eyes filling with tears. The hem was frayed slightly from her habit of doing this very thing over the years.

It was the only thing she had left of her mother, both of her mothers. Her chest ached at the thought that she would likely never return to the Eyrie, never see Jeyne again— never have her hands held by her, never have their knees touch, never have her kiss her forehead and tell her that everything would be okay.

She was alone. A lamb alone in a castle of vipers and dragons.

How truly precarious.

Her sleep, when it came, was fitful. Tossing and turning, she dreamt of nightingales and lambs being torn limb from limb between dragons, some black and some green. Her skin was charred ash, her chest skewered by a stag’s horns until she bled out, wolves coming to feast upon her corpse.

tag list: @watercolorskyy @queen--kenobi

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #the maid's folly #aemond x servant

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daeneryseastar · 3 months

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so i don’t understand what is *so* hard to get about the idea that rhaenyra being crowned as queen *peacefully* would’ve at least introduced the baby-step process that women can inherit the iron throne, even if it doesn’t automatically lead to absolute primogeniture and prompt benefits being established for -all- women.

book-wise we have one (ONLY one) inkling of how rhaenyra feels about the succession, and it’s that she doesn’t wish to alienate any more allies than she already had:

show-wise we have a vague and contradictory line of jace and baela’s sons inheriting the iron throne followed by luke and rhaena’s children inheriting the driftwood throne, which just seems like an inconsistency in the writer’s room, but why is that *such* an issue for those that support aegon’s claim to begin with? rhaenyra only has sons (biologically) at this point, so we really don’t know whether or not she would’ve named a daughter as her heir over a son, but this thought process derives from real history. eventually female heirs were allowed in certain circumstances but male children were *always* preferred (until recently). this still doesn’t change what her reign would’ve entailed had there not been war. rhaenyra is allowed to fight for the right her father granted onto her when she was 8 years old, aegon was not entitled to it simply because he was born with a penis and his mother raised him to believe that made him special.

jeyne arryn, one of her staunchest allies, point blank states what will happen to women heirs and ladies in their own right if the greens are allowed to repudiate the succession, because it’s something she -personally- had gone through:

“in this world of men, we women must band together,” the green council states that they cannot rely on the eyrie for support due to is presently being ruled by a WOMAN. they knew what this would mean for women moving forward.

if we were to look into the history of english monarchs the first (official) queen regnant of england was mary i, who ruled for five years, and didn’t make any changes to the rules of succession during her reign (any that involved gender, any battles she faced mostly had to do with religion). she was followed by her sister elizabeth i, who ruled for 45 years, and made no changes to the rules of succession. both of whom ascended as queen because there were no male relatives alive at the time, but each obviously proved that women were just as capable of men ruling, releasing at least some of the stigma surrounding that subject during their time alive. it wasn’t even until recently, during the reign of elizabeth ii (in 2013, specifically), that absolute primogeniture was enacted into law, ending the system of male-preference cognitive primogeniture. mary became queen in october of 1553, so it took 460 years for this change to occur.

rhaenyra is based off empress matilda, daughter of henry i, who would’ve been the first queen regnant of england had she not been challenged and deposed by her cousin, stephen of blois, in a war known as the anarchy; with it ultimately ending when a peace treaty was signed by both stephen and matilda, with her son henry ii named as stephen’s successor upon his death (which happened a year later). this war began in 1135, which was 878 years before the succession was formally changed and 418 years before england would actually see a queen on the throne. this is just to put it into perspective how one queen is not going to immediately enact change for the betterment of all women whilst attempting to rule an age-old abhorrent system, but saying that they had no bearing on succession laws and gender equality moving forward is wild.

not only did rhaenyra only reign for six months, she was in the middle of a civil war that had resulted in the deaths of four of her children (as far as she knew) at that point. among that the treasury had been depleted and sent to green loyalists, so she was taking over a country with virtually no money at hand. her reign was damned from the start, and her near broken mental state led her to make some bad decisions. from the beginning of her heir ship she was looked down upon for being a woman; her stepmother spread vile rumors about her virginity when was in her early teens, her sworn shield groomed and took advantage of her, her siblings were raised to hate her and view her as a threat to THEIR birthright and lives, her father was nigh on useless in protecting her against any of this due to his pacifist and pushover nature. she was usurped because she was a woman, and ultimately killed because she was a woman. denying the tragedy of her life is refusing to understand the deeper components of the story being told.

if women aren’t even able to hold offices of high power how is anything supposed to change for those in even worse circumstances? women didn’t gain semi equal rights by being silent and subservient to the men around them, they gained them by fighting back against the status quo; by marching, lobbying their politicians, lecturing those willing and unwilling to listen to their plight, causing civil disobedience, etc. we shouldn’t condemn those that do not have the will nor the ability to participate in these events, but refusing to understand their opposites and overtly criticizing how imperfect they are or blaming them for their suffering is not the way to go.

once again, rhaenyra is not a feminist, but she should be seen as a proto-feminist figure by us, the audience, for her will to stake her claim as the first woman to sit the iron throne. her usurpation and subsequent murder leads to the death of all dragons, a catastrophic consequence considering her parallels to the amethyst empress and the dire stakes at hand in regard to the second long night.

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #rhaenyra targaryen #pro rhaenyra targaryen #team black #pro team black #anti team green #anti team green stans #real feminists do NOT support the patriarchy just bc it’s headed by misogynistic white woman who cries prettily #and thinks she’s the only exception to the ‘no women in power rule’ AND a violent misogynistic rapist as king #i would think this should be obvious #but hotd has allowed some truly braindead takes to spread #all by sex obsessed airheads that can’t differentiate attractive actors from the characters they play #if you see any mistakes in this NO YOU DIDNT

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acontrariis · 1 month

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chapter 1. the eyrie

pairing. Aemond Targaryen x OC word count. 2k warnings. mention of death.

⋆ prev. chapter

The stone walls, tall and strong, were as cold as the iron shekels of a slave cutting into her skin, suffocating every breath she managed to take.

She wondered if this was what dying felt like.

You could find that out if you just took a step forward…

- “Vienna!”

Her thoughts were interrupted by her caretaker’s cry.

Marmee had been running around the palace for a good hour trying to find her, her swollen feet tired from the exercise.

- “What are you doing here? I told you it’s time to get ready for dinner.”

- “But I don’t wanna have dinner with them. They are old and mean and smell funny. Why do we have to stay here?”

The sad expression from the child she loved as her own broke Marmee’s heart. She would give anything to take her away, back to her life, away from the prison their family desperately wanted to trap her in, but she knew better and had already been warned many times before.

- “This is what’s best for you, child, I already told you. Come on, now. Behave.”

She hated that word. They kept repeating it ever since they got to this place. Behave. The 10-year-old quickly learned that just meant to do whatever the adults wanted her to and, usually, she would, but today she didn’t feel like it. Deciding she would much rather sit on the window overlooking the abyss, she continued her drawing as if the woman was a mere fly on the wall.

- “Vienna Targaryen, I swear…”

- “She’s crying again.”

The statement stopped Marmee’s exclamations and made her freeze. It took her a minute to process it. Not because it was new or because she didn’t know what the little girl meant, but because she wished she didn’t. It had been years since her dreams started, the dragon cries filling her nightmares as a cursed lullaby, but lately she could hear them even awake. She could feel her, even when awake. Letting out a tired sigh, Marmee extended her arms to her.

- “Come on, you know I can’t climb up there.”

After a few minutes of silence.

- “I’ll give you a treat if you come down from there.”

At the mention of a treat, Vienna quickly lifted her head, so fast a muscle was almost pulled and seeing Marmee’s smile, she knew she’d lost. Reluctantly, a pout in sight, the child grabbed her drawing and crayons and jumped into the woman’s arms, who caught her with a huff.

- “Here we go, now.”

Marmee cradled the child like a baby and started walking towards her room.

- “You know, you’re just as stubborn as your mother.”

As usual, the little girl would blush at the comparison with her mother, a shy smile sneaking into her face.

- “Yeah?”

- “Oh, yes. That temper, dear heavens. And your father…”

She shook her head as if the mere thought frightened her, triggering a giggle from Vienna.

- “You have his eyes and his brattiness. Everything has to be exactly how you want it, when you want it.”

The playful scolding from the maid prompted the childish giggles. This proved to be the best way to calm the little girl, the stories from her parents filled the memories she should have had and eased the ache in her heart. Thanks to this, she was able to get her to her chambers and standing on the wooden bench as she changed her dress and fixed her hair.

- “Wanna know a secret?”

At this, Vienna’s eyes lightened in expectation, the curiosity almost making her jump from the little stool.

- “It is said…”

Marmee spoke softly as she finished tying her dress, so only Vienna could hear

- “...that the dragon that cries for you has scales of the darkest wine in the Seven Kingdom…”

The wide-eyed expression of the Princess made her share an affectionate smile

- “…and when the sun hits them, they shine as amethysts would… just like a certain little girl’s eyes.”

A scrunched up nose and a wide open smile was the response she got.

- “I know it makes you sad, but I need you to be strong, okay?”

Vienna’s eyes lowered, the smile now gone.

- “Remember, it’s not time yet for you two to reunite, but this wonderful gift you have been given is something you must treasure, as painful as it can be at times.”

Letting out a sigh, Vienna reluctantly nodded at her and came down from the stool. Before she left, Marmee’s voice stopped her.

- “And remember…”

- “No one must know I can hear the dragons, I know.”

With one last instruction to go straight to the dining room, Marmee let her go, wishing she could go with her.

⸺

Dinner time at The Eyrie was a particular experience she had never witnessed before coming here; in the months they had been there she still hadn’t grown accustomed to the unspoken rules that everyone but her seemed to know.

One she learned quickly was that she mustn’t speak of her mother. Her father was a fair topic, as long as Lady Arryn was in the room. The woman seemed to gloat with every mention of his name, and took a particular interest in reminding her how sad it was that she never got to experience his love.

However, at the minor mention of her mother, the room would go silent, followed by some unrelated comment, hurriedly spoken after the silence went on too long.

The long table filled with all kinds of food and surrounded by men and women reminded her of the Queen’s Court Marmee used to tell her about. The sight of it intimidated her at first, and she would be lying if she said it had gotten better. The vicious viper eyes followed her every move, dissected every word and gesture, and made her feel so incredibly small, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to reach the table.

- “Nice of you to join us, Vienna.”

The sharp voice stopped her as all the eyes in the room directed at her. Her mouth automatically opened to an apology.

Breathe, don’t stutter.

The calm whisper served as a warning, a helpful reminder that had saved her many times from making a fool of herself. The first time she heard it, it almost made her fall off her chair. The soft murmurs that imposed over the rest of the noise, drowning even her own thoughts.

They’d started a few years ago, she wasn’t certain exactly when. She didn’t know why they started or where they came from, what even were they was something she didn’t understand. They were just there, in the back of her mind, sometimes louder than others.

This was something she hadn’t even told Marmee, it was not easy to explain how the voices felt as if they had always been there and they were just now coming to be known by her.

As she took her seat, the customs proceeded as usual, empty conversations filled with mean spirited gossip and hatred. Vienna had learned to tune it off, paying enough attention to know when a response was expected from her, not that it happened very often.

She was to be seen and not heard, the voices had told her, and they were never wrong. Bits of the conversation were picked up by her as she slowly ate her food, something about a marriage, she wondered whose, and why were they discussing people’s hair?

- “The black-haired Targaryens seem to be a trend the last few years.”

As the room filled with laughter, the product of a joke everyone seemed to know but her, Vienna's face furrowed. At least that she understood referenced her too, but her mother’s hair was black, she had seen the paintings, of course she would have black hair.

That’s not what they mean.

She huff, a bit frustrated.

They rarely explained things properly, making it harder to understand certain things. Sometimes, the voices were so many and so loud that she would feel dizzy, unable to pick apart one from the other. Focused as she was on the confusion swirling her mind, she almost missed the most important statement of the entire evening.

- “Nevertheless, it will be a fruitful join of the families, as it was approved by the King himself. This marriage will surely bring prosperity to both houses, and Vienna will make a beautiful bride.”

That stopped her train of thoughts. A shocked cough resonated as the young child choked on her food. Who will what?

This is not good.

She couldn’t agree more.

⸺

As a show of good relations and to straighten the bond between the families, a marriage was proposed, they later explained. The youngest brother of Lady Arryn would marry the youngest daughter of the Targaryen. Important to mention the old lady Arryn had last given birth decades before the bride-to-be would even be born, so, young would not be the first word to come to mind when looking at him.

A marriage is a political tool in the games the Monarchy plays. You’ll understand better when you’re older.

Marmee had told her once, in their preparations before coming back “home”. Unfortunately, not even all the chess strategies in the world could prepare her for being a child bride. She understood what was expected of her, she had to obey and follow her family’s wishes, but seeing the pain and rage in Marmee’s eyes, the girl couldn’t help but rebel against it.

Maybe they could run, leave and be free from them.

What about your dragon? Are you going to leave her too?

Of course she didn’t want that, none of them did, that was the only reason they had even come back in the first place.

Noticing the silent girl immersed in her thoughts, Marmee stopped the whirlwind in her mind about the idiotic family and how the constant inbreeding had affected their last surviving brain cells. She had to remain calm.

- “We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

The words, although appreciated, did little to calm her. Not a single wink of sleep was caught that night. Tired and anxious, she instructed the girl to follow along as usual, she would fix this, she said.

The relations between the couple-to-be were encouraged, afternoon strolls and accompanied meals were set while the preparations were made.

- “We shall ride to King’s Landing and pay our respects to the King and Queen, of course.”

And then directed his eyes to the silent girl.

- “You’ve never been, right? It’s a wonderful place. The late Prince’s funeral was held there… of course you wouldn’t know…”

It was well known the baby had been missing from the parents' funeral. Marmee had been too afraid they tried to take her, so she took her away and kept her hidden for as long as she could, until the nightmares were too much for the kid to bear.

She pondered the options for years, as she watched the child grow, develop a mind of her own and begin to ask questions, what she had to do became clearer by the day. She never expected this to happen, though.

Three days later the group parted, three carriages filled with people and presents expected to arrive in 9 days time.

⸺

The party never made it to the Capital.

A terrible accident had occurred, some said, Lord Arryn’s body was found two meters into the deep of the woods, too disfigured to make any identification if it wasn’t for his trusted squire being the sole witness of the misfortune.

A black haired beast, the terrified man had said, with teeth as sharp as a dragon’s claw ripped the carriage in half and shredded my lord’s figure like the skin of a juicy boar.

His screams were lost in the dark of night, no one in sight to help as they had, conveniently, wandered too far from the rest of the company.

The news soon reached Lady Arryn, who enraged and in fear, banished the girl and her companions from her land. She couldn’t prove it, the woman said, but they’d killed him. When asked about it, not a single explanation was given.

“They’re witches'' she repeated “Her mother was one too, she cursed them all before she died.” and then, in a small voice, she would add “That girl will be the ruin of the Targaryen.”

#hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x original character #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader

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valyriians · 1 year

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I’m not sure if this is how you put requests in, so I’m sorry if this is wrong lol. But i was wondering would u mind writing a Visenya Targaryen x fem reader? Cause I see in most fics it’s a lot of stuff on Aegon and Rhaenys and I feel like our girl Visenya needs some love. I don’t really have a story in mind I’d just love to see her protective and possessive over us while also maintaining a friendship with Aegon and Rhaenys, if makes sense. Like we all get along, but we’re her girl and she’s gonna make it known lol. I hope it makes sense and I hope ur doing well author 🫶

Beauty and the Dragon.

Visenya Targaryen x fem!reader, arryn!reader.

summary: reader is basically sharra arryn but spicier.

wc: 1.7k

warnings: reader is a mom, non canon aegon i, smut, mention of reader being a prize.

You were known as the Flower of the Mountain, Y/n Arryn. You ruled in your son's name as Queen Regent in the Vale and the Mountains

When you received the news of the dragons from the south you had a worried look on your face, the Eyrie was defensible from the ground but in the sky, it was vulnerable.

You were scared, who would not be? A dragon could bring death and destruction to everything that the sky looms over. You ordered every one of your bannermen and advisors to raise defences and be prepared to defend the Vale.

You were with your advisors when the whole castle was shaken by a monstrous roar that could be heard from miles away.

‘’Where is my son?’’ you asked.

‘’WHERE IS HE?!’’ you shouted while running out of the room watching the people get up on their feet after the incident.

When you arrived at the throne room you saw your young son in the lap of a golden-silver-haired woman who was adorned in silver chain mail with a beautiful valyrian steel sword by her side.

She looked breathtaking, ethereal and elegant but also fierce and confident. You looked up at her with a glistening gleam in your eye.

The woman shifted her gaze from the young king to you and the two of you held eye contact which felt like a lifetime, her eyes were those of a beautiful purple which complimented her stern features.

‘’Who are you, release my son at once!’’ you exclaimed.

‘’Forgive me for the entrance I made but surely you must know that I needed to make an impression.’’ The woman said while looking playing with the young boy king.

‘’My name is Visenya Targaryen, eldest child of Lord Aerion Targaryen and Lady Valaena Velaryon of Dragonstone, sister to Ageon the Dragon.’’

‘’Let go of my sons’’ you said.

‘’I have no means to harm your son, come walk with me.’’ Visenya gestured for them to walk into the courtyard.

You walked with them outside where Visenya was holding the young king and babbling some stuff to him.

‘’If you don’t mean to harm us, why are you here?’’ you asked while looking closely at your son.

‘’Well, I will have to inflict some harm if you do not surrender the Vale and Mountains to me and my brother.’’ Visenya said while looking at you.

‘’As I see it, you are only a force of, one man and with a simple nod of my head I could have my archers let a hundred arrows fly.’’ you said.

‘’Could you now?’’ Visenya said and then the ground rumbled that was followed by a roar and from the sky descended a formidable green dragon that landed by Visenyas side.

The dragon was beautiful.

Some of the archers fled while others laid down their bows and shook in terror.

‘’Mama look at the dagon’’ the young boy king said to his mother, clearly not afraid of the large beast that was beside him.

‘’DRA-gon, little one.’’ Visenya said as she put him down on the ground.

You saw your son's face lit up and crouched down to hug your son. You looked at your son, then the dragon and lastly at Visenya who stroked the dragon's snout.

‘’I willingly surrender my son's crown, the Vale and the Mountains and all its treasures to you, on the condition that you will let my son live.’’

Visenya looked at you with a sympathetic look.

‘’Of course, your son will live, as will you.’’ Visenya said.

‘’I thank you’’ you bowed to her.

‘’I will be staying here, my brother and sister will be coming soon and we will make our journey North, perhaps you might indulge me with stories of the North, or the Vale and its so-called… treasures.’’ she winked at you, clearly into you but not making it to obvious.

‘’We shall have a feast prepared in your honour’’ you said while she mounted Vhagar with your son because she promised him a flight on Vhagar.

—

Two huge dragons arrived, one black as night and the other silver as the moon, they landed outside the Bloody Gate and arrived at the Eyrie where you were waiting with Visenya.

You saw how majestic the man and his sister, the younger one, were a great beauty. They truly were destined for something great and were going to achieve it.

‘’Brother’’ Visenya said.

‘’Dear sister.’’ he replied.

‘’Lady Arryn.’’ he shifted his gaze toward you and took your hand and kissed it. ‘’The poets did not lie, you are indeed very beautiful.’’

‘’Welcome to the Vale, my Lord, you flatter me’’ you replied, with a certain scared voice.

Rhaenys greeted you and she was very excited about the Eyrie.

—

The feast began and it was a big one, music was played and people danced to greet their new lord. It was also ideal for the bannermen to meet their new lord.

Rhaenys was chatting with some lords and ladies about her dragon and tales of Dragonstone.

‘’So, Lady Arryn, how long have you ruled here?’’ Aegon asks.

‘’Well for about seven years, my son ascended the throne when my husband died.’’ you reply.

‘’You have not re-married? I’m sure a score of men would love to have you beside them.’’ He chuckles but Visenya shut him down quickly.

‘’She has no need for a man, from what I have seen Lady Y/n has done an admirable job ruling the Vale.’’ You give Visenya a smile.

—

When the night came closing in, you retired to your chambers after visiting your son and you ran into Visenya, she had just returned from a flight.

Her hair when it was all worn out from the flight made her look amazing, the sweat from her ride, the way she pulled off her gloves and adjusted her clothes. You would be lying if you said that it didn’t make you feel something.

‘’I was wondering if you might educate me on the King in the North, Stark is he not?’’ she says to you while panting.

‘’It’s getting late, Lady Visenya.’’ you said but she caressed your face and pulled you in for a kiss.

Her lips tasted like lavender and cherries, she grabbed you by the neck and pulled you in closer.

You were feeling confused but were also so drawn to her, you wanted her, and you needed her badly so you also grabbed her.

You led her to your chambers where you undressed each other while kissing in between.

She pushed you onto the bed and began leaving wet kisses on your stomach while you were naked and vulnerable beneath her. Her hands were constantly on your body.

She moved down to your core and put your legs over her shoulders, she started licking your folds while moving up her pace as you panted and moaned with the sound of pleasure.

Her hot breath on your naked body sent chills down your spine and you felt like you could see stars.

The two of you went like this for hours and then you hear a knock on the door, terrified but curious who it might be, it could be your son or just a servant informing you about something.

You started collecting yourselves until Visenya caught your wrist.

‘’Lay here darling, I’ll handle this.’’ she said with dominance in her voice.

‘’No wait-’’ you protested.

‘’Quiet’’

Visenya walked to the door, half naked with only her long hair covering her chest with not a single care in the world. She opened the door and greeted her brother.

‘’Well well, what are you doing here?’’ she asked.

‘’I would ask you the same thing.’’ Aegon replies.

‘’Enjoying the spoils of war, I do enjoy my prize quite well and I do not plan on sharing them.’’ She said, clearly having the upper hand.

‘’I only came to bid the Lady goodnight, I shall see you on the morrow, sister.’’ He replied.

‘’I might be late, for I have much to do this night.’’ She replied.

—

The morning arrived and you woke up next to Visenya staring at you, admiring the numerous love spots she painted on your body. She caressed your hair and admired your naked figure in the messy sheets.

‘’I don’t want you to leave.’’ you say.

‘’I will be back before you know it darling.’’ she says while getting dressed.

You help her with her chainmail and fix up her hair nicely. Always giving her a few kisses in between.

—

When the three siblings were about to depart for the harsh North you were there to bid them farewell and good fortune.

You first spoke with Aegon as he walked up to you while putting on his gloves.

‘’We thank you for your hospitality Lady Arryn, it was an honour meeting one so beautiful as yourself.’’ he tells you.

‘’The honour is mine my King.’’ you bow to him and for the first time address him as King.

Rhaenys then hugged you goodbye and smiled at you and your son.

‘’My Queen.’’ you bowed to her.

‘’My Queen.’’ again to Visenya who looked at you with lustful eyes.

‘’From this day, the Arryns will hold the position as Wardens of the East and Defenders of the Vale. Starting with the first Warden of the East who is Lady Y/n Arryn.’’ Visenya proclaimed to the audience who came to bid them farewell. She gained loud applause from the crowd.

Aegon walked over to Visenya and grabbed her arm.

‘’What do you think you’re doing?!’’ he asked his sister.

‘’Relax dear brother.’’ she said while shuffling from her brother's grip.

‘’After all, you said that it is an honour to meet one so beautiful, and I would hate to see her talents of ruling go to waste.’’ She said while holding your cheek.

‘’So beautiful indeed.’’ She whispered and then kissed you with passion in front of Aegon and Rhaenys, Aegon looked at her with jealousy while Rhaenys smiled.

‘’I shall be back.’’ she said to you.

‘’I will await for you, my Queen.’’ you said while holding her hand.

—

The dragon Vhagar flew numerous times to the Eyrie after King Aegon Targaryen the first of his name was crowned and it is said that Lady Arryn and Queen Visenya spent more nights than King Aegon did with Rhaenys.

#visenya targaryen x reader #visenya targaryen the conqueror #visenya the conqueror #visenya targaryen #visenya x reader #house of the dragon

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willtheweaver · 28 days

Text

Seven Deadly Sins Tag

Thanks for the tag @the-golden-comet @thatuselesshuman definitely a fun concept, this one

Rules: Which of your OCs would you assign to which of the seven deadly sins and why?

Lust-

Lord Halley wants what he sees as his birthright; the eyrie of Eagleheart. And yet the more rational members of his court see the dream of regaining his ancestral home as just that, a dream.

Envy-

Fen wants a life where he does not need to remain hidden. Definitely something to be envious about.

Wrath-

Reed and Dirge have quite a bit to be angry about. Anger at those above their stations, anger at their Lord, and anger at their neighbors.

Greed-

Another one for Lord Halley. He has power and influence, and it isn’t enough. He always wants more.

Gluttony-

Hunger for recognition and praise fits Cya almost to a ‘T’.

Sloth-

Rail. He is plagued by a child’s short attention span, and an attitude that isn’t so much laid-back as it is sit-back-and-relax-and-hope-you-aren’t-the-one-called-first-to-offer-an-idea.

Pride-

It’s safe to say that Playa has a bit of an ego, and don’t wound it unless you want to know about it for the next month.

Tagging @illarian-rambling @mysticstarlightduck @kaylinalexanderbooks @davycoquette @sableglass

@the-ellia-west @ominous-feychild @roselinbooks @lychhiker-writes @riveriafalll

@phoenixradiant @winglesswriter and open tag

#tag game #open tag #writing #creative writing #writer #writers #writers and poets #writing community #writer on tumblr #writeblr

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warsofasoiaf · 3 months

Note

Something I’m a little confused about - when Catelyn and co. Arrive at the Gates of the Moon in AGOT, had Lysa already called the banners? I vaguely remember Ser Donnel Waynwood complaining about the Knights of the Vale being forced to stay stationary at the Eyrie and protect her/Sweetrobin, rather than launch a full scale counterattack on the Mountain Clans?

It also seems like she has a lot of notable hanger-ons around her during Cats chapters there. Like, we don’t see Greatjon Umber, Donella Hornwood, Robett Glover, etc. just hanging out at Winterfell at the beginning of the series, until later when they actually have a specific reason to be there, no?

Lysa did have plenty of people in her court, notably because they were trying to court her. Lysa was manipulated by Littlefinger into ensuring that the Knights of the Vale stayed in the Vale, which so disgusted Brynden Blackfish that he left his post at the Bloody Gate.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#lysa arryn

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impossible-rat-babies · 23 days

Text

I finished up all the sidequests in DT and there’s something that gets me about the heritage found + solution 9 + living memory ones do have many moments that pull at your heartstrings, but they are undercut by this lingering horror. like how a girl doesn’t remember her own mother, and no one else around her recalls her either? How eventually all the turali people accepted the regulators bc this is how life is now.

there is all this technology they have, but they cannot fathom a way to correct the world in which they live? there is no way to fight or to fix their home, but merely to exist within the shelter provided? going off of how it feels like a commentary rather than a narrative flaw, it speaks a lot to how stagnant the people of Alexandria have become. there is no past because there is no memory of the people who lived before. there is no future, as there is seemingly no way to fix the world outside of everkeep. they are as stagnant as their queen. they feel as detached from reality as the people of living memory do. it’s two sides of purgatory.

note: I’m not blaming the ppl of tural for accepting the reality of their circumstances. it’s merely them being put in a situation where that was their only recourse and it’s dogshit to have to accept this is the way it goes, but when there’s not much choice…

#idk I can’t shake the horror of it #even as the game does try and get me to see these are people living their definition of a normal life #it still. bothers me so much #I’m probably not the first to make this point but holy fuck at least the quests stick in my mind #I want to empathize but I stare at the stupid regulator on the side of their heads and I just think. man ur lives are Fucked Up #I mean that in a complimentary way #I do narratively enjoy it #dawntrail spoilers #owen plays ffxiv #but ohh the regulators drive eyrie Nuts #they don’t like standing on that side of ppl bc they will 100’percent stare at it #eyrie voice I wear sunglasses in solution 9 bc the lights are horrible but it’s also so ppl can’t see me staring at their regulators

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plutoscosmoss · 3 months

Text

Fire Inside ➸ c.21

Warnings: This series includes themes of violence, death, smut, childbirth and childbirth complications (if I forgot to mention any please let me know)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x OC

{Series Masterlist}

Previous Chapter

Chapter 21: The Waiting Game

Renva watched as Jacaerys came into their chambers to collect some belongings for the journey. Both did not speak, just existed in silence with each other until Jacaerys spoke up.

“Why didn’t you tell me of your fathers condition? I could have been there for you.” He said walking towards where she stood by the window.

“You had lost two members of your own family already it didn’t seem as important as to what you were going through.” Renva said, running a hand across her own arm to soothe herself. Jacaerys replaced her hand with his own, “You are my family now as well, you do not have to suffer on your own. My mother is sending me to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell. I will get an update for you on how your brothers are doing. If you would like me to bring anything back for you, or if you have to say anything to your brothers, simply write it in a letter and I shall deliver it to them.” Jacaerys said as he pulled Renva close and rested his head on hers, after spending her grief in solitude she felt her walls crumble as he pulled her in. All the weight of the events that have transpired fell onto her at that moment. Through tears she was able to choke out, “Why are you going instead of ravens? I don’t want you or Luke to get hurt.” Renva said and she clutched onto Jace’s tunic. “Look at me Renva,” Jace pulled away slightly and raised his hands to cup Renvas face. “We are to be sent as messengers, we swore to our mother not to fight. We will be safe.” Jacaeys heart swelled at the thought that Renva had not only cared deeply for him but for his younger brother who would also be taking a journey by himself.

A knock on the door startled them both, they only briefly separated to see Lucerys standing in the doorway.

“Are you ready brother? The dragons are waiting.” Luke said quietly, he had always been the quiet and compassionate type which warmed Renvas heart knowing that he was her family now. “I just have to grab a few more things.” Jace said and he kissed Renva’s forehead and gathered the rest of his belongings. Renva quickly wrote down that she was okay and would like her mothers charoite jewel ring, gifted to her mother from her father. She rolled up the parchment and handed it to Jacaerys. She then moved across the room to the table beside her side of the bed. She picked up what she had recently finished making and walked her way back over to where the two brothers now stood together. She motioned for both boys to hold out a wrist. Renva slowly wrapped a thick bracelet made of the Starks’ gray color, along with the Targaryens’ black and finally the Velaryian blue. Both boys looked up to her once she tied them to their wrists. She lifted up her own to show she too had one, “These symbolize that we are all now one,” she turned towards Luke, “After my wedding to your brother, I became your sister. I shall look after you as my own and fight for you both until the end of my days.” Renva said, embarrassing both boys. She gave Luke a kiss on his cheek and her beloved one on the lips. “I shall walk with you to the Dragon mount.” As they walked to the dragon mount Renva couldn't help but feel uneasy about this journey the boys were going on.

—

Renva had been residing in the library for the remainder of the day to keep herself calm. The boys wouldn’t be back for a bit, she needed to keep herself occupied so as to not freak out. She was in the middle of reading about King Jaehaerys first of his name ascension to the throne, when she heard the door open and the guard announce that it was Queen Rhaenyra. Renva quickly rose and curtseyed before Rhaenyra.

“I thought I might find you here.” Rhaenyra said as she sat in the seat across from Renva. Renva’s heart raced at the memory of their prior interaction. “I am sorry for not being vocal about my fathers condition until now, your grace. You see I have been feeling under the weather, and preferred to rest in solace.” Renva spoke without being questioned, trying quickly to defend herself to the Queen. “My dear child, you are okay. I too wish to apologize for how I acted at the painted table. I am on edge due to recent events and have been cautious on who I listen to.” Rhaenyra held onto Renva’s hands. “It is okay, your grace. After all that you have been through it is to be expected in some way.” Renva offered a small smile to the Queen. “Let us wait for the boys to return together. Luke should be back within two days time and Jacaerys should be back before the weeks end.” Rhaenyra stood taking Renva with her.

During the time Rhaenyra spent with Renva, they spoke of Targaryen history, growing up in Winterfell, and spending time with Rhaenyra’s youngest sons, Viscerys and Aegon. Renva asked all the questions she had about Targaryen history, making the Queen laugh occasionally due to her avid curiosity. The Queen in turn would ask how life in Winterfell fared to life at the Red Keep and Dragonstone. Renva was happy to answer the Queen's questions, highlighting her love for the snow. The young boys absolutely loved Renva, her time spent with them on the trip back to Dragonstone having solidified a great relationship between the three. Renva was like an older sister to the young boys.

Speaking of the young boys, Renva took it upon herself to watch them while the Queens court discussed the next options, should the boys return with not so great news. Renva was sitting off to the side of the painted table, Rhaenyra requesting the boys never be too far from her. Renva was holding little sleeping Viscerys while Aegon was playing on the floor with a wooden dragon figurine. Renva glanced between the boys when she heard the door open and Daemon walked the length of the room, his face sullen. He pulled Rhaenyra over towards the fireplace just to the right of where Renva was sitting with the boys when she heard the news that made her heart break.

Lucerys Velaryon was dead, murdered in the sky by his uncle Aemond targaryen and his dragon Vhagar. He was no match for the war dragon, and the crazed rider. The small dragon tried with all of its might to flee it, but little Arrax was no match. Renva glanced at Rhaenyra, as she saw the Queen's eyes darken she knew that war was now closer than ever. Renva held little Viserys tighter before watching Rhaenyra and Daemond walk out of the room together.

End Of Season 1 .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

#jacaerys velaryon #house of the dragon #jacaerys angst #jacaerys fluff #jacaerys velaryon x oc #hotd #hotdfanfic #hotd fanfic

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atopvisenyashill · 2 months

Note

why do you think we don't see jon's reaction to sansa's wedding and robb's death?

i can only guess here; only george knows the real reason. but i think it’s to hide jon’s feelings about tyrion. despite tyrion being a help to jon, jon’s thoughts about tyrion later are a bit…detached? in fact, he only thinks about tyrion once after tyrion leaves the wall:

Jon had known Tyrion Lannister, briefly. He took my hand and named me friend. It was hard to believe the little man had it in him to murder his own sire, but the fact of Lord Tywin's demise seemed to be beyond doubt.

He doesn’t wonder if Tyrion had a hand in his father's death

He doesn't wonder if Tyrion had a hand in the red wedding

He genuinely doesn’t even dwell on the red wedding which could mean so many things

He doesn’t comment on Stannis referring to Sansa as “lady lannister”

it’s a far cry from tyrion, who looks back on his time at the wall fondly. so my current running theory is i think we don’t get jon’s initial reactions to any of this because jon’s opinion has gotten increasingly sour. when you look at the timeline of information here, it seems jon (and the wall in general) don’t get news about robb’s murder and sansa’s forced wedding until after stannis gets there. then we get that above quote.

that combined with the fact that the first three chapters of “a dance with dragons” are jon, dany, and tyrion introducing aegon - it makes me believe jon’s chapters are frustratingly lannister-less because when they meet again, whereas tyrion may expect a warmer welcome from his “old friend” jon is going to be wary, perhaps even hostile. the sansa marriage in particular- it’s very clear to everyone involved what sort of marriage this is going to be (a hostage bride/forced marriage) because look at other reactions:

Robb's fingers brushed the pommel of his sword. "If I could I'd take his ugly head off. Sansa would be a widow then, and free. There's no other way that I can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a crimson cloak." Catelyn remembered the twisted little man she had seized at the crossroads inn and carried allt he way to the Eyrie. "I should have let Lysa push him out her Moon Door. My poor sweet Sansa...why would anyone do this to her?"

"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head." That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she'd never marry the Imp.

And jon has had plenty of interactions with other forced marriages, he’s likely to see this one for what it is, and i think it sinks his opinion of tyrion - but george doesn’t want us to know yet. he’s gearing up for a dance, where the three “dragons” will fight and tyrion will be the power propping up at least two but likely all three dragons at one point, and that means none of them trust each other.

So I think similar to how Jon tries not to dwell on Robb, he forces himself not to dwell on the fate he knows awaits Sansa as a forced bride, or on the many betrayals of his family headed by Tyrion himself, because he has no ability to stop them. It's not until he gets the letter that all of these feelings crack open and spill out and he takes that final last leap of officially breaking his vows to save "Arya" from a forced marriage. And I tink when we get him awake again in TWOW, we will see a Jon who is more than ready to abandon the Night's Watch in favor of protecting his family - love is the death of duty, after all.

#jon snow #sansa stark #tyrion lannister #rani attempts meta #twow speculation

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catsteeth · 5 months

Text

The Caged Bird & The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 8 ✿:+ Moon Door.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-_-9

CW: MDNI, NSFW themes, VIOLENCE, misogyny, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mentions of arranged marriage,

A/N: This is so late I'm so sorry yall- I was sick :-(

Word Count: 3398

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧

You sat in a carriage as it rocked back and forth. You couldn’t help thinking of the first time you rode to Kings Landing with your father. And now you are going home. looked in front of you and saw the face of Petyr Baelish. That same twisted smirk he always had.

You turned your face away from him quickly. You tried to lift the blind from the window of the carriage but Petyr stopped you,

“Best you don’t, my Dear.” He said, his hand on yours, “If someone would see you they would turn you into the Lannisters.” You didn’t know which was worse, Lannisters or what scraps were left of your family in the Eyrie.

You pulled your hand away from his, “The knights and guards of the Vale will know me.” You huffed.

“That may well be true, but that is why they have sworn themselves to our house.” You held back a disgusted frown at him, referring to your house as ‘Our House’, “They are sworn to keep you safe, even if that means to lie. To say they’ve no idea where you are.”

“Does Lyssa know I am coming.” You asked as you looked down at your hands in your lap, you picked at the skin around your nails.

“She knows I went looking for you, she knows I would only return with you.” He grabbed hold of your hand. His consistent advances made you feel sick, but also, think of Sandor. Like what he’d have done if he saw this. “I would not have ceased my search for you til I found you.”

“And how does she feel about that?” You asked, ignoring his advances.

“Should she not feel happy? Contented her husband wishes to see her own flesh and blood safe?” He said with a smirk

“You see a particular side of Lyssa.” You said as you repositioned yourself uncomfortably in your seat.

“She has always been predisposed towards me.” You tried to conceal yet another disgusted expression, “It would be only fitting she saves her best self for me.”

“She's like a coin. One side is an entirely different being than the other.” That was true, she often switched from hot to cold within an instant. You always thought it was cause she was mad. It grew tiresome after some time.

“May I be curious? When you fled, what is it that you fled from, and what is it that you were fleeing to?” He asked, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

“I fled my marriage. I was fleeing for my family.” Technically the last bit wasn’t a lie. Which made it easier for you to sound convincing.

“I see, to tell you the truth, that only makes my curiosity greater. Ser Cole told me you were not… cooperative in his efforts to bring you to me.” You smiled to yourself, stabbing a knight is not what you’d call cooperative either.

“I don’t trust so easily. Any man could dress in silver plates and tell me he’s a knight.” You said, “And truth be told I do not see you as family.” You said leaning back into the uncomfortable cushion of the carriage.

“And what do you see me as?” He asked, his grip on your hand tightening

You ignored him. “I want to see my family. My mother and my brother.” Not technically a lie either, only not in the way he thinks.

“I wouldn’t think you’d wish to see Lyssa. After what you’d said.” His grip loosened,

“Our blood is our blood, our name is our name.” You said, with no emotion.

“I must admit that is not all I am curious about. You fled in the midst of a battle, a great war. Not one person saw you, not one knight. That is all without mentioning that you managed to flee without a scratch to you. Completely unharmed. It would seem almost impossible without help. Strong help.” He questioned you,

“Lika is a strong horse, and fast. And I, a skilled rider.” You responded quickly,

“So I hear.” He smirked.

“Now I must be curious.” You said, “You described Tyrion bereft, positively. In your words.” You perched your lips slightly and looked down, somewhat saddened by your own words.

“He is. I have no reason to lie to you on such a matter.” He said, his smirk disappearing.

“Tell it then, all of it.” Your eyes are sharp, and cold.

“Why burden yourself with another man's madness.” He asked, almost immediately annoyed by the question.

“To torment myself with my own guilt I suppose.” You shook your head,

“He was injured in the battle.” He huffed.

“Badly?” You interrupted

“Not as badly as they say. Deeply cut across his face.” He motioned a slash across his face, “Day after the battle, he demanded the city be combed for you. He was convinced that you were taken by some Baratheon men, that you might be in the city. Dead or alive he wanted you found. Once the city was clear of any sign of you he became convinced you were kidnapped, soon to be held for ransom.” You looked back down to your nails you picked at. Feeling guilty, but not enough to go back. “You certainly convinced him of your loyalty.” He chimed in, “Or perhaps he underestimated you.”

“Perhaps both.”

As you approached the Eyrie, you were stopped when it was time to walk to the Bloody Gate.

Petyr stepped out first, offering you his hand as you stepped out after him. You took it reluctantly.

Reminding yourself to play the part.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Meanwhile, Sandor had been captured by the Brotherhood Without Banners.

While he was taken to an undisclosed location with a bag over his head, he could hear the banter of the men talking. But the sounds of them could not drown out the anxiety he had over you.

A big part of him wanted to push you out of his mind, to focus on what was happening right then and now. Focus on getting out of this situation. But he couldn’t ignore the pit of dread in his stomach.

His thoughts kept coming, over and over again, “where is she, is she okay, has anyone seen her?”

It made him feel a certain kind of frustrated anxiety, knowing he couldn’t be near you, to be sure you were alright.

He was finally taken to some filthy tavern with an even filthier bag on his head.

“What an uncommonly large person, how does someone capture such an uncommonly large person?” He heard while he was blinded by the bag over his head, until it was stripped. “Ah! Not a man at all- A Hound!” Thoros said, a man Sandor recognized instantly.

“Thoros, the fuck you doing here?” He questioned with furrowed brows.

“Drinking and talking too much, the usual.” Thoros said drunk.

Another man who had captured Sandor spoke up, “There was another with him… A woman.” Sandors gaze dropped and went towards the man who spoke up, a soft groan leaving his lips.

“You sure about that?” Thoros asked, taking another sip of his ale.

“Oh yes, no mistaking that.” The man said as the others snickered, making Sandor groan a little louder. He hated men talking about you, it made him want to break their jaw so they’d talk a little less.

“Your woman I’d assume, hard to believe but stranger things in this world.” Sandor rolled his eyes and groaned even louder. “Oh well, still a pretty prize, Lads!” Thoros shouted, making the men who captured him cheer.

Sandor saw two boys leaving the tavern, and behind them, a girl, the girl You loved so well and helped escape.

“Girl!” He shouted, stopping Arya Stark, “What in seven hells are you doing with a Stark bitch?” He questioned Thoros.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You had made it past the Bloody Gate, the Knights knew who you were even though Petyr introduced you as his niece, Lennora. They did not question you, and allowed you in. Ser Donnel Waynwood going as far to welcome you back as Lennora.

After twenty more miles of travel, you’d finally arrived at the Eyrie. It felt like a small comfort at first. A sight you once truly believed you’d never see again.

Stepping into the main room you noticed Lyssa seated on the throne. Seated where you should have been.

“Sweet child,” She called to you, rising from your throne “Come…” She said as ascended the stairs coming towards you, until she wrapped her arms around you. “My flesh and blood.” She said feigning happiness at your presence.

“Aunt Lyssa,” You said, feigning the same joy.

“You’re dressed in rags, my sweetling.” She said as she examined you,

“Couldn’t stand to wear Lannister colors any longer.” You said cleverly, avoiding further questioning, distracting her with her own biases.

“Of course you couldn’t.” She gripped onto your shoulders tightly, “Those monsters tried to marry you off to that imp. The very one who killed my husband, your father.” Her grip on your shoulders tightened, “He did not force himself onto you did he?” Her eyes darted to yours, staring deepening and intensely in them.

“No- of course not. We had not wed yet-” You stammered to explain, caught off guard by such a question.

“Still, you cannot trust such men now can you?” She said, her grip loosening finally.

“No, you cannot.” You said softly

Her hands ran from your shoulders to your hands, holding them tightly, “You’ve had a hard, and brave journey, my sweetling. You must bathe and dress.” She squeezed your hands once more before releasing them.

“Yes, Aunt Lyssa.” You said, slightly proud of yourself for containing such composure.

You nodded to your aunt and turned to leave, Petyr smirked at you as you passed him to take the back steps to your chambers.

It made your stomach turn.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

In the hideout of the Brotherhood, Sandor was tried for his crimes. Trial by combat.

As he fought, with brutality and efficiency, he could only think of you. He needed to cut this man down, to cut him down and get back to you. To find you.

Soon enough however, he did. Nearly cutting the man in half. Lord Beric Dondarrion was dead, but only for a moment.

As Arya shouted out and screamed, wanting him to be killed and tried for the murder of her friend.

Sandor couldn’t give this too much attention however as Beric arose from the dead before everyone. Within the cave.

After such a scene, Sandor was pardoned and set free.

“You’re pardoned, free to go. But all your gold is ours, to support the cause. It says it right there on that paper, once the wars over you’ll be repaid.” The man said, giving him paper pardoning him of his crimes.

“Piss on that! You’re nothing but thieves.” He barked loudly as he threw the paper onto the ground.

“We’re outlaws, you’re lucky we didn’t kill you, or go after that girl of yours.” Some man said, stupidly.

“Try it, archer, and I’ll shove those arrows right up your arse.” He said, his voice darkening. He couldn’t stand anyone speaking of you, even if they didn’t know who you were specifically.

“You can’t let him go! He’s a murderer!” Arya screamed as Sandor’s head was bagged again as he was led out of the cave.

“Not in the eyes of God. Go in peace Clegane, the Lord of Light is not done with you yet.” Beric said, as Sandor was led out.

But Sandor did not go far.

The sun had gone and the night had come. It dawned on him you could be anywhere. And he would have no way of knowing where.

That was when he heard the brotherhood yelling out for Arya, and soon saw the girl running through the forest he was hiding in.

That’s when he realized, If he couldn’t find you on his own, he’d find another way, and he’d get some gold out of it as well.

He grabbed Arya as she ran away. Covering her mouth as she tried to scream.

“Kick all you want, wolf girl. Won’t do you no good.” He said, dragging her off.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

While you bathed, you sat in the warm water, sinking deeply into the warmth around you. You closed your eyes, you tried your best to breathe, and calm yourself.

Sandor was a strong man, a man who cut down five men, a man who cut his way through a riot, and then four men after that. You shouldn’t worry. It would be silly for you to worry. But still you did.

As you looked at your body in the water, you could see the bruises left by Sandor. By his hands and his mouth. The thumb prints on your hips and the love bites on your sides and breasts. You ran your fingers over the prints, applying a bit of pressure to feel the lovely ache. It was like he was still with you.

You ran your other hand down between your legs, your other hand pressed down on the bruise again, to feel that ache, to feel like he was still with you.

However you heard a noise come from behind the door of the bathing chambers door.

Uneasy, you got out of the bath, and dried yourself quickly and you clothed yourself in a thick, warm, robe.

You opened the door, with caution, still uneasy. You stepped into the hallway, you hadn’t seen anyone. Even though you saw no one, you still felt uneasy. Like you were being watched.

You felt that familiar cold air flow through the castle, it only made your anxiety worse. ‘Tea would help,’ you thought. So you made your way to the kitchens, the only way to get to that from where you were however, was through the throne room,

As you stepped into the large room, you could feel the breeze worsen, the air colder, and the sound of wind louder. The moon doors were open, you knew what they sounded like better than anyone.

What was worse, Lyssa was standing over them. Staring down into the nothingness below.

“How pleasant it must feel, to be clean, and back in your Arryn clothes.” She said, not looking at you, still peering into the vast nothingness below the Eyrie.

“Quite pleasant, Aunt Lyssa.” You said, cautiously

“It was so kind of Baelish to return you to us. I asked him, why, why he wished for you back. It doesn’t make much sense, you’re the only thing that could possibly stand in the way of his position here in the Vale. Of Robin's position in the vale. And yet he feels responsible for you” Her voice felt sharp and unsteady,

“Lyssa-” You tried to begin

“Why does he feel responsible for you?” She interrupted you, her gaze shifting towards you quickly.

“I am your blood, I am part Tully-” You tried your best to calm her, to reason with her.

“Yes, Eloire Tully, The sister who hated him. Toyed with him, cruel and arrogant Eloire. You look just like her, are you toying with him too?” She said, her eyes were unhinged, and she stepped closer and closer to you.

An anger sparked inside you, “Don’t speak of my mother-” Your eyes and voice filled with disdain

“Did you fuck him is that it? Like those whores in his pleasure houses-”

You interrupted her “That is a vile accusation-”

And she interrupted you, “So you know the vile things they do, the vile things he lets them do to him.” She said as she pulled at your robe, exposing your breast and your side, she could see the large bruise on your side and one on your breast.

“I knew it.” She said her eyes widening,

You covered yourself quickly “Lyssa,”

“Who did it? Who did you let ruin you, you whore!? If it wasn’t Tyrion who did it!? Unless you lied to me!” She began to grab you, grab your arms tightly.

You tried your best to pull away, “I fell from my horse, Lyssa-” You exclaimed

“You think I’m a blind fool? Who did it? Petyr? Petyr did that do you? It makes perfect sense, You're no better than those whores in those pleasure houses, to him.” She exclaimed even louder, grabbing at you harder.

“He never touched me-” You pleaded,

“Then who did it-”

“I fell off my horse!”

“Lying whore!” She held onto your tightly and tried to push you towards the open moon doors, however the struggle between you and her was almost evenly matched. So she pulled out a dagger, raising it. But you were able to hold her arm off, “Why couldn’t you have stayed with them? Stayed far and gone! I won’t let you have him! You know what happens when people get in the way of Petyr and me?” She screamed at you as she continuously tried to push you towards the open moon doors, now at knife point. “My husband- your father, I killed him, all for me and Petyr!” She screamed, her admission however sparked a new kind of rage in you as you struggled back harder. No longer wishing to escape her grasp but to throw her into the moon doors instead.

“Lyssa.” Petyr said from the doorway, “Let her go,” He said calmly. Making the both of you halt,

“You want her? This ungrateful brat? I have lied for you and killed for you! Why did you bring her here? Why?” She sobbed

“I’ll send her away, I swear it.” Petyr said,

Lyssa threw you onto the ground, cutting your forearm with the dagger she had in her hand. She dropped it to the ground as she sobbed.

“My sweet wife. Silly wife.” He said as walked towards her holding her in his arms. You began to pick yourself up, your arm still bleeding.

“My whole life, I have only loved one woman.” He said, as she smiled. “Your sister.” He said as he pushed her into the moon doors.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The next morning, Sandor and Arya had begun their journey north. Sandor had hoped that you had done as he said and made your way there was well.

As he ate, he offered a bit of the food to Arya, who simply pouted and looked away from the food. It reminded him a bit of you.

“Sulk all you want. Truth is you’re lucky, you don’t want to be alone out here, girl. Someone worse than me would find you.” He said, his voice gentler than it was the last day.

“There’s no one worse than you.” She spit at him.

“You never knew my brother. Once killed a man for snoring. Plenty worse than me, there's men that like to beat little girls, men who like to rape them. Save your cousin from some of them.`` He said lightly,

“You’re lying.” Arya said in disbelief.

“Ask her. You’ll be seeing her soon enough, you just ask her who came back for her during the riots.” He restated confidently.

“Is that the Blackwater?” Arya asked looking at a large river they approached,

“Blackwater? Where do you think I’m taking you girl?” He asked

“Back to King's Landing, Joffrey and the Queen? My cousin?”

“Fuck Joffrey, fuck the Queen. That’s the red fork, I’m taking you to the Twins.” He sounded somewhat offended.

“But why?”

“Because your mother and brother will be there, they’ll pay for you, and maybe even your cousin will be there.”

“Why would they be at the Twins?”

“Those outlaws you love so much never told you? The whole countrysides yapping about it. Your uncle is marrying one of the Frey girls. Your cousin’s probably heard about it too, she’ll be heading there.”

“Why do you care if she’ll be there?” She asked, almost annoyed by his constant mentioning of you.

Sandor ignored her question, “Quit your yapping, and we might make it for the wedding.”

NOTE: Hey all you cool cats and kittens, I wish I had one of those iconic A03 author excuse notes like I got hit by a bus or was getting my PHD and that's why this chapter is late, but I don’t I was just a little sick and binged TV. But we are here now, this chapter felt a little clunky and it was definitely a challenge getting Sandor and Y/N to still feel connected to the same story. I am very excited for what I have planned in the coming chapters. K love you, xoxo Bambi ꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱ Beloved Tags: @dontfollowjuststuff @helpmeescapethisreality

@merfic

@Broadsdrinkwhisky

@the-queen-of-sorrows

@eddiesbongwater

@not-neverland06

@symonedoesart

@wyvernnest

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rewildling · 1 year

Text

Unraveling the Symbolism of Cloaks in Sansa’s Arc

I know this has been discussed to death but I have thoughts

Boreas by John William Waterhouse

Cloaks are devices of protection. In a literal sense, a cloak protects the wearer from the elements and can be used to conceal (protect) their identity. But cloaks in ASOIAF are also symbolic.

In the series, cloaks are often used to signify the allegiance of the wearer. The Lannister guards wear red cloaks, the City Watch wear gold cloaks, the guardsmen at the Eyrie wear sky-blue cloaks, and the knights of the Kingsguard wear white cloaks. But these cloaks don’t just represent fealty: the Lannister guards, the City Watch, the Eyrie guards, and the Kingsguard all serve primarily protective functions.

Cloaks also feature prominently in the wedding ceremonies of the Faith of the Seven, the old gods, and the Lord of Light. In all three cases, the maiden’s cloak represents the protection of the bride’s father, while the bride’s cloak represents the protection of her new husband. Cloaks in ASOIAF tend to symbolize protection. Not always, but often.

One of the first noteworthy cloaks in Sansa’s arc is the Kingsguard cloak that Sandor gives her to cover herself with when Joffrey has Ser Boros beat and strip her in front of the court.

As he laid the flat of the blade across her thighs, she thought her legs might break from the force of the blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. It will be over soon. She soon lost count of the blows. “Enough,” she heard the Hound rasp. “No it isn’t,” the king replied. “Boros, make her naked.” ... “Someone give the girl something to cover herself with,” the Imp said. Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine. Sansa III, ACOK

Being one of the Kingsguard and in service to the Lannisters, Sandor can’t really defy Joffrey the way Tyrion can. Regardless, he clearly doesn’t like seeing her hurt or humiliated, and he takes the first opportunity to give Sansa his cloak so that she can cover herself. The imagery of the last line is also revealing. Like his cloak, Sandor is often coarse and unpleasant, but Sansa is grateful for his protection. Still, he could have done more to stop the abuse, which we later learn is something he’s ashamed of:

He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. “And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her.” Arya XIII, ASOS

Despite Sandor’s disillusionment with knights and knighthood, he still associates the white cloak of the Kingsguard with the chivalric principles that “true knights” are expected to uphold: courage, honor, loyalty, justice, courtesy, and protection. And he knows that by standing by and doing nothing while an innocent young woman is assaulted, he has disgraced those principles.

So the white cloak represents the ideals of knighthood to Sandor. Now let’s talk about the Blackwater. The second cloak that features prominently in Sansa’s arc is the same as the first, Sandor’s Kingsguard cloak:

“Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps. When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. The sky outside was darker by then, with only a few pale green ghosts dancing against the stars. A chill wind was blowing, banging the shutters. Sansa was cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering. Sansa VII, ACOK

Sandor leaves behind his cloak, and not simply because he’s deserting. Consider Sandor’s response earlier in the scene when Sansa tells him that he won’t be able to get out of the city because the gates are shut:

“Not to me. I have the white cloak. And I have this.” He patted the pommel of his sword. Sansa VII, ACOK

Having the authority of his Kingsguard cloak would’ve made it easier for Sandor to escape from King’s Landing, so why doesn’t he take it? Because he sees it as symbolic of chivalric principles. By leaving it with Sansa, he’s acknowledging that he has failed to protect her and has dishonored himself by threatening her.

In both instances, Sandor does not directly put the cloak on Sansa. He tosses it to her or leaves it for her and she chooses to wear it. The first time, she doesn’t have anything else to cover herself with. The second time, she could have sought warmth in a blanket, her own clothing, or literally anything else. But she chooses to wear Sandor’s cloak, even though it’s torn and stained with “blood and fire.” The cloak is not merely functional — it’s symbolic. Sansa is seeking comfort and safety in what the cloak represents to her: Sandor’s protection.

The cloak Sandor leaves behind during the Blackwater also represents him. He’s cynical and disillusioned with the institution of knighthood, but as he’s gotten to know her, Sansa has renewed his desire to be a true knight. Like the cloak, Sandor is burned and covered in the blood of the people he killed in the battle. He’s corrupted and damaged and has done terrible things — but he never truly lost his chivalric values. His cognitive dissonance reaches a breaking point, and he leaves.

The Blackwater scene is not the last we hear of Sandor’s Kingsguard cloak. Sansa also mentions it in ASOS:

She had his stained white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. She could not say why she’d kept it. Sansa I, ASOS

Sansa keeps the Kingsguard cloak in a chest beneath her summer silks, which represent her hopes and dreams for better days after the winter and the war are over. And Sandor is with them.

But let’s focus on the cedar chest because it’s potentially even more significant:

A hope chest, also called dowry chest, cedar chest, trousseau chest, or glory box is a piece of furniture traditionally used by unmarried young women to collect items, such as clothing and household linen, in anticipation of married life.… As the contents of such a chest would primarily be linens, construction in moth-repellent cedar, or at least a cedar lining, was popular, leading to the name “cedar chest.” Hope Chest

Girl Inspecting Her Hope Chest by Poul Friis Nybo

Maybe this is just a coincidence. Does GRRM even know what a hope chest is?

Yes, he absolutely does:

The cedar chest at the foot of the bed. Her mother always used to call it a hope chest. Did little girls still keep hope chests? She didn’t think so, at least not around here. Maybe there were still places where hope didn’t seem so terribly unrealistic, but this city wasn’t one of them… Hope chests were where you kept your future, all the little things that were part of the dreams that taught you to dream when you were a child. The Skin Trade by GRRM

Sansa keeps Sandor’s Kingsguard cloak in what is essentially a hope chest or dowry chest. A chest meant to collect clothing for future married life.

Sansa refers to the cloak again in AFFC:

He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak. It made no matter. That day was done, and so was Sansa. Alayne II, AFFC

The somewhat resentful tone of the phrase “left me nothing but a bloody cloak” implies that Sansa wishes he’d left her more than that. Or that he hadn’t left her at all. The last line is rather telling as well because Sansa obviously isn’t done, as Littlefinger explains in the very same chapter. He intends to reveal her true identity and claim Winterfell as her birthright:

“Jon Arryn’s bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon… and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden’s cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back… why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa… Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. That’s worth another kiss now, don’t you think?” Petyr Baelish, Alayne II, AFFC

He even calls her Sansa in this passage, not Alayne. If Sansa isn’t done, then the day Sandor left her his cloak isn’t done either.

So, Sansa wears Sandor’s cloak on at least two occasions and keeps it in a hope chest. Let’s look at the other significant cloaks that appear in Sansa’s storyline. First is the maiden’s cloak she’s forced to wear for her wedding to Tyrion:

“The cloak,” she commanded, and the women brought it out: a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. “Your father’s colors,” said Cersei, as they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain. A maiden’s cloak. Sansa’s hand went to her throat. She would have torn the thing away if she had dared. Sansa III, ASOS

The imagery of the chain around Sansa’s neck is quite clear: she’s a prisoner. She’s being coerced into this marriage against her will. This cloak is supposed to represent her father’s protection, but it’s being forced on her by the very people who murdered him. Joffrey plays the role of Sansa’s father during the ceremony, especially cruel considering that he was the one to order Ned Stark’s execution. After Joffrey removes her maiden’s cloak, Tyrion has difficulty with the bride’s cloak:

His uncle’s part went less well. The bride’s cloak he held was huge and heavy, crimson velvet richly worked with lions and bordered with gold satin and rubies. No one had thought to bring a stool, however, and Tyrion stood a foot and a half shorter than his bride. As he moved behind her, Sansa felt a sharp tug on her skirt. He wants me to kneel, she realized, blushing. She was mortified. It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. Sansa III, ASOS

Like her bride’s cloak, Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion is oppressive. Rather than making her feel safe, the weight of it is burdensome. And the fact that Tyrion struggles to cloak her implies something else — he isn’t right for her. The bride’s cloak is supposed to represent the protection of her new husband, but Tyrion can’t protect Sansa:

It was not enough, though. He had wrapped his cloak around her shoulders and sworn to protect her, but that was as cruel a jape as the crown the Freys had placed atop the head of Robb Stark's direwolf after they'd sewn it onto his headless corpse. Sansa knew that as well. Tyrion VII, ASOS

So what would she prefer? A cloak of protection from someone tall and strong. Do we know anyone who is tall and strong and protective of Sansa? Maybe someone whose cloak she has voluntarily worn before? Just in case there’s still any doubt, let’s look at the fabric of the maiden’s cloak and bride’s cloak Sansa wears during her wedding to Tyrion — velvet. When has Sansa mentioned velvet before, specifically in relation to cloaks?

Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine. Sansa III, ACOK

There is one other mention of a cloak in Sansa’s POV chapters that stands out:

Sansa was trembling. "She's cold," she heard someone say. He took off his cloak and put it around her shoulders. "There, is that better, my lady? Rest easy, the worst is past and done." She knew the voice. But he's in the Vale, she thought. ... The cabin was low and cramped, but a featherbed had been laid upon the narrow sleeping shelf to make it more comfortable, and thick furs piled atop it. “It will be snug, I know, but you shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.” Littlefinger pointed out a cedar chest under the porthole. “You’ll find fresh garb within. Dresses, smallclothes, warm stockings, a cloak. Wool and linen only, I fear. Unworthy of a maid so beautiful, but they’ll serve to keep you dry and clean until we can find you something finer.” Sansa V, ASOS

The first thing Littlefinger does after “rescuing” Sansa from King’s Landing is cloak her without her express consent. This is also the only other mention of a cedar chest in any of Sansa’s POV chapters. He’s giving Sansa a hope chest. But it’s not full of her hopes for the future, it’s full of his. Cloaking Sansa and giving her a hope chest reveals that his plans for her definitely involve marriage — but to who? As far as she knows, he’s arranged for her to wed Harry the Heir (yet another betrothal she doesn’t want). But we know he’s been plotting to keep her for himself since the moment he first saw her at the Hand’s tourney. And his attention makes her feel stifled and uncomfortable:

“I told you that nothing could please me more than to help you with your castle. I fear that was a lie as well. Something else would please me more.” He stepped closer. “This.” Sansa tried to step back, but he pulled her into his arms and suddenly he was kissing her. Feebly, she tried to squirm, but only succeeded in pressing herself more tightly against him. His mouth was on hers, swallowing her words. He tasted of mint. For half a heartbeat she yielded to his kiss… before she turned her face away and wrenched free. Sansa VII, ASOS

In this scene, Littlefinger is helping Sansa build a miniature Winterfell out of snow, alluding to how he supposedly wants to help her reclaim her birthright. But he has an ulterior motive in both cases: he wants her. And unlike Sandor and Tyrion, he doesn’t care that she doesn’t want him. When she protests, he swallows her words, stifling her. This is pretty clear evidence of his intentions for her. But how will Sansa react to his plans? The last line is a good clue — she yields at first (as she has so far in ASOS and AFFC) but then wrenches free of him.

Let’s reiterate this point because it’s important: of the cloaks mentioned here, Sandor’s is the only one that Sansa makes an active choice to wear (and keep) when she has the power to do so. But there is one thing these cloaks have in common — they are all either explicitly or implicitly associated with marriage. When Sansa finally has the agency and opportunity to choose her own husband, who will it be?

#sansan saturdays #sansan summer #get her a dog #sansan meta #sansan #asoiaf meta #asoiaf #sansa stark

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