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targaryen-madness · 3 days ago

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Fate Guides the Willing

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Tyrell reader

Tags: marriage proposal, kidnapping, angst, fluff and comfort, sexual tension, happy ending

Wordcount: 4,635

Eager to ally your House to their respective side, both Prince Aemond and Lord Stark send a proposal of marriage. However the prince does not wait for an answer, taking you for himself and prompting Cregan to rescue you.

Cregan Masterlist

“Lead me, destiny, to wherever your decrees have assigned me. Wretched though I am, I must follow still. Fate guides the willing, but drags the unwilling.” ―Cleanthes

Highgarden seemed so peaceful, seated as it was in the middle of a luscious valley, despite the war that had been raging in the kingdoms for weeks now. There was no sign of it near your home, life went on as it usually did and it was almost too easy to turn your back on it.

So far your house had remained neutral even though you were stewart of the Reach, as it was caught in a turmoil of itself. Since the passing of both your parents—your father in a hunting accident and your mother in childbirth mere months prior—you were now the lady of the house while your brother was still an infant, and ruled in his stead.

On this day you had called for a meeting with some of your vassals, but only one had answered your call swiftly enough. Desperate for guidance, you were presenting some letters you had received to him and to your lady aunt, who stood over your brother’s household.

One bore a wolf sigil and the other a dragon in green wax. Your current position in the world as maiden and regent of your house was made painfully clear as you were faced with two simultaneous, identical proposals.

Lord Cregan Stark and Prince Aemond were both asking for your hand, and with it the promise that you would join their side, along with your fighting men.

“These proposals come at a cost,” your aunt said as she fiddled with the dragon seal before putting the letter down again. “Perhaps a refusal to both would be wise,” she advised you, making it clear once more that she would prefer for her family to remain out of this war.

“I would advise against refusing to make a choice, my lady,” one of your vassals, Lord Rowan, interjected.

Seated on a large armchair while you paced the room, he seemed to have strong opinions over all matters. He had ridden from Goldengrove as quickly as he had been able, and you were grateful for his presence. He was not an old man, but you supposed he was experienced enough in the world to guide you.

“I would not risk siding with the wrong side of history here,” was your answer to both their suggestions, and such was the core of your worries. Never in your young life had you expected much responsibility and now, not only were you in charge of your house and its future, but in charge of picking sides in a war that was splitting the royal house apart.

“If you must make a choice then… We have always been allies with Oldtown, would it do good to break that friendship now?” your aunt tried, always erring on the side of caution.

“But what if they have broken faith? Gone against the interests of the crown?” you wondered out loud, remembering the oath your father had sworn in his youth. “Our duty is to the realm, not to the Hightowers.”

“And the realm is currently divided, much as is the Reach, and you, as its stewart, must come to a decision,” Lord Rowan insisted. “Your banners are scattering. The Tarlys have declared for Queen Rhaenyra, but House Redwyne and Peake have declared for the other side.”

At this you stopped your pacing and turned to your vassal once more. “Queen Rhaenyra, my lord?” you remarked. “It sounds as though you are about to make a declaration of your own.”

The man sighed, rubbing his temple in hesitation. “I have taken advice, and my forces are to join the men of House Tully before the turn of the moon. That is what I intended to say at this audience, before you raise the matter of those marriage proposals.”

You contemplated the choices you had, the proverbial pendulum swinging to both sides without ever stopping. “Would you change your mind, if I was to say my support goes to Aegon and the Hightowers?” you inquired.

Lord Rowan frowned, looking obviously conflicted. “I would certainly think on it.”

Afterwards, much of your days and even your nights were plagued with this matter, and you prayed as often as you could for the Gods to send you a sign. Even as you came to a decision, you remained conflicted, hoping you would not come to regret the man you were taking as husband, and which side of the battlefield you were sending your men on.

It had been barely a week since you had received the second of the proposals, which had come a few days after the first. You were finishing your correspondence that evening, sealing the letter with the rose sigil when your maid pushed the door of your chambers, looking rather alarmed.

“My lady, we must get you to safety,” she cried out, and you shot from your seat, your thoughts immediately going to your baby brother, Lyonel.

“What has happened?” you asked as you quickly fastened a robe over your nightgown.

Your lady came to you and took your hands—hers were shaking. “A rather large dragon has been spotted over the hill. We have all the reasons to believe it is Vhagar,” she told you, which made a great shiver run down your back.

Although fear coursed through you, you were not surprised. You supposed coming directly to you was the most logical course of action in the face of your lack of answer, as the prince had the advantage of speed. You swallowed your nerves and forced yourself to act as the proper lady of this house, and not a frightened maiden.

“Get Lyonel to safety,” you instructed as you made your way out of your chambers. “I shall meet this contender for my hand face to face.”

It felt oddly vulnerable to meet the prince while dressed for the night, but you supposed a proper dress would not have made much of a difference. Vhagar was massive, and a sight to behold, you could not deny as you watched her land in the field that surrounded Highgarden. The man that dismounted and approached had a lithe figure and the silver hair you expected on a Targaryen.

You did not wait until he was standing in front of you, nor did you meet him halfway. Instead you remained on the threshold of your home and greeted him as soon as he was within earshot.

“Prince Aemond, have you come to ask for my hand again?” you called, rather coldly, which made him sneer.

“No. I’ve come to take it,” he replied with arrogance as he finally came to stand in front of you, his arms crossed behind his back.

He was dressed in leathers, a sword and a dagger on each side of his waist—such weapons were unnecessary, you mused, as Vhagar alone was threat enough, and none of your men dared approach the prince.

“War is raging further east, my lady, and you can no longer remain idle,” he continued. “You must pick a side.”

“You are picking for me, it seems,” you replied, displeased. “But what if I was to refuse you?”

“I would advise against crossing me,” he answered, taking a step forward until he was crossing the line of propriety, towering over you. “Surely you know of what happened to Harrenhal when they crossed the Conqueror?”

A great shiver went through you at the barely concealed threat of destruction, but you supposed all was fair in war. You knew what you had to do to keep your family safe. “No need to resort to threats. My brother shall remain here with his nurses and I shall come willingly.”

“I will require your armies,” he insisted, casually uncrossing his arms and raising one of his hands until it was fiddling with the rose brooch at your breast.

“Naturally,” you replied, forcing yourself to remain still and hoping your voice did not waver. “Allow me to write to my bannermen, then.”

“I shall supervise,” he replied, his eye narrowing.

Therefore you wrote your orders under the prince’s watchful eye, ordering your banners to gather for King Aegon and to march east, to join the Hightower and Lannister hosts. Once the seals were dry and you had willed your hands to stop shaking, you turned to the prince again.

“Allow me to change, unless you plan on dragging me out of my own castle in my night clothes,” you then said, forbidding yourself to make it a question. It seemed he had retained some of his courtly education, as he stepped out of the room and allowed you a semblance of privacy while you changed behind a screen.

As your maid tightened the knot of your gown at your waist, you silently slipped a letter into her hand, and she quickly whisked it away in her sleeve. It was the one you had been writing before the prince’s arrival, accepting Lord Stark’s proposal of marriage.

Further north, a war camp was in full motion, the anticipation of the battle to come making the soldier restless. In the tent that stood at the edge of it, further up on the hill, Lord Cregan Stark was frowning at a parchment he had just been brought.

“What is it?” Lady Alysanne Blackwood asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Word has just come from House Rowan, down in the Reach. The Tyrells have declared for the Greens and Lady Tyrell has gone to Harrenhal with Prince Aemond. She has ordered her banners to gather and join the Hightower host,” he recounted as he handed her the letter.

Alysanne frowned at that, looking confused. “This is unexpected. You received word from her own hand days ago that she had accepted your proposal,” she said, handing the letter to young Oscar Tully without reading it.

The boy took it, looking like he wished to say something, but keeping his words for himself, reading the letter instead. Outside, the sound of swords being sharpened drowned the loud talking of the men getting ready to meet their fate. “Something is not right,” Cregan groaned, his thumb digging into his temple.

“Indeed. Why send word that she will grant you her hand, if she already knows she will accept Prince Aemond?” Alysanne mused.

At that, Lord Oscar frowned again, then his brow lifted suddenly. “My lord, I thought you ought to know… Some of our scouts have reported the rumor that Vhagar was sighted in the Reach, potentially near Highgarden. I thought it unlikely that he would leave Harrenhal, but now that you mention this…”

At that Cregan turned to young Oscar, looking like he wanted to reprimand him for keeping that rumor to himself, but then the resulting situation would have been the same, had he known, he supposed. “If Vhagar landed in her yard, what is a woman in charge of an infant to do?” Alysanne remarked.

“Write to the Tyrell’s bannermen, and to Highgarden. Surely someone would have sent word. We must know if Lady Tyrell went with the prince willingly or was taken,” Cregan said sharply, deciding it would be best to know for certain before he attributed intentions to a woman he had never met, and that he had proposed marriage to.

It was barely a fortnight before Cregan got a confirmation of the worst kind, that Lady Tyrell had indeed been taken from Highgarden against her will and intentions.

The letter addressed to him had been genuine, according to the word of her aunt and nurse to the little Lord Lyonel. He could not decide if he was relieved at not being betrayed, or saddened that a high-born woman and Lady of the Reach was taken so mercilessly by a prince.

It seemed a betrayal and below the honor of royalty, but he supposed war sometimes called for desperate measures, and he had had little faith to begin with in the man they now called the kinslayer.

Thus, the Stark host and the Rivermen followed the path they had been walking on, simply adjusting their course to the East, where Harrenhal stood and Lady Tyrell was being kept, calling for reinforcement from the Vale.

Never before the war had you ever expected to see battle or any sort of violence. The stronghold was now filled with an army larger than you had ever seen, and the wounded men were being gathered in the main hall, some looking as decimated as the fortress herself. The morning had barely peaked over the horizon when the northerners had approached, confident and marching as one.

The men Prince Aemond had left in charge of the fortress had not stood a chance—Criston Cole had been forced to abandon Harrenhal, retreating with a small party. He would be back with another host at his back, you knew, but in the meantime you were safe and Lord Stark had the advantage.

Now the place was under the command of the Warden of the North, though he did not lead his men alone. It came at a surprise to you, to see him surrounded by at least two other commanders, one of them a woman.

You were pacing the main dining hall rather awkwardly when the doors were pushed open and the three of them entered. You would have wished to come assist the nurses and servants tending to the wounded, but you had been kept aside, safe and away from the bloodshed.

“Lord Stark,” you greeted, immediately knowing who he was.

Even if he had not worn the heavy pelt at his shoulders and the large wolf carved into his breastplate, his stormy eyes and strong chin would have given him away. “Lady Tyrell, the fortress is secure,” he replied, his voice a rich baritone.

“I am most grateful, my lord,” you answered with a relieved smile. “I shall send words to my bannermen at once, so they might turn from the Lannisters and join us.”

“Word will spread fast enough, my lady, do not fret. Today is a victory,” the woman at his side reassured you, then gave you a small bow. “Lady Alysanne Blackwood.”

You gave her a polite nod. “Thank you. Such an endeavor was risky, though,” you turned to Lord Cregan again. “Why did you come for me?”

Cregan curled his hands into his belt, his feet firmly planted into the floor. It was not the posture of an arrogant man, but rather that of a confident warrior.

“It was our chance to gather a large portion of the Reach. When word got out that you had been taken against your wishes, some of your banners that had declared for the Greens changed courses,” he explained. “I admit I suspected something foul was at play when I received your letter. I found it curious that a woman would accept me, only to elope with my enemy.”

You flushed slightly as he stepped closer to you, searching your face. “I am glad you understood,” you replied.

“Did Prince Aemond hurt you?” he then asked in a quieter tone, his brow furrowing.

“No, no,” you were quick to reassure, and his shoulders lowered in obvious relief. “He needed me alive and well, as long as my banners gathered in his name,” you explained, then seemed to regain your thoughts, and it was your turn to look him over. “Are you wounded, my lord?”

“Nothing that won’t heal, my lady, do not fret,” he replied, though his frown did not lessen, and you decided further conversation would need to wait. You ushered the commanding party into their respective rooms, making excuses for the poor state of the roofs and hearths—even though it had been your jail, you now felt responsible for the people within its walls.

Although the fire was barely starting and the walls were damp, Cregan was grateful for a stone ceiling over his head after months on the muddy roads and bloody battlefields. Once alone in the guest room that had been assigned to him in the quarter wing of the fortress, he had been quick to remove his gloves, boots and cloak, and had tried to warm his hands and feet near the fire.

He was about to turn to his armor when a quick knock came at the door, and he was surprised to see you enter the room, closing the heavy creaking door behind you. “My lady?” he inquired with a frown.

“The servants are tending to the wounded, so I thought I would tend to you,” you offered with more confidence than he would expect from a young, unmarried lady.

“I’m not sure it would be appropriate,” he replied, strangely feeling too large for his armor at the moment. “And I am in quite a state,” he added, gesturing to the mud caked in his trousers and the spatters of blood on his sleeves.

“I do not mind a bit of mud and blood. As for the rest, I am sure it is nothing I won’t see, in due course,” you replied mischievously, to which he frowned. “I will not go back on my word,” you were quick to explain. “I granted you my hand and you shall have it.”

You looked so determined Cregan did not dare contradict you, and allowed you to approach. You set aside the pile of clothes you had been carrying, and set to remove his breastplate, making quick work of the buckles. “Unless you wish to retract your offer?” you then asked, looking up straight at him.

“Would I be there, if such was my wish?” he said, helping you set his heavy armor aside, then unlacing his thick doublet.

You smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Is the water hot enough?” you asked, gesturing to the steam that was rising from the tub in front of the hearth. “One seems never able to get warm in this place.”

Cregan cleared his throat and you turned away, making yourself busy with folding his dirty doublet—still, you could not help risking a glance over your shoulder. “It is not as cold as the North, but much wetter indeed,” he explained as he pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor, and dropping his trousers to his ankles, kicking them aside.

You forced your breathing to remain quiet as you took in the broad line of his shoulders and the large expanse of his back, which tapered into a thick, solid waist. You felt your cheeks catch fire when your gaze followed the line of his spine down to his firm backside and strong thighs—warmth erupted in your stomach, emotions running high beneath your skin after such an eventful day.

You had done your best to keep your composure, thanking Lord Cregan politely for his deliverance, but in truth you had been frightened up until you had set your eyes on him. The image of a dragon landing in your field and coming to take you away still plagued your nights, and you dearly hoped they would soon be chased away by a wolf.

Cregan stepped into the tub without a look back to you, seemingly certain you were not looking at him, or uncaring that you were. His groan of discomfort snapped you out of your reverie and you hurried to his side, picking up a cloth you had brought.

“Are you seriously wounded?” you inquired, forcing your eyes to remain on his face rather than searching his front for any injury.

The water was not concealing as much as you would have expected, and crossing such a boundary seemed unthinkable, even though emotions ran high under your skin and prompted you to forget propriety.

Some things had lost their importance and seemed rather foolish to you since you had been taken as a prisoner of war, a hostage, and nearly forced into a marriage you did not want—why did it matter that you would see a man bare that you were supposed to wed. After all you had been through, the naked form seemed such an irrational preoccupation.

“Just a gash on my leg that will heal on its own, my lady,” he replied, bending his knee and seemingly shielding his lower body from your gaze. You then realized that perhaps he minded such a boundary being crossed, and you stepped behind him again.

“Still, you must be sore,” you answered gently, pulling up a stool and settling at his back.

“My lady?”

“I said I would tend to you,” you explained, settling your wrists on the edge of the tub on either side of his shoulders. “Unless you would rather I did not.”

Cregan’s profile stood stark against the glow of the fire as he turned to look over his shoulder, his long lashes casting a deeper shadow on his cheek. The corner of his mouth pulled slightly in the attempt of a sheepish smile. “I would not mind,” he murmured, and the intimate tone made you shiver.

As your hands found his bare skin, Cregan melted into your touch despite himself. Your smaller hands on his sore shoulders felt like utter heaven, the pads of your thumbs digging into the knots at the junction of his neck, then rubbing firm circles into his nape, soothing the pounding at the back of his skull.

It was terribly indulgent to press back into your touch but he could hardly help it. He hadn’t realized how eager for female touch he was, and he felt guilty to indulge your kindness in such a way.

Your thumbs traced the lines of his clavicles and a swirl of heat bloomed in his stomach—he ought to ask you to leave him to wash on his own, but the hungry beast inside him was waking, demanding that he indulged a few more minutes.

After all, there was nothing untoward to a woman soothing the bruises of war on her betrothed, meaning her touch to be as one of a nurse. Cregan swallowed as you traced the dip at the hollow of his throat, and he had to clear it before he could speak again.

“You have a gentle touch,” he said rather clumsily, but sincerely. “Your kindness is appreciated.”

“I simply wish to show you how grateful I am of your presence, my lord,” you admitted in a quiet voice, your palms splaying on his chest, the crook of your elbows hooked at his shoulders, your breath fanning on the back of his neck.

“While the prince did not hurt me, I despaired to be taken from my brother and forced into a war I wished to have no part in.”

“It is a testament to your character that you survived this, my lady,” Cregan said, intimately familiar with such a helpless feeling, and thus reached to curl a hand at one of your wrists, squeezing it gently.

“I am sure you did not want to plunge your house into war.”

“I wanted to ensure I was making the right decision,” you replied, and he thought he could hear tears in your voice, but he did not turn, unwilling to break the spell that had fallen around the two of you. “I am sure you know of that burden.”

“I know the feeling perfectly well,” he said, his hand moving to rest over your fingers, marvelling at how you responded to him, sliding your digits up between his own, seeking an embrace. “It is commendable that you would take in that charge while your brother is still a babe.”

“I’m simply doing my duty, my lord,” you replied, growing quiet once more as he brought your hand up to his mouth and pressed a grateful kiss to the inside of your wrist.

He hoped the chivalrous gesture carried the admiration he meant and the tentative desire he felt, and was reassured when your hand curled up on his face, your thumb searching for his cheek.

For a moment he only felt your breath on his nape, then it grew warmer and firmer as you dipped your head forward and pressed your face into the back of his neck, your lips breathing the shadow of a kiss on his skin. He shivered, nuzzling into your hand, and the two of you basked in the intimate moment.

Without a word needed, this silent connection continued as you broke contact only to reach for the soap, dip it into the warm bath and lather it between your palms. Cregan groaned again, in satisfaction this time, when the pads of your fingers dug into his scalp and washed his hair carefully, occasionally raking them through his strands to loosen the knots.

He tilted his head back into your touch once more, rolling the back of his neck on the smooth edge of the copper tub, a pleased hum rolling in his throat with each pass of your thumbs behind his ears, following the dip at the hinge of his jaw.

The water grew cold rather quickly, and you left him alone to wash the rest of himself, though he hoped one day in the near future he might invite you to join him and he might return the favor—what would be more appropriate than a husband washing the tender curves of his wife, showing her the kindness she had once showed him.

Cregan hesitated once he was done, but as he rose, bare and unashamed, there you stood with a towel, equally uncaring. He watched as your eyes lowered from his face and risked a glance at his skin, slightly shivering from the cold air of the room.

He clenched his stomach despite himself, stepping out of the tub and accepting the warm linen from you—you had spread it on the back of a chair near the fire, and it smelled of crisp wood.

“If there’s nothing more you require, I shall leave you to rest,” you said with an impertinent smile pulling at your lips, though you were trying to disguise it, warmth rushing at your cheeks.

“Thank you, my lady,” he replied, wrapping the towel at his hips.

You cleared your throat, your eyes making their way back to his face. “I have just seen you unclothed, and if we shall be husband and wife, then might you call me by my name?” you asked brazenly.

Warmth erupted in his chest, easing the last tension beneath his breastbone. “Then call me by mine.”

“Good night then, Cregan,” you replied with delight, pushing yourself up on your toes and pressing a kiss to his cheek, near the corner of his mouth.

He seemed to melt into you, which filled you with courage, and as though the two of you were of one mind, he met you in the middle—his lips, firm and slightly chapped, pressed against yours, softer and fuller. Finding balance with your palms upon his chest, pushing on the tips of your toes, you let him kiss you deep and slow, almost reverent.

Such gentle attention made your heart quicken, especially coming from a man so large as him, still sore from battle and within his right to take what was rightfully his. He had fought and conquered, truly owing what you had promised him and yet, he was showing you more grace and honor than you had known from the royal prince.

“Good night, my betrothed,” he murmured when you lowered yourself onto the flat of your feet once more, your palms still pressed against his bare chest.

With the memory of his skin still burning your hands and your lips, you slipped into the darkness of the hallway and trailed back to your rooms, carrying with you the promise of what would come—a marriage, one based on honor and honesty, and perhaps even love, but mostly on that one quality you and Cregan seemed to share, an innate and profound sense of duty.

Dividers by @/saradika.

Requested by @wolfcrytothebluecornmoon ♡

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#hotd fanfiction #cregan stark #cregan x you #fic recs

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targaryen-madness · 1 month ago

Note

why you think starks are brown. No hate, I just want to know reason 💓

No hate taken!!! I'm more than happy to give a little context.

I also talked a little and at length and then some about why I think the Starks are ndn or indigenous coded, therefore anecdotally "brown" if you want some more!

---

The Starks Are Indigenous and You Can’t Change My Mind

Look, I’m just gonna say it: the Starks are giving "we’ve been here for 10,000 years and you just got off the Mayflower.” Fandom loves to frame them as cold (literally), brooding white dudes who talk to trees and wolvves and die tragically—but if you zoom out just a bit, what you’ll see is a whole culture that’s basically been staring the apocalyptic Chekov’s gun in the face while mumbling “this is fine” for millennia.

Let’s start at the beginning: the First Men walked to Westeros on foot twelve thousand years ago (according to legend. it's giving oral storytelling), chopped some trees, made some mistakes, and then struck a sacred pact with the Children of the Forest. Instead of wiping the Children out like the colonizers down south (cough Andals cough), they basically said, “Yeah u right let’s chill,” and started building their whole culture around respecting nature, living weirwoods, and the gods that inhabit them. Now fast forward six thousand years and the Andals show up like, “Hey, we’ve got gods who look like us and wear robes, and also we’re here to murder your trees bc they're just trees they mean nothing.” (SOUND FAMILIAR?) And the North said: “uhhhhh doubt but alright try me bitch.” The Andals conquered everywhere else in Westeros, but the North? Untouched. Still praying to SpOokY tReEs, burying people under roots, giving a fuck about their ancestors, still naming their kids things like Brandon and Benjen and not, like, Luthor Tyrell III.

So when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I mean it. They are the last major ruling house descended purely from the First Men, with customs, spirituality, and governance structures that date back over ten millennia. They didn’t import Andal feudalism or Southern chivalry—they rule by duty, community ties, and vibes. There’s no divine right here, just “I said I’d guard the North, so I’m gonna guard the North, even if I die horribly doing it.” Which... they usually do.

Physically, too, the Northerners are not your typical pale-and-pink Southron types. Descriptions from the books associate the First Men—and thus the Northmen—with brown hair, darker complexions, and gray eyes. They’re closer to earth tones than the golden-and-ivory palettes of the Reach and Crownlands.

Now, it’s all fun and games until Robb Stark starts stacking Lannister corpses like firewood and suddenly—boom—“savage skinchanger” propaganda. The second the North stops being cold and quiet and starts sending wolves downriver, the Southern rumor mill goes feral. The same lords who wear wolf pelts to look edgy start whispering, “Is he... using magic? Unnatural beasts? Isn’t that his direwolf out there eating men’s faces?”

We’re not even being subtle anymore. This is textbook colonizer panic: “Oh no, the brown people with strong spiritual ties to nature and weird customs have found a way to beat our superior steel and horses! They must be cheating!” And this is coming from a place where Melisandre literally births a shadow demon out of her woman's place and half the people involved just shrug and go, “Well, kings do be kinging and doin whatever it takes to be kinged.” But Robb winning battles with tactics and a big-ass dog? Witchcraft.

And let’s talk tone. The way Northerners are described when they show up in King’s Landing is... gross. Dirty. Sullen. Uncouth. They bring the smell of snow and smoke and old gods into the nice, civilized complacency of the South, and the court acts like they're watching a pack of feral dogs crash a garden party. Even the Dornish, who are also not white-coded in many ways and face plenty of racism, are still seen as exotic—dangerous, sure, but sexy-dangerous. The Northmen? They’re not fetishized. They're feared. Loathed. Dismissed as brutes and barbarians with ways that are so different that they should be feared.

And this is a classic move in imperialist narratives: you marginalize a people, rob them of power and culture, and the second they resist? You demonize them. Turn them into monsters. Say they commune with beasts and demons. (Sound familiar? Because it should.) Whether it’s North American Indigenous peoples being accused of “savagery” the moment they defend their land, or these colonized peoples being portrayed as superstitious and irrational for refusing assimilation and persisting with their culture—Westeros is playing that greatest hit on repeat.

So yes, when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I also mean that the way Westeros treats the North is textbook colonial anxiety. They’re tolerated when they stay quiet and frozen. But when they rise? When they win? Suddenly, they’re not just a threat—they’re unnatural. Inhuman. Monstrous.

And if that ain’t some real-world racial politics wrapped in an easy to swallow fictional narrative, idk what is.

Now let’s talk Boltons vs. Manderlys, the perfect case study in Indigenous vs. Settler-coded houses when it comes to the cultural conversation. The Boltons? Chaotic evil First Men energy. They used to flay people alive, possibly made cloaks out of skin (ok im sorry that’s so baller), and ruled from the Dreadfort for thousands of years as a rival to House Stark. They’re the North turned inward and twisted—a cautionary tale about what happens when colonization doesn’t get you, but intergenerational trauma does. Still, they’re part of the land, part of the same heritage. The Manderlys, on the other hand? Total transplants. They got kicked out of the Reach, showed up in the North all teary-eyed and humble, and the Starks were like, “Fine, you can live in this swamp by the sea.” And they did! Respectfully! But they never converted to the Old Gods. They still pray to the Seven, build stone cities, and have the audacity to name their castle White Harbor. That's like moving into someone’s house and renaming it “Good Christian Suburb.” (like. Like americ--*gets dragged off stage*) But they're chill. Because they never pretended to be something they're not. And they never tried to change the ways of the lands and the peoples who welcomed them when no one else would.

Even within the North, there's a whole spectrum of resistance vs. assimilation. You’ve got the Free Folk beyond the Wall—who are basically the “burn it all down, no kings, no lords” crowd—then the Starks, who are like, “Fine, I’ll wear a crown if it helps keep the peace,” and then the Manderlys, who are “we love it here please don��t send us back south.” It’s not unlike real-world Indigenous communities: some stayed in the woods, some ran into the mountains, some took settler names and built schools—but the throughline is survival. Resistance is survival.

And that, my fellow losers, is what the Starks are all about. They are the final boss of stubborn cultural preservation. They’re the people who would rather freeze than bend the knee to "gods" they don’t believe in. When Ned Stark says “Winter is Coming,” he’s not just talking about weather—he’s quoting a generational mantra. This, too, shall pass. And we will still be here. He's got seasonal depression and ancestral memory and PTSD, and he's still out here doing what is best for his people (well. not anymore, i guess.)

The North Remembers—and So Should You

When we say the Starks and the North are Indigenous-coded, we’re not just slapping a label on because it sounds cool and we’re desperate for representation. We’re talking about a culture that predates colonizers, resists assimilation, honors its dead, and survives against impossible violence. Whether it’s through sacred trees, communal leadership, or refusing to compromise on your ancestral values, the Starks represent the heartbeat of a people who never left their land—because the land never left them.

So yes. The Starks are “brown,” in the way that means something. Not necessarily in skin tone (though there’s canon support for that too), but in soul. In story. In surviving. And if you disagree, I’ll meet you in the godswood under the bleeding tree, and we can discuss it like Northerners—with our fuckin fists.

(this is a joke ur allowed other opinions)

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