#my girl rhaenys is still holding in a good cry
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"I think that exchange when Alicent says to Rhaenys, looks her in the eye and says to her the truth about you should've been Queen, it should have been you and everybody knows it.
I think the fact that she sees Rhaenys, not only takes Rhaenys' breath completely away, but also I think it's the first time almost in her life really that she feels truly vulnerable and taken aback.
Because it's like Alicent has just spoken directly to her heart, in that moment it feels like the roles are completely reversed and Rhaenys is suddenly for a moment like a young child and it's really like Alicent is the only one who's seen her." - Eve Best for EW’s West Of Westeros
#my second favourite scene in this ep#my girl rhaenys is still holding in a good cry#someone give her a hug#princess rhaenys#rhaenys targaryen#rhaenys velaryon#rhaenys x corlys#alicent hightower#eve best#olivia cooke#house of the dragon#hotd#gif
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The Dowager Queen (3/?)
Description: Aemond claims Vhagar and both he and Lucerys are injured in the process. Justice must be served, and Rhaenyra fears her reign will be one of never-ending death.
Previous chapter
Alicent kneeled before Aemond, holding his hand tightly. “My son, my love, what happened?” His cheek was horribly slashed, a curved jagged line, his left eye a mangled mess, and bleeding profusely as the maester attempted to stitch up the wound.
Aemond was trying hard not to cry but his good eye flickered to Rhaena and Baela who stood with their grandparents.
She could hear Lucerys, who stood beside Aemond’s chair, talking quietly to his mother. Rhaenyra’s shoulders brushing Alicent’s own as they both tended to their youngest sons.
He was sobbing, his face slashed as well was though the wound was less severe and ran above his right eye.
“I tried to stop them; I swear. I told them Vhagar was his, he claimed her.” He told Rhaenyra, who was gently dabbing at the wound with Sir Harwin’s handkerchief. Waiting for another maester to arrive.
“You have claimed a dragon?” Alicent asked Aemond, excitement coursing through her veins. This was all her son had wanted since he was old enough to understand the bond that was possible.
“Yes, Vhagar, the late Lady Laena’s dragon.” He said quietly.
“She was my mother’s dragon.” Rhaena protested, her chin held high in defiance. “You stole her.”
Yelling erupted from the children, as they hurled accusations back and forth across the room.
Alicent saw Helaena appear, her small hand held tightly by Jacaerys as he led her through the crowd.
“Everyone quiet.” Rhaenyra called, Lucerys clinging to her skirts. “I will hear from both parties what has occurred.”
“My son should speak first; he is the one who is most injured.” Alicent said, standing up swiftly, keeping Aemond’s hand within hers.
Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes flickering towards Daemon who leaned against the wall, hand on his sword.
“Go on, Aemond.” Alicent urged him, squeezing his hand as a guard dragged Aegon in from gods know where.
Aemond cleared his throat. “I heard the call, and I answered it. Lucerys accompanied me, and when we returned Ladies Rhaena and Balea were in the hall. They accused me of stealing Vhagar, and when I told them she had chosen me, they attacked me. Lucerys tried to help, but one of them pulled out a knife and—” He winced as the maester finished the final stitch.
“Rhaena had a knife, the one Uncle Daemon uses. She tried to take Aemond’s eye and I—” Lucerys flinched as the maester attending him began his stitching.
“Lucerys pushed me out of the way and when we fell the knife slashed him as well.” Aemond finished for his nephew, sending Lucerys a small smile of gratitude.
Her fury rose until she felt it would boil over inside her and she turned to Corlys and Rhaenys. “Your granddaughters attacked my son, they intended to take his eye, what say you?”
“The queen decreed both parties would be allowed to speak, Alicent.” Daemon said, pushing off from the wall and going to stand beside his daughters.
“That is Dowager Queen Alicent to you.” Criston said firmly, taking his own place beside Alicent and Aemond.
Daemon made a show of half-bowing, a mock apologetic expression on his face.
“Do not let him bait you Sir Criston.” She said quietly, glancing over at her steadfast protector.
“Yes, my queen.” He said, bowing his head, and subtly placing his hand on Aemond’s shoulder.
Alicent didn’t miss the way Aemond seemed to draw strength from Criston’s silent support.
“I will allow the girls to speak.” Rhaenyra said, standing now, her hand still in Lucerys.
“He stole our mother’s dragon, Vhagar was mine to claim.” Rhaena said, a defiant look in her eyes.
Alicent felt for the poor girl. Until tonight Aemond had felt that same desperation, that same insecurity, but he had not lashed out in such violent ways even when his brother and nephews taunted him so cruelly.
“A dragon cannot be stolen, only its eggs.” Aegon said, surprising almost all who were gathered.
“Aegon is right, Vhagar is not a slave, nor is she a mindless beast. She will choose a rider out of her own desire.” Rhaenyra said, passing Lucerys’ hand to Jacaerys who carefully ruffled his brother’s hair. “And it seems she has chosen Aemond. That cannot be undone.”
“But he crept to her in the middle of the night, Rhaena did not even have a chance to attempt to claim her.” Balea said, taking her sister’s hand.
Alicent saw the way Rhaenyra softened, and a kindling of fear began to crackle within her chest. She left Aemond’s side and stood beside Rhaenyra.
“Rhaenyra, they have maimed Aemond, and Lucerys.” She reminded her softly.
Rhaenyra pursed her lips, her eyes on Daemon.
“Maester, how is the wound on my son?”
“It will scar, but besides that, the prince will recover with no injuries.” Maester Rickaen informed her. “But Prince Aemond’s eye is lost, and it will scar greatly.”
“The girls were defending their last memory of their mother, surely you would not punish them for such an act.” Daemon said, his voice smooth as he stepped forward joining Rhaenyra and Alicent in the center of the room.
“I cannot deny that I understand their motivation.” Rhaenyra said quietly, as Daemon toyed with the pendent that hung around her neck.
Alicent grabbed Rhaenyra’s hand pulling her attention to her. “Your son will be healed, and I thank The Seven for that, but Aemond has lost his eye.” She looked up at Rhaenyra, blinking away tears. “He is your brother Rhaenyra, your blood.”
She watched as Rhaenyra looked over at Aemond whose head was bowed, as he talked quietly with a sniffling Lucerys.
“He is my blood.” Rhaenyra said, stepping back from Daemon. “But Rhaena and Baela are my nieces, so I will not call for their eyes as well.”
“They must be punished, they harmed both our sons.” Alicent pleaded, squeezing Rhaenyra’s hand.
She would not let this act of violence towards her son go unpunished, even if she must deal out the consequences herself.
“The girls will be confined to Driftmark until they turn six and ten. After that they may roam the realm, but they are forever banished from King’s Landing.” Rhaenyra announced, head held high, the voice of a queen echoing around the room.
Corlys and Rhaenys protested, and Daemon hissed something in Valyrian.
Quick as a snake, Daemon had his hands around Rhaenyra’s throat, crushing her windpipe as he spat curses at her. Everyone panicked, and Alicent heard Sir Harwin’s shouts, and the cries of the children around them.
Without thinking she grabbed the dagger from Daemon’s hip and plunged it into the exposed flesh of his neck, driving it forward until she felt it pierce the other side and Daemon went limp.
She released the dagger as Daemon fell, eyes wide with shock.
“Alicent.” Rhaenyra breathed gratefully; her voice raspy.
“I—” She didn’t know what to say, or what to do, her mind had reverted to some primal fight or flight mode, in which her only thought was to protect her friend, her other half.
Rhaenyra crushed her to her chest. “The gods have given me the most loyal of Hands.”
Rhaenyra feared her reign would be one of death. She confessed this much to Harwin in a near silent whisper as Lucerys lay between them. She had given up the charade this night. Her son wished to be sheltered between his parents and she no longer had the strength to deny him, to hide what she knew was clear to her sons.
“The deaths will end Nyra; I swear to you. Your reign has only just begun, do not let despair darken your future. You will be a good queen, a glorious one.” Harwin reassured her, his large hand resting on her hip, keeping Lucerys safe between them.
It was the screams that awoke her, that caused her to push Harwin from the bed, and bolt up. Flying to the door she cracked it open and asked a nearby servant what was going on.
Sir Laenor had been found dead, his body charred, and his lover Sir Quarl gone.
Was this his plan? The one Daemon had set in motion to allow Laenor to be free?
Even with the sight of the body she couldn’t tell if it was Laenor or not, but she mourned him all the same. Alive in Pethos or dead at the bottom of the sea, she had lost a dear friend, and her nieces had lost the last true link to their mother.
She did not retract their banishment, even at the request of Rhaenys, at the threat of removing Lucerys from Driftmark’s line of succession. In fact she told her aunt to name one of Laena’s daughters heir. Lucerys would not return to this place, not as long as those who had attacked him remained.
Harwin’s comment that the girls would live better under the care of their grandparents eased her guilt a small amount. Her Uncle Daemon was many things, both good and bad, but it was clear that he had not been a father to the girls.
As she flew on Syrax’s back, the wind rushing through her hair, she made up her mind. She would apologize to Rhaela and Baela when they were older, when they could understand why she had made the decision she had. But now she had a brother she must congratulate.
Rhaenyra directed Syrax closer to Vhagar and called out to Aemond. “You are doing wonderfully Aemond, father would have been proud.”
Aemond looked up in surprise, as if he hadn’t known that the only reason, he was allowed to fly Vhagar so quickly after his injury is because Rhaenyra had offered to fly with him. “Thank you.” He called back.
“We shall reach the Keep soon, remember you must land her outside the city then you will ride back to the Dragonpit with me.”
Aemond nodded and leaned closer to Vhagar as if the great dragon had been unable to hear the words exchanged.
They both looked up as Vermax and Dreamfyre sailed above them, the carefree laughter of their riders echoing on the wind.
“Helaena is happy with him.” Aemond said, as Rhaenyra drew closer, her eyes on her son’s dragon.
“That is good.” She said, giving him a soft smile.
They flew in silence until Vhagar had landed and Aemond joined her on Syrax.
“I speak truly, Helaena is quite fond of Jacaerys.”
Rhaenyra made sure he was safely strapped in then urged Syrax into the skies once more. “He is fond of her as well.”
Aemond hummed in response, and she remembered the way she’d caught him watching some of the girls of the court that were around his age, as they frolicked through the gardens.
“Is there anyone you may be fond of?” She asked lightly, biting back a smile.
Aemond shook his head, and she could see his ears turning bright red. “No, no one.”
“Do tell me if you wish to choose a betrothed, though you are young still, there is no need for haste.”
He mumbled something that sounded like an expression of gratitude, and she smiled.
So long had she mourned her brothers who had not drawn breath, neglecting the ones who lived and breathed merely a few halls away from her.
“I am sorry Aemond. I have not been the sister I should have been.” She said, once they dismounted and the dragonkeepers lead Syrax away.
Aemond looked down at the ground, his scar still an angry red. “I have not expected much, father did not care for me, why should you?”
Her heart broke and she kneeled in front of him, brushing his hair back gently. “Father did care for you; he was simply too ill to show it.”
Aemond looked unconvinced.
“I will send my personal maester to check on your wound. Perhaps you and Lucerys would like him to come attend you both at the same time?”
“I am not scared.” Aemond said, though his shoulders were tense.
She gave her a soft smile. “I know you are not, but Luc is.”
Aemond gave her a surprised look and she put one finger to her lips. “Do not tell him I told you, but it would make him feel braver if you were there as well.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “If it will help, then I will sit with him.”
“Perfect.” She kissed his unscarred cheek gently. “Thank you, brother.”
He nodded, his cheeks a light pink. “Of course, sister.”
Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso, @izzicle, @hiatuswhore, @aslanvez, @devils-blackrose, @yentroucnagol, @queenofshinigamis, @partyposion00
#alicent hightower#rhaenyra and alicent#alicent fic#rhaenyra x harwin#TDQ series#meg's writing#hotd#hotd fanfic#rhaenerya targaryen#jacelaena#aemond targaryen#lucerys velaryon#anti daemon targaryen#Alicent “rap1st-killer” Hightower strikes again!!!!
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I wanna fix it
Ok, so here I am making a HOTD AU because I have seen a fair few and I am a mischievous crow who picks up shiny things and immediately gets consumed by them.
General warnings for this AU:
General HOTD fuckery and such.
Also I am Team Black but I do think the little Greens can be redeemed if they were gotten to young enough.
This was written whilst super very bored but also was stuck in training so please forgive the appaling spelling and grammar.
Ok so here we go!
The first Key difference is that Rhaenyra took an interest in her younger siblings.
Ok I know she has an issue with Alicent, which fair, and her father, which fair.
But these are her baby siblings. God when I think about how many she lost I just want to cry.
And yeah I get her resentment for possibly being replaced but after her father's reassurance of her being heir.
Listen, she must be so lonely.
Like Laenor and Laena have each other and the previous generation was full of people before all the untimely deaths.
Rhaenyra only really had Alicent and at times Laena and Laenor.
Why did my girl not have a contingency of Ladies in Waiting?? Thats like a thing? She should have got that.
Ok anyway, my point.
My point is that Rhaenyra is probbaly so fucking lonely so yeah. After she's assured she is going to be heir she goes and just... visits Aegon.
He's her only living sibling. She doesn't entirely love the name and what it represents but she knew her father wanted to call the kid Aemon after his dear uncle. But both Alicent and Rhaenys took this poorly for widely different reasons so it was a no go.
So anyway, baby Aegon. She heads to his nursery.
TO her shock and horror there is only a Nursemaid there.
Like, a single maid.
And a Hightower Guard who demands Rhaenyra leave under orders of the hand but is summarily 'excused' by Ser Erykwho is her swornshield still.
Ser Crispy Cunt may have won a Tourney but Eryk has been at Rhaenyra's side since she was born.
He is not giving that up, that is HIS baby girl your honor. Just because some Knight unseated him does not mean he is no longer her Kingsguard.
(I have this headcanon that Kingsguards are assigned to royal children Pretty much at birthand they stick with them, nothing except death will seperate them.)
Anyway, Rhaenyra is horrified.
Her mother was pregnant enough times that Rhaenyra learned what was required of a newborn baby, especially a royal one. And her brother is a royal dragon.
He doesn't even have an egg in his crib??!
Absolutely not. Not on her watch.
The nursemaid is questioned and she immediately spouts it all. She is a nursemaid of the Targaryeans, not the Hightowers despite their best efforts to try and get one in for the young prince. Viserys would not have it.
She says the Consort Alicent, because that is her proper title, has not visited the Prince at all since his birthand neither has Visery's.
(Viserys is still in his fucking guilt trip and Alicent, I'm sorry to admit I don't think was a good mother due to how young she was and the way she and her father went about things. I recgonise her victimhood but she is still a shitty person.)
And Rhaenyra instantly knows this is bad.
She has had motehring beat into her head since she was old enough. And Aemma was explicit on what is required of a Valryian dragon rider babe.
They need a Targaryean Parent, their natural fire will suffer if not regularly held by one. And, for those especially without dragons from birth, can cause extreme illness.
In fact thats when she realises that her baby brother wasn't quiet, he was sick with exhaustion.
So she wastes no time pciking him up and craddling him.
His nursemaid actively weeps in relief as the young Aegon instantly perks up in his sisters arms. Beginning to cry like a proper little dragon.
Rhaenyra spends the first hour with her brother holding him, helping the nursemaid feed him until he is looking much more alive than he has in weeks.
He clings to his sister with a strength of a proper dragon and Rhaenyra is as enamoured with him as she is enraged with her father and Alicent.
So she storms to her father's office.
Viserys is equally delighted at the sight of his daugher holding her brother as he is mildly terrified of the look of fury on her face.
His dear Rhaenyra took after her mother in many ways, but her fury was purely the good queen Alyssane's.
She nearly screams his whole model to the ground and by the end of their 'conversation' 5 more nursemaids nd maids of Targaryean loyalty are given to her brother, along with Ser Aryk as a Kingsguard.
And this is where, in my canon, Otto has FUCKED UP.
His daughter refuses to see his child and Otto is damned if any loyalist to house Targaryean goes near his priz-grandson.
Rhaenyra of course demands why a knight forbade her from her brothers nursey and Viserys gets angry.
The knight fucking buckles like wet bread and admits Otto said the young princess would kill her brother. And the Queen agreed.
It is the first time in an age that Viserys get angry.
Otto is dragged into his rooms by a gleeful Ser Erryk and his Twin who is equally as vindictive.
He is not killed but he is immediately banished with nothing but the clothes on his back and a knight instructed to return him to Oldtown immediately.
So Otto is GONE, but unfortunately not dead. Yet.
Anyway, Rhaenyra is now heavily invested in her brother's wellbeing and so takes both of them and their kingsguard to go an fetch and egg, dragging Visery's along as well and he is just so delighted right now.
And thus Aegon gets Sunfyre's egg and is moved to the nursery closer to her room.
It takes a few hours for Alicent to realise what has happened.
She is not an attentive mother. Every scene I saw her in she looks massively uncomfortable with motherhood and being around her kids. Which I get, don;t get me wrong. She is an utter stone cold bitch but I get why. But its not exactly conducive to stay in your rooms all day or hang out in the Saept like an 'ideal' aka religious obsessed, queen when you are trying to raise a Hightower loyal King.
She only hears about it when her father is removed from his rooms and unceremoniously marched off to Oldtown.
She goes fucking crazy.
The court nearly pisses itself when they hear she has been sent into seclusion 'until she regains her senses'
WHat they do not realise is that she tried to attack Rhaenyra with Aegon in hand.
Needless to say she has to so a lot of grovelling and is only let out due to being pregnant with Helaena.
But from this moment on Visery's places Rhaenyra as the family 'matriarch'. As in the person in charge of their immeidate family and the children.
Rhaenyra, immeidately claiming on this, asks for Rhaeny's to come and assist her as she is still young herself and will be looking to be married soon.
Visery's of course agrees, and then take on Rhaenyra's insistence he should employ her Velma as his new hand.
He so desperately wants his cousin to like him again he instantly agrees. SOrt of again leading into the idea that Targaryeans are very attached to each other.They are literally the last
And thus Rhaeny's returns triumphant as the new Hand of the King.
Rhaenyra has realised, after seeing what hs occured under he rbloody nose, that she is not being trained as she should. Her Velma is the most politically intelligent person she knows and she NEEDS that is she is protect her right and become somewhat politically skilled.
Rhaenys is informed of this plan and says 'Bet'
She is on it.
Honestly she has the unfortunate relisation that Rhaenyra is lacking a lot due to her mothers absence, not just due to her untimely MURDER but also due to her long term weakness and constant state of pregnancy and despair.
Rhaeny's realises she is one of the last Targaryean women alsmost suddenly.
Thousands of years of female tradition brought over is suddenly reliant entirely on her education and teaching of the only two other Targaryean girls in the world. The Lineage VIsenya and Rhaenys themselves had passed down.
Shit.
On an off note it genuinely persuades her to have another set of kids. Much to Corly's delight. Because holy shit, there are so few of them.
Anyway anyway.
Rhaenyra basically realises, with heart in her throat, what had been happening under her nose, what her once best friend, the girl she had loved, thought Rhaenyra would do to her own little brother.
After that and the way Alicent tried toattack her whilst she held her brother, Alicents own son, kills whatever love may have still exsisted in Rhaenyra.
Rhaenys basically, between ruling a kingdom as Hand of the King and trying to rework the system, begins raising and help raising Rhaenyra and her siblings alongside her own children.
Woman is busy, Corly's just adores his wife so much.
Alicent is not fucking happy. Honestly part of her major malfunction is the fact she also lost her mother at a young age and her father see's her more as a living tool than a child. Ss such she has no idea how to function outside thatand the instant she meets conflict or aggression due to 'her'actions she fucking buckles down on it.
In sneaks Larys.
Larys, painfully resentful of his brother and father despite howmuch both love him, and willing to take any chance to gain power.
Unforntunately for him Rhaenys is arguably one of the most intelligent politicians currently alive. Yes she has her faults but to keep her family in power she is willing to do anything.
Anyway, Rhaenyra finds herself going from no support to having the support of one of the richest and most powerful families besides her own.
Rhaenys is immediate in her expulsion of anyne she suspects to be a Hightower loyalist. Rhaenyra's aunt Jemma is more than happy to send Aryn loyal soldiers to replace them and Corly's quickly gathers and train more soldiers compeltely loyal to the Targaryean family.
Rhaenyra flourishes under her aunts care.She is educated in a way she was never allowed to be before, taken into council meetings as the heir should.
Rhaenys also gets her a proper retinue of young handmaidens, all from powerful families to endear herself to.
Rhaenyra begins taking her own initiative as well. She looks at the city and realises how poor the staution had become.
She uses her own funds to begin funding repairs to the city but it won;t be enough. She then realises she may have a business opportunity.
The street of silk.
It is always making money, even in the worst of times, and she is sure that like her many of the women would like better conditions.
Rhaenys thinks this is a clever idea, but she will need more funding and to be discreet.
What about the war of the Stepstones?
Rhaenys insists the girl train before joining her uncles and cousin in the war and quickly inlists someone to train her.
A year later Syrax and Rhaenyra leave Aegon in Rhaeny's hands and she comes back Queen of the Stepstones a mere 6 months later. Queen of the Goddamn stepstones.
Her father is obviously beside himself with delight and horror.
But his little girl presents him a crown and declares him King and all his forgotten and his little girl his home.
A little girl who thought in a war and helped take down a Crab King, a daughter who had shown herself to be a Vinsenya reborn.
Otto of course tries to use this to his by insinuating Rhaenyra was fucked by every male Valyrian and solider but it never catches in anyone except Viserys. Because he's really dumb
So, thus begins the royal Tour.
Rhaenyra is fuming. She also takes Aegon, Helaena, Laenor, Laena and Corlys with her. The only reason she doesn't take Rhaenys is because the council and the realm will fall apart.
Corly's has far to much fun as he is given the title of Professional vetter.
He wanted to marry her to Laenor but her and Rhaenys were blunt in how poor a choice that would be but Rhaenyra agreed to marry her first born to the first grandchild of the opposite sex born from Laena and that Laena and Laenor will be given positions in her court. And obviously Rhaenys is going to be her Hand as well.
Corly's is more than happy with this honestly. And it makes him take the job of vetting all the more seriously because thats going to be his grandchilds future spouse.
And no one is gonna piss off the Sea Snake or his feral children, especially after Laena and Rhaenyra head to Dragonstone to pick up some ancestral pieces for Rhaenyra to wear and Laena comes back with fucking Vhagar.
Laenor pouts, Corly's is proud but nearly has a fucking heart attack and Rhaeny's is just delighted.
Anyway, royal tour.
Aegon is absolutely not happy his sister is looking for a husband and delights in scaring away any possible suitor. Helaena seems calms but will absolutely wail if someone she hates comes near.
Rhaenyra trusts her siblings instincts and no one is willing to offend the baby prince or princess. Especially those who barely made it past Corlys.
Truth is he hated them but just let them past to have Aegon scream at them.
The they get to Storms end.
Lord Baratheon is being a shit and it takes all of seconds to send a raven to His wife.
But Rhaenyra takes it on like a chellenge.
Corly's is less able to Vet in this session because these are all important lords.
Aegon has no such issue and screams and cried when Jason Lanister Approaches.
Then the fight happens and Rhaeyra stops it and basically rips Lord Baratheon a new one for nearly allowing a Murder to happen on a royal procession.
All when one Cregan Stark walks in, a masive Grey Direwolf by his side.
He practically falls in Love at first sight when he see's his Silver Haired queen rip into the Storm Lord with fire.
Of course everyone freaks out when they see the future Lord of WInterfell and his huge Fucking Wolf and Rhaenyra soon realises.
She turns, Amethyst eyes meeting Steel and there is something instant.
He's respectful, calm and looks at her like she hung the sun itself.
Rhaenyra likes him.
And the best thing is, though Aegon tries, he is instantly won over by Cregan's wolf, known as Winter.
Rhaenyra head home with a Northern Fiance mcuh to her father's bemusement and Rhaeny's delight.
Pulling in one of the most powerful Kingdoms and one of two that chafed the most under the rule of their family?
Absolute game changer.
Anyway, in my Vision her and Cregan basically become like a new Rhaenys and Corlys. They match each other like, well, fire and Ice.
(Lol)
Anyway, Rhaenyra also comes back to a new little brother Aemond.
She is very unimpressed with her father but she quickly takes on her newest sibling with adoration, Much to Aliscents fury as she is still not allowed near the children without supervision and she keeps tripping up which means Rhaeny's has her by the neck.
Daemond is also pissy as hell because his Niece is picking someone else, especially when Laena catches the eye of one Harwin Strong.
He needs to get over it and both women tell him to fuck off and sulk elsewhere.
He does eventually get over it when he meets the Love of his life in the form of Lyra Mormont of Bear Island and she basically beats him in a fight five minutes after knowing him.
Maybe those of the First man Blood are ok?
Poor man, no Targaryean can resist these hnourable and blunt First man people apparently. (And yeah, harwin is technically of the First men and his family obviously looks after the Island of trees."
I have a theory they just go sort of feral for each other, Aegon I had to keep that shit underwraps after finding out because otherwise the locals couldstart taking advanatge.
Anyway they get super married and soon Jahaera is born, and obvs all his aunts and uncles adore him.
But they basically think they are Rhaenyra's kids anyway.
But fuck the throne, they don;t want that fucking thing.
Aegon basically grows up how he wants, impassioned by art and story telling and just flying his dragon.Most key is that he falls in love with the future Queen of Dorne and basically says, hey can I marry her. They say yes with the promisehis kid will then Marry Jacaery's kid. Which means a Dornish Queen.Prince consort in the next generation.
Dorne says ok, because they actually like how Westeros is changing. Also the yung princess adores Aegon and is like, 'Yes, this artsy pretty boy who adores me will be perfect."
Aemond, like many true Targaryean men, is a MaleWife. Yes I was live in sunspear with my spoiled dragon and have many pretty children.
In fact they have 10.
Rhaenyra and Cregan beat them at a whopping 14
And Rhaeny's and Corlys have another three girls. Much to his delight.
Targaryean baby boom, hells yeah.
Also Aemond and Helaena also get Betroathed, because por girl deserves a life of chilling with her bugs and going on adventures with her Love. They have 9 kids.
Lots of targaryeans and with it, a fuck load more Dragons. Each kid basically catches a dragon egg or a wild dragon.
Jahaeres grabs Vermithor and Laena's daughter with Harwin Rhaena, yes I know, gets Silverwing.
The people of Westeros go fucking Nutty for that.
Also Laena and Harwin have like 6 kids, mostly because after the the 6th giant baby Laena said no goddam more because the last set were triplets. All their kids are taller than her, their all giants.
Daemon and Lyra end up having 9 children, three sets of triplets, all girls. Their also all fucking amazons.
Daemon basically gets to live the life of his dreams. He fights Iron-Born on the regular and his wife's people love him, he barely has to do any work, the North actually likes his blunt rudeness, and his family is prosepering. All his daughters bully him as well. he adores his life.
Also can’t forget my boy Laenor. Love him. Basically lives a more open life with his partner Joffrey WHO DOESN’T DIE. Creates a new position known as Maester of Civilians, which is essentially taking care of education and etc, with his sister as co-Master. Rhaeny’s is hand of the Queen but eventually passes it on to her third child Aemma.
Also Jahaerys is Jon Snow. I don't make the rules, no yes I do and I want Jon to have loving alive parents. But the little fucker is also cursed to be the Prince that was Promised so here he is. But honestly bruv I gave you living parents who fucking love, an amazon wife who is really fucking smart, a big ass dragon.
Oh, also a wolf. Yeah, Cregan gets a direwolf up north but also finds a puppy for each of his kids. So Jon/Jaehaerys gets his Ghost back.
So yeah, the night King things comes a wee bit earlier, around when Jaehaery's hits 25.
But at that point there are about 60 Targaryeans and their fully grown Dragons.
Also Jaehaeras sister, Sansa, because I am funny and Cregan wanted half his kids to have Northern names, becomes Lady of Winterfell.
Because I say so.
Also the rest of Jon's siblings are reborn as his siblings because I watched a video abut the Starks tragedies and I am now in my feels about it. SO yeah, all of them. All get dragons and direwolves to. No more goddamn Stark deaths in this universe.
So yeah, Night King, dead, so fucking dead. He does try bless his stupid heart, but between Jaehaerys and his protective half feral family he is wiped the fuck out.
And no one dies. Because I said so no i don't care if its not realistic.
Afterwards its a golden age.
Maesters are got rid of and replaced with a more robust system with no connection to any religion, the Old gods and the 14 flames become the more popular religions but religious freedom is allowed. Quality for men and women because Rhaenyra and Jaehaerys are fully for women and say no to them. Say no to their dragons and direwolf. Go on, I dare you. So women can inherit, matriarchal lines are developed etc.
Also improvement to civilians lives. More education, better health, a functioning sewer system. Women and men can learn and teach and learn to fight, because what if something like the Night King happenes again?? Like fuck are they having half a fighting force. Also women can defend themselves from men now.
Jaehaerys even gets the first two female Kingsguard, much to his mother's anooyance and pride because goddamit she wanted to do that.
Basically Westeros becomes a better Valerian empire. No slavery, religious freedom, less wealth disparity and an ability for better social maneverability. Jaehaery's cousin Daenaery;s (leave me alone) by Aegon and his wife even heads over to Essos with her numerous dragon riding relatives to take out the slave masters and free the free cities.
Because she can and also fuck the slave masters and slavers. She even brings back her besties Missandei and Grey worm who get set up well in Westeros because otherwise I will cry.
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Smile
I.
280 A.C.
For as long as she could remember, Elia had never enjoyed the most robust health.
Sometimes others acted as if her issues did not exist, taking pains to avoid conversations where it might come up. They had good intentions, but their approach was hardly any better than the likes of her devoted Septa Cassella and tireless Maester Ulrick, both of whom Elia suspects fears tempting the gods sending the princess into an early grave. Only Oberyn was different. Oberyn did not feign blindness to her condition. But he believed in Elia in a way perhaps few younger brothers did their elder sisters, and thus made her feel as if all the tomorrows were promised them. Their mother is not that much different in that respect, either. They told me that the Mother would call you home the same as she did your sweet brothers, Princess Loreza had told her once; referring to Elia’s premature birth. When they looked at you, they no doubt saw another babe to bury, but when I looked at you, I saw a fighter. I knew you would live, and you did.
But perhaps her mother and brother’s staunch beliefs in her was wrong. Perhaps it will be the thing that dooms her in the end. That her entire life was pre-destined to reach this point. She will die here in this castle far from home, trying desperately to bring forth Rhaegar’s heir in blood and agony and terror, because she always been delicate not just in her looks, and thus she is not strong enough to survive this – it feels as though the pain will rip her apart. She will die here, and now Elia cannot bring herself to care, she just wants this ordeal to be over-
“I can see the head…. Keep pushing, Princess!” One of the maesters, carefully hand-selected for such an important birth, encourages her. Elia wants to snap at him, because can he not see how hard she is trying already? That at any moment, she feels as if she will break? But instead, she bites her tongue so hard she tastes blood and grips the bedsheets as tightly as if she was a captain gripping a piece of driftwood in an unforgiving sea after losing his ship and then she hears screams not her own-
Her babe is lifted into the air, screaming and tiny fists kicking. The cord is cut, the thing still tying them together, and now her child is a completely physical and separate being from Elia, they have come into this world now, they are real now- realer than they’ve ever been before. More real than the confirmation of her pregnancy and more real than the kicks she felt or the discomfort she endured in the changes to her body. They are finally here, and Elia is truly a mother now.
“Congratulations, Princess Elia. You have a daughter.”
A girl. For one tiny moment, Elia tastes disappointment. This is not Dorne. Even if the gods see fit to give her and Rhaegar only a daughter, a girl will never be allowed to rule even if she has more wisdom and integrity in her little finger than a dozen male claimants have in their entire bodies. The Great Council of 101 A.C promised that. Elia and Rhaegar and will have to try again, or the crown will go to Rhaegar’s little brother Viserys, and Elia will feel like a failure.
It is only for a moment however. One of her ladies tenderly places the babe in her arms, and then almost as if she sensed who Elia was, the little princess stopped crying immediately, and opened her eyes. Their eyes met, and it was not a stranger’s gaze Elia saw in those brown pearls, but a look of recognition. You know me, Elia realizes with a jolt. You know that I’m your mother. And then she hates herself for that moment of regret, because how could she ever think herself a failure when she has such a beautiful, wonderful daughter?
“Hello,” Elia whispers, and then the darkness took her.
II.
Elia does not know whenever minutes or hours have passed when she comes around again. At first, it feels as though she has been dreaming, and then the realization is as abrupt as being splashed by the cold water in the Water Gardens, and Elia realizes that her babe is gone.
“Where is my daughter?” Elia asks, panic clawing at her stomach.
She is assured that her daughter is safe and with a wet-nurse, and that the prince her husband had seen her and said nothing but beamed. The thought of a man who has never been free with his smiles beaming and at the sight of a daughter instead of a son is strange to Elia, but she only allows herself to feel relief. Rhaegar, unlike most men, is not dismayed that his wife has given him a daughter. And if- if he did, well Elia will love her so fiercely, completely, and devotedly that it will be as if her daughter is bathed in sunlight, and thus safe from becoming a shadow thanks to the glory of a son.
She is told other things as well, in that room. The birth was hard for her- all births were hard. It was called the women’s battle for a reason. Once, she had asked her Septa why the Mother would make childbirth so painful. It seemed a cruel thing to do, especially when one was expected to bring children into the world. Septa Casella had told Elia that the Mother was not trying to punish women – that the pain was simply a symbol of the lengths that a mother will go to for their son or daughter. It is never easy being a mother, this woman who would never have a child of her own had told her, brushing back a lock of Elia’s dark hair. Why would giving birth be any easier?
But a Septa’s words aside, Elia is told that she is to be kept to this bed and confined to this room. The birth greatly weakened her, and they must build up her strength again. Elia is promised that she will have nothing but the greatest care from them, Prince Rhaegar had commanded it- but all Elia wants is to have her daughter in her arms.
III.
Two moons have passed since Rhaenys’ birth. It seems as if the hours go by in a manner that is both frustratedly slow and rapidly quick. The more time that passes, the more disheartened Elia grows.
It was excepted for women of Elia’s station to have help with their children. That was the way of things, and Elia had looked forward to the help. But this- this was different. Elia had to rely on her daughter being taken to her. All her life Elia’s health had meant she had needed to rely on others for help and she had never felt ashamed for it, but now it did. Maybe it would not have been as bad if she had milk to give her- but her supply was so low it meant that when Rhaenys cried for a feeding, it was the wet-nurse Alys that Rhaenys needed, and not her own mother.
It was perhaps the fear of her daughter growing too attached to other women and the thought of them struggling to bond because of it had seen Elia command that her daughter’s cradle be brought into her bedchamber.
“Are you certain, Princess? But what if she disturbs you- you must rest….’
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” Elia replied. “I have been doing nothing but resting in this bed for two moons. Allowing my daughter to sleep in the same room as me at night will not change that, and her nurse can have the empty room next to me or even sleep in here herself if that eases your minds, but Rhaenys and I will sleep in the same room from now on. I do not ask you, but command you as your future queen and the mother of your prince’s child.”
So Rhaenys was moved into her room, along with Alys. Elia fights back the wave of jealousy she feels whenever she sees Alys and wonders briefly if this is a good idea. But she puts those feelings aside- it is not Alys’ fault, and if this is what Elia must do to be close to Rhaenys, she will do it gladly.
It is only a few days later when it happens. Elia is holding Rhaenys, who Elia know she will have to soon surrender to Alys for her bedtime feed, but not just yet she thinks, while she sings a Dornish lullaby. And then- Rhaenys looks at her, and smiles.
“Oh, how darling!” Alys croons.
This smile is different. Maester Ulrick had told her that newborns have the ability to smile from birth, but this was a different sort of smile. Elia knew this because Rhaenys’ eyes were smiling too. And she wants to weep, because despite everything – despite her fears, it was she who claimed her daughter’s first smile, just as Rhaenys had claimed her heart from the very beginning.
#a song of ice and fire#asoiaf#game of thrones#elia martell#princess elia martell#also i am not an expert in childbirth or babies so i apologize for any mistakes made#fanfiction#i dont know what this is tbh#does it have plot#probably not#just wanted to write about elia and rhaenys#rhaenys targaryen (daughter of elia)
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Yours Before I Knew
Again, since we’ve got some lovely new Jonsa-themed headers for WIP Wednesday, I’m dusting off some old drafts to share some things. I can still call it a work in progress even if I’ve only completed two chapters in a year, right? *sighs* (You can find the lovely Canon-themed headers here if you want to use one)
This is a Rhaegar Won/Arranged Marriage AU that I’ve been wanting to write for ages but am easily distracted from and it may never see the light of day on ao3 so here’s the first two chapters in case anyone wants to see what I’ve got. Fair warning, it’s all set up for Jon and Sansa marrying with a side of scheming so probably pretty dull :(
****
Chapter 1-ELIA
The queen sucked on an orange wedge relishing the sunshine as the clacking of wooden swords silenced the morning songbirds. She did not mind that. All her life, she’d known the sounds of boys and men training every morning.
The stone walls of her little courtyard had been baking in the sun since it rose three hours earlier. Touching those walls might lead to a burnt hand now. But Elia would not touch them. She was content to enjoy the radiated warmth of them as she broke her fast and watched the boys, her son…and Lyanna’s.
Not everyone loves the sun as the Dornish do and the Sun does not love everyone.
The Dornish had been infuriated with her husband of course, none more than her brothers, but they had stayed true to the Iron Throne. When Robert’s Rebellion had ended with the usurper’s death outside the city walls, they had remained Rhaegar’s subjects though silently sullen over the insult he had done their princess.
Heeding the advice of others, Rhaegar had chosen to avoid single combat with Robert Baratheon and instead made overtures to Tywin Lannister, appealing to the man whose ego his father had wounded more than once with promises of a better reign in the future.
And despite his melancholic outlook in general, her husband chose not to dwell overly long on his part in his father’s removal from the throne nor the circumstances surrounding his death. Lord Tywin’s men had done all the dirty work for their new king and the unpleasantness had been swept away like filthy rushes to be replaced with fresh, sweet ones.
But not everything had been forgotten and not everything had been swept out the door either.
“Do you yield?” she heard Aegon cry, an edge of triumph in his childish voice.
“Nay!”
Elia scowled and continuing sucking on her orange wedge. The boy was stubborn. Aegon was a year older. He was taller and a bit broader. But Aemon would not yield until he was on the ground and pinned, usually with Aegon shoving his face into the stones if the master-at-arms did not stop them quick enough. Always determined to prove himself, Aemon fought like a wolf. No doubt the stigma surrounding his birth and his questionable place at Court plagued him.
Like a wolf. Elia smiled despite herself. That was what he was. He is no true dragon.
“That’s good, Jon!” the master-at-arms said as the tempo of the clacking wooden swords increased.
Jon. He preferred to be called Jon. It was the name his uncle had given him when he’d taken the child and his sister’s bones out of Dorne before he’d learned of his friend’s death.
Lord Stark had been spared by Rhaegar. Some whispered that he should’ve met a traitor’s end but their shared grief over Lyanna had stayed her husband’s hand. Elia did not object to it though she would’ve thought Rhaegar might’ve stripped him of his title and lands at least. However, the Northman had been allowed to return to his frozen forests, grateful to be reunited with his wife and young son. He’d only been south of the Neck once since the end of the war.
Rhaegar had permitted the boy to be fostered in Winterfell as a babe before sending for him when he was six. “The North is in his blood. It is where he will fight his greatest battles…and where he will die someday perhaps,” her husband had once said. Rhaegar’s obsession with prophecy had only grown with the passing of years.
The North was a place that held little interest for Elia but she was aware of their own discontented murmurs. Nevertheless, Lord Stark had kept the vast kingdom under control and helped stop Balon Greyjoy’s ill-fated rebellion recently even though many of the Northmen held no love of the Crown. And why should they? Aerys had killed Lord Eddard’s father and brother after Rhaegar had made off with the Stark girl inciting the rebellion to begin with.
The fact that Rhaegar had married Lyanna in a secret ceremony, pressuring the High Septon to allow the practice of polygamy as the Targaryens of old had, had not tempered their displeasure. Most did not believe Rhaegar’s talk of prophesies or Aemon’s potential role in some war to come but no one said as much to the king.
“My lady? May I join you?”
She tilted her head in acquiescence. “Have you come to watch them?” she asked once Rhaegar had taken a seat and kissed her hand, his courtly manners undimmed despite the strained state of their marriage.
He looked towards the courtyard for a handful of seconds, watching the battle below with an indifference she couldn’t understand. “I’ve spent my morning closeted with the Hand arranging betrothals.”
“Whose?”
“The children’s, both mine and my father’s.”
Elia swallowed her disquiet and brushed her hands along her silk skirts. “Did Viserys have objections?”
“Objections to Arianne? Why would he? And it was agreed to long ago.”
“And Daenerys will marry Quentyn?”
“She will.”
“Doran will be pleased.”
He hummed softly in response. She knew the young princess’s opinion would not be sought. Elia felt sorry for the girl and her own daughter but it wasn’t as if she’d been given any choice in the matter of her own match. It was the lot of all highborn girls whether they carried the title of lady or princess. And besides, Quentyn is a sweet boy.
“And who are our children to marry?”
“Rhaenys will marry Willas Tyrell.”
“You’d marry my daughter to a Tyrell?” she asked sharply, her earlier acceptance of the fate of highborn girls quite forgotten.
“The enmity between your family’s house and the Tyrells should end. Willas bears no ill will towards your brother nor Oberyn towards him. It’s time the rest of you follow suit.”
Elia bowed her head, knowing that any argument would be fruitless. Rhaegar was not his father but he would not be talked out of a decision easily either.
“And Aegon? Who is to be his queen?”
“I had thought to heal another breach. The North is vast and anger lingers there.”
She could not be silent on this. “You will not marry my son into her family!”
Rhaegar’s eyes moved from the boys below to his wife, that strange distance in him so visible. If he was blood and fire, why were his looks always so cold? She contained a shiver but dropped her eyes. She rarely spoke so heatedly towards him. Her rages would do her no more good than her sweetness in this case regardless, she feared.
“I had thought to. I’ve decided differently. Tywin has been a faithful servant and Cersei serves you well.”
Tywin had decidedly differently is what that meant. And Cersei... “She hates me.”
“Nonsense.”
“You see her beauty and her smiles. You do not see her contempt. You do not hear her barbed words.” You only see what you wish to when you bed her, the wife of your best friend. She would not dare speak those words.
“She won’t be marrying Aegon, her daughter will.”
“Myrcella?”
“Yes.”
“She’s only three.”
“He’s only eleven. They’ll marry after she flowers.” He softened marginally. “It is only a betrothal, my lady. If things change, things change,” he shrugged.
She stewed over that before asking about Rhaegar’s third child. “And Aemon?”
“It is my hope that match will end the rumbling in the North. He will marry his uncle’s daughter, the eldest girl.”
“Lady Sansa?”
“Um…yes, that’s her name.”
Did he know it to begin with? she wondered. No matter. This arrangement did not matter to her. It suited her. She’d have Lannisters and Tyrells as her children’s good-parents. Wasn’t that enough to worry over?
Who cared if Aemon, or Jon as he preferred, went North someday? It wasn’t that she disliked him. It was just that he was a constant reminder of things that Elia would rather forget. He’d go North and marry the Stark girl. Maybe she’d never see Lyanna’s son again if he did.
But Rhaegar had other plans as always, it would seem.
“Aemon will marry Sansa Stark once they’re of age, get an heir by her and then…we’ll see where I need him most.”
“Where you need him most? I don’t understand.”
Rhaegar did not answer.
“Well done! Well fought, boys!” the master-at-arms cried a moment later.
Elia’s expectant smile curdled when she saw Aegon clutching his hand, his wooden sword on the stones at his feet and Aemon doing a poor job of hiding his delight. The North could have Lyanna’s son. She could not say she’d miss him here.
Chapter 2-JAIME
Ser Jaime Lannister of the Nights Watch strolled along the corridors of the Red Keep towards the chambers occupied by his twin sister Cersei. He caught his reflection in a mirrored panel. He didn’t look half bad in black. He felt no more soiled in it than he had in his white cloak.
Due to his father’s role in winning Rhaegar his crown, Jaime had not been beheaded for his own rather hands-on part in seeing an end to Aerys’ regime but he had been discharged from the Kingsguard and sent to the Nights Watch for killing his king.
He hadn’t stayed there very long.
It was cold and inhospitable and his fellow brothers in black had all loathed him. He hadn’t gone out of his way to make any friends there to be honest. They were all beneath him, none could hold a candle to him with sword or lance and the North was clearly not for him.
So, when Lord Commander Mormont had been lamenting the lack of able-bodied recruits to fill their numbers and man the Wall, Ser Jaime had graciously offered to go South to the king and his father the Hand and see to it a regular supply of warm bodies were sent the Lord Commander’s way. It didn’t matter that most of them were the excrement of the lowest pothouses or the ague-ridden sweepings of dungeons, Jaime knew Mormont would take them, desperate as he was. And so long as the recruits kept arriving, Mormont did not recall Ser Jaime to his post. That suited Lord Tywin and, since Jaime avoided making a nuisance of himself around Rhaegar, it seemed the king was content for him to remain and ignored him for the most part.
He gave me a life sentence meant to humble me for killing his father but knew it was necessary if he was ever going to ascend to the throne himself. Besides, he’d have no city to rule from if not for me.
He had fallen into a little place here at Court. He competed in tourneys here and there, not enough to draw too much attention to himself though. Mostly, he assisted the master-at-arms in drilling young guards as well as the young princes. Occasionally, the Small Council would ask him questions about the Watch. He was as ignorant as most of them but he spoke the words he thought they wanted to hear given the current mood.
It was infinitely preferable to stalking along the top of the Wall or overseeing the digging of new latrines in the frozen shit hole that was Castle Black. He wasn’t even sure what the Nights Watch’s purpose was anymore. The ragamuffin Wildlings who made it over the Wall once in a while weren’t any true threat to the Seven Kingdoms and it’s not like that could all breach the 700 foot edifice in their way.
As for his pupils, Viserys was quite hopeless and Jaime had been glad to see the back of him when he’d left for Dragonstone a couple of years earlier. Aegon and Aemon, or Jon as the boy preferred, had some promise though, the younger boy more than the older.
His twin sister Cersei was at Court as well, one of the Queen’s ladies, while his father had chosen to leave Tyrion behind at Casterly Rock, out of sight and out of mind.
He rapped upon his sister’s door and entered when a maid answered. Cersei stood before a mirror adjusting the emerald green gown encrusted with gold she wore which highlighted the eyes which matched his own, whilst her golden hair shone in the sunlight.
“What do you want?” she asked irritably as her maid clasped a great diamond and onyx necklace around her throat.
You, he mouthed, earning him a scowl. Theirs was not a typical brother-sister relationship to say the least.
“Connington’s here,” she said in a conversational tone next. “His ship arrived in the harbor last night.”
Her husband, Lord Jon Connington, was one of Cersei’s least favorite people to see. Gratefully, he spent most of his time in his castle while his wife spent most of her time at court.
Only five years older than the bride he’d been gifted as a reward for his faithful services during the rebellion, Connington appeared a withered old man when stood next to Cersei these days. Jaime highly suspected she was slowly poisoning him…or having someone do it for her. He honestly didn’t care if it was so. The oaf did not deserve Cersei. A good thing the children weren’t his.
“And did you entertain your husband when he arrived last night?” Jaime asked mockingly, his gloved hand tracing her pale throat when the maid was dismissed at last.
“There was no need. He was eager to spend as much time as possible with the king.” Connington would rather lick the king’s boots than his wife’s teats. That suited Jaime just fine.
“And who was the king eager to see last night?” he whispered in her ear, the hand at her throat squeezing ever so slightly.
She jerked her chin and stepped away from his touch. Jaime clenched his fist and told himself it didn’t matter. The children weren’t Rhaegar’s either.
Saying no to Rhaegar after carefully flirting and teasing her way into an affair with him would be foolish though. Cersei had her reasons, no doubt. Regardless, she was still his. She was part of him. She would always be his in a way the others never could be, not her husband who she spent less than fifteen minutes at a time in the company of if she could help it and not her current and practically acknowledged lover, the king.
Deciding he didn’t wish to quarrel today, he asked after her children. My children.
“Myrcella will be queen someday. Father has arranged it,” she told him, clearly pleased.
He nodded. It was neither here nor there to him. Cersei had warned him not to get too close, not to appear too doting so as not the raise any awkward questions and he’d followed her lead. He hoped Myrcella would be treated well by Aegon but that was the extent of his interest. They were only little children for now.
“That will be something…for you to be the mother of the queen.”
A dangerous glint appeared in her eyes as a cold smile formed upon her crimson lips. “Yes, the mother of the queen might be enough for some.”
The door burst open a moment later. “My lady! The Queen!” the maid from earlier gasped.
“Oh, dear. Whatever is the matter?” Cersei asked, the sweet concern in her tone not fooling Jaime for an instant. “Forgive me, brother. I must go to her,” she said once all had been relayed, a sudden pain in the stomach and the queen had vomited blood after breaking her fast.
“Of course, sister,” he bowed. “You are one of her ladies. You must attend her.”
And I will follow you.
Outside Queen Elia’s chambers though, he was halted by the youngest member of the kingsguard. Cersei hastened within and he took up a post of sorts opposite the knight, Ser Garlan Tyrell.
“Has the king been notified?”
“He has, Ser Jaime. He’s expected to arrive soon.”
The pounding of feet soon met their ears but it was not the king rushing to his wife’s side. It was her children and the king’s other son.
“Let me by, Ser Garlan!” Princess Rhaenys shouted, her dark curls bouncing as she stood. The knight bowed and stood aside as the princess and her younger brother headed in. But before Jon could pass the threshold, Rhaenys rounded on him. “Not you!” she hissed. “She won’t want to see you!”
The boy’s crestfallen expression was quickly hidden by a jerky nod. He would not be wanted by any of them. It shouldn’t surprise him. He really shouldn’t allow it to wound him by this point and yet it was plain it always did. Jaime might almost feel sorry for him…if he was much given to sympathy for others outside of himself and Cersei.
“Come along, my prince,” Jaime said affably, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders to guide him away. Out of sight, out of mind. They looked nothing alike but Jon always reminded Jaime a bit of Tyrion, a motherless boy, unwanted and unloved by most everyone. Jaime had an undeniable soft spot for his little brother so maybe he had a touch of one for this boy as well. “It’s been a fortnight since I’ve seen you practice with your lance. You can’t be a knight if you never master it, you know.”
“Yes, Ser Jaime,” Jon said, looking back over his shoulder once before he allowed himself to be led outdoors.
All morning, he drilled Jon in the lance and then swords. He was getting quite good…for a boy of ten.
When the bells began to toll, they had just stopped to sup on roasted hen, shallots and crusty bread.
“What are the bells ringing for?” the boy asked.
“You know, don’t you, Jon?”
The queen was dead.
Those dark grey eyes widened and the long pale face grew paler. He looked remarkably like a Stark to Jaime. There was little of Rhaegar in him.
A member of the kingsguard came to share the news as night fell. The king was said to be in seclusion and Elia’s children were with their attendants. No one came for Jon so Jaime sat with him. The boy cried bitter tears for the step-mother who had never loved him but never treated him unkindly either.
Jaime allowed him a second cup of wine and soon the child was dozing in a corner while Jaime wondered how his fair sister was managing her performance, the aggrieved courtier and friend, so concerned for the welfare of Elia’s children whilst maneuvering and plotting for the day she might be Rhaegar’s queen.
Mother of the queen might be enough for some…but not Cersei.
#jonsa fanfiction#vivilove-jonsa fic#jonsa#wip wednesday#arranged marriage au#something else I'll probably never get finished :(
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Jaime/Ned, #9
9. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
(do I know what this is? probs no, but we’ll see)
Jaime’s relative happiness at having gotten away with it lasts exactly the time it takes him to find a way out of the Red Keep without either getting caught or having to kill anyone else on top of... well.
His already illustrious list.
He’s not going to think about the sound Aerys made when he slit his throat.
He is going to think about the sound Gregor Clegane made when he stabbed him in the back, though. That had felt satisfying enough. Same as the sounds everyone else who had their hands on the princess had made when he took care of them before he took the weeping girl into his arms and hightailed the shit out of the Red Keep - there was nothing left to do for Princess Elia or Prince Aegon and he certainly didn’t want the girl to see what had become of them.
So, he had managed to find a way out, through the empty kitchens and then somehow reaching the only door that wasn’t manned by his father’s army before he hauled himself down to the beach, the still weeping princess latching to his neck, both of them covered in blood, and now he’s standing in the small harbor, thinking that they got away with it -
And realizing that he has no fucking clue of what he should do now.
His father’s army is sacking the city, which means that Robert Baratheon has won the damned war, which means that neither of them certainly will be happy to see that one Targaryen heir survived thanks to his intervention. He also has slain his king, which he knows is fucking high treason regardless of how much Aerys deserved it or not... and he had saved his niece, as in, the only one of Rhaegar’s heirs that survived, which means that... well. It’s a damned clusterfuck, that’s what it is, because slaying Aerys would maybe grant him Robert’s favor and his father most likely won’t complain about it given that his men were on orders to kill the rest of the royal family... but saving the girl means that he won’t be in their good graces, and if he goes to any Targaryen loyalist with her that might be something they could appreciate... but he still did slay Aerys.
Which... would most likely result in the girl living and him dying, and while he could be all right with it... well. He really isn’t in a hurry to die right now.
Rhaenys is still holding on to his neck and crying her eyes out, though at least she’s silent now.
Jaime drops sitting on the shore, cradling her to him, and trying to figure out what the fuck is he supposed to do here.
Going back to the Red Keep and try to make his father or Robert Baratheon reason is absolutely out of the question.
He could go to Casterly, he reasons, but there is no bloody way Cersei would help him, he knows, and he’ll think about why he’s so sure of it later. Not now. Tyrion certainly couldn’t, he was as old as Rhaenys is right now when he last saw him.
Right. No Casterly either. He could try to board a ship and go to Essos, but considering that all he and the girl in his arms have to their names are their bloody clothing and that everyone in King’s Landing will know they’re missing before tomorrow, he doesn’t see how that might work short of stealing one and he doubts he can row all the way to fucking Pentos on his own.
Right. Bad idea. So, what else -
Right. The Dornish never were fond of Aerys or his own father, he remembers Oberyn Martell’s distaste for court even too well, but they did side with him because of Elia and Lewyn... and see how it ended. They would take the girl, and they wouldn’t kill him, most likely. Except that how in the fucking Seven Hells is he supposed to get to Dorne like this? He wouldn’t make it out of the city in the first place.
Unless he somehow manages to hide in between troops going to Dorne for some miracle, and that would be hard enough -
Wait a fucking moment.
His hand stalls from its repetitive stroking of the girl’s hair, which is most likely for both their benefits at this point, but -
Last he knew, Rhaegar had brought Lyanna Stark to Dorne. Certainly, Ned Stark won’t send someone else to get her. And Ned Stark, well. Ned Stark is honorable, and certainly is not Robert, and it always was known in court that he had a fondness for children. Maybe -
Well.
It’s not as if he has that many choices. He tries to think of any other option he has, but no - asking Stark to hide the both of them in his army and then split the moment they’re in Dorne is the only thing he can think of that has some chances of not ending up with either him or Rhaenys dead.
He supposes they will have to go back to the city and hide around until Stark leaves... or she could hide on this shore here, not many people know about it, and no one would notice her in the caves leading to the Red Keep. Well.
At least he has a fucking plan.
He resumes stroking the girl’s hair.
He’ll tell her of the plans later.
--
Thankfully, she understands that he can’t bring her with when trying to get information, so she stays in the caves with his dirty cloak to cover her and he goes back to the castle after washing blood off him with saltwater. He manages to not be found as he tries to fish for rumors, and after a few hours he learns that Ned Stark will leave a couple of days from now on and that his army is camping below the hill.
Very well.
He steals some food for the both of them, sleeps the night off under his dirty cloak with the girl clinging to him, and the day after he sneaks them out of the shore and to the hill.
--
He steals another brown nondescript cloak from some laundry basket he finds on the way out, and hides the both of them underneath - if she clings to him, it’s not so hard. Then he stands in the shadows until he sees Stark retreating to his tent for the night.
Alone.
Then he takes a deep breath and hopes against hope that Stark doesn’t fuck this up.
--
“What -” Stark says as soon as Jaime lets the flap fall closed behind him, and then immediately shuts up when Jaime pulls down his hood and opens the cloak enough to show him the terrified girl clinging to him.
“Lord Stark,” he blurts, “I didn’t know where else to go and while I certainly am not asking you to commit treason, I also don’t think you would want to see her dead and I cannot think of any other way to reach Dorne without anyone trying to kill either of us, so I would be extremely thankful if you considered not calling your friend now and help me out at least for her sake.”
It’s not the speech he had prepared. Admittedly, he sounds exhausted and he knows he looks exhausted and that he still has Aerys’s blood under his nails, and he knows that the girl has a badly scarred over wound on her face that they gave her before he could get her out of that room, and he knows that Stark must not have taken too well the fact that he killed his king, which he supposes everyone must have figured out by now, but he’s not screaming for help now.
He’s not even touching his sword.
He’s just staring at Jaime with grey, tired eyes.
“You - you did it, didn’t you?” He asks, stopping himself before he can say killed her grandfather or whatever.
“I had to,” Jaime says, “he was going to burn down the entire city with wildfire. I had to.” The girl flinches, holding tighter to him.
Jaime really wants to sit down.
Stark nods. Jaime wonders if he’s thinking about his father and his brother.
“I would not want to see her dead,” Stark sighs. “What - well. Your father, he... showed... her brother to Robert.”
Shit. Jaime puts a hand over her ear. “And?”
“We haven’t spoken since,” Stark says.
Good, Jaime thinks, even if it’s not enough to make him stop being alert.
“You look exhausted,” Stark says. “You can leave her on my bed. I need to talk to you alone.”
Well.
That wasn’t a no.
“You heard him,” Jaime whispers to Rhaenys. She nods, tentatively. “I will be right there talking to him. Just - try to rest a moment, all right?”
“Will you come back?” She whispers, sounding miserable.
“Sure,” he says, kissing the top of her head before laying her down on the bed, putting a blanket over her shoulders. Gods, he was tired from carrying her. He nods, then goes towards the farthest corner of the tent, where Stark is waiting for him.
“Listen,” Stark says, “I don’t want to... not help you. I understand what you’re trying to do. And - well. If the king wanted to burn the entire damned city - never mind. But - I have to go get my sister.”
“I know,” Jaime says.
“Well, I talked to people. My sister is with Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy. And the rest of the Kingsguard that... hasn’t perished until now. I don’t want to fight him, but I don’t even know if he would... well. Cede, I suppose. So, I have a deal for you.”
Jaime thinks he can imagine it. “Speak.”
“I will hide you both with the army I’ll take to Dorne. I will let you bring her to Sunspear when we cross the border. But then I will need you to join me at the Tower of Joy and try to help me reason with Ser Arthur, because you’ve known him longer and - maybe he would listen to you more than me. And if everything goes well... I don’t know what you are planning on doing, but I could try and put in a good word for you.” He looks at Jaime with the eyes of a man who really is as tired as Jaime feels.
“Deal,” he says, extending a hand without even thinking about it twice. It’s more than he’d have presumed he would get, and he knows Stark will hold his end - he is honorable to a fault, after all.
When Stark takes it, Jaime feels like he could fucking faint in relief.
“You can go sit with her,” Stark says quietly. “I can ask for some more dinner and find you better clothing. We will discuss the details later.”
“Thank you,” Jaime says, too tired to hold on a longer conversation.
Stark nods at him and leaves the tent.
Jaime will have to trust him, but he knows that with how honorable to a fault the man is, he won’t. He sits down next to Rhaenys, runs his dirty fingers through her raven hair, and lets himself hope that he has done the right thing.
#jaime lannister#ned stark#ned x jaime#whump meme#wickedjaime#ask post#my fic#idek what this ended up being#SURELY IT'S LONG
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New Chapter on AO3!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17609459/chapters/55998868
Chapter 6 of my series: A Day I Met You (and Days After That)
Chapter Summary: The journey to King's Landing, from Dragonstone.
Despite the circumstances, Elia was glad to leave the damp, gloomy fortress of Dragonstone behind. She would never be a Targaryen, despite her marriage to Rhaegar, or the Valyrian blood in her veins from Daenerys, wife of Prince Maron Martell, who raised the Water Gardens in her honour.
She was pleasantly surprised, however, by their smooth-sailing journey back to King’s Landing. The ship rocked steadily on the open sea. In the day, when the sun beat down on them all, the waters shone a clear deep, sapphire blue, with bright, glimmering swirls of emerald green flashing from the depths of the ocean when the light struck the waters in just the right way. Elia had her son Aegon bundled in her arms; he was still drowsy, slowly coming awake from a nap, dark violet eyes wide as he quietly surveyed this vast, endless expanse of water: he had never seen the ocean before.
She took a deep breath, finding the sharp, salty sea-breeze refreshing. The sun and sea were a welcome change from the dark, cold, oppressive stone walls of Dragonstone that closed in around her like a tomb.
Rhaenys seemed to love the ocean almost as much as Elia herself did. Balerion -- having given in to Rhaenys and Ashara’s efforts to tie a bell around his neck -- prowled the ship’s deck fearlessly, as though he were a leopard cub, a prince of beasts in Dorne. “He’s looking for mice, Lady Ash!” Elia heard her daughter call out to Ashara Dayne, seated quietly with her back to a railing and looking somewhat green. “We won’t let them get you!”
Ashara Dayne was a fearless woman: in their youth she had followed Oberyn around as he turned over rocks and poked at holes in the desert sand, searching for snakes and scorpions and other creatures. Elia would have thought nothing could faze her, so their recent discovery that Ashara was terrified of rats and mice had been slightly amusing, even as she and Larra Blackmont did their best to reassure Ashara that the ship was clean and free of rodents.
That was another reason Elia was glad to be at sea. It gave her more time spent with her other ladies-in-waiting, other than Ashara, the youngest of her ladies. Larra Blackmont, and Elia’s own cousin, Laena Manwoody, (the similarity of their names was another source of amusement among her ladies) had been her strongest support during this difficult time, running the household for her when she had been stricken with child-bed fever, ensuring that the castle received their supplies and that the castle’s staff received their due incomes. They had all been children at the Water Gardens together, though Larra, the oldest, was the earliest to leave the pools, having been recalled to Blackmont to be raised as her mother’s heir. Laena was the middle-child, as Elia was -- their shared blood and this common ground made them especially close. They had not had the luxury of time or the freedom to spend hours in one another’s company at Dragonstone, which was perhaps another reason for Elia’s feelings of loneliness.
It was Larra Blackmont who sat at Elia’s side now, Laena Manwoody on the other end of the deck, watching the sunlight glimmering on the ocean waves, her head resting on Lady Ellyn’s shoulder -- a Beesbury of the Honeyholt, one of the few ladies from the Reach willing to serve as her lady-in-waiting. She wondered if the Hightowers -- as the overlords to House Beesbury-- had anything to do with that, despite her failed proposal to Baelor Hightower.
Larra was the first to speak. She nodded at Laena and Ellyn, her hazel-green eyes still bright with mischief, even if marks of age-- crow’s feet-- were showing around her eyes. “They’re not being very subtle, are they, Lady Elia?” she said, as Laena said something which made Ellyn laugh, and press a quick, soft, kiss to her cheek.
“They have nothing to hide here, Lady Larra,” Elia replied absently, shifting Aegon so he would not tug at her veil. “They’ve had to be discreet on Dragonstone, and gods know the Red Keep’s walls have ears. I would give them whatever time they have on this ship, before they have to hide their relationship again.”
Larra hummed, adjusting the drape of the black-and-gold shawl on her shoulders. Aegon, wide awake now, reached out to tug at the gold fringe on her shawl. Larra laughed aloud in surprise, brushing the ends of the shawl over Aegon’s palms, then quickly lifting it out of his grasp before Aegon’s fist could close around it. This seemed a fascinating new game to Aegon, and he giggled and waved his arms while trying to grab at the gold fringe of Larra’s shawl. Her son was only an infant, but at least he had not inherited his father’s dour, melancholy soul.
“Rhaenys and Aegon both seem to be taking to the sea remarkably well, Aegon especially. The rocking of the ship doesn’t seem to faze the little prince at all,” she laughed, as Aegon reached a tiny hand out and bopped her nose lightly, as Ashara had done to him many times before, at Dragonstone. “It’s his Rhoynish ancestry. He is the blood of Nymeria, the queen who launched ten thousand ships to save her people. Our people were sea-farers, once,” Elia murmured, pride stirring in her heart.
Larra Blackmont, fierce and proud as her own mother, met Elia’s eyes and smiled, patting her knee. “It’s good to hear you say that, Elia. You’ve been so quiet after your husband left... we were all worried for you.”
Elia felt tears prick at the back of her eyes, she blinked them away quickly. She had never been in love with Rhaegar, so why had the reminder of this latest betrayal hurt so much? She began to speak, haltingly at first, until the words tumbled out in a rush.
“I feel as though I am not worthy, somehow. That Rhaegar leaving this family is my shame and my failure as a wife... we had two children together, aren’t children supposed to bind two people together? I have done my duty as a wife, does he not have an obligation to this family?” Her eyes were stinging again: Elia blinked them away even harder. She would not let her tears fall on her son’s head, she would not let her unhappiness taint any of her children’s lives.
Larra reached for Aegon, and Elia let her take him. She turned her face towards the water, so it would appear as though she were merely admiring the view of the sunset across the sea, setting the waters afire, deep blue painted with streaks of pink and orange and gold, the colours of Dorne. “It’s not your fault, Elia.” Larra said quietly, holding Aegon carefully as they looked out over the water. She knew, somehow, that Elia had been holding her pent up anger and frustration inward for weeks, not daring to speak her thoughts aloud. “But it’s okay to cry. You are the strongest woman I know, after my own mother. We all need to cry, sometimes. Let it out, Elia. It’s alright.”
Elia cried quietly, letting go of the tears she had refused to shed for Rhaegar, and for herself, and for her children’s futures, her hands tight on the ship’s salt-stained wooden rails. When it was over she raised a hand, and touched her own cheek.
“Salt spray,” Larra said, giving her a handkerchief, embroidered with a pattern of vines and flowers. Elia took it gratefully, cleaning the tears from her face, but not blowing her nose with it. “Don’t worry, Elia, your eyes aren’t red. Are you feeling better?”
Elia nodded. “I am...I think I needed that.”
“Good,” Larra said, “because while Aegon is being a very well-behaved, darling princeling today, I think he still prefers to be held by his mother.” Aegon was already wriggling in Larra’s arms, though she held onto him carefully. “Momma’s boy, this little prince is. And I should go check on Ashara, the poor girl still looks a little ill. I’d thought the sea air would help, but she doesn’t seem to be feeling better yet...”
Elia inclined her head. “Thank you, Larra... for everything.”
Elia was alone now, with Aegon back in her arms. She started humming a lullaby, a song of the Seven, running a hand over the fine dusting of silver hair on her son’s head. The sun was setting now, sinking into the sea, the clouds in the sky fading from orange to pink to purple.
Aegon raised one chubby hand in the air. She half-expected him to bop her on the nose -- that was his show of affection to the people who cared for him.
So Elia was surprised when, instead, Aegon lay his hand on her cheek, over the tear tracks which Elia had taken care to wipe away earlier, and made a soft gurgling sound in his throat. She knew it was her own wishful thinking, but she could have sworn that he was trying to say “Mama” as Rhaenys did. Her heart felt suddenly lighter.
“I will protect you, and your sister, from your father’s folly, little one. Even when we’re back at court, when we must greet your grandfather and seek his protection... I must be strong. I will keep you both safe . I swear it. I swear it by the sun, and the stars, and the moon.”
Elia braced herself for living in the Red Keep again, under the shadow of the Iron Throne. For this night, though, she let herself feel the smooth, steady rocking of the ship on the ocean, as she held her own son in her arms. The first stars had emerged in the sky.
#elia martell#asoiaf#aegon targaryen son of rhaegar#rhaenys targaryen daughter of rhaegar#ashara dayne#larra blackmont#my fic
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Meera is going to wield Dark Sister *at least once,* and become the vehicle to move it to Arya.
Six years ago in King's Landing, Dunk had seen him with his own two eyes, as he rode a pale horse up the Street of Steel with fifty Raven's Teeth behind him. That was before King Aerys had ascended to the Iron Throne and made him the Hand, but even so he cut a striking figure, garbed in smoke and scarlet with Dark Sister on his hip. His pallid skin and bone-white hair made him look a living corpse. The Sworn Sword
Last night, @buskerlenny had an opportunity to ask GRRM a question at Worldcon, and boy, did she deliver for us: George confirmed that Bloodraven took the Valyrian longsword Dark Sister with him to the wall.
There was no ‘keep reading’, no ‘you never know’, but a simple yes. Those three letters opened up a whirlwind of ideas and questions. Is it now in the cave? Who will wield it? Why did he take it North?
Dark Sister possibly showing up in the Winds of Winter means more than the eye thinks - it supports the idea that Valyrian steel is coming even more to the forefront as Winter Comes in TWOW (see: Euron’s Armor).
So yes, it makes logical sense that one of the very few things that can defeat Others - Dragon Steel - happens to be in a cave North of the wall, where one of our heroes is currently wearing tree bondage and pretty much surrounded by snow zombies.
But I’m not here to worry about Brandon Stark. Bran’s Last Hero journey is, for the moment, surrounded by three protectors - and as Bran more than likely loses two of those protectors in TWOW (Hodor, Jojen), we can expect to see Dark Sister wielded by the end of the book.
I might also add that Visenya is the most likely of the two to garb herself as a warrior, and when so garbed, she would wield the Valyrian longsword Dark Sister, whose slender blade is designed for a woman's hand. GRRM
The many speculations about who’s hands Dark Sister will be equipped in generally circle in on one person, which is Arya Stark. And of course, Arya is a perfect candidate for Dark Sister. Visenya Targaryen, the warrior sister-wife-Queen of Aegon I Targaryen (not to be confused with her poetry, art-loving sister-wife-Queen, Rhaenys), serves as a great indicator for Arya’s ownership of (yes, we get it, it’s a Jon/Sansa/Arya parallel). It’s definitely an upgrade from Needle, Arya’s “childhood” sword, and a real-deal-Valyrian-sword; the perfect transition for Arya into “womanhood”.
This is all fine and dandy, but Dark Sister is currently sitting in a cave that will be overcome with ice creatures at some point, and for Arya to own Dark Sister, it’s going to have to come South. And who else could possibly be the perfect vehicle for that sword than the exhausted, ferociously loyal young girl helping to drag the Last Hero around, watching her brother slowly die North of the wall?
"He wants to go home," Meera told Bran. "He will not even try and fight his fate. He says the greendreams do not lie."
"He's being brave," said Bran. The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid, his father had told him once, long ago, on the day they found the direwolf pups in the summer snows. He still remembered.
"He's being stupid," Meera said. "I'd hoped that when we found your three-eyed crow … now I wonder why we ever came.”
For me, Bran thought. "His greendreams," he said. "His greendreams." Meera's voice was bitter. "Hodor," said Hodor. Meera began to cry.
Bran hated being crippled then. "Don't cry," he said. [...] The floor was rough and uneven, and it would be slow going, full of scrapes and bumps. I could put on Hodor' s skin, he thought. Hodor could hold her and pat her on the back. The thought made Bran feel strange, but he was still thinking it when Meera bolted from the fire, back out into the darkness of the tunnels. He heard her steps recede until there was nothing but the voices of the singers. Bran III, ADWD
With Meera’s emotional state - and brother’s life - on the decline, we should see her fulfilling the Dark Sister role for a while indeed. Not only emotionally, but physically, too. Meera Reed is already known for her skill with a slender, long frog spear.
Meera moved in a wary circle, her net dangling loose in her left hand, the slender three-pronged frog spear poised in her right. Summer followed her with his golden eyes, turning, his tail held stiff and tall. Watching, watching . . ."Yai!" the girl shouted, the spear darting out. Bran IV, ACOK
But with Mikken slain and the ironmen guarding the armory, good steel had been hard to resist, even if it meant grave-robbing. Meera had claimed Lord Rickard's blade, though she complained that it was too heavy. Bran VII, ACOK
Meera notably finds carrying the heavy sword that had been Lord Rickard Stark’s, made for a grown adult male, difficult, but Dark Sister may be the perfect answer for her to fend off Wights as they travel South. And Meera more than has the ferocity to wield it.
"I dreamed of the man who came today, the one they call Reek. You and your brother lay dead at his feet, and he was skinning off your faces with a long red blade."Meera rose to her feet. "If I went to the dungeon, I could drive a spear right through his heart. How could he murder Bran if he was dead?" Bran V, ACOK
Bran backed away, bleeding, and Meera Reed was there, driving her frog spear deep into the wight's back. "Hodor," Bran roared again, waving her uphill. "Hodor, hodor." Jojen was twisting feebly where she'd laid him down. Bran went to him, dropped the longsword, gathered the boy into Hodor's arm, and lurched back to his feet. "HODOR!" he bellowed. Meera led the way back up the hill, jabbing at the wights when they came near. Bran II, ADWD
Transporting the Last Hero home is a hard job - and while some believe Bran, an incredibly important POV in ASOIAF, will be stuck in a cave forever sitting in this said cave having visions, eating blood sacrifices, maybe skinchanging a dragon once and that’s the end of his story, I know this sounds ridiculous to me too, please let’s get real, he’s going to leave the cave if his arc is going to continue , I tend to err that this is one thing that show may have gotten right. The ingredients are there - a cave surrounded by nothing but snow zombies and mythical, fantastical and dying out creatures in the middle of nowhere. It doesn’t exactly scream forever a safe haven. That cave exists because it is going to get fucked the hell up, my friends. Especially when you consider Bran’s role as a hero... if his companions die, his dog dies, and their other swords break in the cold.
So, what a perfect moment that will be. Ice zombies trickling up and down the halls, Meera’s frogspear breaks, Hodor sacrifices himself, maybe Summer even falls to Winter... and just when all is about to be lost, out emerges Dark Sister, and Meera’s hands grip the pommel of that skinny, gleaming blade, slashing it down Wights, and protecting Brandon Stark.
Jojen was so solemn that Old Nan called him "little grandfather," but Meera reminded Bran of his sister Arya. She wasn't scared to get dirty, and she could run and fight and throw as good as a boy. She was older than Arya, though; almost sixteen, a woman grown. They were both older than Bran, even though his ninth name day had finally come and gone, but they never treated him like a child. Bran IV, ACOK
Bran sees Arya in Meera on more than one occasion, and for good reason. Both are empathetic, and skilled with their choice of weapon. The likened traits he sees in the girls are a product of a little boy’s yearning to be reunited with his family, but also deliberate. Arya and Meera definitely have a lot in common. This makes the passage of Dark Sister from Meera’s hand to Arya’s smooth.
While Meera is strong and skilled, Dark Sister won’t be forever hers. Why? She just won’t want it. In fact, it won’t surprise me if she won’t want this lifestyle in any capacity any longer. She’ll return Bran South of the Wall, and eventually return home (possibly with her brother’s bones), tired, defeated, and ready to mourn. And her family probably won’t hold it against her - protecting Stark children is a hard job, and sometimes it’s near impossible; just ask Howland Reed.
BONUS, SHINY TINFOIL (that will never happen, and I’ve made my peace with this):
While Meera may not hang on to Dark Sister for more than a moon’s turn, wouldn’t it be neat if her basically-canonical-parentage-according-to-me, Ashara Dayne and Howland Reed, granted her more than Dark Sister, and wielding the Valyrian sword only lended her to embrace her proto-Valyrian bloodline, and she emerged the god damn Sword of the Morning, brandishing Dawn through delicately spun White Walker bones? OKAY, COOL, GLAD WE’RE ALL ON THE SAME PAGE, MEERA REED IS NOW THE SWORD OF THE MORNING.
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a tempest, a cyclone, a goddamned hurricane, iii
Sansa goes home. Then she leaves home. This is not as easy as it sounds.
...
Chapter 2:
“Grandmother,” breathes Sansa.
She smiles warmly. “Eddard did mention your sharp mind.”
“Why are you here?”
Minisa’s face grows more solemn.
“Because,” she says, “I am here to tell you: you cannot see your family.”
...
Chapter Three: girls who try to save wolves instead of running away
...
“You have sworn vows,” Minisa tells her gently. “Vows to find Rhaenys, and other, older vows. Your parents will not allow you to leave once you see them, Sansa. If you stay…”
She trails off. Sansa takes the pause to look at her properly, studying the grandmother she knows so little about. Neither of her parents ever spoke about theirs; her father was a reticent man by nature, and Sansa’s mother had taken her cues from him, it seemed, at least in matters of loss and grief.
And Sansa knows one grandmother, knows her very well indeed.
Lyarra is like a knife, she thinks, blinking. Hard and shining and hidden, until the last moment. Rickard- he’d be a sword, I think, just as hard as Lyarra, yet not half so useful in anything other than the duty envisioned at the making.
And you, Minisa?
What are you?
Minisa Whent is not so thin as Lyarra, though she is likely just as tall; and where Lyarra had always been the sort of pretty of a gimlet stare and cut-diamond, Minisa’s of a softer look altogether: all large eyes and dark hair and rounded cheeks. She hasn’t braided her hair back as Lyarra had with her mountain-braids, nor even as Sansa’s own mother had favored, nor as the fashion in the south tended to favor, instead letting it hang around her in loose curtains.
The only decoration on both her clothes and her hair are flowers, in fact. There’s flowers embroidered along her skirts and sleeves, and small blossoms woven into her hair with all the neatness of a crown.
“I’m so close,” Sansa tries, watching Minisa closely. “All I need to do is speak to them, and then-”
“And then, they shan’t allow you to get away.” Minisa purses her lips. “They shall hide you away, and you’ll have to run away again, and that’s not half so likely to be a success if you reveal your disguise to them.”
I dreamed my father out of the Red Keep. I dragged my sister out of King’s Landing as it crawled with Lannister soldiers. I walked out of the Crownlands on my own two feet despite being hunted by everyone, and I did it with only the dead on my side.
“But of more importance,” Minisa continues blithely, “is that even if you are able, you’d likely not wish to. When my first son died- I fled Riverrun, did you know? All the way to Harrenhal, and never once looked back for half a year.” She doesn’t look at Sansa, choosing to focus on her hands instead. “It would be far more painful to force you away after the shortest glimpse and taste of them, I’m sure.”
“Are you.” It’s not a question, but that’s mostly because Sansa recognizes another person’s fingerprints over all of this- the secrecy, the silence, the insistence of reducing her burden- all of her grandfather’s favorite tricks. The surge of rage inside of her frightens Sansa in its intensity, but she doesn’t attempt to dampen it.
She advances instead, a step closer to her grandmother. “Are these your ideas, or my grandfather’s? For he surely thought the same of me. It was foolishness then, and foolishness now, to think that I will not be able to bear these burdens. Not when far greater have rested on my shoulders.”
Do not think me a child, not when I have spent a lifetime dancing with death.
Minisa doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then she lifts a hand and holds it aloft, palm upturned; one of the flowers ringing her wrists detaches itself, and it flickers away, shining brighter and brighter as it goes.
“House Whent is young,” she says, turning her eyes back to Sansa. “But my mother’s family is not. You’ve heard of House Blackwood, I trust?”
Sansa inclines her head slowly, anger still stiffening her joints.
“My mother was Lord Blackwood’s second daughter. And the Blackwoods have always been able to see things others cannot.” She shakes her head, thick hair sliding as she does. “I was never so strong in the gift, not enough to prophesize, but I can sense.”
“And what do you sense?”
“A girl of courage and life,” Minisa says. “With kindness bred deep inside of her. But that same kindness will be your undoing, for the people you shall find when you walk inside of Riverrun are people who hold your heart in their hands. For your own sake, you may be able to walk outside; but not when you see their grief, nor their pain.
“My mother was a Blackwood,” she repeats. Her hand flicks to the side, and the flower that flew away shines, brilliantly, in the center of her palm. “I have some gifts yet, granddaughter, and love enough to help you. But you cannot return. Not if you wish to keep the vows you have sworn.”
All of a sudden, Sansa remembers Elia: dark-skinned, sun-eyed Elia, who’d told her in a voice of thunder those same words.
“Fine,” she says, and struggles to keep her voice even, to ensure it doesn’t wobble from the strain of what she’s sacrificing. “Fine, I won’t go there. I’ll stay away.”
Minisa doesn’t answer her. She holds her hand out, instead, the one with a thin-stemmed, silvery flower on it.
“Look,” she orders. Her voice is deeper than before, deeper and richer. “You are my blood, of House Blackwood through me, with a hundred Blackwood wedding peaces through your father’s father’s father’s mother. Blackwoods, of the wolfswood and the Unnamed and the old weirwood- descendants of Benedict Blackwood, who led us south of the Neck when the North became unsafe; sons of Brynden, who saved our line from extinction when the Unnamed Castle tried to strike down our line; daughters of Agnes, who cursed the Hoares to ever be blind to loyalty, when she saw Lord Bracken’s betrayal.”
The flower seems to be shining brighter, but Sansa can’t be sure; the sun’s so bright, the air-
“Look closely, granddaughter,” says Minisa, “for Agnes paid a price to blind the Hoares. Our women see what is not to be seen, and you have that blood twice over.”
She whistles, high and clear, and even as Sansa jumps the flower twists, melting in on itself before rising to hang in the air like a slender, shining jewel. A jewel, thinks Sansa, or a mirror. And as she stares, the flat surface of the mirror darkens into red stone; then resolves into a- a sort of window.
“What-”
“Shh,” whispers Minisa. “See. Think on it later.”
A window showing two women and three men. Two of the men and one of the women have russet hair, and the other man and woman have black hair; they’re all seated around a table, and the tapestries around them are rich and thick.
Then Sansa sees their faces, and she cries out.
It’s her mother- her mother, and her father, and Robb and Arya; and another man, one she thinks must be her uncle. They all look good, too: there’s a livid scar running down her father’s face, and Arya’s hair is shorn shorter than Sansa’s ever seen on a girl; but they’re alive, and there’s a brightness to their eyes and a fullness to their cheeks that leaves her own chest tight with relief.
“This is-”
“Your family,” says Minisa. “My family. As they are right now, as my flower sees them.” Her blue eyes flicker from Sansa to the scene, and she softens. “They are well. All of them.”
Arya says something, and Robb laughs at it. Their parents look a mix between appalled and amused, and her uncle looks like he’s just hiding his own laughter, and Sansa can feel tears that have no right to come prickle at the corners of her eyes.
“They’re- they’re happy?” Sansa asks, swallowing hard enough to make her throat ache something fierce. “Content?”
“They are worried.” She flicks a piece of hair behind her, but her eyes are still affixed to Sansa; steady as any blade. “But there was a time when the worry was greater, and the possibility of failure higher, and that time was not too long ago.”
She does some motion with her wrists, and the window rises, hovering in the air now instead of balanced on her palm. Then Minisa reaches out and touches the side of Sansa’s face.
It is gentler than Visenya’s ever been. It’s gentler than Rickard at his softest. It’s gentler than Lyarra, too, the coolness nothing but the chill of an early summer morning, and it’s that same gentleness that makes her gasp, feeding the crushing pain inside of Sansa instead of lessening it.
“Cry, granddaughter,” Minisa murmurs, stepping closer, hands enfolding her. “If there is one thing you can do, here, now, it is weep.”
“Tears are- useless.” She scrabbles for a modicum of control, but Minisa is as pitiless in this as she was kind before, her hands smoothing down Sansa’s dress, rustling over Sansa’s rough-shorn hair. “That’s what- what Visenya said, and Elia, and Rickard, and Brandon as well. I must-”
“Not all tears are so,” Minisa says quietly. “You are so young- it’s easy to forget that, but we mustn’t, I think. Not if you are to survive this battle. Not all tears are useless, sweetling, and not all griefs are equal. Did you never think why they stopped you from weeping?”
“If I began, I would never stop.”
Minisa looks sad, in the fractured pieces that Sansa can see through her pooling tears. “For the pain was not at an end, not unless you walked out. And you couldn’t walk out if you were not trained, and you could not train if you were crying. But now: you cannot put this grief aside. Face it, accept it, and move on.” She reaches out and lifts Sansa’s chin. “Or do not. Those are your only choices.”
But I swore to you.
I do not think you have ever known what it is to not touch another person for more than a year, grandmother. I do not think you have ever gone so long without a person’s love, and their arms, and their warmth.
And I am so close, and you ask me to walk away, when I could forget my vows and fall asleep tonight besides my sister and mother.
“I swore to you,” Sansa whispers.
“One does not ask a bleeding man to cut out his heart.” Minisa steps away, slowly. “If I’d known how cruel they’d been- I would never have asked this of you.”
Sansa bows her head, the tears still resting in her chest, heavy, smothering. She thinks about how easy it would be to walk away. She thinks about Elia, and a whirling cyclone of silver-studded Martells above her. She thinks about Rickard, and how angry, how breathtakingly furious she still is at him.
She thinks about her father, cradling his sister in his arms, giving his entire life to a terrible lie.
She thinks about Robb, who’s carrying a crown on his Tully-red hair and slender shoulders.
She thinks about legacies.
I asked you not to treat me a child, she thinks, looking at Minisa through her lashes. But you’re right: I could not have walked away after seeing them. Not after knowing the pain of separation.
“Starks were not always honorable,” Sansa says, keeping her voice low so it doesn’t crack. “But my grandfather was, and my father after him, and my brother after him, and the same blood is in me.”
It’s not a real answer, but it’s enough of one.
Minisa nods and says nothing more on the subject, for which Sansa is grateful. “Then I shall guide you until you cross the Trident. There’s a copse on the way that you can rest in for tonight- it has enough apples for your dinner, and grass soft enough for a restful sleep.”
…
The copse is, indeed, comfortable.
Minisa sits beside her, and when she stares up at the stars, she starts to talk.
“Did your mother tell you of the Blackwoods?”
“No,” Sansa replies.
“We were of the North first,” Minisa murmurs, voice lilting like a bird. “In the wolfswood we stayed, wielding swords of silver and weirwood. Until a Stark grew greedy and forced us to flee; and then we fled south, past the Neck, all the way to a castle ruled by a house called Mudd.”
“River Kings,” says Sansa.
She feels sleepy, exhausted despite having more food in her belly and better rest than she’s had in weeks. There hasn’t been any game to catch, nor fire to light, nor water to fetch; Sansa’s likely safer here than she has been since she left King’s Landing. Perhaps it’s that which makes her eyes droop, her mind slow.
“They allied with us, helped us build a home of our own, gave us weirwood seeds and offered us a kingship. We named the Mudds High Kings and knelt to them honestly.” Minisa sweeps her hand along the ground and little bursts of light follow her path, forming faint, shimmering ghost-flowers. “For seven-seven generations it was a true peace. And then a fool of a Mudd raised the Brackens from horse breeders to nobility, after they’d betrayed us; and the Blackwoods rebelled.”
She clenches her fist. The flowers blink out of sight.
“We were slain,” Minisa says, “down to the last child. The Mudds were unforgiving of treachery, and the Blackwoods were unstinting in their pride; and so the stones of our home ran red with blood, and when it was over the Mudds tore down the castle and sowed the land with salt, so things would never grow again.”
“But not everyone,” says Sansa. “For you are here, and other Blackwoods as well.”
Minisa smiles, secretive. “All were slain,” she repeats, “except for Brynden Blackwood, whom his Bracken mother stole away to Stone Hedge.” She flutters her fingers, and silver light gleams between them like a thousand miniature daggers. “Brynden returned, when he was grown, and saw how the home he’d been born in was ruined. He took an oath of vengeance, and House Mudd saw its end not a few years later, when the Andals came.” The smile grows into something vaguely unholy, on Minisa’s soft features. “The castle is called Oldstones by others. But we Blackwoods know, and we remember that the castle’s true name is lost to us because of our own’s oath.”
It takes Sansa an embarrassingly long time to make the connections.
“That’s why you call it the Unnamed, not Oldstones,” she says slowly. “Because-”
“Because it is unnamed, under my- our- ancestor’s curse. Its lands are sown with salt, and all that remains of it is the tomb of their last king.”
“I would like to see it, I think.” Sansa closes her eyes and imagines that rage, that despair. She wonders what the air would feel like, in a place so steeped in death. “It would be different to-”
Minisa’s long hair flutters around her, and she reaches out with one hand, trailing long, dripping rivers of silver across the grass. “If you ever go there,” she says, voice solemner than Sansa’s ever heard it, “you will die, and it shall be more painful than any death you have heard of.”
And, abruptly, the sleep flees from Sansa’s mind, replaced by the same terror that’s dodged her footsteps for over a year. Death, she thinks. Death and all its implications.
I’m not ready to become a ghost. Not yet.
“Why?”
“To see us, you need one eye on the other side,” Minisa says. “To see the dead you need to be dead; and that is what you are: one eye, dead in spirit though not in reality. It happened so young to you-” she clicks her tongue sympathetically, “-did you know that the cold can damage one’s eyes? Particularly the young. You recovered, of course; but a dead thing remembers being dead. And so you saw your grandmother, and saw the other ghosts. But being dead means being affected by the dead.”
“There are ghosts in Oldstones,” she breathes.
“Ghosts who would like to spill as much of your Blackwood blood as possible.”
Sansa breathes in and out, slowly, before she says, “If I go straight to the shoreline-”
“The Greyjoys are watchful, and the Mallisters are fools.” Minisa sighs. “And it is still your best bet. I cannot go past the Trident, but I know of others who can help you.” She nods, satisfied. “You will reach Winterfell, my dear, never fear for that.”
The night air is cold, and Minisa’s fingers are just slightly colder. She gleams in the darkness, like a silvered lamp. Sansa closes her eyes and falls asleep to that, to bursts of light behind her eyes.
…
She dreams of sunlight, of an endless field stretching out before her, flowers of a thousand different breeds, shades shimmering. Minisa stands in the middle, and she looks brighter than she’d ever looked as a ghost.
Dance with me, she says. Dance with me!
They dance, in large, curving arcs that are far too graceful for human motion. After a time, Minisa sings as well; she sounds like a bird, her voice high and sharp. It feels like syrup, and Arya’s face when she eats lemoncakes on Sansa’s nameday despite hating the taste, and all the grief she felt to walk away from King’s Landing alone.
When they stop, the sky is more golden than blue, and some of the flowers have wilted.
You must leave, Minisa whispers, arms warm along Sansa’s sides, hair thick and dark around her face. She looks sad, but fierce as well, and triumphant. I cannot keep you safe forever. But you are my eldest daughter’s eldest daughter, dearest: you will always have a home here. And if you ever find yourself on the verge of breaking- promise me that you will follow the flowers. Promise me that you shall return, if ever you find yourself too worn to go on.
Why? Sansa asks, because she knows ghosts, and she knows humans, and she knows that those who do good and ask for nothing in return are often the most dangerous people of all.
A wind builds up around Minisa, so heavy it tugs at Sansa’s clothes and almost makes her stumble.
Everyone deserves safe harbor, she says. If you cannot find that in others, I shall be that for you.
She smiles, and then she flicks her fingers, and all the warmth that had sunk into Sansa’s bones vanishes like a smothered candle.
…
Sansa jerks awake.
Minisa hovers a few feet away.
“That’s it,” says Sansa, staring. “You- when I first saw you, I thought there was something strange- something different. I thought you couldn’t-”
Be trusted. She bites that back at the last moment, though Minisa seems to have understood her anyhow.
“-but you’re happy. That’s the difference between you and- and the others. You’re happy.”
“It isn’t worth the time to be unhappy,” Minisa replies, arching a brow. “It was not always easy, perhaps, but- what have I to gain from being miserable? You find the pieces of life that give you joy and you hold tight to it.”
Visenya had never been happy, Sansa realizes, suddenly, abruptly assured of it. Not for a single day in her life. She’d wanted to swallow the world, wanted to conquer it, and she had- but she was never happy.
“That’s not how others do it.”
“No? How foolish of them.”
People remembered Visenya. They remembered Elia and her terrible wrath. They remembered Lyarra, too, with her frozen sort of grief. Very few people ever remembered Minisa Tully. Even fewer remembered Minisa Whent. Sansa had never even heard her grandmother’s mother’s family until she’d met her.
“Between greatness and happiness,” Sansa says slowly, “which would you choose?”
“I have a garden of all the flowers I’ve ever wanted,” Minisa replies, looking down demurely. Then she looks at Sansa, through her lashes, dark as the night around them, and her eyes are shining. “I am great, here, greater than any other gardener in all the world. And I am happy to be so. If you are happy, dearest, then you shall be great. There is not one without the other.”
Well, Sansa thinks, that is certainly one way to think on it.
…
At the Trident, before she crosses, Sansa turns back to Minisa.
She wonders what she looks like, now; her hair is cropped close to her skull, and the clothes she wears are baggy to hide her figure. Sansa makes a tall, rail-thin boy, but with her face smudged with mud and circles beneath her eyes, she passes muster. She has none of the loveliness that her parents had so carefully tended.
Sansa’d been easy to love, once. Now she is… harder, and harsher, and bitter besides. She’s not-
Arya had fought bitterly with everyone, but they’d all loved her. Robb and Jon would have all chosen Arya over Sansa in a heartbeat, and her father too, like as not. And their mother would be the most horrified of all to see Sansa as she is now. It’s not quite cowardice that spurs Sansa away from Riverrun, but it’s not too different, either.
She’d once been easy to love, and they hadn’t loved her much then.
What is to change now?
“I’ll miss you,” she says, quietly, to Minisa.
“And I you.” Minisa reaches forwards and brushes a hand over Sansa’s cheek, soft enough that she can barely feel it. “I look forward to hearing of your adventures, granddaughter. And to seeing you without terror in your eyes.” She tips her head to the side. “You are already so beautiful, but then- oh, sweetling, you’ll be radiant then.”
If nothing else, I have the ghosts.
That’s a prickly thought. If the ghosts, too, had a choice- but they don’t.
They are all prickly thoughts, in truth. Love is something that Sansa’s wanted for so long, and now she’s sacrificing it in favor of the vows she’s sworn and the tasks she’s shouldered. She wonders when she grew up, but she’s pretty sure she won’t like the answer.
“I hope so,” she says, through the lump in her throat, and doesn’t look behind her as she crosses the river.
…
Sansa doesn’t look over her shoulder until she reaches the sea, and then she pauses to splash salt water over her face.
She cries, then, and calls it seawater.
…
(Of all the things Minisa’s done in the scarce day they’ve known each other- these tears are the most and least painful. Sansa doesn’t understand it, but if she were in the business of understanding things she’d have been a septa.
She’s a princess instead, a princess and a daughter and a Stark, and if there’s one thing all those three have in common it’s sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness.
Sansa cannot afford to forget that.)
…
When she sees Winterfell, Sansa’s hard-pressed to keep silent. It rises in front of her, shining and larger than she remembers it to be- there’s smoke and char marring its outer walls but it yet has more majesty to it than any other castle Sansa’s seen over the past year.
When I return, I will scrub the ash from your walls, she promises. I will wash away the scars and patch up the broken pieces and then- then I will bring a king home. The North shall reign freely soon, soon enough.
But right now, Greyjoy colors fly from its walls, dark and terrible against the pale stone. Sansa cannot leave the safety of the trees, doesn’t dare to go any closer to the castle, even with her disguise; the ghosts that are accompanying her now- a woodsman who’d died along the Kingsroad years before Torrhen knelt, and a boy with Stark-dark eyes and hair who’d slipped and drowned in a well even before that- are strong enough to walk the distance instead.
So she waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Sansa waits, right up until she’s bowled over by a wolf that almost matches her height- pale, with gold eyes and two tattered ribbons hanging from its fur.
“Lady!” Sansa shouts, before biting the sound back.
But she doesn’t hesitate to throw her arms around Lady’s neck, nor to snuggle closer to her; it’s been more than a year since Sansa saw her last, and where she’d left a stumbling pup, she now has a wolf that looks just as deadly as its mother had ever been. There’s no fear in her, though: only happiness, and warmth, despite all the snows, despite her own ragged clothes.
“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she mumbles into Lady’s fur. “It’s- it’s been a very long time.”
A long time, with only ghosts for comfort and whispers for assistance. Even longer since they’ve seen each other; Sansa’d left her behind before they went south at the first.
And here they stand: Lady, twice as tall, teeth sharpened, broad as a bear; Sansa, hair slashed to the scalp, a sword strapped to her waist, a cloak of homespun wool wrapped around barely-patched clothes.
Sansa reaches for the ribbons and unwinds them, slowly, from Lady’s back. They’re dark, with burrs caught on one side and mud spotting the other. But the silk is still smooth. It feels like a sort of benediction, to rub her fingers along the softness- how long has it been since she touched something like this?
“Too long.”
Her head jerks up, and sees Lyarra.
(Sansa has experienced a lifetime’s worth of emotion in the past year.
Fear, and love, and hate, and courage- in a thousand minute ways different to itself each time.
But never something like this.
It feels like wings of fire, sweeping up her chest and throat; like the beauty of Elia’s family, watching over her even through death; like the vision she’d seen of her parents and brother and sister, sitting around a table and laughing in broad daylight.)
She lunges forwards, back’s arch almost matching Lady’s only a few moments earlier, and even when she doesn’t feel anything but a cold that blisters her cheeks- Sansa cries, and laughs, and embraces Lyarra as best she can through the veil of death.
“It’s been far too long,” Lyarra whispers. Her fingers dance over Sansa’s neck, and then across to the back of her spine, where a scar from a Kingsguard’s sword still lingers. “Oh, darling child, sweetling- I heard the stories- I was so angry-”
“I didn’t,” she whispers back. “I saw them, Lyarra- Brandon and- and Rickard- and they told me that you weren’t talking. That no one was talking, and they were so worried, and I was so worried- and then I came back and it was-”
“Not worth it,” Lyarra whispers, and she looks sad, and she looks steady, and she looks beautiful. In the long, pale lines of her face, Sansa feels like she’s home again.
“No,” she says, and neither of them cry, neither of them can so much as touch as one another- but something deep within Sansa’s soul eases anyhow.
…
“Rickard was- unhappy.”
“He always was,” says Lyarra, wryly. “Even at his happiest- he was never the kind to be uncomplicatedly happy.”
“I don’t like him,” Sansa murmurs. She’s thought about what she’ll say to Lyarra for such a long time- but here, now, there’s only the truth in her mouth, hard and unvarnished and indelicate. There have never been lies between them, and she won’t begin now. “He was bitter, and cruel with it.”
Lyarra measures her. “Rickard was never cruel when I knew him. Cold, yes, and bitter often; but never cruel. Death must have been harsh on him.”
“Your absence was harsh on him.”
She bows her head. “Yes. I can see that happening, certainly.” A breath, and then her eyes, piercing and too-knowledgeable, meet Sansa’s again. “What did he do to you?”
He took my trust, and he ruined it.
“I loved him,” says Sansa, quietly. “But he did not love me. Only the vision he had of me. And when I did not measure up to that vision- he did not change, only tried to change me to fit.” Her lips twist, slightly, in humor that’s not truly humorous. “It was… it isn’t an experience I’d like to have again.”
“I suppose not.” Lyarra reaches forwards and brushes a hand over Sansa’s wrist. “Sansa- such lessons- oh, I wish you’d not have needed to learn them. But you are harder for it, and you would not have been taught them in Winterfell. You would not have the strength to do what you must, now.”
“And what must I do now?”
Lyarra hesitates. “How much has Rickard told you?”
“Enough.” Sansa feels her heart start to race. “Lyarra, please. If there’s something to be done-”
“There are many things to be done,” says Lyarra, gently. “There are always things to be done. But that does not mean that it is your responsibility. Others weren’t even told of their duties until they were past their first blood- or had gained their first swords- and you’ve started learning the tales far before that.”
“But it’s important.”
“Yes,” she acknowledges. “Very.”
“Then what-”
“Oh, my dearest daughter,” whispers Lyarra, reaching up to cup Sansa’s cheeks, her hands freezing, tears shining in her pale, pale eyes, “descendant of my blood, child of my heart: I must send you to your death today-” Sansa’s heart skips a beat, but she cannot move, “-and I cannot tell you how much this pains me, but when the dead come…” She bows her head over Sansa’s face. They are almost of a height, now, where Sansa’d been half a head shorter before leaving Winterfell. “When the dead come, you either fight them or you join them. There is nothing between. And the risk of death is better than sure death.”
“Lyarra,” says Sansa, almost voiceless, in a voice that would have been trembling on any other person, “where do you want me to go?”
“North of the Wall,” says Lyarra.
…
Sansa does not ask Lyarra why would I go. Lyarra hears the question anyhow, and her hands come up to rest on Sansa's shoulders.
The last I knew, she says, hesitantly, slowly, your brothers were alive. And where Bran went is where you go: to the three-eyed crow, whose name is Brynden Rivers.
For a long, breathless moment, Sansa cannot breathe from the knowledge.
She thinks of her mother’s face, and her father’s eyes, and Robb’s gentle strength. She thinks of Arya and Jon and Theon and all the other people she’s not loved half so much as they deserved. She thinks of the dead, and how desperate one must be to ask a granddaughter to walk into their midst.
She remembers Bran’s laughter and Rickon’s giggles.
Then, some old courage fueling her voice, she whispers, Yes.
...
That night, Sansa is ready.
There’s a pack of food on her shoulders, a knife stolen from the kitchens that’s freshly sharpened, a heavier cloak and boots to shield her from the cold. With some deft needlework she’ll be able to cut her old cloak to use for pockets; with luck, she’ll have enough game on the way to pad the lining a bit as well.
“Remember,” says Lyarra. “You will need help to scale the Wall. Pretend to be a wildling, or threaten some villagers into helping you- but do not go to the Night’s Watch. They watch their doors with ever-greater vigilance. Once you’re past the Wall…”
“I know what to do,” says Sansa. She tests the straps of the pack before deciding they’ll hold for one night’s trekking. She’ll need to tie it off again later, but it’s manageable, she hopes. “I’ll get there, Lyarra. But will they help?”
“Our death is their death,” Lyarra replies firmly. “They’ll help if they have any minds left to them.”
Which is precisely what Sansa’s doubting the existence of, but if this is their only hope then it won’t do to snuff it out so simply. So slender a ray, she thinks, strapping Dark Sister to her waist. To hold back the darkness of death. Let us pray it will last through the night.
“You’ll follow me?”
Lyarra does not touch her; Sansa is glad of it.
She feels battle-ready in these clothes, ill-fitting though they are, and it is a fragile feeling. If Lyarra touches her she feels as if she might break apart. Hopefully this bravado can last her through the trek North.
“Yes,” says Lyarra. “For as long as I can. And then I will find another to accompany you, and then another, and then another. You shall not be alone, Sansa, I promise you.”
Sansa’s hands dig into the warmth of Lady’s fur and then into the chill of Lyarra’s palms.
I trust you, she thinks, and walks onwards.
…
Three days later: Sansa bids goodbye to Lyarra.
There’s a ghost there, waiting for her. He’s taller than her by nearly three heads. His hair is cut so short she can see his scalp, and there’s a flash of a weapon anytime he moves. It’s like being next to a very large, very dangerous porcupine.
“Which gate’re we gettin’ to?” he asks.
Stay away from the Night’s Watch, Lyarra had told her. They watch the gates with ever increasing vigilance.
I trust you, Sansa thinks, and feels the warmth of Lady by her side, feels the air in her lungs increase as she breathes in. But I do not trust you enough, Grandmother.
“Castle Black’s,” she tells the ghost. “I need help.”
…
The ghost’s name is Willam. It takes Sansa some time to reconcile this Willam- giant, prickly-edged, warm-hearted- with the Willam in Artos’ stories.
When she realizes, Willam laughs.
“Oh, yes, Artos always took care of me. Twins we were; but he was the better with his sword, and me with my tongue.” He taps his chest and winks at Sansa. “See, little daughter: size matters little, in the larger scheme of things. ‘Tis skill that matters most of all, and I’ve never had any in war.”
“He made you sound-” Sansa searches for the words. Indestructible. Indefatigable. Insane. “Like the best man he knew.”
It’s the truth. Artos and Donnor hate each other; they refuse to talk through the year and shout on the solstice over Errold’s death. But Donnor has Berena, and Artos- he’s always been alone, isolated from even his wife and children.
Sansa thinks she understands now.
“Little daughter,” says Willam, kneeling to match her now, his eyes warm on her face, all laughter gone. “Artos and I- we were closer than brothers. My death ruined him, according to Lyarra, because he couldn’t ever recover that. And he died inside Winterfell; he can’t leave it- and I cannot enter. We are separated forever.” He sighs. “I died to save him. He thinks he can never repay that debt, and does not realize it wasn’t a debt at all.”
“I’m… sorry.”
“Do not be sorry,” he says, suddenly, fiercely. “Understand. There are debts between people, yes, often, but the world is not all of that. There is love as well. There are things which are offered freely, and to name a price to that kind of gift is an insult of itself. The paths you tread are lined with debts, little daughter, but you must never forget the gifts as well.”
Sansa, watching her father and sister flee into the distance. Sansa, forgiving Elia for nothing but the rightness of that forgival. Sansa, walking away from Riverrun and Winterfell and all the homes that have ever been hers.
Where are my gifts? She wants to scream, suddenly, with the horrible wrongness of it all. She has been given debts and she has given gifts, but never the other way. How dare the world be weighted against her so much? How dare-
Willam rises to his feet, and the silvery light of the sun makes a thousand rainbows dance over her skin.
And she remembers Brandon.
Brandon, watching over her even when he could do nothing. Betha and Alysanne and Rhaella, chaining their tormentors, fighting them off so Sansa could flee in peace. Minisa, pressing flowers into Sansa’s hands and dancing with her through the night.
Do not forget your gifts.
She reaches out and hugs Lady close, before rising to her own feet. They’ve another half day’s walk to go, and it looks to snow soon.
Every step of the way, she feels hollowed out.
Hollowed and filled with light, all at once.
...
When they reach the Wall, Sansa pauses to smear mud and snow over her face and- most importantly- her hair. It’s too light; it’s too vibrant; it’s too noticeable. Willam tells her where to add it so she looks more grungy than in a disguise, and respectable enough not to make people wonder why an orphan’s sneaking into Castle Black.
“Good luck,” he says. “This is far’s I go- can’t go within castles. M’head’s weird that way.” A moment’s pause, and then Willam continues: “I’ll be here if you need me after.”
“Yes,” says Sansa, slowly, trying to find a way to show Willam how thankful she is for his presence. He’s fading away, almost disappeared, when she says, “Thank you.”
Two words. They aren’t worth anything much.
But Willam would know the weight of words, best of all his brothers, better than most of her ancestors. He’d used them to beat back armies. He’d used them to create armies.
When he was captured by wildlings and held at the Long Lake with his brother- it was his words that allowed his brother to escape. His lack of skill in arms meant Willam didn’t leave alive; but his skill in words meant the wildlings didn’t kill his brother. Sansa looks at him, this giant of a man with steel on every part of his body, this man who died because his life didn’t mean half so much to him as other’s happiness, and she hopes he knows how deep her gratitude goes, deeper than the marrow of her bones.
Unconditional. So easy to forget its meaning, but she cannot. Sansa refuses to forget. Not anymore.
“Thank you,” she says, again, because she cannot put a price to her gratitude, because she will not cheapen it that way. “Thank you.”
Willam smiles. “It has been long since a shieldbrother walked beside me. I enjoyed the company, little daughter, never fear. And- do not fear. Not for all the years you live. You will never be alone. That much I can swear to you.” He nods and disappears, leaving Sansa in the woods a few minutes’ walk from Castle Black.
…
Slowly, she picks her way towards the castle.
Once inside- it’s dark and cold, and a perpetual sort of dampness that makes her skin prickle uncomfortably. The mud in her hair cakes against her scalp. She can feel the part of it along the back of her neck slide down her spine.
At one hallway, she pauses. She must keep to the shadows; that much is true no matter where she goes. But she can go down or forwards at this juncture, and she has little idea where Jon is. Either might be accurate. Forwards means a higher likelihood of people, but down- Sansa’s no idea where down will go.
A breath, then two, and she squares her shoulders before stepping onto the stairs.
One hall, then another; down and down into earth that’s been frozen for longer than Winterfell’s walls have stood. She doesn’t know where she’s going, precisely, but she has- a feeling. Not a premonition, nor even the aid of ghosts; Sansa doesn’t trust these ghosts, who have sharp teeth and sharper eyes. But there is some deep weight guiding her here, as a dissonant sound in an orchestra would yet be audible- some old thing, a lodestone keeping her silent and steady on her feet.
“I’ve no desire to-”
“-they’ll get the desire if I shove enough swords up-”
“-enough!”
Three voices, a burst of noise like sunbursts in darkness, and then silence. Sansa goes still and presses her fingers to the hard-packed earth behind her, grounding herself in the darkness.
Who would hide in darkened tunnels? One foot to the side, body flush against the wall. They won’t be able to find her here. People with things to hide.
“There’ll be consequences to doin’ this,” says the first man, who has a slow, deep voice. “People like him. Ain’t going to be easy to keep rumors down, not with his friends poking about.”
“Which is why we must plan it,” the third man says flatly. “This must be done carefully. Removing the Lord Commander is a dangerous task in and of itself, but the wildlings shall be a bigger threat than any of Lord Snow’s friends.”
Removing? Sansa thinks. Then, slow and thick, panic threaded through it: Snow?
“A fucking army is what it is.” Disgust curdles the second man’s voice. “Ready-made for him to do whatever he wants.”
“Aye. If we can get him-”
“Snow’s not an idiot,” says the third man. “He’ll guess if one of us try anything.”
“Then, what?” asks the second man. “We’ll have to take out his steward if you want to put somethin’ in his drink. He’s too watchful to let such a thing slip.”
There’s a shuffling sound, before the first man says, “The whore’s not the problem. What would we do after putting it in his drink?”
“I know you aren’t the sharpest person here,” drawls the third man, “but this is ridiculous, Yarwyck.”
Silence, and then a yelp sounds; Sansa digs her nails into her hands to keep from reacting.
“We can decide after that,” says the second man, sounding impatient with the entire situation. “Cut his throat, stab him in the-”
Sansa doesn’t hear anything more. There’s a river roaring in her ears, crashing through her veins. A man is going to die soon and Sansa has to- she has to save him, she has information that could save him- but she cannot be seen either, and she has another task ahead of her, one infinitely more important, and-
Breathe.
Sansa steps out into the hallway and spins neatly into a boy’s shoulders, driving them both into the floor. He swears under his breath before seeing her, still huddled against the far wall; then he rises and brushes off his knees, extending a hand.
“Sorry for the-” he pauses, looking at her. “Is something the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a-”
She can walk away. She has a world to save, and a brother to find, and one Lord Commander of a Watch that hasn’t done much of its duty for as long as she’s known it- he shouldn’t tip the balance.
I’m not ready to die, thinks Sansa, before reaching out and grasping the boy’s hand. I do not get to decide that anyone else is.
“The Lord Commander,” says Sansa, remembering only at the last moment to pitch her voice as low as she can make it. “Do you know where he is?”
There’s a pause, before the boy says, slowly: “Yes.” There’s a note to his voice that’s suddenly uncomfortable, that’s abruptly wary.
Sansa draws herself up, straight as she can make her spine. She knows, intimately, how ridiculous she looks; and still she can do nothing but hope she looks impressive enough to intimidate the boy into taking her to the Lord Commander.
“I need you to take me to him.”
“Why?”
“Because.” She leans her weight against the wall, testing the bruises along her knees before deciding her legs can hold her up. “It’s important.” There’s a burn along the boy’s wrist, and Sansa recognizes it as done by dripping candle wax as used for stamping letters. Two ideas snap together in her mind as so many matchsticks. “M’master wants to sell candles. She sent me to get a buyer.”
“She,” says the boy, folding his arms over his front. “You telling me that she goes by the title master?”
The curl to his hair, the soft brown tint that she’s seen on only one another family- Sansa makes a wild guess that she can only hope bears through.
“You’re not from the North, are you?” A girl would scoff, but a boy would twist his lips derisively. Sansa does a strange mix of both, instincts warring with each other. “A master’s got a mastery in a craft. Doesn’t matter if they’re man or woman. And mine asked me for buyers.”
“At Castle Black?” asks the boy incredulously.
“I don’t think there’s a darker castle around,” answers Sansa, solemn as she can manage. “If anyone needs candles here, it’ll be you lot.” A smile tugs at her lips, and she doesn’t bother to control it to say: “Winter’s coming, you know? You’ll need the light.”
Slowly, the boy smiles. “Very well, then. You’re amusing enough, I suppose. It’ll make a good distraction for Jon.”
Her heart skips a beat.
“Jon?”
“Well.” He rubs at the back of his neck, half-sheepish. “Lord Commander. Lord Commander Snow, if we’re being accurate, but he- doesn’t like that title much. So if you want to sell your candles don’t call him that.”
Jon Snow.
Lord Commander.
“I think,” says Sansa, faintly, “I ought to re-negotiate terms with my master. I’ll come back on the morrow.”
…
Hiding in the woods, she presses her hands to the snow and then her hands to her head.
Lady whines behind her. Sansa feels like she’s on the verge of tearing her hair out, caught as she is between frustration, worry, and fear.
It dovetails quite nicely, protecting the Lord Commander and getting Jon to help her cross the Wall, but Sansa’s quite certain that leaving Jon with just a warning won’t have much of an effect. If a warning won’t be enough that means she has to take action, and threatening isn’t much her style.
Taking action can go both ways. There are two groups here, not just the people trying to kill Jon- there’s Jon, too.
And I need help.
Ghosts can help her south of the Wall. North of it- Sansa doesn’t know anyone there. Lyarra had been deliberately vague on instructions past getting to the cave of the three-eyed crow, though Sansa isn’t certain if that’s because she doesn’t know or because she doesn’t want Sansa to know.
“I’ll need help out there,” she tells Lady. “It’s going to be dangerous. I’m going to need help, with hunting and hiding- the dead are out there, in greater numbers. And Jon’s a thousand times better than me with a sword.”
One beat, then two, then three.
“So we bring Jon with us.” She tests the sentence out into the air, before dropping back to her knees. “But how?”
One direwolf and one girl. She can disguise herself as a boy and, with a little luck, sneak Lady inside. But there’s still little chance of getting Jon by himself for long enough that Sansa can explain everything, not that and get him to believe it.
Who would believe that their sister can speak to ghosts?
Lady growls low in her throat, nudging Sansa’s shoulder. I don’t want to fail, Sansa thinks, letting her forehead fall to the fur. But there isn’t time enough for me to go to one of the other gates, and Jon will be too wary of a strange direwolf to follow it. I don’t want to fail, I don’t- I can’t think about the consequences- but-
She thinks about Lyarra and Visenya and Minisa and her own parents, all of whom have loved her for so long, with such depth. She imagines them gone, mindless, and Sansa wants to weep with everything she has inside of herself.
Lady growls again, a different sort of noise, and Sansa snuggles closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But my best plan was just- I’m so-”
Sansa doesn’t get to finish the sentence, for there’s a louder growl. Sighing, she sits up to figure out what’s wrong with Lady- when she stops, a flash of white in the corner of her eye. Slowly, she turns.
“Oh,” whispers Sansa. Then, louder, and louder still: “Yes. Yes. Yes!”
Standing in front of her is an answer to every prayer she’s been sending for hours:
Ghost.
#sansa stark#minisa whent#lyarra stark#jon snow#got fic#my writing#a tempest; a cyclone#so this was a long time coming
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A list of lines & other things in ASOIAF that break my heart
…because I just finished adwd and I’m trying to cope
“And afterward, we'll ride north to see the Wall. We won't even tell Jon we're coming, we'll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure." "An adventure," Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb's face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together.
Distressed baby Rickon not quite knowing where his family is and what’s going on. (“You leave him. You leave him be. He’s coming home now, like he promised. He’s coming home.”)
“The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends," Ser Jorah told her. "It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace." He gave a shrug. "They never are.”
Promise me, Ned.
“How then did you save me? I saw my god's house burn, where I had healed good men beyond counting. My home they burned as well, and in the street I saw piles of heads. I saw the head of a baker who made my bread. I saw the head of a boy I had saved from deadeye fever, only three moons past. I heard children crying as the riders drove them off with their whips. Tell me again what you saved." “Your life." Mirri Maz Duur laughed cruelly. “Look to your khal and see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone."
“Dimly, as if from far away, she heard a … a noise … a soft sighing sound, as if a million people had let out their breath at once.”
The tragedy that is the story of Jeyne Poole
PROUDWING
The Starklings remembering Robb with snow melting in his hair.
"Rhaenys was a child too. Prince Rhaegar's daughter. A precious little thing, younger than your girls. She had a small black kitten she called Balerion, did you know? I always wondered what happened to him. Rhaenys liked to pretend he was the true Balerion, the Black Dread of old, but I imagine the Lannisters taught her the difference between a kitten and a dragon quick enough, the day they broke down her door."
Mycah & Lady’s deaths
Barra & her mother
Alayaya
Arya held her breath and kissed the mud on the floor of the tunnel and cried. For who, she could not say.
Run Weasel, run as far as you can, run and hide and never come back.
“It’s always summer in the songs. In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining.”
The fate of the people in the Riverlands, Hardhome, Astapor & Saltpans.
When they took his head off, they killed me too.
But if we are winning, why am I so afraid?
Davos pretty much having to watch half of his children die at the Blackwater
Sansa singing the mother’s song to Sandor before he leaves King’s Landing
It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.
“When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.”
Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.
“Gods be good, why would any man ever want to be king?”
But the wolf’s dead and the young one’s gone south to play the game of thrones, and all that’s left us is the ghosts.
“She was,” said Meera, “but that’s a sadder story.”
We look up at the same stars and see such different things.
“I have won every battle, yet somehow I’m losing the war.”
“The singers make much of kings who die valiantly in battle, but your life is worth more than a song. To me at least, who gave it to you.”
Jaime, he thought, my name is Jaime.
The training of the Unsullied
“Could you bring back a man without a head? Just the once, not six times. Could you?”
“And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first we’ll live.”
In this light, she could almost be a beauty. In this light she could almost be a knight.
“We’re all just songs in the end. If we are lucky.”
“No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair.”
Let him grow taller, she asked the gods. Let him know sixteen, and twenty, and fifty. Let him grow as tall as his father, and hold his own son in his arms. Please, please, please.
“D’you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave.”
Back in Winterfell, Sansa told him, that the demons of the dark couldn’t touch him if he hid beneath his blanket.
I have a hole where my heart should be, she thought, and nowhere else to go.
The story of the dying archer Sandor and Arya come across after the RW.
"You remember where the heart is?"
Arya took the doll away from her, ripped it open, and pulled the rag stuffing out of its belly with a finger. “Now he really looks like a soldier!”
The boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead.
“I’d win in the end, yes, but you’d bleed me, and my people have bled enough.”
Joffrey was dead, but if Robb was dead too, what did it matter?
I thought my song was beginning that day, but it was almost done.
A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here.
What do I want with snowballs? She looked at her sad little arsenal. There’s no one here to throw them at. She let the one she was making drop from her hand.
“I was a man grown when they were playing in these pools. Yet here I sit, and they are gone.”
“And pull your hood up. The snowflakes are melting in your hair.”
Arya never seemed to find the places she set out to reach.
“I’m his squire,” he repeated, as the rain ran down his face, “but he left me.”
“I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.”
“My sister Elia had a little girl as well. Her name was Rhaenys. She was a princess too.”
The knights of summer. And now it was autumn and they were falling like leaves…
It was not the scorn of the many that left her confused and vulnerable, but the kindness of the few.
“Egg? Egg, I dreamed that I was old.”
Gilly having to leave her baby behind
“We are sworn to protect her as well,” Jaime had finally been driven to say. “We are,” Darry allowed, “but not from him.”
“I’m sorry I never trusted you. I don’t know how to do that anymore.”
“It’s just a sword,” she said, aloud this time… but it wasn’t. […] the Many-Faced God can have the rest, she thought, but he can’t have this.
“I used to have a dog when I was little. I called him Hero.” “Was he?” “Was he what?” “A hero.” “No. He was a good dog, though. He died.” (oh Podrick…)
The Broken Men speech
Jaime’s dream about Joanna
“The war of the Ninepenny Kings?” asked Hyle Hunt. “So they called it, though I never saw a king, nor earned a penny. It was a war though. That it was.”
“Egg? It’s dark. Why is it so dark?”
“I am the only child the gods let him keep. The freakish one, not fit to be a son or daughter.”
“Death should hold no fear for a man as old as me, but it does. Isn’t that silly?”
“[…] I was never afraid, when he was throwing me. I knew he would always be there to catch me. Then one day he wasn’t.”
“It were the black one,” the man said, in a Ghiscari growl, “the winged shadow. He come down from the sky and… and…”
Jon remembered Ygritte, crying. I am the last of the giants.
Pia being genuinely confused when Jaime has her rapist executed. Those poor people are seriously not used to actually getting some justice.
Penny and her brother
“He taught me how to climb a tree when we were little. He could catch fish with his hands. Once I found him sleeping in our garden with a hundred butterflies crawling over him. He looked so beautiful that morning, this one… I mean, I loved him.”
Her name had been Hazzea. She was four years old.
One day when the war is done and King Stannis sits the Iron Throne and has no more need of onion knights. I'll take Devan with me. Steff and Stanny too if they're old enough. We'll see these dragons and all the wonders of the world.
“I’m no slave.” “Every man ever taken by slavers sings that same sad song.”
“Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis. Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon.”
I am so sorry Marya, I have loved you. Please forgive the wrongs I did you.
“Who is Eroeh?” “A girl I thought I’d saved from rape and torment. All I did was make it worse for her in the end. And all I did in Astapor was make ten thousand Eroehs.”
The story of the Mountain and the Hound
What if I don’t want to remain when you are gone? he almost asked, but he swallowed the words unspoken.
“That was in the dawn of days, when our sun was rising. Now it sinks, and this is our long dwindling. The giants are almost gone as well, they who were our bane and our brothers. The great lions of the western hills have been slain, the unicorns are all but gone, the mammoths down to a few hundred. The direwolves will outlast us all, but their time will come as well. In the world that men have made, there is no room for them, or us…“
I was going to be a knight, Bran remembered. I used to run and climb and fight. It seemed a thousand years ago. What was he now?
Bran did not want to be married to a tree… but who else would wed a broken boy like him?
Bless me, Dany thought bitterly. Your city is gone to ash and bone, your people are dying all around you. I have no shelter for you, no medicine, no hope. Only stale bread and wormy meat, hard cheese, a little milk. Bless me, bless me.
“I saw your father die. Here is his killer. Can I take a skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night? Will it make me laugh, write me songs, care for me when I am old and sick?”
It is an easy thing for a prince to call the spears, but in the end the children pay the price.
“Thousands of enemies. Thousands of wildlings.” Thousands of people, Jon thought.
An honest kiss, a little kindness, everyone deserves that much, however big, or small.
It was my home, though. Not a true home, but the best I ever knew.
“Naath. Butterflies and brothers. Tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. Remind me that there is still good in the world.”
Where was I? I should have died with him.
Perhaps I cannot make my people good, she told herself, but I should at least try to make them a little less bad.
Her song is sad and pretty. What happened to her wasn’t.
Men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths.
I rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell.
“Sister. See. This time I knew you.”
“Theon,” he repeated. “My name is Theon. You have to know your name.”
A thousand years ago, she had known a girl who loved lemon cakes.
Quentyn did not want to die at all.
"I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again..."
They know nothing, Ygritte. And worse, they will not learn.
Stick them with the pointy end.
“Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was… her name was…” Dany could not recall the child’s name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away.
“I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl.”
Feel free to add.
#nymini reads asoiaf#long post#asoiaf#a song of ice and fire#a game of thrones#a clash of kings#a storm of swords#a feast for crows#a dance with dragons#grrm#quotes
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Spill out my Passions upon your Feet
JONxSANSA, Modern Royalty AU, Oneshot, 6911 words, Uses all the jonsa smut week prompts in one. Read it on AO3
Summary:
“Why do you torture yourself like this?”
“No one, Rhaenys, you cannot tell her, or him, or anyone.”
Oh Jon, she thought, everyone that matters, already knows.
As they grew, their feelings grew, but an impossible love tangled up in the royal families of modern day Westeros is doomed to fail, no matter how much Jon may burn for Sansa, and she may ache for him.
Dedicated to Amymel86 as she is fabulous and kind and wonderful and honestly is just a wonderful part of this fandom.
"Which one is she?"
Rhaegar crouched down next to his son, looking at the official portrait of the Royal Family of the North.
"Which one do you think she is?"
A young finger smudged the glass over the face of a little girl with grey eyes and a begrudging smile.
"That one? With the dark hair like Rhaenys?"
"No, not that one."
"The red haired one then, like her Mum."
The King of the Crownlands watched his son's small face, curious for his reaction.
"Yes that's her; your future bride. What do you think?"
Thin, 12 year old shoulders shrugged.
"Pretty I guess. Do I really have to marry her though, Father?"
Big eyes looked up into his, Rhaegar sighed, they were just like the boy's mother's.
"Yes Aegon, you do."
Jon Targaryen hurtled down the palace corridor, skipping round a corner and skidding on the marble floors.
"Rhaenys! Wait! Wait for me!"
A gleeful laugh drifted back down towards the dark haired boy, and he pushed his skinny 10 year old legs all the faster.
Rounding the last corner, his dress shoes flying across the polished staircase, he slammed into the legs of his Father.
"Jon! You're late!"
"Sorry Father, I lost track of time reading and- and Rhaenys challenged me to a race, and then I had to changed my pants because I slipped-"
Seeing the upward tick of his Father's mouth, and knowing that he wouldn't face any penalties today of all days, Jon blew out the rest of his breath and took his place beside his sister.
Jon wasn't too worried, after all, whilst it was the arrival of a Royal Family, this wasn't the state greeting and there was no one to report on his tardiness in such close company.
He was glad of his timing a minute later though, when the doors opened to the drive and he and his family stepped out just before the line of Range Rovers pulled up carrying the King in the North and his family.
Excitement thrummed through him. Whilst not directly, his Mother had been the 2nd cousin twice removed or some such relation of the King of the North, and they had grown up together. Before she had passed, his Mother would tell him such wonderful stories of the North and of the king, Ned Stark. Jon could feel himself near vibrating in anticipation of meeting the man she had spoken so fondly of and his family.
The car door opened and out stepped a man with an austere brow and straight lips, followed by a beautiful lady with long dark red hair.
Their picture of elegance was soon ruined by the spilling of three children from the back of the car. A boy around his age, with his mother's hair in riotous curls, a girl around five that looked much like him but was twisting her head every which way to take in her surroundings, and a boy around four whose hair was a reddish brown and looked to be bouncing in giddiness at the sights before him.
Jon's vision was soon stolen however, by another girl stepping out, holding a boy around two by his hand, hair brighter than her mother or her siblings held back in a French braid.
She was her mother in miniature, down to the elegant way she led her little brother over to her Mother to be held by her.
Jon quickly rattled the names of the Stark children off in his head, matching them to the portrait used to teach him their names.
Robb stood next to his father now, a grin splitting his face. Next him was the second Stark princess, Arya, the one who looked like her father and like him. Bran stark stood next to his Mother, Rickon Stark in her arms.Â
Between her parents stood Sansa Stark, first Princess of the North and- Jon didn't bother to close his gaping mouth- the prettiest girl Jon had ever seen.
Sansa giggled as Jon placed a wreath of flowers on her head, brushing a fallen petal out of her eyes.
He grinned back, folding into a sweeping bow, hands flourishing at his sides.
At the ridiculously flamboyant action, Sansa couldn't help but break into peals of gasping laughter, joined a second later with Jon's soft but hearty chuckles.
"Well, Queen of Love and Beauty, what would you have of your Knight, my service is yours."
A failure of a wink accompanied his words and Sansa laughed all the harder.
"Jon- oh gosh- Jon-"
"How rude! The lady laughs at my declaration! I am wounded to the core!" Jon clasped a hand to his chest to accompany his melodramatic teasing.
Sansa fell down on the grass clutching her stomach, soundless gasps escaping her.
Soon, Jon joined her on the well manicured lawn, laughing along as they gazed up at the branches above.
Sansa turned her head to view the boy lying next to her, giggling now and then, reminded of his antics.
Sometimes she didn't know how she had thought he was rude and didn't like her, the first time they met. Although Jon hadn't been able to speak four words in a row together to her for the first three days, which had rather upset her sensibilities. He had been verbose enough with her siblings, especially Robb and Arya, who had all become thick as thieves.
It was that, really, that had changed things.
...
Sansa wasn't silly. She wasn't stupid. And they would be the only reasons to cry about stupid sisters and brothers, and princes that didn't invite her to play.
She had been having fun with Rhaenys anyway, they had become fast friends, sharing a love of all things beautiful and bonding over brother's that could be absolutely intolerable at times, although she did love hers dearly, especially Robb, who always looked after her.
So she wouldn't have been able to play knights and dragons anyway, but still. It hurt. It hurt that they didn't ask.
It was all Jon Targaryen's fault!
He was so friendly and nice to all her siblings, he even got along with Arya, and she didn't like too many people, she had asked Robb if Jon had said he didn't like her, but Robb had just said he hadn't, though-
"Don't be silly Sansa, he definitely likes you, and if he didn't he'd get in trouble from me!"
At that, he had flexed his arm in a poor imitation of the strong men at the Northern Games, and grinning cheekily.
She had forgotten her worry that afternoon after that, but it all came rushing back now.
Sansa had been nice! She had curtsied, and said hello and smiled, and she had thought he looked very nice, she had liked his pretty eyes.
But he had just stood there, gaping like a fish, until his sister had elbowed him!
She didn't understand! Aegon was nice, he talked to her properly, Sansa couldn't help but he glad he was her betrothed, even if she hadn't seen him much, and he seemed to prefer playing with his other friends than with them, and didn't have nearly as pretty eyes as-
Well. She would give Prince Jon a piece of her mind.
Tears still welling in her eyes, Sansa stomped as gracefully as possible over to the garden where Rhaenys said Jon would likely be.
Seeing him bent over some flowers, looking ever so peaceful, Sansa stopped trying to be graceful and ran over to the boy, planting herself in front of him.
"Princess Sansa!"
Sansa took in his widening eyes and flushed face happily, thinking he had finally realised his rudeness, but would not be deterred from a proper dressing down.
"Prince Jon, if you don't like me then-then that is okay, but I want to know why!" Sansa allowed herself to stomp her foot at this point, too upset to care for being ladylike.
"What- don't like- wait-"
"Don't try and say you don't! You won't talk to me when I try, but you talk to everyone else, and you play with the others and not me and- and you didn't even ask me!"
Sansa wasn't used to not being liked, especially by people she wanted to like her. She always tried to be nice, and she couldn't think of anything she'd done to Jon.
Frustrated and embarrassed about having to confront the boy before her, the tears that had been welling, started to escape.
They jumpstarted Jon out of his shocked silence.
"Oh no! Sansa, oh don't cry, please don't cry, oh gods-"
"You shouldn't say that, it's rude to the gods," Sansa managed to interject between hasty sniffles and wiping her face.
"I'm sorry, I won't, just please, please, please don't cry. Here, have this-"
Sansa took the handkerchief with slight suspicion, not sure why he was talking to her now, and even being nice!
"I'm really sorry Princess, I didn't mean to make you think that. I was just worried- I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of you."
"What?"
"Well, you're so good at being a Princess, and you're very proper, and pretty, and polite, and I didn't want to look an idiot."
Sansa considered this in between blowing her nose.
"Here, just wait, let me, let me get something, I'll be right back, don't move!"
Sansa watched as the boy ran off to the palace backwards, shouting back as he went.
Deciding to wait she sat down. Well. That was a stupid reason not to talk to her. He just went and embarrassed her.
But he had called her pretty, so he couldn't be all bad.
She might, maybe, possibly forgive him.
Brought out of her deliberations by her name being called again, she turned to see Jon running back towards her across the lawn.
"Here, I made this for you today, but I was too scared to give it to you, that's why I didn't ask you to play too."
He placed a garland of daisies, lopsided and shedding, upon the crown of her head.
Sansa didn't know what to say, but she thought, as she tackled him with a hug, that she could, probably, definitely, forgive him after all.
...
Three years later, Jon was 13 and Sansa was 11, and they were, Sansa thought, the very best of friends.
Well of course, Rhaenys was also her best friend, but she had best friends her age as well, and her and Rhaenys talked about different things than her and Jon. It was just different.
After all, no one knew how to make Sansa laugh like Jon did. Except for maybe Robb (and Arya when they were on the same side, but she wouldn't admit that under pain of death) and he never did so with the soft gentleness of Jon.
Jon was always gentle, so very, very gentle.
Smiling fondly over at her knight, lying beside her under the blue skies and warm wind, Sansa knew what she wished for.
"I want my knight to smile more, if it pleases you. After all Sir Jon, you have such a pretty grin, I would not want to waste it."
Jon grinned at her.
"As my Lady commands."
"Why does Aegon have to marry Sansa?"
Rhaenys looked over at her littlest brother, sitting on her bed, confused eyes peering up at her.
She sighed, you'd think at 15 years old, the boy would have asked such a question before, but it had never really been an issue, before this year.
"Is this about Sansa not being able to spend time with you as much this year? I know you've already had an argument with her about it, so don't lie and deny it!"
Jon's naturally brooding face grew even more brooding.
"...maybe."
Rhaenys gave an even bigger sigh, gods, why did she have to put up with such idiots, really.
"Aegon shall be king, little brother, and Sansa shall be queen. That is why they must marry. The insult and harm done to the North in the past century, partly by our grandfather, can only be mended by the sharing of power that a betrothal would achieve. The treaty was made so that it was ensured a Northerner would have say in the treatment of their homeland, sharing the throne is the only way to ensure this.
"Aegon and Sansa must marry because they are the first to fulfil the requirements of the treaty, Jon. They are, unfortunately, in this situation, the sacrificial goats."
"But-but, why not have you marry one of the Stark boys! You are eldest, and first in line to the throne!"
Rhaenys shook her head, Jon knew these facts already, knew the answers to his questions, but he refused to think it all through.
"It is how the treaty sets out the balance of power Jon, you know this. A Queen married to a King has more power than a prince consort married to a Queen, and besides, the agreement was set out before the rites of inheritance were changed. I certainly am more than glad to relinquish my rights to the crown and I also would rather not marry any man."
At this, Jon let out a begrudging chuckle, but his eyes still frowned and his lips were tinged melancholy.
"Jon, listen. Go and find Sansa, apologise to her and then run amok with her as you always have. Treasure the time you do have together, rather than mourn what you do not."
"Are you... wearing... a dress?"
"So you have spotted the change, my dear third-cousin-of-my-father's-brother's-mother-in-law!"
Robb slung an arm around Jon's neck as he joined him and Arya in their corner of the ballroom.
Jon rolled his eyes exasperatedly at his fellow prince, whose commitment to his long-standing joke of giving Jon the most ridiculous relation possible was going on 6 years.
Turning back to Arya, he asked once again, "Are you actually wearing a dress? You've never worn a dress, you hate dresses, what did your Mother possibly blackmail you with to get you to wear a dress?"
And it was not as ridiculous question as it sounded. Arya's hatred of dresses had become legendary throughout all the royal families of Westeros. Not once had she worn one to a state dinner or ball. Not. Once.
But tonight, she had on a dark green, almost black creation that sat high on her neck, leaving her arms sleeveless, and was form fitting except from where it swept out from the base of her waist. In... a... skirt?
The dress looked wonderful, no doubt of that, and Jon noted absently that Prince Gendry Baratheon was making no secret of the glances he sent Arya's way every few minutes. It somehow made it look like Arya was nearing tall, or at least not short, as she admittedly was.
"Wait! Don't! I want to say it!" Arya huffed and rolled her eyes but let her older brother interject once more.
He coughed regally before saying in a voice almost too pompous to bear, "It is an 'elongating wide-legged silhouetted jumpsuit'."
"Uh. A what?"
Jon thought Arya might strain herself with the force of her eye rolling at him this time.
"It's a jumpsuit you idiot, but it's wide legged, so it looks like a skirt."
"Ahhh, I understand now. Yup, well. It looks great, where did you get it?"
At this, Arya actually smiled fondly, her lips quirking up in a soft smirk.
"Silly Sansa made it for me actually. She found out that I, well that I," and here Arya blushed, "that I wanted to look good tonight. Like a girl. Pretty. I wanted to look pretty.
"She didn't tell me, she just put it on my bed the other night and let me find it. I thought it was a dress too, almost didn't try it on. But I did, and Jon, it's so comfy! And I can still run! And there's no weird breezes, and I'm not worrying about looking stupid and it fits so well. And it's well, it's perfect."
Jon could hardly believe his ears. Arya, whose praise was usually around two syllables long on a generous day, was gushing. Gushing.
"Yup, good old Sansa, she came through for you, little sister," and with a push that had her glaring at him, Robb spurred Arya over towards the Stormlands contingent with a wink. "Go impress Prince Charming now, and thank Sansa when you do!"
Jon was mostly otherwise occupied when Robb started talking to him again after that though, sweeping his gaze around to find Sansa, wondering if she had seen their little gathering take place.
Finally he caught sight of her, and whilst he registered a brief feeling of discomfort in his stomach at seeing her in the arms of some Reach lord, he could only admire the radiant smile on her face as she watched her sister punch Gendry Baratheon on the shoulder after he whispered something in her ear as they danced.
Watching her, watching them, so kind, so sweet, so Sansa- Jon felt something within him give way.
Gods, she was just so- Sansa.
"Sansa, if you could be anything, anything but what and who we are, who would you be?"
"A florist. Or a jeweller. Maybe a fashion designer. Or a historian. But probably a florist."
Jon hummed, pushing a stray hair behind Sansa's ear as she sat before him mending a rip in his favourite sweater. Of course he could afford another one with the blink of his eye, but he could never turn down Sansa when she asked to fix something, to care for him.
"Why a florist?"
Jon could see her as one though, surrounded by beautiful, natural, flowering creatures all day. Just like her. Quickly he tucked that sort of thought away, even though admiring Sansa had been part of his makeup since he first met her.
He could hardly stop himself now.
"Flowers can mean so much. And I'm not just talking about the language of flowers, I mean, what flowers mean to the people that give them, that receive them."
Giving up on looking anywhere else, Jon lay back, resting his head on her lap whilst stretching his legs out before him on the grass.
"How so?"
Sansa finally put down his sweater and focused on him; Jon smothered the cheer that went up inside of him at having her undivided attention.
"Well a lover can give flowers because they want to romance someone, because they want to seduce someone, or they could do it merely because the flower reminded them of how beautiful their love is, to brighten their day, to just say, I love you. And flowers can be a thank you, for loving me, yes, but for caring for me, for being with me, for standing by me. And they can be a celebration, a memory or a mourning all at once."
"A memory. Like you and me, and your wreath?"
Jon held his breath, cursing at himself for suggesting such a thing, unsure if he wanted her to admit the flowers meant the same to her as they did to him.
But then Sansa smiled that gorgeous tender thing, that Jon had only ever seen in this glade, this little patch of garden that was theirs. And in that moment, he felt the restlessness that crawled along his shoulders every time he was near her lately, that had plagued him since he realised Sansa was becoming a woman, settle.
And in that moment, Jon felt at once laid open to every eye that thought to look, and as though the world was at his fingertips.
"Yes, Jon. Like you and me."
"Jon- Jon! You need to calm down. Please, calm down-"
"How, Sansa?! How am I meant to calm down when he goes and pulls shit like that! As if he doesn't know he insults you every time he-"
"Jon. Calm. Down. Now."
Sansa was pleased to see Jon snap his mouth shut at her firm tone, glad that after twelve years of friendship she still had the upper hand.
She was less glad that he proceeded to kick a chair halfway across the room.
As soon as he did it though, Sansa could see his eyes widen and him quickly turn to her, hands out placating and eyes wide and gorgeous, hoping he hadn't scared her.
"Shh, I'm fine. It's fine Jon, I'm used to it."
As soon as she said it she knew her words would have the opposite effect to her intention.
He blew up again.
"But that's it! You shouldn't have to used to it! There shouldn't be an it in the first place. He shouldn't ever even bloody look at another woman! He's got the best one bloody well promised to him since birth but the fucker still feels the need to fuck around?"
Sansa could see Jon's shoulders shaking in his fury, felt the tremble in his chest as she placed a hand over his heart. She couldn't help the swelling in her own chest at his words, stamped down the melting of her legs and the porcelain smile trying to break across her face.
"Jon you know as well as I, that what Aegon feels for me, or I for Aegon, is inconsequential. If he wishes to have his flings, why should I stop him. As long as they do not continue when we are married-"
"If he dared-" Jon snarled out his words, obviously too angry to finish.
"He will not. Do not worry for me Jon. I will be fine. I am strong."
"Aye," and finally Jon let his grimace fall to a fond stare, "that you are. You really are strong."
"Good. Now stop being jealous," Jon spluttered but couldn't get a denial out in time, "and come read to me, I'm rather cold and could do with company on the sofa, and I do so love your Mr. Darcy impression."
And as always, Jon grinned.
"As my Lady commands."
"Sansa?"
Jon could see her hastily wiping away tears, using the sleaves of her dressing gown instead of the handkerchief she always seemed to have at the ready.
She turned a bright smile over to him, trying to hide the redness of her eyes behind the brilliance of her grin.
As per usual though, it didn't work on him.
Two steps later and she was in his arms, hoisted onto his lap, safely entrenched on the padded bench placed on the private balcony.
Her sobs renewed about two seconds after that.
"Hush, sweetling, shhh, oh my sweet Sansa."
They only came harder.
Jon cradled her closer and kissed her forehead.
They didn't move for the rest of the night.
"Jon, are you a virgin?"
Jon hadn't known his face could feel so hot until that moment.
"Wh-wha-what?"
"A virgin. Are you one?"
"Sansa, I'm 24!"
"So, plenty of people, especially people like us, don't have sex until they're married still. Or just later on."
Absolutely flabbergasted, Jon stood stock still with his mouth dropped open. That still seemed to happen quite often around Sansa.
Walking up to him she closed his mouth with her fingertips on his chin and a cheeky little smirk curling on her lips and in her eyes.
"Well?"
"Why?! Why all of a sudden do you want to know?"
"Uh uh, don't try to distract me, young Jon-"
"I'm older than you!"
"-I want my answer! Come on, I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
Jon suddenly felt much more eager to spill the beans, if only to torture himself with the knowledge of whatever lucky bastard had claimed such a title. Absolute cunt, he was sure.
"Ygritte."
Fuck, he hadn't meant to blurt that out.
"Ygritte?! The ambassador from North of the Wall, that visited a couple of years ago?! Her?!"
Jon couldn't tell beyond his hope that her anger was driven by jealousy, but Sansa seemed rather upset by this information.
"Yeah, but it didn't last or anything. She headed back North, and I stayed here of course. It was just a fling.
"Anyway, who was yours?"
"Aegon."
An increasingly familiar boiling fever swept over Jon at his brother's name.
He loved his brother, he did. Half siblings or not, Aegon and Rhaenys would always be his true brother and sister. But there was only so much jealousy and resentment of a gift left unappreciated that one could stand before it festered.
"Really?"
Suddenly all of Sansa's bravado had disappeared, and Jon watched as she hugged her arms to herself.
"Yes. He was my first. There have been a couple others, very discreet, private things. Sandor, and Dickon. But Aegon was the first. And soon he'll be the only, the last."
And then it was quiet. Sansa sat with her arms tight around herself, eyes glued straight ahead. And Jon sat with his elbows on his knees, palms pressing into his eyes, trying desperately not to let the heat of his anger, at the world, his father, her father, and everyone before and here and now and future, overtake him.
And there they sat. Together.
"Why do you torture yourself like this?"
"No one, Rhaenys, you cannot tell her, or him, or anyone."
She could feel her heart breaking for her brother, not so little any more.
She stood over him, holding the ripped out front page of the Kings Landing Telegraph.
Couple of the Century, Princess Sansa and Prince Aegon once again steal the show on a series of romantic public outings.
"Please Rhaenys. Please. No one can know."
Oh Jon, she thought, everyone that matters, already knows.
She wondered if it was cruel of her, loving that he could not take his eyes off her.
Rejoicing in his dropped mouth and wide eyes.
Looking as he did in his black evening suit, with his hair pulled back into the most enticing man bun she had ever seen- she could only think he deserved it.
She had chosen the gown, silver and form fitting and showing enough skin to tantalise, but not enough to shock. Though he certainly looked shocked, she giggled to herself.
Tonight marked the beginning of the end after all.
Her Engagement Ball was taking place, and everyone and anyone was there to celebrate.
One year. She had one year.
Suddenly feeling too hot, too close, too fast, too soon- she stepped out onto the shadowed balcony alcove along the servant's corridor.
She had found the most effective way to deal with her upcoming marriage was to not think of it at all. But that proved rather hard when she was standing there, supposedly celebrating it.
She heard a figure slide onto the balcony behind her, and she turned with a practiced smile at the ready.
And she dropped it as soon as she saw who it was.
"Jon." And she couldn't help the smile that broke across her face at seeing him.
And then she saw something break in him.
The next moment she was back against the balcony, two arms caging her in and a solid (gods, so solid) body standing guard at her front.
"Sansa, you look. Gods- you look straight out of my dreams."
His head came forward to rest right in front of her, their eyes burning into one another. She could feel her breath growing laboured, felt the heat pouring off his body, so close but so far from hers.
He was devouring her with his eyes, more open than he had ever been before, desperate in his gaze and heavy with his breathing.
"Please, Gods please. Sansa."
He was begging, but he wasn't begging her, she knew that.
She would beg the gods too, if she felt she could talk in that moment.
Instead she felt her knees wobble beneath her silver dress, and strong hands give up their stony grip to hold her with gentle care.
So gentle. He was so, so gentle.
He pressed them together, temple to temple, and she could hear his heart beat, felt each ragged breath and knew hers matched. That she too could only savour, could only dream.
"Jon? Sansa?"
They didn't jump apart, they didn't even move.
She could tell they were both wondering what would happen if they just never let go.
Finally, the head and body of the King in the North came through the alcove curtain, stopping short at the sight of their embrace.
"Sansa?"
She knew in that moment that if she held on, Jon would never let go, he would hold on to her through everything.
But she also knew that everything had consequences. So many consequences, for so many that she cared for.
She let go.
"I'd be a carpenter."
"What?"
"I'd be a carpenter, or an electrician. I'd have a small business. With a few employees that were more friends than co workers."
Jon broke off another piece of lemon cake and popped it into her mouth, if only to stop her questions.
She had pulled away that night, and he understood. But he, he couldn't hide anymore. Not to her anyway. He knew that she saw the feelings that infused his every move, his every moment.
He admitted it. He wanted her to break too.
He didn't want her to hide anymore either.
"I'd go to work everyday, and I'd make sure that I had roses and daisies planted in my garden at home. Sometimes I'd get home before my wife. And then I'd stop and make her a wreath of flowers, even though, as a florist she would've been around them all day.
"When she got home I'd meet her outside the front door, put her wreath on and carry her through the doorway, just like newlyweds. Because I know I'd feel like a newlywed everyday.
He could see the tears starting to pool in Sansa's eyes and he gave her more lemon cake and continued rambling.
"I'd build her things. Shelves for her favourite books, like Austen and I'd read them to her, over and over as many times as she liked. I'd make her chairs to sit in when she was carrying our child, and a stool to put her feet on so I could rub them.
"I'd help her with her flower shop, and make sure she knew my flowers always had meaning. That they always carried memories. We'd go for a walk to the local bakery in the mornings and buy lemon cakes and apple scrolls and finish them before we got back home.
"I'd be a carpenter and I would make her tables to put vases and vases of flowers in. You could have a room for your sewing, and a garden for your shop, and we could sit in it, and make love under the stars on a blanket in our garden.
"I would make love to you every moment I could, after work, before work, during work, on the weekends, or during our daughter's naptime, when we find a moment to ourselves-"
And he knows he's crying and she's crying but now oh gods now-
Sansa's kissing him, she's kissing him and it's everything he ever dreamed it could be.
And then his hands are on her cheek and in her hair, and one of hers is grasping his shirt on his chest and one is pulling on his curls, and his tongue's in her mouth, running along the roof of her mouth, twisting against her tongue, and then she does this thing with her tongue- and he's gone, a hand on her hip now, pulling her so close he can't tell where her heat ends and his begins.
Both hands to her gods damned beautiful arse then, lifting her up and -ugh, fuck, her legs wrapped around him are where they're meant to be, always, he swears.
There's a fire raging through him but she's caught as well, and he knows that they'll fall to ash together. That's all that matters now.
But he has to taste more of her, has to, now.
Breaking away from her mouth is the hardest thing he's ever done but the taste of her throat and chest and oh gods fuck the taste of her breasts is a very good distraction. She moans above him, hips bucking and writhing, and head thrown back, gasps and glorious sounds pouring unending from her swollen lips.
He disconnects for the ten seconds it takes for them both to undress and he has her on the table now, the left over lemon cakes thrown to the floor in haste and desperation.
"Gods Sansa, so long... dreamed, so fucking long..."
"I know... me... me too... ugh-please, please Jon..."
Her begging may have just about ended him but so had the view of her glorious body, only a part of what makes her his Sansa, but still so beautiful and a part of her just as worthy of being worshiped as her dreams and her mind.
Nipples the same shade as her lips almost call to him and he's latched on before he even processes the thought, hands eagerly searching out the other place that can make her moan for him, gods but she is moaning for him.
Fingers dip into a pool of wetness and he cannot resist, it would be futile to try.
Rushing as much as he dares, because he will savour this, fuck the gods he will savour this moment to cradle to his soul for the rest of his life, he kisses his way down her stomach. He leaves marks in his wake, just as he did on her throat and breast.
Maybe he shouldn't but he needs to know that there will be proof, even if it isn't eternal, but he needs there to be some proof tomorrow that this happened.
Reaching her cunt, he pauses to breathe her in, musk and salt and arousal, before licking a stipe from the bottom of her slit to her clit, sitting swollen, pink and perfect and the crown of her mound.
Sansa lets out a breathy scream and Jon doesn't think he's been prouder in his entire life.
He sinks his tongue into her first, getting a deep and devouring taste of her, memorising it for every night, every day in the future. Nothing will ever taste as good as her in this moment.
His name has turned into moans and screams on her lips as he moves up to brush the tip of his tongue across her clit, delighting in the buck of her hips and the thrust of her cunt into his face.
Fingers now, in and out and his mouth and tongue sucking and swiping, and his name is still on her tongue but she's trembling and she's so gods damn tight he can barely breathe for the picture she makes, enraptured in her pleasure.
She comes and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Then she's clawing at his back, bring him up to lay on top of her and she says
"Please, Jon. Please. I need you."
And he could never resist her after all.
When he finally sinks into her, it's the best moment of his life, and the worst as well. Because he knows, nothing will ever, ever compare to being joined to her. To Sansa.
He had always imagined their first joining a furious burst of passion, ending gloriously but quickly with short pounding strokes.
They make love for the first time on the table on his room, forbidden and star crossed they are, he takes his time, and he will know every inch of her body by the time he is through.
He draws out slow and steady, letting her feel him, feeling her in return. She's so hot, so tight, so fucking, fucking wet they make obscene sounds every time he moves within her.
It only makes him go slower.
He loves it, loves hearing her desire, loves feeling how wet he's made her, and soon he's gently circling her clit, still moving his hips with aching slowness. But then she's coming, gasping and grasping at his shoulders and teeth biting where his neck meets his shoulder.
He wants to close his eyes, it feels so fucking good, but she's so gorgeous, coming on his cock for him, he can't bring himself to ever take them off her again.
And then he's speeding up, lifting her legs up and over his shoulders, kissing her, kissing her, fucking so bloody deep into her he can't- he can't-
He comes as she clenches around him again, her own fingers on her clit this time and still, even as his vision goes white from the feel of his come shooting into her tight, slick warmth, knowing on a primal and deeply satisfying level that she has him inside of her now, he cannot take his eyes of her gorgeous face.
Her beautiful, beautiful face.
"I love you."
His cock's still inside her, they're naked on his side table, and she's engaged to his brother.
There's never been a more perfect moment.
Her hand reaches up and cups his cheek so loving and warm, he can't help but lean in and kiss it.
"I know," and tears are in their eyes again, he sees them in hers and feels them in his, "I love you too."
And then the door slams open.
"Oh Gods!"
"Fuck, what the fuck!"
"Ah, little brother."
Jon thinks everything may have ended.
Ten minutes after the most amazing moment of her life, Sansa is wrapped in Jon's dressing gown, sitting on a bed, and wondering what will happen now.
Jon and Aegon are standing before her, and she doesn't think she's ever been as tense as she is in this moment.
"Aegon. I love Sansa, she loves me and I cannot, will not let you marry her."
Half of Sansa agrees with Jon's stance, half cannot fear what will happen, all of her loves him even more for his words.
"I know."
"I'm sorry for keeping- wait, what?"
Sansa cannot help but agree. What?
"It's not like you didn't make it obvious, you are both rather poor actors, anyone who knew you knew you were in love from the day you met. Honestly."
Aegon is at this point picking his fingernails with a shit eating grin on his face, Sansa knows her fiancé is not a bad person, she knows him, but she cannot help but fear that expression.
"Do not worry little brother dear, and my dear Sansa, I'll not say a word, but you have to promise me to do me a favour in the morning."
Jon and Sansa exchange glances, but cannot think of anything he would make them do that he could not achieve by simply telling the truth now.
"What would you have us do?" Sansa enters the conversation for the first time, ignoring the wobble in her voice.
"Ah that, you'll find out in the morning. Don't worry, you won't be able to miss it."
Morning comes, and Jon fears for his future.
It turns out that Rhaenys is the one to break the news.
Sansa is still in his room after last night, they decided if it was to be their final and only night together, they would make the most of it at least.
She bursts in, paper in hand, slippers and dressing gown still on.
She stops suddenly, taking in the picture of the two of them, Jon curled protectively around Sansa, their faces ready and braced for their penalties.
She lets out a great bellow of laughter, and is soon wiping tears from her eyes.
"That's why the great idiot decided to do it today, a month early, idiot man. Poor things, he probably had you worrying the night away,"� she giggles, "though you were probably too busy doing other things to wile the night away."
"Rhaenys, what's going on? What do you mean?"
"Here, you lovesick idiots in love, read this, and brace yourselves, there might not be an easy ride ahead."
Jon grabs the paper out of her outstretched arm and he and Sansa sit up to read it together, headless of their nudity.
CROWN PRINCE AEGON TO ABDICATE TO MARRY SECRET LOVE, ACTRESS MARGAERY TYRELL. PRINCE JON TARGARYEN TO TAKE HIS PLACE AS KING AND BETROTHED TO PRINCESS SANSA STARK.
The headline is huge and accompanied by a photo of Aegon at what is obviously a press conference.
"We all agreed that you would rule better than Aegon anyway, he himself included, and he and Margaery really do seem to be in some sort of love. I think."
With that, she up and left the room.
Jon looked over to Sansa, feeling as though someone had just hit him upside the head with a war hammer.
But this meant- this meant-
"Will you marry me?"
Once again, his words come out before he can think them.
Her lips come up to meld with his and he feels tears upon her cheeks once more.
"Yes, my knight, I will marry you. Yes, yes, yes, yes."
Every acceptance is accompanied by a kiss and Jon is air, he is light, he is the taste of her lips and the love in her eyes.
He is Sansa's. And she is his.
And their next kiss, it is gentle.
So, so, very, very gentle.
#jonsa#jonsasmutweek#amymel86#jonsaff#actually jonsa#modern royalty au#fluff and angst#smut#of the lovey dovey kind really
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A Tale of Sand and Smoke: Prologue
"On Wings of Fury
And Wings of Gold
The Dragon of Dorne Rises."
Rhaenys Targaryen, sole survivor of the slaughter of her family in King's Landing, has been raised with the knowledge that one day she and those that support her will return to Westeros to reclaim the Iron Throne. When word reaches them that Danaerys Targaryen is betrothed to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki, Rhaenys and her followers begin putting plans in motion, in the hopes that the true heir to the Iron Throne will sit upon it once again.
I’ve finally finished the prologue for my Rhaenys Targaryen fic. It can also be found on my AO3, here.
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Her little brother wouldn’t stop crying.
She heard it through the walls, echoing against stone as she pressed herself as far under the bed as she could. The air was hot and thick and full of dust, and Balerion squirmed in her arms, trying to get free. She tightened her hold, ignoring the angry scratches he left on her arm.
Her mother was shouting now. She couldn’t hear the words, just the high-pitched pleas of a desperate and frightened woman. Aegon continued to cry, shrill little whimpers until a man’s gruff voice, and her mother’s keening wail.
Septa Aliss told her to go find her mother, when the screaming had begun. When the pounding at the front gate had become so loud the stones had trembled with each strike. But she’d been so afraid…so afraid. She’d gone to the only place she knew was safe.
Papa’s room.
Papa, who called her his little princess, and who petted her hair and told her stories and sang her to sleep. Papa, who was going to be king and who was the strongest man in the world. Papa would protect her. He’d find her, and kill all the bad men, and go rescue mama and Aegon from whoever was hurting them.
Papa would come, he would. She just needed to hide until then.
She could still hear her mother screaming, but Aegon had gone quiet. Balerion yowled, tiny claws digging into her hand as she tried not to cry. No crying, she needed to be strong. Dragons don’t cry and papa says she’s a dragon. She had to be brave.
She hated the sounds outside. She wanted to put her hands to her ears to block them out—all the shouting, and mama’s screams, and the BOOM BOOM of papa’s door before wood cracked and splintered and heavy footsteps pounded across stone.
But if she let go, Balerion would escape, and she was too afraid to be alone. So she listened to the sounds until her mother stopped screaming, and the footsteps stopped as well, followed by harsh voices and the sound of someone pulling apart her father’s chest to look inside it.
That was when a hand tightened around her ankle and pulled.
She shrieked, letting go of Balerion as she scrambled to grab ahold of the bed to keep herself under it. Her nails scraped against stone, ripping as the shadowy darkness of the bed gave way to blinding light and cruel laughter.
No, no no no no—another kick, and a curse, and the sound of a blade being drawn.
“Papa!” She screamed, as pain erupted in her chest, “Papa—”
Rhaenys jolted awake, lurching upwards in a panic as her eyes snapped open and her heart hammered against her chest like a war drum. For a split second she found herself transported back to that small crawlspace under her father’s bed, clutching Balerion close as she listened to the screams echoing down the hallway.
But there were no screams now; just the groan of wood and the soft thump of footsteps above her. And no hand around her ankle, pulling her out from under her father’s bed; just the soft and steady rocking of a boat on calm waters.
It was just a dream, she told herself as she brushed a few strands of sweat matted hair from her forehead. Just a dream.
She wished that meant it had never been real.
The first thing she did as she slipped off her bunk was to grab the decanter of wine from the chest nearby. It was thick and sweet, and seemed to stick to her throat as she swallowed. The echoes of her own screams and the phantom pains in her chest faded, at least.
She tucked the ends of her shirt into her breeches, feet planted firmly against the rolling pitch of the ship over a swell, and slid on her tunic with deft hands. As she laced up her boots she glanced to the other side of the cabin.
Septa Lemore’s bunk was tidily made and empty.
She expected as much. The older woman always seemed to awaken before her. Septas were meant to awaken before the dawn, to begin their prayers to the Seven, and to chant their soft litanies from the Seven Pointed Star.
Septa Lemore, Rhaenys knew, was not doing any of those things. Likely the older woman was in the main cabin, making plans with the captain and the others over their next move; perusing maps and exchanging witty remarks with those present. Rhaenys was glad for it. She did not think that she’d have taken well to a religious tutor that had forced her to sit in their cabin and recount how the gentle Mother and the virginal Maiden wished her to take after them.
She hurried up the worn wooden stairs, hearing the telltale creak on the third as it groaned under her boots, and fumbled with her sword belt as she climbed. Something in the air felt different today. Something was happening, or would happen soon.
Somewhere above her, Jaka’s earth-shattering bellow echoed across the deck. She grinned to herself, as she knocked on the door to the captain’s quarters, knuckles brushing against polished wood. If she hadn’t already been awake, the first mate’s shout would have certainly done so.
“Come in,” Someone called from inside, and Rhaenys did so.
Inside, several people leaned over a table in the middle of the room, surveying the map upon it and talking amongs themselves. As Rhaenys entered they all looked up. Septa Lemore was among them, and nodded her head in a small bow, before turning back to speak with the captain.
Captain Hao Su was a stocky woman from Yi Ti, with close cropped hair and a large, uneven nose—a product of it being broken one too many times. She was a head shorter than Rhaenys, but had the commanding air of someone much taller.
To Hao Su’s right stood Haldon Halfmaester, Rhaenys’ chief tutor and the healer aboard the Sea Whisper. His pinched face was even tighter with a thoughtful frown, as he stroked his chin with one hand, cool grey eyes intent upon the map before him; the look upon his face was one she’d seen often as he’d looked down at the cyvasse board during a break between lessons. She’d learned early on that these cyvasse games were simply another form of lessons.
The last person at the table smiled at the sight of her, winkles at the corners of his grey-green eyes deepening with the movement. “Nadia, there you are. Come in dear, and close the door behind you.”
Rhaenys did as she’d been told, closing the door and walking toward the table. Nadia Sand was the name she’d been given long ago to hide her identity, but it was no more her name than Belin Hurrey was to the older man standing before her.
Gerion Lannister had not gone by his true name for years, not since the day he’d set sail on the Laughing Lion on a fool’s errand to the ravaged lands of Old Valyria to reclaim the Lannister’s ancestral sword. A ruse, known only to the few who knew the identity of the young child tucked away in his cabin.
They were both older now, she and the man who had rescued and raised her.
There was another knock at the door as Rhaenys settled between Septa Lemore and Gerion, this one louder and more demanding than Rhaenys’ had been, and the door opened before the intruder could be invited inside. Rhaenys saw Hao Su’s lips thin in displeasure, jaw clenched tight at the offense.
“Stand outside, Duck, and keep watch.” The intruder barked at a tall man behind him, before closing the door once again and stalking inside. He paused only to give Rhaenys a nod, the closest to a bow that could be shown without fear of discovery. Sir Jon Connington had been one of her father's closest friends, and had been a staltwart presence of her childhood since the age of eight, when she and Gerion had headed across the Narrow Sea for the first time.
With everyone gathered, Rhaenys knew that the feeling in her gut had proven true. Something was about to happen, something very important. All those who had saved the young heir to a bloody throne had gathered as one…it could only be to make good on the vow they’d all made so many years ago.
Rhaenys swallowed, and wiped the sweat from her hands onto the front of her tunic.
“Danaerys Targaryen has been promised to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki.”
Rhaenys glanced up at Haldon’s news, tearing her gaze away from image of Sunspear on the captain's map to look him in the eyes. “To Kahl Drogo?”
“An army of Dothraki screamers is a formidable force.”
“A khalasar,” Haldon corrected, waving a hand in dismissal and ignoring Jon Connington’s glare. “Which means that Viserys and his sister now have the beginnings of a fighting force.”
“The Dothraki have never crossed the ocean. They will not do so now.” Captain Hao Su crossed her arms and frowned.
Gerion shook his head. “Even if they did not, they could be used to conquer and secure armies that would do so.”
This was the reason they’d all gathered. Her aunt and uncle had begun to build an army to take back the Iron Throne for themselves. Rhaenys had never met her aunt Danaerys; the younger girl had been born after…after everything had happened. And while Rhaenys knew she had likely met Viserys in King’s Landing, she had been too young to remember it. Which was just as well, she supposed, because what she had heard of him from Haldon’s spies was not kind.
So Gerion and the others worried that Viserys and Danaerys would claim the throne themselves before she could gather an army to avenge her family. Rhaenys had always wondered why her supporters hadn’t simply joined with those that had rescued her aunt and uncle. But Septa Lemore said that it wasn’t safe, when Viserys and Danaerys were known targets. The world believed Rhaenys dead, and it was that knowledge that had allowed Gerion and Jon to keep her safe and gather resources. Rhaenys had never had to worry about assassins.
People did not send assassins after dead children.
“In order to pay for mercenaries or any fighting force, we’ll need money.” Septa Lemore said, breaking the silence that had begun to settle after Gerion’s last remark.
“We’ve been asking discreetly from those than can be trusted back in Westeros, but the list is too short. The wealthiest families don’t want to break up the peace, even for their rightful queen.” Sir Connington’s expression darkened.
“But they don’t think I’m their rightful queen,” Rhaenys replied, and if there was a bitterness to her voice, the others did not mention it.
There was a long pause. Rhaenys had known since she was a child that the people of Westeros were not waiting for her with hopeful hearts and Targaryen flags stowed beneath their beds. They thought she was dead…and even if they didn’t think so, the common folk did not care. Whoever ruled them didn’t matter, so long as their sons were not conscripted to die in another war. The nobility were the ones that needed to be convinced…and they were growing fat in peacetime. Why disrupt that for a girl none of them remembered, who they’d never thought to avenge before, despite how gruesome her murder had been?
“An alliance through marriage—” Haldon began, but was cut off by Sir Connington, voice raised in anger.
“With who? Her uncle Viserys? Or her cousin Trystane? The Martells may be aiding us discreetly, but Prince Doran would not put his family and Dorne needlessly at risk with such a promise of marriage.” The disdain that Sir Connington felt for the Martells was obvious, and it made Rhaenys’ skin itch. There had been more than one time, when she’d seen him look at her and knew he was seeing her mother in her place. It was only the Targaryen blood running through her veins that mattered to him. Her father’s blood. She tried not to be bitter, but the hollowness of that grudge clung to her like a leech.
“And we’ve read the reports from Illyrio,” Septa Lemore continued, her voice an even tenor to Connington’s growl. “Viserys is cruel. He would not let himself remain a consort to the queen. He thinks he is the rightful heir.”
“If Prince Oberyn were told that Rhaenys yet lives—”
“We need money.” Gerion shook his head. It always came down to that. Coin. Kingdoms were not built upon loyalty and honor, Rhaenys knew that as surely as she knew that the sun would rise each morning. Kingdoms and their machinations all required gold. And that was something she had very little of. It made her a very poor match for anyone.
Haldon voiced her thoughts aloud moments later, “Rhaenys has nothing to her name that would make for a lucrative alliance. None of the Free Cities would want to give their sons up to die in the oncoming war, not without incentive.”
“You would marry our hope off to a merchant?” The deep timbre of Connington’s voice threatened to give way to a roar.
“Unless you wish her to marry into one of the noble families of Slaver’s Bay?” Haldon snapped back. “Westeros is free, they’ll expect compensation if we were to enter an alliance. They’d expect slaves.”
Rhaenys bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something foolish. She didn’t like it, when they called her that. Our hope. Like she was something foretold. Like she was part of a prophecy. She hated prophecies, hated them to the core. A prophecy had destroyed her family. She wouldn’t be part of one ever again.
“As I have said before,” Gerion broke in, before Haldon and Connington's disagreements could devolve into a shouting match, “No one would marry our Rhaenys regardless. She has no power or wealth at the moment, only her name. And there will be many who will refute it. We need to convince the bankers of Braavos before anyone else.”
Haldon and Connington looked at one another, neither entirely appeased, before Connington shrugged, “I suppose you’re right.”
“To Braavos then?” Gerion turned to Hao Su.
Gerion may have been a Lannister, but the Sea Whisper was Hao Su’s ship, and she was the leading authority on-board. The captain turned a thoughtful eye toward Rhaenys, and for a moment Rhaenys worried that she’d say no. But then Hao Su gave a curt nod, the corner of her lip twitching into a scarred semblance of a smile. “To Braavos.”
They made plans then, going over the details of their stories to tell the Iron Bank and anyone who stopped them on the streets. Rhaenys would have to become Nadia Sand in full, for a time. By the time she and the others left the cabin, the afternoon had begun to dim to twilight, and Hao Su had turned her ship in the direction of their new port.
Rhaenys had never been to Braavos. Most of her life had been spent at sea, aboard the Laughing Lion and then the Sea Whisper. But she knew of it from her studies, and from Omero, the Braavosi quartermaster.
Braavos of the Hundred Isles.
Rhaenys breathed in a deep lungful of sea air and smiled. The bastard daughter of Valyria, some claimed. Rhaenys liked that name the best, oddly enough. The Targaryen’s were the same, weren’t they? The last remnants of an old empire, lowly and wretched and unworthy of attention. But the Targaryens had made something of themselves, and so had Braavos. The wealthiest of the free cities, brimming with gold and promise.
Rhaenys held up her water skein in a mock toast in the direction of the city. From one bastard daughter to the next, she thought, before taking a drink.
#a song of ice and fire#asoiaf#game of thrones#rhaenys targaryen#a tale of sand and smoke#we've got several characters from the books that never appeared in the show#and some new characters all together#but I hope that everyone enjoys it#gerion lannister#jon connington#septa lemore#haldon halfmaester
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Jonerys Children AU (part 2)
Daenerys wasn’t meant to have any more children. She didn’t believe she could.
“The Mother gives what the Stranger takes,” said the Maester when she told him, “You are the Mother of Dragons Your Grace, but you only have two of them now. A third is coming.”
Daenerys hadn’t thought of Viserion’s death as of late. It still hurt, even years after, living in a kingdom at peace with the Night King gone. She felt Jon squeeze her hand. He looked just as shocked as she was, unsurprising, as he had married her knowing -believing- her womb could not carry life. There had been so much arguing, so much talking over who would take the kingdom after her. Jon refused to have a mistress on the side only to produce an heir.
“I won’t do it Dany, don’t you dare ask it of me, because I won’t.”
She didn’t like this idea much either and was quick to brush it aside. They had considered naming one of Sansa’s child heir. She was the King’s sister after all, even if not in blood, and married to the Hand of the Queen. But Daenerys’ pregnancy came before they even discussed it with her.
Jon was hesitant at first, unsure of how she felt about it, but she took his hand put it against the barely there bump.
“What do you think my King? A prince or a princess?”
His face broke in one these smiles he only kept for her.
“Any would fill me with joy my Queen.”
Her smile was fainter but it was there nonetheless.
Daenerys could not shake the feeling of dread that remained throughout her pregnancy. Missandei tried to reassure her, say it was only due to her first stillborn. Little Rhaego. Her sweet boy who never breathed the air of this world. She hoped he was riding the Great Grass Sea with his father. As for Jon, he was alight with happiness, how could she not smile when he was here? He grinned when he touched the growing bump on her stomach.
“They’re kicking!” He’d exclaimed.
“I can feel that love, they’re inside of me.”
“Still no thought? On whether they’re boy or girl?”
She shook her head, but it didn’t seem to deter Jon one bit.
“Doesn’t matter, they’ll be as fantastic as you are!”
So many people were overjoyed for them, the Maester said the pregnancy was going well, Sansa and Daenerys exchanged anecdotes. The redhead had twin boys not barely a year before after all. Not too long ago, Dany thought the next ruler of the Realm would have golden hair and Tully blue eyes. And now she was carrying them in her womb.
Daenerys should have known something would go wrong. Somehow it always does. The birth was painful, more than anything she ever experienced. Jon was there the whole time, holding her hand, passing a wet rag on her forehead and encouraging her. Sansa had such an easy labor, Dany had forgotten many were anything but. When she heard the first cry, such a beautiful cry, she thought it was over.
“It’s a girl, You Grace!” Missandei announced as she wrapped the screaming little thing in wool.
Daenerys did not believe in gods, but perhaps the Maester was right, the Mother gave what the Stranger took. She lost her Viserion but was given her dear Rhaella instead. She had the time to share a smile with Jon. Their little girl, their little princess. But it couldn’t be that simple, and her instant of bliss was shattered the second one of the midwives shout out in surprise.
“There’s another one!”
Another wave of pain crashed through Dany, tearing a scream from her. She tried to push and push, but the other baby still refused to come, her first born daughter’s cries accompanying her own. It seemed like an eternity before she released her second baby into the world.
“She’s not crying!” Dany heard Jon say with a shaking voice.
She wasn’t. Only Rhaellas’ screams resonated in the room. Daenerys had no strength left to cry. How could it be? She had already lost one of her dragon children, now she had to lose another born of her womb?
You only lost one dragon, she heard her mind whisper, a child for another.
But I don’t want to lose her, Daenerys replied, I want both my daughters in my arms!
Only death may pay for life.
It took her a moment to understand. A life for another. Daenerys wanted to see her girls grow, hear them laugh. Would they even have silver hair? Purple eyes maybe? A life for another. She could get to see one of them become a beautiful woman. But not both.
She turned to Jon. Her husband was still holding her hand, one of his caressing her hair, but his gaze was turned toward his still daughter. There was such a broken, stricken look on his face. She did not remember loving a man this much, not even Drogo. He was the only love she truly chose.
‘Oh, my Jon, I’m so sorry,’ Daenerys thought, ‘Will you hold our girls for me? I know you will. I love you my Jon, I love you, remember.”
She would not lose another child, her choice was already made. She wondered if Rhaego would be waiting for her.
‘I’m off to meet your brother my sweets,’ Dany thought, hoping that somehow her daughters could hear, ‘Be good to your father.’
She closed her eyes.
And like her mother before her, Daenerys Targaryen took her last breath as RhaenysTargaryen took her first.
People tell tales of the birth of the two princesses. How none could believe it when princess Rhaenys started to scream with all the strength of her tiny lungs as if the gods had just breathed life into her. They say for second, everyone in the room believed a miracle had occurred. They say the King was never again as happy as he had been in that single second. Until all turned to find life had fled the silver Queen. The Maester tried to revive her several time to no avail. The King repeated over and over that she wasn’t the dead, that they should do something, even when the Maester declared her dead. People say he remained with her the whole night, holding her hand, long after all others had left, that he only accepted she had gone when the morning light shone upon her face and her eyes didn’t flutter open. He asked for his daughters then, demanded they be brought here this instant so their mother may hold them once. He placed each one in the dead Queen’s arms, telling her she had given birth to the most beautiful babies he’d ever seen.
It took days before he was seen at court again. It was said he refused to leave his daughters’ side. It took even longer for the dragons to stop their mournful cries that could be heard throughout Kings’ Landing.
King Jon never took another wife.
#jonerys#mine#long text#snowstorm#jon x daenerys#jon x dany#dany x jon#daenerys x jon#angst#family au#kinda got tired of all the blond jonerys babies#so i made them brunettes
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Smiles and Dornish Lullabies
I.
280 A.C
For as long as she could remember, Elia's health had been a delicate thing.
It meant that sometimes people pretended her issues did not exist, taking pains to avoid conversations where it might come up. They were well-intentioned, but her health was just a fact; she could not deny it any more than her being Dornish. But the approach of her devoted Septa Cassella and tireless Maester Ulrick is hardly better. Sometimes, Elia privately suspects that their over-protectiveness is because they fear tempting the gods sending her into an early grave.
Only Oberyn was different. Oberyn was not blind to her condition, but he also believed in her in a way few younger brothers did their elder sisters. Thus, he had a gift in making Elia sometimes feel that all the tomorrows were promised them. And if there is anyone who has influenced Oberyn in this, it is their mother. They told me that the Mother would call you home, just as she did your sweet brothers, Princess Loreza had told her once; referring to Elia's premature birth. When they looked at you, they no doubt saw another babe to bury. But when I looked at you, I saw a fighter. I knew you would live, and you did.
But perhaps her mother and brother were wrong. Maybe it will be the thing that dooms her in the end. Perhaps her entire life was pre-destined to reach this moment in time. She will die here in this strange castle, far from home, trying desperately to bring forth Rhaegar's heir in blood and terror and agony. Because her health has always been a delicate thing, and therefore it must mean she is not strong enough to survive this- the pain will rip her apart. She will die here, and Elia cannot bring herself to care, she just wants this ordeal to be over, please...
"I can see the head! Keep pushing, Princess!" One of the Maesters, carefully hand-selected for such an important birth, encourages her. Elia wants to snap at him, because can't he see how hard she is trying already? But instead, she grits her teeth and grips the furs as tightly as a captain gripping a piece of driftwood in an unforgiving sea and then suddenly -
Her babe is being lifted in the air, screaming and tiny fists swinging. A maester - Elia is too dazed to realize who, cuts it. The thing still connecting them together is gone now, and Elia's child is a completely physical and seperate being from her. They have come into the world now, they are real - more tangible than the confirmation of her pregnancy, the kicks, all the discomfort she'd endured. They are finally here, and Elia is truly a mother now.
"Congratulations, Princess Elia. You have a healthy daughter."
A girl. For one tiny moment, Elia tastes disappointment. A healthy daughter is not a prince. This is not Dorne, a girl will never be allowed to sit the Iron Throne even if she has more qualities of rulership in her little finger than in the entire bodies of a dozen male claimants. The Great Council of 101 AC promised that. Men - her daughter's own ancestors decided that. They must try again, or the crown would have to pass to any firstborn son that Rhaegar's little brother may sire, and Elia will feel like a failure.
But all Elia's fears melt away when one of her ladies tenderly places her child into her arms. Almost immediately, her daughter stops crying and opens her eyes. It is not a stranger's gaze in those brown pearls, Elia realizes with a jolt - it is a look of recognition. You know me. You know I'm your mother. And suddenly, she can feel her eyes burning and Elia hates herself for her fears. She doesn't care now, she doesn't care that she has given birth to a girl and they will need to try again. She doesn't care, because she sees those eyes, and she is lost.
"Hello," she whispers, and then the darkness takes her.
II.
Elia does not know whenever minutes or hours have passed when she comes around again. At first, it feels as though Elia has been dreaming and then the realization is as abrupt as being splashed by cold water in the Water Gardens.
"Where is she?" Elia cries, panic clawing at her throat.
She is assured her daughter is safe and with a wet-nurse, and that the prince her husband had "beamed" when he saw her. The thought of a man who has never been free with his smiles beaming at the sight of a daughter instead of a son is strange to Elia, but for now she allows herself to feel relief. Rhaegar, unlike most men, is not dismayed that his wife has given him a daughter. And if- if he did, well Elia will love her so fiercely, completely, and devotedly that it will be as if her daughter is bathed in sunlight, and thus safe from becoming a shadow thanks to the glory of any sired sons.
She is told other things as well, in that room. The birth was hard for her- well, all births were hard. It was called the women’s battle for a reason. Once, she had asked her Septa why the Mother would make childbirth so painful. It seemed a cruel thing to do, especially when one was expected to bring children into the world. Septa Casella had told Elia that the Mother was not trying to punish women – that the pain was simply a symbol of the lengths that a mother will go to for their son or daughter. It is never easy being a mother, this woman who would never have a child of her own had told her, brushing back a lock of Elia’s dark hair. Why would giving birth be any easier?
But a Septa’s words aside, Elia is told that she is to be kept to this bed for the time being. The birth greatly weakened her, and they must build up her strength again. Elia is promised that she will have nothing but the greatest care from them, Prince Rhaegar had commanded it- but all Elia wants is to have her daughter in her arms.
III.
Two moons have passed since Rhaenys' birth. Time seemed to pass in a fashion that is both frustratedly slow and rapidly quick. The more time that passes, the more disheartened Elia grows.
It was the way of things for women of Elia's station to have help. But this- this was different. Elia had to rely on her daughter being taken to her. All her life Elia’s health had meant she had needed to rely on others for help and she had never felt ashamed for it, but now she did. Maybe it would not have been as bad if she had milk to give her- but her supply was so low it meant that when Rhaenys cried for a feeding, it was the wet-nurse Alys that Rhaenys needed, and not her own mother.
All this meant that Elia eventually commanded that Rhaenys' cradle be brought into her bedchamber.
"Are you certain, Princess? But what if she disturbs you- you must rest…"
"I’ve never been more certain of anything,” Elia replied. “I have been doing nothing but resting in this bed for two moons. Allowing my daughter to sleep in the same room as me at night will not change that, and her nurse can have the empty room next to me or even sleep in here herself if that eases your minds, but Rhaenys and I will sleep in the same room from now on. I do not ask you, but command you as your future queen."
So Rhaenys was moved into her room, along with Alys. Elia fights back the wave of jealousy she feels seeing Alys set up a cot and wonders briefly if this is a good idea. But she puts those feelings aside- it is not Alys’ fault, and if this is what Elia must do to be close to Rhaenys, she will do it gladly.
It is only a few days later when it happens. Elia is holding Rhaenys, who Elia know she will have to soon surrender to Alys for her bedtime feed, but not just yet she thinks, while she sings a Dornish lullaby. And then- Rhaenys looks at her, and smiles.
“Oh, how darling!” Alys croons.
This smile is different. Maester Ulrick had told her that newborns have the ability to smile from birth, but this was a different sort of smile. Elia knew this because Rhaenys’ eyes were smiling too. And she wants to weep, because despite everything – despite her fears, it was she who claimed her daughter’s first smile, just as Rhaenys had claimed her heart, the very moment she saw those eyes.
#asoiaf#elia martell#a song of ice and fire#game of thrones#got#rewritten fic#house martell#rhaenys targaryen (daughter of elia)
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Come with me (Oberyn/Lyanna)
Original request: Oberyn/ Lyanna @ the Tower of Joy.
Requested by: @thegrayteam101
Note: After a long time, here it is! Sorry for the long waiting! An i hope you like the result.
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Oberyn saw the tower. A simple structure standing alone in the desert. He could see horses tied outside it. Three horses, to be specific. Rhaegar had sent three King's guards to protect the Stark girl, and probably his child, if the rumors he had heard were true. The viper rode faster towards it, knowing that there were no archers to take him down.
Oberyn saw the knights coming out of the structure, waiting for him to approach with their swords on hands, ready to kill him if necessary. If it wasn't Ser Arthur's presence, Oberyn would have killed them quite easily. He jumped of his horse's back, landing softly on the ground. Ser Arthur smiled at him, putting down his sword.
"Prince Oberyn, how can we help you?" His fellow dornishman asked with his characteristic friendly smile.
The other two King's guards were still suspicious of him, but it didn't bother the prince at all.
"I am here to take Lyanna Stark with me." He said with a serious face he barely and Ser Arthur knew he was being serious about it.
"I am afraid we cannot let you do that, my prince." The sword in the morning said carefully. "We have orders to protect Princess Lyanna and prince Jaehaerys until Rhaegar comes back."
Princess Lyanna and Prince Jaehaerys. The rumors were right, then. The gallant Prince Rhaegar had married the Stark girl. Elia told him that he would do that, but Oberyn never thought any man would be stupid enough to put aside such an amazing woman like his sister. What a fool he was... No one loved Elia more than Oberyn himself.
He wouldn't be there if Elia hadn't made him promise to help the girl.
His sister was the kindest of beings. Even if her husband had run away with the girl, Elia wished her no harm. Maybe his sister had seen herself in Lyanna; a young girl falling in love with the wrong man. A man that could love nothing but his beloved prophecy.
Protect her, Oberyn.
How could he ever deny anything to his sister? Specially now...
"Rhaegar is dead." He said simply, not caring if any of them held the Targaryen prince as a friend. "The Lannister troops that destroyed King's Landing are coming this way and I came here to take Lyanna Stark to safety."
The three knights of kingsguard started arguing immediately, deciding if they should trust Oberyn's words or not. Ser Arthur was by far the most affected by the news, Rhaegar was his closest friend and the prince's death seemed to hurt him deeply. Even so, Ser Arthur was the one that believed in Oberyn with no doubt.
The viper waited for them to decide what to do, but he wouldn't take no as an answer. He had promised it to Elia.
"We will send a raven to the Red Keep to verify what you informed us, Prince Oberyn." Gerold Hightower spoke first, his hard eyes staring harshly at the dornish prince. "And you will only leave with Princess Lyanna if your story is proved to be truth."
That what Oberyn's fear, that they would hold them there until it was too late.
"They will lie, your idiot!" The viper hissed. "They will lie and come here to kill all of you."
"Prince Oberyn, you must understand..." Arthur said once more. "We cannot betray Rhaegar's trust."
"Rhaegar. Is. Dead!" Oberyn growled, clenching his fists. It was frustrating. "Just like the Mad King!" And Elia. And her children.
Promise me, Oberyn.
It was clear now that Arthur believed in him, but the others didn't. But the trust of Ser Arthur Dayne would help a lot.
"Can I see her?" He asked after a few deep breaths to calm himself.
"I don't think it would be a good idea, Prince Oberyn." The Hightower denied his wish.
"Be reasonable, Gerold." The Sword in the morning sighed. "There's three Kingsguard here, he won't be able to hurt them." He whispered to them. "Let him in... Princess Lyanna might need someone else's company."
Ser Gerold was still suspicious, but allowed Oberyn to follow the Dayne towards the tower. The Viper looked around, trying to plan how he would escape and take the girl with him. He would not let her die. Arthur knocked on the door.
"Princess, there's someone here to see you." He said with a soft tone.
"Is it Ned?" A very tired voice sounded from inside the room.
"No, your highness." He seemed sad. "It is Prince Oberyn of Dorne."
Silence.
"Let him in."
Arthur opened the door and revealed a luxurious bedchamber with an enormous bed in its center. The Stark girl was there, a very dark-haired baby clinging to her breast. She was undeniable sick; she was paler than normal, her breath uneven and she was covered in sweat. The Stark girl was in the verge of death.
That's what the dragon seed does to women. He thought sourly, remembering Elia's state after giving birth do Rhaenys. The sweet girl was Elia's happiness, but she almost died to bring her into this world. His eyes searched for any evidence that the boy was as sick as his mother, but he seemed healthy. Like Rhaenys, a healthy babe and a dying mother.
He hated Rhaegar. Elia gave him Rhaenys and then Aegon with more blood and pain than any other woman had lost before, but when she couldn't give him more children, he ran to another woman's arms.
Not that he blamed Lyanna. He pitied all ladies that fell for the Dragon Prince's sweet words and hollow promises. Especially now that he was the obvious culprit of Elia's difficulty to have children. It wasn't her sickness. It was the disgusting dragon blood inside his poor niece and nephew that almost destroyed the dornish princess. The same blood that could still destroy the northerner lady in front of him.
But he would not let that happen.
"Why are you here, Prince Oberyn?" Her soft voice asked after the long silence that followed his entrance.
"I came here to save you." He says simply, knowing that Ser Arthur wouldn't stop him. "The Lannister army marches this way and we must flee, my lady."
"I am not in danger." She answered, her eyes like daggers. "I am waiting for my husband."
Stubborn.
"My lady, you must understand..." He tried to remain calm, he had to keep his promise. "Prince Rhaegar died in the Trident and the Lannisters have killed the royal family, we must flee before they come here."
"The royal family is dead?" Lyanna exclaimed, her eyes wide open. "Even the children? Tell me they spared the children!"
"They didn't." He whispered, but she heard him anyway. "Rhaenys... Aegon... (Elia) They are dead."
The shock and grief in her face only worsened his own. No woman should cry for something Rhaegar Targaryen did.
How many more lives would he ruin if Robert hadn't killed him?
"When he told me about the rebellion..." She spoke after an entire minute of silence. "I asked him to send them away from the war... My family would gladly accept them if they didn't manage to reach Dorne." Her voice was low, the little boy on her arms was sleeping. "We don't kill children in the North."
No one should kill children. Or innocent women.
Another thought came into the prince's mind. A rather sad one.
"Lady Lyanna... " He was scared to weaken her more with the dreadful information he was about to give her. "Do you know-"
"About my father and brother? Yes." She interrupted him, her face dark and full of grief and hate. "I found out a few days ago."
A few days ago. The Viper looked at the baby on her arms. The sadness made the babe come out earlier and almost kill her.
"I wish to be left alone, please." The she-wolf said, tears starting to accumulate on her eyes.
Ser Arthur stood up, ready to pull Oberyn out of the room with him, but the prince had a mission. He stepped forward.
"You need help, my lady." He says firmly. "I studied the healing arts when I was at the Citadel, I can help you."
The kingsguard came closer and looked at the Stark girl, asking silently if he should allow the dornishman to stay. She consented softly with her head, her eyes focusing on Oberyn's body. Arthur left without another word, closing the door behind him. The Martell prince looked around, searching for something that could help the girl to survive.
"Prince Oberyn." Lyanna called him with her weak and tired voice.
"Yes, my lady?" He turns to look at her.
"I will go with you."
His heart pounds heavily with joy. (Promise me, Oberyn.)
"Of course, my lady." He smiles at her.
Elia... I kept my promise.
#game of thrones#game of thrones fanfiction#Oberyn Martell#oberyn x lyanna#Lyanna Stark#rhaegar x lyanna#elia martell#princess elia#prince oberyn#A Song of Ice and Fire#ASoIaF#Arthur Dayne#ser gerold hightower
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You can take my breath away
Summary: "You can take my breath away...or you know, give it back."Jon hated jet skiing or any water sport for that matter. But this year, the Targaryens chose to spend their long weekend at one of the resorts at the Trident. Forced to try the sport, he gets expectedly wiped out much to his horror but the next thing he sees is a flash of white and a blaze of red and sudden warm lips covering his own. Also on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11772489
This is a bad idea.
That's what Jon Targaryen thought before he was dragged into water skiing.
It was fine at first when it was him who was on the jetski, with his aunt Dany doing the skiing.
"I swear to the Seven if you don't drive me, I will shave all your curls off Jaeharys!"
Oh yes, he could still remember the shrieking and glaring Dany gave him when he flat out refused.
He still refused.
It was the guilt that got him to agree.
His father was in lunch meeting because this was a working vacation while his prick of an uncle Viserys couldn't be swayed because all he wanted to do was drink Mai Tais while Aegon was driving for Rhaenys using her cream colored jet ski, Viserion. So that really left him.
When Dany's fuming and death threats didn't work on Jon, she switched to another tactic. Emotional blackmail.
"Rhaenys is so lucky to have a supportive brother. Whereas I got stuck with two brothers who neglect me, one to his duty, one to his vanity," she pouted, her purple eyes misting. "I just wanted to try out my new jet ski. I was so excited to test Drogon. But I guess it's not meant to be."
Jon swiped his hand over his face then and offered before Dany cries and he'd never hear the end of it from everyone. She was the darling dragon - the highly favored, the breaker of wills.
"Fine, but when I'm driving I'm using Rhaegal," he grumbled. Making his way over to his green jetski.
Dany hugged him then and there they were.
It took some time but Jon figured out the true reason Rhaenys and Dany insisted on doing the skiing, performing tricks and all.
It was the lifeguard.
A tall guy with broad shoulders and red curly hair.
The two of them kept winking at him, waving at him and all the mooning. But this guy, he could tell, took his job seriously. While he did manage to smile back at them from time to time, his eyes were glued to each and everyone on the water much to the girls' disappointment.
"Why don't you just go up to him when he's on break or when his shift is up? He's not going to return your mooning," Jon called behind Dany when they stopped for a break.
Dany just gave him a smirk. "Oh I know. I'm just making sure I'm on his radar."
"Maybe I should just fall and pretend to drown," Rhaenys sighed from behind Aegon when they glided beside them.
Thankfully, Aegon had had enough as well. "Alright, you girls had your fun. It's time Jon and I had our own race," his indigo eyes were flashing while his grin was challenging. "What do you say lil bro?"
"No."
His smile fell and even Rhaenys raised her brow at him. "No?"
Jon shook his head once. "No."
"Okay fine, no skiing. But how about a good ol jet ski race? I'll let you name your terms," he sing-songed.
Fuck. That's interesting. Time for a little payback.
"If, and I do mean this, If, I agree and I win, will you let me use Balerion?"
Aegon's eyes narrowed at him. Jon never did have the best record with cars. And this one was Aegon's baby - a black and red Bugatti Chiron, that flies more than drives with its sweet W16 engine. Jon can't wait to crash it...by accident of course.
Aegon did, after all, nearly wrecked his silver Monza he called Ghost.
"Fine, but if I win, I get first dibs on asking out Val," he smirked and Jon scowled.
Aegon didn't even like the blonde doctor Jon's been trying to work up the courage to ask out. "Deal's off. I don't like using people as bets." He said more for his honor than jealousy.
His silver-haired brother rolled his eyes. "Fine, if you lose, Rhaegal is mine."
Ha! You can fucking have it. I hate water sports anyway. He was the one smirking this time. "Deal." They shook on it.
"Hurry up and get us back on land so we can flirt with the hot lifeguard," Rhaenys smacked her brother's back.
"You could bounce quarter's on that bum," Dany sighed.
"Forget bouncing quarters, I want to lick that six pack while I'm bounci-whoah!" Aegon laughed wildly as he cut of Rhaenys by speeding back to the banks.
"What a dick," Dany muttered. "Don't you dare do that to me, Jon."
Jon gave her a salute before going back.
After settling on a course, Jon and Aegon started back with Dany now on her black Drogon.
"Ready?"
Aegon winked at her while Jon just rolled his eyes.
"Okay, on your mark--ready--get set--go!"
Their dragons roared to life as they sped off the water so fast Jon wasn't sure they were actually touching the water.
"Take it easy on Rhaegal, little Jon, wouldn't want my new jet to get wrecked," Aegon shouted over to him.
Jon pushed until he was a hair ahead of Aegon. "Yeah? Well I can't wait to test Balerion in Dorne with all the sand and st--
"WATCH OUT!!!"
"TURN! YOU IDIOT, TURN!"
But it was too late.
Jon hit a rock, throwing him off and straight under the water.
The impact was so fast and great that he lost consciousness for a second before coming to again, struggling to come up but his foot was still stuck to the harness attached to Rhaegal - well, attached to the scrap of metal that was fast sinking both of them. Just how big was the rock?
He was losing oxygen fast, his vision becoming blurred with pin points of light while his limbs felt like lead.
He continued struggling for a while before he couldn't keep holding his breath anymore, exhaling one big bubble before his eyes started closing.
And then he saw it.
A flash of white and red from the surface coming towards him.
It might've been his mind playing tricks but he saw a pale hand stretching towards him.
Instinctively he reached out but he never found out if the hand was real or not once the darkness overwhelmed him.
Images.
Blurred images.
Flashes.
They came and went as he drifted in and out but they were all the same.
Red and white and the sensation of being pulled.
The next time he came to, the frantic voices of his family barely registered his still fogged up mind.
All he could see was red. So much red and touching.
He was about to choke out water when he felt wet warm lips covering his own, two fingers pinching his nose, while he also felt fingers tilting his chin up.
He tried to speak but it came out as a groan and immediately, the warmth left him and he was choking out water painfully, wheezing and hacking out as he felt the grassy bank beneath him. When he was done, his head hurt so much that he shut his eyes and groaned again.
"What's his name?"
He heard a pleasant feminine yet roughened voice ask.
"J-Jon," he heard Dany sobbed.
He felt a hand then on his shoulder.
"Jon? Hey Jon? Are you with us?"
He managed to squint an eye open and immediately his jaw dropped.
Leaning, practically hovering above him, one arm braced beside his right side, her right hand still on his left shoulder was the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Beautiful and wet, he noted, seeing the drops of water running down her face and body.
Her eyes were the bluest blue he's ever seen, he locked gaze with it. Her pink lips were parted as she was still steadying her breathing, his eyes darting lower to her heaving chest that he only needed to move a bit forward to graze with how close it was, his eyes quickly shot back up when he realized he was staring, noting instead her long fiery red hair that seemed to burn under the sun, wet and plastered against her forehead and her long white neck -
Her eyes shifted back to Dany or Rhaenys or he doesn't know, Meryn Trant or whoever he didn't care at the moment, willing her with his mind to look at him again while he panted below her.
She did and he saw her full lips move again. "Jon? How are you feeling?"
"My chest feels a little tight. Throat burning. Headache," he gritted.
"Do you know where you are? What day is it? Who you're with?"
He swallowed and it hurt but he can't not answer this woman who he didn't know why she was there. "Green Fork. Friday. My family," he looked over the relative nearest him and saw Rhaenys. "Rhaenys."
Rhaenys was crying and smiling but before anyone could get near him, the redhead shook her head at them. "I'm almost done."
She looked back at him. "What's the last thing you remember?"
He thought for a moment before answering. "I didn't see the rock. Fell under. Got stuck on the life cord then a flash of red...and a hand."
Her lips quirked up on one corner. "Ah. I see."
"C-can I sit up now?"
She nodded and leant back on her knees and that was when I saw that she was wearing the standard red bathing suit with the white cross on the chest and a silver whistle dangling on her neck.
Fuck.
"Y-you're, you're," he sputtered and on the background he could hear snickering.
She leant forward and helped him sit up by putting her arms around him, making him feel warm despite the cool water drying on his body. She giggled. "You gave your siblings a fright there."
She let go once Jon was sitting up on his own, assuming her previous position of half kneeling across from him. "My brother and I tried to warn you about the giant rock you hit." She pointed towards it and it was indeed a massive rock where below it bits and pieces of his green jet was floating about.
"Your jet got completely smashed and you were brought down by the life cord still attached. I had to cut you out," she gestured with her hand.
"You - it was you - the hand - you saved me," he said almost reverently.
Her cheeks colored as she pushed some of the wet strands on her forehead away.
"Oh you should've seen it Jon," Dany looked at him with a knowing grin. "She swam so fast then dove for you and she pulled you out. Did you know you stopped breathing from then?" She paled at that as a look of horror flashed her eyes before she shook her head. "She had to start giving you rescue breaths while pulling you towards her brother's life raft where she continued breathing for you once you were on it."
It was Jon's turn to blush as he tried picturing it then cringe that it actually happened.
What did they say about how funny the universe was? That the day you find the love of your life you'd be on your worst appearance?
Seven hells what a fool he must look like to this gorgeous woman who had to save his life when he was doing something stupid?
Why didn't he just die then?
He covered his face with his hands and groaned.
He jumped when he felt a hand on top of his then that his arms flew to his sides as two deft hands started examining his head.
"Are you okay? I didn't see if you hit your head but I didn't see any bleeding before? Where does it hurt?"
He could barely understand what she was asking. He was too busy analyzing their proximity.
She was so so close that he wanted nothing more but to lick away the droplets on her neck and lower.
More snickering in the background that he snapped out of it and was greeted by those blue eyes again, filled with concern that even if he didn't drown in the Trident, he just might in these blues.
He shook his head but the motion made him wince. "I-I'm fine. A little lightheaded."
She sat back down and nodded but her eyes still analyzed him.
Just then the lifeguard - the only lifeguard he saw before, the one the girls were ogling jogged up to her, gave him a one over before addressing his savior.
"Is he okay, sis? Do we need to take him to the hospital?" sis? Ah that explains the red hair and the blue eyes.
"I don't know. Oh you're shivering!" He watched as her brother opened his kit and handed her a blanket. "I don't think you need to go to the hospital," she said softly draping the towel over his shoulders. "But we do need to observe you back at the first aid tent for at least four hours. But we can still take you to the ER if you prefer to be observed there," she then handed him an oxygen mask attached to a small tank her brother gave out next. "I'll need you to breathe on this for every few moments."
He obeyed but he couldn't face her, feeling ashamed.
"Hey, this happens a lot you know."
His eyes shot up and Jon saw her give him an understanding smile.
He put the mask down and he swore he was melting under her gaze when he realized he hasn't even thanked her yet. But before he could even thank her, his family interrupted.
"Can we hug him now?" Dany asked.
She smiled and nodded at her. "But gently."
At once two sets of arms wrapped around him. "Oh my brother will kill me if you drowned!"
"Gee, thanks for the concern, Dany."
"Aegon! Get over here and apologize to Jon. It's your damn fault!" Rhaenys ordered his brother. "Jon, I'm glad you're okay."
"Thanks now I know who gets the biggest christmas gift from me."
Aegon smiled at him sheepishly when he crouched beside him. "Sorry. I'm glad you're not dead. I jumped in the water right away but your gorgeous lifeguard was like a mermaid, she got to you first. Thank goodness we have such brave, strong, and not to mention, gorgeous rescuers like Miss Stark around," he grinned purposefully at her who blushed.
Her brother raised a brow then and stepped closer to her. "A blessing and a curse. You should see the ridiculous boys we had to ban for pulling fake drownings when it's her shift," he shook his head.
"Oh, I bet you have your share too handsome," Dany purred.
"Yeah, you were so very brave as well," Rhaenys batted her lashes at him. "What's your name again?"
"Robb," he coughed, his ears reddening. "Anyway, my shift is over." The two girls grinned eagerly but he walked over to Jon then. "I'll take you to the tent now if you're okay to move."
"I'll come with you," Rhaenys walked close.
"Me too."
Jon rolled his eyes. "No. I'm fine." He then looked at his savior who was eyeing him curiously. "Thank you Miss Stark."
She crouched in front of him and offered a hand. "Sansa. Just Sansa."
"Sansa," he tested. "That's a beautiful name." He almost cringed at how corny that sounded. Aegon agreed, cackling behind him.
Sansa blushed but brushed it off by offering her hand again. "Can you stand?"
"I'll try."
He took her hand then, marveling for a moment at the feel of her small hand in his larger one. His legs felt wobbly and before he knew it, he was leaning against her as her arm darted around his shoulders to support him. "Whoa, easy now."
Dany looked at him then and smirked just for him before plastering an innocent smile at Robb. "Maybe Sansa should take him there? Like a little break. She did just rescue someone."
At that moment Jon wanted to hug his aunt, he looked at Robb with hopeful eyes but was met with narrowed ones.
"Maybe I should. That way, We can endorse better and I'll come back right away to relieve you," Jon almost had his jaw drop when he saw Sansa give her brother the same innocent look Dany just gave him.
Robb rubbed a hand down his face and nodded. "Fine."
It was only a second but he swore he saw Dany and Sansa exchange smirks.
Sansa then walked towards him, her luscious hips swaying while water still kept running over her perfect body. Fuck, don't go there. It won't do to get turned on in trunks.
She wrapped an arm loosely around his waist and picked up the oxygen tank with her other hand. "Ready to go Mr. Targaryen?"
"Jon."
She grinned wider, "Jon. Will you follow me then?"
Where? To the seven heavens? To Old Valyria? To all seven hells? Yes! Anywhere!
They started walking and Jon was very aware where their bodies were touching.
"Sansa," he tested.
"Yes Jon," he felt tingles whenever she said his name.
"Really, thank you for, erm, saving me."
She giggled. "Just doing my job."
"Still, thanks," he insisted.
She stopped then and moved in front of him, eyeing him up and down that he almost whimpered at how hot and cold she was making him feel.
"I had to literally push Robb and order him to get the life raft just so I'd be the one to dive in after you," she said in a low voice, her hand tugging at one of his curls.
He didn't know how long he gaped at her thinking of her words. "R-really?"
She smirked sexily. "Someone's got to save that cute bum," she winked at him before reddening, turning away and biting her lip.
Her sudden shyness gave him a boost of confidence as he turned her around and pressed her to the nearest wall - which was actually a shed. "I'm feeling a little lightheaded, maybe I need more rescue breaths."
She balked at him before cracking into a smile. "Well then, I am bound by oath to del-
Jon didn't give her time to finish, leaning forward and kissing her despite the aching of his chest and head.
She broke off for air but he started kissing and licking away the droplets that were still on her neck and shoulder like he's been wanting to do since he saw them.
The blanket dropped and Jon shivered. "Wait - you're cold."
He pressed himself against her then and whispered in her ear. "Lucky for me, my savior is warm." He sucked on her lobe making her moan and that moan made him hard.
She felt it. "Wait - you won't be ready for that yet."
"I'm the peak of health thanks to you," he was panting from her and from pain but he didn't care.
She pushed. "No one's peaking unless you've rested your lungs."
He groaned and relented.
Sansa chuckled while she picked up the blanket, draped it back around him, and offered the mask again. "Come on, be a good boy."
He perked up at that. "If I be a good boy, will I get a reward?"
She pouted. "And here I was, saving your life and all and I have to reward you?"
He grinned at her then and pulled her flush to him again. "The second I get a green light, I will dedicate my life to serving my savior her every need and want."
She squeaked then and Jon grinned wider leaning down to kiss her again but she ducked quickly and smacked his ass - hard.
With a cocked brow she grinned at him. "Naughty boy now come on. The faster I get you there, the faster you get your green light."
"Yes ma'am!"
She wrapped her arm around him again while Jon kept trying to steal kisses from her. "That's it, mask on until we get there. Stop it. I need to go back to my post."
"I don't think your brother would mind staying for awhile," he whined.
Sansa giggled. "Your sister and...cousin? Are quite a pair."
"Aunt and sister actually."
"I see," she grinned before cringing. "I just hope they make sound decisions."
"Well they'll definitely make sounds," he couldn't help it. "Still, really, I owe you my life Sansa."
"Oh, stop. Really, it's nothing," she reddened.
"But you will, won't you?'
"Will what?"
He half-smiled hopefully. "Let me show my gratitude."
She looked away but he could see her blushing and smiling. "You really don't have to. It was my pleasure to save you. And when I took this job, I don't expect anything back. Seeing you're okay is enough for me. I'm happy I got to help, really."
Jon's eyes softened. How perfect was she?
"I insist. Please. Help me get my manly dignity back."
She sighed then rolled her eyes before chuckling. "Fine. I might slip you my number. Emphasis on might."
"Or, I could drown again on your shift and you have no choice but to give me rescue breaths again."
She turned and narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would."
She sighed again. "Well, we're here. In you go."
He touched her arm. "Wait, really, please let me take you out sometime?"
She considered him before smirking. Saying nothing while pushing him inside where he was immediately ushered in by a nurse. "Sansa?" he looked over his shoulder while Sansa was mid-explaining to the doctor on duty.
She just winked at him before continuing her narration with the doctor.
While the nurse led him to sit on a gurney and instructed him to take it easy and keep puffing on the mask every few seconds, his eyes never left his sexy savior.
His heart was skipping when she started walking towards him.
"Well, I guess it's time for me to go."
"Sansa-"
She leant down and hugged him then but it was over before he even knew it was happening.
With a final kiss to his cheek that left him breathless, she smiled at him one final time before leaving with a wave.
Leaving him to groan and contemplate life.
Of course a goddess like her wouldn't be interested in someone like him.
If anything, she'd probably go for Aegon. Fucking Aegon.
But then the doctor interrupted his dark thoughts as he examined him, asked him questions, then instructed him to continue as before.
"Oh and because I know how it feels, I'm giving you this early if you promise to be a good patient for the next four hours," Dr. Patrek Mallister, his coat read.
"I will," he said immediately, dying of anticipation.
Dr. Mallister gave him a slip of paper with writings in green ink. His face broke into a huge grin when he saw that below her name in elegant script, was Sansa Stark's number.
"Must've been a hell of a rescue," Dr. Mallister whistled.
"I'm just lucky, I guess," he barely answered still staring at the note.
The doctor snorted and started muttering about 'nearly drowning' and 'luck' while he saw to another patient.
Life was truly funny.
It took taking his breath away to find a woman who both gave him his breath back but took it away later on anyway.
He's definitely going to call in for more rescue breaths from her.
Especially after he's shown her his deepest, sincerest, gratitude while on his knees before her.
He smirked while puffing on the mask.
Better stock up now before he goes...under...again.
And again.
And there he found a new kink.
Getting rescued and finding ways to earn it.
He leant back and imagined ways of getting her to rescue him again.
Maybe I'll need chest compressions next time.
Or what was that move before? Sometimes rescuers give a...wank to show responsiveness? Fuck that's hot.
I should get a t-shirt that says, "Sansa Stark saved my life."
...and wear it every time after she fucks me.
Yes. Definitely getting a t-shirt if she does.
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