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fierypen37 · 1 year

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Victory is in Your Veins: Chapter 18

moodboard by @libradoodle1

Chapter 18

Day Fifty-Five: Jon

Jon had never been a devout man. Dutifully, he knelt in prayer to the old gods of House Stark; he’d pledged his vows for the Night’s Watch before a heart tree. Not that prayers had saved him since Morrgys took him. Eyeless and powerless without the wierwoods, perhaps the old gods could not reach him. As such, he did not know who to lay his thanksgiving before. Daenerys, asleep on his chest. A miracle, a feast of sensation for him to gorge upon. Jon shifted his weight against the tent support, careful not to jostle her. The lax weight of her, that delicious rose oil and smoky scent. There were different notes to it: sweeter at the crown of her head, then with just a hint of musk at the base of her throat. That thick mane of silver hair, he found notes gold near her neat little ears. Gods, he loved her hair. Free from the complicated braids, it fell in crimped waves, warm and glossy. The even cadence of her breathing, the way even in sleep, her fists were clenched tight in his shirt. Jon wanted to slip into her dreams and slay the monsters that gnashed at her.

Jon was terrified to move, to breathe too deeply and break the spell. The hour of the bat faded into the hour of the eel, marked only by the shifting shadows.

His whisper emerged air-soft, with barely enough breath behind it to make a sound: “I will follow you anywhere. I love you.” Perhaps it was his own foolish heart, but he imagined he saw the corner of her mouth tip into a smile. Gods, could it be possible for her to have shared in his dreams? There had been longing in her eyes when he woke her from her troubled sleep. He would walk barefoot through the Garden of Bones if she wanted him. A breath of assent and he would do anything she asked. Surely she knew that?

Some timeless eternity or perhaps a couple heartbeats later, Daenerys stirred. Those long eyelashes fluttered, so close he could feel the tickle of them. Jon loosed his tight, possessive hold on her, muscles knotted rigid. His mouth was dry, dread drew his belly taut as a drum. Would she be displeased that he was still here, holding her? Did she think he groped her in her sleep?

Daenerys made a low sound in her throat. That hum went straight to his cock. Jon clenched his jaw, willing his body to obey. A cockstand would do little to reassure her of his honorable intentions. Still languid and dreamy with sleep, Daenerys nuzzled his throat and mumbled something in High Valyrian. Jon shuddered at the puff of her warm breath, the silky skin of her cheek against his throat. Gods, that felt good. More, please more. If he tilted up her chin and kissed her plump sweet lips, would she cling to him or slap him? There was nothing more in the world he wanted than to kiss her.

Jon’s hand lifted of its own will and brushed the petal-soft skin of her cheek with the pad of his fingertip. Daenerys shifted in his arms and the scent of her musk wafted up. Yes, that’s more like it. Lusty dreams. A part of him wished he could fall asleep and join her there. Jon clenched his eyes tight shut. His mouth watered. He remembered all too well the taste of her honey, the sweet clutch of her cunt, the bite of her nails in his shoulders as he fucked her. Jon strove for control, willing his throbbing cock to obey.

Sometime later, she stirred again, unfocused violet eyes blinking open. Jon held his breath, expecting a slap, harsh words. He swallowed hard around the sudden knot in his throat.

“Your—Your Grace?” Jon’s voice was husky, intimate, though he had not intended to make it so.

“Jon Snow,” she whispered. Gods. The way her lips formed his name! It struck his heart and stirred his rebellious cock. Daenerys straightened to sit cross-legged on the reed mats of her tent. Jon mourned the loss of her weight and her warmth. Her gaze skittered over his body, his cock tenting his linen trousers. Jon steeled himself for her censure. Would she banish him from her presence for the presumption? The look she leveled at him was one he couldn’t parse meaning from. So many mysteries in those changeable eyes.

“You’re quite the mystery, Jon. Perhaps one day I will know you better,” she said, as if mirroring his own musings. Jon was at a loss for how to reply. He stood and stamped life back into his numbed feet.

“Do—Do you wish to be alone, Your Grace?” Jon stammered, his cheeks afire. When was the last time he’d felt embarrassed?

“I’ll seek my bed. Goodnight.”

Jon stood rooted in place as she sauntered past him to stretch out on her sleeping furs. Perhaps there was an invitation couched in that phrasing, but he would rather fight in the arena again than displease Daenerys. He straightened his spine. If she wants me in her bed, she had better spell it out. He resumed his post at her doorway to watch through the dark small hours of the night.

Day Fifty-Five: Dany

When the sun filtered through the oilcloth roof of her tent to stir her awake, she woke refreshed. The time spent asleep in Jon Snow’s strong arms had performed wonders on her mood. The warmth and strength of him. There was kindness in his voice and his touch. With a start on awakening, she had checked the urge to kiss him. A queen must remember her duty, even when her lieutenant drove her to distraction with his beauty and his good strong heart. Gods help me, I could love him and it would be the ruin of me. Targaryens could not seek comfort among others.

Ser Barristan was on watch as she stirred.

“Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you rested well,” he said politely. Daenerys fingercombed her wild hair.

“I am well-rested, thank you. I hope you earned a little sleep after yesterday, ser,” she answered. The old knight shrugged.

“There is much work to be done, but yes. I did rest.”

Daenerys rose from her bed and shook the lingering dregs of sleep.

“What needs to be done?” she asked.

Missandei and Irri appeared to help her dress. She chose worn riding leathers and the deep blue stole. Irri deftly braided her silver hair and placed her two bells. One for Qarth, one for Astapor—there was some debate whether Yunkai could add another bell. Daenerys nibbled on cheese and fresh slices of sweet melon as Ser Barristan spoke. She supposed the council of a healer, priest and wise man she had set for Astapor would work for Yunkai as well.

“The biggest issue I foresee, Your Grace, is the issue of prisoners. The men Jon Snow took prisoner are many.”

Daenerys felt a pleasant jolt at the mention of him.

“He took prisoners in my name?”

Ser Barristan eyed her with a mixture of patience and exasperation.

“He did, Your Grace. Slavers who did as they were bid and offered up slaves and gold.” Daenerys chewed on her lower lip, considering. Every moment she tarried, the jewel of Slaver’s Bay Meereen was girding for a long siege. They mustn’t’ tarry.

“The city is more or less intact. Perhaps these slavers will be my hostages for the city’s good behavior. Tally their names and ranks and send envoys to their kin. We must make our way to Meereen,” Daenerys said. Ser Barristan nodded.

“As you say, Your Grace. The camp mobilizes as we speak,” he said, “Speaking of Jon Snow, he has a request, Your Grace.”

“Say on,” Daenerys said, distracted as she reached through the gossamer bond between her and her dragons. A brush of thought, an inkling of travel. Drogon was the first to answer, stirring to her touch. Straining for focus, she felt his reflection of acknowledgement. Beads of sweat popped on her forehead. Focusing as she was, she didn’t hear what Ser Barristan said.

“Apologies, what was that, ser?”

“Jon Snow wishes to take a squire. A Ghiscari boy by the name of Zokan.”

Daenerys digested this. It seemed strange. Jon Snow seemed a hard man, a solitary man, not prone to chivalric convention. Stranger still, when he spent several hours in her company last night, he had not asked. Instead, he spoke by proxy.

“Of course. Shall I draft something?” she asked.

Dothraki were not record-keepers, but adding Missandei and Ser Barristan to her entourage had incentivized her to keep more accurate records. Ser Barristan grinned, and offered a square of parchment. Couched in formal phrasing, it authorized Jon Snow to enlist a squire of his choosing, given that the interested party also consented. Missandei lifted her writing tray and freshly trimmed quill. Daenerys signed her name and pressed the dragon seal in red wax. There was another sheaf of paper for her perusal. Gold tallies, injury lists, larder lists, and it seemed half a hundred more. As she wrote and tallied and listened to her councilors outline problems facing the camp, Dothraki porters dismantled the tent around them. By the time she was done, they were rolling up the reed mats beneath her feet.

The warm sun kissed her face and Daenerys felt excitement and energy stir within her. The open road beckoned, and another step on the journey. Rakharo swaggered up, a new gold chain roped around his neck, along with her two other bloodriders, who looked haggard from their long work the day before, but no less energized than Daenerys.

“Perhaps the warriors in Meereen will offer us better sport than this lot,” Rakharo said with a disgusted twist of his mouth beneath his mustachio.

“Let us not hope for too fierce a battle,” Daenerys said dryly. In the distance, she saw the Stormcrow banner flapping at the mouth of a sturdy grey tent. The sellsword captain, Daario Naharis. The image of his blue eyes and gold-toothed smile danced in her mind’s eye.

“Your Grace,” Jon Snow said.

Damn him, his deep northern voice sent a pleasant shiver through her. Any thought of sellsword captains tossed to the wind. Daenerys mastered it with irritation and returned his greeting. At Snow’s left elbow stood a lanky Ghiscari boy, perhaps five-and-ten, fresh faced with watchful dark eyes that almost matched Snow’s.

“Good morn, Zokan,” Daenerys said with a small smile in Valyrian. The boy was clearly startled to have her address him—even more that she knew his name. His prominent voice box bobbed, eyes wide and alarmed. He glanced at Jon Snow.

“Goo--” his voice cracked soaring to a high note. Color stained his cheekbones, but he coughed and doggedly repeated: “Good morn, Your Grace.”

“Jon Snow requested to have you enter his service as a squire. You agree to this? It is your choice to refuse and maintain your place with the infantry if you prefer,” Daenerys said. At his bewildered look, he also hadn’t expected to have a choice in the matter.

“I—uh . . . Zokla timpa is a fine fighter, I am eager to learn from him. For your glory, Your Grace,” he added politely. Daenerys shared a glance with Jon—the White Wolf. The reputation he had built in the arena clearly proceeded him. All too easily, Dany could imagine that contained ferocity unleashed on a hapless enemy.

“Very well. See Ser Jorah about your gear. Jon will help you find a mount,” Dany said in gentle dismissal. Zokan clapped his fist on his chest in salute. A quick glance found the scowl-lines carved deep in Jon’s face.

“Your Grace, there is something you need to see,” he said. Dread fell like a lead weight, crushing her ebullient mood.

“Show me,” she said.

The group of them quickly mounted. Dany heeled her silver after the charcoal-grey rump of Jon’s mount. Her silver danced through the disintegrating camp, dodging tent supports, sidling around porters cursing at pack animals. Daario Naharis a flash of gold and blue in the tail of her eye, mounted and heeled his sorrel to join them. A forest of Unsullied spears formed their perimeter, and Grey Worm joined them, running alongside. Unsullied did not ride, and their commander was no exception. Even at a comfortable trot, Grey Worm kept pace with no evident signs of strain save his muscular arms gleaming with sweat. The three spikes on his helm gleamed like Viserion’s horns in the strong light.

Wending their way through the dregs of Yunkai’s shattered gates to the mouth of the road the snaked along the coast to the next great slave city. Meereen lay at the farthest point inland on Slaver’s Bay, at the mouth of the Shakazadan River. Brindled crags and tough yellowed grasses spread out before them. Ribbons of heat danced in the distance. Carrion crows cawed to each other, thick in the air. No doubt hungry for the battle’s leavings. The bay was a distant gleam of beaten silver and a faint moist, salty tang in the air. Black, oily smoke rose in ominous plumes in the distance. Meereenese defenders burning fields to deny her men food. Perhaps she should—

Jon reined in his dapple.

“The Unsullied scout found them before dawn,” he said.

The smell reached her first.

Rot and foulness. Old blood and the taste of agony. Daenerys swung down with a crunch of gravel under her boots. Stone mile-markers dating back to before the Doom squatted at the road’s edge, the carvings worn smooth by time. The only thing remaining was a numerical marker in Ghsicari script, near-invisible among crawling weeds. Daenerys noted these details with some abstraction, her eye at last finding the rough-hewn cross and the child nailed to it. Stick-thin arm outstretched, nail cruelly driven at the wrist and the bend of the index finger, pointing down the road to Meereen. A girl, Lorathi or Myrish by the look of her, no older than eight, sagging against the nails that pierced her. Tears blurred the image of her face, those dark eyes wide and staring for the seven heaven’s loving gaze. If Dany blinked, the tears would fall, and she could not allow that. Not yet. When the horror sunk into her heart, she knew she might never stop weeping.

Daenerys approached, laying a gentle hand on the girl’s cold foot. Above, the sun caught her black hair, making it shine like a halo. Shock and sickness made her lips numb, rage boiled like the blood of the earth in her belly.

“The scout said there was another on the next mile. Marking the way to Meereen,” Jon Snow said. The softness of his voice made the short hair on her arms stiffen. His rage matched her own.

“How many miles are there from here to Meereen?” she asked.

“One hundred and sixty-three, khaleesi,” Ser Jorah rasped.

“Godless cowards and butchers,” Daario hissed, spitting into the dirt.

“I’ll have men ride ahead and bury them. You don’t need to see this . . . this butchery,” Ser Barristan said.

“No,” Daenerys said in a fierce undertone, not taking her eyes from the girl’s bloodless face, yellow as old bone in the sun.

“I will see every one of their faces,” she said, “remove her collar before you bury her.”

All through that slow, horrid march, she would stop at each mile to see the faces. This one, a plump boy with the stained hands of a dyer’s apprentice, back jagged with the lash. That one, a girl as rare and lovely as a winter rose, pale and perfect in the dawn, her beauty only marred by her face contorted in a rictus of suffering. A girl, scarcely more than a babe. A boy. A boy. A girl. Not one older than ten. A growing heap of leather collars. Tiny, pudgy fingers pointing pointing pointing to Meereen. Jon stripped to the waist as he dug graves in the cracked earth. The horror and sickness remained, along with that kindling rage.

Day waned into night and the cawing of crows made Dany want to stopper her ears. More waited tomorrow. Dismissing her guards to a comfortable distance, Dany picked her way down the jagged white rocks to the pebble beach. Here, the only foulness came from the smell of beached seaweed. Exhaling a shaking breath, she let the sound of the surf and the clean, salty air scrub her rough edges. She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees, curled tight around her pain. A dribble of loosened pebbles alerted her to his approach. Jon Snow. Daenerys didn’t pause to dissect how she knew it was him, only the balm she felt in his presence. Jon didn’t bluster or chatter or philosophize. He just sat beside her and waited.

“Why?” she said at last, tears clogging thick in her voice. Tears welled and fell despite her will, hot, ticklish drips down her cheeks. She moved to swipe them away. Jon’s rough hands, knuckles scabbed and palms blistered from digging, were gentle as the kiss of a butterfly’s wing. Wiping away her tears. The musky male smell of him washed over her, sharp with sweat. It soothed her.

“You know why,” he said, “they hear you have a tender heart, and a love for children. So they make you suffer. It cost them nothing.”

“It cost me much,” Dany whispered. Silence fell between them, broken only by the song of the waves as ancient as time. Jon’s deep voice broke the stillness.

“In the arena, the masters threw in a boy with me, no older than my younger brother. Then they loosed a shadowcat on us. I . . . I couldn’t protect him. It cost them nothing to slay him, but it cost me,” Jon said, husky with emotion. Accustomed to violence as she was, sometimes the savagery of the arena gave her pause. Another institution to dismantle.

“We will find our recompense, I swear it,” Daenerys said. The shadows in his eyes mellowed and a muscle jerked in his jaw, almost a smile.

“I have no doubt, Your Grace.”

Comfortable silence fell between them. As with extreme fatigue, her grasp on her thoughts seemed to fray. The lap of the waves against the beach in and out, in and out in grey-blue ripples lulled her into a mesmerized stupor.

“Your sons worry for you,” Jon said. Blinking back to the present moment, Daenerys found a bemused smile.

“The green one, Rhaegal. He always flies around your tent three times every night before he finds his nesting spot.” The iron band around her heart loosened a little.

“I didn’t know he did that,” she said. On impulse, she reached out and grabbed his callused hand, so warm and strong, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Those night-dark eyes shone like polished jet.

“You are not alone,” he said.

The horror didn’t lessen with repetition. Talk was subdued at the head of the column. She could feel the questing touch of her entourage’s worried glances. Jon Snow’s gaze was among them, but she took comfort in his. He understood. Dany swayed in the saddle—she couldn’t stomach food. What little she ate returned with burning vengeance at the next blood-wet cross.

“Please take some, Your Grace. You could faint in this heat,” Missandei said, offering her a wineskin. Daenerys accepted the wineskin and took a token sip to please her friend. The lukewarm wine seared her throat like vinegar.

The heat was indeed unmerciful. The wide-brimmed straw hat she wore offered some shade, but the sun was a hot, hateful eye in the sky—not so much as a wisp of cloud in sight. Sweat tickled her neck beneath the heavy weight of her braid. Even her dragon standard with its proud three-headed dragon hung listless. The thought of her sons was a comfort. The three of them enjoyed fishing in the bay. Drogon could dart his head underwater, snatch a fish, then toss it overhead and sear it to his liking in one smooth motion.

“I’ll be all right, Missandei.” Daenerys tried to make her voice reassuring, but this death march had shaken her. Not her faith, or the belief of the righteousness of her cause, but shocked her with the depths of depravity her enemies would plumb. Jon heeled his dapple the remainder of the distance and shooed the carrion crows perched on the cross. Zokan and a pair of Unsullied marched double-time to assist him.

“What is the count now, Ser Barristan?” she asked, swinging down. “Ninety-seven, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said at her stirrup. With care, he helped her down. Daenerys staggered as the world swam and warbled before it righted itself. The smell of rotten flesh made her stomach clench and roil. Beneath the shade of his hood, Ser Barristan’s seamed face was full of sympathy. Hard swordsman’s hands held her shoulders.

“They say your brother was the last dragon, Your Grace. But they were wrong. You are as fierce a dragon as I’ve ever known.”

#jonerys fanfiction #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #Gladiator!Jon #queen!daenerys #slow burn

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alannybunnue · 9 months

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If you are still up for suggestions on the demigoddess au Jon Snow parentage stuff, you could always just have Jon be Rhyes(?) and Readers kid.

Like, Jon is born form some sort of maybe affair??? Or if we wanna go full on mythological here, we could have Jon be some sort of sacrifice from the wildlings(I head cannon that if Jon wasn’t a northerner he would be a free folk) to Rhyes. Rhyes takes pity on the babe whom was left bleeding out on a wierwood tree right by the frozen sea(or smt) so he takes him to his wife whom basically combines her powers to his own and they give the Bebe new life(blood transplant??idk I’m shooting into the dark here-)

Or you could just have him be smt else, idk maybe he’s a spirit reader adopts? Jon snow spirit of icebergs? Frost??ice???

Ps:sorry for being so forgetting and absolutely butchering demigoddess’s husbands name ;-;

His name is Rhyeyr, don't worry, i don't know how i came up with this name XD

Now, honestly, Jon's birth is one of the most complicated things we had to figure out...but i like your first idea

Him being a sacrifice and being restored as a wedding gift from Rhyeyr to the Demigoddess sounds great actually (Imagine him appearing with the body of the baby half alive in their wedding ceremony XD)

#ask #a song of ice and fire #yandere concept #yandere x reader #yandere imagine #house of the dragon #blackfyre rebellion #roberts rebellion #game of thrones #demigod!reader #the drowned god #rhyeyr the burning forest

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cheesewelsom · 1 year

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" forever and more. "

" forever and more. " Rhaenyra happily smiles as she holds Alicent's hands, clasping them together underneath the wierwood tree.

"never promise a forever if you can't stay.. okay? " Alicent murmured, her voice weak seemingly whispering to herself. But Rhaenyra caught wind of the words and a gracious smile took place.

"i will stay by your side, Forever more. "

Rhaenyra looks down on the grave, written on the tombstone is Alicent's name.

Rhaenyra just realized that Alicent was saying those words to herself.

#Rhaenicent #Rhaenyra #Rhaenyra Targaryen #Alicent #Alicent Hightower

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aemontargaryen-bloodraven · 1 year

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Does anybody find it significant that the Wierwoods always have weeping faces, but Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree and Jon is connected to the Old Gods so much i.e. Ghost.

If I am not wrong doesn't Dany see Weirwoods turning blue somewhere?

#Jon Snow #Lyanna Stark #ASOIAF

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myrc3lla · 9 months

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The princess stops dead on her tracks, body suddenly frozen in the moment as eyes move toward the door, now open to reveal her lady grandmother and then, to where her attention had been drifting the entire day. It was no secret that Myrcella loved to pain, colors and shapes and she had been growing more into the hobby with the years. Perhaps out of solidarity for Sansa or nostalgia for better days, she been painting Winterfell, muted colors and blues and that wierwood tree that looking like it could judge them all. At the center, a direwolf. She didn't meant to draw any one in specific, he remembers little of their colors but now on hindsight, it's Robb Stark's direwolf and Sansa's Lady, or how she remembers the animal. "I'm sorry." Myrcella isn't sure why she is apologizing. But considering the history of the houses, she shouldn't be drawing anything Stark related.

@casteirly asked: Well, don't let me stop you.

#casteirly #−−− ꧁ answered asks : she had her mother's beauty.#cella vc: haha i'm in danger

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percentstardust · 1 year

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all aemond wants is to sit with someone under the wierwood tree with his head in their lap while they read to him and run their figures through his hair. or vice verse cause he is not picky. is that so much to ask?

#& what the hap is fuckening ( ooc )#rhaenrya wants this but with alicent ONLY!#aemond isn’t picky on who he does this with tho #shjssjsnsjsjsjskskdmdkdk #he wants attention OKAY

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mrsemilybartrum · 6 months

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What if Arya didn't actually kill the REAL Night King, like in the show? What if she killed... the real king's son? What if Bloodraven made all this happen to become King through Bran? These characters are from A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin... but I thought of this plot twist.

Arya sat in her captain’s chambers as the storm raged outside her cabin door. Even though she could still see the lightning flashes and the crashing waves from inside her quarters, the way she slammed her door was as if she were slamming the door in the tempest’s face herself. A bold crack of lightning took her back to Winterfell and Bran sitting under the wierwood tree. She shivered at the thought, as if she could still feel the cold from the Ice King.

Ever since she slayed the Night King, she’s been having the same dream. It’s not every night, but it’s frequent enough that she now draws sketches of scenes that only exist in her slumber. Once, when Arya was asked by one of her crew members why she made sketches of such monstrosities, she just shrugged and said “Maybe drawing them out while I am awake will stop me from dreaming them when I am asleep.”

Arya argued that Targaryens were infamous for visions and dreams and prophecy. After all, she killed the Night King herself with the very blade that Aegon the Conqueror had his Ice and Fire prophecy etched into. She shivered and then shivered again when the thought came to her.

What if the Night King isn’t dead, really? If Jon could be killed and resurrected, why couldn’t the Night King be resurrected? But I saw him shatter into a million and one pieces of broken ice when I stuck him with the pointy end. I killed him. I brought an end to him, not the other way around.

Arya would often overthink things. She would overthink so much that she would get herself all but convinced the real Long Night is still to come, that she needs to turn her ship around and go back to fight with – more so for – Winterfell. That Bran would need her from King’s Landing. Jon, the rightful king, would need her skills at the Wall. Yet, still, she would not turn her ships around.

Her ship was built not long after the Settlement of the Seven Kingdoms. Bran the Broken, whom she only referred to as ‘Bran, my brother’, had issued its building and even made her exploration an official order of royal decree. Arya would be required to return with 75% of her treasures and wealth to render back to the Crown Estate. She kept the remaining 25%, of course. For which she would be paying her crew, continuing her missions, maintaining her ship, and anything else she saw fit.

Suddenly, Arya realized she must’ve fallen asleep. She was no longer in her quarters on her ship. She was back in King’s Landing, the day her lord father Eddard had been beheaded by the Bastard King Joffrey.

The Bastard Kings; Joffrey and Tommen had been called that by highborn and smallfolk alike after the Settlement of the Seven. It made no matter to her. She never got to mark any of their names off her list by her own rite; Cersei allegedly died under a shower of stones and in the arms of her brotherly lover, Ser Jaime. Ser Jaime died the same way as Cersei, allegedly.

She watched this time as she saw her father’s head hit the ground. She didn’t hide her face in the Traveling Crow’s chest this time. She watched with eyes wide open. And then, she saw it.

Her father wasn’t dead anymore. He was somehow standing right next to her as his headless body lay up on the stands. Arya looked to the right of her, where her dear father stood. His head was back on his body, but you could see the marks where the sword sliced it clean off. She couldn’t speak. She just stared in awe.

Just as soon as the joy hit, the dread hit, too. ‘Am I dead, father?’ she asked Eddard.

‘No, child, you are not dead. But you have been touched. You are now connected to the same network that Bran your brother uses. You keep having the same dreams, don’t you. It’s why I am here.’ Her father answered her.

‘But why bring me to this moment, now? Father, I do not want to see this again. Please, let us go somewhere else.’ She begged him, as she hated that day worst of all. He told her to watch again, but this time, he wanted her to use her mind and thought to turn the blade into soft wool.

She didn’t know if she could do that, and she wanted to ask Father if he had tried going to Bran before he came to her. Before she could, he answered her as if he could read her mind.

"Yes, I asked Bran. He told me to ask you for him. He said to ask you myself, and if I were strong enough and wise enough to get you to do your part, he said he would gladly do his part. Now, my beloved daughter, will you do your part?" this version of her father asked her.

She agreed to do her part, but she was suspicious and didn’t really expect to get her father back. Her mother had been turned into an evil undead woman bitter from loss and love. What would the trauma turn Eddard into?

She watched again as her father was about to be executed after a set of lies promised by Joffrey the Bastard King. As Ilyn Payne’s sword came swinging down on the back of Eddard Stark’s neck, it turned into a snake.

The viper bit Payne and Joffrey both before the Hound could pull Eddard out of harm’s way and cut off the head of the snake. A viper’s bite can be cured if the person has the antidote on them. It is known that women of Dorne wear crystals of anti-venom around their necks, next to their hearts. So do the men.

But this was King’s Landing, and by the time the closest maester could appear with an antidote, both the king and the executioner were now dead. Eddard Stark was freed after Joffrey revealed his true colors. His own mother counted it a blessing since it stopped the North marching down for war.

She smiled, and she felt strong. But something felt wrong… like a part of her soul was dying inside of her. Like a part of her humanity was just traded for this costly exchange. One that couldn’t truly happen. What was that crashing noise?

Arya must’ve drifted off. She woke up, clearly shaken after having the dream of her dead father guiding her to use magic to change the fate of time. She stood up to stretch after being cramped up in that captain’s chair. She walked over to the glass wall of wonder.

She could see the shadows of sea monsters and sharks alike in the far-off depths of the water. Making part of her boat with fused glass was her favorite feature. For Arya, it was like becoming her own version of a mermaid. She could see the ocean floor while being safe.

Occasionally, she would see something that looked like a humanoid fish person swimming beneath the glass bottom of her quarters. This was the only place in the ship, save for the kitchen floor, where there was so much to see. She would remember the stories of the Deep Ones and shiver.

She stood and stretched her legs and hands, and she clasped her fingers together to cradle the back of her head in her palms. What was she doing out there, really? She had been through so much, and she had no idea what even mattered anymore.

#a song of ice and fire #george rr martin #fanfiction #writing #arya stark #night king #game of thrones

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brakendraw · 5 years

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The old Gods

Game of thrones fanart, oil on canvas

#painting #fanart #art #artists on tumblr #game of thrones #old gods #Wierwood tree #oil painting

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amymel86 · 3 years

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Crown

Modern au... a tad saucy at the end...

Jon should’ve guessed it really.

It was his department’s turn to name the theme for the university staff’s end-of-year party, and, being that he works in the history department, this year’s theme was ‘Historical Figures’. His own costume was rather slap-dash. He’s not so into this whole ‘dressing up’ thing so he’d just hired a black, fur-trimmed cloak along with a sword and belt from the hire store, wore all black beneath it and called himself a man of the ancient brotherhood, The Night’s Watch.

Boom – done.

Now all he has to do is get through the next few hours while trying not to look like he’d rather be literally anywhere else in the Gods-damned world. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to slip away early – that’s the plan anyway.

Except , the thing that he should have guessed happening... happened -

Sansa Stark.

Jon would never admit aloud to anyone that he has a bit of a crush-from-afar on the beautiful redhead. She works in the Fashion & Textiles Department, on a completely different campus from his so their paths very rarely cross – but fuck – did he wish that they’d do some crossing tonight.

Of course she’d come as her historical namesake. There are plenty of branches of the Stark family tree these days and Jon has no idea if she’s directly related to the infamous Queen in the North, but she’s a bit of a heroine of his if he’s honest and he’s particularly interested in the mystery surrounding the paternity of her twelve children.

No time to ponder over centuries old unknown. The Sansa Stark of today is here, in the hotel that the university has hired for their work party, and she’s wearing a replica of the queen’s most famous dress – her coronation gown.

There’s a well-known portrait of the monarch, seated on her modest wooden throne, and Sansa seems to have studied the piece for her inspiration. Her copper red hair is simple, flowing down her back in waves, her dress is lined with feathers and fur and has exquisite embroidery all over – there’s even a glittering cascade of tumbling wierwood leaves. And atop her head, two fierce direwolves meet in her silver crown.

Jon is utterly blown over by it, to be honest. A lot of work has gone into that.

He swills the last of his beer around in the bottle as Sam – dressed in ancient master garb – witters on about next term’s assignment proposals. And maybe it’s because he doesn’t know when he’ll next get the chance to be in the same building as her, let alone the same room, but Jon finds himself downing the dregs of his beer and approaching Sansa Stark, looking stunning, dressed as a literal Queen.

He stops almost in front of her. Her other fashion and textiles colleagues pause their conversation to peer at him expectantly. Shit. Should’ve thought this through. Sansa is looking at him. They’re making direct eye contact for the very first time. This fur cloak is so fucking hot all of a sudden.

“I, er...” Jon clears his throat and rocks back on his heels a little. “I just wanted to say that your costume looks amazing.” She’s all smiles then. Nice save.

“Thank you,” she says, taking a sweeping glance down at her gown, “I made it myself.”

“That’s very impressive. I’m Jon Snow,” he says, offering his hand for her to shake. Her skin is soft, her hand delicate. She smiles a smile that resets the rhythm of his heartbeat. Jon is loathed to take his eyes from her but he must, shaking hands and greeting her colleagues.

“Oh I know who you are, Jon Snow,” she says, some kind of double meaning to her tone and the devil in her smile.

He’s about to ask – you can’t say something like that without expecting further query, surely. But Jon’s cut off by one of Sansa’s colleagues – a short, slim woman with big dark eyes and hair to match – she seemed to be dressed in a noble lady’s outfit from around 300 AC.

“So this is the hot history guy you were talking about?”

Everyone’s eyes are on him again and the room just got even hotter – and more perplexing. Queen Sansa Stark bites her lip at him. Her cheeks turn cherry blossom pink.

She smiles to herself, blinking rapidly for a second or two as she seems to be collecting her thoughts. “I, um...” her lips press together before her tongue rolls out to wet them. “I sat in on your open lecture about the War of the Five Kings last month.”

She did?

“You did?”

“Her head nods, crown glinting under the lights of the bar behind her. “Mm-hm. I enjoyed it very much. You included the theory of Queen Sansa’s involvement in King Joffrey’s poisoning.” Sansa grinned. “A lot of teachings gloss over her history before she comes into her reign and she’s somewhat of a favourite of mine, for obvious reasons.”

OK, yes. He might be a teeny tiny bit in love already. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. Can I...” he glances to her work colleagues who all seem to be smirking at what is surely an utterly besotted look he wears on his face now. Jon licks at his lips. “Can I get you a drink?”

***

Jon grabs a wad of cash and literally throws it in through the passenger side window towards the cab driver. He’s sure that more than covers their trip but there is no time to spare because Sansa is behind him, unlocking the door to her place so that they might fall in and he might continue to put his mouth on her.

Jon can’t remember the last time he’d clicked so well with a virtual stranger. He hadn’t wanted the night to end but the drinks had flowed for the remainder of the party and they were both feeling lightly buzzed by the time Sansa had taken his hand and led him into a deserted hotel hallway. She had giggled and called him her ‘Lord Commander Snow’ before asking how he should like to serve the Queen in the North?

“With my hands,” he rasped, hardly recognising his own voice, his palms coming up to curl around her hips. His Queen Sansa bit her lip, the mischievous twinkle in her eye growing the closer he got. “With my body,” he growled, pressing her against the wall. “And with my tongue,” he said, wetting his lips.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn to his mouth. They’d hardly done anything and yet they both seemed to be panting. “You promise?”

“How should you like to be served, my lady?” Jon rumbles between kisses. They’re on the other side of her door now, but barely. This place smells like jasmine and vanilla. He cups her face in his hands and if she tells him that actually she’d rather they only kiss and watch a movie he’d consider it a good night well spent.

Sansa playfully nips at his bottom lip, once, twice. There’s a glint in her eye that he likes very much when she says, “I do believe my Lord Commander promised me the use of his tongue.”

“Where would you like it, my queen?” he whispers, grazing her ear lobe with his teeth. The little gasp he elicits makes the downy hairs on the back of his neck prickle. She whines and rubs her thighs together before pushing away, out of his grasp. He’s worried for a second but the look in her eye tells him that this isn’t over – she’s not sending him away.

“Let me just go and get out of this dress,” Sansa says, walking backwards, further into her home. She’s already reaching back, pulling at ties.

“I can help you.”

That earns him a smirk. “I can manage on my own, Jon Snow.”

It’s his turn to whine now and he has to admit, the noise sounds rather pathetic coming from him as he stands there, all alone in Sansa Stark’s hallway, sorely missing her already. Also – not that he won’t want to feast his eyes on however it is that Sansa presents herself – he was kind of hoping to be peering up at her as the Queen in the North from his intended destination of between her thighs.

“Hey, Sansa?”

“Yes?” comes the answer from the room she’d disappeared into.

“Could you... uh...”

Her head pops around the door-frame, brows raised expectantly.

“Could you leave the crown on?”

#jonsa #jon x sansa #my jonsa fic

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alienor-woods · 4 years

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As Long As We’re Going Down | Epilogue

Summary: Four years after Stannis Baratheon won the Battle of the Blackwater, Sansa Stark finds herself summoned back to King’s Landing to serve as a bridesmaid at Crown Princess Shireen’s wedding. When King Stannis tries to marry Sansa off to his illegitimate nephew, Edric, she thinks quick and tells him she’s already married––to her bodyguard, Jon Snow.

[ fake!married au, modern royals au ]

Rated: M

Excerpt:

“I promised you a bridegroom who would be brave, and gentle, and strong. Before all of this,” Ned murmurs, once they leave the quiet of Winterfell’s walls and enter the godswood, purring with evening insects. Sansa leans her head onto her father’s shoulder and closes her eyes, trusting him to lead her deeper into the dark. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have helped you more.”

“Papa, you did more than you could have dreamed,” she reassures him. The leaves crunch underfoot, rustle under the light drift of her skirt. Here and there the wierwoods are draped with stringed lights, giving just enough grace to find one’s way while maintaining the mystery of the enchanted grove. Jon waits, alone, under the heart tree ahead of them. Hands folded, patiently awaiting the moment Ned will press his daughter’s hands into his. “You led me to him.”

Read it on AO3.

Thank you to everyone that has come along on this ride! I have been working on this fic for years (read: far too long!) and it’s so bittersweet to say goodbye to this world and the characters within it. I hope you find the ending as satisfying and as fitting a farewell as I do.

#jon x sansa #jonsa #asoiaf au #gotfic #alawgd #fic #complete #this fic carried me thru law school #thru a clerkship #and into my Real Adult life #it's frustrated and inspired me #tried and tested me #and ending it seems surreal

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wolveshonor · 5 years

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@wardensinthenorth continued from here

Byrant stood next to his king, as was his duty, whether or not he liked what was about to happen did not matter, to stand next to Robb was his duty. He’d toldRobb this was unwise, that had also been his duty, to counsel his king. The way back north would be barred due to the loss of allegiance, that had been reason enough for everyone to stand against this union. Leaving anything personal out of it there was more than enough reason for Byrant to stand against this wedding.

It was next to his King that Byrant felt his heart break. No matter what he had told himself growing up, he had not prepared himself to watch the man he’d fallen in love with marry. He’d always known it would happen, always figured he’d be there, but he was not prepared for it to come.

“Your Grace.” Byrant had done his duty, but he couldn’t help but try one last time. “You don’t- you shouldn’t go though with this. The Freys…..” They’d had this conversation before, Byrant knew how it would go, so he shook his head and tried again. “Your wedding should be a proper wedding, in front of a wierwood tree, with the old gods to witness,” Never mind the Tully side of Robb, the side of his family that held to the seven. Robb was of the North, his marriage, even if it was going to break a pact and break Byrant’s heart, should be of the North as well.

He hardly knew the girl in any way except the way that mattered most. Robb had vowed long ago that he would bring no bastard into this world, and he had kept that vow--abstaining from the brothels, no matter how many times Theon attempted to drag him along--never using his title or influence to do more than garner a stolen kiss from a kitchen wench. In truth, he still did not recall exactly how it had happened. The fever had been thick and overwhelming, and as he had laid dying from infection, the nurse’s face had swam before his eyes--beautiful, and intoxicating, her smile as warm as the southern sun. And the next thing he knew, he was in her bed, and his fever had broken, and so had his oath. He was promised to a Frey girl, but he had bed another, and so he would need to wed another. He had no choice.

The men in his camp did not see it quite as simply as Robb did. No one knew if the girl was with child, and even if she was, it was not such an unusual practice to bed her and leave--in fact, producing a bastard in the fits of war was so common, even his father, the honorable Ned Stark, had allowed it to happen, though he had been honorable enough to bring the child home. But Robb had grown up by Jon’s side, saw what it truly meant to be a bastard in this life, and he would not allow it to happen to any child of his.

So Bryant’s warnings went in one ear and out the other, the same as any other lord’s warnings or arguments. The only difference was that Robb respected Bryant fully; as far as he was concerned, they were equals, both young men in this war. Bryant had known him when he was still too small to properly hold his sword, and so it was only right that he heard him now.

The girl would be coming soon, and they would be wed before the sun rose again. Robb stood shoulder to shoulder with Bryant as he waited. “We are far from the North,” Robb reminded him, his hand brushing against Bryant’s then moving away once more. “If the gods could see us, I would not be breaking my vow, and this war would already be over.” He could only believe that all the bad luck that had fallen upon them was because they were so far from home, in the foresaken South, and all he wanted in the world was to take his sisters home and never step foot in these lands again.

When it seemed that Jeyne would not yet appear in that moment, however, Robb finally dragged his eyes away from the place where she was expected and turned to meet Brant’s gaze instead. He gripped the man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you,” he said. “For being by my side. I will not forget it.”

#wardensinthenorth #v: main (d)#we follow our hearts wherever they may queue #v: books #tw dubcon

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