robert baratheon's only true heir, a dark-haired girl like your father in many ways including your inability to fall out of love with bright-eyed starks.
word count: 150k :)
COMPLETED!
inspo/outline/headcanons
the snow before the storm (what started this all haha)
welcome to winterfell
fights and falls
into the wood
diplomatics and dramatics
escaping execution
in camp
released in the riverlands
moms and murder
wondering why
grandfather's girl
a stark story
the journey north
to find forever
family ties
safe again
breaking broken
becoming
forever found
another queen
one leg up
in part
a need to know
in your dreams
way down we go
reconnected
always more
optimism
revelations
battles and breakage
silver linings
of thunder and ice -
(mini one shots that are just sweet, missed moments in the series)
divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.
Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.
Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.
At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.
You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror.
But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.
You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.
As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.
He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.
You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.
The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.
You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.
It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.
You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.
“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.
Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.
Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side.
One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.
Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.
But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.
Robb Stark.
Named after your father’s namesake.
He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.
He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.
His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.
And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.
Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different.
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him.
For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.
You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.
The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.
You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.
Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.
You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.
It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.
“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”
Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.
You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.
Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.
Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.
“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.
You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.
Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.
The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.
Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”
Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.
Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.
When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.
Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold.
You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants. And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.
As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.
Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.
No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.
The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.
Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.
Steel striking wood.
You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.
The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.
“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”
He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.
“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”
Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”
Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”
Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten.
“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.
He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.
“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”
You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”
That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.
“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”
“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”
You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”
Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.
You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”
When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”
You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”
Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.
“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”
Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.
“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.
At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”
Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.
“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”
Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."
You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”
Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.
“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.
You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”
He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”
“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”
Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him.
When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”
Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.
Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”
You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”
The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”
Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”
You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.
“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.
Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”
That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”
Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”
He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”
You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.
“Jon.”
Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”
You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”
Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”
With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.
Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.
He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.
Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”
Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”
Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”
Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”
Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.
Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”
Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”
Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”
Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”
Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”
“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”
Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.
Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”
That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”
Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes.
By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.
Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.
Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?
Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?
No one knew which way the coin would fall.
As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.
“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”
“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”
You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.
You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.
At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.
It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.
Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.
You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.
“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”
His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.
“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”
Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”
Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”
Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.
Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”
Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”
A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.
Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”
Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.
You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.
Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.
Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.
You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.
You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.
It was harsh—but it was honest.
And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.
When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.
You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.
“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.
“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.
You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”
“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”
You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”
The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.
A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”
“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”
You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”
The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.
“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”
“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.
Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”
You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”
“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.
Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him. “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.
He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.
“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”
You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.
“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”
You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”
Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”
“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”
You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”
Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”
The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.
Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”
Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”
You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”
“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”
Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”
A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”
You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”
Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”
You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest.
You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.
“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”
Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”
You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”
“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”
It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.
Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.
You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.
He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.
There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.
The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming.
Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.
Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.
The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.
And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.
The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.
He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.
He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.
You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.
Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.
“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”
You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.
Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.
He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.
You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.
You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.
He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.
“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”
“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”
You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”
Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”
You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.
He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”
You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.
You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”
“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”
Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”
You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”
The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”
You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”
He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”
That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.
“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”
Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”
You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.
Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”
“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.
Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”
He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”
You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”
Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”
“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”
Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”
You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”
Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”
You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”
You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.
Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.
“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”
Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.
The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”
You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”
For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.
“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”
Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”
You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.
“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”
You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”
He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.
You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”
Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”
For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”
Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”
You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”
You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.
And then—
Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.
You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.
Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”
“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”
You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.
“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”
Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.
“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”
From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.
Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”
Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”
You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”
Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”
Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“
But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.
You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.
Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.
“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”
Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”
You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”
Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”
“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”
You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”
But he did.
The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.
“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”
That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”
In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.
Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.
You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.
For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.
Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.
At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.
Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.
“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”
The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.
She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”
Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”
Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”
But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”
Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”
“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.
“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”
Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”
You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”
His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”
You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”
He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”
“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”
Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”
And that was when his hand moved.
He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.
But Robb was faster.
He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.
“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”
Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”
Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”
The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.
Yet now there was no denying it.
Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.
The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.
“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.
You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.
He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.
He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.
The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.
Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.
The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.
“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.
You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”
The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.
“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”
You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.
“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”
You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”
Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”
You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.
The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.
A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”
Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”
You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.
As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.
He wanted you to stay.
Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.
And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.
The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.
Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.
Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.
Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.
And behind her, you stood.
Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark.
Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”
Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.
His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.”
Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.
But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.
He imagined a life without you.
You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.
The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.
You were duty, yes. But you were also more.
And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.
Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”
But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.
He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you.
Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.
His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”
Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.
Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.
But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”
The hall went still.
Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”
Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”
All eyes turned to Robb.
The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.
It found you.
Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted.
And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”
The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.
A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.
Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.
Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”
Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.
And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”
The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.
Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.
For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.
Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”
Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”
The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.
Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.
“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”
Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.
And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.
A strange, unexpected calm.
Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.
You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.
And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.
summary: you and Ao'nung are childhood friends but not really. his jealousy is most clear when you hangout with Lo'ak at the festival of the Tide's Blessing. 1.3k words.
warnings: reader actually has somewhat of a personality. kissing, jealousy, lo'ak mentioned.
october event masterlist | avatar masterlist
Awa’atlu has been loud lately. But it’s the kind of comfortable noise you feel in the presence of home. The bitterness of fire and smoke cuts through the salty breeze, sounds of light drumming and children laughing in the distance carry through the voices of your people conversing. The whole gathering is draped underneath soft lights of shifting amber and blue light.
You sit on cool and damp sand with a wrist over your knee, other palm against the wet sand, gazing into the distance of the sea as the bonfire crackles a few meters away.
You are alone amongst the chatter, taking in the peace.
Then you are not.
Lo’ak, one of the new boys from the Omaticaya— and someone you consider a new friend, wipes his mouth with his five-fingered hand as he joins you sitting down. It’s not long before you find yourself laughing with him, much to a certain someone’s dismay.
Ao’nung was busy helping serve food to the rest of the Metkayina, his plan being to finish his duties early to be able to sit and join you… before Lo’ak got there first.
He heard it long before he looked. Your laugh.
“You cannot simply pull their fins like that!” you scold the boy beside you between laughs, smacking his shoulder lightly. He was recounting a story in the reef about his little sister Tuk, a hunting net, and a very angry ilu. Your sides ache even before the end of the tale.
Ao’nung’s jaw clenches.
Not that he cares, obviously.
A few more moments with Lo’ak pass, the story having ended. You two sit in silence, watching the people around you. Children chase each other in the sand, the men and women of the clan engage in hearty conversations. It is the night of the Tide’s Blessing, a feast the Olo’eyktan holds every few moons to ensure a bountiful harvest.
“It is good,” you say, “that we can still thoroughly enjoy the festival. Even with the…unrest, your family brought.” The words are teasing, though they are half jest and half truth.
Lo’ak simply lets out a chuckle, unbothered. “Unrest, huh?” He leans back on his palms, not before nudging your elbow. “Pretty sure someone’s going through that right now,” he says with a grin, nodding towards the side ever so slightly.
Your gaze flicks to the same direction, and in the darkness you can faintly make out Ao’nung’s hunched over position on the log along with a couple of elders no doubt telling a tale as old as time. He seems to be uselessly busy with his spear, adjusting the grip, scraping off an edge that does not even require maintenance.
You try not to smile.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on your childhood friend. “He’s not-”
“Jealous?” Lo’ak supplies, grin widening. He gives you a stupid smirk and raises his eyebrows suggestively, earning him an eyeroll and a shove which only makes him laugh harder.
The Omaticayan boy uses the loss of balance to push himself up, brushing sand from his knees in one fluid movement. The forest people are somehow nimble like that. “I think I’ll leave you to it. Don’t keep loverboy waiting too lo-”
“Lo’ak!” you hiss, half whisper, half warning. But he’s already stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. You grab a fistful of sand and fling it his way, and he dodges with a bark of laughter, now running away.
You exhale, trying not to smile as you shake your head. When you glance back toward the center of the gathering, Ao’nung is now standing in a different spot, talking to Rotxo. His arms are crossed, gaze fixed everywhere except you.
His tail flicks against the sand, a tell-tale sign of annoyance. You feel amusement rise through your chest, pushing yourself up to start toward them.
Rotxo notices you first, eyes darting between you and Ao’nung. Then that grin spreads across his face, the kind that says he knows exactly what’s about to happen.
“Hello, [Name]-” he starts, but you’re already grabbing a very-taken-aback Ao’nung by the wrist. “Borrowing him,” you say simply. Rotxo just watches with a smirk, no resistance on his part before he joins one of his other friends in conversation.
Ao’nung stumbles a step before you, frowning but not resisting as you pull him away from the noise towards a quieter stretch of sand near the edge of the gathering. The drumming fades behind you, replaced by the low hush of the tide and the occasional burst of laughter from the crowd.
“Something is wrong with you,” you say, more like a question than a statement.
Lately, you and Ao’nung have been dancing around each other. You’ve been friends since you two were nothing but babes with your tails tucked between your legs, but everyone is able to see that things have changed.
“Everything is fine. Why would something be wrong?” He doesn’t look at you properly. A glance there, then quickly to the sand behind you.
“You have been glaring holes through Lo’ak recently,” your arms fold as you step closer, “more than usual. Should I tell him to watch out?” You tilt your head to catch his gaze, a smile on your features.
He scoffs, the quirk of a smile appearing as he finally angles his head down at you, taking you in. “Please. A warning would not help him, even if I did have something more against him,” he tries to play it off, but his tone betrays him. Just a bit too sharp, the usual arrogance in his tone the slightest bit heightened.
You laugh, soft and knowing. “Mhm. So that’s what this is about.”
Ao’nung glares back at you, half-hearted, but the tips of his ears flush blue as they press down. “What?”
You take a step closer, voice dipping lower. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not-”
“-jealous,” you finish for him, smiling now. “And stupid. Are you not aware he is crazy for your sister?”
“What-” his back straightens, looking back at the gathering as if to hunt Lo’ak down with a look of his eyes.
But he’s immediately distracted by the firm touch of your hands on his shoulders as you look up at him. “You are stupid,” you say again. But there is nothing except softness in your voice.
His throat bobs as your thumbs rub slowly against the base of his neck.
“All this time you spent sulking, glaring, pretending you don’t care,” you stop for a moment, “when we both know that you clearly do.”
His hands twitch. It’s clear he wants to do something- anything. You two are closer than you have ever been before, merely a foot’s distance between your chests.
His left hand finally raises, hovering over your waist to test the waters. He looks back at you, something charged behind the look. “And what would you have me do?” he murmurs.
You tilt your head, your smile turning faintly mischievous. “You are supposed to be brave, Ao’nung. You are the mighty son of the olo’eyktan, remember? Yet you cannot even tell a girl how you feel?”
The corners of his mouth twitch, as if he’s fighting between pride and the urge to just say what’s in his chest.
“You are… awfully confident,” he mutters, searching in your eyes.
“Good.” You tilt your head up, eyes gleaming. “Then maybe you’ll finally do something about it.”
That earns the smallest smirk from him, fleeting but real, and something in his eyes finally gives. His hand finds its place at your waist, fingers brushing against the woven fabric of your top like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s too firm.
You don’t move away.
Instead, you tilt your chin up just slightly, the faintest hint of challenge in your voice. “So?”
That’s all it takes.
It feels like something snaps inside him; his hand tightens at your waist as he closes the distance, lips pressing against yours with a kind of hesitant gentleness that feels like he’s holding back more.
When you both pull away, relief bleeds into the air as he rests his forehead against yours, breath uneven.
“Next time, please do not make me wait for you to finish talking to that skxawng.”
You laugh.
october event masterlist | avatar masterlist
UGH it filled something so dear in my heart to be making more avatar content. i hope this fed you guys before the avatar fandom rises again because of the new movie of which i am SUPER stoked to see
Ao’nung made his hatred of your family clear from day one— you’re outsiders who brought war to his peaceful shores. But somewhere between the insults and the fighting, hate transforms into something neither of you saw coming.
A new beginning [acquaintances2lovers; f] 2,1k @aprilshowersbringmayflowerz
The aftermath of the last and final war (hopefully) your village was in shambles, your people decreased numerously, your once tranquil homeland was never going to be the same again. It hasn't been the same since the arrival of the first appearance of the sky people with the forest people which you have been slightly acquainted with. After all, you were one of the chosen by Ronal to study under her as her "tsakarem" (successor). To learn the ways of how to be a proper Tsahìk for the Metekayina people.
But that now seems more than difficult. She was gone, your friend Roxto as well and that leaves a large hole in the hearts of the clan. The loss of their Tsahìk, their sweet Ronal, seemed to affect her first born son the most.
Now, it is up to the new generation to step up and create a new foundation for the future, stronger generation of the Metkayina clan.
Denial ༄.° [f] @snitchesgetnobitches
𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙖𝙡𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨 ༄.° [f] 1,3k @lorre-verie
you and Ao'nung are childhood friends but not really. his jealousy is most clear when you hangout with Lo'ak at the festival of the Tide's Blessing.
What courting? 7,2k @chromemolars
aonung has been courting you, but you’re a little oblivious to the fact.
— Fading Indifference [f] @rxsilabeth--er
"A metkayina girl somehow worms her way into Ao'nung's heart with simple tears and her jealousy breaks his heart all the same."
aonung being jealous of the forest boys because of you. [jealousy, a] @dejacatt
---part 2
i choose you [f2l; f] 1,2k @slvqtore
ao’nung, as the future olo’eyktan, is expected to choose a mate of his own. good thing he already has. now all he has to do was gather up the courage to ask you.
you are lo’ak’s twin however the two of you are like yin and yang. while lo’ak’s wild personality causes him to catch the eye of a certain metkayina princess, your soothing and nurturing nature leads to a blossoming relationship with her brother.
Aonung x reader [f] 2,6k @itzj4ylene
Aonung slowly falls for a stubborn, quiet artisan who sees him clearly and challenges his pride, and their shared moments by the sea turn irritation into a soft, mutual love
Not Close Enough [slow burn, mutual pining] 2,5k @swimthroughstars
When Aonung and Y/N get trapped in a cave together, they are left with too little air, too much silence, and feelings that surface in the dark.
SOFT SPOT ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ @nzteyam
That One's Mine [jealousy, violence f] 3,5k @tonowarii
Growing up with Ao'nung, his parents and yours had eventually promised you to each other. Now training under Ronal to become tsahik, unexpected events occur when the family of Toruk Makto arrive.
Boyfriend Ao'nung [f] @neteyamslovrr
headcanons of ao'nung being a cutie patootie bf!!
Aonung x reader 2,8k @/itzj4ylene
while you’re still learning how to belong in the reef, aonung drags you to a hidden coral spot and accidentally catches feelings.
Should’ve Saved Me Sooner [f, slight angst] 1,7k @nyctophicbtch
Request: Do you take requests? If so can you please do a Aonung x metkayina reader. The reader does something dangerous/gets attacked and nearly gets hurt/worse but he saves her?
Heartfelt [f; slight angst] 2,6k @nyctophicbtch
Request: COULD YOU DO AONUNG X SULLY! READER?? Maybe she’s a Lo’ak’s twin or something and somehow Aonung starts to really like her and he shows it by not letting the metkayina tease her, or treating her siblings with respect when she’s close
Listen [f, some angst] @ohdeersthings
Ao'nung has loved you since childhood.
pain [f] @bonnibuckets
just some hc of what its like to be with ao’nung
I see you. [bullying, arguing] 1,3k @aoyum
you overhear aonung and his friends picking on the sully kid, and give them a taste of their own medicine
A Necklace [f] 1,2k @neteyamslovrr
Y/N is not a well-known member of the Metkayina, yet she yearns for the Olo’eyktan’s son Ao’nung, so she makes him a gift to show her affection towards the boy
— CONFESSIONS .@livelaughloak
scxawng [f2l] 1,7k @reesereadsalot
You have tried and tried and tried to get Ao’nung to see that you like him and he doesn’t get the message, you are fed up.
Or the 4 times you tried to convey your feelings for Ao’nung and the 1 time it worked.
TRACES OF JAELOUSY @yoxiaogi
aonung isnt very happy with the attention you give to sully boys
"LIKE HE DOESN'T CARE AT ALL" [friends to something more; jealousy, teasing] 2,5k @itzj4ylene
Ao’nung swears he doesn’t care who trains with you. He really does. Or at least that’s what he tells himself while he avoids you, answers in short words, and sulks like it isn’t painfully obvious. Watching someone else stand where he’s always stood messes with him more than he wants to admit.
north. [series masterlist; e2l] 31,9k @drewdaist
"WHERE THE TIDE KEEPS US" [forced proximity] 2,5k @/itzj4ylene
When the RDA destroys your home, you are sent to the Metkayina for protection. As the Tsakarem of the Ta’unui, you are placed under Tonowari and Ronal’s care to continue your training. Ao’nung is assigned to help you adapt. He tells himself it’s just duty. Just proximity. But grief has a way of binding people together, and the ocean keeps you closer than either of you expected.
kuru’s aren’t toys 2,7k @/chromemolars
intertwined @crzbss
aonung and you have spent years pretending, all you needed was a push from tsireya to confess.
stupid fish boy. @m6cabre
Where the Tide Leads 0,9k @andy-15-07
𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 [f] @maaeveeee
lo'ak cant believe you're mated to ao'nung...of all na'vi @vampsywrites
my soul, you really took my soul @vampsywrites
moments where fishlips is soft for you <3
Unashamed [secrecy; f] 1,4k @/swimthroughstars
Y/N doesn't want her relationship to be a secret anymore, but how will Aonung react to this?
─── ⋆ LIFE WORTH MISSING [hurt to comfort] 1,3k @spiderfunkz
ao'nung should've known better, now he must apologize the best to his abilities
˙⋆✮HE’S WHIPPED. [suggestive; f] 1,2k @imeow33
who knew that you — the shyest girl in the clan, could bring the future olo’eyktan to his knees?
Uh-oh! I think you're holding the heart of mine! [mean aonung, angst to comfort] 2,6k @avatarkv
You should have known better than to love someone so cruel.
The clan could sense Ao’nung’s brooding figure from a mile away, more hostile than ever. What more could he handle once he figures out you’re already spoken for?
give me a chance [oblivious! reader; head over heels aonung] 3,8k @dasvidny4
aonung has been very obvious about his crush on you, going over the top on complimenting you in very unique ways, but you just always laugh it off like he’s joking.
─── ⋆ LETTER HOME [f2l; f] 1,1k @spiderfunkz
you're the only girl ao'nung has ever wanted, and he makes sure everyone knows
Sweet Boy [f] @biolumilunareclipse
after years of teasing you, ao’nung has started being kinder. you think it’s because he finally outgrew his troublesome teenage boy phase. despite your wariness, you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and discover the sweetheart he grew up to be.
─── ⋆ TRUE LOVE WAITS [f] 1,2k @spiderfunkz
when a ta'unui girl came needing help and refuge, ao'nung was quick to fall for her, especially since she's the same girl he's been seeing in his dreams
about me. ysa, 21 (she/they). loved avatar since i was little. loves to write. english isn't my first language. libra.
REQUESTS ARE: open!
RECENT WORK/S: a fine warrior - to save your husband -
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P.S Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work to other platforms. I intend for my writing to stay exclusively here on tumblr. Thank you for respecting my boundaries! ⋆.𐙚 ̊
summary: aonung takes intrest in quiet omatikaya girl
note: idk if its good i had a problem with second part:( pls give me your opinion i the comments
part i
After that evening, Aonung stopped pretending his interest was anything other than intentional.
He did not soften himself for the sake of appearances. If anything, he grew more direct
less noisy, less performative. He stood beside you openly during lessons. Chose you without hesitation when partners were needed. Walked with you through the village as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
People noticed.
Whispers followed. Curious looks. Tsireya’s knowing smiles. Aonung never reacted to any of it. If he sensed eyes on him, he didn’t flinch only glanced at you, as if checking whether you were still comfortable.
“I don’t actually need this anymore,” you said one afternoon, resting in the shallows while your ilu drifted lazily nearby. Your breathing was steady now. The water no longer felt like something you had to fight.
Aonung circled once, then stopped in front of you. “You’re assuming I agree.”
You lifted a brow. “I’ve done the turn three times without drifting.”
“Four,” he corrected, his familiar smile appearing.
You crossed your arms in the water, watching him, a smile dancing on your mouth. “You’re looking for excuses.”
“Maybe,” he said calmly, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Or maybe I enjoy watching you prove me wrong.”
You met his gaze. He smiled at you like he clearly enjoyed this.
“You’ve learned quickly,” he added after a moment. “Too quickly.” He mumbled the last part, quietly annoyed.
You laughed at that.
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It is,” he replied, watching your smile with amusement in his eyes. Then, quieter: “And a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t need me anymore,” he said, “I won’t have a reason to keep stealing you away from everyone else.” He smiled wide, swimming closer to you.
Something warm flickered low in your chest. You didn’t answer immediately just watched the way the light fractured across the water between you.
“You’re a dummy.”
He laughed, his eyes watching you warmly.
Your evenings became inevitable.
At sunset, when the heat bled out of the air and the reef glowed faintly beneath the surface, you found each other by the same stretch of shore. Some nights you sat on warm rock, others with your feet trailing in the water, tails brushing occasionally. Never acknowledged, never pulled away.
You spoke of small things. Of currents and stars and the way the ocean changed color depending on the light. Sometimes he asked about the forest with genuine interest.
There were pauses between conversations stretches where neither of you felt the need to fill the space. You leaned closer without acknowledging it. Your shoulders touched more often. His hand rested behind you on the rock, close enough to feel, never quite claiming.
The tension built quietly.
It lived in the way his eyes lingered when you laughed softly at something he said. In how he watched your mouth when you spoke. In the care he took not to touch you unless you moved first.
You looked at him as he quietly watched the ocean line. He looked so calm. You studied him. The way the last light caught along his cheekbones.
“You’re quiet,” you observed.
He immediately looked at you, tilting his head slightly with a smile.
“Is it bothering you?”
“Kinda. I’m used to you talking,” you said.
He chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving yours.
“I don’t want to ruin things,” he said after a moment, voice low and even.
“Ruin what?” you asked.
He looked back out at the horizon, where the sun was slipping beneath the water, slow and inevitable. “This,” he replied. “You.”
You shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move away.
“You wouldn’t.”
Aonung nodded, like that confirmed something he’d already suspected. “Good to know.”
The water below reflected copper and violet, breaking into ripples each time your feet moved. The air was cooler now, carrying salt and something faintly floral from the reef.
“You’re different from before,” you said after a while.
He glanced at you. “Before when?”
“When you first met me,” you replied. “You were louder.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I was trying to get a reaction.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t need one,” he said. “I know where I stand.”
You felt that settle somewhere deep in your chest.
His hand shifted behind you, fingers brushing the stone near your hip, close enough that you noticed, careful enough that it still felt like a question. You leaned back just slightly, letting your weight rest nearer to him.
He inhaled, slow.
“I think,” he said, measured, “that if I touched you the way I want to, you’d leave.”
You turned your head toward him. “Why?”
“Because you don’t like being pushed,” he answered honestly. “You like choosing.”
The quiet stretched again.
You reached back without looking, your fingers grazing his knuckles.
“Then let me choose,” you said.
His hand closed around yours. Just enough to let you feel the warmth of him, the steadiness. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t speak.
He just stayed.
And somehow, that did more than anything else he could have said.
Torches lined the platforms, their reflections shivering across the water. Drums echoed low and steady, vibrating through the planks beneath your feet, through bone and breath. The Metkayina gathered in layered blues and greens, voices rising and falling in ritual cadence. It was beautiful.
You stood slightly apart, as you often did, watching rather than participating.
Aonung was among the young hunters at the center. He didn’t look nervous but you knew him well enough now to recognize the tension beneath his stillness. The way his hands flexed once at his sides. The way his jaw set when the elders began to chant.
When the marking began, the village quieted.
Ink was pressed into skin with practiced care, each line deliberate, permanent. You watched the slow reveal of the pattern across his face the curve of it, sharp and proud. It suited him in a way that felt almost inevitable, as if it had always been waiting there.
He didn’t look out at the crowd when it was done.
He looked for you.
The moment his gaze found yours, something in his expression shifted. Pride softened into something more personal. More intent.
You smiled at him, and he smiled back.
As the ceremony continued around you, you left your place and went to the shore to breathe fresh air, the songs still echoing in the background.
Soon the ceremony ended and the voices shifted into celebration, you heard footsteps behind you. You immediately knew who it was.
“I knew you’d be here,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the waves.
You turned to him. Your gaze traced the markings slowly. When you finally lifted your eyes to his, they were already on you.
“What do you think?” he asked, proud, showing off.
“I like it. It fits you,” you said.
A corner of his mouth curved.
“Good,” he replied. “Because I didn’t care what anyone else thought.”
He hesitated then before stepping closer, lowering his voice further. “I wanted you to see it first. Properly.”
He took your wrist, lifting your hand and resting it above his eye, where the tattoo sat. His eyes never broke from yours. Your breath hitched at the action, but you didn’t move your hand away. Your fingers brushed his skin lightly, tracing the edge of the fresh lines. His breath stuttered.
The world around you seemed to fall away—the songs dulling into nothing more than distant sound.
“You’ve been very patient,” you said.
He let out a quiet breath. “You make patience feel like a test.”
You leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to pull back.
He leaned in closing the distance.
The kiss was unhurried, grounded settling into something certain and warm. His hand came to your waist, firm but respectful, anchoring you as if the ground beneath you might give way. Your hand rested at his cheek, feeling the steady strength beneath your palm.
When you pulled back, the celebration surged around you again but it felt changed somehow. Like the world had shifted a degree to the left.
Aonung rested his forehead briefly against yours.
“I wasn’t going to rush this,” he said quietly.
You met his gaze, calm and deliberate as ever.
“Sure you weren’t,” you replied.
He smiled at your words.
"I see you." You said softly waiting for your reaction.
summary: aonung takes intrest in quiet omatikaya girl
note; im kind of running out of avatar fic ideas, so this might be my last one (unless I come up with something new) im pretty sure this will get a second part so if youre interested, let me know in the comments!
part ii
You did not speak unless you had something worth saying.
That was how your mother described you once, voice warm and proud as she braided your hair by the firelight. Not shy, not afraid just deliberate. Words were arrows, and you did not loose them unless you meant to strike.
The Metkayina noticed your silence almost immediately.
And Aonung noticed it the most.
He had the kind of presence that demanded attention whether you wanted to give it or not. Broad shoulders, easy confidence, movements sharp and sure like he belonged to the water itself. Where others flowed, he cut. Where others laughed, he barked.
And his eyes sharp, assessing kept finding you.
“Does she ever speak or she's always like that?” he asked one afternoon, voice carrying easily across the shallows.
You stood knee-deep in the water, fingers curled around the smooth tether of an ilu. The creature shifted beneath you, sensing your tension. Tsireya was nearby, demonstrating breathing techniques with gentle patience. Kiri listened intently. Neteyam shot Aonung a warning look. Lo’ak splashed water deliberately too loud.
You did not look at Aonung.
“Like what?” Lo’ak asked with heat.
“Like she’s somewhere else,” Aonung said. “Like she’s deciding whether this is worth her time.”
Something hot flared in your chest.
You focused on steadying your breathing instead.
“Mind your business.” Neteyam said quietly, stepping closer to you.
Aonung’s mouth curved, not apologetic in the slightest. “Just curious.”
You hated the way his gaze lingered like he was waiting for something. A reaction or a crack.
You did not look at him.
That, more than anything, irritated him.
The first days in Awa’atlu felt like standing in someone else’s dream. Everything too bright, too open, too loud. The reef shimmered endlessly beneath the surface, colors bleeding into one another, while the village floated above it like something alive. Wind pulled at your braids constantly. Salt clung to your skin.
There was nowhere to hide.
You missed the trees most at night, when the stars stretched too wide across the sky and there was nothing enclosing you. No branches overhead, no roots beneath your feet. Just open water and the sound of waves breathing against the platforms.
The Metkayina way was hard on you not because you were incapable, but because it demanded patience in a way that felt foreign. The forest had always risen to meet you. Roots curved under your feet, branches caught you when you fell. The ocean did not care if you sank.
You struggled with breath holds at first. With the way water pressed against your ears, loud and endless.
And Aonung watched.
Every misstep. Every mistake.
“Again,” he said when you surfaced too soon, dragging air into your lungs with a sharp gasp. “You tense up. You’re wasting breath.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, not saying a word.
He tilted his head, circling slowly like a predator that already knew the outcome. “Your shoulders are tight. Your kick’s uneven. You fight the current instead of letting it carry you.”
You finally looked at him then.
Really looked.
His eyes were bright, almost amused but there was something else there too. Focus. Expectation.
“I don’t need you to explain water to me like I’m stupid.” You said.
The surrounding teens went silent. Even the waves seemed to pause.
Aonung blinked, clearly not expecting your voice low edged like flint.
“Oh,” he said, a slow grin spreading. “She does talk.”
You turned away from him.
Behind you, Neteyam exhaled slowly. Tsireya shot Aonung a look.
From that moment on, Aonung targeted you relentlessly.
You despised him.
Despised the way he corrected you more harshly than the others. The way his comments always skirted the line between instruction and mockery. The way he laughed when you stumbled. Not cruelly, but pointedly, like he wanted you to feel it.
“Forest girl’s afraid of the water.”
“You move like you’re waiting for the ground to catch you.”
“Careful you might actually have to trust something other than trees.”
You hated him.
Hated the way his voice always seemed to find you in the crowd. Hated that he watched you more than anyone else. Hated that he seemed to enjoy provoking you.
And you hated most of all was that some small, traitorous part of you listened.
Because sometimes, buried beneath the teasing, he was right.
The breaking point came fast.
A careless comment. He’d made a joke about forest people. Lo’ak surged forward. Neteyam stepped between them.
You walked away.
Your feet hit the platform harder than necessary as you moved toward the far edge of the village, where the sound of voices faded into wind and water.
“Hey,” Aonung called, following. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Somewhere you’re not.” You replied.
That made him laugh. “You’re always this pleasant?”
You stopped.
Turned.
“I don’t like you,” you said simply.
The humor in his expression faltered—not vanished, just… recalibrated.
His grin faltered not gone, but altered.
“Good,” he replied. “Feeling’s mutual.”
But his eyes lingered on your face longer than necessary.
After that, things shifted.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
But subtly.
His words lost their bite. Still teasing but lower, closer, meant for you alone.
“Careful,” he murmured one day as he swam past you, shoulder brushing yours. The contact was brief. “You almost looked graceful.”
You shot him a warning look. “Don’t push it.”
His grin widened but his eyes flicked to your face. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You noticed how he matched your pace when you swam. How he hovered nearby without crowding you. How he stopped correcting you unless you asked.
And he noticed things too.
The way your gaze drifted to the horizon when the lessons ended.
How your expression softened around your siblings.
How you listened more than you spoke and remembered everything.
The first time you smiled at him, it caught you both off guard.
You’d just finished a clean run with your ilu–fast and smooth. When you surfaced, water streaming down your arms, Aonung was waiting.
“Well,” he said, arms crossed, eyes bright. “Took you long enough.”
“Don’t ruin it,” you said.
He laughed, real laughter and something in your chest loosened.
Your smile slipped out before you could stop it.
Aonung went still.
Like he’d been struck.
“…There,” he said quietly. “That.”
You turned away quickly. “Don’t read into it.”
“Oh, I am absolutely reading into it,” he said, drifting closer. “I worked hard for that.”
You hated how warm your face felt.
From then on, he tried.
Not loudly. Not showily.
He brought you extra shells after long lessons. Waited for you before heading back to the village. Stopped making jokes at your expense in front of others.
Instead, he aimed them only at you low-voiced, private.
“Careful,” he’d say, leaning just close enough for you to feel his warmth. “If you keep smiling at me like that, people will talk.”
“Talk about what? That you like me?” you replied lightly.
His breath caught.
And Aonung. Confident, infuriating Aonung looked at you like he was losing ground.
The air between you felt different after that.
He didn’t crowd you, didn’t touch you– not really but he stayed close enough that you were always aware of him. A presence at your shoulder. A warmth just within reach. When you spoke, his attention sharpened; when you fell silent, he didn’t rush to fill it anymore.
One evening, long after the others had gone, you sat at the edge of the platform alone. The sea below was darkening, the reef lights beginning to glow faintly beneath the surface. You watched the horizon, hands folded loosely in your lap.
You sensed him before you heard him.
Aonung stopped beside you, close but not intrusive, his shadow stretching across the planks. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there for a moment, as if weighing something.
“You know,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual edge, “you never look at anyone unless you mean to.”
You glanced up at him then.
His expression was serious. No smirk. No teasing curve to his mouth. His eyes held yours steadily, like he wasn’t planning to look away first.
“I notice things,” he continued. “You think people don’t see you because you’re quiet. But you’re wrong.” A pause. “I see you.”
Your chest tightened, breath catching just slightly, heart almost exploding.
He shifted, sitting beside you at last, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. “You don’t try to impress anyone. You don’t explain yourself. You don’t soften things so people are comfortable.” His jaw flexed. “That’s… rare.”
You studied the water below, fingers curling slowly against your palm. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It is.”
Silence settled again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The waves lapped softly against the platform beneath your feet.
“I’m not good at this,” Aonung added after a moment. “Saying things.” He huffed a quiet breath. “But I don’t tease you because I don’t respect you. And I don’t stay near you because I’m bored.”
You turned toward him then.
He met your gaze immediately.
“I’m interested,” he said plainly. “In you. In how you think. In the way you move like you’re always choosing where to stand.” His voice dropped. “And I don’t say that lightly.”
Your heart thudded once, hard.
You didn’t look away.
Your gaze softened and he knew what your answer was.
His hand rested beside yours on the wood, close enough that your fingers could brush if either of you moved. Neither of you did.
The tension stayed.
And for the first time since arriving at the reef, the silence didn’t feel like something you carried alone.
The Calf Communion was a few days away. The Metkayina held a small festival during preparations. Tsireya had dragged you out of your marui to dance. The Chief’s daughter sporting a new tattoo: a sign of her completing her Rite of Passage.
You welcomed the much needed distraction after the little “family adventure”. The village had become a second home.
“Tsireya.” Lo’ak called, walking towards the two of you. He offered his hand. Tsireya went off with him.
You watched your brother go off with the girl, smiling knowingly. The trip had shaken up your whole family. You were just glad to be back at the reefs and ocean.
“Oel ngati kameie.” A familiar voice rumbled.
You whipped your head around to see the Chief’s son, Ao’nung. The warrior had a similar tattoo to his sister: the ink curving into his nose bridge. “Oel ngati kameie.” You spoke in awe.
You reached out to tilt his head. He did not protest and let you admire his tattoo in the middle of the festival. Metkayina dancing around the two of your to the music. “Ao’nung…”
The warm fire reflecting in his eyes, staring at you with something so…foreign, but familiar. “Keep staring and I might think you like them.” He teased.
His hand wrapped around yours. The Metkayina boy dragged you away from prying eyes. The teasing looks made his skin burn brightly. He called for his ilu, diving to join his companion in the water.
You gave him a look as he waited for you. You knew what he wanted, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. You mimicked his call and joined him in the water with your Ilu.
Ao’nung rolled his eyes playfully. “C’mon.”
The two of you swam through the reefs as if in a dance in the ocean: intertwining, weaving and playing together. The night stretched beyond the sky. The stars twinkled with fondness.
“I am very proud.” You admire his facial tattoo again, cupping his face. You were at a spot only known by you and Ao’nung. It was secret. It had become a special place in recent months. The bioluminescence glowing, twinkling, in approval to Ao’nung’s Rite of Passage.
“You’ll get yours soon enough, forest girl.” Aonung spoke softly, leaning into your touch.
“You think so, ocean boy?” A teasing smile on your lips. Your tail flicking playfully.
“I know so.” Aonung nodded, taking the hand on his chin and intertwining it with his own. “Don’t worry—I’ll hold your hand when you get yours. Moral support.”
You snickered. To think, this boy made fun of your structure, your anatomy. He gave you and your siblings a tough time whilst you were adjusting to Metkayina life. Even almost got your brother killed! Now look at him. The son of the Metkayina’s Olo’eyktan and Tsahik holding the hand of the Toruk Makto’s daughter.
“They hurt when you get them?”
“Not to me they don’t.” He puffed out his chest. “To you, maybe. Which is why I’ll be there.”
He squeezed your hand in reassurance, even boldly pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Thank Eywa for the cloak of night to hide your blush. Though somehow, Ao’nung always knows when you fluster and grinned cheekily.
“Ocean boy.” You warned in response
“Forest girl.” He shot back teasingly.
A moment of silence passed between you two: comfortable silence as you stare at the Metkayina boy. A sheepish smile on your face. You make the bold move to scoot a tad closer to Ao’nung. Somehow closer than you already were, then muster up the courage to lean your head on his shoulder.
Ao’nung doesn’t say anything. You can’t see his expression, but you know he’s smiling, maybe thanking Eywa for this.
“Oel ngati kameie.” You just barely spoke the words.
summary: Ao’nung made his hatred of your family clear from day one— you’re outsiders who brought war to his peaceful shores. But somewhere between the insults and the fighting, hate transforms into something neither of you saw coming.
pairing: ao’nung x fem!sully!reader
warnings: spoiler-free, fic takes place in atwow, slight enemies to lovers, slight slow burn, angst, fluff, mutual pining, whipped ao’nung, protective ao’nung, aged-up characters, violence, near drowning, prejudice, hurt/comfort, happy ending
w/c: 5.6k+
The ocean was supposed to be a refuge. That’s what your father had said when he announced the family was leaving the forest, leaving everything you’d ever known behind to seek shelter with some reef clan halfway across Pandora. A refuge. A safe haven.
Nobody mentioned it would feel like drowning.
You broke the surface of the water with a gasp, lungs burning as you struggled to orient yourself. The reef people moved through the water like it was air, like their bodies were made for this. Your body decidedly was not. Your tail, built for balance in trees, did nothing but drag behind you. Your arms, strong from climbing, felt heavy and useless in the water.
“Again.” Tsireya’s voice was patient, kind even, but you could see the concern in her eyes. You’d been at this for hours and you still couldn’t hold your breath for more than a minute. Beside you, Kiri seemed to be managing, and even Tuk was doing better than you. Lo’ak was showing off as usual, probably trying to impress Tsireya with how quickly he was picking things up.
“I need a break,” you said, hating how defeated you sounded. You were a skilled hunter back home, and here you were, struggling with something children could do.
“That is fine,” Tsireya said. “We can continue later.”
You pulled yourself onto the nearest platform, water streaming off your body. Your lungs felt tight, your throat raw from salt water. This was humiliating.
“Pathetic.”
The word cut through the air and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Ao’nung had made his opinion of your family clear from the moment you’d arrived. Freaks, he’d called you. Demon-blooded. Not true Na’vi.
“Got something to say?” you asked, finally looking at him. He stood with his arms crossed, that same condescending smirk on his face that made you want to punch him. He was tall, muscular in the way reef people were, built for swimming and diving. Objectively, you could admit he was attractive. Subjectively, he was the most infuriating person you’d ever met.
“I am saying it. You cannot even manage a basic breath-hold. What will you do when you need to hunt? Starve?” His eyes raked over you dismissively. “Perhaps you should have stayed in your forest.”
Your jaw clenched. “We didn’t have a choice.”
“There is always a choice. You chose to bring your war here. To put my people in danger.” He stepped closer and you stood, refusing to let him tower over you even though he had a good six inches on you. “Tell me, forest girl, what happens when the sky people follow you here? When our children die because you were too coward to face your own problems?”
“That’s enough.” Jake’s voice rang out across the platform. Your father looked exhausted, the kind of tired that went bone-deep. “We’re grateful for your father’s hospitality. We’re learning your ways. That’s all we can do.”
Ao’nung’s expression flickered with something that might have been respect for your father, but when his eyes landed back on you, there was nothing but contempt. “Learn faster,” he said, then dove into the water with barely a splash, disappearing into the depths.
You stood there, dripping and furious, your hands balled into fists.
“Ignore him,” Lo’ak said, hauling himself onto the platform. “He’s just an asshole.”
“He’s not wrong though,” you muttered. “We did bring our problems here.”
“Hey.” Lo’ak grabbed your shoulder, forcing you to look at him. “Dad made the call he thought was right. We’re here now. We’ll figure it out.”
You wished you had his confidence.
The days blurred together. Wake up, struggle through lessons, endure Ao’nung’s comments, go to sleep sore and frustrated. Your siblings were adapting faster than you. Even Lo’ak, who’d always been reckless and unfocused back home, seemed to be thriving here. You watched him joke with Tsireya, saw the way she laughed at his stupid comments, and something bitter twisted in your chest.
You’d always been the steady one. The reliable one. The one who kept Lo’ak out of trouble and helped Kiri when her head got too lost in the clouds. Now you were the one holding everyone back.
“Your breathing is wrong.” Ronal’s voice was sharp as she observed the lesson. The Tsahik scared you more than you wanted to admit. She’d made her opposition to your family’s presence clear, and unlike her son’s teenage posturing, her disapproval carried actual weight.
“I’m trying,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Trying is not enough. You must slow your heartbeat. Breathe from here.” She pressed a hand to your stomach, hard enough that you gasped. “From your center. You breathe like prey, quick and panicked. You must breathe like a hunter.”
You wanted to snap that you were a hunter, that you’d made your first kill at fourteen and had brought down a thanator at seventeen. But that didn’t matter here. Here you were useless.
Ronal studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she said something that surprised you. “You are afraid.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. I see it. Fear makes the body tight, makes the breath shallow.” Her voice was still stern but something in her eyes had shifted, just slightly. “What are you afraid of?”
The honest answer sat in your throat. I’m afraid of being useless. I’m afraid we made a mistake coming here. I’m afraid the sky people will find us and it will be my fault when people die.
“Nothing,” you lied.
Ronal made a dismissive sound. “Then you will continue to fail. Fear must be acknowledged before it can be released.” She turned away, already moving to correct Tuk’s form. “Again,” she called over her shoulder.
You dove under, forcing your eyes open against the salt sting. The reef was beautiful, you could admit that. Colors that didn’t exist in the forest, fish that moved in shimmering schools, coral formations that looked like art. You could see why the Metkayina loved this place.
Your lungs started to burn. You pushed yourself, counting the seconds. Sixty. Seventy. Your chest was tight. Eighty. Ninety. Your vision was starting to blur at the edges. One hundred. One ten. One—
Your body made the decision for you, forcing you to the surface. You broke through gasping, immediately angry at yourself.
“Ninety seconds.” Ao’nung’s voice came from behind you. You spun to find him floating there, barely treading water. Showing off how easy this was for him. “Better than yesterday.”
You waited for the insult, the mocking comment. But he just watched you with those sharp eyes, expression neutral.
“What do you want?” you asked.
“To tell you that you are breathing wrong. You are trying to fight the water. You cannot fight the water. You must move with it.”
“I’m not asking for your help.”
“I am not offering it. I am stating a fact.” He dove under, and you watched his form cut through the water with effortless grace. When he surfaced again, he was twenty feet away. “Slow your heart. The body follows the mind. Or continue to struggle. I do not care either way.”
He disappeared again, leaving you treading water and confused. Was that… advice? From Ao’nung? The same guy who’d been making your life hell for weeks?
“Don’t think about it too hard,” Tsireya said, swimming up beside you. “My brother is complicated.”
“Your brother is an asshole.”
She laughed at that, bright and genuine. “Yes. But he is not wrong about the breathing. You are trying too hard, using too much energy. Here.” She placed a hand on your chest, over your heart. “Feel how fast this beats? You must calm it. Think of something peaceful. Something that makes you feel safe.”
You closed your eyes, trying to think of something, anything that felt peaceful. The memories that came were all from the forest. Climbing through the canopy with your siblings. The smell of your mother’s cooking. The sound of your grandmother’s songs.
Your heart slowed.
“Good,” Tsireya said softly. “Now breathe. Slow and deep.”
You did. And when you dove under again, you managed two minutes.
Three weeks in and you were starting to get the hang of it. Not proficient by any means, but improving. You could hold your breath for nearly four minutes now, could swim without feeling like you were fighting the tide, could even dive deep enough to touch some of the coral formations.
Lo’ak was spending every free moment with Tsireya. Young love, your mother called it with an indulgent smile. It was cute, you guessed, watching your brother actually apply himself to something for once because he wanted to impress a girl.
Ao’nung had mostly left you alone lately. He still made comments, still radiated disapproval whenever your family was around, but he’d stopped directing his worst venom at you specifically. You didn’t know what had changed and you weren’t about to ask.
You were helping repair fishing nets when you overheard it. A group of younger reef boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen, talking in low voices that still carried across the water.
“—demon blood,” one was saying. “My father says they will bring destruction to our village.”
“The Tsahik agrees. I heard her talking to the elders. She wants them gone.”
“Ao’nung’s father is too soft. Giving them shelter, teaching them our ways. For what? So they can bring war to our home?”
Your hands stilled on the net. You should walk away, should ignore this. But your feet wouldn’t move.
“I say we make them want to leave on their own,” another voice said. “They do not belong here. The sooner they realize it, the better.”
You should have walked away. Instead, you stood, the net falling from your hands. “Say that to my face.”
The boys turned, startled. When they saw you, their expressions shifted from surprise to something uglier. The oldest one, the one who’d been talking about making you leave, sneered. “Gladly. You do not belong here, forest girl. You and your freak family should go back to where you came from.”
“We were invited. By your Olo’eyktan. Who you seem to think you have authority to question.” You stepped closer, using every inch of height you had even though these boys were bigger than you. “You want us gone? Take it up with Tonowari.”
“Or maybe we take it up with you.” The boy stepped forward too, aggressive, posturing. His friends flanked him. You were suddenly very aware that you were alone and outnumbered.
But you’d faced sky people. You’d faced worse than some bigoted teenagers.
“Try it,” you said.
What happened next happened fast. The boy reached for you, probably just meant to push you, to intimidate you. But you’d been training as a warrior since you were twelve. Your body reacted on instinct. You caught his wrist, twisted, used his momentum against him. He went down hard on the platform.
His friends rushed you. You got one in the stomach with your elbow, heard the air whoosh out of him. But then there were hands grabbing you, pulling you toward the edge of the platform, toward the water. You fought, but there were too many of them.
You went into the water hard, disoriented. Hands pushed you down, holding you under. Your lungs burned. You thrashed, trying to break free, but they were stronger here, in their element.
This is it, you thought distantly. This is how it ends. Drowned by a bunch of kids who think they’re protecting their home.
Then suddenly the hands were gone. You shot to the surface, gasping and coughing. When your vision cleared, you saw Ao’nung holding two of the boys by their necks, his face twisted in fury.
“What do you think you are doing?” His voice was low, dangerous. You’d heard him angry before but this was different. This was the voice of a future leader, someone who expected immediate obedience.
“We were just—” one of the boys started.
“You were attempting to drown her.” Ao’nung’s grip tightened and the boy gasped. “Do you know what the punishment is for attempting to kill someone under my father’s protection?”
The boys had gone pale.
“I should let you find out. I should drag you before the Olo’eyktan and let him decide your fate.” He shoved them away, disgust clear on his face. “Get out of my sight. If I hear of you going near any of the Sullys again, we will finish this conversation.”
The boys fled. You stayed in the water, still catching your breath, trying to process what just happened.
Ao’nung turned to you. His expression was hard to read. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. They had you under for nearly a minute.” He pulled himself onto the platform and then, to your surprise, offered you a hand.
You stared at it for a moment before accepting. His grip was strong, pulling you up easily.
“Why did you help me?” you asked.
He didn’t answer right away. Just studied you with those sharp, assessing eyes. Finally, he said, “Because you are under my father’s protection. An attack on you is an attack on his authority.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“What other reason would there be?” But he looked away as he said it, and you got the sense he was lying.
“I had it handled,” you said.
“You were drowning.”
“I got jumped. Four on one. It happens.”
“It should not happen. Not here. Not to someone my father has offered sanctuary to.” He seemed genuinely angry about it, which was confusing coming from someone who’d spent the last month making it clear he didn’t want you here.
“Well. Thanks. I guess.” It felt awkward, thanking someone who’d been your main antagonist since arrival.
Ao’nung nodded once, sharp. Then he turned to leave.
“Wait,” you called. He paused, looking back. “Why do you hate us so much? And don’t say it’s about the war. I know there’s more to it than that.”
For a long moment, you didn’t think he’d answer. Then he said, “You want honesty? Fine. I look at you and your family and I see everything my people are not. You come from a place of war, of violence. You have fought sky people, killed them. You carry that with you, in the way you move, the way you watch everything like you expect an attack.”
“Because we do expect an attack. We’ve been at war our entire lives.”
“Exactly. And now you bring that here. To our home. To our peaceful waters.” His jaw clenched. “My sister looks at your brother like he hung the stars. She does not see what I see. She does not see that he is reckless, dangerous. That he will get her hurt or worse.”
“Lo’ak would never—”
“Not intentionally. But it will happen anyway. Because that is what happens around your family. Chaos. Destruction.” He took a breath, seeming to forcibly calm himself. “I do not hate you. I hate what you represent. I hate that my father felt he had no choice but to offer you sanctuary. I hate that my sister is falling for someone who will break her heart when you inevitably leave or when the sky people come and kill you all.”
It was the most honest he’d been since you arrived. And maybe it was because you’d nearly died, or maybe it was because you were tired of all the hostility, but you found yourself saying, “I get it.”
He looked surprised.
“I get it,” you repeated. “You’re scared. You’re trying to protect your family, your home. I understand that. I’ve been doing the same thing my whole life.” You wrung out your hair, suddenly exhausted. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want to be here either. I miss my home. I miss feeling competent. I hate that we brought our problems to your door. But we’re here. And we don’t have anywhere else to go. So maybe we can both stop pretending the other doesn’t exist and just… coexist.”
Ao’nung stared at you for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, his mouth quirked up in something that might have been the ghost of a smile.
“Coexist,” he repeated.
“Yeah. Radical concept, I know.”
This time he definitely smiled, just a little. “You are not what I expected.”
“Yeah, well. You’re exactly what I expected.”
He laughed at that, actually laughed, and the sound was so unexpected you found yourself smiling too.
“I am going to pretend that was a compliment,” he said.
“Take it however you want.”
He shook his head, that almost-smile still playing at his lips. Then he dove into the water and was gone, leaving you standing there wondering what the hell just happened.
Things shifted after that. Not dramatically, not all at once, but gradually. Ao’nung stopped going out of his way to antagonize you. He still made comments, still had that air of superiority that made you want to throttle him, but the real venom was gone.
You found yourself watching him sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking. Watching the way he moved through the water, the way he interacted with his sister, the way he took his role as future Olo’eyktan seriously even at nineteen. He was a good teacher, you realized. Patient with the younger kids, firm but fair with his peers.
He caught you staring once. Raised an eyebrow in question.
“Your form is good,” you said, because you had to say something.
“I know.” Cocky as ever. But then he added, “Yours is improving.”
It might have been the nicest thing he’d ever said to you.
The lessons continued. You were up to seven minutes on your breath-hold now, could dive deep enough to hunt, could keep up with the others on the ilu rides across the reef. Ronal had even given you a grudging nod of approval last week, which felt like a bigger victory than anything else.
Lo’ak and Tsireya were officially courting now, whatever that meant for the Metkayina. It was sweet, watching them together. Your brother had never been so focused on anything in his life.
“Your brother is going to ask Tsireya to be his mate,” Ao’nung said one day.
You were sitting on a platform together, repairing a fishing spear. When exactly you’d started sitting together, working together, you couldn’t say. It had just sort of happened.
“They’re young,” you said.
“So are we.”
You glanced at him. “We’re nineteen.”
“Yes. Old enough to know our own minds. Old enough to make our own choices.” He was quiet for a moment, focusing on the spear. Then: “Would you try to stop him? If he asked her?”
“No. It’s his life. His choice.”
“That is very reasonable of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am not surprised. I have learned you are more reasonable than I gave you credit for.” He tested the sharpness of the spear tip, nodded in satisfaction. “I have been unfair to you.”
You nearly dropped your own spear. “What?”
“I said I have been unfair. The things I said when you first arrived, the way I treated you. It was wrong.”
“Are you… apologizing?”
“Do not make me say it twice.” But there was no heat in his words, just a kind of wry amusement.
“I’m just shocked you’re capable of admitting you were wrong.”
“I am capable of many things that would shock you.”
There was something in his tone that made you look up, really look at him. He was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.
“Like what?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Like recognizing when I have made a mistake. Like changing my mind about someone I was determined not to like.” He set the spear aside, turning to face you fully. “Like admitting that I find you fascinating.”
Your heart was suddenly beating very fast. “Fascinating.”
“Yes. You are stubborn and defensive and you never back down even when you should. You argue with me constantly. You question everything. You make me want to either kiss you or throw you into the ocean, sometimes both at once.”
You couldn’t breathe. “Ao’nung—”
“I know this is unexpected. I know I have given you no reason to see me as anything but an asshole, as your brother so eloquently puts it.” His jaw clenched. “But I cannot stop thinking about you. I have tried. Eywa knows I have tried. You are supposed to be temporary. You and your family are supposed to leave when the threat passes and I should want that. I should want you gone.”
“But you don’t,” you said softly.
“No. I do not. And I do not know when that changed. Perhaps it was when I saw you refuse to give up, day after day, even when everything was difficult. Perhaps it was when you stood up to those boys even though you were outnumbered. Perhaps it was a hundred small moments I did not notice until suddenly I was noticing everything about you.”
You couldn’t find words. Your brain had short-circuited somewhere around “I find you fascinating.”
“You do not have to say anything,” Ao’nung said, misreading your silence. “I know I have no right to feel this way. I know I have done nothing to earn your good opinion. I just… I needed you to know. I needed to be honest with you.”
“I think I might hate you,” you said.
He flinched, but nodded. “I understand.”
“No, I mean—” You grabbed his arm before he could pull away. “I think I might hate you because you’re not supposed to be right. You’re not supposed to be the person who pushes me to be better. You’re not supposed to make me laugh when I’m frustrated or challenge me when I’m being stubborn. You’re not supposed to look at me like I’m something special when I still feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water here.”
His eyes were very wide. “I do not understand.”
“I’m saying I think I might be fascinated by you too, and I hate it because it’s inconvenient and complicated and you drove me absolutely insane for weeks.”
“And now?” His voice was rough.
“Now you still drive me insane. But differently.”
The smile that spread across his face was like watching the sun rise. Slow and bright and inevitable. “Differently,” he repeated.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” But he was already leaning closer, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You didn’t want him to stop. You kissed him first, closing the distance between you before you could overthink it.
The kiss was everything you’d expected and nothing like you’d imagined. He tasted like salt water and something sweeter, and his hand was gentle against your face even as the kiss deepened. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
“Well,” you said, eloquently.
“Well,” he agreed.
You should probably talk about this. About what it meant, where it could go, all the logical concerns about courting someone from a different clan when your own status here was still uncertain.
Instead, you kissed him again.
Word spread fast in a village this size. Within days, everyone knew that you and Ao’nung were… something. Together, maybe. People had opinions about it. Lots of opinions.
Ronal’s expression when she first saw you together could have frozen the ocean. Tonowari looked thoughtful, assessing. Your father just looked tired, like this was one more complication in an already complicated situation.
But Lo’ak was thrilled. “Does this mean we’re going to be related?” he asked, grinning.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you muttered, even as Ao’nung’s hand found yours under the table.
Tsireya was delighted, immediately pulling you aside to talk. “I knew it,” she said. “I told Lo’ak weeks ago that you two would end up together.”
“We’re not—I mean, it’s early—” You stumbled over the words.
“It does not matter. I see the way he looks at you. The way you look at him. My brother does not give his heart easily, but when he does, it is with everything he has.”
You thought about that later, sitting with Ao’nung on his favorite platform, watching the sun set over the water.
“Your sister says you don’t give your heart easily,” you said.
“My sister talks too much.” But there was affection in his voice.
“Is it true?”
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of your hand. “Yes,” he finally said. “I am… careful. My mother raised me to think about duty, about the clan, about what is best for the people. Personal desires come second.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.” He looked at you, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that you’d never seen before. “You make me want to be selfish. To choose what I want instead of what I should want.”
“What do you want?”
“You. This. A future where you stay here, where you become one of us, where I can court you properly without worrying that one day you will disappear back to your forest.”
The honesty of it stole your breath. “The sky people—”
“I know. I know they are still out there, still hunting you. I know the threat is real.” His grip on your hand tightened. “But you asked what I want. And I want you to stay. I want to build something with you. I want to argue with you every morning and kiss you every night and teach our children to swim someday.”
“Our children?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am getting ahead of myself.”
“A little.” But you were smiling. “Though for what it’s worth, I’m not planning on leaving.”
“No?”
“No. I miss the forest sometimes. I miss the trees and the green and the way everything smelled like life and growth. But this is home now. You are—” You paused, trying to find the right words. “You are home.”
He kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you thought maybe Tsireya was right. Maybe you’d been heading toward this moment since the day you arrived, since that first antagonistic meeting. Maybe all that anger and frustration had just been something else in disguise.
But of course, nothing could ever be simple.
It was Ronal who brought it up, during a gathering of the clan leaders and elders. You weren’t supposed to be there but you heard about it afterward from half a dozen sources, each version slightly different but the core the same.
“The boy may court my daughter if he wishes,” Ronal had said, speaking of Lo’ak and Tsireya. “But Ao’nung is different. He is my son. The future Olo’eyktan. He cannot tie himself to a girl from a family of fugitives.”
Your stomach had dropped when Tsireya told you. “What did Tonowari say?”
“He said it was Ao’nung’s choice to make. That he was old enough to know his own heart.” Tsireya squeezed your hand. “But my mother is not letting this go.”
You found Ao’nung at the edge of the village, sharpening his spear with more force than necessary. He looked up when you approached, and you could see the tension in every line of his body.
“You heard,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I will talk to her. I will make her understand—”
“Ao’nung.” You knelt beside him, taking the spear from his hands before he could hurt himself. “She’s not entirely wrong.”
He stared at you. “What?”
“Your mom. She’s not wrong. You are the future Olo’eyktan. The people need to trust you, need to believe you’ll put them first. And choosing me… it’s a risk.”
“I do not care.”
“I know. But maybe you should.” You took a breath. “Your mother thinks I’m going to bring trouble here. That my family is cursed or marked or whatever. And honestly? She might be right. The sky people are still out there. They’re still looking for us. One day they might find us. And when they do—”
“We will fight. Together. As a clan.”
“And people will die. Your people. Because of us. Because of me.” Your throat was tight. “I don’t want to be the reason your mother is proven right. I don’t want to be the reason your people suffer.”
Ao’nung cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Listen to me. You are not responsible for the sky people. You are not responsible for the war. You are not responsible for any of the violence that has followed your family.” His voice was fierce. “You are responsible for showing up every day and working harder than anyone else to learn our ways. You are responsible for treating my people with respect and kindness. You are responsible for making me believe that maybe my mother is wrong, that maybe strength comes not from isolation but from unity.”
“That’s a pretty speech.”
“It is the truth. And I will say it as many times as necessary until you believe it.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “I am not giving you up because my mother has concerns. I am not giving you up because the future is uncertain. I am not giving you up at all. Unless you want—”
“I don’t,” you interrupted. “I don’t want to give this up either. I’m just scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of failing you. Of failing your people. Of being the disaster your mother thinks I am.”
“You could never be a disaster.” He kissed your forehead, soft and gentle. “You are brave and stubborn and you never give up. Those are exactly the qualities my people need in their future Tsahik.”
“I’m not—we haven’t even talked about—”
“I know. I am getting ahead of myself again.” But he was smiling. “For now, just be with me. Let me worry about my mother. Let me handle the politics and the clan concerns. You just focus on being yourself. That is more than enough.”
You wanted to believe him. And looking into his eyes, seeing the absolute certainty there, you thought maybe you could.
Ronal cornered you three days later.
You were helping prepare food for the evening meal, gutting fish alongside some of the other women. You felt her presence before you saw her, that commanding energy that made everyone instinctively straighten.
“Walk with me,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
You followed her away from the village, down to a more secluded part of the reef. Your heart was pounding. This was it. She was going to tell you to stay away from her son, to know your place, to stop reaching above your station.
“You are afraid,” Ronal said, echoing her words from months ago.
“A little,” you admitted.
“Good. Fear means you are smart enough to understand the situation.” She studied you with those sharp eyes. “I do not like this thing between you and my son.”
“I know but—”
“But.” She held up a hand when you started to speak. “I do not like it because it is complicated. Because it challenges the way I have always seen things. Not because you are unworthy.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I have watched you these past months. I have seen you struggle and fail and get back up and try again. I have seen you treat my people with respect, even when they did not deserve it. I have seen you learn our ways with dedication and sincerity.” She paused. “And I have seen my son become someone I barely recognize when he is with you. Softer. Kinder. More patient.”
“Tsahik—”
“Let me finish. When the sky people come—and they will come, do not fool yourself about that—we will need warriors. We will need strategy. We will need unity.” Her gaze was piercing. “My son believes you and your family can help provide that. I am beginning to think he may be right.”
You didn’t know what to say. This was so far from what you’d expected.
“But,” Ronal continued, her voice hardening, “if you hurt him, if you prove to be the disaster I fear, there will be nowhere in this ocean you can hide from me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
“Good.” She turned to leave, then paused. “He asked me to give you a chance. To see you as he sees you. I am trying. Do not make me regret it.”
Then she was gone, leaving you standing there trying to process what had just happened.
When you told Ao’nung later, he looked unsurprised. “I told you I would handle my mother.”
“You talked to her?”
“I did more than talk. I told her I was going to court you whether she approved or not. That she had raised me to know my own mind, to make my own decisions, and this was my decision.” He pulled you into his arms. “I also may have pointed out that she mated outside her own clan when she was younger, before my father became Olo’eyktan. That she of all people should understand.”
“You’re kind of devious.”
“I prefer to think of it as strategic.” He kissed the top of your head. “She will come around fully. She just needs time.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then I will deal with it. But I think she will. My mother respects strength and dedication. You have both.” His arms tightened around you. “Besides, she already likes you more than she lets on. I can tell.”
You weren’t sure you believed that, but you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.
This was home. He was home. And you were done running.
The tide had brought you here, through anger and struggle and fear. But it had also brought you to this moment, to this person, to this love.
suddenly overwhelmed by the concept of the pevensies haunting narnia a thousand years not by their own will. not by their own power. but on summer nights, before the forests grew up tall and impenetrable, they say you could see lights beaming out from the ruins on the eastern shore. during first snowfall a golden-haired girl dances barefoot in the woods. a swan-winged ship haunts the coasts. at least once in their lives every caspian of the telmarine line entered the hall to see a man with a lion-headed sword and oak leaves on his brow sitting upon the throne, though he was never there when they looked again, and they never spoke of it to anyone.
for a hundred years after they left, for a thousand, narnia slumbered. and while she slumbered, she dreamed. it was never really the pevensies themselves who slipped in and out of narnia's silver years. it was never really the pevensies who haunted it. but then again, what is a ghost but another kind of memory?
just-right johnny — johnny storm x fem!reader
Johnny sees you talking with Steve Rogers, the Captain America, and feels a certain way.
warnings: jealous!johnny maybe, also insecure!johnny. not really angst. fluff, comforting stuff. Steve Rogers cameo. The timeline/universes don’t add up. Established relationship.
a/n: two of my johnny fics have dancing in it :D idk why
masterlist
Tonight is the gala to honor the superheroes.
You fix the lapels of Johnny’s suit, him smiling down at you with adoration in his eyes. “You look good in white.” You say.
Johnny’s eyebrow raises. “That’s supposed to be my line one day.”
You smile shyly. “Oh, Johnny, always so smooth.”
He smirks and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you in until your hips brush. “Only for you.”
He kisses you deeply. “You look beautiful.”
A hum escapes you as your arms loop around his neck. “We’re gonna be late.”
“Don’t care.” He tilts his head, catching your mouth again. “Didn’t even wanna go to this thing.”
You laugh softly, but you turn away before you’re tempted to melt into him again. “As tempting as you are, baby, I spent a lot of time to look this good.”
Johnny groans, partly from the loss of your warmth, partly from the way your perfume lingers while you walk away. “You’re killing me.”
The ballroom is a glittering spread of champagne flutes, polished marble, and a string quartet in the corner. Every guest here is dressed to impress and you step in on Johnny’s arm, squeezing his suit for your own reassurance.
Photographers call out from one side, flashes popping. Johnny squeezes your hand before steering you toward the bar. “You okay?”
You smile, “Mm-hmm.”
Johnny knows you’re still not used to the cameras. You’re a civilian, not a superhero, just here as his plus one.
You’re by the bar getting a drink when Johnny’s being called to take a group photo for the Fantastic Four. Johnny glances at you for permission.
“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “Go.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “I’ll be right back.”
You smile and watch him leave, bringing the champagne glass to your lips. You don’t know anyone else here except the four people who’ve claimed you as part of their family. Most of the crowd are superheroes. Some from other cities, some from other universes, but you’ve never met them, and they’ve never met you.
And so the awkward observation begins—
“You new to this?”
You hear a voice beside you. Captain America. You blink a few times. “Um, y-yeah.”
He extends his hand, realizing the lack of introductions. “Sorry. Steve. Rogers.”
You smile and shake his hand, introducing yourself.
“I’ve never seen you around before.”
“Oh, I’m with Johnny. Storm.” You point towards where Johnny is, “He’s my boyfriend.”
Steve nods, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s a nice kid.”
You chuckle, “You say that like you’re so old.”
He feigns a wounded look. “You do know I’m over a hundred years old, right?”
Your eyes go wide, “Oh my God, I forgot… sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s alright,” Steve laughs, “I was just teasing. You just look like you’re uncomfortable here.”
You let out a small laugh because you got caught, “I wanted to come. But… honestly this is kind of freaking me out.”
He nods in understanding. “I get that. It can be overwhelming.”
You take a deep breath. “At least I know I’m safe. Literally the safest place in the world right now.”
Steve chuckles. “You’re right about that.”
“So where did you two meet?” Steve asks.
You glance at him, appreciating that he’s continuing the conversation instead of letting it quiet out. “Oh, he just saved my life one time. I was falling from the sky, you know, as we civilians do,” You try to make a joke and Steve laughs, “And he swoops in, carries me away to safety.”
He nods with an amused smile, “That’s a very romantic story.”
“I’m just one lucky girl, I guess—” You pause, feeling a warm hand snaking around your waist.
Johnny.
“Hey Cap,” He nods his head to the older guy before turning to you. “Sorry it took a while, babe.”
“Johnny.” Steve nods back, “Well I’ll leave you two lovebirds. Have a good night.”
“You too,” you reply, watching him go before turning to look at Johnny, his expression cold and stoic.
“Everything okay?”
He simply nods, grabbing a champagne flute and drinking most of it in one big gulp. You blink at him.
“Johnny—”
“Dance with me?” His hand extends, a gesture that feels more like he’s begging you to than an invitation.
You take it anyway, letting him guide you to the dance floor. You’ve never been much of a dancer, but with his hand resting firmly at your lower back and the other clasping yours, you let him lead.
You’ve been looking at Johnny the entire time you’re dancing to the soft music, but his eyes were anywhere else but at you. What’s gotten into him?
“What were you two talking about?” Johnny finally asks, trying to sound casual.
You squint at him. You’ve never seen Johnny’s jealous side before—mostly because there’s never been anyone for him to be jealous of. Back in your city, he’s the one people stare at in awe, and you’re the one quietly annoyed that every woman seems to be in love with him… though you can’t exactly blame them.
“Baby, are you…” You hesitate for a second, “jealous?”
Johnny’s lips press into a line, exhaling, and he finally looks at you. “A little.”
“Johnny—”
“—Not in the way you think,” He quickly says, “Probably.”
Your brows furrow, begging him to explain.
He shifts his weight, eyes darting away. “It’s not that I think you’d leave me for him. I know you wouldn’t. I just… sometimes I wonder if you’d prefer someone like him.”
Your questioning look urges him to keep going.
“You know... He’s big.” Johnny says. “Broad. Pure muscle. I’m… leaner. I don’t have those muscles… or his maturity. Or his height.”
You soften at his confession. Looping your arms around his neck, you give him a peck to distract his thoughts. “Okay, Johnny, let’s dissect this, okay?”
He nods against your forehead.
“First, I don’t care about how you look. You could be… purple with antennas or anything else and I’d still love you.” You stroke the hair at his nape.
“Oddly specific, but okay—”
“Second,” You press, “You’re leaner because you’re faster. Imagine if Cap had your powers with his build. He’d be much slower than you.”
Johnny huffs a laugh but you can tell he’s still listening.
“Third,” You say, “Cap’s mature because he’s over a hundred years old. He’s older than my grandpa.”
That gets a real laugh out of him.
“And finally… you’re the perfect height, Johnny. Any taller, and I wouldn’t be able to do this...” You rise on your toes and kiss him.
His hands instinctively tighten at your waist.
When you pull back, Johnny’s already smiling, looking at you with the same adoration in his eyes as earlier tonight. “Do you have any idea just how much I love you?”
You hum, shrugging, “I could use a reminder.”
Johnny grins, arms circling around your body like you were made for him, and kissing you once more.
Louis Leopold Boilly, Two Sisters / The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005) / Krystal Sutherland House of Hollow / Cover of C.S Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by Pauline Baynes / Unknown / Little Women / Chen Chen, 'when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities' / Louise Glück, Descending Figure / Prince Caspian (2008) / C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian / Florence and the Machine, Grace / C.S Lewis, Till we have faces / Hunger Games: Mockingjay / unpublished poem by me (@folktail) /Jessica Goodman / just like falling snow by @zannolin / C.S Lewis, Till we have faces / unknown / unpublished by me (@folktail) / poem by @inkskinned
my other pevensie sibling dynamics weaves can be found here
Summary: (Y/N) finds out that there is a possibility of the 'other world', but is she willing to accept it?
a/n: I think it's sad that the Pevensies went to another world just to face a war, when in their own world, there are still wars. I guess this is my "love" letter to try and make sense of it.
Beliefs of the World Pt.1
This can’t be happening.
You must be dreaming, right? No way this is real. You’re just too stressed, that's why you’re having illusions. You clenched your hands.
You watched the Pevensies play around the beach. Why are they not worried? You asked yourself. This is outrageous! How can you even ask for help when you don’t even know where you are!
You abruptly stood up from where you sat on the sand and started going back to the cave. That’s where the answers lie; if you can’t find it here, retrace your steps.
You heard footsteps behind you, “Where are you going?”
“Home!”
Peter caught up to you, “But you barely saw Narnia.”
You stopped in your tracks and turned to him, you pointed a finger to his chest, “And how do you know we’re in ‘Narnia’” you made air quotes.
Peter took your hand and went back to his siblings, “C’mon, trust me on this.”
Peter Pevensie, the one who always gets in trouble; the one with childish dreams, asks you to trust him?
You just sighed, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer. He just smiled, though, as if you actually trust him.
Peter and the other Pevensies led you up the ruins. You have to admit, even if it’s an illusion, it’s quite beautiful. This isn’t like London at all: clear blue skies, the greenery is immaculate, as if no human has ever stepped foot, and the breeze…the breeze feels like you are engulfed in one big hug. What a beautiful illusion. It’s a shame that the world doesn’t look like this. If London looked like this, well, maybe there is something to look forward to every waking morning.
You heard voices, “Hey, that’s mine…from my chest set.”
Peter chimed in, “Which chest set?”
Edmund, ever the sass, “Well, I didn‟t exactly have a solid gold chess set in Finchley, did I?”
Lucy ran and Peter called out for her.
Lucy then said, “Don’t you see?”
Peter, looking confused, “What?”
Lucy continued, “Imagine walls… and columns there… and a glass roof.”
You heard Peter say, “Cair Paravel.”
You snorted, “Now you’re just making stuff up.”
Peter rolled his eyes, “You just don’t get it.”
I looked over the ruined dais, “Of course I don’t get it! Is this even a place in England? Last time I checked, there’s no place called ‘Narnia’ or ‘Cair Paravel’! And I would know.”
Lucy went up to you and tugged your hand, “It is real. Trust us on this one.”
Oh, Lucy. It is sweet that regardless of the war, you still have the ability to dream. But we can’t afford to do that right now. We have to go back.
You patted her head, “Lucy, we have to go back. If they don’t know where we are, how will they find us?”
Edmund thought of something, “Then why are we back here?”
Susan, ever the tranquil, “It’s best if we look around to find clues.”
Edmund bends down and looks at something, he then says, “Catapults.”
Peter turned to him, “What?”
“This didn’t just happen. Cair Paravel was attacked.”
Peter and Edmund run over to a wall and start moving it to reveal a door behind it then they break it down.
Peter tears off a piece of his shorts and wraps it around a stick, “I don‟t suppose you have any matches in there, do you?”
Edmund pulls out a flashlight from his bag, “No… but would this help?”
Peter, trying to sound mad, “You might‟ve mentioned that a bit sooner!”
They all laughed, you have to admit, they are quite an odd bunch of siblings.
Peter turned to you, “Will you be coming with us?”
You shook your head, “No, I’ll be here. You know, if something happens from the outside.”
Peter looked like he was gonna say something, but Edmund gave him a look, and just sighed. All the Pevensies went inside the door.
You then took to exploring again. You won’t get too far from the Pevensies, you just have to figure out where exactly you are. If only you had a map, then maybe it would be a little easier. But you do wonder, though, why haven’t you seen a single person on this island? It looks secluded, sure, but there are usually still a small population living—
You saw movement.
A tall man, running as quickly as possible. You haven’t seen a human run quite as fast as him. To be fair, you haven’t seen the bottom part of his body, he might probably just be riding a bike.
But no matter, you have to get information as soon as possible. You ran as fast as possible to the bottom of the ruins to get to him.
“Excuse me!”
When the man heard you, he ran as fast as he could.
“Wait! Excuse me, Sir!”
You started chasing him, although now you know he’s not using a bike. But how is it humanly possible to run that fast?
You started to get out of breath. You can’t catch up to him like this. You put your hand against a tree.
No. You need to get answers. But how?
You look up, that’s how you get your answers, you look up. Not in a literal sense, it just makes you more focused.
Or can it?
You saw vines in the trees. Then you looked at the man. He’s definitely so much stronger than you. But it seems like he wouldn’t want to hurt an innocent bystander…an idea pops into your head.
You tied a knot around your wrist and waist, and then you made sure the knot is sturdy around a tree. You climbed up the tree and…
You fall!
You launched yourself and caught up with the man. He then caught a glimpse of you and stopped in his tracks. You then took that opportunity and died a vine around his wrist so that yours and his are tied together.
You huffed out a breath, “Now that I’ve finally caught you, I would like to ask som—”
As you opened your eyes, you looked down…and saw horse legs?
You blinked. And blinked again.
“AHHH!”
The man cringed at the sound.
“What are you? No no, you’re a centaur, obviously. But what are you? Are you real? Is this real? Is this part of the hallucination?”
You were losing your mind.
The centaur put a hand on your shoulder, “Miss, please, you have to come down.”
You tried tearing the vine to get away from him, but the know is too tight. Why do you have to be so good at knot tying?
The centaur grabbed your hand, “Please, miss.”
You sighed hard. Really, this isn’t real. But maybe this is a clue! Maybe this is just their sense of fashion here? Just. Ignore. It.
You looked at the centaur, but before you could speak—”Are you human?”
You rolled your eyes, “Am I not a fairy?”
He chuckled, “Right, right. Sorry.” He smiled softly, “I am Glenstorm.”
You hesitantly nodded, “(Y/N).”
“Are you one of the Kings and Queens of Old?”
“The what?”
“Monarchs who ruled the golden age?”
“Do you mean Queen Elizabeth I, the ‘Virgin Queen’?”
“I have no clue who that might be, miss.”
Huh.
What on bloody earth is happening?
You shook your head, “I’m not sure who are the… ‘Kings and Queens of Old’?”
He nods in understanding, “It has been 1300 years after all.”
“WHAT?”
Glenstorm closed his eyes as he heard your panic.
He tears the vine with ease, “Where are you from, Miss?”
You rubbed your wrists, “I’m from London…I don’t know how I got here. The train station just…turned into this place?”
Glenstorm looked at you, “You’re not from Narnia?”
You shook your head.
“Miss, would it be alright if you would come with me?”
You stared at him, “Are you…politely kidnapping me?”
He laughed, “No, Miss, but I think there was a problem that happened involving you.”
He bent down, “Come, Miss (Y/N).”
You raised your hand, “Oh nono. I’m not riding on you. What if I hurt you?”
“Do you not ride horses?”
“Well, yes—”
“Then it’s no different.”
You sighed again and hopped on to him, “Fine. But if you die, it’s on you to let a human girl on you.”
He laughed and went off.
“I told you she should have been with us!”
“Alright, I’m sorry! How are we supposed to know that she would run off like that!”
“She doesn’t believe us! Of course she would have run off! I had it all sorted. And we are not lost!”
The two brothers have been arguing even after rescuing their DLF (dear little friend) —Trumpkin— from the Telmarines.
Susan just shook her head, “Peter, we don’t know if she’s hurt. She might be in good hands as of this moment.”
Peter muttered, “Probably screaming at the top of her lungs. That’s the thing with girls”
Lucy looked at Peter, “Pete, at least have some faith in her.”
Peter smiled down at Lucy, “Fine, fine.”
Peter then looked at Trumpkin, “If you can—as quickly as possible—take us where you need us.”
Trumpkin nodded.
“Glenstorm! You’re back!”
Other creatures looked at him…and then you.
Others had confused looks, some with disgusted faces, and some ignoring the fact you’re here.
Someone—or it—finally moves, “Oi. Another one of them?”
You looked at the mouse, “Great, a talking mouse.”
The mouse grabbed the hilt of his sword, “Why can’t you humans be original for once?”
Glenstorm shook his head, “(Y/N), this is Reepicheep. Reepicheep, (Y/N).”
You looked at Reepicheep, “What do you mean by ‘another one’?”
A young human emerges from the crowd.
You looked at Glenstorm, “Who is that?”
“Prince Caspian, a Telmarine Prince who will help us take down his own kind.”
“How can you trust him then? Are you not worried he will betray you?”
Glenstorm smiled, “Same way I am trusting you, Miss, I would like to believe you are kind.”
You halted at that. The belief that someone just wants to see you as kind and trusts you because of it…that’s innocent.
The young man walks up to you and helps you down from Glenstorm, “Hello, my lady. I am Prince Caspian.”
You bowed your head and he chuckled, “No need for that.”
You scratched your head, “I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to interact with royalty.”
You two walked towards the forest, “Where are you from?”
“London, sir.”
“Were you with anyone?”
“Yes…four of them, actually.”
Prince Caspian halted, “Four?”
You nodded, “Yes, they’re siblings. Two girls, two boys, and they seem to know—”
You paused.
“Are they the Kings and Queens of Old?”
Prince Caspian fixed his hair, “Well, we don’t know for certain. But since I have called for them, it is a possibility.”
“How did you call for them?”
“By blowing in Queen Susan’s horn.”
“Susan?”
“Yes, Queen Susan, The Gentle.”
“U-huh.”
The Pevensies are that old?
Prince Caspian raised his eyebrows, “Why are you not with them right now?”
You chuckled nervously, “It’s quite a long story, but they were in the ruins the last I saw them.”
“Would you lead us to them?”
“Yes, of course, ehrm, sir?”
Prince Caspian shoved your shoulder, “No need for that, (Y/N) from London.”
“Oh, har har, oh mighty one.”
You both laughed at that.
It was the next day, you and some group of Narnians retraced back your steps to find the Pevensie siblings. That’s what you love, in all honesty. Remembering, you have a knack of a memory for any and everything.
But right now, you hoped that Peter would just show up so that your job is over with and you can go home.
Peter hears growls and grabs Lucy. They looked over and saw a minotaur. Peter slowly walked up to him, but a person spoke,
“So, Narnia will go to war with the Telmarines?”
Peter stopped in his tracks, but someone attacked him.
The man swung his sword to him and they fought. Peter’s sword got stuck to the tree and the man kicked him. Peter grabbed a rock, gunning to knock him out,
Lucy screamed, “No!”
Both him and the man stopped in his tracks. Peter got a good look at the man, “Prince Caspian?”
“Yes. And who are you?”
“Peter!” Susan called.
“Prince Caspian!” (Y/N) called.
He looked around, and saw Narnians and foes alike in one area.
You heard swords clashing and you looked around seeing Caspian fighting with someone.
“Peter!” Susan called.
“Prince Caspian!” you called.
Caspian took a look at the man, “High King Peter?”
Peter smiled, “I believe you called.”
“Well yes, but… I thought you’d be older.”
Peter turned around, “Well, if you‟d like, we can come back in a few years.”
“No! No, that’s alright. You’re just… You’re not exactly what I expected.”
Edmund chimed in, “Neither are you.”
Peter then looked at you, “Oh, thank the heavens!”
He walked towards you, “Where were you? I thought I wouldn’t see you again!”
You rolled your eyes, “Oh, hush. You know you would see me again, High King Peter.”
His lips quirked up, “The Magnificent.”
“Unecessary.”
“That’s the title they gave me!”
“Still unnecessary.”
I looked to Glenstorm, “Now you’ve found them, can we go home now?”
“Miss (Y/N), we called on the Kings and Queens of Old to help us fight the war with the Telmarines.”
Your eyes widened, “Wait a minute, they didn’t even sign up for this! Why are you asking children to fight in wars with you?”
Peter touched your shoulder, “Actually, I am 1300 years old.”
He tried to humor you, but you weren’t having it, “But you’re a child right now! This is blasphemous!"
Peter tries to calm you down by drawing circles in your back, “I’ve done this a year ago or maybe here, 1300 years ago. Susan, Edmund, and I will be fine. It will be a quick battle and we’ll go home.”
Peter talked to Reepicheep. This isn’t real right? You were just playing along because you had to get information. Now, the Pevensies will go to war? I know they’re just trying to help, but this feels too real. Too, too real.
You came back to reality when you heard Reepicheep’s voice, “Yes, indeed. And I have recently put it to good use acquiring weapons for your army, sire.”
Peter replied, “Good. Because we’re going to need every sword we can get.”
Caspian hands Peter his sword, “Well then, you’ll probably be wanting yours back.”
Peter stares at Caspian a little too…knowingly? And walks away. Why does it look like Peter dislikes Caspian? For what reason?
But you can’t think of that right now. All you can think is: how to escape the war you’re not even a part of?
a/n: I honestly wanna do a fanfic in the golden age era, I just have to think very creatively because ever fanfic abt the golden age is there already.
Summary: Is there a possibility of another world? Well, according to (Y/N), there is no such possibility. Peter agrees, because there are multiple worlds.
a/n: I find it interesting that Peter was King most of his life and then became a kid again. It's a really in-depth psychology. Also, we need more Peter fanfics!
Beliefs of the World Pt.2
Stuck-up.
That’s what Peter thought when he first saw you coming out of the gates of Saint Finbar's Boarding School.
He was in another fight with the other boys in his grade because one of them “accidentally” pushed him in the hallway. He should have let it go; should have looked the other way, but he couldn’t. Peter was King for 15 years, and he was used to being respected—not condemned.
So now he’s here, fighting in front of Hendon House Boarding School and its sister school. He was glad Edmund hadn't been dismissed yet, or else he too would have dealt with the repercussions.
Then you came out, not angry, not scared, but also not amused. You went up to the boys and slowly, they started to get out of your way—all except Peter.
He was still on the floor, a little bruised, but not harmed. He was looking up at you, so you looked down at him.
He never experienced your presence before, sure, he met monarchs from Archenland and Calormen who are much more intimidating than you, but you don’t have to command to demand their attention. Truly he was amaze–
You raised your eyebrows, “What are you, a rug? Move.”
He blinked at that because… who were you to tell him what to do?
Before Peter can stop himself, “And why would I do that?”
You folded your hands over your chest, “Well, unless you wanna get stepped on, I suggest you move.”
Peter stood up, “You could take any other way, why go around here?”
The boys looked at him, not a glare, but a warning. Seriously, what was the air around you contaminated with? You probably caused pollution in London, he thought.
Your lips twitched at this, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that this area was your fighting ring and not a public area. Sorry to intrude in your area.” You emphasized with air quotes.
He rolled eyes, “Like you said, a public area, take another route next time.”
You turned, but before you left, “Take your fights elsewhere, it would be a pity to see you lose every round.”
The boys started to laugh but they shut up as you glanced at them. Then you left. And before anyone could notice, he left too to meet with his siblings in the train station.
“Peter! What happened to you?” Lucy said as Peter walked up to them.
Edmund and Susan turned their heads towards Peter. Susan’s eyes widened and Edmund only snorted.
Peter glared at Edmund, “What’s so funny?”
Edmund smirked, “We all know why this happens, do we really have to ask ‘why’?”
Peter smacked Edmund’s left arm earning him an “Ow!”
Susan shook her head, “Seriously, Peter, you shouldn’t be getting into fights, you know this.”
Peter waved dismissively, “Yeah, yeah.”
Lucy tilted her head to examine Peter, “You don’t seem badly injured.”
Edmund’s mouth twitched, “Yeah, Lu, like that will make a difference.”
Peter sighed, “Ed—”
“No, I meant—” Lucy interrupted, “did you really get into a fight?”
Peter looked down at Lucy, “Yeah, but,”
Lucy raised her eyebrows, “But?”
Peter looked at Susan, “I think one of your classmates stopped it.”
Susan looked down, trying to think, “What is she like?”
Stuck-up, Peter thought.
He shook his head, “She’s quite silent, straight to the point, and extremely rude.”
Edmund folded his arms, “That could be anyone.”
Susan rubbed her hands together, “Does she have (h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes?”
Peter nodded, “Yeah, that’s her.”
Susan gasped, “Peter! She’s my upperclassmen and the student council President.”
Peter shrugged, “Wonder who voted for her.”
Ed muttered, “Wonder why Aslan chose you as High King.”
Peter was gonna smack him again but Susan glared at both of them, "Enough, both of you.”
All three Pevensie siblings stared at Susan, she looked at them dreamily, “She’s quite amazing, honestly. Intelligent, confident, bold, mature—”
“Seems like someone has a little crush, Susan.” Peter quipped.
Susan scoffed, “But she keeps to herself and is not really hospitable.”
Lucy puts her hand on her mouth, “Oh! Is she the ‘Wicked Witch of the West’?”
Susan grabbed Lucy’s arm, “Lucy! No labels!”
Lucy’s eyes sank to the floor, “Sorry, sorry. I’ve heard about her from my classmates.”
Peter smirked at this, “‘Wicked Witch’, huh?”
Edmund shoved his shoulder lightly, “Well, what do you know, we know how to slay witches, right?”
Edmund and Peter cackled at this, as Susan shook her head and Lucy smiled brightly.
Witch, what a fitting name for the wretched woman, Peter thought.
After the encounter with Pevensie, you try to avoid the area altogether. All you wanted was to go to the library on the same path you always take, but alas, bloody happenings.
You’ve heard about Pevensie because of the fights he used to start (or end) depending on the situation. You later found out that he was the elder brother to Susan and Lucy Pevensie. Really, how can that hotheaded pighead be related to those two?
You sighed as you entered the library. The library was your comfort place, and your favorite area is the sciences. Logic, after all, is the most powerful ideology a person can have. Not a lot of people in London have that nowadays.
You went to where the science books are located, grabbed your favorite book, and found a table near a window. You set your things down and opened the book.
How can one be so through and articulate with words alone? There is so much to explore about this world, and despite its atrocities, what else to explore? What else to know? Is there another world out there?
Heh, you shook your head, if all humans exist here, why would there be another world?
You were enjoying your alone time, until you spotted corn colored hair.
You raised your book to cover your head.
Good Lord, he’s here. And to think he’s not just a delinquent—he’s a delinquent with half-a-brain!
Could you take him in a fight? Absolutely.
Realistically speaking? No. Before he could even land a hit on you, you’d collapse on the floor.
You should just leave now when you still can. Save yourself (and him) the embarrassment. As you gathered your things, you made sure that he wasn’t looking at you. Just a slight glance, you said to yourself, he wouldn’t notice.
Your eyes slowly scanned the room till you found that corn colored hair…but eyes squinting back at you.
Jesus Christ, he observes way too well. Just ignore him and leave. Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
As you stood up, he came to your table and tapped it, “May I join you?”
No, you may not, you spineless buffoon— “No.”
He jerked his head back and raised his eyebrows, “Pardon?”
Again, stuck-up, Peter thought.
You coughed behind your hand, “No, I was just about to leave, you can have the table.” You shifted awkwardly.
Peter pointed at your book, “But you’re not finishing reading.”
“I like my books mysterious.”
He scoffed and sat down, “C’mon, I won’t be a nuisance.”
Your eye twitched, sure, just like you weren’t a nuisance a few days ago.
You slowly sat down again. He’s seated across from you, book in hand. You open your book and try to focus on the words, but one thing catches your eye: his book.
“Fairytales?” You said before you can even process. You closed your eyes, ugh, remember to think first.
He hummed, flipping through a page, “Yes, it’s about a knight defeating every and anything evil in his path, finding love, and living a peaceful life.”
You raised your eyebrows, “Isn’t that for children?”
He froze at this, but slowly smiled, albeit forcibly, “You don’t believe it?”
You shook your head, “I don’t believe in fantasy,” you tapped your chin, “I mean, what else is there more to the world, if not humans? You rely on facts and logic…that’s how you live through life.”
He laughed, like he knows something you don’t know, “For it to be facts or logic, it has to be explored, no? What if it hasn’t been explored?”
You shrugged, “Then it simply doesn’t exist.”
He tilted his head and sighed through his nose, “There’s another world out there.”
You leaned back in your chair, “How would you know that?”
“Facts and logic are sources to survive, but believing is the reason to live.”
You raised your eyebrow, “That’s…quite wise. It sounds like you’ve lived a thousand years.”
He scratched his, looking sheepish, “Thank you.”
You’ve never noticed it before, but he has this regal likeness to him. His posture is as straight as paper, his wording choice is eloquent, and his ideology was prudent. If anything, Pevensie is like a prince.
He stretched his hand out to you, “Peter Pevensie, by the way.”
“I know,” you shook his hand, “(Y/N) (L/N).”
“I know.”
You met Pevensie after that. You thought you wouldn’t be seeing him again in the library but he’s always there. In the same table, same position, but in every other time has a different fantasy book in hand. Conversations that make both of you look insane, like—
“But have you ever thought of the possibility of other worlds?”
You snapped out of your thoughts. You rubbed the end of your book, “Another world, yes. Other worlds, no.”
He flipped through the page, focusing on reading the next chapter, “I have. I mean, if there were another world, then there would be a world that counters that. And the next. And the next.”
You rubbed your shoulder and stretched it, “You seem very interested in the idea of the ‘other world’, have you been there before?” You joked.
Peter looked away from you and looked at the shelves on his left. He sighed and continued to read his book.
Odd, you thought. Any mention of him being in another world gets him melancholic.
Peter gathered his things and stood up, “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You looked at him apprehensively, “This early?”
“Yeah, my siblings will be worried sick if I don’t come home now.”
You started gathering your things as well. You stood up and followed Peter out the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“See you tomorrow.”
You went your separate ways. Maybe you should go to the train station tomorrow, it wouldn’t be too troublesome. Peter wouldn’t mind seeing you in the morning, would he? I mean you do like spending time with him during the midday and at night. Why go to him in the morning?
Just to keep him in check, you told yourself, he’s probably gonna get into another fight.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
You heard from a fellow student from your boarding school that someone had gotten into a fight.
Pevensie, you thought and sighed, it’s always him.
You thanked her and went off to find where Peter went. He couldn’t have gone that far, he’d probably just be with his siblings.
But the air around you felt weird, like it was calling out to you. But you ignore it, probably the London air again.
You spotted them sitting on a bench, by the looks of it, they looked like they’re arguing. After a beat of silence follows them, you march over to them, “Pevensie!”
At the sound of your voice, he stood up and raised his hands to surrender, “Whatever you heard—”
You folded your hands over your chest, “Oh, I heard.”
“They started it!”
“Then don’t finish it!”
You glared at one another. It’s always like this outside the library: glares and shoves. Shoves and glares.
Edmund snorted and Susan shushed him. Lucy came up to you, “It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N)!”
What an adorable child, you smiled, nothing like Peter.
You patted her head, “Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
She giggled and sat back down. Peter followed her lead. Susan looked to her side and looked back at her siblings and you.
“Pretend you’re talking to me.” She said
“We are talking to you.” Edmund raised both his eyebrows.
Then— “Ow! Something pinched me!” Lucy cried.
“Hey stop pulling—” Peter shouted.
“I’m not touching you.” Edmund looked at Peter.
The air shifted, papers going all over the place, the train passing you but it’s accelerating in speed.
“Can we all just—what is that?” Susan raised to her feet and the three Pevensies followed.
You, on the other hand, shut your eyes and covered your ears. What is happening?
You heard Lucy, “It feels like magic!”
“Quick everyone, hold hands!” Susan said.
“I’m not holding your hand!” Edmund said but everyone held onto each other.
You stepped back, though. It’s only practical because what if you fell in the railways?
You tried opening your eyes but what you saw was terrifying: the ceilings and walls deteriorating, lights blinking on and off; you stepped back even further. Until you saw ahead of you a sunny beach. How is that possible? London is secluded from bodies of water, how is there a beach?
Then everything changes to a cave. You breathed hard and let yourself fall on the floor.
The Pevensie siblings explored the land, but Peter stayed. He came up to you and kneeled, “Are you alright?”
Your hands started shaking, and frantically you looked around your new surroundings, “This doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t make sense! Where are we?”
Peter stood up and stretched his arm towards you,
“We’re in Narnia.”
a/n: Part 2 maybe?? If this does good, probably. More Narnia fics please!!
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus part
summary: when your family is forced to leave the omaticaya, you find yourself seeking refuge with strangers. just when things don’t seem so bad, you discover the worst person to ever happen to you. ao’nung has the special ability of making you want to strangle him, and lessons with him haven’t even started yet.
includes: enemies to lovers, swearing, teasing, ao’nung being a cocky mf😌
word count: 2.5k
You could physically feel your heart breaking the further you flew from home. The open sky in front of you appeared blurred through a fresh round of tears that welled in your eyes and the wind bit at your wet cheeks. You wanted nothing more than to scream and protest in frustration, though you knew it was pointless. This was your family’s only option.
To your left, your twin sister, Kiri, gave you a sympathetic look. You had always been the more openly emotional one, but you could tell Kiri was taking the move just as hard as you. In contrast, your brother Lo’ak was intent upon expressing his feelings through the vessel of being an annoying pest, as per usual. He guided his ikran closer to yours, forcing you to move out of the way before you collided.
“Stop that, dickhead!” You shouted over the roar of the wind, wiping your diminishing tears away. Lo’ak only laughed before beginning to fly around you in circles.
“Just trying to cheer you up, [Y/N]! Don’t be such a cry baby!”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Instead of responding, you waited until Lo’ak’s lazy circles around you had positioned him beneath you before having your ikran dive and swipe at him. It was a harmless action—missing by a long shot—but he screamed anyway, almost stopping his ikran completely. You couldn’t hold in your laughter as it nearly sent Neteyam crashing into him, only to bank right at the last second.
“You skxawng!” Neteyam yelled, furiously glaring at Lo’ak, who seemed to have recovered from his scare and was now trying to explain how it was your fault. “Just fly straight, dummy,” Neteyam grumbled, swooping over to fly next to you. The two of you shared a knowing smirk before you yelled back at Lo’ak,
“Thanks Lo’ak, I feel better now!” Laughter erupted from your chest once again, and you silently thanked Eywa for your siblings. A heaviness still tugged at your heart, but it was easier to forget while you talked and laughed with them.
You had been travelling for so long that you lost track of time. Your grief made it feel like years, but it was probably only a few days. All you wanted to do was get off your ikran and find a place to lie down for a while to relieve your tense muscles. Unfortunately, your father signalled from the front of the pack that you would be landing soon and you only tensed up more.
In the distance, the vast endlessness of the ocean broke with the sight of an island. As you came closer, you flew over a few large expanses of rock where the harsh waves broke over, sending water cascading down into the more closed off reef. You knew there were Na’vi here, but somehow it still surprised you to see many of them standing on the rocks or swimming along the beach, craning their necks to look at you and your family above them.
The seven of you flew around until you spotted a seemingly safe enough spot to land, coming down together on a stretch of sand. While the rest of your family began to dismount right away, you were more hesitant, wishing you could stay on your ikran instead of facing all these new people.
“[Y/N],” Your mother was busy helping Tuk down from her saddle, but she beckoned you with sympathetic eyes. You sighed deeply, dismounting and running your hand along your ikran’s head in an attempt at comforting yourself. As you walked, Kiri caught up to you and grabbed your hand, squeezing it gently. Glancing sideways, you could see the distaste in her expression and you imagined you had a similar look on your own face. Though the two of you looked remarkably different for twins, your facial expressions were often identical.
As you walked forward, a huge group of the Metkayina came forward as well, effectively meeting you in the middle. They didn’t appear aggressive, but your father had his arms raised as a sign of peace, looking more nervous than you had ever seen before. You gripped Kiri’s hand tighter. As you did so, two younger looking boys broke through the crowd and stalked closer than anyone else. The boy in the front had an intimidating look about him, from the way he confidently strode toward you to the intense questioning expression he wore. When his eyes caught yours you froze, desperately wanting to look away but finding it nearly impossible. His expression didn’t change, but he kept his gaze locked on you even as he turned toward where your two brothers stood. In the corner of your eye you saw your brothers attempt to greet the strangers, which went unreturned. Only when his friend spoke up did the boy tear his eyes away from yours, sending a shiver of relief along your spine.
“Is that supposed to be a tail?” The smaller of the boys grinned, pointing to Neteyam’s anxiously flicking tail, earning a chuckle from many in the crowd and a smirk from the tall boy. You hadn’t even been here five minutes and you already wanted to scream. Mostly at the one who thought he was hot shit.
“How are they supposed to swim?” his friend spoke up again, but was quickly chastised by a gorgeous girl who appeared from the water moments earlier.
“Do not! Rotxo. Ao’nung.” Her expression was scolding as she forced them to back up a few steps, but her large eyes and permanent kind smile made her a lot less threatening. Still, the idiot boys grew silent and stoic, straightening up when the Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk came forward to meet your family. After everyone got the initial, polite greetings out of the way, Chief Tonowari asked your father why you all had come, the following conversation causing much tension among the Metkayina. Ronal seemed particularly opposed to the idea of having you stay, and she decided to use you to make her point. Coming close, she brushed your tail with her fingers before grabbing your forearm to examine.
“Their arms are thin. The will be slow in the water.” You fought the urge to jerk you arm away, feeling a little frightened by the woman. You flexed your fingers nervously, not realizing your mistake until Ronal’s eyes flicked down to your hand. Her gaze hardened and she grasped your wrist, pulling up your hand for everyone to see. “Look. They are not even real Na’vi! They have demon blood!”
A nervous murmur spread throughout the crowd, and you looked away from Ronal, a deep blush forming on your cheeks. Somehow you happened to catch the eyes of that ridiculous boy once again, his brow furrowed. His stare felt odd; it wasn’t accusing or disgusted like you would have expected, but more thoughtful instead. It gave you the sensation of being seen in an intimate, private moment, one that was meant only for you but was somehow being witnessed by this boy as well. Your heart was racing by the time Ronal released you and your strange connection with the boy was broken. You missed most of the further conversation while trying to ground yourself again. You decided it would be best not to look his way for a while.
Your family had already begun settling into your new marui pod, sorting out the various items you had brought from home. It was pretty much the last thing you wanted to do considering it meant you really weren’t going to return to the forest. You were slow in your efforts, frowning deeply as you and Kiri laid out a few mats.
“You’re not being very helpful, [Y/N],” Kiri quipped, an amused smile playing at her lips. You knew she was only trying to make conversation, but you moaned, flopping down dramatically onto the mat you had just taken 10 minutes setting up.
“The air here is so- bleh. It’s slowing me down.” You sighed, throwing your arm over your eyes. Kiri chuckled and plopped down beside you, quickly followed by Neteyam, Lo’ak, and Tuk.
“The air is just like the air back home, weirdo.” Neteyam smiled, poking your cheek before you smacked him away.
“No, she’s right. The air is weird. Like… salty?” Tuk cut in, making her point by smacking her lips as if tasting the air. She made a strange face and the four of you laughed.
“Probably why that stupid boy, Ao’nung, is so salty. His airways are clogged.” You couldn’t help but laugh again at your own joke. You didn’t typically make fun of people, but Ao’nung just got on your nerves. You couldn’t pin down a reason, though, and it bothered you.
“You mean the chief’s son? I didn’t know you spoke to him?” Neteyam questioned, and Lo’ak nodded in agreement. You felt your cheeks get hot.
“I haven’t. But you saw him when we arrived. Looked like a shark chomping at the bit.” Neteyam’s eyebrow shot up in question, but Lo’ak snickered.
“He totally did, bro. Looks like he’s never smiled, like, ever.” This sent everyone into another fit of giggles, only to be interrupted as your parents returned from touring the village.
“Hey, I thought we asked you to set things up while we were gone?” Jake said, looking around at everything that was still mostly packed away.
“Yeah we were, until [Y/N] decided she needed a break.” Lo’ak piped up, earning a kick from you in the shin. “Ow!”
“Hm, well I suppose you need a tour of the place anyway. Your mother and I saw some pretty cool things out there,” Jake grinned, nudging Neytiri, who was clearly trying not to roll her eyes. Your heart warmed a bit at seeing your father try to make the best of things. “Why don’t you kids go out and explore a bit? Make some new friends before your lessons tomorrow?” At this, Lo’ak groaned.
“Dad. Can’t we just chill out here? We have, like, the rest of our lives to do that stuff.” Jake gave him a hard stare, causing Neteyam to stand, pulling Lo’ak up with him.
“Let’s go, Lo’ak. Maybe Tsireya will be out there and you can actually be a man and talk to her instead of ogling.” Before Lo’ak could respond, Neteyam jumped outside and took off, laughing when Lo’ak began to chase him.
“Girls? Are you going out or are you going to help us put everything else away?” Jake gestured to the stuff behind him. You and Kiri shared a look and silent communication before standing up and taking off after your brothers, Tuk in tow.
Outside the marui was almost excruciatingly bright, and it took a while for your eyes to adjust to the way the sun seemed to bounce off the water and sand. Catching up to Neteyam and Lo’ak was easy, seeing as they were arguing loudly. You rolled your eyes and walked ahead of them, trying your best to take everything in and memorize the way around the village. It had only been about five minutes before something caught your attention on the beach and you wandered away from your siblings. You and Kiri had a habit of being absent-minded.
In the sand, next to a marui pod, was a tiny orange creature with many legs and little pincers. You smiled, crouching to get closer. A gasp escaped your lips when the creature slowly started scuttling toward you, stopping next to your outstretched hand.
“Hello, little one.” You breathed, standing up straight with the creature balanced on your palm. You squinted as you examined it, thinking it looked a bit like something you had seen once in the forest.
“What are you doing?” A deep voice asked from almost directly behind you. You whipped around, startled, and tried not to yelp when your eyes met a pair of familiar blue ones. Again, it felt nearly impossible to move under his gaze, and you stuttered, unsure of what to say.
“Do you know how to speak, forest girl?” Ao’nung questioned, mirth dancing in his eyes. That seemed to snap you back a bit, though you still felt strange in his presence.
“Of course I do, dimwit. I just don’t like speaking to assholes.” His eyebrows shot up in surprise at your snarky response.
“Why were you talking to yourself, then?” He pushed back, again looking like he immensely enjoyed teasing you.
“Do you know how to use your eyes?” You mocked. “I was talking to this.” You held up your hand that the creature was still perched on. Ao’nung’s gaze flicked down to look only for a moment before returning to you, smirking.
“That’s actually probably worse than talking to yourself. I don’t know if you know this, but those things don’t talk.”
“I wish you were the same way.”
“Ouch. You’re pretty feisty for such a tiny girl.” You could tell he was trying to goad you on again, but this time you didn’t take the bait. You just wanted to escape his suffocating presence.
“What are you even doing here? Doesn’t the chief’s son have work to do?” You made sure your expression was disinterested, even as he smirked.
“I think it’s more fitting to ask what you are doing here. This is my marui pod.” The tall boy gestured to the pod beside you, pretty much directly above the sand you had found the creature in. Heat rose to your cheeks.
“Oh. I-” But you were cut off by the voices of your siblings who had appeared from around the corner, clearly searching for you.
“Hey. Why did you wander off?” Kiri asked, raising her eyebrows as she glanced between you and Ao’nung.
“Your sister was busy talking to animals. Hope craziness doesn’t run in the family.” Ao’nung grinned, making you scoff. You gently set the creature back in the sand before starting toward Kiri. Against your better judgement, on your way past Ao’nung you bumped his arm with your shoulder.
“Oops.” You muttered, feigning nonchalance as you tried to gauge his reacting in your peripheral vision. He just smirked, shaking his head. For some reason this annoyed you even more, he’s such a dick, you thought.
As you walked away with everyone, Neteyam nudged you, pulling you to walk at the back with him. “Hey, what was that?” He asked quietly, though you could tell Lo’ak, Kiri, and Tuk were listening anyway.
“He’s actually the worst, Teyam. So arrogant. And even more annoying than Lo’ak.” You huffed, earning a light punch from your youngest brother.
“Okay… but you’re usually the nice one. I’ve never seen you like that before.” Neteyam was smiling, poking fun at you in a way that only he could. You smiled too in spite of yourself. However, he was being truthful. It wasn’t like you to be sarcastic or snarky, even to people you didn’t like.
“I can’t explain it. All I can say is that he asks for it. I actually don’t know how I’m going to survive training with him.” You groaned, imagining spending hours on end with your new nemesis.
“Oh cheer up! Training will be fun! We get to watch Lo’ak try to be macho in front of his crush,” Neteyam laughed as Lo’ak stopped dead in his tracks, glaring.
“Bro, shut up about that! Gonna have everyone knowing my business, damn!”
plot: you and ao'nung attempt to regain control in your lives by fake-dating. the irony is... this is fated.
word count: 2k
a/n: my take on a fake-dating, friends to lovers, best friend's brother au??? i want to make this a series, but i think it will be short and sweet <3 no particular warnings, but this takes place roughly 10 years after atwow (& neteyam is alive 🥰).
next
Nothing about the moment makes sense. It’s an agonizing kind of relief, which is somehow a feeling that exists. It comes in Ao'nung's hand brushing a strand of hair from your face which you would have preferred stayed. His knee tickling yours as you attempt to control your uneven breathing, years of water training out the window as he casts you a sideways glance in preparation of the charade that’s about to begin.
As Ao’nung dislodges a beaded anklet from a poorly-woven pouch that you’ve made for him, clan members pass each other impish smiles like they know something you don’t.
The trouble is, reality is quite opposite. You know something they don’t.
Everything they think they've seen over the last few weeks – Ao’nung’s only slightly tender gaze, the rap of his three-fingered hand on your family’s marui pod before the end of night, his surprisingly charming gifts which match the accessories in your hair – is a farce.
Ao’nung watches you fumble with the anklet three times before he breaks. You sit in the sand, taking note of the eyes that linger over the two you.
“I can’t watch this anymore.” He grumbles, taking your calf in his hand and placing it firmly in his lap. Ao’nung ties the flimsy jewelry around your ankle in a single neat knot with a stupidly smug look on his face that seems to say ‘see how easy that was?’ and it makes you want to shove him hard in the chest.
Like he can see those violent wheels in your head turning, he clicks his tongue. “Nuh-uh.” He chides. “They’re watching.”
Spending time with the Olo'eyktan’s son, it seemed there was always someone watching.
You nod, but Ao’nung doesn’t miss the way your eyes roll slightly. It made his chest clench in a way that felt uncomfortably new. By this age, he’d really hoped there were no new feelings left to encounter. Nothing quite like this, sinking through him like a slab of metal through water.
“They’re always watching.” You retort, blowing a loose strand of hair up from your face. “When else do I get to roll my eyes at you? All this pent up anger is gonna burn a hole through my stomach.”
Ao’nung laughs a hearty laugh that you know is meant for your ears, but he smiles for everyone to see. Gently leaning his muscular shoulder on your own, he shrugs, and you take it that he doesn’t really have an answer.
That seemed to be the case a lot lately.
When Ao’nung first proposed the idea to you, he was shocked at the ease to which you complied. He was expecting more resistance, the way there’d always been in your relationship – a splash of the water to the face when he bragged about finally training with tsurak, a cheap and sarcastic laugh at one of his not-so-funny jokes which warmed him and vexed him at the same time.
He knew why he had asked. His parents were slowly but surely introducing the topic of mating into conversation and it was stealing all the air from his lungs like a vindictive little vacuum.
Talking about mates made everything feel so real. So heavy. Like he’d lived his whole life to get to this point and suddenly it was here and he’d do anything to go back and live one of those light-hearted days again. With you, and everyone else, playing because you could afford to.
He asked you to get his parents off his back for a bit – just until he could find it within himself to live out his destiny. Still, he couldn’t understand why you had said yes.
“If I’m so hard to be around,” Ao’nung jokes, but not really. “Why’d you even agree to this in the first place?”
You pull your knees to your chest, let the cool pieces of sea glass strung onto his anklet mediate your body temperature. “Same reason as you, really.”
Ao’nung quirks an eyebrow, turning his head to meet your eyes, but he’s met with resistance. Your eyes are glued to the rounds of your knees, a small bite to your lip that stirs a barrelling feeling in his stomach. He waits for you to elaborate with his forehead pinched.
“My parents want me to find a mate.” You say simply. “At first, it was easy to convince them otherwise. I could say I was focusing on completing my rites.”
He passes a contemplative glance. “And now?”
“Now, they have suggestions.”
Suggestions. The word felt sticky in his mouth and birthed a new feeling.
Ao’nung knew your parents. They were dedicated members of the clan – your mother, a celebrated hunter for her sharp mind in battle and borderline overwhelming tenacity, and your father, renowned for his artful craftsmanship of weaponry. They loved you well, but were a tad controlling. He could tell it bothered you – how tight their reigns were.
“And you know me. I wouldn’t be any good… at that.”
You were right, he did know you. But it was the second part of that statement that was causing him full-body grief, though it’d be hard for him to pinpoint exactly why. Ao’nung feels his mouth open in objection, but you continue without waiting for him, like you always do.
“Anyways, I said yes because I need to do this. For myself.” You wrap your arms around your knees and gently press your chin atop them. “I don’t even know if I want a mate… but if I do, I-I need it to be my choice. And I need them to understand that.”
The heat Ao’nung feels is suddenly everywhere, but he nods all the same.
You shuffle under his hot gaze and let out a hefty breath that staggers as it falls. Every molecule in the air felt heavier and it had a lot to do with the fact that things were a lot different now than they were ten years ago. Ten years ago, when you’d joined Olo'eyktan’s children in teaching the Sully’s the ways of the Metkayina. When Kiri had joined your life-long friendship with Tsireya, and you’d pined for Ao’nung as inconsistently as high-tide, sometimes early in the day, sometimes late, but always so long as there was a moon.
The you of ten years ago wouldn’t have been able to fathom the situation you were in now, but the you of today knew that there were worse people to pretend to court than your best friend’s fickle, but well-meaning, brother. Some nights it felt like you were strong enough to do this. Other nights it singed at your fingertips, leaving ash on your sleeping mat.
According to Kiri, love doesn’t just fade like that. Maybe she was right and some completely sensitive part of you, trudging water from the past, was eager to have him in whatever capacity you could even if it was destined to disappoint. Maybe Tsireya was right and you wanted to hurt a little.
“I want to be more brave. Like you.” You finish, and Ao’nung feels a teasing shiver run down his spine. Like Eywa blowing air down his back.
“Brave?” He snorts. “My body just moves. I don’t know if I would call that brave.”
Ao’nung wasn’t sure how he felt hearing you undersell yourself. It was definitely bad, but it was also confusing. He’d never known anyone more daring than you. You butted his hard-headedness in a way that no one else seemed willing to. You’d been known to entertain Lo’ak’s recklessness more than a few times, flying ikran when you were born for water, and it annoyed him to no end. In most of his childhood memories, you were somewhere in the foreground, doing something that he’d wanted in on, but would never say so.
Some part of him thinks you always knew that – which is why most of those memories finish with you tugging him by the arm and pulling him into the fun – often motivated by his hard-to-earn, but more than worth it smile – he was young, painfully begrudging, but entirely grateful, and he hoped you knew that.
In any case, brave was a word he reserved for that starry-eyed girl that spent many sleepless nights outside her marui pod and on the beach, retelling him fantastical Earth stories that she'd heard Jake Sully once tell Tuk. He couldn’t forget those nights if he tried – and if he could, he wouldn’t.
He remembers you, blinking the sleep away, heels buried in the sand in a way much like you were sitting currently. Except back then, you would tell him about ‘once upon a time’ – something humans said before they told stories about princesses and goblins – things that didn’t exist, but he supposed that’s what made them so compelling.
The Metkayina had a similar phrase for their stories, but the words were different. In English, the best translation would have been: ‘there was, there wasn’t’. He’d seen in you that urge to escape when you left the Na’vi words behind any time you told him a story thereafter.
“I guess I just feel stuck.”
That was something Ao’nung could relate to. He follows your eye line, set on a group of barnacles deadlocked to a slab of rock. With an unwavering hand, he breaks one off and chucks it into the sand in front of you.
“Then we pull a little harder." He casts a gentle, but stern look. "Right?”
“Right.” You force a smile over the dull burn of tears. Then you bite back a laugh. “What are you? The barnacle whisperer?"
Ao’nung groans. “Don’t call me that. Please.”
A small laugh rumbles in his chest, and he takes the opportunity to look at you head-on. He lingers on your slightly damp eyes and nudges your side.
“You, uh, look like you’re getting broken up with.” He says in a nervous whisper, scratching the back of his neck. Eyes flickering between you and the onlookers still out on this part of the reef.
You bite your lip, shifting slightly closer to him. “Can’t have that, can we?”
You sneak a quick peak at the eyes glued on the two of you, fingers trembling faintly, but you know you’re nervous for a different reason. There was no going back after this. But you force a deep breath of air so cold that it felt herbal, with a new-found confidence – you didn’t want to go back. Slowly, your hands, once planted in the sand, drift up to snake around Ao’nung’s neck and his breath catches in his throat. He knows the clan is watching – knows you’re doing this because the clan is watching, but he feels his heart beat erratically as if his body can’t tell the difference.
You eye him inquisitively, in a way that he knows means you’re asking for permission, and he nods whilst internally urging his jaw to fall slack. His lips to do something other than wait for you.
Your lips touch his in a way that makes him gasp, and then again, and again, when you swallow his heavy breaths. He feels like a quick-filling cup that you won’t let spill. Against all his self-restraint, his hands tremble around your waist when you pull away from him.
“Is that what that feels like?” You murmur, feeling loose-limbed and heady. He thinks he'll faint if he acknowledges that it's your first.
“Y-yeah.”
But Ao’nung knows he’s lying. He’s never felt anything like this in his life – let alone in a kiss, and he’s suddenly concerned that you'll remember his tells. Tinge of purple on his ears, lightly flaring nostrils. If you notice, you don’t say so, and he’s grateful for it.
He clumsily pulls the heat of his body away, knowing something inside him has changed, and mumbles some kind of non-excuse about having to help his father out before eclipse. He says so whilst avoiding your eyes, though you wouldn’t have noticed anyways. Too busy ruminating in the aftershocks of his kiss – there was no going back – and mostly because those lips shot an arrow dead through the idea that there could be someone else for you.
Wordlessly, you nod and walk away like his retreat is contagious – trying hard not to, but still keeling at the hope that he could feel there was something there. A spark, a desire, a small flash of yearning you swear you saw in his eyes but disappeared too quick to know for sure.
Something that was, then wasn’t.
reblogs + tags are always appreciated 🪐🩷🫶🏼 i hope you enjoyed! as it stands, i'm working on more parts in the hopes of making this a mini-series, but def lmk if you want more hehe!
synopsis: you are tsakarem (tsahik-in-training) of the metkayina clan, promised to ao'nung. however it seems that things take a turn when you catch the attention of a certain forest boy.
tags: fluffy drabble, fem! metkayina! reader, a test post to see if this fandom still lives lol, jealous! ao'nung, pining! neteyam, love at first sight! neteyam, subtle tsireya x lo'ak, reader and ao'nung are parallels of ronal and tonowari
part 2 here
The bellow of a horn echoed throughout the village, accompanied by the fluttering of an Ikran's wings. Both you and Tsireya halted your light conversation, laughter dying down as your attention was drawn to the exotic mountain banshees flying above. Sharing a curious glance, both of you moved towards your Ilu's, making haste towards the sandy shores.
From afar, you could see how a family of forest Na'vi dropped down to the sands. They seemed apprehensive, led by a tall man dressed in exotic gear.
"Isn't that the Olo'eyktan from the Omatikaya clan?" Tsireya whispered, her voice barely audible. "What could possibly bring them here?"
"I have no idea," you replied, dismounting from your ilu as you approached the shore, Tsireya mirroring your actions.
As you dipped your head in the water, you pushed yourself upward, breaking through the surface. With a graceful motion, you brushed aside your damp hair, allowing it to cascade down your shoulders in a shimmering display.
Just then, your eyes locked with one of the strange forest people. Almost immediately, he bowed low, gesturing to you by placing his fingers on his forehead and extending one hand down. Smiling, you gestured back, returning the greeting with a nod of your head. The forest boy seemed pleased by your response, and his eyes sparkled with interest.
As Neteyam's gaze fell upon you, he couldn't help but become entranced by the mesmerizing shade of aquatic blue that adorned your skin, gracefully accompanied by flowing white stripes resembling gentle waves. The captivating allure of your large, penetrating blue eyes seemed to delve into the depths of his soul and he found himself speechless, mouth running dry.
Taking in your petite stature, the fin-like formations on your arms and legs piqued his curiosity, evoking images of elegant aquatic creatures. Your attire, intricately woven and embellished with coral, shells, and delicate trinkets, complemented your features perfectly, adding to your captivating appearance.
"You're staring, skxawng," Lo'ak snorts, playfully knocking his brother's side. Neteyam huffs, feeling a tinge of embarrassment as he quickly averts his gaze. "Shut it," he retorts, trying to brush off the moment.
As their father engaged in conversation with the newcomers, a group of boys broke away from the crowd, heading towards the brothers. Lo'ak and Neteyam exchanged quick gestures of greeting, but received no response in return.
Neteyam's gaze sharpened as he observed the group encircling them, a hint of caution in his eyes. One of them then laughed heartily, pointing at their tail, "What is that? Is that supposed to be a tail? How are they supposed to swim?"
"Do not!" Tsireya hisses, swiftly moving to smack Roxto's hand away. Sensing the tension, you saunter towards them, joining Tsireya in scolding the boys. "Be nice," you chide firmly.
Neteyam's attention shifts, his gaze locked on you as you approach Ao'nung and place a firm hand on his bicep.
In that moment, Neteyam witnesses a silent conversation unfold between the two of you, communicating with nothing but your eyes.
'You are being mean again,' you assert, raising your eyebrows and fixing your intense gaze upon the Metkayinan boy. Ao'nung blinks slowly, a dull look on his face. With a click of his tongue, he shuts his eyes and huffs in resignation. 'I know,' he concedes.
As all four of you shift your attention back towards the newcomers, Tsireya beams with enthusiasm, her warm greeting echoing once more, "We welcome you."
Lo'ak acknowledges her with a nod and a mumbled greeting, and you can't help but notice Tsireya's endearing reaction. Her cheeks flush, and her smile turns almost bashfully giddy as she glances down at her feet, clearly charmed by the interaction.
Months had passed since the Sully's integration into your village. You couldn't help but admire their quick learning, seamlessly adapting to the ways of the water in less than a month. As you spent more time training with them, your bond with the siblings grew stronger, particularly with endearing little Tuk, who always seemed eager to drag you along the shore to play.
'This is going to be interesting.'
Amidst the camaraderie, not everyone got along. Fights frequently arose between Ao'nung and the two Sully brothers, resulting in heated scuffles, both physical and verbal. And while Ao'nung and Lo'ak seemed to have made some progress in improving their relationship, the situation with Neteyam remained…unresolved at best.
"Ao'!" You gasp out, flinching back when he tackles Neteyam to the ground. The two boys exchange hits with fervor, their fists flying in rapid succession as they grapple with each other.
"Oh, you skxawngs!" you huff, unable to contain your frustration any longer. You grab hold of Neteyam's tail, pulling him off Ao'nung and breaking up the fight. "What is wrong with you two?!"
"I told him to back off!" Neteyam snarls, his hand pressed against a blossoming bruise on his torso. Ao'nung clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders as he stands up, his expression defiant. "Maybe you should back off my mate."
The tension in the air remains palpable as emotions run high, leaving you caught in the middle of the escalating conflict. You don't miss how Neteyam's shoulders drop, his mouth agape as his eyes dart between the two of you.
Confusion fills his gaze as he stammers, "Mate?"
"I am Tsakarem," you affirm, taking a step towards Ao'nung's side to assess his injuries. "But it's bold of you to claim that I'm your mate," you add, clicking your tongue disapprovingly. Neteyam, catching your mocking tone, seems to perk up and grin
"Don't get too excited, forest boy," Ao'nung grumbles, his gaze drilling holes into Neteyam's head, "She is still promised to me."
Sighing you tuck your head into his shoulder, begging him to shut up.
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