the great war

asoiaf oc based story blog by @robnikmeria & @goldnows.

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ crimson clover // the masterlist

warnings: major character death, assault, hurt/comfort, will add more over time, nsfw / 18+ only.

playlist | AO3

As a gift, the red clover conveyed the message 'I promise.' a canon-divergent, oc based, asoiaf fanfiction written by @robnikmeria & @goldsnows. a mix of show & book canon starting from season 1. featuring both oc x canon and oc x oc.

BOOK ONE // MASTERLIST

[crimscn-clover]

i can see everything you are warning me about concerning ethan in today's chapter... but no one can stop me from closing my eyes and continue supporting him. my autistic king

i really loved seeing more of his interactions with jaime! i know mars said they're thinking about doing some drabbles about ethan's squiring days and not to stress y'all out or anything but 👀

ETHAN'S CRUSH

y'all are really hyping the tourney up and now i cannot wait!

this sign can’t stop me because i can’t read vibes

in all seriousness i actually like the fact you knew it’s clearly a warning but love him anyways <3 you can be on the front lines defending him after his next pov chapter (that’ll likely be out the 24th!)

i love ethan and jaime’s dynamic so writing them is always my favorite thing <3 the squire series will definitely come around eventually, i promise!

i hope the tourney chapter impresses next week… it’s a bit more political and quinn character study focused but we still get some fun bits!

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

ethan. IV

summary: ethan’s insomnia leads to unexpected friction.

warning: none <3

word count: 2.3k

masterlist

The moon’s luminescent glow streamed like a ray of sun into the White Sword Tower’s rounded common room, illuminating everything in a brilliant white light that made him oddly nostalgic for his childhood home. Ethan could vividly remember the view from his bedroom window, small as it may have been, and held fond memories of his mother’s maid singing lullabies from Old Valyria every night before he fell asleep. He did not miss home often, glad to be rid of the awful place once and for all, but on the rare occasions he did it was always due to missing his lady mother.

He sipped at his cup of warm-honey milk slowly, wishing to savor every drop as though it were the last thing he’d ever drink. He had always struggled to fall asleep as a young boy, much to the chagrin of everyone around him, and had found comfort in an old recipe from his mother’s side of the family that had been passed down from generation to generation as a cure for sleeplessness. 

Life had finally begun to return to normal after the chaos of the last few months, structure and order finally returning back into the Red Keep after a long period of chaos. He had been thrown head first into his position in the midst of all this disorder, and was looking forward to seeing what things would be like now that routine had returned. He was especially excited for the upcoming tourney in celebration of Eddard Stark’s appointment as hand, if only because it meant he had an excuse to show-off to the Kingsguard who continued to doubt his presence amongst them.

The Lord Commander often went out of his way to assign him the worst and most grueling assignments, whilst Ser Orys remained impossibly cold despite what he’d perceived as a bonding moment during their time in the Riverlands. His other sworn-brothers were friendly enough all things considered, but often treated him as though he were a child they had been tasked with watching over instead of a true equal or comrade. Ethan did not understand what more he needed to do in order to show them that he was man grown and perfectly worthy of the honor he had been bestowed.

It did not help that he had scarcely seen Lady Arryn since they had returned back to the capital a few moons prior. He had seen glimpses of her whilst standing guard at dinners held for the Baratheon family, albeit there were times she forgoed those entirely in favor of taking her meal in her chambers, but otherwise their contact had been limited to feeling glances and hidden waves within the throes of court.  

Why did making friends have to be so difficult? 

He did not dare to acknowledge the fact that his elder brother could be coming into the city to participate in the upcoming tourney, preferring instead to pretend as though he did not exist at all. Ryam had been knighted by their uncle a few months after he had been granted the honor by Ser Jaime; one of his brother’s endless displays of jealousy from over the years. He prayed to all of the seven Gods above that he would be spared from having to exchange any pleasantries with his brother — one of the few familial relationships he had gladly forsaken when taking his vows. 

Ethan flinched at the sound of the door to the common room abruptly swinging open, already bracing himself for a scolding from whoever it was for being up so late, before the shadowed frame of Ser Jaime came into view and he felt his shoulders relax as all anxiety suddenly left him. He knew all too well from their time together over the years that it was not an unusual occurrence for the infamous knight to spend the majority of his evenings at his sister’s side. 

He tried not to dwell on why they were so close — afraid of what answers he might uncover if he looked into the matter too deeply. Instead, he preferred to imagine that they were merely the best of friends. Much like he and his sister had been during their youth back at the Golden Tooth. 

“You’re up late.” Jaime inquisitively cocked his head to the side. “Should I be worried?” 

“I don’t know.” Ethan leisurely sipped at his honey-milk. “Probably.” 

The older knight laughed as though it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “You’re a handful.” He pulled out a seat beside him at the table, the sound of the chairs legs dragging across the floor causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. “You always have been,” he huffed. “Do you remember that time during our trip to Storm’s End when you nearly got struck by lightning?”

“You told me not to let go of the sword.” Ethan had always taken pride in doing what he was told. “I like to think it’s reflective of my excellent service that I never once let it touch the ground.” 

“You nearly killed me that day.” Jaime idly traced patterns upon the top of the weirwood table with his right hand. “I was so worried for you that I thought my heart might give out.” 

“I survived,” he hummed. “I always seem to.” 

There had been plenty of times where he had wished for a different father, with the hatred he held for his own being so strong that he often worried it might consume him like a blazing fire. Becoming Jaime Lannister’s squire had been a blessing unlike any other, as it had given him a father figure who truly seemed to care for his well-being. He would do anything that the man now sitting across from him asked, even if it meant committing a crime, because the urge to make him proud overrode any sense of logical thinking that he might have possessed. 

“It’s a good trait to have.” The look in his green eyes turned uncharacteristically somber before he suddenly turned away to look upon the glowing hearth. “Not everyone is so lucky.” 

Ethan did not wish to pry into whatever experience he was speaking from. 

“Was it hard for you?” He stared down into the milky contents of his goblet — one of the many gold-plated cups available for members of the kingsguard — as he contemplated how to phrase his next question. “You were so young when you were first appointed. Did you feel alone? Or, uh, like you were being treated differently because of your youth?”

They rarely, if ever, discussed Jaime’s time in the Kingsguard during the reign of Aerys Tagraryen. While he’d never specifically been told not to ask about it, there was a quiet understanding that it was an off-limits topic. Ethan instead focused his questions on his time squiring for Sumner Crakehall, a distant relative of his father’s, his time fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood, or what it had been like to be knighted by the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne. 

“I take it you’re struggling?” Jaime expertly avoided the question at hand. “Have you ever considered the possibility that some of our brothers-in-arms might be jealous?”

“Of me?” Ethan could not even fathom such a thing being possible. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jaime leaned back against his chair as much as it would allow, and it was just then that he noticed that the top laces of his biscuit colored tunica had been hastily undone. “You have more skill at seven and ten than some of these men do at ages old enough to make them your father,” he chuckled. “Or grandfather, in our dear Lord Commander’s case.”

He was well aware that his accomplishments were different from many of his fellow sworn brothers. Ethan had been knighted just a few years prior by the sword of the morning, Cedrik Dayne, and had seen battle by his maternal uncle’s side during an attempted takeover of the Redwyne Straits by Essosi pirates just before his appointment to the Kingsguard. 

There were some donning the white cloak who had never seen true battle, such as Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Orys, whilst others had been chosen for political reasons that had little to do with their actual skills as knights. He had never doubted that Ser Jaime’s influence had been a factor in why he’d be named to his position, but had always believed that his heroics during the fighting in the Redwyne Straits had contributed as well.

“A plight I’m sure you can understand,” he quipped. “Does it ever get any easier?”

Ethan had spent his whole life hearing whispered japes behind Ser Jaime’s back, whether it be at court or tournament grounds, and it never made sense to him why everyone despised him so thoroughly. He had ridden the realm of a tyrant that they had all intended to dispose of anyways, but had forever been deemed an honorless villain in the eyes of the realm for doing so because of the vows he’d sworn. He had tried fruitlessly to defend his mentor over the years, to make sense of why he’d killed the mad king to strangers and friends alike, but oathbreaking was a sin that not many could forgive.

He did not see what was so dishonorable about breaking a vow that you knew to be wrong.

“Afraid not,” he replied. “You just learn to live with it.”

He let his gaze drift down to the magnificent weirwood table that had been carved into the shape of a shield; the markings across its wooden top containing the solemn vows of the kingsguard and effigies in honor of the different faces of the faith. He let his hand drift over the carving of the Smith that laid before him, with the mender of broken things having always been his favorite ever since he was a little boy. He had not even realized he had taken a seat near the Smith’s corner of the shield until that very moment, and quietly wondered if it was irony or fate that had led him to his seat.

“Do you think Joffrey will make a good king?”

Ethan was not sure where the thought had come from, but it had slipped past his lips without thinking and permeated the air with a newfound sense of awkwardness that had not been there before. He could see it in the way that Ser Jaime’s body had suddenly drawn taut like a bowstring at the question, his entire demeanor shifting into one of caution instead of the usual open friendliness that was typical of their dynamic.

“Feeling philosophical?” Jaime’s green eyes were completely devoid of humor despite the playful tone lacing his words. “We’re meant to guard the kings, not judge them.”

“Is that not what you did when you slew Aerys Targaryen?” He did not understand where the line had been drawn. “No one can ever be truly impartial,” he argued further. “It’s impossible.”

Ethan often felt there were things about the world he would never understand, as though there were some set of made-up rules everyone but himself had grown up knowing and adhering to. He’d always struggled with feeling like an outsider, and no amount of armor or pageantry or glory could ever rid him of that. There was just something about him that was inherently wrong.

“I did not realize our dear friend Robert was so close to death.” He absentmindedly ran a hand through his golden-locks of hair. “Does the line of succession trouble you this much?”

“The king drinks and eats and whores all day,” Ethan spat. “It’s a miracle his heart hasn’t given out.” He had little respect for the man who sat upon the iron throne, and often regarded Robert Baratheon as nothing more than a drunken fool. “Am I not allowed to worry for the realm?”

“The realm,” Jaime murmured. “Or Lady Arryn?”

He could not fight the sudden flush of heat that came over his body at the mention of Prince Joffrey’s wife, but it had more to do with the embarrassment of having his mentor acknowledge his childish crush than the feelings themselves.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he continued. “It’s alright, Ethan. We’ve all been young once and had our heads turned by a pretty face or two. You just need to remember your vows.”

Ethan desperately swallowed down the cruel jape that teetered on the edge of his tongue.

“Of course.” He quietly looked down towards the milky-amber contents inside of his half-finished cup. “I apologize if I spoke out of turn, I think that perhaps the lack of sleep is making me delirious.”

Jaime reached across the table to clasp his sword hand within his own; left meeting right as he forced his head up to meet the other man’s gaze. “You don’t need to apologize,” he insisted. “I’m not angry with you.”

But what if I was angry?

Ethan had always associated anger with his father’s endless rage and had done everything in his power to avoid ever letting it cloud his judgement. He did not want to follow in the footsteps of the men in his family who came before him, but sometimes he was worried that there was no escaping the generational curses that seemed to plague their house. If his grandfather’s anger turned his father cruel, and then his father’s anger turned his brother cruel… then where did that leave him? 

“Thank you.” Ethan forced a smile upon his face, cheeks hurting from the strain of having to pretend he felt anything beyond bitter rage. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

There was a look of sadness lingering behind his mentor’s green eyes that nearly made his practiced smile falter. “I should be the one thanking you,” Jaime replied. “For everything you’ve done for me.” 

It was all he had ever wanted to hear, but somehow still not enough. 

welcome back ethan pov chapters we missed you <3

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

ethan. IV

summary: ethan’s insomnia leads to unexpected friction.

warning: none <3

word count: 2.3k

masterlist

The moon’s luminescent glow streamed like a ray of sun into the White Sword Tower’s rounded common room, illuminating everything in a brilliant white light that made him oddly nostalgic for his childhood home. Ethan could vividly remember the view from his bedroom window, small as it may have been, and held fond memories of his mother’s maid singing lullabies from Old Valyria every night before he fell asleep. He did not miss home often, glad to be rid of the awful place once and for all, but on the rare occasions he did it was always due to missing his lady mother.

He sipped at his cup of warm-honey milk slowly, wishing to savor every drop as though it were the last thing he’d ever drink. He had always struggled to fall asleep as a young boy, much to the chagrin of everyone around him, and had found comfort in an old recipe from his mother’s side of the family that had been passed down from generation to generation as a cure for sleeplessness. 

Life had finally begun to return to normal after the chaos of the last few months, structure and order finally returning back into the Red Keep after a long period of chaos. He had been thrown head first into his position in the midst of all this disorder, and was looking forward to seeing what things would be like now that routine had returned. He was especially excited for the upcoming tourney in celebration of Eddard Stark’s appointment as hand, if only because it meant he had an excuse to show-off to the Kingsguard who continued to doubt his presence amongst them.

The Lord Commander often went out of his way to assign him the worst and most grueling assignments, whilst Ser Orys remained impossibly cold despite what he’d perceived as a bonding moment during their time in the Riverlands. His other sworn-brothers were friendly enough all things considered, but often treated him as though he were a child they had been tasked with watching over instead of a true equal or comrade. Ethan did not understand what more he needed to do in order to show them that he was man grown and perfectly worthy of the honor he had been bestowed.

It did not help that he had scarcely seen Lady Arryn since they had returned back to the capital a few moons prior. He had seen glimpses of her whilst standing guard at dinners held for the Baratheon family, albeit there were times she forgoed those entirely in favor of taking her meal in her chambers, but otherwise their contact had been limited to feeling glances and hidden waves within the throes of court.  

Why did making friends have to be so difficult? 

He did not dare to acknowledge the fact that his elder brother could be coming into the city to participate in the upcoming tourney, preferring instead to pretend as though he did not exist at all. Ryam had been knighted by their uncle a few months after he had been granted the honor by Ser Jaime; one of his brother’s endless displays of jealousy from over the years. He prayed to all of the seven Gods above that he would be spared from having to exchange any pleasantries with his brother — one of the few familial relationships he had gladly forsaken when taking his vows. 

Ethan flinched at the sound of the door to the common room abruptly swinging open, already bracing himself for a scolding from whoever it was for being up so late, before the shadowed frame of Ser Jaime came into view and he felt his shoulders relax as all anxiety suddenly left him. He knew all too well from their time together over the years that it was not an unusual occurrence for the infamous knight to spend the majority of his evenings at his sister’s side. 

He tried not to dwell on why they were so close — afraid of what answers he might uncover if he looked into the matter too deeply. Instead, he preferred to imagine that they were merely the best of friends. Much like he and his sister had been during their youth back at the Golden Tooth. 

“You’re up late.” Jaime inquisitively cocked his head to the side. “Should I be worried?” 

“I don’t know.” Ethan leisurely sipped at his honey-milk. “Probably.” 

The older knight laughed as though it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “You’re a handful.” He pulled out a seat beside him at the table, the sound of the chairs legs dragging across the floor causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. “You always have been,” he huffed. “Do you remember that time during our trip to Storm’s End when you nearly got struck by lightning?”

“You told me not to let go of the sword.” Ethan had always taken pride in doing what he was told. “I like to think it’s reflective of my excellent service that I never once let it touch the ground.” 

“You nearly killed me that day.” Jaime idly traced patterns upon the top of the weirwood table with his right hand. “I was so worried for you that I thought my heart might give out.” 

“I survived,” he hummed. “I always seem to.” 

There had been plenty of times where he had wished for a different father, with the hatred he held for his own being so strong that he often worried it might consume him like a blazing fire. Becoming Jaime Lannister’s squire had been a blessing unlike any other, as it had given him a father figure who truly seemed to care for his well-being. He would do anything that the man now sitting across from him asked, even if it meant committing a crime, because the urge to make him proud overrode any sense of logical thinking that he might have possessed. 

“It’s a good trait to have.” The look in his green eyes turned uncharacteristically somber before he suddenly turned away to look upon the glowing hearth. “Not everyone is so lucky.” 

Ethan did not wish to pry into whatever experience he was speaking from. 

“Was it hard for you?” He stared down into the milky contents of his goblet — one of the many gold-plated cups available for members of the kingsguard — as he contemplated how to phrase his next question. “You were so young when you were first appointed. Did you feel alone? Or, uh, like you were being treated differently because of your youth?”

They rarely, if ever, discussed Jaime’s time in the Kingsguard during the reign of Aerys Tagraryen. While he’d never specifically been told not to ask about it, there was a quiet understanding that it was an off-limits topic. Ethan instead focused his questions on his time squiring for Sumner Crakehall, a distant relative of his father’s, his time fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood, or what it had been like to be knighted by the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne. 

“I take it you’re struggling?” Jaime expertly avoided the question at hand. “Have you ever considered the possibility that some of our brothers-in-arms might be jealous?”

“Of me?” Ethan could not even fathom such a thing being possible. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jaime leaned back against his chair as much as it would allow, and it was just then that he noticed that the top laces of his biscuit colored tunica had been hastily undone. “You have more skill at seven and ten than some of these men do at ages old enough to make them your father,” he chuckled. “Or grandfather, in our dear Lord Commander’s case.”

He was well aware that his accomplishments were different from many of his fellow sworn brothers. Ethan had been knighted just a few years prior by the sword of the morning, Cedrik Dayne, and had seen battle by his maternal uncle’s side during an attempted takeover of the Redwyne Straits by Essosi pirates just before his appointment to the Kingsguard. 

There were some donning the white cloak who had never seen true battle, such as Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Orys, whilst others had been chosen for political reasons that had little to do with their actual skills as knights. He had never doubted that Ser Jaime’s influence had been a factor in why he’d be named to his position, but had always believed that his heroics during the fighting in the Redwyne Straits had contributed as well.

“A plight I’m sure you can understand,” he quipped. “Does it ever get any easier?”

Ethan had spent his whole life hearing whispered japes behind Ser Jaime’s back, whether it be at court or tournament grounds, and it never made sense to him why everyone despised him so thoroughly. He had ridden the realm of a tyrant that they had all intended to dispose of anyways, but had forever been deemed an honorless villain in the eyes of the realm for doing so because of the vows he’d sworn. He had tried fruitlessly to defend his mentor over the years, to make sense of why he’d killed the mad king to strangers and friends alike, but oathbreaking was a sin that not many could forgive.

He did not see what was so dishonorable about breaking a vow that you knew to be wrong.

“Afraid not,” he replied. “You just learn to live with it.”

He let his gaze drift down to the magnificent weirwood table that had been carved into the shape of a shield; the markings across its wooden top containing the solemn vows of the kingsguard and effigies in honor of the different faces of the faith. He let his hand drift over the carving of the Smith that laid before him, with the mender of broken things having always been his favorite ever since he was a little boy. He had not even realized he had taken a seat near the Smith’s corner of the shield until that very moment, and quietly wondered if it was irony or fate that had led him to his seat.

“Do you think Joffrey will make a good king?”

Ethan was not sure where the thought had come from, but it had slipped past his lips without thinking and permeated the air with a newfound sense of awkwardness that had not been there before. He could see it in the way that Ser Jaime’s body had suddenly drawn taut like a bowstring at the question, his entire demeanor shifting into one of caution instead of the usual open friendliness that was typical of their dynamic.

“Feeling philosophical?” Jaime’s green eyes were completely devoid of humor despite the playful tone lacing his words. “We’re meant to guard the kings, not judge them.”

“Is that not what you did when you slew Aerys Targaryen?” He did not understand where the line had been drawn. “No one can ever be truly impartial,” he argued further. “It’s impossible.”

Ethan often felt there were things about the world he would never understand, as though there were some set of made-up rules everyone but himself had grown up knowing and adhering to. He’d always struggled with feeling like an outsider, and no amount of armor or pageantry or glory could ever rid him of that. There was just something about him that was inherently wrong.

“I did not realize our dear friend Robert was so close to death.” He absentmindedly ran a hand through his golden-locks of hair. “Does the line of succession trouble you this much?”

“The king drinks and eats and whores all day,” Ethan spat. “It’s a miracle his heart hasn’t given out.” He had little respect for the man who sat upon the iron throne, and often regarded Robert Baratheon as nothing more than a drunken fool. “Am I not allowed to worry for the realm?”

“The realm,” Jaime murmured. “Or Lady Arryn?”

He could not fight the sudden flush of heat that came over his body at the mention of Prince Joffrey’s wife, but it had more to do with the embarrassment of having his mentor acknowledge his childish crush than the feelings themselves.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he continued. “It’s alright, Ethan. We’ve all been young once and had our heads turned by a pretty face or two. You just need to remember your vows.”

Ethan desperately swallowed down the cruel jape that teetered on the edge of his tongue.

“Of course.” He quietly looked down towards the milky-amber contents inside of his half-finished cup. “I apologize if I spoke out of turn, I think that perhaps the lack of sleep is making me delirious.”

Jaime reached across the table to clasp his sword hand within his own; left meeting right as he forced his head up to meet the other man’s gaze. “You don’t need to apologize,” he insisted. “I’m not angry with you.”

But what if I was angry?

Ethan had always associated anger with his father’s endless rage and had done everything in his power to avoid ever letting it cloud his judgement. He did not want to follow in the footsteps of the men in his family who came before him, but sometimes he was worried that there was no escaping the generational curses that seemed to plague their house. If his grandfather’s anger turned his father cruel, and then his father’s anger turned his brother cruel… then where did that leave him? 

“Thank you.” Ethan forced a smile upon his face, cheeks hurting from the strain of having to pretend he felt anything beyond bitter rage. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

There was a look of sadness lingering behind his mentor’s green eyes that nearly made his practiced smile falter. “I should be the one thanking you,” Jaime replied. “For everything you’ve done for me.” 

It was all he had ever wanted to hear, but somehow still not enough. 

welcome back ethan pov chapters we missed you <3

[crimscn-clover]

AH!! Finally caught up. The plot is PLOTTING. I love seeing things unravel, the conspiracy. I love that the plot of AGoT is a murder mystery and I love how y'all are interpreting it. Your OCs make the story feel so much more populated and special. The women of Crimson Clover will always rule my heart too. Looking forward to the next chapter!!

AAAAA TYSM WE’RE SO GLAD YOU’RE ENJOYING IT!! 🫶🫶🫶

It always means so much to see that people are enjoying our fic :’)

the conspiracy and murder mystery aspect of it has been so so fun to play with :3 we really do try hard to follow the story while keeping people on their toes a bit with our additions hehe. The women of Crimson Clover are so special to me!!🥺🫶🫶 they have such a huge place in the story and are gonna have so much impact on the narrative.

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

jon. I

summary: jon reminisces whilst trying to stay warm.

warning: none <3

word count: 1.8k

masterlist

The cold bite of the winds beyond the Wall were unlike anything Jon had ever experienced in his life. He had been stationed at one of the look-out points for the evening whilst the other men of the watch were enjoying their supper and had begun to lose feeling in his toes despite the flickering warmth offered by the crackling cauldron of fire positioned near his post.

The snowflakes that had gathered in his hair and beard only seemed to further the numbing chill that consumed his very being. Whatever he thought he had known about the cold had been entirely undone in the few months he had been living at Castle Black. There were days when it felt so cold that he thought his heart might freeze from where it lay buried within his chest; everything about him melting away until the frost was all that remained. He should have heeded Nymeria’s warnings when he’d had the chance, but there was little to do now that he had finally arrived and begun to train amongst the sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch.

He pulled his woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders in hopes that it would do something to stop the frigid winds from nipping at his nose, although he knew deep down that any efforts to stay warm would be fruitless given the nature of the Wall and the lands far beyond its reach.

“It’s freezing!” Samwell Tarly was standing as far away from the edge as someone on guard could possibly be. “It’s not really fair, is it? They get to eat and drink in the nice warm hall while we’re stuck up here watching the snow fall!” It was so cold that his breath was visible with every word he spoke. “Are your fingers not absolutely numb right now? ‘Cause mine feel like they’re going to fall right off!”

“Use the fire.” Jon kept his gaze focused ahead towards the sprawling lands beyond the Wall, which were little more than a blur of blue and black at this time of night. “It should help keep you warm.”

The dull padded thud of footsteps against the ice could be heard from behind him, but he refused to look backwards to see his companion due to the risk of a conversation sparking if they so much as made eye-contact. Samwell Tarly was sweet, albeit out of place amongst the other men of the watch, and prone to chatting with whoever would listen. He had done his best to keep their exchanges short, but no matter how hard he tried it seemed that the other boy could not be dissuaded from trying to befriend him.

“Do you miss home?” Sam questioned after a long beat of silence passed between them. “You’re not far from it actually! Still, it’s gotta’ hurt. Or not! I don’t know. I definitely miss my mother, and my sister. You’re probably used to the cold, aren’t you? Being from the north and all!”

“Winterfell isn’t like this,” he huffed. “Not even on our coldest days.”

Some of his favorite childhood memories were from the times when the summer snows had piled so high that he and his siblings could barely trudge through it without getting stuck in the slush. There was little more he had loved as a young boy than spending the day playing in the Godswood and chasing after his younger brothers with the reckless abandon that came along with youth. He had grown  serious with the passing of time, much like his father, and had lost his passion for spirited fun.

Until he met–

He quickly pushed the errant thought away from his mind. Although he had not yet sworn his sacred oaths before the Heart Tree, he fully intended to conduct himself as though he was already a sword-member of the Night’s Watch. He could not let himself be distracted by distant memories of a person he would never see again; there was nothing to be gained from looking backwards then there was so much ahead. “Are you close with your family?” Samwell asked.

“Aye,” Jon replied. “My siblings most of all.”

He had been so elated to learn that Bran had finally awoken from his coma that he’d joyfully ran around the courtyard telling anyone who’d listen. He had likely made a fool of himself in front of the other men, but he did not have it in him to regret his actions. There was nothing that could have made him happier than knowing that his brother was going to be alright. He loved his siblings fiercely, even if they bore different surnames, and found that leaving them behind had been the hardest part about forsaking Winterfell. 

He had desperately wanted to write, especially to his sister Lynara, but had found that there was little time for it in-between training and other menial tasks such as the one he was currently assigned.

“Lovely!” Sam chirped. “Are they the ones who gave you that locket you’ve been wearing?”

Jon whirled around to face him faster than the speed of sound, unable to hide his visible frustration at the one topic he wanted to avoid being brought up by someone he was still getting to know. He had tried his best to keep the pendant strewn around his neck hidden from view by tucking it into his tunica or hidden away in his furs, but it seemed that no matter what he’d tried the golden chain had still somehow managed to sneak through and catch the other boy’s attention.

“What?” He narrowed his brown-grey eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on!” Sam’s face was illuminated in the orange and gold light of the fire. “You’ve been wearing it since we met! I didn’t want to say anything, but some of the others are starting to talk! I heard Pyp saying you stole it off of Lady Stark herself! I don’t believe him, of course, but still… you start to wonder.”

“I didn’t steal it.” Jon’s jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth had begun to ache from the force of it — his entire body thrumming with pain that stemmed from both the pressure and the cold. “It was a gift from a friend.”

“What sort of friend?” He could see a gleam of curiosity within the depths of Sam’s pale eyes. “Was it a girl?” he chuckled merrily. “I bet the girls at Winterfell liked you!” 

The smell of old books drifted through his memories, along with the gleam of green eyes by torchlight and strawberry-blonde hair braided over one’s shoulder. Shoulders brushing against one another as they remained huddled over an old book on the history of the long night; the stories of Jeyne the Bloody and Brandon the Breaker a shared favorite amongst the young pair. The melodic sound of a gravely voice speaking High Valyrian to an enthralled audience, with the flow of vowels having been enough to make him consider doing something he knew he shouldn’t.

“Does it matter?” The breeze had begun to pick up, causing errant locks of raven curls to whip about as they stayed positioned at their perch at the edge of the wall. “It’s in the past now.”

“It could be a nice story.” Samwell’s voice was muffled by the howling winds. “Something to pass the time! We’ll be up here for hours. It’d be pretty dull if we spent all of them in silence.”

Jon certainly preferred silence to needless chatter, but knew that for someone as craven as his new companion that the fellowship likely helped quell his fear of heights. He remained silent for a moment, internally debating whether or not he should share what he was thinking, before he stepped closer to the fire and allowed himself to drink in some of its tepid warmth.

“She was a noblewoman,” he admitted. “With, uh, red hair. Like the fire’s glow. And green eyes, like emeralds or summer leaves.” He hoped that the bitter cold had managed to stop his cheeks from turning pink at the recollection of her face. “She gave it to me as a parting gift.”

“Oooh, a redhead,” Sam hummed. “I like a redhead. Was she pretty?”

“Gorgeous,” Jon replied. “The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

The feeling of a warm touch in the midst of the bitter cold; the feeling of being heard for the first time in ages. Their fingers had touched a moment too long when she’d offered him the parting gift. She had told him to sell it; the gold would certainly be worth a lot in a place like Mole’s Town. He had wanted to tell her that he’d miss her, but the words had gotten stuck in his throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Didn’t you already?” He could not resist the urge to be snarky, albeit he punctuated his reply with the faint hints of a smile in an attempt to show the other boy he meant no malice.

“If you found a woman that liked you enough to give you this.” Samwell briefly motioned towards his neck before dropping his shaking hands down towards the fire once more. “Then why are you here? And not, you know, with her? If I had a girl who liked me that much I’d never let her go! Not that any have…” he trailed off. “Anyways! Just seems odd to me. That’s all.”

It did not surprise him that someone with a true-born name didn’t seem to understand.

“I’m a bastard.” It was true, although it pained him to admit such a thing. “A woman like that doesn’t marry a man like me,” he frowned. “It’s just the way the world works.”

Robb was meant to rule; to lead; to wed. And he was meant for this.

The crackle of the glowing fire contrasted with the melodic howl of the icy winds; two opposing forces meeting at the edge of the world. He wondered if this was all he’d hear for the rest of his life — there would be no turning back once he proclaimed his vows in the sight of Gods and men.

“Who says?” Sam’s voice cut through the sounds of fire and ice colliding.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said it’s just the way the world works,” he continued. “It seems to me that it doesn’t have to be that way. The Targaryens used to burn people alive! ‘Till Robert Baratheon stopped them. And then things changed.” He rubbed his hands together in order to keep them warm. “All I’m saying is that the world isn’t fixed. Someone just needs to care enough to do something about it.”

Jon was not sure what to say in response, as the words had struck him so deeply that it felt like a blade through his heart. He merely turned back to look out towards the vast horizon of the lands beyond the wall; the trees and ground and mountains all blurring together into one under the cover of darkness. “You’re wiser than you look, Sam.”

Samwell’s bright smile was nearly enough to warm his frozen heart.

i hope everyone enjoys the quinjon crumbs in this weeks chapter and getting to peak into jon’s head a bit <3

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

jon. I

summary: jon reminisces whilst trying to stay warm.

warning: none <3

word count: 1.8k

masterlist

The cold bite of the winds beyond the Wall were unlike anything Jon had ever experienced in his life. He had been stationed at one of the look-out points for the evening whilst the other men of the watch were enjoying their supper and had begun to lose feeling in his toes despite the flickering warmth offered by the crackling cauldron of fire positioned near his post.

The snowflakes that had gathered in his hair and beard only seemed to further the numbing chill that consumed his very being. Whatever he thought he had known about the cold had been entirely undone in the few months he had been living at Castle Black. There were days when it felt so cold that he thought his heart might freeze from where it lay buried within his chest; everything about him melting away until the frost was all that remained. He should have heeded Nymeria’s warnings when he’d had the chance, but there was little to do now that he had finally arrived and begun to train amongst the sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch.

He pulled his woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders in hopes that it would do something to stop the frigid winds from nipping at his nose, although he knew deep down that any efforts to stay warm would be fruitless given the nature of the Wall and the lands far beyond its reach.

“It’s freezing!” Samwell Tarly was standing as far away from the edge as someone on guard could possibly be. “It’s not really fair, is it? They get to eat and drink in the nice warm hall while we’re stuck up here watching the snow fall!” It was so cold that his breath was visible with every word he spoke. “Are your fingers not absolutely numb right now? ‘Cause mine feel like they’re going to fall right off!”

“Use the fire.” Jon kept his gaze focused ahead towards the sprawling lands beyond the Wall, which were little more than a blur of blue and black at this time of night. “It should help keep you warm.”

The dull padded thud of footsteps against the ice could be heard from behind him, but he refused to look backwards to see his companion due to the risk of a conversation sparking if they so much as made eye-contact. Samwell Tarly was sweet, albeit out of place amongst the other men of the watch, and prone to chatting with whoever would listen. He had done his best to keep their exchanges short, but no matter how hard he tried it seemed that the other boy could not be dissuaded from trying to befriend him.

“Do you miss home?” Sam questioned after a long beat of silence passed between them. “You’re not far from it actually! Still, it’s gotta’ hurt. Or not! I don’t know. I definitely miss my mother, and my sister. You’re probably used to the cold, aren’t you? Being from the north and all!”

“Winterfell isn’t like this,” he huffed. “Not even on our coldest days.”

Some of his favorite childhood memories were from the times when the summer snows had piled so high that he and his siblings could barely trudge through it without getting stuck in the slush. There was little more he had loved as a young boy than spending the day playing in the Godswood and chasing after his younger brothers with the reckless abandon that came along with youth. He had grown  serious with the passing of time, much like his father, and had lost his passion for spirited fun.

Until he met–

He quickly pushed the errant thought away from his mind. Although he had not yet sworn his sacred oaths before the Heart Tree, he fully intended to conduct himself as though he was already a sword-member of the Night’s Watch. He could not let himself be distracted by distant memories of a person he would never see again; there was nothing to be gained from looking backwards then there was so much ahead. “Are you close with your family?” Samwell asked.

“Aye,” Jon replied. “My siblings most of all.”

He had been so elated to learn that Bran had finally awoken from his coma that he’d joyfully ran around the courtyard telling anyone who’d listen. He had likely made a fool of himself in front of the other men, but he did not have it in him to regret his actions. There was nothing that could have made him happier than knowing that his brother was going to be alright. He loved his siblings fiercely, even if they bore different surnames, and found that leaving them behind had been the hardest part about forsaking Winterfell. 

He had desperately wanted to write, especially to his sister Lynara, but had found that there was little time for it in-between training and other menial tasks such as the one he was currently assigned.

“Lovely!” Sam chirped. “Are they the ones who gave you that locket you’ve been wearing?”

Jon whirled around to face him faster than the speed of sound, unable to hide his visible frustration at the one topic he wanted to avoid being brought up by someone he was still getting to know. He had tried his best to keep the pendant strewn around his neck hidden from view by tucking it into his tunica or hidden away in his furs, but it seemed that no matter what he’d tried the golden chain had still somehow managed to sneak through and catch the other boy’s attention.

“What?” He narrowed his brown-grey eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on!” Sam’s face was illuminated in the orange and gold light of the fire. “You’ve been wearing it since we met! I didn’t want to say anything, but some of the others are starting to talk! I heard Pyp saying you stole it off of Lady Stark herself! I don’t believe him, of course, but still… you start to wonder.”

“I didn’t steal it.” Jon’s jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth had begun to ache from the force of it — his entire body thrumming with pain that stemmed from both the pressure and the cold. “It was a gift from a friend.”

“What sort of friend?” He could see a gleam of curiosity within the depths of Sam’s pale eyes. “Was it a girl?” he chuckled merrily. “I bet the girls at Winterfell liked you!” 

The smell of old books drifted through his memories, along with the gleam of green eyes by torchlight and strawberry-blonde hair braided over one’s shoulder. Shoulders brushing against one another as they remained huddled over an old book on the history of the long night; the stories of Jeyne the Bloody and Brandon the Breaker a shared favorite amongst the young pair. The melodic sound of a gravely voice speaking High Valyrian to an enthralled audience, with the flow of vowels having been enough to make him consider doing something he knew he shouldn’t.

“Does it matter?” The breeze had begun to pick up, causing errant locks of raven curls to whip about as they stayed positioned at their perch at the edge of the wall. “It’s in the past now.”

“It could be a nice story.” Samwell’s voice was muffled by the howling winds. “Something to pass the time! We’ll be up here for hours. It’d be pretty dull if we spent all of them in silence.”

Jon certainly preferred silence to needless chatter, but knew that for someone as craven as his new companion that the fellowship likely helped quell his fear of heights. He remained silent for a moment, internally debating whether or not he should share what he was thinking, before he stepped closer to the fire and allowed himself to drink in some of its tepid warmth.

“She was a noblewoman,” he admitted. “With, uh, red hair. Like the fire’s glow. And green eyes, like emeralds or summer leaves.” He hoped that the bitter cold had managed to stop his cheeks from turning pink at the recollection of her face. “She gave it to me as a parting gift.”

“Oooh, a redhead,” Sam hummed. “I like a redhead. Was she pretty?”

“Gorgeous,” Jon replied. “The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

The feeling of a warm touch in the midst of the bitter cold; the feeling of being heard for the first time in ages. Their fingers had touched a moment too long when she’d offered him the parting gift. She had told him to sell it; the gold would certainly be worth a lot in a place like Mole’s Town. He had wanted to tell her that he’d miss her, but the words had gotten stuck in his throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Didn’t you already?” He could not resist the urge to be snarky, albeit he punctuated his reply with the faint hints of a smile in an attempt to show the other boy he meant no malice.

“If you found a woman that liked you enough to give you this.” Samwell briefly motioned towards his neck before dropping his shaking hands down towards the fire once more. “Then why are you here? And not, you know, with her? If I had a girl who liked me that much I’d never let her go! Not that any have…” he trailed off. “Anyways! Just seems odd to me. That’s all.”

It did not surprise him that someone with a true-born name didn’t seem to understand.

“I’m a bastard.” It was true, although it pained him to admit such a thing. “A woman like that doesn’t marry a man like me,” he frowned. “It’s just the way the world works.”

Robb was meant to rule; to lead; to wed. And he was meant for this.

The crackle of the glowing fire contrasted with the melodic howl of the icy winds; two opposing forces meeting at the edge of the world. He wondered if this was all he’d hear for the rest of his life — there would be no turning back once he proclaimed his vows in the sight of Gods and men.

“Who says?” Sam’s voice cut through the sounds of fire and ice colliding.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said it’s just the way the world works,” he continued. “It seems to me that it doesn’t have to be that way. The Targaryens used to burn people alive! ‘Till Robert Baratheon stopped them. And then things changed.” He rubbed his hands together in order to keep them warm. “All I’m saying is that the world isn’t fixed. Someone just needs to care enough to do something about it.”

Jon was not sure what to say in response, as the words had struck him so deeply that it felt like a blade through his heart. He merely turned back to look out towards the vast horizon of the lands beyond the wall; the trees and ground and mountains all blurring together into one under the cover of darkness. “You’re wiser than you look, Sam.”

Samwell’s bright smile was nearly enough to warm his frozen heart.

i hope everyone enjoys the quinjon crumbs in this weeks chapter and getting to peak into jon’s head a bit <3

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

nymeria. VI

summary: nymeria causes trouble.

warning: brief mentions of nudity

word count: 2.8k

masterlist

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and snow.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” The young woman’s steps were hurried as she glanced around the relatively quiet streets of Winter Town with the type of unease usually reserved for small prey animals. She gripped at her silken skirts as though she might lose them otherwise, and avoided puddles of slushy muddied snow the best she could as she scurried after her two companions. 

“You could have stayed back.” Nymeria did not once look back over her shoulder — far too focused on where she was going to care about who was falling behind. Her steps were sure and steady, as she had walked these streets plenty of times before with her husband in tow. She had convinced him to sneak out with her for a bit of childish fun on more than one occasion, and enjoyed the challenge that masquerading their identities brought upon them. “No one is forcing you to come along.”

“I wasn’t going to let you go alone!” Elysia’s amber eyes were wider than the moon. “There could be criminals! Or rapists! Or rats!” She made it sound as though all three were equally as awful.

She loved her most trusted lady-in-waiting like a sister, but there was no denying that their temperaments were as different as the sun and moon. There were very few things that frightened Nymeria, especially when it came to matters of adventure and exploration, whilst the youngest of the Jordayne girls often seemed flummoxed by her own shadow and struggled with breaking any of society’s unspoken rules.

“I’m right here.” Andrey’s look was one of pure disbelief. “Or am I no longer visible to you?”

There was nowhere in the known worlds she could go where Andrey Dalt would not follow. He was her sworn sword, her protector, and most of all her dearest friend. They had grown up together in Sunspear, and she knew firsthand that there was no one braver in all of the seven kingdoms. He had earned his knighthood without needing to show off at tourneys or pageants, but had instead done the work in his own communities to show that he was worthy of such a gift. 

“You know what I mean!” Elysia’s cheeks flushed pink with irritation as she glared up at Andrey, pure venom pooling in her eyes as she began to chastise him. “Do not twist my words!” 

“I would never dare to do such a thing, my lady.”

Nymeria rolled her eyes as her two companions continued to bicker. Winter Town was usually a bustling, lively, town filled to the brim with people from all over the North. However, the summer season lasting for such an unusually long amount had led to it becoming mostly empty beyond a few main-stay residents and establishments. She spotted a run-down bakery, a butcher’s shop, and the Smoking Log Inn all alight with signs of patronage along with a discreetly hidden brothel towards the back end of the main road that only locals and nobles seemed to know about.  

The hem of her beautiful crimson dress had grown muddied from their venture, having been dragged along the slush covered streets for miles, but she was nothing if not thorough and refused to leave until she had scoured every corner of the village in search of what she was looking for. 

She bounded ahead of her companions with the easy-confidence that came with knowing they’d follow wherever she led. The brothel’s doors were made of gorgeous soldier pine and adorned with aged-brass handles. She did not know who owned this establishment, but it was clear that they had poured what little money they possessed into making it as nice as possible for the clientele they served.

The old wooden floors creaked loudly under the steps of her heeled boots as she stepped through the entrance. Her skin was tinged pink from the chill outside, and her glove clad hands remained clasped behind her back as she strutted in with the determination of someone who knew what she wanted.

All eyes within the quaint parlor fell onto her — the sight of the Lady of Winterfell in such a seedy place catching everyone off guard — as she continued to stroll through the room as though she owned it. 

“I'd like to speak to Lord Lannister.” The booming sound of her voice cut through the surprised silence like a knife through butter. “I know he’s here.” She glanced around the room for any sight of the infamous imp. “You will all be paid handsomely for your time so long as you tell me where he is.” 

“Right this way, m’lady.” An older woman with a noticeable bust who she presumed must be the brothel madam snapped right into action. “He’s upstairs with our girls, if you’d like for me–” 

“I want to see him now.” She was not the type to wilt like a melting flower at the sight of indecency, and much rather preferred the idea of catching him unaware. “I’ll let you lead the way.” 

“Of course, m’lady.” 

The madam quickly led them towards the staircase up to the second floor of the building. Nymeria spared a glance back at Andrey as they ascended up the rickety old stairs, and found herself surprised to see that Elysia was still in tow. She looked dreadfully frightened, the look upon her face not too dissimilar to that of a newborn fawn first learning to walk, but had refused to leave either of them behind.

Pride swelled in her chest at the realization that her friend was braver than she knew.

The torrid sounds of pleasure could be heard all around as they were led down a narrow hallway towards a door at the dead end of the upstairs portion of the building. Nymeria wasted no time roughly shoving open the wooden door — the sound of it banging against the stone walls reverberating throughout the small room. She did not know whether to laugh or sneer at the sight of Tyrion Lannister abed with two prostitutes. One of the women, a redhead, she knew by name as Ros due to her popularity with a certain ward of Winterfell. She did not recognize the other, an icy blonde with blue eyes and small breasts, but the scowl on Elysia’s face at the sight of the woman led her to believe that she was someone who had spent time around the castle. 

“Leave us,” she commanded. “Now.”  

Ros and the unnamed prostitute did not need to be told twice. 

Nymeria watched as the two girls rushed off towards the exit before letting her focus finally settle upon the sight of a half-naked Tyrion Lannister desperately trying to cover himself. He had the bedsheets grasped in front of him as though they would provide any semblance of decency.

You could not gain that which you did not have.

“Lady Stark! I was not expecting you.” 

“I'm here to speak with you about your intentions in visiting my castle.” Robb might have been fooled with his kindness towards Bran earlier in the day, but she was not as easily convinced as her husband. There was no amount of charm or wit that could ever undo the fact that he had been born a Lannister. 

“Is it yours already?” There was a mixture of disbelief and amusement written across his face. “Forgive me, Lady Stark. I did not realize you held so much pride for your husband’s keep.” 

“Answer the question,” she sneered.

“My intentions were to enjoy every nice feather bed I could find during my trip back to the capital.” The bed noisily creaked as Tyrion leaned back against its wooden headboard. “Is that a crime?” 

“And why did you go to the wall to begin with?” Nymeria’s jaw clenched as she tried to retain some sense of composure. “It is not often that people wish to visit such a dismal place.” 

“I wanted to piss off the edge of the world.” He shrugged. “It sounded like an adventure.” 

Nymeria could not stop the grimace from twisting onto her features, teeth gnashing in disgust at his callous reply. “Charming,” she quipped. “And that’s all there was to it?” 

“You don’t believe me?”

“You are not welcome in the North as long as I am its lady.” Nymeria refused to dignify his question with a response, choosing instead to continue on as though she hadn’t even heard him. 

“What have I done to offend you? I came bearing gifts and generosity.” Tyrion’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Your own husband offered me the full hospitality of Winterfell.” 

“Why do you think, Lannister?” The name tumbled past her lips as if it were a curse. 

“Ah, a youth's arrogance,” he mused. “I despise my father just as much as you do, but what happened to your poor aunt had nothing to do with me. I was a child when it happened!” 

“This isn’t about your father.” Nymeria turned back around and motioned for Andrey to close the door; the conversation having grown too personal for prying ears to hear. “You have no right to speak of my aunt after what your family did to mine.” She listened carefully as the door slammed shut. “Tell me, Lord Tyrion, do you know what happened to my husband’s younger brother?”

“He fell from the broken tower.” Tyrion looked insulted at her words. “The boy has my utmost sympathy, and I was glad to hear that he had awoken from his slumber,” he continued, “You may think what you will about my family, but I would never wish harm upon an innocent child.”

“Can you blame me for being suspicious?”

There was a pair of pants sitting on a chair near the corner of the room that had caught her wandering eye and she slowly began to move towards the object in order to grant the blonde man a small mercy. The act of humiliating him even briefly was enough to temporarily satisfy her urge for vengeance. Nymeria picked up the pair of woolen trousers and aggressively tossed them in his direction before she moved towards the foot of the bed.

“No,” he relented. “I can not.”

She averted her gaze briefly as he dressed himself and looked out towards the city below from the singular window within the room. She could not tell if her mistrust of the man’s words were due to the words he spoke or the surname he bore.

Was she letting her personal feelings cloud her judgment?

She could not decipher whether or not he was lying, much to her own displeasure, but there was something deep within her gut that was telling her not to press the issue any further or risk starting something that could not easily be finished.

“I want you gone by morning,” she commanded. “I wish you safe travels.”

Nymeria swiftly turned on her heel and began moving towards the door, with the sound of her red-bottomed boots clacking against the wooden floor serving to further prove her point. She placed her hand upon the brass knob, but the sound of Tyrion Lannister’s posh voice rang out from somewhere behind her before she could finally turn it open and leave. 

“My family won’t forget about this,” he warned. 

A dark, dry, chuckle escaped her lips. 

“Neither will mine.” 

She opened the door, having said all she needed to say, and left without looking back. 

The sun had long been set in the sky by the time she returned to Winterfell.

Robb had rushed out to the courtyard upon news of her arrival — his blue eyes wild and incensed at the sight of her walking through the gates with her sworn sword and lady-in-waiting in tow. It was not often that she saw him angry, her husband miraculously calm-tempered despite the wolfsblood flowing through his veins, and the sight of him so uncharacteristically aggrieved was enough to unsettle her.

“Where have you been?” Robb shouted. “I was about to send out a hunting party in search of you!”

“A hunt for me?” Nymeria attempted to play the situation off with humor; a sly look coming over her face as she sauntered over to where her husband stood. “You do know how much I love when you hunt for me.” 

“I am in no mood for games.” The deep frown etched upon his features highlighted the laugh lines near his eyes. “You disappeared without a word, Nymeria. I could not find you anywhere! Do you know how worried I was about you? I thought that something had happened!”

Guilt began to swell like a tidal wave inside her chest.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she murmured. “I needed some air, and went out for a walk without thinking. I did not mean to frighten you, especially after all that has happened these last few weeks.” 

“Why are you lying to me?” Robb’s gaze was sterner than she had ever seen it before. 

Nymeria was not sure whether to laugh or cry at his words. “What?”

“What are you not telling me? Does this have anything to do with my mother’s absence?”

“Leave us!” She dismissed the household with the confidence of someone who was used to being in-charge. “I swear to you by the Old Gods and the New that this has nothing to do with your mother!” She quickly reached for his hand and interlocked their fingers together in a desperate attempt to remind him of the sacred bond they shared. “I am trying my hardest to keep you safe.”

“From what?” Robb swiftly tugged his hand away from hers. Nymeria tried to swallow down her hurt, but there was pain written all over her features as he continued on. “I do not need you protecting me, Nymeria! I need you to trust me enough to be honest with me about what’s going on.”

“Trust?” The word felt like ash upon her tongue. “Is that truly what you think? That I do not trust you?” Nymeria had spent her entire life trusting her husband — so much so that she did not flinch at her claim being forfeited in favor of his own. She had been willing to uproot her entire life in order to fit into his own, and would do so again and again if it meant they would end up together.

“No,” he replied. “But I know that there are things you are keeping from me.”

“I’m not doing it to hurt you!”

There were times that she was afraid that if Robb knew the lengths she would go to in order to keep their family safe that he would begin to see her differently. She had not been raised to value honor, fairness, and truth. She had been raised to not rely on others, to remain unbroken in the face of tragedy, and to never let her enemies gain the upperhand. There was nothing in the world she wouldn’t do to protect the ones she loved, even if it meant breaking every law known to man.

Even if it meant she had to murder someone with her bare hands to keep them safe.

“And yet I am hurting all the same.” Robb’s blue eyes had softened considerably since the start of their conversation, with the anger having long given way to melancholy. “You are my whole heart, Nymeria. Everything I am is because of you. All I want is for there to be no more secrets between us. I can handle whatever is happening, whether it be good or bad or ugly. I cannot live knowing that there are things you are keeping from me, no matter what reasons you may have for doing so.”

“I was only trying to help.” She did not like how it sounded as though she were pleading for his mercy, but could not stop the desperation within her from bubbling to the surface. “You know I’d never do anything to betray your trust!” 

“But you did.” His words felt like a sharp slap cracking against her face; a blow so crushing that she could barely stand in its wake. “I do not wish to hear anymore of this until you can finally come clean and tell me the truth.” 

The silence in the courtyard was louder than words could ever be. Nymeria could hear the blood rushing in her ears, along with the rapid beat of her unsteady heart. She bit down upon her tongue in order to ground herself and quickly tasted the sharp tang of blood filling her mouth. She swallowed it down the best she could, although there was nothing she could do to stop the flaming pink flush of embarrassment spreading across her freckled cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Robb’s expression was the look of pure and utter heartbreak.

“Goodnight, Nymeria.” 

She closed her eyes in a feeble attempt to stop tears from falling; the warm liquid a perfect contrast to the bitter cold of a Northern night. She was uncertain of how long she had been crying blind and silently, but when she finally opened her eyes the courtyard had long been emptied. Robb was nowhere to be found, having disappeared somewhere back inside the keep, and for the first time in their marriage she felt completely alone. 

nymeria martell, the first wife to be banished to the couch by her husband. women in men’s fields.

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

nymeria. VI

summary: nymeria causes trouble.

warning: brief mentions of nudity

word count: 2.8k

masterlist

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and snow.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” The young woman’s steps were hurried as she glanced around the relatively quiet streets of Winter Town with the type of unease usually reserved for small prey animals. She gripped at her silken skirts as though she might lose them otherwise, and avoided puddles of slushy muddied snow the best she could as she scurried after her two companions. 

“You could have stayed back.” Nymeria did not once look back over her shoulder — far too focused on where she was going to care about who was falling behind. Her steps were sure and steady, as she had walked these streets plenty of times before with her husband in tow. She had convinced him to sneak out with her for a bit of childish fun on more than one occasion, and enjoyed the challenge that masquerading their identities brought upon them. “No one is forcing you to come along.”

“I wasn’t going to let you go alone!” Elysia’s amber eyes were wider than the moon. “There could be criminals! Or rapists! Or rats!” She made it sound as though all three were equally as awful.

She loved her most trusted lady-in-waiting like a sister, but there was no denying that their temperaments were as different as the sun and moon. There were very few things that frightened Nymeria, especially when it came to matters of adventure and exploration, whilst the youngest of the Jordayne girls often seemed flummoxed by her own shadow and struggled with breaking any of society’s unspoken rules.

“I’m right here.” Andrey’s look was one of pure disbelief. “Or am I no longer visible to you?”

There was nowhere in the known worlds she could go where Andrey Dalt would not follow. He was her sworn sword, her protector, and most of all her dearest friend. They had grown up together in Sunspear, and she knew firsthand that there was no one braver in all of the seven kingdoms. He had earned his knighthood without needing to show off at tourneys or pageants, but had instead done the work in his own communities to show that he was worthy of such a gift. 

“You know what I mean!” Elysia’s cheeks flushed pink with irritation as she glared up at Andrey, pure venom pooling in her eyes as she began to chastise him. “Do not twist my words!” 

“I would never dare to do such a thing, my lady.”

Nymeria rolled her eyes as her two companions continued to bicker. Winter Town was usually a bustling, lively, town filled to the brim with people from all over the North. However, the summer season lasting for such an unusually long amount had led to it becoming mostly empty beyond a few main-stay residents and establishments. She spotted a run-down bakery, a butcher’s shop, and the Smoking Log Inn all alight with signs of patronage along with a discreetly hidden brothel towards the back end of the main road that only locals and nobles seemed to know about.  

The hem of her beautiful crimson dress had grown muddied from their venture, having been dragged along the slush covered streets for miles, but she was nothing if not thorough and refused to leave until she had scoured every corner of the village in search of what she was looking for. 

She bounded ahead of her companions with the easy-confidence that came with knowing they’d follow wherever she led. The brothel’s doors were made of gorgeous soldier pine and adorned with aged-brass handles. She did not know who owned this establishment, but it was clear that they had poured what little money they possessed into making it as nice as possible for the clientele they served.

The old wooden floors creaked loudly under the steps of her heeled boots as she stepped through the entrance. Her skin was tinged pink from the chill outside, and her glove clad hands remained clasped behind her back as she strutted in with the determination of someone who knew what she wanted.

All eyes within the quaint parlor fell onto her — the sight of the Lady of Winterfell in such a seedy place catching everyone off guard — as she continued to stroll through the room as though she owned it. 

“I'd like to speak to Lord Lannister.” The booming sound of her voice cut through the surprised silence like a knife through butter. “I know he’s here.” She glanced around the room for any sight of the infamous imp. “You will all be paid handsomely for your time so long as you tell me where he is.” 

“Right this way, m’lady.” An older woman with a noticeable bust who she presumed must be the brothel madam snapped right into action. “He’s upstairs with our girls, if you’d like for me–” 

“I want to see him now.” She was not the type to wilt like a melting flower at the sight of indecency, and much rather preferred the idea of catching him unaware. “I’ll let you lead the way.” 

“Of course, m’lady.” 

The madam quickly led them towards the staircase up to the second floor of the building. Nymeria spared a glance back at Andrey as they ascended up the rickety old stairs, and found herself surprised to see that Elysia was still in tow. She looked dreadfully frightened, the look upon her face not too dissimilar to that of a newborn fawn first learning to walk, but had refused to leave either of them behind.

Pride swelled in her chest at the realization that her friend was braver than she knew.

The torrid sounds of pleasure could be heard all around as they were led down a narrow hallway towards a door at the dead end of the upstairs portion of the building. Nymeria wasted no time roughly shoving open the wooden door — the sound of it banging against the stone walls reverberating throughout the small room. She did not know whether to laugh or sneer at the sight of Tyrion Lannister abed with two prostitutes. One of the women, a redhead, she knew by name as Ros due to her popularity with a certain ward of Winterfell. She did not recognize the other, an icy blonde with blue eyes and small breasts, but the scowl on Elysia’s face at the sight of the woman led her to believe that she was someone who had spent time around the castle. 

“Leave us,” she commanded. “Now.”  

Ros and the unnamed prostitute did not need to be told twice. 

Nymeria watched as the two girls rushed off towards the exit before letting her focus finally settle upon the sight of a half-naked Tyrion Lannister desperately trying to cover himself. He had the bedsheets grasped in front of him as though they would provide any semblance of decency.

You could not gain that which you did not have.

“Lady Stark! I was not expecting you.” 

“I'm here to speak with you about your intentions in visiting my castle.” Robb might have been fooled with his kindness towards Bran earlier in the day, but she was not as easily convinced as her husband. There was no amount of charm or wit that could ever undo the fact that he had been born a Lannister. 

“Is it yours already?” There was a mixture of disbelief and amusement written across his face. “Forgive me, Lady Stark. I did not realize you held so much pride for your husband’s keep.” 

“Answer the question,” she sneered.

“My intentions were to enjoy every nice feather bed I could find during my trip back to the capital.” The bed noisily creaked as Tyrion leaned back against its wooden headboard. “Is that a crime?” 

“And why did you go to the wall to begin with?” Nymeria’s jaw clenched as she tried to retain some sense of composure. “It is not often that people wish to visit such a dismal place.” 

“I wanted to piss off the edge of the world.” He shrugged. “It sounded like an adventure.” 

Nymeria could not stop the grimace from twisting onto her features, teeth gnashing in disgust at his callous reply. “Charming,” she quipped. “And that’s all there was to it?” 

“You don’t believe me?”

“You are not welcome in the North as long as I am its lady.” Nymeria refused to dignify his question with a response, choosing instead to continue on as though she hadn’t even heard him. 

“What have I done to offend you? I came bearing gifts and generosity.” Tyrion’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Your own husband offered me the full hospitality of Winterfell.” 

“Why do you think, Lannister?” The name tumbled past her lips as if it were a curse. 

“Ah, a youth's arrogance,” he mused. “I despise my father just as much as you do, but what happened to your poor aunt had nothing to do with me. I was a child when it happened!” 

“This isn’t about your father.” Nymeria turned back around and motioned for Andrey to close the door; the conversation having grown too personal for prying ears to hear. “You have no right to speak of my aunt after what your family did to mine.” She listened carefully as the door slammed shut. “Tell me, Lord Tyrion, do you know what happened to my husband’s younger brother?”

“He fell from the broken tower.” Tyrion looked insulted at her words. “The boy has my utmost sympathy, and I was glad to hear that he had awoken from his slumber,” he continued, “You may think what you will about my family, but I would never wish harm upon an innocent child.”

“Can you blame me for being suspicious?”

There was a pair of pants sitting on a chair near the corner of the room that had caught her wandering eye and she slowly began to move towards the object in order to grant the blonde man a small mercy. The act of humiliating him even briefly was enough to temporarily satisfy her urge for vengeance. Nymeria picked up the pair of woolen trousers and aggressively tossed them in his direction before she moved towards the foot of the bed.

“No,” he relented. “I can not.”

She averted her gaze briefly as he dressed himself and looked out towards the city below from the singular window within the room. She could not tell if her mistrust of the man’s words were due to the words he spoke or the surname he bore.

Was she letting her personal feelings cloud her judgment?

She could not decipher whether or not he was lying, much to her own displeasure, but there was something deep within her gut that was telling her not to press the issue any further or risk starting something that could not easily be finished.

“I want you gone by morning,” she commanded. “I wish you safe travels.”

Nymeria swiftly turned on her heel and began moving towards the door, with the sound of her red-bottomed boots clacking against the wooden floor serving to further prove her point. She placed her hand upon the brass knob, but the sound of Tyrion Lannister’s posh voice rang out from somewhere behind her before she could finally turn it open and leave. 

“My family won’t forget about this,” he warned. 

A dark, dry, chuckle escaped her lips. 

“Neither will mine.” 

She opened the door, having said all she needed to say, and left without looking back. 

The sun had long been set in the sky by the time she returned to Winterfell.

Robb had rushed out to the courtyard upon news of her arrival — his blue eyes wild and incensed at the sight of her walking through the gates with her sworn sword and lady-in-waiting in tow. It was not often that she saw him angry, her husband miraculously calm-tempered despite the wolfsblood flowing through his veins, and the sight of him so uncharacteristically aggrieved was enough to unsettle her.

“Where have you been?” Robb shouted. “I was about to send out a hunting party in search of you!”

“A hunt for me?” Nymeria attempted to play the situation off with humor; a sly look coming over her face as she sauntered over to where her husband stood. “You do know how much I love when you hunt for me.” 

“I am in no mood for games.” The deep frown etched upon his features highlighted the laugh lines near his eyes. “You disappeared without a word, Nymeria. I could not find you anywhere! Do you know how worried I was about you? I thought that something had happened!”

Guilt began to swell like a tidal wave inside her chest.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she murmured. “I needed some air, and went out for a walk without thinking. I did not mean to frighten you, especially after all that has happened these last few weeks.” 

“Why are you lying to me?” Robb’s gaze was sterner than she had ever seen it before. 

Nymeria was not sure whether to laugh or cry at his words. “What?”

“What are you not telling me? Does this have anything to do with my mother’s absence?”

“Leave us!” She dismissed the household with the confidence of someone who was used to being in-charge. “I swear to you by the Old Gods and the New that this has nothing to do with your mother!” She quickly reached for his hand and interlocked their fingers together in a desperate attempt to remind him of the sacred bond they shared. “I am trying my hardest to keep you safe.”

“From what?” Robb swiftly tugged his hand away from hers. Nymeria tried to swallow down her hurt, but there was pain written all over her features as he continued on. “I do not need you protecting me, Nymeria! I need you to trust me enough to be honest with me about what’s going on.”

“Trust?” The word felt like ash upon her tongue. “Is that truly what you think? That I do not trust you?” Nymeria had spent her entire life trusting her husband — so much so that she did not flinch at her claim being forfeited in favor of his own. She had been willing to uproot her entire life in order to fit into his own, and would do so again and again if it meant they would end up together.

“No,” he replied. “But I know that there are things you are keeping from me.”

“I’m not doing it to hurt you!”

There were times that she was afraid that if Robb knew the lengths she would go to in order to keep their family safe that he would begin to see her differently. She had not been raised to value honor, fairness, and truth. She had been raised to not rely on others, to remain unbroken in the face of tragedy, and to never let her enemies gain the upperhand. There was nothing in the world she wouldn’t do to protect the ones she loved, even if it meant breaking every law known to man.

Even if it meant she had to murder someone with her bare hands to keep them safe.

“And yet I am hurting all the same.” Robb’s blue eyes had softened considerably since the start of their conversation, with the anger having long given way to melancholy. “You are my whole heart, Nymeria. Everything I am is because of you. All I want is for there to be no more secrets between us. I can handle whatever is happening, whether it be good or bad or ugly. I cannot live knowing that there are things you are keeping from me, no matter what reasons you may have for doing so.”

“I was only trying to help.” She did not like how it sounded as though she were pleading for his mercy, but could not stop the desperation within her from bubbling to the surface. “You know I’d never do anything to betray your trust!” 

“But you did.” His words felt like a sharp slap cracking against her face; a blow so crushing that she could barely stand in its wake. “I do not wish to hear anymore of this until you can finally come clean and tell me the truth.” 

The silence in the courtyard was louder than words could ever be. Nymeria could hear the blood rushing in her ears, along with the rapid beat of her unsteady heart. She bit down upon her tongue in order to ground herself and quickly tasted the sharp tang of blood filling her mouth. She swallowed it down the best she could, although there was nothing she could do to stop the flaming pink flush of embarrassment spreading across her freckled cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Robb’s expression was the look of pure and utter heartbreak.

“Goodnight, Nymeria.” 

She closed her eyes in a feeble attempt to stop tears from falling; the warm liquid a perfect contrast to the bitter cold of a Northern night. She was uncertain of how long she had been crying blind and silently, but when she finally opened her eyes the courtyard had long been emptied. Robb was nowhere to be found, having disappeared somewhere back inside the keep, and for the first time in their marriage she felt completely alone. 

nymeria martell, the first wife to be banished to the couch by her husband. women in men’s fields.

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

catelyn. I

summary: catelyn stark finds herself led astray by a familiar face in search of answers about the attack on bran’s life.

warning: general littlefinger weirdness </3

word count: 2.2k

masterlist

It had been years since she had last stepped foot in the capital and Catelyn Stark was not sure whether to be marveled or dismayed by how little things had changed. There was poverty as far as the eyes could see, whether it was orphans begging on the street or men desperately trying to sell their wares onto whoever would listen, and so much filth lining the streets that you could smell it from outside the city walls.

She did not wish to be in this city any longer than she had to.

The words she wished to speak to her husband about what she had learned could not have been delivered via raven, but she could not deny that perhaps there was a selfish reason for why she wished to come all the way here. They had not been this far apart from one another since their wedding more than twenty years prior, but much had changed between them in that span of time. She had grown to truly love her husband, in spite of his infidelity, and had missed him fiercely since the moment he’d ridden out from the gates of Winterfell to follow his king south.

They had taken a boat into the city from White Harbor in order to cut their travel time in half, and after disembarking Ser Rodrik had managed to acquire them horses so that they could travel through the city with their belongings without hassle. She had accepted a suggestion from her son’s wife in regards to an inn that would be comfortable but unassuming, and had planned to settle into their rooms before sending word to her husband that they were in the city.

Her companion had even gone as far as to cut his famous whiskers off in order to avoid being recognized, which made her simple hooded cloak to disguise her auburn hair and plain gown seem ineffective in comparison. She had been lucky to have someone like him by her side during the journey, although she had found quite a bit of amusement in how seasick the master-at-arms had gotten during the sailing portion of their trip, and hoped to return the favor tenfold whenever the opportunity next arose.

Catelyn had never trusted the Lannisters due to their part in the deaths of Elia Martell and her young children, but would have never expected for them to do something this blatant against their family after being guests in their home. She could not stop thinking about what Bran must have felt in those moments before he was pushed from the broken tower. Was he afraid? Was he confused? Or was he clueless as to what fate was about to befall him? She felt sick at the idea of her boy in agony, and would not rest until those responsible for this were brought to justice.

She held the reins tighter in her grasp, ignoring the searing pain that shot through her injured hand whilst doing so, as they continued onwards through the crowded streets of King’s Landing. There were people everywhere you looked, whether it was on street corners or in windows, and so much noise that you could scarcely hear yourself think. It was certainly a shock to see after all of the years she had spent living in the North, where there was scarcely a peep to be heard beyond the bustling walls of Winterfell.

“Careful, my lady,” Rodrik warned from where he rode beside her. “Someone’s approaching.”

Catelyn’s gaze surveyed the crowd until it landed on a pretty young girl riding straight towards them on a gorgeous cinnamon mare. She was dressed in a deep blue gown and wearing finely made leather riding boots, along with a black hooded cloak that did little to obscure her strawberry-blonde ringlets.

“Lady Stark.” The girl’s raspy voice did not match her sweet face. “I’ve been expecting you.”

It was only then that it dawned on her who this young woman was.

Quinn Lefford. 

She had met the girl's mother once many years ago at the tourney of Harrenhal. Rebecca Redwyne had been a sweet-faced and freckled young woman whose smile could light up any room; a direct contrast to the gloomy Targaryen princess she had been the lady-in-waiting of. Their paths had crossed briefly during the festivities, at the great feast held within the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, but she had never forgotten how the two girls had danced together the whole night despite many a man's attempt to curry their favor. 

The young lady Lefford had been a part of the royal retinue that had descended upon Winterfell a few moons prior, and had grown particularly close to her husband’s bastard during their stay. She vividly remembered seeing the two of them exiting the library together the day before her son’s fall, and could recall the uneasy feeling that had formed in the pit of her stomach when she had considered the possibilities of what they might have been up to.

She would simply refuse to house a bastard’s bastard within the walls of her home.

“Lady Lefford,” She greeted curtly. “How did you know I was coming?“We have our ways.”

“We?” For a moment she was struck with fear over the possibility that the Lannisters already knew that they were here. “And who precisely would that be?”

“An old friend,” Quinn handed her a scroll that was sealed with a blue wax stamp bearing the personal sigil of Lord Petyr Baelish. “He personally asked me to escort you into the city.”

How had the daughter of Rebecca Redwyne ended up in the service of Petyr Baelish?

“Did he?” Catelyn shared a weary look with Ser Rodrik — the two having grown accustomed during their journey silently communicating without words. “Then by all means, lead the way.”

They followed Quinn Lefford wordlessly for miles before entering a part of the city whose streets were lined with an assortment of brothels. There were beautiful women everywhere you looked, many dressed in revealing garments that were meant to lure men into their different establishments. She wondered bitterly if the mother of her husband's bastard was a working girl like these; some poor innocent thing who could not say no when the money was laid before her.

“Where are you taking us?” Catelyn's tone was as sharp as the hidden-knife she carried at her side. “You surely cannot intend to lead us into one of these… pleasure houses.” She chose her descriptor carefully, although she could scarcely contain the disgust dripping off her every word.

“Lord Baelish owns the finest pleasure house in all of King's Landing.” The girl sounded unusually proud of such an abhorrent fact. “He thought it would be safer than meeting at the Red Keep.”

She decided to save her arguing for the person who truly deserved her ire — opting to follow along silently until they reached the back alley of a magnificent building located at the very end of the street.

A young round-faced boy whose name she did not catch helped them dismount from their horses, before taking the reins and running off to go tie them to a series of hitching posts along the edge of the back wall. She noticed that there was a magnificent black stallion with a finely made leather saddle already looped to one of the posts, and was willing to wager that the animal belonged to none other than Lord Baelish himself.

Quinn led them through an assuming back entrance and up a flight of marble stairs into a private area of the brothel that looked something similar to a study, with tall bookshelves lining its emerald painted walls and a gorgeous wooden-oak desk at the dead center of the room. There were windows that looked out to the street below, along with screens towards the front of the room that could be pushed back if one wished to look out towards the establishment's common area.

“Lord Baelish will be with you in a moment.” Quinn Lefford's sharp smile seemed familiar, although she could scarcely place where she had seen it before. The motherly part of herself was tempted to ask why a young noblewoman such as herself was working for someone who owned a brothel, but the wisp of a girl had already descended back down the way they’d previously come.

Catelyn took a deep breath in and out as she tried to control the anger that was bubbling up in her chest — the urge to scream having never been stronger than it was at this very moment in time. Had Petyr gone mad? Had he forgotten that she was a married woman with a reputation to maintain? Or, worst of all, had he done this specifically to humiliate her?

She would certainly not put any of those scenarios above him.

“Cat!” Petyr emerged from behind one of the screens that separated his office from the rest of the brothel. “I'm glad to see that Lady Lefford fulfilled her promise of bringing you here safely.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Catelyn was thoroughly uninterested in exchanging pleasantries. “That girl is young enough to be your daughter! And yet you have her drag me here as though I'm some back-alley sully!” Her nostrils flared as she desperately tried to gain a hold on her growing temper. “You have forgotten yourself, my lord.”

“I meant no disrespect.” Petyr's hair might have begun to gray with age, but he would always be the spindly little boy she remembered from their shared youth at Riverrun. “Least of all to you.” He dropped a pile of scrolls he'd been holding onto the desk that sat at the center of the room. “But no one will think to look for you here, and it seemed the safer option than somehow sneaking you into the Red Keep.”

She exchanged a cautious glance with Ser Rodrik, a silent agreement between them that this was indeed preferable to the alternative mentioned, before she turned back to face Petyr once more.

“How did you know I was in King's Landing?”

“A dear friend told me.”

She followed his gaze to the stairwell that Quinn Lefford had brought them up, and found herself surprised at the sight of Lord Varys standing before them. She knew the eunuch well enough from stories shared over the years, but had only met him briefly once many years ago in the aftermath of the Greyjoy's Rebellion against the iron throne.

“Lord Varys,” Catelyn greeted.

“Lady Stark.”nVarys stepped closer than she would have liked. “It is a blessing to see you again after so many years.” He reached out to take one of her wounded hands. “I was so sorry to hear about what happened to you.”

She pulled back before he could grab onto her bandaged hands, uncomfortable with the overfamiliarity everyone in the room seemed to possess, and made sure to tuck her arms further into the fabric of her sleeves so that no further attempts could be made to touch her.

“How did you know I was coming?”

“Knowledge is my trade, my lady.” Varys' gaze drifted over to where her loyal companion stood. “Do you have the dagger with you, by any chance? I'd like to take a look at the weapon that's caused so much trouble.” He laughed as though it were funny. “My little birds are everywhere.”

Ser Rodrik looked to her for guidance on what to do next. She sighed, unhappy with the sudden ambush, but nodded in approval and watched as he unsheathed the dagger from where it had remained hidden at his side during their journey south. Lord Varys studied the blade with rapt attention, turning it over in his hand twice as he further examined the opulent hilt, before carefully offering it back to the Northman.

“Valryian steel,” he hummed. “A finely made weapon, to be sure.”

“Do you know who the owner is?”

“I'm afraid not.” He idly watched as Ser Rodrik took back the weapon. “But I could ask around.”

The sound of Petyr Baelish's haughty laugh interrupted the flow of their conversation.

“This is truly a momentous day,” he jeered. “For I finally know something that you do not.”

She whirred around to face him once more — the desperation she felt for answers on what had happened to her son trumping any pride she might have felt at grovelling at the feet of two men she did not trust. “Do you know who this weapon came from?” She could not stop her voice from wavering as she spoke directly to her oldest friend. “I am growing tired of all the riddles.”

“There is only one dagger like this in all of the seven kingdoms,” Petyr replied. “It's mine.”

“Yours?”

“Or at least it was,” he mused. “I bet on Ser Jaime in the joust during Prince Joffrey's nameday tourney, as any sane man would, only for him to lose to the knight of the flowers during one of the final tilts.” He mindlessly fiddled with the silver ring that he wore on his left pinky finger.

“As you can imagine, I was devastated to lose such a fine weapon on such a sure bet.”

She could feel her heart beating rapidly inside the confines of her chest.

“Who did you lose that dagger to?”

Petyr smiled in a way that made her feel exceptionally uneasy.

“Tyrion Lannister.”

🫣 next weeks chapter is one of my favorites and continues some of the threads this one put down… rlly excited to see everyones thoughts on our first catelyn pov !!

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

catelyn. I

summary: catelyn stark finds herself led astray by a familiar face in search of answers about the attack on bran’s life.

warning: general littlefinger weirdness </3

word count: 2.2k

masterlist

It had been years since she had last stepped foot in the capital and Catelyn Stark was not sure whether to be marveled or dismayed by how little things had changed. There was poverty as far as the eyes could see, whether it was orphans begging on the street or men desperately trying to sell their wares onto whoever would listen, and so much filth lining the streets that you could smell it from outside the city walls.

She did not wish to be in this city any longer than she had to.

The words she wished to speak to her husband about what she had learned could not have been delivered via raven, but she could not deny that perhaps there was a selfish reason for why she wished to come all the way here. They had not been this far apart from one another since their wedding more than twenty years prior, but much had changed between them in that span of time. She had grown to truly love her husband, in spite of his infidelity, and had missed him fiercely since the moment he’d ridden out from the gates of Winterfell to follow his king south.

They had taken a boat into the city from White Harbor in order to cut their travel time in half, and after disembarking Ser Rodrik had managed to acquire them horses so that they could travel through the city with their belongings without hassle. She had accepted a suggestion from her son’s wife in regards to an inn that would be comfortable but unassuming, and had planned to settle into their rooms before sending word to her husband that they were in the city.

Her companion had even gone as far as to cut his famous whiskers off in order to avoid being recognized, which made her simple hooded cloak to disguise her auburn hair and plain gown seem ineffective in comparison. She had been lucky to have someone like him by her side during the journey, although she had found quite a bit of amusement in how seasick the master-at-arms had gotten during the sailing portion of their trip, and hoped to return the favor tenfold whenever the opportunity next arose.

Catelyn had never trusted the Lannisters due to their part in the deaths of Elia Martell and her young children, but would have never expected for them to do something this blatant against their family after being guests in their home. She could not stop thinking about what Bran must have felt in those moments before he was pushed from the broken tower. Was he afraid? Was he confused? Or was he clueless as to what fate was about to befall him? She felt sick at the idea of her boy in agony, and would not rest until those responsible for this were brought to justice.

She held the reins tighter in her grasp, ignoring the searing pain that shot through her injured hand whilst doing so, as they continued onwards through the crowded streets of King’s Landing. There were people everywhere you looked, whether it was on street corners or in windows, and so much noise that you could scarcely hear yourself think. It was certainly a shock to see after all of the years she had spent living in the North, where there was scarcely a peep to be heard beyond the bustling walls of Winterfell.

“Careful, my lady,” Rodrik warned from where he rode beside her. “Someone’s approaching.”

Catelyn’s gaze surveyed the crowd until it landed on a pretty young girl riding straight towards them on a gorgeous cinnamon mare. She was dressed in a deep blue gown and wearing finely made leather riding boots, along with a black hooded cloak that did little to obscure her strawberry-blonde ringlets.

“Lady Stark.” The girl’s raspy voice did not match her sweet face. “I’ve been expecting you.”

It was only then that it dawned on her who this young woman was.

Quinn Lefford. 

She had met the girl's mother once many years ago at the tourney of Harrenhal. Rebecca Redwyne had been a sweet-faced and freckled young woman whose smile could light up any room; a direct contrast to the gloomy Targaryen princess she had been the lady-in-waiting of. Their paths had crossed briefly during the festivities, at the great feast held within the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, but she had never forgotten how the two girls had danced together the whole night despite many a man's attempt to curry their favor. 

The young lady Lefford had been a part of the royal retinue that had descended upon Winterfell a few moons prior, and had grown particularly close to her husband’s bastard during their stay. She vividly remembered seeing the two of them exiting the library together the day before her son’s fall, and could recall the uneasy feeling that had formed in the pit of her stomach when she had considered the possibilities of what they might have been up to.

She would simply refuse to house a bastard’s bastard within the walls of her home.

“Lady Lefford,” She greeted curtly. “How did you know I was coming?“We have our ways.”

“We?” For a moment she was struck with fear over the possibility that the Lannisters already knew that they were here. “And who precisely would that be?”

“An old friend,” Quinn handed her a scroll that was sealed with a blue wax stamp bearing the personal sigil of Lord Petyr Baelish. “He personally asked me to escort you into the city.”

How had the daughter of Rebecca Redwyne ended up in the service of Petyr Baelish?

“Did he?” Catelyn shared a weary look with Ser Rodrik — the two having grown accustomed during their journey silently communicating without words. “Then by all means, lead the way.”

They followed Quinn Lefford wordlessly for miles before entering a part of the city whose streets were lined with an assortment of brothels. There were beautiful women everywhere you looked, many dressed in revealing garments that were meant to lure men into their different establishments. She wondered bitterly if the mother of her husband's bastard was a working girl like these; some poor innocent thing who could not say no when the money was laid before her.

“Where are you taking us?” Catelyn's tone was as sharp as the hidden-knife she carried at her side. “You surely cannot intend to lead us into one of these… pleasure houses.” She chose her descriptor carefully, although she could scarcely contain the disgust dripping off her every word.

“Lord Baelish owns the finest pleasure house in all of King's Landing.” The girl sounded unusually proud of such an abhorrent fact. “He thought it would be safer than meeting at the Red Keep.”

She decided to save her arguing for the person who truly deserved her ire — opting to follow along silently until they reached the back alley of a magnificent building located at the very end of the street.

A young round-faced boy whose name she did not catch helped them dismount from their horses, before taking the reins and running off to go tie them to a series of hitching posts along the edge of the back wall. She noticed that there was a magnificent black stallion with a finely made leather saddle already looped to one of the posts, and was willing to wager that the animal belonged to none other than Lord Baelish himself.

Quinn led them through an assuming back entrance and up a flight of marble stairs into a private area of the brothel that looked something similar to a study, with tall bookshelves lining its emerald painted walls and a gorgeous wooden-oak desk at the dead center of the room. There were windows that looked out to the street below, along with screens towards the front of the room that could be pushed back if one wished to look out towards the establishment's common area.

“Lord Baelish will be with you in a moment.” Quinn Lefford's sharp smile seemed familiar, although she could scarcely place where she had seen it before. The motherly part of herself was tempted to ask why a young noblewoman such as herself was working for someone who owned a brothel, but the wisp of a girl had already descended back down the way they’d previously come.

Catelyn took a deep breath in and out as she tried to control the anger that was bubbling up in her chest — the urge to scream having never been stronger than it was at this very moment in time. Had Petyr gone mad? Had he forgotten that she was a married woman with a reputation to maintain? Or, worst of all, had he done this specifically to humiliate her?

She would certainly not put any of those scenarios above him.

“Cat!” Petyr emerged from behind one of the screens that separated his office from the rest of the brothel. “I'm glad to see that Lady Lefford fulfilled her promise of bringing you here safely.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Catelyn was thoroughly uninterested in exchanging pleasantries. “That girl is young enough to be your daughter! And yet you have her drag me here as though I'm some back-alley sully!” Her nostrils flared as she desperately tried to gain a hold on her growing temper. “You have forgotten yourself, my lord.”

“I meant no disrespect.” Petyr's hair might have begun to gray with age, but he would always be the spindly little boy she remembered from their shared youth at Riverrun. “Least of all to you.” He dropped a pile of scrolls he'd been holding onto the desk that sat at the center of the room. “But no one will think to look for you here, and it seemed the safer option than somehow sneaking you into the Red Keep.”

She exchanged a cautious glance with Ser Rodrik, a silent agreement between them that this was indeed preferable to the alternative mentioned, before she turned back to face Petyr once more.

“How did you know I was in King's Landing?”

“A dear friend told me.”

She followed his gaze to the stairwell that Quinn Lefford had brought them up, and found herself surprised at the sight of Lord Varys standing before them. She knew the eunuch well enough from stories shared over the years, but had only met him briefly once many years ago in the aftermath of the Greyjoy's Rebellion against the iron throne.

“Lord Varys,” Catelyn greeted.

“Lady Stark.”nVarys stepped closer than she would have liked. “It is a blessing to see you again after so many years.” He reached out to take one of her wounded hands. “I was so sorry to hear about what happened to you.”

She pulled back before he could grab onto her bandaged hands, uncomfortable with the overfamiliarity everyone in the room seemed to possess, and made sure to tuck her arms further into the fabric of her sleeves so that no further attempts could be made to touch her.

“How did you know I was coming?”

“Knowledge is my trade, my lady.” Varys' gaze drifted over to where her loyal companion stood. “Do you have the dagger with you, by any chance? I'd like to take a look at the weapon that's caused so much trouble.” He laughed as though it were funny. “My little birds are everywhere.”

Ser Rodrik looked to her for guidance on what to do next. She sighed, unhappy with the sudden ambush, but nodded in approval and watched as he unsheathed the dagger from where it had remained hidden at his side during their journey south. Lord Varys studied the blade with rapt attention, turning it over in his hand twice as he further examined the opulent hilt, before carefully offering it back to the Northman.

“Valryian steel,” he hummed. “A finely made weapon, to be sure.”

“Do you know who the owner is?”

“I'm afraid not.” He idly watched as Ser Rodrik took back the weapon. “But I could ask around.”

The sound of Petyr Baelish's haughty laugh interrupted the flow of their conversation.

“This is truly a momentous day,” he jeered. “For I finally know something that you do not.”

She whirred around to face him once more — the desperation she felt for answers on what had happened to her son trumping any pride she might have felt at grovelling at the feet of two men she did not trust. “Do you know who this weapon came from?” She could not stop her voice from wavering as she spoke directly to her oldest friend. “I am growing tired of all the riddles.”

“There is only one dagger like this in all of the seven kingdoms,” Petyr replied. “It's mine.”

“Yours?”

“Or at least it was,” he mused. “I bet on Ser Jaime in the joust during Prince Joffrey's nameday tourney, as any sane man would, only for him to lose to the knight of the flowers during one of the final tilts.” He mindlessly fiddled with the silver ring that he wore on his left pinky finger.

“As you can imagine, I was devastated to lose such a fine weapon on such a sure bet.”

She could feel her heart beating rapidly inside the confines of her chest.

“Who did you lose that dagger to?”

Petyr smiled in a way that made her feel exceptionally uneasy.

“Tyrion Lannister.”

🫣 next weeks chapter is one of my favorites and continues some of the threads this one put down… rlly excited to see everyones thoughts on our first catelyn pov !!

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

lynara. V

summary: lynara’s reunion with bran doesn’t go according to plan.

warning: none <3

word count: 2.5k

masterlist

Lynara had awoken to a very different Winterfell than the one she had left.

Her mother was gone, having left for some vague reason that she couldn’t quite decipher, and her  little brother had awoken from his coma whilst she had been out of commission on mandatory bed-rest. Maester Luwin had heard of her infliction, a rare disease called the shaking sickness, and had resolved to treat it with intermittent doses of dreamwine. She did not like the way the medicine made her feel, but she could not deny its effectiveness after multiple nights of peaceful sleep.

She had not dreamed again since the incident in the courtyard, her sleep becoming devoid of anything once more, but there was a part of her that wondered if what had affected her in that moment was truly just a figment of her subconscious. Bran had been in trouble, albeit not awake to know it, and she had heard him calling out to her in between the painful shutter that had overtaken her body. There was a small voice in her head that kept daring to ask the question if he had somehow been calling out to her from a world beyond their own.

Do you hear yourself? The rational part of her brain argued. You sound worse than Old Nan.

Lynara had always prided herself on being logical. She did not believe in fairytales, magic, or any of the stories they push upon young children to keep them from knowing the harsh truths of the world. She felt like she was losing sight of herself in the midst of all this; allowing for nonsensical fantasy to cloud her mind and make her believe in things that she knew were not real.

She needed to nip it in the bud before this ridiculous thinking took any further root inside of her.

The castle was brimming with people in the wake of her brother’s assassination attempts, with no less than two guards stationing every entrance and stairwell within the family’s private residence. She recognized some of the men standing watch as those from Nymeria’s personal household – their uniquely designed armor bearing the sunspear sigil of House Martell. She wondered briefly if there would be an influx of Dornishman within Winterfell due to the crisis they were facing, just as there had been when her good sister had lost her newborn babe a few years prior. 

Lynara greeted them all with polite nods and whispered pleasantries as she continued down the hall towards her brother’s bedroom. She had not seen Bran since he’d awoken due to her fragile state, having been advised to rest in bed for the foreseeable future, but had decided to forgo the advice of Maester Luwin in favor of finally visiting her little brother.

The cold had turned bitterly frigid over the last few weeks and in turn had caused the hallways to be draftier than usual. She pulled her knitted cloak tighter around her shoulders, the thin night-gown she wore doing little to help protect her from the breeze, before coming to a stop just outside of Bran’s room. The guards standing watch outside of the entrance remained wordless as she carefully opened the wooden door and slipped inside. 

Bran’s room smelled of cinnamon incense and candle wax, along with a uniquely canine scent that was wafting off of his direwolf Summer due to the breeze coming in from the open window. She could scarcely see her brother at first due to the amount of fur blankets he was buried under, but smiled when she saw the way his brown eyes blinked owlishly when he looked in her direction. He was awake, although looking rather somber, and that alone was enough to lift her aching spirits.

“I’ve missed you,” Lynara’s voice was warm, much like his room, and feather-soft as she slowly began to approach his bedside. “It was so terribly dull without you around causing mischief.”

Bran had a faraway look in his eyes as she sat down beside him. “Robb says that I fell,” he frowned. “I don’t remember anything.” He shifted his upper-body in order to free his arms from where they’d be trapped underneath the heavy blankets. “Just darkness.”

“Aye.” Lynara reached for one of his hands. “You fell from the Broken Tower while climbing.”

She could not stop thinking about the way he had screamed in her dreams; a deep, ugly, guttural cry that she would remember for as long as she lived.

“I haven’t seen mother.” Bran had always been exceptionally clever for his age and often caught onto things that the adults in his life would have rather wished he didn’t. “No one will tell me where she’s gone.”

He wasn’t the only one who had been kept in the dark when it came to the matter of Catelyn Stark’s disappearance. She had asked thrice since awaking from her slumber, yet no one had told her anything except that the Lady of Winterfell would be back soon. She had begged Wendolyn for more details, desperately hoping that she knew something, but had gotten nothing in return.

“She’ll be back soon.” She desperately wanted to believe that was true. “I promise.”

Lynara had never been particularly good at expressing herself, with words of affection often dying on her tongue before they ever got to see the light of day. She was better with actions, preferring little tangible things she could do in order to prove to someone that she loved them.

Bran's lips furled into a deeper frown at that; clearly dissatisfied with the answer he'd received. It was an expression far too bitter for a boy so young. “She should have never left,” he replied. “It's not fair.”

“I know.” She knew that there was little she could say to soothe his pain. “You're allowed to be upset.” Lynara reached up to run her fingers through his chestnut locks in an attempt to push his bangs away from out of his face and away from his eyes. “I'm not going to judge you for how you feel.”

He averted his gaze away from her face towards the open window, and the longing in his blue-gray eyes as he studied the constellations was enough to break her heart into a million pieces.

“Are you hungry?” She attempted to change the topic with a soft smile. "I could sneak down to the kitchens and grab us a couple of apple-cakes, or some custard, or a bunch of buttered bread rolls." He had always been fond of the buttered rolls that were served at dinner, and often preferred them to the main course much to their lady mother's disapproval.

“Not really.” Bran shook his head awkwardly. “I don't want anything.”

“Are you sure?” She pressed further. “It might be good for you to eat something.”

“I said I'm not hungry!” He snapped — a new type of rage in his voice than she'd ever heard before. “Can you just go away? Everyone just keeps bothering me when all I want is to be alone!”

“I’m just trying to help.” She felt the wind deflate from her metaphorical sails. “I’m–”

“I don’t want your help!” Bran’s nostrils flared in anger. “I don’t want you here at all!” 

Lynara did not know what to say in response — far too stunned to do anything but gape like some sort of dying trout. She blinked once, twice, and then again before slowly standing to her feet. There was a selfish part of her that hoped Bran was going to apologize and ask for her to stay just before she reached the door, but instead there was only silence as she exited back out the way she came. 

She wandered the halls like a ghost, aimlessly flitting about as she tried to make sense of what had transpired between them. She had only been trying to help, and yet she could not shake the feeling that she had only made her brother's inner torment worse. She wracked her brain in an attempt to understand where she'd gone wrong, but came up empty and without any concrete answers. She felt as though she was caught in an endless storm of chaos with no calm in sight. 

Without even realizing, she had wound-up outside of Alaric's bedroom door. Lynara could still remember how upset she'd been as a little girl when their parents had decided they were old enough for separate rooms of their own; screaming and shouting as though she'd never seen him again even if he was merely a few doors down from her own. She had never been good at dealing with the emotional chaos that change seemed to ignite within her, and had often wondered if there was something wrong with her for reacting so adversely to something that was as natural as the seasons shifting.

She knocked upon the wood in a pattern that only her twin could recognize — the two having long devised a secret signal that only they were privy to in case there was any sort of urgent need to see each other. Three quick knocks in succession, followed by four small raps in opposite corners, and topped off with two regular taps against the center of the door. She would remember it for as long as she lived, and knew that if she was ever in trouble all she needed to do was knock on his door to gain help. She was not sure if she could ever live in a world without her brother by her side; his existence so tethered to her own that the sheer idea of being without him seemed impossible.

The sheer sight of him on the other-side of the door once it swung open was enough to nearly bring her to tears.

“Are you alright?” Alaric's blue eyes were clouded with worry. “You haven't knocked in ages.”

“I went to see Bran.” Lynara sniffled. “It didn't go very well.”

He ushered her into the room wordlessly before shutting the door carefully behind them. “It's not your fault,” he assured. “He's been like that with everyone who's gone in to see him.”

“It felt quite personal.” She took a seat upon his unmade bed, wrapping herself up further into the simple linen cloak she wore. “It hurts me to see him like that. The pain in his eyes — it's not fair! He's just a child.” Tears had begun to well up in her eyes. “Do you know when mother will be back?”

“No,” Alaric hesitated. “She's gone away on very important business.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it's the truth!” He flopped down beside her on the bed. “Why don't you believe me?”

“Because you're lying!” She scoffed. “You don't need to play the fool. I know that there are things you're not telling me because of what happened in the courtyard.” The guilty look that came over his face only further confirmed what she already knew to be true. “You're all treating me like I'm made of glass!”

“No one thinks you're made of glass.” Alaric assured her. “We're just worried about you.”

I feel like I'm made of glass.

Lynara did not wish to admit it aloud, but this whole shaking sickness endeavor had irrevocably changed how she viewed herself. She had always assumed she was someone who was strong and reliable, who could do well under pressure, but now she was starting to feel as if she was utterly useless when it came to helping her family. She could scarcely do anything without feeling ill, and the one time she had tried to help it felt as though she had only made everything worse for those around her.

“Where is our mother?” She laid back against the haphazardly arranged furs on his bed before turning onto her side to face him head-on; gray eyes meeting blue as they stared at their near identical faces. “I promise I won't tell anyone,” she insisted. “I just want to know the truth.”

“She’s gone to King's Landing to visit father.” Alaric's voice dropped into a low whisper, sounding almost as though he was afraid he'd get in trouble if he spoke it any louder. “She has reason to believe the Lannisters are behind Bran's fall.”

The truth struck her harder than a blow to the face.

“The Lannisters?” She croaked. “Why would they want to kill a child?”

“Theon thinks we're heading to war.” He replied solemnly, unable to fully look her in the eyes as he spoke.

“And what do you think?” Lynara cared little for the ironborn boy’s opinion, and had never liked the influence he seemed to hold over her siblings. “Do you see war in our future?”

“I don’t see any other course of action.” Alaric sounded worried –  a rare occurrence for her usually carefree and easygoing brother. “We can’t let their insults go unpunished.”

She had been rendered almost entirely speechless at his admittance, and felt her entire body immediately tense at the realization of what war would mean for their family. She thought back to the gruesome death of her uncle Brandon, and could not stop the sudden wave of anxiety that crashed over at the thought of her brothers somehow ending up in his place.

Had this been what her dreams were trying to warn her about?

She tried to shake the foolish notion from her brain.

“I don’t want you to go.” Lynara was unsure of what more she could say; every word of relevance dying on her tongue in favor of childish petulance. “I’m tired of everyone leaving.”

“You sound like Bran.” He laughed, albeit weakly and in a manner that did not quite sound natural. “Did you know when he awoke that he kept asking for you? Nymeria kept trying to tell him that you were fine, but nothing she said seemed to soothe him,” he paused. “He said he saw you in his dreams.”

“In his dreams?” She flashed back to the vision she had the night of the library fire — the sound of Bran’s voice screaming for help forever ingrained in her memory. “He told you this?” She wondered for a moment if she was the one who was dreaming 

“Aye,” he nodded the best he could despite their awkward positions. “It was all he could talk about.” 

Lynara felt as though she might throw-up; the sudden realization that her dreams were realer than she’d known sending her into a state of unbridled panic. She scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could manage, feeling as though her legs might give out from under her as she rushed towards the door. 

“Lynara?” Alaric immediately sat up, his brows furrowed in confusion at her sudden shift in mood. “Lynara, what’s wrong? Where are you going?” 

She didn’t know, nor did she care. She needed to be anywhere but in that room — the weight of what she had learned hitting her so hard that she feared for a moment she was going to collapse in the middle of the hallway. 

Her dreams were real. 

this chapter is a little messier than those that came before and will come after, but we hope everyone enjoys the big reveal we got & the look into nara’s character <3

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

lynara. V

summary: lynara’s reunion with bran doesn’t go according to plan.

warning: none <3

word count: 2.5k

masterlist

Lynara had awoken to a very different Winterfell than the one she had left.

Her mother was gone, having left for some vague reason that she couldn’t quite decipher, and her  little brother had awoken from his coma whilst she had been out of commission on mandatory bed-rest. Maester Luwin had heard of her infliction, a rare disease called the shaking sickness, and had resolved to treat it with intermittent doses of dreamwine. She did not like the way the medicine made her feel, but she could not deny its effectiveness after multiple nights of peaceful sleep.

She had not dreamed again since the incident in the courtyard, her sleep becoming devoid of anything once more, but there was a part of her that wondered if what had affected her in that moment was truly just a figment of her subconscious. Bran had been in trouble, albeit not awake to know it, and she had heard him calling out to her in between the painful shutter that had overtaken her body. There was a small voice in her head that kept daring to ask the question if he had somehow been calling out to her from a world beyond their own.

Do you hear yourself? The rational part of her brain argued. You sound worse than Old Nan.

Lynara had always prided herself on being logical. She did not believe in fairytales, magic, or any of the stories they push upon young children to keep them from knowing the harsh truths of the world. She felt like she was losing sight of herself in the midst of all this; allowing for nonsensical fantasy to cloud her mind and make her believe in things that she knew were not real.

She needed to nip it in the bud before this ridiculous thinking took any further root inside of her.

The castle was brimming with people in the wake of her brother’s assassination attempts, with no less than two guards stationing every entrance and stairwell within the family’s private residence. She recognized some of the men standing watch as those from Nymeria’s personal household – their uniquely designed armor bearing the sunspear sigil of House Martell. She wondered briefly if there would be an influx of Dornishman within Winterfell due to the crisis they were facing, just as there had been when her good sister had lost her newborn babe a few years prior. 

Lynara greeted them all with polite nods and whispered pleasantries as she continued down the hall towards her brother’s bedroom. She had not seen Bran since he’d awoken due to her fragile state, having been advised to rest in bed for the foreseeable future, but had decided to forgo the advice of Maester Luwin in favor of finally visiting her little brother.

The cold had turned bitterly frigid over the last few weeks and in turn had caused the hallways to be draftier than usual. She pulled her knitted cloak tighter around her shoulders, the thin night-gown she wore doing little to help protect her from the breeze, before coming to a stop just outside of Bran’s room. The guards standing watch outside of the entrance remained wordless as she carefully opened the wooden door and slipped inside. 

Bran’s room smelled of cinnamon incense and candle wax, along with a uniquely canine scent that was wafting off of his direwolf Summer due to the breeze coming in from the open window. She could scarcely see her brother at first due to the amount of fur blankets he was buried under, but smiled when she saw the way his brown eyes blinked owlishly when he looked in her direction. He was awake, although looking rather somber, and that alone was enough to lift her aching spirits.

“I’ve missed you,” Lynara’s voice was warm, much like his room, and feather-soft as she slowly began to approach his bedside. “It was so terribly dull without you around causing mischief.”

Bran had a faraway look in his eyes as she sat down beside him. “Robb says that I fell,” he frowned. “I don’t remember anything.” He shifted his upper-body in order to free his arms from where they’d be trapped underneath the heavy blankets. “Just darkness.”

“Aye.” Lynara reached for one of his hands. “You fell from the Broken Tower while climbing.”

She could not stop thinking about the way he had screamed in her dreams; a deep, ugly, guttural cry that she would remember for as long as she lived.

“I haven’t seen mother.” Bran had always been exceptionally clever for his age and often caught onto things that the adults in his life would have rather wished he didn’t. “No one will tell me where she’s gone.”

He wasn’t the only one who had been kept in the dark when it came to the matter of Catelyn Stark’s disappearance. She had asked thrice since awaking from her slumber, yet no one had told her anything except that the Lady of Winterfell would be back soon. She had begged Wendolyn for more details, desperately hoping that she knew something, but had gotten nothing in return.

“She’ll be back soon.” She desperately wanted to believe that was true. “I promise.”

Lynara had never been particularly good at expressing herself, with words of affection often dying on her tongue before they ever got to see the light of day. She was better with actions, preferring little tangible things she could do in order to prove to someone that she loved them.

Bran's lips furled into a deeper frown at that; clearly dissatisfied with the answer he'd received. It was an expression far too bitter for a boy so young. “She should have never left,” he replied. “It's not fair.”

“I know.” She knew that there was little she could say to soothe his pain. “You're allowed to be upset.” Lynara reached up to run her fingers through his chestnut locks in an attempt to push his bangs away from out of his face and away from his eyes. “I'm not going to judge you for how you feel.”

He averted his gaze away from her face towards the open window, and the longing in his blue-gray eyes as he studied the constellations was enough to break her heart into a million pieces.

“Are you hungry?” She attempted to change the topic with a soft smile. "I could sneak down to the kitchens and grab us a couple of apple-cakes, or some custard, or a bunch of buttered bread rolls." He had always been fond of the buttered rolls that were served at dinner, and often preferred them to the main course much to their lady mother's disapproval.

“Not really.” Bran shook his head awkwardly. “I don't want anything.”

“Are you sure?” She pressed further. “It might be good for you to eat something.”

“I said I'm not hungry!” He snapped — a new type of rage in his voice than she'd ever heard before. “Can you just go away? Everyone just keeps bothering me when all I want is to be alone!”

“I’m just trying to help.” She felt the wind deflate from her metaphorical sails. “I’m–”

“I don’t want your help!” Bran’s nostrils flared in anger. “I don’t want you here at all!” 

Lynara did not know what to say in response — far too stunned to do anything but gape like some sort of dying trout. She blinked once, twice, and then again before slowly standing to her feet. There was a selfish part of her that hoped Bran was going to apologize and ask for her to stay just before she reached the door, but instead there was only silence as she exited back out the way she came. 

She wandered the halls like a ghost, aimlessly flitting about as she tried to make sense of what had transpired between them. She had only been trying to help, and yet she could not shake the feeling that she had only made her brother's inner torment worse. She wracked her brain in an attempt to understand where she'd gone wrong, but came up empty and without any concrete answers. She felt as though she was caught in an endless storm of chaos with no calm in sight. 

Without even realizing, she had wound-up outside of Alaric's bedroom door. Lynara could still remember how upset she'd been as a little girl when their parents had decided they were old enough for separate rooms of their own; screaming and shouting as though she'd never seen him again even if he was merely a few doors down from her own. She had never been good at dealing with the emotional chaos that change seemed to ignite within her, and had often wondered if there was something wrong with her for reacting so adversely to something that was as natural as the seasons shifting.

She knocked upon the wood in a pattern that only her twin could recognize — the two having long devised a secret signal that only they were privy to in case there was any sort of urgent need to see each other. Three quick knocks in succession, followed by four small raps in opposite corners, and topped off with two regular taps against the center of the door. She would remember it for as long as she lived, and knew that if she was ever in trouble all she needed to do was knock on his door to gain help. She was not sure if she could ever live in a world without her brother by her side; his existence so tethered to her own that the sheer idea of being without him seemed impossible.

The sheer sight of him on the other-side of the door once it swung open was enough to nearly bring her to tears.

“Are you alright?” Alaric's blue eyes were clouded with worry. “You haven't knocked in ages.”

“I went to see Bran.” Lynara sniffled. “It didn't go very well.”

He ushered her into the room wordlessly before shutting the door carefully behind them. “It's not your fault,” he assured. “He's been like that with everyone who's gone in to see him.”

“It felt quite personal.” She took a seat upon his unmade bed, wrapping herself up further into the simple linen cloak she wore. “It hurts me to see him like that. The pain in his eyes — it's not fair! He's just a child.” Tears had begun to well up in her eyes. “Do you know when mother will be back?”

“No,” Alaric hesitated. “She's gone away on very important business.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it's the truth!” He flopped down beside her on the bed. “Why don't you believe me?”

“Because you're lying!” She scoffed. “You don't need to play the fool. I know that there are things you're not telling me because of what happened in the courtyard.” The guilty look that came over his face only further confirmed what she already knew to be true. “You're all treating me like I'm made of glass!”

“No one thinks you're made of glass.” Alaric assured her. “We're just worried about you.”

I feel like I'm made of glass.

Lynara did not wish to admit it aloud, but this whole shaking sickness endeavor had irrevocably changed how she viewed herself. She had always assumed she was someone who was strong and reliable, who could do well under pressure, but now she was starting to feel as if she was utterly useless when it came to helping her family. She could scarcely do anything without feeling ill, and the one time she had tried to help it felt as though she had only made everything worse for those around her.

“Where is our mother?” She laid back against the haphazardly arranged furs on his bed before turning onto her side to face him head-on; gray eyes meeting blue as they stared at their near identical faces. “I promise I won't tell anyone,” she insisted. “I just want to know the truth.”

“She’s gone to King's Landing to visit father.” Alaric's voice dropped into a low whisper, sounding almost as though he was afraid he'd get in trouble if he spoke it any louder. “She has reason to believe the Lannisters are behind Bran's fall.”

The truth struck her harder than a blow to the face.

“The Lannisters?” She croaked. “Why would they want to kill a child?”

“Theon thinks we're heading to war.” He replied solemnly, unable to fully look her in the eyes as he spoke.

“And what do you think?” Lynara cared little for the ironborn boy’s opinion, and had never liked the influence he seemed to hold over her siblings. “Do you see war in our future?”

“I don’t see any other course of action.” Alaric sounded worried –  a rare occurrence for her usually carefree and easygoing brother. “We can’t let their insults go unpunished.”

She had been rendered almost entirely speechless at his admittance, and felt her entire body immediately tense at the realization of what war would mean for their family. She thought back to the gruesome death of her uncle Brandon, and could not stop the sudden wave of anxiety that crashed over at the thought of her brothers somehow ending up in his place.

Had this been what her dreams were trying to warn her about?

She tried to shake the foolish notion from her brain.

“I don’t want you to go.” Lynara was unsure of what more she could say; every word of relevance dying on her tongue in favor of childish petulance. “I’m tired of everyone leaving.”

“You sound like Bran.” He laughed, albeit weakly and in a manner that did not quite sound natural. “Did you know when he awoke that he kept asking for you? Nymeria kept trying to tell him that you were fine, but nothing she said seemed to soothe him,” he paused. “He said he saw you in his dreams.”

“In his dreams?” She flashed back to the vision she had the night of the library fire — the sound of Bran’s voice screaming for help forever ingrained in her memory. “He told you this?” She wondered for a moment if she was the one who was dreaming 

“Aye,” he nodded the best he could despite their awkward positions. “It was all he could talk about.” 

Lynara felt as though she might throw-up; the sudden realization that her dreams were realer than she’d known sending her into a state of unbridled panic. She scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could manage, feeling as though her legs might give out from under her as she rushed towards the door. 

“Lynara?” Alaric immediately sat up, his brows furrowed in confusion at her sudden shift in mood. “Lynara, what’s wrong? Where are you going?” 

She didn’t know, nor did she care. She needed to be anywhere but in that room — the weight of what she had learned hitting her so hard that she feared for a moment she was going to collapse in the middle of the hallway. 

Her dreams were real. 

this chapter is a little messier than those that came before and will come after, but we hope everyone enjoys the big reveal we got & the look into nara’s character <3

[crimscn-clover]

QUINN POV WE ALL CHEERED

how old is quinn again? i think it's quite fascinating how grown-up she talks despite her still being so young...

MISTRESS OF COIN forshadowing???

uhhh can littlefinger maybe not?? bro why are you creeping on a child just to get close to another child 😭

quinn being a lover of extravagance and that being the only thing she holds in common with cersei... i giggled

MERMAID VARYS

the jon mentions in this chapter were so fascinating... bc even though he is never explicitly named (very much intentional by quinn to keep him as distant a concept as possible) his impact on quinn's life is sooo intense. like it truly comes across as if she has never met anyone like him, and that's something that both intruiges and scares her

BALON SWANN MENTION EVERYONE GO HOME THIS IS MY FANFIC NOW

QUINN LEFFORD NATION WE'RE SO BACK ‼️‼️ at the start of bruised like violets quinn is freshly nineteen! but she's very mature for her age in comparison to (some) of her peers due to some of the things she's experienced and endured pre-canon maybe 👀 maybe not 👀

littlefinger truly has NO shame... but it's also quite fucked up bc quinn is basically being used to find her "replacement" aka the next redheaded girl that's going to be petyr's stand-in for his catelyn tully fixation i had so much fun describing the tea party especially bc i had a really specific image of what i thought it looked like! i thought it was kind of sweet that cersei provided alyssa with so much stuff for it as well lol rare cersei mother W

i am so glad you picked up on the jon mentions bc while scarce and vague they're definitely meant to tell you something about what meeting him met to quinn.... it's genuinely a foreign concept to her that she could meet a guy who literally had no ulterior motives or reasons to befriend her! and she felt very seen by him in a way that she isn't quite ready to fully unpack lol but we have a jon pov coming up soon that will give us a look into some missing scenes from their time at winterfell

BALON SWANN REFERENCED ‼️ he's going to have a feature in quinn's next pov chapter (the hands tourney) so it felt like a fun idea to sort of name-drop him early to prepare us all for his first official on page appearance!

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

quinn. III

summary: quinn sings for her mockingbird before joining the princess’ court for tea in the red keep’s gardens.

warning: littlefinger being weird </3

word count: 3.4k

masterlist

Quinn tried to ignore the unease that had settled over her since their return to King’s Landing.

When they had first left to-go North she had practically been counting down the days till their return, mind-racing with all of the the things she’d been missing out on in their time away, but now that they were home she couldn’t seem to stop herself from missing the idyllic nature of Winterfell. And, although she'd never dare admit it aloud, there was someone she missed as well.

She had learned early-on in her life that there was no point in languishing over that which could not be changed, the result of having spent far too many nights as a young girl watching her mother grieve a past that she could never return to, and tried her best to avoid being overly sentimental.

Nothing good came from lingering in the past, as memories often served as a prison instead of an escape. She didn't want to be someone who was so burdened by what they had already done in life that they couldn't look ahead towards their own future. She wanted to be someone who could avoid their feelings — someone who could be entirely unbothered in the face of pain and suffering.

Still – there were some things in life that she simply couldn’t avoid.

“What can you tell me about Sansa Stark?”

Petyr Baelish was one of the few people in the world who seemed to regard her without judgment, often treating her with more concern and affection than her own father ever had. She had known him for years, and had taken up assisting him in important matters at court. Oftentimes she was tasked with befriending powerful men and learning their secrets, but she had faith that one day he'd trust her enough to let her help with book-keeping for the crown's finances.

She quite liked the idea of being the first ever Mistress of Coin to sit on the small council.

“She’s a very sweet girl.” Quinn blinked rapidly as she attempted to shield her eyes from the burning rays of the sun that were incessantly bearing down on them from above. “I’m seeing her soon, actually, for tea in the gardens with the princess and my cousin.”

She had never quite understood her mockingbird’s fondness for meeting at the docks, much preferring their rendezvous to take place in one of his many establishments or one of the hidden rooms within the Red Keep, but she kept all complaints and questions to herself in fear of seeming ungrateful for all he had done for her over the years.

“Her mother was my first love,” Baelish’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “It would behoove you to befriend the girl; there’s a lot to be gained by keeping her close.”

For you, or for me?

“I saw Lady Stark at Winterfell,” Quinn watched passively as a ship whose sails bore the sigil of House Redwyne floated along the bay in the distance, the massive barge rivaling any of the finest ships within the seven kingdoms. “I can see why you found her a woman worth fighting for.”

Love was not a concept that she particularly believed in, often weary that anyone could show earnest affection just for the sake of it, but she supposed that there was something hopelessly romantic about caring for another person so much that you would be willing to lose your life to be with them.

“She’ll always be Catelyn Tully to me,” Baelish mused wryly. “Love makes us foolish.”

“And that’s why smart people avoid it at any cost.”

She had always despised the idea of being married off against her will to a man she bore no affection for, and had done everything she could over the years to make herself into an unworthy bride. She had scared off plenty of suitors through her actions at court, whether it be thanks to her wanton nature or sharp-tongue, but knew it was only a matter of time until her father put his foot down and forced her to marry for the benefit of their house.

“I’ve taught you well.” It was the closest thing to praise she’d ever heard from the older man. “Meet me at the Street of Silk this time on the morrow, there’s an associate of mine that I’d quite like for you to meet.” His smile made her uneasy, but she did not let it show upon her face. “And afterwards you can tell me all about your little tea party with Sansa Stark.”

The gardens of the Red Keep were not nearly as grandiose or impressive as Lady Arryn’s boasting would have visitors believe. The darling of the Vale had painted such a splendid picture of its beauty to her captured audience at Winterfell, going on endlessly about the flowers and fruit that grew within its wall being the most sublime in all of the seven kingdoms, but the truth was that it was relatively unremarkable when compared to most others throughout Westeros.

Quinn did not like the newfound devotion her brother had seemingly developed towards the crown-prince’s lady wife during their journey south, but there was little she could say or do now that they’d returned to the capital and had begun to see each other less frequently.

If she had believed in the Gods-above, she might have prayed to them to show Ethan the pious path away from temptation or sin. Or, at the very least, any path that did not lead to him losing that thick head of his over a married woman who could never return his affections.

She knew her pathway to Princess Alyssa’s favorite spot in the gardens well, always making sure to go by Alayne’s fountain, a gorgeous marble display commissioned by King Aegon II in honor of his wife during the Dance of Dragons, to wave merrily at all the Septas engaged in their needlework before continuing onwards towards the emerald green tent that was set up just at the edge of the castle grounds. There was nothing more mood-ruining than that pesky glowing orb they called the sun, and the Queen often spared no expenses to make her daughter’s favorite past-time as extravagant as humanly possible. She might have disliked Cersei Lannister for a multitude of reasons, including the clear disdain she held for the friendship she'd kindled with her eldest daughter, but there was no denying that she was a woman of fine taste.

“Quinn!” A flurry of foot-steps rang out from somewhere behind her. “Wait for me!”

Myrielle Lannister had been barred from going North with the rest of the royal household because her mother — Quinn's insufferable aunt Myranda — had decided that it was unsafe for her youngest daughter to travel to such ungodly lands. While she cared little for matters of religion, there were some devout followers of the faith of the seven who believed that all who worshiped the Old-Gods were wicked heathens destined for the deepest of the seven hells.

“Gods, I’ve missed you!” Myrielle’s mousy brown hair had already begun to fall out of its overly complicated braided up-do by the time she fell into step beside her. “You’ll never guess what I heard the other day!”

Her cousin was prone to gossip, having taken to it like a fish to water the moment she first arrived at court, and was well-known to be the worst secret keeper in all of King's Landing. But, in spite of her tendency to blab, she had a heart made of pure gold. There was no confusion as to why she got along so well with the princess, because the two girls were undoubtedly cut from the same cloth.

Of which she herself was most certainly not.

“Lord Varys is secretly a mermaid?”

“No!” Myrielle clung to her arm whilst giggling wildly. “Although I could certainly believe that. No, no!” She shook her head about with such vigor that Quinn feared for a moment it might detach from her neck and fall straight to the ground. “I heard that you found a husband while up North!”

“Who told you that?” Quinn could practically see the devilish look on Alyssa's face as she planted this idea into Myrielle's impressionable mind. “You know that you shouldn't believe everything you hear, right?”

“I can’t reveal my sources,” She huffed. “But I trust who told me this with my life.” She punctuated every word; her green-eyes bordering on crazed as she continued on. “What was he like? Was he handsome? Was he rich? Did he sweep you off your feet?”

“I’m afraid it’s all lies.” And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself from remembering the way a certain someone’s gray-brown eyes shined in the moonlight. “There were no rich, handsome, and dashing suitors… however they were a bunch of lively Northmen who were built like oxen."

Myrielle’s face scrunched up in clear disgust; the big burly types having never been suited to her delicate taste. “Ugh, alright!" She pouted childishly. “Forgive me for hoping you’d found someone worth mentioning.”

Quinn let her gaze drift towards the elaborate tea party set-up they were rapidly approaching. She had never been one for revealing personal details, often preferring to deflect the conversation onto something or someone else before it ever got too deep into her inner world. There was something about letting people see her that seemed inherently frightening, as though they'd all take one look at her beating heart and know it was rotten to its very core.

“Well,” She hummed. “There is something worth mentioning.”

“Oh?”

“Alyssa’s betrothed!”

Myrielle’s squeal of surprise was so loud that it could’ve been heard all the way in Essos.

“Are you ribbing me?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If so, you are deeply unfunny and very cruel!”

“Not all,” Quinn laughed before nodding in the direction of the tent, where the sight of the princess laughing along with Sansa Stark was visible for all who approached to see. “You can go ask her yourself.”

She could barely contain her amusement at the sight of her cousin all but running towards the tent with the unbridled energy more befitting of a child than a woman nearly grown. The sound of Myrielle's heeled-shoes tapping against the stone bricks was enough to earn a small chuckle from the back of her throat; the entire scene far too humorous than it had any right to be.

She entered a few moments after her cousin, having maintained a leisurely strolling pace instead of rushing ahead like some sort of madwoman, and found herself greeted by the dirtiest look she’d ever seen Alyssa throw in her direction over the course of their friendship. She only smiled in response, mouthing a barely audible you’re welcome in the direction of the princess, before she took her seat at the grandiose spread laid out before them.

The entire table was covered in so many different foods and drinks that you could barely see the floral patterned table-cloth underneath. Above them, colorful paper lanterns had been strung about and were casting a rainbow glow across the entire space. Her gaze was drifting in so many different directions that she wasn't sure whether to look downwards at the food or above at the shimmering lights.

She eventually settled her focus onto the amazing feast they'd been served, with everything from lemon cakes to sherbet, both Dornish and Arbor wines, and all kinds of charred meats displayed for their tasting pleasure. The sight alone was enough to make her mouth water, but the fact she hadn't eaten since she'd arisen with the early morning sun was certainly contributing to her excitement with the elaborate spread.

“Is this wine?” Quinn’s eye had been caught by a pitcher of deep-red liquid towards the corner of the table, and had stopped one of the serving women scurrying about to further inquire about it.

“Pomegranate juice, m’lady.”

She didn't hesitate to pour herself a glass, watching idly as the dark red juice flowed from the pitcher into one of the emerald encrusted goblets that had been placed all across the table. She recognized them as dishes from the queen's own personal collection, along with the ornate plates painted with the sigils of Houses Lannister and Baratheon that they were currently eating off of.

“You’re betrothed to my brother?!” Lady Sansa’s uniquely Northern accent caught her sudden attention. “My older brother? Alaric? You’re meant to marry… him?”

“That is the definition of betrothed,” Myrielle replied. “She’s going to be Lady Stark!”

“But Nymeria is Lady Stark,” Sansa could not hide the disappointment that was written all over her pretty face. “Where would the two of you go? Alaric isn’t set to inherit anything!”

“I’ve heard rumors about giving us Casterly Rock in lieu of my uncle.” Alyssa downed her glass of wine and immediately motioned for one of the servants to bring her another. “Or perhaps we'll be saddled with downtrodden keep in the North.”

“It’d likely be somewhere close to the Wall.” Quinn had spent weeks studying maps of the North in preparation for their journey, although it had done her little good in the grand scheme of things. “There’s plenty of land up there that hasn’t been claimed, and it’s in a good strategic position to help defend the North against any wildling attacks. I’m sure your grandfather would pay him handsomely to raise up the most stunning keep in your name.”

“Great.” Alyssa’s frustration was dripping off of every syllable. “I’ll be stuck with a beautiful new castle that a bunch of barbarians will endlessly raid.” She gulped down another large sip of wine the moment the refreshed goblet was placed before her on the table. “Lucky me!”

“But you’d be Lady Stark!” Myrielle giggled merrily in between bites of her custard-filled honey cake. “That’s got to count for something!”

There was a noticeable flush across Lady Sansa's cheeks, although whether it was from annoyance, embarrassment, or something else entirely wasn't quite clear to her. There was no secret that the princess had grown quite fond of Eddard Stark's second daughter over the last few weeks, but she figured that the fascination would wane in time as most of Alyssa's other interests had over the years.

“The North isn’t so bad,” Sansa said timidly, barely audible amongst all the bustle around them, with an expression that perfectly mimicked the look of a wounded animal. “It’s not as lovely as the capital, of course, but it’s not as bad as everyone makes it sound. White Harbor is especially lovely! They have some of the finest dressmakers in all of the North and use imported silks for all of their gowns.”

She was homesick.

“I loved my time in the North,” Quinn interjected before quickly shooting a small but distinctly friendly smile in the younger girl's direction. “Winterfell’s glass gardens were unlike anything I’d ever seen in my whole life.”

I can work with that.

“It is not the North I take issue with.” Alyssa reached across the table to clasp Sansa’s free-hand within her own, interlocking the fingers as if to show she meant no harm. “It is the husband,” she sighed. “I’m afraid your brother and I did not get along as well as our parents might have hoped.”

She had only encountered Alaric Stark a handful of times during their visit to Winterfell, too preoccupied with other things to pay him any mind, but from what little experiences she'd had with the second eldest Stark boy she could clearly see why Alyssa would've sooner died than willingly marry him. He possessed a wandering eye, and had slept with one of Nymeria Martell's ladies-in-waiting despite being already intended for another. She could still recall the jealous look upon the girl's face when she had mentioned the possibility of the princess marrying the boy, and wondered how she must have felt now that the betrothal was official.

“Alaric can be difficult,” Sansa assented. “I understand your reservations.”

“Enough about marriage!” Quinn waved her hand about dismissively, having long grown bored of the conversation revolving solely around the romantic prospects of the princess. “There has to be something more interesting for all of us to talk about, like perhaps the upcoming tourney in honor of our new Lord Hand.”

Baelish had spent a great deal of time recounting the details of his first small council meeting with Eddard Stark as Hand of the King to her, with the disdain he felt towards the other other man practically dripping off of every syllable he'd spoken. She did not know enough about the Warden of the North to acquiesce with her mockingbird's assessment of his character, but she had no doubt that his presence was going to cause unrest within a certain subsection of the royal court.

“There’s going to be a tourney?” Sansa’s eyes lit up with incandescent joy. “Like the ones from the songs?”

“Do you not have tourneys up North?” The hand that Myrielle held in front of her mouth did little to stop the spread of crumbs.

“No,” Sansa replied. “But I’ve always wanted to go to one ever since I was a little girl.”

“I’ll make sure we have the best seats for the joust.” Alyssa playfully popped a strawberry jelly into her mouth before quickly washing it down with another gulp of wine. “I’ll even ask my uncle if he’d be willing to crown you the queen of love and beauty.”

“You make it sound as though it’s guaranteed your uncle will win,” Quinn laughed.

“Isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” Myrielle chimed in. “I’ve heard Balon Swann has gotten quite good with the lance!”

“And I seem to distinctly remember my cousin Loras knocking your uncle into the dirt at your brother’s nameday tourney!” Quinn often referred to her Tyrell relatives as her cousins despite the technical terminology for their relation including at least one mention of the words once removed.

Loras was her mother’s first-cousin, however he was much closer in age to herself and her brothers. She liked having him around at court as someone she could talk to when things grew boring, even if most of his attention these days seemed to be monopolized by Lord Renly Baratheon. Their entanglement was an open secret at court to those who had a keen sense of discernment, but she never brought up the issue with him and never intended to unless he confided in her first. She did not see the harm in the two of them loving one another, although she knew there were plenty of others at court and within the faith of the seven who might disagree.

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

“Is your brother competing in the tourney?” Sansa took only the smallest bite of the lemon cake before her, but it was obvious from the look in her eyes that the girl wanted nothing more than to swallow the thing whole. “I heard he beat my eldest brother in a sword-fight back at Winterfell.”

“Hmmm.” Quinn made a point to shamelessly devour a raspberry tart in hopes that it would embolden the girl to eat without shame. “I’m afraid Ethan’s not much of a tourney knight.”

Despite his claim to fame being that he beat the Sword of the Morning in single-combat as a squire, her brother’s record at tourneys since then had been nothing short of abysmal. She did not have the heart to tell him that Cedrik Dayne had taken mercy on him all those years ago by letting him win.

“Oh.” Sansa popped the rest of the half-eaten treat into her mouth. “I see.”

“But there’s a first-time for everything!” Alyssa raised her glass in what teetered on the edge of mockery, red-liquid sloshing out of the golden rim and landing somewhere onto the stone brick floor beneath them. “To the knights of the seven kingdoms and all they do to keep us safe.”

“Here, here!” Myrielle cheered, lifting her own glass. “And to all the bards that will sing tales of their bravery!”

“And to new friends.” Quinn lifted her cup slowly before offering it towards Sansa, a silent invitation to toast to their newfound camaraderie. “I think you’re going to do quite well in the capital, little wolf,” She whispered in a tone so low that only the two of them could hear.

Their glasses clanked together clumsily, laughter escaping from all four of them at the joviality of it all, but as the conversation began to continue on to other matters she could not ignore the feeling of dread that pooled in her stomach at the realization that the Stark girl’s smile was identical to her lady-mother’s.

we hope everyone enjoys our return to quinn’s povs! 🤍🫶 as always let us know what you thought about this weeks chapter in the comments or in our inbox!

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

ned. II

summary: ned attends his first small council meeting and learns that power is a shadow on the wall.

warning: none <3

word count: 1.8k

masterlist

Eddard Stark could still vividly remember the first time he ever laid eyes upon the iron throne.

He had ridden into the great hall of the Red Keep with the intent to claim the crown for Robert and the rebels, but had instead found Jaime Lannister sitting upon the iron throne with Aerys Targaryen’s bloodied corpse laying at his feet. He found the sight to be repulsive, despite how much he hated the mad king for what he’d done to his father and brother, and thought that the act of breaking such a sacred oath should’ve been enough to condemn the young lion to the wall for the rest of his days.

His friend had vehemently disagreed, in part due to the influence Ser Jaime’s father held within the seven kingdoms, and had instead allowed him to keep his position within the Kingsguard in spite of precedent to the contrary.

He wondered if there were times in which Robert regretted his decision, especially as the court had begun to fill with more and more Lannisters over the years. He had counted more men cloaked in crimson and gold than black and yellow; a startling sight in a capitol that was meant to be ruled by stags.

Ned’s short conversation with the kingslayer had left him flummoxed. He could not decipher if the other man had been playing games or telling some twisted form of the truth, but either way he had not appreciated the distraction ahead of his first small council meeting as hand of the king. He wondered if there had been ulterior motives to Jaime’s conversation; perhaps he had meant to twist the knife by bringing up the gruesome deaths his brother and father had faced within these hallowed halls.

Be careful, Ned.

Catelyn’s final words to him before he’d left echoed in his mind; the letter from her sister warning that there was treachery afoot never too far from his mind no matter what occurred.

He climbed the steps upwards towards the long-hallway that held the council chambers at the very end of the corridor, as the sound of his boots scuffing against the porcelain tile floors echoed throughout the eerily silent great hall. He had gotten halfway to his destination when a familiar voice called out from somewhere behind him; forcing him to turn back the way he’d come.

“Lord Stark, may I have a word?” 

Alysanne Baratheon had always been an enigma to him. She was as beautiful as she was clever, blessed with her Estermont mother’s dark eyes and Baratheon father’s bouncing curls, yet had somehow remained unmarried despite plenty of suitors vying for her hand over the years. He couldn’t understand why Robert had never forced the issue, especially given their need for allies in the wake of the rebellion, but his eldest friend had never been particularly strong when it came to telling his darling sister no.

“Of course, my lady.” He bowed his head out of respect. “Is something the matter?”

“Not particularly,” She kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she approached. “I simply wanted to speak to you before the council meeting today. I take it my brother informed you that I’d been leading them in his absence?”

Ned could not recall Robert mentioning anything about his sister during their journey, save for the fact that she had grown more beautiful and stubborn with the years. He had certainly not mentioned that she had been leading the council in his absence, but they had barely discussed any matters of state despite it being the sole reason he had agreed to come south in the first place.

“It seemed to have slipped his mind,” He replied.

“That’s typical of Robert,” Alysanne laughed merrily, although there was a tinge of something darker peaking through the surface. “He’d forget his own ears if they weren’t attached to his head.” 

Ned could not find it within himself to disagree.

He found his gaze drifting back to the iron throne within the silence that followed. He hated that the kingslayer’s words had affected him so much; thoughts of his father and brother’s last moments racing through his head despite how much he tried to push them away. He was standing in the very room where they had died screaming in agony – living his life in the same place they’d lost theirs.

“My father used to tell me all sorts of stories about it growing up.” Alysanne’s eyes remained fixated on the throne from where she stood still beside him. “I used to imagine it as this horribly monstrous thing with sharp teeth that would bite little children if they wandered too close.”

He thought only of Aerys Targaryen; of how he must have laughed as his father was burned alive; of how he must have delighted in Brandon’s suffering as he strangled himself to death trying to rescue him.

“Do you know what I see now?” She lowered her voice down into a hushed whisper. “An ugly chair.”

Ned’s brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of her words; silently glancing between her and the aftermentioned ugly chair that so many had died for the chance to sit upon over the course of history. 

“You do not need to sit the iron throne to wield power, Lord Stark.” Alysanne’s face pinched as though she was cautiously considering her next words. “You'd do well to remember that during your time here.” 

His face remained as hard as steel as the weight of her words slowly settled over him. Was that a threat? Or was it a warning? He gruffly hummed in response, unsure of what else to say, before the sound of laughter ran out from the other end of the hall. 

“If it isn’t our new Lord-Hand!” Renly Baratheon’s voice boomed throughout the otherwise silent space. “Have you scared him away already, sweet sister?” 

The second-youngest Baratheon sibling took after his sister in looks but his elder brother in his disposition. He was a jolly, and handsome, young lad who seemed to take nothing in life too seriously. 

“You insult me, brother!”  Alysanne laughed in a way that could only be described as thundering. “How do you know I wasn’t singing him praises of your dutiful work as the master-of-laws?” 

“Because you’ve threatened to replace me thrice in this turn of the moon alone!” Renly wasted no time greeting him with a crushing hug — having inherited the strength and height that was signature to his own. “It’s good to see you, Ned.” He patted his back for emphasis. “We’re happy to have you here!” 

Eddard was not sure if happy was the word he’d use to describe his feelings on his newfound circumstances.

“I never was good at saying no to your brother,” he replied dryly.

“Many seem to suffer from that infliction,” Alysanne mused. “You’ll learn in time.”

The two siblings had begun flanking him in a manner that bordered on suffocating, with lord Renly to his left and lady Alysanne to his right, as they continued on their way towards the council chambers for the meeting that they were undoubtedly late for after all of this commotion.

“Will Robert be joining us?” The absence of his dearest friend had been made only more apparent by the presence of his younger siblings.

“Robert? At a small council meeting?” Renly guffawed. “Not very likely, I’m afraid.”

Ned found himself physically tensing at the implication behind those words.

They were going to discuss matters of the realm without the King? “Robert has other matters of importance to attend to today,” Alysanne’s glare towards her younger brother was sharper than any steel. “He trusts us all to settle things in his absence.” 

He did not find much comfort in her words.

By the time they had made it to the small council chambers the rest of the lords were already gathered and waiting for them; their gazes as he entered were not too dissimilar to the look of a hungry predator when it first spots its unknowing prey.

“Lord Stark,” A bald, plump, man that reeked of lavender oil spoke first; unmistakably the infamous master of whispers, Lord Varys. “I was grievously sorry to hear about your troubles on the king’s road. We are all praying for Prince Joffrey’s swift recovery.”

The eunuch grasped his hands and shook them in greeting, smiling softly all the while, but there was something behind his violet eyes that unnerved him the longer he looked into them.

“A shame you didn’t say a prayer for the butcher’s boy.” Eddard pulled his hands away after a moment, moving past the spider with little regard for any further pleasantries.

“You’ll have to forgive our new Lord-Hand,” Renly quipped as he slipped past the other lords with a beaming smile in order to take his seat placed directly beside the Hands-chair. “He’s undoubtedly tired from his long journey south, one of the many reasons I had petitioned for this meeting to be moved to another day…”

“But we have a kingdom to look after,” The man who spoke was slender and small with a pointed beard and silver streaks in his dark hair. “And time waits for no one.” He smiled in a way that did not quite-reach his grey-blue eyes. “I had been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time, Lord Stark. I have no doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me.”

“She has, Lord Baelish.” Eddard had sporadically heard stories of his wife’s childhood friend throughout the years, but he still found himself surprised by the sight of the man before him. “She’s spoken often of how much your time together at Riverrun in your youth meant to her.”

Catelyn had also spoken extensively about how strong his childhood infatuation with her had been; having reached such a boiling point that it had led a young Petyr Baelish challenging his older brother Brandon to a duel for her hand in marriage. He had lost thoroughly, and likely still barred the scars of his brother’s humiliation, but had taken it in stride and made a name for himself in the capital as a shrewd businessman.

“I hold your wife close to my heart,” Baelish replied. “A sentiment I’m certain you share.”

“If you are all finished chatting,” Alysanne’s voice cut-through the room like a knife. “We have important matters on the agenda today and I’d prefer to discuss them before it grows dark.”

It did not go unnoticed by him that she was hovering over the chair that was reserved for the king; a finely made chair of dark-oak and yellow leather that bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon. She waited for everyone else to take their places, brown-eyes surveying the room with an acute concentration, before taking her own seat in the spot her elder brother usually occupied.

“Shall we begin?”

per usual we hope everyone enjoyed this weeks chapter <3 it was definitely one of our favorites to write!

[crimscn-clover]

⊹₊⟡⋆ book one // bruised like violets

ned. II

summary: ned attends his first small council meeting and learns that power is a shadow on the wall.

warning: none <3

word count: 1.8k

masterlist

Eddard Stark could still vividly remember the first time he ever laid eyes upon the iron throne.

He had ridden into the great hall of the Red Keep with the intent to claim the crown for Robert and the rebels, but had instead found Jaime Lannister sitting upon the iron throne with Aerys Targaryen’s bloodied corpse laying at his feet. He found the sight to be repulsive, despite how much he hated the mad king for what he’d done to his father and brother, and thought that the act of breaking such a sacred oath should’ve been enough to condemn the young lion to the wall for the rest of his days.

His friend had vehemently disagreed, in part due to the influence Ser Jaime’s father held within the seven kingdoms, and had instead allowed him to keep his position within the Kingsguard in spite of precedent to the contrary.

He wondered if there were times in which Robert regretted his decision, especially as the court had begun to fill with more and more Lannisters over the years. He had counted more men cloaked in crimson and gold than black and yellow; a startling sight in a capitol that was meant to be ruled by stags.

Ned’s short conversation with the kingslayer had left him flummoxed. He could not decipher if the other man had been playing games or telling some twisted form of the truth, but either way he had not appreciated the distraction ahead of his first small council meeting as hand of the king. He wondered if there had been ulterior motives to Jaime’s conversation; perhaps he had meant to twist the knife by bringing up the gruesome deaths his brother and father had faced within these hallowed halls.

Be careful, Ned.

Catelyn’s final words to him before he’d left echoed in his mind; the letter from her sister warning that there was treachery afoot never too far from his mind no matter what occurred.

He climbed the steps upwards towards the long-hallway that held the council chambers at the very end of the corridor, as the sound of his boots scuffing against the porcelain tile floors echoed throughout the eerily silent great hall. He had gotten halfway to his destination when a familiar voice called out from somewhere behind him; forcing him to turn back the way he’d come.

“Lord Stark, may I have a word?” 

Alysanne Baratheon had always been an enigma to him. She was as beautiful as she was clever, blessed with her Estermont mother’s dark eyes and Baratheon father’s bouncing curls, yet had somehow remained unmarried despite plenty of suitors vying for her hand over the years. He couldn’t understand why Robert had never forced the issue, especially given their need for allies in the wake of the rebellion, but his eldest friend had never been particularly strong when it came to telling his darling sister no.

“Of course, my lady.” He bowed his head out of respect. “Is something the matter?”

“Not particularly,” She kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she approached. “I simply wanted to speak to you before the council meeting today. I take it my brother informed you that I’d been leading them in his absence?”

Ned could not recall Robert mentioning anything about his sister during their journey, save for the fact that she had grown more beautiful and stubborn with the years. He had certainly not mentioned that she had been leading the council in his absence, but they had barely discussed any matters of state despite it being the sole reason he had agreed to come south in the first place.

“It seemed to have slipped his mind,” He replied.

“That’s typical of Robert,” Alysanne laughed merrily, although there was a tinge of something darker peaking through the surface. “He’d forget his own ears if they weren’t attached to his head.” 

Ned could not find it within himself to disagree.

He found his gaze drifting back to the iron throne within the silence that followed. He hated that the kingslayer’s words had affected him so much; thoughts of his father and brother’s last moments racing through his head despite how much he tried to push them away. He was standing in the very room where they had died screaming in agony – living his life in the same place they’d lost theirs.

“My father used to tell me all sorts of stories about it growing up.” Alysanne’s eyes remained fixated on the throne from where she stood still beside him. “I used to imagine it as this horribly monstrous thing with sharp teeth that would bite little children if they wandered too close.”

He thought only of Aerys Targaryen; of how he must have laughed as his father was burned alive; of how he must have delighted in Brandon’s suffering as he strangled himself to death trying to rescue him.

“Do you know what I see now?” She lowered her voice down into a hushed whisper. “An ugly chair.”

Ned’s brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of her words; silently glancing between her and the aftermentioned ugly chair that so many had died for the chance to sit upon over the course of history. 

“You do not need to sit the iron throne to wield power, Lord Stark.” Alysanne’s face pinched as though she was cautiously considering her next words. “You'd do well to remember that during your time here.” 

His face remained as hard as steel as the weight of her words slowly settled over him. Was that a threat? Or was it a warning? He gruffly hummed in response, unsure of what else to say, before the sound of laughter ran out from the other end of the hall. 

“If it isn’t our new Lord-Hand!” Renly Baratheon’s voice boomed throughout the otherwise silent space. “Have you scared him away already, sweet sister?” 

The second-youngest Baratheon sibling took after his sister in looks but his elder brother in his disposition. He was a jolly, and handsome, young lad who seemed to take nothing in life too seriously. 

“You insult me, brother!”  Alysanne laughed in a way that could only be described as thundering. “How do you know I wasn’t singing him praises of your dutiful work as the master-of-laws?” 

“Because you’ve threatened to replace me thrice in this turn of the moon alone!” Renly wasted no time greeting him with a crushing hug — having inherited the strength and height that was signature to his own. “It’s good to see you, Ned.” He patted his back for emphasis. “We’re happy to have you here!” 

Eddard was not sure if happy was the word he’d use to describe his feelings on his newfound circumstances.

“I never was good at saying no to your brother,” he replied dryly.

“Many seem to suffer from that infliction,” Alysanne mused. “You’ll learn in time.”

The two siblings had begun flanking him in a manner that bordered on suffocating, with lord Renly to his left and lady Alysanne to his right, as they continued on their way towards the council chambers for the meeting that they were undoubtedly late for after all of this commotion.

“Will Robert be joining us?” The absence of his dearest friend had been made only more apparent by the presence of his younger siblings.

“Robert? At a small council meeting?” Renly guffawed. “Not very likely, I’m afraid.”

Ned found himself physically tensing at the implication behind those words.

They were going to discuss matters of the realm without the King? “Robert has other matters of importance to attend to today,” Alysanne’s glare towards her younger brother was sharper than any steel. “He trusts us all to settle things in his absence.” 

He did not find much comfort in her words.

By the time they had made it to the small council chambers the rest of the lords were already gathered and waiting for them; their gazes as he entered were not too dissimilar to the look of a hungry predator when it first spots its unknowing prey.

“Lord Stark,” A bald, plump, man that reeked of lavender oil spoke first; unmistakably the infamous master of whispers, Lord Varys. “I was grievously sorry to hear about your troubles on the king’s road. We are all praying for Prince Joffrey’s swift recovery.”

The eunuch grasped his hands and shook them in greeting, smiling softly all the while, but there was something behind his violet eyes that unnerved him the longer he looked into them.

“A shame you didn’t say a prayer for the butcher’s boy.” Eddard pulled his hands away after a moment, moving past the spider with little regard for any further pleasantries.

“You’ll have to forgive our new Lord-Hand,” Renly quipped as he slipped past the other lords with a beaming smile in order to take his seat placed directly beside the Hands-chair. “He’s undoubtedly tired from his long journey south, one of the many reasons I had petitioned for this meeting to be moved to another day…”

“But we have a kingdom to look after,” The man who spoke was slender and small with a pointed beard and silver streaks in his dark hair. “And time waits for no one.” He smiled in a way that did not quite-reach his grey-blue eyes. “I had been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time, Lord Stark. I have no doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me.”

“She has, Lord Baelish.” Eddard had sporadically heard stories of his wife’s childhood friend throughout the years, but he still found himself surprised by the sight of the man before him. “She’s spoken often of how much your time together at Riverrun in your youth meant to her.”

Catelyn had also spoken extensively about how strong his childhood infatuation with her had been; having reached such a boiling point that it had led a young Petyr Baelish challenging his older brother Brandon to a duel for her hand in marriage. He had lost thoroughly, and likely still barred the scars of his brother’s humiliation, but had taken it in stride and made a name for himself in the capital as a shrewd businessman.

“I hold your wife close to my heart,” Baelish replied. “A sentiment I’m certain you share.”

“If you are all finished chatting,” Alysanne’s voice cut-through the room like a knife. “We have important matters on the agenda today and I’d prefer to discuss them before it grows dark.”

It did not go unnoticed by him that she was hovering over the chair that was reserved for the king; a finely made chair of dark-oak and yellow leather that bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon. She waited for everyone else to take their places, brown-eyes surveying the room with an acute concentration, before taking her own seat in the spot her elder brother usually occupied.

“Shall we begin?”

per usual we hope everyone enjoyed this weeks chapter <3 it was definitely one of our favorites to write!