Summary: 170AC, forty years after the end of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm has enjoyed a long peace. Serena Stark, granddaughter of King Jacaerys I and Lord Cregan Stark has come into young adulthood and has been thrust into the serpentine politics of King's Landing and the southron lords. Armed with only her wits, her loyal friends, and her dragon, she must learn to navigate this unknown territory--lest she lose it all.
Next Chapter: Chapter 2
Characters: Stark!OC x Targaryen!OC. I would say 85-90% of the characters are original with 10-15% characters from GRRM's writings. Some of the names are lifted from canon family trees. The Targaryen!OC is a very OOC, self-indulgent mixture of Aegon III and Aegon IV. Make of that information what you will. This takes place in an AU where Jacaerys was crowned king of the Seven Kingdoms after the Dance.
Word Count: 3k
Warnings: arranged marriage mentioned, otherwise nothing for this chapter--will include warnings for subsequent chapters. (Please let me know if I've missed anything!)
Author's Note: "<Text>" denotes dialogue in a foreign language, such as High Valyrian that I did not have an exact translation for.
(Ah! The first time posting fanfiction on Tumblr! I'm wanting to get an Ao3 account set up but I'm posting here in the meantime since I'm more familiar with Tumblr, but I would like to hear from people if they like this chapter.)
The morning sun rose high above the snowy peaks that bit into the sky like jagged teeth. It would be some weeks yet before the snow-capped mountains began to thaw and trickle down into the sparse valleys below, nourishing what plant life grew so far north, but for now, they kept their winter shrouds. Thin white clouds stretched like the softest silk across the pale blue sky, and notes of sweet, trilling birdsong filled the air. Spring had finally arrived.
Like a claw through flesh, the clouds were swiftly parted by a dragon, black as night, racing through the skies. On the back of this dragon was its rider, clad in thick leather and furs and clinging to the dragon’s saddle as it rose higher and higher and higher until the air began to thin and the rider’s fingers began to tingle, her eyes water, and her mind became foggy. The straps holding her legs to the fur-covered saddle held, and she directed her mount to the snowy landscape below.
”Dēmas, Ebrion!”
A lone woman watched from a sturdy cliff overlooking a barren valley holding the reins of two shaggy-furred horses. The horses pawed at the still-frozen ground in an attempt to find some long-covered grass but to no avail. Sighing, the rider reached inside the saddle pack and pulled out a handful of precious grain, offering it to the mounts. They were so entranced by the prospect of food that they didn’t notice the winged predator landing a few yards behind them. Wiping her hands on her breeches and patting the horses’ flank, the woman approached the dragon, long staff held at the ready.
”<How was the flight?>” she asked in High Valyrian. Her footsteps were careful but steady as she walked toward the dragon. All trepidation in her movements had been long since trained out of her.
The dragonrider arched her back and stretched her arms above her head but still rocked in her seat as the dragon settled his frontal weight onto the points of his wings. Responding in the same tongue, she yawned, “<I think he’s enjoying the warmer days. He seems looser, happier. Did you see how high we got?>” Her face lit up, the softness of youth in her face and voice.
“<I did, and I will not be mentioning that to your grandfather.>”
”<Come now, Mervara, I—>“
”<Or your mother.>”
The younger woman’s face fell. “At least we know the leg straps can hold,” she muttered in the Common Tongue, unbuckling the leather straps. Swinging her leg over the saddle, she eased herself down until her boots hit the cold, hard ground. Giving her dragon a pat on his thick, scaly neck, she gave a command in High Valyrian, trying to steady her voice against the cold, “<Go home, Ebrion.>”
Ebrion gave a low rumble deep in the warm core of his body, and with a flap of his wings, he was in the air again. Both women stared in awe, allowing themselves a moment to enjoy the sight of the dark dragon against the pale sky. A dragon in flight never turned dull, no matter how many times one saw it.
Mervara was the first to break away, turning to mount her horse. “Come, my lady. Let us depart.”
Serena Stark took a moment to stretch her legs before hoisting her foot into the stirrup. Her body ached, and she winced when her bottom hit the seat, so different from the soft wolf fur that lined the saddle bolted onto Ebrion’s tough hide. She had noticed on this last ride that she had begun to outgrow the saddle’s seat; she would have to ask the castle saddler to begin work on a new one.
Turning her horse, she followed Mervara at a canter east toward their destination—Winterfell. The prospect of a warm bath and a real meal spurred her on. They had both risen just before dawn, a rosy pink had painted the gray castle walls and had broken their fasts with a slice of crusty bread and hard cheese each to give them the strength to travel the few miles outside of the castle to where Serena had been practicing her flying for the past two years. According to Mervara, Ebrion was still small, but so was Serena. This had been their longest flight yet at just over an hour.
Their horses galloped on, hooves hitting the stony ground like a heartbeat. Every few minutes, she would hear the heavy flap of wings above her as Ebrion kept pace in the sky. Gripping the reins, Serena tried not to think about how she would rather be flying—but she knew it wasn’t fair to Ebrion to carry her weight more than he had already.
She knew that once they returned to Winterfell, she would lose the freedom that flying gave her, something she had been thinking of often in the past months, and as the rounded towers of her home came into sight, the promise of a bath and food somehow became less and less appealing.
As they approached the gray walls of the castle, Serena realized her horse had stopped. Mervara pulled up alongside her. “My lady? Is something wrong?” she asked in her thick Volantene accent.
”It’s nothing.” Serena gave her horse a kick to cross the threshold and through the Hunter’s Gate.
The courtyard of Winterfell castle was bustling with activity upon their return. The sun had bathed the castle’s workers in its warmth and allowed them to do their duties without too much complaint. As Serena and Mervara rode past, people would stop what they were doing to wave a greeting. Some men bowed, and a few washerwomen put down their loads to curtsy in Serena’s presence.
As she had been taught, Serena smiled politely but passed them quickly to get to the stables. She instantly felt guilt settle in her gut. These people—her people—were not the cause of her sour mood. The least she could do was give them a genuine smile.
Several horses were in the round pen outside the stables, being brushed down by a couple of boys. One of them was a big gray destrier favored by her grandfather. The stablehand beside him ran the brush over his pale coat vigorously. Serena and Mervara halted and let one of the hands take the reins of their mounts.
“They’re getting them ready for our royal guests.” A deep voice made Serena turn quickly, almost too quickly, as her head became light and she swayed to the side in her saddle. She was more exhausted and hungry than she thought.
“Hey, easy there, my lady.”
Strong, gloved hands reached out to steady her. Upon regaining her balance, she swung her leg over to dismount, still needing an extra hand for stability.
”Good morning, Ser Brandon.” Serena gave his arm a friendly squeeze to show she was alright. “I thought the carriage train was still four days out on the Kingsroad?”
Ser Brandon Poole stood to the side to let the stablehands take the horses out of the way. His tall, muscular frame was clad in simple boiled leather armor and a thick cloak lined with fur. A sword hung at his hip, and the scabbard was emblazoned with the direwolf of House Stark. He dressed like any of the household guards, but his air of familiarity with Lady Serena set him apart. They had been raised together, mourned losses together, and were more like sister and brother than highborn lady and sworn shield.
”Aye, you are correct, but your lord grandfather wished for the winter muck to be clear from their coats before their arrival. Particularly his favorites.”
“No doubt there will be hunting.”
”No doubt,” his blue eyes twinkled. “I hope they ask me to accompany them.”
Serena smiled. A real smile. There was an infectiousness to Brandon’s grins that she could never resist. She wanted to hold onto those moments when she could.
”Apologies, my lady, but Princess Laena was asked to be informed on your return to the castle.” Ser Yancy Marsh cleared his throat, forcing Serena and Brandon to disengage and face the older knight. She hadn’t even noticed he was there.
Serena nodded, “Thank you, Ser Yancy. I’ll find her myself.” She then turned to give Brandon a playful slap on the arm. “Care to join me in archery practice this afternoon? I’d think you’d like to reclaim your honor, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course, my lady.” Still smiling, he gave a low bow and turned to continue his duties, Ser Yancy following behind him.
Serena noticed Mervara had been silently watching the exchange, her almond-shaped eyes narrowed and deft fingers playing with a piece of straw.
“Yes?” Serena asked, turning on her heel and marching in the direction of the great hall.
“Nothing.” Mervara walked with her dragonkeeper staff—almost twice her height—to keep a momentum going through the mud of the courtyard. “You should find your mother.”
Entering the great hall, Serena noticed plates still containing some food from the morning meal. She swiped a piece of black sausage and a handful of dried apricots imported from the south. The braziers gave a soft, warm glow to the otherwise gray stone of the hall. She pulled her gloves off and warmed her fingers over a brazier as she ate quickly. Mervara nodded to her and disappeared into a corridor off the main hall. It had been almost a decade since Mervara had arrived in the north, but the dragonkeeper had always chosen to keep her own company. Serena shrugged. What Mervara did when not caring for Ebrion or teaching her was not her concern.
”Serena.”
Her mother’s voice was calm, steady, and even as she called across the great hall to her daughter. Serena kept her body turned and facing the brazier but could feel her mother’s gaze at her back. She sighed, turning to face her.
Princess Laena Targaryen was not much taller than her daughter but stood straight and possessed a noble bearing that could make a larger man wilt with one arched brow. Her silver-gold curls had been plaited into a braid down her back not unlike her daughter’s. She was dressed in thick fabric of muted reds and charcoal grays, the colors of her house.
“Mother.” Serena darted her eyes to her mother’s.
Laena’s eyes, a deep purple like indigo ink, narrowed at her daughter. “Septa Ranelle was looking for you this morning. Missy and Sansa were left to distract her on their own.”
”I’ll apologize to her later,” Serena said. “I wanted to fly a little before the queen and the rest arrived. No doubt there won’t be much time for it in the coming days.” She paused. “Or afterward.”
Serena thought she could see her mother’s mouth twitch slightly at the mention of her own mother, but her face softened.
”I’ll allow you that much. You will not have much time for yourself.”
Or ever again. Serena thought glumly. Queens belong to the realm itself.
At that moment, a royal carriage train was traveling up the kingsroad after trekking up the road for just under three months. In a few short days, they would arrive in Winterfell, and in only a few short months after that, Serena would be arriving in the capital herself and quickly married to the Prince of Dragonstone, Rhaenar Targaryen.
A lad of twelve, Prince Rhaenar had been named the crown prince shortly after the death of his father, Prince Baelor. King Jacaerys’ only son had perished during the failed Conquest of Dorne—alongside Serena’s father, Ser Rickon Stark. Ideally, the prince would have been betrothed to someone nearer to his age, perhaps Serena’s younger sister, Sansa. That would have occurred if Ebrion had not hatched that fateful day in the dark of the Winterfell crypts.
When her dragon hatched for her, Serena’s fate changed irrevocably. A dragon in the hands of a non-Targaryen threw her kin in King’s Landing into a panic. After months of waiting for ravens to arrive between the capital and Winterfell, a deal was struck: upon coming of age, Serena would come south and wed a Targaryen heir, uniting the branches of the family. Unfortunately, by that time, the only remaining heir was the young crown prince. She had been assured many times that their union would not be consummated until years after they were wed, but the thought still made her shift in discomfort. Serena understood that this was the way things were, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about all of it.
Queen Baela Targaryen—Serena’s grandmother—would be in Winterfell any day now to escort her back south. The castle had been working for weeks on end to make space, vigorously clean, and ration the food stores to accommodate the relatively small retinue of guards, maids, and footmen. Serena had met her mother’s mother only once before, during a tourney at Riverrun when she was ten. Even at her tender age, she had regarded her as a formidable woman. She had reigned with her husband for decades and many lords admired her for her fiery spirit forged during war.
Thinking about her future led Serena to think about her family, those who were gone, and those who were still living but would be left behind when she left, like her mother, her sister, and all the workers in the castle she had grown up seeing every day since birth. She would dearly miss her grandfather, the great Lord Cregan, who had acted as her father since his son’s death. Even her aunts and uncles—half-siblings of her late father—would be missed. Septa Ranelle, not so much.
”I’ve taken your dresses to be mended before the Queen arrives. I don’t want to see a thread out of place. You’ll wear the black gown during the welcoming feast.”
Serena couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose. “I was thinking…the gray samite would be more…regal, perhaps?” It was a fine dress. The fabric had been imported from Essos and brought to Winterfell by way of White Harbor. Of the gowns she owned it was by far the most beautiful. Black felt funerary in comparison.
It was Laena’s turn to make a face. “Gray is a Stark color. I want you looking like a proper Targaryen for the Queen.” She reached out to brush a piece of hair out of Serena’s face and behind her ear.
And with that, the discussion was over. Serena bit back the retort resting behind her teeth and swallowed its bitter taste. She was exhausted and didn’t have the energy to argue with her mother over the color of a thrice-damned dress.
“May I be excused, mother?”
*************
The godswood of Winterfell had been a place of peace for as long as Serena could remember. According to legend, Brandon the Builder had built Winterfell castle up around the three-acre forest. The question of whether that was true or not rarely crossed Serena’s mind. Only the pines had kept their greenery; the rest of the trees were still bare. But even through the labyrinthine wall of trees, she was able to pick her way to her destination with ease. After bathing, she had changed out of her flying leathers and into a light dress and cloak with a fur collar.
A small cairn of stones marked the grave of Alysanne Blackwood. Since the snow had melted, some rocky debris had found its way to the dirt mound. Serena kneeled to clear it away. She hoped that her family would keep up with this task when she was gone. Surely her aunts would take it up.
Although she shared no blood with Alysanne, it had never mattered as far as either of them was concerned. Her father’s mother had died in childbirth but he had gained a stepmother after the war. When she was but a girl, he had told Serena the tale of Lord Cregan’s wedding, where he had sung to his lady stepmother and how her smile had warmed him. From the moment Serena was born, she was Alysanne’s beloved granddaughter. Some of Serena’s first memories were of her grandmother taking her riding or guiding her through the godswood to the heart tree. Princess Laena did not often feature in those memories.
Not far from the grave, the heart tree stood resolute near a clear pool. Its melancholy face peered out of the bone-white bark that, since her grandmother’s death, uncannily reminded Serena of Lady Alysanne’s face. Red sap ran from its eyes in an eerie mimicry of tears.
”Good day, grandmother,” she spoke softly as she pushed some overgrown weeds from the pile of stones. “I flew today. About an hour, but it only felt like a fraction of that!” Pausing, she shifted on the cold ground. “My arse is sore.”
A giggle bubbled from her chest. She could never talk this way inside the castle walls. “The queen will be arriving soon. Seven hells, the castle will be crowded.”
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. It felt like someone was watching her. But when she looked over her shoulder, her only companion was the heart tree.
“It’s not that I’m not excited. I am. I’m just…scared.” She pulled her knees up under her chin and scoffed to herself. Cregan Stark’s granddaughter. Frightened like a little girl. I’m not a little girl, I’m a wolf, and a wolf is never scared.
A hot tear rolled down her face, and she quickly wiped it away—blinking her eyes to clear her vision. No. No tears. Be brave. The only one who cries in a godswood is the heart tree.
”I wish you were here. And I wish I could take you with me.”
A breeze swept through Serena’s hair and caressed her face. She had never been strong in faith, but she had always felt closer to the old gods—the gods of her father—than the Seven-Faced god of her mother’s people. As she had been taught by her grandmother, the old gods resided in the trees, the stones, and the streams. If anything, it was easy for her to believe that somewhere, somehow, her grandmother was reaching out to her.
A branch breaking under step pulled her from her thoughts. Looking up, she could see two figures in dark cloaks approaching. Blinking moisture from her eyes, she saw the towering figure of Ser Brandon and the much smaller Melissa Blackwood picking their way through the half-melted snow. She raised a shaky hand in greeting, bidding them to come closer.
”Serena!” Missy called out. She reached Serena first and offered a hand to help her stand up from the cairn. “I told Brandon you would be here. He didn’t believe so.” She shot a good-natured look over her shoulder to Brandon, who stood a few paces away. Serena could see he was carrying two bows and a full quiver.
”I wondered if you wanted to have that archery practice,” he said, lifting the two bows off his shoulder. “Considering your mother was looking for you, I figured you’d want to shoot something.”
Both girls laughed, and Serena felt peace. This was as it had been since they were children. She was glad to have her friends with her now and even more glad that they had both agreed to come with her to King’s Landing. Brandon had been the first to volunteer to leave as part of Serena’s retinue. He had no living family and nothing keeping him in the North. Missy—a great-niece of the late Lady Alysanne—had been fostered with the Starks since she was thirteen. Of age with Serena, they had become inseparable ever since. She would be Serena’s companion in the capitol until her father at Raventree Hall arranged a marriage for her. Selfishly, Serena hoped that would take some time.
Before the three could take leave of the godswood and go to the archery butts located off the main courtyard, a gray-clad guard ran to them, sliding to a stop and panting to catch his breath.
Serena held on to Missy’s arm a little harder. What in the seven hells was happening?
”Gerrit, what’s wrong?” Brandon ordered. When the guard stood panting, he raised his voice and stalked toward the winded man and gripped his tabard. “Get a hold of yourself, man. What has happened?”
Straightening, Gerrit finally gasped, “My lady, I’ve just come from the eastern towers. A dragon is approaching!”
Doofenric the Ostrogoth (insert jokes about his daughter Vanessa being "Goth" but in the modern sense) invented a City-Mover-Inator to move Rome across the Danube so his Germanic confederation could sack it.
Thankfully, Agent Pericles stops him by redirecting the Inator to Finius and Ferbingetorix's New Rome instead, moving it to the Bosphorus.
While Pericles and Doofenric are fighting over the controls of the Inator, it gets accidentally changed to paint remover mode and then fired at a random direction.
Somewhere nearby a painter just finished coloring the statue of the emperor when suddenly all the paint gets removed.
FILM & TV YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW: Day 2 – Genre
→ Period Dramas feat. Barkskins, Becoming Elizabeth, Black 47, The Hollow Crown, Ironclad, The Last Kingdom, The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, The Musketeers, Outlander, The Pursuit of Love, Troy, The Spanish Princess, Vikings, Vikings: Valhalla, The White Princess, The White Queen
ON the subject of undernegotiated kink in fanfiction. i think we should talk more about how the concept of "not talking about it" is just as much wish fulfillment for some people as "in-depth, therapy-speak conversations where everyone is clear and understood" is for others
like yes, in reality the antidote to shame is open honest conversation with someone who will validate your feelings and wants blah blah blah but SOMETIMES what i want out of my fanfic is characters being understood without having to expose themselves in that way. SOMETIMES it's fun to not dismantle the shame and repression all the way and to instead treat that understanding-despite-not-being-clear as the fantasy
People who are not afraid to text you 40 times in a row and don’t take it personally if you haven’t replied are literally the most valuable members of our society and should be recognized as such
Okay, no. Just. Fucking. No. You don't get to add variations to social rules we are viciously held accountable to, just because you don't want to text back. Fuck you. If you want to be someone's friend, initiate a conversation once in a while.
This isn't my rule. I didn't get to decide this. I learned this through heartbreak and humiliation. I learned not to be "clingy," or "needy," or whatever. I learned that people will say it's fine when it's not, and you won't know they lied until they are dropping your ass in the fucking trash bin.
You can't just take away the only indicators we have about whether or not we're actually wanted in a society of chronic fucking liars.
In a society of people pitying you and being your "friend" to "be nice".
It is, quite frankly, fucking cruel to introduce even more uncertainty into our terrifyingly uncertain social interactions.
If I don't get a reply, I WILL assume you don't want further texts from me. Maybe because you're busy, or maybe, if the behavior is frequent, because you don't actually want to hear from me.
I need these boundaries. All of us socially awkward freaks do. Otherwise we are truly lost in a world with no functioning system of communication.
