jboras

[snowstormweek]

#snowstormweek2026 day 4 ✦ family

Maester Aemon with Daenerys and Jon ♡

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[jaisboras]

This is a sensitive topic for me

[jaisboras]

Amber of Loves VI

Pairing: Fem!Jon Snow x Male!Daenerys Targaryen Tags: au, Robb Stark lives, Rhaegar Targaryen lives, hostage situations, snowstorm supremacy, Targcest, eventual smut, angst, slow burn TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny, mentions of non-con Summary: The only way to end the Lions is a pact: a new one between the Wolves and Dragons. Yet it comes with a price. Daeron Targaryen demand a hostage with Stark blood and ever dutiful, Lyarra Stark steps in and volunteers herself.

Masterlist

Chapter 6: His Pride (WC: 5.2K)

The Third Year of Autumn

The Second Moon of The 305th Year After Conquest

"Is it true you slew a Giant?" Lord Waters asked Lady Stark as Dae tried to stifle another sigh. It was the twenty-second day of the second moon. Recovered from the wreckage of the storm, they were back on the march at last. They were approaching Pinkmaiden swiftly. The roads had been empty, raising Daeron's suspicions; they mean to give us a good battle, then it is what they shall receive. 

"No, I have not," the lady chuckled. At his invitation, she had been joining them in the vanguard, which was the only time the king really saw the lady. Which also meant that each day he had to listen to hours of Aurane's attempts to charm the she-wolf. Dae had to give her due - she was witty and quick with her answers, humoring the lord from a safe distance.

Waters cursed in faux dismay. "What a pity, my lady," he went on with a sly smirk. "Is it true then you married a wildling and slew him the same night?"

Lady Lyarra laughed lightly, "I am afraid I must disappoint you once again, my lord."

Lord Aurane snickered and tsked, "My lady, my lady. Do not tell me all the heroic tales of you; I have heard they are naught."

It was Brienne the Blue who answered, "Not all, my lord. She indeed climbed the Wall up and down." 

"You mean climbed as in -"

"Bare hands and feet." Brienne continued.

"We were not much bare, we had tools that aided us," Lady said softly.

A wave of surprise traveled through the listeners. 

"What forced you to climb it, my lady?" Ser Barristan inquired, "It’s been quite a few years, but I still remember the monstrosity the Wall is."

"Lord Jeor had fallen sick, so Allister Thorne was in charge, a sour, insipid man. I knew he would put an arrow to me the moment he saw me on the horizon."

"Did he not know who you are?" Ser Barristan was appalled.

"Of course, he did. That is why he hated me... He was a Targaryen loyalist, banished after the Rebellion."

"So he hated your father."

"Aye, good ser. He also hated that I associated with the wildlings. He claimed I had become a turncloak. Anyway, I knew the only way to go to Castle Black was if I went from the South. There was a group of wildlings who intended to climb the Wall. I joined them."

"Surely those savages did not simply allow you to be their companion." Lord Waters continued.

"Nay, they did not. They passed south to attack the Watch. I was their captive. I escaped." Not her first time being a captive, then. The king mused, keeping his gaze ahead.

"I have heard of a battle in the Wall, or was it a folly, too?"

"It was not. Wildlings, almost thousands strong, attacked from the North of it, while around 100 of them attacked from the South, the same ones that I climbed the Wall with." 

"How tall is the Wall?" Daeron's curiosity got the best of him; his gaze kept ahead.

"A foot or two shorter than the Great Pyramid of Meereen." His loyal knight answered. "And fully made of ice. It melts from time to time, cries like a mourning crone. The big chunks of it often fall off. Climbing it," he huffed in disbelief, "a quiet ordeal."

Lady Lyarra only shrugged it off. 

"And, my lady? Please, do not hold it on me now. Tell me how the battle went."

"It went on for six nights and five days. It was harsh, bloody, but we held the Wall until my king brother arrived with the Northern army..."

His companions continued pestering the lady about the tales of the North. Daeron made a conscious effort not to listen or join, as he had in the past few days. He had more pressing matters to contemplate than the lady who oft thought the worst of him in every situation. Dae recalled their last conversation when she had sought him for one of the wildlings he had freed. The king remembered the trace of disbelief on her face when the truth of the wildlings had been revealed. The Dragon King had been misunderstood, undervalued, and disdained most of his life. Thus, it was not rage he felt, it was more of a bafflement, a shadowy reminder of his earlier days as ruler when he had been questioned and dismissed like a boy. A treacherous voice in his mind kept telling him the lady's ill disposition was simply a misjudgment of his character, as his conversation with Rhaegar came to him. His brother had left on Viserion a day before to join his main strength in Stormlands. The prince was going to lead them westward into the Lion’s den, while Daeron united with a smaller part of his troops, led by Ser Davos.

"Skore gaomagon ao iotāpagon dubāzma, lēkia?" What busies your mind, brother? Rhaegar had asked him while they were walking up to the dragons. 

"Daoriot ofos realmos, lēkia." The matters of the realm. Dae had said, eyes focused on his slumbering children. At the sight of the men, the creatures lifted from their rest and greeted them with excited screeches. 

"Iksā daor iā sȳz pirtirys, Dae." You are not a good liar, Dae. The young man scoffed and glanced sideways at his brother. Rhaegar did not humor him. "Rual nyke naejot gīmigon," Allow me to guess. He looked back in the direction of the camp. "Issa se zokla." It is the wolf.

Dae did not answer. "You should be able to hold civility." Dae opened his mouth to reply, "Not for now. For the days after we defeat the lions and their allies."

"I tried, Rhaegar."

"Perhaps, you should try more with a true effort from your heart." He said in his usual iron tone, joined by his glance carrying countless reminders. 

"If my Hand says so." 

"Invite her for a cyvasse match. The lady told me she is fond of the game…"

As the sun began its descent, the Targaryen army broke camp. The king had sent an invitation to the lady through Missandei, and she had accepted. Right on time, the guard announced her arrival. Lady Lyarra entered the tent dressed in a brown wool dress that covered her skin, hugging her figure. Her hair was held half up in multiple twisted braids. 

"Good evening, Your Grace. Thank you for your invitation." Her eyes were steel grey in the candlelight. Unrevealing yet uncruel. 

"Welcome, my lady. I have heard you are an enjoyer of the game. I hope I was not mistaken."

"You weren’t."

"Excellent. My lady, would you have a cup of wine?"

"Thank you, I would."

As they settled around the table, a queer silence fell between them with the board of cyvasse standing on the table.

"I have never seen a scarlet and jade combination of cyvasse pieces." She was the first one to break the silence, starting to arrange her jade figures on the ivory board.

"This was a gift from the Pureborn of Qarth. One of the earlier gifts I received that I still carry with me." He moved his own scarlet pieces. The king loved the game, mostly playing with his brother, who never shied away from challenging the young man. Cyvasse was an intriguing game of war; the strategy began even before the play, with the replacement of the figures. With this in mind, the king placed the pieces in his favorite strategic way. 

"Shall we begin?" He asked. 

"We shall."

"Your move, my lady." The first minutes of the game passed quietly as the players concentrated on their games with careful civility. 

"Heed caution now, my lady," Dae said with a smile, eyeing the opportunity to snatch one of her elephants.

"Oh, no need to worry, Dragon," she replied with a laugh in her tongue. She moved her heavy horse ahead and snatched his two elephants. Dae's next move was to put his rabble around her elephant and snatch two of hers. A smug smile grew on her lips as she raised her eyebrows.

"My lady?" Dae inquired with an arched brow.

"Your Grace," Lyarra said and put the jade trebuchet right in front of the scarlet dragon, trapping his most powerful piece between catapults and heavy horses in the next two moves - a maneuver he had not anticipated. Seeing the surprise on the king's face, the lady giggled, covering it quickly behind her hands.

Daeron recovered fast. With his next move, he entrapped her king with his spearmen. "Now, my lady, what will you do?"

She hummed, focused, and finished her cup. "I'd like another cup, Your Grace," she put, her face a perfect mask once again, revealing naught.

"Then you shall."

 A minute stretched feeling longer than it was while her hand hovered over jade rabble. Brows drawn together, she changed her mind and placed her light horse left to his trebuchet, directly blocking his shot at her dragon. 

"Where have you learned to play the game, my lady, if I may ask?"

"From a Dornish acquaintance, Your Grace."

"Not a friend?"

She hesitated. "It is hard to make true friends in our times."

Dae sighed, feeling the truth of her words in his chest as he pushed forward the scarlet crossbowmen. "Don't I know it." He mumbled.

"You seem to have true friends among your ranks," She had heard him. Daeron took a moment to consider the statement. He had loyal captains, devoted soldiers, but they were his followers at the end of the day. Could someone be a friend to another without being an equal? He wondered as she made her move.

"I have loyal people among my ranks." 

"They say the higher one stands, the lonelier one gets. I have seen it with my brother."

Dae hummed, realizing this was their most civil moment yet, except for the rushed conversation after the storm in the healer’s tent. "What about you, my lady?"

"I’d like to believe I have true friends."

He hummed, "Yet you are not quick to trust," the king said, removing her rabble. 

"Neither are you," she removed his crossbowmen.

"True. But I rather believe in people, give them a chance before condemning them to an iron judgement."

"That’s a dangerous habit for a king. Suspicion brings protection."

"Over suspicion brings misjudgment." He knocked over her catapult.

"I’d rather be safe than right." You’d rather hate me for my name than see me for who I am, he mused bitterly. 

The next hour passed with easier conversation, mostly about the army’s recovery after the retched storm. Daeron, with a surprise, realised he quite enjoyed playing with the lady, for she matched nail to nail with the king, maneuvering and playing him smartly. Yet at the end, it was the young man who took down the opponent’s jade dragon.

"Well played, my lady. You did not hold back."

"You sound surprised."

"I am ... only slightly. Most people would rather lose to me so they’d sing me praises. But I should have expected the difference from you."

"Well, expectations can be a tricky business, Dragon. And a dangerous one." 

"Perhaps," He smiled kindly. "Yet I expect we are to play again."

Lady Lyarra scoffed, "Of course. I have a score to settle, Your Grace."

The next day's march was fast and efficient under the relatively warm autumn sun. When the moon hung high, they settled around the table as on the night before. The young nobles changed the colors this time: Lady Lyarra played scarlet, while the King played jade. 

"You were very witty on the board yesterday, Dragon. I mean to repay the gesture."

Dae laughed lightly, "Be my guest, wolf." 

The wolf kept her promise: the first hour of the game passed fast as she came at him with all the vigour. It was thrilling to play against a true match, the king realized as the lady trapped his dragon between her spearmen.  

"Do not fret badly, Targaryen," her voice was full of smugness, "you have played well so far. Your loss will not be humiliating." She pushed her elephants ahead.

"The game is still on, my lady." 

Her laughter was formal, not reaching her eyes. Placing his heavy horse right before her catapult, the king watched her reaction to be rewarded by her surprise. She had missed the opening. Lady Lyarra hummed. "It seems we will still be here for a while."

"Yours was a clever strategy."

"But you figured it out."

He pulled his light horse back, "The Battle of Redgrass, was it not? "

She paused, hesitating, "It was."

"You were going to smash my pieces between your spearmen and crossbowmen like the Anvil and the Hammer." He chuckled. "Do not be so surprised, my lady. I know my history."

"Not many people do."

"I am not many."

"Oh, believe me," she placed her rabble in front of his trebuchet, "I know."

"My brother has mentioned you are fond of reading. I did not know you were a lover of history." 

"I learned what I can, Your Grace. To serve my house with the best of my abilities."

"As I know, you have. Your brother tricked Lord Tywin in Riverlands, did he not?"

"Oh, that was all my brother. He is a good commander." She did not say it as a praise; she stated it simply as a fact. 

"The realm needs good commanders."

The silence that followed was loud as Dae could practically hear her thoughts. The wonder engulfed him. What was she thinking? And why did he need so desperately to know? She looked like a statue carved of finest marble in the candlelight. Her raven hair in braids poured on her back like a molten obsidian. She was draped in brown attire, a perfect contrast to her milk-pale skin. Her cheeks and claw scars across her forehead and eyes had reddened slightly - wine was to blame, Dae believed, observing her blush the last two nights. Her eyes, however, he had a hard time swaying his gaze each time…

"Your people sing praises to your command." Her voice brought him back to the moment," I have heard many boast of your Battle of Fire."

"It was a brutal fight." Daeron resumed playing.

"Are they all not?"

"This one was… more," they both paused playing, attentions lurching onto one another instead of the game. 

"One of your Dothrakis said it was the first time you charred into battle on a dragon's back."

Dae heard the unspoken in her words, "If you mean to ask me whether I burned my enemies on the ground, yes, I did. I do not claim absolute rectitude, my lady. I never have…" He paused, inhaling deeply. "There is way too much blood in my hands for me to claim so... When I united the Dothraki, I killed thousands of screamers. I first killed their khals before they could kill or sell me as they had intended… Most of their followers joined me after their deaths. The rest refused to bend the knee and forgo their ways of pillaging, slaving, raping. They chose to fight me. They gathered and waited for me in the outside gates of Vaes Dothrak. The lands are considered holy; it's forbidden to carry steel, but they figured out a way to spill blood. Battle went on for three days and nights... By the end, 14 Khalasars had been wiped out altogether... That means almost 100,000 screamers fell." The king saw her breath catch. "But that day, I freed 900,000 slaves."

"For every life you took, you saved 9," She said after a moment. 

"Yet I still took those lives. And many, much many more in my path to end slavery in Dragaon's Bay, Volantis, and Qarth."

"Yet you saved more lives than you took." It did not sound like an assurance. The words were laced with more unsaid meanings. 

"You have never held out on your words before, my lady. Do not begin now."

Lady Starks paused briefly; Dae observed a storm brewing in her eyes. "When you alter or take millions of lives, when you claim and conquer while you fly above them all, it is easy to forget you are a man. Targaryens, even when they had lost their dragons, always believed themselves to be above men. Even above Gods."

Dae hesitated as the words hung between them and soon broke into bitter laughter. "You fear I believe myself to be a God, my lady."

"They say you walked into roaring fire with stoned eggs and came out unscathed with three dragons."

"They say true." She raised her eyebrow to indicate this proves her point. "I never had the luxury to feel invincible, Lady Lyarra. I do not know what you reckon of my upbringing, but allow me to tell you that, unlike my ancestors, I did not grow up as a prince of my House. In the humiliating life that Viserys and I led, our title often damaged us more than aided us. My brother failed to humble his arrogance throughout it all. He believed himself to be the dragon." Dae had to momentarily break eye contact, remembering all the times he had accidentally woken the dragon. "For that, he faced an end I do not wish on my enemies…” The amethyst eyes found the greys, “I am... conscious of the weights of my deeds. I carry them alongside the burden of my name... Have you ever seen 100,000 people gathered in one place? It's hard to fathom to-"

"I have," she cut in. "There were more than 100,000 wildlings who attacked the Wall. I stood on the top of it for days, holding them back... They tried to climb it and break the gate. We had to -" she cleared her throat. "It was not a simple battle - we had to use different means to hold them back." She lowered her gaze to her folded hands on the table. 

"I do not enjoy killing," he said earnestly.

"Neither do I."

"I equally dislike fighting itself."

"I, as well," she said softly but firmly. "I wanted to be a healer. I was trained to be one by our Maester Luwin until the war… There are not many opportunities for a bastard girl. Father was content I was pursuing such a valuable craft." Shaking her head, she resumed playing.

He smiled slightly, hoping the change of topic would ease both of their nerves. "Do you still wish to become one?" he pushed his heavy horse ahead.

"If I survive the wars." She mumbled. "I shall bear my sword for now." She said louder.

"I hear you are rather skilled with arms, my lady." 

"I hear the same for you."

"Some even call you 'Visenya Come Again'"

Lyarra scoffed. "Well, I lack a dragon."

"Yet you carry Valyrian steel as she did," Dae snatched her catapult from the board.

"Oh, please," with her next move, she removed his elephant, "I assure you, Your Grace. I have no notions of becoming a queen."

The conversation soon died as the game got more heated. They were too occupied with their pieces to initiate further inquiries. A handful of minutes later, Daeron found his king trapped between her heavy horses and ramble, while her dragon was in direct fire line of trebuchet and catapults.

"We seem to be equally at another's mercy," the lady said with a small smile.

"That we do. A draw perhaps?" He suggested expecting her to refuse and opt to continue the game until they have a concrete winner.

"A draw it is." His brows rose high, "Do not be so surprised, Dragon. I am not a simple savage who only fights. I know when to put down my sword."

"I never thought you were."

She chuckled humorlessly, "You are not a good liar," she said, getting to her feet.

That night, when the King fell to his bed, sleep failed to find him as it usually did. He kept replaying his conversation with the lady. She was right, maybe he did believe her to be… rougher. In the same way, she believed him to be cruel and fearsome. He was fearsome; Dae had to accept this about himself a long time ago. People who had looked at him with adorned eyes were in Essos. Here in Westeros, the adoration was scarcely given. All he could hope for was acceptance, and perhaps in time, his people would find it in their hearts to spare a prayer for him.

Cruelty, however, was not a face he could digest to wear. Dae grew up knowing cruelty. His childhood, innocence, and all had been taken away with cruelty. So were his child and his wife. He had picked up a sword to escape the cruelty. He had walked into the burning pyre to cease the cruelty that followed him since his birth.

Yet when his children were born, more violence had found him and the ones who followed him… Red Waste… Qarth… Astapor… Yunkai… Meereen… Volantis… and now Westeros. She reckons I believe myself to be a God. What sort of God is often as lost as I am? Or as lonely as I am? What sort of Gods fear the winter coming? Feels crippled for the end is approaching? What sort of Gods crave a drop of warmth from the eyes of a loved one?

As the sleep claimed him, the prophecy of Others and princes haunted the young king’s dreams till the morning. 

On their third night of playing, they once again flipped the colors. Starting the game with his scarlet light horse, it was the king who initiated the conversation.

"I hear you received… a letter from your brother. Delivered by an owl, I believe."

"I did, yes."

"I hope it carried good news."

"Oh, the best," a genuine smile bloomed on her face, catching Dae off guard. "My sister Sansa has been found in Gulltown."

"Wonderful news, my lady. I hope she has not been harmed?"

"No, Your Grace. My brother says she was unharmed. It was she who gathered the guards and opened the gates of Gulltown so that Blackfish could take the city." Her voice dripped with pride.

"That was brave of her." She nodded with a small smile and played her jade piece. "Will she join your brother?"

"Oh, no. She is already on her way to the North. Lady Stark will be awaiting her in the Neck from there; they will finally go home." A quiet sadness laced her words.

He smiled. "May I ask you a question, my lady?"

"Since when do you seek permission to ask?"

He chuckled. "The letter I was told was delivered by an owl." She nodded. "I did not know they could be trained."

"Owls can not be trained, wargs can."

"I am afraid I do not know what that is…” The next few minutes passed as Lyarra told him various legends of skinchanging and wargs without giving much or any real detail about the process.

“Does this mean,” Daeron moved his dragon ahead, “the tales of your brother turning into a wolf during the battles are true?”

She chuckled, her eyes trained on the board, “Mayhaps, Your Grace.”

“You have a wolf yourself,” he stated more than asked.

She raised her gaze from the board and crooked her brow, “Are you worried I will turn into a wolf?”

“Not much. Shall I?”

The lady hummed, holding her jade dragon, “Mayhaps, Your Grace,” she echoed. “Dragons rule the skies, yet in narrow paths and thick woods, it’s the wolves who determine who keeps life,” she moved her dragon, “and who does not.”

The light threat amused him, “Paths can be ruined and woods burnt.”

“Aye, next to every other thing on the ground. Fires do not choose and pick when they rain, but fangs target what they tear.” She snatched two of his spearmen off the board.

He chuckled lightly, amused further at being so openly challenged, “How did you become with wolves, my lady?”

“We found them in Wolfswood. Their mother had been killed by a stag, yet managed to give birth.”

“Did your other siblings have one?”

“Aye, all of the Stark children. Mine, Robb’s, and Rickon’s are full-grown. Bran’s disappeared with him.” Her voice thickened with each word, “the girls – Nymeria, Arya’s wolf shall be still alive. Lady, Sansa’s wolf, was executed because of Joffrey. Sansa had cried for weeks. Every letter she had sent me, her words were smudged with her tears.” Lady Lyarra did not meet his gaze.

"As I know, it has been years since you last saw her."

"Yes," the sadness reached her grey eyes, brightening them so earnestly it almost hurt Dae, "she was two and ten when they departed for King’s Landing. A child… Ser Barristan said she was by our father’s side when Joffrey took his head." Her voice hardened as the steel in her eyes. "We know they… hurt her. Lannisters humiliated and beat her in the court and did worse… before the realm."

"At least, she is safe now, my lady."

Her hum was full of distrust. "What about Tyrion?" Her eyes drilled into his, a pair of grey ice chips. "He has been noticeably absent by your side."

The king inhaled deeply. They had relative peace for two nights. A delicate truce they both knew would come apart. "I understand your hatred -"

"How much do you know of the Red Wedding?"

"I believe a little."

"We were invited to a wedding. Guest right is held holy in the North. We had eaten their salt and drunk their water, Dragon. Robb had married Lord Frey’s daughter, yet it was not enough before the gold of the Lannisters. My brother’s wife, Roslin, was with child," she breathed in deeply as the grim began in his heart; he knew where the tale was going to take him. "They were going to kill off my brother, me, and Rickon, leaving Roslin’s child as the heir. Tywin was going to get broken North, Walder was going to get a Warden grandchild… the Gods are funny sometimes, it was his second son Emmon who conspired with his bastard brothers and Boltons against his father’s plot and… went for Roslin. They stabbed her belly, killing Robb’s child before our eyes. They put many arrows in my brother, and an axe on my shoulder… Guest right is one of the holiest virtues in the North,” she repeated, her face hardened. The lady moved her jade piece and clutched her fingers together on the board. “They broke it. If it were not for Lord Reed and his crannogmen, we would all be dead." The ice laced her words. “Turns, while Tywin was giving promises to Walder, he was promising Twins to Emmon in exchange for the end of Robb’s line.” Her eyes pierced into his.

“There is no excuse or justification for what they did. I am sincerely sorry, my lady. I lost a child and wife to a betrayal. I share your brother’s pain.” He said through his rage. He had heard of Red Wedding; however, the details had changed and varied from one mouth to another.

 “Oh, that is not all, Your Grace. Do you know what they said while they put knives to Roslin’s unborn babe? They said, "Lannisters send their regards". Now tell me, Dragon, what would you do if it were your brother and your brother’s who faced the betrayal mine did?" She shook her head with a pitying smile, "But it was your brother, was it not, and your brother’s children."

“You forget yourself, Lady Lyarra.”

“And you forget your own words, Your Grace. Was it not you who kept demanding that my house remember our ancient history?”

“You know very well my request of your fidelity is not comparable to your wish for revenge.”

“I must disagree, Your Grace. We do exactly what you ask us – ” 

“By claiming that I forget how the end of my family was brought?! I grew up with the tales of Usurper and his dogs, Lannister and Starks.” Lady winced at the words, “Who stole our throne, murdered, brutalized my family.”

None of them was speaking quietly now. “Then why do you still ally with a Lannister?”

"Because each time someone looks at me, the first thing they see is Mad King’s son. I know what is to be judged for the crimes and sins of your family. The reason I had aligned myself with Tyrion was that he had so far proved loyal,” she opened her mouth to argue. The king raised his hand in the air to continue in a calmer tone. “However, what you brought to my attention about Lord Tyrion’s devotion to his family changed my stance on the opinion I had of him. I cannot and will not dismiss a man for the crimes of his past when he begs for change –“

“You are being naïve –” she bit back.

“I am being reasonable. If my memory serves me well, it was you who told me you used different means to win against the wildlings.” Her face hardened more as her jaw clenched.

“I was at war.”

“So was he when he stood by his family’s side.” She shook her head, discontent dripping from her every inch.

“What did you do to the murderers of your child and wife?”

“I avenged them without punishing their family for it.”

“My dislike of Tyrion is due to his actions, Your Grace. The things he did in the name of House Lannister. The things he is capable of doing.”

“To be truthful, my lady,” he said, sharper. “What you have informed me about him has draped a shadow on the trust I have for Tyrion. Yet I refuse to dismiss or punish him unless he wrongs me directly. Similarly, how I refuse to judge him simply for his family name.”  A mixed group of emotions passed across the young woman’s face in the split second her mask was cracked, from surprise to disapproval to estimation.

“I am not blinded by revenge.”

“You sound as if you are.”

“My family is all I have. Not my name, not my sword, not my prospects. It’s my family that I have, and I will protect them.”

“No one expects otherwise.”

“I am a daughter of Eddard Stark, Dragon. I know honor and righteousness. I also know that honor did not help my father in the steps of the Sept. Neither did the same righteousness protect my brother from Freys and Bolton’s betrayal.” She paused, “Ser Barristan says you oft found yourself in trouble because you did not spare your mercy only for the worthy but for the unworthy, too. It seems to me you are yet to grow out of it.”

“I thought I was a God who believed himself above all men, not a faulty man who spreads mercy.”

“Gods spare us mercy, do they not?” She said, getting up to her feet.

"Where are you going? We have not finished the game."

"We have. Look down, Dragon. I have your king.” She curtseyed half-heartedly and left.

Dae darted his eyes back to the board. She had trapped his scarlet king between her crossbowmen in the direct fire line of her jade dragon. She was right. She had won. 

[divergenseas]

Queen Rhaella and her darling princess᪥

✎ᝰ.Manonnym117

[jaisboras]

Hidden Princess by jboras

Chapters - 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 Pairing: Fem!Jon Snow x Male!Daenerys Targaryen Tags: au, angst, Jon and Dany grow up together, Fem!Jon has children, snowstorm supremacy, Targcest, eventual smut, angst, slow burn TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny, mentions of non-con

Summary: In this world, Visenya Targaryen (Fem!Jon) was raised in Dragonstone by her mother, Lady Lyanna, alongside of her uncles, Daeron (Male!Daenerys), and Viserys, for five years until a tragedy fell on them. The Targaryen brothers fled to the East. The princess was hidden in the North, cloaked as the bastard daughter of Lord Stark.

Now, 13 years later, betrayed by the Night’s Watch and hunted through Westeros, Lyarra (Visenya) flees across the Narrow sea with her children, seeking refuge, and perhaps revenge, mostly safety from her only hope - Daeron, King of Dragon’s Bay, Father of Dragons.

Notes: I have posted this story on ao3. However, the recent hours long shut down gave me a startling realization that the site might go down... any moment and so would my works. So from now on I will be cross-posting))

Notes: I wrote this chapter imagining how George would reveal the true identity of FemJon as the last chapter of The Dance with the Dragons. 1. In this story, instead of being with Ygritte, Arra (FemJon) was with Val, and they had twins (Val dies before their birth). 2. A quick backstory: Arra was with Robb during the war and the Red Wedding. Beyond the wall as well (so she has been through it (I will reveal the backstory in time)). 3. Name of the twins: Girl - Valia (after Val, Lyanna, and Arya), Boy - Robdard (after Ned and Robb)

Chapter 1: Lyarra (wc: 1K)

The Third Year of Autumn

In the hour of the wolf, the moon hung high in the sky. In the crippling light of the moon, Arra approached the cradles. Her son, her sweet boy, head already full of black curls in only two moons, slept peacefully, cuddling his pup toy closer. With a kiss on his head, Arra regarded her son - a true Stark, she thought. The long face and pale skin of the Starks. I wonder whether he will have the wolf's blood. If he had the grey eyes, he'd be father reborn. Sadness once again came as a fist to her throat. It was a recurring occurrence. How could it not…

She moved on to the cradle closer to the fire. Her little girl loved the warmth, always edging to be closer to the fire. Arra knelt next to the babe. My beautiful pup. Skin glowing as bright as the moon above. She started taking off some layers of clothing. The night was not cold enough to be buried in these furs, even though her girl would have loved it. She lastly removed the hat. In an instance, Arra froze. Unable to move, she stared. At her daughter's hair. A bucket of cold water was poured on her, then a bucket of hot. She stood and she stared.

She was not standing in the tent anymore. She was back into her mother's arms, being carried to her bed. She smelled the storm and rain… The dark walls of the fortress… the crinkling light of the torches… and laughter… so much of it…

Murmuring something to Willa, like a bullet, she left the tent. Started running or going. Or was she walking? She wasn't sure. She wasn't even aware of reaching the end of the camp until Tormund stopped her.

"What's wrong, crow? You're shooting ‘roun the camp. Where at this hour?"

"Godswood"

Tormund stared worried. Arra sighed, trying to look tired, not at the edge of a breakdown.

"I need to pray. I have Ghost with me. Do not fret."

She left without waiting for his response. True to her word, Ghost appeared the same minute. She took off once more. Running as fast as she can. For minutes. Maybe for hours. Until she saw the Godswood.

Getting closer to the biggest tree, she knelt and began to weep. She wept, and wept more. Prayed and sobbed. Prayed a little more and sobbed much more.

Arra felt Ghost's nudge in her hip. As if waking from a dream, she looked around her, taking notice of her surroundings. How long was she there? She did not know. She slowly became aware of the silence of the Gods, slow winds, and bone-clenching freeze of air. Turning back to Ghost, her heart filled with guilt. Ghost was looking at her with deep, sad eyes.

"Do not worry, my friend. I am alright."

As she said the last word, she remembered why she ran, why she wept. Her body started to tremble, shaking more every moment. Fear. Pure horror filled her every sense. Her daughter… did not take after her father. Her blond is not as honey as Val's was. Her girl took after Arra's own father, sire. Valia's hair was shining silver beneath the moon.

"Gods… help me. Fear for my girl. For my children. I beg. I beg do not let them have my fate… my uncles' fate… I will persevere. I will fight. I will survive. I will do what I shall and more to give them a home. Help me, my Gods. Give me the strength to make it through. Show me the path. I have lost my way. I am ready to fight. Yet I am lost between fights."

She thought back to her recent years. All the struggle. Loss. Pain. Fight. The loss of her family, her purpose, her fight, her love… all she has now is her two babes and fights centuries old, battles millennia deep.

Ghost snuck closer as of shielding her from the world.

"I will bear it all, Ghost. I will endure. I am the blood of the Kings of Winter, First Men. I am the daughter of She-Wolf and Last Dragon. I am the blood of Old Valyria and Dragons. I will endure. So will my children."

She thought back to her girl. Her hair shining as silver as the moon itself. Silver that is only seen in the moonlight. Many thought of Val's blonde when they saw her girl’s pin straight hair. But she knew better. It was the same silver as her best friend's. The subject of her warmest memories. Her Dae… Her Daeron.

Now she was taken back to Dragonstone once again. Her mom was carrying her to her bed. Dae, running and giggling after her, jumped on the bed. Without a word, the kids snuck closer as Lyanna gazed at them with the warmest eyes. Laughing:

“What have you done to Viserys again?”

Daeron’s only response was his giggles. So was her own.

“Children.” Lady Lyanna chastised them. Yet Daeron jumped in before she could continue further.

“He deserved it, Lya. He was calling Vissie a bad word.”

After a moment of hesitation, Lyanna argued.

“He is your older brother, you should show him respect…”

“Viserys is right then, mama? I am a dragonspawn?” She had uttered in a small voice.

“Of course, not.” Her mother said fiercely with a hint of anger. “You are the princess of House Targaryen, the daughter of the Last Dragon. You are Visenya Targaryen. And you will be just as fierce and as brave as the first Visenya was once. I will speak to Viserys and teach him his mistake. Yet you shall remember we are a family. When the snows fall and the white winds blow…”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” the children said in unison.

And that night, Lady Lyanna told them the tale of the quiet and wild wolf from Winterlands.

Visenya Targaryen. That was her true name. A name that she hasn’t uttered in 12 years since she was torn from her mother and her home. She had been Arra Snow too long to know the Visenya. Wrath of winter has shushed and drowned her dragon blood. The secret was buried with her father, Eddard, her uncle in truth. Yet the Gods were playing their games. Decades of burying her grief, pain, and rage, just to bury Princess Visenya Targaryen. Years of forgetting, not allowing herself to remember, just to give Bastard Arra Snow a life.

And life had played its worst trick on her. As their Stark blood was not enough for their lives to be under danger every moment, now her children were at the risk of being hunted as Targaryens.

And all she could do was stand and leave the Godswoods.

And persevere.

And wait and fight.

[hylialeia]

easy to forget but book jon snow is great actually. he gets so drunk he cries in his first chapter. he's 16 years old and laser focused on loan negotiation. he keeps getting promoted against his will. he's the chosen fantasy protagonist with the worst genre awareness ever. he implements pro immigration social reforms. he has a giant albino pet wolf. he cuts a guy's head off. he thinks he invented cunnilingus. he's been dead for 15 years.

[spirit-meets-the-b0ne]

Snowstorm week 2026

Day 7 | A Dream of Spring

after the Long Night was ended they kissed in the light of a new dawn 🌅

on twitter: X

[forlya]

snowstormweek2026

Day 2 parallels

Snowstorm and rhaelya

Down by 卡ber女士

[aisatsaa]

I'll be slowly uploading my art here too from now on hehe SUMMER TIME ☀️🌊

[jaisboras]

Amber of Loves VI

Pairing: Fem!Jon Snow x Male!Daenerys Targaryen Tags: au, Robb Stark lives, Rhaegar Targaryen lives, hostage situations, snowstorm supremacy, Targcest, eventual smut, angst, slow burn TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny, mentions of non-con Summary: The only way to end the Lions is a pact: a new one between the Wolves and Dragons. Yet it comes with a price. Daeron Targaryen demand a hostage with Stark blood and ever dutiful, Lyarra Stark steps in and volunteers herself.

Masterlist

Chapter 6: His Pride (WC: 5.2K)

The Third Year of Autumn

The Second Moon of The 305th Year After Conquest

"Is it true you slew a Giant?" Lord Waters asked Lady Stark as Dae tried to stifle another sigh. It was the twenty-second day of the second moon. Recovered from the wreckage of the storm, they were back on the march at last. They were approaching Pinkmaiden swiftly. The roads had been empty, raising Daeron's suspicions; they mean to give us a good battle, then it is what they shall receive. 

"No, I have not," the lady chuckled. At his invitation, she had been joining them in the vanguard, which was the only time the king really saw the lady. Which also meant that each day he had to listen to hours of Aurane's attempts to charm the she-wolf. Dae had to give her due - she was witty and quick with her answers, humoring the lord from a safe distance.

Waters cursed in faux dismay. "What a pity, my lady," he went on with a sly smirk. "Is it true then you married a wildling and slew him the same night?"

Lady Lyarra laughed lightly, "I am afraid I must disappoint you once again, my lord."

Lord Aurane snickered and tsked, "My lady, my lady. Do not tell me all the heroic tales of you; I have heard they are naught."

It was Brienne the Blue who answered, "Not all, my lord. She indeed climbed the Wall up and down." 

"You mean climbed as in -"

"Bare hands and feet." Brienne continued.

"We were not much bare, we had tools that aided us," Lady said softly.

A wave of surprise traveled through the listeners. 

"What forced you to climb it, my lady?" Ser Barristan inquired, "It’s been quite a few years, but I still remember the monstrosity the Wall is."

"Lord Jeor had fallen sick, so Allister Thorne was in charge, a sour, insipid man. I knew he would put an arrow to me the moment he saw me on the horizon."

"Did he not know who you are?" Ser Barristan was appalled.

"Of course, he did. That is why he hated me... He was a Targaryen loyalist, banished after the Rebellion."

"So he hated your father."

"Aye, good ser. He also hated that I associated with the wildlings. He claimed I had become a turncloak. Anyway, I knew the only way to go to Castle Black was if I went from the South. There was a group of wildlings who intended to climb the Wall. I joined them."

"Surely those savages did not simply allow you to be their companion." Lord Waters continued.

"Nay, they did not. They passed south to attack the Watch. I was their captive. I escaped." Not her first time being a captive, then. The king mused, keeping his gaze ahead.

"I have heard of a battle in the Wall, or was it a folly, too?"

"It was not. Wildlings, almost thousands strong, attacked from the North of it, while around 100 of them attacked from the South, the same ones that I climbed the Wall with." 

"How tall is the Wall?" Daeron's curiosity got the best of him; his gaze kept ahead.

"A foot or two shorter than the Great Pyramid of Meereen." His loyal knight answered. "And fully made of ice. It melts from time to time, cries like a mourning crone. The big chunks of it often fall off. Climbing it," he huffed in disbelief, "a quiet ordeal."

Lady Lyarra only shrugged it off. 

"And, my lady? Please, do not hold it on me now. Tell me how the battle went."

"It went on for six nights and five days. It was harsh, bloody, but we held the Wall until my king brother arrived with the Northern army..."

His companions continued pestering the lady about the tales of the North. Daeron made a conscious effort not to listen or join, as he had in the past few days. He had more pressing matters to contemplate than the lady who oft thought the worst of him in every situation. Dae recalled their last conversation when she had sought him for one of the wildlings he had freed. The king remembered the trace of disbelief on her face when the truth of the wildlings had been revealed. The Dragon King had been misunderstood, undervalued, and disdained most of his life. Thus, it was not rage he felt, it was more of a bafflement, a shadowy reminder of his earlier days as ruler when he had been questioned and dismissed like a boy. A treacherous voice in his mind kept telling him the lady's ill disposition was simply a misjudgment of his character, as his conversation with Rhaegar came to him. His brother had left on Viserion a day before to join his main strength in Stormlands. The prince was going to lead them westward into the Lion’s den, while Daeron united with a smaller part of his troops, led by Ser Davos.

"Skore gaomagon ao iotāpagon dubāzma, lēkia?" What busies your mind, brother? Rhaegar had asked him while they were walking up to the dragons. 

"Daoriot ofos realmos, lēkia." The matters of the realm. Dae had said, eyes focused on his slumbering children. At the sight of the men, the creatures lifted from their rest and greeted them with excited screeches. 

"Iksā daor iā sȳz pirtirys, Dae." You are not a good liar, Dae. The young man scoffed and glanced sideways at his brother. Rhaegar did not humor him. "Rual nyke naejot gīmigon," Allow me to guess. He looked back in the direction of the camp. "Issa se zokla." It is the wolf.

Dae did not answer. "You should be able to hold civility." Dae opened his mouth to reply, "Not for now. For the days after we defeat the lions and their allies."

"I tried, Rhaegar."

"Perhaps, you should try more with a true effort from your heart." He said in his usual iron tone, joined by his glance carrying countless reminders. 

"If my Hand says so." 

"Invite her for a cyvasse match. The lady told me she is fond of the game…"

As the sun began its descent, the Targaryen army broke camp. The king had sent an invitation to the lady through Missandei, and she had accepted. Right on time, the guard announced her arrival. Lady Lyarra entered the tent dressed in a brown wool dress that covered her skin, hugging her figure. Her hair was held half up in multiple twisted braids. 

"Good evening, Your Grace. Thank you for your invitation." Her eyes were steel grey in the candlelight. Unrevealing yet uncruel. 

"Welcome, my lady. I have heard you are an enjoyer of the game. I hope I was not mistaken."

"You weren’t."

"Excellent. My lady, would you have a cup of wine?"

"Thank you, I would."

As they settled around the table, a queer silence fell between them with the board of cyvasse standing on the table.

"I have never seen a scarlet and jade combination of cyvasse pieces." She was the first one to break the silence, starting to arrange her jade figures on the ivory board.

"This was a gift from the Pureborn of Qarth. One of the earlier gifts I received that I still carry with me." He moved his own scarlet pieces. The king loved the game, mostly playing with his brother, who never shied away from challenging the young man. Cyvasse was an intriguing game of war; the strategy began even before the play, with the replacement of the figures. With this in mind, the king placed the pieces in his favorite strategic way. 

"Shall we begin?" He asked. 

"We shall."

"Your move, my lady." The first minutes of the game passed quietly as the players concentrated on their games with careful civility. 

"Heed caution now, my lady," Dae said with a smile, eyeing the opportunity to snatch one of her elephants.

"Oh, no need to worry, Dragon," she replied with a laugh in her tongue. She moved her heavy horse ahead and snatched his two elephants. Dae's next move was to put his rabble around her elephant and snatch two of hers. A smug smile grew on her lips as she raised her eyebrows.

"My lady?" Dae inquired with an arched brow.

"Your Grace," Lyarra said and put the jade trebuchet right in front of the scarlet dragon, trapping his most powerful piece between catapults and heavy horses in the next two moves - a maneuver he had not anticipated. Seeing the surprise on the king's face, the lady giggled, covering it quickly behind her hands.

Daeron recovered fast. With his next move, he entrapped her king with his spearmen. "Now, my lady, what will you do?"

She hummed, focused, and finished her cup. "I'd like another cup, Your Grace," she put, her face a perfect mask once again, revealing naught.

"Then you shall."

 A minute stretched feeling longer than it was while her hand hovered over jade rabble. Brows drawn together, she changed her mind and placed her light horse left to his trebuchet, directly blocking his shot at her dragon. 

"Where have you learned to play the game, my lady, if I may ask?"

"From a Dornish acquaintance, Your Grace."

"Not a friend?"

She hesitated. "It is hard to make true friends in our times."

Dae sighed, feeling the truth of her words in his chest as he pushed forward the scarlet crossbowmen. "Don't I know it." He mumbled.

"You seem to have true friends among your ranks," She had heard him. Daeron took a moment to consider the statement. He had loyal captains, devoted soldiers, but they were his followers at the end of the day. Could someone be a friend to another without being an equal? He wondered as she made her move.

"I have loyal people among my ranks." 

"They say the higher one stands, the lonelier one gets. I have seen it with my brother."

Dae hummed, realizing this was their most civil moment yet, except for the rushed conversation after the storm in the healer’s tent. "What about you, my lady?"

"I’d like to believe I have true friends."

He hummed, "Yet you are not quick to trust," the king said, removing her rabble. 

"Neither are you," she removed his crossbowmen.

"True. But I rather believe in people, give them a chance before condemning them to an iron judgement."

"That’s a dangerous habit for a king. Suspicion brings protection."

"Over suspicion brings misjudgment." He knocked over her catapult.

"I’d rather be safe than right." You’d rather hate me for my name than see me for who I am, he mused bitterly. 

The next hour passed with easier conversation, mostly about the army’s recovery after the retched storm. Daeron, with a surprise, realised he quite enjoyed playing with the lady, for she matched nail to nail with the king, maneuvering and playing him smartly. Yet at the end, it was the young man who took down the opponent’s jade dragon.

"Well played, my lady. You did not hold back."

"You sound surprised."

"I am ... only slightly. Most people would rather lose to me so they’d sing me praises. But I should have expected the difference from you."

"Well, expectations can be a tricky business, Dragon. And a dangerous one." 

"Perhaps," He smiled kindly. "Yet I expect we are to play again."

Lady Lyarra scoffed, "Of course. I have a score to settle, Your Grace."

The next day's march was fast and efficient under the relatively warm autumn sun. When the moon hung high, they settled around the table as on the night before. The young nobles changed the colors this time: Lady Lyarra played scarlet, while the King played jade. 

"You were very witty on the board yesterday, Dragon. I mean to repay the gesture."

Dae laughed lightly, "Be my guest, wolf." 

The wolf kept her promise: the first hour of the game passed fast as she came at him with all the vigour. It was thrilling to play against a true match, the king realized as the lady trapped his dragon between her spearmen.  

"Do not fret badly, Targaryen," her voice was full of smugness, "you have played well so far. Your loss will not be humiliating." She pushed her elephants ahead.

"The game is still on, my lady." 

Her laughter was formal, not reaching her eyes. Placing his heavy horse right before her catapult, the king watched her reaction to be rewarded by her surprise. She had missed the opening. Lady Lyarra hummed. "It seems we will still be here for a while."

"Yours was a clever strategy."

"But you figured it out."

He pulled his light horse back, "The Battle of Redgrass, was it not? "

She paused, hesitating, "It was."

"You were going to smash my pieces between your spearmen and crossbowmen like the Anvil and the Hammer." He chuckled. "Do not be so surprised, my lady. I know my history."

"Not many people do."

"I am not many."

"Oh, believe me," she placed her rabble in front of his trebuchet, "I know."

"My brother has mentioned you are fond of reading. I did not know you were a lover of history." 

"I learned what I can, Your Grace. To serve my house with the best of my abilities."

"As I know, you have. Your brother tricked Lord Tywin in Riverlands, did he not?"

"Oh, that was all my brother. He is a good commander." She did not say it as a praise; she stated it simply as a fact. 

"The realm needs good commanders."

The silence that followed was loud as Dae could practically hear her thoughts. The wonder engulfed him. What was she thinking? And why did he need so desperately to know? She looked like a statue carved of finest marble in the candlelight. Her raven hair in braids poured on her back like a molten obsidian. She was draped in brown attire, a perfect contrast to her milk-pale skin. Her cheeks and claw scars across her forehead and eyes had reddened slightly - wine was to blame, Dae believed, observing her blush the last two nights. Her eyes, however, he had a hard time swaying his gaze each time…

"Your people sing praises to your command." Her voice brought him back to the moment," I have heard many boast of your Battle of Fire."

"It was a brutal fight." Daeron resumed playing.

"Are they all not?"

"This one was… more," they both paused playing, attentions lurching onto one another instead of the game. 

"One of your Dothrakis said it was the first time you charred into battle on a dragon's back."

Dae heard the unspoken in her words, "If you mean to ask me whether I burned my enemies on the ground, yes, I did. I do not claim absolute rectitude, my lady. I never have…" He paused, inhaling deeply. "There is way too much blood in my hands for me to claim so... When I united the Dothraki, I killed thousands of screamers. I first killed their khals before they could kill or sell me as they had intended… Most of their followers joined me after their deaths. The rest refused to bend the knee and forgo their ways of pillaging, slaving, raping. They chose to fight me. They gathered and waited for me in the outside gates of Vaes Dothrak. The lands are considered holy; it's forbidden to carry steel, but they figured out a way to spill blood. Battle went on for three days and nights... By the end, 14 Khalasars had been wiped out altogether... That means almost 100,000 screamers fell." The king saw her breath catch. "But that day, I freed 900,000 slaves."

"For every life you took, you saved 9," She said after a moment. 

"Yet I still took those lives. And many, much many more in my path to end slavery in Dragaon's Bay, Volantis, and Qarth."

"Yet you saved more lives than you took." It did not sound like an assurance. The words were laced with more unsaid meanings. 

"You have never held out on your words before, my lady. Do not begin now."

Lady Starks paused briefly; Dae observed a storm brewing in her eyes. "When you alter or take millions of lives, when you claim and conquer while you fly above them all, it is easy to forget you are a man. Targaryens, even when they had lost their dragons, always believed themselves to be above men. Even above Gods."

Dae hesitated as the words hung between them and soon broke into bitter laughter. "You fear I believe myself to be a God, my lady."

"They say you walked into roaring fire with stoned eggs and came out unscathed with three dragons."

"They say true." She raised her eyebrow to indicate this proves her point. "I never had the luxury to feel invincible, Lady Lyarra. I do not know what you reckon of my upbringing, but allow me to tell you that, unlike my ancestors, I did not grow up as a prince of my House. In the humiliating life that Viserys and I led, our title often damaged us more than aided us. My brother failed to humble his arrogance throughout it all. He believed himself to be the dragon." Dae had to momentarily break eye contact, remembering all the times he had accidentally woken the dragon. "For that, he faced an end I do not wish on my enemies…” The amethyst eyes found the greys, “I am... conscious of the weights of my deeds. I carry them alongside the burden of my name... Have you ever seen 100,000 people gathered in one place? It's hard to fathom to-"

"I have," she cut in. "There were more than 100,000 wildlings who attacked the Wall. I stood on the top of it for days, holding them back... They tried to climb it and break the gate. We had to -" she cleared her throat. "It was not a simple battle - we had to use different means to hold them back." She lowered her gaze to her folded hands on the table. 

"I do not enjoy killing," he said earnestly.

"Neither do I."

"I equally dislike fighting itself."

"I, as well," she said softly but firmly. "I wanted to be a healer. I was trained to be one by our Maester Luwin until the war… There are not many opportunities for a bastard girl. Father was content I was pursuing such a valuable craft." Shaking her head, she resumed playing.

He smiled slightly, hoping the change of topic would ease both of their nerves. "Do you still wish to become one?" he pushed his heavy horse ahead.

"If I survive the wars." She mumbled. "I shall bear my sword for now." She said louder.

"I hear you are rather skilled with arms, my lady." 

"I hear the same for you."

"Some even call you 'Visenya Come Again'"

Lyarra scoffed. "Well, I lack a dragon."

"Yet you carry Valyrian steel as she did," Dae snatched her catapult from the board.

"Oh, please," with her next move, she removed his elephant, "I assure you, Your Grace. I have no notions of becoming a queen."

The conversation soon died as the game got more heated. They were too occupied with their pieces to initiate further inquiries. A handful of minutes later, Daeron found his king trapped between her heavy horses and ramble, while her dragon was in direct fire line of trebuchet and catapults.

"We seem to be equally at another's mercy," the lady said with a small smile.

"That we do. A draw perhaps?" He suggested expecting her to refuse and opt to continue the game until they have a concrete winner.

"A draw it is." His brows rose high, "Do not be so surprised, Dragon. I am not a simple savage who only fights. I know when to put down my sword."

"I never thought you were."

She chuckled humorlessly, "You are not a good liar," she said, getting to her feet.

That night, when the King fell to his bed, sleep failed to find him as it usually did. He kept replaying his conversation with the lady. She was right, maybe he did believe her to be… rougher. In the same way, she believed him to be cruel and fearsome. He was fearsome; Dae had to accept this about himself a long time ago. People who had looked at him with adorned eyes were in Essos. Here in Westeros, the adoration was scarcely given. All he could hope for was acceptance, and perhaps in time, his people would find it in their hearts to spare a prayer for him.

Cruelty, however, was not a face he could digest to wear. Dae grew up knowing cruelty. His childhood, innocence, and all had been taken away with cruelty. So were his child and his wife. He had picked up a sword to escape the cruelty. He had walked into the burning pyre to cease the cruelty that followed him since his birth.

Yet when his children were born, more violence had found him and the ones who followed him… Red Waste… Qarth… Astapor… Yunkai… Meereen… Volantis… and now Westeros. She reckons I believe myself to be a God. What sort of God is often as lost as I am? Or as lonely as I am? What sort of Gods fear the winter coming? Feels crippled for the end is approaching? What sort of Gods crave a drop of warmth from the eyes of a loved one?

As the sleep claimed him, the prophecy of Others and princes haunted the young king’s dreams till the morning. 

On their third night of playing, they once again flipped the colors. Starting the game with his scarlet light horse, it was the king who initiated the conversation.

"I hear you received… a letter from your brother. Delivered by an owl, I believe."

"I did, yes."

"I hope it carried good news."

"Oh, the best," a genuine smile bloomed on her face, catching Dae off guard. "My sister Sansa has been found in Gulltown."

"Wonderful news, my lady. I hope she has not been harmed?"

"No, Your Grace. My brother says she was unharmed. It was she who gathered the guards and opened the gates of Gulltown so that Blackfish could take the city." Her voice dripped with pride.

"That was brave of her." She nodded with a small smile and played her jade piece. "Will she join your brother?"

"Oh, no. She is already on her way to the North. Lady Stark will be awaiting her in the Neck from there; they will finally go home." A quiet sadness laced her words.

He smiled. "May I ask you a question, my lady?"

"Since when do you seek permission to ask?"

He chuckled. "The letter I was told was delivered by an owl." She nodded. "I did not know they could be trained."

"Owls can not be trained, wargs can."

"I am afraid I do not know what that is…” The next few minutes passed as Lyarra told him various legends of skinchanging and wargs without giving much or any real detail about the process.

“Does this mean,” Daeron moved his dragon ahead, “the tales of your brother turning into a wolf during the battles are true?”

She chuckled, her eyes trained on the board, “Mayhaps, Your Grace.”

“You have a wolf yourself,” he stated more than asked.

She raised her gaze from the board and crooked her brow, “Are you worried I will turn into a wolf?”

“Not much. Shall I?”

The lady hummed, holding her jade dragon, “Mayhaps, Your Grace,” she echoed. “Dragons rule the skies, yet in narrow paths and thick woods, it’s the wolves who determine who keeps life,” she moved her dragon, “and who does not.”

The light threat amused him, “Paths can be ruined and woods burnt.”

“Aye, next to every other thing on the ground. Fires do not choose and pick when they rain, but fangs target what they tear.” She snatched two of his spearmen off the board.

He chuckled lightly, amused further at being so openly challenged, “How did you become with wolves, my lady?”

“We found them in Wolfswood. Their mother had been killed by a stag, yet managed to give birth.”

“Did your other siblings have one?”

“Aye, all of the Stark children. Mine, Robb’s, and Rickon’s are full-grown. Bran’s disappeared with him.” Her voice thickened with each word, “the girls – Nymeria, Arya’s wolf shall be still alive. Lady, Sansa’s wolf, was executed because of Joffrey. Sansa had cried for weeks. Every letter she had sent me, her words were smudged with her tears.” Lady Lyarra did not meet his gaze.

"As I know, it has been years since you last saw her."

"Yes," the sadness reached her grey eyes, brightening them so earnestly it almost hurt Dae, "she was two and ten when they departed for King’s Landing. A child… Ser Barristan said she was by our father’s side when Joffrey took his head." Her voice hardened as the steel in her eyes. "We know they… hurt her. Lannisters humiliated and beat her in the court and did worse… before the realm."

"At least, she is safe now, my lady."

Her hum was full of distrust. "What about Tyrion?" Her eyes drilled into his, a pair of grey ice chips. "He has been noticeably absent by your side."

The king inhaled deeply. They had relative peace for two nights. A delicate truce they both knew would come apart. "I understand your hatred -"

"How much do you know of the Red Wedding?"

"I believe a little."

"We were invited to a wedding. Guest right is held holy in the North. We had eaten their salt and drunk their water, Dragon. Robb had married Lord Frey’s daughter, yet it was not enough before the gold of the Lannisters. My brother’s wife, Roslin, was with child," she breathed in deeply as the grim began in his heart; he knew where the tale was going to take him. "They were going to kill off my brother, me, and Rickon, leaving Roslin’s child as the heir. Tywin was going to get broken North, Walder was going to get a Warden grandchild… the Gods are funny sometimes, it was his second son Emmon who conspired with his bastard brothers and Boltons against his father’s plot and… went for Roslin. They stabbed her belly, killing Robb’s child before our eyes. They put many arrows in my brother, and an axe on my shoulder… Guest right is one of the holiest virtues in the North,” she repeated, her face hardened. The lady moved her jade piece and clutched her fingers together on the board. “They broke it. If it were not for Lord Reed and his crannogmen, we would all be dead." The ice laced her words. “Turns, while Tywin was giving promises to Walder, he was promising Twins to Emmon in exchange for the end of Robb’s line.” Her eyes pierced into his.

“There is no excuse or justification for what they did. I am sincerely sorry, my lady. I lost a child and wife to a betrayal. I share your brother’s pain.” He said through his rage. He had heard of Red Wedding; however, the details had changed and varied from one mouth to another.

 “Oh, that is not all, Your Grace. Do you know what they said while they put knives to Roslin’s unborn babe? They said, "Lannisters send their regards". Now tell me, Dragon, what would you do if it were your brother and your brother’s who faced the betrayal mine did?" She shook her head with a pitying smile, "But it was your brother, was it not, and your brother’s children."

“You forget yourself, Lady Lyarra.”

“And you forget your own words, Your Grace. Was it not you who kept demanding that my house remember our ancient history?”

“You know very well my request of your fidelity is not comparable to your wish for revenge.”

“I must disagree, Your Grace. We do exactly what you ask us – ” 

“By claiming that I forget how the end of my family was brought?! I grew up with the tales of Usurper and his dogs, Lannister and Starks.” Lady winced at the words, “Who stole our throne, murdered, brutalized my family.”

None of them was speaking quietly now. “Then why do you still ally with a Lannister?”

"Because each time someone looks at me, the first thing they see is Mad King’s son. I know what is to be judged for the crimes and sins of your family. The reason I had aligned myself with Tyrion was that he had so far proved loyal,” she opened her mouth to argue. The king raised his hand in the air to continue in a calmer tone. “However, what you brought to my attention about Lord Tyrion’s devotion to his family changed my stance on the opinion I had of him. I cannot and will not dismiss a man for the crimes of his past when he begs for change –“

“You are being naïve –” she bit back.

“I am being reasonable. If my memory serves me well, it was you who told me you used different means to win against the wildlings.” Her face hardened more as her jaw clenched.

“I was at war.”

“So was he when he stood by his family’s side.” She shook her head, discontent dripping from her every inch.

“What did you do to the murderers of your child and wife?”

“I avenged them without punishing their family for it.”

“My dislike of Tyrion is due to his actions, Your Grace. The things he did in the name of House Lannister. The things he is capable of doing.”

“To be truthful, my lady,” he said, sharper. “What you have informed me about him has draped a shadow on the trust I have for Tyrion. Yet I refuse to dismiss or punish him unless he wrongs me directly. Similarly, how I refuse to judge him simply for his family name.”  A mixed group of emotions passed across the young woman’s face in the split second her mask was cracked, from surprise to disapproval to estimation.

“I am not blinded by revenge.”

“You sound as if you are.”

“My family is all I have. Not my name, not my sword, not my prospects. It’s my family that I have, and I will protect them.”

“No one expects otherwise.”

“I am a daughter of Eddard Stark, Dragon. I know honor and righteousness. I also know that honor did not help my father in the steps of the Sept. Neither did the same righteousness protect my brother from Freys and Bolton’s betrayal.” She paused, “Ser Barristan says you oft found yourself in trouble because you did not spare your mercy only for the worthy but for the unworthy, too. It seems to me you are yet to grow out of it.”

“I thought I was a God who believed himself above all men, not a faulty man who spreads mercy.”

“Gods spare us mercy, do they not?” She said, getting up to her feet.

"Where are you going? We have not finished the game."

"We have. Look down, Dragon. I have your king.” She curtseyed half-heartedly and left.

Dae darted his eyes back to the board. She had trapped his scarlet king between her crossbowmen in the direct fire line of her jade dragon. She was right. She had won. 

[jaisboras]

Rubatosis II

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x OC/Fem!Stark Tags: Soulmate/Soulmark AU, Independent North AU, Targaryens have dragons, eventual smut, eldest daughter x eldest son dynamics, before Ashford, Young(er) Baelor TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny Summary: Rubatosis - the unsettling awareness of the heartbeat was what Baelor Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Lord Hand to the Good King, felt from the moment he laid eyes on Alarra Stark, the Princess of House Stark, the daughter of King in the North. It was the fastest, the loudest his heart thrummed, came alive from the years of pain and anguish it was buried under. Yet he had to return his heart back to its burial place; he was to be the next King and in none of the Seven hells or heavens, could he marry the daughter of the Northern Kingdom, the centuries long rival and enemy of his House.

Masterlist

Chapter 2: Alamort (wc: 2.8K)

Alamort (à la mort) - half dead with exhaustion

He did not remember the last time he did not ache. He had stood ahead of armies, leading them into war. He had stood before countless men charging at him in the great grass fields. He had broken spears, rebels, and rebellions. Yet Baelor Targaryen was yielding to his own body, dying slowly each day.

"The meeting is adjourned, my lords." The prince’s firm voice disturbed yet another squabble about grains. He would have indulged them more if his patience were not thinning swiftly, the more his body pained. My days are numbered, and I am yet to do a thing valuable for my people. He would often find himself thinking such thoughts, only adding to his gloom. 

Baelor left the chambers first. The red walls had become another offender to the prince, pulling his tolerance as tight as a bow. Taking sharp turns, he opted for the kennels. Not before he was stopped multiple times by various courtiers, lords, ladies, and knights.  He yearned for the skies, the more he walked through the red walls. He did not remember much, reaching the kennels or mounting his horse or riding to the Dragon pit. 

Baelor gave out breath he had unknowingly kept since morning only when he walked through the charred walls of the Pit. The air was hotter than the city, smelling of ash, burnt meat, and molten metal… smelling like freedom, escape. 

"My friend," He said, still far enough for the dragon to hear yet close enough for the Old Fury to raise his glorious head and give an even more glorious roar of welcome. The prince did not bother with propriety and rushed to the beast with all the need he felt. "Vermithor," he said softly, scratching the hot scales. "Take me to the skies, my friend."

They flew away from the city over the Kingswood and Narrow Sea. High enough to feel the air cold, long enough to numb his body and senses. That was the only time the prince did not ache – when he held onto the ancient dragon, who was still fast and smooth like any youngling dragon. 

Most importantly, Vermithor was only being he could touch without feeling suffocated or on the edge of death. Ever since his marking, he could not even hold his only son, let alone anyone else. 

They flew for hours until the chaos of his heart dimmed enough to return to being the perfect heir. Yet, riding back to the castles, all he saw in the faces of his people reminded him he was far away from the truth; there was nothing perfect about him. He was a Dornish with wrong coloring for a Targaryen, a fact they never allowed him to forget since his childhood. He was a marked with a dead mate. In his religion, being marked meant being blessed by the seven gods themselves. The ones who were marked were beloved, respected, and held in the highest regard. Even to some, they were seen as higher than kings as the vessels of the Gods. The markeds were made of one divided into two. The Faith believed every pair was chosen by a God: Maegor and his first black bride, Ceryse Hightower, were credenced to be sent by the Stranger, Old King Jaehaerys and Alysanne the Good by the Mother, Princess Alyssa and Prince Baelon by the Maiden. 

Conversely, marked ones with a dead mate who could not survive the marking – being blessed by the gods were the cursed ones. The ones the Gods chose specifically, to punish, to torment, to make an example of for all the ones who refused the true Faith. Baelor was one of them now. He had never thought that one day people would look at him and see anything other than a Targaryen who looked wrong. He had never thought they could despise him more. He was mistaken. Faith had gone as far as to demand his father release him from his duties and renounce him as his heir. His father had raged so much that the realm had frozen in surprise to see their Good King such. They had forgotten Daeron the Good was a Targaryen. They had forgotten the fire in blood. Baelor had not witnessed much, for he was recovering from marking, but still the tales of his father’s rage reached the prince. Since then, nobody dared to openly voice their dislike or their disapproval of him. This did not spare the prince from seeing them on the downturned mouths, deep frowns, or scrunched noses, all conveying one thing… repulse.

As he rode to the castle, smallfolk in the streets hurried away, hiding away in their houses, markets, away, away from him. People always ran away from him, not bothering themselves with pretense, unlike the nobles. Even the ones he did not wish away ran. They were all away, leaving him in a cage nobody could reach or touch. At least, it won’t be forever. He would say to himself, to his deteriorating body. Deep in his mind, a sweet voice would interrupt the flow of such thoughts, begging him to find hope.

Baelor found his son in the yard training with Ser Quentyn Ball, who had taught arms to himself and his brothers among his infamous uncles in their youth. Taking a place in the shadows, the prince watched his son’s face crunch in concentration as he drilled. His boy was nine years old, carrying a little of his mother. Valarr’s dark hair and mismatched eyes were all his father’s. So was his deeper skin and height. 

Ser Quentyn knocked the wooden sword out of the boy's hand and began fixing his stance, explaining the nuances to the boy.

Baelor oft found himself in this same position, hiding in the shadows and watching his son spar, read, sleep, or just be, with the gloom in his heart, with the knowledge that he would never see his boy grow tall, carry a steel, ride tall. He was not going to see his son grow into a man, father his own sons.

All alone his boy was going to be, he thought as his heart throbbed deep in the abyss it had turned into. His mother had gone with his baby brother at the mere age of five. His father was to pass away when he was a boy of nine. Or would the gods be kind enough for Baelor to see his son turn ten?

Valarr huffed quietly and fell into position, his scowl deeper with focus. 

Baelor rubbed his chest over the heart, wishing the pain away. It was for naught, for the pain was coming from a cavern inside his chest. He wished to run to his son in such moments, take him into his arms, and hold him until his arms could not.

He could not, however. He could not caress his son's hair, let alone hug him, without pain shooting through his veins, paralysing him in ache.

Away from the skies, a familiar call came. Vermithor, his ever loyal dragon, had become his grounding force ever since the marking. His connection to the creature had been the strongest in his entire life. He did not know whether his mark woke more magic in him or his dragon was taking pity on him. Dragons were wise oft beyond men. They knew the smell of death well. Baelor was sure Vermithor could smell it on him.

Valarr managed to keep his sword longer this time, impressing Ser Quentyn. "Well done, my prince. Well done. You take your skills after your sire."

Baelor wished he could leave more than that to his son. More than a dead family, an infamous reputation, and the burden of the realm.

Vermithor's call rang in the skies, softened by the winds. Valarr stopped his moves and listened, mouth half open, eyes fixed to the clouds.

The prince closed his eyes and tugged on his connection with Vermithor. "I know I have no place to tell you what to do after me. For you are wiser, older, mightier. But if I could, I beg you to choose my son when I am gone." The prince begged the dragon for this as he had many times before. 

When he had claimed the oldest dragon alive, half the pressure of looking so Dornish and not being Targaryen enough had lifted. He wanted the same acceptance for his son. Baelor had his father standing tall behind him, claiming him as his heir. He had his mother easing his heart, aiding him to accept himself. Who will Valarr have? Please, Gods, he begged more, at least let him have Vermithor.

That noon, the father and son had a lengthy meal. His son, with the curiosity of his youth, had never-ending questions. Baelor fought through his exhaustion and answered each inquiry to the best of his abilities. His tethering patience was a river when he was with his son. Whenever he could put his doomed thoughts away, it was the only time he could enjoy himself a nudge. It was the news of his brother's arrival that ended their luncheon.

An hour later, the Dragon Prince was standing in the yard with his family, watching his youngest, the Prince of Summerhall, ride in atop a black mare. Maekar's face was twisted in a grimace as usual. His heir, Daeron, rode on his black pony, the air of melancholy felt even farther away. The carriage followed soon. Dyanna got out with the most elegant little Aerion in her arms. Prince Maekar grumped something under his mouth and dismounted. The family fell to their knees before the king and soon broke into a warm embrace. Valarr and Daeron were already making plans for their mischiefs, their excited giggles ringing around the yard, bringing dread to their Kingsguards.

"Brother," Maekar said almost cheerfully, stepped forward with open arms before freezing, remembering. He dropped his hands as sadness coated his eyes.

"Brother," Baelor said, sounding much happier than he felt. He did not want his brother's sadness or pity. There was nothing to be done. "Welcome home. I hope the journey was not tiresome. Dearest Dyanna," his good sister snaked her arms around her husband’s once near them," I hope my brother treats you well."

"Oh, don't you worry, brother. I know how to handle him." Maekar scoffed, yet his reddening cheeks betrayed how much he liked the words. They have been married for years now, still blushing around each other like two maidens. “How do you fare, good brother?”

“Busy keeping the realm and preparing for the arrival of Starks,” he managed another smile.

“The city is buzzing,” she added with a gleam in her eyes.

“Hopefully with excitement,” The heir said and led his brother’s family to the dining hall.

The silver shining moon found the Targaryens in the Tower of the Hand, with wine in their hands. Maekar and Dyanna were sitting opposite to Baelor, limbs tangled. The welcoming feast was not a big affair, the preparations for the Starks being a priority. Yet it was enough to tire them and not allow them to converse properly. 

"Now what the fuck is going on with Starks?"

"Whatever you mean, brother?" It had been a long time since Maekar had left the capital. The prince had missed his youngest brother and teasing him.

"The hell I mean, Baelor?" he leaned over, "why the fuck are they coming? Why the fuck is Father gathering the entire realm? I asked Father and Brynden about Blackfyres, they both said Daemon nor his Cannibal has not been spotted in moons.”

"Yes, you know as much as we do of them."

"Then, what is this?"

"You know what it is. We need allies. Father wants stability," Baelor shrugged. "It's worth trying."

"Have Starks ever been to King's Landing?" Dyanna asked.

"Never. Not even when Jaehaerys invited them did they come," Baelor supplied.

"Then why do they come now? What is in for them?" The entire Red Keep, the city, perhaps the South had been on the edge since the King’s invitation and Starks’ acceptance of the visit. Everyone had the same questions but different answers.

"Peace, trade, alliances. The same things Dorne got. The maesters of the Citadel predict the upcoming winter to be harsh."

Maekar scoffed, "Their winter is always worse as the pompous Lord Locke likes to tell us." Lord Locke of Oldcastle lived in King's Landing as the ambassador of the North, chosen due to his trading business. He was a loud man, cunning under all that noise. "What do you think?"

“A stronger allyship with the North will bring prosperity for our realm,” Baelor said diplomatically and sipped his wine.

"I am not in your fucking court, Baelor. Stop bullshitting me."

The prince chuckled, soon sobering, "In the Dance, disrespect to them was big." To Dyanna’s questioning look, he said, "Aegon II, in order to prove himself better than his sister, had tried to conquer the North. Long story short, it ended horribly. He humiliated himself and the North, undoing the little progress Jaehaerys had planted."

"I see."

"When Dagon Greyjoy rebelled against the Throne, he also attacked the North. The king fought side by side with Beron Stark, you know the rest.” Dyanna nodded. “Both sides saw how powerful they could be once they united their strengths. How advantageous the alliance could be.” Both kings were crown princes during the rebellion, commanding their respective armies. Many songs were born of those days, some even sing that a friendship had bloomed between the dragon and the wolf. “Why do the Starks come now? After all these years?" Baelor hesitated a moment, not wanting to admit the next words, "it’s because they think House Targaryen is weakest it has ever been." He sighed, "Even during Dance, it was us against us. Now we are challenged by bastards and half-bloods who ride dragons." While most of their family remained dragonless, Baelor left that part unsaid. "Thus, the North comes now. They know we need them. And they know the king pries for peace."

“They think our hand is weak and they can take whatever the fuck they want from us.”

“What they reckon, most like.”

Apprehension passed on Maekar’s face, “Are they right?”

“As long as our dragons soar the skies, no.” Yet unsaid words passed between brothers. Maekar liked to pretend, but he was knowledgeable in matters of state and knew how to read the game.

“Enough with the matters of the realm, my princes,” Dyanna interrupted the brothers’ grim thoughts, “You shall have weeks before Starks land in King’s Landing to discuss at length.” She moved closer to her husband, snuggling him. Baelor watched his headstrong brother melt like ice under the sun. His brother was a rough man, hard spoken, with a short temper and endless obstinacy. Yet whenever with his mate, Maekar would be stripped out of all of his armour, and Baelor would see a glimpse of his brother’s younger days. “Valarr is growing strong, good brother. He shall make a fine knight and a great prince. Jena would be proud.”

The prince swallowed the lump that the mention of his late wife created, “Thank you, sister. But it’s all him… Jena left much of her goodness with him.”

A sad smile grew on Dyanna’s face, her eyes gained a sheen. They had been good friends with Jena before she was gone. Baelor never ceased feeling guilty about her death. She might not have been his mate, but she had been his companion, a kind wife and a great mother to his sons. He had loved her and their life – a satisfactory life he would have been happy to grow old in.

Maekar brought his arm around Dyanna’s shoulders, pulling her closer. He must have sensed her sadness, Baelor mused. Another grief, next to many, throbbed in his jaded chest. The fate had cruel designs and ludicrous ironies. He had spent years in marriage with a woman who was not her mated, yet he had not known his mate even for a day. He did not know her face, her voice, her smile… All he knew of her was that she was the last daughter of House Farman of the Westerlands. The shame of losing a daughter to the marking had been too much for them – they had refused even her name to Baelor, let alone any other thing about her. A ghost she was to him with no name, no face. Still deep in his heart, all he had for her was warmth. The prince did not curse or despise her for passing away, for he believed it was his curse falling upon his mate.

Maekar and Dyanna had fallen into a hushed conversation, gazing upon one another, oblivious to the other man.

Baelor diverted his gaze away from them into the burning embers, willing to be oblivious to himself and to his heart.

Tag list: @fairly-feral @thorins-queen-of-erebor @arkadiaphilosopher

[jaisboras]

Rubatosis II

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x OC/Fem!Stark Tags: Soulmate/Soulmark AU, Independent North AU, Targaryens have dragons, eventual smut, eldest daughter x eldest son dynamics, before Ashford, Young(er) Baelor TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny Summary: Rubatosis - the unsettling awareness of the heartbeat was what Baelor Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Lord Hand to the Good King, felt from the moment he laid eyes on Alarra Stark, the Princess of House Stark, the daughter of King in the North. It was the fastest, the loudest his heart thrummed, came alive from the years of pain and anguish it was buried under. Yet he had to return his heart back to its burial place; he was to be the next King and in none of the Seven hells or heavens, could he marry the daughter of the Northern Kingdom, the centuries long rival and enemy of his House.

Masterlist

Chapter 2: Alamort (wc: 2.8K)

Alamort (à la mort) - half dead with exhaustion

He did not remember the last time he did not ache. He had stood ahead of armies, leading them into war. He had stood before countless men charging at him in the great grass fields. He had broken spears, rebels, and rebellions. Yet Baelor Targaryen was yielding to his own body, dying slowly each day.

"The meeting is adjourned, my lords." The prince’s firm voice disturbed yet another squabble about grains. He would have indulged them more if his patience were not thinning swiftly, the more his body pained. My days are numbered, and I am yet to do a thing valuable for my people. He would often find himself thinking such thoughts, only adding to his gloom. 

Baelor left the chambers first. The red walls had become another offender to the prince, pulling his tolerance as tight as a bow. Taking sharp turns, he opted for the kennels. Not before he was stopped multiple times by various courtiers, lords, ladies, and knights.  He yearned for the skies, the more he walked through the red walls. He did not remember much, reaching the kennels or mounting his horse or riding to the Dragon pit. 

Baelor gave out breath he had unknowingly kept since morning only when he walked through the charred walls of the Pit. The air was hotter than the city, smelling of ash, burnt meat, and molten metal… smelling like freedom, escape. 

"My friend," He said, still far enough for the dragon to hear yet close enough for the Old Fury to raise his glorious head and give an even more glorious roar of welcome. The prince did not bother with propriety and rushed to the beast with all the need he felt. "Vermithor," he said softly, scratching the hot scales. "Take me to the skies, my friend."

They flew away from the city over the Kingswood and Narrow Sea. High enough to feel the air cold, long enough to numb his body and senses. That was the only time the prince did not ache – when he held onto the ancient dragon, who was still fast and smooth like any youngling dragon. 

Most importantly, Vermithor was only being he could touch without feeling suffocated or on the edge of death. Ever since his marking, he could not even hold his only son, let alone anyone else. 

They flew for hours until the chaos of his heart dimmed enough to return to being the perfect heir. Yet, riding back to the castles, all he saw in the faces of his people reminded him he was far away from the truth; there was nothing perfect about him. He was a Dornish with wrong coloring for a Targaryen, a fact they never allowed him to forget since his childhood. He was a marked with a dead mate. In his religion, being marked meant being blessed by the seven gods themselves. The ones who were marked were beloved, respected, and held in the highest regard. Even to some, they were seen as higher than kings as the vessels of the Gods. The markeds were made of one divided into two. The Faith believed every pair was chosen by a God: Maegor and his first black bride, Ceryse Hightower, were credenced to be sent by the Stranger, Old King Jaehaerys and Alysanne the Good by the Mother, Princess Alyssa and Prince Baelon by the Maiden. 

Conversely, marked ones with a dead mate who could not survive the marking – being blessed by the gods were the cursed ones. The ones the Gods chose specifically, to punish, to torment, to make an example of for all the ones who refused the true Faith. Baelor was one of them now. He had never thought that one day people would look at him and see anything other than a Targaryen who looked wrong. He had never thought they could despise him more. He was mistaken. Faith had gone as far as to demand his father release him from his duties and renounce him as his heir. His father had raged so much that the realm had frozen in surprise to see their Good King such. They had forgotten Daeron the Good was a Targaryen. They had forgotten the fire in blood. Baelor had not witnessed much, for he was recovering from marking, but still the tales of his father’s rage reached the prince. Since then, nobody dared to openly voice their dislike or their disapproval of him. This did not spare the prince from seeing them on the downturned mouths, deep frowns, or scrunched noses, all conveying one thing… repulse.

As he rode to the castle, smallfolk in the streets hurried away, hiding away in their houses, markets, away, away from him. People always ran away from him, not bothering themselves with pretense, unlike the nobles. Even the ones he did not wish away ran. They were all away, leaving him in a cage nobody could reach or touch. At least, it won’t be forever. He would say to himself, to his deteriorating body. Deep in his mind, a sweet voice would interrupt the flow of such thoughts, begging him to find hope.

Baelor found his son in the yard training with Ser Quentyn Ball, who had taught arms to himself and his brothers among his infamous uncles in their youth. Taking a place in the shadows, the prince watched his son’s face crunch in concentration as he drilled. His boy was nine years old, carrying a little of his mother. Valarr’s dark hair and mismatched eyes were all his father’s. So was his deeper skin and height. 

Ser Quentyn knocked the wooden sword out of the boy's hand and began fixing his stance, explaining the nuances to the boy.

Baelor oft found himself in this same position, hiding in the shadows and watching his son spar, read, sleep, or just be, with the gloom in his heart, with the knowledge that he would never see his boy grow tall, carry a steel, ride tall. He was not going to see his son grow into a man, father his own sons.

All alone his boy was going to be, he thought as his heart throbbed deep in the abyss it had turned into. His mother had gone with his baby brother at the mere age of five. His father was to pass away when he was a boy of nine. Or would the gods be kind enough for Baelor to see his son turn ten?

Valarr huffed quietly and fell into position, his scowl deeper with focus. 

Baelor rubbed his chest over the heart, wishing the pain away. It was for naught, for the pain was coming from a cavern inside his chest. He wished to run to his son in such moments, take him into his arms, and hold him until his arms could not.

He could not, however. He could not caress his son's hair, let alone hug him, without pain shooting through his veins, paralysing him in ache.

Away from the skies, a familiar call came. Vermithor, his ever loyal dragon, had become his grounding force ever since the marking. His connection to the creature had been the strongest in his entire life. He did not know whether his mark woke more magic in him or his dragon was taking pity on him. Dragons were wise oft beyond men. They knew the smell of death well. Baelor was sure Vermithor could smell it on him.

Valarr managed to keep his sword longer this time, impressing Ser Quentyn. "Well done, my prince. Well done. You take your skills after your sire."

Baelor wished he could leave more than that to his son. More than a dead family, an infamous reputation, and the burden of the realm.

Vermithor's call rang in the skies, softened by the winds. Valarr stopped his moves and listened, mouth half open, eyes fixed to the clouds.

The prince closed his eyes and tugged on his connection with Vermithor. "I know I have no place to tell you what to do after me. For you are wiser, older, mightier. But if I could, I beg you to choose my son when I am gone." The prince begged the dragon for this as he had many times before. 

When he had claimed the oldest dragon alive, half the pressure of looking so Dornish and not being Targaryen enough had lifted. He wanted the same acceptance for his son. Baelor had his father standing tall behind him, claiming him as his heir. He had his mother easing his heart, aiding him to accept himself. Who will Valarr have? Please, Gods, he begged more, at least let him have Vermithor.

That noon, the father and son had a lengthy meal. His son, with the curiosity of his youth, had never-ending questions. Baelor fought through his exhaustion and answered each inquiry to the best of his abilities. His tethering patience was a river when he was with his son. Whenever he could put his doomed thoughts away, it was the only time he could enjoy himself a nudge. It was the news of his brother's arrival that ended their luncheon.

An hour later, the Dragon Prince was standing in the yard with his family, watching his youngest, the Prince of Summerhall, ride in atop a black mare. Maekar's face was twisted in a grimace as usual. His heir, Daeron, rode on his black pony, the air of melancholy felt even farther away. The carriage followed soon. Dyanna got out with the most elegant little Aerion in her arms. Prince Maekar grumped something under his mouth and dismounted. The family fell to their knees before the king and soon broke into a warm embrace. Valarr and Daeron were already making plans for their mischiefs, their excited giggles ringing around the yard, bringing dread to their Kingsguards.

"Brother," Maekar said almost cheerfully, stepped forward with open arms before freezing, remembering. He dropped his hands as sadness coated his eyes.

"Brother," Baelor said, sounding much happier than he felt. He did not want his brother's sadness or pity. There was nothing to be done. "Welcome home. I hope the journey was not tiresome. Dearest Dyanna," his good sister snaked her arms around her husband’s once near them," I hope my brother treats you well."

"Oh, don't you worry, brother. I know how to handle him." Maekar scoffed, yet his reddening cheeks betrayed how much he liked the words. They have been married for years now, still blushing around each other like two maidens. “How do you fare, good brother?”

“Busy keeping the realm and preparing for the arrival of Starks,” he managed another smile.

“The city is buzzing,” she added with a gleam in her eyes.

“Hopefully with excitement,” The heir said and led his brother’s family to the dining hall.

The silver shining moon found the Targaryens in the Tower of the Hand, with wine in their hands. Maekar and Dyanna were sitting opposite to Baelor, limbs tangled. The welcoming feast was not a big affair, the preparations for the Starks being a priority. Yet it was enough to tire them and not allow them to converse properly. 

"Now what the fuck is going on with Starks?"

"Whatever you mean, brother?" It had been a long time since Maekar had left the capital. The prince had missed his youngest brother and teasing him.

"The hell I mean, Baelor?" he leaned over, "why the fuck are they coming? Why the fuck is Father gathering the entire realm? I asked Father and Brynden about Blackfyres, they both said Daemon nor his Cannibal has not been spotted in moons.”

"Yes, you know as much as we do of them."

"Then, what is this?"

"You know what it is. We need allies. Father wants stability," Baelor shrugged. "It's worth trying."

"Have Starks ever been to King's Landing?" Dyanna asked.

"Never. Not even when Jaehaerys invited them did they come," Baelor supplied.

"Then why do they come now? What is in for them?" The entire Red Keep, the city, perhaps the South had been on the edge since the King’s invitation and Starks’ acceptance of the visit. Everyone had the same questions but different answers.

"Peace, trade, alliances. The same things Dorne got. The maesters of the Citadel predict the upcoming winter to be harsh."

Maekar scoffed, "Their winter is always worse as the pompous Lord Locke likes to tell us." Lord Locke of Oldcastle lived in King's Landing as the ambassador of the North, chosen due to his trading business. He was a loud man, cunning under all that noise. "What do you think?"

“A stronger allyship with the North will bring prosperity for our realm,” Baelor said diplomatically and sipped his wine.

"I am not in your fucking court, Baelor. Stop bullshitting me."

The prince chuckled, soon sobering, "In the Dance, disrespect to them was big." To Dyanna’s questioning look, he said, "Aegon II, in order to prove himself better than his sister, had tried to conquer the North. Long story short, it ended horribly. He humiliated himself and the North, undoing the little progress Jaehaerys had planted."

"I see."

"When Dagon Greyjoy rebelled against the Throne, he also attacked the North. The king fought side by side with Beron Stark, you know the rest.” Dyanna nodded. “Both sides saw how powerful they could be once they united their strengths. How advantageous the alliance could be.” Both kings were crown princes during the rebellion, commanding their respective armies. Many songs were born of those days, some even sing that a friendship had bloomed between the dragon and the wolf. “Why do the Starks come now? After all these years?" Baelor hesitated a moment, not wanting to admit the next words, "it’s because they think House Targaryen is weakest it has ever been." He sighed, "Even during Dance, it was us against us. Now we are challenged by bastards and half-bloods who ride dragons." While most of their family remained dragonless, Baelor left that part unsaid. "Thus, the North comes now. They know we need them. And they know the king pries for peace."

“They think our hand is weak and they can take whatever the fuck they want from us.”

“What they reckon, most like.”

Apprehension passed on Maekar’s face, “Are they right?”

“As long as our dragons soar the skies, no.” Yet unsaid words passed between brothers. Maekar liked to pretend, but he was knowledgeable in matters of state and knew how to read the game.

“Enough with the matters of the realm, my princes,” Dyanna interrupted the brothers’ grim thoughts, “You shall have weeks before Starks land in King’s Landing to discuss at length.” She moved closer to her husband, snuggling him. Baelor watched his headstrong brother melt like ice under the sun. His brother was a rough man, hard spoken, with a short temper and endless obstinacy. Yet whenever with his mate, Maekar would be stripped out of all of his armour, and Baelor would see a glimpse of his brother’s younger days. “Valarr is growing strong, good brother. He shall make a fine knight and a great prince. Jena would be proud.”

The prince swallowed the lump that the mention of his late wife created, “Thank you, sister. But it’s all him… Jena left much of her goodness with him.”

A sad smile grew on Dyanna’s face, her eyes gained a sheen. They had been good friends with Jena before she was gone. Baelor never ceased feeling guilty about her death. She might not have been his mate, but she had been his companion, a kind wife and a great mother to his sons. He had loved her and their life – a satisfactory life he would have been happy to grow old in.

Maekar brought his arm around Dyanna’s shoulders, pulling her closer. He must have sensed her sadness, Baelor mused. Another grief, next to many, throbbed in his jaded chest. The fate had cruel designs and ludicrous ironies. He had spent years in marriage with a woman who was not her mated, yet he had not known his mate even for a day. He did not know her face, her voice, her smile… All he knew of her was that she was the last daughter of House Farman of the Westerlands. The shame of losing a daughter to the marking had been too much for them – they had refused even her name to Baelor, let alone any other thing about her. A ghost she was to him with no name, no face. Still deep in his heart, all he had for her was warmth. The prince did not curse or despise her for passing away, for he believed it was his curse falling upon his mate.

Maekar and Dyanna had fallen into a hushed conversation, gazing upon one another, oblivious to the other man.

Baelor diverted his gaze away from them into the burning embers, willing to be oblivious to himself and to his heart.

Tag list: @fairly-feral @thorins-queen-of-erebor @arkadiaphilosopher

[jaisboras]

Rubatosis by jboras

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x OC/Fem!Stark

Tags: Soulmate/Soulmark AU, Independent North AU, Targaryens have dragons, eventual smut, eldest daughter x eldest son dynamics, before Ashford, Young(er) Baelor

TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny

Summary: Rubatosis - the unsettling awareness of the heartbeat was what Baelor Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Lord Hand to the Good King, felt from the moment he laid eyes on Alarra Stark, the Princess of House Stark, the daughter of King in the North. It was the fastest, the loudest; his heart thrummed, came alive from the years of pain and anguish it was buried under. Yet he had to return his heart to its burial place next to his children, late wife, and the soulmate he never met; he was to be the next King, and in none of the Seven hells or heavens could he marry the daughter of the Northern Kingdom, the centuries-long rival and enemy of his House.

Chapters: Prologue I II III IV V...

Notes: You might have seen my poll on which au shall I choose for Baelor. It went on for a week and first two options kept staying close in the votes they recieved. One of the amazing commentators suggested I unite the options one and two, so this is what I will be doing. I am excited for this one. Let’s see how it goes

[jaisboras]

Hopefully I will post Ch 2 this week (Baelor’s POV)🤞🏻🤞🏻

[jaisboras]

Rubatosis I

Notes: I took these images from Pinterest. As I know they are not AI gen. If they are, please, let me know. I am against genAI and I will take it down.

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x OC/Fem!Stark Tags: Soulmate/Soulmark AU, Independent North AU, Targaryens have dragons, eventual smut, eldest daughter x eldest son dynamics, before Ashford, Young(er) Baelor TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny Summary: Rubatosis - the unsettling awareness of the heartbeat was what Baelor Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Lord Hand to the Good King, felt from the moment he laid eyes on Alarra Stark, the Princess of House Stark, the daughter of King in the North. It was the fastest, the loudest his heart thrummed, came alive from the years of pain and anguish it was buried under. Yet he had to return his heart back to its burial place; he was to be the next King and in none of the Seven hells or heavens, could he marry the daughter of the Northern Kingdom, the centuries long rival and enemy of his House.

Masterlist

Notes: "Mac Tíre" is Irish term for wolf that also means "son of the land" or "son of the country". I have used to term as title for the Northern King, a sign of respect. In the story, the word is from Old Tongue.

Chapter 1: Toska (wc: 3.5K)

Toska (тоска́) - ache of soul, longing with nothing to long for

"Targaryens invite us to King's Landing," the Winter King’s voice filled the royal chambers. It was an unusually bright day with the sun shining over summer snow, making it glisten like precious gems. 

Prince Artos, the King’s second son, scoffed, "The sun has melted their brain."

"With winter approaching, taking such a lengthy journey would be too risky," said Dorrhen, the heir, ever the buffer.

"Aye, nephew," Prince Barthogan, brother to the King, agreed with the same grim. The heavy furs he refused to take off even inside shuffled as he turned in his seat to his brother, "Going all the way to hear Southerner's songs of unity and strength," he tsked, waving his hand in dismissal.

Princess Alarra's attention was on her father, who had yet to comment on the invitation. "What do you reckon, Your Grace? "

"I think this may be the time we lift our heads from the snows and see the sun."

"To what end, Mac Tíre?” Barthogan’s scowl deepened, “Everything is sweet in the South, and every sweet thing is poisonous."

"I will not force you to join us, brother. I will be taking Dorrhen, Artos, and Alarra. Rodrik will be the Stark in Winterfell."

"He is a boy still."

"Thus, he will need you." 

Her uncle grumbled, fidgeting in his seat again, dissatisfied, "Starks do not fare well in the South. Even lackwits know it. And you mean to take your heir, your spare, and your only daughter?" When the king did not answer, the uncle continued, "Why, Your Grace?"

It was her father’s turn to scoff, "Now he remembers I’m the King." 

"Our uncle has truth in his words, Father," Prince Dorrhen studied King Beron intensely enough to melt the ice. "Why does the North take such a risk?"

"By risk, what my brother tries to say, our lives. Who knows, they will not put us to the sword or feed us to their dragons the moment we step into their den?"

"Daeron is not foolish enough to commit such atrocities. We will be under the guest's right."

"They do not hold the Old Gods, Father," Arra said softly, "what is sacred to us is not to them."

"I fought shoulder to shoulder with Daeron. He will remember." Beron Stark said with finality, and none dared to oppose. We shall leave for Greige City in two moons' time. From there, we will sail for King’s Landing…" 

 The next moon passed swiftly, preparing for the journey. The lords from all corners of the Northern Kingdom had arrived in Winterfell to join them in the South. The king had decided to take a considerable entourage with him to King's Landing to represent his country and people. "Let them see our might," he had said, "Let them know who keeps the North." Even beyond Winterfell's grey walls, Wintertown worked tirelessly to see their lieges off.

Alarra's work was just as heavy as the king's. Ever since her queen mother had passed, she had become Lady of Winterfell. It was the way of the North: if the lady of the House were to pass, the title would pass to the eldest daughter until the oldest son married. Alarra Stark was two and ten when she earned the title. Thereafter, she had been running Winterfell even after her eldest brother married. Her mother would say Winterfell was the heart of their kingdom. The way you ran the heart is the way the rest beat.

 "Your Highness," Alfie, the house guard, called as the princess observed her youngest brother’s sword lesson in between her duties, "His Grace summons you to the Godswood."

"Only me?"

"Your brothers have already left for the woods, Your Highness."

"Ah," she said under her tongue, more to herself than to Alfie. She had a few predictions on the matter that would be discussed. Descending the stairs of First Keep, Alarra kept an eye on the yard, "What do you reckon of my brother's improvement, Alfie?"

"The prince improves admirably, Your Highness. He has much to learn, but the little prince is passionate enough to push himself further."

"He shall be better," Alarra said bittersweetly, "At times I want him to be as good as Artos. Then I worry…" 

"That the young prince would also inherit his brother’s taste for battle."

"Aye, Alfie, aye," she sighed, turning away from the yard. 

"I do not believe that shall be the case, princess. For Artos’s taste for besting others had shown itself much earlier. I would now," he said softly, touching his old scar on his chin. Alfie was the son of their old castellan, Ser Rowan. He was the same age as her brother, growing up alongside the royal children and becoming a confidante for them.  

“I shall take your words for it,” Arra said, passing by the Tower of Councilmen.

The princess found her father and her brothers gathered in the Godswood. Prince Dorrhen, her one-year senior, was almost as tall as their father with grey eyes and almost mahogany hair, which he inherited from their mother. With his pin-straight stance and unrevealing face, her brother was the very picture of a worthy heir. Next to him stood Artos, who was only a year younger than her. As tall as his brother Artos had the Stark look. His dark hair was unkempt and long, often untied. Her father always complained he had the wolf's blood in his veins. It was hard to argue when her brother rarely did not yield to his impulses.

"My daughter, come." The king's voice was always sterner in the presence of his gods.

Following his direction, they all knelt before the weirwood tree and prayed as the minutes passed by. The sounds of leaves’ hush and the paddings of their dire wolves only other companions to the Starks. Arra appreciated the momentary peace, knowing it would be moons before she could before her gods, and filled her lungs with the chilling scent of the woods. 

Once settled around the tree’s branching roots, the king began, "I know your duties keep you all occupied. Well, some of you," he looked pointedly at Artos, who had spent the entire morning challenging the lords’ sons to spar. "We leave in a fortnight. Yet we might not have the opportunity to be alone. There are things we must agree… fall on the same page before we sail." he leaned on his arms on his knees. "I am aware you all have your doubts and cautions about the voyage ... like my lords”. The children remained silent. It was true - they were unconvinced of the necessity of the journey. But the King had spoken, and rarely what he said would be unsaid. “Some of them have been less enthusiastic. You shall keep a keener eye on the lords and ladies that will be visiting with us."

“Have they opposed you, Your Grace?” “No, daughter. I do not have to hear their words to see the doubt in their eyes… or hear their whispers.”

"Do you suspect treason, Father?" Asked Artos.

"The crown I bear is heavy. I shall always suspect, and we shall never forget."

"Boltons want to betroth his heir to Glover’s eldest daughter," Dorrhen put plainly.

“A Southerner, a Riverman, is apparently courting his daughter as well,” Arra added, remembering the gossip her ladies-in-waiting brought.

“He is sowing seeds.” The grim entered her older brother’s voice.

“Then we must stop them,” Artos was getting carried away already, fidgeting in his seat, “We can not simply sit by while they – ”

King Beron raised his hand in the air to calm his sons, “Nothing is certain yet. Only speculations. I am simply making you aware. Be wary. Heed caution and be alert.”

"Father, perhaps, I shall stay behind and hold Winterfell in your absence. It does not bode well with me to leave our castle unguarded. I am your heir, Mac Tíre. It is my duty."

The king shook his head, "Your uncle will suffice. He must keep the north, and you must be with me. Whatever good or bad goes over with dragons, you will inherit it. You must look them in the eye and know the men that rule past your Neck."

"Then allow me -" Artos cut in.

"No. Your brother’s child is too young to fulfill her duties; until then, you are still his heir. For the same reasons, you must come." Alarra saw the fight die in his brother's eyes. Their father was insistent on making her brother into more than a proper prince, into a man of duty. "Whether you are second or not, you are still in line." Their grandfather, Rickard, was a second son. After the murders of his older brother and his sons, he had ascended to the throne. Her father was ten and three when he had turned into the heir of the Northern Throne overnight. He had told the tale to his children many times, urging them to be prepared for the unwanted futures and unforeseeable fates.

The king sighed, turning to her, "Arra, how do the preparations fare?" 

A queer question considering she had given him reports on the developments every day, "I am waiting for the last count on the storage, Your Grace. The kennelmasters have prepared the horses for the journey to the Greige city. " 

Her father already knew them all. Arra patiently waited for him to get to his point. "What about Serra?"

"She attends to her duties."

Her father’s gaze hardened at the words as she braced herself for what was to come. "Dorrhen, your bride should stay in Winterfell."

"Your Grace?"

 "The lady of Winterfell shall be in Winterfell. This will do good to learn and take over her duties while your sister travels with us."

Her duties. Serra'. Not Alarra's.

Her brothers turned to her as she applied all of the training she received as a princess, not to show her heartbreak on her face. She knew her father's intentions were not inherently bad. Dorrhen had been married to Lady Serra of House Cerwyn for three years now. The beginning of their marriage was troubled as she had miscarried twice.  Six moons ago, Serra could carry her first child to a due, giving her brother a baby girl, her House another Princess. While Serra had struggled, Alarra had stepped in and continued to act in the duties as the Lady of Winterfell.

"It will be good for you as well, daughter. I see how you have been running around for a moon, for years. The change of weather will do just good for you good."

"Please, father. You do not know how to sweeten your words; do not begin now. I understand my duty."

"That is the issue. You overdo your duties." There was softness beneath the ice in his stare that Arra had a hard time seeing at the moment. "Serra was sickly; now that she has given birth, she can take over her duties as the crown princess."

"I know, Your Grace," she saw her brother's eyes jumping back and forth between the two of them. None dared to intervene or interrupt. It was rare for Alarra Stark to spar with her king father. She was a good daughter, even a better princess. She knew her place and the limits of tolerance offered to her.

"Last year, after your mark... your grief," yet it was hard to be a good princess or a daughter when her father would speak such. She closed her eyes to brace herself, not to allow the words to become an avalanche and fall on her. "I allowed you to continue your work so the grief does not take you."

"I understand, Your Grace," she repeated harshly. She might be a good daughter and a princess, but she was a wolf first. "You have made it clear that my time in Winterfell comes to an end." When she was younger, she had begged her father not to betroth her to one of tens, maybe hundreds of suitors. She had begged and cried to stay with her youngest brother Rodrik. She was by his side the day he was born, the day her mother had died. He had grown up in her arms, and the thought of leaving her brother to be raised by strangers while she began to call more strangers family was too heavy.

When she had come of age and refusing betrothals were getting harder, the grief had knocked on their door again, taking her twin siblings, Willam and Berena. The years buried in mourning had softened her father's heart. She did not want to marry and leave her home. Neither did her father want to let another child go. Especially, after she was marked in one of the most violent ways. The fear of losing her had stopped Beron Stark’s hand; however, before a father, he was a king, and Starks knew their duties all too well. Allara knew it well, too. She also knew the time was cruel and hers was near. She had stayed at her home much longer than many daughters had. She was luckier than most, but as with every good thing in her life, her luck was running out.

"You will always have a hearth in Winterfell as long as I am alive, sister." It was Dorrhen who spoke up fiercely. "Winterfell is your home and shall remain as one."

"Nobody claims otherwise, son."

"If we are to be honest." Arra began, "Then tell me, father, why do you take me to the South?" When her father remained silent, she continued, "Growing up, you would not even take me to our banner man's castles even if I had begged. Now you take me all the way to the dragon's den."

"You are smart, daughter. You understand."

"I do, but I need to hear it." From the corner of her eye, she saw the confusion bloom in Artos' face. Dorrhen's eyes closed as realization crept in.

"This time of dragons is different than our fathers' time with them. There has only been one dragon that has hatched and grown into adulthood over the last eighty years. They are not as mighty as they used to be, or else Blackfyres could never take root and rise as high as to be their rivals. They are desperate."

"Desperate enough to make an alliance with us?" Artos asked.

"They have invited us, have they not?" It was Dorrhen who answered in a clipped voice.

"They always invite us, we never complied till now.”

“If you put your sword down and listen to your Maester, perhaps you’d know,” The king leaned over. “Daeron is not like his forefathers. He is a man of peace and competence.” “Do you mean to ally with him? Why? We are already in peace.” “No, we are in a ceasefire with them, not at peace,” Dorrhen turned to the king, “You seem to reckon highly of the dragon, Father.” “You know a man when you battle with him shoulder to shoulder. I have no love for him or his, yet… We’ll see,” he said dismissively, “we’ll see.”  

“What does this have to do with Arra?" Artos pointed her.

"Your sister is of age to begin her family." The understanding dawned on Artos' face, and Arra's heart sank. She already knew. Of course, she did. As the princess of House Stark, she was educated in the matters of state. Leading the Winterfell household had also made her deal with the matters of ruling Wintertown. She knew the importance of alliances and their costs. Yet her heart still sank at the spoken words.

"Father, you would have our sister marry a southerner?" Artos almost yelled with disgust. "They are people of summer and follies. Even their gods are wrong."

"Dragon king's sons are all wed, his grandsons are not of age," Dorrhen continued in a clipped tone. "The only suitable man of their family is the king's bastard brother."

 "You would wed our sister to him?" This time Artos did not attempt to control himself. “Targaryens are incestuous blood-magickers who believed themselves to be gods!”

King Beron scoffed, "Have you lost your wits? I have not lost mine enough to marry my daughter to that family. That would cause a rebellion in our own ranks, let alone a war with the South." He huffed, "I was thinking perhaps Riverlands, somewhere closer to-"

"You’d have our sister call a lord of fish her husband?" Artos’ temper was getting the best of him.

"All these years, you refused the best of the men. Northener men only for her to-" their voices drifted off as she ceased listening. She loved her family from the depths of her heart; she knew they loved her just as fiercely. Yet that did not spare her from their unintended cruelty. All these minutes of arguing, they had not asked her once what she desired, and had continued arguing her life as if she were another branch of the Weirwoods.  Sometimes she wished she were still like them, unyielding, uncrumpling like them… unlike herself.

"Arra," Dorrhen’s voice brought her focus back to them. "Sister, is your mourning over?"

"Your sister mourned long enough for a man she did not know."

Alarra could not find in her to soften her words, "He was my mate, Your Grace. My soulmate."

"Yet he could not survive what you did. Mayhaps the gods were mistaken with the match, or it was he who failed to pass the test of the gods. You may still marry, carry children -"

"That would be cruelty to the babe, considering I won’t be by their side seeing them grow."

"Arra," her father began with the same fierce tone as whenever she brought it up. “There have been tens of people who lived long after their mate passed. Maester says you being unbonded to him only amplifies your chances. Besides, there has not been any other indication of your health failing."

 Arra clutched her forearm under the sleeve of her wool gown. She did not have it in her to tell him, them she was having those indications for moons now. She was having headaches harsher than the last every day. She could not tell them that whenever she would get to her feet, her vision would darken. She could not tell them that eating was turning into a burden by each passing day... The little changes were not severe enough to impair her or to be noticed. She would have overlooked them, given in to her tiredness if her left wrist had not ached. The sizzling pain was getting louder every day. There had been occasions when she had failed to move her left arm momentarily.

 In the back of her mind, she knew she had to tell them it had already begun... her death. Yet she lacked the cruelty to say it to her grief-stricken family. Or she lacked the courage to voice the words. Once said out loud, how could she take those back from taking winds and being naught but true?

"No man would take a woman who can not be touched as a wife, Your Grace," her words came out choked. "Sofie says Southerners believe the marked ones who lost their mates are cursed."

The king waved it away, "All those superstitions will go away once they see a chance to marry the princess.”

Arra swallowed the bump growing in her throat, "I will do my duty, Your Grace." The voyage would take moons, enough time for her to devise a plan to escape from marriage.

"Good, good. Do you see your sister? Learn from her." His gaze returned to the dire wolves falling into slumber at the root of the weirwood trees. His words spilled hoarse, "I take each of you with me for a reason. Not to sell your sister away. You all represent a piece of North with your vigor, strength, and wits. You are my children… my blood. You are the best of me." A sheen took over the old man's eyes, "We do not call ourselves wolves because we skinchange into them or ride to battle with them. We are Starks. Our family is a pack like theirs.” His eyes were trained on the pups. "We live, grow, and die together. Winds blow harsher and will only get colder." He took a deep breath, "When the wind blows, the lone will die, but the pack will survive. The pack always survives… Remember it when the South's sun burns you and its sweetness poisons you. Remember your pack."  

"We will stand strong..."

Tag list: @fairly-feral @thorins-queen-of-erebor @arkadiaphilosopher

[jaisboras]

Hidden Princess by jboras

Chapters - 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 Pairing: Fem!Jon Snow x Male!Daenerys Targaryen Tags: au, angst, Jon and Dany grow up together, Fem!Jon has children, snowstorm supremacy, Targcest, eventual smut, angst, slow burn TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny, mentions of non-con

Summary: In this world, Visenya Targaryen (Fem!Jon) was raised in Dragonstone by her mother, Lady Lyanna, alongside of her uncles, Daeron (Male!Daenerys), and Viserys, for five years until a tragedy fell on them. The Targaryen brothers fled to the East. The princess was hidden in the North, cloaked as the bastard daughter of Lord Stark.

Now, 13 years later, betrayed by the Night’s Watch and hunted through Westeros, Lyarra (Visenya) flees across the Narrow sea with her children, seeking refuge, and perhaps revenge, mostly safety from her only hope - Daeron, King of Dragon’s Bay, Father of Dragons.

Notes: I have posted this story on ao3. However, the recent hours long shut down gave me a startling realization that the site might go down... any moment and so would my works. So from now on I will be cross-posting))

Notes: I wrote this chapter imagining how George would reveal the true identity of FemJon as the last chapter of The Dance with the Dragons. 1. In this story, instead of being with Ygritte, Arra (FemJon) was with Val, and they had twins (Val dies before their birth). 2. A quick backstory: Arra was with Robb during the war and the Red Wedding. Beyond the wall as well (so she has been through it (I will reveal the backstory in time)). 3. Name of the twins: Girl - Valia (after Val, Lyanna, and Arya), Boy - Robdard (after Ned and Robb)

Chapter 1: Lyarra (wc: 1K)

The Third Year of Autumn

In the hour of the wolf, the moon hung high in the sky. In the crippling light of the moon, Arra approached the cradles. Her son, her sweet boy, head already full of black curls in only two moons, slept peacefully, cuddling his pup toy closer. With a kiss on his head, Arra regarded her son - a true Stark, she thought. The long face and pale skin of the Starks. I wonder whether he will have the wolf's blood. If he had the grey eyes, he'd be father reborn. Sadness once again came as a fist to her throat. It was a recurring occurrence. How could it not…

She moved on to the cradle closer to the fire. Her little girl loved the warmth, always edging to be closer to the fire. Arra knelt next to the babe. My beautiful pup. Skin glowing as bright as the moon above. She started taking off some layers of clothing. The night was not cold enough to be buried in these furs, even though her girl would have loved it. She lastly removed the hat. In an instance, Arra froze. Unable to move, she stared. At her daughter's hair. A bucket of cold water was poured on her, then a bucket of hot. She stood and she stared.

She was not standing in the tent anymore. She was back into her mother's arms, being carried to her bed. She smelled the storm and rain… The dark walls of the fortress… the crinkling light of the torches… and laughter… so much of it…

Murmuring something to Willa, like a bullet, she left the tent. Started running or going. Or was she walking? She wasn't sure. She wasn't even aware of reaching the end of the camp until Tormund stopped her.

"What's wrong, crow? You're shooting ‘roun the camp. Where at this hour?"

"Godswood"

Tormund stared worried. Arra sighed, trying to look tired, not at the edge of a breakdown.

"I need to pray. I have Ghost with me. Do not fret."

She left without waiting for his response. True to her word, Ghost appeared the same minute. She took off once more. Running as fast as she can. For minutes. Maybe for hours. Until she saw the Godswood.

Getting closer to the biggest tree, she knelt and began to weep. She wept, and wept more. Prayed and sobbed. Prayed a little more and sobbed much more.

Arra felt Ghost's nudge in her hip. As if waking from a dream, she looked around her, taking notice of her surroundings. How long was she there? She did not know. She slowly became aware of the silence of the Gods, slow winds, and bone-clenching freeze of air. Turning back to Ghost, her heart filled with guilt. Ghost was looking at her with deep, sad eyes.

"Do not worry, my friend. I am alright."

As she said the last word, she remembered why she ran, why she wept. Her body started to tremble, shaking more every moment. Fear. Pure horror filled her every sense. Her daughter… did not take after her father. Her blond is not as honey as Val's was. Her girl took after Arra's own father, sire. Valia's hair was shining silver beneath the moon.

"Gods… help me. Fear for my girl. For my children. I beg. I beg do not let them have my fate… my uncles' fate… I will persevere. I will fight. I will survive. I will do what I shall and more to give them a home. Help me, my Gods. Give me the strength to make it through. Show me the path. I have lost my way. I am ready to fight. Yet I am lost between fights."

She thought back to her recent years. All the struggle. Loss. Pain. Fight. The loss of her family, her purpose, her fight, her love… all she has now is her two babes and fights centuries old, battles millennia deep.

Ghost snuck closer as of shielding her from the world.

"I will bear it all, Ghost. I will endure. I am the blood of the Kings of Winter, First Men. I am the daughter of She-Wolf and Last Dragon. I am the blood of Old Valyria and Dragons. I will endure. So will my children."

She thought back to her girl. Her hair shining as silver as the moon itself. Silver that is only seen in the moonlight. Many thought of Val's blonde when they saw her girl’s pin straight hair. But she knew better. It was the same silver as her best friend's. The subject of her warmest memories. Her Dae… Her Daeron.

Now she was taken back to Dragonstone once again. Her mom was carrying her to her bed. Dae, running and giggling after her, jumped on the bed. Without a word, the kids snuck closer as Lyanna gazed at them with the warmest eyes. Laughing:

“What have you done to Viserys again?”

Daeron’s only response was his giggles. So was her own.

“Children.” Lady Lyanna chastised them. Yet Daeron jumped in before she could continue further.

“He deserved it, Lya. He was calling Vissie a bad word.”

After a moment of hesitation, Lyanna argued.

“He is your older brother, you should show him respect…”

“Viserys is right then, mama? I am a dragonspawn?” She had uttered in a small voice.

“Of course, not.” Her mother said fiercely with a hint of anger. “You are the princess of House Targaryen, the daughter of the Last Dragon. You are Visenya Targaryen. And you will be just as fierce and as brave as the first Visenya was once. I will speak to Viserys and teach him his mistake. Yet you shall remember we are a family. When the snows fall and the white winds blow…”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” the children said in unison.

And that night, Lady Lyanna told them the tale of the quiet and wild wolf from Winterlands.

Visenya Targaryen. That was her true name. A name that she hasn’t uttered in 12 years since she was torn from her mother and her home. She had been Arra Snow too long to know the Visenya. Wrath of winter has shushed and drowned her dragon blood. The secret was buried with her father, Eddard, her uncle in truth. Yet the Gods were playing their games. Decades of burying her grief, pain, and rage, just to bury Princess Visenya Targaryen. Years of forgetting, not allowing herself to remember, just to give Bastard Arra Snow a life.

And life had played its worst trick on her. As their Stark blood was not enough for their lives to be under danger every moment, now her children were at the risk of being hunted as Targaryens.

And all she could do was stand and leave the Godswoods.

And persevere.

And wait and fight.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Daughters First Festival || Zuko ||

A/n: Bless those who worked hard on the movie, FUCK PARAMOUNT FOR BEING GREEDY ASSHOLES. Sidenote: If you are going to watch the leaks then please find away to support only the people that worked hard. They don't deserve any hate....but fuck paramount.

Your daughter’s first memory of the Fire Lord Festival is not the crowds.

It’s not the banners or the drums or the way the palace glows like a living ember once the sun begins to set.

It’s your hand.

Small fingers wrapped around yours, sticky with candied plum syrup, her other hand clutched tightly in her father’s sleeve like she’s afraid he might disappear into the noise if she lets go.

Zuko keeps glancing down at her.

Not in the stiff, ceremonial way he used to glance at crowds, no...this is softer. Quieter. Like he’s counting breaths, grounding himself through the warmth of her grip.

“She’s staring,” he murmurs to you, leaning down just enough that only you can hear. “Is she overwhelmed?”

Your daughter looks up at him at the sound of his voice, eyes wide and bright, cheeks flushed from excitement and heat. She doesn’t say anything—she’s still at the age where words come slowly but she squeezes his sleeve tighter and grins.

You smile. “She’s amazed.”

Zuko exhales. “Okay. Good.”

He says it like he’s passing some invisible test, shoulders less tense.

The Fire Lord Festival has been rebuilt from the ground up, no displays of dominance, no roaring infernos meant to intimidate. Instead, there’s warmth. Lanterns shaped like dancing flames. Street performers bending fire into floating koi and drifting petals. Musicians laughing as they play as others danced.

The people bow when they see Zuko.

Not sharply. Not fearfully like they used too, they all now with gratitude.

Your daughter notices.

She pauses, right in the middle of the walkway, and tilts her head as yet another group lowers themselves respectfully before her father.

She looks up at him, confused.

“Daddy?” she asks, soft and uncertain.

Zuko stops instantly. “Yes?” he answers, kneeling so they’re eye level, completely unconcerned with the fact that he’s halting the Fire Lord procession.

“Why… people do that?”

Your heart tightens.

Zuko doesn’t hesitate. “Because I help take care of them,” he says simply. “And because they’re being polite. But you don’t have to do it back unless you want to.”

She considers this very seriously, cheeks puffed and then she waves.Just a small, enthusiastic wave, fingers wiggling like she’s greeting duck-turtle hatchlings.

The crowd laughs.

Zuko blinks for a moment then laughs too, a quiet, breathless sound that looks like it surprises him every time it happens.

“That works,” he says.

She beams like she’s solved something important.

Aang arrives later, a grin already plastered on his face as he comes gliding down into the festival on a current of air that sends streamers fluttering and children squealing. He lands lightly, already smiling, already barefoot, already radiating a joy that feels impossible to contain.

“Aang,” you greet warmly.

Zuko straightens instinctively but not stiffly. Not like he used to.“Aang,” he says, nodding.

Your daughter stares, wide eyes, head tilted back as she kept her gaze only on him.

Aang crouches immediately, eyes lighting up. “Whoa. You must be the famous one.”

She let's out gasp then presses herself closer to Zuko’s leg, peeking out with curiosity.

“This is my daughter,” Zuko says, pride threading through every word. “And...” He clears his throat. “—this is Aang. The Avatar....My friend

Her eyes widen.“Va-tar,” she repeats carefully.

“That’s me!” Aang grins. “Do you wanna see something cool?”

Zuko glances at you, hesitant. Protective.

You nod. “She’ll be okay.”

Aang lifts his hands slowly, gently, and forms a tiny swirl of air that lifts a single lantern ribbon into a floating loop. It spins lazily, harmless and beautiful.

Your daughter gasps. She reaches out instinctively, fingers brushing the ribbon as it drifts. She then explodes in giggles.

“Again!” she demands, voice full and delighted now.

Zuko watches the whole thing like he’s seeing the world rewritten in front of him.

Aang catches his eye and smiles soft, knowing.

“You’re doing good,” Aang says quietly.

Zuko swallows. Nods once.

As night falls, the lanterns are released.

Your daughter sits on Zuko’s shoulders now, tiny hands tangled in his hair as she points at the sky.

“Fire stars!” she shouts.

“They’re lanterns,” Zuko corrects gently. Then pauses. “But… yeah. Fire stars.”

You stand beside him, your arm around his waist, feeling the steady heat of him beneath your palm—not the wildfire it once was, but a home.

The people cheer as the sky fills with drifting light.

Your daughter claps.

She leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of Zuko’s head, entirely unprompted.

Zuko freezes.

You feel him go still beneath your touch.

Then his shoulders shake.

He doesn’t cry. Not exactly.

But his voice is thick when he says, “I’m glad she remembers this.”

You rest your head against his arm. “She will cherish this.”

He looks at you then looks at you. “When I was her age,” he says softly, “my memories were… different.”

You squeeze his hand. "These are hers,” you reply. “Because of you.”

He nods, unable to speak for a moment.

Your daughter yawns, finally, eyelids drooping as the last lanterns fade into the dark.

She curls against his head, half-asleep.“Daddy?” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he answers instantly.

“Fire… pretty.”

He smiles. “Yes,” he says. “It is.”

And for the first time, standing in the heart of the Fire Nation with his family wrapped around him, Zuko believes it, not as a ruler, not as a symbol, but as a father watching his child grow up in a world he helped make kinder.

This is the festival she remembers.Warm hands. Soft light. Laughter.

And a father who never lets go.

[rowanisawriter]

that “negative kudos” poll really got me lol i have a full time job and a family. do you know what that means lol. I don’t think many people know what that means? it means i have maybe 1 hour MAYBE 2 hours a day that are mine unless i sacrifice sleep. and i use them to write fic most of the time and then i chose to post it online. And there is a subset of people that exists out there that thinks they can and should be able to publicly dislike or negative kudos your fic if they don’t like it instead of just continuing to scroll or hitting back. man no wonder so many people are so easily turning to AI, this unfeeling unflinching thing that just gives and gives more and more slop but who cares about the quality or the person who made it as long as you can just demand more and more and be given more and more. Fic and fanart are not products, you do not get to “review” them. We call it commenting because it’s not a review. And kudos doesn’t reflect on quality, it means thank you for sharing. if you feel the need to complain about something someone used their precious and rare and still valuable time to create for you for free, keep scrolling or literally just die

[jaisboras]

Rubatosis by jboras

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x OC/Fem!Stark

Tags: Soulmate/Soulmark AU, Independent North AU, Targaryens have dragons, eventual smut, eldest daughter x eldest son dynamics, before Ashford, Young(er) Baelor

TW: mature themes, period typical violence and misogyny

Summary: Rubatosis - the unsettling awareness of the heartbeat was what Baelor Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Lord Hand to the Good King, felt from the moment he laid eyes on Alarra Stark, the Princess of House Stark, the daughter of King in the North. It was the fastest, the loudest; his heart thrummed, came alive from the years of pain and anguish it was buried under. Yet he had to return his heart to its burial place next to his children, late wife, and the soulmate he never met; he was to be the next King, and in none of the Seven hells or heavens could he marry the daughter of the Northern Kingdom, the centuries-long rival and enemy of his House.

Chapters: Prologue I II III IV V...

Notes: You might have seen my poll on which au shall I choose for Baelor. It went on for a week and first two options kept staying close in the votes they recieved. One of the amazing commentators suggested I unite the options one and two, so this is what I will be doing. I am excited for this one. Let’s see how it goes

[jaisboras]

What if I say in this AU Daemon Blackfyre survives the first rebellion (heavily wounded) and is the rider of Cannibal