PAPI HAVE YOU SEEN THAT GIF OF THE ITALIAN TWINK PULLING HIS BLANKET DOWN AND SHOWING HIS ASS ITS SO AEGONNN
like imagine reader and aegon get into a petty aurgment about whatever and reader starts to ignore him so aegon one night after coming back form a bath he like drops his towel to like to entice the reader droollllll
I don't have a request, Im not creative like at all 😭. But I really need to see someone put Ramsay in his place. I hate that man so much but i also need him to know his place
I'm sure you've seen the fic by now but it seems I forgot to reply to the ask so just to get it out of my inbox
daemon x a baratheon reader who is just as hotheaded, stubborn and defiant as he is. they first met at a tourney when reader unhorsed him; daemon became enraged and challenged reader to a contest of arms which he also lost. in his anger, daemon rushed to reader's tent that night and things escalated from there. if daemon takes any opportunity he can to visit storm's end after, it could easily be brushed off as just visiting a rival for a little brawl
𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ ive been slowly picking at this for abt a week
cw: rough sex, depictions of violence, spitting in someone's mouth, idfk
This is not your first tourney, not for either of you, but it is miraculously the first tourney in which you are matched against each other. Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, is a dirty fighter, but regardless, he posesses great strength and skill—which he loves to boast about. In most regards, you, the Inheritor to the Storm Lands, are the same: you're fierce, hotheaded, willing to dig your feet into the muck if it means you get to win, and a damn good fighter. You are competitive to high hell as well, but aside from that, you couldn't be any more different.
He's pale. Pale silver-gold hair that makes him look as if he's got no eyebrows, a maiden's violet eyes, fair unblemished skin.
You're different, tanner because you're not afraid of a hard day's work, with an abundance of dark Baratheon hair. You bet Daemon doesn't even have chest hairs, the pampered royal brat.
Historically, Targaryens and Baratheons share a good relationship. Your great-great-grandfather was said to have been best friends with Aegon the Conqueror; the Queen Who Never Was herself is your cousin. At tourneys, no relationships break when a duel is fought, only egos are bruised. That is, house ties are preserved, personal ties are certainly broken.
You never had one with Daemon to begin with.
Four lances of yours splinter and Daemon is yet to be unseated, their debris scatters over the crowd. Your horse grows restless, she kicks her feet and whines each time you meet your squire anew.
Endurance isn't her strong suit. She is yours for her speed and her strength, a strength that compliments yours. She's done three lances before, never four, never this fifth that is to come.
You've never done four either, and neither has Daemon. It speaks of your matched skill.
But this one, the fifth, is the one. The Targaryen Dragon has three heads, each antler of your Baratheon Stag has five tines.
Gods willing, this is it. You reach your squire first, you start your charge first. You've the advantage, Daemon's only hope is that he has strength enough to unseat you or resilience enough to remain—but you have established before your belief that the Prince has never worked a day in his life.
He knows not the strengthening of one's body for the mere task of carrying grain sacks or other. He holds not the same strength as yours.
In the instant that your lance collides with his body, you look him perfectly in the eye. He loses the eye contact when he falls, when his face spells anger as well as panic, but you keep your eye on him.
Once Daemon is on his feet, he yells, "Sword!"
Sore loser, but you expected this, and you won't back down.
Horses aren't Daemon's favorite mount, he's got Caraxes after all; after those skills, swordsmanship comes first. A Challenge of Arms occurs every day in a battlefield somewhere in the world. Swordsmanship should be every man's first skill.
Daemon is so utterly Targaryen marching towards you, with his looks and his armor and his shield, but right now he is not fighting for his family name. He is fighting for his own glory.
After being challenged, you are too, because it means that Daemon thinks the unseating was a fluke and underestimates your fighting skill.
Battles with shields are oh so boring, especially when faced without a mace. He knows this, as do you.
You toss your shield aside, nod at him, he understands you. With a scoff and a shrug, Daemon throws his aside too, and the crowd roars.
He wastes no time in striking. You parry, he continues.
You don't tiptoe around each other like ballerinas, judging your opponent's next strike, dying with anticipation.
Each strike here is followed by another, received equally by a parry. Sparks fly with each collision, a sign of perfectly matched skill, of harmony?
You back off far enough that Daemon—his body and breaths reminding him of how much toll a prolonged exchange begs—does not follow immediately.
Then you switch in some way only you know. Judging by the way Daemon charges after catching his breath, he doesn't notice it.
More blows are exchanged. Ripostes after parries are blocked until you dodge instead of parry. You gain a new angle and you strike him with the flat of your blade. It finally lands.
The Rogue Prince becomes disorientated because why have you just hit him with the flat?
The momentary confusion allows you to strike again. More crucially, you get his hand. You don't knock the blade from his hands, but you push it aside. His chest becomes exposed.
You kick. It's hard, all the plate armor and the weight of a full grown man—but you're stronger than he.
Daemon falls flat on his back again. You hold the tip of your sword above his neck.
Many men have died during this tourney already, by accident or by Challenge of Arms taken to its bitter end—so when you stay your blade, it is mercy.
When you stay your blade, it is house politics once again. A Targaryen dead is a bad omen, especially worse by a Baratheon hand. Such a thing would be public, outward rebellion; it would seem as though you are challenging the throne.
Above him, you are the very paradigm of the your house. Your face is red with strain as well as anger, your chest heaves animously, your hair is strung about or matted with sweat. Yours is the fury.
"I yield." Daemon says, the first words he's ever spoken to you.
"Wise." You reply, tossing your sword aside for the squire.
As much as the contest was fair, as much as you beat him twice, this isn't over. You have slighted his name and his glory, and he will not let it stand. You have a little brother, don't you?
"You think this will fix your ego?"
Daemon's caught you just after the squire's helped you undress for the night. You're in your breeches, and yet you keep your ground.
The Rogue Prince holds a dagger, simple, practical. Your death will silence whispers that you are greater than him, sure, but it will cause plenty more trouble. He is known to be selfish, anyhow.
"Oh, no, certainly not. But it will grant me great satisfaction."
He does not sneak like a thief, he stands like a warrior—although a cowardly one. He stands tall, shoulders square, dagger hand stretched not so far that you can kick his elbow and make him drop the blade.
Well, if you're going to die, you're going to die swinging. "Everybody in the Seven Kingdoms will know that I have beat you, Daemon. Twice, at that. You may not have any honor at all, but you will live with the knowledge that you were a coward if you kill me tonight."
"I will forget you in a fortnight." He shows no reluctance, your words mean nothing.
You'll die swinging, yes, but now as he nears and your mortality comes into doubt, fear grasps you. You reach for your diplomatic skill, "You wish to kill me because I have beat you in the tourney—so challenge me, beat me fairly. You would've felt disatisfaction if I did not fight today, just as I am unable to fight right now."
Daemon stops at a distance where he could stab you if he wanted. He scoffs... and then actually considers it.
You're dead, you think. Daemon raises the dagger. Its steel blade shines. Your eyes track it. Your breath catches.
The blade is tossed aside, lodging into a table leg. Your eyes snap onto Daemon, half-expecting the Prince to strangle you with his bare hands instead.
He does something of the like, grabbing a handful of your hair and tilting your head back. He stands closer, so close you have to crane your neck because he makes you. "I challenge you, then. Whoever cums first loses."
The Targaryen Dragon has three heads, but they don't correspond to the amount of lances a Targaryen will go through; they tell of the three competitions Daemon Targaryen challenges you to.
He kisses you. Straight away, he tugs at your hair and bites your bottom lip. He practically moves and parts your lips himself with that bite, and promptly enough he forces his tongue in your mouth.
It's forceful, used to seduce you, for fighters only understand the language of strength.
More than that, it speaks of his anger. Your own bubbles in your chest, beginning to make your blood boil. You've just brushed death aside and now you are growing angry at the man who nearly dealt it, rightfully so.
You kick Daemon's calf so forcefully, the man tumbles onto his knees, below your level. You take the opportunity to squeeze his cheeks, force his mouth open, and spit in it.
And then you give him no recovery, you kiss him, keep his mouth preoccupied. He fignts, of course: to get back on his feet, but you step down on his thigh; to pull away, but you keep a tight grip on his jaw.
Eventually, he swallows. It's no inevitability, a man does not need to swallow as he does breathing, but it happens anyway. The reason does not matter to you, the fact he's done it does.
You give him reprieve enough to pull back, a reward of sorts, until he catches your shit-eating grin.
"Bastard."
Daemon has some advantage in that you are in your breeches already, but a man like he is as impatient as any unwieldy beast. You slip off his assassin's coat and he lets you, readily. He rises higher on his knees, and you undo his laces and let his trousers drop.
The grin you find on his face is characteristic. The position is not. It debauches him.
Daemon competes with no decorum when he pulls down your breeches and pops your cock out of their confines. When he gets his mouth on you, without hesitation, the warmth of his mouth is like a blanket on a cold night.
Later, when he's sinking to his limit, when his mouth undulates around you with a suppressed almost-gag, the heat of his mouth is like a fire. Dragonfire, heat and death in a single breath.
He's good at this, good at taking your cock, at bobbing his head—and he keeps his eyes on you, arches his back.
Beyond the physical pleasure, he knows of the rumors circling around about the kind of company you keep. You like him like this on his knees for you, you find him fucking hot, you enjoy his muscles, his pale skin, his lack of hair.
But he sucks you off eagerly, and he knows how to, because Daemon enjoys brothels and whores. That is known about him. And men are good, for they produce no bastards.
If he's good at this—because he is good at this, it must mean he enjoys it.
"You blow whores like this too?"
Spit, he drew a line at, but not at your cock?
"Fuck off." Don't suggest it, he means. But his expertise implies it, the avoidance of teeth, the work of his tongue.
The competition remains. If he wins, you are 2-1, still the winner—but 3-0 is a better score.
You know why Daemon is so eager to suck you off, and it isn't just because he is attracted to your strength, he wouldn't have suggested the competition so readily otherwise. Daemon is eager because he wants to win it.
He's playing dirty, he is, giving you pleasure and taking none himself, eliminating any possibility that he will not turn out victorious... you know how to play dirty too. That is known about you.
An orgasm built so slow it will sneak up to him, such is your strategy.
Daemon does not question it when you pull him off your cock. He interprets it as your lust, great and roaring, and he interprets yout languid demeanor as characteristic of you, interprets it to mean that you are a pussy who likes it romantic.
You're a Baratheon. It takes four partners to make you satisfied. It pains you too to go slow, to go through the prepping of four fingers, but it satisfies you that this is for competition. That is the only thing holding you back from fucking him raw.
By all means, Daemon is not a man who lets himself be sieged, he's a doer; but you do not allow him to surmount you on the bed.
You pin him down, your differences in strength finally stark. His feet plant onto your abdomen to stop you, but you press yourself against him such that he cannot even push a toe between the proximity of your bodies. His attempts are nullified, you are on top—but not dominant.
He stares you in the eye, retaining his ire, retaining his ground. It's a dare. Come at me, try it. Get going.
The competition plagues his mind as well, past the immense pleasure that comes when you finally pierce him after the slow agony of fingers. The only reason he lets you take him is because he knows that you'll give in to instinct... even though you don't right now.
It's a waiting game. Daemon focuses on patience.
His hole will lure your orgasm out of you. His endurance is greater, he knows it. You'll want to fuck into his heat without an ounce of decorum or care; with all the savagery and primitive nature in the world.
But you don't show it, now. You trap his cock between your bodies, let it grind each time you thrust, give it friction until it swells red; and you keep fucking him slow. But slow is not his preferred, it's easy to tell.
So you ramp it up, give him the promise of something greater, and Daemon eats it straight out of your hand.
When the first moan comes out of him, you feel—beyond the hot, sticky sweat of your bodies—the first spurt of his pre against your skin.
He's still impatient, but he complies, his own strategy. Your behaviors are both uncharacteristic, throwing away your desires, your love for hard-core hard and fast, for the sake of the competition.
You can tell he is only on his back and he is only taking you because he wants you to lose—at least, initially. The more rampant, frequent friction you give him, the more he likes it.
Try as he might to close his mouth, needy moans spill past, and his hot breaths hide not his pleasure.
Impassive is not the way that you like him, admittedly. You enjoyed the way he pulled your hair and the thrill he gave you with that dagger. Daemon Targaryen is simply not the same when he is not taking action, cowardly or not.
You shall have to contend with your carnal desires, with the pleasure of his tight walls around your cock you experience each time you fuck into him. He has not taken many a man, you're sure; these walls are not entirely virgin, but they are almost certainly unpainted.
You can't finish, not like this. He affects you more than you thought. It's more than the squeeze of your cock, it's the softness of his hairless body—like a maiden's—and it's the defiling of him, taking him for yours.
You can't finish, not before you've won. You just can't tell if he can sense your own impatience, if he can notice that the tight fistful of his hips don't match the gentleness of your thrusts.
You can't tell if he looks down on you so much that he thinks you as pathetic and romantic as this.
Daemon will survive this encounter. He will live to tell the tale that you're a pussy, that you only believe in making love, that you're too scared to take like a proper man. Whether you finish first or not, he won't be afraid to spark rumors—but if you fuck him the way you like, the way that has men and women alike screaming, he just might reconsider.
You're not afraid of playing dirty, you're afraid of playing untrue to yourself.
"Fuck it."
If he didn't know your scheme, he realizes it now with a gasp. You've got half of your cock stuffed inside of him when you suddenly press the rest inside—imagine what sort of sound he lets out when you pull back and push in your entire length the next thrust.
"Cunt." Daemon chokes out, grabbing a handful of your hair the way you like it. He tugs, but what use is tugging your head when the head of your cock is the real culprit to his misery?
"Do you want me to fuck your cunt or not?" Your voice is irritated, but your face betrays a dirty grin.
How many men can say they've fucked the Rogue Prince into the mattress?
"No." Daemon bites back. His chin juts forward, his teeth nearly do get you.
"Stalemate is worse than a loss."
You don't stop. You fuck him harder, fuller. His cock throbs against your stomach, you know he wants it this way too.
His cock gets more friction this way too. It's unfair to him, but again, you fight dirty: pleasure so overwhelming he won't be able to hold back.
He gets stimulation from both sides, it's not your fault he didn't protest to much from your fingers, not your fault he didn't see that part of your scheme when you pressed your bodies together.
He likes this better. He loves whores, but he doesn't make love to them. He fucks hard. In that, at least, you both agree on.
But you're sure he's worse than you; of course he is, he's Targaryen.
The pleasure is already so overwhelming that his body is squirming, that his dick throbs, that his hole pulsates—that his mouth spills with sounds ramping in volume.
Somewhere in the tourney camp, some party still roars. These sounds of his are not uncommon, especially not from your tent. Whisperers will feast.
They're not rare either, but his yell is. It's no battle cry, no argument, no frustration—there is no denying the cause of it.
Certainly not because he spills his orgasm straight after.
You've won.
But that is no concern of yours. Daemon with his eyes shut, Daemon harmless, Daemon vulnerable, it's new and enticing.
You've won, but first you want to finish. You don't fuck him for glory or honor, you've won already, now you fuck him because he incites such an ardor in you.
"You're fucking infuriating." You say, but fuck, does he turn you on, does he make you feel hot, does he bring out the adrenaline in you.
Three times you've beat him, three times he has made you want.
You give it to him.
He has no choice but to take it, and it's utterly hot in real physical temperature and real conceptual desire. The last of your spurts decorated his balls and the rest of your cock when you pull out of him, and somehow it gives him back his consciousness.
He's lost.
Daemon pushes you away, regaining his strength. He's lost for the third time in a row, and you've defiled him—worst of all, he fucking enjoyed it.
"Fuck you, and your fucking horse and sword and this Godsdamned tent."
He collects his dagger, collects his clothes, and then he's gone into the night faster than a disastrous wind at Storm's End.
All storms find their way to the Baratheon Seat eventually, and Daemon Targaryen is but the strongest one.
To take his revenge, he says.
You clash swords in the courtyard by evening, and by night, you clash swords again in your chambers.
Thereafter, Daemon at Storm's End is not a rare, inexplicable occurence. In wars, he crushes the enemy; in competitions, he wins all battles. He has yet beat you, that is reason enough to come back and try.
Hello, I watched Episode 4 today and absolutely loved it. Perhaps the author will write a continuation of the stories about Ormund Hightower and his husband—covering the conflicts between the Faith of the Seven and the Valyrian gods, as well as Daeron’s proper upbringing.
𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ no smut, just ponderings of faith from a religious man / this is a part 2 to faithful
cw: period typical homophobia, religious trauma ?
It must've been a miracle that kept you and Ormund together, for the man holds spite for Targaryens. He sees your dragon as a tool of war, nothing more. He doesn't see it as your companion, one that has been with you longer than he, one that you would prioritize in a heartbeat—but that's fine. You don't go over it in detail, you need not argue. It is a difference of opinions. As much as you hold the Hightower surname now, your upbringing is Targaryen, and his is Hightower. You both worship the Seven, but he does so more vehemently.
"You are too harsh on our ward." You mention offhandedly, polishing his blade. It needs more than a quick wipe upon a dead man's rags to be clean.
"How so?" Ormund ponders over his scents. They must've distracted him from the smell of the residual blood in his sheathe.
"You would have him ascend the throne. To tell him today and immediately demand him to kill a man? He does not even know the proper way of punishment by the blade is beheading, he is much too kind a boy for it."
"I'll admit I threw him into the water, but with the growing insolence of his brothers, we must make haste."
"That is not my only quarrel."
The two of you pause, look over to each other. This is to be an argument brewing, you know it.
"Tessarion was born to him in the cradle. You disregard her as a beast–"
"–and you would worship her as a God." Ormund cuts you off, accompanying his displeasure with the roll of his eye. "We have been over this before, but I raised that boy as a Hightower."
"And such is my problem. He sits upon the throne a Hightower, and our marriage is null." That makes him pause, take you seriously.
The past few days have been strenuous ones with a need to keep thinking: of strategy, of disciplining soldiers, of making peasants submit. He hasn't had the time to put much thought into you, for with your fealty to his bed secured, he has had no concern.
"I remind you that our marriage was made for a Targaryen to behold the Hightower name. Our Hightower elders, our counselors and even our conspirators would call for our marriage to be undone, for it is true that Daeron is more Hightower than Targaryen, for they would be satisfied with him upon the throne."
With your marriage, you have benefited from high stature in Highgarden, one you never got at the Red Keep or at Dragonstone, since you were too far down the line to the throne—but you do not worry because you might suffer a demotion. You worry because you might lose him. Your relationship, if continued, would be demonized for what it truly is: a man laying with a man. Under the eyes of the Seven, the Aspects which he so dutifully worships, you would be deemed sinners.
Ormund is not the saint he wishes to be. He cups your cheek, his blade falls off your lap. "Daeron sees us as his fathers. Our relationship, to him, is unhidden. Once he sits the throne, he will understand. His word will be the final choice. He will not break us apart, that I pledge."
"And what will they whisper about him? The faith is intrinsic to a Hightower and to the throne. For him to go against it, isn't it a direct protest against the faith?"
It is not Valyrian Religion to be queer, but right now, faced with his Targaryen turned Hightower husband, Ormund feels like he is on the edge of conversion—like you are a Valyrian Dragon God, like his worship of you in lust and in love is a blood ritual.
He believes in the Seven, worships them with reverance, prays as he should; but you, the sliver of his life that goes against what is right of men, make him feel like he does not worship the Seven wholly.
Your marriage is already a protest against the faith and with his love for you, Ormund has overlooked it. The question is not whether he should annul your marriage with this revelation, but how should he keep it?
He holds steadfast to his belief in his ward. Teach him to be cruel and Daeron will annul your marriage, in spite of his familial love for the both of you. Teach him to be kind, and he will be your shield and your supporter.
Why does the Mother preach for mercy, if she and the rest of the Aspects condemn him for who he loves?
Ormund has never strayed from his faith, never questioned it, and he will not start today. He doesn't want to answer that question.
"Don't worry. I trust in our son. Once Daeron ascends the throne, we shall be like specks in the night sky. We shall have our heirs," though it goes against your fealty to each other, "and with boys and growing children to fret over and the purpose of our marriage fulfilled, the people will ignore us."
He leans down, kisses you sweet and tender—like the sweet redness of an apple's skin that distracts you from the worm within.
have you ever done anything for viserys brother of daenerys...... i would go looking but im a lazy bum
Babe, I have 2 fics for Viserys. I have a masterlist go over there and learn how to put in the work for your food. Ctrl + F if you're on a laptop or pc, find in page if you're on mobile but not the app, if you're on the app use your eyes.
Once upon a time, after the war, after Robb's death, after Ramsay Bolton, after Arya and Jon left Winterfell and left her to worry for their lives again, after Jon left to live with the Wildlings and Arya left for adventure, and after she was once again left alone, now Queen, Sansa was afraid of what a husband might mean for her.
For centuries, elder daughters were passed over for sons for the titles of Lord or King. She worried that, if she took a husband, her own court might start to favor him, even if he were some southern thing; she worried that her future daughters might befall the same fate history has fortold. Such was the reasoning for her first marriage to the Imp, Tyrion.
She worried that she would be reduced to motherhood, as her mother before her was during Robb's campaign; as women in court are. Heir-producers.
Then came you.
Many of her advisors commended her for the match: a second son to one of her vassal houses. You're a Northener, that's important, and as second son, you have no claim to the Winterfell throne, for you were born far below it.
It was good politically, but it was, in all actuality, a mere coincidence.
As a young girl marching onto King's Landing with the naive dream of being a Princess, and then Joffrey the Kind's Queen, she believed in true love. She learnt her lesson quickly.
And yet, all these years later, after all these tumultuous events, she regained knows true love exists—because she finds it in you.
So now, as Sansa lays in your royal chambers, gone from the birthing bed at last and holding her newborn girl, her very first, she finds peace. Winterfell is at the back of her mind, because she trusts you enough to keep her seat warm in the meantime. It's a great necessity in the North.
Her daughter is just like her, came out with a full head of red hair, her eyes, her nose—but she sees you in her smile, the kind of smile the years have taken from her. Little Lyanna Stark favors her mother, as Sansa favored her own mother before her. She looks Tully, and for that, Sansa rejoices.
The door slams open and it's just barely closed when a figure crouches at the bed and presses their head against her skirts, you. It's almost like she's already a mother of two.
Sansa laughs. Her free hand finds your hair, "What is it, my love?"
"I don't know how you do it."
"Oh? Don't tell me you have ordered crops burned or something of the like." She teases. If it were anyone else, someone like her Hand, she might just be worried—but since it's you?
"Not at all," You shake your head, then finally lift it, "quite the opposite."
She knows it then, instantly, "You have ordered our personal stock of grain be distributed to our citizens again, haven't you?"
You whimper pathetically, because you're so predictable. "Yes."
"Our stock can only be quartered so many times." She sighs, scolds you with that sound—but then that's that. "And what else?"
You relay to her the rest of your solutions to the petitioners today, and with each find you report the total satisfaction of your petitioners to the clear detriment of the Winterfell Stronghold or another sector of your realm who is sure to send a petitioner with complaints soon—and thus the cycle continues.
She receives it all patiently, and then, "Hm."
Just a hum? You begin to panic, "....my dear?"
"You are really empathetic, aren't you, my love?" She smiles tenderly, petting at your hair as if you were direwolf pup in her lap. "I'm not mad at you. You want the best for our people, but you tend to only worry for the ones in front of you. Winterfell has its riches, you are right, but it also has many people. Our servants, our guards, our small council, the citizens living just beyond our walls; even ourselves, we live off of that grain, and that's just one example."
"I just wanted to appease them."
"As you always do. You're sweet, my love, too sweet." She clicks her tongue, then puts you at ease by cupping your cheek with her warm palm.
In the end, her seat is secured because of how pathetic you are at ruling. Three Kings in the North since Torrhen Stark, and you are the worst of them all—but that's okay. You weren't raised for it, and she prefers to keep control herself. She has managed many years without you. Except, now that you are having children, perhaps she should teach you a little.
"Sometimes I think you are better suited for the birthing bed than I."
The comment slips into one ear and out the other, as you have found yourself distracted and entranced by your newborn girl. Oh, my silly husband.
Sansa is still at peace. She has not been worried for years since your marriage, and she finds herself even less worried now. You love her already, your Lyanna Stark. She will not be passed over as heir in favor of your son—for Sansa knows that you will have many more children—and she will be the next Queen in the North, you won't resist it.
"Come here."
You sit on the edge of the bed, and Sansa shifts to lay back against your chest. For that, you are good at being a man, bringing her warmth with the breadth of your body. Then you bring your arm around her, and another underneath Lyanna.
For a moment, the two of you admire her.
Now that the fear of being just a mother has been conquered, Sansa thinks on the future gaggle of children she is to bring into the world; she's made this tiny thing living and breathing in her arms, and this tiny thing is the product of your love.
She won't be just a mother, but she understands the women that are. She would do anything for Lyanna, such is the mother's love that burns in her body.
"Now, my love, if you want Lyanna to actually have something to rule over, you best come to me for all decisions. Write down all–"
"Yes, dear."
"Let me finish, you big oaf." Sansa laughs. "Listen. Write down all petitions and come to me at the end of the day so that we might discuss. Offer all petitioners who cannot afford to travel back home a stay at Winterfell. They will have their decision the next day. Understand?"
"Yes, my dear." You repeat again, but with your tone, Sansa knows she won't have to repeat herself. You never forget a word she says, especially commands—such is your devotion.
