an oc-centric fic-verse | canon divergence, forbidden love, slow burn | cross-posted on ao3 and wattpad | containing mature themes (smut, major character death, graphic depictions of violence)
oc masterlists: main characters | side characters | historical | house brightflame (au)
reading order: part one | part two | part three (tba)
links: ao3 | wattpad | pinterest | spotify
๐ค๐๐ฒ: completed โ on-going โณ | general ๐ฑ teen ๐ป mature ๐ explicit ๐
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we already know this but they pray together <3 balon prays to the crone and ethan to the smith. it's the only time where they're able to be civil with each other
bathhouse shenanigans ๐ if you catch my drift
ethan hates when balon fights with the morningstar bc he views it as dishonourable. Real Knights fight with a sword
balon enters tourneys more often but ethan makes it a spectacle when he does, so it's more noticeable
balon is taller by two (2) cms and ethan refuses to let it go. like that is THE biggest insult balon made at him
balon fell first but ethan fell harder... like balon is very aware of his feelings (#healthymasculinity #thankyoulordjordayne) and so he notices the instant he stares at ethan a second too long and correctly identifies it as a crush. wheras ethan could literally be ogling a sweaty balon for the fifth time that day and not realize lmao. but once he does... oh boy
jaime hates them both
balon likes ethan's hair and ethan likes balon's smile
suntower smut, roan mention, croan implied, rowan mention, cerelle lannister mention, rowaynelle implied, rowaynelle raising daeron mention, criston glazing and all that in under 3k words
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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โโ chapter eleven: "an act only a god could permit"
ormund hightower x cerelle [oc]
synopsis: the days in the war camp grow long and ormund has to contend with much. how lucky, then, that he still has cerelle.
tags: time travel au, religious fanaticism, mutual obsession, controlling behaviour and thoughts, forbidden touches, sharing a bed, implied bastardphobia, pro criston cole, smut (dry humping, fingering)
words: 2.921
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She had thought he was already asleep, otherwise she would have never dared. She must have.
Ormund had not heard her coming, footsteps silent as a snowflake as they had crossed the ground to reach his bed. Hers was of equal material, soft and clean as befit a herald of the gods, so this could not have been the reason she had sought him out.
He only noticed once the mattress on his left began to dip, once the covers and blankets were shifted around then pulled up, letting a chilling breeze pass over his nude torso. Then she was there; head resting on his shoulder, hand curled atop his bare chest, legs pressing against his own. One deep, shaky breath, then all tension left her body.
Her hair was as soft as a gentle summer's breeze over the Arbour; brushing over his skin, falling over his arm, and enveloping him in its sweet scent - pine trees just after rain, the bergamot he made sure to apply to her neck himself every morn.
Perhaps a lesser man would have pushed her away, thrown her to the ground and shouted about how she dared. But Ormund knew better. She had been given to him by the Seven Above - all of her had. Denying her an action, a wish, a command was sure to bring doom across them all. He would take care of her, treasure this gift and use her just as the gods had intended.
By morning, she was gone, and with her any trace of the previous night having happened at all. Only the faint scent clinging to his blankets proved he had not imagined it.
She refused to lose a word about her foolish actions, no matter how often she repeated them. He curled a hand around her waist one night to press her closer against his body, but by morning she had already resumed her part in their daily routine. Once, he buried his nose into her hair, another time he turned fully towards her, a third he laid his leg over hers to force her into a position only husband and wife ought to ever find themselves in.
Nothing.
During the war meetings, he watched her expressions - the few of them her veil revealed - yet was found lacking as so often before. He had trained her too well.
โThe dragons will arrive any day now,โ Gwayne said. โVhagar is Seven knows where, and Tessarion is not big enough to take on even one on her own.โ
โOur men are finishing the construction of more scorpions,โ Ormund replied, tearing his eyes from Cerelle.
โThat will hardly be enough! Do I have to remind of the Redgrass Field-โ
โPerhaps our Prophet knows how to proceed.โ Criston Cole smiled, and Ormund could not tell whether in malice or glee.
The Dornishman wasโฆ terribly infuriating with the way he clung onto each of Cerelleโs words, worshipped her as if she herself had been the one to drag him from the deepest pit of the Seven Hells. His devotion had risen sharply, and did not seem to ever disappear again. True, Ormund had wished for such a reaction from people as soon as they even heard word of his Prophet butโฆ
All eyes now laid on Cerelleโs glowing form. Her lips were parted ever so slightly, face serene and untroubled, gloved hands almost floating beside her body. Ormund had done his work well.
โBring me your best fletcher.โ Her words were quiet, every man within the tent holding his breath to not miss a single one of them. โAs well as seven branches of a living weirwood. The tree may not be felled in their acquisition."
โWeirwood?โ Lord Bracken gasped. โThat is sacrilege!โ
โThe Old Gods and the New have long lived in harmony,โ Cerelle responded, keeping her gaze on the map before her instead of meeting anyoneโs eyes. โThey are troubled as much as the Seven with the course set for Westeros. We must work as one if we wish to defeat this threat.โ
This night, she kept her hand above the pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star laying on his chest. It was bigger than the one he had given her, tough silver to her gleaming gold, but it united them all the same. He covered her fingers with his.
By the onset of darkness after they had received word of their successful work in Kingโs Landing and on the Iron Isles, of the paranoia spreading in both courts, he knew he had to do something.
Cerelle stared down at him, eyes so bright they did not allow him to focus on anything besides, her left hand forming half a fist, prepared to rip itself out of the hold he had on her wrist with as much violence as necessary. Her hair formed a curtain around them both, shielding them from the watchful eyes of the gods.
"What game are you playing, Prophet?"
"I wish to sleep."
"Have I not ensured you be given the most comfortable quarters from here to the Wall?"
"Aye. And I intend to use them to their full extent."
She did not move, despite the conviction in her voice; almost as if she was waiting for his response. Or his consent.
"Should anyone find us like thisโฆ"
Cerelle giggled spitefully. "You seemed rather unconcerned about that when you pressed yourself into my stomach a fortnight past."
Her knee pressed into the side of his hip more insistently at these words, almost as if she dared him for a repetition. In his current state, he did not know if he could deny her.
Ormund swallowed. "Should you have ever grown uncomfortable at my presence or proximity-"
"But I didn't. It is only you raising objections."
How long it took him to let go of her arm he did not know, only that once he'd had she smiled and resumed her position by his side; head on his shoulder, hand on his chest, leg against his bare one. Even if this time, it seemed as if she had laid herself even tighter against him.
"It is because I feel safe with you." Whispers, barely louder than the breeze pressing against the window from the outside. "The nightmares donโt find me when you are here to protect me.โ
He had heard this cadence of her voice before - when she was speaking to soldiers, to enemies, to disbeliefers, convinced that all she needed to end this war laid right within her grasp. She attempted the same on him now.
Ormund refused to fight against what it did to him.
The assassin came after she had handed over the finished weirwood arrows.
(She had commanded their seven best archers brought to her, and had handed each of them one of the arrows. They had knelt before her readily, unconcerned about the dirt and mud and blood now caking their clothing, and had sworn their one shot, their one chance, to be devoted solely to her. Her beauty, her divinity, her faith in them.)
โThree of them are reserves,โ she had told him, half-way to her normal self again, half-way still trapped in the creature he had made of her. โI hope to never have need of them.โ
It was when they were walking the grounds, her mere presence gifting strength and hope, that he had almost missed the knife. Who it had been aimed at he never found out - her or him, they were walking so close by each other - but only one of these options sent him into a violent frenzy. Well, would have, had Ser Criston not skewered the assassin on his own blade before either of their blood could be drawn.
The poor sod gurgled up blood, coughed it in their general direction, then dropped to the ground.
โLike shall be answered with like!โ he had called out to their army before they continued their march the following day, Cerelleโs trembling hands on his skin from the night before still clear in his mind. โThey dared attack a divine gift, dared try to sully the most holy of offerings. Their wretchedness knows no bounds!โ
Cerelle drew a Seven-Pointed star onto Cristonโs forehead with naught but her finger and the air in-between, and even if the mark would never be visible, they all knew.
He had been Blessed. And he would not remain the last.
Her bed ended up never being put up within his tent ever again. They went through their nightly routines - each separate from the other - then entered his mattress from opposing sides. He saw little as they took up their trusted positions, but he felt it all. Her dress, her hand, her hair, her lips, her legs, her breasts as they pressed against his skin through the thin fabric. They were husband and wife in all but name, in all but the one way it truly mattered.
โPerhaps we could send for Rowan. He is not House Vanceโs heir but he knows their lands like the back of his own hand and could be a powerful negotiator-โ
โWas that the boy that only ever took his nose out of his many books to dance around Cerelle Lannister with you?โ Ormund raised a brow at Gwayne. โHe would be useless on a battlefield.โ
โHe has thirteen links of a maesterโs chain, he would be more than capable of supporting you in whatever way you so choose.โ Before Ormund could object, his cousin had already continued, โHe has just as much to lose in this war as we do.โ
There was little in this world Gwayne cared more about than Rowan Vance, supposedly an acolyte at the Citadel, and Cerelle Lannister, second daughter of the late Jason Lannister. Perhaps the lady would accompany Rowan, even - Seven knew none of these three were able to ever let go of each other. Or of Daeron. At some point during their stay in Oldtown they had convinced themselves they were responsible for him, and were they to join them in the war camp he would never hear the end of his plans of including the young prince in combat. Having him fly reconnaissance missions had been enough to get Gwayne to almost burst at one point.
Hopefully they would all follow Ser Cristonโs example and behave themselves.
(The man had been spending a concerning amount of time with some Stormlander bastard named Roan as of recent, preferring his company over those of any other, a development Cerelle - his Cerelle, not Gwayneโs - had forced his hand to accept. He had chosen to oblige her, if just this once.)
Cerelle massaged the knots in his shoulders and back that refused to stop forming, he brushed her hair. They found new routines the further they brought the Riverlands under their grasp, gauging a reaction from Rhaenyra.
โYour previous wife,โ she asked one evening, sat before and beneath him, letting his fingers play with her hair instead of removing the clumps and dirt. โWhat was she like?โ
โHer name was Mira, of House Meadows.โ He answered a bit too readily for his own taste, but had long since realised there was no hiding before Cerelle. โIt was a marriage arranged by our fathers, as is proper. She was Lady of Oldtown for only three years before a winter fever took her, but she was good at her task. Supportive, decisive, cared for our children even when the maids could have done so.โ
โShe sounded like a great woman.โ
โShe was.โ He hummed. โAnd your husband? What is the story there?โ
Her fingers spread where they laid on her thighs. โHis name was Jon. I- He was a bastard from the North. I married him for love and on a whim. That was my first mistake.โ
And that night, they made their own.
He had not slept - not truly, at least, the army they would meet on the morrow keeping his mind occupied - but his waking mind had not been responsible for the now-distant fantasies that had made blood rush down to his cock, either. Could anyone truly fault him? She was so soft in his arms, so cold against the heat that followed him everywhere in this accursed camp, so malleable. No word against his hardness pressing into her thigh, or his arms around her waist and chest.
They had not fallen asleep like this.
They always woke like this.
His hips moved as if possessed; slowly, steadily, yet against every sensible urge in his body. They ground into Cerelle, the thin fabric of his smallclothes and her nightdress - Seven, why had she begun wearing them - the sole barriers between true debauchery. Silent gasps escaped his open lips, caught by her curls. His cock rose, throbbed, and-
โDonโt be selfish.โ
He stopped. Contemplated. Realised the folly he was about to fall victim to, acting no better than a green boy who had never gotten his cock wet.
Her fingers, long having been laid above his, slowly began to exert pressure. Not enough to truly move his, but enough to put emphasis on her scared whisper.
โIt doesnโt count.โ
โWe are not doing anything truly forbidden.โ
โThis is not how husband and wife ought to act.โ
โWe are merely preparing our bodies for the task ahead.โ
Her body already belonged to him.
This was how he would continue to control her.
He found her warm and already wet for him. A visible shiver took ahold of her body when he let his fingers glide through her cunt, dipping shortly and shallowly into her hole before searching out her clit to begin rubbing slow circles around it.
She lifted her leg and brought it over his thighs, opening herself up for his fingers and his cock - straining against his smallclothes, slotting so perfectly into the space between her arse cheeks. In grinding her hips against his fingers - he knew she appreciated their callouses, knew how much pleasure they would bring her - she stimulated his member as well.
โPlease.โ
A whisper, lost to the air growing in heat around them, but he had heard. Had heard the word and the gasp and the way her leg rubbed over the bedding below and the squelch of her cunt as he played with her opening. He obliged her plea - she was the Prophet after all. She got everything she wanted.
Her head tilted backward as he pressed his middle finger inside; perhaps a bit too quickly, but she seemed to take its size in pride, rewarding him with a delicious clench of her walls around the digit and a tightening of the pressure she exerted on his cock.
Fuck, he was hard. It would be such an easy feat to push down the rough cloth and slot himself into the place his finger currently occupied. Her dress had moved up so much, their skin already touched, it would be such an easyโฆ
The thought of finally claiming her almost ended him. Despite how he would not have been her first - something he thought he would have been bothered by - the thought of finally joining their bodies in the most holy of acts was enough to make droplets of seed escape his tip. They soaked into the fabric and perhaps, perhaps, Cerelle already felt the wetness.
The one she caused. She and her pliant body and her tight walls that seemed to wish to both expel and suck his digits up at the same time.
Her long fingers cradled his face, nails burying into skin, having reached backward to find hold after he had inserted a third finger into her - thicker than they were long, perfectly tailored to her cunt. The movements of his hips grew quicker and more frantic the longer they went on, but he forced his hand to remain slow. Insistent, deep, curling, spreading, a thumb on his pearl that never broke its rhythm, but slow still.
One day, he would have her lying beneath him. In the light of the rising sun he would take all the time in the world with her, would hear every sound spilling from her mouth clear as ice, mark her body so no one would doubt her allegiance, would become so familiar with her scent he could never smell anything else ever again in fear of going mad. Her cunt would accept his cock as if it had always been meant to.
She arched her back, spilled over his hand. The movements of her hips only stopped once his own seed soaked his smallclothes.
He cleaned them up afterwards, cursing the darkness despite it being the sole shield between them and the gods. Cerelle accepted his touch even here, even as he lingered far longer on her skin than he ought to, even as his fingers pressed onto her pearl again through the wet cloth.
When he went onto his knees beside the bed and clasped his hands together, she quickly pulled him into her embrace.
โDonโt.โ Her mouth was terrifyingly close to his own. โThere is nothing to seek forgiveness for. Let us not trouble the gods with this matter.โ
Perhaps he had trained her too well. Perhaps, he thought as his hand pressed against the underside of her breast once more, she had become him; body and soul.
When she was still asleep by the time he woke, he took a razor to her hair and cut off a small section from the very bottom. He threw away the contents of his pomander and replaced it with her.
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author's note: i swear this was written before ep 6 and is not meant as a response to. that ๐ญ also rip criston
also dramatis personae: roan storm (oc), bastard of house toyne, criston's childhood friend, they used to be in love but never acted on it (their fic) ; cerelle lannister, second daughter of jason lannister, fostered in oldtown, lover to gwayne and rowan ; rowan vance (oc), nephew to the current lord vance, studied at the citadel for a while, lover to gwayne and cerelle, founded the branch of vance of atranta that split off from the main branch during the dance
summary: she thought it had become bearable
word count: 4.025
warnings: sexual assault, threats of rape
tag list: @nightcat101 @the-maesters-chronicles
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Ramsayโs words were empty threats. No matter how much vitriol he spit at her, how often he would hold his knife against her throat or let it trace the shape of her body, he was never able to go through with any of it. She knew, of course, that his father was to thank for this small mercy, but she would take what was offered.
The woman that cared for her eye - what was left of it, anyways - whispered to her of the fights that had ensued after the night she had lost it. Of the lord reprimanding his bastard for harming her when she was so invaluable to them, of losing a potential bargaining chip, of having to learn to hold himself back. Some whispered, she said, that the lord hoped for his wife to be carrying a son, so that he would have a proper heir soon.
โI didnโt know you were a bastard,โ she told Ramsay when he visited her the following sunset. She smiled. โThough it explains a lot.โ
Whether he liked or enjoyed her smile seemed to change on a whim. Some days he actively appeared to want to encourage her to show it, other days he contemplated carving it off her face. Today was the latter of such days. It didnโt take a maester to figure out why he was so upset at it.
โI am wanted.โ The knife he held to her good eye was curved, its edges surprisingly dull. โMy father chose me as his heir because I have earned being such. I alone am worth more than a thousand of your golden-haired bitch brothers.โ
She wished to dream of Jon again, as she had that first night trapped in this tower, yet the gods did not will it so. Perhaps they feared him finding out about her situation, for she knew he would come and save her. So close to Castle Black, held within his childhood home, screaming for helpโฆ
He would have come. If only he had known.
Cerelle didnโt dwell long on those thoughts, for they reminded her of the people that had hopefully already arrived there - Sansa, Karina, Brienne, andโฆ
Crone, Mother, everyone willing to listen. Tell me he is safe. One sign would be enough. I cannot have failed him as well.
For if she had, what point was there left to surviving?
At least she knew for certain Starlight and the mysterious man from the kennels had made it to safety. Ramsay had been so livid whenever she had even implied his existence, and as long as that continued, they had not returned into the Boltonsโ hold.
Much like every man before him, Ramsay seemed obsessed with her hair for reasons she was still unable to fully explain. Her mother had the same curls - more beautiful ones, even, for she knew how to take care of them - yet Cerelle had never heard anyone remark on their glow, their intrigue, their-
โWhy do you tie them up?โ He held her braid between his fingers, let the strands run through them loosely before pulling at them once more. โYouโll never make it out of here anyway.โ
His shoulder pressed against hers, and she couldnโt help note that he had intentionally sat down on her left side - the one with her working eye, to ensure she could never truly ignore him. At least the wall at her back provided stability.
โKeeps it cleaner.โ
The truth was that she of course wished and planned to flee, but for that her entire body needed to keep itself poised and prepared at all points of the day. Were she to open her hair to alleviate the headache - marginally better now that the braid hung down her back and was not wound tightly around her head - her escape would turn ever more difficult.
Ramsay laughed and pressed her braid to his nose. โIf you swore to obey, I would allow you into my chambers to clean it properly.โ
She turned her head to look him in the eyes. โI swear to obey.โ
He laughed louder, moving her hair downward and to his mouth in an action that could be mistaken for a kiss. โNice try, princess.โ
โYou can cut it off if you like it so much.โ
Perhaps a younger version of herself, one that had never set foot in Winterfell and still clung so tightly to the shield of the Paladin, would have rather died than letting this happen. But if it were the thing to guarantee her freedomโฆ
โA tempting offer.โ His hand wandered up her braid and towards her head, settling behind her ear to wrap the loose strands found there around his fingers. โBut their beauty would fade without the real price attached to it.โ
โYou consider me a price?โ
โAn unwed heir to the Iron Throne? The Targaryens have fought wars over less.โ
There was neither rhyme nor reason to the frequency of his visits. Some occasions she was left alone for days on end, her sole companions the wind whipping through the tower at dark and the silence taking ahold of her during daylight. Then he came repeatedly, leaving and returning within heartbeats of each other. Always keeping her on edge, never permitting her a moment of peace.
She was glad her previous moonblood had only happened once they had been on the journey north. Somehow more painful and bloody than all the ones sheโd had before - and that was saying something - but it at least allowed her this small relief. Even despite the bleeding, she didnโt know how she would have endured Ramsayโs touch were the pain in her stomach be added to the one in her head.
The white band of silk that held her braid together was all the sentimentality she afforded herself in this tower. Cerelle would never waste her wish on merely getting out, but there still remained a strange sense of comfort about knowing Florian was but a whispered word away.
If she had stayed with him, would all this have been prevented?
Well, no good pondering on what would have been. Only fools yearned for the past. If she wished to ever leave this tower, she would have to do so herself.
Killing Ramsay when he came to visit her was out of the question. His strength far exceeded hers - enough to break her neck while barely reacting, if he so chose - meaning if she ever made the slightest inclination she intended to go after his dagger or, gods forbid, intended to flee down the ladder while it stood, her blood would join that of the countless innocents screaming within these stones.
The hole in the ground through which he came to her was not an option, either. It laid too far off from the wall, leaving her no chance to climb down as she has so often back at home.
On the ground waited two soldiers who would not hesitate to kill her should she suddenly appear before them.
Leaving her only one path - Ramsay had to take her away willingly.
โStag for your thoughts?โ
โI miss home.โ
He chuckled, inadvertently tugging at her hair as he played mindlessly with it. She did not see him - gaze directed at the ceiling - but the warmth of his presence was enough to send her heart racing. In recent visits he had begun mirroring her positions for whatever reason, and this was no exception - she laid on the ground, he laid in the opposite direction, only their heads remaining beside each other.
โI think I would like to see Kingโs Landing some day. I have heard the most vile things about your city.โ
I was not talking about Kingโs Landing.
โMy Kingsguard will love to meet you if you ever make it.โ
His laughter had become bearable, his touch permissible. All of him had, after a while.
โI should have known a pretty thing like you has a knight in shining armour to hide behind. Tell me, do you love him like Naerys loved her Aemon?โ
โI did not take you for a romantic.โ
His hand cupped her cheek, tracing the scar underneath her eye. โYou are deflecting.โ Scalding-hot breath hit her skin. โWhat is he like, your knight?โ
She had told on herself. No matter how good she pretended to be at reading his mood, he always had her beaten. Now he was in danger, now he was an obstacle, now he would be-
โCriston Cole.โ She whispered the name.
โI have no idea who that is.โ
โAnd you dare lecture me on history?โ
The longer he stayed away, the more vivid the nightmares became. There was nothing she could do to stop them, nothing preventing them from coming, for the longer she denied herself sleep, the stronger they slammed back into her.
There was fire, so much fire. It tore into her flesh like the nails she had slammed into her bed posts, ripped at her hair like the thorns of her sisterโs rose bushes, ate away at her eyes as if there was anything left to feast on to begin with. Somewhere in between the sept crashing down upon her, the screams began.
They were all here; Benjiamin and Tomas and Helena and Sallydance and Henrix and Jynessa and Catelyn and Jurek and Alesander and Braavos and Lucion-
She couldnโt stop them, she- They grabbed her wrists and ankles and ripped her down and forward and made her stumble and refused to let her run- She needed to run, all she had to do was-
โHelp!โ
No, no- It couldnโt it-
โPlease!โ
He had to stay away it wasnโt possible-
โSave me!โ
โWhat have you seen, little princess? What terror have the gods shown you?โ
She held on tightly to her necklace, pressing it against her body, pressing her body against the wall, out of breath, heart racing, staring at him with the fear she had hidden for so long.
He could not have her necklace, no one could! It was hers. She had been given it by the one person who- who-
โWhy wonโt you leave me alone? Just let me go.โ
Ramsay simply smiled.
It was the only time she had ever shed tears in his presence, and even now, so many nights later, she still cursed herself for it. Crying showed weakness, it showed instability, it showed she did not wish to be taken seriously. Princesses did not cry - especially not ones that were also aโฆ
No, she was no knight. Helena had made sure sheโd learned that lesson once and for all.
Ramsay pressed the flat of the dagger against her chest. The thick black tunica that had previously been apart of the Lannister armour she had worn above it thankfully protected her from much of the sensation.
โI should sharpen this thing again soon,โ he said almost absentmindedly. โThough itโs not as bad as when I first took it from you. Truly, how were you ever able to defend yourself with a dull thing like that?โ
By never using it in a fight.
โItโs an old thing. It was to be expected.โ
โI would have assumed a princess would long for something moreโฆ bejewelled?โ
The dagger had never truly been hers. Maria had given it to her with the justification that it was barely usable anymore anyways, and that she would not mourn its absence. Cerelle had then thrown it at the target at Benjiaminโs tourney, expecting never to see it again - until Henrix had shown up in her chambers and attempted to kill her with it. Why she took it from his corpse she could not explain.
Now Ramsay had it, and had used it to torture Lucion with. The source of her greatest triumph turned into the source of her greatest shame.
โThe stones would fall off in the first fight,โ she answered his previous question. โBit of a waste.โ
โWhereโs the fun in that?โ
All this time, she had lost sight of the one flaw in her manipulations. Not that they worked too well, or that they did not work at all; not that Ramsay learned the wrong lesson from her attention, not that she would eventually fall for her own words, and not that he would kill her as soon as she had become too agreeable.
No, the one thing she had overlooked was the one thing that ended up coming true - had she never debased herself to please him, the outcome would have been exactly the same.
One night, after she had felt two tugs around her heart she refused to think about, he arrived with his face covered in blood. There was a dagger in his hand, soaked in the red fluid as well, yet he dropped it mindlessly as a smile began to spread on his lips. Then, he pounced.
She tried to scramble away yet he had taken her by such surprise, a hurried charge not at all fitting to his actions during his previous visits, there was little she could do. He was on top of her the next moment, hands circling around her wrists and slamming them into the ground, the full weight of his body on hers leaving her with no space to move.
โHeโs dead.โ His breath so close to her mouth would have made her vomit had she been capable of it. โHeโs dead, and he canโt keep us apart any longer.โ
It took her a moment to figure out the meaning behind his words. โYou killed your father.โ
โLong overdue, if you ask me.โ One of his hands began moving down her body andโฆ pawing at it. โNow you can be mine.โ
He forced her legs apart with one of his and slotted himself between them, thrusting forward sharply and-
She fought. Kicked and punched and clawed and bit and screamed until her throat went raw. Ramsay was so terribly heavy and so awfully strong, it took almost all her own power to simply wrangle one of her hands free from his hold to jab at his throat, and even then he only almost went tumbling back. Only when she buried her teeth into his skin - she didnโt even know where - was she able to slip out from under him and stumble away.
Her breath was heavy, her lungs burned. She spit, but the taste of his blood refused to leave her tongue, sticking onto every part of her mouth. He laughed.
โOh, how wonderful.โ He wiped at the wound on his jaw - had she done that? - and licked up whatever blood he had collected. โIt seems I have finally found what makes the little princess react.โ
React? Was that all these past few weeks had been about for him? To get a reaction out of her?
He jumped, she fled.
โThereโs nowhere you can go.โ He crashed into her back, throwing them both to the ground. โYouโre mine.โ He had his nose buried in her hair, and took a deep breath. โIโll never let anyone else have you.โ His hand found its way towards her waist, and began tugging her shirt upwards. He groaned. โIโve wanted to do this since the moment you were thrown before my feet in the Great Hall.โ
Her struggle only seemed to hurt herself; she tried to rip, to tear, to dislocate anything, no matter who it belonged to, but all it did was make blood trickle across her forehead and down her cheek. And when she tried to bury her elbow into his stomach, into the wound she had left there weeks ago, he closed his hand around her throat, and pressed.
Moonlight. The cold. The bodies-
โMโlord.โ
A sudden burst of air entered her lungs. She gasped, coughed, retched, tried to fall forward but Ramsayโs hands were still tight around her body.
โWhat?โ he shouted directly beside her ear.
โThere is someone at the gates wishing to speak to you. Says he has news of the Stark boy.โ
โTell him to wait-โ
โHeโs wounded. Massive claw marks. Might not make it very long.โ
Moments passed, stretched into eternity. Her heart pounded in her throat, blocking the air, preventing her head from regaining focus. It was all blurred - the wall, the floor, the hand on her chest, the one on her stomach, the breath against her hair, the tug around her heart, the thing pressing against her back.
Teeth grazed her ear. โIโll be back before you know it, little princess. Donโt try to miss me too much.โ
Then he was gone, and she crashed forward into the ground.
How long she laid there she couldnโt say. All she knew were the jagged stones burying themselves into her flesh, the wind brushing over her newly-exposed skin, and the shivering that refused to go away.
โPrincess Cerelle?โ The voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and belonging to a man she didnโt know. โIโve come to help you escape.โ
Her eyes met those of the soldier still standing on the ladder, the lower half of his body hidden by the stones making up the floor, a hand stretched out toward her. The look on his face wasโฆ strange. Equal parts conviction, fear, and anger.
โQuick! Before he returns.โ
Her body moved before her mind had had time to fully grasp his words and staggered towards him. The climb down the ladder was shaky and hurried and at least one part of herself had retained enough sense of mind to fear the aching wood breaking and letting both of them crash to the ground far beneath. The soldier took her hand the moment they touched the floor, unknowing to the way her chest was being torn apart, and began dragging her after him. They ran down hallways and corridors, stopped, let men pass, continued on. Then shouts began echoing.
โShit,โ the soldier mumbled. โStupid, stupid Raoul.โ
They continued, yet just as they were running down a narrow staircase, noises sounded from downward - footsteps, shouts, the rattling of armour.
The soldier drew his sword and pushed her behind him. โRun back up, Iโll cover you!โ He turned toward her for a moment. โFirst door out, straight ahead, down one flight on the first stairs you see, over the battlements, down the stairs. The door straight ahead will lead you out. And whatever you do, do not trust anyone. Everyone is your enemy, no matter what they say. Just get out!โ With that, he went to confront the approaching horde.
She couldnโt remember any of his words, but prayed to whatever god she could think of that at least her body had retained the commands. Up, through a door, down an endless seeming corridor freed of anything, down another flight of stairsย - her legs burned, her lungs burned, she still felt Ramsayโs grip on her throat and arms and bare skin-
โLeaving so soon?โ
There was a wall against her back and a body against her front, and the burning and scraping against her skin felt so terribly familiar.
โLet me go!โ
But there was no getting out of Ramsayโs hold; not with the way her mind still refused to obey, and not with the weakness that had settled upon her when she had first set foot within this castle.
โActually,โ he purred, โyour little attempted rebellion is quite useful.โ And with that, he threw her body over his shoulder.
He had set a brisk pace, stopping and running in seemingly random patterns, the upside-down world rushing by so terribly quickly, yet it was not as if Cerelle would have had much knowledge of her surroundings either way. This place was as foreign to her as the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai and even the Lands of Always Winter.
She was thrown to the ground with a strange sense of restraint she was only able to explain once she saw where he had taken her.
Thick snowflakes fell heavily all around them, having already covered the ground in an almost-undisturbed blanket, and cloaking the trees surrounding them on all sides in a hazy fog. There were pines and firs and dark red foliage peeking out from between them. A deep, black pond laid behind her and to her rightโฆ
A weirwood.
Just as she set herself to run, two pairs of hands took ahold of her body and forced her back into the snow.
โCareful with her.โ Ramsay knelt before her, mirroring her, once again. His smile could have almost been described as giddy. โThis is a holy place, after all.โ
The men that restrained her were unfamiliar to her; dressed in poor leather and linens, covered in blood and soot and reeking of death. They held her upright, with her shoulders pulled back and her throat bared for Ramsay to do with as he pleased. All throughout, her heart was being torn towards the castle.
What was happening?
The grip around her right arm slackened enough for Ramsay to take ahold of her hand and let the blade of a dagger - her dagger - glide across her thumb. She hissed as her blood touched the open air, but quickly quietened in shock and confusion as he forced her bleeding finger to run over his face - from his forehead all the way down to his chin, leaving a deep red line in its wake. Then he brought her thumb to his mouth and began drinking up the blood still spilling.
A sacrifice. He wishes to make of me a sacrifice to protect himself from-
The dagger was pressed into her hand, and he repeated all his previous motions - just mirrored. The blood froze almost immediately as it was wiped across her skin, saving her from the sticky sensation that would have followed otherwise. When he pressed his finger to her lips, she kept them sealed shut.
He pulled his mouth into a mocking frown. โOh, you sweet thing. You can either do as I say right now, or I will let my friends here rape you after I am done with you. Your choice.โ
In his blood, she thought she tasted memories of Lucion.
Ramsay forced her hands to clasp together, pressing her palms against each other with his own, and closed his eyes. โNow we pray.โ
For what?
โI should have expected nothing else.โ
Her head whipped around at the all-too familiar voice. It could not-
Robb Stark stood ahead of them in the godswood. There was blood on him, his sword, his direwolf, the dozen men surrounding him. His crown had lost some of its prongs, the wolf head at its front half-broken off. A strange smile marred his features.
Fingers laid themselves around Cerelleโs chin to turn her head back, and then there were lips on hers. So short was the touch she had barely had time to grasp what it could have meant; all she knew was the phantom-feeling of vomit rising up her throat, as well as Ramsayโs wide grin.
โThere. Now your family is my family.โ
And suddenly, it all fell into place. The guard speaking of the Stark boy and his insistence of Ramsay coming with him immediately. The other guard dragging her out of the tower, his curses at his situation and some unknown other, his words about trusting no one and simply getting out. Ramsay seeming unusually happy she had escaped her cell. Him dragging her before a heart tree while all around Winterfell, people died.
The soldiers had meant to save her from both Ramsay and Robb.
Winterfell was being reconquered by House Stark.
Ramsay had forced her to marry him to force her family to protect him from Robb-
The world seemed to stop for a moment as that last realization crashed into her.
โSeize Lord and Lady Bolton,โ Robbโs voice called out through the snow. โThis is as good a place as any to execute them.โ
Ramsay had forced her to marry him. She was now his wife.
No! No, it- It had supposed to have been Jon! Jon! Jon should have been kneeling before her-
Lady Bolton.
Ramsay drew back from her, letting his hands fall from her face, and picked up the dagger he had let fall. He smiled at her. โThis is the part where you run.โ
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โถโ.ห ๐๐๐๐๐; the bastard daughter of cerelle, queen alicent hightower's handmaiden and most trusted companion. calya's mother has refused to speak on the identity of her father, yet few fail to notice the traits the young girl shares with the queen's sworn shield, ser criston cole. it helps little that calya is doted upon not just by her mother, but the queen and the kingsguard as well...
true-born!loreon is honestly the closest parallel to canon!cerelle there is... like true-born!cerelle and twincest!loreon are still her (bc they are. y'know. the same character) but only true-born!loreon shares her experiences to this extent
โถโ.ห ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐; sole true-born child of robert baratheon and cersei lannister. said to have been a melancholy child that now clings to his faith and his knighthood - one earned at just four-and-ten by a lowly hedge knight in the streets of flea bottom. mysteriously disappeared shortly before the death of jon arryn.
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