Asoiaf Rarepairs - Inactive

THE STARKS ARE BY FAR THE MOST PROLIFIC FAMILY IN THE UPPER ECHELONS OF SOCIETY

They were either going to live happily ever after, or kill each other. That’s what everyone said. From their very first date — well, if you could call hooking up in a bathroom stall after one of her red carpets a date. Even their parents were never sure about their relationship, and his father and hers had been as close as brothers growing up.

They hooked up and broke up and got back together and started all over again more times than he can count. Half the time, Robert can’t even remember if she’s pissed at him or if he’s sworn her off again, but it doesn’t matter, because they can’t keep apart. Sure, they make each other miserable when they’re together, but they torture each other when they’re apart. And it’s better than being alone.

It’s not how he pictured it, his life, his future. But the life he’d imagined? That door was long since closed, he’d fucked that up too badly, she made it clear she never wanted to see him again. Cersei, though, no matter what he did, he never seemed to fuck up so bad as to drive Cersei away, and that’s almost the same thing as love, right?

THEON GREYJOY and JON SNOW meet again at Castle Black.

elia martell and lyanna stark

"we are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. that is our great glory, and our great tragedy."

Summary: King Joffrey Baratheon survives his wedding, and Sansa Stark remains a bird in a cage. Some years afterward, Princess Myrcella Martell returns from Dorne, and comes bearing a gift that just might bring Sansa's freedom. Excerpt:

Princess Myrcella offered Sansa the first flower, and sunlight blazed off the crystal window like fire.

It was a lovely, striking thing—slender and long, with velvety petals jagged as daggers, darker than the rubies that kissed Myrcella’s golden throat. Its center mirrored ravished flesh, blooming and puckered, like lips. Bloodied lips.

“A Dornish iris,” Myrcella said. The glint in her green eyes was kind, yet sly. “For the red of your hair.”

Red. Red like her Tully hair. Red like the blood that rained from Father when Ice fell, and cut, and lit in the morning sun, and the crowd rejoiced, and Sansa screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Red like Lannisters.

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa said. The bile burned just beyond her voice. “I am undeserving of such consideration. My princess is so kind to think of me.” The slightest smirk played at Myrcella’s lips—cruel or playful, Sansa could not tell, but she saw that mouth, all the same. Saw those full, pink, bow-shaped lips cage words unsaid. “And my lady aunt is far too humble. You deserve this gift, and more, simply by your presence. Your name. We must never forget our names, nor what we are owed because of them.”

Sansa Stark had not forgotten.

Oberyn martell for you with willas tyrell for @afewreelthoughts who asked for them together :>

“Stop making me laugh!”

Cersei wanted to hate the man, needed to hate him, and despite it all, pleasantness oozed off of him in waves.

Of course Robert had called for a childhood friend, the brother of the woman who took his heart, and whom she wasn’t entirely convinced Robert hadn’t developed feelings for in Lyanna’s stead. If she and Jaime could be so alike one another, why couldn’t another family replicate itself over and over again?

Ned Stark smiled at her from where he was seated at Robert’s right hand. He’d seemed embarrassed that Robert should offer him such a seat of honor, had had to be forced into it by the strength of Robert’s voice and firm hands, and the worst part was that he probably was. Cersei knew when a man knew his own charms - every man in King’s Landing showed her every day - and this one didn’t.

It unnerved her.

A few seats down from her sat his daughter - a spindly, obedient little thing that Robert thought good enough for their eldest son. This family was invading her home like a cold wind in summer, and she could not allow it.

“Have you found your chambers to your liking, Lord Stark?” Cersei snapped out before biting into a slice of brown bread.

“I have, thank you, Your Grace,” he said.

“Fine enough for the Warden of the North?”

“Not nearly enough ice, but we’ll manage.”

She smiled through her next bite of bread and felt her cheeks warm.

“You didn’t bring your own?”

“It melted by the time we reached the Riverlands.”

She shook her head. “You need to stop making me laugh, Lord Stark,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

His brown eyes framed by brown hair looked sternly at her. He was the dullest man at the table, now that Stannis had left the castle for good, and he hated her. Robert didn’t always notice her barbs, but when he did, he felt each one and gave it back twice over. This man simply replied when she spoke.

But he hated her, she couldn’t forget.

“I have a reputation for my queenly calm, Lord Stark. I can’t compromise it.”

His eyes narrowed. “I am at your service, Your Grace.”

this is the dream of spring actually 😌