Ice and Fire Fic

“You would rob me of my birthright,” Rhaenys did not repeat to her grandfather, even though this was the first argument she had used to try to convince him to change his mind, even though this was the thought still foremost in her mind, because she was now finally convinced that her mother had been right all along, that bringing up her own claim – the claim of a woman – was less likely to convince her grandfather than bringing up the claim of an unborn boy-child still in the womb.

With this man, as it was with so many others, it was better to bring up the claim of the child she was carrying, and to speak as if the child was certain to be a boy, Jocelyn Baratheon had counseled her daughter. “Your grandfather is not as different from other men as he might seem. Your grandmother’s influence might have pushed him to move in a certain direction over the years, but even her influence has its limit. Even her influence has failed and could still fail to move him in the direction he does not wish to move.”

Meria Martell is tired now, tired in a way that she has never been beforebut she still has her wits, and she will use them for Dorne for as long as theyremain. Dorne has need of her. Nymor has need of her. He has long been a mangrown but she fears that he is still unprepared for his burden.

“Dornehas no king,” she insists. “Dorne will never have a king.”

Nymor is silent and although Meria cannot see his face she knowshe is tired too. His weariness is not all borne from age. Her son loves hispeople and suffers when they suffer. He knows better than to question herorders, but Meria knows he has doubted their course of action through the Dragon’sWroth.

“Tell me, my son. Why did the Rhoynar flee their homes?”

She feels him stiffen beside her.

“The war with the Valyrians,” he says quietly.

Meria knows he understands, but she needs more from him.

“Whatare these Targaryens, if not Valyrians?” she asks. “They would have uskneel to them. They set our rivers on fire as they once did on the Rhoyne. Theywill not drive us from this home,but we will never kneel.Promise me, Nymor.”

He answers hesitantly.

“I promise, mother, but how can we withstand them?”

She reaches for him, feeling her way in the darkness. Her handfinds his shoulder.

“I know you fear the death of our people. We have three weapons.Two are on our banners.”

“The sun and the spear. The sun has served us well.”

His voice grows stronger.

“Our wits serve us evenbetter,” Meria proclaims. “They will always underestimate us. Aegon andhis remaining queen will think you old and weak because you cannot joinbattle. They think the Dornish to be cowardly because we use ouradvantages well. You must use your advantages.”

She feels him noddingagreement.

“We will not win peacethrough war, mother,” he whispers.

A whisper can be heard justas a shout can be heard, and Meria cannot let this whisper spread.

“We will not surrender, myson.”

She knows her remaining daysare few. Nymor will do what he will once she is gone, but Dorne will not accepta surrender. Even a whisper will stir revolt, and Deria, for all her talents,will be unable to calm it if Nymor suggests that Dorne kneel.

“I do not speak of surrender,”Nymor replies, louder now. “I will not surrender but I am tired of war. Dorne hassuffered, but Aegon and his sister have suffered too.”

He hesitates, taking a breath.

“There is another way, onethat may be worth the trying.”

Meria thinks for a moment. Itis true that her son does not have the stomach for a prolonged and bloody resistance, butNymor has always been clever, mayhaps cleverer than her. If there is anotherway she should not be surprised if he has found it.

“I am listening,” she tellshim.

Nymor’s voice is quiet, conspiratorial,but it grows stronger in the telling. Meria smiles. She will not live to executethis plan, but that is for the best. Dorne will be safe with Nymor and Deria, Dornewill remain free, she knows this now.

Her son is as ready as hewill ever be.

Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

@dornishdrxgonnewborn meme | accepting

Elia was near delirious with PAIN but still conscious enough to wish she had reached that level, to wish that she wasn’t lucid enough to know the exhaustion and agony that had been the hours preceding her. Her skin was slick with sweat, thick hair drenched with it and a warmth of BLOOD between her legs. Yet she was cold; pallid and shaking, aware enough to recognise the whisperer between maesters for what they were - a discussion on whether she would survive this or die alone in this room so far away from home. 

It had never frightened her before. Whenever her health had taken a turn and they’d whispered those same concerns she’d only felt invigorated with determination to prove them wrong. Elia Martell was stronger than they gave her credit for and she would show them that time and time again, she’d spit in the face of their assurances she wouldn’t make it through. 

Only now she was terrified. In this room with strangers and in the worst pain of her life. Elia wanted Doran’s quiet resolution, Oberyn’s fierce defiance that his sister would not die today. Gods, she wanted her mother; the woman she fought like cats and dogs with and yet loved more than any other, she wanted to be a little girl wrapped up safe in her arms again. She did NOT want this place. She wanted            

A brittle cry neared, distracting her from her pain and sorrow, pulling her from where she had been slipping and Elia barely registered what they were saying before she was holding the TINY bundle to her chest with arms so weak she feared she’d drop the thing. 

And oh, she was PERFECT. She was  E V E R Y T H I N G. 

Tiny and chubby and loud ; crying desperately in fear of the sudden cold of this world. Elia couldn’t love her more. From her brown skin and black hair to the button of her nose and little fingers clutching with a purpose at the air. No speck of Rhaegar in her and despite what fondness she held for her husband their was a vindictive piece of her tucked away that was glad for it. In this world of lions and dragons that would tear her bloody given half the chance, she had made someone that would be good and kind and brave. She was a Martell. She was Dorne. She was hers.

Her only company is the Kingsguard knights and she doesn’t want them. They are not her friends. Rhaegar is not her friend anymore either.

I did not want this.

Rhaegar wants it though. She sees it when she tells him. He never seems happy, ever, but the gloom lifts when he hears the words spill from her lips.

“I’m with child.”

She wonders why it pleases him. It is not a good thing for the crown prince to father a bastard. The child will be a bastard. Rhaegar is already married, to Elia of Dorne. The princess is beautiful and gracious and has borne him two children already. The realm will not want Lyanna’s child, will not love Lyanna’s child.

Lyanna weeps.

Forgive me, she pleads to imaginary faces.

Her father’s face is not forgiving. Nor is Brandon’s or Robert’s.

I will love the child, she vows. I will love him enough that the scorn will not matter.

Rhaegar insists it will be a girl, but Lyanna has always been willful. It will be a boy, because Lyanna would not want to bring a girl into a world that imprisons girls in dreams and towers.

Robert won’t want me now.

It is her one consolation. She did this to flee the betrothal, to have it undone, and Robert won’t want another man’s child.

Father might not want me either.

That thought frightens her more than the child growing inside her. Her father wanted the marriage. He had ambitions. This, this he will see as a stain on the honour of House Stark, and Brandon…

Brandon will rage.

She thinks, worries, then dismisses the worry. Brandon will rage, but he will let her come home. He has probably fathered bastards himself, and Lyanna is not afraid to tell him so, and if Brandon is still wroth with her she’ll go to Ned until Brandon’s temper cools.

Ned will want me.

Lyanna could see his solemn face. Ned will forgive me. Her quiet brother would take her and her child.

It will be me and Ned and Benjen.

My son will have the best uncles, uncles who will love him and show him that men can have honour.

It is a nice dream, sitting alone in her tower. Her other dreams have been shattered, but this one she will cling to. Ned and Benjen won’t abandon her.

“You will be raised by wolves, little one,” she whispers.

My sewing wouldn’t make a good present.

She had to do something though. Jon looked terribly unhappy. When Arya felt sad Jon was always there, mussing her hair, hugging her. He always comforted her. She bit her lip, thinking, then began to run.

“Arya Underfoot!” Jory exclaimed when she almost bumped into him. “Why the hurry?”

Arya looked up at him.

“I’m going to find a present,” she announced. “For Jon.”

Jory’s face softened and Arya knew then that he wouldn’t tell on her for not practicing her sewing. She screwed up her face.

“Do boys like flowers?” she blurted. Arya liked flowers, and she knew her father picked them sometimes. “Would Jon like flowers?”

Jory smiled.

“Jon would like flowers just fine.”

He escorted her to the glass gardens, even gave the command for her to be allowed to choose what she liked. Arya loved him for that. She darted through the rows of plants, searching. She settled for a bunch of white and yellow. They weren’t too sweet smelling, and she couldn’t find the ones her father usually chose.

She found Jon sitting by the pool in the godswood. Arya could see by his eyes that he was still sad, She held out the flowers, shyly.

“I got you a present.”

He looked at them and for a moment Arya was uncertain. Then he took them, gently, and put his arm around her.

“Little sister,” he said in a tight voice. “You can always make me smile.”

“You like them?”

His voice was muffled, kissing the top of her head.

“I do.”

She sat with him, telling him about Jory, and he did smile then. Before she left him he was laughing, Arya’s hair was all messy, and her dress was dirty where she knelt by the pond.

in dim carcosa [ao3]

They say the spider who weaves her own web is a treacherous creature. Melony knows better.

The Hour of the Wolf, Part I

credit to Titch-IX

Even with the shutters firmly bolted against the howling winter wind, an insistent draft pushed its way through and set the candles to guttering. Munkun snatched up the fresh vellum sheet from his desk to spare the creamy white expanse from spatters of wax, and once again resented the fact that the pressures of office had forced him to confine his writing to the dark hours of…

His sister is thin, and not long recovered from an illness. Their mother almost forbade her joining the other children but Elia had pleaded with Doran, her eyes bright even if the grip of her hand was still a little weak.

“Please Doran,” she had asked him. “If you come, if you watch me, Mother will have to allow it. Please.”

Doran always struggled to deny his sister anything. He was alone for so long, long enough to give up on the hope of siblings. Elia changed that, and defied everybody by living, and Doran could not abide her being unhappy.

“I will keep watch,” he promised, solemnly.

So he watches, as he promised their mother, as he promised Elia. One of the other children almost runs into her, and Doran prepares to rise, to go to his sister, but Oberyn is there, catching the boy by the arm and then releasing him, only to chase him through the waters as part of their play.

“Are you well, Elia?” Doran calls to her.

Elia turns to him, and her smile is radiant.

“I’ll always be well with my brothers watching over me.”

Her laughter makes him smile, and Doran decides he’ll be happy to watch her, to help keep her safe. Watching Elia walking through the pools, she is just like all the other children, and not at all sickly.

Aemon returns at last, and finds that while some things have changed, others have remained precisely as he left them.

thanks anon! 

32: start - Alyssa Velaryon/Robar Baratheon

The story he tells their children is that he had fallen inlove with her from the first moment he saw her; seated on her throne, basked insunlight, telling some clever quip and, in doing so, capturing his heart.

She shakesher silver-blonde head as she laughs and calls him a fool, her smile pleased,however, and he grins like the boy he once was. The one in the tale.

She remembers it as more lust than love at the beginning (though she concedes that the two are not incompatible with regards to them). Nevertheless,that moment is his alone, for she harboured no feelings of love for him then.

Herscame upon her in her darkest hours, the unwavering support she found from himfor her cause, one he believed in also, bound them together. Mixed with herfear, her anger, her sorrow, she found herself longing, hungry and burning.

“For your protection,” Rhaegar told her.

To keep me here, Lyanna knows.

She shakes her head, and suddenly there are tears in her eyes. The kingsguard knights think she is a child, but she knows more than they want her to. She heard them speaking, heard the news of the war, and of Ned.

He can’t fight a war.

She is terrified at the thought. She doesn’t know how Father is allowing it. She doesn’t understand why Brandon isn’t fighting too. Brandon must be wroth. Lyanna wasn’t meant to be gone this long. It was only supposed to be long enough to make Robert see that she could not wed him, that she would not. Rhaegar was meant to help her. He promised.

She rests her hand on the swell of her belly.

Robert will never keep to one bed.

The memory always makes her want to cry. Are all men so false? She knows they are not. Ned isn’t false. Ned would never commit such a betrayal. Her quiet brother, so serious, and now commanding an army. It doesn’t make sense, and she’s terribly afraid.

I made a mistake, she wants to tell him. I’m stupid and I’m sorry.

Brandon might not listen to her, nor Father, but Ned would.

I trusted the wrong man.

She does not regret running from Robert, but she does regret running, and now it’s too late. The tears roll down her cheeks, knowing she is trapped. She can only wait for Ned because she knows he will come. She knows her brother will free her, and forgive her, even if she can’t marry his friend. Ned will calm Brandon and Father, the way he has before.

He finds it in the stables early one morning, a tiny black blob of patchy fur no larger than a rat. It’s covered in grime and fleas, its eyes gummed shut with infection, and Arthur knows it’s surely done for. It must have been the runt of the litter, judging by its size, abandoned by its mother. He should leave it here, or else give it a merciful death, and yet he finds himself wrapping it up in a cloth and taking it to the old woman who treats all the castle’s hunting dogs and mousers.

She curses him for bringing disease into her workspace, but he knows from experience that a smile and a kiss on the cheek will soften her resolve, and it does this time, too. She pulls on gloves thick as dragonhide, liberates the cat from his arms, and swats him from the room.

It takes a fortnight, but finally the woman tells him with no small amount of surprise that her remedies have worked, all the fleas meticulously eradicated, the tom’s eyes clear and golden-brown as amber. The sound it makes when Arthur goes to scratch his head is unlike any he’s heard, cracking and hoarse, and he gets clawed from wrist to elbow, but it’s alive and that’s what counts.

He had thought to gift the tom to Ashara, who in their youth had adored all the cats that would sun themselves on the flagstones of the Water Gardens. Yet the inky blackness of the kitten’s fur and the stubborn glint in its eyes remind him so much of Rhaenys that he ties a silver ribbon loosely around its neck and hides it in his cloak.

He shouldn’t go to her room at this hour, not when the cat would instantly erase all thoughts of sleep from her mind, but he can’t help himself. Elia stops in the middle of a bedtime story when he knocks on the nursery door, and before Arthur can properly preface the gift, the hellion leaps from his arms and jumps onto the bed as if it knows for whom he was intended.

cstaple said:

Some fic ideas: The Second Quarrel; a particularly tense court event (ball, feast tournament, etc) during Aegon IV’s reign; the coronation of Baelor I and his subsequent annulment; one of Aerys II’s “grand schemes” being conceived; the origin of the “Southron Ambitions” bloc during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Jaehaerys I and Barth making peace with the Faith; any of the countless Stark kings of old; Nymeria establishing equal primogeniture as the law, Harlan Tyrell before Aegon arrives.

“I am sorry.”