LadySindar

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

I just wanted to pop in and say I’m so sorry for the long gap in updates lately. Life has been a little chaotic behind the scenes, and writing ended up taking a backseat for a bit. I don’t really have a dramatic excuse, just a lot going on all at once.

That said, I have been writing. Quite a bit, actually. I just haven’t been very good about posting as I go. I’m hoping to start getting new chapters of The Stark of Ravka up again this week and into next week once I finish polishing a few things.

Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with the story, left kind comments, and continued to show love for it. It honestly means more than I can say, and it makes me so happy knowing people are still enjoying Morgana’s journey through this very chaotic little Ravka–Westeros universe.

More chapters soon. I promise. 💕

Pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 9

Summary: In the godswood, grief unmasked meets a curious lion’s gaze

Series Masterlist

The godswood of the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell’s, yet its stillness carried the same hush she had known as a child. The heart tree stood pale beneath the moon, its carved face solemn, red tears cutting down white bark like the stains of old grief. It was not the same as the one she had grown up beneath, but it gave her the faint echo of peace, a thread that reached back to winters long gone.

Training Arya had stirred the ache in her chest, Aleksander’s voice echoing through her own commands. Again. Again. For a heartbeat, it had almost felt as though he were there beside her, close enough to reach, his presence threaded through every correction she gave.

And that was what cut deepest.

It should have been the two of them standing in the yard together. His patience and precision tempering her fire. Their voices overlapping as they taught. It should have been their son before her, small hands wrapped around a practice blade, gray eyes bright with concentration. She could see it so clearly it hurt, Ned learning his footing, learning his balance, learning the weight of power and the discipline it demanded.

She wondered, not for the first time, what he would have been. Would he have been a Summoner, like her or Aleksander? Would he have been a Fabrikator, like his Uncle David? She had been so eager to teach him about his gifts, about what it meant to be Grisha, to give him the legacy she and Aleksander had built together.

And that, more than anything, was what hurt. Not just that they were gone, but that every future she had imagined for him had vanished with them.

Aleksander had known what the godswood meant to her. In Ravka, far from her father’s halls, he had a heart tree planted in a quiet grove so she would never be without that sacred stillness, that place where she could breathe without armor. It had been an act of love so gentle, so thoughtful, that she had felt something inside her shift. She had loved him all the more for it.

She could still see him that night, leaning against the carved doorway of their chambers, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth as though he could barely contain it. His eyes had gleamed with a boyish sort of joy she rarely saw in him, bright enough to soften even the shadows around him.

“I have a surprise for you after dinner, milaya,” he had said, his voice rich with pride and anticipation.

The memory should have warmed her. It always used to. Instead, it tore through her.

Because she would never see that look again. That quiet, unguarded happiness meant only for her. The way his eyes lit when he had done something he knew would make her smile. The way he watched her, as though giving her joy gave him purpose.

Now, standing before the tree in King’s Landing, she felt both ghosts at once: the child who had knelt beneath Winterfell’s boughs, and the woman who had once been given a godswood for love.

Here, at last, she let the mask fall. Her breath came sharper, her shoulders sagged as though the weight of her composure had been a cloak too heavy to bear. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to feel. Not a general. Not an envoy. Not a shadow among beasts. Only a woman, a fragile drop of light swallowed by darkness.

She pressed her palm flat against the bark. “Sasha,” she whispered, her voice fraying. “If only you could see them all. Arya, wild and untempered, all fire and claws. Sansa, trying so hard to be perfect, ever the little lady.”

Her voice cracked. “And Father. He looks at me as though I am both his pride and his sorrow. He knows I am not the girl he lost. Perhaps I never will be again. And Mother… she looks at me as though I am a stranger wearing her daughter’s face.”

Her fingers curled against the wood until her knuckles whitened. “If I could bargain with the world itself, I would,” she whispered. “Just to see you both again, even if only for a moment.” Her voice fractured. “Why did you have to leave me?”

Her knees gave out beneath her. The ground rushed up as grief crushed the air from her chest. Shadows curled at her shoulders, instinctive and useless, unable to hold her together.

“Our sweet boy.” Her breath hitched, her voice breaking apart. A sob tore free. “Our little miracle.”

Her thumb brushed the ring at her throat, tracing the cold curve of its clawed edge. Memory pierced through her.

Her next breath broke. “He sent me your ring,” she whispered. “And Ned’s blanket. Soaked in blood.” Her eyes closed, her jaw tightening as if bracing for a blow. “No bodies. No graves. Just pieces. As though fragments could stand in place of the lives you lived.”

She stayed there, bowed beneath her grief, until the ache became too vast to carry.

At last, she leaned forward, pressing her palm to the heart tree’s bark, her voice barely more than breath. “I swear it,” she murmured, the words trembling but unbreakable. “For you. For our son.” Her fingers tightened around the ring. “He will pay for what he took from us. I will make sure of it.”

The promise settled into the wood, into her bones.

She straightened slowly, drawing herself upright. Piece by brutal piece, the mask slid back into place. What remained of her heart was no longer soft. It had hardened into something colder. Something that remembered.

Silence pressed in around her. She drew in a trembling breath, steadying herself, gathering what little of herself she could afford to leave exposed.

At last, she rose fully, brushing dirt from her palms. Her gray eyes lifted to the heart tree once more, but the softness was gone now, replaced by tempered steel.

Then, a shift in the dark. Too deliberate. Too controlled.

A measured breath.

The faint scrape of leather against stone.

Morgana’s spine straightened at once. Shadows stirred, curling close to her like a second skin as her composure locked into place. When she spoke, her voice cut cleanly through the silence, low and edged with warning.

“The shadows are mine, my lord,” she said coolly. “I am not so easily watched. Nor so easily surprised.”

Then Tywin Lannister stepped into the torchlight. He stopped short of the heart tree, far enough to be deliberate. His gaze moved once, slow and assessing, taking in the disturbed earth, the red leaves overhead, the woman who had already composed herself.

“I did not mean to interrupt,” he said. His voice was level, uninflected.

Morgana did not look at him. “You already have.”

A pause followed. Not awkward. Considered.

Tywin held her silence for a moment longer. Then he inclined his head, once.

Morgana’s hand fell from the tree. She straightened, brushing the dirt from her palms, the gesture precise and impersonal. When she turned, her expression was already closed.

“Good night, my lord.”

She passed him without waiting for a reply.

Tywin remained beneath the heart tree, alone with the knowledge that he had seen something he was never meant to see. It unsettled him, not for what it revealed of her, but for what seeing her pain revealed in him.

Hey Tumblr family 💛

I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for the encouragement, excitement, and kindness you’ve shown toward The Stark of Ravka. It truly means the world to me that you’re enjoying the story as much as you are.

A quick update: I actually have several new chapters already written! I’m currently in the middle of editing, doing some final touches, and rereading everything to make sure the flow feels right. I’m sorry it’s been a while since the last update — life has been incredibly chaotic this past month, and during Thanksgiving I was focused on spending time with family.

Thank you again for being so patient and supportive. I promise a new chapter is coming very soon — hopefully tomorrow, but definitely within the next day or two. 💕

Stay tuned, lovelies 💛

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 8

Summary:Memories of Aleksander’s lessons shape Morgana’s training of Arya, but in the Red Keep gardens, it is Cersei who tests her composure with sharp words and darker curiosity.

Series Masterlist

Morgana woke long before the sun, the way she did most days. It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t choice. She simply didn’t sleep anymore. Not really. Rest had become something her body no longer remembered how to do.

There was a time when night had been gentle to her. When closing her eyes meant sinking into warmth, into Aleksander’s steady breathing beside her, into the soft weight of her child curled against her chest. Back then, sleep had come easily. It had been a place she trusted.

Now it felt like a trap.

The moment she drifted off, memories twisted themselves into something sharp. Dreams brought echoes of the life she’d lost, Aleksander’s voice, Ned’s laughter, only to rip them away the second she stirred. She woke again and again, heart pounding, throat tight, the emptiness hitting her like a physical blow each time.

Eventually, she learned to fear the quiet hours. Beds felt too large. Darkness felt too loud. And sleep, once her refuge, had become the one thing she tried to avoid. She slept in fragments, slipping in and out of shallow, haunted dozes that left her more tired than before.

Most nights she lay awake, staring at nothing, waiting for morning simply because morning hurt less than dreaming.

So she rose before dawn, exhausted and hollow, because it was better than lying still long enough for grief to find her again.

She lit a single candle and sat at her vanity, elbows braced on the cool wood. For a moment she simply pressed her palms to her face, trying to will the heaviness from her eyes. But the silence around her was too deep, and fatigue loosened the walls she kept so tightly held.

It came to her sharp and alive, the press of his hand against her wrist, adjusting her stance, forcing her guard higher, the weight of his presence close behind her. His tone was low, unyielding.

“Again. Do you think your enemies will spare you because you hesitate? They won’t. So you can’t.”

She had snapped at him then, breathless with exertion, accusing him of cruelty. His dark eyes had only met hers, steady, shadow curling at his heels.

“There is no mercy for Grisha. Why should you offer what the world will never grant you? Mercy is weakness, and weakness gets us killed.”

He hadn’t been teaching her how to fight. He had been teaching her how to be relentless. To turn precision into purpose, skill into survival. It was his hand that steadied hers, his demand that carved steel into her spirit. And though she had hated him for it in the moment, she had carried his lessons ever since.

Morgana’s eyes opened. The chamber was quiet once more, the fire guttering low, but her hand still remembered his grip.

Arya was waiting when Morgana stepped into the yard, a wooden sword clutched in her small hands, her face flushed not from play but from readiness.

“I’m here,” Arya said the instant she saw her, gray eyes bright and unflinching. “Teach me.”

Morgana regarded her in silence for a long moment, composure steady. Then she stepped into the ring. “Show me what you know.”

Arya moved without hesitation. Her strikes came quick and eager, spirited, strong, but unrefined. Morgana parried each blow with effortless precision, her movements measured and calm.

Arya drew back, chest rising, eyes narrowing. “You’re holding back.”

“You are not ready for me to try,” Morgana replied smoothly. She circled her sister, gray eyes cool. “Balance first. Grip second. The blade is nothing if you cannot hold yourself.”

Arya exhaled hard through her nose, not pouting but thinking, recalibrating. She adjusted her stance as instructed, testing her footing on the packed earth. Again and again, Morgana corrected her posture, her shoulders, her breathing, each adjustment sharp but patient.

At last Arya huffed, not from petulance but from focus breaking under strain.

Morgana’s lips curved faintly, though her tone stayed even. “Patience is a weapon too, little wolf. The one who strikes first often loses. Remember that.”

Arya’s brows knit, but she nodded once, not just in obedience, but also in understanding. Her hands tightened on the hilt. Her next movements came slower, steadier.

“Now,” Morgana said, stepping closer, her tone calm but precise. “Hold your stance. Strike, recover, strike again. Slow at first, learn the rhythm before you chase the speed. A blade is useless without control.”

Arya obeyed, jaw set, eyes fixed. She swung, pulled back, swung again. The motions were clumsy, but deliberate now.

“Again,” Morgana commanded, low and firm. Arya struck. Morgana adjusted her shoulders with a tap of her hand. “Again.” Arya’s breathing quickened, sweat beading her brow.

“Again.”

The word fell over and over, carrying the weight of another voice, another time.

Arya’s arms burned, but each strike grew truer, her grip more certain.

Morgana’s gaze lingered on her sister, stubborn, fierce, unyielding. And in her mind’s eye, Aleksander’s shadow stood behind them, his voice layered over her own, the echo of his lessons woven into hers.

Later that day, Morgana crossed paths with the queen. The gardens of the Red Keep were quieter than the court, heavy with the perfume of roses. Sansa sat among the ladies a little way off, her smile sweet but stiff, answering questions too quickly, too carefully.

Cersei stood nearby, a goblet of wine in hand, watching her daughter with narrowed eyes. When Morgana approached, the queen did not turn, only spoke, her voice low, edged in wine and amusement.

“I hear you bested my brother in the yard,” she said. “How amusing. Jaime usually prefers to do the humiliating.”

Morgana’s gray eyes flicked toward her, calm. “Perhaps he allowed me the victory.”

Cersei gave a short, cutting laugh. “If he had, you’d still be on your back in the dirt. No, he lost, and he was annoyingly impressed about it. He spent half the evening going on about your footwork.” Cersei’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, more a knowing tilt. “Very few men can best my brother. Fewer still when that opponent is a woman.”

Her gaze slid to Morgana at last, sharp and assessing. “Men may stare now, but they will gnash their teeth when they feel small beside you. They always do.”

“Then perhaps they should learn to endure it,” Morgana replied evenly.

That drew a glimmer in Cersei’s green eyes, not kindness, never kindness, but something close to admiration. “Bold words. But men are not so easily taught, Lady Kirigan. They would sooner break what shames them than bear it.”

Morgana inclined her head slightly, her tone clipped but polite. “Let them try.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, not cold, but curious. Then Cersei’s lips curved. “Careful,” she murmured, eyes gleaming, “keep speaking like that, and I might even like you.” She took a slow sip of wine, her gaze still sharp. “But remember this, your father’s honor will not save you in this court. It never saves anyone.”

Morgana’s expression did not shift. Her composure held, elegant and unyielding. “Honor makes for a fine epitaph,” she said softly, “but little else.”

For a heartbeat, silence settled, cool, sharp, and heavy with understanding. Then Cersei laughed, low and genuine, a sound like velvet drawn over steel.

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 7

Summary:Morgana receives troubling news from Ravka and shows quiet strength in the training yard, leaving Arya eager to follow her path.

Series Masterlist

The letter came by midmorning pressed into her hands while the city still slept. The wax bore the Ravkan seal, the script unmistakable. She broke it cleanly, eyes sweeping the page.

It was the Apparat’s hand, but the words bore the weight of King Pyotr: urging haste, pressing her to secure Westerosi support before Ravka bled out entirely. The council in Os Alta clamored for results—an alliance signed, a fleet promised, a shield raised across the sea.

And beneath the entreaty, another command: more Grisha dispatched north to hold against Fjerdan raids, more pulled from the capital to reinforce a border already thinned.

Her lips pressed into a line. Her soldiers could not be everywhere. They were flesh, not inexhaustible steel. Yet the letter spoke as though they were endless. Morgana’s lips curved in a mirthless scoff. 

I’ve been here but a day, and already he is impatient with my progress. Aleksander was right — a little boy playing at ruling a country.

Her fingers tightened on the parchment. For the briefest moment, dark humor stirred. Perhaps Aleksander should have been allowed to swallow Ravka whole, to drown it in shadow and silence. At least then, the king’s whining would be no more than an echo in the Fold.

The thought passed as quickly as it came, buried beneath her composure. She set the parchment down with precise calm, though her pulse thrummed beneath her skin.

Genya stood near the window, the dawn catching fire in her copper hair.

“Well?” Genya asked softly, though her voice carried an edge.

“They press for speed,” Morgana said. “An alliance sealed, more Grisha sent north. Always more.” “One day in the lions’ den and he demands of you the crown of their pride. Poor boy. He really thinks the realm will quicken if he stamps his foot.”

Morgana’s lips curved, dry amusement slipping through. “Perhaps I should send him the King’s goblet, still sticky with wine, as a token of Westerosi goodwill. It may buy me a week’s peace.”

Genya’s laughter spilled out, quick and bright, but faded soon after.

Morgana let the smile linger only a moment before her gaze dropped back to the letter. Her tone softened, steadier. “Still… in a sense, he is right. We need this alliance. Aleksander understood that — Ravka can stand, can survive Fjerdans, Shu Han, even the scars of the Fold… but only if we stand united.”

Genya searched her face, words rising and falling unsaid. At last, she bowed her head, though her eyes burned.

Morgana folded the letter, tucking it into the folds of her Kefta. She rose and crossed to the narrow window. The Red Keep spread below her, banners stirring in the wind, the city waking with its illusion of safety.

Her fingers curled against the stone sill.

They think themselves secure. They are not. And if Ravka fails, never will they be.

By afternoon, the clang of steel carried across the Red Keep’s yard. Jaime Lannister stood at its center, golden hair blazing as he cut through squires with laughing ease. Knights cheered, squires groaned, steel rang against steel.

At Morgana’s approach, Jaime’s grin sharpened. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, sword still gleaming in the sun. “Lady Kirigan. Welcome. The yard is honored.” His tone was easy, but his eyes glittered. “We don’t often receive foreign guests here. Especially ones who make such a magical first impression.”

A few squires chuckled nervously, eyes flicking between them. Jaime let the silence stretch, savoring it, then tipped his blade toward her in a lazy salute. “Tell me… have you come to watch how real steel is handled? Or will you simply enchant the blades from our hands?”

Laughter scattered through the yard. Morgana’s lips curved faintly, but she said nothing. She made to move past, as though the matter bored her.

Jaime’s grin widened. “No interest, my lady? I’d have thought Ravka’s greatest general would be eager to see how the rest of us manage without tricks.”

She gave him a level glance. “I’ve seen men swing swords before.”

Jaime’s grin deepened. “You’ve seen men swing them, perhaps — but not the Kingsguard.” He gave a shallow, mocking bow. “We tend to set a higher standard.”

​​Her tone was smooth, unimpressed. “Perhaps…though in my experience, a man swinging a sword is just that — and they fall rather easily. Standards, like titles, rarely make the cut.”

Jaime’s grin deepened. “Is that so? You’ll forgive me if I prefer demonstration to rumor.” He tilted his head, tone mock-gallant. “Unless, of course, Ravkan generals are shy of spectacle?”

A murmur rippled through the watching squires. Morgana’s expression didn’t shift, though the faintest flicker of amusement passed through her eyes. “Shy? No,” she said evenly. “Simply selective about what’s worth my time.”

Jaime laughed, the sound bright and edged. “Then allow me to make it worth yours. I promise I’ll keep the bruises small.”

That drew another round of laughter. She paused, letting the noise crest, her expression cool and unreadable. Then—

“By all means, Ser Jaime… let’s see if the Kingslayer lives up to his legend. I’d hate to think I crossed the yard for nothing.”

The chuckles rippled louder. Jaime twirled his sword with a flourish, basking in them. “Careful, my lady. Boasts come cheaper than bruises.”

She stepped into the ring without hesitation. A squire thrust a practice blade toward her, hands shaking. Morgana took it, tested its weight with one clean turn of her wrist. No flourish. No wasted motion.

The crowd chuckled as Jaime toyed with her, his swings neat but measured, a smile playing at his lips. “See, my lady?” he drawled between blows. “Steel obeys a steady hand. Not so mysterious after all.”

Morgana’s eyes stayed cool, her blade turning aside another lazy strike with ease. “So this is the famed might of the Kingslayer? How… underwhelming. I'm failing to see how this is not a waste of my time, Ser Jaime.”

Laughter rippled through the onlookers, this time sharper, not at her expense. Jaime’s grin widened, arrogance glittering in his eyes. “Well, if you’re sure you can handle it… I had thought to go easy on my lady ambassador.” He spun his sword with a flourish, bowing his head in mock courtesy. “But if you’re sure…..”

His next strike came harder, faster — still with that effortless charm, but driven now by pride. The yard hushed as the Kingslayer pressed in earnest, his swings quicksilver, his footwork smooth as silk. Morgana answered each with unerring rhythm, her breathing steady, her expression unreadable. 

Jaime grinned, circling wider, letting the sun catch his golden hair as if victory were already certain. He struck high, then low, feinted left, spun right — yet every cut met her blade and died there.

The smile thinned. His strikes grew heavier, harder, meant to hammer her defenses apart. She yielded ground with the ease of water flowing around stone, letting his strength spend itself in wasted arcs. The ring echoed with the crash of steel, gasps rising with every spark.

Then she shifted. Where she had been all defense, she pressed him suddenly, her blade driving his back a step. Another. Gasps rippled through the yard.

Jaime’s jaw tightened. He lunged, blades ringing in a furious rhythm. His fury was dazzling — yet Morgana was unshaken, her counters sharp as a wolf’s bite.

Their swords bound, Jaime’s teeth flashed in a grin.

“Not bad, witch. Another year in Westeros and you might pass for a knight.”

Morgana’s voice was cool as ice. “A knight? What a dreadful demotion. I rather like being a witch.”

With a twist she broke the lock, pivoted under his arm, and forced him to stumble sideways. He recovered fast — too fast for most eyes to follow — and came down in a brutal overhead cut meant to break through sheer force.

Morgana met it cleanly, her arms steady, then shifted weight at the last instant. His blade slid past, momentum carrying him forward. She stepped into that imbalance, shoulder braced, and with a deft parry wrenched his sword wide before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Jaime crashed into the dirt. In the breath it took him to blink, her swordpoint hovered at his throat.

The yard froze. Jaime stared up at her, chest heaving, dust clinging to his golden hair — and saw she was not even winded. Her grip was steady, her braid unruffled, not a single strand out of place.

Her voice cut through the silence, low and steady. “Take heart, Ser Jaime. I know you were going easy on me.”

Shock flickered across Jaime’s face. Then, to his credit, he laughed — low, startled, grudging.

Morgana lowered the blade and stepped back, offering him her hand. He took it, rising with his crooked grin lingering, pride wounded but easily dismissed.

Jaime eyed her with a smirk. “Well done, Lady Kirigan. I think I have to say you are without a doubt my favorite ambassador we've had yet.”

Morgana walked from the ring as she had entered it — Kefta whispering at her ankles, composure unbroken, legend growing in her wake.

She hadn’t made it halfway across the yard before Arya darted forward, cheeks flushed, excitement sparking in every step. “Teach me,” she burst out. “Please, you bested the Kingslayer. Teach me to fight like that. With a blade, not just needles and stitches. Teach me everything.”

Morgana slowed, gaze cool and unreadable. Silence stretched a heartbeat too long, Arya nearly bouncing on her toes.

At last, Morgana’s lips curved — not quite a smile, but the faintest spark of warmth. “Steel is heavy, little wolf. And discipline heavier still.”

Arya’s chin lifted, stubborn. “I can bear it.”

Morgana studied her, then inclined her head. “We shall see. Be here tomorrow at dawn. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Arya grinned as though she’d been promised the world.

Morgana’s eyes lingered on her, and memory flickered sharp as steel: Aleksander’s hand guiding hers on a hilt, his voice low, relentless. Again. Again. Until your enemy fears your silence more than your strike. She had cursed him then, furious at his ruthlessness — but it was his lessons that steadied her grip today, his shadow still at her back.

Her breath eased, and the memory sank beneath her mask.

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 6

Summary: At the Small Council, Morgana calls for alliance — and when the chamber clears, an intrigued lion is left wondering if she is envoy, weapon, or both.

Series Masterlist

The next morning had Morgana walking through the halls of the red keep, Ivan and Fedyor at her heels as she found her way to the council chambers.  The chamber quieted when Morgana entered. Robert leaned back with his goblet, eyeing her with his usual half-scorn, half-amusement. “Here she is. Careful, my lords, best guard yourselves and your wine. She might slice you or it in half if the mood takes her.”

Renly smirked. “It's the first time I’ve ever seen you well and truly silenced, brother. That alone deserves applause. He laughed easily, warm and unguarded, and the tension broke like glass.

Morgana’s gaze met his, cool but touched with the faintest gleam of humor. “Then I should count myself fortunate, Lord Renly. To silence a Baratheon is no small feat.”

Renly laughed louder, thumping the table with his palm. “Seven hells, I like her.”

The ripple of laughter softened the tension until Tywin’s voice cut steady and low. “Sit, Lady Kirigan. We will hear you.”

She lowered herself to the vacant chair. Her hands folded on the table, her words measured, without ornament. “Ravka is whole again. The Fold is gone, but its scars remain. For decades, east and west bled separately, and our enemies pressed from north and south. Alone, we endured. Now, reunited, we turn outward. To secure what has long been threatened, Ravka seeks allies strong enough to deter aggression before war reaches our doors again. In return, we offer what strength we have always had—armies tested, fleets newly freed, and the power of our Grisha.”

Robert grunted into his cup. “Always back to that bloody witchcraft. I’ll take steel.”

Morgana’s gaze remained steady. “Then take both, Your Grace. Steel and Grisha together are stronger than either apart.”

Renly leaned forward, his grin easy. “It would give Westeros reach beyond the Narrow Sea. The Free Cities would tread carefully knowing your armies stood behind us.”

Littlefinger’s smile curved, sly and thin. “And all you ask is safe harbor and a pledge of defense? A touch too simple, my lady.”

Morgana’s reply was calm, her words deliberate. “Need it be more, Lord Baelish? Sometimes the simplest pacts are the strongest—especially when whispers across the sea speak of threats not to Ravka, but to Westeros itself.”

She paused, then continued, voice smooth as a drawn blade. “Still, if reassurance is wanted—Ravka offers more than soldiers and sorcery. Our coffers are full, our trade routes secure. Gold flows freely through every port and passes through no lender’s hand.”

Robert snorted, waving a dismissive hand. “Westeros needs no foreign coin. We’ve gold enough in our hills.”

Morgana’s faint smile did not waver. “Of course, Your Grace. Though I wonder—do you truly wish to spend the rest of your reign indebted to your father-in-law and the Iron Bank both? It must be a heavy crown to wear, when others keep paying to polish it.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Renly bit back a grin. Littlefinger’s brows rose in quiet amusement. Tywin said nothing, though the flicker of warning in his gaze did not go unnoticed.

A quiet stillness fell before Varys’s silken voice drifted in. “There are other whispers, if one cares to listen. My little birds speak of dragons—of wings stirring across the Narrow Sea. The girl and her brother do not hide their boldness for long; it will not be much longer before Viserys and Daenerys turn their eyes westward, seeking to reclaim their father’s throne. In such times, the aid of the Grisha may prove most welcome.”

The chamber remained hushed—heavy with the weight of what had been spoken. Robert shifted in his chair, lifting his cup like a shield before blustering loudly. “I’ve slain a dragon before! If one dares, I’ll do it again, if need be.”

Morgana did not blink. Her tone remained calm, almost matter-of-fact. “Indeed. Though it’s three this time, the same as Aegon and his sisters when they conquered the Seven Kingdoms.”

Her eyes shifted back to Robert. “If lions and stags mean to keep their hold upon the Iron Throne, you will need Grisha soon enough.”

Silence pressed heavy across the chamber. Even Robert’s bluster faltered, his hand tightening on his cup.

At that, Tywin stirred, emerald eyes fixed on Morgana. His words were measured, cutting through the silence. “Enough. Ravka’s petition and value are noted. The council will deliberate.”

The last of the lords filed out, the chamber settling into quiet. Morgana gathered the folds of her kefta, rising with measured grace. As she turned, she felt the weight of Tywin’s gaze. He had not moved from his seat, golden eyes fixed on her as if weighing steel in his hand. He did not speak, but his stare lingered a moment longer than courtesy required.

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 5

Summary: Precious moments between father and daughter — proof that despite distance and time, some bonds never fade.

Series Masterlist

The godswood was still at night. The red leaves whispered in the breeze, and the pale face of the weirwood watched in silence as though judging all beneath its boughs.

Morgana knelt in the shadow of the heart tree, her Kefta pooling like spilled ink upon the roots. For the first time in a long while she let the mask slip, just a bit, just enough to feel like she could take a full breath. 

“Sasha,” she whispered, the name no one here knew. It curled from her lips like a prayer, fragile and aching. Shadows stirred at her call, not wild but gentle, as though his memory itself had answered. She closed her eyes, and for a heartbeat she could almost feel him beside her, hand warm against hers, their son’s laughter distant as a dream.

But when she opened her eyes, only the weirwood remained, and the silence pressed too close.

“You always did come here when you wanted quiet.”

Ned’s voice was soft but steady. Morgana did not turn as her father approached. His steps were careful, the same as when he’d sought her out as a child after she’d hidden away in the Winterfell godswood. He stood beside her now, older, heavier with duty, yet the same.

“I thought the heart tree might still remember me,” she said at last, her voice calm, measured, though the faintest tremor lingered beneath.

Ned’s eyes searched her face, as though looking for the girl he had once known. “It does. So do I.” His gaze flicked to the roots, memory tugging faint. “Your hair always smelled of smoke when you came here as a child. You’d sit by the fire and come running back with ash on your hands.”

Her hand shifted against the bark, almost unconsciously tracing the old grooves, the way she had as a girl. But her voice stayed cold. “I am not that girl anymore, Father. Ravka saw to that. Aleksander saw to it.”

His jaw tightened, but his voice remained quiet. “You are changed, aye. And harsher for it. But you are still mine. My firstborn.”

Morgana’s lips curved faintly, though her gray eyes stayed cold. “A daughter who no longer speaks as a Stark should.”

Ned’s silence was long. At last, he said, “You are not the disappointment you think yourself. You are here. You are alive. That is more than I dared hope for, all those years. You have walked paths none of us could follow, but you are still of my blood. And I am proud of you, Morgana.”

Her mask slipped again for only a moment, just enough for her voice to soften. “I missed you, Father.”

“And I, you.”

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 4

Summary: Baghra speaks of fire and ruin — of a girl sold, broken, yet unyielding. From pain she was forged, from darkness she rose, her light tempered into steel.

Series Masterlist

The Stark quarters in the Red Keep were quiet, save for the crackle of the hearth. The feast had broken into whispers throughout the castle, but here, family waited. Ned sat in his chair, boots still dusty from the yard, while Catelyn stood near the fire, her hands folded. Arya perched on a bench with her legs swinging, and Sansa kept her back straight, her gaze lowered.

Morgana entered with the same measured grace she had carried all evening, her black Kefta whispering over the stone. Her siblings’ eyes fixed on her. 

Arya was the first to speak, bursting forward. “You split his goblet — while he was still holding it! Can you teach me to do that?”

Morgana’s gray eyes softened just slightly, though her tone remained even. “Perhaps when your hand is steadier, little wolf.”

Sansa frowned. “You humiliated the prince. He will never forgive you for it.”

Morgana’s gaze flicked to her younger sister, calm but unyielding. “It was a lesson he was due to learn. His arrogance will cost him in the future, if he is not careful” “But he is the prince! You cannot shame him so, not in front of the whole court. He is to be king one day. You should have shown him honor, not… cut his cup in two.” “His crown does not shield him from consequence, Sansa. If he cannot bear a lesson now… his reign will end before it has even begun.”

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Our strength has never been in defiance, Morgana. Not in this house. Not in this realm.”

Morgana tilted her head, her smile faint but cold. “No. And perhaps that is why wolves are so often hunted.”

The silence after was sharp. Arya’s eyes shone, fierce with pride, while Sansa paled. Ned’s jaw worked as though to speak, but Morgana had already risen.

“If you’ll excuse me, I find I need air.”

Her departure was as graceful as her entrance, her shadows spilled long across the stone, leaving silence in her wake.

Catelyn turned, stricken, but before she could speak, a rasping voice cut the air.

“She is no longer the little girl you once held, Lady Stark.”

Baghra stepped from the corner where she had sat unacknowledged, her gnarled staff striking softly against the stone. The firelight caught the hard planes of her face, her sharp eyes glinting like steel honed on grief.

“Ravka did not leave her soft,” she said, voice rough, low, and certain. “Aleksander forged her as surely as he forged his armies. But do not mistake her steel for coldness. It is what remains when the world has burned all else away.”

Catelyn’s lips parted, her hands tightening together at her waist. “Tell me then,” she said softly, almost pleading, “tell me of the woman she has become. For I no longer know her.”

Baghra’s gaze lingered on the flames, her voice softening with memory. “She was ten and three when I found her — nameless, displaced, bartered like a trinket for men with gold to spend. They sold her maidenhood to the highest bidder, a morsel of noble Westerosi flesh for their table. The man who claimed her that night had a taste for cruelty — he liked his meat bloody before he claimed it. When I found her, she was broken in body, beaten near to death.”

Her eyes narrowed, the fire’s glow reflecting sharp in their depths. “But even then, she did not yield. Her body failed her, yet in her eyes there was a spark — a fury, a light that would not die. Most would have begged for release. She clung to life. That stubborn flame is what I saw, and what I chose to temper. It was no small mercy — to survive, she had to be forged harder than steel. And so she was.”

For a heartbeat, the hard shell of her voice cracked — grief, pride, and love all tangled beneath it.

 “And yet… despite it all, she did not lose herself. Her body was broken, her spirit scarred — but her heart still beat true. There was a crack in it, yes, deep and jagged, but it had not shattered. She still reached for kindness where she could find it, still gave trust when the world had earned none of it. That was her strength — though I feared it would one day be her undoing.”

Her gaze flicked toward Catelyn, sharp once more. “She bore her pain like armor, but inside… she still had light enough to keep her human. Softer once, bright with hope, with a heart too open to survive what awaited her. And she stayed soft and gentle for a long while after that. But the world struck at that kindness again and again, until all that remained was the steel to endure. It grieves a mother to say it, but it is the way of things. She was tested, broken, reforged — not by choice, but by circumstance. She endured much before Ravka, and after. And Aleksander… he was but one of many to temper her, as a smith tempers a blade.”

Her gaze swung to Catelyn, sharp as steel. “You wonder why she seems colder, harder. Why she does not smile as easily as the girl you remember? It is because she has bled in ways you cannot begin to fathom. She has lived what should have killed her.”

The old woman’s eyes burned like embers. “You may not think you know the woman she has become, Lady Stark. But even through the darkness, the girl you raised still lingers. You will see it, if you care to look.”

Catelyn’s breath hitched. The firelight caught the sheen of tears she would not let fall.

Pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /Female OC

Prologue

Summary: Across the sea comes a name thought buried — a wolf returned after long years away, cloaked now in shadow and power.

Series Masterlist

To Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Savior of the City, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West,

On behalf of His Most Sovereign Majesty, King Pyotr of Ravka, I extend greetings across the Narrow Sea.

Though the distance between our nations is great, it is the will of wise rulers to bridge such divides with foresight, strength, and diplomacy. Ravka has endured many trials — division within our borders and foes beyond them — but with the destruction of the Shadow Fold, a new dawn has come. Under His Majesty’s rule, Ravka rises from ruin, intent on rebuilding stronger than before and forging the alliances that will secure that strength for generations to come.

It is with this spirit of cautious optimism that His Majesty inquires whether the noble realm of Westeros might entertain a discussion of alliance — one founded not only on mutual interest, but on shared principles: strength, sovereignty, and the preservation of order in a fractured world.

Should you receive this overture with favor, His Majesty is prepared to dispatch an emissary to your court — one who bears both rank and authority to speak in the King’s name.

May your wisdom guide your reply, as it has guided your kingdom through storm and siege.

By my hand,

The Apparat

High Priest and Spiritual Advisor to His Majesty the King of Ravka

To the Apparat of Ravka, High Priest and Spiritual Advisor

In service to His Majesty King Pyotr,

Your letter has been received and considered.

Westeros has known war and peace in equal measure. Those who endure are those who choose their allies with care — not sentiment. The Iron Throne does not grant audience lightly, nor extend its hand without deliberation.

That said, your king’s gesture is noted.

You may send your emissary. They will be received at court. What follows will depend entirely upon the worth of what they bring.

Lord Tywin Lannister

Hand of the King

Savior of the City

Lord of Casterly Rock

Warden of the West

To Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Savior of the City, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West,

How gratifying it is to know that the Iron Throne will receive our envoy.

In selecting the one to speak for Ravka, His Majesty has chosen with care — not merely a diplomat, but a figure of both power and memory. One who commands not only armies, but attention. One whose presence in your court may stir old names from slumber.

He will be sending General Kirigan.

You know will her, — though not at first.

Time has changed her. Titles have adorned her. But some bloodlines do not fade so easily, nor does the shadow of a direwolf vanish with the years.

We are pleased to return to Westeros, the Lady Morgana Stark.

By my hand,

The Apparat

High Priest and Spiritual Advisor to His Majesty the King of Ravka

The light through the high windows was pale and wintry, limning the polished table in silver. Braziers burned low. The scent of parchment, wax, and damp stone hung faintly in the air.

A hush lingered, broken only by the slow scratch of wax as Tywin Lannister unsealed the letter.

King Robert slouched in his chair, one leg slung over the arm, goblet already in hand despite the early hour. “Another raven from across the sea?” he muttered. “Tell me this one at least brings something better than talk of trade routes and salted fish.”

Tywin said nothing. His eyes moved over the parchment, slow and deliberate.

Cersei watched him with that unreadable calm of hers, arms folded, chin tilted. “Well?” she asked.

Tywin folded the letter precisely and set it on the table.

“The Ravkans have chosen an emissary to send,” he said.

Tyrion leaned forward, his tone dry, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “How delightfully mysterious. Should we expect a spoiled princeling… or some holy fool, stinking of incense and self-importance?”

“Neither,” Tywin said tightly, a look of disdain crossing his features as he looked upon his youngest son. “They are sending General Kirigan.”

Littlefinger’s fingers tapped against the polished wood. “Kirigan,” he repeated, as if weighing the name.

Varys looked up, eyes narrowing. “Kirigan… That title belonged to the Darkling.”

Littlefinger gave a slow nod. “The Black Heretic. Commander of Ravka’s Second Army. And the most feared man east of the Shadow Fold—until his death. Now I hear a woman holds his title.”

Pycelle gave a wheezing grunt. “A woman?” he scoffed, eyebrows arching into his wild white hair.

“You’d be amazed how well some women wear command, Maester,” Tyrion said without looking up. “Especially when men like you are the alternative.”

Pycelle spluttered, color rising in his sagging cheeks. “I’ll have you know—”

Tywin’s voice cut through the air, quiet and final. “General Kirigan is Morgana Stark.”

The words landed like a hammer.

Robert sat up with a grunt. “WHAT?!”

He blinked like he'd misheard. “Morgana Stark?! No—no, that’s not possible. She’s been dead for years!”

No one spoke.

Tywin gave a single nod. “The Apparat tells otherwise. She lives, commands Ravka’s Second Army, and will soon be here in King’s Landing.

The goblet slipped from Robert’s hand and clattered to the floor, wine splashing red across the stone.

“They believed her dead,” Cersei murmured, her tone unreadable.

Renly frowned. “Wait…How does a Stark become general of Ravka’s Second Army?”

“She was his wife,” Littlefinger said smoothly.

“What?” Tyrion blinked.

“Whose wife?” Pycelle croaked, clearly behind the rest of the room.

“The Darkling’s,” Varys answered, his voice threaded with reverence. “Which means… She is the Sun Summoner.”

A stillness followed.

Littlefinger’s smile flickered. “The one who stood beside him while the world bowed… or bled.”

Varys laced his fingers. “And now she comes here.”

Tywin said nothing.

He turned the letter over once more, the parchment whispering between his fingers. A gleam — cold, precise — lit his eyes as he studied the words again, and the chamber slipped into silence.

The courtyard at Winterfell was still half-buried in snow, the breath of men and horses rising in pale clouds against the iron sky. A raven beat down from the pale withered clouds, black wings cutting against white, and the boy who tended the rookery came running with the message clutched tight.

Maester Luwin brought the letter to the hall. Ned Stark sat in his high seat, the great gray direwolf banner stirring faintly in the chill draft. Catelyn sat beside him, her hands wrapped against the cold, her eyes weary.

Luwin bowed his head before he spoke. “My lord. A raven from King’s Landing.”

The fire in the hall burned low, casting long shadows on stone. Ned Stark broke the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded the parchment, the crackle of it loud in the hush.

Catelyn watched him as he read, her hands folded in her lap. His eyes moved steadily at first, then slowed. His brow furrowed, the stillness of him sharper than any outburst.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice tentative.

He didn’t answer. His eyes had fixed on a single line, unmoving.

“Ned?” She leaned forward, her heart quickening. “What is it?”

At last, he spoke, though his voice was strained and low. “It names Morgana.”

The name alone chilled her blood. Catelyn’s lips parted, but no sound came. She searched his face, hoping to find some mistake in it, some misreading. “Morgana?” she whispered. “What—what of her?”

He read the line again, as though unwilling to give it life. Then, softly: “She lives.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Catelyn’s breath hitched, confusion and disbelief warring on her face. “What? No… no, Ned, that cannot be. She—” Her voice faltered, thick with grief, old and raw. “We grieved her. We buried her.”

“So we thought,” he said, though his voice was colder than iron.

She rose suddenly, her chair scraping against the floor. “But how? Where has she been? Why now, after all these years? Who kept this from us?” The questions tumbled from her lips, frantic, desperate.

Ned remained seated, the letter still trembling faintly in his hand. He did not look at her. His jaw was set, his silence heavier than any answer.

Catelyn pressed her hand to her mouth, tears pricking her eyes. “The children grew believing their sister gone. I lit candles, Ned. I prayed for her soul. And now—” She broke off, choking back a sob. “Now you tell me she lives?”

Ned finally lifted his gaze to hers. His gray eyes were steady, unyielding. “That is what it says.”

The fire popped, a sharp crack that made her flinch. For a long while neither spoke, the letter lying heavy in Ned’s hands.

“Our Morgana? An emissary? She was but a girl when we lost her — a child. We mourned her, Ned, we buried her in our hearts, and now they would have us believe she returns speaking for a foreign crown? What would she know of such things?”

Ned’s voice was low when he spoke again, the words measured, as though each one weighed a stone. “She’s not just a mere envoy, Cat. Robert’s letter says she is a General in Ravka — General of their Second Army, no less.”

The words tolled like a bell, heavy and terrible in the quiet hall.

Catelyn’s breath left her in a rush. Her hand flew to the table for support. “General,” she whispered, the word breaking in her throat. “Our Morgana… General of their armies.” She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “It cannot be. It should not be.”

For a long moment Ned did not answer. He stared into the fire, the shadows painting hollows across his face. When at last he spoke, his voice was steady, but softer than before. “And yet… if any soul were meant to lead, it would be hers.”

Catelyn looked at him, startled.

“She had my sister’s fire in her eyes,” he said, almost to himself. “The same fierce heart. The gods grant me I love all my children, but she—” He broke off, jaw tight, searching for words. “The loss of her was a wound that never closed. To think of her risen to such heights…” His voice trailed, weighted with grief and pride knotted together.

Catelyn’s tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She turned away, for she could not bear the sight of him speaking so, her heart breaking anew. “Then she is Grisha,” she whispered.

The silence between them was long, and in it lay the answer.

A wolf howled beyond the walls, low and mournful, and the fire snapped in the hearth as if in answer.

King’s Landing loomed before them, beyond lay the noise and stench of the city — the clamor of bells, the cries of hawkers, the press of thousands of lives crowded too close together.

The Stark party rode beneath the portcullis, banners of gray and white snapping in the salt wind off Blackwater Bay. The direwolf of Winterfell a stark contrast against the gilded lions that lined the walls.

Sansa sat tall upon her horse, her eyes wide as she took in the sprawling streets, the towers that clawed at the sky. “It’s so much grander than I imagined,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with awe and a touch of fear.

Arya twisted in her saddle, scowling at the smell, at the heat, at the sea of strangers pressing too close. “It stinks,” she muttered. “I hate it.”

“Mind your tongue,” Catelyn said sharply, though her own face was pale, her lips pressed thin. The city had never sat easily with her, even in brighter days. To come here now, with her heart still raw from the letter’s words… in all her prayers for her lost daughter, she wouldn't have ever asked for this.

Ned rode at their head, silent as ever, his gray eyes fixed on the Red Keep rising in the distance. Its red stone walls burned against the sky like banked embers, hard and unyielding.

Catelyn glanced once at Ned. His face was calm, carved from stone. But she saw the flicker in his eyes as he looked toward the harbor, where foreign ships might already be braving the tide.

The courtyard of the Red Keep rang with the clang of hooves and the murmur of voices as the Stark party dismounted. Above them, the banners of the crown snapped in the hot breeze — the crowned stag of Baratheon, the crimson lion of Lannister, all blazing against the red stone.

Robert Baratheon strode forward to meet them, broad-shouldered, bearded, and heavy with the weight of years yet still carrying the air of the warrior he had once been. His arms spread wide.

“Ned!” His voice boomed across the courtyard. “Gods be good, it’s been too long.”

Ned inclined his head, solemn as ever. “Your Grace.”

Robert clasped him in a bear’s embrace that jolted them both, then stepped back, grinning. “You’re too thin, Stark. You need meat, wine, and a proper feast. We’ll see you right.”

Catelyn curtsied, her face calm though her heart raced. The words of the raven still echoed in her mind, heavy as chains: She lives.

“And these are your girls,” Robert said, turning his gaze to Sansa and Arya. “Seven hells, Ned, they’ve grown. Sansa, look at you, fair as your mother. And Arya” He frowned, half in jest, half in puzzlement. “You’ve the look of your lord father, gods help you.”

Arya scowled, which made Robert bark a laugh.

From the steps above, Cersei watched with cool green eyes, her smile sharp as glass. Beside her, Jaime Lannister leaned against a pillar, golden and amused, while the small council clustered nearby like crows waiting for a feast.

“You’ll be lodged in the Tower of the Hand,” Robert declared, sweeping a hand toward the keep. “The finest rooms in the Red Keep — nothing less for you, Ned.”

Ned inclined his head. “That is most generous, Your Grace, but not necessary. Any roof would serve us well enough.”

“Nonsense!” Robert barked, clapping him on the shoulder. “The best for my oldest friend, and that’s an end to it. You’ll drink my wine and eat my meat while you do. The old lion can share his tower for a few days yet.”

His grin faded a shade. “Tomorrow we shall have other matters to attend to.”

Ned met his gaze, gray steel against blue. “She is coming.”

Robert’s smile thinned. “Aye. Your Morgana. By the gods, I still scarce believe it. But the letter bears her name, and the council swears it true.” He clapped Ned’s shoulder, though the weight of his hand did not disguise the unease in his eyes. “Best we have you settled before the morrow. It will be no small thing, her return.”

The words carried, and the courtiers stirred, whispering behind their hands. The Stark girl. The lost daughter. The Sun Summoner.

Catelyn felt the heat of their stares, the way the air itself seemed to press against her. She took Sansa’s hand, squeezing it gently. Arya bristled at her side, eyes darting to every gilded lion carved into the stone.

Tomorrow.

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 3

Summary: After the feast, Morgana meets privately with Tywin Lannister. In a quiet clash of words, each measures the other — and leaves with a wary respect.

The torches in the Great Hall had burned low by the time the feast ended. Courtiers stumbled away in clusters, whispering of shadows and light, of goblets split and kings silenced.

Morgana had thought to return to her chambers, but a Lannister guard intercepted her in the corridor.

“The Hand requests your presence, my lady.”

She found Tywin in his solar, seated behind a heavy oaken desk strewn with parchment and quills. He did not rise when she entered, nor waste time with courtesies.

“Lady Kirigan,” he said, his voice deep and even. “Sit.”

She lowered herself into the chair opposite, her posture as straight as his. Her eyes flicked briefly over the ledgers and scrolls.

“It seems late for such work, Lord Hand.”

Tywin’s quill scratched once more before he set it aside. His gaze met hers, unblinking.

“The work of ruling a kingdom does not keep hours. Nor can it wait for sleep.”

Morgana’s lips curved faintly, her voice smooth as glass.

“Such dedication you show, Lord Lannister. Though I wonder — do you serve the realm, or simply feed the lion that bears its weight?.”

The silence that followed was edged, heavy, yet not hostile. Tywin’s expression did not shift, but something flickered in his emerald and golden eyes — the barest acknowledgment that the foreign woman before him was not merely bold, but perceptive.

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow. At last, Tywin spoke again.

“You understand the game you began tonight.”

Her gray eyes did not waver. “I did only what was asked of me.”

Tywin’s gaze was sharp as a blade, weighing her every word. “Robert is a fool, but even fools bleed when they are cut. You embarrassed him in front of his court. He will not forget that. A display like yours invites challenge, Lady Kirigan. Bare your teeth, and others will show theirs in return, you know this.”

Morgana’s gray eyes did not waver. Her voice was smooth, unhurried. “You thought that was me baring my teeth?”

A flicker passed across Tywin’s face — not quite approval, not quite warning. “Defiance is a blunt instrument, Lady Kirigan. Useful, but seldom lasting. What end do you seek?”

Her reply was measured, precise.

“Tell me lord hand, how often does a king send a general as emissary? Not often, I was chosen for a reason, but do not think that because I am familiar to your king, I have returned to be loyal wolf again.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “So. Not a wolf returned, but a piece on the board. That, at least, I can account for.”

Silence lingered, heavy and deliberate. Morgana did not deny it.

At last, Tywin leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Good. The realm has too few who understand that danger, properly wielded, is more valuable than honor or love. But be cautious. Wolves snarl when cornered. Lions devour.”

Morgana’s lips curved faintly, a whisper of a smile. “Snarls fade, and hunger passes. But shadows wait, and outlast all.”

The silence after was darker than any torchlit room should allow. Tywin inclined his head, the faintest gesture of respect, and reached for his quill.

“You may go. We will speak again.”

Morgana rose without bowing, her kefta whispering like silk in the quiet. The door shut softly behind her, but the weight of their words lingered like steel between them.

Tags: @thefirelordm

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 6

Summary: At Robert’s feast, Lady Morgana Kirigan proves herself before the Iron Throne — silencing king and court alike, and leaving Westeros to reckon with her power.

The feast was heavy with noise and smoke, the king’s laughter booming down the table. Morgana sat cloaked in black silk, the silver threads of her kefta catching the torchlight,— a garment that mirrored her late husband’s — her posture straight, her presence measured. Beside her, Queen Cersei regarded her over the rim of her goblet, green eyes cool and assessing.

Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup, his sharp eyes never leaving Morgana. “You sit among lions and kings as if it were nothing, Lady Kirigan. Most newcomers spill their wine before the first course.”

A ripple of laughter moved down the table, though some shifted uneasily.

Morgana inclined her head, her gray eyes cool. “I have sat at harsher tables, Lord Tyrion. I do not spill easily.”

Tyrion’s mouth curved in amusement. “A pity. Spilled wine is half the sport of these suppers.”

Cersei’s voice slid in then, smooth and sharp. She had been watching Morgana with that feline stillness of hers, green eyes narrowing slightly. “Careful, little brother. If you press too hard, you’ll find this one does not rattle. And if she does… I’d wager it is not with laughter.”

The queen’s words hung in the air, edged with something that was not quite warning, not quite respect.

Before Morgana could answer, Robert’s voice thundered across the table. His eyes, bloodshot with wine, had strayed toward her too often, each glance pulling him deeper into memory he wished drowned. At last, he let his tongue cut where his heart could not.

“So tell us then, Ambassador,” Robert said loudly, his tone half-mocking. “They whisper you hold every Grisha witch trick in your hands. Blood and bone, fire and wind, shadows and sunlight both. A fine traveling circus, if the tales are true.” He raised his goblet, smirking. “Tell me — which will you entertain my hall with tonight?”

The laughter around the table was uneasy, nobles glancing between king and widow like birds waiting for a hawk’s strike.

Morgana did not falter. She lifted her gaze, her gray eyes catching the torchlight, cold as slate. Her reply was smooth, refined, but carried a razor’s edge. “Which would you like to see, Your Grace?”

The hall hushed. Even the minstrels stilled their hands on their strings.

Morgana raised one hand — not in spellcraft, but in command. “Ivan.”

The Heartrender strode forward, his presence dark and imposing. With a lazy flick of his fingers, the knight nearest the dais stiffened, his breath choking in his throat. His pulse thundered wildly, then stuttered low as Ivan shifted his hand. A moment later, the pressure released. The knight sagged back into his chair, gasping, sweat beading at his temple.

“Anya,” Morgana said next.

The Inferni stepped forward, a girl with flame dancing in her palms. With a sharp gesture, fire leapt to life in the air, curling upward in a living banner that crackled but spread no further than she willed.

“Dmitri.”

The Squaller, a young man with cropped dark hair, extended his arms. A rush of wind swept the hall, rattling the banners overhead, before stilling at his command as quickly as it had come.

“Luda.”

The Tidemaker, pale and watchful, flicked her wrist. Water rose from the goblets along the king’s table, weaving into serpentine coils that shimmered in the torchlight before collapsing back into silver cups with a gentle splash.

Robert leaned forward, eyes narrowing, though his smirk did not waver. The wine sloshed faintly in his raised cup as he lowered it again.

Gasps rippled through the hall. Tyrion set his cup down, his sharp eyes gleaming with something between alarm and fascination. Jaime shifted in his chair, smirk still fixed but tightened with unease.

Robert barked a laugh, deep and booming, though the edge of strain was plain. He swirled his wine, sloshing it over the rim. “Quite a party trick indeed, but what of the gifts none of them possess …. the gifts your husband left you, eh?” he called, loud enough for all to hear. “Will you fill my hall with his shadows too?”

The words lingered over the feast, Robert’s laughter echoing through the halls, his eyes glinting with mockery. Knives stilled against plates, goblets hung frozen halfway to lips. All eyes turned to Morgana. She did not speak. Instead, the air itself shifted, a pressure rolling out from her like the first breath before a storm. Darkness seeped from her as though it bled from her very essence, spilling down her form and unfurling in every direction. It surged outward in a single breath, a tide that smothered the torches and candles alike until the feasting hall was drowned in night.

Gasps tore through the court. Nobles clutched at one another blindly, benches scraped across stone, a knight cursed as his sword rang uselessly to the floor. The music choked into silence. The vast hall was reduced to the sound of shallow, frantic breaths and the pounding of hearts.

In the void, only she remained. Her presence filled the dark, her gray eyes glinting like steel caught in moonlight, fixed on Robert as though he were the only soul left in the world. And in that suffocating blackness, with no court to watch and no torches to blind him, it was as if he dreamed again — of a face he had long buried, lips and eyes he had once ached for, still ached for, returned now in flesh before him. The shadows pressed close, heavy and eternal, as though no light could return unless she willed it.

Then, with a slow deliberate sweep of her hand, the shadows withdrew. Light flared violently back into the braziers and torches, revealing pale faces and trembling hands. Some nobles half-rose from their benches before sinking back down, cowed and shaken.

“Was that entertainment enough for you, Your Grace?”

For once, Robert Baratheon had no quick retort. His knuckles whitened around his goblet, his jaw tight.

The hall held its breath. Even the minstrels dared not pluck a string.

And then Joffrey’s voice, sharp and shrill, broke the silence.

“Is this all?” Joffrey crowed, his voice shrill with glee. “A bit of smoke and darkness? They say the Cut is your greatest weapon — enough to cleave steel like butter. Surely the court deserves a better show than shadows creeping about.”

A few nervous laughs rippled down the lesser tables, but they died quickly. All eyes turned to Morgana.

She did not rise. She only lifted one hand, her gray eyes fixed coolly on the boy. Her fingers sliced through the air with elegant precision.

Joffrey’s goblet split cleanly down the middle, sheared in two while still in his grasp. Wine spilled in a crimson rush over his lap and onto the table. The metal halves clattered to the floor, sharp edges gleaming.

Gasps echoed through the hall. Joffrey scrambled back with a yelp, his face pale, his chair screeching against the stone as he nearly toppled it.

Morgana’s voice followed, calm, measured, and utterly unshaken.

“Satisfied, Princeling?” 

Cersei’s lips curved, her eyes flashing with something darkly satisfied. Robert barked a laugh, loud but brittle, a sound more for show than for mirth. Tywin’s face did not change, but his golden eyes gleamed with calculation. And down the table, Arya bit hard on her lip to keep from grinning, while Sansa sat rigid, her cheeks pale with horror.

The echoes of the goblet striking stone still seemed to hum through the Great Hall. The courtiers returned to their food and wine with exaggerated care, as if pretending nothing had happened might soothe the tension clinging to the air.

Morgana sat in perfect composure, her hands folded lightly before her. She had no need to look at Joffrey again; the boy was dabbing frantically at his doublet, red-faced and silent under his mother’s cool gaze.

Further down the table, Tyrion Lannister raised his goblet with a golden smile. “Well struck, Lady Kirigan. Few can silence our young prince. You’ve done the impossible.” His tone was half jest, but his eyes glimmered with sharper interest.

Morgana regarded him coolly, her reply polite but edged. “I do not make a habit of silencing children, Lord Tyrion. But when one demands proof, it is only courteous to oblige.”

Tyrion chuckled, tipping his cup in salute. “A dangerous courtesy. I’ll remember not to test it.”

The conversation ebbed, wine flowing, platters refilled. Tyrion offered a wry quip here and there, though his sharp eyes lingered on Morgana more often than his words betrayed. Sansa sat stiff and pale, her eyes wide as they darted from her sister to the broken cup, as though trying to reconcile what she’d just witnessed with the courtly tales she’d been raised upon. Arya, by contrast, stared openly, her face alight with pride, her fists clenched beneath the table as if she could carry some of that strength herself

Tywin Lannister, seated to Morgana’s right, silent through the earlier storm. At last, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate, yet carrying easily over the din of the feast.

“Few sit so still beneath Robert’s gaze,” he said, his emerald eyes fixed on her. “Fewer still answer him without wasting words.”

Morgana turned her gaze toward the Hand of the King. His face was carved from stone, unreadable, but his emerald eyes were sharp, weighing her like a general appraising a new weapon.

“Words are weapons, Lord Lannister. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tywin inclined his head slightly — no smile, no warmth, but a flicker of respect. “Indeed,  many here could stand to learn it.” His glance slid deliberately toward his grandson, still sulking in silence, and then returned to Morgana. Morgana inclined her head in acknowledgment, her expression unchanging. The hall moved on around them  laughter, clattering plates, music rising again — but the true feast was not in the food or the song. It was in the weight of gazes exchanged, the alliances tested in a sentence, the quiet war fought in words.

pairings: The Darkling / Aleksander (Morozova Female OC) Tywin Lannister /female OC

Chapter 1

Summary:

Lady Morgana Kirigan, born Morgana Stark, eldest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, was raised in Winterfell’s halls alongside her brothers and sisters, she was every inch a wolf — until fate carried her across the sea into another world.

In Ravka, she became something far from greater than a lord’s daughter. As wife to General Kirigan, the Darkling, the Black Heretic, Morgana rose to stand at his side: The Sun Summoner, Mistress of the Little Palace, and bearer of every Grisha gift. Etherealki, Corporalki, Materialki — she commands them all. And rarer still, she is both Sun and Shadow Summoner, bound to Aleksander by fate itself, their bond sealed in light and darkness. Together they bore a son… until husband and child were claimed by war and death.

Now Morgana returns to Westeros, not as a lost daughter, but as Ravka’s ambassador — widow, general, and weapon. To Robert Baratheon, she is the ghost of Lyanna Stark in flesh. To Tywin Lannister, she is a piece of the game worth studying. And to her kin, she is daughter and sister, returned not diminished by distance, but reforged into something unrecognizable.

Between wolves and lions, crowns and shadows, Morgana Kirigan must carve her place. Series Masterlist

Summary - A Stark daughter lost to war, a Grisha general bound to shadow and sun. In Westeros, she returns not as child but as Sankta Morgana — widow, mother, ambassador — carrying power that can heal or destroy. Between lions, wolves, and kings, she must weave grief into strength, and decide if her light will save this world… or burn it.

The great doors to the throne room groaned open, and the herald’s voice rang out:

“Announcing before the Iron Throne — Lady Morgana Kirigan, General of the Second Army, Mistress of the Little Palace, and Shadow-Warden of Ravka.

The echo of her titles swept through the hall, as she appeared.

At first she was cloaked, her hood drawn low, a dark veil obscuring her face. The long fall of her kefta — black silk embroidered with silver threads that caught the light like shards of shadow — swept behind her as she moved with measured grace. The air shifted with her presence: heavier, tighter, as if unseen hands pressed down upon the court.

When she reached the foot of the Iron Throne, she paused. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed back the hood and pulled the veil away.

A ripple went through the gathered lords.

Her hair was swept back into a low, elegant knot at the nape of her neck, every strand drawn into place with deliberate care. In the light of day, the raven-dark gleamed, and here and there a faint glimmer of red showed, a whisper of her mother’s Tully blood. Her eyes were Stark-gray. Like Ned’s eyes, like Lyanna's eyes. Yet where theirs held warmth and joy, hers did not. In Morgana they had hardened; slate turned to steel, sharp, cold, and unreadable. They fixed on the throne with a weight that made lesser men quaver uncomfortably where they stood.

Robert Baratheon shifted on the throne, his expression faltering. For an instant he was no king, but a man staring into a ghost. She was Lyanna’s mirror — the same fine-boned Stark face, the same dark Northern beauty — and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. His hand tightened on the armrest of the Iron Throne, and his mouth curled into the cruel sneer he wore when emotion struck too close.

By the throne’s side, the Hand of the King watched closely. Tywin Lannister missed nothing: not the faint tremor in Robert’s hand, not the way the hall hushed as if the air itself bent toward her. He studied Morgana with a cold, calculating gaze. She was beautiful, yes, but not in the fragile, courtly way of maidens. Her beauty was forged — honed in shadow and sharpened by power. She carried herself as one accustomed not only to silks and ceremony, but to authority, loyalty, and fear alike. And wisdom — not mere knowledge, but the foresight to wield it — was what Tywin respected above all.

Standing at the foot of the dais with her mother and father, Arya Stark gawked wide with unmasked awe. Her elder sister looked nothing like the ladies Arya’s septa praised: Morgana was not soft, not simpering. She was steel in human form, cloaked in fire and shadow. To Arya, she looked untouchable, like Visneya stepped out of the songs. Robert shifted on the Iron Throne, the weight of steel pressing against him more heavily than usual. His hand drummed against the arm of the chair, the sound hollow, his voice thick with wine as he forced it to carry through the hall.

“Lady Kirigan,” he said at last, each syllable measured more carefully than the last, “Ravka sends you as its voice, and as king I bid you welcome. Westeros has seen many envoys in this hall, but none so… distinguished.” His eyes flicked over her black kefta, the silver-threaded cuffs, the severe knot of hair at her nape, before returning to her gray gaze.

The courtiers stirred at the weight of the moment.

Robert cleared his throat, the bluster returning to cover the tightness in it. “You’ve come far to stand here, and you stand not as stranger, but as a daughter of the North. Whatever years have passed, Winterfell’s blood runs true. You’ll find my court no less your home than theirs.”

The words hung, heavy with all that was unsaid. His grin faltered at the edges, his tone uneven as he pressed on. “So—welcome home, Lady Kirigan. May your time here serve both our realms.”

Silence followed. Her eyes — gray, unblinking — fixed on him with the weight of judgment.

The words carried across the hall, heavy with something more than courtesy — unease, memory, a bitterness no jest could quite conceal. For an instant, no one breathed. Ned’s jaw tightened, and even Cersei’s eyes flicked with sharp interest. Morgana did not flinch. She lifted her chin, gray eyes steady and cold, her voice smooth as polished steel. “Your Graces” She bowed. “My thanks — for the welcome, and for the courtesy of this hall.”

Cersei stepped forward, her golden hair gleaming in the torchlight, green eyes sharp with their usual fire. Yet as Morgana bowed her head in courtesy, Cersei’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. Perhaps it was the dignity in the young woman’s bearing, perhaps the fact that Morgana carried herself as one who knew the weight of power — and the burden of being bound to men who wielded it poorly.

“Lady Kirigan,” Cersei said, her voice smooth, almost warm. “We are honored by your presence.”

Morgana lifted her gaze, meeting the queen’s eyes steadily. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”