(personal posts are #lllostgirlll.txt) Hello! Welcome to my blog! Stella. 26. Autistic.
Hyperfixations:
The Lost Boys (1987), The Last Kingdom, Avatar (the one with the blue people), Turn: Washington’s Spies, Halloween in general, No Country For Old Men, Books, The Chronicles of Narnia, Twilight, The Lord of The Rings (ROP not included), Supernatural, Vikings, Peaky Blinders, Knightfall (the history channel show), Assassin’s Creed, History in general, GOT (mainly A Knight of The Seven Kingdoms).
Favorite Bands/Singers (not in any particular order and always looking for more goth + 80s to listen to):
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Lyonel's one of those people who, under different circumstances, could be incredibly dangerous and could be someone you really wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of, but actually there's a goodness in there and there is an understanding of what honour means. That's why he becomes such an invaluable ally to Dunk. - Daniel Ings
❛ i’m trying to fix your hair, so hold still. ❜ with HW Maekar would go so hard imo 👀👀👀
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: maekar targaryen x f!stark!reader && past baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 2.9k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, soft grumpy husband!maekar, a little angst and mentions of past baelor/ls but fluffy ultimately, basically things come to pass as they are in HW and lady stark and maekar get married instead.
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
Winterfell’s wind is sharp enough to bruise.
The fire in your solar is built up as if for a lord with thin blood: a great stack of split logs and peat, flames licking high, heat licking higher still. Someone has remembered to warm the stones beneath the carpets, too, spreading comforting warmth up your soles. The only cold thing in the room is the man scowling in your chair.
“I said I don’t need—”
“You said you’d let me,” you cut in, coming up behind him with the comb.
Maekar turns his head as if to glower over his shoulder. The movement pulls his hair loose from its rough tie; more of it slips free, silver and stubborn, falling over the collar of his black doublet.
You let out a small, considering noise, tilting your head.
“Gods,” you murmur. “Has no one ever taught you what a brush is for, husband?”
“Steel,” he says promptly. “Beards. Horses. Armour. Not—” he gestures irritably at his own head “—this.”
You can’t quite stop the smile that twists your mouth. The hair is longer than when he first came north. At court, when you first met him, he wore it cropped close in the fashion of the yard, practical and immaculately martial. Months of Winterfell and a wife who likes to sink her fingers into something softer have undone that. It curls now at the nape of his neck when it’s damp, and when he drags his hand through it in the yard, it falls in a way that makes the kitchen girls whisper behind their hands.
It also tangles. Spectacularly.
You set your hand on the heavy line of his shoulder, thumb sinking instinctively into the tense knot between muscle and bone. He’s all angles and solidity under the wool, heat banked there like a forge that’s never quite gone out. A dragon of your own.
“Stay,” you say.
He makes a rough noise. A man who’s spent his life in motion told to do the hardest thing he knows.
“If I sit still, I’ll fall asleep,” he mutters, words irked, but he doesn’t move away. That’s no small victory, and you know it.
You slide the comb into his hair at the ends first, the way any half-competent handmaid knows to, working gently through the worst of the snarls. The teeth catch on a knot and Maekar’s shoulders jerk.
You stop at once. “Did I catch you?”
“No.”
“You flinched.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Maekar lets out a slow breath that could char parchment. “I am not… used to it.”
You soften despite yourself. “All right,” you say, gentler now. “Then get used to it.”
He says nothing to that. But he doesn’t move when you resume your work, working the comb through the worst of the knots, patient as if gentleness with him is not still a thing you are learning in pieces.
Your marriage had not begun with gentleness.
It began with grief folded neatly into duty and being sent North with a prince who was not the one you had wanted.
Baelor loved you. You loved him. But the realm needed something else; something that took a simpler shape, a more secure narrative to follow.
So you were given Maekar instead—stern, sharp-edged Maekar, whose loyalty runs so deep it looks, at first glance, like cruelty. Maekar, who stood through the wedding ceremony with a face like carved stone and touched you that first night as though you were something breakable he had no right to touch, much less hold. Maekar, who said little and watched much and slept with one hand always close to the dagger beneath his pillow for the first month of your marriage, as if he expected your unhappiness to turn murderous in the dark.
Perhaps he had not been entirely wrong. You had not made it easy on him. He had not made it easy on you either.
You ease a thicker knot apart with your fingers. Maekar’s hair is finer than you’d expected the first time you touched it, though there is enough of it that it always feels heavier in your hands than it looks. A warrior’s hair, not a court prince’s.
“You’re making a face,” he declares abruptly, eyes still closed.
“You can’t see my face,” you point out.
“I can feel it,” he insists. “You get… quiet. When you’re thinking too much.”
You hesitate only a heartbeat before answering. You owe him that much.
“I was thinking,” you say thoughtfully, “that if you move again, I’ll fetch the kennelmaster’s shears.”
He snorts, outright, shoulders shaking once under your hand. The sound tugs a smile out of you, unwilling and fond.
“And,” you add, more quietly, “that you look better this way.”
He goes still in a different way. “Better than what?” he asks, after a moment that feels longer than it should be. “Than a half-shorn yard dog?”
“Than your brother,” you say, because there’s no point dancing around the ghost between you.
The words seem to drain the warmth out of your shared chambers, dropping the temperature by several degrees all at once. Maekar’s eyes crack open.
“He’s handsomer,” he says flatly; an old argument, worn smooth by years. “He always was.”
“Baelor is handsome,” you allow. “You are… dangerous.”
His mouth twitches, unsure whether to take offence or not. “That’s not a kindness, my lady.”
“In the North it is,” you say. “Handsome men freeze first.”
That wins you another, startled huff. The corner of his mouth curls, just for a breath.
You smooth your fingers over the back of his neck to gather the loosened strands, and his entire body seems to go alert beneath the surface. It still startles you sometimes, how responsive he is to touch he does not expect. Not because he is delicate—there is nothing delicate about Maekar Targaryen—but because so much of him is held taut so much of the time that the smallest kindness lands like a blow.
“You can tell me if I’m hurting you,” you say quietly.
His laugh is short and humourless. “I’ve been hit with warhammers, my lady. I think I’ll survive a comb.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
The silence stretches. Not hostile. Just full. You both know what lives in it.
Baelor’s name has become one of those things you do not say unless you mean to wound. It still exists anyway, a third presence in certain rooms, certain pauses. Maekar has never asked whether you still think of his brother. He has never needed to. He is too perceptive by half when it comes to anything that might hurt him. He notices every distant look, every letter you read twice, every moment some old song at a feast makes your mouth go tight.
And because he is Maekar, he says nothing. He simply carries it, like armour.
Your thumb skims a small, silver scar behind his ear. “Knife?” you ask.
“Training,” he replies. “Baelor’s sword, when we were lads in the training yard. I moved wrong. He cried more than I did.”
You can hear the echo of it in his tone—exasperation and affection and something older, bone-deep and tender. The way he says Baelor’s name is a habit he can’t break, as reflexive as reaching for a blade.
“You miss him.”
His shoulders rise, then fall with a weary exhale. “He’s my brother,” he says bluntly. “I’d miss him if he were a bastard in a ditch, let alone a prince in my chair.”
In your chair, too, goes unsaid.
The comb feels suddenly clumsy in your hand.
“Maekar,” you begin.
“Don’t,” he says, not harshly, never that, just weary. He shifts in the chair, then stops himself when the movement pulls his hair under your hand. A man torn between the urge to bolt and the odd, fragile peace he’s found here. “I know what he is to you. Was.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”
Anger flares, quick and defensive, prickling all the way down your body. Not at him. At the world that made this a reasonable thing for him to say.
“What, exactly, do you think he is to me?” you ask, moving around the chair so you can see his face properly. He looks up at you, brows drawn, lips set in that familiar, stubborn line.
“Everything,” he answers simply. “The choice you would’ve made, if choices were things our fathers let us keep. The one you dream about when I snore. The story you bite back when the wine’s too strong.”
You stare at him.
“Seven hells,” you say softly. “You really do think little of yourself.”
Colour climbs, faint and uneven, along the high planes of his cheeks. “I think what’s plain,” he mutters. “He rode beside you like he was born for you. You looked at him like—”
“Like I was choosing something I wanted for once?” you cut in. “Instead of something the realm needed?”
He flinches, just a little. “That’s not nothing,” he says. “But it’s not what you got.”
You are so tired of being tender with everyone but yourself.
“Maekar,” you call his name, and there is iron in it now. “Look at me.”
He does. Always has, when you use that tone. As if he’s back in the yard with his father’s hand on his shoulder, telling him to face what’s coming.
“I loved him,” you tell him, because there’s no point blunting it, and he would be able to taste the lie. “I probably always will, in that tiny corner of me that will never be docile. He was the first man I wanted as more than duty.”
His throat works, the smallest twitch of movement in countenance otherwise set from stone. His hand curls on his knee, gloved fingers digging into worn leather.
“I know,” he says. And there’s no anger there, just that familiar, weary acceptance, like he knew you’ll say so, like of course you love the golden prince. “I’m not blind.”
“I also,” you go on, refusing him the luxury of looking away, pressing closer towards him, “watched you ride out in a snowstorm to drag a farmer’s child out of a drift when every sensible lord would’ve sent a servant. Watched you spend an hour teaching my youngest captain how to break a shieldwall and then let her knock you on your arse in front of half the yard.” Your mouth curves, all fondness at the memories you’ve made. “That’s not nothing, either.”
He snorts, a huffing sound, “You enjoyed that too much.”
“I enjoyed the look on your face when she swept your leg,” you correct promptly, your lips twitching. “You were proud of her.”
“Of course I was proud of her,” he grumbles impatiently, as if that’s obvious. “She did what I told her to and took her chance. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from any soldier.”
His eyes flick away, down to your hands. You realise you’ve fisted one in the front of his doublet without noticing, knuckles pressed to his chest. His heart beats hard against them, strong and steady, a grounding feeling running up your arm.
“You deserve… more,” he says suddenly, his voice rough, a little ragged. “Songs. Grand gestures. Baelor has those in him. I have… this.” He gestures between you, between himself and the stone and the cold darkness outside. The hard, unpretty life you share together. “A cold keep. A hard man. No dragons. No crown. Just… me.”
You lean in until you’re close enough to feel his breath on your mouth, until the firelight paints one half of his face in gold and leaves the other in shadow.
“I married you,” you tell him sternly. “Not your brother. Not his crown. You. I chose you after knowing what it felt like to be wanted like that. After seeing exactly what I was giving up.”
His eyes search your face, hunting for the lie. “And if he walked through that door right now,” Maekar says quietly, voice carefully neutral, “and held out his hand?”
You consider it. You owe him the truth, or there’s no point in any of this.
“I’d probably hit him,” you admit quietly, “for taking so long, and then I’d pour him a drink.” You see his mouth tighten, so you press on before he can pull away. “And then I’d keep my seat, because this is my hall and my place is beside my chosen husband, not chasing what-ifs through the snow like a dog after bone.”
The breath leaves him in a rush. “You always do that,” he mutters.
“Do what?”
“Say the thing that cuts me open and mends me in the same breath,” he grunts. “It’s very untidy.”
You can’t help it, you laugh. It startles him, the sound, the brightness of it rippling outwards. Something in his face softens, slow and unwilling, like ice thawing in spring. His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles heavy and careful at the back of your knee where you’re braced on the chair’s arm.
“I am not Baelor,” he says, as if he’s granting you some great revelation. “I don’t know how to say pretty things. I don’t know how to… be what he is.”
“I don’t need two Baelors,” you tell him. “One was plenty. I need you.”
He looks at you, a shine in his eyes that looks almost vulnerable.
“The North needs a hard man who can be kind when it counts,” you go on, your thumb abently skimming over the strong curve of his brow. “Winterfell needs someone who can gut a man before breakfast and still remember to take his boots off at the door. I need someone who will argue with me over troop placements and then let me warm my feet on him in bed without complaint.”
“You kick,” he supplies automatically.
“You snore,” you counter with a small smile.
He huffs, that almost-laugh again filling the air. The hand at your knee tightens, pulls, just enough that you lose your balance and end up half in his lap, skirts tangling over his thighs. The move is clumsy, unpractised. Maekar of all people, knocked awkward by his own desire.
“Apologies,” he says, not sounding very apologetic at all. His hands come up to steady you, big and solid around your waist, scars visible in the firelight. “That was…”
“Clumsy?” you supply.
“Necessary,” he concludes decidedly.
You look down at him. At the scars and the frown-lines and the uncertainty he thinks he hides so well. At the man who came north like a punishment and has been carving himself into something that fits here, day by stubborn day.
“Better,” you say, and lean in to kiss him.
He meets you with more hesitation than a younger man might, more care. As if he’s still half-convinced you might vanish if he presses too hard or holds you too hard. His mouth is warm and a little chapped. And you use this moment to remind him he didn’t marry some southern lady, he married a wolf, a Stark, and there’s nothing soft about your desire or want.
His hands flex against your back, pulling you closer once he realises you’re not going anywhere, when that small, greedy growl of want vibrates from your throat. He deepens the kiss, slow and hungry, all the more intense for the restraint in it, in him. He kisses like he fights, you decide, then—committed, no half-measures once he’s decided, all power and control and passion that burns low but so hot it leaves you breathless.
When you finally draw back for breath, his eyes are dark, pupils wide, devouring you.
“You sure?” he asks, hoarse. “About… all of it?”
“You think I’d let just anyone near my hair?” you wonder, and deliberately reach up to tug at your hair, adding with a grin, “Or yours?”
Maekar lets out a low sound of indignation, but there’s a smile in it now that reaches his eyes. “You’ve ruined my hard reputation,” he proclaims, syllables stern, but you hear the faint streak of amusement underneath. “Braiding my hair. Sitting on my lap. The men will talk.”
“The men already talk,” you shoot back, hand slotting against his cheek. “About how their prince-turned-northern-lord takes to the snow better than half of them. About how he stands between them and the blizzard. About how he loves his lady enough to let her bully his hair into order.”
“Loves,” he repeats, as if tasting the word.
You meet his gaze, holding it for a beat. “Yes.”
His eyes lower. A great, gruff man, suddenly undone by something as small as a syllable.
“Well,” he says eventually, voice low, hand curling possessively at your hip. “Good. Someone ought to.”
“Someone does,” you correct, because Baelor’s ghost is still there, and always will be. “But only one of you gets to keep my feet warm in winter.”
He huffs, pleased despite himself.
“Hold still,” you say again, softer this time, fingers smoothing along the line of his plait, straightening what you’ve already straightened. “I’m not done fixing you yet.”
He grumbles something about not needing fixing, about being fine as he is.
But he doesn’t move.
You can live with this, you think, as his thumb strokes once at the back of your neck, rough and careful.
You could learn this shape.
You already are.
an: Why did this end up being a bit of a Maekar character study? Anyway, I'm sure you're able to infer from this, but if they got married, I genuinely think they would eventually fall in love and be happy together. It might not be immediate connection/love/chemistry she has with Baelor but it's a love they both foster and grow together, one day at a time. This awoke Maekar hunger in me like nothing else lmao. Hope you guys enjoyed!
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have you ever thought about doing like a supernatural au of the akotsk boys?? i dunno if that's up your alley but that anon who sent in the vampire-esque valarr had the wheels turning in my head
like the targaryens are old world vampires... and in my heart lyonel is a werewolf but i can't explain it. but like obviously i feel like lady stark would be a werewolf but not in the same way lyonel is?? if that makes sense?? maybe lyonel would be some kind of fae actually..
dunk could be some kind of giant??
i dunno i would love to hear your thoughts if this is your cup of tea!!!
Ohohoho. If there’s (1) thing you need to know about me, aside from me being a little freak is that I LOVE a supernatural au. Let’s cook!
THE TARGARYENS: VAMPIRE ROYALTY
Old World bloodline, the kind that makes newer vampires instinctively bare their throats.
They don’t just drink blood—they are blood, in the way that makes lineage and inheritance a literal transfusion of power. Daeron II’s court is less a political entity and more a nest of apex predators playing at civilisation, and the fact that they’ve managed to maintain a kingdom instead of tearing each other apart is either a goddamn miracle or proof that something deeply fucked up holds them together.
The blood bonds they create are the quiet horror beneath all vampire courtesy: human drinks vampire blood → stronger, healthier, healed, but also the beginning of a merging that’s equal parts symbiosis and obliteration.
Bodies and souls bleeding into each other. Feeling what the other feels, especially pain and pleasure, which means every touch becomes doubled, every hurt becomes shared, every ecstasy becomes unbearable. In the end, it’s possession. Not in the demonic sense, but in the sense of belonging, of being owned, of two creatures becoming one and losing the boundary between self and other.
For vampires, this is control. This is how you keep someone. This is how you make them unable to leave.
The Targaryens have built an entire political system on this. Every alliance, every marriage, every treaty sealed with blood that’s more than metaphor. They’re a family that has learned to weaponise intimacy.
YOU/LADY STARK: WEREWOLF (OLD MAGIC, WILD MAGIC)
Not the Hollywood wolf-out-on-the-full-moon variety. Something farrrr older than that. The kind of werewolf that predates the word “werewolf”, back when the First Men told stories about women who walked into the woods and came back with wolf-eyes and the winter in their bones, and nobody was stupid enough to ask what they’d found there.
You’re wild magic. Not pack magic, not moon magic, but something even more fundamental: the magic of things that refuse to be domesticated. Old magic. The kind that doesn’t follow rules because it existed before there were rules.
Most werewolves transform on the full moon, slaves to a cycle they didn’t choose. You transform when you decide the cost is worth it. Most werewolves lose themselves in the change, become animal, become instinct. You don’t lose anything, you just stop pretending. The wolf isn’t something that takes you over; the wolf is what you are when you stop folding yourself into human skin.
This is what makes vampires nervous.
Vampires are civilised monsters. They have courts, hierarchies, rules. They’ve spent millennia building structures of power that depend on everyone agreeing to play the game. You are a creature that can play the game, that chooses to play the game, but everyone in the room can smell that you could flip the board whenever you wanted.
You run cold, not hot. Your violence, when it comes, is calculated. Surgical. The wolf is always there. In the way you move, the way you track motion, the way you can go motionless as death and just watch. Predator stillness. The kind that makes prey animals freeze because running would only trigger the chase.
In vampire court, you’ve learned to make yourself more contained—never submissive, but strategic. Vampires respect power but they fear chaos, and wild magic is chaos given form. So you’ve taught yourself to be legible to them: cold where they expect calculation, still where they expect feral rage, controlled where they expect the beast.
It’s a lie. Not a dishonest one (you are controlled, you are strategic) but it’s a lie in the sense that the control is a choice, not a nature, and the thing underneath is vast and dark and so much older than their elegant courts and pretty lies.
The first werewolves were women who walked into the woods during the Long Night and came back with winter in their veins. Not cursed. Not bitten. They asked for the strength to survive, and the old gods of the North answered, and the answer was: become something that winter cannot kill.
That’s what you are. Not a human cursed to be a wolf. A wolf that can choose to be human when it’s useful.
Your blood is cold even in human form. Not corpse-cold like a vampire, but winter-cold, the cold of wind over snow, the cold that bites. When you transform, the temperature drop is tangible. Frost creeps across whatever surface you’re standing on. Your breath mists the air even indoors. You’re a creature of thresholds: neither fully human nor fully beast, neither fully alive nor fully spirit, neither civilised nor wild. You exist in the space between, and that’s where your power lives.
LYONEL: WEREWOLF (WILD GOD EDITION)
Where you are the werewolf that could be human, Lyonel is the werewolf that’s barely bothering with the costume. He’s warm-blooded, magnetic in the way that wild things are magnetic—dangerous and compelling and utterly unbothered by vampire social niceties because what are they going to do, bite him?
His magic is summer to your winter: hot where you’re cold, loud where you’re quiet, joyful where you’re controlled. He’s the kind of werewolf that transforms easily, frequently, joyfully. Not because he loses control but because why would he want control? The wolf isn’t a curse for him; it’s freedom. It’s the truest version of himself, and he sees no reason to apologise for it.
He’s big enough, strong enough, and friendly enough that he can get away with being exactly what he is in vampire court, and the fact that everyone knows he could go full beast and survive the consequences makes him untouchable in a way that courtly politicking never could.
Lyonel’s werewolf line is different from yours. Stormlands magic instead of Northern magic, something that comes from the sea and the wind and the wild green places where things grow instead of endure. His transformations are fast, violent, exuberant. Bones cracking and reforming in seconds. Laughter turning into howls. He runs hot. Feverish, alive, burning with energy that has nowhere to go but out.
The dynamic between you: two werewolves, two entirely different philosophies, two completely different relationships to the beast.
You’ve learned to make yourself contained (never submissive, but strategic). He’s never tried.
You fascinate him because you’re everything he isn’t: controlled, cold-blooded, playing the long game. He fascinates you because he’s free in a way you’ve never let yourself be. He walks into vampire court and acts like he’s doing them a favour by being there, and somehow it works, and you can’t decide if you’re jealous or appalled.
When he looks at you he sees: wasted potential. To put it bluntly. All that power, all that wild magic, and you’re using it to play politics with corpses. Boring.
When you look at him you see: dangerous innocence. He doesn’t understand that the reason he gets to be free is because he’s a Baratheon, because he’s untouchable, because the consequences don’t apply to him the way they apply to a Stark daughter alone in vampire court.
But god, sometimes you want what he has. That easy inhabiting of monstrousness. That refusal to apologise.
BLOODRAVEN: FAE (UNSEELIE COURT, THE TERRIBLE KIND)
Not a vampire. Everyone thinks he’s a vampire because he’s in Targaryen court and he’s old and dangerous and he drinks blood (sometimes) (when the bargain calls for it), but he’s something worse: one of the Fair Folk who traded whatever name he had for power, and the trade left him just a little too far from human to ever be mistaken for one up close.
Fae in the old, terrible sense: bound by bargains and words and rules that don’t make sense to anyone but him, playing games that started centuries ago and won’t end in any human lifetime. He’s beautiful in the way that poisonous things are beautiful. Something in the bones that’s just slightly wrong, even when he’s perfectly still. His eyes are too red. His stillness is too complete. He doesn’t blink enough. When he smiles, it doesn’t reach anything.
The Fae don’t have magic the way other creatures have magic. They are magic, in the sense that they’re made of rules, bargains and the spaces between words. Bloodraven is bound by his agreements in a way that’s almost physical. He can’t lie, but he can mislead, and he does with ruthless efficiency. He can’t break an oath, but he can interpret it creatively. Every word he speaks is exactly true and also potentially a death trap.
This makes him terrifying in vampire court, because vampires are used to being the scariest thing in the room, and Bloodraven is something that scares them.
His thing with you is complicated: you’re a werewolf, which means you’re wild magic. Normally the exact opposite of his carefully constructed bargains and rules. You’re chaos to his order, nature to his civilisation, feeling to his cold calculation.
Except you’re not, really. You’re just as controlled as he is, just as strategic, just as willing to play the long game. The difference is that your control is a choice and his control is a binding. You could stop any time you wanted. He’s trapped in his own agreements.
He finds this fascinating. And infuriating. And perhaps a little enviable.
He gave you a Valyrian steel dagger after you proved interesting. Iron and spellwork, a gift that’s also a test, also a chain. “A wolf’s pelt hung where everyone could see it,” he said. “Perhaps you might be inclined to make it more expensive.” An offer of alliance. An offer of complicity. An acknowledgment that you’re playing the same game he is, even if you’re playing it from different sides.
When you tried to return it, he refused—because you don’t give gifts back to the Fae, don’t you know? Now you’re tied to him, just a little. Just enough that he can call it in later. The knife is his and you’re carrying it, which means there’s a piece of him you’re carrying everywhere, and the Fae understand symbolic resonance in ways that would make vampires look like amateurs.
He’s fascinated by you the way a scientist is fascinated by a particularly beautiful specimen. Something in you that he wants to take apart and understand. Wild magic is antithetical to his nature, and yet here you are, wielding it with the same cold precision he uses to wield bargains.
The fact that you’re not afraid of him makes it worse. Most people have the sense to be terrified; you just look at him like he’s a piece on a cyvasse board you’re deciding whether to take.
If you ever drank vampire blood in his presence, he’d know. Fae can sense bonds forming, can taste the magic of it. And he’d be furious—not jealous, precisely, but offended on a fundamental level that you’d let yourself be bound when you’re supposed to be wild. That’s the whole point of you. That’s what makes you interesting.
Unless, of course, he was the one offering the bond. Then it would be different. Then it would be a bargain, which is his language, his magic, his domain.
He absolutely has thought about it. Often.
AERION: VAMPIRE (WORSTIE VERSION)
The kind of vampire that makes other vampires uncomfortable 😭
Something in him broke wrong when he was turned, or maybe he was always broken and vampirism just gave him eternity to express it.
Vampires are supposed to be cold. Controlled. Strategic. Aerion is those things when he wants to be, but he also feels everything at a volume that should be impossible for the undead, and the only thing more dangerous than his cruelty is his capacity for love.
He’s beautiful and monstrous and the fact that he loves (genuinely, catastrophically loves) makes him more dangerous, not less. When Aerion loves you it’s obliterating. Possessive. All-consuming. The kind of love that doesn’t leave room for you to be a separate person because he needs to merge, needs to be inside your skin, to feel what you feel and make you feel what he feels until there’s no boundary left.
This is what makes him perfect for the blood bond. This is also what makes him terrifying.
The obsession is foundational. You are the center of his ruined universe. Everything he does is in orbit around you, even when you’re not there, even when you’re trying to stay away. He tries to be the kind of vampire you might love instead of the kind of vampire you would fear, but it doesn’t always work because his devotion is a pile of bodies that might have slighted you once but he tries anyway because for you he’d try anything.
“My Aerion,” you called him once, and it nearly killed him. Not the words themselves but the possession in them, the claiming, the acknowledgment that he could be yours the way you’ve always been his. It’s a trigger that drops him to his knees.
The blood bond potential here is genuinely apocalyptic.
If you drank from him (not just once but regularly, the way you’d have to for a true bond) you’d feel everything he feels, and he’d feel everything you feels, and given that he’s a creature of extreme emotion and you’re a creature of extreme control, the feedback loop would be genuinely earth shattering.
Your coldness against his heat. Your wild magic against his vampiric possession. Your careful, calculated restraint against his desperate need to consume.
He wants it anyway. He wants to crack you open and pour himself inside and merge until there’s no difference between you, until he can feel the wolf in your veins and you can feel the blood starved monster in his, until the bond is so complete that leaving him would mean tearing yourself in half.
You won’t let him. Not because you don’t want it (that’s the terrible part, some dark thing in you does want it, wants to know what it would feel like to let him in that completely) but because you know what it would cost.
Wild magic doesn’t play well with vampire bonds. The bond requires submission, requires yielding, requires letting someone else into your head and heart and body. You’re a creature that has never submitted to anything. The wolf in you would fight it, and the fighting would tear you both apart, and the worst part is that Aerion would probably consider that an acceptable outcome.
Better to burn together than be separate.
This is why he’s dangerous. Not because he’s cruel (though he is that above all else) but because he loves you enough to destroy you both just for a glimmer of a future together.
BAELOR: VAMPIRE (KEEPER OF THE SPECIES)
The vampire that every other vampire wants to be: controlled, noble, good in a way that vampirism shouldn’t allow.
He’s living proof that you can be a blood-drinking predator and still choose kindness, still choose restraint, choose to protect the people weaker than you.
It’s a performance, but not in a dishonest way. It’s the same way your humanity is a performance, a choice you make every day to be the person you want to be instead of the monster you could be.
Baelor is old. Not as old as some, but old enough that the weight of his years shows in the careful way he moves, the way he considers his words before speaking. He’s learned that immortality means living with your mistakes forever. He’s made mistakes. He’s hurt people. He’s done the things that vampires do when they’re young and stupid and haven’t yet learned that eternity is a long time to carry regret.
Now he’s trying to be better. Trying to be the kind of vampire that the next generation can look at and think: that. I want to be that.
It’s exhausting. The constant self-monitoring, the constant restraint, the constant awareness that he’s half-Dornish in a court that considers that a weakness because he’s not pure blood, that one slip will confirm every prejudice they hold. He can never be just good—he has to be perfect, because anything less will be used against him.
And you’re a werewolf (natural enemy, forbidden, dangerous) but you’re like him: another apex predator choosing to be something softer, something better. You’re the only person in court who understands the weight of that choice because you’re carrying the same fucking burden.
When he looks at you he sees: recognition. Another monster trying desperately to be good. A creature that could kill everyone in the room but has chosen not to.
When you look at him you see: the cost. What it takes to be perfect all the time. What it does to you.
There’s a loneliness in both of you that’s specific to this. The loneliness of being the only one who’s trying this hard, the only one who cares this much about being better than their nature.
Blood bond potential is terrifying because it would be good.
Baelor would be so careful with you. So gentle. He’d approach the bond like a sacrament. A thing that’s holy, something that requires consent and trust and care. He’d never force it, never manipulate you into it, never use it as a tool of possession the way other vampires would.
And that’s exactly why it would destroy you both.
Because if you gave him that much access, if you let him in that deeply, the tenderness would be unbearable. You’re not built for softness. You’ve spent your entire life learning to be hard, learning to be cold, learning to survive in a court of monsters by being more controlled than they are.
If you bonded with Baelor, you’d feel his love, his care, his desperate need to protect you, and it would crack you open. The wolf in you doesn’t know what to do with gentleness. Wild magic doesn’t know how to receive tenderness without interpreting it as weakness.
And he’d feel your fear (not of him, but of this, of being loved like this, of being seen like this) and it would break his heart, and you’d feel his heart breaking, and the feedback loop would be its own kind of torture.
Two people trying so hard to be good that they’ve forgotten how to be soft.
MAEKAR: VAMPIRE (FOURTH SON EDITION)
Never supposed to inherit anything, never supposed to matter, turned into a vampire because it was useful but never actually given the power position that should come with it. He’s old, he’s strong, he’s capable, but he’s spent his entire existence being overlooked.
Fourth son. Fourth choice. Never first for anyone.
The thing with Dyanna: she was human, and he loved her, and she died. Nothing tragic, just the way humans die when vampires aren’t careful enough or the magic doesn’t take or the universe decides that some things aren’t meant to last. Her absence is the shape of him now. The empty space where someone should be standing.
He’s gruff, controlled, angry in a way that’s different from Aerion’s volatility. This is anger of someone who’s spent centuries being underestimated, someone who’s good at everything and recognised for nothing, someone who’s watched lesser vampires get the power and glory while he does the actual work.
When he speaks, it’s short, clipped, efficient. He doesn’t waste words. Doesn’t perform. His affection, when he gives it, comes in actions, not declarations. Bringing you something you mentioned needing three weeks ago, standing between you and danger without announcing it, remembering how you take your tea.
You’re a werewolf (rival species, forbidden) but more importantly you’re alive in a way Dyanna never got to be. Strong enough to survive him, to survive vampirism’s proximity, to survive the blood bond if you were ever stupid enough to try it.
He’s a vampire who’s learned that loving humans means losing them, so he stopped trying. But you’re not human. You’re wild magic, winter given teeth, something that might actually be able to survive him.
The blood bond with Maekar would be… inevitable. Not a grand gesture, really, just a slow accumulation of care and trust and shared vulnerability until one day you realise you’ve been drinking from him and he’s been drinking from you and the bond is already there, already formed, and neither of you remembers exactly when it started.
He’d feel your cold, the winter in your veins, and you’d feel his anger, loneliness, his desperate need to matter to someone. And it would be good. Grounding. Two people who’ve spent their lives being forgotten-choice, overlooked, underestimated, finding each other and deciding: you’re first to me.
The wild magic wouldn’t fight this bond the way it would fight Aerion’s or even Baelor’s. Maekar doesn’t want to possess you or save you. He just wants you to stay. And the wolf understands loyalty, understands pack, understands: this one is mine and I am his.
VALARR: VAMPIRE (GOLDEN BOY WITH A DARKNESS PROBLEM)
He’s Baelor’s heir, which means he’s supposed to be perfect, supposed to inherit his father’s control, his nobility, his goodness. And he is all of those things, except there’s something underneath that’s hungry in a way that’s got nothing to do with blood.
Valarr is beautiful. Educated. Charming. The kind of vampire that humans feel safe around because he’s so clearly civilised, so clearly in control, so clearly not the monster under the bed.
It’s the perfect lie.
Not the civilised part, that’s real. Not the education, that’s real too. But the safety is a lie, because underneath the golden-boy exterior is something possessive and dark. The fact that he hides it so well makes it more dangerous, not less.
He wants to be good like his father. He tries to be good like his father. But there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to be good; it wants to win. It wants to be chosen. It wants proof that he’s not just another vampire you’re tolerating, not just another Targaryen playing games. That you want him, specifically him, him above all others.
The blood bond would begin as an omission because he does it knowing exactly what it will do. Knowing it’ll tie you to him. Knowing you’ll be able to feel what he feels, and he’ll be able to feel what you feel, and the bond will make it so much harder for you to leave.
It’s the most selfish thing he’s ever done, and he can’t stop.
Because once you’ve tasted his blood, once the bond starts forming, you’ll feel it: the desperate jealous love, the sheer adoring need, the hunger for you to choose him. Not just accept him, not just tolerate him, but actively, deliberately want him as fiercely as he wants you.
The bond is supposed to be mutual, equal, but the way Valarr approaches it is: let me inside you and then you’ll understand. Let me show you how much I want you and then you won’t be able to leave.
He knows it’s a problem to want like this. He does it anyway.
The guilt compounds it. He feels guilty for wanting you this much, guilty for manipulating the bond, guilty for not being as good as his father, and you’ll feel all of it once the bond solidifies. The want, the guilt tangled together, inseparable, making each other worse.
And the wild magic in you will thrash against it. The wolf doesn’t do guilt, doesn’t do shame, doesn’t do this kind of complicated self-flagellation. The wolf understands only: want or don’t want. Hunt or don’t hunt. Stay or leave.
Valarr’s bond is complicated, and wild magic hates complications.
But there’s a part of you that responds to it anyway. The part that’s not entirely wolf, the part that understands what it’s like to want something you shouldn’t have, to need something that might destroy you. To want someone who’s ready to lay down at your feet and worship.
DAERON: VAMPIRE (VISION-CURSED)
Vampiric, but the magic didn’t take right—or it took too well, cracked him open and gave him sight beyond sight, the kind of visions that make sobriety unbearable.
Vampires sometimes develop gifts when they’re turned: strength, speed, charisma, the ability to command lesser creatures. Daeron got prophecy, and it’s killing him slowly, the way prophecy always kills.
He sees the future. Futures. Plural. Every choice branching into a thousand possible outcomes, every conversation revealing the hundred ways it could end, every person showing him their death before he’s even learned their name.
He drinks to dull the visions. He drinks to dull everything. The blood he takes tastes like fate not food, and he hates it, hates being able to see the fracture lines in reality, knowing which choices lead to ruin and which lead to more ruin.
His wit is biting because sarcasm is the only defense he has left. If he takes anything seriously, the visions will show him how it ends, and he can’t bear that anymore.
You fascinate him because you’re opaque. Werewolf magic, wild magic, old Northern power that doesn’t fit into the neat vampiric lines of fate and blood and dynasty. When he looks at you he sees chaos variables, futures that fracture and reform in ways that don’t make sense, possibilities that shouldn’t exist according to vampire magic.
It’s the closest thing to relief he’s ever felt.
Most people, when he looks at them, he sees their deaths. He sees how they’ll die, when, where, what choices led there. It’s automatic. Unavoidable.
When he looks at you, he sees: nothing. Or not nothing, he sees static, white noise, a thousand futures overlapping so fast that none of them resolve into clarity. The wild magic in you interferes with his visions, makes you unseeable.
He finds this both terrifying and addictive.
If you drank his blood, if you bonded with him, you’d see what he sees. The visions would pour into you through the connection, and the wild magic in you would either protect you from them or make them worse, and neither of you knows which it would be.
Daeron thinks about this constantly. Imagines it. The bond forming, the visions sharing, you finally understanding why he drinks, why he jokes, why he’s like this.
Or maybe the wild magic would eat the visions. Consume them. Your chaos overwriting his fate-sight. He wants that more than he wants the bond itself. He wants to not see anymore, and you’re the only person who might be able to make him blind.
DUNK: GIANT (ACTUAL GIANT)
Not a metaphor at all. Not “large man.” An actual, literal, giant—one of the last, maybe, the kind that used to walk Westeros before the Targaryens and their vampiric dynasty decided the world was better off without them.
Giants are old magic, older even than werewolves, older than vampires. They’re the magic of the earth itself. Mountains walking, stone and soil given consciousness, the weight of the world made flesh.
Dunk is somewhere between twelve and fifteen feet tall, depending on whether he’s trying to make himself smaller (he’s always trying to make himself smaller). He’s broad, heavily muscled, with features that are almost human but not quite. Something in the proportions that’s just slightly off, the bones too thick, the hands too large.
He’s too kind for what he is. Too gentle. The kind of giant who’s spent his whole life making himself smaller (impossible, but he tries) because he doesn’t want to scare anyone, doesn’t want to hurt anyone, doesn’t want to take up space he hasn’t earned.
Giants used to be violent. Territorial. They’d crush villages, topple castles, take what they wanted because who was going to stop them? The Targaryens stopped them generations ago. Killed most of them, drove the rest into hiding, turned “giant” into a slur, a nightmare, a cautionary tale.
Dunk is what’s left after that genocide: a giant who’s learned that survival means docility, means service, means letting smaller creatures treat him like a pet.
Vampires at court treat him exactly like that: a pet, a toy, a possession. And the worst part is that Dunk lets them. Not because he’s weak but because he’s spent so long believing he doesn’t deserve better. Because he’s a giant, and giants are monsters, and if vampires want to keep him then at least that means he’s useful, at least that means he has a place.
You see him and recognise the shape: another predator pretending to be harmless. You’re cold where he’s warm, vicious where he’s kind, controlled where he’s clumsy, but you’re both playing the same game which is trying to be smaller than you are.
The difference is that you’re dangerous because you’re controlled, and Dunk is dangerous despite being gentle.
If he ever stopped trying to be small, if he ever let himself take up the space he actually occupies, if he ever let himself be angry… he could kill everyone in vampire court with his bare hands, and they know it, and that knowledge is the only reason he’s still alive.
You’re the first person who’s looked at him and seen the wasted potential. Not in Lyonel’s sense (Lyonel sees you playing politics with corpses when you should be running free) but in the sense that Dunk has all this strength and he’s using it to carry Aerion’s luggage.
When you look at Dunk you see what you could become if you ever fully submitted. If you ever let them make you small. It terrifies you. And it makes you furious on his behalf.
SHIERA SEASTAR: VAMPIRE (SORCERESS EDITION)
Vampire, but she’s been at it long enough and studied deep enough that she’s something more now. Blood magic, death magic, beauty magic. The kind of sorceress-vampire that makes other vampires nervous because she’s stopped playing by the rules.
Vampirism is magic, but most vampires just have it. They’re born into it or turned into it, and they use it instinctively, the way a bird uses wings. Shiera has studied it, taken it apart, learned the theory, the mechanics, the ways to bend it into shapes it was never meant to hold.
She’s impossibly beautiful. Not in a human way, but in an uncanny way, the kind of beauty that’s clearly artificial, clearly constructed, clearly the result of someone who’s decided that if she’s going to be a monster she’s going to be the most beautiful monster in the room.
Her magic is aesthetic. By which I mean: she understands that appearance is power, that beauty is currency, that if you control how people see you then you control how they think about you. She’s built herself into a work of art, and the art is also a weapon.
She’s not trying to be good. She’s not performing humanity. She’s a monster who’s decided being a monster is fine, actually, and she’s going to be the most powerful, beautiful, terrifying monster in the room, and if people have a problem with that they’re welcome to take it up with her.
You respect her because Shiera doesn’t pretend. She’s not like Baelor, carrying the weight of trying to be better than her nature. She’s not like Aerion, breaking under the strain of feeling too much. She’s not like Valarr, guilty about her own wants.
She wants power, she takes power, she uses power, and she’s completely comfortable with all of it.
You and Shiera are friends, in the way that two apex predators can be friends. Wary, respectful, ready to kill each other if the situation demanded but also genuinely enjoying the company and the flirting which is half jest, half not.
She’s one of the few people in vampire court who doesn’t want anything from you. Doesn’t want to bond with you, doesn’t want to possess you, doesn’t want to save you or fix you or claim you. She just finds you interesting. Another woman navigating a court of monsters, another predator who’s learned to play the game.
Sometimes you have tea together and discuss blood magic theory and the politics of the court, and it’s the closest thing to relaxing that either of you ever gets. Shiera thinks the blood bond is vulgar. Too possessive, too desperate, too much like need. She’s powerful enough that she doesn’t need to bind anyone to her. They come willingly or they don’t come at all.
She’s told you this explicitly: “If you ever bond with one of them, make sure it’s on your terms. Don’t let them make you need them. That’s how they win.”
It’s good advice. You’re probably not going to take it.
WILD MAGIC VS. VAMPIRE BONDS
Vampires are civilised monsters. They have courts, hierarchies, rules. They’ve built structures of power that depend on everyone playing the game. Werewolves are wild power. Old magic, Northern magic, the magic of things that refuse to be domesticated.
You in vampire court are a werewolf who’s learned to play by vampire rules, which makes you dangerous in a way that most vampires can’t fully comprehend. You’re not trying to climb the hierarchy; you’re trying to survive it. And every vampire who gets close to you has to reckon with the fact that you could leave. You could walk out of court, transform, and disappear into the wild, and there’s nothing they could do to stop you.
Unless they blood-bond you.
Which is where it gets really fucked up.
Human drinks vampire blood → stronger, healthier, healed, but also bound. The bond builds with repeated feeding. Eventually: bodies merging, souls merging, feeling what the other feels. For vampires, this is possession. This is control. This is how you keep someone forever.
But you’re a werewolf, not a human. Or not only.
Wild magic doesn’t submit. It doesn’t yield. The wolf in you is a thing of instinct and freedom and old, old power that existed before vampires, before courts, before the concept of ownership.
What happens when you bond a vampire to a werewolf?
Nobody knows. It’s never been done, at least, not successfully, not without one party or the other going mad from it.
The theories are as follows:
Theory One (Aerion’s hope): The bond would be stronger. Wild magic meeting vampire magic, creating something new, something more powerful than either alone. You’d feel everything he feels and he’d feel everything you feel, and the merging would be so complete that you’d stop being separate people. Wolf and vampire, winter and death, wild and civilised merged into a single creature that’s neither and both.
Theory Two (Baelor’s fear): The bond would break you both. Wild magic resists binding; vampire magic demands submission. The two forces would war inside you, tearing you apart from the inside. The wolf would fight the bond, would claw and bite and thrash, and the vampire on the other end would feel all of it, the pain and the rage and the desperate need to be free, and it would drive them mad.
Theory Three (Bloodraven’s suspicion): The bond would work, but not the way vampires expect. Wild magic might override the possessive elements, turn the bond into something more like pack magic: a connection between equals rather than owner and owned. You’d be bonded but not bound, connected but not controlled. It would be intimate without being possessive, and vampires wouldn’t know what to do with that.
Theory Four (Shiera’s assessment): It depends entirely on you. The wild magic takes its cues from you. If you submit, it submits; if you fight, it fights. The bond would be whatever you decide it is, which means the vampire on the other end would be entirely at your mercy. They’d be trying to possess you, and instead you’d be possessing them.
The blood bond is supposed to be about control. But you are a creature that has never been controlled, and the fact that you’re choosing to stay, choosing to play their games, choosing to let them try—
missing all the turn blogs that went silent/deactivated. felt nostalgic so i was scrolling through some stuff and reminiscing about the weekly anticipation for each episode, tween/teen me not allowed to have a tumblr account but scrolling through all the blogs anyways. miss you guys 🥹
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Fave moment in Turn is when Washington’s asking Benedict Arnold if he still has an appetite after a battle to which Arnold replies with ‘Always’ and they stare menacingly like hungry wolves at Charles Lee
missing all the turn blogs that went silent/deactivated. felt nostalgic so i was scrolling through some stuff and reminiscing about the weekly anticipation for each episode, tween/teen me not allowed to have a tumblr account but scrolling through all the blogs anyways. miss you guys 🥹
AU where Uhtred took Bebbanburg back while Alfred was still alive so Uhtred could share his beloved home with him.
Alternatively; my bestie said it kinda looks like a scene from a dream so it could also be Uhtred‘s dream when Alfred has already passed away. Yes we love drama and pain.
(Little Stiorra is riding with Alfred, Aethelflaed is riding with Uhtred)
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Baelor and Maekar are both hairy and you will not change my mind. Maekar has a smattering of straight white hairs over his chest and stomach, a thicker patch in the middle leading all the way down beneath his breeches. Its soft, you love running your hands over his hard chest and scratching your nails through the hairs. They can be hard to see due to their colour but when the light hits right you can see everything. You especially love his happy trail (and what it leads to). If hes getting changed your eyes are glued to the silvery hairs on his v-line to which he often makes some teasing comments like “I didnt know I married such a perverted woman.”
Now Baelors hair is darker and therefore more noticeable. Sometimes you can even see it peeking over his collar. His arms and legs are covered in a healthy layer of black hair which you often drool over. His chest hair is thicker than his brothers and curly, you love resting your hands on it when youre riding him and maybe even pulling it if you want to tease him. He feels the need to tame his hair more as its darker (which has already caused him problems his whole life) and worries about it looking messy. As much as you reassure him he doesnt need to, occasionally its gets to him and hell do it, maybe even asking you to help him.
