⋆˙⟡ the name's mor ; 25 winters ; she/her/hers ; scorpio ; i like writing & fanfiction (sometimes without the "&") ; amateur historian & fantasy nerd ; house baratheon | "ours is the fury." ⋆˚࿔
latest work: A Princess of the Seven Kingdoms Part 3 (4/29/26)
Of Wolves and Dragons - Chapter 13 (6/2/26)
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"If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there."— Anton Chekhov. This simply means, if you include a detail in a story it should have some meaning to the plot or the overall story.
Why Chekov's Gun is Important
Over the years, Chekov's Gun has become an important rule where foreshadowing is involved and often gives your readers some idea of what is to come without giving it away. It can be a fun element for writers to pepper in as well as set up a plot point or an oncoming event. Chekov's Gun keeps writers on track with their details and can be used to put your readers into an unconscious state of knowledge about the following story.
How Can Writers effectively write Chekov's Gun
The main thing about Chekov's Gun, is utilising your details within the story and showcasing them in a way that is notice-drawing but not so much as to be provacative with it. In simple terms, you want people to notice it but you don't want to wave it in their faces.
The details that you add (and I'm not talking about details as in the colour of the walls, I mean details such as an item that is focused on) should impact the story in some way. These details are often elaborated on with the narrative and are given a little bit of exposition. For example, consider:
In a Prisoner of Azkaban, Cornelius Fudge recounts a meeting with Sirius Black in the prison. He makes a point of noting that Sirius had asked for his newspaper, chalking it down to Sirius's inhumanity. However, that paper is the catalyst of the story in this book. Sirius sees a picture of the Weasley's on holiday in the paper, spotting Peter Pettigrew, a traitor and agent of Voldemort. The paper acts as Sirius's inciting event to act.
In Greek Myth, Perseus and his mother Danae were exiled from her father's kingdom after a phophecy stated that the King would be killed by his grandson. Years later after Perseus went on his quest, married a Princess and won himself a new kingdom, he attended a sports event where all the Kings of Greece attended. Perseus threw a discus accidentally killing an old man in the crowd. The old man? His grandfather.
Or perhaps the most famous literal example, in the film Shaun of the Dead, Ed points to a shotgun above the bar at the Winchester. He goes on a big long yarn about how the gun is real. During the action packed climax of the film, Shaun tells him that the gun couldn't possibly be real because... Then the gun goes off and is used to save Liz and Shaun while the others are consumed by zombies.
The Do's and Don'ts of Chekov's Gun
Do consider Chekov's Gun to be anything, not just an item or a thing. It can be the name of a person (Marwyn the Mage) or even a certain skill a character has (Mary Ravenwood can drink grown men under the table, a skill she uses against the Nazi).
When lampshading the item/person/detail, do not embellish it too much. Afford the detail enough attention so the reader can remember it but not so much that they notice it.
Do remember that Chekov's Gun must at some point be fired. The person/thing/detail must have some impact. (the locket Harry attempts to throw out at Grimmauld Place ends up being a Horcrux)
Don't think the reader won't remember the gun. Most readers with experience will clock a Chekov's gun from a mile off.
Do make sure that the gun is in the minds of the reader. Whether you have characters mention it flippantly or you show it over the course of the narrative (the famous lemons of "Braavos'' in ASOIAF).
The gun does not have to fire immediately but it does have to fire at some point.
⋆˙⟡ sneak peak for chapter 13 of my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." now that i'm caught up with posting previews for the twelve previously posted chapters, i will now be posting sneak peaks for upcoming chapters for fun. enjoy. ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
lyarra and company arrive at king's landing, where lyarra and rhaenys are accosted by a horde of potential suitors, and stannis is beginning to look like a decent alternative.
Aegon took his place beside Margaery Tyrell, who was looking at Lyarra’s brother like he was her entire world. They exchanged the usual pleasantries—Aegon kissed the top of her hand, and Margaery giggled and blushed accordingly. She leaned in to whisper something in Aegon’s ear, and he laughed like he was a boy again, his violet eyes shining with mirth and merriment and something Lyarra could not name.
Rhaenys snorted, not bothering to conceal her contempt. “Look at them preening like peacocks.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Lyarra said, taking a bite of her food.
“Sweet like poison,” Rhaenys said, sipping her wine.
“I know Margaery can come off a bit… false, but you should give her a chance. I did.”
“That just makes you gullible.”
Lyarra frowned at her sister.
“Do you seriously wish to fight on my first night home?”
Rhaenys’s expression softened.
“No, I don’t. I just can’t stand to see Aegon falling into her trap.”
“You know, sister,” Lyarra began, keeping her voice low. “If you wanted to keep Egg for yourself, I’m sure Father would call off the wedding.”
Her sister shoved her arm playfully.
“Oh please,” she groaned. “You and I both know he would rather marry you than me.”
“Gross,” Lyarra said, the food in her mouth turned to ask at her sister’s words.
“But I am jealous,” Rhaenys said.
She said it so simply, so quietly, that for a moment Lyarra didn’t know how to respond. Her sister had always seemed so unbreakable to her, but now there was a vulnerability to her now that Lyarra had never seen before, a sadness that seemed to bleed in from the edges of her smile.
“Sounds like you do want to marry him,” Lyarra teased instead, unsettled by her sister’s melancholy.
Rhaenys laughed, but the sound was hollow.
“I do not want to marry our brother,” Rhaenys said. “It’s just… Aegon was ours first—yours and mine—but in a fortnight he’ll belong to her, and then he’ll belong to the children she’ll bear him, and one day, the whole realm will want to carve a piece of him for themselves. And that won’t exactly leave a whole lot of room for you and me.”
Lyarra wanted to argue, to say that Aegon would never just abandon them, but instead, she changed the subject.
“How was Sunspear?”
“Hot. Dry. Full of men who aren’t half as clever as they think they are,” Rhaenys replied, swirling the wine in her cup, her eyes flicking to Margaery and back. “Have you ever wondered why our ancestors always married brother to sister?”
“It was to keep our bloodline pure,” Lyarra said, reciting the old, overly used answer.
“I used to think that too, but now I think it was much simpler than that. Blood looks after blood. The first Aegon didn’t marry Rhaenys because he was worried about keeping the blood pure—he married her because he loved her. The gods tell us to love our siblings, but what is a sister, compared to a wife?”
Lyarra snorted. “If this is your way of asking me to marry you, I’ll have to decline.”
Rhaenys grinned. “You know, the Doctrine of Exceptionalism doesn’t explicitly forbid a marriage between two Targaryen sisters.”
The two of them laughed, the awkward tension finally broken.
They sat in silence for a time, watching Aegon flirt with Margaery, whose hand lingered for just a moment too long on his sleeve when she laughed.
“I’m glad he’s happy,” Rhaenys said. “I just wish my own marriage could be so happy.”
“There’s still time,” Lyarra said. “Father hasn’t decided yet—you could still find someone.”
Rhaenys sighed. “That is not how the world works, little sister. Aegon will have his queen and his perfect little heirs, and you and I will marry men who will never love us as deeply as they should.”
Lyarra did not like that. She didn’t like that at all.
⟢ note: i plan on posting the full chapter some time this weekend, so stay tuned.
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⋆˙⟡ (12/12) chapter previews for my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
lyarra and company arrive at highgarden and meet the tyrells, renly and loras (do not) hit it off, sansa falls in love with the south, margaery and willas scheme, and lyarra and stannis play a game of cyvasse.
“Good morrow, Princess,” Willas greeted, his head dropping into a polite bow. “I trust you found rest after your travels.”
Lyarra paused her conversation with Renly to reply: “Good morrow to you as well, my lord. I rested fine, thank you.”
Willas smiled, the very essence of gallantry and charm.
“I am glad. I see you have found the dresses my sister left for you.”
“We’ve had such wonderful weather here in the Reach, and I wasn’t sure if any of your current attire would have been suitable after living in the North for so long,” Margaery said by way of explanation. “I’m so glad you find them to your taste, Sister.”
“Yes, the style of the Reach suits you well, Princess,” Willas added.
They were right, of course.
Lyarra was beautiful, but Sansa always thought her cousin was beautiful.
Still, both Margaery and Willas made a fair point.
Lyarra wore a green sleeveless gown made of the lightest of silks. The skirt, which was embroidered with tiny golden roses and thorns, flowed around her in waves and caressed her form like clouds against the mountain tops. The waist of the dress was cinched tight, but the bodice was left open, accentuating the tops of her breasts, and the sleeves dropped over her shoulders slightly, exposing her neck and collarbones.
She looked every part the princess except for the leather belt and scabbard strapped to her waist, which held the dagger Lyarra had won from Lord Stannis many moons ago.
Lady Margaery also gifted Sansa such finery, but Sansa had never worn something so revealing. Lacking her cousin’s boldness, she opted for one of her own dresses, which she had made from the fabrics Lyarra gifted her upon her arrival at Winterfell.
“It is I who should thank Margaery for her generosity,” Lyarra said. “What are your plans for the day, my lord?”
Willas grinned, his gleeful eyes darting towards the other end of the table where Prince Viserys ate with Lord Stannis and some of the other heirs.
“Well, it is such a lovely day for hawking, but I think I would like to take a walk through the gardens first—we are quite famous for them, after all. I was wondering—”
“Princess,” Stannis interrupted, standing to his feet, causing the silverware and plates to clank against the table. “Would you join me for a walk through the gardens?”
Lyarra did not reply, opting instead to look between both Lord Stannis and Lord Willas, suspicion in her eyes.
Her cousin seemed just as surprised as Sansa felt—she never took Lord Stannis for a man who enjoyed long walks with a lady.
“Very well, my lord,” Lyarra finally replied, rising from her chair.
summary: baelor wakes up, and yet, somehow, your heart breaks even more.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 2k
based off of this! | masterlist
from the moment the sun rose to when it fell, every moment for an entire fortnight, you had not left your husband’s side.
the maesters, called high and far from the citadel to see if they could be of any use in helping save the life of the prince, watched as you refused to be parted.
baelor looked as though he was only asleep. his eyes were shut peacefully, his chest rising with even breaths, his skin as warm as you remembered. but somehow, despite all that the maesters did, he would not open his eyes.
you recall, maybe in the two or three days after baelor had been brought back from ashford, that your maids had pleaded with you to leave his side, to seek respite. to eat something more than scraps, to sleep in your chambers instead of the chair you had set near his bedside.
they had since stopped asking.
you stepped away only to soak in the tub, asking for the hottest water that they could manage, sitting alone until it turned tepid and until your tears had run out. then you’d dressed and gone back to your husband’s side.
you think it was valarr, the elder of your husband’s sons from his first marriage, that tried to convince you that this is not what his father would have wanted. you’d only looked at him sadly—he was closer to you in age and you had always gotten along well with him, but even he could not hide the fear and sadness behind his mismatched eyes.
he was frightened, and usually, he sought out his father when he felt that way.
and yet here he was, trying to offer you comfort where there was none to be found. baelor’s qualities shone in him brightly.
valarr had already suffered the death of one parent, and now, on the precipice of losing another, he still tried to convince you to eat and sleep.
but there was nothing that could convince you. kiera, valarr’s wife, had tempted you with the offer to go pray in the sept with her.
that too felt sweet, as fleeting as it was. kiera was not westerosi, she did not know the gods you had grown up with, but she still offered.
you had caught a glimpse of the two hugging and crying outside of baelor’s chambers when you were headed back in a clean gown with washed hair. the very sight of their tears made you start crying again, even more so when you sat down beside him and wished that there was something you could do to wake him up.
baelor always said he loved the smell of your hair. you thought something magical might happen, something out of a song or an old story you would one day tell your children. that he might wake up and say those sweet words that always make you flush, make you feel special and loved and have since the day you met him.
but stories are for children, and the knife cuts even deeper when you realize any child you could have had would not know baelor. not ever get to see him, to rest in his arms, to be comforted by him.
and you—how could you ever try to marry again? how could you ever replace him? his gentle smile, his sweet laugh, the way his eyes shone when he saw you as though it was the first time all over again.
you had been but a frightened girl when the match was made. you had expected little, not allowing yourself to believe tales of his chivalry and kindness, trying to save yourself from being disappointed.
he had surpassed even your wildest expectations. perhaps that is why this hurts even more—since the day in the sept when he had replaced your family’s cloak with the red and black one of his house, you can’t recall a moment in which you had felt fear.
you think it is because baelor is a balm to the wounds of the world.
you had never felt uneasiness throughout your marriage until he told you he would be participating in the trial of seven, that he would be fighting for ser duncan.
and you had never known true fear, horrid and dark and burning through you, until you saw maekar’s mace hit him, and you saw him collapse in front of all those at ashford meadow.
even now, nothing in the past days has compared to that feeling. it washes through you time and time again. when you fall asleep with your head near baelor’s hand, it comes back to haunt you in your dreams.
you awake, each time, hoping it was just a nightmare. that you’re in bed, warm beside your husband, that he’ll whisper in your ear to go back to sleep, that it was just a bad dream.
instead you awake to maesters. they fuss over your husband and beg you to get sleep and rest in your chambers, and you don’t have any energy left, though you wish you did. you’d shout at all of them—beg and scream at them to do something, to do anything, to fix your husband’s wounds and make him return back to you as he’d always promised. you’d yell that you don’t have your own chambers because you and baelor shared them, that you don’t know what it is to sleep without your husband.
instead you stay quiet, shaking your head politely when they ask if you need anything further. you hold baelor’s hand and pray to the mother to watch over your husband.
-
you’re walking back to the chambers, donning a fresh gown and with a new history book to begin reading aloud to baelor, when you see him outside the door.
you’re not cruel, but you can’t help but think that it is the worst when maekar comes to visit. his grief is all stored behind his violet eyes. though you know it was an accident, that he would never harm his brother on purpose, you still wish that perhaps, he would leave you alone with baelor.
you’re not cruel, you never have been. but you can’t comfort maekar when he is the reason your husband is on the verge of death, on the verge of leaving you forever. when you look at maekar all you can see is the life you should have had with baelor, dark haired, kind daughters and stoic sons and years of joy that have been so quickly taken from you.
you do not wish to speak to anyone else today. perhaps if you say it kindly, he will listen, and you prepare yourself as you approach. but as he hears your footsteps, he turns quickly, his expression unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.
“come quickly,” maekar says, and the tone of his voice makes your heart beat faster. “baelor is awake.”
you drop your book in the hallway. you rush inside as quickly as your feet will take you, the maids moving hurriedly in the opposite direction, likely to go find valarr and matarys. the noise that leaves you is entirely unladylike, a desperate, pleading sob mixed with a shout, as you forgo your seat and sit directly on the edge of the bed.
your hands find his, vision blurred with hot tears that rush down your face. you blink, watching as your husband’s eyes find yours, and you smile, for what may be the first time since he closed his eyes two weeks ago.
“husband?” you say quietly. he looks at you but he doesn’t reply for some time, like he’s still piecing together his thoughts.
you feel relief course through your veins. it’s a feeling like nothing else you’ve ever felt before, a special type of joy. the fear of spending your life alone, widowed so young and without the love you had only just began to know fading with each passing moment.
you hold his hand tighter, looking back at maekar with a smile, knowing how he must be feeling right now. the guilt had been swallowing him whole, and it had been affecting you too, in different ways, wondering what you could have done to make him listen to you that day. if only you’d been more convincing, or perhaps, told him about the babe growing in your stomach…
that might have made him stay safely by your side rather than leaving to uphold honor and duty.
such a man was your husband, that he—
you feel baelor’s fingers slip away from your grip. you turn back quickly, worried that something’s happened, that he’ll have fallen asleep again, that you’re still in this waking nightmare, just when you thought it was almost over.
“baelor?” you whisper, eyes brimming with fresh, hot tears.
“i…” he trails off, voice hoarse, sounding especially unlike himself. “i don’t-”
you reach over for a goblet of water, as maekar comes to his brother’s side and helps him sit up. the maesters continue their fussing as you give him the cup, and he takes a small sip.
he looks towards maekar, smiling at his brother, even in this state, and you can only imagine how that must feel for the two of them. you feel relieved for your brother-by-law too, that he does not have to live with the guilt and pain hanging over him for the rest of his days.
your husband was awake, and—
when he looks over at you, his smile fades a little.
“i… i cannot recall what happened-” he starts, his attention mostly on maekar. “brother, i-”
“that’s alright,” you interrupt, taking your seat by his side. you bring your hand to his arm, but before you can, he moves it away. “you’ve been through a great ordeal. we are just so happy you are awake.”
you try to set aside the stinging feeling in your chest. baelor has never avoided your touch like this, even in front of his family. perhaps it’s because the maesters, you think, trying to soothe yourself.
you have to soothe yourself. there’s no one else besides baelor who can help you with that task, and even now—
“and my sons? where are they?” baelor asks, and maekar glances towards you. he seems to know what is coming before you do. you answer him quickly, smiling again, ignoring the tears as they fall down your face.
“the maids have gone to find them, and kiera, too. they should be here any moment,” you say, wiping your eyes with your hands. you blink at him, and then at maekar, and then—
“kiera?” he questions. you look between him and maekar in confusion. “i am sorry, my lady, forgive me. may i have a moment alone with my brother?”
time feels almost frozen. you stare at baelor, your mind spinning. the room feels entirely too hot. the ties of your gown seem almost suffocating.
i’m not a lady, you think sadly, i’m a princess now. i have been a princess since the day in the sept when you made me your wife.
more tears come, and you wipe them away, trying to fight the battle inside your head. it’s all a mistake, you think, all a misunderstanding—
maekar says your name and you’re snapped out of your thoughts.
“perhaps we should give him a moment,” maekar says, and as he looks at you, you can almost read the thoughts inside his head.
how sorry he is. how guilty he feels that he almost killed his brother. the relief that baelor’s alive, the pain of understanding what his actions have caused.
“he’s only just awoken,” you plead, your words coming out in between sobs. “he just needs time, i beg, please-”
your vision is blurry once again, and you wonder how there can still be tears inside of you.
you could fill a well with them, you think, choking back a cry. that is what baelor would always say, because you cried too much and too often and over the smallest things, even when they were shed of happiness.
and he always said he hated seeing you cry.
“do not cry, my lady,” baelor says, and his words only make you feel worse—still trying to be kind and polite, even in his state. “if you could give us only a moment. perhaps you could find me my wife, jena?”
you feel your heart shatter into a million, tiny pieces.
i adore everything about this fic. the angst... the longing... all of it is god tier. the amnesia trope here is done so well, my poor heart can hardly stand it! lovely work! 💜💜
⋆˙⟡ (11/12) chapter previews for my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
ned says goodbye to lyarra, the starks travel south to riverrun, and joffrey (who is a tully now, but still a jerk) gets put in his place
“Stupid mutt,” someone sneered. “You said the training yard would be empty at this hour.”
All eyes turned towards the new arrivals—Joffrey Tully and his guard, Sandor Clegane.
“My apologies, milord,” Clegane grumbled, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.
Joffrey scoffed and then turned to glare at his brother, who flinched under Joffrey’s stare.
“Stop crying, you sniveling baby. You could have beaten him if you weren’t so afraid of landing a hit.”
“I didn’t want to hurt him,” Tommen sniffled.
Joffrey curled his lip, his expression not at all unlike an angry prune.
“You’ve always been weak. You spineless fuck—”
“Tommen did just fine,” Lyarra interjected, placing her hands comfortingly on Tommen’s shoulders.
Then, as quickly as his sneer began, Joffrey’s face twisted into a charming smile.
“Princess,” he greets cordially.
He takes hold of Lyarra’s hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss that lasted far too long to be considered proper. Lyarra looked at him as if he were a particularly slimy slug beneath her feet.
“I apologize, my dear, I did not realize you were here.”
Joffrey eyed the short sword strapped to Lyarra’s hip and his green eyes flashed with distaste.
“So, the rumors are true then. You really do carry a sword like a man.”
“And I can wield it too, as your uncle can attest. My ancestor, Queen Visenya, once wielded the famed Dark Sister. Is it really so surprising that I may wish to do the same?”
“It hardly matters to me what your reasons are,” Joffrey said dismissively. “Once we are betrothed, you will not need to carry a sword.”
A heavy silence fell across the training yard.
There had been rumors circulating ever since Rhaegar had arranged the marriage between Prince Aegon and Margaery Tyrell that he was looking into matches for his two daughters as well. As the future heir to the Riverlands, Joffrey was among the leading contenders for Lyarra’s hand.
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asoiaf fans: jon is a stark. jon is a targaryen. jon is a dayne. jon is a secret prince. jon is a blackfyre. jon will be legitimized.
the actual books: never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. I scream that I'm not a stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. tyrion lannister had claimed that most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, but jon was done with denials. he was who he was; jon snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and damned. was ever a name more ill-omened? we look up at the same stars, and see such different things. and if it did trouble me, what might I do, bastard as I am? you should look behind you, lord snow. the moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall. I offered you a name. I have a name, your grace. “snow,” the bird kept screaming. “snow, snow, snow.”
⋆˙⟡ (10/12) chapter previews for my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
lyarra and stannis duel in the training yard, they (finally) have a much needed conversation, lyarra and viserys visit the wall to visit their great-uncle aemon, and stannis is having trouble (as always) coming to terms with his feelings.
“Are you saying you wouldn’t hold back, Lord Stannis?” She asked.
“Of course I would,” Stannis said without a single moment of hesitation. “I would hardly need my full strength to defeat a little girl pretending to be a knight.”
“Prove it,” she said, pointing her blade at him in challenge.
“Lyarra, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Robb said.
“Your cousin is right. I am twice your size and far more experienced. Whatever delusion you have about defeating me will be short-lived. But if you are so desperate to be proven wrong, I’m happy to oblige.”
Stannis shrugged off his cloak and passed it off to Renly. He grabbed a wooden training sword and took his stance, his long sword still strapped and sheathed at his side.
“Aren’t you going to draw your sword?” Lyarra asked.
“That would be like using wildfire to light a candle.”
Lyarra had never despised him more than in that moment.
She charged at him with a very real sword in her hand. Stannis blocked the blow with practiced ease. Lyarra had expected as much, but what she did not expect was the force behind his parry knocking her flat on her ass.
The men in the crowd laughed, Theon Greyjoy being among the loudest.
Lyarra sat on the ground in shock. Before she could recover, Stannis held the point of his weapon to her chest.
“Dead. Your stance is weak,” Stannis said. “Your feet are too close together when you strike; one hard blow from your opponent will knock you off balance. Get up and try again.”
She knocked his sword aside with her hand and rose to her feet. Lyarra charged him again.
They exchanged blows.
Once.
Twice.
But on the third, he forced her blade aside and jabbed her in the gut.
Lyarra grunted from the impact, dropping to her knees. Jamie made a move to interfere, his hand on his own blade, but she held up her hand, calling him off.
“Dead,” Stannis said again. “It doesn’t matter how many times you charge at me, princess. The result will be the same.”
“We’ll see about that.”
She didn’t charge him this time; she waited for him to make the first move. When he lunged, she dodged. While he was exposed, Lyarra raised her sword to strike, but before she could, Stannis yanked her by the hair, making her yelp, and pulled her back until her throat was exposed. He mockingly swiped the sword across her neck before her pushed her away from him.
⋆˙⟡ (9/12) chapter previews for my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
lyarra celebrates her name day, ned finally reunites with her niece, lyarra meets her cousins for the first time, direwolves are found, and lyarra visits her mother's grave.
Lyarra took in the yard.
Her first thought was that it was very… grey.
The dark stone walls were unlike anything she’d seen back home, and Lyarra couldn’t help but look around in awe.
She wondered how many times her mother had passed through those gates, walked through this courtyard, or wandered through these stone halls.
A small procession awaited her in the courtyard.
At the head of the procession stood a man with a large fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He had long brown hair, and a short trimmed beard speckled with strands of grey, making him look both older and more distinguished. He had a solemn face and dark grey eyes the color of fog on a rainy day.
Lyarra approached him tentatively at first. This man was both familiar to her and a stranger all at once. She didn’t know his face, but she knew his eyes because they were the same eyes she saw everyday looking in the mirror. She didn’t know his voice, but she knew his words written in a neat hand recounting stories about her mother. She knew him, like how a wolf instinctively knew how to hunt, but still, she needed to be sure.
“Uncle Ned?”
He smiled, and a single tear fell down his cheek, and Lyarra knew she was right—this man was her uncle. Lyarra ran into his arms, and it felt like coming home.
Her uncle smelled of pine and fur and snow. He felt warm despite the chill in the air, like the hot springs Robb told her lay beneath the castle; and his arms wrapped protectively around her frame were strong, and Lyarra thought she could spend the rest of her life feeling safe in his embrace.
“Lyarra.” Ned whispered her name like a prayer.
He released her from his embrace, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He cradled her face between his large hands, and his gaze was so soft that Lyarra started crying as well.
⋆˙⟡ (8/12) chapter previews for my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
lyarra and aegon visit renly at storm's end, the storm lords insist on a hunt/feast to celebrate stannis reclaiming his lordship, tyrion gives some much needed advice, brienne dances with a princess, and stannis makes a poor impression (it ain't a slow burn for nothing).
The sound of a wood cracking caught Stannis’s attention.
He quickly shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket and called out, “Who’s there?”
Only silence answered
“Show yourself,” Stannis commanded.
A shadow stepped out from behind the weirwood tree.
“Oh, it’s you, my lord.”
It was Princess Lyarra.
He had just been thinking about her, and now she was here, standing in front of him in her nightclothes and a beaten pair of boots, wielding a fallen branch like a club. Stannis might have found it amusing if another woman stood before him, but he could barely refrain from sputtering pathetically while she stood there in only a slip and thin night robe.
“You can put the stick down now, princess.”
Lyarra dropped the branch and folded her arms across her chest to stay off the cold. Stannis wished he had a jacket to offer her.
“My apologies, my lord. You gave me quite the fright. I thought I was alone.”
“Clearly. Where is your guard?” he asked.
“Asleep, I imagine,” Lyarra answered. “I may have snuck out without him knowing.”
“You shouldn’t be out here all alone,” he scolded.
“Are you saying that your own keep is not safe?”
Stannis blistered at her words.
“Of course not.”
“Then I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Did you forget your plan to club me over the head with a branch just moments ago?”
Lyarra laughed. The sound was like waves lapping against the shore.
⋆˙⟡ (7/12) chapter previews for my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
stannis travels to king's landing to reclaim his birthright, the baratheon brothers reunite and talk of home, lyarra speaks up in court, and stannis defends lyarra's honor... and falls in love in with her in the process.
The king cleared his throat, grabbing the crowd’s attention, and then he began to play. His fingers, long and elegant, strummed along the harp strings, creating a soft melody filled with lust and wonder. Rhaegar silently played his harp, entrancing the entire audience. Then Lyarra began to sing, and the world faded away as he focused solely on her sweet, dulcet sounds of her voice.
The song was not one Stannis had heard before. It was a song about a wife faithfully waiting for her husband to return from war.
It was a beautiful song. Lyarra’s voice was both haunting and enchanting. The crowd was completely silent, utterly transfixed by the tragic tale of longing and heartache she spun with the power of her voice. When she finished, the crowd erupted with thunderous applause. The women in the audience wiped tears from their eyes while the men looked at the princess with a newfound sense of desire. Stannis wanted to take their eyes like he took Ser Cortnay’s tongue.
The crowd begged for an encore, and the Princess was only too happy to oblige.
Lyarra began her new song, and Stannis felt his heart flutter. It was such an unfamiliar sensation that he initially thought that his heart was going to burst. His face flushed and suddenly there was only her and her storm colored eyes.
Stannis listened to Lyarra sing, and for the first time in his life, he sympathized with Robert. If Lyanna Stark had been even half as beautiful as Lyarra Targaryen was in that moment, then Stannis could finally understand why Robert started a rebellion over her. Stannis would do the same. He would do so much worse. Stannis would happily start a war over Lyarra Targaryen. He would give her the Seven Kingdoms on a platter and see her crowned a queen if she asked it of him. And in that moment, the thought didn’t scare him nearly as much as it should have.
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⋆˙⟡ (6/12) chapter previews for my long fic, "of wolves and dragons." ⋆˚࿔
⟢ CHAPTER SUMMARY
the greyjoy rebellion occurs a little later in history, stannis proves his worth as a strategist, viserys is stannis's ride-or-die, renly worries about his brother, lyarra receives a letter from robb, and jaime has to protect the kids from a dastardly plot...
The afternoon sun felt pleasant on Renly’s face and a soft summer breeze rustled through his hair, lulling him to sleep. Renly hadn’t realized how exhausted he’d been. He’d worried about his brother for so long, and that had taken its toll; now, knowing Stannis was safe, he felt a great weight lift from his chest.
“The rebellion is over,” Renly said, breaking the silence. “Stannis wrote to me. He’s coming home.”
“I heard,” Lyarra said, turning her head towards Renly’s. “I’m glad that your brother is alright.”
The two of them laid together, talking. They discussed their excitement about their family members returning and all the things they were going to do when everything went back to normal. They talked and talked until the clouds turned into stars and they made stories out of constellations.
That’s where Ser Jamie found them, well after the sun had gone down and the moon was high in the night sky. They had missed dinner, so they visited the kitchen for a quick snack of apples, bread, and left over cheese before heading up to bed.
“Jamie,” Lyarra asked while they walked up the stairs. “Are you disappointed that you couldn’t join the fighting?”
Jamie thought for a moment. “No, I’m not disappointed. My father had asked that I join him at Casterly Rock so that I could take command of some of his forces, but I chose to stay here instead.”
“How come?”
“Because I am sworn to protect you, Princess. My father’s battles are no longer mine to fight. My place is here with you and nowhere else. Now, off to bed, both of you,” Ser Jamie said, nudging them forward. “The queen will have my head for letting you both stay out so late.”
Lyarra turned to Renly, a mischievous grin on her face.
“Race you to my room,” she said.
“You’re on.”
Lyarra pushed Renly into the wall and took off towards her bedchamber.
“Cheater!”
Lyarra laughed and Renly ran after her, catching up to her before she could reach the end of the hallway. Renly turned the corner first and Lyarra chased after him, hot on his heels.
What Renly saw made him stop dead in his tracks.
Lyarra flew around the corner and slammed into Renly’s back, nearly knocking them both to the ground.
“Hey, why did you stop?” she asked.
Renly didn’t answer.
Lyarra peaked out from behind Renly and gasped.
Ser Oswell was lying in a pool of his own blood. Blood dyed his white cloak red, and half a dozen swords stuck out of his back. Above him stood Grandmaester Pycelle and a group of men Renly had never seen before dressed like Gold Cloaks.
Grandmaester Pycelle must have heard them and jumped when he noticed their presence.
“Pr-princess Lyarra. Lord Renly.”
“That one of the King’s whelps? Is she the daughter of the Stark bitch or the Dornish whore?” a burly man asked. His gold cloak was dirty with dried blood and his teeth were yellow and rotted. “S’ppose it don’t matter. Saves me the trouble of tracking this one down.”
The man drew his sword. It was still wet with Ser Oswell’s blood. Renly pushed Lyarra behind him. She clutched onto his shirt sleeves protectively. The man took a menacing step towards them and Lyarra screamed.
