Too tired to know the time, you awoke with a sore body and sat up mindlessly. Cool air hit the bare skin of your chest and shoulders while your eyes adjusted to the darkness, for the candles’ wicks burned out, and your ears strained to hear the noise outside of your window and down the corridor.

The hour of the nightingale, you believed, as you heard the telltale sounds of the household moving about—maids preparing chamber pots and waking your undoubtedly hungover siblings for breakfast. Typically, the maids would come in and do the same with you, but not today.

You were keenly aware of the heavy and hot body next to you. Memories flooded your mind, and you exhaled softly in thought, looking out the window, the gentle curtains still covered the growing light outside. It was done now. You were his wife, and he was your husband.

You glanced at him. His back was you, and it moved steadily with his breathing. In the early glow of dawn, the bare and broad expanse of skin was milky-smooth—almost blemish-free except for streaks of red. Shocked at your baseless lust and not remembering marking the prince so, you looked away and lifted yourself, looking for your shift.

You picked it up, not bothering to slide it on yet, because you were thinking about where your robe could be. Your trunks were still in the chambers–closed and not the way you usually kept them. Maybe your robe would be in there.

“Where are you going?”

Prince Maekar’s voice was low, but not rough with sleep. He must’ve been awake before you. When you turned your head, he was already staring, shoulders pressed against the pillows on the bed. You stared at him in return, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Your posture was relaxed—a forceful thing because you reminded yourself that he’d already seen all of you the night before. There was no need to hide behind a facade of propriety, and he’d called you pretty while in the throes of passion.

“To find my robe and a bath,” you said plainly. It would do you wonders. You were sore, and a hot bath might unwind you enough before the inevitable fate of having to leave Winterfell.

“You need not hurry,” Prince Maekar replied. “Your maids will wait. They’re likely not to check on us for a few more hours, and you must be tired.”

At that, your gaze returned to the spot you’d vacated moments ago, yearning encircling your chest. You hesitated for a moment and padded over, dropping the shift back to the floor, and you slid into the spot. Your skin briefly ghosted over Prince Maekar’s bare hip; the heat of his body was pleasant against yours, and your eyes focused on the roof of your chambers.

Both of you were silent, save for your gradually rhythmic breathing, until the prince shifted, the weight of him moving the bed slightly. His body brushed against yours again, and you thought: perhaps, perhaps—

“Did I hurt you last night?”

You glanced at him, and he was already looking at you. You thought about how he’d maneuvered your knees over his shoulders, the way he’d been inside of you—hot and hard. You felt a flash of desire, so unlike you, maybe this was the new you, and thought it wouldn’t be so bad if he wanted to bed you again—maybe you could bed him.

“I am sore,” you replied. “Not broken.”

You caught yourself before you tacked on his title, remembering he told you not to bother when alone. His eyes flicked to your mouth, and you thought about what it would be like if you initiated contact.

It felt like a challenge—his apparent need to question if you were hurt. You were never good in the face of a challenge; there had been a time Donnor had said you would not dare scale the towers as he did, but you had. Winterfell was a gray stone labyrinth of walls, towers, courtyards, and tunnels spreading out in all directions—centuries of family history were in the stones. You spent two moonturns scaling the walls in the same way as Donnor, faster at times than he was, before a scare near the loose stones of the Broken Tower set you both firmly on the ground. Berena’s own climbing phase was still ongoing—it was not a strange sight to see her in the ancient branches of the oaks in Winterfell’s godswood.

You turned and shifted closer to him. You waited a beat before hooking your leg over his—his hip was warm and firm underneath you.

“I am not made of glass, husband,” you said, the word feeling too heady and true on your tongue. “And I am no Southron. I can handle more than you think.”

He went still beneath the weight of your leg, every line of him taut. His hand came up and rested on your knee, long fingers touching your kneepit. “You are bold.”

“Honest,” you corrected. Prince Maekar exhaled, and his gaze searched your face for a lapse in judgment. Your lips twitched in wry amusement. “You’ve married a wolf, not a little bird.”

“I see that.” His thumb grazed the thin skin of your knee. “Still, you will need your strength.”

You hummed idly, bringing your body upward and straddling his hips. You felt him beneath you, soft but beginning to rise with your intention.

“I would not mind a daughter or a boy. But truthfully, I’ve had enough bous for a lifetime with my brothers,” you told him while rolling your hips experimentally. You felt yourself wetting, letting your folds move and slide along his length. Your breath hitched, your hands finding his chest and nails digging in. “Just one babe.”

He hissed underneath you, hand grabbing your hips. He echoed your words, neck bobbing, “Just one.”

You continued rolling your hips, small moans building in your throat but not leaving. You chased the welling of pleasure within yourself, liking Prince Maekar’s attention on you; his hand reached up and cupped your breast, and you arched closer, a whine escaping your lips.

Despite the already existing ache in your loins, you lifted yourself with your thighs, clumsily reaching for him. He knocked your hand away and sat up, bringing you with him in one arm. It made you face-to-face, chest-to-chest, and your thighs wrapped around his trim waist. Your hands went to his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, and your nipples pebbled at the feeling of his chest hair touching you.

“Not yet,” he said in a gravely tone, hands hot on your waist.

With a puff of air, you resumed grinding and rolling your hips, testing the new angle. His hands at your hips guided you firmly. There was a wet, slick sound between you, of flesh moving against flesh; you felt faint then and leaned forward to tuck your face into his neck, breath hitching when your pearl hit a pleasurable angle just so.

“Go on,” Prince Maekar assured you with a grunt when your movements wavered, and his breath roughened. “You’re almost there.”

You trusted his word, continued rolling your hips, and chasing the ebb and flow of desire in your blood. Each movement grew surer than the last until your body answered him without a thought. Your peak was a hurried, delicate thing, your hips stuttering as you breathed through it, your stomach and lower limbs tensing. You were beginning to understand your mother and Aunt Myriame: a woman might go without love, but the marriage bed need not be cold or bitter for it.

You rested for a moment, pulse racing, until Prince Maekar shifted underneath you. He guided himself toward your entrance, tip slinging along your soaked slit. And unlike your first bedding, you were the one to press an open-mouthed kiss on Prince Maekar, humming as you pushed down and he up until he was firmly inside of you, your fingers curling into the silver-gold strands on his nape. It was a strange, new feeling, but it was not unwelcome.

You moaned when the prince thrust shallowly; his hand was in your hair, fisting it away from your face and neck, and his other hand guided the movement of your hips.

“Take what you want,” he said, teeth scraping the thin skin of your neck, with another shallow thrust and grind that made you squirm in his grasp, made you burn from the inside out with desire, “You have the right of it now.”

You almost whimpered. There was a burn in your thighs, one akin to hours of riding horses, but you pushed through, chasing the feeling of building tension in your pith, of pleasure that traveled from innermost self to your nape, warm and tingling. Too full, too much, you thought, but could not stop. Not now, for you were going to finish what you started.

When you peaked again, it was more sloppy than the relatively gentle one from earlier, a broken keen of his name coming from your mouth as you nearly lost your balance. Underneath you, Prince Maekar continued thrusting upward, and you bobbed along with the motion and fluttered around him, nails bluntly digging into his shoulders. He held your hips, stopping them from shaking, until he peaked with a slack-jawed groan.

You felt his seed, warm and mixing with your own spent, and him softening within. The two of you stayed there for a moment, and your eyes closed, chin still tucked into Prince Maekar’s shoulder. His fingers smoothed the sweaty hair along your hairline and tucked an errant strand behind your ear; you hummed idly and burrowed yourself deeper into his touch.

“Sleep,” Prince Maekar sighed, his chest moving with the motion, and he untangled your limbs, pulling himself out, and placing you under the furs and adjusting them across your body. You barely felt it, eyes and body heavy with exhaustion. “You’ve done enough for this morn.”

You lingered in Winterfell for the first fortnight of your marriage. The allowance to bring two guards and ladies-in-waiting—at the gentle insistence of Prince Baelor and your grandfather—delayed your departure, for you had to select them and wait for them to pack and prepare.

The choice of guards had come easily. The first would be Lonnel Snow, your half-uncle, who was more Flint than Stark. He was short of stature and well-built, trained by his maternal Flint kin. Uncle Lonnel was a good fighter, beating many a man in the courtyard, and you were thankful he’d accepted the position despite his aversion to anything Southron. The second would be Benton Glover, a distant relative through your great-grandmother, Lady Gillane Glover, and the same age as Donnor. You knew him well enough, for he was one of many second or third children sent to Winterfell over the winter season.

The Princes’ retinue had doubled in size compared to when they’d first arrived in Winterfell. Your ladies-in-waiting were to be Elwyna Manderly and Berena. Elwyna for her adherence to the Faith of the Seven, in the hope her presence might soften the edges of Prince Maekar’s newly wedded wife being both a Stark and devout to the Old Gods; Berena because she had asked, and you could not deny your sister (your mother had confessed she would pray that Berena might find a husband, faults and all). Members of Houses Cerwyn and Reed, which included your cousin Argelle, the Lady of Castle Cerwyn, Inara Reed, and the entire lot of Manderlys, were now included in the retinue traveling south on the kingsroad. Edd Locke stayed in Winterfell to continue courting Alysanne, for they were to be married next year. The other Starks who’d married and moved away also stayed, lingering to remain with family as the northern spring slowly began thawing the snow and ice.

Castle Cerwyn was a half-day ride away and would be used to feed and water the horses and the retinue after the early breakfast at Winterfell. The Knowledge was enough for you, but not for your Uncle Lonnel, apparently, because two hours into the ride, he called out your name.

“Eat,” Uncle Lonnel ordered in the Old Tongue, and threw something your way. You caught it, a crisp red apple from Winterfell’s glass gardens, used to the habit from some family members, and raised a quizzical eyebrow toward your uncle. “You need to be fed if you are to be with a babe.”

Unwittingly, your nose crinkled in thought, and you replied in the Old Tongue, as well. “Is it not too soon, nuncle?”

“Perhaps. Nonetheless, skinny little waifs do not get pregnant. Eat.”

Berena and Benton snorted, both understanding the Old Tongue, and you cast them a tepid, warning glare. But the damage was already done—the retinue ahead slowed, and when you looked over, the Targaryen princes—your husband among them—turned to you all. Prince Maekar did not smile, his gaze settling on you with assessment, before flicking to your uncle in dislike—of what, you were not sure. Maybe it had to do with the whole throwing apples and ordering you to eat nonsense. Uncle Lonnel smiled widely and mirthfully at your husband; for a moment, you wished the earth might open and swallow you—horse and all.

It was Prince Baelor who broke the silence, his tone light with curiosity. “Was that the Old Tongue, my lady?”

“It was, your grace,” you replied, a hand tightening on the horse’s reins. You were on a well-bred palfrey named Shadow, which would’ve been a fine name except the palfrey was white, for House Stark’s Master of Horses had an ironic sense of humor. “Many in the North still speak it as their primary tongue, and the Starks are taught since the cradle.”

Benton chuckled. “Aye, and it serves well when the wilding manage to make it past the Wall and encroach on our lands.”

Or the Skagosi, you thought. The uprising lasted years, killing your great-uncle Barthogan and thousands of others, before being successfully put down; they had taken advantage of the tension that arose following Old Man Cregan’s death—Jonnel slow to show his teeth, and Barthogan too swift with his temper. The Skagosi uprising had lasted through the end of the previous autumn and the first half of winter—it was why this particular winter had been hard, why your grandfather made the gamble of offering your hand to a princling. There had not been enough men to reap the fields, and there would be fewer still in the years to come.

“Is that a typical occurrence?” Ser Donnel of Duskendale questioned, and you noticed that the Kingsguard shifted closer, taking defensive positions near the princes. It was subtle but sure. Neither Uncle Lonnel nor Benton did the same for you, rising on as they had, as if the Kingsguard’s unease was of no consequence.

“Not this far south,” Elwyna replied smoothly. “Wilding seldom come beyond the Last Hearth when they are not troubling Bear Island. Deepwood Motte sees them now and again.”

“The Lady Manderly is right,” Benton said with a nod, and he shot the sandy-blonde woman a flirtatious smile, which Elwyna pointedly ignored. “Most trouble we’ve had recently was with the Skagosi. They’ve been quelled—or near enough.”

That seemed to open the gates of conversation for your male kin, the Kingsguard, and an ever so curious little Prince Aegon, and so began a discussion you let slip past you—your attention caught by the rhythm of hooves against frozen earth and the bite of wind against your cheeks—spring it may be, but it was a northern spring.

When at last the walls of Castle Cerwyn appeared, you welcomed the reprieve of the familiar structure. Your legs felt as thin as parchment as you hauled your body down; you felt Prince Maekar’s gaze linger on you, and you did not shy from it, giving him a brief curve of your lips before your cousin Argelle brushed past and took you with her inside.

“I would like to speak with you,” she said, hooking your elbows together and drawing you deeper into the castle. “I know not when I’ll see you again.”

“Speak freely, cousin.”

Argelle gave you a weary look, and she looked so much like Alysanne that it made you ache at the familiarity; it made you wonder if the child you desired would be dark-haired and gray-eyed, resembling your family and the North.

“We were girls in the same halls once, and now we are wives,” Argelle said, her voice soft and deliberate. “You ride south, farther than I ever did, and you’ll wear the dragon’s colors and his protection. They’ll look to you for what you are—not just his lady wife, but Stark-born and North-bred. Your actions will speak for us, and a woman’s conduct may cut as sharply as any sword. Best you learn to wield it, lest it be used on you instead.”

Her steps slowed, her grip loosened. “You won’t remember, but our old man Cregan always said: when the snows fall, and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“My grandfather said it once,” you said, “When I was fighting with Berena. I don’t even remember what over, but we didn’t speak for days, almost an entire sennight.”

“Stubborn, both of you, even with your own slow temper.” Argelle chuckled. “I want you to remember and heed my word, cousin. There are forces grander than us, and when the Gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.”

You glanced at Argelle. It was not the first time she had spoken so. There was something in her eyes then, something with weight, something unsettling, and it made you wonder what she saw that you did not.

“I shall remember this, Argelle,” you told her, leaning into her solid frame. “And I appreciate you for it.”

The first thing that you thought, as you docked in the harbor of King’s Landing, was that Westeros’ most populous city and capital reeked, an ungodly stench of waste overcoming the scent of the salty sea breeze.

The second was that the southern court was tedious and tiring with its whispers and stares. You did not expect anything less, but you did not bend to their whims and expectations. You took advantage of what little distant kin from the Vale were found in the Red Keep alongside Berena and Elwyna. They took to court like a hand in a glove: Berena charmed men with her sharp smiles full of teeth and wild whips of hair, and Elwyna was no stranger to Southern customs, despite her family’s own distinct Northern lilt after centuries in White Harbor. Uncle Lonnel and Benton took shifts guarding you as well. Their presence, two steps behind you, caused many a person in court to give you desperately needed space.

You would not be staying in King’s Landing long, according to Prince Maekar, only the necessary time to pay your respects to his parents, King Daeron and Queen Myriah. His children were waiting in Summerhall, and he’d already been gone far too long. Your husband did not express his worries, but you were beginning to discern his particular dispositions, hidden behind his prickly, impatient manner.

The King and Queen had been as the stories claimed. King Daeron had a kind, thoughtful face, but an obvious strength lay within him despite his scholarly life; Queen Myriah seemed to be of a similar character. Between the two rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, you could see how Prince Baelor bore a resemblance to both.

You met Princes Aerys and Rhaegel as well. The former was engrossed in a book, barely humming in acknowledgment; the latter had been gentle and sweet, welcoming you as a sister; their respective wives, the ladies Aelinor Penrose and Alys Arryn, had done so too. You did not interact with Princes Aerys and Rhaegel as much as you did with their wives, but you could tell that Prince Maekar loved all his brothers. It boded well—the loyalty your husband had for his family.

Between all that, you’d caught glimpses of Brynden Rivers, the King’s half-brother and advisor. And every time you thought of that riddle: How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? A thousand eyes and one. If only because Berena had whispered it in your ear in the Old Tongue, amused, as though it was a bawdy jest. Your older sister had confessed that she held a morbid fascination over the legitimized half-brother of Blackwood blood, and you made her swear over the Old Gods she would not go seeking him out freely, where halls might be listening, nor attempt to test whether the thousand eyes and one were true.

In truth, you only met him once, during the same feast where you were formally introduced to the court of King Daeron and Queen Myriah. Lord Bloodraven was almost less intimidating up close—less myth, and all man. His red eye was assessing, and the other was an empty socket. It happened during the Blackfyre Rebellion, you remembered then; a harsh reminder of the price men paid for loyalty.

He had inclined his head to you, all courtesy and composure. You truthfully did not know what to make of your husband’s uncle, and you could not discern what judgment he passed upon you—if any at all. But when you withdrew, you felt as if he already knew you, and all you could think was of a thousand eyes and one, and your husband’s hand had been on your back, hot and low enough that you briefly thought about propriety.

A sennight after you arrived in King’s Landing, you and your husband departed for Summerhall, riding hard for the lightly fortified castle in the Dornish marshes. Summerhall had historically been a summer residence, but it had been gifted to your husband, for Baelor had Dragonstone, as heir, and Aerys and Rhaegel seldom left King’s Landing. Prince Maekar had maintained a household there, with his wife, the Lady Dyanna Dayne, after the Blackfyre Rebellion.

On the last day of the ride, Prince Aegon—nay, demanded—to share your horse with him. You glanced fleetingly at your husband, who was already watching you and his youngest son interact. It was not the first time, it wouldn’t be the last, but you shifted your entire attention to the little prince.

Prince Aegon was a sure little thing, and you chortled, letting him scramble up and making sure he was soundly against your chest before departing. The little prince’s hair tickled your chin, and you followed along to his chatter, for he was a curious boy and quick with a retort, particularly when Berena stooped down to his level. Both seemed to take a distinct joy in trading barbs and taunts. At first, you’d been hesitant, had tried quelling Berena; however, your husband did not seem especially displeased, and Egg was insistent on continuing the conversation until the sight of Summerhall’s walls had the little prince clamming up.

You considered the little prince’s sudden somber disposition and its implications. You felt your face twitch minutely when the retinue came through the primary gates of Summerhall. Prince Maekar’s household was already waiting for your arrival. You counted the children—four were standing at attention—but one was missing. Daeron, mayhaps?

You looked to your husband, whose lips twitched in anger as he scanned his assembled children. It was enough of a confirmation as nerves welled in you as you dismounted your horse, following Prince Aegon’s movement. It had been doing so since your arrival at Summerhall loomed over you as an undeniable truth.

“Father, Summerhall is yours.”

A slim figure slipped forward with an imperious face and curly silver-gold hair. You knew the figure was Prince Aerion then—if only because of his behavior, courteous with a distinct flavor of arrogance, was what the other ladies had whispered about, what Berena had gathered sennights ago in Wintertown.

Prince Aerion’s shifted to you. His smile was too tense in the corners of his mouth, and his lips were cold when he kissed your hand. You did not dwell on it for long, however, for the introductions quickly shifted to Prince Aemon and Princesses Daella and Rhae. Princess Rhae was in the arms of a maid, restless in the woman’s arms. It saddened you, made you think of Grandfather Brandon’s words—a keep with growing children needs a woman’s hand.

You drew a measured breath and crossed the threshold of Summerhall, where your new life, bound to a royal house and all its shadows, waited for you.

A sennight had passed since your initial arrival at Summerhall. You had not lain with your husband since departing Winterfell, and your moonsblood had come and gone since then.

You were not dissuaded by the lack of a babe in your womb. It was a game, when a seed would take root—your mother had been fortunate to have a fruitful marriage, but she herself confessed it had taken nearly a year before being pregnant with Donnor. Each woman’s body was different, she’d told you, and insisted that you would be much like her.

You truly yearned for a babe, but the sennight at Summerhall had you busy with the presence of your husband’s children. You need not be a maester of the Citadel to recognize that your husband’s youngest children were starved of attention—by him, by the lack of a mother, by the circumstances of their short lives. You were not a stranger to their circumstances; you, too, had been forced to grow up, to choke upon your grief. Jonnel, Barthogan, Sansa, Sarra, Raya, Myriah—their names came to you as an old mantra built of melancholy.

Princess Daella was a year older than Prince Aegon. Unlike her younger brother, she dogged your steps in Summerhall with suspicion as you acquainted yourself with the castle and its household.

There was a late morning breeze that brushed against your shoulders. The dress you wore was wholly different than the heavy woolen dresses you wore in Winterfell; it was lighter, made of flowy layers, but there was still a simplicity to it.

Princess Daella’s steps were silky-soft as she walked beside you toward the garden where your weirwood sapling awaited; she was quiet, as she always was, until you reached it. The weirwood sapling barely reached your knee, and there was yet to be a face carved in the trunk. It was no heart tree—it wouldn’t be for some time.

You retreated from the weirwood, stepping toward a stone bench. Princess Daella followed and sat next to you. The two of you sat in silence, soaking up the sun. The sunlight in the Dornish Marches was much different from that in the North, but it was pleasant and warm.

“Am I to call you mother now?”

Princess Daella’s voice surprised you, and you turned to her. She was already looking at you with a stubborn tilt in her chin. She appeared so much like her father, you thought, and you exhaled quietly—a mix of amusement and sadness because of her question, because of her impertinent little face peering up at you with the same shade of dark violet Prince Aegon had.

“No,” you told her, and you mulled over your next words for a moment. “You already had a mother, Princess, and I will not take her place.”

Princess Daella tilted her head. “What shall I call you then?”

“You may call me what you like, but I would be content with my name.”

Princess Daella nodded once, looking so much older than her age. She looked like Prince Aegon then, who’d done a familiar movement in Winterfell’s library—such somber children. She said your name once, forming the syllables hesitantly, and you smiled encouragingly at her.

“Good.” You dared joke, “You sound like a Northerner even.”

Princess Daella’s lips twitched, the hint of a smile ghosting her face before her attention shifted past your shoulder. The small expression vanished, and her gaze sharpened.

“Father,” she greeted, standing up and curtsying.

You followed her motions, seconds apart.

Prince Maekar was at the edge of the garden. His silver-gold hair caught the Dornish sun, and his gaze moved from his daughter to you.

“Go to the septa, Daella,” he stated in lieu of greeting the little princess.

Princess Daella obeyed without protest, casting you one glance before turning and disappearing beyond the hedges. You remained standing, and only when the rustle of her skirts faded did Prince Maekar step farther into the garden.

“I did not mean to make her late—”

“I know,” he interrupted. His eyes shifted briefly to the weirwood sapling. “It has taken well.”

“It’s only been a few days,” you replied. “Time will only tell.”

The sapling would never rival the heart tree of Winterfell in your lifetime. You doubted it would be in your children’s, either—perhaps your grandchildren’s grandchildren might see it grown tall enough to draw comparison.

Pre-HOTD/AKOTSK/GOT:

Alysanne, Lady of Winterfell (Autumn_Llleaves): The premise is that King Jaehaerys I and Daenerys (his daughter with Alysanne) die at the same time because of the shivers; Alysanne, Queen Consort to Jaehaerys, remarries Alaric Stark, becoming the Lady of Winterfell.

HOTD (which takes place in the previous century, beginning in the reign of King Viserys I):

for want of a song (hopeyoustay): Rhaenyra Targaryen-centric fic, where she chooses Rickon Stark as her husband instead of Laenor Velaryon. Prophecy shenanigans ensue (said prophecy may be mentioned in the Sharp Teeth 'verse at some point). I guess it's implied that their marriage jumpstarts it like two centuries before the canon events in GOT.

The Arryn Heir (DreamWriterofAZ): Rhaenyra, realizing the truth of the realm and the Hightowers' ambition, leaves for the Vale and renounces her inheritance. In the Vale, she becomes heir to Lady Jeyne Arryn and eventually marries Bennard Stark to quell his ambitions of usurping Cregan.

The Queen Who Knelt (sunsetking (orphan_account)): One-shot where Rhaenyra marries Rickon and willingly abdicates the throne in favor of Aegon II. Personally, I am Team Black, but it’s an interesting read nonetheless.

Post-HOTD and pre-AKOTSK:

queen of flaying (pandizzy): King Aegon III chooses Barba Bolton as his queen consort after Jaehaera's death.

GOT (in other words, the original book/TV series):