Imagine you being the one to kill Daenerys, your sister, before the Battle of King’s Landing.

requested by: @raveenasblog
warnings: Season 8 spoilers! a little gore and violence.

After your sister had spoken with Tyrion, even with his persuasive plea on giving the unwilling human shields of King’s Landing mercy, you had your doubts. You questioned her sanity with the death of Missandei, Jorah, and two of her dragons and finding out that the man she loved, Jon Snow, was your nephew neither of you knew your brother had fathered in a secret union.

You frowned as you saw the sister you had once admired begin to unravel into what you had feared she’d become. An unfortunate ailment like that of your father and your brother, Viserys, and it saddened you to see she would succumb to the fate of your family’s curse of madness.

The devastation your brother would’ve caused was prevented with his death and murder of your father halted the chaos he could’ve further inflicted.

You bit your lip and felt your hands clench into tight fists at your sides as your thoughts wandered into a place you’d never imagined they’d go to.

You felt at the small dagger that was held in your sheath that your sister-in-law, Arya, gifted you after you married Bran. You took a shaky breath, everything in your body urging you not to do it. Not to spill the blood of your own.

But this had to be done.

You couldn’t let the storm of Daenerys’ mind manifest as such devastation that was bound to rain down on King’s Landing.

Your eyes glanced at her and approached her from behind, footsteps careful. Your dagger fit comfortably into your hand, as if it was calling your sisters’ fate. You raised it high. Flesh tore and metal hit bone, the very force of it echoing in your ears. But you only heard one thing in your mind; For King’s Landing.

written by: jesse

Imagine being in an arranged marriage with Bran.

requested by: @weirdoopenguin !! thanks for requesting, lovely <3
warnings: SPOILERS for season 8. though if you don’t know what happens yet, what are you even doing?

It was perhaps a year into his rule of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros when his older sister Sansa Stark, Queen of the North, decided that he should marry. Bran, however, sought no reason to as he required no heir as the rulers of Westeros was elected - but no, his sister insisted. As a matter of fact, she was already in the process of arranging one with one of the lesser houses that had stayed loyal to his family.

You were the middle child out of your siblings and were hand chosen by the Queen of Winterfell herself. Her icy gaze had an approving look to them as they were set on you, and before you knew it, you were being shipped to King’s Landing and were presented to the king. Your nerves were a bit frazzled, but you remained dignified, remembering them from the lessons you were given in your youth.

A small smile tugged the corners of the young king’s lips as he looked at you. You were appealing to him, but he remained steadfast of his beliefs of this union between the two of you.

As it was all said and done with the arrangements, your wedding was set to a couple of weeks, and you had decided on spending more time with your future husband and getting to know him better. Sometimes he was being guided by one of his guards in his wheelchair as the two of you ventured around King’s Landing.

Not to your surprise, he was smart, it would make sense with him being the king and all, but there were times he caught you off your guard when he knew something you had yet not mentioned to him. It startled you in the beginning, but over time, you used this to your advantage by asking him what you would do next or what would happen if you did something a certain way. “Here’s a new one for you. If I were to wrestle Ser Brienne, do you think I could win?”

He found your questions amusing, of course, and you discovered that his smiles were beginning to grow bigger around you.

In his time to getting to know you before your wedding, Bran was beginning to… feel something. The sensation had grown unfamiliar to him since becoming the Three-Eyed Raven, as it had been so long. His heart would beat just a bit faster when you smiled his way, and his stomach would warm at the brush of your hand. He never thought it would happen, but it had. Seven Hells, he had even started laughing again!

The royal court had even noticed the change in their king’s behaviour. His voice had become less monotone, and his facial expressions had become easier to read when he was around you. It was as if your presence had lit up a fire inside him that had long gone out. You had changed him.

When the time of your wedding had come, you were no longer as nervous about being his spouse. You were about having all eyes on you as you walked down the aisle, but when your eyes met with Bran’s, it all melted away. You smiled at the thought about ruling by his side as his equal, something he’d promise he would have with you. Out of all the people in the Seven Kingdoms, you were lucky enough to be chosen to be married to the king. Your king and your husband.

As his eyes locked with yours as you approached him, Bran saw the future that he held with you and a broad smile formed on his face for the first time in ages. He was already looking forward to it.

written by: jesse

A Need for a Wife (Ned Stark x f!Reader)

ASOIAF / Game of Thrones - Young Eddard (Ned) Stark x fem!Reader

Wordcount:2.5k

Warnings: mentioned of death and war, angst, but enough fluff to make it worth it. AU where Cate dies in childbirth with Robb and Ned has a second (first?) chance at love

Masterlist

A/N: It’s been so long since I just got to write for fun, so thanks for indulging me. And also thanks to the ever lovely @fallatyourfeet for giving me something to read to feed my creative juices.

It had only been two days since Ned had returned home from the war, but he was already exhausted from having to play the grieving widow.

Ned wasn’t heartless. He did grieve Catelyn in some ways, but given the sad smiles and pitiful gazes the staff and his bannermen have been sending his way, you’d think he’d lost some great love, not a woman he met and married the same day, and knew for only a fortnight after.

She was but a stranger, though he did mourn. He mourned for his son, who would not know his mother. He mourned for the life he envisioned upon returning from the war, getting to know the woman destined for his brother, and he mourned for his future self who would be forced into a politically advantageous match to have more heirs and keep the peace that was still so tenuous.

This wasn’t supposed to be his life. As second son, he had hoped to marry the daughter of one of his father’s bannermen, strengthening ties through his love and devotion to a proper Northern bride. And when his father had asked him, a month before Lyanna’s capture and the whole mess that followed, he without hesitation had said Y/N Umber. And the betrothal was all but final when Lord Stark had headed South. But it was useless to think about that now. He knew Robert had southern matches in mind for him, if the missives he sent with letters from fathers of beautiful noble maidens of the stormlands and the reach were any indication. He was in no place to protest the demands of the king.

Escaping the watchful eyes of the castle staff, Ned slipped into the nursery, hoping time with his son might ease his mind. But when he entered, light shone brightly through the window, casting the entire room in shadow. In front of the bassinet, there was a silhouette, haloed in the morning light. Full skirts, cinched waist, hair fitted in the Northern style, the silhouette gently swayed and soft sounds, like beautiful morning bird songs, hit his ears. If he hadn’t seen her resting place himself, Ned would have thought Catelyn still alive, overlooking her son. Perhaps it was her specter, determined to haunt the keep she called home for such a short time, alone and without a husband’s protection and love.

But at the sound of his entry, the figure turned, and as his eyes adjusted to the room, air left his lungs. It was not Catelyn. The hair was all wrong, the skin too different, and the expression was one he knew all too well, for he saw it in his dreams while he was at war far more than he saw that of his own wife, adding much guilt to his own conscience.

“Lady Y/N,” he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.

He stepped forward, his body taking him without a thought, but he stopped himself, remembering his propriety.

He learned of your marriage to the Manderly heir while he was south. He knew he had no right to feel the rage that rose in him. He had married too in a desperate attempt at pregnancies that he knew every house sought at the first sign of their son’s potential deaths. And while he knew of the Manderly’s loyalty, he also knew of the proclivities of Lord Manderly’s eldest. He was not fit to be a husband, especially not a husband to someone as worthy of devotion and love as you were. After seeing nearly a dozen whores enter his tent over the course of the war, your husband so dishonoring you in front of all the Northern soldiers, Ned only felt the slightest tinge of sadness when he fell in battle.

“I’m sorry for your loss, my lady,” Ned said.

“And I’m sorry for yours,” you replied, your voice still as sweet to Ned’s ears as it had been all those years ago when he spent his time imagining you as his bride, that pretty voice saying your vows to the old gods, singing in his ear as you danced together, and moaning his name as you lay under him, eagerly giving yourself over to your husband. That last image, even now, left his cheeks hot. He had imagined it far more often than he cared to admit.

Pulling him from the elongated silence, your pleasing voice spoke once more. “He’s beautiful,” you said, more to the bundle in your arms than to Ned.

“Robb is indeed,” Ned sighed, “I hear he looks just like his mother as a babe.”

You let out a pretty laugh and shook your head, “I meant Jon, my lord, though Robb is quite the beautiful child as well.”

Only then did Ned truly study the baby in your arms, his dark locks reflecting almost no hint of red in the light, his skin shining near silver.

“He’s beautiful,” you said again, stroking the hair of the sleeping baby, “But he’s not yours.”

Ned’s throat closed at your words. He hadn’t questioned the lie when Lyanna had asked him to protect her son. It seemed like a natural role to fall into, as he was not the only lord claiming a bastard from the war. He’d only been home two days and already the mask had fallen.

“My lady, I—”

You cut him off with the wave of your hand, “I won’t ask you to explain, and I won’t say a word. Brandon’s, I’m guessing.”

The baby was perhaps a month or two too young for that timeline to be possible, but Ned didn’t bother explaining. He knew he didn’t need to.

“How did you know?” was all he asked.

You took a few steps closer to him, your steps swaying your skirts in a way that drew his eyes to your hips, always his favorite part of your figure.

“Ned,” you said, dropping all formality, “I’d know your features anywhere.” Your fingers ran across the delicate nose of the bundle in your arms, as if the still soft curves of it gave away all the truth. “I also know your heart, and even if you didn’t love her, you would never,” your voice caught and Ned felt his heart clench for you. It was clear you knew exactly the kind of man you had been forced to marry. When you regained yourself, you continued, “You would never have dishonored her in that way.”

Ned didn’t know how to say that it wasn’t his wife that stopped him from seeking the arms of another. Even being in his wife’s arms had felt like a betrayal of his heart. No, it was the woman in front of him— it was you that made it impossible for him to do what he had to convince the world he did. His heart was spoken for, and soon he must betray it again to marry once more of duty.

Ned stepped forward and touched your cheek, the pads taking their time memorizing the feel of that soft skin once again, skin he had longed to have under his fingertips since the harsh pounding of hooves had taken him away from the walls of his home.

“And you deserved so much better than a man who would dishonor you. Please know that you were not the cause of his transgressions. Any man would count themselves among those truly blessed by the old gods to call you his wife.”

You offered him a soft, sad smile. “He did not dishonor me, Ned.”

Ned’s eyebrows raised. Had you been unaware of your husband’s behavior? Should he tell you, or leave you in blissful peace? Your Manderly husband was gone now. What difference did it make that you know what a scoundrel he was?

Seeing the confusion on Ned’s face, you give him a smile.

“Can you really dishonor a wife with whom you’ve never consummated a marriage?”

Shock read all over Ned’s face. His mouth fell open. His breathing stopped. And his hands found home on your hips.

“My love,” the affection pouring from his lips without thought, “How could—” Ned didn’t know how to ask the question. The idea of any man getting to take you to bed and not fully take advantage of such a blessing did not make any sense to him. There was no more beautiful woman in the whole of the seven kingdoms, at least not to him. The only thing he could imagine is that you refused to share your bed, but you were far too much the lady, too devoted to duty, to do such a thing.

“Let’s just say my dear husband did not find pleasure in fair maidens.”

He had heard of such men, ones who viewed their wifes as too perfect and pristine for the sinfulness of physical pleasures, who could only find release in whores, unwilling to defile their wives with their deviant desires. But this was another thing that never fully made sense to Ned. For him, sex was not about carnal needs but a union, an agreement between two people in their shared desires for the future— children, love, commitment, partnership, and yes, passion, too. Maybe that is why being with Catelyn felt like such a betrayal. He could promise Catelyn children and commitment, partnership even, but he couldn’t promise her love or passion. That was still reserved for you.

The baby in your arms stirred and with a few sweet words from your lips and a gentle rock, you placed the baby back in his bassinet. You walked to Ned, unsure how close you could get, but Ned took you again by the hips and pulled you into his arms. He held you close, taking in your scent, knowing it wasn’t his right to do so, but unable to stop himself.

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”

You clung to Ned’s back. The feel of your soft fingers curling into his shirt was comforting in a way he couldn’t express. You were real and back in his arms. But that feel also came with a taste of sadness, as the last time you had clung to him so was when you had learned your potential union would never be, hours before he left for the Riverlands, to take a new bride whom he had never even laid eyes on, a new bride whom he knew he would never love the same way he loved the woman he held now, the one he had loved from the moment she pulled him into a dance during a feast day when he was three and ten.

“The only thing for which I am sorry is that I do not have a babe to show for all my trouble,” you said, looking back at the two matching bassinets with sadness. “Since Lady Stark passed in her birthing bed, I’ve been trying to see Robb as much as I can. A boy needs more love than just wetnurses can provide.”

If Ned had not already been hopelessly devoted to you, this would have sealed it. You had somehow found it in your heart to love his baby— a baby he had with another. He held you closer somehow, not that there was any space between your bodies to make such a statement true, but he held tighter, with more heart, than he had a moment before.

“Gods, what I wouldn’t do to be the man to give you that baby,” Ned thought, only to realize when he saw the hair beside your ear move with his breath, that he had said those words out loud.

“I know, Ned, I know. I want that, too. I’ve wanted that since we were children. And I’ve never wanted another.” Your voice was a whisper against his neck, a lullaby like none he had never heard, one he didn’t know his heart needed to feel at ease. And soon he was kissing your forehead and running his hands across your back, whatever he could to feel the truth of your words in his body.

Before he could think better of it, Ned’s mouth moved again. “I’ll write to Robert. I’ll ask for your hand. The other houses be damned. I’ve done my duty to the realm. I won’t let you be taken from me again.”

“You know that’s not possible, Ned. I’m no one. I bring nothing to Robert’s reign, no strength to his kingdom.”

“You bring strength to me. And I bring strength to the realm,” Ned pleaded into your ear, unwilling to let go of your soft flesh against his form.

“Ned,” you warned, “My love, you and I are supposed to be in mourning. Could we really ask a marriage so quickly?”

Ned lifted your chin, his eyes shining down on you with unshed tears. “I mourned my loss of you these past fifteen moons more than—” Ned couldn’t say the words. He knew how wrong they were and he hated the man he had to be in order to think such things.

But then he looked in your eyes, hopeful and uncertain. He leaned forward and took your lips against his own. The way your mouth immediately relaxed against his was enough to convince him that nothing else mattered. He survived a war, he survived the loss of his entire family. He deserved something good. And the woman he loves, who also lost so much, deserved good things, too, like another baby to fill this nursery, the love of the whole of the North, a keep to call her own, and a man fully devoted to her with every fiber of his being, one who would see to her needs and her pleasures.

His hand wove into your hair, pulling you closer, finding the light which had dwindled to embers at the sight of so much death and loss reignited into burning flames at your touch. You were life — you always were — from the moment you stepped off your carriage with your father for the first visit to his family’s seat, from the first smile you offered him, from the first time you touched your lips to his in the dark of a corridor away from the watchful eyes of your parents.

“Ned, my love, I believe you had a letter to write to the king. And I have some beautiful children to attend to.”

As if on cue, Robb’s cries sounded out through the room. And Ned parted from you with a smile, realizing that all his children, current and future, would not be in want for motherly love, just as he would not be in want for wifely love, assuming Robert would listen to reason.

And he would, for Ned wouldn’t be asking, he’d simply be informing, for King Robert couldn’t protest if Ned was already married. He left the room, much less to send the letter to the king, but to prepare his household staff for the vows he planned on saying tonight under the heart tree, kingly demands be damned.

All tags: @aerdnandreaa-blog,@cancerousjojian,@whovianayesha,@themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy,@sleepylunarwolf,@starryrevelations,@potter-thinking,@all-by-myself98,@bananafosters-and-books,@cutie-bug,@igotmadskills,@hazelandcoconuts,@yallgotkik,@13ofjuly,@daft-not-punk,@sapphireorchid​,@geek-lass​,@ietss​,@garbdump​

I plan on writing a lot more fanfic more frequently moving forward. As many of you know, I write and edit interactive fiction professionally now, so I haven’t had much time for personal writing. I really miss it though, so I am carving out once a week to write more fanfiction. It isn’t my old pace of once a day, but it should be consistent.

Let me know if you’d like to be added to any of the taglists.

<3 <3 <3

Lia

Hello, lovely humans! 

This blog is officially ACTIVE. And I couldn’t be more excited to getting back to writing for pleasure.

As many of you know, a few years ago I took a leap into writing professionally and now I am a full-time interactive fiction narrative designer, writer, and editor. While I adore my job, I also spend most of my time writing things based on storylines designed by others, few things solely of my own invention. And writing begets more writing. The more you do it, the more you want to do it, the more you are stimulated by the act itself. And so, even though my writing schedule is more busy than ever, I need to counter it with writing that is strictly for fun, otherwise I am going to burn out completely.

So thanks for your patience on this journey. I am SO THRILLED to celebrate with you.

To celebrate, we’re going to do some stories based on prompts and add some new fandoms to the mix.

(yes, the good place gifs are back)

The Rules:

• Must be following me(@ardentmuse)
• Must submit mean ask with a number of a prompt and a character
• Mustlike this post
• Please reblog, but this isn’t required :) 
• Onlyone submission per person, please!
• Block “#ardentmuse welcome back” if you don’t want to see these for whatever reason (though some of my best work comes from prompts)

Each ask will become a reader-insert imagine. Aiming for ~1k words for each of these, but we’ll see where the spirits take me.

Note that these will be slower than my previous turn around on these. My goal is one per day, to be cut off in ~3 weeks, so it is likely I won’t get to every prompt. I’ll do my best.

Character list and prompt list below the cut.

Hugs,
Lia

Characters:

Note: all responses will be reader inserts (no x ships). Also, this list is off the top of my head so if I missed anyone that you really want to see, let me know.

*Bold represents characters I am absolutely in love with writing at the moment, so those requests would make me so happy

Harry Potter:

• Bill Weasley
• Charlie Weasley
• Percy Weasley
• Fred Weasley
• George Weasley
• Ron Weasley
• Harry Potter
• Neville Longbottom
• Draco Malfoy
• Cedric Diggory
• Oliver Wood
• Severus Snape
• Sirius Black
  
• James Potter
• Remus Lupin

HPHM:

• Bill Weasley
• Charlie Weasley
• Talbott Winger
• Barnaby Lee
• Murphy McNully
• Orion Amari
• Andre Egwu
• Jae Kim
• Diego Caplan

ASOIAF / Game of Thrones:

• Ned Stark
• Robb Stark
• Jon Snow
• Bran Stark
• Tyrion Lannister
• Jaime Lannister
• Robert Baratheon
• Stannis Baratheon
• Theon Greyjoy
• Gendry (Waters)
• Podrick Payne
• Sandor Clegane
• Petyr Baelish

Kingsman:

• Harry Hart
• Merlin (Hamish Mycroft)
• Eggsy Unwin
• Tequila
• Whiskey (Jack Daniels)
• James Spenser (Lancelot)

Love Island: The Game:

• Jake Wilson
• Bobby McKenzie
• Gary Rennell
• Henrik
• Lucas Koh
• Ibrahim
  
• Noah
• Bruno
• Will

Lovelink:

• Antoine Dawson / Noah Cruz
• Brett O’Hara
• Cianán Ó Faoláin
  
• Dr. Vile
• Jay Perry
• Gabe Scott
• Garrett Brown / Rory O´Brien
  
• Hugo Hornsby / Marco Bottazzi
  
• Taylor(Hugo / Marco’s route)
• Nicholas Adley
  
• Nick Klaus
• Nori Cove
  
• River Nightshade
• Salvatore Luciano

The Prompts from Futurama:

1. Good news, everyone.
2. At the risk of sounding negative, no.
   
3. I love Y/N, always and forever.
   
4. This is it. The moment we should have trained for.
   
5. For a split second, my common sense was overwhelmed by pity.
   
6. I never even told her I loved her.
   
7. Well, you obviously won’t listen to reason. 
   
8. It’s when women are polite to each other you know there’s a problem.
   
9. …plus some other emotions which are weird and deeply confusing.
   
10. When you look this good, you don’t have to know anything.
    
11. Hey, sexy mama.
    
12. This is the worst kind of discrimination. The kind against me.
    
13. Thank you all for the inspiring advice, but I’m perfectly happy with my life the way it is.
    
14. Life is about decisions.
    
15. Oh wait, you’re serious. 
    
16. You leave me breathless.
    
17. Everyone, I have a very dramatic announcement.
    
18. We can all fight when we’re drunk.
    
19. It’s all so complicated with the flowers and the romance and the lies upon lies.
    
20. I’m feeling a strange new emotion I have never felt before.
    
21. You lost the woman of your dreams but you still have [xxxx].
    
22. Let’s knock this up a notch!
    
23. Gimme your biggest, strongest, cheapest drink!
    
24. I know who you are. You’re the woman I’ve waited for my entire life.
    
25. You know what cheers me up? Other people’s misfortune.
    
26. I really ought to do something but I am already in my pajamas.
    
27. Valentine’s Day is coming up?
    
28. I don’t want to live on this planet anymore.
    
29. Of course I’m being irrational, I’m in love!
    
30. Let’s get the hell out of here already! 
    
31. What the hell is that thing?
    
32. You know, someone ought to teach you a lesson.
    
33. You should say something else.
    
34. It really makes me happy to see you right now.
    
35. What kind of party is this?
36. I can explain.
37. But of everyone I ever dated, you’re probably in the top ten.
    
38. It’s been quite a journey. 
    
39. What a thoughtful and considerate thing for you to say.
    
40. Look, I know it’s not much consolation. But, I understand how you feel.
    

Game of Thrones / ASOIAF - Ned Stark x Fem!Reader

Wordcount:3.5k

Masterlist//Series Masterlist

A/N: Part 2 is finally here. Again, this is a thing that has been half-written in my drafts for so long, and rereading it reminded me just how much I love this story concept. It’s a bit OOC, but only because our sense of Ned as a character is colored by experiences that will not happen in this AU. He’s still honorable, kind, sharp as steel, but he’s also a boy, and a boy in love at that. I hope you enjoy this! 

The first feast night at the Eyrie is quite a combination of emotionally draining and incredibly uplifting. The knowledge that you are about to be served up as a broodmare to a man who, despite being pleasant and respectful, is old enough to be your grandfather and desperate to produce living offspring, rattles in your brain, tainting even the most positive aspects of your visit. And the most positive, without a doubt, is the company of your brother’s best friend, Ned Stark.

In your room that night, you recall the feel of his hand low on your back, how warm his fingers were when they curled into your skirts bunching attractively at your waist, and how sweet his words had been. Ned Stark treated you like an equal, like a woman with thoughts and feelings worth knowing. And in a world like the one you live in — cruel, cold, and unforgiving — having someone like Ned whose soft grey eyes look on you with kindness and curiosity feels like a dream.

In your maiden tower, stripped down into your shift and enjoying the pale moonlight that pours through your window, you try to imagine a version of your life in which you aren’t a high born daughter of one of the most powerful lords in the seven kingdoms, but instead a serving girl or a baker’s daughter, free to love with your soul and your body, to choose and be chosen in turn. 

But then you think of the way your brother treats low-born women, his hands constantly grabbing at parts of their flesh that aren’t his to own, and you reconsider.

Ned isn’t like that, you think, though you realize you have no real basis to know if that is true. It’s just a gut feeling, something in the way he talks, in the way he moves, and in the way his eyes shine with encouragement instead of lust. It had been a long time since any man had looked at you with anything but lust. 

The following day, as your handmaidens braid your hair, a loud knock at your door startles you.

“Come in!” you call, trying not to turn your neck.

Before you even finish the words, Robert enters and throws himself down in the settee beside your fireplace.

“Welcome to my home, dear sister.”

He plucks grapes from the tray brought to you so you might break fast, though you hadn’t had the stomach to touch anything, not when the women swept into your room and had you corseted before the sun rose.

“Isn’t it strange a boy of the Stormlands finding home in such mountains as these?”

“What am I but a storm all on my own? Lands or no, I carry the storm with me.”

Only then do you turn your head to take in your brother. He is clad in his training clothes — loose-fitting garments with more dirt and sweat than seems feasible for something freshly laundered — and his boats are strapped high up his shins. Across his lap sits a wooden training hammer with metal rings lining the handle, adding more weight than Robert might ever need to wield. 

“You look like a storm. More debris and wreckage than person.”

Robert spits out a laugh and pulls at the collar of his shirt, ripping it a little at the seam and giving his broad shoulders just a little more room. 

“Care to come see my wreckage? I’m heading to the training yard this morning with Lord Arryn.”

At the mention of your host, bile rises in your throat, and you try to swallow it down. It does not go unnoticed. 

“Hey,” Robert says, moving into your space with no regard to the young woman still twirling your hair just so, “Nothing is set in stone, but he’s a good man. Better than most, I promise. And if the rumors are to be believed, he was quite the handsome youth. Would give you beautiful babies.”

You laugh, at first a little and then a lot, at your brother.

“You really think my chief concern is how attractive my children will be? Are you forgetting the act that it takes to make the children? How’d you feel if father expected you to bed a woman old enough to have nursed you?” 

“Aye, that’s the difference between you and me, dear sister. Close your eyes and you could be rutting into anyone. A bar wench can be the most beautiful Lyseni whore if you have enough imagination.”

“Gross.” 

“Only gross if you want it to be, Jewel.” 

Your handmaiden finishes securing the final braid of your hair, leaving you and your brother alone.

“Come watch me, please?” Robert smirks at you, clearly something else on his mind, but you don’t indulge him. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Robert huffs but he kisses your head anyway. He rubs your shoulders and heads out the door, his heavy swayed steps echoing through the stone castle. 

After a moment of thinking, and with a bit of bread in your belly, you wander out in the same direction your brother went, past the beautiful marble pillars and tapestries that line this mountain fortress. 

Outside in the courtyard, you find the gardens overlooking the terraces of training yards and stables that lead down the cliffside. You find a seat beside the mountain lilies and watch your brother take up hammer against your father, each clashing together with the strength and virility they bring to everything. Your father’s laugh as your brother knocks him on his back makes you laugh, too. 

“And what has you so happy, dear lady?” calls a voice behind you. Lord Arryn is dressed in fine leather armor with his hair pushed back from his face. He’s surprisingly muscular for his age. You see how Robert has grown so strong with him as tutor. 

“My family seems happy,” you tell him as he takes a seat beside you. 

“Your family is a source of great happiness for many. This place is brighter for having you all here.” 

Lord Arryn runs his hand through his hair. He looks out on the forest and area beyond. You try to follow his eye line, but your attention is caught by the clanking of swords below and the sway of long dark hair as a knight pushes forth with great force. 

Ned Stark — though perhaps its best to think of him as Lord Eddard — looking all the knight you imagined he might be, surges forward in a clash of swords, sweat coating his brow. His shirt is rolled up at the sleeves and his arm muscles ripple in exertion. The sight of it alone makes you sweat, eager and hot like you rarely felt before.

“I’ve always wanted a family of my own,” Lord Arryn says, drawing your attention again, “But the gods have not graced me with such a blessing yet. Your father gave me a gift by asking me to take your brother as ward. He’s been like a son to me, but it will never be the same as my own flesh and blood.”

Your body curls at his words, a little bit of fire lighting in you at the thought of just where his conversation is going.

“And does that make me a daughter to you, Lord Arryn?”

He turns to you with a bit of a scowl, his blond-grey locks falling in front of his eyes. He doesn’t answer you and you feel a bit of victory at that.

Below, your brother laughs as Ned spins behind him, blocking a fearsome swing. Ned bulks under the weight of his shield and pushes up against Robert’s weighted ax, straining to defend himself. Your brother leans forward and whispers something to Ned and his eyes shoot up the hillside towards you. You smile and offer him a tiny wave of your fingers and before he can even respond, Robert knocks him full force into the dirt.

As Ned spits and rubs the dust off his body, his cheeks a deep crimson, flush covers your body. Maybe Ned is that kind of boy that can succumb to your womanly wiles. And in that moment you feel powerful— so powerful and beautiful and capable that Lord Arryn grabbing your hand doesn’t even faze you.

The next day, you enjoy quiet time in the gardens. Your father has taken your brother on a hunting trip, a Baratheon family tradition— one that oddly doesn’t seem to include you. 

You stroll around the manicured pathway when a snapped twig pulls your attention. 

“I’m sorry.”

You turn to see the handsome chin and warm, sweet eyes of Lord Eddard. You stare at each other for a long moment before he bows his head.

“May I walk with you, Lady Y/N?” 

His smile is sincere. A warmth spreads through your chest. 

You reach out your hand and Ned offers you the crook of his arm. You slip effortlessly against his muscular forearm. Your shoulders brush as you roam deeper into the curated gardens. 

“You had quite the form yesterday,” you tell him. 

Ned chuckles and then adds under his breath, “Doubt falling on my rear is good form.”

“No, no—“ you squeeze Ned’s arm as you round the azaleas, “I don’t mean to joke. You truly were a sight to behold before my brother frazzled you.“ 

And now Ned is the one squeezing your hand, the two of you locked together in some enjoyable union of spirits.

“Well, if we’re attempting honesty here, then let me assure you that your brother was not the Baratheon that has me frazzled.”

It’s hard not to let his words ease your soul. You walk together in silence as you let the smile spread across your lips.

“So, my lady, why do you find yourself alone today?”

You explain to Ned the strange sexism of your family and the bonding they have over the hunt and the fight. And the sadness in your voice — not just at the exclusivity but at the fact that your family was slipping away from you — just comes pouring out.

“Well, I could teach you how to fight, if you’d be interested in it.” 

You find yourself at the end of the gardens, now in a stone courtyard, though given the steep cliffs around you, any gardens feel like a blessing. But just outside the gates, in your vision, sits a few trees, shady and inviting, just out of eye line of the castle’s walkways.

Ned holds your hand against his elbow as you look out on the small sanctuary the trees create.

“Yes,” you say with a smile. “I’d really like that.”

Ned meets you at the same time in that same clearing the following morning. You expect him to come with practice swords and loose clothes but he doesn’t. Instead he comes in some of his most courtly attire, carrying nothing but a picnic basket. You feel quite out of place in your riding skirts and loose braids.

“Are we not—“

Ned cuts you off with a wave of his hands. 

“We’re still training, don’t worry, my lady”

He sets down the basket and opens it, revealing not just the typical lunchtime foods but a shiny set of daggers with tiny gems encrusting the golden handles.

“But the kind of fighting you see in the training yard isn’t the kind of fighting that will ever be asked of you. Your fight, my dove,” Ned pauses for a moment to pick up the longer of the two daggers with a shining gold handle and places it in your hand, “Your fight won’t be the kind with knightly courtesy.”

The tiny knife is heavy in your palm.  You take in its beauty with patient eyes, never having seen anything so delicate and yet so deadly. You slide your finger across the edge of the blade, marveling at how the sun shines off the slick edge.

“My lord, where did you get these?”

Ned’s fumbling through the basket, but at your question, he turns to you with a nervous smile.

“My sister, Lyanna, enjoys playing with the boys, herself. She’s quite the talented equestrian and can use a bow better than Winterfell’s master-in-arms. She could hit a target with her eyes closed if father would ever let her try.”

Ned stands, his forearms now covered in guards, and walks towards you, taking the second dagger out of its sheath. 

“I had these made for her next namesday, though the more I think about it, the more uncertain I am that I could ever get them to her,” Ned says, following his long sentence with a deep sigh. “It’s not just that I suspect my mother and father might confiscate them, but I just doubt I’ll be headed north anytime soon. And sending home something like this… can’t exactly attach these to a raven.” 

Ned takes a step toward you, his eyes on the daggers, one in each of your palms. His body is close, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

“Those grey gemstones are quite dark, almost black. And with the gold accents, well—“ he looks down into your eyes, his thick lashes making his grey eyes almost the same color as the stones, “well, these feel much more befitting a Baratheon lady.”

You offer him a smile. You take his unoccupied wrist between your fingers. His pulse presses swiftly against your fingers.

“And the direwolves engraved in the blades?”

“A reminder of the man who gifted them to you, my dove.” 

It’s a long moment where your sole focus is on where your fingers touch. Ned rotates his hand, interlinking your fingers. Your breath catches as he squeezes, the pressure sending a tingle up your arm. Time feels to slow as you learn every callous covering those strong fingers. 

It’s only the sound of the sheath falling out of Ned’s other hand and hitting the ground that breaks you from your daze. Ned jumps away from you as though you are made of fire. 

He coughs hard before picking up the discarded artifact. You take the moment he is looking away to take your own deep breaths, needing to regain yourself from the intensity of your closeness.

I’m the Jewel of the Stormlands, you think, the words said in your head more in anger than encouragement, like a reminder that men are supposed to stumble over you, become putty in your hands, not the other way around. Lord Eddard making you forget how to speak is a new feeling entirely. No, you are an enchantress. The same power that Robert has over women is the same spell you cast over lords all over the Stormlands and throughout King’s Landing. And that power is yours to yield as you see fit. But Ned, this second son, green behind the ears when it comes to wooing women — and pretty much everything else for that matter — is doing things to you that the most roguish and charming Dornish princes could not. He is making you soft.

But storms are not soft. Storms are furious, fierce, powerful. Storms do not yield to a kind smile and sweet touch. They never yield. 

With Ned’s back turned, you hold the dagger in your hand, hike up your skirt, and take an offensive stance.

“You know, its bad form to turn your back on the enemy, my lord.”

You swing your arm, and, with speed you didn’t know he had, Ned turns and catches your wrist with his hand. And with strength you didn’t know he had either, he pulls you by the wrist until the blade falls from your fingers are you are hard against him. Your free hand comes to rest on his chest as his other arm snakes around your back, holding you close. Again, he interlocks your fingers. 

Breathing hard, you look up into his eyes. There’s a passion there that wasn’t there before. And this is the dichotomy of Ned Stark. The man you saw on the dance floor two nights before, the one who flirted with you with confidence, is somehow the same man who turned beet red at a few words in his ear from your brother. And suddenly, it all makes sense. Ned is a reserved man, a man of honor and measure. But he’s a man of passion and emotion, too. He is not shy or quiet the way your brother always seemed to imply in your letters. No, Ned is precise. He shows what needs to be shown, when it is appropriate to do so. 

And right now, he needs to show you just how much he desires you.

“My dove,” he purrs into your ear, “I believe you saw my bad form on the training ground yesterday. What you just saw was perfect form.”

You laugh, “Perfect form to be taken by surprise.”

He tugs you even closer, his lips brushing against your cheek.

“But having you take me, by surprise or otherwise, is as perfect a situation as I can imagine,” Ned says, the heat of his breath heating your cheeks beyond their already flaming temperature.

And when Ned’s eyes find yours, the question they ask is so clear in how they penetrate you. All you can do is move forward, seeking his lips with the kind of wantonness you scoffed at in others. It is the kind of wantonness you saw in your suitors, but never had you felt that tug yourself. 

And when your lips meet, Ned’s move with a hesitance that makes your knees weak. The confidence combined with this tenderness— it is a deadly combination, one that would leave your heart completely broken if you let it. Ned moves with a certainty of his own desires, but with a reservation about yours. Certain he should ask, but unsure the answer. And your lips give the answer— yes to anything, yes to everything, yes as long as he keeps touching you with those soft hands, those sweet words, and those welcomed lips.

“Lady Y/N!” Lord Arryn’s voice calls from the castle gates. 

Quickly you pull away from Ned, though a quick look around makes it clear that Lord Arryn has not seen you yet, but is merely searching. 

Ned seems to jump out of his own skin before catching his footing. With a deep breath and a straightening of his own doublet, Ned slips the daggers back into the picket basket and takes your arm.

“Just follow my lead.”

You take the crook of his arm and let him walk you toward the castle.

“My lord, I believe I have the beauty whom you seek right here,” Ned says to his ward, though the reference to Lord Arryn’s interest in you makes you squeeze tighter to Ned’s side. He brushes his fingers against yours in understanding. “I was just showing her some of the trees that manage to grow this high up the mountain.”

Lord Arryn seems to take in the picnic basket, his eyes traveling between it and your hand in the crook of Ned’s arm. He gives a pained smile.

“I had been hoping I might join you for a midday meal, but that seems to be covered. Then let me take this opportunity to formally ask you to join me for our feast tonight.”

“Of course, Lord Arryn. That sounds lovely.”

Lord Arryn gives a stiff nod. “I’ll come by your room to escort you around sundown.”

He turns on his heels, his body forming a hard straight line. As if remembering himself, he turns back to you and Ned.

“My lord, my lady,” he huffs before heading inside the castle. Ned walks you back to your room without a word, maintaining the same practices reservation that clearly made Ned a mystery to so many… except you.

That night, just as your maid left your room after helping with your hair before supper, there is a strong knock at the door. With a sigh, you open the door. But Lord Arryn is not there.

Instead, on the floor sits the same picnic basket from the afternoon. Pulling it inside, you close the door, knowing what must be within the wicker. 

When you have the daggers in your hand again, you let out a hum of satisfaction at their beauty. But below the daggers is a note, in a beautiful script so different from your brother’s chicken scratch.

Tomorrow after you break your fast, meet me at the stables, my dove. 

There is no signature. There doesn’t need to be. 

And with a rub of your fingers over the fine script, you read the words again before tossing the note into the fire.

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