AVENGERS

- One-shots/Imagines

  –You’re in love:   

              –  Tony Stark x Reader.  Songfic based off the song ‘You’re in Love’ by Taylor Swift.  Tony realizes that he’s in love with a much younger reader.

   – Would You Like to Dance?:

              –  Tony Stark x Reader.   You’re the head of a major company, and you’ve reached out to Tony for help on a major project. He says yes before he really knows what he’s getting himself into, and he ends up falling for you because of it.

   – Fight me:  

              –  Clint Barton x Reader.  You and Clint had been enemy assassins for years until one day he gets the jump on you, hitting you right in the stomach and leaving you barely able to move due to injury.  When he sees the collar that branded you as a slave of the Agency, he decides to take it on himself to help you recover, rather than turning you over to SHIELD.  Over the next few weeks, you start to bond.

   – Tony-Stark’s-Son:  

              –  Peter Parker x Reader.   For years you have been locked in a sniping war over eBay with the same account. Today, you finally meet the face behind the computer.

   –  Happy Birthday:

              –  Peter Parker x Reader.  You were Peter’s girlfriend of about one year, and you were left alone when the great snap happened. Now, you’re celebrating the occasion just like you’d promised.

   –  I Don’t Want to Go: 

              –  Peter Parker x Reader.   The battle against Thanos was over, and the team was just starting to recover, when he snaps his fingers.

   – I Want You to Stay:

              –  Bucky Barnes x Reader.   You’re a teacher in Romania. You meet Bucky after you get into some trouble and he helps you out. In the middle of the night, though, he has a nightmare.

- Series

   – Evil is Subjective:  Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6Part 7Part 8 Part 9

              –  An ongoing series about the Steve Rogers going up against a villain reader, as he slowly realizes that there’s more to her than meets the eye.

  – Lucky:  Lucky, I Can’t Forget You,The Best Day

             –  Tony Stark x Reader / slight Steve Rogers x Reader.  Three songfics for “I Got the Boy” by Jana Kramer, “Molly” by Lil Dicky, and “You Had Me From Hello” by Kenny Chesney about Tony and Steve both looking back on their time with the Reader, one with joy and one with regret.

   – Sunshine: Sunshine,I’m Still Your Sunshine

              –  A two part series about Tony and the reader, his daughter, as they both express how much they love each other through the song “You are my Sunshine.”

–Pickpocket:Part 1Part 2

              –  A two part series where you are a child that has been living on the streets for years, and over these years, you have become incredibly good at pickpocketing.  Unfortunately for you, though, you picked the wrong target one too many times.

AVENGERS CAST

- Series

   –The Interviews: The Interview,To Share an Armchair

              –  Tom Holland x Reader.  A two part series where you’re Tom Holland’s costar in the Marvel movies.  These interviews are both monumental stepping stones in your relationship.

GAME OF THRONES

- One-shots/Imagines

   –Confessions:  

              –  Jon Snow x Trueborn Baratheon!Reader. Reader was previously married to Robb, though she has always loved Jon.  She quietly admits her feelings for him on his deathbed at the wall.

   – You Are Mine Now:

              –   Sansa x fem!reader.  Reader is a wolf shape-shifter from a powerful royal house that has helped the Starks for centuries.  They fell in love at first sight, but couldn’t be married.  Now Sansa is to marry Ramsay Bolton.  But one day, the reader comes back.

   –  The Singer:

              –  Robb Stark x Reader.   Robb hears you singing to the wounded men after a fierce battle and immediately falls for you.

- Series

   –Letters: New Friends, Letters

              –   Jon Snow x Reader.  You’re the first daughter and second child of the royal family. When you visit Winterfell, you quickly find yourself making friends with the Starks and one Snow. Despite knowing you two could never be together, you’re quickly catching feelings for one another.

   – The Lion and the Fox:  Part 1,Part 2,Part 3

              –  Jaime Lannister x Reader.  Lady (Y/N) (L/N) is feared by many. She is capable of using any form of weapon against her oponent, though she favors two short swords. She is cunning and will do anything to get ahead in life. Deception is second nature to her. She is easily one of the most dangerous women to have ever set foot in Westeros. Now she’s found a new toy.

SUPERNATURAL

- One-shots/Imagines

   –You are my Density: 

              –  Sam Winchester x Reader.  Sam has finally decided to make his move and ask you to marry him.  The only problem?  He has absolutely no idea how to do it.  When Dean catches him practicing possible speeches, he decides to take matters into his own hands with the help of Jody and Donna.

   – Come with Us:

              –  Teen!Dean Winchester x Teen!Reader.  You are trying to do some research on a werewolf case when two idiots a table over start being unbelievably annoying as they play the “Penis” Game.

   – I Hate You:

              –   Dean Winchester x Reader.  Dean is trying to convince Sam and himself that he hates you. Unfortunately, you end up overhearing the conversation and have a few choice words for him, too.

summary:as children, the two of you had always been close. as teenagers, you were in love with each other and the only thing tearing you apart was her engagement to the future lord of winterfell. only after two rebellions, marriages, and children, do you see her again, but the pair of you have grown to be far different than you remember.

note:the weirdest love triangle-like idea i’ve had so far

She was running through the dewy green grass, blue skirts hiked up as to not get any stains along the hem of the fabric. Her auburn hair was free behind her, not twisted into a braid like she always had done. And she wore a smile that you had only ever seen when she was here with you.

“Y/N,” she stopped running, breathing heavy. Even exhausted, your name wasn’t a burden on her lips.

“Cat,” you smile. Her smile grows even bigger, and even in the moonlight you can see a blush paint her pale skin. The nickname was always different when it came from you, more intimate. Catelyn couldn’t help but feel butterflies in her stomach at the sound of your voice.

“You’ve been gone for so long, I thought you would forget our spot and everything.”

“I could never forget you,” you shake your head. Catelyn moves closer, sitting next to you on the cloak laid out across the grass. It was a deep red color, one that hadn’t suited the Riverlands. You never wore it or the color, it’s only use a blanket to protect your dresses from the damp grass. “Besides, I was only gone for three weeks.”

“It was a long three weeks without you,” she pouts. It was unnatural to see her this way, complaints never spilled from her lips in the light. She was a different woman when other people were around, with you she was Catelyn, and not Lady Tully. “Father was busy sending ravens. Edmure still a needy child, and Lysa… you know how she is. Fussing over Petyr because he lost in a duel.”

“I heard about that. He’s never been good with a sword.”

Catelyn hums, not pressing on about the duel. She doesn’t tell you why he was fighting or who it was with. The fewer details you know, for her, the better. “How was your trip?” She changes the subject, taking your hands into her own, “did you like visiting your family?”

You sigh, and give her hands a gentle squeeze. You had been away visiting your family, having been fostered off to the Tullys at the age of seven. You originated from a wealthy northern house, nearly as prestigious as the Starks. However, you did no good in the cold, harsh winter winds giving you too many illnesses to fight off. And with winter coming, your family feared it would take you along with it. You had been ward to Hoster Tully ever since. “It was fine. I got to see my baby brother. Mother named him after some Stark king from hundreds of years ago. Father disapproved, but mother has never really cared what he thought when it comes to naming children.”

Catelyn giggles. She met your father on a visit last year, shortly after the two of you had started whatever it was she could call this. It wasn’t courting, that was saved for a man and a woman who were going to marry. The only way for that to happen to you both would be to run away to Dorne. A fruitless thought, for Catelyn couldn’t abandon her family just for love. Family, duty, honor. There was no room for your fling between her house words. Now more so than ever.

“That sounds like him.”

“Probably wanted to name him after himself,” you roll your eyes. Catelyn hums in agreement once more, and you look back at her. Her eyes won’t meet your own, instead looking between blades of grass along the edges of a distant creek. “Catelyn?” At the sound of her full name, she looks back at you with dilated blue eyes. “Is something wrong?”

Quite frankly, she wanted to lie to you. She wanted to lie and say no, to convince you with small kisses and reassure you with nice words. But honor was a part of her family’s saying, and she had never managed to lie to you before.

“Y/N,” she says it soft and low, a small warning tone. You won’t like the next thing she has to say, you know it. “I told you how my father was sending ravens,” you nod when she pauses, finally looking to you. Catelyn looks away just as fast, “and Petyr, in that duel, it was, um,” you had always known he had a thing for Catelyn. You could never blame him, with her pretty curls and pale skin. A beauty of the Riverlands. You were fortunate, unlike Baelish, to have her return your affections. “It was for my hand.”

You pull your own hands back, crossing your arms. “You’re engaged?”

“Y/N—”

“Answer the question.”

Catelyn sighs, “yes,” you take in a sharp breath, “I am.”

“Who?” Your responses are short and cold, goosebumps rising on Cat’s exposed arms.

She swallows, “Lord Stark’s eldest son, Brandon Stark. He… he was kind to me, and even though he beat Petyr…”

“Seven hells, if you mention Petyr one more time, I’ll think you love him instead!” You get you your feet. “I leave for a few weeks and you’ve gotten not one, but two new suitors to replace me!”

“Y/N, please,” she stands, reaching out for your arm, but you back away faster than she can reach. Her hand drops back to her side, and she sighs. “I didn’t want to marry him, I didn’t want it to happen this way.”

“Didn’t,” you echo, “past tense.” Tears prick at your eyes, and your forced to look anywhere else. You will not cry for her, for this. You refuse. “Do you like him? Brandon?” She doesn’t respond at first, and so you’re forced to keep going. “Are you fond of him? Or will any affection you have for him fade out in a year like it has for me?”

“You have to understand, it wasn’t my idea,” you don’t look at her, but you can hear a change in her voice and know she’s started to cry. “I didn’t want to marry Brandon, I didn’t want to be engaged. But my father has made up his mind, I don’t have a choice.”

You stand in silence, moments passing and all you do is stand. You listen as a small breeze passes through the fields, as water rushes over rocks in the creek not far from here. You listen to the rhythmic pattern of your breathing, at how synchronized it is with Catelyn’s. But the lack of words hurts, and your heartbeat grows louder with anticipation—anticipation for what? You had nothing to look forward to.

“That’s what everyone says when their honor gets in the way.”

With that, you turn away from her and your place you always met late at night. You were quick on your feet, rushing away from her. You had always known your affair with her would end, knew it was a lady’s duty to marry a lord and give him heirs. A small, naive part of you truly thought you would make it, that she would go against her nature for you and maybe the heat of Dorne would be tolerable with you at her side. You were wrong, and as she called out your name from where she was standing, you didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t look back or stop at her pleas for you to come back, for the pair of you to work something out. It wouldn’t work, just like this.

You should have known better at the start.

Catelyn just stands, watching your retreating form rush back to her father’s castle. She wants to run after you, to chase you down and apologize for it all coming out like this. She wants to, but she can’t. Her feet are planted firmly in the ground, watching you run off. She had never been good at watching people leave her.

Something she would have to get used to, when she saw you again in about twenty years.

*

In the years she had left her home of the Riverlands, two rebellions had taken place. Robert Baratheon’s rebellion, dethroning the Targaryens and placing the Storm Lord in charge of the realm. And then the unsuccessful Greyjoy rebellion, one that had taken her lord husband away from her during the end of her pregnancy with their third child. Five children, she had now. All lined up, ready for the king and his party to arrive.

Of course, that entailed the king, the queen, and their three children. The queen’s two brothers, as well, would be making a visit. The younger of the two, Tyrion, was the reason Catelyn restocked on wine and candles for him to read at night. Jaime Lannister, future Lord of Casterly Rock, was a surprise. Robert’s brothers did not stop their lordly duties to visit, but Jaime had. Likely due to Tywin’s suggestion that his granddaughter, Jaime’s daughter, marry the heir to Winterfell.

The initial mention of Jaime’s daughter made Catelyn wonder who had the unfortunate fate of marrying the former kingsguard knight. Whoever it was, her daughter could marry her son, a thought she didn’t like. She held no love in her heart for the Lannister lions, but her and Ned agreed to let Robb meet the girl before they decided to make the girl their daughter by law.

As the king rides in, Catelyn and her family fall to their knees out of respect. Her eyes are trained on a patch of dirt above her, all thoughts of who could possibly be Jaime Lannister’s wife leaves her. Her mindset is back to that of a perfect lady, prepared to do her duties and accommodate for the royal family.

Robert jokes with her husband, and then pulls her into a hug. He ruffles little Rickon’s hair, and then moves on to shake Robb’s hand. “You must be Robb,” the boy nods, “hear you might marry my niece! Not a handful, like her aunt. You’ll like her.”

Catelyn and Ned share a look as their king continues down the line. She doesn’t notice the queen’s carriage until Cersei Lannister is out of it, holding her hand out for Ned to kiss.

A blonde haired boy rides in alongside Jaime, both in leather embroidered with the Lannister sigil. Jaime’s son, no doubt. The two look exactly alike.

“That’s Jason Lannister,” Sansa whispers to Robb. “He’ll be Lord of the Rock after his father.”

Catelyn can hear the smile in Sansa’s voice, the girl’s eyes shifting from the crowned prince to Jason. The prince, Joffrey, looks Lannister also, but he takes more after his mother’s soft features. Jason has a look of confidence, rather than arrogance, that draws Sansa to him instead.

Catelyn recognizes the way Jason carries himself, the same way you did once. The only similarity he has to you, a coincidence no doubt.

At least, that’s what Catelyn tells herself once she figures it out. Until a second, smaller carriage appears, and Jaime gets down from his horse to open the door. He holds his hand out for his wife, dressed in red-brown furs over a golden dress. Her hair… your hair… is twisted into a braid you knew Catelyn always worn as a teenager.

She takes in a sharp breath, holding it until she thinks she’ll be able to breathe again.

You were the unfortunate woman to have married Jaime Lannister, mother to his two children. It was your daughter who may marry her son.

Followed behind you was a girl who could be your doppelgänger. Rohanne, her name was. Jason’s sister, your second child. Robb’s betrothed, if all went as Tywin Lannister wanted. She turned to face the line of Starks, offering the many children smiles when you don’t. Your expression is blank, yet somehow beautiful. Stoic, as opposed to the cheerful expression on your daughter’s face. There was nothing about her that looked Lannister, save for her pair of green eyes. Even those looked like yours, kind eyes that met Robb’s blue ones, and caused him to react just like his mother.

Two of her children had eyes for Jaime Lannister’s children, for Y/N’s. Another thing they had gotten from their mother.

*

The feast made her uneasy.

It wasn’t the food, nor was it the wine. It was the fact you were seated two seats away from her, only the queen a buffer. It was your daughter, Rohanne, fawning over Robb. It was how Sansa’s eyes were either on your son, Jason, or the crowned prince. It was Jaime’s attempt to intimidate her husband, mentions of a duel between the pair. And it was King Robert’s drunken groping of a maid bringing him ale, causing awkwardness and disrespect to his wife sitting beside her.

Cersei excused herself rather quickly, claiming she was tired though you and Catelyn knew she wasn’t. She retired to the chambers she shared with the king, leaving nothing between Catelyn and her former lover.

“Seems as though we’re going to share a grandchild,” you lift a glass of wine to your lips, taking a drink of the liquid far more bitter than you liked it. A northern thing, no doubt.

Catelyn followed your line of sight, looking to Robb who had returned from putting Arya to bed. He was whispering something into Rohanne Lannister’s ear, a smile on his lips. Whatever he had said made the girl laugh, and by the seven, did her laugh sound just like yours had.

“Maybe,” Cat stresses, but she knows how likely it is from the way your daughter and her son look at each other.

“They’re happy together,” you note. Catelyn closes her eyes for a moment, unable to look at the scene. Rohanne is telling him a story from when she visited the capital for the birth of the second prince, Tommen. Just before his name day celebration, she chased a kitten around the Red Keep, only to find it at the feet of the iron throne. Some joke she snuck in made Robb chuckle, and when Catelyn opens her eyes again, Robb’s arm is around Rohanne. “I wonder if that’s how we use to look, don’t you? Acting like we’re the only two people in the world.”

“We’re not, anymore.”

“We never were,” you agree, “even alone in the fields late at night. The world goes on, as do we. Five children, you have now? The three boys and two girls?” Catelyn can only manage to say yes before something harsh slips off her tongue. “The older girl can’t stop staring at my son. He’d be a better match for her than that prince, but the king has made up his mind.”

“How—?” She starts and stops just as fast. Cateltn forgets herself when she’s with you, an old habit that didn’t die out. “When did you and Ser Jaime get married?”

“Lord Jaime,” you correct. People still call him sir, since he hasn’t acted like a lord. You usually didn’t care, but when you heard it on Lady Stark’s lips, you knew it needed to be corrected. “And we married after Robert’s coronation. He was released from the kingsguard as soon as Robert took the throne.”

“Your children?”

“Born nearly a year after the wedding, both of them. Twins are common in both Houses Lannister and L/N.”

Catelyn glances over to you, but your eyes are far away. Still shifting between Sansa’s whispers with her friend Jeyne to your daughter and Robb to Jason twirling Myrcella around. “She looks just like you,” Cat says, and she means it. Rohanne is a ghost come to haunt her with all the same features as you. “And you never had any other children?”

“Didn’t want to have too many, my dear. How do you manage all five? And still look like you haven’t had a child at all?” You look over to her, and you knew she was staring at you before. The (e/c) of your eyes are cold as they look at her, through her. “Tell me, Lady Stark, are you happy in your marriage? I know Ned wasn’t the brother you wanted, but did you enjoy giving him five children?”

Her lips part, and you let out a small laugh. Catelyn forces herself to look away from you, to find her husband drinking ale with the the king. Your own husband had disappeared—likely with the queen, as he always was, you thought—leaving her with the knowledge that yours wasn’t a happy marriage. Ned, at least, was fond of her, and she him.

It was clear Jaime did not feel the same way about you. You were not in love, but there was a clear and mutual respect. Any love between you, if there had been any at all, faded over time.

You had been thrown into the lion’s den, and became a bitter lioness yourself.

“You know this isn’t how I meant for any of this to happen,” she pauses, nearly addressing you as Lady Lannister. She’s glad she doesn’t, the name doesn’t suite you even if it’s your official title.

“I know,” you say, “but what you mean doesn’t matter now, does it?” Your eyes meet again, before you both look out from the high table at the party. “Maybe Robert has a point,” you start, once more looking at Rohanne and Robb, “love not meant to be in one generation will take place in another.”

Before Catelyn knew it, you were walking away. A sight far too familiar, but one she had never gotten use to.

anon said: please do a second part to he loves me, he loves me not where the reader stands up for herself and doesn’t take jon back and let’s it be known he wronged her and that she’ll never respect nor love a cheater

His eyes plea for forgiveness before his lips do, and his hand is heavy over your own. Jon tries to get you to look anywhere but Daenerys, and that you give him. But only because you knew if you looked at the queen’s features twisted by anger and disgust, you would break into laughter again.

About two minutes beforehand, when Jon came over and asked to speak to you, alone, you knew exactly what he wanted. His demeanor held guilt, and the way his eyes shamefully scanned the room as people began to catch on to what was happening on your side of the hall, you knew he changed his mind from the time he got home.

He could still barely look you in the eyes, but it was different. Now, when he bothered to look at you, you didn’t want him to. You did not want whatever it was you had lingering between you—he had her now. And you were alone.

It made you sad, originally. That Jon had slipped through his honorable means and, from what you saw, was clearly involved with someone else. And now? Only now, after facing the embodiment of death could he acknowledge what he did? And he had the nerve to do it at a time meant for celebration?

“I think here is just fine, don’t you?” You know he doesn’t, he asked to take you out of the room twice before. He doesn’t want to make a scene—and while you normally wouldn’t either, now, you debated it just to spite him.

Jon pulls back ever so slightly, but his hand remains over your own. “Please,” He tightens his grip, “we don’t want to make a scene.”

We don’t, or he doesn’t? You aren’t sure, but the fact he grouped you with him is enough to make your stomach twist. Your face heats up, a blush painting your cheeks, but you don’t want it to. You force yourself to look across the table, but don’t meet the eyes of the teenage boy across from you. He makes no comment, only looks to his sister and then takes a sip of wine.

“And why exactly would we make a scene?” Your eyes are trained on your plate, half eaten, and that was all you would get if this went how you thought it would. He stays quiet for a moment, like he’s debating ha confession. You had only seen him kiss the queen, but it did not take a great level of genius to know it wasn’t the first time he had. He would not admit what he did, and so it seemed you would have to do that for him. “It’s your queen, isn’t it?” You look back to him, and flash your eyes to the left to see the woman in question. She still stands angry, and you wonder how long it will be before she comes over, if she comes over at all.

Your queen. A slip of the tongue, maybe, or a disgusted tone because he knows exactly what you meant.

Jon’s lips part, and you hate that it catches your attention. Stop it, you tell yourself. “I didn’t…” he wants to lie. He wants to lie and say nothing happened, but he knows what transpired better than you do. He wants to lie, but the look on your face didn’t let him. He knows you know something. “I’m sorry.”

You start by giving a small nod, but then it turns into a shake of disapproval. An apology that was not genuine did not deserve forgiving, cheating itself did not deserve forgiving. A king cannot love and court women as he pleases, and if this was a wake up call to him, you were willing to do it. “I’m sure you are, Jon,” you scoff.

He isn’t accustomed to the coldness of your voice. Winter took a new place in the hall, and it was now you spoke to him. “Y/N—”

“No,” your voice is short, quick, and you don’t let him keep talking to you in that tone. That damn tone that used to make you forget anything else in the world was wrong, and you couldn’t let it work this time. You clear your throat to say something, but first, your eyes shift around the room. The siblings across from you sit still, watching. As is Sansa at the high table, Jon’s group of friends up where he originally was, and an angered Mother of Dragons standing with a glare. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything to me right now. You left Winterfell knowing you had me here, and you still did whatever it was you did with her.”

He looks like a kicked puppy; you don’t know how else to describe the look he gives. His eyes were wide and sad, a pretty and dark color you used to be able to look at for eternity. But that was before; before he left for the Night’s Watch, before you left to be a nurse in his brother’s war, before he left to Dragonstone and came back a man barely able to look at you with his pretty eyes. “What I did was wrong,” you forgot his hand was over yours, and you look at it, debating if you should yank it away, “and I know that, but, Y/N, nothing has happened since then.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you say, and while you meant for it to be a whisper, it was not. It was above your normal tone, and more heads turn to see what was going on than there had been before. Jon shrinks into his chair, nervously looking around. He’s guilty, he was so clearly guilty. Perhaps it was good he wasn’t the king anymore, based on the looks the spectators gave him, curiously wondering what it was he lied about. “I tried to find you, you know,” you pause, and you have to, because you were afraid to go off on a tangent then and there. He did not want to cause a scene, but in the end, he would no longer get what he wanted. He had gotten it before. “Looked through the halls; it was not that easy to find you, because you were avoiding me. Ever since you got home. And do you know where you were, Jon?” You leave a small moment for him to answer, and he doesn’t. He had great courage in battle, maybe, but none against a scorned woman. “You were with her.”

He says your name again, trying to calm you, and it only seems to irritate you. “It was a mistake, I know that,” you go to speak, but he holds up one finger, asking you to let him finish. You shouldn’t, but you do. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“You thought I wouldn’t find out.” His voice is just below his normal somber tone, still trying to hide an affair as people continue to watch. You don’t want to hide a thing, and so it seems his queen does not either. She stands like a statue, angry and unsure just when to get involved. “You thought you could do whatever you want because you were the king. Am I wrong?”

He hesitates before he answers, but his answer is all the same. He knew better than to argue. “No.”

You nod, “I’ve seen it before. We all,” You motion around the room, “have seen it before. You Starks speak a lot about honor, and yet our past three leaders, now, couldn’t stay loyal.” It breaks his heart to hear it, a bash against his brother and his father. You did not hate either one of them, and once the bitter words left your tongue and you couldn’t help but want to take them back. “Women don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve that.”

“I…” Jon has nothing to say, which wasn’t anything new that night.

“You don’t want to seem like a hypocrite. Is that why you wanted to speak to me alone?” He gives a small, sheepish nod. Jon denies nothing you throw at him. Not even the one question your heart begs you to ask, but your brain tried to push it away. It seemed your heart won: “do you love her?” Initially, he’s silent, and you can feel tears pricking at the back of your eyes, but you refuse to cry. Not for him. He offers you a small ‘no’ that you aren’t even sure you believe. “Do you love me?” He says yes, but you shake your head. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have been with her.”

“Of course I love you,” Jon argues, and you’re so painfully aware you never pulled your hand away from his.

“I loved you too.” You say. Loved, because you couldn’t bring yourself to love him anymore. “Gods know I loved you,” you take your hand away and place it in your lap. “And now, I want nothing to do with you.”

“Y/N, please…”

“No,” you tell him, “no. You can’t defend it. You can’t defend any of it. Maybe I should have said it earlier, it would have saved us both some time.” You take in a breath, closing your eyes, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know exactly what you did, but I know enough. More than enough. You said you’re sorry, and I don’t believe you. I don’t trustyou.”

Jon glances at his hand, cold from its loss of contact with yours. “There’s nothing I can do, then? No way you can forgive me?”

“No.”

“Theremustbesomething.” You glance back at him with narrowed eyes. Your words were just going in one ear and out the other. You say no, but he denies it.

You blink, eyes back to their normal size. “You want me to forgive you? Because I won’t. You can’t even own up to this Jon, you haven’t even admitted it. How can I forgive you if I don’t respect you? If I don’t…” if I don’t love you? Is that what you wanted to say?

“Can you please,” he begs you, “keep your voice down?”

Your features twist in disgust, and his request only makes you angry. Irritated. The whole situation was unfair, and he had the nerve to ask you to keep yourself quiet? He didn’t want a scene, but you would give him one. He wanted you quiet, but now, maybe all of Winterfell deserved to hear what you would say next. “Keep my voice down?” You echo. You didn’t even know how loud it was. “I don’t have much else to say, Jon. You want my forgiveness, but you won’t get it. I have no respect for cheaters, and I wouldn’t want one as my king.”

When you stand, it’s painfully obvious the room was watching, and it’s even worse when the Dragon Queen sways on her feet. Her eyes locked with yours, and your stomach turns. You weren’t used to the attention, the feeling of so many eyes on you, but you refused to crumble in front of them. Instead, you give the queen a cold look before stepping around the bench, making your way out to the hall.

You stop in front of her, and allow yourself a moment of pettiness to take in her appearance. She was pretty, but now you couldn’t help the insults swirling in your head. You knew it wasn’t her fault, that it was Jon’s, but you couldn’t help yourself. “My lady,” you tease before dipping down into a curtsy. Is this causing a scene, Jon? You ask yourself the question as you stand back up. When you walk past Daenerys, fuming from being addressed as a title below her own, you can’t help but shake your head. Did you cause a scene? Yes, to an extent, you did. But did you care? No, you really didn’t.

stuck with me (iii)

part onepart two

anon said: hey i’m loving the arya x reader fic, i’d like to request the third part, maybe with some interaction with jaime, yk discussing the fam

note: i have rewritten this four times, and now it’s back :) also i love dad jaime

There was some sort of poetic irony as you cradled your injured right hand to your chest. Your arm was wrapped and placed into a sling, only one of the injuries you acquired in battle. Another was a shallow stab wound in your thigh, now wrapped and bandaged and propped up with a pillow.

Your father had been up towards the front lines, whereas you never left the castle. You hadn’t fought with him, unable to find each other during the fight.

It lead to him searching frantically once it was clear your side had won. Jaime found you on the ground, bloody leg and barely conscious.

He hadn’t left you since.

You were brought to the room you were given, Jaime pulling up a chair while you were asleep. His only surviving child, his heart broke to see you in such a state.

“Father,” you stretch your left arm out, hitting his leg when you couldn’t reach his arm. You remembered passing out from blood loss and exhaustion as soon as Jaime had you in his arms. “Father,” you try again, louder. He’d fallen asleep in the chair he pulled up next to your bedside. “Jaime!”

“Hm?” His eyes open and he takes his left hand and rubbing his forehead. “Gods, that sounded like your mother.” You give him a half-smile, unsure of what to say. “You had some visitors, you know,” Jaime sits up in his seat, “I didn’t know you were so popular among the Starks.”

“Am I?” He nods, “what makes you say that?”

Jaime sighs, adjusting himself in the chair. “A few people asked about you. And the Stark girl, Arya, only left about an hour ago. The girl forced a maester to tend to you first; didn’t even let him check her own injuries.”

“She’s hurt?” Your words nearly blend together at how quickly you say them. Jaime gives a confused look, raising an eyebrow, but he doesn’t ask a thing. Your eyes scan over him, and he hasn’t changed into new clothes. There are slashes in the fabric and stains that have an equal chance of being dirt as they do dried blood. “Are youhurt?”

He shakes his head, “I’m alright.”

“You were on the front lines—”

“I’m fine, Y/N,” he takes his left hand and places it over yours. “I promise.” You bite the inside of your lip, deciding not to say anything else and just letting your father hold your hand. “There’s going to be a feast later,” Jaime says, “do you think you’ll be alright to go? I think some people would like to see you.”

Some people, you think you know who.

“Oh, that depends,” you smile, “can I have wine?”

Shaking his head, your father refuses to let go of your hand. Wine, you want wine. It’s hard to tell if he should compare you to your mother for that or your uncle. “Some,” he says, “but remember what happened last time.”

“In my defense: northern wine is different,” your voice is louder than it should be, and Jaime can’t help but laugh. Maybe he meant the time before then, but it didn’t matter. “This feast, is it a celebration or…?”

Jaime sighs, “it’s supposed to be,” he stops, “We burned the dead this morning; I don’t think people are necessarily in the mood to celebrate.”

You nod your head, looking away from him. You wondered how long you’ve been in this room, if the battle was only the night before or if there’s been a day in between. And in the very back of your mind, you wonder how long it is you’ve been away from your mother. Your mother who doesn’t even know if you survived. Cersei…

“Father?” The word isn’t foreign on your tongue, but it was odd for him to hear. He had always been Uncle Jaime until just before Myrcella died, and then father to you since he returned from Dorne. “What do you think will happen to us if Daenerys wins the war?”

Where the question came from, Jaime doesn’t ask. Your eyes too far away in thought, and a question he had himself. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Your mother has men to outnumber her—”

“She doesn’t have dragons, though,” you think out loud. Your mother and grandfather had tried to shape your mind to think like them, but you were fortunate you never had to sit on the throne and make the decisions they made. You were your father’s daughter, after all. Meant for a sword and not a seat made of them. “She could still lose.” He doesn’t say anything, and you continue, “what happens to us if she loses?”

You wonder if she would strip you of all your titles and exile you, or if she would kill you. Your father, it was likely, and your mother… you knew if your mother lost she would lose her life as well. Never get to meet her youngest child, only have four children. Your uncle would remain the queen’s hand, but you? She said she wasn’t her father, and you had to hope she didn’t treat you like yours.

“I don’t know.”

Again, you think out loud, “what happens if she wins?”

Jaime shifts in his seat at the thought. If you went back to her, if he went back to her, he didn’t know how that would go either. He remembered the last time he saw Cersei, she had nearly ordered the Mountain to kill him—but he hadn’t told you. All you knew is your mother lied to him about sending your armies north and he needed you to come with him. He hadn’t told you she had no intention of marrying Euron Greyjoy and was debating offering your hand for the sake of their unborn child, he just whisked you away from the situation and to Winterfell once more.

“I don’t know,” he says, again, truthfully. In the back of his mind, however, something you said before repeating itself as a mantra. Why would I remain loyal to a family that causes so many problems? “Y/N?” You hum in reply, leaning closer to him, “at the trial, what did you mean when you said you didn’t want to be loyal to our family?”

Your lips twist into a frown, exhaustion keeping you from losing your expressions. You had never been as good at it as some of your family members, but you still tried. “That’s not what I said. I asked why I would want to be, she didn’t answer me,” you pause, swallowing and taking a moment to figure out what to say next, “it’s what they needed to hear.”

“Did you mean it?”

You want to say no. You do. You want to tell Jaime that nothing would stop you from fighting for him, your mother—your uncle, even—and your unborn sibling. But your mind goes back to Joffrey and how you weren’t truly loyal to him, even if you didn’t understand everything he did.

He takes your silence as an answer.

“I remember,” he starts, “when I came back from Dorne. With Myrcella… after what they did to her. I remember your mother was heartbroken, angry. You, though, you were furious.” The Baratheon words had never suited you until then, he thought, but he knew better than to say it. A lioness’s anger, he thought instead. A Lannister stolen from.

“She was my sister.”

“And she was my daughter.” Jaime swallows. The words don’t slide off his tongue easily, the truth he could never speak to anyone but Cersei. Your eyes flicker to him, and he looks far away. Jaime’s mind has drifted back to that day, when Myrcella listened to his attempted confession even as she knew the truth.

I’m glad you’re my father.

It isn’t hard to tell he thinks back to the first moment he had as her father, the only moment he had. You could see in his stature how heartbreaking it was to have that moment ripped away from him and his oldest daughter dying in his arms.

He then thinks of Joffrey, as do you. He died with your mother holding him and pleading for help; you saw from where your grandfather tried and failed to keep you behind him. You had always seen death whenever they tried to hide you from it.

And then Tommen, jumping out of his bedroom window after taking off the crown he didn’t want. The loss of a wife your mother hated, and blew up along with countless others in the sept where she should have been for a trial.

Gold their shrouds, the words haunted your mother and they haunted him too.

He won’t let you end up like that.

He can’t.

You forgot your hand was holding his until he squeezed it.

Trying to bring him back from his thoughts, you ask, “when is this celebrationlater?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, “in an hour, or so,” he looks back at you. “We can go whenever you want.” We,he says. He didn’t plan on leaving you at all.

another missing stark girl

—a short little thing based on an old idea of mine i just found again

“It must not be a good time for you,” the queen doesn’t greet Ned when she enters the room, eyes on her husband’s childhood friend. Ned bows his head when he sees her, giving Cersei a quiet ‘your grace,’ that she doesn’t acknowledge. “The recent death of your father-figure, your eldest daughter disappeared, and now my husband is trying to take you away from the family you have left.” Ned doesn’t respond to her immediately, a small nod he barely registers. Cersei continues—get into his head. Get into his head and make him not want to say yes—“Robert wanted her to marry our Joffrey.”

“Aye,” Ned nods, “I remember. Y/N was barely two when he proposed it.”

“Y/N,” Cersei echoes your name, and though your father doesn’t flinch, it hurts him to hear it off her lips. An older name in the Stark family, Catelyn picked it out. She and Ned had barely known each other before he left her for the rebellion, leaving his new wife pregnant with twins. Robb, clearly named to win favor with him and their new king; Y/N, however, was a surprise. A name not used since Aegon’s conquest of Westeros.

Y/N Stark, second of her name; the firstborn to Ned and Catelyn Stark; sister to Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and little Rickon; betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon; the future Queen of Westeros.

And her new title: gone.

She disappeared a few moons ago, there in the morning and gone in the night. Guards had been sent throughout the northern lands, all returning without Ned Stark’s daughter and any idea where she could have been.

Another missing Stark girl.

Many similarities could be stemmed from that statement alone, Ned thought. It hurt, but it made sense. A nickname Y/N had throughout the north was Little Lyanna, for her resemblance to her aunt. It scared Ned, if he were being honest, the similarities between his daughter and his sister. He said nothing to his wife or anyone else, keeping yet another secret about the child-woman buried in the crypts. Nothing as Y/N looked like her, and nothing as she held the northern personality like his sister once did.

Beautiful and willful, and dead before her time.

Y/N wasn’t dead.

But like Lyanna, she was gone. Disappeared, and in doing so, breaking off her betrothal to the Baratheon heir—another similarity.

One more that Ned would never know was Y/N’s location, hidden away in Essos and trapped with a Targaryen heir who promised he would make her his queen.

anon said: hey can you do a jon x reader where he cheats on her with daenerys and is very cold towards her ignores her and goes to dany chambers the reader finds out and is hurt but then angry she ignores him and he notices. after the battle of the night king he sees her and suddenly feels so much shame and guilt dany noticed he doesn’t even look at her and sees he looking at the reader she feels jealous and tries to get his attention reader notice and start laughing dany get angry can you do some part pleas

Jon should be back today.

You had been wondering for weeks when he would return to you, coming back from the invitation to Dragonstone. You didn’t like that he left, siding with Sansa and saying it wasn’t the right time for him to leave. The King of North should stay in the North, and you agreed. Jon didn’t listen, leaving Winterfell to Sansa and setting off to ask the foreign queen for dragonglass and her assistance.

Last you heard, he bent the knee to get it. Something the lords had said they would never do again, something you remembered when Robb was named king. You had been with him for a majority of his reign, working as a healer for the bannermen of the independent kingdom. You hadn’t attended the Red Wedding, which was how you survived long enough to hear what Jon had done.

You had loved the black-haired boy since the age of thirteen. Your parents moved into the Winterfell castle just after the Greyjoy Rebellion, your mother being a healer and the one to teach you her trade. That was when you met him, back when all the Starks were together and, for the most part, happy. Jon had returned your feelings, but nothing had come from them, him being too afraid because of his bastard status. He had given his confession the night before he left to the Night’s Watch, and then placed a kiss on your lips meant to be a goodbye.

When you saw each other again, post-Battle of the Bastards, did the small spark between you erupt into flames. He was no longer a brother of the Night’s Watch, he was the King of the North. And with that came the idea the king can love who he pleases, and he loved you.

You were given another goodbye kiss before he left the land he ruled over to meet with Daenerys Targaryen. You didn’t know much about her other than the fact she hailed from Essos with a great army, not enough to form a valid opinion on her. But you watched as Jon rode off with Davos at his side, and you knew your lack of knowledge would come back to haunt you.

In the time he was gone, both of his missing siblings had returned to Winterfell. It wasn’t you who sent a raven, but you knew he had received it. Sansa tried to keep you informed on Jon, knowing you wanted to be kept in the loop.

You were talking with Sansa when someone came rushing in, asking to be pardoned for the intrusion, before taking a breath. He’d been running to see the Lady of Winterfell bearing important news. “They’re back, my lady. Your brother saw the banners.”

If Sansa’s posture hadn’t already been perfect, you knew she would have straightened her back in anticipation. “Thank you, ser,” she says, and the man nods before leaving the room. You watch him leave, and Sansa turns to you. “You’re smiling.”

“Hm?”

“You’re smiling, Y/N.”

“I—”

“It’s good,” Sansa assures. “He’ll have even more people to welcome him home.”

*

Years ago, when King Robert came to Winterfell, you stood more towards the back of the masses. You weren’t highborn, not meant to be in close proximity to royalty. Now, however, you stood directly behind Sansa, waiting for her instruction to open the gates.

Knowing you were nervous by the sway of your feet, Bran turned his head back to you. His eyes were cold and curious, doing little to settle your anxiety. It was odd, Bran was odd. You wondered what happened to him in the time he left Winterfell and the time he returned home. He turned away, knowing something you didn’t.

Something you couldn’t ask.

When the gates opened, Jon’s horse was first to enter. His eyes glanced over the crowd before ending on his only brother left, immediately getting down from his horse and running towards Bran.

Jon kneels down, wrapping his arms around Bran, and pulling him into a hug. While you don’t see Bran’s expression, his body language doesn’t change and you can assume neither does his face. “Look at you,” Jon hold’s his hand to the back of Bran’s head, taking in how he looks. The last he saw the boy, he was unconscious and might not live; now there he was, his former Tully looks darkening to look more like Ned than Catelyn. “You’re a man.” His smile makes your heart warm, and brings a smile to your own face.

“Almost,” Bran responds, leaving it at that. Jon squints in confusion, and looks to Sansa.

She, too, smiles at him, as he gets up and embraces her too. Sansa wraps her arms around him, pulling him closer, until she sees who’s followed him in.

“Where’s Arya?” He lets go. When he does, he turns, refusing to meet your eyes. Your smile falls, watching as his back is turned so he doesn’t greet you. Sansa glances back at you, a phrase she can’t say aloud said through her look. Something is wrong, different.

Sansa’s line of sight is trained on a foreign woman standing away from Jon. The other woman’s eyes are on Jon, as are yours. Until you see her, and then you cannot bring yourself to tear away.

“Lurking somewhere,” Sansa answers. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking, knowing exactly her implication.

Seeing where Sansa is staring, Jon calls over the woman in white furs with elaborate braids in her silver-gold hair. Her horse was also a pale white, and you wonder just how colorless she is compared to her wardrobe. When Jon’s hand moves from her direction to in between her shoulder blades, your eyes narrow. You don’t speak out, simply watching the woman offer false courtesies and a smile. You watch her, and wheels turn in your head, thinking. It doesn’t take a great player in the game of politics to draw such a simple conclusion, only a pair of working eyes.

For all his faults, Petyr Baelish had been right. The Dragon Queen was beautiful, and it was a dangerous thing.

*

If you had been trying to avoid Jon, it wasn’t hard.

You knew a battle was coming, knew there would be a time when the multiple armies now under the King of the North’s care—former king, you meant—and with them came more work for you. More supplies to gather and prepare to use, because even if it was unlikely the lot of you won, men would be injured and you wouldn’t leave them to die.

Since the first night of his return, Jon holed himself away in his chambers. You tried to see him once, knocking on the door. He told you to leave before he even knew it was you.

Sansa told you about her conversation with the new queen after Jaime’s trial. Explained she had no intention of allowing the kingdom to remain independent, how there was a sense of… oh you forgot what she said. Arrogance? Smugness? Either way there was something about her that Sansa didn’t like.

She didn’t tell you how their conversation had changed to Jon; didn’t tell you what the queen has said about him. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep it from you, but Sansa knew it wasn’t the time to tell you that Daenerys may have been in love with her brother.

It was something you would have to find out for yourself.

After days of his self-proclaimed isolation, you’d had enough. He hasn’t acknowledged you before he shut himself away, let alone now.

The Winterfell halls were familiar twists and turns. Jon know occupied a different room than he did years ago, but you memorized the route to his new one quickly. On your way, you passed a pair of bannermen, simply nodding your head and walking by. Didn’t even listen to their conversation as they kept going; you were on a mission.

The closer you got to his room, the less you wanted to. The walls weren’t thin in Winterfell, an attempt to keep the rooms warm, but they were never thick enough to be soundproof. Not thick enough to hide the voices you heard just outside his door.

It makes you stop, standing just outside his room and door. You can hear the voices, but not what they say. Jon is quiet, allowing the woman he’s with to speak. You recognize the voice, but you can’t pair it to it’s owner.

It’s not Sansa, not Arya. Not little Lady Mormont, she had no reason to see him, and besides, her voice was higher pitched. Alys Karstark you had seen earlier with some of the ironborn, it couldn’t be her. Other women were elsewhere, either with their families or waiting by the crypts.

A muffled expression comes through the door, an expression you’ve heard Jon say in defense of his decision to bend the knee, and you knew who else was behind the door. Your new queen.

Curiosity got the best of you, your hands inching towards the handle of the doorknob. The metal was cold against your fingertips, the hinges quiet as the door opened slowly, as to not startle the two people inside.

You didn’t want to go in, you knew better than to interrupt private conversations. You didn’t know better than to eavesdrop, though, not many did. The door was opened just wide enough for you to see them, Jon’s face in the queen’s hands. Their words were hushed now, only meant for each other to hear. You could see her pale hands run through Jon’s dark hair, your heart falling further the longer her hand lingered.

Her forehead and his were pressed together, standing in front of the fire place to keep him warm. The bed, unmade, and what seemed like an obvious reason why.

The queen’s words were low and clear as her hand went from Jon’s hair, then against his jaw. Her thumb traces his bottom lip and breaks your heart in one stroke. You see her move closer, and you know exactly what she does.

You don’t care if you slam the door as you run away, don’t care if they know someone saw. In the time since they first got here, Jon avoided you like you were some sort of plague.

Now you knew why.

The idea the king can love who he pleases, and he loved you.

He did, you thought he did. But if he loved you, he wouldn’t be in the arms of someone else.

Is this how Lady Stark had felt all those years ago, when Ned brought back an infant boy claiming him as his son? A living, breathing piece of proof of an infidelity not meant to be paraded around? Jon had sired no bastard—none you knew of—but you could see it. There was no hiding his new affections for the queen, not even behind closed doors, no sense of guilt.

Almost as if the two of you were nothing, as if you are nothing. Thrown to the side for another woman he found beautiful, throwing away all those nice things he would say.

Had he meant any of them at all? Were you not beautiful enough for him anymore? Not willing to do things perhaps the Dragon Queen did? Were you not… anything?

It was an endless cycle, harsh words about yourself circling through your mind.

Not enough, not enough, not enough.

Silent tears began pouring down your face, leaving trails of water for more to spill over until you truly did cry a river for him.

Why? The only thing you could think of, why would he do that, what gave him the right? Was it because you weren’t there?

No.

That couldn’t be it, it couldn’t be the fact you weren’t there. He hadn’t wanted you there… he hadn’t wanted you.

Tears ran down your cheeks, dropping onto the neckline of your gown. You refused to look up, not wanting to see anyone in passing. All you wanted was to go to your room and be alone, wrapped up in a blanket by the fire. If you had to enjoy what could possibly be your last night, that’s what it would be.

It used to be with Jon, but that wasn’t an option now.

As soon as you were in the security of your own room, you fell against the back of the door you slammed shut. On the cold floor, you pulled your legs as close to your chest you could get them, resting your forehead by your knees.

How could he… how dare he?

You knew it couldn’t be for the sake of an alliance, Jon’s mind didn’t work like that. But you couldn’t help but have a small sliver of hope.

You run your own fingers through your hair, stopping quickly. That’s what she did with him. What you used to do.

How could she take that away from you…?

No.

While Daenerys was the new queen, and though you were not her biggest fan—especially not now—it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault that Jon found her beautiful, found her more enticing that he did you.

It was his.

And if he didn’t feel guilty about it, neither would you.

*

The crypts were dark and crowded, women and children and a few men who couldn’t fight all in rows against the statues.

Statues holding dead Stark lords—all buried, never burned.

When the weights broke through the concrete, you were stuck hidden behind the statue of Ned Stark, hands covering your ears not to hear the sounds from the people and the undead behind you. Gods, you should have been fighting. Why hadn’t you learned to fight?

As more and more of them appeared, you cowered into a ball. Like that would save you.

Your mind wonders how the men outside do it, how they all fight the creatures, how they kill them. You wonder, even, how Jon can do it, if he was alright.

The Dragon Queen would have him, though. If he were in danger. You hated her motivations for it, but you knew them to be true.

Even if he didn’t love you like he used to, you wanted him to make it out of there alive.

*

The aftermath was not what you were expecting. You were expecting dwindling groups of soldiers, broken limbs, and shocked expressions; you expected the grounds of the courtyard to be smeared with blood and corpses.

When you emerged from the castle, however, you were greeted with melting ice, proving the wights had been defeated. Nothing like the aftermath of any battle you had seen in all your years.

Quickly you were rushed off to the surviving soldiers. So many were lost, you quickly noticed. So many left injured and alive.

The patient you were tending to refused to look anywhere but the sky. He couldn’t be much older than Rickon Stark would have been, he had no place on the battlefield. He had a head wound, the blood drying from where it trailed down from his temple. His wrist was sprained and he had a series of scrapes over her legs.

“Don’t close your eyes,” you tell him. Your voice is low, quiet, so you don’t startle him. “What’s your name?” He doesn’t answer, and you sigh. His brown eyes still look to the horizon. Moving on, you grab a clean bandage from the too small a stack you brought with you. You take a bottle—near empty—of alcohol used for cleaning wounds. “This might sting a little,” you warm as you dampen the cloth. He winces when it’s placed against the gash. He’ll need stitches, you conclude. But you don’t have a needle or anything to stitch it with in the small basket of supplies you brought with you. You would return to him in time. You have to.

Eventually, you move along in your line of patients. Small children who ran off in the crypts, women who tried to protect them, Unsullied soldiers, Stark bannermen, a few Knights of the Vale, wildlings. So many gone, and yet, so many left.

With minimal injuries sustained, the former king stands watch as you move through the masses. Jon remembered, from long ago, you following your mother around after the Greyjoy Rebellion. Soldiers had been staying in Winterfell temporarily, and their had been so many maesters you and your limited medical knowledge didn’t do much then.

“Why are you doing that?” He remembered asking.

He remembered your answer clearly: “I want to help them.”

Jon swore you stole his heart right then.

You didn’t feel his eyes on you, too engrossed in wrapping a stab wound on a man’s forearm. I want to help them, and you did. You had a good heart.

A good heart Jon knows you gave to him, he knew it, and what had he done with it? He left you, he betrayedyou.

And now… now he wanted to make up for it.

*

The feast was a dull affair for a group of people who thought only a day before they could all be dead. You understood the silence, everyone drained of all their energy from fighting or losing people or both.

You say across from the same boy you gave stitches to hours earlier. He still hadn’t said his name, but he was a good kind of quiet company. He listened to anything you said, nodding along as he ate his food. Next to him was his older sister, and she didn’t speak much either. There was a space between them, like they were still waiting for someone to come in from the farewell.

Up at the high table, where Jon usually sat between Sansa and Daenerys, he wasn’t there. Instead there was an empty chair where he usually sat, and then Tyrion Lannister wedged in between like a would-be buffer.

Instead, you see him having moved not too long ago, sitting with Tormund, Sam, and Davos, a quiet conversation—as quiet as Tormund could make it—among the four of them. The men all had cups of ale in their hands, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about.

Davos was quiet, listening to one of Tormund’s odd stories or comments, you were never sure which one. Sam was quiet, too, eyes glancing across the room in search of Gilly and little Sam.

You tried not to look at Jon, but it didn’t work. He was listening, facing towards his friend who was speaking. He took a sip of ale just after he laughed, and even if you couldn’t hear it, you remembered you loved the sound.

He isn’t yours anymore, stop staring.

Remember what he did.

You tried, you really tried, to look away from him, but you couldn’t. He must have known you were staring, and looked your way. When your eyes met, you wanted to look away, wanted to be mad because now after near-death, he cared.

He gives a small smile, one that’s genuine and happy, one you don’t return. You just look at him and wonder where that boy of thirteen went, the one you fell in love with all those years ago.

With both your eyes on each other, you don’t see the queen’s glare. Don’t see her stand up, but you hear a chair move.

She moves away from the fire she’s always been close to, walking towards Jon and the other three. Daenerys places her hand on his shoulder, trying to turn him away. A familiar twist of your stomach makes you look back across your own table, to the boy and his sister beside him.

When you look back, he shrugs off her hand, turning back to face you across the room.

Daenerys follows his gaze, and though the woman has an affinity for fire, her glare is cold.

The three other men at Jon’s table look between each other, awkwardly aware of Daenerys and Jon and what they’ve done.

Her head dips lower, her lips right next to his ear. You see her mouth move but don’t know what she says; you don’t want to.

Jon is quick on his feet, standing and moving away from her. He’s jumpy. You don’t blame him.

His friends are watching, curious, and so are you.

Jon says something to Daenerys, and though she doesn’t shrink back, you know she wants to. Her jaw is clenched now, only released and her lips parting when Jon steps away from her.

You hold your breath as he walks towards your table, hesitant when he actually asks to sit next to you. “Y/N,” he says. You wonder when was the last time he said your name—before he left to Dragonstone, you’re sure.

“Jon.” Your voice is monotone, trying to show no emotions despite the very fact you might cry or scream or something you don’t want to do in public.

“Y/N,” he says again, taking the limited space next to you, and placing his hand over yours. You want to snatch it away, but you can’t will yourself to move it yet. “Can we… can I talk to you.”

Your hand slides out from under his, and when he tries to catch it, he fails. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

He looks around, nervous. You know exactly what it is he wants to talk about. “It’s better if we’re alone.”

You look at his eyes, sad and dark as they always are. You look behind him, to the queen standing in burgundy red, with arms crossed and an angry glare. Her eyes are squinted in your direction, and her lips pucker into a pout.

She’s jealous.

Your eyes meet hers instead, and you’re fortunate her dragons are tired and injured, and won’t burn you alive. The longer you glare at her the more people catch on. She doesn’t want to make a scene, but she will. You know she will. You can’t help but laugh at her reaction. You can’t help but laugh at the whole damn thing.

i present to you, a drabble based on promise me/i promise i wrote instead of paying attention in class

It was cold and dark as she made her way through the undergrounds of Winterfell, her brother-in-law and Ned leading in front of her. Y/N hated that Robert made her follow, the look on her sister’s face when he forced her to tag along was full of hatred and disgust. Jaime’s nearly matched, but it did nothing to stop her from leaving them for the tomb of Lyanna Stark.

Y/N tried to keep a distance between the two men and herself, not wanting to impose on their nostalgia at the mention of Jon Arryn. She, too, was suspicious of his fever, but unlike Ned, had the sense not to wave her thoughts around.

She stopped early, once Robert did.

“I need you, Ned, down in King’s Landing. Not up here where you’re no damn use to anybody.” Ned opens his mouth to speak, but says nothing. Y/N sways on her feet when Robert continues. “Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King.”

Ned closes his mouth, looking to the ground and thinking of what to do. Y/N simply watches as the man before her takes to his knees. She had known from her brother Tyrion’s raven that Robert was coming for something, though she hadn’t expected it to be Ned. “I’m not worthy of the honor.”

“I’m not trying to honor you; I’m trying to get you to run my kingdom while I eat, drink, and whore my way to an early grave.” Though her years raised under the eyes of the former king and queen taught Y/N to control her expressions, she couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose in disgust. “Damn it, Ned, stand up. You helped me win the iron throne, now help me keep the damn thing. We were meant to rule together. If your sister had lived, we would be bound by blood.” Ned still doesn’t meet his friend’s eyes. Robert’s, however, drift to Y/N Lannister, the woman still not having spoken, “more than we already are.” Her eyes narrowed, in all her years she had never grown used to such comments. “Well, it’s not too late: I have a son, you have a daughter. We’ll join our houses.”

Robert doesn’t give Ned the opportunity to respond before he walks farther into the crypts, trying to get closer to the late Lyanna.

As Robert gets farther away, both Ned and Y/N move to follow him, but the Lannister’s hand catches Ned before they leave. “You aren’t really going to take up his offer as Hand, are you?”

Ned looks back at her, looking into her eyes purposefully showing him concern. He cannot place what it’s for, if she thinks their lie will fail them under Robert and her family’s watchful eye or she doesn’t want him in the capital. She knows the system of King’s Landing better than he does, but there was an underlying sense of fearin the green of her eyes. “He is my king, there is no choice to make.”

Y/N shakes her head, “there’s always a choice to make,” she says, before she leaves him, too, following after the king.

▾

The statue barely held a resemblance to the woman it was supposed to be. Maybe once Y/N had seen Lyanna look as the statue did, the first or second time the girls met years ago.

Robert may have forgotten her face, but Lyanna’s features haunted both Y/N and Ned every time they looked at Jon. He was a true Stark, like his mother. The only thing he had gotten from Rhaegar were mannerisms, but even those were sparse.

The king’s chubby hands place a delicate feather in the statue’s stone hands, a gentleness unexpected from the man behind so many war stories. “Did you have to bury her in a place like this?” Y/N closes her eyes. “She should be on a hill somewhere, with the sun and clouds above her.”

“It’s what she wanted,” Y/N remembers, “to be here with the rest of her family.”

I want to go home.

You will, Lyanna, you will. I’ll take you there myself.

“She was my sister,” Ned agrees, “this is where she belongs.”

“She belonged with me!” Robert scowls. He makes a throaty sound, on the verge of tears, but the king refuses to cry. He takes his hand, placing it on Lyanna’s stone cheek. “In my dreams, I kill him every night.”

Y/N looks down, a small, inaudible sigh escaping her lips. Ned follows her actions, no longer looking at the statue of Lyanna or the man once meant to be her husband. Y/N knows the truth about what Rhaegar did to Lyanna, and she’s never told a soul. Not the truth, not the whole thing.

She never will.

“What’s done is done, your grace,” Y/N assures. What was one more lie to a king who didn’t know the difference? “The Targaryens are gone.”

“Not all of them.”

should i add gifs to my one shots again so you guys know who it’s for or put it in the title/pairing thing like i had on the first few?

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

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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hugging each other

Bronn x female!reader

Word Count: 935

Note: Highkey I’ve only watched through season 5, but like, let’s pretend this is the AU that it is, and this encounter happened sometime before everything went completely sideways. K? K.

You’d met a lot of people during your travels across Westeros, and almost all of them had been in passing. Nobles, you’d run into during your time playing guard for Genna Lannister. Everyone else was just on the road to some place or another. Of all, your personal favorite mildly-hostile encounter had been with Brienne of Tarth in a sketchy little inn at the heart of the country.

She hated you on the spot. You assumed there was a smear of blood somewhere on your black leather armor that you missed the last time you’d taken a dip in a river that tipped her off that you were more of a combatant than the average traveling woman. Or maybe it was the way you were hunched over the table, eating alone like you were one of the men that passed through places like this. Honestly, it was probably the knives that were tucked into your belt and the sword that kept knocking into the bottom of the table when you shifted. She’d had some terse words to say to a sellsword like you, but by the end of the encounter (and ensuing not-so-friendly spar to show off both of your skills) you’d earned a grudging respect from the woman.

Plus, you found it rather amusing to consider the fact that you were essentially her shadow self: great fighter, keep your word (for the right price), and constantly mocked by random men that thought a woman couldn’t do their job as well as they could.

This grudging respect (from her, you adored the woman as much as you loved riling her up) bloomed to a strange friendship when you ended up traveling with her and Pod to … somewhere. You hadn’t been paying attention to their talks of a destination; you’d been a bit distracted by the handsome stableboy that was eyeing you up at the time. 

And that friendship led you to absolutely laughing your ass off when the pair of you ran into none other than Jamie fucking Lannister and SerBronn of the Blackwater one the road, headed opposite directions. As soon as you saw them, your giggling started and it didn’t stop even after you were laughing so hard that you literally fell off your horse.

“Are you alright?” you heard Jamie ask.

“She’s finally lost it,” Brienne’s tired response came from next to you. “How are you, Ser Jamie?”

“I’ve been well, Lady Brienne,” was his automatic response. You could hear the smile in his voice. The polite way the friends greeted each other had your peals of laughter going even harder.

“Pod, would you mind holding her horse so it doesn’t run away?” Brienne asked. 

You heard boots hitting the ground moments before Jamie asked, “Bronn, where are you going?”

The footsteps paused long enough for Bronn’s gruff voice to indignantly say, “Where do you fuckin’ think?” Then as soon as he was close enough, you felt his hand grasp your arm. “Up you get, giggles.”

As soon as you were upright, you threw your arms around his neck in a tight hug and allowed yourself to be pulled into a heated kiss, smiling the whole time. You loved the way his arms felt around you. “Missed you.”

He shamelessly grabbed a handful of your ass and muttered, “Missed you too, sweetheart,” before turning to face your now shocked companions.

“Uh … Do either of you care to explain what the hells is going on?” Jamie prodded, looking more than a little amused despite the confusion.

“I assume Tall, Blonde, and Honorable and Ser Magic Cock already know this, but,” you snorted with renewed laughter during Bronn’s introduction of you.

“And how do you know each other?” It was Podrick that asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” you teased, knowing full well that it was certainly not obvious.

Bronn’s hand slipped inside the collar of your chest armor to retrieve the chain–and therefore ring–that hung there. “This is my wife.”

“Your … what?” Brienne looked totally scandalized. “But …”

“You and that stable boy last night!” 

“And Bronn, they had to chase you out of the brothel with a broom in the last town!”

Which, of course, only sent you into yet another fit of giggles while you laced your fingers with your husbands. Since it was clear that none of you were likely to depart this little spot anytime tonight and it honestly wasn’t a bad place to camp for the night, it was unanimously decided that you’d be sleeping here. The entire time setting up and making dinner was spent explaining that, yes you and Bronn had been married for quite some time, and yes, the pair of you loved your jobs and understood that sometimes you got a little hard up on the road, so you were fine with sleeping around as long as you weren’t an idiot about it. Then the discussions of where everyone was going came up, and that thoroughly moved the conversation on right up until Brienne asked the question that had probably been bothering her since the moment you fell off your horse.

“Whywereyou laughing so hard earlier, anyway?”

Just at the reminder, you snorted again. Looking over at your husband, you asked, “You wanna say it or shall I?”

“Considering even I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about …”

“Isn’t it obvious? Brienne and I are just the female versions of you two!”

Which took a second for the others to understand, but once it registered … Let’s just say there was probably no wildlife within a mile of the little camp after the uproar.

Bronn x fem!reader

Word Count: 802

Summary: You’d grown up a bastard. Ignored by your hometown and it was only natural that you’d grown sick of it. So you struck out on your own. What interesting times lie ahead of you?

Nights like this it was impossible not to think.

You idly poked at your tiny campfire with a stick. The night wasn’t particularly cold out–Winter hadn’t fully set in–but you’d needed to cook that rabbit you caught on the road. While it roasted, you let your mind wander.

How far you’d come since leaving your little hometown, you mused. It’d been years since you’d been back to the place, many years, but that was where you found yourself headed now. You couldn’t say you missed it, to be honest. You hadn’t even really thought about it in quite a while. It was hard for someone to belong when literally everyone else that called it home knew that you were a bastard and a female one to boot. The product of a stable boy and an innkeeper’s cook, you were lucky you hadn’t been mistreated, per se. 

It was more like you’d simply been ignored. 

Ignored right up to the point that you now wondered if anyone even noticed when you’d left.

You prodded the fire again.

You made the right choice in leaving. Your life as a sellsword may have been hard and unforgiving, but it was unfathomably more fulfilling–not to mention fun–than it would have ever been in that no-name town. Never would you have expected to end up in that line of work but … When that woman pleaded for your help after finding you training in an abandoned clearing …

~

You huffed labored breath after labored breath as you practiced sword swing after sword swing at an imaginary enemy. Practice was required if you had a single prayer of surviving alone on the road, but like hells was any man going to take the time out of his busy life to teach a woman like you. So alone you practiced.

“Excuse me, miss?” a weak voice called.

You startled and found your feet tripping over themselves for one terrifying moment. Just barely, you managed to keep them under you. Alarmed, you looked towards the trees where the voice seemed to come from. “Who are you?” you demanded of the woman that was standing just far enough in the forest that she was cloaked in the shadows, wringing her hands as she avoided your gaze. “Why are you out here so late?”

“I … I heard the men talking about a woman flapping her sword about in the meadow and …” She trailed off.

“And what?” you snapped, irritated. No doubt she was just quoting exactly what those men had been saying, but the words still stung.

“Are you,” you could hear her nervous swallow even at this distance, “a sellsword?”

That was an unexpectedly good question. You’d made it this far by doing a bit of whoring and thieving–sometimes at the same time–but you’d be lying if you said the thought of becoming a sellsword hadn’t crossed your mind.

“Depends,” you replied aloofly. “What do you want?”

“My husband … he …”

Your heart rate spiked as her words drifted off again. “Come closer.” Into the light, you didn’t say though you were thinking it.

Hesitatingly, she did. And the moment she stepped into the ring light in the little clearing, you saw the bruises on her eye, on her neck, and on her wrists.

“He did this to you?”

“… Yes, miss.”

You took a long, slow breath that she must have mistaken as you about to deny her request.

“I have money!” she announced, voice just this side of hysterical. She thrust out a small bag that seemed to be full of coin.

Your eyebrows. There was no way you wouldn’t be doing this job, but you didneed to eat … “How?”

“He drinks, miss … Doesn’t notice when I pinch a coin while he’s asleep.”

Inwardly, you winced. For that bag to be that full … You didn’t want to think about how long she must have been saving for this moment. “I’ll do it,” you announced. “Pay me after.”

The tension seemed to bleed out of her shadows all at once. “Thankyou.”

~

You’d killed him that very night. Slit in his throat in his drunken slumber and left town before dark with that coinpurse tucked into your belt for safekeeping. A day later you bought the curved knife that now rested in its sheath at the base of your spine and the horse that was tied to the tree next to you. 

A twig snapping nearby made your eyes start scanning the edge of the clearing you were calling home for the night, hand on your sword as you braced for an attack. Then, one after another, men in Lannister armor started stepping into your campsite.

There were five of them.

The leader looked you up and down with a lecherous smirk on his face before saying, “Well look what we have here.”

holding the other’s chin up

Jaime Lannister x reader

Word Count: 316

Note: Again, this might blow up to be a whole thing one of these days but uh … for now let’s just say that Aerys took Ned’s other sister (reader) as a hostage back in the day, and she got close to Jaime while trapped in the Red Keep (as in together in secret). Then once Ned and co. freed her, she didn’t exactly have a chance to see Jaime again since the whole Kingsguard thing and he avoided her during the trip to Winterfell

He was refusing to look at you.

You weren’t surprised, but … 

You couldn’t have that.

You hooked your index finger underneath his chin and made him look at you. His big, green eyes looked reluctant as he was forced to meet your gaze.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come after you?” After all you’d done together, after all you’d been through? Even now, you still woke with the sound of Aerys’s mad laughter echoing in your ears on particularly bad nights. 

“I didn’t think your mother would let you,” he replied roughly.

“She doesn’t know I’m here.” You’d snuck out as soon as Robb told you that Lady Brienne had taken the Kingslayer on his mother’s orders.

He chuckled breathily. “Of course she doesn’t. Why are you here?”

“Going with you,” you replied as if it was obvious, which to you it was. “Joffery isn’t likely to let my sisters go easily, and you know it.” You paused, searching his eyes for a reaction before saying, “And Lady Brienne might be a fine fighter, but I’d rather keep you in one piece if I can.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” It really was just that simple.

“My father won’t let you leave King’s Landing once he has you in his grasp.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.” Systematically hunting down and killing all the pyromancers you could during Tywin’s sacking of King’s Landing certainly took the cake as the most dangerous thing you’d ever do, especially having just fled the scene of the King’s murder. You could still remember it perfectly: the only kiss you and Jaime ever shared and it was over the Mad King’s cooling corpse before he told you to go after the pyromancers.

“I suppose you have,” he admitted quietly. “… It’s good to see you again.”

You felt your eyes crinkle at the corners with your smile. “You too, Jaime.”

16/50 Touches

massaging them

Jaime Lannister x reader

Word Count: 521

As your fingers sank into his stiff muscles, you realized that he must have been tense since the moment he lost his hand, and you commented as much aloud.

“Can you blame me? Running for your life while you’re unable to so much as lift a sword to protect yourself will do that,” he snapped a bit.

Narrowing your eyes, you pressed just a bittoo hard into a knot.

“Alright! Alright! I’ll watch my tone!” he yelped.

You eased up the pressure wordlessly.

Jaime grumbled to himself. “And anyway, most of this tightness is from Bronn’s bloody training.”

“He’s doing you a favor, so don’t complain.”

“I’mpayinghim!”

“Have you ever met a sellsword that would be willing to train someone in swordfighting? No matter how much you’re paying them?”

“… No.”

“Exactly.”

A comfortable silence fell between you for a few moments.

You warmed some more oil between your fingers before working it into his skin. “Remind me to thank Lady Brienne for getting you home safely,” you murmured. The fact that your reality almost became a life without ever being able to see Jaime again after that last fight had been all too close to happening. You hadn’t known what to do with yourself while he was being held captive, and you feared your worry had been too obvious to Cersei. There was little chance she didn’t know about your relationship with her brother, especially given the fact that Jaime had turned her down time after time ever since returning.

It was him turning his head so he could look at you over his shoulder that made you realize that your hands had stilled with your thoughts. “Are you alright?”

You shook your head, and not wanting to lie you admitted, “Cersei.”

His jaw clenched. “You’ve been working under Father, right?”

You nodded.

“Stay close to him,” Jaime advised. “He’s always been fond of you; he won’t let her touch you.”

You knew he was right. Tywin had planned for you and Jaime to marry since you were born. The pair of you hadn’t done so was because Jaime had joined the Kingsguard … and his former relationship with his sister. During the time before his capture, you’d slept together often when he wasn’t with Cersei–usually times when Robert was being particularly hostile towards the blond. You’d hidden your feelings for him back then. But since he returned from being the Starks’ captive you’d grown closer emotionally.

You sighed before resuming the motions of your fingers on his gorgeous skin. “I thought you were supposed to be relaxing.”

He chuckled, returning his head to its former place on his arms. “Not an easy task when the woman you love is afraid.”

Your heart fluttered “How could I be afraid when I have you here?”

“Easily,” came the blunt reply. “I mean it. Stick close to Father. I’ll talk to Bronn about him guarding you when you can’t be around Father.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” he interrupted. “I want you safe.”

Again came that flutter. You leaned forward to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Euron Greyjoy Masterlist

• Cliff’s Edge: Euron Greyjoy has never feared death until it’s you, the only woman he has ever loved, dying in front of him.

, , ,

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader

Characters: Robb Stark

Warnings: N/A

Request: Wattpad- Imagine You and Robb having a sword fight that ends in sexual tension

Word Count: 424

Author: Charlotte

You let the point of your sword press against the man’s chin, forcing his head up to both reveal his neck and force him to look at you. Your feet were either side of his hips, his sword still in his hand laying up above his head as he lay on the pavement.

“Told you so,” you smirked.

“Not so quick.”

Before you could question it or say anymore, the sword from your hand was sent flying from a strike from his own, leaving you unarmed. He kicked his boot into your shin, forcing you to stumble backwards. As you looked around to see if you could get to your sword quick enough, you quickly realised you wouldn’t be able to get to it, and the man who you had knocked down now had you cornered.

Robb smirked at you this time. He took a step towards you, forcing you to press your back against the wall. He continued to close the gap until he could block you against the wall with his hands either side of your shoulders.

“I think you’ll find, I told you so.”

You had been friends with Robb for many years and got a long a lot even if outwardly you bickered like an old married couple. Friendship never seemed enough though, not that you were comfortable admitting that to his face. The two of you shamelessly flirted and pretended that it was just part of the friendship, neither of you prepared for rejected. Both of you teased each other to no end, but the newest target was fighting ability. He had been trained far more than you had to wield a sword, but he had been your main teacher, so your skills weren’t completely sparse. You believed that in a duel, you could win, he however didn’t agree and the only way you could come up with an answer was putting your dignity on the line and fighting him.

“You cheated,” you frowned. “You were down.”

“But still armed,” he said. “Just because you knock someone down doesn’t mean they aren’t a threat.”

You could feel a lump growing in your throat as his chest pressed against your own, the gap between you practically non-existent.

“How do you know I am not a threat?” You croaked, your nerves getting the better of you.

“I don’t, but I’ll take the risk.”

Before his last word escaped his lips, he had already started leaning in, taking the final leap to press his lips to yours in a heated, sweaty kiss.