Brandon Stark (the Cooler Ned)

Lyanna Stark’s world was dappled in a grey-green patchwork of shadow as she trotted beneath the trees of the Kingsroad. When she emerged from the brush, the land burst into gold. Sunlight kissed leaf and lake alike, scattering across the Gods Eye and gilding its endless surface with a million white diamonds. The air was sweet with wildflowers, dotting the new green grass like tiny yellow stars fallen to earth. Spring had sighed its first breath upon the Riverlands.

And there, before the great expanse of water, stood Harrenhal. Five monstrous stone towers rose from the plains, grasping at the sky like the twisted charred fingers of an ancient giant. Lyanna gave a shiver. It was said Aegon the Conqueror himself had flown atop Balerion the Black Dread, roasting old Harren Hoare alive within the tallest of the five spires. 

The towers glowed red against the night, Old Nan had told her, as red as Aegon’s fury. The dragonfire was so hot the very stones melted and flowed down its walls like candlewax.

She believed it. The castle stood like a ruin now—great, yes, but lumpy and misshapen. It was sad, Lyanna decided. She would have liked to explore the castle before it was burnt.

A pale white blur darted past her.

“Race you to the gates, Lya!” shouted Benjen. Her brother dug his heels into his snowy mount, spurring the mare forward with a great laughing whoop that bounded across the warm southern breeze.

“Benjen, wait!” she protested, but the young pup was already too far gone to hear. Lyanna chewed her lip. Normally she’d be off already, racing after Benjen. Racing past him, she sniffed. She was the best rider in the north. Well, her and Brandon.

She twisted in her seat to look back at their retinue, streaming with white banners emblazoned with the grey direwolf of Stark. Hundreds of flying wolves seemed to snap and snarl as wind rippled through their cloth. Leading them was Brandon, tall and proud as ever atop his sleek black destrier. But there was no fire in his handsome Stark face, and he did not urge his horse forward at their brother’s challenge as he would have once.

It was Brandon who’d lifted her atop her first saddle. It was Brandon who’d secreted her out into the wolfswood against the will of their lord father, teaching her the way of spur and rein. A pair of centaurs, Barbrey Ryswell once called them. Barbrey had meant it as a jab beneath her teasing lilt, she was sure, but still the words had made Lyanna flush with pride. Now it only filled her breast with a hollow grey ache.

Yes, usually it would be her and Brandon racing—if not for the shadow that seemed to hang over him. Over them both. You should be happy, Lyanna scolded herself. You’re finally on a great adventure. And yet.

Suddenly the sight of the Stark heir sent a flash of spite scorching through her blood. How dare he brood. Brandon had betrayed her. Brandon and Father both. Her jaw clenched. This wasn’t the usual joyful fire that rushed beneath her skin urging her to ride; this was anger, pure and sharp as winter's bite.

Without a word, Lyanna put spur to horse and burst after Benjen. The wind tore at her cloak and lashed at her cheeks as she leaned into a ferocious gallop, but it couldn’t blow away the memory that had so soured her mood.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Rewrote the entire first chapter of A Crown of False Spring. 10/10 would collapse right now.

Harrenhal art by Lino Drieghe and René Aigner.

“Duty kept me here, serving Edelia, when I should have been at his side. Blaming you was easier than facing my own guilt. Promise me you will take care of him,” he scoffed. “That was never your responsibility to bear.”

“But it was,” Gem interrupted. Frustration roiled in her chest, swelling like a rising tide. “I loved him too.”

Danyel’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. “Love doesn’t excuse what he put you through. It doesn’t make it right that you had to shoulder a burden that wasn’t yours.”

“And yet, I chose to,” Gem said softly. “It wasn’t your responsibility, and it wasn’t mine. It was my choice. It was his choice, Danyel. It always was.”

“He was my brother. He needed me.”

“And your students needed you, too.”

“My duty—”

“What does it fucking matter!” she burst out suddenly. “What even is duty? Duty to Tomix, duty to family, duty to Edelia, duty to Lore—what do you do when they pull you in different directions? You can’t do it all. I can’t do it all. What if it’s all meaningless?” 

Danyel didn’t reply immediately. He studied her, jaw tight and knuckles white where his hands gripped the wooden ledge of the spiritloom. “You think it’s meaningless?” His voice was low, almost disbelieving. “You, the Hero of Falconreach?”

“I—I don’t know anymore.” Gem's voice cracked, and she looked away. Apprehend Sepulchure. Vanquish Drakath. Help the Rose. Stand by the Vind. Banish Envy. Save Tomix. It was too much. “What has duty ever done for me? And what did it ever do for Tomix? Did it save him? Did it save your family?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “All it did was leave you alone, just like it left me.”

He flinched as if struck. “So tell me—should I just abandon it? Pretend it doesn’t matter?”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t know. I just… I just wish it hadn’t cost us so much.”

Arthur and Ashara Dayne 💫

Commission for the lovely @troiades ! Such a joy to work with and I'm so happy I got to draw these two together💕!

Towering far above the rest, the heart tree's bone-white bark flashed stark against the common green brush that sprawled across Old Harren's grounds, gleaming a cold alabaster as bright as his own cloak. Leaves spilled from slender grasping limbs like a million splayed hands dipped in blood. And upon its trunk, a face.

The visage had been slashed deep. If it was the work of man or god, Arthur could not say. Crimson sap oozed from slanted eyes like ancient tears, frozen dry upon pale drawn cheeks. It watched him with knowing disdain. A weirwood, he thought in awe. The last one standing below the Neck.

It was then that he saw the supplicant. A slight figure knelt before the heart tree, head bowed low in prayer. Slim as a winter sapling, and so still he might have mistaken it for carved stone. Scarcely more than a smudge of shadow upon the hard earth.

At the stir of their footfalls, the figure trembled slightly, then hopped to its feet with the swift grace of a startled doe and whirled.

It was… a girl-child. He’d not misjudged; even whilst standing she was a tiny slip of a thing. A strange thing. Her coltish frame was wrapped in a dove-grey gown, streaked with soil and trailing like morning mist about small bared feet. Dark chestnut hair tumbled loose and tangled past thin shoulders, framing windburnt cheeks flushed rosy with chill. Her eyes were sharp and wild, her teeth bared—and in her hands a tree branch, raised like a sword!

Not a little doe then, thought Arthur.

Then, a break in the clouds. A shaft of dying light broke through the clearing, striking the crown of the heart tree with sudden radiance. The deep scarlet leaves flared and shimmered like bloody embers. And there, half-lost amongst the high fronds, something swayed.

A shield. Upon it, the painted face of a weirwood, grinning wide and red.

Arthur froze.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Snippet from A Crown of False Spring, Chapter 4.

Princess Shireen Baratheon

Bran!!

Familiar, but not quite right

Cat & Lady Stoneheart

[#plantober2024] Thyme ║ [#goretober] Sharp Objects ║ [#spooktober] Hunt

In Need of Thyme

Apothecaries regularly engage in gardening or trade in order to procure their ingredients. However, when a recipe calls for special consideration, a call to action goes out to hunters to gather along the lit areas of the sunless lands.

a prayer to who, exactly?

the knight of the laughing tree

art ref. under the cut