"Each Element Shapes The Fabric Differently," Danyel Explained To Her On The Fifth Night, Holding Out

The moon's wide awake, with a smile on his face As he smuggles constellations in his suitcase

Yeah this is the one.

Lyanna Stark was made for the North. She was made to race horses with Brandon and cross swords with Benjen and pick blue winter roses from the glass gardens for her lord father. She wasn’t made to wear silken gowns in the chafing southron heat as a prize for stupid Robert Baratheon. She wasn’t made to be a queen.

Tears stung her eyes. That made her angry, so she swiped them away before they could fall. She was five-and-ten and flowered now, a woman grown. Too old to cry. Above her, the ancient gaze of the weirwood seemed to strip her bare, its long bone-white face cold with contempt even as its eyes wept rivulets of blood. Even the gods thought her too old to cry. I should pray, Lyanna thought suddenly. She went to her knees, clasping her hands together beneath her chin.

Help me, you old gods, she prayed silently. Don’t let me marry Robert with his wandering eye and his bastard in the Vale. Dearest Ned says that he loves me, that he is a good man and true, but he is blinded by his own love for his friend. He does not see Robert for what he is. I do not want him. I do not want to be a pawn in my father’s southron ambitions. I do not want to be queen. Please, old gods, let me be free.

Was that enough? Did the old gods hear her? Carefully, Lyanna cracked one eye open and peered up through her lashes. Only the same twisted face of dried red sap glared back at her, unchanged in its hateful ugliness. She chewed her lip uncertainly. If only they could give her a sign. Perhaps I should close my eyes again. She squeezed them shut even more tightly, but all Lyanna could hear was the wind, blowing a soft shivery sigh through the rustling oak trees. And… and something else.

Footsteps. A pair of them, crunching on the dead red leaves. People were coming.

Lyanna’s eyes flew open as panic seized her throat in its terrible cold fist. There was no time to hide. She grabbed for the nearest weapon—an old rotting tree branch—and whirled.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

A snippet from A Crown of False Spring on AO3. My take on the Harrenhal Conspiracy, which theorizes that the STAB Alliance was plotting to use Rhaegar's Harrenhal council to depose of the Targaryens and put Robert on the throne.

Lots of Arya references.

Older Edric & Arya 

He’s asking for a dance and she’s asking to spar 🥰!

Cat of the Canals/Arya in Braavos

Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, brewers and bakers and beggars and whores.

A Basket of Ribbons - Guillaume Charles Brun (1869)

And here’s Arya and her little lip chew

— Maya Angelou, Letter to My Daughter

"Eons seemed to come and go. The sounds grew louder. She heard more laughter, a shouted command, splashing as they crossed and recrossed the little stream. A horse snorted. A man swore.

And then at last she saw him ... only for an instant, framed between the branches of the trees as she looked down at the valley floor, yet she knew it was him. Even at a distance, Ser Jaime Lannister was unmis-takable. The moonlight had silvered his armor and the gold of his hair, and turned his crimson cloak to black. He was not wearing a helm."-AGOT -Catelyn X

I've finished it 😊It took me eons...The Battle of The Whispering Wood

Lady Stoneheart and the Little Night Wolf

Inspired by @agentrouka-blog’s thoughts of Arya and Catelyn potentially reuniting in the books. <3

"How did you get through the Wall?" Jojen demanded as Sam struggled to his feet. "Does the well lead to an underground river, is that where you came from?

You're not even wet ..."

"There's a gate," said fat Sam. "A hidden gate, as old as the Wall itself. The Black Gate, he called it."

The Reeds exchanged a look. "We'll find this gate at the bottom of the well?" asked Jojen.

Sam shook his head. "You won't. I have

to take you."

"Why?" Meera demanded. "If there's a gate ...

"You won't find it. If you did it wouldn't open. Not for you. It's the Black Gate." Sam plucked at the faded black wool of his sleeve. "Only a man of the Night's Watch can open it, he said. A Sworn Brother who has said his words."

"He said." Jojen frowned. "This ….. Cold-hands?"-ASOS -Bran IV

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.