Mac Miller
Mac Miller
More Posts from Lucennia and Others
Older Edric & Arya
He’s asking for a dance and she’s asking to spar 🥰!
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.
"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
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lucennia reblogged this · 5 months ago
