Missandei had always respected your quiet strength. You weren’t a fighter by any means, but you stood up for your ideas and opinions, even when more unsavory characters would bully you into silence. The idea of any woman, especially a former slave, voicing her opinion was threatening to them, and though Khaleesi had repeatedly encouraged you to raise your voice, you were often found in the back of the room, listening and speaking only when asked.
It was a habit she was trying to free you of.
“You’re not a slave anymore, Y/N. You can say whatever you want to. You’re intelligent and wise,” she caressed your cheek, nudging you into meeting her eyes. “Speak your mind.”
“I love you.” You responded, heart soaring at a million miles a minute, cheeks flushed with the warmth of young love. “Can I say that?”
Missandei pulled you quickly into a soft and extended kiss, her thumbs tracing circles on your jaw. “Especially that.”
Anonymous requested: “Could you write a ned Stark x reader imagine? One in which Catelyn dies and Ned reluctantly marries one of his bannermen s daughter, who hasn’t married yet because she cannot have children (they somehow know that)”
warnings: mentions of past character death, misogynistic view of women’s worth, the agonizing beginning of a slow burn
{While on my writing spree, I figured three fics in one day was too much, even for me. If you like this, shoot me an ask! Your excitement feeds mine, lets keep this pace going!}
Ned Stark had never expected to marry again. After he’d married and buried Catelyn, the love of his life, he intended to raise their children and expire, to be buried alongside her, and the thought of this was his only comfort on lonely nights. A year passed, and then another, and the wound began to slowly stitch itself shut, Winterfell returning to some semblance of normal as the grief gave way for distant pain.
They hadn’t forgotten her, by any means, but for the sake of maintaining their lives, they learned to function without her.
The patriarch of another northern family had come to visit, bringing his own share of woes to explain to Ned in great detail over a great deal of wine.
Robb’s back was resting against the lip of your bathtub, wringing his hands to keep from grabbing the small piece of plastic that determined whether or not you were starting a family together.
You were sitting on top of the toilet seat, resting your chin on your fist and rocking back and forth on your heels. The waiting was undoubtedly the worst part.
His phone chimed with a small rhythmic alarm, and his hand flew for the pregnancy test, but stopped just short. He glanced up at you with a nervous smile. “Do you want to look?”
Licking your lips, you reached down to grab the test, and glanced at the indicator, processing the positive result displayed on the small white screen. You glanced up at Robb, your eyes beginning to water, as you quietly remarked: “I think I’m pregnant.”
Robb felt a burst of elation in his chest, and he quickly pulled you to your feet and into his arms, engulfing you in an embrace. The moment was too perfect for words, but he buried his nose in your hair, and held you close, the way he intended to for the rest of his life.
Margaery was lounging across the foot of your bed, her hand in yours as she listened to your tale of romance, the way she always had. She knew you were a little boy crazy, and that the knights at court were a common target of your affection, but this one in particular had been a crush of yours for the past few weeks.
“And he was looking into my eyes and told me how pretty he thought I was, and I-” Your lip quivered a little, and you pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders. “So, I kissed him.”
Margaery was sympathetic to your lovers, knowing that most times your interest in these boys was fleeting at best, and that once you’d kissed them, you seldom looked back, for fear of your father or your brother finding out. “Are you going to see him again?”
You met her eyes, and with a small smile, you replied: “I am. Tonight. We’re meeting in the garden.”
She smiled in response. “Alright. What sort of distraction is needed for your caper?”
With Margaery’s help, you believed the rest of the family would hardly notice you missing.
Your feud with your older brother was well known within the Tyrell family, being twins, you two were often at each other’s throats, arguing and bickering over even the smallest things.
Today, your argument was slightly more private, tucked into the corner of a dancing hall, whispered over glasses of wine. A Dornish noble had come to visit Highgarden, igniting your row over who was to court him first.
“-he’s coming over this way, Y/N, you should fall into his arms again to catch his attention, I’m sure it’ll work this time.” Loras snipped over the rim of his glass, a pleasant smile already in place as the handsome visitor approached.
“Choke and die, Loras.” You responded, your own smile similar to his as you greeted the Dornishman, already vying to gain his favor.
The Unsullied were notoriously stoic, even in the face of great adversity. You’d never seen one cry out in pain, even with blades piercing their flesh, in the heat of battle, they remained composed.
So, as Grey Worm entered your chambers early this morning, you were surprised to seem him bruised and battered, like he’d been in a fist fight only moments ago. “You look like you’ve been through hell.” You remarked, dampening a rag and beginning to clean his face. “Did you at least win the fight?”
“I did.” He replied, his eyes on you, admiring the precise way you tended to his wounds.
“I hope it was worth the bruises.” You teased, with a tiny grin, gently prodding his busted lip.
“It was.” Even in the aftermath, fighting that Dothraki man for disrespecting you would always be the right decision, even if you’d never know it.
You looked up at her from the ground, panting, forehead slicked with sweat, feeling the aching and burning of your muscles as Brienne smiled and turned away, ending your lessons in combat as normal, with you lying on your back, wiped out.
“Better luck tomorrow, Lady Y/N.”
“I bet I could beat you, if I really tried.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Should we give it another go, then?”
After considering the bruises you were already going to sport tomorrow, you reconsidered. “On second thought, I’ll give you a pass for today.”
Anoymous requested: Can you make a young!tywin lannister x reader where he they meet and fall in love and have sex before the wedding?
warning: brief smut
{I’m on good streak of writing, and since I publish when I finish editing, I’ve been going back to fulfill some of my older requests, and this one caught my interest. Enjoy this energy while it lasts! This is a little break from Robb, hope you guys enjoy!}
Tywin was a rational man. He thought out each step before he made it, each word before he said it, even a sideways glance was calculated and measured to an almost scientific degree. He’d been schooled in the importance of sound decision making, the importance of securing a suitable wife who’s name was as good as her looks. He’d assumed that the wives’ tales of love at first sight were only fables for girls who dreamed of being princesses, and that he would learn to love whoever his family picked for him.
He’d first seen you in the gardens at Casterly Rock, a few days before a tourney, cooing and extending a gentle hand to coax a dove onto your finger, your attention singularly focused on your task.
He smiled a little as he watched you tempt the bird with promises of seed from the kitchens, and laughed as the bird took flight, a string of muttered curses following it into the sky. “You’d do better with a net than your hand.”
{This is one of my favorite series to write at the moment, and since I’m flowing with inspiration at the moment, here’s part three.}
You could feel the tangle of his limbs with yours, and a slight nausea tickling the back of your throat as you rested in the shadow of your ‘reunion’.
Robb had proven a more than able lover, no different than the last time you’d laid together. His arms were snug around your waist as he kissed up your shoulder.
You felt unnerved at how easily he’d grown to trust you, forgetting weeks of torment and misery the moment you’d implied that you had any meaning behind your actions. It was easy being married to him, as easy as breathing, because he so badly wanted you to harmonize with him, he bent over backwards to achieve his intended bliss. In the afterglow, you had difficulty finding your words, but he was quicker to recover.
{As I was sifting through the mountain of requests that remain, I realized I’d hit a string of Robbs, so apologies if my blog seems a little Robb-centric as I finish up some older requests. The sequel to this has been long requested, so here it is!}
The indifference between the King and Queen of the North was palatable, and uncomfortable for all other parties involved in their extended lover’s spat. He treated you as a token of your father’s loyalty, one that even his tender heart exploited. You publicly questioned his decisions and ability as a leader, which was equally as damaging to his reputation.
The most recent example of this proverbial winter was a meeting of banner-men, during which, you were asked to leave, a first since your union months ago.
You lifted a brow and glanced briefly towards the men watching your reaction, including your father, and back to Robb. “What are you doing?”
He barely looked up from his maps, his posture stiff and unflinching. “I asked you to leave, Y/N. You have no business in our military proceedings.”
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