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2024-02-22
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2024-05-12
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so dawn goes to day (— nothing gold can stay)

Summary:

Sansa closes her eyes, and moves to the centre of the mirror. She knows that something has changed. Her eyes open to a babe, barely a child, golden curls and emerald eyes. She knows this face, knows that edge of the cheekbones unhindered by girlhood, the slant of those cold, cold eyes, and the blinding beauty that never faded years down the line, even bound in shackles.
She knows – will always recognize the face of Cersei Lannister.
By the old gods, why?

 Alternatively,
Sansa Stark finds herself in the body of a baby Cersei Lannister. Adjustment remains a work in progress.

Tentative hiatus

Notes:

  • Inspired by [Restricted Work] by (Log in to access.)

hi! it's isaac here!! hope you like the story
come talk to me, scream at me on my tumblr(s):
1) yitzvah, where i reblog and create aesthetics to all my stories,
or
2)fandom-trash-goblin, where i scream about various fandoms i'm in, and also make webweaves (i'll be honoured to take requests, i think i'm pretty good at them!!)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: what is it about starks that death doesn't stick?

Summary:

She should have remembered that no one is kind, and people with too much power – with power to turn time and unravel should not be refused lightly.

IN which sansa stark is tired and would like to leave, please and thank you.

Notes:

Hi!! (main notes at the end)
so champions_of_the_just (thanks!) pointed out that i should warn for a few things. it's very mild according to me, tbh i didn't even notice but yep anyways

Chapter Warnings

there's mention of character death- sansa stark- because you're reading a reincarnation story. also mentions of self harm in a panic starting at:

"What she sees horrifies her."

Hope you enjoy this!!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Her last sight is a circle of weirwoods, weeping tears of blood and sorrow, the winds of winter whistling unsung, forgotten melodies. While the world is a ruin, and her family ashes in the wind, and even as blood turns to ice in her veins, she can be content in fading away on the soil of a piece of her home, of her gods.

This is how Sansa Stark dies.

 

 

When Old Nan said Stark’s had magic in their blood, well, she really, really wasn’t lying. The Old Gods may be the cruelest of all, yes, but they also looked after their kin, their own.

Think, what were Starks, if not the children of the nameless, careless, cruel gods? 

 

 

From somewhere, someone kind asked, would you like to go back? Your body appears salvageable, child. You could save everyone.

No, thank you , she says, please, she’s had enough .

She should have remembered that no one is kind, and people with too much power – with power to turn time and unravel should not be refused lightly.

 

 

She wakes up in a room of gold, sunlight and reflecting, and consequently, a body of gold – which did not belong to her. 

She does the only thing reasonable to her, she goes back to sleep.

(Are you expecting her to scream? Do you think she has not yet learned her lessons? A traitor’s daughter, an enemy’s child bride, a butcher's wife, all these masks, all these deceptions had taught her just one thing – until you know how to be safe, keep your head down , and lie as though your life depends on it, because it does .)

And that is how Sansa Stark lives

 

 

-- this is the only way, Sansa, you have to do this. No one else can, no one else knows her as well as you, do, not even [------]. We have no other choice, the dead march on, and we have already lost, sister. We will die soon, but you will live again, sister. You must.

 

She wakes up again, in the same room, the sunlight illuminating the gold that covered every inch of the chamber she was held in. It is not her own self that wakes her, but the incessant rapping of the door-knocker.

“Open the door, niece, or I will have the guards break it. I give you an hour to present yourself in the grand hall.”

Sansa has far too many questions. Some of them happen to be:

Who dared to call her niece? Uncle Edmure and Benjen were long dead, and ignoring the fact Aunt Lysa was also dead , she has never in her entire life acknowledged Sansa as her niece.

What grand hall? Winterfell had been lost, collapsed long, long ago, they lived on the very edge of Harrenhal right now.

Where is Bran and Jaime? Has she been taken yet again? What for – the Stark name and blood is worth little these days, when everyone struggles to survive the ice and the others one more day. 

She’s not at Harrenhal, or Winterfell, or somewhere she recognizes. The very last thing she remembers are the weirwoods, the true ones, with crimson leaves and bloody tears dripping from carved faces of nameless spirits, remembers the Isle. So, where is she?

She’s not even in her own body. This one is entirely too short, and too proportionate. Sansa had been a parchment since the very beginning, never mind after starving for months – then she had been a twig. 

Something is very, very wrong here. 

She moves towards the mirror, taking time to her hands over the silver carving decorated with rubies and emeralds. The working is finer than anything she has seen before – even her mother’s. She recalls the mirror in Catelyn Stark’s chamber even now, even as she has forgotten the details of her face. She had spent hours with her mother, styling her hair into southern styles and dreaming of a valiant knight prince sweeping her off her feet. It too, had been silver, clear even as chipped as it was, brought as a keepsake from Riverrun. 

Passed down from Alys Blackwood to Minisa Whent to Catelyn Tully to Sansa Stark – a legacy of women, not a lordship or land or soldiers, just a mirror of truth, a lady’s inheritance. The mirror had been shattered when they retook the lands from Bolton, and with it her mother’s memory.

Sansa closes her eyes, and moves to the centre of the mirror. She knows that something has changed. Her eyes open to a babe, barely a child, golden curls and emerald eyes. She knows the face, knows that hollow of the cheekbones, the slant of those cold, cold eyes, and the blinding beauty that never faded years down the line, even bound in shackles.

She knows – will always recognize the face of Cersei Lannister.

By the old gods, why ?

 

 

Genna can feel Casterly Rock falter. Joanna has been the heart and soul of not only her brother Tywin, but of the Rock, their beloved lady – the light of west. It is as though she can still hear her good-sisters screams of anguish and pain echoing in the halls, her laughter fading away.

She can feel Tywin shatter. Sees the tiny spark of life in his eyes extinguish with his love’s demise. 

Genna is worried about Tywin, but her brother is a grown man. His children, but they are mere babes, and losing their mother would be a horrible tragedy for them, leaving them disoriented and in her niece’s account – angry.

Cersei’s chamber had been barred shut, a tiny lass of five managing to close the enormous doors. And despite her cajoling and strict words, her niece refuses to come out, angry and upset and entirely too silent in her denial for her not to worry. 

(She cannot help but think that if it were Joanna in her place, Cersei would have never wanted to disobey her mother.)

She has the guards push through the doors, hoping to Cersei just asleep after her exhausting herself, grief-stricken. 

What she sees horrifies her.

Genna looks around her niece’s chamber, despairing of the shards of glass and porcelain that cover the marble floor, looks at the curtains and sheets torn to ribbons, and worst of all, Cersei kneeling of the ground, her dress shredded, her curls unbound and uneven, her hands and arms cut with the glass shards embedded in the wounds, bloody and silent and unresponsive. 

The guard runs for the maester, while all she can do is stare in terrified silence.

What have you done, child?

 





Notes:

good? bad? utterly horrifying? makes you want to read more?? any suggestions?????????? kudos?? comments ??
here's a heart from me
/)/)
( . .)
( づ♡

Chapter 2: apparently it's also Lannisters that death doesn't stick to. what the fuck did you do, bran?

Summary:

Because the girl sitting with her back to him, her artful grace visible even as she just turns pages—

That girl is an imposter.

a little outsider pov, and also a little tlc (version: painfully awkward) as the time travel tag comes into play a little differently.

Notes:

First off, all those who are directly coming from the first chapter--

A)come talk to me, scream at me on my tumblr(s):
1) yitzvah, where i reblog and create aesthetics to all my stories,
or
2)fandom-trash-goblin, where i scream about various fandoms i'm in, and also make webweaves (i'll be honoured to take requests, i think i'm pretty good at them!!)

B) i changed one tiny thing. it's that instead of Bran and Brienne remaining with Sansa in the end, it's Bran and Jaime. it's highly relevant, i don't know why i wrote otherwise.

Chapter Warnings (nothing bad, but be aware i'll be spoiling the chapter soo.. your choice)

all those, ye who enter, be warned

1) It contains Outsider POV, specifically Maester Creylen, so we see canon-typical misogynistic overtones coming into play
2) Mentions of digging your fingers in your palm- which might count as mild self-harm, so warning you here. it's not minor, tbh, it's a wholeass plot point, but only for this chapter, promise.
3) we see time travel tag come into play for another guy, and yeah this was planned because i could genuinely see no other way. all i can say is the Tywin Lannister might get everything he wants in all the wrong ways.
4) Feel free to tell me if i should add anything, of course

onwards, ho!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Jaime comes to life in a daze, in a dream. It’s his childhood room he sees— how he’d forgotten it, his room before mother died. Then he’d been moved to the heir’s chambers, besides his fathers, Cersei besides his aunt’s.

Everything looks real— he digs his nails in his palms— everything feels real. He has his hands, both of them again. It doesn’t even feel unnatural, too, as though his arm getting cut of was just a poor dream, a very vivid nightmare.

Is this what gods call a joke? Would Mama glide through his room any time now, calling at him, running her fingers thought his hair? Or would it be Cersei, wrenching at his arms to wake him up, cajoling and threatening him to take her place in her lessons so she’d be allowed to the training yard? 

He eyes his clothes again— why does this seem so familiar, so important? It was unexpectedly violet, strung with cloth of gold, he’d rarely worn violet, except when it was something important, he smelt copper, there was blood on his sleeve—

Mama had been screaming so loudly, and Cersei’s grip hurt. Father was pacing the foyer but then the Maester had called him in. He’d looked grim and afraid, and Jaime was—

The screams had petered out into silence. Everything is too still, for a moment, and Jaime was really scared, now. He sees Father coming out, and runs to him . Jaime knows he mustn’t run, but he’d say sorry to Mama later, and moves to ask his father, what happened, is mama alright— except he is torn away and moved roughly to the side, stunned. Cersei was crying and there was a handprint bloody on his sleeve, and Father was leaving—

He remembers that Tywin Lannister never looked back that day. It was his most vivid memory for so long, the way Father was a monolith, a stern statue that didn’t even bother to tell his children, his oh-so-vaunted legacy that they’d lost their mother. He remembers realising that Tywin Lannister might be the most selfish man he’d ever known.

And now he was back in the past, unable to save his mother, and prevent the beginning of what would lead to the world dead.

 

 

The maids whisper among themselves that his sweet niece has gone mad, and Gerion thinks to joke, oh, Cersei, she’d been raving as a dragon already. Thinks, because even he has a basic sense of preservation. Also, there’d been nothing to joke about this—

This, being the utter clusterfuck that was the Rock, at the present. The Seven bless her, his sister-in-law had been a mighty bitch but— but, she had never been so dearly missed, with his niece turning her murderous intent onto herself, Tywin shutting himself in his solar, and his littler nephew being abandoned like an unwanted fifth daughter for being a dwarf. Add to this the fact that Loreza-fucking-Martell had decided to grace their doorsteps when the entirety of Westerlands had been ordered into mourning, Gerion knows without fail that shit is going down.

 

 

Maester Creylen doesn’t believe in magic. Unlike his predecessor, to be sure, but the poor man had attended the late Lady Joanna for the duration of her confinement and for the childbirth that saw her dead and her son disfigured. He’d been dismissed for his incompetency, and an accident had befallen the damned soul— some bandits that left him in pieces. Regardless, the mystic and the magic, in his humble opinion, is utter nonsense, and only for the belief of fools and the desperate, of which he is neither.

He doesn’t believe in magic— but if he had, he’d have called the little lady Lannister in front of him possessed. There is no other word for it, truly, even as he knows not the lass, what he has heard of her does not match what he sees. Far from it, he had heard that Cersei Lannister was a fussy little stubborn girl, with pride to match her father’s. Prone to tantrums, and hitting maids and smashing precious porcelain vases— certainly not what he could see, a self-contained, disciplined lass any septa could be proud of, with a guileless sweetness no one could help but dote on.

If he hadn’t seen the cuts upon her skin, covering her palms and arms, he’d have hesitated to call her Cersei Lannister at all, but alas, she’d been scarred, thankfully not on her face. It wouldn’t have mattered too much, of course, no daughter of The Hand could ever be disfigured enough to be spurned in marriage, but it would have been a pity. Perhaps, yet, Tywin Lannister might have to let go of his royal aspirations.

She was of a better mind now, of course, and he hadn’t forgotten young Jaime Lannister could be allowed to see his sister, as he had been begging to since the past few days. He’d even resorted to tears, the poor boy, so desperate he even forgot to be the Lannister heir. The hand was lucky, to have children that loved each other so, because he’s often seen and read about jealousy between siblings lead to the downfall of a generation— why, you’d only have to remember King Aegon, and his half-sister, and the Blackfyre rebellions. History was ripe with examples.

Now, he estimates it to be about the time to check on— Tyrion Lannister, as his youngest charge had been named by his father.

 

Jaime knows something has gone out of line. Besides him, that is. Maybe Cersei has returned with him—

But he doesn’t think so.

Driven mad in grief , they tell him. He wants to laugh derisively, because even at the height of her insanity, Cersei had never done anything that would harm herself. Cutting at herself? Her pride wouldn’t allow it, he knows that. His sister, his lover had prided herself on being Tywin Lannister’s daughter too much to let herself fall apart, visibly so.

So, when he enters his sister’s rooms, and looks at her, he’s immediately suspicious. Because—

Because that isn’t Cersei. That isn’t his sister. Cersei, he remembers perfectly (how could he not?), even as a child, had a tenseness to her frame, a harsh tilt to her head, in painful attempts to imitate their titan of a father. It made her look so uptight, Gerion used to jape. She never lost it, the haughty bearing, it had only magnified with age. How he’s adored making her smirk, watch as she let go of her imperiousness as it was only him with her, and Jaime Lannister could never betray his Cersei.

(oh but he had, hadn’t even hesitated to do so, in the end)

He knows, he remembers, he recalls, how can he ever forget? Cersei, mad as she had twisted herself to be, had been his sister, his twin, his lover, his whole world. Half his soul. And now he has lost his chance already, hasn’t he?

Because the girl sitting with her back to him, her artful grace visible even as she just turns pages—

That girl is an imposter.

 

Sansa knows immediately, that she isn’t alone. It’s a remnant of an instinct, from those days where a dog named Ramsay Snow called himself her owner and jailer. She doesn’t tense in acknowledgement— Sansa has outgrown the need to showcase her awareness. Most of her “little tricks”, as Littlefinger called them, worked best when people thought she was an unaware innocent little porcelain doll.

Footsteps are light, but the woman once named Sansa Stark finds her hearing to be better. Is it an after-effect? Some sort of curse, or perhaps whatever entity that landed her here considers a blessing.

“Who are you?”

It is a child’s voice— though she should not be saying that, for she is a child herself, now— high and clear, but sharp in suspicion. She turns slowly, to see a distorted mirror image, of her current self.

Why, it is Jaime Lannister, in the flesh. With a dagger in his hand, no less. She bits back a mean laugh at the assumption that a dagger, of all asinine things, would scare her into compliance. And the she registers the question—

Fitting, Sansa thinks. Fitting for the man who’d loved, nay, been obsessed with Cersei Lannister so, that he’d given up a throne, a seat full of riches, and any semblance or presumption for respect, to recognize that she inhabited her body no more. Now, how to play this— for the Jaime she had known had perhaps been the last man besides Bran to die. Just after her, she presumes.

She’d have come to know that Jaime Lannister, the way his mind worked. The devastation that had painted him when Cersei had been declared dead in a wildfire blast, the death wish that had overcome him when Brienne died. It had been only at Bran’s demand, at his last chance of honour’s request that he’d not catapulted into a suicide mission to kill the Other King or die in attempts to do so. She’d come to admire that Jaime Lannister, atleast a little, atleast his utterly ridiculous fixation on debts to be paid combined simultaneously with the humorous insistence that he was the worst Lannister to ever exist. As though the two statements could co-exist.

Nevertheless, how to proceed. Hmm. Denial it was— even as she was sure it would only enrage the boy in front of him. Maybe they could be the mad Lannister twins together, sequestered away from the clusterfuck that would be hitting them in a decade.

“Jaime, what are you talking about?”

Nevermind. That probably was something Cersei Lannister had never sounded like. She was all out of sorts, wasn’t she? Foolish girl, once more she was. She didn’t even have a hairpin to act as a makeshift weapon, they’d taken everything even remotely sharp. Not for the first time, she regrets her utter stupidity and lapse in thinking. Fingers digging in her (not hers) palm, she promises to herself, never again.

 

 

Jaime feels himself get angry— crack. Cersei had never sounded like that. Never. With a child’s grasp on anger and patience, he feels his sanity and caution slip away. He lurches forward, to hold the dagger dangerously close to the imposter’s throat. He could slit it, so easily. But. Then what? He couldn’t leave. Even if he could, he’d end up dead in days, or worse, captured again. Then he’d be the madman, Tywin Lannister’s other shame.

Ruefully, he thinks, that Sansa Stark had succeeded in her quest to make him consider his action. She’d be clenching her fist, to supress the utter smugness and I told you so that would threaten her ice queen façade.

A movement catches his eye— clenching her fist— Sansa Stark—

Oh. It made sense, didn’t it. They’d been the last of left, besides whatever creature Bran Stark was. He was grasping at air, but what if—

“Sansa?”

 She jolts into surprise.

 

 

“Jaime?”

The dagger falls on her lap, and bounces to the floor.

Clink .

“Sansa Stark? But how—”

Oh , thank the old gods, whoever it was listening. She wasn’t fucking alone, the only person who could have hindered her wouldn’t and she just wasn’t alone, the only person who had seen the end of the fucking world—

She feels tears well up and doesn’t even try to stop them because, she wasn’t alone! Not again! Maybe even Bran had returned— maybe they could save everyone, they could.

The— hug would be the closest rendering, but she isn’t going to pretend that affection doesn’t shake her— the tight clasp takes her by surprise, yet again.

“Gods, please don’t cry… ssh… there, there. I’m right here, I’m from the future too. You are Sansa, right? Because if you were Brandon Stark with his emotions returned, this would be… uh…”

Sansa Stark can’t stop the teary, painfully relieved laugh that bubbles up, but she isn’t sure if she even wants to.

 

Notes:

thoughts? surprises- good or bad?
also, this chapter is exactly 2000 words. i think i nailed it. And sorry to those who i didn't reply to yet, on the last chapter. i'll be right there, give me some time!

Chapter 3: prophecies change faces like them bravosi killer assasins. in other news, people grieve.

Summary:

The name of the hand’s daughter, the one who tried to kill herself. He doesn’t understand. Does that mean danger has disappeared? That those dark beings will kill the world no more? He doesn’t understand.

a mother, a titan, and a prophecy chained prince

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Mai, you should sleep.”

Mai hums in reply, but doesn’t turn to leave to her cabin, watching the sunset with a quiet air of tragedy. Lady Joanna had been the sun in her mother’s stories, luminous in her charm, blinding in her cleverness and ambition. Elia has always aspired to be like her, the woman who’d been the star of all her childhood stories, had wanted to at least meet her, the spectre haunting her mother like nothing, not even her father ever had, except perhaps the death of Mors and Olyvar, brothers she’d never met.

She’d never seen her mother like this— this defeated, for the lack of a better word, even with her shoulders weighed down with the worth of a kingdom and thousands lives, even when Baba died so suddenly the past year. Her mother looked like she’d gained decades in two weeks since they’d set sail from Oldtown, tired, heavy eyes.

Elia remembers Baba telling her, how Lady Joanna has been Mai’s child in all but name, when she was a great lady at court. Mai had left ten-year old Doran with Ajoba at Sunspear’s court, and soon taken to Lady Joanna, and the Queen, who’d been about a decade old themselves. She’d always wanted a daughter to dote on, her Mai, and had been incandescently happy when Elia herself had been borne, sickly but alive.

Little miracle, Baba had named her, fondness colouring all his words, and suddenly she feels a sharp spike of breathlessness, missing her father with the ferocity of a thousand suns.

She breaks out of her thoughts, as the sky turns the shade of a crimson-violet she’d only ever seen in paintings and dyed cloth. Westerlands, she thinks, must be beautiful. That does not stop her from missing home.

 

 

Tywin has all but prepared to move his household back to the Red Keep, when the pageboy comes running with the raven that Loreza Martell has set sail from Oldtown to Westerlands, despite the mourning proclamations.

There, Tywin thinks, your beloved Princess of Dorne has come, intent on ruining my plans once more.

He waits, for a remark amusing enough to make him smirk, for a laugh shrill in its beauty. He waits, like a fool resembling his father, and finds himself bereft.

Joanna is dead.

His wife is dead. Joanna Lannister, mightiest of all Lannister women, dead in childbed. Out of habit her turn to look at the portrait of Joanna that had stood fixed to the walls since he took over the lord’s solar, and there is no painting to be seen. He’d had it took down a week after the little beast’s birth, anger ravaging his mind.

The monster, and his hands flex in desire to throttle his little neck. Tywin would see him dead, had nearly done so, when Jaime had clutched at his doublet and pleaded at him. All Tywin could say was, Lannisters do not beg, and turn tail like a coward.

Kevan and Genna has argued against him, in their arrogance, but had said a few truths he himself had been avoiding. His children were behaving strangely, from Jaime becoming suddenly proficient in learning he had run from before, to Cersei having all but killed herself, deliberately or not. Genna had dared to shout at him, look at them, Tywin. You don’t know your children. Seven years old, and you could not say a word about what your daughter learns, or what your heir likes. Look at them, brother. They’re the last of what’s left of your wife, and if you’re not careful, they’ll end up the same way.

His sister had found herself banished to the twins with her useless husband for her overstepping, but she’d left him rattled. And now the Dornish princess had presumed to find herself at his doorstep, with half the court of Sunspear, and Aerys had found his amusements in mocking him, and House Lannister for his mother-killer, dwarf monster of a son, and had told him to find himself at court within four moons or loose the hand’s seat.

What should I do, love?

The quiet, empty solar gives him no answer.

 

 

He turns the jar of water to wet a cloth, and wipes away the blood on his lips and chin, hands trembling is something worse than fear. Rhaegar had woken up, sweating, bleeding through his nose, and murmuring something he could barely remember, the haze of his sleep chasing away all thoughts.

The dream had changed. Snow had disappeared, from it, and so had the face he’d been familiar with, since as long as he could remember. He feels the ground beneath him shift in ways that would have him called madder than Aerion Brightflame, should he say it out loud. The new dream had been hopeful, for the lack of words, a woman’s, his woman’s bright tinkling laughter, a babe’s mirth, and a song on a harp.  

Sansa had always been the name on his lips, a northern name, the reason why he’d sought to look to the Starks of Winterfell, to the wall, for the saviour, and the great darkness. Brandon the Builder’s only daughter had been named Sansa, and she’d disappeared in the annals of history, as far as he could find. Unremarkable, unremembered.

Rhaegar had thought, perhaps, one of his daughters might be named Sansa, should he marry the Stark daughter, and his daughter in turn marry the heir to Winterfell, name it fulfillment of a promise and a pact long begrudged, but it wasn’t quite right. But it mattered not now, now it had changed.

He no longer said Sansa. Rhaegar remembered saying something else, saying—

Cersei.

The name of the hand’s daughter, the one who tried to kill herself. He doesn’t understand. Does that mean danger has disappeared? That those dark beings will kill the world no more? He doesn’t understand, and it makes him—

Afraid.

It seems his mother must invite her dearest friend’s daughter, to console her. And he must find out what went wrong, and what is so special about a child who'd turned the blade against herself.

Notes:

For Elia, i've used Marathi terms, sort of.
Mai-> twisting of the word Aai, which means mom in marathi,
Baba-> literally father in marathi, and tonnes of other languages.
Ajoba-> Grandfather.

I've got a rough timeline for changes i made to make the story fit. most important of them are Elia isn't older than Rhaegar, but an year younger, and Jaime and Cersei are born in early 265 rather than 266. it's under the cut if anyone's interested.

Revised Timeline

242->Tywin Lannister born
243->Aerys Targaryen born
245-> Rhaella Targaryen born, Steffon Baratheon born
246-> Joanna Lannister born
247-> Doran Martell born
258 late-> Joanna Lannister goes to court.
257->Loreza Martell goes to King’s court
Mid 259-> Rhaegar born, Tragedy of Summerhall.
Late 259-> Loreza Martell leaves for Elia, Oberyn’s birth, dealing with monarch change, and preparing for Blackfyre rebellions.
260->Elia Martell born
261-> Oberyn Martell is born.
262 late-> King Jaehaerys II dies, Aerys comes to throne, names Tywin his hand.
263 early-> Loreza goes to court at King’s Landing, fealty oaths, attends Joanna’s marriage.
263-> Tywin marries Joanna (Joanna aged 17, Tywin aged 21)
Mid 264-> Joanna leaves court to go into confinement.
Early 265-> Jaime and Cersei are born.
266-> Loreza leaves court, her father dies, gets sworn in as Princess of Dorne.
270-> Aerys visits Dorne.
273-> Joanna dies. Tyrion is born.

do let me know if i should add any warnings. i think Rhaegar comes off as creepy-mystic enough. i sort of like him though, the character archetype. i see your comments, all of you, thanks for commenting! i'll start replying to them soon, perhaps even immediately if my yawning doesn't unhinge my jaw.

As always, leave me your thoughts and ideas, all of them are lovely to hear!

Notes:

shaking my hat, kudos and comments, anyone?
come talk to me, scream at me, send asks anything on my tumblr(s):
1) yitzvah, where i reblog and create aesthetics to all my stories,
or
2)fandom-trash-goblin, where i scream about various fandoms i'm in, and also make webweaves (i'll be honoured to take requests, i think i'm pretty good at them!!)