She had no time for sleep, with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. And she feared to dream. Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night. She would sooner sit bathed in the ruddy glow of her red lord’s blessed flames, her cheeks flushed by the wash of heat as if by a lover’s kisses. Some nights she drowsed, but never for more than an hour. One day, Melisandre prayed, she would not sleep at all. One day she would be free of dreams. Melony, she thought. Lot Seven.
She’s made a fortune out of her disappearing act- Myrcella Baratheon, slipping away from her family’s grasp like smoke on air. Rumors have spread long and far about her whereabouts, even if none are close to the truth. But when a familiar blonde starts hanging about with a man long presumed dead, word starts to carry. Rickon Stark, a killer as deadly as those who assassinated his family. It’s an unlikely duo- the daughter of the Starks’ executioners and last remaining wolf in the North.
MODERN AU - Booze, crime and motorcycles. The Lannisters, a very dangerous family.
asoiaf headcanon: the words of house blackwood