Author here ~ So, I can of mine asked that Lyanna be included in MC's harem, which I was going to do anyway BUT, I don't know like the actress who played her role in the show, she looks like a child so drop a pick for your chosen heroine.
Though keep in mind that Lyanna looked very similar to Arya according to book discription, a beauty for whom a dynasty fell so even though that plot is a bit far, if I don't get a satisfactory pic till then then Lyanna 's image would be same as Arya's actress though Arya might end up dying because of it later on, just because ~ I cannn.
[Drop the pic of your choice here.]
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The sun rose slowly over Evergrace, casting a warm golden glow over the white marble walls and gilded spires of the city. The Winter Festival had finally come to an end, and the air still carried the faint echoes of laughter, music, and celebration. The streets were quieter now, but there was still a hum of activity as servants hurried about, packing belongings and preparing horses and carriages for the long journeys ahead. The scent of freshly baked bread and spiced meat drifted through the courtyards, mixing with the cool morning breeze.
Inside the Great Hall, the lords and ladies of the North gathered for one final meal before their departure. The long wooden tables were still heavy with food — warm pastries, honeyed oats, smoked fish, and fruits from the far south — but the mood was more subdued than it had been during the festival. Conversations were quieter, and every now and then, someone's eyes would drift toward the high table, where Alaric Noir sat with calm, unreadable ease.
The memory of the previous night's events still lingered. The sight of the assassin lunging at Alaric, only to be stopped in the blink of an eye, was burned into their minds. And the way Alaric had dealt with the man — with almost casual ease — had left them all uneasy. No one had forgotten how easily he had snapped the assassin's wrist like it was a twig, how his silver eyes hadn't even flickered with fear or surprise.
Alaric sat at the head of the room, his presence impossible to ignore. Even when seated, he commanded attention. His long, pale hair fell loosely over his shoulders, and his silver eyes swept over the room with cool authority. He wore the black and red colors of his house — simple, elegant, and somehow more intimidating than any crown.
When the last of the breakfast dishes were cleared away and the servants began preparing the hall for the final farewells, Alaric rose to his feet. The room fell silent almost immediately. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, and every pair of eyes turned toward him.
Alaric: "My lords and ladies, before you depart, there is something I must address."
His voice was calm and steady, but it carried easily through the hall, filling every corner without effort.
Alaric: "As all of you here are aware, a little accident happened at yesterday's feast."
There were whispers at that — quiet murmurs of fear and curiosity. Little accident. That was one way to describe an assassination attempt.
Alaric: "I just want to tell you all that the man who tried to take my life was no common sellsword. He was an assassin from the Sorrowful Men."
The name alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through the hall. The Sorrowful Men were a feared and deadly order from the Free Cities — an elite group of killers known for their strange custom of apologizing to their victims before they struck. Few in Westeros had ever encountered them, but their reputation preceded them.
Alaric: "More troubling than the assassin himself is the question of who sent him. The man was commissioned by the Magisters of Myr."
Gasps broke out across the room. Myr? A Free City so far across the Narrow Sea — what possible reason could they have to send an assassin after Alaric Noir?
Alaric: "As for their motive… that remains unclear to me. I have no quarrel with Myr, nor any dealings with their Magisters. And yet they sent a man into my home, during a feast attended by the most powerful lords and ladies of the North, in an attempt to take my life."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall.
Alaric: "I just thought I should let you all know."
The hall remained silent long after Alaric took his seat. The implications of his words hung heavy in the air. If the Magisters of Myr were bold enough to send assassins into the North, who knew what they might do next?
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon and the lords and ladies began making their way to the gates, the tension had only grown thicker. The quiet whispers and worried glances had not stopped since breakfast, and many were eager to be on their way.
But as they approached the gates of Evergrace, their steps slowed — and then stopped altogether.
What they saw outside the city walls made their blood run cold.
An army.
Not a few hundred soldiers. Not even a few thousand. An entire host stretched across the plains, row upon row of armed men standing in perfect formation. Their armor gleamed in the fading light, and their weapons — swords, spears, and shields — were polished and ready for battle.
The banners of House Noir flew high above them — black ravens with wings outstretched against a blood-red background. The sight of them sent shivers down the spines of those who watched.
And still, the soldiers kept coming.
By the time the last of the lords reached the gates, the number had swelled beyond counting. There were at least ten thousand men — maybe more — and yet the steady stream of soldiers arriving from the roads and far-off camps hadn't stopped.
Richard Stark sat atop his horse, his face pale as he stared out at the gathering army. His younger brother Brandon sat beside him, his usual brash confidence replaced by wide-eyed shock.
Richard Stark: "What is this madness?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, but the fear in it was unmistakable.
Richard Stark: "What is he planning?"
The sight of such a force gathered in one place could mean only one thing: war. And with so many Northern lords still present, the fear that Alaric might take them all hostage — or worse — felt all too real.
Brandon Stark: "Do you think… do you think he means to take power in the North?"
Richard Stark didn't answer. He couldn't.
Before they could turn and flee, Alaric himself approached. He walked toward them with the easy grace of a man who feared nothing, his silver eyes gleaming with amusement as he surveyed the growing army behind him.
Richard Stark: "What is this, Alaric? What are you doing?"
Richard Stark POV
The wind bit cold against Richard Stark's face as he stared out over the endless sea of soldiers gathered outside Evergrace. His knuckles were white where he gripped the reins of his horse, his heart pounding in his chest. The banners of House Noir flapped in the wind—black ravens spreading their wings against a blood-red field—and they seemed more menacing than they ever had before. The sight alone would have been enough to send chills down his spine, but the sheer size of the army was what truly terrified him.
Ten thousand. No—more than that. And the soldiers were still coming. Rows upon rows of well-armed, well-armored men, standing in perfect formation, ready for war. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Not even House Stark, the wardens of the North, could muster an army this large so quickly.
Richard's throat felt dry. He glanced over at his younger brother Brandon, who looked just as stunned. The usual fire in Brandon's eyes was nowhere to be seen.
"This… this is madness," Brandon whispered. "What is he doing?"
Richard had no answer. And that terrified him more than anything.
He urged his horse forward, approaching the man at the center of all this—the man who had somehow gathered an army overnight and now stood calmly watching the growing force as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Alaric Noir.
Richard's anger and fear boiled over as he reached him. "What are you doing, Alaric?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "What's the meaning of this?"
He hated how his voice cracked at the end. He was the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North. He wasn't supposed to show fear. But how could he not be afraid? His worst nightmare was unfolding before his very eyes.
For years, rumors had swirled about House Noir—about their strength, their strange wealth, their ambitions. And now, it seemed those rumors were coming true. The only thing Richard could think of was that Alaric was making his first move to take power in the North. And why wouldn't he? After all, Lord Duskandel had already taken King Aerys hostage in his own castle. What was stopping Alaric from doing the same to the Northern lords?
Richard wasn't afraid for his own life—he'd faced death before. But he was afraid of what this could mean for House Stark. If House Noir seized power, if they claimed the North for themselves, Winterfell would fall. And worse… Richard's son was here. If this went wrong, if Alaric truly meant to take them hostage, his son's life was in danger.
Alaric turned to face him, and the warm, almost gentle smile on his face only made Richard more uneasy.
Alaric: "Worry not, my lords. You can go with peace of mind. I have no intention of taking anyone hostage."
His voice was calm, almost soothing. As if the enormous army standing behind him was nothing but a formality.
Alaric: "It's just that some people seem to have forgotten our house words. Or perhaps they were never properly aware of what those words truly mean. We are, after all, almost on the other side of the world from the Magisters of Myr. I'm simply going to give them an introduction."
Richard's blood ran cold.
Madman.
The Noirs had always been madmen. Everyone knew it. And now, with those words hanging in the air, there was no doubt left.
Without Mercy, Without Fear.
What else could those words mean but war?
Richard's anger flared. "Have your senses taken leave of you?" he shouted. "You want to declare war on a Free City? Have you forgotten that you are part of this kingdom?!"
The other lords nearby turned to listen, their faces pale and drawn with fear.
Richard: "Your actions will represent the Seven Kingdoms! If you're angry at them for sending assassins, then send assassins back! There's no need for… for this!" He gestured wildly at the endless army behind Alaric.
Alaric's face remained infuriatingly calm.
Richard: "You'll already look bad in the king's eyes for organizing this lavish feast and festival while the king himself is being held hostage in Duskandel!" Richard's voice rose, his frustration spilling over. "Your head will truly roll if you go through with this stupidity!"
It was the truth, and they both knew it. The North had never had festivals like this before. The Winter Festival was supposed to be a quiet gathering of lords, a time to discuss the food harvest and prepare for the long, harsh winters ahead. But Alaric had turned it into a spectacle—inviting not just nobles but the common folk, throwing feasts and celebrations that rivaled the grandeur of King's Landing itself. And with the king still a hostage, the extravagance would not be seen kindly.
Richard: "And even if you do go through with this insanity—how will you even get your army there? You, of all people, should know how far Myr is!"
But halfway through his rant, Richard's voice faltered. His eyes widened as they drifted toward the river—and what he saw there made his heart stop.
War galleys.
Massive ones.
Ten of them, each so large they could easily carry seven hundred men with room to spare. And behind them, a fleet of at least eighty smaller war carracks, each bristling with strange black cannons and fitted with scorpions. The sheer size and power of the fleet was staggering.
Richard stared, unable to speak. He had never seen anything like it. No one in the North had.
Alaric's voice cut through his shock.
Alaric: "Relax, Lord Stark. I know what I'm doing." His tone was light, almost playful. "These ships will carry my army across the Narrow Sea without issue. My 25,000-strong army, to be precise."
Richard's stomach twisted.
Alaric: "Though I'll only be taking 15,000 of them. That should be more than enough. The rest will stay here to protect my lands. They've been quite infested with bandits lately, you see—no matter how many we kill, more always seem to pop up. And while I've asked my neighboring lords for help…" His smile turned sharp, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "They claim to be doing something about it, but the results speak for themselves."
Richard's hands clenched at his sides. He knew what Alaric was implying.
This wasn't just about Myr.
This was a message.
To the Northern lords. To the Warden of the North himself.
House Noir was not to be trifled with.
As Richard turned his horse away, his mind raced. He needed to get back to Winterfell. He needed to prepare. Because if Alaric Noir was going to war…
The entire world would feel it
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Alaric stood on the deck of his ship, the cold wind brushing against his face and ruffling his black hair. The sky above was a blanket of dark clouds, and the scent of the sea mixed with the distant fires of the bustling camp onshore. Soldiers moved in organized lines, preparing for departure, but none of it held his attention. In his hand, he held something far more precious — a beautiful, transparent, glass-like object, smooth and cold to the touch.
With a few quick taps, the glass flickered, and then her face appeared — Elia.
The sight of her made his heart skip a beat, like it always did. Her warm, golden eyes sparkled, her smooth olive skin glowed even through the enchanted device, and the gentle curve of her lips made him want nothing more than to fly back to her right then and there.
"Hi, Alaric," her voice came through the glass, soft and sweet — a melody he would never tire of hearing.
"Hi, Elia," Alaric replied, his face breaking into a wide, cheerful smile. "So, tell me — what has the sun of my life been doing?"
Elia giggled, and the sound was like bells ringing through the stormy air. "Oh, ohhh! You won't believe how much my life has changed, thanks to you!" she said, excitement practically spilling from her. "There are so many things I couldn't even dream of doing before, and now I can! That ritual you did — it didn't just make me healthier, Alaric, it made me… unstoppable!"
Alaric leaned on the rail of the ship, watching her animated face with fondness. "Is that so?" he teased. "And what unstoppable things has my lady been up to?"
"Everything!" she said with a dramatic flourish, and then started listing them off. "I've been training every day! You know, I used to practice with knives before, but now? Now I can spar with Oberyn — spar, Alaric! And while I haven't beaten him yet, I swear it's only a matter of time. I'm stronger, faster, and he knows it. He's getting worried."
Alaric chuckled. "That's my girl."
"And it's not just that!" Elia continued. "My mother — can you believe it? — my mother herself came to teach me about poisons today. She never did that before. I had a separate teacher for that. I think she's starting to see me as someone… capable. Someone strong. But she kept asking so many questions — about my sudden health, about my eyes, about this magical mirror you gave me…" She tapped the glass device playfully. "Even though you told me I could tell, that I don't need to lie, I still kept the answers mostly full of lies so as not to cause you trouble. But I did tell her a little — that you've come into contact with some old, powerful magic from the age of heros, and that you healed me with it. I don't know if she believes it but it would be funny if she did."
Alaric tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing just slightly. "And Oberyn?"
Elia rolled her eyes. "Oh, you know my brother. He kept pestering me. Though he also only knows that your magic is powerful and that you have a large dragon, larger than The black dread. He's thrilled about it — mostly because he finds the prospect of me being protected by a powerful wizard and dragon forever good. Though he did ask quite a lot of times to ask you to show him the dragon even though he keeps trying to pet the dragon in question, Mr. Nightshade " She burst into laughter. "You should see it! Every time he gets close, he gets smacked. I think he's taken it as a personal challenge now."
Alaric laughed along with her, the image of the fiery, temperamental dragon swatting Oberyn like an annoyed cat playing vividly in his mind. But mostly, he watched her — her happiness, her laughter — and felt his heart swell with the kind of warmth he'd never known before her.
"Hey, hey, Alaric!" Elia's voice cut through his thoughts, her brows drawing together in a playful pout. "Are you even listening? Or am I just talking to myself like an idiot here?"
"Of course I'm listening, my love," Alaric said softly. His smile softened into something more gentle, more adoring. "Every word you say is music to me."
Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she tried to wave off his words, but he could see the way her eyes lit up. "You're such a flatterer."
"Only when it comes to you," he murmured.
There was a beat of comfortable silence before Alaric's voice turned a little more serious. "Elia… do you remember what I told you? When I said I wouldn't only have you as my woman?"
Her smile faltered just a little, and her eyes flicked down. "Yes," she said, a little quieter. "You promised me this star as… as a gift." She lifted the delicate locket around her neck — a tiny, brilliant star, burning softly inside the glass pendant. The most precious thing he'd given her — or so she thought.
But Alaric only smiled. "No," he said gently. "That's what you asked for. What I promised you… was free cities."
Elia blinked, looking up at him in confusion. "Free cities?"
"Yes," Alaric said, his golden eyes shining with something fierce, something wild. "I told you I'd give you free cities as gifts. And so, my princess…" He paused, letting his words sink in. "Be ready to become the queen of Myr."
Elia's breath caught, and her eyes went wide. "What?"
"My wedding gift to you," Alaric said softly, his voice warm and steady. "The free city of Myr."
For a long moment, there was only silence. The wind whistled through the sails, and the waves crashed against the hull of the great ship. And then, Elia whispered, "You… you're serious?"
"Deadly serious," Alaric replied.
She shook her head slowly, as if trying to wrap her mind around it. "But… but that's insane! You can't just— You're going to take an entire city? For me?"
Alaric's smile widened, sharp and sure. "For you, Elia, I'd take the entire world."
Tears welled in her eyes — tears of shock, of disbelief, of something deeper. "Alaric… I… I don't…"
"Shh," he whispered, his voice soft and soothing. "You don't need to say anything. Just wait for me. I'll bring you Myr's crown myself."
And with that, the glass flickered out, her face disappearing. Alaric stood there for a moment longer, the cold wind biting at his skin — but he didn't feel it. All he felt was the warmth of her voice still ringing in his ears.
And then, he turned. Behind him, the ships stretched out in a vast, unstoppable fleet — war galleys, carracks, bristling with cannons and scorpions. The men were ready. The sea was ready. And soon, Myr would know what it meant to cross Alaric Noir.
"Set sail," he commanded, his voice calm and steady. "We have a queen's wedding gift to collect."
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(TT) Looks like I have to ask too since the ratings of this fanfic are going down and if that happens, then less people will read the fic and then I will get even less comments even though I almost get almost no comments.:'(
So.....GIVE ME YOUR POWERSTONES AND RIVEWS.