#and how in the next seconds sansa tries to throw him in the ground

[samalexandxr]

[7deadlycinderellas]

No more math and history, ch7

Ao3 link

Second session comes to a close. 

Hide and seek only takes two hours this year (Arya long ago found the best hiding place, underneath the kitchen employees snack table behind the mess hall, but Clegane rats her out this time). The Wizard of Oz goes off with no stage fright and no flubbed lines, and only one munchkin who has to run off to the latrines prematurely. 

The dance comes, and Arya even wears a skirt for it.

The dance is over now, and around the campfire the lingering counselors have plundered the prize smuggled in yesterday in Loras’s truck - two whole cases of beer. There wasn’t enough to go around for anyone to really get drunk but most of them were at least nursing a bottle. If no one got in trouble, Brienne would be none the wiser.

Most of the unit counselors have left, begrudgingly. They’ll get their revenge when everyone at activities has to work tomorrow all day when the kids are gone. Meera had taken one bottle and snuck off for solitude. Ygritte had grumbled the whole dance, she was stuck on lights out patrol the last night of session. Bran left too, laughing that alcohol and wheelchairs didn’t mix. 

All around the campfire, everyone’s drinking their beer, laughing and singing.

Arya and her companions are off to one side, and a couple are still fixated on the skirt. 

She holds out the ends of the fabric, showing Shireen. 

“I pretty much live in jeans and sweaters and hoodies up north. I haven’t worn a skirt or dress voluntarily since my junior school days when we had uniforms. Well about a year and a half ago I tore the knees out of my favorite jeans. I was going to throw them away, but Sansa fished them out, cut the inseams and patched the gaps with one of our dad’s old flannel shirts.”

They still had a whole box of Ned’s flannel shirts, waiting for them to find a use for them. Robb and Jon were both still too slim to wear them. Sometimes Arya would pull one on, letting it fall down nearly to her knees, and pretend she could still smell him. Ned had always smelled like pine and snow to her, no matter where they were.

“I loved it, because of that and because Sansa made it just for me. But I only wore it once.”

“I forgot about that,” Sansa admits.

Arya feels herself turning red, and she knows it’s not the beer, she’s only had half a bottle. 

“I wish I could. I wore it to school once, one of the only days it was warm enough.”

She had always shaken her head at Sansa, who wore dresses and skirts to school all the time, with or without leggings or tights, no matter the amount of snow on the ground. She could be shivering under her winter coat and hat and boots, but still refuse to change.

“I didn’t really think anything of it, but everyone else sure seemed to. Mum fussed over me all morning and when I got to school, I kept hearing whispers and snickers. I even heard someone say ‘guess she really is a girl after all’. It was mortifying, and I never wore it again.”

Shireen frowns, even harder than she was before. She had taken exactly one drink of her beer and had winced.

“Why would people act like that just over seeing a girl in a skirt?”

Gendry snorts. He’s only been sipping his beer, and with a pang, Arya remembers that his mother had always said, that his father had just been some drunk. 

“They probably thought they had wandered into some teen flick and she was having a dramatic makeover into the class beauty everyone would want.”

Arya feels herself burn, and she knows it’s not the beer talking. 

“Yes, it was like they thought that just because I wore a skirt that I would stop playing sports and start hanging out at the mall and fawning over boys instead.”

Gendry starts laughing so Arya sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Nope, you’re not getting any fawning, none at all. Mum was the worst actually. She always thought that one day I would wake up transformed into the proper girl she wanted me to be, like Sansa.”

“You and Mum never did see eye to eye,” Sansa admits, quietly. Her two bottles are both empty and there’s a tinge of sadness to her voice.

Arya pulls her knees up to her chest. 

“She could never understand why I would rather go to the park with the dogs, or to White Harbour for a game, or beg Jon to teach me to drive on a Saturday instead of, I don’t know, getting my hair or nails done like you.”

“It wasn’t always perfect between us,” Sansa admits, “Sometimes I could be too much even for mum. You weren’t around that time I threw a tantrum because she said I couldn’t go clubbing with the rest of the cast after the Music Man closed, because it was after curfew.”

Sansa’s quiet for a long moment.

“I wonder if she would fight me again over this next year.”

Arya flops flat on her back. 

“You did fine on your A-levels Sansa, and you’re hardly the first person to take a gap year to work.”

Shireen frowns off to her side.

“You’re out of school already? I thought you said you were seventeen?”

Sansa nods, then giggles.

“There was some fuss with our birthdays when we both entered school. I turn eighteen in October, Arya’s seventeen in November. I just finished my A-levels, Arya’s going into her last year.”

Sansa quiets after this. Arya knows she had agonized over this. She had done decently on exams, true, but she really did want to pursue acting. The theater scene in Winterfell, indeed, in all of the North was so very small, that her only hope was to leave and move somewhere like the Riverlands, or hopefully the Reach. And all for Sansa’s confidence, leaving home like that terrified her. 

Shireen turns her attention to Arya, who suddenly feels the need to take a long swig of her beer. 

“What are you taking?’

Arya grimaces, “English, maths, biology, phys ed, and Braavosi.”

She bites her lip. 

“Mum would probably still say that’s not enough.”

The beer isn’t helping, her stomach feels like there’s a rock in it. Part of her wants to keep going, but is terrified of letting it out. Across the campfire, Loras has started making out with Renly Baratheon, the boys head counselor, and no one is paying any attention to the group in the little corner. 

“Do you remember Ned Dayne?” she asks Gendry, eye half-closed in his direction. Gendry snorts, like a bull would, not like he’s laughing. 

“I hated him.”

Arya scoffs. Ned had come to camp with them the second year, invited along as the son of a long time family friend. The rest of the Brotherhood had liked him, Gendry had not.

“You did not hate him, you were ten. Well, last year Ned came north to stay with his aunt for a few months.”

Sansa’s eyeing her oddly, trying to work out the timeline and looking wary. 

“There was a beginning of term dance. I didn’t really want to go, but Ned offered to take me because he thought I was afraid to go alone, and- Gendry wipe that pout off your face-”

His pout is extremely obvious too, even Shireen’s giggling in his direction. She had never really understood why him and Ned got on each other’s nerves so easily, having always chalked it up to them just having different temperaments.

“Ned and I are just friends, we both knew it…” her voice thins and turns rough, “Mum didn’t seem to get the memo though.”

Sansa interrupts. 

“Was that what-”

Arya nods. 

“She couldn’t stop going on about how sweet we were together, and and, how happy Dad would have been…”

That was the part that had hurt the most, that it felt like Mum had been using Dad against her, even if that hadn’t been her intention. 

“She tried to convince me to take him to this fancy charity event she was planning for the company, and I just, I got so mad…”

Tears threaten to spill out, and she wipes her face with the back of her hand.

“I told her that I wasn’t going to go to her stupid event, alone or with Ned. I told her that she was never going to understand me and that I wished…I wished that Dad was still here instead of her.”

Arya’s crying now openly, and the others are just watching her. 

“Her and Bran’s accident was the next day. Mum died thinking I hated her.”

Arya’s so lost in her words, that she doesn’t even notice when Sansa roughly tipsy-tackles her.

“She did not. You had a fight over something stupid and you lost your temper and said something you didn’t mean. Arya, it’s not the first time you’ve done that. She knew you didn’t hate her.”

Off to the side, she can hear Shireen opening her mouth.

“So much for not being in a film. Is this where we all share our deepest secrets? You already know mine.”

The tone seems almost bitter for Shireen, but Arya could hug her at this moment, for taking the attention off of her confession. 

“Then my turn is done, someone else take a turn.”

Sansa squeezes her one last time, whispering into her hair. 

“You’re so much more lovable than you seem to believe Arya,” she spares a glance in Gendry’s direction before letting go and standing up, “Maybe you’ll come to see it yourself.”

Once Sansa leaves for the other side of the campfire, it’s quiet for a few minutes. Arya studies the stars, feels the warmth of the fire at her back and breathes in the soft scent of smoke. It’s true, she does feel a bit lighter.

After several minutes, Gendry breaks the silence. 

“After we left camp the last time...the foster mother I had after molested me for most of that year.”

Arya feels her throat go dry, her mind go fuzzy. She thinks she makes some noises but none of them are words, or at least she hopes they aren’t.

“At least you’re using the word now,” Shireen comments, and Arya feels even more almost words try and get out.

“Shireen,” she starts off, “Wasn’t she the one who-”

Shireen nods, but Gendry isn’t paying attention. His voice drones on like a tape stretched out from too many plays. 

“I’m not sure if Melisandre was her given or family name either. That’s just what she told me to call her. She hadn’t been living in King’s Landing long before...I should have known she was strange from day 1. I’d never even heard of the Lord of Light before, but she made me keep the little religious rituals. That wasn’t really so bad…”

He swallows roughly. 

“She was really affectionate right off the bat. I didn’t think anything of that either, I’ve had some foster parents who freaked out if I so much as bumped into them and I thought this was better. It didn’t help that she was beautiful. “ “She really was,” Shireen admits, swigging her beer. Arya notes that it’s mostly gone now, as though Shireen had been using it to distract from the conversation. “Like, film star beautiful.”

“Then the weirdness started. She would stare into her little flame on her altar for hours, or spend most of the day speaking in a language I didn’t recognize. Sometimes she would corner me while in this state, and get way too close.”

Shireen’s finished her beer, and stood and set to leave. Arya doesn’t blame her. She feels well and truly drunk, her head swimming and her stomach threatening to turn itself over. 

“Then it got to the point she would try and kiss me while muttering some shit about the will of R’hllorr. It would be a lie to say I didn’t enjoy this at first. That’s why some of it feels like my fault, like I should have done something earlier.”

Arya hates every inch of guilt on his face. 

“You were what, fifteen then? You couldn’t have...would you have thought differently if you had been a girl, or younger?”

Gendry won’t look at her now. 

“But by the time she started saying things about bloodlines and sticking her hands down my shorts I knew everything was wrong, but I didn’t know how to make her stop.”

“I’m so sorry,” Arya starts, turning on one side to face him, “That was horrible. She was supposed to be a parent, no parent should ever do anything like that.”

Gendry chuckles roughly. 

“I had a decent reputation with the social workers. I wasn’t a problem case. I still led off with the religious ranting, because I still thought they might not believe me. They did though, and even leaving with another bin bag, I was ecstatic. I was in a boy’s group home for a few months until Davos took me in. Those months were when she went to Dragonstone.”

Arya’s eyes go wide. 

“They let her?”

“They had to build a case. They could bar her from taking in other kids or working at a school, but until they got all my statements, they couldn’t stop her from traveling within the territory and preaching.”

“Did they-” 

“It was easier after Shireen. Because of what she did to her, with witnesses, they got the order to hold her against her will within the day. She’s in an in-treatment facility now, and has been declared unfit to stand trial. Diagnosis of hallucinations and delusions, apparently they’re religiously oriented quite a lot. Until she’s not, what happened to me is just a file in a police station.” 

Arya sighs deeply. Her mother had always been very religious, and while Arya had rarely shared her enthusiasm, none of it had ever frightened her.

She remembers that Gendry never really put any stock in the barely there prayers and religious songs at camp, she always thought he was in the same boat as her. 

She watches Gendry’s face, his eyes half closed, his lips set straight. A horrible thought hits her suddenly. 

“I didn’t- nothing I’ve done when we’re...I don’t make you remember it do I?”

Gendry sighs, and reaches out to push a bit of her hair back over the side of her face.

“No. I didn’t tell you this to make you pity me, or so you’d treat me like I was going to break.”

Arya feels her eyes water as she asks, “Then why did you tell me.”

Gendry exhales roughly. 

“I guess I’m just so sick of feeling like it’s a secret. It’s not something you can just drop on people. What I said earlier this summer was true, it was much easier to focus on work and school instead of trying to date. But it’s not just that. After what she did to me, it was really hard to think of trusting a complete stranger again. It took me a long time to warm up to Davos and his wife, and even Shireen.”

Arya sighs softly, breathing in the night air. 

“But you trust me?”

Gendry runs his fingers along one of her cheeks, and even though it’s gentle and simple, it makes her skin tingle.

“I do. Besides, you’re not a complete stranger. What Sansa says was right though, you’re so much more lovable than you give yourself credit for.”

Arya scoffs, though her heart swells inside her. 

“You too,” she whispers. Gendry shakes his head.

“I think that’s just you, and maybe Shireen. I think your siblings only put up with me because of you. Everyone else seems to think I’m a giant prick.”

Arya pouts. 

“That’s not true!”

Gendry laughs. 

“It’s fine. The people who actually matter don’t.”

He flexes his arm and rolls Arya closer. She presses her nose into the side of his neck and breathes in deeply. Warm skin, hint of suncream.

They’re quiet for a time, and Arya drinks the moment in. 

“If this is a big scene in a film, any other secrets you want to let out here?” she asks with a smirk. 

Gendry breathes deeply for a moment. 

“Lem gave me some info on an apprenticeship in King’s Landing I might go out for.”

Arya purses her lips. 

“An apprenticeship? What for?”

“To be a paramedic.”

Arya’s eyes go wide. She thinks back on his uncertainty about his future.

“That’s a great idea! You already have something resembling experience too.”

Gendry smiles, though his face still looks a bit hesitant. 

“I think so too, especially after what happened during the canoe races. I just- I’m tired of not knowing what I want. I want to make something of myself, show everyone I’m worthy, that I’m not just some lost kid to be pitied and looked down upon.”

Arya kisses his chin.

“Just remember you don’t need to prove anything to be worth it to me.”

Gendry breathes softly, and rolls so they’re closer together, nearly pressed nose-to-nose. 

“It’s not a guarantee, it’s a hard spot to get. It’s not just recent grads, working adults can apply too.”

Arya smiles. 

“After this past year with Bran, I’ve been considering physical therapy.”

“That’d be a good fit, given your background.”

“I thought so. Though apparently you’re competing with a ton of failed med school applicants. I’ll have to really buckle down this year.”

She groans deeply. The two beers she had is making her blood feel hot.

“I don’t want to think about school, it’s the summer holidays.”

So after that, they don’t talk anymore about the future. 

Morning comes, with the sun, and only a few hangovers. The campers leave, and the unit counselors slack off. Out in the stables, Arya and Ygritte muck and chat. Much like her and Gendry, they don’t talk about the future. 

[sailorshadzter]

What if Jon gets struck by Ramsay's arrows in the leg, shoulder, and side during their one-on-one combat but it didn't bother him because his adrenaline is on an all time high. He pummels the Bastard of Bolton, as he should, and everyone is in awe, but then he sees Sansa. He gets up, his eyes get a blinding vision, he blacks out, he collapses. You know the rest 🥰🥰🥰

thanks for the request!!

i used it as an excuse to rewrite the forehead kiss scene because it just FELT RIGHT. 

anyways, i hope you enjoy!

send me prompts

He doesn't feel the first arrow pierce his right thigh.

He doesn't feel the second one either, when it pierces him through the left shoulder.

He doesn't even feel the third arrow as it embeds itself into his left side.

A moment later, his fist connects with Ramsay's cheek and now that he feels. Over and over again, he punches the monster that had taken his home, his baby brother, and his sister's light until he's just barely breathing beneath him. Ramsay bleeds from a split lip, a broken nose, every inch of his face swelling from the dozen or so punches Jon manages to land before his attention is taken elsewhere.

It's as he draws back for another hit that he catches sight of her; she's pale and drawn, red hair just barely contained in its single braid that hangs over her shoulder. Her sapphire eyes are wide as their gazes meet and her name is a whisper on his lips... Sansa... His lips move, but he cannot find his voice. And so he stumbles to his feet, staggering forward two steps before the first wave of pain rushes through him. "Jon!" He hears her voice a moment before her hands are on his shoulders, warm and strong, her grip steadying him. "Jon..." Softer this time and he can see the tears clinging to her lashes, can feel her grip tighten as he sinks towards the ground, darkness consuming him before he can say a single word.

She knows he's going down a moment before he begins to fall.

Though she holds fast to him, he is heavy, limbs like lead as he falls unconcious, and all she can do is ease him down to the frozen ground. "Take him in chains!" She commands the nearest men dressed in Stark and Mormont livery and at once they spring into action, rushing forward to slap irons on the fallen Bolton, who lays there bloodied beyond recognition in the snow. "Jon..." She whispers then, peering down at his bruised, bloody face, knowing she would never be able to repay what he's done for her this day.

"Let me help, little lady."

It's Tormund standing at her side then and she looks up into his eyes for a long moment before she finally nods. Edd appears next and he and Tormund stoop down and with Sansa's hands guiding them up, they support Jon between the two of them. "Take him upstairs, to the Lord's chambers." She says softly and they both nod, before beginning the slow walk into Winterfell, Sansa trailing just behind them.

She stops for only a moment, suddenly feeling anxious as she recalls the last time she'd been inside her home. But then she thinks of Jon and knows she cannot feel fear, not right now, not when he needs her so much more. And so she crosses the threshold and steps inside Winterfell, speaking only to direct Tormund and Edd down another hall and up a single flight of steps that lead up to the corridor where the Lord's chambers are. It's been years since she walked these halls, walked down to these rooms. Back then... With Ramsay... He had kept her in another wing, far from where anybody might hear her screams. These rooms that once belonged to her mother and father... She's not stepped foot inside of them since they once resided within.

But now, she throws open the door so Tormund and Edd can enter, gesturing for them to place Jon upon the neatly made bed. "Send someone with water and linen. Bring me wine from the kitchens," she says to Edd who nods and slips from the room without another word. "Find Agatha, ask her for a needle and thread," she tells Tormund, the oldest living maid in the palace had always been kind to her, even when commanded by Ramsay and Sansa knows she will help. Tormund hesitates only for a moment, long enough to spare his comrade a quick glance, but then he too is gone.

As she sinks into a chair at his bedside, Jon softly groans as he claws his way back into the waking world. "Soft, Jon. You're safe," she murmurs softly, reaching out a hand to brush a sweat drenched curl from his forehead. To her surprise, his hand shoots up and takes hold of hers, his dark eyes opening to look up into hers. His mouth moves as he tries to speak, but she shakes her head, shushing him quietly. "Save your strength." She whispers as she leans over him, brushing a gentle kiss to his temple.

She's like a dream come to life; she's beautiful there at his bedside, her blue eyes dark and damp with worry. He hates that she's crying for him, he doesn't deserve her tears. "Sansa... I..." He only wants to tell her he's sorry, he only wants her to know how badly he hurts knowing Rickon is lost to them. But she shakes her head, pressing a single finger against his mouth. It's as if his words are too painful for her to hear him say. In truth, they're too painful for him to say.

"Tomorrow," is all she says and Jon nods, because at least they have tomorrow still.

[ x x x ]

When he wakes up, it's to sunlight spilling in through the window.

His body is tight, aching, bandages wrapped around his limbs and ribs, though the pain reminds him that he's alive. He glances around the room, wondering for only a moment where he is; it's been years since he's been in these rooms, but he knows them to be the Lord's chambers. It's the room where his father and Lady Stark had once stayed. Back when they had been children, he and Robb would sneak into the room to steal swigs of ale from their father's jug. The room is the same and yet, entirely different. Jon knows the papers that litter the desk against the eastern wall are not addressed to Lord Stark, but to Lord Bolton. He knows that the clothes hanging on pegs on the other wall do not belong to his father, but to Ramsay Bolton.

For a moment, he contemplates destroying the room, starting with tossing the clothing into the hearth, but he stops only when he hears Ghost's soft whimper from the side of the bed. He's been so preoccupied by his surroundings, his direwolf has gone noticed where he sleeps on the floor beside the bed. "Good boy, Ghost..." Jon says softly as he leans over the bed to pat the wolf on the head, surprised to find that Ghost doesn't lay there alone.

With a thin sheet draped over her body, Sansa snores softly on the floor beside the bed, her head resting comfortably against Ghost's shaggy fur. Jon realizes a moment later that she's been there all night. A smile tugs on his lips and he swings his legs over the bed only to sink down to where she lays, tenderly stroking her hair as he softly calls her name. "You shouldn't be moving," she admonishes in a sleepy tone, breathin in as she rolls her face up to face his. Her eyes are tired and her cheeks are pale, but her rosy lips curve with a small smile at the sight of his face.

"And you shouldn't sleep on the floor," he quips back and he's elated to hear her laugh. He stands upright then and extends out a hand for her to take, which she does, and he helps her back onto her feet. For a moment, they stand there in silence, dozens of thoughts rushing through their minds. "Sansa, I..." He begins and she looks down at her feet, as if already knows what he's going to say. "Thank you," he goes on to say and her head snaps back up, surprise etched into her features. "You saved me... You saved all of us." She blushes and looks away, focusing her eyes instead upon Ghost, who's now stretching on the rug before the dying fire. "But Rickon..." Her face hardens and she shakes her head, closing her eyes against the tears that threaten to spill.

"There was no saving him." Sansa whispers when she opens her eyes, staring into his dark Stark colored ones that remind her so much of her father, of Arya, that it nearly takes her breath away. "It's just us now." Her words are sharp, hollow, and they break his heart. But she's right. Arya is missing, as is Bran, and in a world like theirs... They are most likely dead, though neither one of them wish to admit it. Robb and Rickon were already gone and that left she and Jon as the last remaining Stark's. "The last of the Stark's."

"I'm not a Stark." He says at once, but her face contorts with anger and she shakes that magnificent red head.

"You are to me." She replies forcefully, her tone daring him to disagree.

Jon can't stop the relief that rushes through him at her words, the feeling of acceptance stronger than it has ever felt between them. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." Jon finally says the only words that make any sense at all. She smiles then and nods, their father's words an echo all around them. For a moment, it was as if Ned Stark was there, guiding them on to whatever it was that would come next. There are no more words that he can say and so he cups her face into his palm and draws her closer. The space between them minimal at best, he presses his lips against her forehead, lingering far longer than he might have done only a few weeks before. When he draws back, her cheeks are flushed and his feel just as warm.

They might be alone in this world, but at least they had each other.

[moon-ruled-rising]

as the rain hides the stars

read the full story on Ao3...

iii. the land was godless and free

she moves with shameless wonder,

the perfect creature rarely seen.

Since some lie I brought the thunder,

when the land was godless and free

-Hozier, “Foreigner’s God”

The great castle of Winterfell was much older than the other keeps in the North but unlike its younger counterparts, there wasn’t a permanent settlement around it. Wintertown was exactly as it sounded, deserted in the summer and packed full in the winter. When it was empty like it was, the royal family came out to play and the only place open in summer was The Smoking Log.

The little dive was a favorite of the young royals. They went so often, their security personnel never followed them out. Most times it was just Robb, Jon, and Theon, but recently they started dragging Sansa along. She was only seventeen (seventeen and three-fourths, she would remind you) but the owner of the Smoking Log didn’t care. As long as they paid their tab.

Thinking about their family dynamic it was strange how close they were.

From day one, Robb and Jon were built-in-best friends. There was a brief tension when their father decided to legitimize Jon. All of it stopped when Robb realized he could do whatever he wanted and would have much less stress on his shoulders. 

At first, Sansa wanted nothing to do with Jon and joined in her mother’s bullying. When she started secondary school and it became clear she could never have normal friendships, she started hanging out with her brothers. They taught her how to fight and drive and beat every game they played. In return, she kept them in line when they went out.

And when Robb came back from Barrowton after university, he started bringing his girlfriend Talisa with them. She was good fun and held her liquor as well as the Starks.

Though, they were all going hard and Jon wasn’t feeling like himself. The music playing over the speakers was too loud and he couldn’t decide if the lights were too bright or too dim. He could handle beer, but his glass that night was filled with whiskey and he wasn’t keeping track of how much he’d had. On any given night he would, he had to keep himself under control, but Wintertown was deserted.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re tipsy, Snow,” she taunted.

Only Ygritte was allowed to call him Snow. As the legitimized bastard of King Eddard Stark of the North, she should’ve referred to him as “Your Royal Highness” but they’d known each other for so long, referring to him as anything other than Snow was foreign. 

Ygritte wasn’t an official member of their entourage but she was friends with them since they were young. Her father was the ambassador for the wildlings living in the Gift. When he left the position and moved back, Ygritte stayed and started working at the tavern.

“Someday you’ll have to stop calling me that,” he warned.

“Aye. When we’re both dead and in the ground.”

The fiery red-head was always giving him a hard time. It was a second job for her.

“I’m good for another glass,” he stated, setting his down.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.” she filled it. “And tell your brother to stop with the PDA, it’s grossing everyone out.”

Jon looked to the booth in the corner. Sure enough, Talisa and Robb were all over each other. It was drunk and sloppy and Jon felt the urge to vomit. 

“Would you like to join them?” Theon Greyjoy, always over confident and sleazy, asked.

Ygritte leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at him, “I thought I told you I didn’t like your kind.”

“Ironborn?” 

“Men,” Jon answered and took a sip of his whiskey. It wasn’t burning like it had at the beginning of the night. 

Ygritte reached over the bar to punch him in the shoulder and Jon spilled a little on himself. 

“Shut up, Snow. You know better than anyone I play both fields and I do it damn well.”

They both laughed like it was some great joke but Jon had to look away from her. Theon slipped away to terrorize some other single women.

Unfortunately for him, the only other single woman present was the owner and she was stern and middle aged.

The door to the bar opened and a group of men strode in. Ygritte groaned.

“Here they come.”

“Who?”

“Those three. They’re regulars and they love picking fights. Cops’ve been here every night to haul ‘em off.”

“I don’t remember them.”

“You haven’t been here in months, Snow. You’d better keep your head down, they know you’re an easy target.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got a rep for your short temper. Not to mention you’re the crowned fucking prince of the North. They’d kill to be able to boast they punched the pretty boy prince. Better take my advice and stop drinking.”

Jon considered it but took another drink from his glass. Being young and angry at the world and having an intense weight on his shoulders made him a lash out in ugly ways. And even after his service on the Wall and learning to control his temper, the reputation still followed him. 

He surveyed the room again. There was supposed to be another red-head in attendance, but she was missing. 

“Where’s Sansa?”

Ygritte didn’t know either. Then he spotted her, walking past the gang of troublesome boys. His grip tightened around his glass and he could see the lecherous looks in their eyes. 

“Sansa can handle herself. Just relax.” Ygritte attempted to make him see sense but he was too far gone to heed her advice.

Without wasting another second he made his way to her. 

“Hey Princess, sit and stay a while,” one of them called out.

“No,” she deflected.

Sansa was loveable and fun and she never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings. She could also be down-right mean when she needed to.

“Why not?” another questioned, his tone suggestive.

“Because I don’t want to.”

The men laughed, “That doesn’t sound like a very good excuse.”

“How’s this one? I don’t want to because you’re a bunch of sleazy creeps.”

“Only for you baby,” one of them winked.

She scoffed and walked away, but one of them got up and stopped her. It was clear she couldn’t control the situation anymore, so Jon stepped in.

“Everything alright Sansa?” Jon placed his hand on her shoulder.

She opened her mouth to respond but was cut off.

“Excuse you, we were having a conversation.”

“I think that’s over.”

“I think the lady should decide whether it’s over or not.”

“It never even started,” Sansa spit.

Jon put his arm out to stop her. They let out whistles, as if her aggression was a turn on. 

“Sansa, why don’t you go round up the others. I think it’s time to leave.”

“Jon, I-”

“Sansa,” he warned.

She sneered at the men around her but got out of the way. 

“Hold up, it’s the pretty boy prince they keep locked up in the castle,” the one standing in front of Jon noticed.

He was taller than Jon but that never scared him. Jon beat men twice his size while sparring with Sir Rodrik.

“Which one?” 

“The bastard,” the one in front of Jon leered down at him, “They put a crown on his head and thought we would be fooled.”

Jon shrugged their comments off. He was used to people putting him down for a decision that wasn’t his. When he was younger he broke himself trying to prove he was a true son of the North. He joined the military instead of going to university and served at the Wall protecting the ungrateful fucks in front of him. 

“Careful, you’ll hurt his feelings. Our dear prince is known for lashing out.”

Jon tried his best to control his anger. Nothing good ever came from the fights he started.

“Shame he’s so protective over his half-sister. We could’ve had some fun.”

There was no one there to stop Jon when his fist collided with man’s face. In the moment he forgot about the other two so he was shocked when a fist smashed into his face as well. Another in his gut and Jon was stumbling back into the table. 

The alcohol in his system wasn’t helping. It only made the spinning sensation in his head worse. The familiar metallic taste in his mouth was no more sobering than the punch that caused it. He saw Sansa coming back from across the bar with Robb draped over Talisa’s shoulder. Some help he was going to be.

One of the men got back in front of him. Jon prepared to throw another punch, but someone’s leg kicked out the attacker’s knees and gave him a solid kick across the face. Jon threw himself at the other man that was still standing, delivering an uppercut to his jaw and kneeing him in the groin. 

Ygritte came from behind the bar with a bag of ice and a clean rag,“I’ve already called the police so you’d better get the hell out of here.”

The Starks didn’t need to be told twice. Jon took the ice and rag while Sansa dragged Theon away from the bar and Talisa helped Robb to the car. 

“You should’ve let me handle it,” Sansa reprimanded.

“I’m sorry-”

“Those dumbasses are going to run their mouths-”

“I know.”

“And we’ll have a whole new wave of critics claiming you’re unfit for rule.”

“You won’t tell Catelyn, right?”

“I won’t,” she confirmed, “But I’m not helping you with dad, that’s your own battle.”

Jon almost forgot about the small council meeting the next morning. He would have prefered to miss it but his father expected him there. As the next leader of the North, he needed to experience them. But he arrived late and received too many disdainful looks.

He sat to the side of the room, never speaking and wishing he was invisible. If he remained still with his head down they wouldn’t notice his swollen eye. The lords of the great houses all sat along the table, sneaking looks at Jon. Roose Bolton, Duke of the Weeping Water and Lord of the Dreadfort, didn’t try to hide his distaste.

It was known the Boltons held an ancient grudge against the Starks. Ever since Jon’s ancestor Brandon Stark defeated them in battle and forced them to stop flaying their enemies. Jon was sure they never stopped the practice. It was rumored that Ramsey, Lord Bolton’s bastard son, had a taste for flaying small animals and Roose condoned the behavior.

“I think that’s all for today,” King Eddard stated, rising from his stately chair at the head of the table. 

He thanked the lords of attending and they bowed and left.

“You’re being awfully sullen, Jon.”

He arranged the papers in front of him. Jon ran a hand through his messy curls, exhaling loudly.

“Long night out?”

“You could call it that,” he grumbled.

“Do you mind telling me why you were late this morning?”

Jon stayed silent and tried to avoid eye contact.

Ned looked at his son and sighed, “Gods Jon, look at your eye. What happened?”

“I got into a fight,”

“Over what?”

Jon wanted to hold his tongue but Ned taught him to always be honest and do the right thing. And lying at that moment seemed like a bad idea.

“I was protecting Sansa,”

“You took Sansa drinking with you?”

“She’s almost eighteen.”

“Her age doesn’t matter, I know Sansa can handle herself. But you … this is the third fight this month. It’s a good thing Ygritte watches out for you otherwise we’d have an even bigger mess to clean up,”

“I’m sorry,”

“What goes on inside that head of yours?”

“It’s not easy being your bastard son who got lucky,”

“Sit down,” Ned commanded and Jon did as told, “When I chose to legitimize you it wasn’t because I thought you were lucky. It’s because I knew you were going to make a great leader.”

Jon huffed. Ned started the legitimization process when Jon was ten years old, there was no way he showed promise as a leader at ten.

“The North is heading towards a new age and she needs someone who will guide her through the confusion.”

His father’s words were idealistic. The North hadn’t changed in the past 100 years as far as tradition was concerned. Technologically, sure, but the people of the North were still set in their ways. 

“You don’t believe me now but you’ll understand,”

It sounded like Ned wanted to put a ‘soon’ at the end of the phrase but Jon didn’t question it. He wanted to get out of that room as soon as possible.

“Jon, your mother wouldn’t like the way you’ve been acting either.”

Ned rarely mentioned Jon’s mother. With all the information Jon knew about her one would think she never existed and he was born by some miracle. He didn’t even know her name and he didn’t think the castle staff would appreciate him running around, interrogating them for information on the King’s old flame. Especially Her Majesty, Catelyn. 

Catelyn despised Jon, though his only crime was being born. He supposed cheating her precious Robb out of the title he was meant to inherit could be added to his list of offenses. She should’ve blamed her husband for those actions but she took her aggression out on Jon. It was worse when he was younger. She would spit names at him as he passed by, exclude him from her children's lessons and sit him furthest away during dinners. As he got older and showed more responsibility and leadership, she relaxed. Mostly because Robb was still galavanting around Barrowton at university and Jon was serving time in the military. There was still the matter of her evil looks for no reason but some things couldn’t be changed.

“Why is it that you use my mother to condemn me but you’ll never speak about her otherwise?”

“Your mother … oh, you know I don’t like talking about her,” Ned remarked.

“I know,” Jon began, “but I would like to know more.”

Most people could at least form a picture in their minds when they thought of their mothers. The most Jon could do was a blank silhouette.

Ned smiled, “One day.”

He stood and began to leave the room. He paused in the doorway, “Oh, and Jon?”

“Yeah dad?”

“Next time you start a fight over a girl, don’t let her finish it for you.”

They had an emergency family meeting later that day. Robb was sure it was about the scuffle at the bar last night but Sansa disagreed. Part of Jon wished it was about that so he could know what to expect. 

They gathered in the library, the most private place in the whole keep. Sansa, Robb, and Jon all arrived together. Although they had close proximity with the Stark family, Talisa and Theon weren’t allowed to attend the family meetings. They were for blood related members of the family only, excluding Catelyn. As mother to the royal children it was her right to be there.

The library was ancient and still warmed by giant hearths. It provided a sense of weight and distinction. The place where the old Kings of Winter would consult the maesters in times of turmoil. Jon couldn’t help the feeling that a tumultuous time was upon them, why else meet in a place that carried such a reputation.

Sansa situated herself on the nearby chair, leaving Robb and Jon to stand beside it. Catelyn and Ned stood with their backs to the hearth which hosted a roaring fire. The North was never warm. It was still early summer so the snows were frequent and the temperatures were just above freezing everyday.

“Where’s Arya and Bran?” Catelyn asked.

The twins, as they were more commonly known, were always causing trouble. It was their nature. And now they both had driver’s licenses. Catelyn tried to regulate their time allowed outside of the keep but they never listened. 

Jon remembered what happened when he defied one of Catlyn’s rules when he was a teen. He was accused of being a bad influence on Robb and Theon, although it had been Theon and Robbs idea to go running off into the Wolfswood without a security escort. They paid the price in extra lessons on Northern history, complete with one of the longest essays Jon ever wrote.

Arya came through the door, running a hand through her short dark hair. Out of all the Stark children, Jon and the twins favored their father the most. Robb and Sansa got Catelyn’s Tully features. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Arya gushed, “Micha stopped us on the way in from the garage.”

Bran came bounding in after Arya. He was always slower than his sister but he kept up just fine. The two settled on the floor beside the chair. They made a pretty picture he was sure, all the King’s children posed for a regal portrait.

“It’s fine, Arya. But now that we’re all here we can get started. The King of the United Kingdoms of Westeros extended an invitation to their annual charity gala,” Ned stated.

“Why would they do that? We haven’t mingled with the south in a century,” Robb quipped.

“The cause they’ve decided to support this year is environmental conservation. Seeing as it’s a cause we support greatly, we’ve decided to attend.”

Sansa sat up straighter, he had her undivided attention. She was obsessed with southern culture and considered them much more interesting than the Northerners. 

“I will travel south with Jon, Robb, and Sansa. Catelyn will stay here with Arya and Bran. We should only be gone a week at most.”

There weren’t any complaints. Jon and Robb knew it was their duty to represent the North alongside their father. Sansa wanted to see the south, Arya and Bran couldn’t care less, and Catelyn knew she needed to stay and hold down the keep. She hated traveling anyway and Jon couldn’t blame her. Hours couped up in a car with minimal stops only to end up in a foreign land. He avoided it when he could.

“We leave tomorrow morning so I expect you packed tonight,” Ned addressed his eldest three then turned to his youngest, “And I expect you to behave while I’m gone.”

“It’s not like we’ve got the whole castle to ourselves, you’re leaving mom,” Bran pointed out.

Ned laughed and mussed his hair.

“And some expectations for behavior while we’re south. No fighting, no running away from your security officers, and as always, lots of smiling. We are their guests and we want to leave a good impression. Now go pack.”

“That wasn’t what I was expecting,” Sansa confessed as they descended the stairs.

“How are we supposed to entertain ourselves if we’re the only ones our age in the castle? The Prince and Princess are tweens.” Robb asked.

“There is the King’s sister but she lives in Essos for most of the year. I doubt she’ll come home for a charity gala. You know, I read the craziest thing about her this morning!”

[samaraclegane]

prompts (both anonymous):  

‘In the aftermath of the battle, Jon and Sansa witness Arya searching for Gendry and then reacting to his injuries ? Love your writing <3′

‘ i have so many gendrya feelings. could you maybe write something about arya and gendry asking relationship advices to other people bc they don't know how to handle what just happened between them and what it means now that the war is over ??’

author’s note: these two prompts were in my inbox and i felt they went well together! hope you two anons dont mind me putting them like this, ill try to do them both equal justice. ps thank you anon #1! such a lovely message to receive :)

-somehow, she’s alive. 

-arya knows she’s good. she knows all her training in braavos wasn’t for nothing. she knows the gods didn’t throw her with the hound for months for no reason. she knows she has a talent when it comes to fighting, though she tried not to let it consume her, but she was beyond shocked now.

-the great, ice and fire war was over. the very thing she had been warned of since she was a child was done, and she was on the other side to see the world afterwards.

-she’s on her knees. buried deep into the snow, her knees are feeling soggy with the melting ice, but she doesn’t care. she’s bleeding, but she doesn’t care. she isn’t dead, and that’s the thing that’s occupying to greatest part of her mind right now. she can deal with the rest later.

-she casts a look around her. buried beside her, still in her grasp, is needle. it’s covered in something - everything, actually, it seems. she looks to her left, and there she sees hoards of bodies, lying alternatively face up and face down, like mangled bits of flesh on a wire.

-she looks to her right, and there’s jon, kneeling much as she was, staring down at the ground, as though it might crumble beneath him. in front of her, in her direct line of vision, she can see sansa, bloodied herself, helping the wounded and checking on the dying. she sits beside them as they drift off, knowing that they won’t make it but not wanting to leave them alone in an already isolated moment.

-arya breathes heavily for a moment, then wills herself to look back behind her. there, she witnesses bodies crawling, seeking some sort of company or aid - anything to prove they aren’t dead. she thinks she sees brienne in the distance, but she can’t be sure. the battle has stretched so far, so wide, that it could just be another knight in their once-glistening, now stained armour.

-she’s ready to collapse and give in to her body’s fatigue, but then a thought crosses her mind. she can’t believe she hasn’t considered it before now, considering the weight it holds. 

-she pushes up, forcing her aching legs to take her weight, and begins to move slowly, but with purpose. she feels her own face contort, becoming forlorn, and she wipes absently at the small stream of blood trickling into her eyes.  later, she promises herself.

-the more ground she covers, the more concerned she becomes. one moment it’s natural wonder, the next she’s hyperventilating, then she’s screaming the same word, over and over again, calling out to her own echoes in the vast empty space of the battlefield.

-”gendry!”

-she doesn’t care who hears her. with the night king gone, she can stumble about all she likes, screaming out the name. humans can do no worse to her; their judgement means nothing.

-”gendry!” she yells his name again, vision blurring with tears, feeling as though the void is swallowing her voice before it gets anywhere near him. she feels foolish, like a child who had lost sight of her parent, but she knew this was not the case. this was a real risk, this was a real battle. there was an all-too real chance that gendry was dead.

-she’s ready to start running in search, regardless of how her bones protest. she has to find him, she knows, else she’ll go completely and utterly mad. she repeats his name, over and over, until her throat turns sore and she can only feel the eyes of onlookers on her, sight clouded by a fog of salty water.

-she’s ready to combust there and then, to collapse into a fit of tears because, if gendry was alive, she would know by now. she’s passed rows upon rows of bodies, not having identified his yet but becoming more and more sure that he would be among them somewhere.

-it’s then, in that moment of desperation, that she feels something wrap around her ankle. she stiffens, almost falls, and yelps.

-”arya,” a broken, weak voice calls up to her, and as she clears her eyes of tears she can see him - yes, there he is, wounded but so delightfully alive. “arya.”

-the name has become his mantra. she drops to sit beside him, grasping his face, firmly holding him by his jawline. she sniffs sadly, and calls out to him unintelligibly, trying to keep him from losing consciousness.

-”anybody!” she calls as his eyes begin to shut, looking heavy, “anybody, please! you have to help him, please!”

-she begs nobody, a desolate nothingness. desperate, she doesn’t dare look away from him as she tips up his head, checking for signs of life. his eyes are shutting, but his chest is still steadily rising and falling, so there’s still time. 

-in a vain attempt to bring him back, she stoops forward and kisses him. it’s hardly perfect, considering he’s blacking out and she’s bleeding from her head wound once again. her lips are chapped by the unforgiving cold, and she’s shaking so hard she’s forgetting how to breathe and live at the same time.

-she pulls back, eyes broken as she looks at him. his eyes are open again, and he’s smiling softly at her. his hands stretch out for her but don’t quite make it, and by the time she’s done screaming he’s being lifted up by a number of men she can’t recognise in that crucial moment, but she owes them her life.

-she watches as he’s taken away, back towards the castle where she knows plans have been lain out to take care of the wounded. she knows he should be safe, but what if he isn’t? what if that is the final time they’ll see each other, the last time she’ll kiss him, the last time he’ll reach out for her?

-she turns around, feeling lost and sick with worry, and catches the eye of sansa from across the field. stood beside jon, she almost looks like their mother, and there’s an unreadable expression on her face. she’s bleeding, too, and there’s dark smudges across her face. she looks pained, but there’s something gentle about how she watches her sister. then, she’s turning back to jon, uttering something before walking away, to tend to more of the men and woman strung up like bunting across the land.

-arya knows that can’t be the end of it, but takes the time to recompose herself and address her injuries. she’ll speak with sansa later.

-and, later, she does. she’s had her wounds tended to, and the bleeding has stopped. her face has been cleaned and she’s just washing her sword in running natural water when there’s a snap of a twig, and she’s spinning around, wielding her weapon dangerously in her hand.

-stood before her, looking unfazed by the action, is sansa. she’s eyeing arya curiously, like a wild animal caught by accident, and she looks... interested.

-”sorry,” arya mumbles, turning back to the stream to finish cleaning up needle. funny, she realises, that it became so bloodied in the first place, when she had not used it once during the battle. her spear was long lost, however, so this was what she had left.

-”old habits,” sansa responds rather humorously, and then follows on with, “do you need anything?”

-arya almost laughs, but managed to contain it with a smile. trust her sister to travel all the way out to her to pretend to only be doing her duties. she wipes off the final splatter of blood, and slips it back into the sheath at her hip. 

-”no, i’m alright.” arya cuts their small talk. it was virtually over already, she reasons. she takes an appropriate pause before asking, “are they letting you stay as lady of winterfell?”

-she hopes the answer is yes, because there’s nothing arya wants less now is for things to go back to exactly how they had been before: one king or queen in king’s landing, and a kingdom divided into lords who only earned the title due to their sex and birth right. sansa had proven herself as much as anybody, arya firmly believed, if not more, and she deserved the reward for it. with sansa in charge, the north would be safe.

-”i don’t know,” sansa stated earnestly, not breaking her eye contact, “we haven’t discussed it yet.”

-”you should,” arya barely let her finish, “i don’t want anybody else. i’m sure the others feel the same.”

-sansa looked pleased by her sister’s words, but did not let herself become overwhelmed by it. she glanced at the ground, then back at arya, which the latter knew was a signal that the topic of conversation was about to change.

-”you love him,” sansa spoke firmly, but not harshly. she spoke as though stating a fact, and not proposing a question.

-arya could not pretend she didn’t understand her sister perfectly clearly. after all, there was only one man she had wept over. only one man she had kissed, only one man who had leaned for her. only one man she longed to see, now not knowing if he had survived his injuries as her hopeful mind had assumed.

-”yes,” she agreed, fiddling absently with the handle of needle.

-sansa nodded, once more dropping her eyes only to return them seconds later. “and him?”

-”him?” arya posed back her own question. it was rather vague, even for arya’s sharp mind. 

-”does he love you?”

-that was a question arya had never thought to ask. not to herself, nor him. the night the battle commenced they had shared an intimate moment, in which arya had given herself to him. not solely as a woman, but as an assassin who had sworn to a life of coldness and lack of feeling. it was then, she supposed, that she had fallen in love with him, or at least allowed herself to admit it.

-”i... i don’t know.” she answered frankly, meeting her sister’s eyes. 

-sansa sighed, not frustrated or bored, but pensively. she narrowed her eyes as she thought - it was a habit she had had since childhood, as long as arya could remember - until she finally hit a resolution.

-”visit him,” sansa ordered, using arya’s favour of her as a ruler to influence her sister, “and find out.”

-it was so strange - so unlike herself - to talk so openly about such things. arya was supposed to be sansa’s polar opposite, not only in looks but in behaviour and mannerisms. she was supposed to feign illness whenever the topic of love arose, but now she couldn’t. she instead thought of gendry, wondered if sansa knew he was alive or was simply assuming as she was, then nodded.

-feeling sick to her stomach with nerves, she moved her ice-cast limbs towards the castle. she made on intentional stop on the way, however, to pause before sansa and, preceeding a moment of staring, pulled her in for a sisterly hug.

-”i’m glad you made it,” she confessed into the abundance of red locks covering sansa’s ear. she pulled back, met sansa’s eye sheepishly and smiled, then set back off towards the castle, stomach flipping and falling, landing at her feet and she breached the area she knew was where the dead and dying were being kept.

-she could not admit to herself why she did it, but along the way she wandered the aisles of corpses, trying to prepare herself to see his corpse lying there, motionless, frozen and empty of something that was uniquely him.

-to her most sincere relief, he was not there. 

-exiting the room at an orderly pace, she broke out into a sprint to reach the other room - the one where the treated patients were being held for the time being, until their recovery was completed. she all but smashed down the doors as she arrived, and found herself rather breathless as the first eyes she caught were the icy blue ones she had been seeking.

-there, lay outstretched on a moth-bitten bed, was gendry. he seemed to have sense her arrival, because he was looking alert at her, oh so alert, and he pushed himself up onto his palms when he realised she wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

-his chest was bare, she saw, and there on his skin lay newfound scars that matched her own. there was an angry, red mark down the right side of his face, and it made her heart burst when she noticed it. 

-not wanting to waste any more time, she marched over to his side determinedly and took him by the face, bringing her lips to his, sealing them together as soon as she possibly could. never again would she take moments like this for granted, she vowed, running a thumb across his jaw. never

-pushing back, she met his eye again. he looked at her as though she were something mystical - mythical, like a creature from the beautiful songs she had so often heard the cold men sing of a night at winterfell. he outlined each part of her face, settling on the red atop her head, where her cut had been.

-”it’s nothing,” she assured him, then turned her own attention to the mark down his face. “is this permanent?”

-”i’m afraid so,” his smile looked guilty, as though he believed himself unfit to be hers now. she wanted to dispel this thought.

-”i like it,” she spoke as though she were a child again, like when they had first met, “it’s nice.”

-”’nice’?” he barked out a laugh that sounded painful, “i thought a lady could do better than ‘nice’.”

-she rolled her eyes at him but did nothing more, through fear she would hurt him or otherwise re-open an old wound. she looked back at him, fear and adoration filling her eyes at the same time. “i was worried you were dead.”

-”and i you, m’lady,” he seemed overly proud of himself, knowing he could abuse the much hated term as he pleased, because arya would not act in defense now. she admitted to herself it was because she loved him so much.

-she smitten look on his face fell, replaced by something akin to dread. he eyed her, taking in the beauty of her face and the feeling of her hands on his skin before he said, voice sadder than arya had ever heard it, “what do we do now, arya?”

-”firstly, we mend all that was broken. then, i’d rather like to give you your proper title - baratheon - if that’s not disagreeable-”

-”arya,” he sounded serious, “i meant about us.”

-arya’s already-exploded heart shattered, smearing glass all over her insides, piercing her organs. she felt like she wanted to cry for the second time that week, for the first time since her father died.

-”what do you mean?”

-the way gendry’s eyes glassed over showed arya that he had heard her disappointment. ever the empath, he had sensed her sadness, and it had rubbed onto him, tainting his own emotions. 

-”i mean,” he explained, “you’re a lady, and i’m a smith. ladies and smiths aren’t meant to be together - it isn’t proper. you’ll be best suited with a lord, somebody who can treat you as you deserve.”

-a rage boiled within her in a matter of seconds. she took a tight grip on his hands, and held his eye with a furious, determined heat.

-”fuck lords, and fuck being proper,” she intentionally swore, knowing this would best emphasise her self and point all at once. “i only want you. i thought i made that clear.”

-gendry looked beautifully pained by this, knived by her most kind words, “i thought that was a hasty decision made by the impending sense of death.”

-”we’re not dead yet.”

-arya softened her gaze, and lowered her voice. he had no time to respond before she was speaking again, less harsh this time, more true to how she felt deep inside of her.

-”i love you.”

-she heard gendry’s breath as it caught in his throat. he coughed to clear it, then offered, voice subdued, “that makes us heretics.”

- arya smiled softly, and spoke even more so. ”i’m sure the gods will forgive us.”

[ninaahelvar]

Chivalry Fell On Its Sword (7/?)

Summary: All Arya wanted so to feel normal and go outside of the damn castle. Now, through a series of unfortunate, she’s stuck with a bodyguard that she accidentally flirted with: Gendry Waters.

AO3

A/N: what i'm saying is - Bran does slam poetry. that's it. that's the chapter. anyway......enjoy 👀👀👀

He swallowed. He swallowed hard. Gendry couldn’t believe he even fucking said it. And now, it was out in the open. His jaw clenched tight, shoulders straightening as his whole body went tense. With the stunned way she stared at him, he really wasn’t sure what the hell was going to happen.

“What?” Arya said, her voice a whisper. The anger that had once taken her by storm was gone, and what remained was a girl - beautiful and struck by his words. It broke him. He wanted to fall to his knees and confess it all again for that voice. But in the end, his suit kept him in position, hard clenched hands stopping him for faltering.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied back sternly.

“Did you just say you -”

“It doesn’t matter what I said,” he snapped. Arya stook a step closer to Gendry. He didn’t have the strength the step back, no matter how much he wanted distance.

“It does to me,” she said, voice so soft, it was almost begging him to say what he needed to. Instead, fear took its place.

“Listen to me, Arya,” he said, looking down at her with as much malice as his body held - looking at her made it so fucking difficult, “you’re the princess, everyone is looking to you to be strong. I’m here to protect you, that’s it.”

“But you’re in love with me,” she said, hand on his cheek. Gendry reached up, trying not to shake. He took her fingers delicately and pushed them back to her side.

“So are thousands of other people,” he replied weakly, looking down at his shoes. “Princess. I know my place. Know yours. Get back to the palace,” he said, gesturing his hand back to the street where the car was waiting. There was silence before Arya moved, her feet crunching on sticks and branches. Gendry tried so hard to move, but his body needed strength. He felt so weak after what he said - the words of a man that hated himself...and put it all on the woman he loved.

*~*~*

The night felt like it dragged, stuck in sinking earth that wouldn’t let loose. Arya tossed over again and again, wondering what the hell happened that afternoon. His words echoed in her mind, badgering her until she curled her pillow around her head to silence everything. The tension in her body was too much - mind working when she wanted it blank.

In a huff, she shoved the pillow from her head and chewed on her lip. She slowly snaked her hand passed the waistband of her pajama shorts and underwear. If her mind was completely taken over by bliss, than that was what had to be done. As she stroked the bundle of nerves, her toes curled and she became more confident and comfortable with her own touch.

The confusion of her mind had finally caught up to her, as she imagined Gendry in between her thighs, face hidden behind the crest of her body, eyes staring back at her with desire that made her heart clench tight.

Arya’s hand stopped, a huff falling from her lips.

She shouldn’t be thinking things like that.

But desperation for sleep kept her fingers tentatively between her legs.

And instead of fighting her mind, she let it slip into where it wanted to land, his hand in her place and the man that loved her doing whatever he wanted to her body. As her body came apart - thigh shaking and toes curling so hard she wondered how they remained that way without cramping - she tried to ignore the thoughts that had sprung up in her desperate daydream. Instead, she focused on the remnants of her orgasm, riding it out slowly until sleep came far easier than before.

However, she dreams provided no escape from the wandering thoughts. Gendry taking her in all the ways she wanted, the guilty pleasures she kept to herself. She woke with a feverish need and her face felt flush. In the end, all she could do was wait in her room, pretending she didn’t feel the slight aching in between her legs where he could have been.  

In a text, she messaged Gendry, asking about coffee. But as hours ticked by, no knock at her door, she cradled her legs and rested her cheek on her knees, waiting for her phone to go. She didn’t pine. She didn’t long for him. Arya was just frustrated. Why would he say it and act so cold? Why would he do that when he knew she was hurting?

Arya stayed in bed, watching as the day came in and the afternoon went - scrolling for hours on social media and trying to find joy without leaving her room. In the end, she felt her stomach turn as she saw the photos of her sister. Arya wasn’t sure why, but she felt sick, as though something were missing from her belly. Sansa looked happy as she was out for brunch, Theon smiling with her as they joked over coffee. And Arya felt empty.

Throwing her phone to the other side of the bed, Arya wanted to scream into her pillow. The reality was, Arya was lonely - ignored and left to be alone. She didn’t deserve this, stuck with the comfort of her bed that still left her cold amongst the sheets.

In the night, there was a soft rapping at her door. Arya perked, watching as the door opened up. Instead of the suit that had become more routine as of late, she saw her tall redheaded sister. Arya sighed, retreating back into her bed as Sansa moved into the room. Over her shoulder, Arya saw Gendry standing guard, not even looking into the room - to see if Arya was even there. It made her want to claw at the walls, and rip apart the room - who was he to act like he was so above her all of a sudden.

“So, I heard you haven’t left your room all day,” Sansa said, moving into the room cautiously, “you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Arya grumbled, tucking her legs up to her chest again.

“I wanted to complain, can you listen?”

“Sure,” Arya said, shuffling along in her bed, but not paying much mind to her sister. Sansa moved under the sheets and groaned as she managed to get comfortable. Then, Sansa started to shuffle through her phone, looking at text messages and showing Arya quick glimpses.

“The boy, you know, the boy. He’s being all distant now, and I thought we were just getting things exactly where we needed. I’ve been trying to talk to him, be all nice and understanding but he’s all -”

As Sansa rattled on, Arya felt her teeth clenching tight and her hands binding in her sheets.

“You’re complaining about your love life that isn’t even in trouble cause he’s standing right in front you. You’re both just being twats,” Arya huffed, facing towards the windows. Sansa smacked at Arya’s thigh, shame and guilt forcing Arya to stay focused on the window. It was raining. When wasn’t it, these days?

“Ok, there’s something up with you, spill,” Sansa urged. Instead, Arya held herself closer. “Is this about dad?” Arya huddled herself closer.

“Don’t pretend you understand. I’m the only one he’s forgotten and I’m the closest to him,” Arya replied in a rush, feeling Sansa’s hand on her shoulder, trying to get her to face her sister. But Arya pulled back in on herself.

“Arya, dad remembers me as a fifteen year old. He asked me how my exams are going,” Sansa explained, but that didn’t mean shit. Arya was only a year or so younger than Sansa, and yet, he had forgotten Arya out of all of them? It wasn’t fair.

“Can you just leave? I’m not in the mood,” she muttered, keeping herself coiled like a snake, ready to attack again if her sister talked. For whatever reason, she felt angry - an anger that was fueled by nothing other than happiness. She thought she had it for a split second, and then it was snatched away by the person giving it.

Her sister mumbled under her breath, ripping the blankets from her form and going towards Arya’s bedroom door. Sansa paused at the threshold, the door creaking as it opened. Arya wanted to turn to see Gendry, to know what he was thinking. Instead, she kept watching her eye on the falling water, watching it drip down from the top of the window to the bottom of the frame. “You can talk to me, you know?” Sansa said, voice soft - caring.

“Whatever,” Arya replied. Sansa sighed and shut the door behind her.

Arya was alone for the rest of the night, getting food to her room from Hot-pie because he was worried. Unlike someone. She supposed, after her mood, she was jealous of everyone in her family. She felt like they got everything she didn’t - she was missing the master plan of happiness within the confines of royalty.

Why couldn’t she have that - just a small thing that meant the world to her, even in the sad times. Now, it was just torture, a way for Gendry to have the upper hand and taunt her.

She hated him for making her feel like that. That she wasn’t allowed to say or do what she wanted. All because he was afraid. What a bastard.

The next day, Arya refused to stay in her room. She went around the palace grounds, Gendry on her heels and not even saying a word. He just kept up with her and made sure she wasn’t doing anything - he refused to let her go on a certain trail, and he was beginning to wear suits like they were always his uniform. Made her roll her eyes. Like an idiot, he was following the rules.

Arya then sat in meeting with Davos, where he explained that her proposal meeting would be pushed back due to Bran and her father being the centre of the news cycle. It also meant that Robb had a chance to breathe - giving him time in the spotlight without having him completely take over the reigns of king. Arya could only think how much stress he was under, but she didn’t feel it her place to speak with him just yet.

As she left to head out again, she ran into Jon. He came bounding towards her, pulling her into his arms and holding her as tightly as he could. It took Arya a bit too long to realise why he wasn’t letting her go. Pity did that to him - made him friendlier. Arya hated that, scowling at her brother. He didn’t even seem to notice that she was recoiled by him in that moment.

With his hand on her cheek, he looked down at her, pleading with just a look in his eyes.

“Hey, have you considered going to the hospital?” he asked, and Arya scoff.

“Why? I’m fine,” she shrugged, trying to play off the question. Maybe he would drop it then.

“Arya,” Jon sighed. She didn’t like that. He always had a way of making her feel small, that she’d always be little in his eyes. “You have to go visit dad.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Arya snapped, shoving Jon’s hand away. He looked shocked, that she would ever be as spiteful as that moment.

“He’s getting better, surely you could -” Jon tried, but Arya chewed on the inside of her lip.

“I’m going for a run,” she replied, fixing up her jacket and looking at the floor. Her sneakers squeaked against the tiles, the only other sound radiating in the area besides for the three of them breathing.

“It’s late,” Jon replied, his tone harsher than before - as though he were truly looking down on her now. Jon wasn’t like that, but neither was Arya. They were never going to see eye to eye on this.

“Then I’ll go to the gym downstairs, gods,” she huffed, going down the stairs. Jon and Gendry had a silent conversation - she didn’t pry, she just wanted to get away. It was easier, why should she be the one to get hurt when everything else was against her. She could stay at home, or go into town, and nothing else even mattered.

As she started to go towards the palace gym area, her arm was wrenched back, forcing her to collide with Gendry behind her. He started down at her angrily.

“Regardless if he knows who you are or not, you still need to go see him,” he said, some of the only words he had said to her in days.

And Arya felt spiteful. Who was he to say what she should do when it came to fathers? How would he know a damn thing. “Speaking from experience, are we?” she barked back, watching as his face contorted uncomfortably. She had wounded him deeper than she anticipated. Served him right.

“Get back to your fucking room, you’re not going to the gym,” he said, taking a firm hold of her arm and taking her back up the stairs.

“Don’t treat me like a child,” she said, clawing at his hand as best she could whilst trying to drag her feet against the tiles to no avail.

“I can if you’re acting like one,” he snapped, and Arya kicked at the back of his knee, making him buckle down to the floor before shooting back up to face her.

“I’m going to get you fired for talking to me like that,” she scowled, trying her best to sound like anything but a spoiled child. She knew she did anyway, though.

“Be my fucking guest. Gets me away from you,” he replied harshly.

“Fuck you,” she spat, Gendry letting her go, a hard shove of her arm and he moved ahead of her. His shoulders were tense, and hands were bound so tight, Arya could see his fingers were white.

She moved slowly behind him, making her way to her room and watched as he never once turned to see if she were behind him.

It occurred to her that he might not even have cared.

Gendry stood against the frame of her door, watching the opposite windows and not glancing once at her. Shutting her door, she touched at the frame, the closest thing to him.

All that was left between them now was spite.

And even when she hated him; she hated that she hated him.

Within the next few days, they didn’t talk. Arya went to the kitchen, she talked to Hot-pie. He asked her questions about the proposal. Gendry stayed outside. He followed wherever she went, but neither of them spoke.

Maybe it was for the best.

Arya knew that whenever he spoke to her, all she wanted to do was scream - to yell about how much he could be saying without being a twat about it. But instead, silence was the next best option.

Nothing came easy for Arya, it seemed.

As she was hauling some books from the family library to her room, she spotted her brother being wheeled in. Bran’s smile was so wide, it filled Arya was a joy she couldn’t describe. She went running to him, not caring about the books that fell from fell from her arms - they were on building organisations, and running successful businesses - they meant nothing compared to the brother in front of her

“You’re home!?” she shouted as she reached him. Bran smiled, taking the books from her hands and placing them in his lap. He didn’t say anything, just wheeling himself off as Gendry caught up to her. He handed her the remaining books, only for her to hand them to Bran. The two siblings kept their pace with one another, as Bran lead his way around the bottom floor of the palace.

It made Arya sad - the palace wasn’t designed to be accessible - or widely accessible - to the disabled. Maybe they were already organising new things, plans to make it easier for Bran to move about? She wasn’t exactly in contact with her family a lot these days, she wouldn’t know.

Bran suddenly stopped at the edge of the back porch, looking out onto the back garden before he flipped through one of Arya’s books. “You know, you would have found out I was coming home if you visited the hospital,” he said, and Arya turned to him.

It felt like he was reading her fucking mind.

As her brow furrowed, she shook her head and scoffed at his words. “I had other shit going on, why do I need to baby you?”

“Arya, cut the bullshit. You’re blaming yourself for what happened to me. Which, you shouldn’t.” Bran continued reading the book, as though he hadn’t just dropped the biggest fucking bomb on her.

He was right, and she disliked that he was being all insightful now.

Arya sighed, combing her hair out of her face and settling down on the first step next to Bran’s wheels. “Bran, I was the reason -”

“I took my seat belt off,” he started, finally looking at Arya. He leaned forward, hand on her shoulder. “I wanted to sit in the back away from mum and dad to watch one of my lectures. If I had stayed in my seat, I wouldn’t have lost the use of my legs,” he said, patting at his knee. It barely budged. Yet, it didn’t seem to bother Bran in the slightest. He had seemed to be completely calm since waking up. It worried her.

“But…”

“Arya, it’s okay. I really don’t mind. Nothing truly changed, I’m still me,” he said, smile weaker than it was before, and Arya could feel her heart sinking into her stomach.

“I know, I just -”

“While I can not change what was my decision, it was my decision nonetheless and I am content to learn about the newest stage of my time on this land.” He sounded completely different, gaze drifting off to the garden, as though he saw something far wider and more beautiful than she did.

“I’m sorry you were in there in the first place,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand. Then, suddenly, he did a finger gun with his free hand.

“Bruh, this’ll be so good for disability services now we can get some key problems through parliament,” he said, nodding confidently to himself.

“Are you seriously making this into a thing you can campaign with or something?” she laughed, trying her hardest not to, but Bran was a hurricane of happiness, flipping back onto his wheels, and tilting back in his chair like the teenage boy he was. He acted as though he were a teenage boy that saw an abandoned wheelchair and finally got the chance to perform all the stunts he always wanted to. Somehow, he seemed to be enjoying it far more standing.

“Well, yeah. I’m a fucking genius,” he scoffed, leaning back into his chair.

“Idiot,” Arya scoffed, standing up and taking her books from Bran’s lap.

“I know you wanted to talk to your bodyguard, I was fine with it,” he whispered to her suddenly and Arya paused taking the last book.

“What are you -”

“Our little secret then, I guess,” he shrugged, wheeling himself back quickly and tilting himself on one wheel. “I’m already great at tricks, watch!” he said, spinning around and the lifted wheel hit back down on the ground hard and Bran grunted at the shock before trying it again.

Arya rolled her eyes. “You’re the biggest idiot I know.”

Bran smiled, wheeling himself around when Rickon came out onto the porch. “You think you can get another chair here? I wanna play wheelchair football in the ballroom,” he said, completely out of breath.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t even think about that,” Bran said, fiddling with the pockets on his chair until he came back with his phone. “I’m calling Davos,” he said and Rickon cheered. Arya watched in amazement as the pair waited intently for Davos to answer the phone.

Okay, Arya knew two of the biggest idiots in the world. And they were her brothers.

Arya hitched up her books, walking back inside. Gendry had been stood at the doors, barely even looking at her as she came back inside, but following after her as she walked back to her room.

He picked up all the books she dropped, eventually holding a majority of the stack that Arya had struggled with. At her desk, he set them down, pausing for a moment in her room before walking away and shutting the door behind him. She was getting more used to seeing his back than his face these days, and it made her heart lurch.

As she settling in at her desk, opening up her book, she laid her head in the mess of notes, struggling to think about anything other than that stupid man that stood on the other side of her door.

The next day, Arya was ready in her gym gear, tying up her hair when she met Gendry in the hallway. He looked at her strangely, which was different than his clear determination to ignore her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, voice deep and darker than normal. Arya ignored the way her heart skipped, simply heading towards the staircase. Flicking her pony tail as she finished tying it, she looked back to him.

“I’m going out today,” she said, hitching up the bag on her shoulder. As she went to go, Gendry put out his hand, stopping her in her tracks.

“Unless it’s for events, or you’re seeing friends, you’re not allowed out of the palace,” he said, his chin raised and eyes focusing past her - she wasn’t even there to him, was she?

“What the fuck is this new rule?” she said, pushing hard into his chest. He didn’t budge. And she wanted to kick him in between the legs to get any kind of response out of the bastard.

“I made it because I let you have too much leniency. You can’t just do whatever you want, your life could be in danger,” he said, and Arya groaned, kicking at his shin, only for him to dodge it this time.

“Why should you care? Tell me,” she said, stepping into him. Gendry stepped back, and part of her wanted to follow, be within his gravity - just to understand what he was thinking.

“Just go.” He pointed over her shoulder, making her go back towards her room. Instead, she stayed put, scowling hard at him. “And don’t try the exits, they’ve all been sealed.” He warned.

“I hate you,” she said, and Gendry turned, walking off. Always walking away.

“Good.” Arya stopped. She wanted to call out his name and ask what he meant. Could he be…

No.

It was stupid.

Gendry knew who he was - he was not only a commoner, but personal aid to the royal family. He didn’t have the right to confess what he meant. And Arya was a fool for falling for it all - her heart striving for something she couldn’t have.

He was doing this all for the two of them.

She needed to know that.

But there was still a lingering part of her that wanted to ignore it all and give into it.

She didn’t know what side of her would win out in the end.

A week had gone by, Arya’s proposal date was now set, and she was studying up in her room. Her hair was up in a messy bun, her jeans were black to hide all the stains from her dripping foods, and her shirt kept them from being secret with the white colour and graphic print on her Sigrid shirt.

With a pen in her mouth, muttering to herself, Arya was going over it with the speech she had written, when she heard a loud commotion outside. There was part of her that was willing to ignore it - put on her noise cancelling headphones, and keep up her practicing - but there was a pull in her gut that said something was wrong.

Arya put her notes back down, moving to her door. Outside, she saw all the security talking into their comms, shouting out and covering up all windows as quickly as possible - whilst also checking they were locked. Arya chewed on her lip, catching Pod as he passed her. She caught onto his arm, for him to turn in a frantic mess. Arya looked around to find Gendry gone. He wasn’t even at her door anymore. Something didn’t feel right.

“We’re on lockdown everyone!” Pod said into his comms, as though he were repeating a message over and over until everyone was getting it.

“What’s going on?” Arya said.

“Someone’s broken past the gate, sensors are catching him near the residency,” he said, and Arya wanted to launch from her room - find her family, keep them within arms reach, but Pod stepped into her, pushing her back into her room. “Everyone remain in your rooms until we give further notice,” he explained. But, she was alone. And she felt scared

“Where’s Gendry?” she asked, voice soft and hand binding tighter into his arm.

“Gendry’s not…” Pod said, looking around and huffing, changing his channel over quickly. “Gendry! Get to your po-”

Static came in when a ragged voice came back over, completely out of breath. “I’m running, Pod! I’m fucking running!” Gendry sounded like he was worried - beyond what worried could hold as a word. But Arya wasn’t sure if he was worried for her or his job. Was she even worth the word?

“He’ll be here in a sec, don’t worry,” Pod said, before whispering under his breath, “idiot.”

Arya waited at her door, the silence on the other side far more daunting than the hurried steps and yelling from just a few moments before. Before she knew it, a knock came to her door. Arya sucked in a breath, opening the door - met with a man she was not expecting. It was Pod again, smiling easily now. Arya sighed, smiling back briefly.

“It was only a university student,” he started, letting his tie loosen around his neck as he continued on. “He was dared to scale the fence and didn’t know the way out. Everything is fine,” he let out a shaky breath and Arya laughed, almost shutting the door when Pod made a strangled noise.

“There’s something else?”

“We’re stay on lockdown just in case. Everyone will stay put until morning,” he said, nodding to make sure she knew. Arya gave a nod back. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he apologised.

“Thanks Pod,” she said, watching as Pod walked off, heading towards Sansa’s room further down the hall. Arya kept her gaze on the hallway for a few more moments, wondering if she’d see her bodyguard come bounding around the corner, apologising to her for leaving her alone.

In the end, she just shut her door.

Where the hell was he? And how could he just...leave like that.

As she sat at her desk, another ten minutes went by before she heard a faint knock on her door. It opened, for Gendry to step through, barely even looking concerned. “You alright?” he asked, nodding as he took her in. Within a second of his question, and not waiting for an answer, he started to leave. Arya kicked her chair out from underneath her, hitting at her desk as hard as she could with all her frustration going into the force of it.

“How can I trust you to do your job when you can’t be alone with me for five minutes?” she yelled. Gendry stopped, turning back into the room and slamming the door behind him.

“How can I trust myself to do my job if I’m alone with you for five minutes?” Out of everything, this was when he was being honest? How long had he been holding onto those words? Or was it all just an excuse?

“Oh, so you love me but also can’t stand me. Is that how it is?” she said, getting into his space again. Gendry didn’t budge, tongue poked into his cheek.

“This conversation is over.” Gendry turned to the door again, and Arya couldn’t watch those stupid shoulders again.

“Why would you risk losing everything over this? If things get worse between us you could lose your job. What about your mum?” She was desperate. She didn’t mean to say it like it was a threat. Arya was just…

Everything was too much.

Gendry whipped back around, hands bound like they had been when she brought up his father.

“Thats a low blow, your highness.” He warned her a gravel to his voice. Arya stepped away, hand to her head before the words could come to her. She felt like yelling, and crying, and fighting him all at the same time.

“Well, am I wrong? We're fighting all the time and you can’t stand my presence. I’m so tired of you walking away from this and from me. How the fuck can I trust you to protect me?” she asked. Gendry hands raised up high, gesturing between them as his voice raised higher than before. Arya didn’t think either of them realised that they were in the palace. Everything else was just a void.

Whenever they were around each other, it was only ever them.

“How am I supposed to protect you when I’m in love with you?! It’s protection 101! I’m about to lose it all anyway because I broke the first rule so it doesn’t matter, does it?” he snapped, going for the door handle again, and the distance made her scared. Arya dashed for him, following after as the words came out - so desperate and longing, she was surprised it was only coming out then.

“It doesn’t matter?! Have you bothered to stop and consider I might love you back?”

Gendry stopped, turning back to her in one sharp movement. Arya was right behind, almost caught off guard by his sudden turn.

Her chest heaved, the air going in, ragged and painful. She was still trying to catch her breath, and it didn’t help when Gendry was looking at her like that. She wanted to ask it again - does it matter then? - but words were caught in her throat. All she wanted to do was kiss him, show that idiot what he meant to her - but for the first time, she knew, above everything that her royal blood kept them apart. His job was on the line. Her confession meant nothing.

That didn’t stop him. In a split second, he bent down, crowding her space with his form and kissing her so quickly, the breath she was trying to catch was given over to him. His arm snaked around her back, pulling her flush against his chest. She stared, wildly unprepared for him - he stunned her, for the first time. Arya was used to being the one to shake him down, rattle him until he laughed. Now, he was using his height to leverage her off balance, for each kiss she chased, he leaned forward, knocking her back a few steps.

Arya reached up, tugging his jacket from his shoulders, and heard the door slam behind them. Peeking, she saw Gendry’s foot keeping it shut as he tried to find the lock. Arya huffed, shoving him to the door, allowing her to lock it in his stead. Gendry barely even acknowledged that she had done it - other than his hand moving from her waist to her ass, gripping into the soft skin with a roughness she didn’t even realised she liked. Arya bit and nibbled at his lower lip, making him moan into her mouth, and Seven Hells, the sound was intoxicating.

They tumbled off the door, Gendry kicking his shoes and socks off as they roamed the room in a desperate kiss. They kept knocking into furniture until they finally found the safety between her chest of draws and the wall. A few things were knocked off, but it wasn’t a problem at that moment - it was just them, they were the only thing that mattered. Gendry put Arya against the wall, and she tried to fight it, his touch and kiss kept her subdued, completely under his spell.

Gendry fumbled with his hands, roaming down her body until she felt his hands wrench at the button on her jeans. He was rough, tugging her completely off balance and throwing her into him with every pull. She didn’t care, snatching at his tie as hard as she could and unbuttoning his shirt. As he hurried her jeans and underwear around her thighs, she kicked them off as best as she could, only to stop when his hand went directly between her thighs.

Arya whined, the sudden touch so jolting, she had to clutch at his shoulders to steady herself. Delving one finger inside her, Arya tried not to make too much noise - it had been a while since someone else had touched her like that, and when he slipped a second inside, she could tell he knew what he was doing. With his thumb circling her clit, she finally let out a whimper that was far more guttural than she meant it to. And with that, Gendry smirked, his other hand going around her waist and pushing her right up against him. With that, she could feel the hard length of him on her thigh, begging at his trousers for freedom. But it seemed like his only concern was torturing Arya in his own special way.

Gendry suffocated her whimpers and moans,  keeping them as close as possible as he got her off. Arya’s hands curled over his back, clawing at his shirt and dragging it up his back as his pace was unrelenting. When Arya had first had sex, she was abroad studying in Bravos - and from her experience with the guy she hooked up with was nothing like this. He was fumbly, and wanted to touch her, but only really cared about getting himself off. Gendry was well and truly fucking her from start to finish, making sure she knew - he was the only man that was ever going to make her feel this way.

As her nails bore down in his the skin of his back, her orgasm rounding so quickly, she wanted desperately for him to slow down - she knew he wouldn’t. Her brow furrowed, and she had to stop kissing him just to pant. As her cry almost rang out in her room, Gendry sharply kissed her again, his fingers moving fast to get her to the edge. Arya felt her knees tremble, Gendry keeping her upright with his free hand around the back of her waist. He brought his fingers that were just inside her to his mouth, sucking on them, his hips unconsciously rubbing against her thigh. Arya whined, moving his hand away, kissing him again as his hands went back to her body.

“You got anything?” he murmured, in between kisses, trying to hold onto her waist whilst also struggling with his belt.

“Hm?” she hummed, a little dazed, before she decided to help him with his clothes, finally getting his shirt over his head as he finally freed his belt from his pants.

“Condoms?” he confirmed. Arya looked to her side, patting the chest of draws, fumbling for the draw she could reach.

“Top draw, under my underwear,” she said, and Gendry was quick to reach over and find the stack under all her things. Arya undid the button of his pants and unzipped everything. Arya kicked off the remainder of her pants as Gendry let his pants and underwear slip down to his midthigh.

Arya didn’t want to gawk, didn’t want to stare - but fuck, he was big, and he was going to fuck her? That seemed impossible, but there was also a spark of determination in her - that it was going to be good from start to finish. Exactly how he planned, she guessed. Gendry put the condom on, then as they came eye to eye again, he smirked, a devilish look hidden within the blue that stared back. He bent slightly, taking the back of her thighs and hoisting her up against the wall.

Gendry ran his length over her entrance, running it slowly and deliberately over her clit. Arya held onto Gendry’s shoulders as he guided his length inside her. They both moaned, clutching tighter to one another. Gendry collapsed against her, a fist hitting the wall a little too hard. But neither of them cared, Arya’s legs tight around his waist, and Gendry finding his rhythm within her in a matter of moments. He started slow, drawing himself out before pushing his hips up against hers with a force that made Arya gasp.

Gendry had drawn himself out, barely leaving the tip inside before thrusting hard until there was nothing left of him to give. Arya moaned, her pleasure a small cry into the void of the night. With a soft chuckle, Gendry took up the bottom of her shirt, finally removing the fabric and his mouth descending to her breast, moving her bra out of the way so his teeth could nip lightly at her nipple. Arya whined loudly, clawing at the back of his neck.

“Shh, stop making noise,” he warned, thrusting into her as her hips came down at the same time, “ah, fuck!” he groaned into the crook of her neck. Arya tried not to make a sound, mewling when he thrust in another time.

“Don’t tell me what to d-” she started, only for Gendry to buck his hips harder against hers, making her cry a little, “shit,” she gasped, her voice squeaking as sucked on her breast again. He nipped at it, just to see what would get a rise out of her. Most of the time, he was able to do it.  

“Be quiet. I’m fucking royalty here, it’s technically treason,” he reminded her, and Arya dragged her nails down his back, making him hiss then moan.

“Oh, fuck you,” she moaned, fingers combing through the back of his hair.

“You are,” he scoffed, his pace no longer slow and torturing. He came unravelled with whatever was holding him back. He went over and over again, pulling her flush against him every time, panting into her chest, kissing at her skin as she became more desperate for a release. It was building at the very pit of her stomach, legs tightening and loosening around his waist as her body rocked against his.

As her pace unlonger matched his, desperately racing after the lust that was with her, trying to release the coiled mess of her orgasm that was brewing - Gendry continued, grunting a little harder, pace becoming a little more wild along with her.

Her voice was rising in pitch, panting becoming even more girlish than she realised it could. Arya clutched to him, head thrown back as she felt her release coming. Then, Gendry brought his hand to the back of her head, forcing her down to him and kissing him with a force that he wouldn’t relinquish. Gendry was good at that - kissing her to silence the loud noises she was definitely going to make at her ecstasy. She didn’t know how experienced he was - but he was fucking good.

Her orgasm was blissful, and Gendry let her lips go, panting into her chest, as he slowed down his pace, allowing her to ride out the remnants of her climax.

Gods, she hated him.

*~*~*

Arya stepped down from her position on the wall, tugging his neck down to kiss her again. But she wasn’t done, and Gendry could tell he had wildly over stepped. Because she pushed on Gendry’s chest, urging him back until his legs hit her bed. He sat down, and Arya took off her bra before she took off Gendry’s pants that had yet to fall from his thighs.

Climbing on top of him, Arya hooked her legs either side of his hips as she bent over him, catching his lips with her own. Her hair fell around his face. He didn’t realise how much of a mess he put her in - but knowing how hard she dug her nails into his back, he wasn’t unscathed either.

Arya relaxed back onto Gendry’s thighs, stroking his shaft, lying it against her belly before letting the lips between her thighs run delicately over it. The two of them panted, looking the slow way her body moved over his. He wasn’t going to say it, nor would he let himself, but he was ready to come at any moment. All of this had happened so quickly, his heart was in his throat the entire time.

Leading up to this moment, Gendry was trying to distance himself - he knew it was foolish to fall for a princess. But it was different when the princess wanted him too. He took her with all the harshness he could, knowing he couldn’t handle the tenderness after the anger that was charged between them. Arya didn’t relent or ask to stop, in fact, she seemed to be revelling it as much as he was.

Then, Arya guided him into her, the warmth of her making Gendry roll his head back into the mattress. “Fuck,” he murmured, looking back to watch Arya bit her lip, her hands running up and down his bare chest. Then, she started to move, her rhythm was steady, grinding on top of him as she got used to his length. It was clear from the heaving of her chest that she was still trying to get familiar with it within her.

It was as though she became more confident in just a matter of seconds, because she sped herself up, twisting her hips to circle up and down his cock. Now he realised what she was doing. She was going to torture him - for everything that had happened, for all the fights, for the words they spat at each other. He was making him pay. And what a perfect way to suffer. Gendry looked up to the ceiling, praying any god to listen to, and let him last longer, because he wasn’t done cherishing this moment.

Arya lent down, kissing him again and her pace started to become hurried, pushing up against him, and allowing him the chance to finally thrust in deeper than before. He cupped her breast, biting at the slope, making her mewl and throw her head back slightly. She smirked into her next kiss, but Gendry knew why she was being cocky; he could feel her walls tightening down on him. Her orgasm was so close, a desperate tugging of her body against his cock was intoxicating.

That’s when she became needy and hungry, thrusting hard against him, desperate for a climax that is just around the corner. Arya clutched to him, and he grabbed ahold of her hips, hands binding into anything he can purchase. He rocked her hips down harder onto his cock, making sure he filled her as completely as he could, and before he could catch it - Arya moaned, breathing out harshly, and making tight little squeaks as she held onto his body.

Gendry shot up from his back, holding her in his arms, and making her cry a little more, panting a little more heavily - trying her best to catch her breath. Her body arched into his, riding out her climax, her beautiful body sculpting itself to his every time they met in each thrust. Yet, Gendry got lost in her eyes, the grey and captivating - utterly tender as she came apart. He watched face, a fierce woman turned into a tender mess in his arms - all her features soft and begging for him. Only him. She dove back into him, kissing her with a moan on her breath, and her body straight up to his as she hugged around his shoulders. Her kiss was passionate and all consuming, and Gendry loved it, his hand on the back of her head to keep her there. And He couldn’t help himself, he gripped into her ass, bucking up into her as she whimpered again, tight little cries as she was climaxing.

Arya’s skin was more tender than he realised, her climax coming far quicker that time than it had before. And he felt confident in his own way. Gendry couldn’t help himself, tossing her onto her back, and hovering over her as he gripped his shaft back at her entrance. Taking her leg up, he allowed himself better access, driving himself forward in one hard thrust. Arya arched off the mattress, her chest against his for a hard intake of breath before she fell back down on the bed, clutching into the sheets.

With her leg hooked at his elbow, Gendry bent over her - forehead pressed against hers. They watched as their bodies moved against one another, thrusting until they could no longer keep the pace, tiring themselves out quickly. It repeated, slow and fast then back again, drawing it all out and Gendry was in love with it all. He was in love with her so much more than he ever had been before. Arya’s hands went over his back and neck again, keeping herself to him as she moaned, kissing at his shoulder as her body was responding well against his.

In the end, Gendry knew he couldn’t keep this up forever, she was gorgeous beneath him, but he had been wearing down, holding onto a threat of his willpower and was finally near the end of his rope. Gendry let go of her leg, letting it  fall to his hip, and holding himself up just to try and make himself last a little more. He wanted to tell her, to let her know that he wouldn’t be any use in a few moments, but Arya’s legs locked around his thighs, pace speeding up without prompting, and he could feel her walls clenching down again. With her breathing becoming heavy and ragged, he knew she wasn’t going to last much longer.

Her hands went to either side of his face, dragging him down and kissing him. He indulged, letting himself taste her, tongues moving against each other - everything felt perfect. Arya cried out again, and Gendry let out a guttural moan as he finally let himself go. He stilled, his body shaking as he fell into her. Completely weak. Arya’s arms traced into his back, as he got back onto his hands, looking down at her.

In her bliss, she was glowing - like a kind of beauty that no dress could ever add. It was just Arya. Perfectly Arya in utter pleasure. And it was all because of him. And he just couldn’t seem to catch his breath as he looked down at her panting body.

Words were lost between them, and all she did was kiss him - sweet and making him a mess. He buckled down to his elbows, kissing her over and over again, knowing he could keep doing that all night long if he wanted.

And Gods, did he want to.

[pitubea1910]

Black or love. 2

Pairing: Jon Snow x Reader

Words: 2388

Warnings: -

Tags: -

MASTERLIST

Even though it was your first time out on your own, you knew yourself around the forest. At least enough to get to the little lake you liked so much. It wasn’t that easy to find unless you knew where it was, since it was hidden behind a curtain of dense ferns. Yet, it was the more peaceful place you knew. Green grass all around, all untouched, crystal clear water and the sound of a small waterfall in the distance.

You walked through the ferns, holding Pegasus’ reins and then you let him just walk around after giving him a few apples. With a sigh, you took a seat on the grass, next to the lake. You just wished you had taken your cloak with you. There, with the sky covered by the high trees, it was cold. However, you weren’t going to go back just yet only because you were cold.

You knew you had never snapped like that to your mother, even when many times she pushed your buttons you had breathed deeply and let it go. But if there was one thing you wouldn’t let her control, was your future. If she wanted you to learn knitting, you’d do it, if she wanted you to learn good manners, you’d do it. But wanting to defend yourself, choosing someone you could love, all those things were completely up to you. And the moment she tried to control that you just snapped. You knew your mother wanted you to be more like Sansa, and that’s why she was so happy about your friendship, but you just weren’t going to pretend to be something you weren’t to make your mother happy. Not if that meant you’d be unhappy.

“Do you have any idea of the trouble you got me in?”

You let out a small scream as you heard the voice behind you and got up, turning around with a rock in your hand, just to be face to face with Jon. It felt like your heart was about to explode or get out of your chest. And he was just standing there, with a cloak hanging on his arm and a smile on his face.

“Seven Hells, Jon!” You exclaimed, placing a hand over your heart. “Have you heard about knocking?”

“On the rock?” He smiled, walking towards you.

“I don’t know, just… you can’t do that, okay?” You said, your breath still fast.

“I’m sorry”, he said, taking the rock from your hand now that he was close enough and throwing in into the water. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“It’s not like someone will find me”, you shrugged.

“I did”, he said. Then, he took the cloak and wrapped it around you, keeping his arms around you for a few more moments than necessary.

“How?” You raised an eyebrow. He laughed deeply.

“You’re not the only one who likes this place, you know?” he said, taking a seat on the grass. “And you’re not very good at hiding your track.”

After a couple of seconds, you did the same, wrapping yourself around the cloak, thankful for the warmth. You were pretty sure it was his. First, because of the size. Second, it smelled like him.

“Did you follow me?” You asked.

“Your father kind of sent me”, he admitted. You raised an eyebrow and looked at him. “He was going to send some guards. I told him you’d be happier to see me.”

“What if I’m not?” You asked with a small smile. He laughed again and looked at you.

“Aren’t you?” He said. Instead of replying, you looked at the lake, not saying anything.

The silence between you two was peaceful, comfortable. You knew there was no need for any of you to say anything, even if there was so much to be said. But maybe it wasn’t the moment to say it all.

“Thanks for the cloak”, you finally said.

“You’re welcome”, he said with a shrug. “I figured you’d be cold.” You nodded and sighed. “Why did you and your mother fight?” With a raised eyebrow you looked at him. How did he know? “Your father told me that’s why you left.”

“Oh…” you said, looking away again. “She can be too controlling. And I don’t like being controlled”, you simply said.

“I know the feeling”, he nodded.

“No, you don’t”, you smiled sadly. “You’re a boy. Nothing is expected from you except being a good soldier. For us, girls, there’s so many expectations. We have to be polite, but not stupid. Witty, but not cheeky. We have to funny, but not annoying. We have to laugh, but no too loud because it’s unlady-like. We have to be good wives, always smiling, bowing, knitting… It’s sickening, to be honest.”

“I like your laugh”, he said, looking down at the grass.

“What?” You chuckled. He shrugged and looked at you.

“It’s loud, it’s…natural and real”, he said. “Not like Sansa’s…”

“Sansa…” you mumbled. “She’s the perfect lady.”

“Who wants perfect?” He frowned, looking down.

“Everyone, apparently”, you mumbled.

“I don’t” he shrugged. You gulped and looked at him. “I don’t like perfect. I wouldn’t be interested in someone so focused on being perfect that they forget about being themselves”, he said.

“Then what do you like?” You said and bite your lip. He smiled softly but didn’t look away from you.

“I like someone who’s not afraid to laugh loudly”, he said. You blushed a bit and looked at your hands. “I care about you, (Y/N).”

You took a deep breath, not expecting to hear those words coming from him. You gulped and looked at him. His eyes were cautious, yet a bit scared. He had the feeling of having jumped off a cliff and there was no rope to prevent him from crashing against the hard ground. Somehow, it felt like your eyes made him float.

“I care about you too”, you finally said.

Jon’s smile grew a bit bigger and leaned forward, he placed a hand on your cheek, not breaking eye contact. There would be no distractions now, no one to drag you away. His lips soon found yours and you closed your eyes. His lips were soft and warm, despite the cold surrounding you two. You placed your hand on his chest and he took it, pressing his lips against yours for a few seconds before pulling away.

You smiled shyly, not knowing what was the right thing to do or say. But it looked like he didn’t care. He just wrapped an arm around you and hugged you tight for a very long time.

“Maybe we should go back”, he was the one saying after who knows how long.

“I don’t want to”, you admitted.

“Your father will think I’ve taken you”, he laughed quietly and pulled away from the hug. “And I don’t think that’s the best way to convince him I’m good for you, right?”

“I’m the one who decides who’s good for me”, you said, accepting the hand he offered to help you up.

“I wish that was true”, he smiled sadly. “But you’re still a lady and I’m just a bastard. You may not like being controlled, but you still have some duties towards your family.”

“That’s not fair”, you said. With a sigh he stroked your cheek and put some hair out of the way.

“I know”, he said with a sigh, not really knowing what else to say. He just leaned in and kissed you one last time before helping you get on your horse. It was time to go back home.

***

“I can’t believe you told that boy to look for our girl”, Leonora Royce told her husband.

It had been a couple of hours since Evan had sent out Jon to find you. He knew his wife wouldn’t be happy about it, but he had trusted the boy and her daughter would be back before Leonora knew about it. He was wrong.

“He’s a good boy, Leonora”, Evan said. “They will be back in no time.”

“He’s a bastard, Evan”, she said through gritted teeth. “What kind of future will she have with him?”

“She’s just 15”, lord Royce sighed. “And the fact that he’s a bastard is not what worries me”, he added, remembering what Ned had told him about his son a couple of days ago.

“Is time to start thinking about her future. I married you when I was 16”, she said.

“We were in love”, Evan said with a small smile.

Leonora sighed and looked at her husband. He was right. But she also wanted her daughter to have a good life, a proper one. She had grown up as a baker and it hadn’t been easy. She had learned to defend herself in order not to get raped, which could have happened in many occasions. She wanted so much better for her daughter.

“My lord”, one of the guards of the castle came into the great hall, where they were. “Lord Snow and Lady Royce are back.”

“Send them in”, Evan said immediately.

The guard nodded and walked back out of the hall. Evan looked at his wife, who looked at the door with a serious look in her eyes.

“Behave, okay? They’re just kids”, he whispered.

“She’s our kid”, she remarked.

Evan couldn’t reply. Jon and you walked into the hall, looking at your parents. Evan smiled immediately, happy to see that you were safe and sound. He walked over you and wrapped his arms around you before shaking Jon’s hand thankfully.

“Thank you, Jon”, he said.

“You’re welcome, my lord”, Jon said with a polite smile.

Both of them, looked at lady Royce, who looked like she was about to get sick or something. Jon looked at you and then at your father, who just nodded at him, signalling to go. Jon looked at you once again.

“It’s okay”, you reassured him. With a sigh, he turned around and walked out of the hall, leaving you alone with your parents.

“How could you?” Your mum said.

“We already had a fight, mother. Do you want us to have another one?” You said, crossing your arms.

“I am your mother and you will talk to me with some respect!” She said.

“I’ll do it as soon as you respect me, my life and choices”, you said.

“Okay, calm down. Both of you”, your father said, rubbing his forehead. “I want to talk to (Y/N) alone.”

Leonora looked at her husband fuming, but she knew better after all these years. She was good wife, so she had to do what she was told. After giving her daughter one last angry look, she abandoned the hall. The echoes of her footsteps got further and further until they couldn’t be heard anymore.

“You’re mad at me?” You sighed.

“No, I’m glad you want to follow your own path. It makes me so proud”, your father said, making you smile a bit. “But I want to ask you a question.” You looked at him, waiting. “Is Jon your path?”

You didn’t expect that question, and you didn’t even know the answer to it. You looked away from your father, your cheeks heating up and bite your lip, remembering the kisses you had shared in the forest. You did like him and you did care about him. But why did you have to decide if he was the one? You were only 15.

“I don’t know”, you shrugged. “I… I like him, but… I don’t know.”

“Is it because who he is?” Your father frowned.

“No! I don’t care about that. He’s a great guy”, you said. “I don’t care who his mother was, to be honest. I’d like him even if he was just a smith or something like that.”

“Do you know his intentions?” He asked.

“No, we’ve… never talked like that”

“I mean… his intentions in life”, he said. You looked up at your father confused. Evan didn’t know how to break the news to his daughter, but she had to know. Especially if her feelings towards the young boy were developing fast. “Lord Stark told me a couple of days ago that Jon wants to join the Night’s Watch.”

“What?” You asked shocked.

***

“You have to be careful”, Ned Stark told Jon.

What had happened didn’t go unknown for the Lord of Winterfell, who quickly went to talk to his son. He had no problem if Jon had feelings for one of his best friend’s daughters. But he had to be sure of what he felt, or didn’t feel, about his intentions on wearing the black.

“Nothing happened”, Jon said, looking down at his hands.

“Even if I believed that”, Ned smiled, “do I have to remind you the conversation we had about your future? Do you still want that? You know the vows.”

Jon sighed deeply and looked up, meeting his father’s eyes, those eyes that looked nothing like his. He had been thinking about joining the Night’s Watch for a while now, since one of his uncle’s last visits from the Wall. Jon had the feeling it was the place for him. No one could judge him there for being a bastard. Yet, his head was a mess since you smiled at him.

He knew what it would mean to wear the black. He’d have to forget about you. He’d have to forget everything that happened and take an oath. He would have no woman in his life. He wouldn’t have you. He wouldn’t feel your lips, your warmth. It would be over and he would be broken. But what kind of life could he give to you? What kind of life could a bastard have? Would he be a knight, marry you and go off to another’s lord war to die and leave you heartbroken and widowed?

“Jon…” Ned said after a few moments.

“I don’t know”, he admitted. “Everything was clear when I told you. That is true. But…”

“Things can change, son”, lord Stark said getting up and walking around his desk to stand in front of his son. “You haven’t taken any vows yet, you’re free to change your mind, that’s completely up to you”, he said and placed a hand on Jon’s son. “Just remember that the black is for life.”

[themindmates-blog]

Chapter 3 - The fall

Masterlist

Ylina woke up with a groan when there was a knock on her door.

"My lord? My lady?"

Rolling over, the girl noticed Theon in a similar situation to hers: eyes barely open, arms and legs stretching slightly and a lazy smile on their lips as the events of last night repeated themselves in their heads.

"Morning." He said gently as Ylina sat up on their bed.

"Good morning." She answered with a smile. "Sleep well?"

"Didn't sleep much at all, actually."

At that, Ylina scoffed, throwing her pillow at Theon as she climbed out of bed and placed a coat over her body. Opening the door of her bedroom, she ended up face to face with one of her mother's maids, who bowed her head slightly when she saw her.

"Excuse me, my lady. But Lady Stark requested me to wake you and lord Greyjoy. Lord Stark is about to go off hunting with his Grace the King and asked for the presence of his ward."

"Of course." Ylina nodded slightly with a yawn. "We'll be out in a second, yes?"

"Your mother also requested me to ask you to look after lord Rickon while the rest of the men are away."

"Where will she be?" Ylina frowned, confused.

"She has matters to discuss with the Maesters. That was all she told me, my lady."

"Sure, thank you, Alanna." She said, as the maid smiled upon being addressed by her name by one of the ladies of Winterfell. "We'll be out soon."

With another bow of her head, Alanna turned around and left down the corridors as Ylina closed the door behind her. Letting her eyes fall on Theon, she smirked when he got up from the bed, ready to throw on some clothes and get ready for the day.

"Like what you see?" He asked, pulling up his pants causing Ylina to shrug.

"Seen it all before. Not that impressed to be fair."

"Sure." Theon rolled his eyes. "That was not how it looked like yesterday."

"Whatever." The girl smiled, moving to her wardrobe and pulling out one of her many dresses from there, making sure to pick one that allowed her to move more freely since her mother wouldn't be around to bug her about the way she should behave. "You should hurry, though. You don't want to keep my Father waiting."

With a chuckle and a nod, Theon finished getting dressed and, as he placed his coat over it all, he noticed Ylina sitting in her vanity chair, pulling her fringe out of her eyes and pinning it back with her usual silver wolf. Walking toward her, Theon placed a kiss to her cheek, but reached for her ass to give it a cheeky squeeze. With a surprised squeak, Ylina spun around in her chair and pointed her hairbrush in his direction.

"Theon!" She laughed as the man smiled at her with a wink.

"See you later tonight, my lady." He called as he walked through the door.

"Yeah. Try not to die out there, Theon!" She mocked causing the young man to bow dramatically in her direction.

"I'll do my very best."

And with that, he was out of the room, walking down the corridors of the castle and toward the grounds where he was sure Robb and Ned were waiting for him. 

After finally finishing the last touches of her braid, Ylina walked out of her room and made her way toward the dining room, where both Bran and Rickon were currently having their breakfast as Catelyn stood beside them with Maester Luwin beside her.

"My lady." The Maester said, bowing his head politely, as Ylinandid the same.

"Maester Luwin. Mother."

"Sansa and Arya are taking their classes with the other ladies." Catelyn started to explain, as soon as Ylina sat on table in front of Rickon. "I will be out with Maester Luwin for the morning. You are in charge of the boys, is that clear?"

"Yes, Mother." Ylina answered quickly, before reaching over the table for a piece of bread.

"And you two… Behave yourselves. Listen to your sister."

"Yes, Mother." They both responded in the usual monotone sound.

At that, Catelyn nodded, turning around and leaving the room with Maester Luwin close behind her. As soon as they were out of sight, Ylina bit on her bread and turned to face her brothers with a smile.

"So, now that the tyrant is out… What do you two want to do?"

***

Rickon watched as Ylina hit again and again right in the bull's eye. Every time one of her arrows flew from her bow straight to the small red dot in the middle of the target, he smiled.

"How did you learn it?" Rickon asked suddenly from his place in a bench beside Ylina.

"Theon taught me when we were kids." She answered right after hitting bull's eye again.

"Theon?" Rickon frowned, as Ylina nodded.

"The Greyjoys are known for their archery." She shrugged.

As she moved to go grab the arrows she had shot, Rickon got up from his place to do it for his sister. Watching with a smile as Rickon moved from one target to the next picking up her arrows, she used this time to relax the muscles of her arms.

"Do you know what else the Greyjoys are known for?" She asked, trying to make conversation. "Did Maester Luwin get to that part of history with you already?"

"The Great Houses?" Rickon asked, causing Ylina to hum in agreement. "We're starting it now. I don't know about the Greyjoys, though. We're still seeing the Houses of the North."

"Yeah? Tell me what you know, then."

When Rickon finishing collecting the arrows for Ylina, he ran up to her and handed them over to the girl. With a smile and a small 'thank you', Ylina put all but one of the arrows in her quiver preparing to shoot again.

"House Stark, lords Paramount of the North for centuries. Sigil: a direwolf; words: winter is coming." He started to recite in an automatic voice that made it clear to Ylina he knew all of that simply because he had to. "House Mormont, lords of Bear Island. Sigil: a bear; words: here we stand. House Cerwyn, lords of Castle Cerwyn. Sigil: an axe; words: honed and ready. House Reed..."

"Alright, that's enough." Ylina chuckled, letting another arrow fly. "I can tell I'm boring you half to death."

"History is boring." Rickon whined, causing Ylina to roll her eyes.

"No, it's not. Once you understand the importance of it, you start to appreciate it." She said, finally letting go of her bow as she came to sit beside Rickon on the bench.

"Maester Luwin said you were his best student in History of the Kingdoms that he's ever had. He said he learned more things with you than he ever taught you." 

"Well…" She shrugged. "I was a very… Eager student, one might say."

"Eager enough to go all the way and learn Valyrian?" Rickon asked, a small bit of mockery in his tone. Ylina rolled her eyes. All of her siblings loved to make fun of her love for history and languages and now even Rickon was picking up on that. "They only speak it on the other side of the sea, Lina. It's useless around here."

Rickon watched as Ylina opened her mouth and, through her lips, came sounds he had never heard in his entire life, frowning deeply, he tried to make some kind of sense out of it.

"What?"

"It's Valyrian. Means 'know the rules to win the game'. One of the greatest battle strategist who ever lived was born in Braavos." Ylina smirked, as Rickon laughed."Not so useless now, is it?"

Reaching for her brother, Ylina started to tickle him. So focused on Rickon, Ylina didn't notice how Daria, who had been lying by her feet the whole time, lifted her head up when Summer came running in her direction. It wasn't until the brown direwolf tugged in the ends of her owner's dress that Ylina turned her attention to her.

"What's wrong, Daria?" She asked, before noticing a very agitated Summer in front of her. "What? What is it?"

When Summer spun around and ran, Ylina was fast to follow him, instructing Rickon to stay put as Daria took her place on watching over the youngest Stark. Following the wolf around the castle, Ylina didn't even question his motives, knowing that, whatever it was, it was serious. It wasn't until they reached the tower of the castle that Ylina started to grow worried. 

When Summer took a sharp turn and whined, Ylina let out a scream upon seeing her little brother laying there, on the floor, motionless. She kneeled beside Bran, in a second and her hands hovered over him, afraid of touching him and making the situation worse, but as she called out his name in despair and got no answer at all, she knew she was a mess. So much so that her sobs alerted the guards close to her, who made move to approach the siblings but stopped when Summer stood in front of them, growling slowly.

He was small, still a pup, but still, he was a direwolf pup and could easily rip at least a finger from their hands.

"My lady?" The guards called, standing at a safe distance.

"Call the Maesters now." She cried out, whipping her tears away as she caressed her brother's face gently. "Bran is hurt."

Ylina wasn't sure how long it had been since she stood there, crying and sobbing over Bran's body with Summer beside her, nuzzling his nose in her hands as she clutched to him as if her life depended on it. It probably wasn't long though, because soon enough, a shrill scream was heard and she knew her mother was close. She could faintly hear horses coming through the castle's door, but as Bran was picked up from the floor next to her, she felt numb.

It wasn't until Catelyn harshly pulled her up to her feet that the girl snapped back to reality.

"You were supposed to be looking after him!" She yelled.

Surprised by her mother's reaction, Ylina took a second to recompose herself, but, soon enough, she felt all her rage and her fear burst out of her chest.

"And you don't think I know this?" She yelled back. Both of the women were crying and making a scene in the middle of the grounds, but none of them cared. No one was going to interrupt them anyway, since they were two of the ladies of Winterfell. "I was looking after Rickon, Mother! I can't be in two places at the same time!"

"You were supposed to be keeping an eye on both of them!" Catelyn insisted. "I thought you were more responsible than that, Ylina!"

"I didn't mean for this to happen! I never… I didn't…"

"Of course you didn't mean it! It happened anyway! Bran fell from the tower while you were supposed to be looking after him!"

"Well, I am not his bloody mother!"

And as soon as the words left her mouth, the voice of her Father cut through the air.

"What is going on here?" He demanded.

Before anyone could say anything however, Ylina picked up the ends of her dress and ran off, ignoring Theon calling after her. The young man was about to follow after her, but Robb grabbed hold of his hand.

"Leave her." He whispered, as Ned moved to gather Cat in his arms as the woman tried to tell him what was happening through her sobs and whimpers. "Whatever it is, she needs time alone."

And with a nod from his best friend, Robb and Theon moved closer to Catelyn and Ned as they too heard the news of Bran's accident.

***

Robb was careful to approach them. Sure Daria was used to him and trusted him like his sister did, but he had started to realize just how connected the direwolves were to their owners, to the point where they even seemed to know all of the emotions they were feeling.

So knowing that now, all the feelings in Ylina's heart were not good ones, Robb thought it would be prudent to not startle Daria.

And his decision was a wise one because, as soon as he got close enough to reach a hand over and place it on Ylina's shoulder, Daria growled. As Robb took a step back, Ylina didn't even move from her kneeled position in front of the tree of Godswood before speaking up.

"I know what you're going to say, Robb." She said. As she had her eyes closed, Robb wondered how she could possibly know it was him, but he was glad she did. At least he wouldn't have to speak too much. "It's not your fault, Lily. Don't blame yourself."

"It's not." Robb confirmed. "It's not your fault, Lily."

"Then why does it feel like it is?" She yelled, finally opening her eyes and getting up to stand in front of Robb. "Why does it feel like this? I was the one who was supposed to be watching over him! I was the one who was supposed to be taking care of him!"

"You couldn't have know, Lily, you…"

"He told me he was going to see Father off." Ylina cried out, tears spilling down her eyes non-stop. "I should've known, though. When he didn't come back, I should've known he was going to go climbing. It's Bran, after all."

"Lily…"

"And the worst part?" She continued, as if Robb had never interrupted her. "The worst part is that I didn't even notice! I was so happy to finally be able to train with the bow and arrow again without Mother to annoy me that I didn't even noticed that Bran hadn't come back. I was so busy with Rickon that I didn't even notice! I'm an awful person, Robb. I'm a terrible sister!"

"Ylina." Robb said, sternly, placing both of his hands on his sister's shoulder and forcing her to look up at him and meet his eyes. "You are not an bad sister. Nor a bad person. You are great. And none of this is your fault. Do you understand me?"

"But…"

"Lily."

"But Mother…"

"Mother was angry and scared. She didn't mean what she said."

"Robb…"

"Lily, it wasn't your fault. Say it. Tell me you understand, love."

"I—I understand." Ylina nodded. "It wasn't my fault. But… But what if… What if Bran…"

"They are doing their best, Lily. The best Maesters in Winterfell are doing all that they can. Bran will be fine."

"What if he dies?"

"He's a Stark, Lily. We're tough to kill and tougher to die." He smiled gently, using his thumbs to wipe away her tears as his hands rested on her cheeks. "You'll see. Bran will push through, alright? And everything will be just as it used to."

Letting out a strangled sob, Ylina jumped up and wrapped her arms around Robb's neck as his came to squeeze her around the waist. He lifted her off the ground as she cried and sobbed into his furred coat and, when his strength started to give out, he placed her back on the floor, looking down at her and wiping her tears again. Placing a kiss to her forehead, Robb sighed sadly.

"We can't do much now, Lily. We just have to wait."

At that, Ylina nodded, but grabbed his hands from her cheeks and held them tight in between their bodies.

"Pray with me?" She asked gently, causing Robb to nod.

He allowed her to guide him to where she was a few seconds before and kneeled beside her in front of the tree as Ylina let go of his hands and laced her fingers together, bringing both her hands to her lips as she closed her eyes and muttered the words of all the prayers she knew, begging the Mother to have mercy on her and bring her brother back to them.

Following her lead, Robb did the same and, after the both of them were done, the oldest Stark reached out a hand to his sister, which she took.

They made their way back to the castle in silence but as soon as she walked through the doors, she felt another presence beside her, wasting no time in wrapping their arms around her waist and pulling her into a warm embrace. Already all too familiar with that smell, Ylina allowed herself to drawn into his safety as she heard his conversation with Robb.

"Any news?" Her brother had asked and, even if she couldn't see it, having her face buried deep onto his chest, Ylina could tell Theon was shaking his head.

"Nothing yet. Sorry." He said, before gently placing a hand on Ylina's cheek and forcing her to look at him. "How are you, Lily?"

"Fine." She shrugged emotionlessly. "I just want to see my brother."

Nodding understandingly, Theon decided not to say anything else. Instead, he just sat down with Ylina in his lap and Robb by his side as they all waited in silence in front of Bran's room. The day had, obviously, taken its toll on Ylina however, because, soon, the girl was fast asleep in her husband's arm, her uneven breathes finally calming down when sleep replaced guilt. Sharing a look between each other, Robb nodded tiredly as Theon patted him on the leg.

"Stay with her tonight. She'll need it." The oldest Stark said. "When she wakes up, tell her to look for me and I'll tell her the news I get."

Nodding at his best friend, Theon grabbed a stronger hold on Ylina, yet careful not to wake her, and got up from his place.

"Keep me informed, though." He asked, as Robb agreed with a deep hum from the back of his throat. "Good night, lad."

With a weak smile, Robb reached up and placed a gentle hand on Ylina's leg from over her dress before looking up at Theon.

"Good night." It was all he said before watching the couple make their way toward their room as he waited in front of Bran's doing the only thing any of them could do at that moment: praying.

[seth-kate]

"We were just kids when we fell in love, not knowing what it was. I will not give you up this time" - perfect by Ed Sheeran. For Jonsa.

The twinkling lights hang high under the canopy of the pavilion and shine under the dancing couple, bathing them in a warm glow. Robb and Margaery look sickeningly in love as they twirl together to the slow melodic music and in the crowd there’s a few sniffles from Catelyn and Margaery’s grandmother. But Jon doesn’t feel like crying into a handkerchief- he just feels empty. 

The stout glass of brandy and cola meet his lips and he takes a swig as he lets his eyes rest on his best friend who is now holding his wife close to his chest. He had agreed to be best man because ever since he was little he and Robb had been as thick as thieves, but he hadn’t thought of the fact that at this wedding the past would be resurrected so vividly in the form of a blush pink dress and red hair. 

Sansa Stark.

The woman who had taken his heart when he was eighteen had walked down the aisle with a smile and a bouquet of cherry blossoms in her hands and had joined the other bridesmaids at the top of the chapel. Jon had stood with Robb on the opposite side of the altar with a thumping heart and eyes that had taken her in, in awe. He hadn’t seen her since he had broken up with her almost seven years ago. He had broken her heart, he knew that, but in some twist of irony she had taken his with her and had never returned it. He was a hollow being without her. But leaving her had been for the best. 

“Hey” he hears behind him and he tears his eyes away from the dancing bride and groom and to the man shadowing his side. 

“Hey Sam” Jon greets his friend with a feigned smile. Sam eyes the drink in his hands and Jon guesses he’s wondering how many he’s had tonight. Jon has lost count himself. 

“You look miserable” Sam comments and Jon has the audacity to laugh. 

“Thanks, mate” his glass is brought to his lips again and he drinks- wholly and deeply and he finishes the glass. He can feel the whirl of it course through his veins and he’s sure he’ll wobble if he starts walking. 

“It’s because of Sansa, isn’t it?” Sam asks him and Jon looks around to see if anyone is in earshot. Jeyne Westerling and Myrcella Baratheon stand beside them but both are too intent on watching the married couple’s first dance to pay attention to what the men next to them are saying.

 “Sam -” 

“Go talk to her” his soft voiced friend inputs but Jon shakes his head. 

“No way Sam, she hates me” he tells him sternly and he thinks of how all day she has avoided him greatly. Sansa hasn’t even looked his way or attempted to talk to him- she must hate him. The memory of her crying at the train station as he’d left her swims back into his mind and he wishes then that his glass was full. 

“She doesn’t hate you. You didn’t see the way she was looking at you” Sam tells him, a soft sad look in his dark eyes and Jon feels his heart clench in his chest. Had she really been looking at him? He just hadn’t noticed. 

“I’m going to get another drink” he murmurs over the soft music and he turns around before Sam can even answer him. He’d been right before- he did wobble a little as he started walking. But he didn’t care, he wasn’t the only drunk person at the wedding. 

The air outside was the kind that made you sweat instantly- the clammy density of it filling Jon’s nostrils and taking away his breath for a short minute. His suit jacket and dress shirt suddenly feel heavy without the cool breeze of the indoor air conditioning and he shrugs it off and swings it around his shoulder as he walks.

 He doesn’t walk too far before he sees her.

She sits under a tree, her blue eyes staring at the water that bubbles in the stream beside it and the moon hangs low above her, casting her in a silvery glow. Her red hair is now taken down from it’s stylish up do and fans across her back in those thick copper curls Jon used to love playing with. He used to spend hours in the morning running his fingers through it while she traced patters on his chest with hers. They’d been young, and Jon didn’t know how much he had truly been in love with her until he had let her go. He was eighteen and dumb and immature. He was twenty five now and he was probably still dumb, but he knew as he looked at her sitting there that she was the woman he wanted to dance under a pavilion with, just like Robb was dancing with Margaery. 

“Sansa” he finds himself saying, and her name sounds so familiar yet foreign when he utters it aloud. He hadn’t said it much in the past for fear that he was breathing life back into the painful memories. Her eyes find his in the dim light and for a second they just look at one another, unmoving and not talking, but just looking. She’s the first to look away and he feels a shiver run through him as she does. 

“Jon” Sansa says softly, and Jon finds he can not stop himself from walking towards her. 

“You not enjoying the night?” he wants to kick himself after he asks such a fickle question, but he swallows thickly and sits himself on a large rock near the edge of the water. He can still hear the music playing from the tent not so far away. 

“I just needed time alone” He doesn’t miss how she stressed the alone part, and the submissive cowardly part of him wants to stand up and leave. But he won’t. This time he’ll stay. 

“I meant to find you earlier, to catch up” it’s a lie, and it tastes like one as he talks “how’ve you been?” Her blue eyes are hard and cruel as she throws them like daggers towards him. Perhaps she does hate me, he thinks. He remembers then how they had been filled with tears that night he had turned around and left her at the train station.

It’s over Sansa, he had said to her, I can’t do this anymore. 

Please Jon, I love you, she had cried. But Jon hadn’t said it back. He wants to say it now. 

“How have I been?” she draws her words out purposefully, each syllable a knife in Jon’s side “how do you think I’ve been?”

A stupid question he had asked, but he can’t take it back now. He knows she’s been miserable since her father died, and how she’s felt alone and desperate and how she had sought the help of a therapist. He’s learned all this from Robb, but even with that knowledge he hadn’t been brave enough to reach out to her. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa” he apologises dumbly and she shifts on the ground as she stands. The ends of her blush pink dress are now stained brown and green from the earth, but if she cares about her gown being ruined she doesn’t show it. 

“Your apologies stopped meaning something a long time ago” her words cut him deep but the brave part of him makes him stand too, and her snow white arm is grasped in his rough hand as he pulls her back. 

“I am sorry” he desperately tells her, his whole body shaking. Perhaps it‘s the brandy talking “I’m sorry for what I done to you. I’m sorry that I broke your heart, I’m sorry I was a piece of shit. I was young, and stupid and I made a mistake that’s haunted me every day since. But you were better off without me” 

“Why do men feel that they have to make decisions for women?” she growls at him, ripping her arm from his touch “I could have made that decision myself! I could have found out for myself if I wanted to be with you! But you didn’t give me that choice! You left me! And I loved you, Jon Snow. I loved you!” 

“I fucked up, I’ll admit that. But we were teenagers, Sansa. I didn’t know what I wanted. I was heading to college, I was moving away and I finally thought I had everything sorted but you were messing all my plans up. When I was with you I wanted to stay, and I didn’t care about college or careers I just knew I loved you and I was scared” his words are a rush and Sansa looks up at him, wide eyed and trembling just a little. 

“You loved me too?” her voice is quiet and almost a whisper and Jon feels a tremor roll through him when the red leaves above them whisper with her. 

“I didn’t know what it was then. But I know it now” he tells her, but she shakes her head. 

“But….but I tried to get in touch with you. I missed you terribly but Arya told me you’d moved on. How could you have loved me when you were with someone else?” He wants to tell her how he’d met her in a bar, how he’d approached her drunkenly because of her red hair. She had reminded him of Sansa, in his drunken blur. But when he was sober he understood they were nothing alike. He wants to tell her, but he doesn’t. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone as much as I love you. No matter who I’m with” is the answer he gives her instead. 

“Jon” her voice is shaky but soft and he can see that tears form in her eyes as she looks at him. 

He doesn’t know who makes the first move, but when he feels her body press to his and her lips on his lips he decides it doesn’t matter. She kisses him so lovingly that he’s afraid he’ll set aflame with the heat of it. Her back is pressed against the bark of the tree and once again the leaves rustle above them, making Jon shiver against her. He wants to go back in time and tell his younger self to never let her go, to never break her heart. But he knows that’s impossible and he’ll only drive himself mad with the what ifs. Instead he holds her close and hopes that by doing so he’ll make all her broken pieces click together again. He was so young and so dumb, and hadn’t been smart enough to realise that in her arms he had all he had ever wanted.

But as she sighs against his mouth and runs her fingers through his hair he knows. And he’ll never let her go again. 

[7deadlycinderellas]

The Ghost of the Red Keep, ch7

AO3 Link

Arya spends her seven and tenth name day on the road along the Blackwater Rush.

It shouldn’t have taken them so long to reach the inn that Ned had directed them to just south of Riverrun, but the journey was slow and often complicated. They keep off the main road, avoiding villages if they can, and making camp at night. They couldn’t do anything to call attention to themselves, not when all of the information they can get out of King’s Landing is second hand.

They’re still not entirely sure if what they hear is true.

Arya spends much of the early days of their journey teaching Gendry the best way to stay on his horse. As a city boy, he is not suited to riding long term, and the bouncing in the saddle makes him surly and unpleasant.

Sometimes when it gets bad, Arya dismounts and rides with Mya instead, or sometimes even walks. She insists it’s to spare the poor horse having to carry their combined weight for too long.

Mya’s fun to talk to, so Arya pelts her with questions. She tells the both of them about how she grew up in the Vale, and before she’d been brought to King’s Landing she had led teams of mules up the treacherous rocky roads and paths.

“I do remember our father coming around when I was little, before he was the King,” she tells them, “Mother told me he came even after he lost interest in her. When Jon Arryn came to see me and invited me back to King’s Landing...I guess I just thought maybe I’d gotten lucky and he wanted me around again.”

It makes Arya sad, how little regard Robert had for any of his children.

“You lead mules? That’s pretty amazing,” Arya comments. Mya smiles shyly, petting her steed’s mane. With her short hair and trousers and confidence in the saddle, Arya feels her and Mya are going to be fast friends.

The package that Ned had given her was mostly clothes; smallclothes, a couple spare shirts, her extra breeches, a green wool kirtle she previously only wore when forced and her cloak. It’s only autumn still, but winter is creeping closer and while the Riverlands are far more mild than Winterfell, the snow will still fall.

Strangely enough, Arya finds herself enchanted by the look of the land around her. The trees here have turned, all colors of red and gold, and even the Blackwater Rush is clear and blue this far from the city.

Not that the journey is all pleasant.

Arya manages to sell her gown rather quickly. It’s not for a great sum of money, but enough in case of necessity. Which means that for most of the trip, they sleep outside if it’s dry, and Arya does her best to hunt for their dinner.

Admittedly, after chasing cats, squirells and rabbits are quite easy. Mya, it turns out, knows how to make a simple rope snare, so that works out well enough.

The nights are lonely. They sleep in shifts so there’s someone always keeping watch. When Arya was younger, she’d shared a bed with Sansa, to both of their consternation. Despite this, it had been strange to come to King’s Landing and have a whole bed to herself. Now she doesn’t even know where Sansa is.

Laying in the grass one night, Arya quietly admits,

“I’ve never been away from my family for this long before.”

Gendry starest off into the deep blue of the sky. There’s been a series of increasingly beautiful clear, sunny days, even as the temperature drops.

“I still don’t know how to handle the open space,” Gendry responds slowly, “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up back in that cellar.”

“Being above the stables wasn’t so bad,” Mya comments from the other side of the fire, “Until it was. I never realized how much I needed other people before until I was stuck in that hayloft not having seen a living person in three days.”

Arya will never let them go back there, not either of them.

It’s during one of these unusually clear, beautiful nights that Arya can’t resist the urge to kiss Gendry again. She just wants a little comfort in this uncertain time, and it seems he feels the same.

Gendry’s hands are winding their way through her hair, when suddenly Arya hears from the other side of the fire,

“If you’re gonna do that ‘stead of keepin’ watch, can’t you at least wait til I’m completely asleep?”

They break apart, embarrassed.

Over the next few days, Arya feels Mya watching her.

When she finally can’t take it, and asks her why she’s staring, Mya tells her,

“Just don’t hurt him okay?”

They’re gathering kindling for the fire, and Arya is so surprised by that that she actually drops her bundle.

“Wh-why would you think that I was going to do that?”

Mya’s face is stony, impassive.

“I had a boy back in the Vale. He was a squire. He said he would marry me when he became a knight proper. Then he did, and his parents made him a match with a highborn girl he’d never met, and I had to watch him marry her.”

Arya sits on the ground, holding the bundle of sticks on her lap. Thinking about this makes her insides ache.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Mya first, “That sounds awful. “

She pokes at the ground with a stick.

“That was always the future I thought I would have. And I didn’t want it, I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t like being proper, and I didn’t want to be a pawn for anyone’s game. I still don’t want any of that.”

Mya sits beside her.

“If I was a proper lady, I would have never met Gendry. Proper ladies don’t wander around in cellars chasing cats. And proper ladies don’t carry on entirely clandestine friendships with bastards, even kings bastards.”

“Friendships?” Mya asks with a raise of an eyebrow.

Arya laughs.

“It started like that. The kissing’s new.”

And some days, the kissing helps keep her from slipping down into despair.

Even the unusually beautiful days are marred by fear. Every twig breaking or distance rock falling makes Arya think they’re being chased by the Queen’s men. Or the king’s men, they’re Joffrey’s now, she supposes.

It’s the morning that Arya notices the horses are nervous. They’re just past Harrenhal when Arya quietly tells them,

“There’s something following us, but I don’t think it’s human.”

Mya’s eyes go wild.

“Do you think it’s a bear, or a shadowcat-’

Arya shakes her head softly.

“I don’t think it will hurt us. It’s been following us for a long time, but it hasn’t struck.”

Arya gets her answer two days down the line. She’s extinguishing the fire when there’s a rustling in the nearby bushes causing her to go stiff. Her hand reaches for Needle, when the huge, gray figure walks straight into the clearing as though she feared nothing.

“Nymeria?” Arya whispers breathlessly. The wolf, now the size of a small pony, went straight towards her, knelt, and rested her snout on Arya’s lap.

Arya’s rubbing her hands through Nymeria’s fur, when she realizes Mya and Gendry are both staring at her in horror. Gendry steps towards her, slowly, carefully, but Mya is still frozen.

“This is Nymeria,” she tells Mya, rubbing Nymeria’s ears and making her back paw thump.

Nymeria continues trailing them, not too close. Not close enough to be spotted by anyone else they wander across, not close enough to spook the horses. But at night, she keeps close. Close enough to help keep them warm as the temperature drops. Arya wonders if part of Nymeria think they’re pups.

Father must have let her out, let her leave the Godswood to follow them the night they fled. This is the thought that propels Arya through the next few days.

Then the rain starts.

Camping had been difficult enough as it was, with their minimal supplies, but they had made due, and between the three of them, they could survive, even if barely, off the land.

The rain stops all of this. Now they are cold and wet, instead of just tired and hungry and frightened. The heavy, freezing downpour soaks their clothes and bedding, extinguishes their fires, and sends most of the prey further into the woods. After less than half a day, Mya begins shivering heavily, and Arya wonders if maybe the poison had some lingering effect on her health after all.

They stay at the first inn they come by, the room costing one of their carefully hoarded coins.

The innkeeper pays them no mind and they try to warm up by the fire and eat their stew and bread. It’s been a long time since they’ve had a real proper, hot meal, Arya thought. It would be nice to sleep in a real bed again.

But it also means that they have to listen to the others in the inn. They’ve managed to avoid others, and they don’t know anyone here, what if Joffrey had spies...Arya sips her stew and tries to keep her head down.

Some of the men in the Inn have apparently come from King’s Landing, and they go on and on about the new boy king. Their words aren’t complimentary, even the ones about King Robert. Some say the queen killed the king and then herself, some say the king poisoned the queen and then drank the poison himself. A few insist that the new king obviously did in his own parents, the sadistic little shit. Arya just tries to ignore what they say. They don’t know if any of it is true.

Which becomes harder and harder when one of the men, a travelling merchant apparently, starts talking about the last execution he saw while in King’s Landing.

“One swing, and his head came clean off! Imagine that, one day you’re hand of the king, the next your head’s on a pike!”

Arya stomach upturns itself, her stew spilling itself back into her bowl.

“‘msorry, “ Gendry tells the innkeeper, helping Arya up and throwing an arm around her shoulder to help cover her face. “I think my sister must still be feeling the road. We’ll get out of your hair.”

Arya can’t even summon the energy to object to being called his sister.

The room they’ve been giving is tiny, with a single bed that looks like it’s about to split at the corners. Arya’s proud of herself that she manages to make it to the bed before collapsing into tears.

The featherbed shifts beneath them when Gendry sits beside her, and her head slumps into the crook of his neck as her tears continue to slip free and the hacking sobs force their way from her throat.

Gendry takes her hands in his and squeezes them. He’s been much more openly affectionate with her lately, though he still pulls back and says they shouldn’t sometimes, and right now Arya is incredibly grateful for it.

Part of Arya’s mind tries to convince herself that what that man said could not be true. That Ned had had a plan, he wouldn’t have been executed.

But she remembers how frightened and frantic his face had been the night they left. How tightly he had held her before letting go. He knew this was a risk.

That doesn’t stop the hole from opening up and sucking in what remained of her heart.

Arya’s sobs have slowed when the door opens softly, and Mya steps in to join them.

“‘M so sorry Arya,” she says, sitting on Arya’s other side.

“Your father was a good man,” Gendry assures her, “Most men in his position wouldn’t have given half a shit about us.”

After some time, Arya’s sobs finally cease, though the ache in her chest remains, and she suspects it will never leave.

“Mya,” she says into the silence, “Did those men down in the main room say anything about who’s Hand of the King now?”

There’s a pause, and Mya bites her lip before answering.

“I didn’t recognize them. Somebody named Baelish.”

Arya’s heart stops and her blood freezes. It’s all she can think about for the rest of the night, even crammed into the tiny bed between Gendry and Mya. She never liked Baelish, and had heard others call him duplicitious for years. It made too much sense. Play on the queen’s spitefulness and dissatisfaction, play on the king’s love of drink. Play on the prince’s sense of unfettered entitlement and desire to be unchallenged. All ending with him holding the power.

“I’ll kill him for this,” she whispers, unsure if Gendry’s still awake to hear. If Baelish still lives, he will die by my hand.”

They call him Littlefinger, and he is not a large man. Arya wonders how many jolli nuts she would have to shove down his throat to make him die right there. She wonders if Needle would be enough to cut through his skinny little neck.

Silence, and Arya assumes she was unheard, before Gendry’s voice responds, low and gravely.

“I think the best way you could get revenge would be to survive. Live through this and tell everyone. What your father wanted to do.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and his eyes are still squeezed shut, but he reaches out and pulls her to his chest. Arya breathes in deeply, letting his scent wash over her. Letting the warmth ease her mind, or at least attempt to.

The rain continues, but much more lightly, and so they leave.

In the days following their night at the inn, Arya still occasionally feels attacks of despair. She’s a girl now without a father. When she starts to slump and her breathing starts to stutter, Gendry will lean forwards and hug her tight to himself.

“I remember when my mum died,” he tells her, whispering into her neck, “I felt like I was all alone. I felt that way until my master took me in, and still sometimes after that. I would have probably fallen to that again in that cellar if I hadn’t met you.”

Arya’s heart begins to flutter. It’s been doing that a lot during very inappropriate times.

“You’re not alone though. Your mother and brothers are still alive, back in Winterfell. And you have us now.”

“You may be away from your family now,” Mya interjects from her horse, “The two of us can act as your family until you can get back to them.”

The closer they get to the Riverrun, the more Arya is stuck on this. Should she leave once they find Harwin? Should she try to go home to Winterfell? She misses her mother terribly, and Robb and Bran and Rickon will be there, and maybe Sansa even made it back somehow…

But she can’t leave Gendry and Mya. Father told them to take care of her, and so she has to do the same for them. She won’t be able to leave until she can be sure they’re safe.

That night, she rolls over and lays her hand on Gendry’s chest and her face on his shoulder. She doesn’t really want to leave them at all.

A few days later, Gendry presents her with a bouquet of half crushed wildflowers. Arya’s so shocked, she can’t even say thank you. She never once in her life thought that anyone would give her flowers. That seemed like something from one of Sansa’s stories, but it feels different here, somehow.

Mya sees her wandering aimlessly with them flowers clutched between her fingers and starts laughing.

“What?”

“Gendry asked me the other day what he should do if he had wanted to court you and you was just a regular bastard like us, not a highborn lady in exile.”

Arya looks down at her hands dubiously.

“And you told him to pick me flowers?”

Mya laughs again.

“Told him to give you a gift of some kind. There’s no forge here, so he can’t make you anything, and I don’t think he’s much of a hand at woodworking. He can’t even linger around offering to fix things for you. And he can’t impress you by hunting, you’re better than him anyway.”

Mya glances over to the end of the clearing, where Gendry’s remounted his horse, pointedly not looking in their direction.

“I think he’s worried you don’t like them,” then softer, “I think he wanted to find some way to make you feel better.”

Arya looks back down at the flowers in her hands, suddenly precious, if still silly. She tucks the stems into the end of her braid, and goes to join Gendry on his horse. She climbs in front of him, not saying a word, but lets her braid fall down her back, where she knows he can see it.

Mya can’t stop herself from laughing at them afterwards.

They find Harwin where Ned said they would, in a tavern south of Riverrun. Tavern might be the proper word, but from the number of pretty young women without much excess clothing, the main purpose is fairly clear, even to Arya.  

She barely recognizes him, his hair has begun to thin and he has grown a beard. His eyes light up seeing her, though she puts a finger to her lips to shush him.

She waits outside with the horses, eyes training through the tavern windows for Harwin to follow her.

“I’ll lead you three off tomorrow, it’s only a few days ride from here, and you’ll be safe. It’s an inn run by two sisters named Heddle. Their father’s passed on, and they’re protecting a group of orphaned children there. They could use the extra hands, and they won’t turn you in.”

Orphaned children, Arya sticks on, she still has a mother at least.

“Harwin-” she interrupts, “Is my father really dead?”

Harwin bows his head.

“I’m afraid so, child. I heard the day I reached the Riverlands. Took all I could not to ride back and get revenge myself. But he was my lord, and now I’m on my own. His ghost would come back and smite me if I didn’t keep you safe though.”

Harwin pauses a long time.

“Once we get you there, you must stay. It’s not just your father-”

Arya’s heart sinks again,

“His discoveries have found their way out of the capital. Your brother’s declared war over his execution, and Stannis and Renly will likely soon follow.”

War. This was what Ned was worried about. Joffrey on the throne, a bastard, but no way to prove it, Robert’s brothers at odds.

And Robb...and to think part of Arya had wanted to run straight for Winterfell. War. Would she lose him too?

Arya coughs to interrupt the conversation.

“I should go rescue my companions and tell them the plan.”

Rescue ends up being the appropriate word. When she re-enters the tavern, the little out of the way table Gendry and Mya are sitting has been joined by a girl with thick black curls who’s leaning a little too far over Gendry’s side.

Mya’s sipping her ale politely, but Gendry’s red as a beet and can’t seem to meet the woman’s eye. Arya starts to laugh as she sits down at the spare chair, and lays a possessive hand on Gendry’s wrist.

“Afraid we can’t spare the coin for your services, so you’d be best spending your energy elsewhere.”

The woman nods.

Arya cocks her head as the woman retreats. As soon as she is out of earshot Arya chuckles.

“Oh thank the gods,” Gendry mutters, still red in the face, “I was one inch away from claiming you were my wife and were right outside.”

Arya feels her ears turn pink.

“It’s good you don’t seem interested, she looked like she could have been one of your sisters too.”

“She said her name was Bella,” Mya interjects from the otherside of the table.

“We’ll add Bella to the list then. The lost bastards of House Baratheon.”

The three of them leave in the morning with Harwin riding ahead. The temperature has turned and every day gets colder and colder. Nymeria circles closer to them at night, and the wind turns. Every once and a while they have to ride further into the wood because other riders appear, and they don’t know who they are. They could be Tully men, but the Riverlands are too central. Lannisters could ride north, the kingsmen could have followed them west, and bandits are a problem across all the kingdoms.

Eventually the inn comes into view, a squat building in a clearing. There’s not much activity until they approach, but there is smoke coming from the chimney. When they dismount their horses, a young woman with brown hair and a long face comes through the door.

“Told you we can’t take any more orphans Harwin, we have enough of a time keeping track of this lot.”

After she says that, another girl, maybe Arya’s age, and looking much like she comes out too, flanked by a gaggle of children of many ages.

“One or two might be orphans true,” Harwin starts, “But they need far less looking after.”

The woman- Harwin had told them her name was Jeyne- looks them up and down.

"Are people looking for you?"

Arya nods softly.

"Do they know what you look like?"

The three of them exchange a glance, and Arya shrugs.

"Don't think so."

“What can you lot do for us?”

“I’m a smith,” Gendry speaks. “I can fix anything you might need, even if travelers don’t come by much.”

“And I can hunt,” Arya adds, “Could be useful at keeping the small ones fed.”

“We have two horses with us,” Mya says last, “And I’m good enough at fetching and carrying.”

Arya looks at Jeyne, pleadingly she hopes. Eventually, she sighs.

“Good enough,” she says, lips pressing into a line. “Come on in and get warm, you too Harwin.”

Harwin enters the inn first, the smell of hot stew on the fire enticing them away from the cold.

Arya reaches out to hold Gendry’s hand.

“Winter is coming,” she says, “In winter you shouldn’t say no to a hot meal and a bed.”

[iknownothingihearnothing]

Game of Thrones 8.6 “The Iron Throne”

Well, our watch is over. 

I don’t know how to feel, considering this entire season was very up and down and all over the place. Not to mention extremely whiplash-inducing. From Jaime’s whole show arc meaning zip to Daenerys’ roller coaster descent into the “Burn It All” Mad Queen to Cersei’s boring death, season 8 as a whole was NOT GREAT, BOB.

There were a few decent moments in the finale though. Sansa was crowned Queen in the North, so that was awesome. Drogon’s “but mama, wake up!” moment broke my damn heart. Ghost finally got his good boi snuggles. 

But overall? Yeesh.

‘Kay, let’s try not to boo and hiss when the “Executive produced and written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss” credit flashes across the screen.

Try.

As the finale opens, Tyrion is seen wandering through the desecrated streets of King’s Landing, dumbfounded that the Queen he (and many of us) believed in actually did this crap.

He separates from the others while Jon, Davos, and Co. locate Grey Worm about to commit some post-surrender slaughter of some Lannister army soldiers, in the name of the new Queen. Davos suggests he and Jon go speak with Dany while Grey Worm continues his slaughterin’. 

If there is one thing you can say for Torgo Nudho, it’s that he’s fiercely loyal.

Tyrion meanders to the crumbling remains of the Red Keep, heads right for the basement, presumably with his fingers and toesies crossed, and realizes the escape to the beachhead where he’d stored his little dinghy is blocked by a rock wall. So he heads to one of the few piles of bricks on the floor and lo and behold--

Really, Cersei and Jaime look more like they are in the middle of a good nap. And there aren’t that many brick piles on the floor. Like they could’ve moved somewhere else in the basement and avoided dying but yanno, plot. 

Arya’s picking through the fire-lined streets of King’s Queen’s Landing until she eventually comes to the town square...place. The Redkeepplatz? Der Rotenwohnturmplatz? Where she spies some jubilant Dothraki playing with their horsies. They won, they’re feeling (temporarily) awesome.

Of course, GoT is legally contracted to never go more than a scene or two without featuring the brooding face of Jon Snow, which it does, as he climbs up the stairs leading to Der Roten Wohnturm. Naturally, the gold and red lion banners of the Lannisters have been removed (and likely thrown into a corner somewhere for the Dothraki horses to poop on) and in their place is one big Targaryen one.

Rather reminiscent of a dog pissing on a fire hydrant, is it not?

So Brooding Jon and his wolfhead cane (I am still pissed that he didn’t beat off any errant Dead with it, I must say) climb up the steps under Grey Worm’s disapproving eye--remember, Jon has been kinda against slaughterin’ Lannister soldiers who already surrendered to which Grey Worm is all *Pikachu gasp face*--to meet his Queen/sort of girlfriend/aunt, who makes her grand entrance like this:

Fabulous, dahlink! Dany is like a catwalk walker at a high-high-fashion Milan event. In fact, if Versace or John Paul doesn’t hire Emilia Clarke to recreate just this moment for the next Fashion Week (yanno, the one at Milan or Paris or New York, not at, like, Tallahassee Fashion Week), I will not buy any more of their products. Not that I could before.

No, she didn’t paste dragon wings to her back. It’s just Drogon. But the shot sure looks cool!

Daenerys catwalks out to her adoring public--quite a lot of adoring public.

Srsly. I thought from the glimpse of trailer that all those soldiers were, idk, surrendered Lannister Army who’d sworn fealty or something. Weren’t most of her forces annihilated during the Battle of Winterfell? There were certainly not this many after Drogon Dracarysed the crap out of the K.L. gates and they burst into the city walls. 

There is raucous cheering and whooping...from the Dothraki. The Unsullied just sort of stand there and bang their poles against the ground because they are boring. 

Dany gives a rousing speech about the Dothraki being the blood of her blood, they kept all her promises to her, defeated her enemies, blah blah, and Drogon roars as if it is a football game. 

She makes Grey Worm her Master of War, which he kinda was all this time, just now it’s official. I guess he gets better pay now.

Dany switches tongues and addresses the Unsullied in High Valyrian. The Dothraki are there like “Dafuq is she talking about?” Just as the Unsullied were before. She calls them “liberators”.

Audience:

You should really stop using that word, Dany. English teachers would red-pen all over this essay.

Dany continues in her exuberant High Valyrian that they will not stop until every man, woman, and child in the world, from Winterfell to Dorne and Lannisport to Qarth, has experienced her flavor of “mercy”.

Arya’s in the back watching like--

Is it me or is this victory speech rather...”Hitler giving a rousing oration at a Nazi rally” esque?

Arya may not be loving this but the Unsullied, with their *tap tap* and the Dothraki excitedly raising their Arakhs and Scimitars in glee, sure do. Tho idk exactly what has the Dothraki so riled up. Dany’s still speaking High Valyrian; they have no idea what she’s saying.

Tyrion is not happy with Dany either. Probably because she killed his brother and burned a shitload of people. He walks up to her as she winds up her Hitlerish speech and she looks at him with some of that ice borrowed from the North. In English, she accuses him of committing treason for freeing Jaime. He in turn meets her gaze and throws away his Hand to the Queen pin.

Dany orders Tyrion taken away, presumably to be Dracarysed. And Jon is watching all this happening like this:

We’ve all done it, don’t lie. “I know he has a swastika tattoo on his face but he’s only a Nazi on the weekends!”

Dany meets his gaze silently telling him to “respect mah authoritah”--

--and she walks away with Unsullied flanking her. I am not sure where to. Half of the Red Keep is in ruins. 

As Jon watches, Arya appears beside him like a ghost. He asks her what she is doing here and what happened and the audience goes in tandem--

What do you think happened, Jon?! Your girlfriend torched the city. Arya’s there in the city. You think she magically poofed there covered in dirt?

You still know nothing, Jon Snow.

Arya confesses that she came to kill Cersei, who of course died the most boring and undeserving death. Her presence right now is solely to remind Jon that Dany knows his true name and heritage and because of that he will always be a threat to her. 

Jon goes to visit Tyrion in isolation--handing over his cane, which for a second I thought was an umbrella; I now think every Great House should have a House Umbrella--and the first thing he asks is thus:

Tyrion is disappoint but thanks Jon for coming to see him anyway. It is ironic, he pontificates. He is the one who told Dany of Varys’ treasonous acts and now he’s getting the Drac for the same thing. Well now Varys’ ashes can say “I told you so”. He then asks Jon if there is life after death. Cus, you know, Jon would know. But Jon does not remember any. Tyrion is relieved. Oblivion is all he can hope for after choking Shae, shooting Daddy Tywin with a crossbow, and betraying Dany. 

And he is prettttttttyyyy sure the war ain’t over. Dany will go on “liberating” until everyone is “free”--and of course by “free” I mean either loyal or barbecued. 

Jon is checked in at Justification Station:

Tyrion asks him if he would’ve done it. After all, he’d been on the dragon’s back before. Jon stutters that he doesn’t know but Tyrion, and all of us, know he would not have. Tyrion is probably speaking to the same portion of the audience who loves Dany when he bites out that “Everywhere she goes, evil men die and we cheer her for it” and that portion, of which I count myself, reply--

Why wouldn’t we? When she Dracarysed those assholes at Astapor, I fistpumped like Pauly D. 

Jon slumps down on a nearby stool. “Love is the death of duty” Maester Aemon said long ago. But, Tyrion posits, maybe duty is the death of love. Jon always tried to do the right thing by the people. Who is the biggest threat to the people now?

Tyrion knows that he’s asking Jon to do a horrible thing, but it’s the right thing. After all, Jon is the most dangerous person in the world to her, being the rightful heir. Alas, Jon stutters that it’s Dany’s decision as Queen, I guess whether to kill him or not, tells Tyrion he’s sorry he’s gon’ be Dracarysed, and is about to leave when Tyrion tries one last ditch by bringing up Sansa and Arya. They’ll never be loyal to Dany, and Jon will have to choose.

With lots to think about, Jon goes to confront Dany, who is prowling around the mess she made of the Red Keep. Drogon, as always, is faithfully standing guard beneath a pile of ash. Or is it snow? Is there snow in the capital? Questions.

Inside (I...guess?), Dany ventures into the once glorious throne room, which now looks like this:

Hope you have a good Master of Coin in mind, Dany.

The new Queen is stunned and delighted about finally coming face to face with the Iron Throne.

Yes. Hundreds of swords all melded together sounds fabulous for my back. Why does everyone want to sit in this thing so badly?

That is when Jon shows up. He begs Dany to spare the lives of the remaining Lannister prisoners. Tyrion from the impending doom of the dragon’s breath. Dany shakes her head. They cannot get by on “small mercies” when there is a whole world who needs...mercy. It will be a good world, she insists. She will make Jon see that it will be a good world. 

He asks about everyone else. The people who “don’t know what’s good”. Dany’s reply: “They don’t get to choose.”

Dany wraps Jon in her arms and demands he be with her because they’re fated, they’ll break the wheel together, blah blah 

And for a moment, just a moment, it almost appears to be working. They kiss passionately, there’s a glint of metal, Dany looks shocked. And then...

Yeah, I didn’t spoil myself, though the season eight plots were easily accessible on Reddit. Probably posted by an annoyed PA who is firmly in the “this season blew” camp. In fact, I am willing to bet it’s the same guy who left The Cup in 8.4. He did it on purpose. 

But still, though I had a feeling Daenerys would not make it out of the finale alive, I was not prepared. It makes total sense for Jon to ultimately kill Dany, as he is the only one who could get close enough to her to do it aside from Grey Worm, who would never, and, of course, Drogon. There is a poetic irony to having the man who loves her ultimately be her end.

And yet...

Poor Jon. Two girlfriends, both dead. 

As Jon cradles her, Drogon starts creepin’. His dragon senses tell him that something’s happened to his mommy. Jon lays his deceased lady love on the floor and Drogon creeps up behind him, scaring the pants off him. He pads over to Dany’s inert body, trying to wake her up.

All together now:

I literally aww’d out loud when I first watched this. Twice. On Twitter, people have likened this scene to Simba pawing at a deceased Mufasa after the wildebeest stampede in The Lion King. It’s pretty reminiscent. “Mom? Mom? Wake up, we got the Iron Throne now!” 

Realizing that his mama really is dead, Drogon is not happy. He growls at Jon, rears up, and fire swirls at the back of his throat. Jon, for his part, remains stoic. I suppose he thinks he deserves this after becoming a Queenslayer. 

But Drogon spares him, perhaps unable to harm a Targaryen? Instead, he takes his ire out on the ironically defenseless throne made of dead men’s swords.

He melts the fuck out of that throne until it’s nothing but molted metal. No one entirely knows why, but two theories are prevalent. One, that Drogon understood that it was really the Iron Throne that killed his mother in the end, her ambition to lead, and not Jon. Dragons are supposed to be incredibly intelligent. And two, as Leslie Jones put it, “If my mama can’t have it, ain’t nobody having it!”

Once the evil pointy chair is gone, Drogon cradles Dany’s body in his talons and flies away with her. 

And I’m dead.

Oh, I’m so sad for Drogon. First the Night King took Viserion. Then, Captain Underpants shot down Rhaegal. Now his mom’s gone. 

I want to hug him.

The next day, Grey Worm and Co. come for Tyrion, but instead of being Dracarysed, he’s led to the Dragonpit, where various heads of Great Houses are assembled to discuss What To Do Now--yanno, that Jon Snow killed the Queen. Yara wants him dead, as well as the Prince of Dorne. Arya threatens to cut her throat if she says that again. Davos, as usual, is the voice of reason. He tries to bribe Grey Worm with the Reach but the Unsullied do not want payment; they want justice. 

Tyrion says it’s not for Grey Worm to decide, and Grey Worm is pissed. But it’s for their King or Queen to decide, and the powerful people before him must pick one.

Grey Worm’s like--

He is not all in on this idea but he’s gonna humor it.

Sam starts to suggest democracy but everyone’s like LOL.

Edmure Tully, aka Tobias Menzies, aka Frank/Black Jack Randall on Outlander, who we haven’t seen since season six, rises and attempts to make a case for himself being named King. Sansa has no time for his antics.

Burn after reading, Edmure. 

Honestly, I’d have preferred this side character we haven’t seen for two seasons over the guy they actually picked. Tyrion, who, I may remind, is the prisoner here, makes a case that the best man/woman (it’s a man) for the job is someone with “the best story”. Okay, cool, I can get behind that.

And then he says, “Who has a better story than Bran Stark?”

Uh...

Let’s see, of the remaining nobles, Sansa has overcome a shitload of adversity to become a really kickass, strong leader of her House, Arya was raised a spoiled little girl and could’ve lived off that but instead threw all those trappings aside to transform into a literal assassin, Brienne is now the first woman knight in all of Westeros, Tyrion went against his House to support a southern Queen and survived a false accusation of poisoning his nephew by his sister, Sam was sentenced to the Night’s Watch by his jackass of a father only to find love, family, and survive the Battle of Winterfell, Yara was kidnapped by her pirate uncle, lost her brother, and is now Queen of the Iron Islands, and Jon, well Jon, what didn’t Jon fucking do? 

Bran was carried around by the poor dude whose head he fucked with for a few years and spent this season being an unemotional robot.

Tyrion asks Bran if he’s up to the role and Bran replies--

.....!

............!!!!!!!!

WHAT HAPPENED TO “I CAN’T BE THE LORD OF WINTERFELL, I’M THE THREE-EYED RAVEN”?! Even Isaac Hempstead-Wright said when he originally got the script, he thought it was a joke. 

We’re supposed to believe he is not up to the task of lording Winterfell but the Seven Kingdoms? No problem.

I’m sorry, the Six Kingdoms. Sansa will not agree to appoint Bran King unless he gives the North independence, which he does.

Six Kingdoms does not sound as good, y’all.

Bran’s a Six Chick now.

So everyone votes and the newfound oligarchy of Westeros toast to their new KingBot.

They call him Bran the Broken because every royal needs a nickname. It’s kind of insulting but I highly doubt Westeros was at all #woke.

I like my ideas better.

Bran makes Tyrion his Hand to make up for all his mistakes in the past, and Grey Worm bugs out because he’s a criminal and deserves justice. But Bran is now a KingBot and can do what he wants so there!

Tyrion, saved from execution, reports to a reckt-looking Jon that KingBot has decided to send him to the Night’s Watch, which still exists for some reason. He will take no wife, bore no children, etc, al., we’ve heard the spiel before. 

Jon asks Tyrion if what they did was right because he feels like shit and Tyrion tells him to ask him again in ten years. So they don’t even know if killing Dany was a good thing or a bad thing.

As Jon ambles through the docks, he passes Grey Worm’s ship. One of the Unsullied lets him know in High Valyrian that all the men are on board and wistfully he nods his reply.

Naath, being of course, Missandei’s home. Grey Worm and the Unsullied are fulfilling a promise he made to Missandei before the Battle of Winterfell--that he would accompany her back home to protect her people from slavers. Now, sans Missandei, he is keeping that promise.

At the docks, Sansa asks Jon if he can forgive her. He is a better person than I because I would’ve been like--

Jon tells her the North has its independence because of her, they hug, and he moves onto Arya. She can’t visit him at the Night’s Watch because she is going on an adventure! She’s gonna start world-building. Arya the World-Builder!

She’s going west of Westeros. For the glory of the Starks and the North. Maybe start a colony there and push some indigenous people onto reservations.

 Next, Jon goes down the line to bid goodbye to his new KingBot.

Seven Six Hells, it’s a good thing this is the finale because calling BranBot “Your Grace” and bending the knee to him will never not be super odd.

Jon tells him he’s sorry he wasn’t there when KingBot needed him and KingBot assures him he was exactly where he was supposed to be with that creepy blank face. Y’all may as well have installed HAL as King.

In the miraculously intact and debris-free Red Keep, the new Commander of the Kingsguard is searching through the Big Book of Westerosi Knights For Dummies--

--for Jaime’s entry, I guess to complete his story, and somehow she finds the wherewithal not to be catty.

There, Brienne. Fixed it for you.

At the small council table, Tyrion reverently sits in the seat of the Hand to the King while the rest of the council comes pouring in. Sam places a thick tome in front of Tyrion, and when he asks what it is, Sam proudly states that it’s A Song of Ice and Fire, a history of the wars following Robert’s Rebellion and death. 

There isn’t much that takes me out of the experience more than mentioning the title of the show I’m watching. And although this is Game of Thrones, we all know it’s based on the ASoIaF book series. 

By Archmaester Ebrose, eh? You sure it wasn’t, say, Archmaester Jyrge of House Martyn?

The in-universe AsoIaF doesn’t even mention Tyrion, which is hilarious.

Brienne and KingBot enter and everyone stands and calls him “Your Grace” and we snicker. At the table, the first thing KingBot does is ask about the missing Masters of Whisperers, Law, and War. And also where Drogon is. Sam says he is flying east but KingBot seems determined to find him.

What’s he gonna do, warg into Drogon? You leave that poor baby alone, KingBot! In a short time, he’s lost both his brothers and his mother. He’s totally alone. Don’t bother him no more!

#LeaveDrogonAlone!

Before Podrick, who is now Ser Podrick, takes him away, everyone stands to salute their KingBot.

Maybe I’m a broken record, but Bran being crowned King is like getting an A+ on the presentation when you spent the whole prep time playing Words With Friends on your phone.

When he leaves, the remaining small council members discuss rebuilding the armada and distributing wealth responsibly. Bronn has been named Lord of the Reach and is now Master of Coin. His first priority as such is--

Naturally. 

Tyrion also comes to the conclusion that after extensive research into the sewers at Casterly Rock, clean water=healthy people.

No!

The camera slowly pulls out on our happy merry men (and woman) of the council so I guess that means that is the last time we will see them.

At Castle Black--

And so fast? Are all the builders in the North drinking Four Loko or what?

There, waiting, is Tormund, like he’s Leo at the end of Titanic. He knew Jon would be back. Because he’s “got the real North in him”.

In all corners of Westeros, the Starks are doin’ their thang. Arya is setting sail for places unknown, brandishing the Stark sigil.

Sansa is attending her coronation of Queen in the North after winning the Northern independence.

And Jon is among the wildlings at Castle Black. He seems to be searching for someone in particular amongst the throng. 

And then, he finds him!

It’s Ghost! The goodest good boi in the wide world finally got his snuggles from his Daddy. 

He deserves all the love and treats because he’s the best boi.

Yes, he is! Yes, he is!

The finale closes with Tormund and Jon leading the Free Folk into the woods. Hmm..

Is Jon destined to be the King Beyond the Wall now? We’ll never know for sure because the show is over. But there is always fanfiction. 

I am reading one right now where Jon and Dany meet in Pentos before she is crowned Khaleesi. It’s good shit. 

So, uh, pros: Sansa being crowned Queen in the North was awesome. She deserved it. I can see Arya as an explorer. Cons: KingBot. WHY?! I cannot see him being the “great king” the other characters think he will be. He has no emotion, which is why he is KingBot. The first thing he does upon calling to order his first small council meeting is wondering where the fuck Drogon is so he can kill him. And it’s not enough that he’s elsewhere in the east. KingBot has to warg into him or into something near him to get his exact location. Idkkk him being King is pretty absurd. 

The finale was a week ago and I’m still in mourning for Dany. I’m in mourning for how fast the writers took her to Mad Queen status. I like the theory that Drogon is flying to Volantis to have Kinvara of the Red Priesthood revive her so that she can come back to Westeros and kick ass and take names. 

In the meantime, and forevermore, the wheel keeps on spinning...

[onefail-at-atime]

Gendrya Week - It’s a Sign

[You all have been absolute dolls with your feedback. I am sorry that back to back shifts have put me behind but no worries, a full evening off means that I’ll be caught up by the end of the week. Enjoy a bit more fluff. As always, I love any and all feedback!] 

Arya began to hate the rain.

The rain reminded her of starving nights in Flea Bottom, cold nights on the King’s Road, and terrifying nights in Harenhal. She hated the drizzle that fell, clinging to each surface and leaving a dampness in her clothes that she feared she would never be rid of. The Brotherhood had stopped to make camp early that evening on account of the rain and she had yet another reason to hate it more. They would never reach Riverrun at that pace.

The worries sunk into her soul and though she tried her best to ignore them, there was an uneasy feeling that she feared she would never shake.

A teasing chuckle broke through her thoughts.

“Yous’ns have been awfully quiet. Both of yous.” Anguy broke in, grinning at where Arya and Gendry were unsaddling their horses.

“Maybe you should try it some time.” Arya snapped.

“Not bleeding likely.” Gendry grumbled, throwing an annoyed glare in the archer’s direction. Arya smiled appreciatively.

The two captives were silent for the rest of evening and into the morning. Both understood the other’s need for quiet, even if the Brotherhood did not. And so it wasn’t until the next day, when they had stopped to water the horses that Gendry finally spoke.  “There is something botherin’ you, isn’t there?”

“There’s not. Just tired.” Arya said stiffly as she led her mare to the stream, distancing herself from the men.

Gendry followed. “I know there is, Ary. Nearly two years running with you has taught me as much. If there’s something you don’t want to talk about, fine, but you know that I’ll listen.”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. Had it really been that long? She released a deep sigh, something she had been holding back for days. “We’re moving too slow, slower than we even were with Hot Pie. It’s not fair. We’re in the Riverlands. We could have reached my family by now. We could have been free of them. First the goldcloaks, then Harrenhal, now this?” Her voice caught and broke in her throat. “W-what if it’s a sign? What if I’m never meant to find my mother or brothers?”

His brow knotted together. She could see the concern in his eyes and it sent a rush through her, a familiar rush. It was the rush to hold him, to be held. He had been at her side, had been her friend from the time they had escaped King’s Landing and even while they were held captive, she still depended on him for comfort, though it had taken her time to admit it.

Her eyes met his and he took a step forwards, his startling blue gaze filled with concern as if processing what he wanted to say.

But he didn’t get a chance.

“Lions! Riding from the east.” A voice called out, stirring the Brotherhood into action. Men unsheathed their swords and the arches drew arrows. Thoros came rushing towards them.

“You two, take yourselves deeper into the woods.” He gave Gendry a shove when they failed to move. “Do it! Now!”

Fuming, Arya allowed Gendry to pull her deeper into the woods that surrounded the stream. This shouldn’t be happening. Gendry and I should be at Riverrun, not cowering in the woods. “We could leave now. We’d be free of them.”

“You’re mental.” Gendry replied stubbornly. “How far would we get before someone took our unarmed selves hostage again? Really, you think-“

“Sh.” Arya hushed suddenly, the sound of breaking branches having caught her attention. The friends closed the distance between one another, gazes flickering back and forth for danger. Moments later, a man broke through the bushes, eyes wild and panting from fighting the Brotherhood. When he caught sight of the two, a wide grin filled his harsh features.

“Well, what do we ‘ave ‘ere?” The man sneered as he moved closer, noting that the two were unarmed. There was something about his sneer that caught her attention. She had seen if before at Harrenhal when all the guards banded together to pick and choose women to torture. Then it was the way that Gendry reached down to wrap a protective hand around her wrist that told her he remembered the same. And the man only continued to sneer as he moved closer. “Looks like I found the treat shared by this group of ruffians.” He took another step forwards, only for Gendry to step in front of Arya. The action did not go unnoticed by the Lannister man. “Or is she just yours then? ‘Cause you’re gonna ‘ave to share.”

“Run. Now.” Gendry spoke softly as he gave her arm one last squeeze.

“I’m not leaving you.” Arya’s refusal was harsh but she could still hear the fear in her own voice.

Gendry shoved her behind him with one hand. His blue gaze was locked with that of the Lannister soldier. “Do it. Just go.”

And so she ran. She ran until the noise from beyond the stream was behind her. 

But she didn’t run from fear. She ran because she knew that had she stayed behind, Gendry would have done everything in his power to protect her and he was unarmed as well.But she couldn’t leave him behind. He’s my friend.

And so she ran back.

The scene before her turned her stomach. The soldier, having realized Gendry was unarmed, had taken to beating the armorer with his bare hands. The two were almost matched for size. Gendry stood a few inches taller and though he was broader, and stronger, than the guard, the man in Lannister red still wore a toughened leather that protected him from the older boy’s punches. And now, the soldier had been joined by a second man and the two were laughing as they took turns to beat and kick at her friend.It didn’t matter to Arya that she was unarmed. She knew that the man had most likely hurt countless others before and now he was hurting her friend. He was hurting Gendry.

She moved like lightning. Arya caught sight of a small, fallen branch. It was the size and share of a long dagger. The perfect shape.Arya launched herself onto the first man’s back, throwing her arms around his neck. One hand clung to his shoulder while the other came around, digging the sturdy piece of wood right through the soft tissue at the base of his throat. The man attempted to scream in pain, only to shake back and forth to throw Arya from his back. But she had already leaped down and moved to stand between Gendry and his second attack.

“You little shit.” The unknown man cursed as he took a step forwards. Arya’s gaze flickered from his face to scan the surrounding area for any and all makeshift weapons.

Though she wouldn’t need them. Another pair of men had come barreling through the woods and, for once, Arya was actually glad to see Anguy and Harwin. The archer had already drawn an arrow and with a glance in Arya and Gendry’s direction, let it loose to make its mark in the second attacker’s throat, who fell to the ground gurgling and clutching at his wound. All ignored him as they turned to face the first attacker.

Anguy then looked from Gendry’s heavily beaten face to Arya’s bloodied hands. Her focus was now on Gendry. An anger flared in her, anger at being left behind. The boy was frowning at her, his one arm wrapped around his abdomen. His eyes met hers and he smiled weakly. “Arya.”

“Don’t you dare,” She said with an accusatory growl that showed her for her true Stark heritage. “You thought you could just tell me to run? You stupid, stubborn, sacrificial bull! We made a promise. Do you remember that? Do you remember Harrenhal? Neither of us leaves the other.”

Gendry’s eyes flared as he clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration. “Of course I remember Harrenhal. Do you? It’s my job to protect you, Arya. In case you didn’t notice, you’re without a sword.”

“We protect each other, you bullheaded boy.” Arya moved towards him, clenching her fists as well. “Don’t you dare do anything like that again, you stu-“ She stopped, her gray eyes wide as she watched the giant of a boy slump forwards to his knees and Arya cursed herself. The rain had disguised how severely the cut to his temple was bleeding and by the way he moaned clutched his abdomen as he rolled to his side, she was sure that there were a number of injuries beneath his skin. Panic rushed through her. “Help him!”

The men rushed forwards and quickly lifted Gendry between them. It only took a few minutes for them to help him into one of the supply carts but it had felt like an eternity, just as it felt like the ride to the village where the Brotherhood claimed to have friends felt like an eternity. Arya sat beside Gendry, cradling his head in her lap as the cart jostled along the road as fast as the horses would allow and she attempted to discern which of his wounds were most severe.

It wasn’t fair.

The Brotherhood had found a family willing to take Gendry in and Arya followed, ignoring everyone who told her to rest. All she cared about was he friend. He lay sweating and moaning in his unconscious state as the healer woman tended to his wounds. She claimed he would be out of danger once the sudden fever broke.

It still wasn’t fair.

Maybe this is what the gods had planned for her. Maybe she could take it as a sign that anyone she would grow close with would be ripped away from her. Jon had been her closest brother and he had left for the Wall. Her father had been imprisoned and beheaded. And though she had never been close to Sansa, she had still been forced to leave her sister behind in her own attempt to escape King’s Landing.

It couldn’t happen again. “You can’t die.” She whispered, her stomach churning at the beads of sweat that collected on his brow. “Even if the gods mean for me to be alone, you still can’t die.”

It was a soft and strained chuckle from Gendry in his disorientated state that made her jump. “Well, I’m definitely alive now so I guess it’s a sign that you’re stuck with me, m’lady.” 

[poorquentyn]

Remember Your Name, Part 3: When That Other Man Had Come This Way

Series so far here

“That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore.”

At the end of In the Mood for Love, the film’s protagonist visits the ruins of Angkor Wat. He’d earlier mused to a friend about how back in the day, if you had a secret burning inside that you couldn’t bring yourself to share, you dug a shallow hole into a tree and whispered your secret into it, filling the hole with mud afterwards to keep the truth at bay.

But when our hero decides to try and leave behind the story of forsaken love we saw unfold over the course of the movie, he does not seek out a living thing that can survive and change and grow. He instead unburdens himself to a ruin: a monument to the ravages wrought and distances forged by time. In the sequel 2046, he disappears into the rose-colored fog within, surrounded by his ghosts on parade. Try as he might, he could not seal them away forever.

I have come this way before. It was a dangerous thought, and he regretted it at once.

“No,” he said, “no, that was some other man, that was before you knew your name.” His name was Reek. He had to remember that. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leek. When that other man had come this way, an army had followed close behind him, the great host of the north riding to war beneath the grey-and-white banners of House Stark. Reek rode alone, clutching a peace banner on a pinewood staff. When that other man had come this way, he had been mounted on a courser, swift and spirited. Reek rode a broken-down stot, all skin and bone and ribs, and he rode her slowly for fear he might fall off. The other man had been a good rider, but Reek was uneasy on horseback. It had been so long. He was no rider. He was not even a man. He was Lord Ramsay’s creature, lower than a dog, a worm in human skin. “You will pretend to be a prince,” Lord Ramsay told him last night, as Reek was soaking in a tub of scalding water, “but we know the truth. You’re Reek. You’ll always be Reek, no matter how sweet you smell. Your nose may lie to you. Remember your name. Remember who you are.”

“Reek,” he said. “Your Reek.”

The Drunkard’s Tower leaned as if it were about to collapse, just as it had for half a thousand years. The Children’s Tower thrust into the sky as straight as a spear, but its shattered top was open to the wind and rain. The Gatehouse Tower, squat and wide, was the largest of the three, slimy with moss, a gnarled tree growing sideways from the stones of its north side, fragments of broken wall still standing to the east and west. The Karstarks took the Drunkard’s Tower and the Umbers the Children’s Tower, he recalled. Robb claimed the Gatehouse Tower for his own. If he closed his eyes, he could see the banners in his mind’s eye, snapping bravely in a brisk north wind. All gone now, all fallen.

Memory and identity are inextricable. Who you were informs who you are, and who you are invariably filters your perspective on who you were. The weight of backstory has always been one of ASOIAF’s central claims to profundity. R+L=J, the story’s central revelation and the beating heart of the fandom, is also the burdensome duty that defined our fakeout protagonist Eddard Stark. What makes Ned’s life so meaningful is that he put it all on the line not to keep the secret that his purported bastard Jon is in fact his sister Lyanna’s son by Rhaegar Targaryen, but in the name of the values that keeping that secret instilled in him.

Time was perilously short. The king would return from his hunt soon, and honor would require Ned to go to him with all he had learned. Vayon Poole had arranged for Sansa and Arya to sail on the Wind Witch out of Braavos, three days hence. They would be back at Winterfell before the harvest. Ned could no longer use his concern for their safety to excuse his delay.

Yet last night he had dreamt of Rhaegar's children. Lord Tywin had laid the bodies beneath the Iron Throne, wrapped in the crimson cloaks of his house guard. That was clever of him; the blood did not show so badly against the red cloth. The little princess had been barefoot, still dressed in her bed gown, and the boy…the boy…                 

Ned could not let that happen again. The realm could not withstand a second mad king, another dance of blood and vengeance. He must find some way to save the children.

Jaime floats in heat and memory in the Harrenhal bathtubs, the truth finally swimming to the surface; Barbrey stares deep into a dead man’s face, the pleasure and pain of it eternally intermingled; Robert himself admits that all he wants most is to leave behind the crown it was all ostensibly for. They all sing the same sad song, the one Reek sings as he rides fearfully into Theon Greyjoy’s past at Moat Cailin: I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. They followed the red comet, over the edge. Their songs broke, and broke them in their fall.

Following on Theon briefly coming unstuck in time in his first ADWD chapter, Reek II builds on that disorientation by externalizing it onto his environment. The chapter is thick with memory and riddled with decay, all swathes of mist that give way to fountains of blood, because that’s what the inside of Theon Greyjoy’s head looks like. That opening chapter in the Dreadfort gave us a blood-curdling glimpse of the crucible in which Theon became Reek before forcing him out of it; now, the story goes widescreen, taking in how the North has changed along with our POV since last he stepped out into it.

The hall was dark stone, high ceilinged and drafty, full of drifting smoke, its stone walls spotted by huge patches of pale lichen. A peat fire burned low in a hearth blackened by the hotter blazes of years past. A massive table of carved stone filled the chamber, as it had for centuries. There was where I sat, the last time I was here, he remembered. Robb was at the head of the table, with the Greatjon to his right and Roose Bolton on his left. The Glovers sat next to Helman Tallhart. Karstark and his sons were across from them.

The reference to time’s fire in which we burn (“blackened by the hotter blazes of years past”), the epochal weight of the table filling the chamber “as it had for centuries,” the evocation of the ghosts that haunt Theon--all of it grounds the business of the plot in memory and time, and thus in what’s happened to our POV. 

Theon smiled. Reek cannot. Theon had friends. Reek is a pariah. Theon came to Moat Cailin with an army. Now, that army is dead and gone, except for those who turned on the rest...just as he did. Moat Cailin has been made a ruin all over again, defeat and despair folded into it like Lannister crimson into Stark steel, a testament like Tristifer’s tomb to a shattered kingdom. Theon helped shatter it, and now he stumbles back shattered to help melt down what’s left. He is Moat Cailin, more or less, the broken towers a misty mirror for our broken man, the splintered teeth of his smile writ large. The fog that cloaks the fortress reflects how he’s been forced to compartmentalize his past, which is now screaming its way to the surface. There are ghosts in Moat Cailin, and he is one of them.

(image by warsandpoliticsoficeandfire.wordpress.com)

This sense of desolation and loss is mirrored in the chapter’s purpose in the larger plot. The standoff between the Boltons and the Ironborn over the Moat (and by extension, the North as a whole) is little more than a feast for crows. Both sides went for the direwolf’s throat with no higher cause than plunder and the pleasure of it; all they’re fighting over is who did it more successfully. The Ironborn here were left to rot by their Lord Captain when he went chasing his brother’s crown...

“Victarion commanded us to hold, he did. I heard him with my own ears. Hold here till I return, he told Kenning.”

“Aye,” said the one-armed man. “That’s what he said. The kingsmoot called, but he swore that he’d be back, with a driftwood crown upon his head and a thousand men behind him.”

“My uncle is never coming back,” Reek told them. “The kingsmoot crowned his brother Euron, and the Crow’s Eye has other wars to fight. You think my uncle values you? He doesn’t. You are the ones he left behind to die. He scraped you off the same way he scrapes mud off his boots when he wades ashore.”

Those words struck home. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at one another or frowned above their cups. They all feared they’d been abandoned, but it took me to turn fear into certainty. These were not the kin of famous captains nor the blood of the great Houses of the Iron Islands. These were the sons of thralls and salt wives.

...and the Dreadfort men can’t lay any credible claim to be acting as defenders of the North from the reaving invaders, given the Northern blood they’ve both happily spilled throughout. (Those who hunt people for sport shouldn’t throw stones, and all that.) Ramsay in this chapter is merely mopping up after and reaping the benefits of the hard-earned victory won by Howland Reed and his guerilla fighters, and even that he’s not doing himself, but forcing a helpless tortured prisoner to do for him. The Bastard’s unspeakably hideous treatment of the Ironborn after they surrender to him in good faith is the punchline to a very dark joke, poisoned icing on bitter cake. And of course, it’s all in the service of welcoming an army soaked in the blood of the men and women with whom they sat down to dinner, as allies, as friends, as guests at a wedding.

Three days later, the vanguard of Roose Bolton’s host threaded its way through the ruins and past the row of grisly sentinels—four hundred mounted Freys clad in blue and grey, their spearpoints glittering whenever the sun broke through the clouds. Two of old Lord Walder’s sons led the van. One was brawny, with a massive jut of jaw and arms thick with muscle. The other had hungry eyes close-set above a pointed nose, a thin brown beard that did not quite conceal the weak chin beneath it, a bald head. Hosteen and Aenys. He remembered them from before he knew his name. Hosteen was a bull, slow to anger but implacable once roused, and by repute the fiercest fighter of Lord Walder’s get. Aenys was older, crueler, and more clever—a commander, not a swordsman. Both were seasoned soldiers.

The northmen followed hard behind the van, their tattered banners streaming in the wind. Reek watched them pass. Most were afoot, and there were so few of them. He remembered the great host that marched south with Young Wolf, beneath the direwolf of Winterfell. Twenty thousand swords and spears had gone off to war with Robb, or near enough to make no matter, but only two in ten were coming back, and most of those were Dreadfort men.

Even as Reek struggles to keep Theon at bay (thinking of his life before the Dreadfort dungeons as the time “before he knew his name”), making contact with the people with whom Theon rode to war is stirring something inside him, and that’s reflected in the big picture of what it means for this army to arrive in the North. Grey Wind’s forlorn eyes from the House of the Undying are watching, and judging, and waiting. Wolves prowl and howl through the opening chapters of ADWD’s Northern half, singing the song of their fall, and of Jojen’s solemn promise: “the wolves will come again.” The ghosts of the Red Wedding follow this army to Winterfell, and hang heavy on the Ramsay-Jeyne wedding and everything that follows, crying out for redress. The gods have been insulted, and will have their due. Thankfully, there’s a man going ‘round taking names, and he decides who to free and who to blame...

...but discussion of His Grace King Stannis Baratheon, the Wrath of God, will have to wait for later chapters, as will Wyman Manderly’s culinary interpretation of divine judgment.

For the purposes of Theon’s arc, the Ironborn at Moat Cailin serve as the mirror from which he’s trying so desperately to look away. I said last time that what Reek fears most right now, even more than Ramsay, is being Theon. That name carries so much shame and pain with it that he prefers to be “your Reek,” fearing not only the external consequences of defiance (more torture and maiming), but also the internal consequences of identifying as his old self. All Theon wanted to do in ACOK was take control of his life, and now that’s the last thing he wants, because of what he did with that power once he had it. He returns to Moat Cailin flying a white flag of peace, but it may as well be one of surrender.

“I am Ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been Ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak.

“Ralf Kenning is dead,” he said. “Who commands here?”

The drinkers stared at him blankly. One laughed. Another spat. Finally one of the Codds said, “Who asks?”

“Lord Balon’s son.” Reek, my name is Reek, it rhymes with cheek.

One of the Codds pushed to his feet. A big man, but pop-eyed and wide of mouth, with dead white flesh. He looked as if his father had sired him on a fish, but he still wore a longsword. “Dagon Codd yields to no man.”

No, please, you have to listen. The thought of what Ramsay would do to him if he crept back to camp without the garrison’s surrender was almost enough to make him piss his breeches. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leak.

What gives this chapter its charge is that our POV is being forced by the man who shattered his old identity to resume that identity. It’s Theon playing Reek playing Theon, and he’s being made to remember his name in order to sway the people who represent his old life, because they’d never surrender to Reek. He knows that, because he used to be like them...or he wanted to be, anyway. When Theon first became a POV, his mind was aflame with song, lashing his in-between identity to the values and visions of the Old Way:

Once I would have kept her as a salt wife in truth, he thought to himself as he slid his fingers through her tangled hair. Once. When we still kept the Old Way, lived by the axe instead of the pick, taking what we would, be it wealth, women, or glory. In those days, the Ironborn did not work mines; that was labor for the captives brought back from the hostings, and so too the sorry business of farming and tending goats and sheep. War was an ironman's proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song.

Aegon the Dragon had destroyed the Old Way when he burned Black Harren, gave Harren's kingdom back to the weakling rivermen, and reduced the Iron Islands to an insignificant backwater of a much greater realm. Yet the old red tales were still told around driftwood fires and smoky hearths all across the islands, even behind the high stone halls of Pyke. Theon's father numbered among his titles the style of Lord Reaper, and the Greyjoy words boasted that We Do Not Sow.

It had been to bring back the Old Way more than for the empty vanity of a crown that Lord Balon had staged his great rebellion. Robert Baratheon had written a bloody end to that hope, with the help of his friend Eddard Stark, but both men were dead now. Mere boys ruled in their stead, and the realm that Aegon the Conqueror had forged was smashed and sundered. This is the season, Theon thought as the captain's daughter slid her lips up and down the length of him, the season, the year, the day, and I am the man.

This chapter, Theon I ACOK, slots right in between Davos I (the one with Lightbringer) and Daenerys I (the one in the Red Waste), both of them positively soaked with messianic imagery and focused on weighty questions of power, prophecy, and the price you pay. But in Theon’s chapter, the launching pad for the most stubbornly secular storyline in ACOK, the messianic mindset is stripped of its finery and exposed as pitiful self-delusion. This is who you are, Chosen One, all the more clearly with neither dragons nor shadowbinders at your back: a mirror-drunk fool dreaming of atrocities while your dick gets sucked.

Three books later, that self-image has been racked and flayed and castrated before being spat back out at us as Reek. He thinks of himself as having been born beneath the Dreadfort, molded like clay from Theon’s blood and pain; are you my mother, Ramsay? He keeps retreating to his new name in his thoughts, a mantra to keep the fear away. The identity of which he dreamed is now the nightmare he cannot shake. And what better way for the author to reflect that than by bringing him up against the death of his dream, the most unshakable images of the rot eating away at the Old Way?

Reek passed the rotted carcass of a horse, an arrow jutting from its neck. A long white snake slithered into its empty eye socket at his approach. Behind the horse he spied the rider, or what remained of him. The crows had stripped the flesh from the man’s face, and a feral dog had burrowed beneath his mail to get at his entrails. Farther on, another corpse had sunk so deep into the muck that only his face and fingers showed.

Closer to the towers, corpses littered the ground on every side. Blood-blooms had sprouted from their gaping wounds, pale flowers with petals plump and moist as a woman’s lips.

Ralf Kenning lay shivering beneath a mountain of furs. His arms were stacked beside him—sword and axe, mail hauberk, iron warhelm. His shield bore the storm god’s cloudy hand, lightning crackling from his fingers down to a raging sea, but the paint was discolored and peeling, the wood beneath starting to rot.

Ralf was rotting too. Beneath the furs he was naked and feverish, his pale puffy flesh covered with weeping sores and scabs. His head was misshapen, one cheek grotesquely swollen, his neck so engorged with blood that it threatened to swallow his face. The arm on that same side was big as a log and crawling with white worms. No one had bathed him or shaved him for many days, from the look of him. One eye wept pus, and his beard was crusty with dried vomit.

“What happened to him?” asked Reek.

“He was on the parapets and some bog devil loosed an arrow at him. It was only a graze, but…they poison their shafts, smear the points with shit and worse things. We poured boiling wine into the wound, but it made no difference.”

This is how the Old Way has always died, with broken towers and the stench of corpses, from Aegon melting Harrenhal to Robert smashing Pyke. Every time it falls, the seeds are sown for its next rise; the ideology’s exposed festering folly is folded into a Lost Cause mythos that weaponizes resentment and ennobles suffering. The last time it fell, part of the price paid was Theon’s identity, and his desperate drive to reclaim it by reviving the Old Way is what led him here. He’s unrecognizable to the very world in which he hoped to finally recognize himself.

The garrison will never know me. Some might recall the boy he’d been before he learned his name, but Reek would be a stranger to them. It had been a long while since he last looked into a glass, but he knew how old he must appear. His hair had turned white; much of it had fallen out, and what was left was stiff and dry as straw. The dungeons had left him weak as an old woman and so thin a strong wind could knock him down.

And his hands…Ramsay had given him gloves, fine gloves of black leather, soft and supple, stuffed with wool to conceal his missing fingers, but if anyone looked closely, he would see that three of his fingers did not bend.

That fall from grace, the violent collapse of his projected identity, is reflected back at him by the sorry state of the Ironborn garrison. They came here as an army, together, one people; they knew who they were. And now...?

Someone seized him and dragged him inside, and he heard the door crash shut behind him. He was pulled to his feet and shoved against a wall. Then a knife was at his throat, a bearded face so close to his that he could count the man’s nose hairs. “Who are you? What’s your purpose here? Quick now, or I’ll do you the same as him.” The guard jerked his head toward a body rotting on the floor beside the door, its flesh green and crawling with maggots.

“I am ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak. He had to forget that for a little while, though. No man would ever yield to a creature such as Reek, no matter how desperate his situation. He must pretend to be a prince again.

His captor stared at his face, squinting, his mouth twisted in suspicion. His teeth were brown, and his breath stank of ale and onion. “Lord Balon’s sons were killed.”

“My brothers. Not me. Lord Ramsay took me captive after Winterfell. He’s sent me here to treat with you. Do you command here?”

“Me?” The man lowered his knife and took a step backwards, almost stumbling over the corpse. “Not me, m’lord.” His mail was rusted, his leathers rotting. On the back of one hand an open sore wept blood. “Ralf Kenning has the command. The captain said. I’m on the door, is all.”

“And who is this?” Reek gave the corpse a kick.

The guard stared at the dead man as if seeing him for the first time. “Him…he drank the water. I had to cut his throat for him, to stop his screaming. Bad belly. You can’t drink the water. That’s why we got the ale.” The guard rubbed his face, his eyes red and inflamed. “We used to drag the dead down into the cellars. All the vaults are flooded down there. No one wants to take the trouble now, so we just leave them where they fall.”

“The cellar is a better place for them. Give them to the water. To the Drowned God.”

The man laughed. “No gods down there, m’lord. Only rats and water snakes. White things, thick as your leg. Sometimes they slither up the steps and bite you in your sleep.”

Reek remembered the dungeons underneath the Dreadfort, the rat squirming between his teeth, the taste of warm blood on his lips. If I fail, Ramsay will send me back to that, but first he’ll flay the skin from another finger. “How many of the garrison are left?”

“Some,” said the ironman. “I don’t know. Fewer than we was before. Some in the Drunkard’s Tower too, I think. Not the Children’s Tower. Dagon Codd went over there a few days back. Only two men left alive, he said, and they was eating on the dead ones. He killed them both, if you can believe that.”

Moat Cailin has fallen, Reek realized then, only no one has seen fit to tell them.

And now they are lost, turning on each other, their god forgotten. Cannibalism rears its head again and again in ADWD, as the taboo wilts in the face of winter and war. Theon came here with the knights of summer; Reek returns to find the living dead. Two different armies, two different peoples, as one in his mind now. After all, he’s been trying to bridge this particular gap for most of his life. The abyss awaited both armies to occupy the Moat, as it awaited Theon. Never forget Kubrick’s parting shot in Barry Lyndon:

In ACOK, Theon tried to shed the Northern self exemplified by that shining army at the Moat like dead skin, giving himself over to the image of the Ironborn self in his head. Now Reek returns to Moat Calin to play that image, only to sacrifice it as he was as a child, sacrificed like the men at Moat Cailin to the Old Way...

“Kill him,” Reek told the guard. “His wits are gone. He’s full of blood and worms.”

The man gaped at him. “The captain put him in command.”

“You’d put a dying horse down.”

“What horse? I never had no horse.”

I did. The memory came back in a rush. Smiler’s screams had sounded almost human. His mane afire, he had reared up on his hind legs, blind with pain, lashing out with his hooves. No, no. Not mine, he was not mine, Reek never had a horse. “I will kill him for you.” Reek snatched up Ralf Kenning’s sword where it leaned against his shield. He still had fingers enough to clasp the hilt. When he laid the edge of the blade against the swollen throat of the creature on the straw, the skin split open in a gout of black blood and yellow pus. Kenning jerked violently, then lay still.

...and then again as an adult, this time to the Bastard of Bolton.

Reek swung down from his saddle and took a knee. “My lord, Moat Cailin is yours. Here are its last defenders.”

“So few. I had hoped for more. They were such stubborn foes.” Lord Ramsay’s pale eyes shone. “You must be starved. Damon, Alyn, see to them. Wine and ale, and all the food that they can eat. Skinner, show their wounded to our maesters.”

“Aye, my lord.”

A few of the Ironborn muttered thanks before they shambled off toward the cookfires in the center of the camp. One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

When the last of them were gone, Ramsay Bolton turned his smile on Reek. He clasped him by the back of the head, pulled his face close, kissed him on his cheek, and whispered, “My old friend Reek. Did they really take you for their prince? What bloody fools, these ironmen. The gods are laughing.”

“All they want is to go home, my lord.”

“And what do you want, my sweet Reek?” Ramsay murmured, as softly as a lover. His breath smelled of mulled wine and cloves, so sweet. “Such valiant service deserves a reward. I cannot give you back your fingers or your toes, but surely there is something you would have of me. Shall I free you instead? Release you from my service? Do you want to go with them, return to your bleak isles in the cold grey sea, be a prince again? Or would you sooner stay my leal serving man?”

A cold knife scraped along his spine. Be careful, he told himself, be very, very careful. He did not like his lordship’s smile, the way his eyes were shining, the spittle glistening at the corner of his mouth. He had seen such signs before. You are no prince. You’re Reek, just Reek, it rhymes with freak. Give him the answer that he wants.

“My lord,” he said, “my place is here, with you. I’m your Reek. I only want to serve you. All I ask …a skin of wine, that would be reward enough for me…red wine, the strongest that you have, all the wine a man can drink…”

Lord Ramsay laughed. “You’re not a man, Reek. You’re just my creature. You’ll have your wine, though. Walder, see to it. And fear not, I won’t return you to the dungeons, you have my word as a Bolton. We’ll make a dog of you instead. Meat every day, and I’ll even leave you teeth enough to eat it. You can sleep beside my girls. Ben, do you have a collar for him?”

“I’ll have one made, m’lord,” said old Ben Bones.

The old man did better than that. That night, besides the collar, there was a ragged blanket too, and half a chicken. Reek had to fight the dogs for the meat, but it was the best meal he’d had since Winterfell.

And the wine…the wine was dark and sour, but strong. Squatting amongst the hounds, Reek drank until his head swam, retched, wiped his mouth, and drank some more. Afterward he lay back and closed his eyes. When he woke a dog was licking vomit from his beard, and dark clouds were scuttling across the face of a sickle moon. Somewhere in the night, men were screaming. He shoved the dog aside, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The next morning Lord Ramsay dispatched three riders down the causeway to take word to his lord father that the way was clear. The flayed man of House Bolton was hoisted above the Gatehouse Tower, where Reek had hauled down the golden kraken of Pyke. Along the rotting-plank road, wooden stakes were driven deep into the boggy ground; there the corpses festered, red and dripping. Sixty-three, he knew, there are sixty-three of them. One was short half an arm. Another had a parchment shoved between its teeth, its wax seal still unbroken.

“So few. I had hoped for more.” The soul shudders. And oh, how casually “somewhere in the night, men were screaming” strolls into the middle of a paragraph, and Reek rolls back over to sleep...

To be clear, I’m not holding Theon responsible for what happens to his sixty-three fellow Ironborn left at the Moat. He’s in no position to refuse Ramsay, as GRRM makes clear in his inner monologue throughout the chapter. But Ramsay is deliberately putting his prisoner through a gauntlet of the self. He has our POV act as Prince Theon son of King Balon, forces him through a cruel mummer’s farce of “choosing” to stay at Ramsay’s side as Reek, and then viciously annihilates the people who represent Theon’s connection to that old identity. It has exactly the effect Ramsay wants: “He pulled down the kraken banner with his own two hands, fumbling some because of his missing fingers but thankful for the fingers that Lord Ramsay had allowed him to keep.” This is what it means to have been Theon and to now be Reek.

This pattern will repeat itself over the course of Theon’s next two chapters, as Roose and Barbrey conspire to have him give Jeyne away to Ramsay publicly, as Theon, and so help cement Bolton control of Winterfell. At every step, Theon's identity is weaponized and turned against him. He flinches from his past, drinks to annihilate his present, and can barely conceive of a future. He is unmoored, drifting through external and internal fog, and he has once again unlocked the North on behalf of heinous authority figures he desperately wants to please. Indeed, Ramsay has wrought a fearsome image of himself in Theon’s mind, a devil equally at home tempting and punishing, and that dynamic is recreated at Moat Cailin:

One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

On that note, one persistent critique of both AFFC and ADWD is that the violence stopped meaning anything--the author started leaning on brutality for brutality’s sake, because he bought into his own rep and/or was out of ideas. I think it’s a valid complaint when it comes to, say, Biter eating Brienne’s face. But on the flipside, the horrific violence in Theon’s storyline is consistently linked to intertwined themes of memory and identity in a manner that I find resonant. Look no further than the man who accepts Ramsay’s offer, and why:

It was the one-armed man who’d flung the axe. As he rose to his feet he had another in his hand. “Who else wants to die?” he asked the other drinkers. “Speak up, I’ll see you do.” Thin red streams were spreading out across the stone from the pool of blood where Dagon Codd’s head had come to rest. “Me, I mean to live, and that don’t mean staying here to rot.”

The one-armed man walked at the head of the procession, limping heavily. His name, he said, was Adrack Humble, and he had a rock wife and three salt wives back on Great Wyk. “Three of the four had big bellies when we sailed,” he boasted, “and Humbles run to twins. First thing I’ll need to do when I get back is count up my new sons. Might be I’ll even name one after you, m’lord.”

Aye, name him Reek, he thought, and when he’s bad you can cut his toes off and give him rats to eat. He turned his head and spat, and wondered if Ralf Kenning hadn’t been the lucky one.

“All they want is to go home, my lord.” And so does Theon, but he has no home to go back to.

Now, of course, Adrack Humble’s dream of counting up his sons is hardly a utopian vision--he kidnapped and enslaved most of their mothers. But the world to which he belongs is the world to which Theon wanted to belong, believing in it so badly he put his life on the line for it...and it failed him, just as it always ultimately fails your average [H]umble man of the Iron Islands. As such, Reek now thinks that the man who rotted without getting his hopes up was the lucky one. This is how he talked when the Young Wolf’s army marched south...

"But such a battle!" said Theon Greyjoy eagerly. "My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell. We've taken close to a hundred knights captive, and a dozen lords bannermen. Lord Westerling, Lord Banefort, Ser Garth Greenfield, Lord Estren, Ser Tytos Brax, Mallor the Dornishman … and three Lannisters besides Jaime, Lord Tywin's own nephews, two of his sister's sons and one of his dead brother's…"    

Theon Greyjoy was seated on a bench in Riverrun's Great Hall, enjoying a horn of ale and regaling her father's garrison with an account of the slaughter in the Whispering Wood. "Some tried to flee, but we'd pinched the valley shut at both ends, and we rode out of the darkness with sword and lance. The Lannisters must have thought the Others themselves were on them when that wolf of Robb's got in among them. I saw him tear one man's arm from his shoulder, and their horses went mad at the scent of him. I couldn't tell you how many men were thrown—"    

...but his story is always interrupted, his comrades died at dinner, and now he dreams only of blood. We rode to war with songs on our lips, but by the time the last notes faded and left us alone with the silence, we were utterly transformed. When Theon eagerly embraces his wine and his half-chicken and his collar, trusting them to silence the screams, all I can think of is this:

“And the man breaks.

“He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them...but he should pity them as well.”

Two chapters prior to Reek II, half a world away, the Shy Maid sailed through another mournful ruin, and when Tyrion stared into the Sorrows, they stared back.

The grey moss grew thickly here, covering the fallen stones in great mounds and bearding all the towers. Black vines crept in and out of windows, through doors and over archways, up the sides of high stone walls. The fog concealed three-quarters of the palace, but what they glimpsed was more than enough for Tyrion to know that this island fastness had been ten times the size of the Red Keep once and a hundred times more beautiful. He knew where he was. “The Palace of Love,” he said softly.

“That was the Rhoynar name,” said Haldon Halfmaester, “but for a thousand years this has been the Palace of Sorrow.”

The ruin was sad enough, but knowing what it had been made it even sadder. There was laughter here once, Tyrion thought. There were gardens bright with flowers and fountains sparkling golden in the sun. These steps once rang to the sound of lovers’ footsteps, and beneath that broken dome marriages beyond count were sealed with a kiss. His thoughts turned to Tysha, who had so briefly been his lady wife. It was Jaime, he thought, despairing. He was my own blood, my big strong brother. When I was small he brought me toys, barrel hoops and blocks and a carved wooden lion. He gave me my first pony and taught me how to ride him. When he said that he had bought you for me, I never doubted him. Why would I? He was Jaime, and you were just some girl who’d played a part. I had feared it from the start, from the moment you first smiled at me and let me touch your hand. My own father could not love me. Why would you if not for gold?

Through the long grey fingers of the fog, he heard again the deep shuddering thrum of a bowstring snapping taut, the grunt Lord Tywin made as the quarrel took him beneath the belly, the slap of cheeks on stone as he sat back down to die.

And therein lies a theme that runs through ASOIAF but for me finds its richest expressions in A Dance with Dragons: you can’t go home again.

Quentyn did not want to die at all. I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again.

Home is haunted, by the love you lost and the family you failed.

The door to the roof of the tower was stuck so fast that it was plain no one had opened it in years. He had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. But when Jon Connington stepped out onto the high battlements, the view was just as intoxicating as he remembered: the crag with its wind-carved rocks and jagged spires, the sea below growling and worrying at the foot of the castle like some restless beast, endless leagues of sky and cloud, the wood with its autumnal colors. “Your father’s lands are beautiful,” Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he’d been had replied, “One day they will all be mine.” As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.

Griffin’s Roost had been his, eventually, if only for a few short years. From here, Jon Connington had ruled broad lands extending many leagues to the west, north, and south, just as his father and his father’s father had before him. But his father and his father’s father had never lost their lands. He had.

Home is a border wall, a chain digging and twisting.

“Do you have brothers?” Asha asked her keeper.

“Sisters,” Alysane Mormont replied, gruff as ever. “Five, we were. All girls. Lyanna is back on Bear Island. Lyra and Jory are with our mother. Dacey was murdered.”

“The Red Wedding.”

“Aye.” Alysane stared at Asha for a moment. “I have a son. He’s only two. My daughter’s nine.”

“You started young.”

“Too young. But better that than wait too late.”

A stab at me, Asha thought, but let it be. “You are wed.”

“No. My children were fathered by a bear.” Alysane smiled. Her teeth were crooked, but there was something ingratiating about that smile. “Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows.”

Asha smiled back. “Mormont women are all fighters too.”

The other woman’s smile faded. “What we are is what you made us. On Bear Island every child learns to fear krakens rising from the sea.”

The Old Way. Asha turned away, chains clinking faintly.

Home is leagues and years away, and yet so close you can almost touch it.

Bran closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. Into the roots, he thought. Into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he could see the cavern in its black mantle, could hear the river rushing by below.

Then all at once he was back home again.

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man’s gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard’s lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth.

“Winterfell,” Bran whispered.

“I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it.”

You have no home. You never will.

Water splashed against the soles of her feet. She was walking in the stream. How long had she been doing that? The soft brown mud felt good between her toes and helped to soothe her blisters. In the stream or out of it, I must keep walking. Water flows downhill. The stream will take me to the river, and the river will take me home.

Except it wouldn’t, not truly.

You’ll give up everything just to get home, please, please...

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

...but it’s gone.

“I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have …” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. What do I have? A life to live? Work to do? Children to raise, lands to rule, a woman to love?

Home is a time, not a place, and there were so few times that Theon was at home. One of them was here, not so long ago, though it feels like it was. For a brief shining second as the banners caught the breeze, with roaring Umbers and fierce Karstarks, with a powerful army around him, with his brother in all but blood marching to avenge his (their?) father, he knew who he was.

And now, he can’t even remember his name.

How could who I was mean anything if it can be taken away from me like this? I was a Greyjoy among Starks, and then a Stark among Greyjoys; I was Theon and had to become Reek, I am Reek and have to become Theon. Forgive me, he calls through time to the smiling man he used to know, I was not strong enough. But Theon can’t hear Reek and never will.

...and yet.

A light rain had begun to piss down out of the slate-grey sky by the time Lord Ramsay’s camp appeared in front of them. A sentry watched them pass in silence. The air was full of drifting smoke from the cookfires drowning in the rain. A column of riders came wheeling up behind them, led by a lordling with a horsehead on his shield. One of Lord Ryswell’s sons, Reek knew. Roger, or maybe Rickard. He could not tell the two of them apart. “Is this all of them?” the rider asked from atop a chestnut stallion.

“All who weren’t dead, my lord.”

“I thought there would be more. We came at them three times, and three times they threw us back.”

We are Ironborn, he thought, with a sudden flash of pride, and for half a heartbeat he was a prince again, Lord Balon’s son, the blood of Pyke.

We are Ironborn. We are Ironborn. The point isn’t that being Ironborn is, in itself, some great moral progression for Theon. The point is that he just thought of himself as one of them, as Theon, in spite of Ramsay arranging everything that happens in Reek II to convince him that he is not. He has, just for a second, found himself.

This spark grows in strength when Roose Bolton and his army arrives to escort his bastard’s bride home. As I said last time, the identity shell-games extend beyond Theon himself; his arc in ADWD only works as well as it does because it resonates with what’s happening in the plot. The North went south united, but returns divided. Roose doesn’t exactly have “a peaceful land, a quiet people” on his hands, and bringing the hated Freys north will only further provoke Stark loyalists (as we’ll see in later chapters). Moreover, his army had to pass through the Neck, controlled by one of said Stark loyalists, Howland Reed. As such, it’s not safe these days to be Roose Bolton...so he outsourced the job.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek followed with the other dogs at Lord Ramsay’s heels when his lordship strode forth to greet his father. When the rider in the dark armor removed his helm, however, the face beneath was not one that Reek knew. Ramsay’s smile curdled at the sight, and anger flashed across his face. “What is this, some mockery?”

“Just caution,” whispered Roose Bolton, as he emerged from behind the curtains of the enclosed wagon.

This is a terrific way to reintroduce a villain. We haven’t seen Roose since he shed all pretense and revealed himself, a snake with new skin, at the Red Wedding. What could be more fitting than for him to wrong-foot us along with Ramsay upon re-entry? We lean forward to see him, only to hear his soft voice behind us...

Reek pretending to be Theon paved the way for the man pretending to be Roose and the girl pretending to be Arya. It’s a mockery, a mummer’s farce, a hall of mirrors. By weaving the central question of Theon’s story--who am I?--into the characters and plot points surrounding him, GRRM elevates that story. It’s the classic existentialist quest: the eternal hunt of the elusive Real. The question of whether Theon will remember his name fits like a puzzle piece with the question of whether the North will remember its name. And the North remembers.

But Theon, try as he might, is not a Stark...and neither is Ramsay’s bride-to-be.

(image by Elia Fernandez)

Jeyne Poole is not Arya Stark, and everyone knows it. Her presence is a marker of Bolton success: the key to Winterfell, a gift from their Lannister patrons, a declaration that the old has been humbled before and folded into the new. Yet more than anything else, it is the lack of anyone willing to call the Dreadfort men on their fraud that points to their rising fortunes at this moment. This is precisely why Davos’ defiant stand against the Freys in the Merman’s Court (in the chapter immediately prior to this one, worth noting?) hits home so hard. The man who stuck his neck out for the truth will not suffer these noxious lies about what happened to the Northerners who went south, and it’s all the more admirable because he (seemingly) stands alone.

And after a chapter of his identity being used against him, rewarded with a collar for handing his people over to a butcher, telling himself again and again that he is Reek, not Theon but Reek...our POV finally drops the disguise.

The girl was slim, and taller than he remembered, but that was only to be expected. Girls grow fast at that age. Her dress was grey wool bordered with white satin; over it she wore an ermine cloak clasped with a silver wolf’s head. Dark brown hair fell halfway down her back. And her eyes…

That is not Lord Eddard’s daughter.

Arya had her father’s eyes, the grey eyes of the Starks. A girl her age might let her hair grow long, add inches to her height, see her chest fill out, but she could not change the color of her eyes. That’s Sansa’s little friend, the steward’s girl. Jeyne, that was her name. Jeyne Poole.

“Lord Ramsay.” The girl dipped down before him. That was wrong as well. The real Arya Stark would have spat into his face. “I pray that I will make you a good wife and give you strong sons to follow after you.”

“That you will,” promised Ramsay, “and soon.”

It’s only internal. There’s nothing moral about it yet. He’s yet to relate her fortunes to his own. But by allowing Reek to play Theon, Ramsay has unknowingly reintroduced his captive’s pre-captivity identity into his bloodstream like an antivirus, and Jeyne’s arrival crystallizes what this means for our POV. If she’s not Arya, then he’s not Reek.

The past is present. The mud you pack into that hole in the ruined wall won’t keep your ghosts at bay. But (to borrow from Barristan) mud can nourish the seeds from which you will grow, your past the fertilizer for your rebirth.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell's chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.    

[crowkingwrites]

Bang Bang! (Ch.19)

Pairing: Ramsay Bolton x Reader

Summary:  The Red Wedding happened a week ago. Your boss, Petyr, insists on celebrating the men who “won” this victory, the Red Kings, an assassination group run by the sour-looking Roose Bolton. You, one of Petyr’s favorites, is tasked to find out more about these Red Kings. Who are they? Who are their clients? Who is next?You’re very good at what you do until you meet him. What do you do? Girls like you can’t fall in love. Does the Pretty Bird fly away with him? Or does she ruin the Bloody Bastard and everything he has?

Words: 3144

Author’s Notes: This was originally two chapters, but i’ve combined them into one. There is still going to be 25 chapters. i will be doing something different as a “bonus” chapter. [I’m also super stoked to share this one with you guys WOW i can’t wait for you to read it!!!!]

Read on Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11108982/chapters/29622417

Charlotte was a goddamn great friend to you. She didn’t ask. She only took action. It seemed like only five minutes and she was there with fast food, hugs, and lots of water. She tucked you into your bed and surrounded you with the fast food. You sipped on the large soda and slowly ate what she gave you.

You debated on telling her everything. You wanted to spill the beans to her, but what if she told on you? It wasn’t uncommon. Rape was not good for business. Then again, would she have done all of this for you if she wanted to sabotage you? Charlotte sat away from you in silence. She never said anything or did anything. She just waited.

You hard a light-hearted tone, and Charlotte picked up her cell.

“It’s Petyr,” she said. “He’s holding a meeting in a couple of hours.” You sighed from exhaustion.

You forgot about Petyr. After what happened last night, you knew you trust him anymore. Your safety was clearly not his priority. It broke your heart, but you had to come to terms with it. If you told Petyr what brad had done, he could kick you out. Or worse, he could have you killed. You weren’t sure if Roose and Petyr still had an alliance, but you were sure Petyr had some kind of power.

But Ramsay wouldn’t let that happen. If Petyr made you a target, Ramsay would come and defend you. Right?

You weren’t sure of anything anymore. You did know one thing: Petyr Baelish was at that wedding reception last night without Lysa Arryn. Charlotte’s fingers snapped in front of your face. You turned to her and she frowned.

“I didn’t want to pry,” she began. “But, are you okay? Did something else happen last night?” You pulled your sweater tighter around you, hoping to God she didn’t see anything. Charlotte moved off your bed to throw away your garbage.

“I understand if you don’t want to tell me,” Charlotte began. “I’m not going to force anything, but you can trust me. I want you to know that. Before we go see Petyr, you need to clean up yourself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Petyr’s been stricter with us lately. I believe he’s still up to something he isn’t telling us. I can only assume that this meeting is about last night.”

You stare at Charlotte blankly, trying to take in all of the info she just told you. Both of you made your way towards Petyr’s meeting place outside the Vale. It wasn’t your place to judge, but Petyr hid a lot of his business, personal life, and finances from Lysa. You saw how obsessed she was with him, but you and the other birds knew he could care less about her, if he cared at all.

Charlotte kept you in line. When your mind wandered off, she kept you focused. She put some warm English breakfast tea in your hands. The heat from the cup warmed you, and it kept you grounded.

You walked into an office space that looked rented out by Petyr. It definitely wasn’t his. The general décor had hotel feel to it. Bowls of fruit and vague abstract pictures had no real value just pleasing to the eye. You saw Olyvar among other favorites, but not Ros. Your stomach dropped.

You forgot about Ros. How could you forget about Ros? You lost her at the reception. What happened to her? You stared at the door. She would come in anytime now. There was nothing to worry about. Charlotte sat you down next to her, away from anyone else, including Olyvar.

“Y/N, are you alright? I heard you were there last night,” Olyvar greeted. He was dressed handsomely for 6am in the morning. Every hair was in place. You felt slightly jealous.

“Leave her be,” Charlotte glared. “She’s seen shit.” You narrowed your eyes. Charlotte’s never snapped at anyone like that. She’s endearing. That was her thing. Every favorite bird had one driving selling factor. Yours was your charm and attention-giving. You made your clients feel needed and cared for. You made them feel like they were the only person to ever exist.

Charlotte was kind and endearing. The innocent little lamb that sin could ruin. She had been nothing but nice to everyone when she became a favorite. To see her snap like that, to be so protective of you, was different.

Petyr walked into the room with Sansa Stark following behind him. She had her long, red hair in a ponytail. She wore a similar outfit to you. A sweater with what seemed like comfortable pants. She had done her makeup well, but you knew exhausted eyes when you saw them. You watched her sit down next to Petyr. Both of you caught each other’s eyes.

“Good morning everyone,” Petyr said, sipping his coffee. “I appreciate everyone coming out to on this early morning. The reason why I called for this meeting is to talk about what happened last night. I want to clarify things and to answer as many questions as I can.”

Ros still wasn’t here. Her absence bother you like an itch in a place you couldn’t reach. Where was she? Why didn’t anyone seem concerned?

“First, I think we should talk about Ros,” Petyr swallowed hard. You felt your heart beat faster. Petyr told another gulp of his coffee. He exhaled his breath and started to speak again. “When I contacted all of you, the police informed me that they found her.”

Olyvar bit his lip. “And?”

Petyr looked to his precious birds, including you. He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

“No,” Olyvar gasped. “No, come on, Petyr. Petyr! No!” Other favorite birds followed in their reactions. You were lost. What happened?

“I’m so sorry,” Petyr apologized. He looked solemn, his eyes scanned the room for reactions. Studying each one until he got all the information he needed. He stopped to look at you. He studied you for quite some time. Your eyes were open, but you weren’t all there. He knew that.

“What did the police say?” Charlotte asked, bring the attention to herself.

“Her body was in the dumpster right outside the reception,” Petyr said. “She barely had any family, but she did have her mother. I’ve contacted her to tell her what happened. Ros’ body will be sent home by her mother’s wishes.”

A mixture of sadness and confusion swept the room. You just spoke to her. You looked to Olyvar who had tears come down on his face. They were the best of friends. You watched him to try to keep himself as professional as possible. To lose your best friend suddenly was a painful thing. A part of your soul is ripped from you forever and it’s lost. Olyvar looked as if he lost half of his own.

You looked at Charlotte who remained stone cold. She did not cry. No tears even dared to form in her tear ducts. Instead she kept her eyes on Petyr. Her hand kept a tight grip on her phone. Her phone screen lit up to show Domeric Bolton’s face and a clock that recorded time as if she was on a phone call with him.

“I know this is sad news,” Petyr kept going. “But we must move on. What happened last night to Ros and Joffery was no accident.” That grabbed your attention like nothing else.

“What does that mean?” you asked. Your voice sounded hoarse.

“Joffery’s death was a deal I had made with the Tyrells,” Petyr said it flat out. Most of the birds were left dumbfounded. You, however, were not surprised. You felt disgusted, but also very happy that Petyr had a hand in ending Joffery’s reign of terror. Charlotte kept unfazed as well.

Petyr looked to Sansa continued. “Joffery needed to die. I think we all knew that. Olenna Tyrell and I hired assassins to kill Joffery once and for all. This means big changes for all of you. Sansa is in danger. Cersei Lannister believes that she and Tyrion had planned this out for themselves. This is not true. I want you all to know that. Sansa had nothing to do with this.” You looked to Sansa who remained quiet. She barely touched her coffee in front of her. You felt awful for her. After the deaths of everyone around her, you could only imagine the loneliness she felt.

“From this point forward, we will be hiding her with us in the Vale. Cersei will be on the witch hunt for her.”

“So we’re going to hide her from the police?” Charlotte instigated. Petyr narrowed his eyes at her.

“We’re protecting her,” Petyr confirmed.

“And what of Ros? Weren’t you supposed to protect her too? What about us?” Charlotte was pushing Petyr’s buttons. He kept his poker face and leaned forward.

“I am aware of the mistakes I am making, Charlotte. I am devastated over the loss of our Ros, and what happened between Ramsay and Y/N was my mistake. Ramsay was a monster,” Petyr said. Charlotte’s nostrils flared and she gripped her phone tighter. “Ros’ death was a murder. I had her meet with Joffery a few times. Someone outside my control knew this and took her out the same night.

“Someone knew about the discreet meetings between Joffery and Ros, and instead of exposing Joffery as a sex-corrupt politician, they killed Ros. They were targeting me.”

“They were targeting Ros!” Olyvar shouted. “Not everything is about you Petyr! You were supposed to be protecting her!”

“You need to calm down,” Petyr snapped at Olyvar. Olyvar slunk back into his chair. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. The tension in the room grew by the second. You glanced down to see Charlotte still had the phone call going.

“You will all still see your regular clients. If the police contact you, you will answer their questions, but lie about Sansa’s whereabouts. Y/N, you were not there, understand?” Petyr looked directly at you. You looked to Sansa and nodded at her. She nodded back. You would not do this for Petyr. You would do this for her.

Petyr continued to go on about how everyone will now “be-on-their-toes”, but you couldn’t listen anymore. How could you? You almost died because of Petyr’s mistakes, and now Ros was actually dead. How could anyone trust him? How could Sansa trust him?

There was no way you could tell him about last night now. Not when his new priority was protecting Sansa. You didn’t care why anymore. You didn’t want to work for this man anymore. It wasn’t like you could get up and quit. Petyr provided everything for his favorite birds. Your room at the Vale, food, drinks, glamour, clothes, credit cards, cell phone, income, and connections.

Your life was tied to Petyr’s hands. Charlotte grabbed you again and began to guide you out of the meeting room. “The meeting’s finished?”

“The meeting’s been finished,” Charlotte frowned at you. “You’re really out of it, sweetie. We should grab you some breakfast or something.” Sansa walked towards both of you, and Charlotte put her cell phone away quickly.

“Y/N, I wanted to talk to you,” she side-eyed Charlotte.

“It’s alright. Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her. I trust her,” you said. Charlotte smiled sincerely at you. Sansa nodded.

“I only wanted to express my condolences for your loss,” she began. “I understand this is hard time for you.”

“You have experienced more loss recently than anyone here. You shouldn’t be saying sorry to me,” you knitted your eyebrows together. Sansa shook her head.

“Loss is loss. Pain is pain. It shouldn’t matter if someone experiences more of sorrow than you. Tragedy is not a race or a competition. What matters more is that we support one another, now more than ever,” Sansa looked to Charlotte for that last sentence. “I trust your friend will take care of you, but if you ever need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you,” you said. Sansa smiled and made her leave. Charlotte took your hand.

“You said you trust me?” you weren’t sure if Charlotte just asked you a question or saying a fact, but you nodded your head anyways. She guided you out of the building to a car that didn’t belong to Petyr. It was a sleek little thing that went fast. Charlotte tucked you into the passenger side of the car.

She began driving which confused you more than anything. Whenever you needed to go anywhere, Petyr had drivers that could take you there. Petyr didn’t allow any of his birds drive after he had to pay off several DUIs and some ran from him. None of the birds needed to drive anywhere.

“Is this your car?” you asked her.

“Yes,” she smiled. “This is Miranda. Isn’t she lovely? She’s vicious, you know? She bites hard.” You looked around the car. There was barely any possessions in it.

“And Petyr let you have this? Where did this even come from? We didn’t come here in this car.”

“Petyr doesn’t know about Miranda, but you do meaning I trust you, ok? Just trust me?” You recalled movies where a character is told by another character to just blindly trust them. You recall their awkward faces and every instinct telling them to not trust the character, but they go for it anyways. You recalled those parts in the movies and you always rolled your eyes, but you nodded. Despite your gut telling you no, you fucking went for it.

Charlotte drove her car onto the highway where she gunned it. She sped past and weaved in and out of cars on the road. You didn’t want to tell her how to drive, but you were very sure you were going to die before you reached your destination.

“Where are we going? This seems to be a long way for breakfast,” you noted.

“It is a long way for breakfast, isn’t it?” Charlotte giggled. She was still gunning it at 85mph. You had no idea why no police were chasing after her. Where was the police? Oh right. Joffery’s murder. There was bound to be a bunch of activity across the nation. Your mind went to Ros. He wild, red hair. Her cocky smile and doe eyes.

“Hey you, don’t wander off on me,” Charlotte snapped your attention back to reality. “We’re almost there anyways.”

Your phone started to ring. You turned it over to see Brad’s face flash across the screen. Your stomach twisted and turned. Your breath fell short. You had to answer. You had to.

“Don’t answer,” Charlotte told you.

“But—

“He was your date last night. He’s one of your clients right?” Charlotte looked at your ringing phone. “Something happened between the two of you. Your face makes it so obvious.” You touched your face and looked back to your phone.

“Don’t answer it,” Charlotte told you again. You let the phone ring and go to voicemail.

“He’s going to be so mad,” you muttered in panic. Your hands started to shake. Fingers twitched and you felt out of control of your body. Charlotte grabbed your hand and kept it steady.

“Tell me the color of that car right there,” she told you. You looked outside to see a blue van with a stick figure family on the back window.

“Blue.”

“Read the first word on that sign right there.” You looked to the highway sign.

“North.”

“What do you call that over there?”

“Wall.”

“Take a breath and say those words again,” Charlotte instructed you. You inhaled the air and exhaled.

“Blue. North. Wall,” you said. “Blue. North. Wall.” You felt calmer all of a sudden.

“It’s a grounding technique, if you were wondering,” Charlotte caressed your hand. “I know you didn’t want to talk about it earlier, but what happened last night?” You swallowed hard.

“I-I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet,” you admitted to her. Charlotte nodded.

“I understand,” she said as she pulled out of the highway and into a narrow road. It wasn’t paved. The tires caught pieces of gravel inside its grooves. You looked around to see dirty and old warehouses lining the streets. The exterior of these buildings were disgusting. You saw nothing but vandalism, dirt, and ruin on each of these giants.

“You said we were going to—

“We’re close. I told you to trust me. Please trust me for a while longer, pretty bird. I promise,” Charlotte pressed a button in her car and a garage door opened. She parked her car, and let you out. She brushed off your shoulders and nodded for you to come along.

As soon as she opened the door, your mouth almost dropped to the ground. The outside of this warehouse had grime and dirt smeared all over it with broken windows, but inside was a dream. Everything had been redone. The walls and hardwood floors were spotless. High ceilings showed the exposed steel beams and large windows brought in light and warmth to the common areas.

It was an open concept. In the middle of the room was the living area where plush couches and sectionals were arranged to face each other. Throw blankets and pillows decorated them. To the left was bookshelves that not only had books but trinkets from around the world. You spotted a beautifully painted elephant on the third shelf.

You sniffed the air to smell eggs, bacon, and pancakes. You heard the sizzle on the grill, and looked to your right.

“Domeric?” you said aloud. Charlotte walked over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Domeric Bolton saw you and nearly jumped back ten feet.

“Y/N?” Dom quickly looked at Charlotte. “Char, what is she—

“We’re placing her under our protection, ok?” she insisted.

“What? You can’t do that, Char. Are you crazy? Does she even know?”

“Know what? I’m really confused. Char told me we were getting breakfast,” you said.

“And you are,” Charlotte pulled up a chair. “Dom, give her pancakes.” “Out of all the girls in the world, you bring her into our home and—

“Domeric Eugene Bolton, you give Y/N some fucking pancakes right now,” Charlotte slammed her hands down on the counter. Domeric quietly put pancakes on a plate and served them to you.

“Did he just say our home?” you asked her. “Charlotte, what’s going on?” Domeric side-eyed Charlotte for a moment and went back to making breakfast.

“I’m not really one of Petyr’s birds. I never was. I was a plant. A spy,” Charlotte said to you. “I am a Red King, and I’ve been working against Petyr Baelish and you birds for years.”

[megsironthrone]

Wildlings Love Too

Anonymous asked: I think an hour is up haha! My request is a Tormund x female stark reader where they meet when she is reunited with Jon (instead of Sansa who is still in King’s Landing) & they start to like/love each other. She is quite a warrior which was a big plus for Tormund. She goes to battle with the army, and when Rickon is killed, she is absolutely distraught (sobbing & all) and Tormund tries to comfort her the best he can in the current situation & orders some of the wildings to take her back to camp

This is my first time writing Tormund so please please be kind. I do not own Jon, Brienne or Tormund. They belong to George R.R Martin. Oh and SPOILERS if you haven’t seen season 6!!

Warnings: Violence, fluff, Season 6 SPOILERS!

Pairings/Characters: Tormund Giantsbane x fem!Stark reader; mentions of Jon and Brienne.

You held your breath as the gates of Castle Black swung open. You rode in just in front of Brienne and Podrick. Your eyes scanned the crowd of people until they landed on the one person you hoped most to see. “Jon,” you whispered softly. You watched his face change from surprise to a wide smile. You dismounted your horse and ran over to your brother. “Jon!” you cried, wrapping your arms around him. “Y/N. I was worried about you. Is Sansa not with you?” he asked, pulling away from the hug to look at your solemn expression. “She refused to leave King’s Landing.”

              Jon sighed but smiled as he pulled you to him yet again. “I’ve missed you, Jon.” You pulled away again when Brienne cleared her throat. You scoffed playfully. “Yes, Brienne. I know. I swear you are worse than Old Nan sometimes,” you quipped. Jon looked you over and laughed, “If Old Nan could see you now, she’d probably throw a fit seeing how you’re dressed.” You joined his laughter. It was true.

              You were wearing trousers and a tunic. You wore boots and a sword strapped to your hip. Since leaving Winterfell, you had trained with a blade and were actually very skilled now. You could take care of yourself when needed and even Brienne was impressed. “Come on. Let’s get you warmed up and get something to eat,” Jon said, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close. Brienne and Podrick followed close behind as well as a tall red haired man. A wildling.

              In a hushed conversation, Jon explained that his name was Tormund and he lead the wildling tribe that helped Jon fight the White Walkers. You were instantly intrigued by the man. He sat across from you while you ate and you caught him staring at you several times. It would have been unnerving, but you had to admit that you were staring sometimes too. At one point, Brienne leaned in to whisper, “The wildling is staring again, my lady. Perhaps we should go.” You chuckled at her nervousness, but nodded all the same. You wanted to get a bit of training in anyway.

              As reluctant as Brienne was about being at Castle Black, she would never turn down a chance to train. She followed you to the training yard and the two of you began an intense workout, unaware of the eyes that were watching you. Jon had noticed Tormund’s lingering gazes at you and approached the wildling. Tormund wouldn’t even pretend to stop staring. “She will fight with us,” Jon declared as he watched you with Tormund.

              “The blonde? A warrior no doubt, but she does not fight as the free folk,“ Tormund stated as if it were obvious. Jon chuckled and shook his head before he replied, "No. Y/N. She’s stubborn and will refuse to stay away from the battle.” Tormund returned his gaze to your form. You were fighting, yes, but it seemed as though you were dancing. Every move was graceful and even somewhat delicate, but there was still a ferocity to your attacks that Tormund admired.

*time skip to the battle*

              Jon had been right. There was no way you were going to stay away from the battle. So, when Jon had his small army of Northern Houses and Wildlings prepared to charge, you were on the front lines, between Tormund and Ser Davos. You were gripping the reins tightly as Ramsay Bolton moved forward. You could barely make out a figure standing next to him. Jon glanced back at you and from the look on his face, you knew it was Rickon.

              Tormund watched as you bit your lip. He could sense your nervousness. The small figure of your youngest brother was running forward as Jon raced to him on his horse. You stifled a scream as an arrow sank into Rickon’s flesh. He was stumbling along with the characteristic Stark determination when the second arrow pierced his back. This time, you did scream. Jon was no longer on his horse. You tried to suppress your sobs to no avail. Your baby brother was dead.

              As your emotions overwhelmed you, you felt yourself sliding from your saddle. You never hit the ground as Tormund caught you. “Yer alright,” he whispered. He wasn’t used to being a comforting presence. The free folk didn’t often cry when they lost loved ones. It was simply the way of the world. Tormund did recognize that you were in no shape to fight. He turned to a couple of his men and ordered them to escort you back to camp. Before they took you away, you turned to the wildling. “B-be safe.” Tormund fought a smile. He now had a new reason to fight. He would fight for you and help retake Winterfell for your family.

*another time skip (sorry)*

              The battle was won and Winterfell was retaken. It was bittersweet for you as you rode into Winterfell. Yes, you had your family’s home again, but Rickon was dead. You quickly dismounted and ran to Jon who embraced you. “Thank the gods, you’re alive! Forgive my weakness, Jon,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss to your hair and replied, “There is nothing to forgive, Y/N.” You let him go and gazed around the courtyard.

              The first thing you saw was Tormund. Without thinking, you rushed over to him and threw your arms around him, nearly knocking him down. You quickly realized what you were doing and let go. “Forgive me,” you started, but you were cut off when he pulled you to him again. You melted into the warm embrace. You looked up at him as the snow began to fall. “Winter,” you whispered, “It has finally come.”

              "And with it, the White Walkers,“ Tormund said, causing you to shudder and he pulled you even closer. "What is this, Tormund?” you asked him as he touched his forehead to yours. Neither of you seemed to care that the courtyard was full of people or that Tormund himself was covered in blood, dirt and now snow. In that moment, there were only the two of you. “I don’ t know, but I think it’s what you in the south call, what’s that word? Love?” You giggled. Winter was surely going to bring challenges but you could face them, with Tormund. You would fight with him and die beside him if need be.

@brewsthespirit-blog @gameofwinters @line-viper @littlemisscaptainfandom @silverwingedfox @etherealpotter

[weirwoodsea]

Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

For @randomlut

Prompt: Theon meeting Jon again in season 7 (prediction)

AO3 LINK

Theon

He felt Jon’s presence before he saw him, like a punch to the heart. As Theon pulled the boat ashore with Harrag and his sister’s men, his mind flooded with turmoil and he swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to throw himself at Jon’s feet and offer his head as just punishment for his crimes. He began to tremble, his crippling guilt clashing strongly with his need to rescue his sister.

Yara…. The thought of Yara had kept him from giving himself up to Jon when he left Sansa with Brienne and Podrick. And now it seemed she was delaying his death a second time.

Theon’s tormented eyes focused on the stoic form of the bastard standing grim and unmoving further up the beach. Even from this distance he could see how much Jon had changed from the sullen, summer child he had been. Jon had always been insufferably moody, but there had been a kindness behind his frowns, whereas Theon’s japes and smiles had been cruel, twisted things. He stood before Jon now, a proven traitor and coward. A broken man.

A heavy wave of shame washed over him, but he couldn’t lower his gaze. He wouldn’t lower his head, not even when Jon began a slow walk toward him. He couldn’t shame Yara and her men like that. He’d betrayed everyone he’d ever loved but, he could not betray her now.

“Jon.” He paused. He had to choose his words carefully. “Your Grace,” he tried to recapture the boldness of his voice at the Kingsmoot but he could hear his voice faltering and it felt like he was being choked. “There is much to say… but we are here in urgent need to speak with Queen Daenerys.”

“There is nothing to say, Greyjoy” Jon interupted, his eyes like dark flames. “If it were not for Sansa you would be dead right now.”

I should be dead anyway. One good deed hardly wipes away the bad. Theon managed to keep his eyes fixed on Jon, even as he clenched his mangled hands at his side. “I know we have unfinished business, Your Grace, and I give you my word that once we have rescued Yara, I will return to your justice. And then you may do with me what you see fit.” It was like wading through mud, trying to negotiate the humble, sorrowful words with the stance of an Ironborn leader. Especially when leading was the furthest thing from what he felt capable of doing.

“And what good would your word be? Would that be the same word you gave Robb before you betrayed him?” His words stung like salt, even if there was truth in it. Especially because there was truth in it. This was the worst possible timing. Every moment Yara spent in the clutches of his Uncle Euron was a moment closer to her death or worse. Theon knew well that death was not the worst thing that could happen. He had spoken truthfully to Jon, it didn’t matter whether he was believed or not. He needed to meet with Daenerys now. He took a few steps forward, his gait still slightly unsure due to the missing toes. And in a moment Jon was on him.

His strong hands were clutching him in a violent frenzy as he went limp under Jon’s fierce grasp. He didn’t fight it. Jon was shouting something at him but there was a pounding pressure in his head and his ears were buzzing. He heard bits and pieces, as if from very far away or as if his head was being held underwater and he was drowning.

It wasn’t me, it was the Turncloak. He was a bad man, he betrayed his brother, murdered children…There was a pause in the shouting that allowed Theon to come back to himself and suddenly Jon’s scorching eyes were boring into his again as if he were expecting him to say something.

He raised his mournful eyes to Jon’s. “Please,” he managed to whisper. “My sister.”

Jon’s grip loosened a bit and his eyes grew wide. “What of my brother? What of Robb?” There was no more anger anymore, just quiet, horrible grief. “Where were you when he died?”

Where was I? Where was I?

“Winterfell,” Theon admitted with a gasp and bent his head. “I should have been with him.” He raised his haunted eyes to Jon’s once more. “I should have died with him.” Jon suddenly released his grip, turned, and stormed up the beach.

Jon

“I’m proud of you for the way you’ve been treating Theon,” Sansa had said, looking every inch like Lady Catelyn, the only difference being the kindness in her eyes when she looked at him. The kindness he had craved all of his life.

He didn’t deserve her praise. He had wanted to kill him desperately, when he had first seen him on the beach in Dragonstone and even now that he was back here in Winterfell, after his failed attempt to rescue his sister, to offer Ironborn men to go with him beyond the Wall. Jon would accept his men. He would be a fool not to. But he could never bring himself to forgive him, even if Sansa already had.

How could he forgive Theon? It would be forgiving the betrayal of Robb. It would be forgiving the killing of children. It would be forgiving abandoning Robb to die alone. It would be forgiving the failure to die by his side. It would be forgiving all of the things he could not forgive himself for.

He knew it the moment he clutched him on the beach and heard him say those words, I should have died with him… The same reproachful words that were so often lurking in the crevices of his own mind. The same words he had repeated to himself time and time again. Facing Theon had shown him that no matter how many people thought well of him, he was nothing but a craven. Jon could face a million white walkers but he couldn’t face the mirrored image of his own black deeds in Theon’s haunted face.

He shivered as he walked the grounds of Winterfell in the dark. It was almost dawn but Jon had been unable to sleep. He never truly slept well to begin with but now with the coming mission to the north and the arrival of Theon, sleep had become impossible, even with the comforting presence of Ghost curled up next to him.

He thought to seek some solace in the Godswood. He’d been going there more and more often- whenever he could in fact. He felt close to his family there. He felt close to Bran. He couldn’t explain it but sometimes he felt as if it were Bran’s eyes staring out at him from carved face of the Heart Tree. He noticed that Sansa also seemed to be coming to the Godswood more often, even though she had always aligned herself with Lady Catelyn’s Faith of the Seven.

Dawn was just beginning to creep through the white arms of the trees and Jon felt relief wash over him as he entered the Godswood- until he saw Theon there, crouched by The Heart Tree as if he were waiting for him. Theon looked up at him with his tormented eyes and rose with shaky determination. As he walked toward him, Jon realized that he looked even worse than he had seen him on the beach at Dragonstone. His face was haggard, his eyes staring right through him. He stopped in front of Jon, released a ragged breath, and went down on his knees in front of him, exposing his neck.

It took Jon a moment before he realized what Theon was doing, and when he put it together, he did not feel vindicated. He felt ill and… guilty somehow. He knelt down and slipped his gloved hands over Theon’s shoulders. “What are you doing out here, Theon?” He asked gently.

At the sound of his name, Theon’s head shot up with a look Jon couldn’t quite describe and the ghost of a smile appeared at his lips. “Yes… Yes, let me die now. Please. Please, Jon. I’m ready to die for my crimes.”

So what Theon had said on the beach had been true. He was giving himself up to him. “Theon, I can’t kill you. I couldn’t take your head now, even if…” even if I wanted to were the words he’d almost said. He was shocked to realize that the unsaid words were true. As he looked at this tormented man kneeling before him, the last thing he felt was vengeance. Theon flinched under his strong grip as Jon pulled him to standing. Jon then crossed behind Theon and moved closer to the tree. He searched for Bran’s face but all he saw were streams of red sap looking like blood spilling onto white snow… like Ygritte’s blood… like his own… the carved face mirroring the horror on Olly’s face as his neck snapped in the noose. Jon shuddered and looked away. Behind him, he heard Theon’s thin voice. “But I deserve to die Jon.”

“Well, it seems people don’t get what they deserve in this life,” Jon said a bit more harshly then he meant. “Do you think Father deserved to die or Robb or your sister? Or Rickon or Bran?” He saw Theon cringe as he spoke each name, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. But at the mention of Bran, Theon began to tremble and fixed those harrowing eyes on Jon again as he whispered, “Bran lives. He’s here.”

Jon felt a cold chill travel down his spine as the wind picked up and the Heart Tree began shaking it’s red leaves like bloody hands. “He’s here in the Godswood,” Theon continued, “He’s been speaking to me this morning… I asked him if he would let me die,” Jon opened his mouth to say something but no words came as the leaves continued shaking with more force now. Some of the leaves were encased in the ice from the recent storm and as they shook, the ice fell upon the frozen black pool sounding like shattering glass.

Jon turned to Theon, whose facial scars were now bright red against the whiteness of his skin and hair, making him resemble The Heart Tree more than ever as he stood with that unnerving disembodied stare of his. He was looking beyond Jon now- at something behind him. The Heart Tree. He watched in horror as Theon nodded slowly as if giving permission to someone or something. Then in an instant, his eyes went white and he crashed to the ground convulsing. Jon was on him in a moment gathering his frail form into his arms.

Theon

He was still in the Godswood but everything was still, quiet. As Theon blinked, his eyes focused on the the calm implacable face of Bran, standing tall before him. Standing. Theon scrambled to his feet, looking at Bran with reverence. There was nothing of the small, gentle boy there now, just as there was nothing left of the cocksure youth Theon had been.

Bran had grown taller than Theon, and in the middle of his forehead was a gleaming eye. It sent a shiver down Theon’s spine. He felt like that third eye could pierce through him like a knife, flaying away every despicable part of him and still finding him wanting. He needed to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but his mouth was dry and gaping, like when he screamed soundlessly in a nightmare.

“Where are we?” He managed to ask at last.

Bran smiled, almost sadly, and said, “In your mind… Thank you for letting me in, by the way. Are they always here?”

Theon followed Bran’s gaze to the two ragged boys, huddled together beside the Heart Tree. The two orphans he had murdered in place of Bran and Rickon. Yes, the two boys were always there. They were there when he bedded down at night and when he rose at dawn. They were there in the feverish space between awake and dreaming and in the screams and cries of war. They were there, relentlessly there, between the vastness of what was and what might have been. Theon nodded and whispered, “The farm boys. Always.”

Bran’s third eye flashed as he looked at Theon. “They had names,” he said with a bitter edge that clashed with his calm demeanor. “Jack and Billy and they were my friends. You must remember their names.” Theon felt pain more searing than the kiss of the flaying knife coiling around his heart at Bran’s words. His soul was rotting with the guilt of it. A wretched, twisted thing. 

Bran looked more like the young boy he use to be now as he walked slowly over to the boys and touched the older one softly on the shoulder. The boy did not react to his touch. “It’s my fault they are dead,” he said quietly. “If I hadn’t escaped…”

“Don’t.” Theon interrupted him harshly and shook his head vigorously. “Don’t do that. Don’t take my crimes on yourself. They are mine, not yours. My work.”

Bran turned his eyes on Theon, and for one awful moment he looked just like he did that day when he had asked him, Did you hate us the whole time?

No. I never did. I never hated any of you. I loved you. I loved you all so much. I still do. After everything I’ve done, I still do.

“I know,” Bran answered Theon’s thoughts. Theon looked up at him confused until he realized that Bran was in his head. He didn’t need to speak the words aloud. He knew his thoughts. Bran came very close to him now, it was almost as if they were sharing one body. “I know that you would take it all back if you could. And, you are not the only one here who is responsible for the deaths of innocents,” he said in a whisper as all of his eyes closed for a moment.

Theon looked at Bran surprised, but said nothing else. Bran fixed his eyes back on Theon again and Theon suddenly felt weightless, painless, as if he were floating in the salt waves of his childhood or flying through the cold northern air.

“Bran, why I am here? Am I to die? Am I to be allowed that mercy? Is it possible for me to die?” It didn’t seem as though it was possible for him to die.

“No, Theon,” Bran said, his voice thick with empathy. “I need you alive. I need your help, if you will agree to give it to me. Jon and I, we need your help in the war that is to come.”

Theon released his breath. How could anyone need his help? He wasn’t noble and strong like Robb. He wasn’t clever and brave like Yara. What possible use could he be to anyone? Why were they dead while he lived? Yara. His sweet sister. She had brought him back from the dead. She had given him a reason to live. She was the best of his family. The best of the Ironborn. How could it even be possible that she had fallen?

And now. And now, he feared that continuing to live in this hideous world without her would be the harshest punishment he could endure. He supposed he deserved no less than to be the last one standing, watching as all those he loved were taken from him. All the brave and valiant dying precisely because they were brave and valiant. He remembered Sansa’s words. In life, the monsters win. He was a monster but he didn’t want to win.

“Why me?” he asked, “How can I be useful in the war to come?”

“The first step is to go back and reclaim your crown from your Uncle Euron.”

Theon cringed to hear him say it. “Bran, I am not my sister. I am not fit to rule. You know that, you… you saw it.”

“I did. But you are not the same man you were then. Remember. I’ve seen all of it. All that you went through. And I need your help. You are the only one who I can… enter in this way- where it is not quite warging, not quite skin changing. Where we become like… one. You allow it willingly. And that is good because… I’m still learning and I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” Bran finished with a tremor in his voice.

Theon nodded, trying to offer comfort, while not completely understanding all that Bran was saying. “I know I can never make amends. I do not seek forgiveness. But I will help you in any way that I can.”

Bran suddenly wrapped his arms around Theon. It felt as though he were encased in feathers, dark and soft. “Don’t do it to repent,” Bran whispered, “No matter what you do or don’t do, the dead are dead, they are not coming back. All you can do now is accept who you are and accept who you are meant to be. What is dead is dead. But you are not. Time to fly.” 

There was the swoop of wind, the flutter of wings and then… nothing.

When Theon finally opened his eyes he found himself staring into Jon’s. “Jon… m’lord…. your… Your Grace… I’m sorry. Please…” He tried to scramble to his feet, but Jon kept him firmly in his arms.

“No… don’t move yet. Gods be good, Theon, had anyone told me yesterday how relieved I’d be to see you come through that alive, I wouldn’t have believed them.”

Theon stared up at Jon confused. “What… What changed?”

“I was talking to Bran right here in the Godswood… through you. The things he told me… But… he’s alive. My brother lives.” The grateful tears that filled Jon’s eyes broke Theon’s heart. “Come lean on me,” Jon said gruffly as he helped Theon rise to his feet. “There is much to say. There is much to plan.”

As Theon struggled to stand he looked at Jon questioningly, “So you will- you will accept my help? What help I can give? In spite of what I did? In spite of..." Theon took a breath. "In spite of what I did to Robb." It was still almost impossible to speak his name after all this time. Speaking Robb's name aloud made Theon feel as though he was shattering.

Jon stopped and looked at Theon mournfully. “Theon, I don’t know why Robb is dead and we live. But we do live. For better or worse, we are the ones left. I do not think he would have wanted us to be enemies. We owe it to Robb to join together without malice. I believe it is what he would have wanted. We owe it to the dead and the living to do whatever we can in this coming war. For centuries, before we warred each other, our family’s fought together against their common enemy. Despite their differences. Together. We need to do the same if we are going to survive. Because the enemy is real, it’s always been real.”

Theon closed the space between Jon and himself when he clasped his arm in his. “Will you accept the promise of an oathbreaker?” Theon asked, as he raised his searing eyes to Jon’s.

“I’m an oathbreaker too Theon, so I’d need to ask you the same,” Jon replied with a bitter smile. 

Theon nodded as his chest clenched with emotion. They spoke the words together. Two Kings, reluctant to rule. Two brothers bound together through tragedy and shared experience. Two boys who didn’t know why they had been chosen over those who were more worthy.

“My sword is yours in victory and defeat from this day until my last day.”

Theon felt his whole body tremble as he spoke the words, the oath he had broken to Robb. Jon began to take his arm away but Theon gripped it forcefully as tears spilled over his scarred face. “My life is yours,” he promised aggressively, “Now and Always.”

Jon nodded solemnly “Now and Always,” he promised back.

They walked back to Winterfell leaning on each other through the biting winter winds and great drifts of falling snow.