burnnouts

[burnnouts]

okay I think i'm going to change Padme's fc to Ana De Armas

[burnnouts]

I'd like to once again apologize for how long it takes me to do my drafts over here, but thank you to everyone for your patience ❤️

[burnnouts]

Yennefer stood with her arms crossed over her chest. Any other man might have taken her words as an insult, but Geralt heard them for what they really were: a declaration of deep affection, a desire the sorceress had never really figured out how to speak about honestly. Her body ached for him in a way she was not accustomed to. Yen was no blushing virgin, no stranger to a bedchamber, but even her usual lusts--varied and frequent as they were--could not be satisfied in quite the same way as they were when she was with Geralt. Years might come between them--sometimes a whole decade before she saw that scared, smirking face of his again--but when their paths crossed once more, she found pleasure (and dare she say it, love) in a way no other could provide.

So when she stared at him now, looking grumpy and cross and annoyed, it was the surest sign of her affection--no matter how much it might appear to be the opposite.

Maroon-painted lips broke into a small, self-satisfied smile as Geralt spoke of his own need for her. Once upon a time, this conversation might have seemed impossible, both too stubborn--and emotionally inept--to admit to these truths. But they had been playing this song and dance for many, many years now, and Yennefer, too, was tired of pretending she was not completely and fully drawn to him.

She hummed in pleasure as his hand touched her knee. "We can talk later," she agreed, meeting his pace as she leaned forward too and kissed back. A satisfied moan passed from her lips to his before she deepened the kiss, her body pressing a bit closer to his. When he moved to her neck, she exposed it for him, giving him more access to the pale skin above the night-black choker, the necklace she never took off. "Geralt," she whispered his name. "I've missed you," she admitted. "Missed this."

@burnnouts:  "Even  when  I  didn't  like  you,  I  lusted  for  you.  It's  the  most  maddening,  beguiling,  damnable  thing,  but  there  it  is."

Geralt  fights  the  smile  that  threatens  his  lips.  It  is  a  damned  smug  smile  —  how  could  it  be  not  when  Yennfer  admits  such  defeat.  He  recognizes  easily  her  vexation,  present  in  her  full  lips  and  eyebrows.  It  would  hardly  be  a  declaration  of  affection  in  the  eyes  and  ears  of  other  men,  but  he  also  noticed  how  she  said  it.  Ever  stoic,  her  voice  alters  when  she's  being  truthful  and  vulnerable.  It  doesn't  happen  unless  in  his  or  Ciri's  company.  He  celebrates  being  her  soft  spot.

The  Witcher  lets  his  hands  fall  beside  him  and  scoots  closer  to  Yennefer.  "I  know  what  you  speak  of,"  he  says  surreptitiously.  His  dearest  friends  have  often  advised  him  against  going  back  to  her  when  they'd  fall  out,  and  Geralt  would  be  more  prickly  than  usual.  Yet  he  always  shut  them  off  or  simply  refused  to  listen  to  their  reason.  They  did  not,  they  would  never,  know  how  he  felt.  How  neither  of  them  felt,  and  what  was  it  that  bound  them  together  so  tightly.

"Even  when  years  parted  us,  anger  blinded  me,  I  lusted  for  you  and  you  only."  Others  came  and  went,  but  it  was  a  passing  of  the  wind  that  would  always  bring  him  back  to  Yennfer.  He's  sure  she  knows  —  she  understands.  Geralt  prefers  honesty  between  them  the  older  he  gets.  These  days,  he  feels  older  and  older.

He  places  his  hand  on  her  knee  and  clears  his  throat,  still  holding  her  gaze.  "Hm,  I'm  done  talking.  You?"  This  close  his  eyes  clearly  give  way  to  his  intention  as  he  leans  in  and  kisses  her  lips.  Nothing  compares  to  them,  and  again,  Geralt  feels  his  body  on  fire.  He  hopes  he  can  kiss  out  Yen's  supposed  dislike  for  him.Past  or  not.  Her  marvels  when  her  lips  move  in  response.

His  next  kiss  he  places  on  her  throat,  above  the  black  choker  carrying  her  diamond  star.  The  curls  of  her  raven  black  hair  tickle  his  nose  —  he  kisses  her  throat  again,  holds  her  thigh.

[burnnouts]

Some days, Padme still thought about her time with Anakin on Naboo, but she did not regret the choice she had made back then to, ultimately, refuse him. After he had kissed her by the lakeside, she had pulled away, and in the days that had followed--awkward, long days in which they talked far too formally and scuttled around each other until the call came to save his mother and then Obi-Wan--Padme had played the idea over in her head again and again. No matter which way she spun it, there was simply no version of the story in which a relationship between her and Anakin worked out. He was young and reckless, and while she admired his spirit, their lives were fundamentally on two different paths. She was a senator, and he was training to become a Jedi. It simply would not work.

As she sipped her coffee, thinking about that kiss, Padme wondered for the briefest of moments what it might be like to kiss Obi-Wan, how his beard might feel against her soft skin--but no, she should not think that. It was inappropriate. He was a handsome man, or course--very handsome--but he was also deeply dedicated to the Jedi and the vows he had taken. He certainly wouldn't look at her like that. She was sure he saw her like some sort of sister. It was best to push the thought from her mind.

"That must be difficult," Padme agreed. "You spent so many years not taking sides. And now you're forced to fight a war." When she had first met Obi-Wan, Padme had been exactly the sort of person he'd described: someone in need. He and Qui-Gon had protected her and her people in ways she could never fully repay. "Do you think Qui-Gon would have approved of what has happened to the Jedi-Order?" She knew how much his mentorship had meant to Obi-Wan.

She nodded, listening intently to his explanation. "Do you ever take any time for yourself? I mean, is there anything you enjoy that isn't mandated by the Jedi Order?" She was struggling to imagine Obi-Wan on vacation--did the Jedi even take vacations at all? She knew she was being hypocritical to even ask, since she never took a vacation herself, but it seemed to her that Obi-Wan worked far too hard not to enjoy himself from time to time.

@burnnouts

THERE WAS MUCH MORE TO PADME than any one person would know. He did know Anakin had a rather large crush on the senator. If anything became of it, he was clueless. He had his own thoughts. Amidala was beautiful, even he had eyes. It was a simple beauty, one that did not overpower the eyes. She drew him in more than once over the years. Since her time as queen, she blossomed into a budding woman. It seemed impossible for him to act on his feelings regarding her. They had over eleven years difference. Still, his mind wandered at times and wondered what if? What if she returned any affection?

Cradling the tea, he felt the warmth on his face. There was a major difference in him. So much more difference than his usual self when acting as a general. Over the last year or so, he was forced not to act as a guardian. Now, he was reduced to that of a solider. It bothered him. The Jedi were supposed to be Peacekeepers. They were supposed to help, aide and protect. Fighting battles was not in the description, but yet here they were.

"There's a large difference." Taking a sip of the tea, he placed it down. One leg crossed comfortably as he contemplated. "To be a Jedi is to protect without reason or prejudice. To help all those in need despite status and if the world aligned with the Republic or not. To aide those who were in desperate need, human or nonhuman. Many times in my youth, we did such things. Those were a much simpler time. It was easier to discern."

His eyes caught her dress riding up and the exposed skin. Damnit Obi Wan, do not. Ripping his focus away, he cleared his throat to regain his composure. "Mediation, training and missions are often the normal routine. As is going to the library to research. It also depends on what rank you are. Being a padawan is different from a master."

[burnnouts]

Robb's breath caught as she took his face in her hands. Her touch, as always, was painfully soft. By now, her hands were as familiar to him as his own. He knew the way they felt on his cheeks, on his shoulders, and trailing down his body. He knew, too, this look in her eye, part fear and part determination. It was the look that would force him to give her anything she wanted, that would make him cave to any and all her desires. He sighed heavily, looking over her shoulder at the waiting battlefield, then back at his wife. The Lannisters had sent Gregor Clegane this time rather than the King Slayer who, missing one hand, was not quite the unbeatable killer he'd once been.

The terms had been very simple: one on one combat, the winner for the war. Of course it was a trick. Of course Robb did not stand a chance against the man they called The Mountain. No amount of skill with a sword could beat a man like that. Yet how could he say no? Afer years of fighting, his men were desperate for this war to end by any means. They missed their families, their homes. They had lost so much, and so many lives had already been taken. If he could do this for them, if he could end this war with one fight...

He forced himself to look back into Margaery's eyes and saw the hard truth in her gaze. He would not win. He would die, and he would lose the North. Everything they had fought for for so long would be over in an instant. "You're right," he said finally, though every word seemed to cost him a great effort. "I will refuse." The last words felt like poison on his tongue, the words of a coward--or at least that was what the Lannisters would say. Would his own men believe the same?

@burnnouts asked: "i want peace at all costs." (from Robb to Margaery)

"I understand waht you are trying to do here. You want your sisters back you want vengeance for your father. I want you to find those things but not at this cost not when you are at stake." Margaery says reaching out to grab hold of his face. She makes him look at her gazing into his eyes trying to make him see exactly how she feels.

"I will not see you be a casualty of this war. Not after all we have found in each other. I love you and I refuse to see you sacrifice yourself. This war is nothing without you so I refuse to have you fight some battle that is clearly meant to be lost. We will make new terms we will see things done better but only if we are together if we work on this as a team do you hear me? No heroic gestures no foolish moves." She urges as she gazes lovingly at him.

[burnnouts]

Yennefer found Geralt's good nature charming most days. Despite all she had read--and Yennefer read quite a lot, consuming every book on magic and magical beings she could get her hands on in case one might offer her some new, forbidden power--Geralt had never quite acted like the scholars believed Witchers should. They said that the mutations stripped the Witchers of their emotions, made them cold and empty, simply vessels for monster slaying. Yet Geralt's decency was his strongest trait. It was true that he could be gruff, surely, that his growl of a voice never pitched much into either sadness or joy, but if you knew what to listen to--as Yennefer did--you would hear a full and healthy spectrum of emotion in every growled syllable.

At the end of the day, the truth of the matter was, simply, that Geralt was a much better person than she was, mutated or not. He cared for the common people. He prioritized the sanctity of life at all costs. He cared deeply for children and the wayward souls of this world. He saved rock trolls, for god's sake. And Yennefer? Yennefer sought power and those avenues--no matter how dark--by which she might obtain it. I am not heartless, she'd told him once, i've just learned to use my heart less.

So why did he keep coming back to her? Was it only the wish that bound him to her, that brought him running back, time and time again, to the punishment that was her company?

If she were a different sort of woman, she might have blushed at his words. They were sweet, romantic even. The sort of thing princes said in fairytales. Her lips quirked to one side, the vaguest hint of pleasure, a tell-tale sign that only Geralt knew to look for. Most people thought Yennefer cold. But, then again, most people did not know her as Geralt did. It was not that Geralt had fallen in love with her at "first sight" that impressed her; why should he not, when every inch of her was crafted to be inhumanely beautiful, captivating to the eye? It was the fact that the first time they'd met, she'd hardly been kind. She had not been submissive or loving or generous. She had ordered him, a stranger, to fetch her apple juice, and dragged him into one of the most foolish plans she'd ever concocted.

"My, my, Geralt the romantic." She bit her bottom lip and stepped closer, running her fingers through his white hair then tracing softly a scar on his brow. For a moment, she was silent, simply looking into his cat-like eyes. She knew them so well, had gazed into those eyes for decades, and yet-- "What if none of it is real?" The true worry, the anxiety gnawing forever at the back of Yen's mind. "What if all your feelings for me are from that damned wish? How will you ever know if your feelings are your own? I have no wish to be anyone's...curse." Bane of their existence had been said about her once or twice, and for most intents and purposes, Yennefer did not care what others thought about her. She did, however, care what Geralt thought. He--and Ciri, of course--were her two great exceptions.

@burnnouts:  "Would  you  fall  in  love  with  me  again  if  you  knew  all  I've  done?"

Love  is  that  one  word  the  Witcher  has  always  strived  away  from.  For  most  of  his  life,  it  was  easy  to  avoid  meeting  it,  avoid  talking  nor  thinking  about  it.  He  was  set  on  his  belief  that  witchers  had  no  place  for  love  in  their  lives.  His  brothers  didn't  speak  about  it  —  being  with  various  women  was  not  love,  which  is  the  only  thing  either  would  mention.  When  asked  about  love  by  witchers  or  peasants,  Geralt  would  always  deflect.

But  Destiny  had  played  another  cruel  trick  on  him.  That  day  he  and  Dandelion  went  fishing  for  lunch,  and  he  found  a  djinn  —  it  brought  him  to  Yennefer.  He  remembers  it  clearly,  he  thinks  about  it  often,  and  ponders  fate  and  destiny.  Geralt  remembers  the  first  time  he  laid  eyes  on  the  naked  sorceress  in  the  burrowed  bed.

Now  she  brings  this  question  and  he  remains  silent  as  he  gathers  his  wit  and  words.  He'll  be  truthful,  he  can  hardly  lie  to  Yennefer.  "Yen,  the  first  time  I  fell  in  love  with  you,  I  hardly  knew  anything  besides  your  name."  And  she  set  out  to  order  him  to  find  her  apple  juice,  and  only  the  Gods  know  what  made  him  fulfill  this  wish.

The  Witcher  stares  in  her  pretty  violet  eyes  —  they  urge  him  to  go  on.  "Whatever  you've  done,  I  care  little  for  it.  If  this  were  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  I'd  fall  in  love  with  you  again.  And  again.  I  would  make  that  wish  once  more.  It'd  be  impossible  to  prevent  me  from  doing  so."  He  remembers  what  the  world  was  before  her  —  what  it  became  after  he  kissed  her  lips  and  held  her  in  his  arms.

Ever  the  one  struggling  with  emotions  besides  his  blunt  honesty,  he  seeks  an  answer  from  her.  "What  is  this  about,  Yen?"  Her  jealousy?  Geralt  hopes  not  —  sees  not  a  thing  it  may  root  from.  Though  he  is  not  above  pledging  his  love  for  her  once  more  if  it  soothes  the  issue.

[burnnouts]

So much had changed since they were children, since those early, innocent days in Winterfell. Even now, Robb could remember the morning before King Robert arrived, all the children in the keep, Arya outshooting Bran. Now Bran--different, quiet, wise but strange--ruled over the Six Kingdoms in the South, and Robb ruled as King in the North. Their father was dead. Baby Rickon was dead. But Sansa was here, safe in the Northern castle, and Arya came from time to time to visit.

The older brother in him wished to keep her here, to lock the gates and make sure she stayed safe within the borders of Winterfell. But he knew better--had known better since she was merely a babe and he barely a teenager--that she was far too independent for that and her need to travel and see the world could not be stifled.

He grinned as she came through the gates. He had ridden down to meet her and now greeted her with a tight hug and a kiss on the top of her head. "You made the journey safely then," he noted. he leaned back, far enough to see her properly, look her over for injuries or issues. "You look well."

@burnnouts liked here for a starter for Robb and got Arya!

Arya smiles brightly at the sight of her brother. It's been a long time, too long, since she's seen him. "Robb!" She calls out his name triumphantly. Overjoyed to see him. "How are you?"

Though Arya and Jon are closer, Arya still has affection for her other siblings. Including Robb himself. She looks at him with a curious gaze, excited to hear what he has been doing since they've last spoken.

[burnnouts]

Had Robb been wiser and more discerning, he might have seen issue with sneaking out in the middle of the night with his father's ward. He supposed he never really thought about Theon running away, never considered it as a possibility. It was not just the journey that he thought unlikely--the pressures of first losing Robb, then making sure he was seen by no one in the North as he made his way to the docks, hiding away in a boat to the Iron Islands. Naively, Robb simply didn't believe that Theon would leave him. Theon had come to the North so early in his life that Robb could not imagine a world without him in it. They might argue from time to time, but Theon's smirk was a staple of Robb's days, and he truly believed it always would be, that every day moving forward would be just like this: with Theon right by his side.

The thrill of it all was contagious. In the dark of the night, with nothing but the moon to guide them, all the pressures of being the 'golden child,' the 'good heir of Winterfell' disappeared, and Robb could, for just a moment, be as mischievous as any other young man. He enjoyed the challenge of sneaking through the keep, of staying in the shadows, walking softly through the snow. From time to time, he and Theon shared smiles in the dark, knowing smirks and stifled laughs, until, finally, they'd reached the front gates and were out, walking freely toward the Winter Towns.

He leaned easily into Theon's side. Only a few short years ago, Theon had been the taller of the two, long and lanky, easily able to pull Robb to his side like this. Now, Robb had grown tall and wide, heavily muscled with broad shoulders that Theon's arm now wrapped around. He considered the question. "Yes." He nodded. "I will." Then, unable to stop himself, he asked, "Are you in love with her? Ros?"

if theon had noticed robb's lack of experience with women, he had not ever said so. the young prince had turned his head, had ignored what little robb did or did not get about to with others. if he cared less, robb would be doomed to mockery and playful scorn, to teasing and pressure to get with a woman. but theon did care - cared too much about robb and his thoughts and opinions on certain matters, and so the topic of women and brothels died as quickly as it started. perhaps theon held a bit of jealousy when it came to robb stark - had no intention of truly sharing the other. but theon's too emotionally daft to know if it's the stirrings of love or the need for companionship in the north that makes him feel this way. and regardless, he isn’t known to talk so free of his feelings - would take them to the grave unless someone else started the conversation in earnest - someone trusted though, not just anyone.

over the years, theon has learned how to be sneaky. how to pass by the guards and out of the castle with ease. knows passageways and routes not as well guarded or watched. thrill in his veins at leaving in secret, at stepping outside of winterfell's great walls and being as close to free as he could get.

the stark heir's smile in the dark, illuminated by the light the moon reflects off snow, makes theon smile too. a grin wide like he might start laughing. "well if you won't go with me to visit ros, i suppose we'll have to do something else," said as if its truly an arrow to his heart that he can't spend time and coin with dear ros. arm goes over robb's shoulder, more familiar than he would be if they weren't alone. "alright, then, stark. you'll at least go to the tavern with me, aye?"

[burnnouts]

The stories Padme had heard, brought to her by Obi-Wan, were as terrifying as they were confusing. She knew Anakin was capable of great anger--she had seen it happen on Tatooine when his mother had been taken--and she knew, too, that he had been troubled lately. He was not sleeping well. He was plagued by dreams of her, Padme's, death. But the stories she had been told? That he had killed younglings? That he had turned on the Jedi? She did not believe it, would not believe it. At once, she had set out to meet with Anakin, to find him and learn the truth. Surely, once they were together again, she'd get the full story, and he'd tell Obi-Wan what had really happened, tell him that he hadn't really hurt anyone.

As she stepped off the ship and felt the oppressive heat of Mustafar, Padme ran forward and took Anakin's face in her hands. "Ani." She touched his cheeks, brushed his long hair back behind his ears, stared into his stormy eyes. "Ani, I was so worried about you. Obi-Wan told me stories, terrible stories. I know there's been a mistake. Are you alright?" She pulled away just enough to place a small hand on his chest, to look him over from head to toe, searching for injury or curse. She was not sure what could fix this now, but she was desperate for his reassurance, that the Anakin she knew, the man she loved, would hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be alright.

Yet his words made her frown and pull away. She shook her head. "No one is trying to take me from you, Ani." She reached for his hand and squeezed. "I'm right here. I've always been right here. With you. I'm on your side." Padme was so focused on her husband, she barely heard the ship open behind her or the sound of Obi-Wan's footsteps. When Anakin's voice shifted however, she flinched at the anger in his tone.

"He's here to help, Ani. To help both of us." She attempted to tug on his hand, to bring him closer--to her, to Obi-Wan, back toward the ship and away from the burn of this fiery planet, where they might talk rationally. Bring some sense back into this terrible day. "Come back with us, Ani. It's all going to be alright."

closed starter for @burnnouts!!

Anakin’s gaze softened when he saw her, a flicker of the man he used to be breaking through the storm in his eyes. “Padmé… you shouldn’t have come here,” he said, his voice low and angst ridden. The heat of Mustafar burned around them, but all he could focus on was her face, the curve of her lips and the twinkle in her brown doe eyes. “I did this for you. For us.” He stepped closer, reaching out as if he could pull her back into the illusion of the life he was trying to create. “They're all corrupt, Padmé. The Jedi… Obi-Wan… they were going to take you away from me.” Before she could answer, the distant hiss of a ship’s ramp cut through the air. A figure appeared in the smoke, and Anakin’s expression darkened. His jaw clenched, fury taking hold once more. His eyes didn’t leave the figure as he spat the words, venomous and broken. “You… you brought him here?”

[burnnouts]

@osculumabmor liked this for a starter! (Geralt) Based on The Last Wish Quest - Witcher 3

On their search to find a Djinn, Yennefer had dragged them from the city to a tiny little boat out to sea and, for the first time in a long time, they were alone. It was quiet, peaceful almost--if she didn't stop to think about the reason they were here. She had dragged Geralt on this expedition the way she'd dragged him into most of her "projects"--by simply telling him what she planned to do and expecting him to follow along. That he had not denied her was, at least, a good sign that the years that had stretched between them and all that time away had not broken them completely.

They had had little time to talk since they'd reunited, what with the search for Ciri and the all-consuming threat of the Wild Hunt. Now, Yennefer leaned back against the bow of the fishing boat, her long legs stretched out in front of her, clad in black leather as always, black boots crossed at the ankle. She eyed Geralt silently, searching for new scars, searching his thoughts--though she knew by now how much he detested when she did that. She was far too proud to simply ask if he'd missed her, if he still loved her. While everything inside her ached, her outward expression remained haughty and unruffled.

"So," she prompted instead. "How was your time in the city? You survived the Novigrad guards, I see. And how was our dear Triss?"

[burnnouts]

@aigisthosia liked this for a starter!

Yennefer was not in the habit of helping strangers. The way she saw it, you did what you had to in this dangerous and dark world, and that was that; survival often required sacrifice. She was on the hunt for her daughter, yet do to a reckless overuse of trackable magic, she was now being hunted herself by some of the most dangerous beings in all the land: hoards of elven warriors on skeleton horses, the ground turning to frost wherever their feet touched the ground. The Wild Hunt.

Not so long ago, Yen had lived in castles, serving kings and collecting fine jewels and gowns. Now, she was camped out under a willow tree, using her own black and white cloak as a sort of tent before the rain began. And the Wild Hunt was not the only threat to her, nor the only reason she was now on the run. She watched from the shade of the tree as the Witch Hunters went by, some on horseback, some walking in heavy armor. They had a look to them, each and every one, as if they smelled blood and wanted nothing more than to sink their teeth into their next victim. They were not likely to be real vampires, but they were just as ruthless, just as cruel.

Yen sighed and leaned her head back against the tree. There went any of her plans to make a fire by magic or summon food from the nearest village. Gritting her teeth, she was just about to rise and find some firewood the old fashioned way when her eyes caught on another traveler: a woman looking very out of place, and one that Yen could sense almost immediately what, luckily, the human witch hunters could not: an aura of magic--strong magic--surrounding her.

[burnnouts]

@aigisthosia liked this for a starter!

Robb was bent over the war map in his tent when the commotion began. The sounds--tense and on edge--were familiar, the tell-tale noises of his soldiers arguing, of people moving with purpose. He folded the map over, hiding the plans for their advance--his endless quest and sleepless nights spent deciding which way to take his armies next when they were surrounded on all sides--and he focused instead on the tent's entrance, his hand held loosely over his still sheathed sword. A guard stepped inside, followed by a woman Robb had never seen before.

A quick glance from head to toe provided him no further information. Her clothes and race told him nothing--not where she might have come from, nor which side of the war she might support. He saw no sigils, no familiar garb. "We found her near the edge of the camp," said his soldier, pulling the woman by the arm until the two stood in the center of the tent. "She might be a spy. What do you want us to do with her, Your Grace?"

Robb forced himself not to sight audibly. He hadn't slept in days. He was exhausted. He hardly knew who to trust himself these days. "Let go of her," he said wearily. "And leave us. I will speak to her."

"Your Grace--" The soldier started to argue but Robb cut him off with a single raised hand.

"You may stand outside, Sir Reyner, if it comforts you. But I will speak to her. You have done your duty and are now dismissed. Thank you."

[burnnouts]

@starwrittenfates liked this for a starter! (Ciri)

"Keep your hood up." Yennefer spoke with a mother's bark, her voice weary and on edge as she pulled the hood of Ciri's cloak up and over her tell-tale ashen hair. She herself was dressed--as always--in black but with a hood to shield her own raven locks, violet eyes kept low so as not to raise suspicion. They had finally found Ciri--she and Geralt working in harmony--and, most fortunately, located her before the Wild Hunt could. Yet, the danger was far from over.

They were exposed in Novigrad. A hundred pairs of eyes in every direction, potential spies and enemies all of them. Yet, Yennefer needed to meet a source, one who might help her to free the other sorceress imprisoned in the city. With all that magic at their command, they might actually stand a chance when the Wild Hunt next attacked. "Stay by my side. Do not talk to anyone. Do you understand me?"

[burnnouts]

The word harem came as some surprise. He had never--not once--considered taking more than one wife. His people had never done such a thing and, more important to Robb, his father never would have allowed it. Yet even if there was precedent for it, he did not think he could stomach it. His heart belonged to only one woman. It always had, from the very moment he'd first set eyes on her.

"It's alright," he assured her. "You could not have known. I thank you for your sympathy." His foot tapped uneasily on the floor, but he pressed his hand to his knee and forced himself to be still. "And I appreciate your concern. It must seem foolish to you, reckless even, but as you have said yourself, I have strong feelings for your granddaughter, and if you are right that she feels even a fraction the same for me as I do for her, I will not leave here until I have seen her."

Never before had the pressure of being king felt so all encompassing or overwhelming. Of course, being king had always been a shock to Robb. He had never trained for it, never prepared for it. He had been raised to be Lord of Winterfell, and even that he had expected to be years and years away. He had believed, naively, that his father would live to a ripe old age, and Robb would be long married--and growing wrinkles himself--before it came time for him to rule. He had imagined that when that time did come, his family would still be safely protected in the walls of Winterfell. He understood that leadership came with great responsibility and risk; he understood more than most that to be a good leader meant to give yourself entirely to your people. His father had prepared him for that. But no one had ever prepared him to be king.

It had been difficult enough to be seventeen and leading an army, directing men three times his age. It had been harder still when they'd named him king--the first king of the North in hundreds of years--and the future of a whole people had rested on his shoulders.

But now? Now, if he died, his kingdom would be lost. The Wolf King, who Robb had not even met yet, had been very clear in his terms: no one else could rule but Robb's future heir. If Robb was killed or his people abandoned him--well, he hardly liked to think of what would happen next.

"You are right, of course." He nodded toward Linnea. "First and foremost, my priority is to my people. I have not forgotten this." He had married someone he did not love for sake of his people, risked his life on the front lines of a hundred battles, all for the North. "But I assure you, I am quite aware of my strengths as well as my weaknesses. If I did not think I could do this, I would not. But I can. Your granddaughter herself showed me how."

"It would be best if he simply went ho-"

"I will do it."

Linnea paused. A stunned silence followed. She was unaccustomed to being interrupted, and even less familiar with people completely disregarding what she'd been saying. It was like he hadn't heard a single word. Her eyes cut over to Karl, who was staring hopelessly at this young king. Why wasn't he saying anything?

"I can do it."

The urge to roll her eyes was almost too strong to resist, but she restrained herself. Was this the sort of confidence that came with youth? Or perhaps love granted him his nerve. Either way, it was going to get him killed, and she couldn't allow it. There would be consequences to his death and his people---innocent people---would pay the price for his stubborn love. As a queen herself, she couldn't sit by and allow that to happen. If he was too young and blind to protect them by preserving his life, she would. If for no other reason than to save herself the headache that it would cause her later.

"Absolutely not." Linnea said sternly. The tone was more motherly than she meant for it to be---as if she were addressing one of her grandchildren. She pursed her lips and corrected herself. "I cannot allow you to enter the competition. I appreciate that you may have---strong feelings regarding my granddaughter, and given our current circumstances I don't doubt that she feels the same, but we are not the Bears. We do not participate in harems. Go home to your people. Return to the wife you already have."

It was a good excuse to turn him down. At least, she thought it was until Karl visibly winced and shook his head at her. Her cool mask slipped a little from her face. There was a hint of pity in her eyes as she looked away from the boy.

"I'm sorry. I had not been informed." She said gently. The apology shocked Karl, who had never once heard her utter the words.

"You are having no reason to deny him." Karl replied once the surprise wore off. "He is a King."

"On the contrary, I have plenty of reasons to deny him." She twisted the ring on her finger as she spoke, the barest hint to how anxious she was truly feeling. "An entire population of people rely on him. As their king, he has a responsibility to every single person he brought to this new land... but, as far as the law is concerned, I have no grounds to force you to consider that before attempting this foolishness. If you are unbound to any other, and you wish to compete, it is your right as a king."

[burnnouts]

"Then we shall do it," Robb promised. He did not know how long he would be here--and truthfully, he hoped it was not long at all--but for whatever time he had, he thought it best to be kind to his hosts. That, and this particular host had caught his attention in a most unexpected way. He smiled at her slightly as he continued to look around the room, trying to keep his attention on the new place--the one magic had created--but again and again, he felt his gaze drawn to her instead.

Why did he feel so relieved when she said she was not wed to the Dark One? He had no right to feel that, not for a stranger he had known only a handful of minutes. Especially not when he himself was engaged to be married. His frown deepened, however, when she spoke of herself as an object, something the man had "collected." "You are his slave?" He looked deeply troubled by this. "You were very brave, giving up your life like that for your people. But forever is a very long time." He opened his mouth to say more, but he too heard Rumple's voice. "I will see you later then?" he asked, realizing she had to leave.

“That would be wonderful.” Belle told him with a happy and content smile as she couldn’t help but watch him. When she heard his question she couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“No, no I am not the Dark One’s bride. I am like the trinkets he has all over this palace or his friend. I’m not quite sure he’s very closed off.” She explained. Fidgeting with more objects in this strange room. “My kingdom, is at war. The ogres have us outnumbered and we live on a hill so not a lot of coverage. We called on the Dark One’s for help. He requested I stay with him here, forever, in order that my kingdom be protected. How could I say no with lives at risk?” She asked him with a small shrug. “Anyway it’s not ALL bad.” She shrugged. Just then Rumple called for her. “You know love, love is like a mystery to be uncovered and I wish you the best in finding her.” Rumple called again, peeling Belle from the room. He told her it was time for her to make everyone dinner.

[burnnouts]

"Good. Then we're agreed." Harry put out his hand to shake on it. His eyes made a quick scan of the woman, noting one hand to be made of what seemed to be flesh and blood while the other was something else entirely. This should have been a tip off of who she really was, but the stories--or rather rumors--about the ghost that was the Winter Soldier had never reached his corner of prison. "I won't stop you getting the info you need. You don't stop me killing him. We all leave here happy."

"Oh it's definitely personal." Harry spared a glance at the quivering man in the bathtub. There was no sympathy in his eyes, no indication at all that he might change his mind or throw the man a bone. "He killed my brother." He watched as the reality dawned on Evans, as he realized who Harry must be--or at least remembered all the brothers (and uncles, and cousins, and husbands) he had killed and knew that with revenge on the table, the likelihood of anyone letting him go now was very, very low.

Harry crouched beside the tub, bringing the knife point to the man's jugular. He did not press. He could guess by now that the woman that had beaten him to the kill (metaphorically speaking--for now) knew enough about knives to know that his grip was loose, that it was a threat and nothing more. He wouldn't kill her prize before she finished with it. She'd get her information. But he wanted to see the fear in the man's eyes. He wanted to see that he remembered what he'd done. "Eddy," he said. "Eddy Karstark. You remember him?"

So much for keeping his identity a secret. This little admission was enough to let the woman know who he was if she cared to look into it. After all, aside from his father, Harry was the last Karstark left alive. But oh well. He grabbed Evans' collar and gave him a little shake. "Yes or no. I'll take a nod or a shake of your head. Do you remember him? Do you remember when you put a bullet in his skull?"

Jane had to concede that the stranger had a point. Neither of them actually needed to know the other's name or even the other's motive. The fact was that their goals aligned -- as the stranger had said, they both wanted him dead. So when put away his knife and took a seat, Jane hesitated for only a moment before sheathing her own weapon, too. After all, that hardly left her unarmed, given that her prosthesis was a formidable weapon all on its own.

"Right," Jane said, deciding that she could grant the stranger that much. "He's got information I need. Once I have it, you can take him to the Bronx Zoo and feed him to the gators for all I care. Just so long as he dies." Her eyes flicked briefly towards the whimpering Evans and, her voice cold, she added, "God knows he deserves it."

She wasn't going to sit, not with two people in the room to keep her eyes on, but her posture had loosened, becoming significantly less threatening. Less threatening towards the stranger, that was. For Evans, still trembling helplessly in the tub and making desperate pleas rendered incomprehensible by his makeshift gag, the Winter Soldier was a terrifying presence even with her shoulders relaxed and her hands empty.

After a moment's silence, Jane said, "I do gotta ask you one thing, though. You here on business reasons, or is this personal?"

[burnnouts]

Yennefer could not say that the fight was going well--but it was going all the same. She had not fallen yet, and apart from a small cut on her left arm, she was not badly injured. Blood trickled from the wound, hitting the ground and staining the rotten grass a crimson red. But never mind that. She had more to worry about than a scratch. Her magic moved seamlessly from her mind to her hands, hitting the ghosts first. It was difficult to ignore the Gardener--but ultimately pointless to hit him when he would simply regenerate. One by one, she took down the old ghosts with little sympathy for the people they had once been.

She was not heartless. She was not cursed, as Olgierd was, nor was she a monster in her own right. She felt sympathy. She felt shame and fear and desire and sadness and all the rest. She simply did not allow herself to prioritize such feelings, to let them overwhelm or consume her. Sometimes, she thought she would have made a very good witcher--better than Geralt, anyway, who, despite claiming to be an emotionless mutant who mindlessly slayed monsters, felt more than anyone else she'd ever met.

The point was: the spirits in this garden were already dead, and no amount of crying for them would bring them back. They were not real, not alive, not feeling. They were memories only, remnants of a thought, echoes of lives that had long ago moved on. This thought comforted Yennefer--and allowed her to practice necromancy with little regard for the consequences.

By the time Olgierd had reappeared from the fiery ruins of his old home, Yennefer had just disintegrated the last of the regenerating spirits and was just starting her attack on the Gardener proper--but clearly not in time. She blinked in surprise and, despite herself, a gasp left her lips. She was not new to death, no stranger to tragedy, but they had been so close, victory so near on the horizon.

"Damn it!" she yelled. With a burst of magic, grown all the stronger by her anger and shock, she threw the Gardener back, a bolt of lightening hitting him smack in the chest. Another explosion, and he had disintegrated. "Fucking god damn it," Yen hissed, running forward now as the fog all around them began to fade away. Her black heels dug deep into the mud as she reached Olgierd's body and crouched beside the headless form.

She did not yet realize he was immortal, that a beheading was not nearly enough to end him. "I was almost finished with him," she hissed to what she thought was Olgierd's dead body. "You couldn't have held on one more minute?" Grimacing, she reached for the cloak and the object he had given his life for. What had been so important as to barge into that damned, haunted, cursed house?

Olgierd, meanwhile, was feeling the weight of the years pressing down upon him. Each portrait, each dusty piece of furniture whispered of moments lost, of happiness stolen by his own hand. The fire had reached the upper floors, and the smoke grew thicker, obscuring the once-grand hallways into a claustrophobic maze. The heat was intense, but it was the coldness of his heart that truly threatened to consume him.

He stumbled into what remained of the library, the books reduced to little more than charred embers, the shelves toppled like the ruins of a once-great civilization. His eyes searched frantically through the ash and debris, seeking the one artifact that could restore a semblance of warmth to his soul. The painting, a beacon in this hellish inferno, had to be here. He knew it with a certainty that only love could provide.

The crackling of the fire grew louder, the heat more intense, yet his resolve remained unshaken. The flames licked the edges of his cloak, but he felt no fear, only a driving need to right the wrongs of his past. As he moved further into the room, his foot caught on something, sending him tumbling to the ground. He looked down to find the edge of a rug sticking out from under a pile of burnt tomes, and underneath, a glimmer of hope.

With trembling hands, he brushed the ash away, revealing a hidden trapdoor. The wood was old and warped, but it gave way under his touch, revealing a staircase leading down into the cold embrace of the cellar. The smell of damp earth and rotting wood hit him like a fist, but it was not unfamiliar. It was the smell of his past, of his youth, of the secret places where he and his wife had shared whispers and dreams.

He descended into the darkness, the light from the burning mansion above casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air grew colder, the smoke thinner, and for a moment, he allowed himself to believe he was back in time, back before the world had gone to hell around him. The stairs ended in a small chamber, the walls lined with dusty bottles and forgotten artifacts. In the center of the room stood a single easel, the canvas shrouded in a velvet cover that had turned a sickly shade of brown. With trembling hands, he lifted the cover to reveal the painting. Her eyes met his, filled with the same love and hope she had always had for him. The flames above grew more distant, the sounds of Yennefer's battle fading into the background. It was as if time had stopped, leaving only him and her in this small, dank space.

His heart swelled with regret, with love, with the burning desire to change it all.

He knew he could not. The painting was all that remained of her, all that could be salvaged from the ashes of his mistakes. Carefully, he wrapped the canvas in his cloak and turned to leave. The stairs groaned under his weight as he climbed back towards the surface, his eyes never leaving the treasure he held. The gardener's shrieks grew louder, more insistent, but he was too far gone, lost in his memories and the promise of redemption the painting held.

As he rushed outside as quickly as he could he had what was needed and when he stepped out, the creature swung at him, and connecting with his head, knocking his head clean off his shoulders and beheading him …