#|| threads -- riverrun ||

[casimirtully]

setting: the banks of the tumblestone river, the riverlands. during the making of the sun wheels at lithia, the annual summer solstice celebration. as the various noble guests craft their sun wheels to set upon the river, the prince of the riverlands catches the king of the reach in a rare moment alone.  @visxionaries

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“I know, I know,” Casimir Tully held his hands up in humorous surrender as he came upon his friend. Cedric Tyrell, King of The Reach — a man who he had not, it seemed, seen nearly enough as of late. Even with the various courtly gatherings. While The Mud Prince had his own list of duties that kept his schedule full, the weight he carried was no longer the same as his best friend. The Riverlands had avoided many of the conflicts that The Reach had been unable to — wars of succession, marriage pacts.

Though they’d both been princes — Cedric destined to be Highgarden's spare, and Casimir fated as Riverrun’s heir — the game had changed completely. Casimir without the crown that had once been his fate, and Cedric’s destiny granting him his own. 

There was a part of his heart that ached, knowing it was his sister — rather than himself —  that Cedric would need look to as his ally. That they would not walk that path together, as they had once stumbled the cobblestone paths of Oldtown, of The Red District. 

But it hummed, too. Always knowing that Cedric had it in him — and had proved he deserved that crown time and time again. Their paths’ had changed, but the profound  pride he had for his friend would never leave him.

“Got caught up with one of the Lannisters. I would’ve just embarrassed myself, anyways.” Casimir was no better than a common foot soldier when it came to archery. He could hold his own — had learned how to wield his bow on horseback while in Essos. He could hit a target, a man... but his ability to land on a center mark was laughable. 

And the conversation had been needed — needed to help him stay in the good graces of those he could in The Lion’s Den, now that Tyland had made his thoughts known. It wouldn’t have looked grand to his sister, or her council, if he’d been shooting arrows instead of doing his duty. “Lord Nicholas — doesn’t seem to have a firm grasp on his father’s trade, but his thoughts on seeing the routes properly fortified between Lannisport and The Red Fork were impressive.” 

Those thoughts, and the fact that he was river-blooded — half House Rgyer — made him an easy and wise choice for the day’s politics. Casimir would have rather been shooting arrows, but having the chance to catch up with Cedric after was well worth it. 

The Mud Prince, grinning, picked up a half-crafted sunwheel from one of the wooden tables. He waved it at the other man, making a small motion with his head towards the babbling water of the Tumblestone. “I’ll make a wish to be less lousy of a shot, aye? Then next time, you’ll wish I’d skipped it again."

[nicholaslannisters]

setting: the riverlands, riverrun. during the seven winter feasts. on the night of the second feast, two lords of the westerlands find themselves in a similar predicament. @theowesterling

Oh, no.

"Theo!" His normally deep voice was an octave higher. From drink, or panic, he couldn't tell. Nicholas' mother, Lady Cordelia Lannister formerly of Willow Wood, was no natural born lioness. Yet, that did not stop her. She was on a hunt. "Hide me."

Her prey? Always her Nicky Darling -- but now, she'd taken the hunt onto entirely new terrain. The Riverlands. It was there that impending engagement was to be announced, which was doomed to completely expand the playing field.

The marriage playing field. Nicholas had let slip to Lady Cordelia that he'd spoken about marriage to Tyland. He'd doomed himself.

“Nicky Darling! My darling Nicky!” His mothers voice, light as a lark and as happy as a cat with cream. Sing song, it carried above the crowd. “Here, my lady, he’s just over — ” Her voice gone a moment, then back,“-- oh, where’d he go? He’s normally very punctual, I prom…” then fading out into another part of the giant feast hall.

He ducked behind the Westerling lord, scooping a glass of whiskey off the table and knocking it back. Theo’s body did not hide Nicholas’s large frame, but he remained crouched. Then, as he stood again and peaked around Theo, he began rushing over his words — too much whiskey and an unforeseen adversary in his own mother. They planned this, they must have. She, and his father Lord Tysen. That’s why he hadn’t attended — so that Nicholas wouldn’t run to him for cover.

"Theo, our mothers -- my mother found your mother, and they are planning.” He gushed, wide eyed. “Your mother told my mother. About dinner. They want to have a dinner. Similar to Lady Marbrand’s. A small feast, tomorrow night. Seven Hells, help me.” He grabs him by the shoulder, and shakes him. "They are going to send invitations." He releases him, downing another whiskey, and running his hands through his golden hair.

“What about arranged marriages? What happened to those? When did we start having dinners?" It wasn't that Nicholas was opposed to women, or marriage. It was that he enjoyed women and marriage when they were his idea.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Anhedonia

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (third person perspective) Warnings: Canon typical sexism. Mentions of past trauma. Angst. Heavy Petting. Oral (m receiving). Smut. Word count: ~6.1k

Summary: A young noblewoman's family have travelled to King's Landing for an upcoming tourney and are guests of House Targaryen. She is excited to explore the capital and all it has to offer, however, she finds herself dismayed when a certain Prince does not share her adventurous spirit. She makes it her mission to ensure he learns to appreciate the pleasures he considers to be "depravities". Based on this request.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

A month in King’s Landing, she can hardly wait. The journey from the Vale to the capital has taken ten days, each of them feeling like they stretch on for an eternity. She hops down from the carriage once it pulls to a stop in the grounds of the Red Keep, helped by the footman, and does her best to remain poised and ladylike despite the overwhelming urge to exaggeratedly stretch her limbs after having been seated for so long. Her and her family are to be guests of House Targaryen, invited to attend a tourney being held in honour of King Viserys’ upcoming name day, a gesture of goodwill for having hosted the royal hunting party the last time they visited the Vale.

While life in the Vale is lush, green and peaceful, it is also quiet, too quiet, and she finds it dull. The only excitement she has are her visits to Riverrun to spend time with her betrothed; she is six months into a courtship with Lord Tommen Tully, but even the Riverlands do not offer the excitement that King’s Landing boasts. She longs to explore the maze-like streets of the city and immerse herself in a culture where sheep do not outnumber people.

They receive a warm welcome from Queen Alicent and the Hand of the King, Otto, who informs them that, regrettably, the King’s health prevents him from being able to greet them personally, but he sends his regards. The children that Alicent shares with Viserys all stand in a row as part of the greeting party. Prince Aegon leers at her, his eyes roaming the length of her body, making her feel self conscious and embarrassed. Princess Helaena puts her at ease, however; there is a natural slouch to her posture which lends an air of informality to her, and makes her seem more approachable than the rest of her family. She smiles easily, which is in direct juxtaposition with the stony demeanour of her younger brother, Prince Aemond. He stands straight as an arrow, arms clasped firmly behind his back and offers little more than a curt nod and a quick glance her and her family’s way, his gaze remaining fixed on the middle distance the rest of the time. She wonders if he is like that all of the time, or if he has taken a particular dislike to her presence.

Once they are settled, she is elated when she is sent to spend time with Helaena, her imagination running wild with the possibility of all the interesting things they might get up to. She is disappointed, however, when she finds that Helaena is happy to simply sit and embroider. The Princess talks dreamily about insects, as she stitches away with her needle and thread, but from the faraway look in her eye, she gets the distinct impression that it wouldn’t matter to her if she was there or not.

She slips out of the Princess’ quarters in search of something else to do, and doesn’t have to go far to find it.

“Did you tire of my sister already?” Aegon leans against an alcove, a smug smirk on his face.

She feels her cheeks heat up, she hasn’t even been here a day and yet already she has caused offense. Remembering how he’d looked at her earlier, she worries what he might do to her, her heart thudding loudly as her eyes dart around the corridor, looking to see if there’s anyone to save her. “N-no, my Prince, I simply-”

“-it’s fine,” He holds up a hand to halt her embarrassed apologies. “Helaena isn’t what I’d describe as exciting. You’ve come all this way, it seems a shame for you to sit cooped up in the Keep, when there’s an entire city to explore.”

His apparent lack of anger towards her, and offer of companionship eases her mind. and she grins at the possibility of finally getting to see more of King’s Landing. “What did you have in mind?”

“Follow me.”

Aegon leads her to what she assumes are his chambers, donning a hooded cloak, before throwing one to her. She slips it on, her eyes going wide as she watches him move a chest of drawers out of the way and push through an opening in the stone wall. They exit the Keep and head down the hill to what Aegon tells her is “Flea Bottom”.

She is overwhelmed by the sights of street performers dancing, breathing fire and offering palm readings, the sounds of traders shouting out to sell their wares, the smell of urine that seems to linger in every corner they pass, and the sheer number of people. They jostle in crowds up and down the narrow, winding cobbled streets and she grips tightly to Aegon’s hand, terrified she’ll get lost if she lets go even for a moment.

They drink brown ale that tastes like old copper coins and eat roasted meats that have been burned to the point that she is no longer able to discern their animal of origin. She decides it’s best that she doesn’t know. For every cup of ale she drinks, Aegon has three and it’s not until they reach the door of a building where the cheers of a crowd can be heard from inside, that she realises how far into his cups he is as he sways beside her.

“Perhaps we ought to go back.” She suggests uneasily, feeling apprehension begin to gnaw at her insides.

“Rubbish...” He slurs. “...come on, you’ll enjoy this.”

He grabs for her hand, tugging her through the jeering crowd and she recoils when the sight of two children hitting each other in a pit below comes into view. Her stomach turns at the sight, not wanting to look long enough to comprehend what she is seeing, the thought is simply too awful. She wrenches away, pushing herself back outside.

She leans against a wall, catching her breath and it is not until her heart rate has slowed that she notices that Aegon has not followed her. She had assumed he’d be just as disgusted as she was, and a shiver runs through her as she realises that he had intended for them to watch that, it was no mere accident, he enjoyed it.

The faces of the people on the street seem more sinister now she is alone and it dawns on her how perilous her situation is; she is a lone noblewoman in a foreign city, absolutely anything could happen to her here, and there’d be no one to save her. She breaks into a run, sprinting through the narrow streets, not knowing if she’s following the same route that she took with Aegon on the way there, but just knowing that if she keeps the castle on the hill in sight then she will make it back in one piece.

Winded by the time she eventually returns, she shuts herself away in her bedchamber and vows never to spend time alone with Prince Aegon for the rest of her stay in King’s Landing. His idea of a good time could not be farther removed from her own. 

She has a troubled night’s sleep, plagued by the visions of what she’d seen in the fighting pit. She feels fuzzy headed by the time she eventually rouses from her bed, and a sadness settles over her. The month was going to be an incredibly lonely one without anyone to keep her company; her parents would be entertained by the Queen and her father, they would not want her around. Tommen could not even come to visit; an invitation had not been extended to the Tullys, it would be impolite and presumptuous for him to simply turn up.

Walking towards the window, she looks out across the city. The faint orange glow of the sun has barely begun to rise above the rooftops in the distance, it is still the hour of the rooster. A sound of steel clashing against steel draws her attention to the courtyard below.

She watches a tall, silver-haired man cross swords with a dark haired knight. Though they both fight valiantly, it is clear that the knight’s opponent is getting the best of him. It’s only when the fairer of the two turns that she notices the eyepatch. Aemond.

Though she has yet to actually speak to him, she knows all about him, all of Westeros does, she presumes; the terrible accident that cost him his eye and that he rides the largest dragon in all of Westeros, both subjects of keen interest in every noble household.

She wonders if he is as vulgar as his older brother, or perhaps possesses a gentleness that’s more akin to his sister; it was impossible to tell from his stoicism when she’d arrived yesterday. Smiling as she watches him point the tip of his blade towards the knight’s throat, she decides she will seek him out and find out for herself. Perhaps he will be a worthy companion for the duration of her stay.

Once she is washed, dressed and has broken her fast, she goes in search of the One-Eyed Prince. He has long since departed the training yard, so she wanders the halls of the Red Keep, hoping she might run into him.

It’s not until she reaches the library that she finally encounters him. He is seated at the head of a long, mahogany table with a book in his hands. He has changed out of the doublet he wore when sparring and is now dressed in a black leather tunic, his long silver-white hair falling elegantly around his shoulders.

He does not look up as she enters the library and she finds herself unsure of how to handle the situation; she hadn’t anticipated that he’d ignore her.

She draws in a breath and clears her throat, and when he still doesn’t acknowledge her she then speaks.

“Prince Aemond, it is a pleasure to meet you properly. I saw that you were part of the welcoming party for my family and I yesterday, but I wanted to formally introduce myself.”

He looks up then and she feels she may wither from the intensity with which he glares at her.

“Hm,” is all he musters, before returning his attention back to his reading.

The logical part of her knows she ought to take offense to his dismissiveness of her, however, her curiosity is far greater and she wants to know precisely why he’s so reluctant to speak to her. She walks towards him, stopping a few paces in front of where he sits, regarding him carefully.

It’s obvious that he does not enjoy the intrusion, visibly bristling and shifting haughtily in his seat. She makes no moves, determined to stand her ground until he talks to her.

Aemond sighs, closing his book and fixing her with a pointed stare. “What is it that you want exactly?”

She gives a gentle shrug of her shoulders, fingertips grazing over the smooth wood of the tabletop as she approaches him. “I thought we might be friends.”

“I don’t have friends.” He replies stiffly, reopening the tome in front of him and continuing to read.

“You must get lonely.” She watches the way his eye scans the page and smiles to herself. He isn’t really reading.

“No.” He doesn’t look up, keeping his focus firmly on the text.

“What are you reading?” She pulls out the chair next to where he sits at the head of the table and sits down.

“It wouldn’t interest you.” He says dismissively.

“Try me.” She stretches out her arms, gently drumming her fingers on the table.

He looks up then, annoyance pinching his angular features. “What do you mean?”

“Read it to me.” She fights the urge to laugh at the expression of horror that flashes across his face.

“Read to you?! Are you an infant?”

“I’m not going to leave you alone until you do, and it means you get to carry on with your book, so you might as well.”

He sighs, rolling his eye. “Fine, but I’m not starting from the beginning.”

She settles back in her chair as he reads aloud, paying rapt attention to the way his brows raise for particular sentences, the way his lips shape around each word. His voice is soothing when he’s not being petulant. A warmth blossoms in her chest at how animated he becomes. It is a history book he reads to her from, but he is almost passionate in his delivery of every word. It seems she has found common ground with Aemond, and perhaps the beginning of breaking down the walls which he appears to have built up around him.

She watches Aemond train from her chamber window every morning, and visits the library every afternoon over the next few days. Each time Aemond reads to her; books about history, philosophy and dragon lore. She finds each topic fascinating, but it perhaps has more to do with how ardently he speaks of them than her own interest or understanding. Whether he enjoys or simply endures her presence is a mystery to her, but he doesn’t turn her away and reads aloud without complaint, so she continues to come back. Each day their chairs draw closer together, until they sit shoulder to shoulder, her leaning in to follow the words along with him. He is stiff at first, seemingly unsure of her physical presence, but gradually softens, leaning into her as much as she does to him.

The day of the tourney arrives and as she is seated in the stands she looks around, noticing that Aemond is absent, despite the fact the rest of his family are all in attendance; even Viserys has made it out to spectate, though he appears to be frail and in ill health. A golden mask covers half of his face, and a maester hovers by his side, while Alicent looks on worriedly. She wonders if he’s even aware of what he’s supposed to be watching. Assuming that on account of all Aemond’s training, he will be taking part, she is surprised that as the jousting gets underway she cannot spot him.

She feels restless and bored without her new found friend, if she can even call him that, and during a commotion when a knight is unseated from his horse, she uses the distraction to sneak away back to Keep. It’s the time of day when Aemond would usually read to her, so she knows exactly where to find him.

He looks up from his book as she enters the library, the faintest of smirks pulling at the corners of his lips.

“You’re late,” He drawls. “I started without you.”

“I was at the tourney,” She replies, taking her usual seat beside him. “I thought you would be too.”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” He says matter of factly.

Her eyebrows raise in shock, she’s never heard him speak so colloquially before, but she finds she rather likes it. “No ladies whose favour you’re after then?”

“No need. I’m to be betrothed to one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters.”

“Lucky you! Which one?”

Aemond shrugs slightly. “I’ll choose when I fly to Storm’s End.”

“And leave three poor ladies heartbroken afterwards.” She teases with a smile.

“I hardly think so.” He mutters, stiffening with discomfort and frowning slightly.

Assuming he is being needlessly modest, she places a hand on his arm. “You must have no end of admirers.”

Aemond snatches his arm away, fixing her with an angry stare. “I do not appreciate your mockery.”

“I-I wasn’t…” She stammers, stunned by the abruptness of his reaction.

“Well, then I do not need your pity.” He utters darkly, rising from his seat and striding from the library.

She stares after him, a tightness in her chest preventing her from calling out to him. She has no idea what she has said or done to make him behave in such a way, but the urge to burst into tears is overwhelming, so she makes a hasty return to her chambers so that is able to do just that in private.

She weeps bitterly as she curls up on her bedspread, a combination of remorse for having offended her only companion in this city, and shock that such a harmless remark could have done so in the first place. As her cries subside, they give way to confusion. What had she said that had upset him so much? She had only meant to pay him a compliment. Words of flattery should not inspire such outrage. Her perplexed state gradually evolves into anger. She decides it is him in the wrong, and if he wishes to be annoyed with her then he can be.

For two days she does not speak to Aemond, fighting the urge to go to the window in the morning to watch him train, refusing the familiar path to the library that her feet long to take in the afternoons. She misses him, and the Red Keep becomes a lonely place to be without the only friend she has made within its walls. She wonders if perhaps he misses her too, but is resolute in her determination not to seek him out.

It is on the third day that she hears a soft rapping at the door to her quarters. She only ever receives visits from the Keep’s serving staff, so she calls out for them to enter. Her heart feels as though it has leapt into her throat when she sees Aemond slip through the door, softly closing it behind him.

He holds a book in his hand, and the pair of them stare at each other in silence for a few moments. She knows she should rise when in the presence of royalty, but it’s taking all of her effort just to remind herself to breathe, formalities are the furthest thing from her mind as her yearning for his company and her anger at how he’d spoken to her are at direct odds with each other.

It appears he is unbothered by her lack of formality, however, as he grips the book tightly in both hands, swallowing thickly. His right eye is almost pleading as he looks at her. “It’s been a few days…I thought I might read to you, if you’d like me to?” Though he does not say the words aloud, they are clear; I’m sorry.

She softens, unable to help the smile that spreads across her face. She’d expected him to be far too proud to have ever come to her, and yet here he was. “I’d like that,” She says; I forgive you.

Aemond seats himself next to her on the settee and begins to read. It is a volume about the Age of Heroes, and though interesting, she is barely able to register the words, just thankful to have the ease of his presence once more.

He squirms as he reads, something she is unused to seeing. Aemond is still by nature, his posture stiff and unyielding, yet he arches his back and rolls his shoulders until eventually, with a sigh, he stops reading and closes the book.

“This seat is unbearable, how can you stand it?” He grumbles.

“We could go to the library, if you’d prefer?” She offers.

“I’ve a better idea,” He says. “But you’ll need to be dressed in something warmer, much warmer. Get changed and I’ll meet you back here in a moment.”

She watches him leave, wondering what he could possibly have in mind, and why she’d need to dress warmly. It is early summer, and the sun shines brightly, regardless of this she dons her thickest clothing before Aemond returns. She notices that he too has changed, he’s wearing a long, thick jacket and leather riding gloves. Puzzled by his choice of attire, she does not have time to ask questions as he gestures for her to follow him.

He guides her out of and away from the Red Keep, the briskness of his pace causing her to break into a light sweat on account of how wrapped up she is. Her discomfort is short lived, however, replaced by a mixture of fright and awe as the sight of the largest and most monstrous beast she has ever laid eyes upon draws closer into view the further their footsteps draw them away from the center of the city.

“Are…are we going towards that?” She asks fearfully.

Aemond chuckles drily. “That is Vhagar,” He tells her proudly. “Is she not the most magnificent dragon you’ve ever seen?”

“She is the only dragon I’ve ever seen.” She replies, voice shaking slightly.

“I thought you might enjoy an opportunity to escape the Keep, and experience something more exciting than a tourney.”

“We’re going to ride her?!”

“It’s perfectly safe, I do it often. But if you’re afraid, we don’t have to.”

She chews her lip in uncertainty. The thought of flying on dragonback terrifies her, but at the same time she’d arrived in King’s Landing in search of adventure and this certainly was one. She decides to place her trust in Aemond. “I want to.”

Trembling as Aemond helps her up into the saddle before climbing on after her, she tries her best to be brave in spite of the way her stomach lurches as Vhagar takes flight. She holds onto the handles of the saddle for dear life, thankful for her thicker than usual garments as a rush of cold air gusts over them as they gain more height.

The queasiness she feels at the weightlessness subsides a little, as she feels Aemonds arms encircle her waist in order to take hold of the reins of Vhagar’s saddle. For a moment she is sure she imagines it, until she hears it again; Aemond is actually laughing. It’s the first time she’s ever heard him express such unbridled joy since she met him, and she turns slightly, taking in the view of the upward curve of his mouth, the crinkle of his seeking eye, how utterly carefree he looks. It suits him. She would endure a thousand death defying flights on Vhagar if it meant she got to see more of him like this, it is so far removed from how solemn he usually seems.

They land on a grassy cliff top, overlooking the sea, and he informs her that he has brought her to Parchments, as he helps her down, an area that overlooks Tarth and the Narrow Sea towards the Flatlands of Pentos and Myr.

“It is too loud sometimes, even in the most silent parts of the Red Keep. It’s quiet here.” Aemond tells her, shrugging off his coat and laying it upon the ground before sitting upon it. He gestures to the empty space beside him and she joins him.

“You like the quiet.” She muses, looking out sea, watching the gentle undulation of the waves as the breeze softly moves through her hair.

“It is preferable to being laughed at.”

She startles, assuming he is referring to their conversation in the library a few days’ prior. “I wasn’t–”

“I did not mean you,” He tells her, glancing quickly over at her, then returning his gaze to the horizon. “They have always laughed at me. I grow tired of it.”

She is unsure of who he means by they, but is eager to comfort him. “I think you are magnificent, Aemond, I’d never laugh at you. My compliment was genuine.”

“I know that now,” He admits. “No one has ever sought my company willingly before, or expressed that I am…desirable. It was hard for me to imagine you weren’t joking.”

Her heart aches for him. “Have you never even kissed a woman before?”

Aemond shakes his head. “Aegon took me to a pleasure house on the Street of Silk for my thirteenth name day. He said ‘time to get it wet’. I don’t really remember much of that day, just that it smelled unclean, and that when I encountered the woman I was to lay with…” He pauses, drawing in a breath. “...the sight of her spread out like that was too much. I couldn’t do it, so I turned and ran. Aegon laughed. He has always laughed. I haven’t bothered with that sort of thing since.”

She frowns, thinking back on her own experience in Flea Bottom with Aegon. “Aegon is a shit,” She tells him, earning the slightest of smiles from him. “But I am sorry that that happened to you, you deserve better. It is not supposed to be that way.”

“How should it be then?”

“You should feel safe and comfortable, it should be with someone who cares for you, who wants to take the time to learn what makes you feel pleasure.” She says wistfully, heat creeping across her cheeks.

“It sounds as though you speak from experience.” He says with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

She hesitates a moment, shame giving her pause, but she has trusted Aemond once already today and he has not failed her, so she decides to confide in him. “Yes, I am betrothed to Tommen Tully. We have…explored the various aspects of intimacy together during our courtship. If you are going to enter into an arranged marriage then it makes sense to know what you are doing, and are able to keep your partner happy.”

“Hmm, Lord Tully,” Aemond says quietly. “Lucky man!”

She giggles at the way he mimics her compliment from a few days’ prior, and they both turn their attention back to the expanse of the Narrow Sea.

It is dusk when Vhagar lands back on the outskirts of King’s Landing. Streaks of lavender, orange, pink and yellow all disappear into the horizon, slowly swallowed by the darkness of light as she climbs from the saddle with Aemond’s help.

She is taken aback when he sweeps her into his arms as she makes her dismount, pulling her close to him. He presses his lips to hers and it is filled with the clumsy inexperience that comes with the action of a first kiss, but the plushness of his mouth against hers is not unpleasant and she returns the gesture softly and slowly.

He pulls back, his eye looking deep into hers. “I feel safe and comfortable with you,” He murmurs. “And I would like for you to teach me…how to be intimate. If that is agreeable to you?”

Her stomach flutters as she stares back at him breathlessly. “Yes,” She whispers, before leaning back in again.

Aemond is a fast learner and over the coming days he becomes more confident with his kisses. He leans in to kiss her each day as he reads to her, begins walking her back to her quarters at the end of every evening so that he may kiss her goodnight, his tongue licking deftly against her own. His lips possess hers with such assertiveness that it steals her breath away, the softness of them molding to hers in a way that has her chasing forward for more with a whine when he pulls away.

She knows that she ought to feel guilty, she is betrothed to Tommen after all, but she reasons that they are not married yet, and it is unlikely that he has shied away from having fun of his own when they are apart. She is merely ensuring Aemond feels confident when the time comes for him to depart for Storm’s End in pursuit of his own betrothal. With this in mind, she does not push for more beyond what he is willing to give, waiting for him to give the signal that he is ready.

It is early evening as he walks her back from the library, his mouth moves unhurriedly against her own as he presses her back against the door to her bedchamber.

He lingers once they break apart, not bidding her goodnight as he usually would. “I thought I might…come inside, if that is fine with you?”

She nods, her breath quickening as he follows in behind her. Aemond sits himself on the edge of the bed, suddenly looking uncertain of himself.

“How do I–”

“It’s alright,” She smiles, sitting beside him. “I don’t mind taking the lead. Just tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

He nods, laying against the pillows as she gently pushes him back. Draping herself over him, she resumes their earlier kisses, deep and passionate, both savouring the taste of each other. She breaks away to trail her lips along the sharpness of his jaw as her fingers work to unbuckle his tunic. She delights in the soft sighs that he emits, unbuttoning his undershirt and admiring the hard planes of his lean torso.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” She whispers, feeling how his pulse races as she strokes her fingers over his neck.

“Sometimes…” He breathes, eyes fluttering closed as her fingertips trail across his chest.

“What do you think about?”

“Lately…” He inhales a shaky breath as her hand moves lower, toying with the laces of his breeches. “...I think of you.”

She feels the warmth of arousal pooling between her legs as she palms the hardness of him through his underclothes. Though she does not have much to compare Aemond to, he is much larger than Tommen. She cannot resist dipping her hand beneath the fabric to touch him. “And what am I doing in your thoughts?”

He hisses through his teeth as she wraps her hand around him, and she lets out a hum of satisfaction at how weighty and warm he feels against her palm as she strokes him.

“You are…fuck…you are beneath me, and I-I am inside you.”

“Is that something you’re ready for?” She questions, slowly lowering herself on the bed, mouth watering at the sight of him; long and thick, flushed pink with arousal at the tip.

“I want to be.”

“Why don’t we start with this instead…”

She licks delicately at the head of him, grinning to herself at his quiet gasp, then allowing him to pass between her lips, suckling delicately. He is slightly salty against her tongue, though not unpleasant. Releasing him, she glances up.

“G-gods…don’t stop…” Aemond all but whines, his eye screwed shut as he bucks his hips slightly.

She smirks, taking him once more into her mouth, deeper this time, bobbing her head back and forth and using her hand to stroke the length of what won’t fit. He tenses and trembles beneath her attention, his knuckles turning white with the intensity with which he grips the sheets. She readies herself as the telltale pulsation of his length indicates he is nearing his peak, swallowing as he releases down her throat with a low groan.

Wiping her mouth, she crawls to lay beside him, smiling softly as she takes in his lazy, blissed out expression; right eye hooded with pleasure and lips slightly parted.

“Can I stay with you?” He whispers.

“As long as you’d like.”

From that point on, when Aemond walks her back to her rooms he does not depart to his own. They spend every evening exploring each other, hands, lips and tongues roaming over every bared inch, before falling asleep in each other’s arms. She does not recoil when he lifts his eyepatch for the first time in front of her, instead she takes his face in her hands, turning it slightly, admiring the way his sapphire glimmers in the firelight, before softly stroking her thumb over the scar on his cheek.

He takes her that night. It is brief, as she knew it would be, a few awkward thrusts inside of her and he spills himself, embarrassed apologies uttered into the crook of her neck. She strokes his hair and tells him not to worry, they will try again once he is recovered, and they do.

She sits astride him, hips rocking back and forth, head tilted back in pleasure as the length of him stretches and fills her over and over, working at a spot inside of her that causes her to clench around him. Taking his hand, she guides it to her pearl.

“Stroke here,” She instructs, moaning wantonly as he begins to rub in tight circles.

She collapses against his chest, white hot waves of pleasure coursing through her as she falls apart, and he follows soon after.

Aemond is dutiful, fetching her moon tea without needing to be asked, and the pair fall into a happy routine of reading and dragon riding by day and lovemaking by night.

She lays against his chest, listening to the soft thud of his heartbeat as his fingers stroke through her hair.

“Thank you,” He tells her earnestly. “For all you have done for me.”

“I have done nothing but remind you of what is already there,” She replies. “You are intelligent, you fight fiercely, you are a skilled dragonrider, anyone can see that.”

“How do I fare as a lover?” He asks.

She does not need to look at him to hear the smirk in his tone and she giggles lightly. “Extremely well. Your Baratheon girl will certainly be lucky to have you.”

She hates the pang of jealousy she feels acrid and hot within her chest as she says those words, but what she detests even more is the look of sadness that flashes across Aemond’s face, his eye glancing away as the upward curve of his mouth falters. So they speak no more of it, clinging desperately to each other and the time that they have left.

On her final night in King’s Landing, Aemond fucks her into the mattress as though he means to push her through it, his grip on her hips so tight it is sure to leave bruises in its wake. She does not care though, clinging to him just as tightly, her nails digging crescent moons into his shoulder blades as she tries her best to memorise the way that he moves inside of her.

Come the morning, he sits up in the bed, his expression sullen as he watches her hurriedly throw her belongings into a chest - a task she ought to have completed the previous evening, but Aemond had kept her otherwise occupied.

“The stewards will be here for my things soon,” She says, stuffing a dress down the side of the rest of her haphazardly packed possessions. “You should leave before anyone sees you. You’ll be expected to be a part of the official send off for my family anyway.”

Slowly, Aemond rises from the mattress, walking over to her. “Don’t go,” He pleads quietly, taking her hands in his.

She could cry from the gesture; a month ago he’d have rather flung himself from the walls of the Red Keep than initiate any form of physical contact with her, let alone a gesture so intimate.

“You can’t ask that of me, Aemond,” She tells him gently, softly pressing her fingers into his palms. “It isn’t fair.”

He swallows thickly and the sincerity she sees in his eye is more than she can stand. “But I love you.”

She feels wetness rim her eyes, sharp and stinging. “And I love you. But so what? It’s not enough. We are duty bound, you and I.”

He bows his head sadly for a moment, but eventually nods. “I hope Lord Tully appreciates what a fine woman he has.”

Smiling warmly, in spite of her unshed tears, she nods. “And I hope the Baratheon girls give you a warm welcome. Be sure to kiss them all, don’t settle for what’s offered up first.”

He huffs a silent laugh, that releases itself as a heavy exhale through his nose.

“I mean it,” She urges. “This world is too small for you, never let anyone make you feel less than what you are.”

“Thank you,” He murmurs. “For everything.”

She lets go of his hands, crushing herself against his chest as she wraps her arms around him, as he envelopes her.

“Don’t forget me.”

“As if I could.”

She stares out of the carriage window as it rolls away from the Red Keep, away from King’s Landing, away from Aemond. Though she is returning to the Vale, she knows a part of her will forever remain in the capital, a part that she has imprinted upon Aemond. It is bittersweet to leave him behind. She is comforted knowing that she has pieced together the broken man she encountered when she first arrived. The world is too small a place for the likes of the Targaryen Prince, but she has given him the confidence to realise that he holds it in the palm of his hand.

[laurellerual]

Alayne looked down at her dress, the deep blue and rich dark red of Riverrun. "Is it too-". "It is too Tully. The Lords Declarant will not be pleased by the sight of my bastard daughter prancing about in my dead wife's clothes. Choose something else.

[...]

The dress she picked was lambswool, dark brown and simply cut, with leaves and vines embroidered around the bodice, sleeves, and hem in golden thread. It was modest and becoming, though scarce richer than something a serving girl might wear. Petyr had given her all of Lady Lysa's jewels as well, and she tried on several necklaces, but they all seemed ostentatious. In the end she chose a simple velvet ribbon in autumn gold. 

Alayne I - AFFC

[the-fiction-witch]

Duty

Media - Game Of Thrones Character - jojen Reed Couple - Jojen X Reader Reader - Y/n Stark (Red hair fitting book descriptions) Rating - Sad / Dramatic + Smut Word Count - 3185

I remember feeling as though I had been frozen solid, every inch of me shivering uncontrollably. I was wearing the most exquisite gown, made of a luxurious grey fabric that was woven with delicate threads of silver. The gown's cloak was a masterpiece, embroidered with bright red leaves that represented the heart tree and the old gods of Winterfell, in honour of my father and the Starks. The branches of blue, symbolizing the rivers and streams of Riverrun, were a tribute to my mother and the Tullys. The cloak gracefully fell into the midst of the northern snowstorm.

The intricate braids and knots weaved throughout my red hair were adorned with tiny iron beads. Additionally, a stunning crown of blue winter roses sat delicately atop my head. As the snowflakes began to fall and float around me as if the world had stopped just for me.

I stood there, my hands began to tremble. It was a moment that I knew I would never forget. My father took my hand in his my skin felt the chill of his leather glove and the fur of his cloak, I didn't turn to look at him afraid if I did my face would simply give me away.

I didn't want this, not in the slightest. But I understood my duty to my family. So I did as my parents asked even if it broke me. My father began to lead me through the snowy godswood for a moment my feet refused to move, my father sighed a moment before his hand graced my cheek forcing me to see his war-torn face, my Y/e/C eyes stared up at him and suddenly I felt like a little girl asking to go up on his shoulders one last time. His eyes were weary and tired and suddenly I felt so spoilt, so childish. I tipped my head to bow to my lord father and a smile cracked across one side of his mouth, he pressed one final kiss to my forehead.

He then squeezed my hand and led me through the godswood.

My eyes were transfixed on the horizon as the sun began to set. The sky was a canvas of colors, with hues of orange and purple that blended seamlessly together, creating a breathtaking sight. The clouds appeared as if they were lit on fire by dragons, with the colours of the sky reflecting upon them and casting a warm glow. The snow clouds seemed to be dancing in the wind as if they were alive and celebrating. The ground was covered in weeks' worth of snow the ground below was frozen as hard as stone. The godswood filled with those I had known all my life in Winterfell, the path I walked with my father lined by staff and lords I had almost known like family all of them in their dark clothes and furs to keep out the cold each of them held a torch to fight away the night. I walked without a word, without a thought knowing if I started thinking about anything I would begin to cry.

My eyes caught the visiting royals the king and his family, they all seemed to look uninterested in the proceedings the younger children bored and shivering in the cold. The king however looked at me with a distance to his eyes but a smile on his lips, I had always thought of him as an uncle so I dipped my knees as I passed them and he nodded his head to me.

As we walked on I was met by my family and I tried not to cry, to do my best to save face for them, My eyes first met my bastard brother Jon who gave me a faint smile, trying to cheer me up. Then my older brother Rob who looked angry almost avoiding my eyes, was against all of this though I was still a child and far too young for all of this. My sister Sansa looked at me with sisterly joy but also a side eye, jealous of my dress and of my wedding in the godswoods as she would be married in the sept in Kings landing in a few years. My sister Arya looked up at me almost confused, seemingly angry but I knew why she didn't want this fate for me or herself even if I'm sure one day she may learn to accept the duty of a lady as I did. My brother Bran looked at me with a tremble to him he was old enough to understand these things to an extent and he knew there was nothing either of us could do to prevent it. And little Rickon stood crying into my mother's skirt, he was not old enough to understand all he knew was that I would be leaving and there was a good chance… he might never see me again, or if he did it would be years between visits.

As I passed him I tussled his hair trying to cheer him up even if I felt like crying myself.

Before I could take my hand away my mother took it in hers, and our eyes met. And for a moment there were a thousand words between us, we had so rarely seen eye to eye on anything in this life but for a moment it was as if we had always agreed. She squeezed my hand and pressed a small kiss to it, she curtsied to me slightly before she let me go. I did so back and continued the walk the tree now all of my view with its snow-white branches, blood-red leaves, and the face with eyes that seemed to watch my every move.

Beside the tree stood my betrothal, the boy I had known I was to marry since the moment I was born, neither of us had a choice, an opinion or an option in this matter. It had been decided far above our heads, but it is our duty whether we like it or not.

My father squeezed my hand and handed it over to this boy, I froze up feeling the warmth of his skin, and for the first time, I looked at him.

He was taller than me, with a short mess of blonde and brown hair, he had a youthful face and brown eyes, he wore clothes of marshy green and black a cloak of fabric leaves and moss as if a creature of the mud that had crawled out moments before our wedding.

Without another word our wedding began, I felt like crying but I had no choice, our hands were bound and the words were spoken.

"I- I take this woman," he nodded his voice sounded sweet,

"I take this man," I forced the words from my lips,

We knelt in the cold snow and I bowed my head low trying to hide my shivering tears, moments later we rise we met eyes again and he seemed somewhat remorseful, he pulled my cloak from me and left me for a few moments to shiver before it was replaced with another, the marriage cloak woven with the signs of both our families a true fabric of our union. A link in the tree branches between the Starks and Reeds.

Applause erupted from the godswood. But I Had never felt so alone. I felt as if everything I knew had been taken from me, all the history of my family now seemed like memories, knowing I was not a Stark. Not anymore. I was Wife to a Reed, I would be Lady of Greywater and the marshes, my children Reed's blood of moss and mud.

But I pushed such thoughts away and just did my duty, he looked at me nervously and fearfully as unsure about the future as I was, but I think his concerns were of a closer future as his hands trembled and shivered, his lips opened and his voice made a sound of confusion and concern before he finally moved his hands first went to my waist and he tried to lift me over his shoulder however that wasn't going to happened he was not strong enough to even get me off the floor, the second try he attempted to grab me from under my thighs wrapping both his arms there and trying to lift me up which did work but he soon dropped me again before we even took a step his hands, unfortunately, snapping away given as I fell his hands went from under my thighs to my ass

"sorry." He quickly said,

I could hear people snickering and holding back their laughter,

"Just lift her boy!" The king yelled, causing many to break their laughs,

I sighed and took his hands helping him putting one hand on my waist and the other under my knees, he nodded and quickly lifted me into his arms, he let out a breath as he held me his arms already trembling as everyone began to applaud and celebrate.

Jojen quickly walked through the snow, rushing as he was struggling to hold me in his arms. And the moment we got inside he dropped me down again.

The feast went off nicely people often came to give us sweet words and gifts I did most of the thanking and such and Jojen merely sat without much of a word. Often I watched our fathers, both our fathers and the king sat at a table sharing ale and wine talking of their days as boys together like brothers and how they thought side by side in the rebellion. It occurred to me that, the rebellion sparked many things in this world, how much of the course of events was forever changed by it. Without it, Robert wouldn't be king, without it families and alliances would be different, and without it, Jojen may never have married. Our union was placed on the table after their war, the idea to join the families together so they may be as true brothers. At first, it was planned for the king to marry my aunt but such things were not to be.

The deal now stood that Howland Reed's son Jojen and I a daughter of Ned Stark would be married, in a few years once both were of age My sister Sansa would marry King Roberts's son Joffery. And the plan was that our children would in some way be joined depending on how the genetics fall and the world at the time.

As the night grew later my concerns only grew more intense. I knew what tonight would bring and I was getting scared.

"It is time, for the newlyweds to head their way to bed." The king laughed very drunk as he raised his glass, the hall erupted with cheers as all knew what was to come next. "Now for the final question, shall the newlyweds walk to their bed or shall they be carried?!" he laughed and more cheers erupted, I looked to my father and I pleaded with him but he knew there was little he could do if the king demanded it, I looked to my mother to plead but she was busy with my younger siblings who all wanted to get to bed, so in my desperation, I looked to Jojen. To my new husband. And I pleaded with him.

"Jojen, please."

He met my eyes and he nodded, he stood up and adjusted his clothes, "I- I thank you my king for your aim to savour in tradition… However I- I would like to… engage in such joys myself."

"Good boy!" Howland cheered,

Many were disappointed but I was thrilled, jojen offered his hand so I took it and we said goodnight before we sheepishly left the hall.

I sat on my bed trembling nervously, I wore my nightie as I sat on the bed waiting knowing what was to happen, Jojen changed and came over in only a pair of dark green leather pants laced up tightly.

"Ughhhh hi…" he spoke up,

"Hello," I tried to smile,

"So… we need to uhhh…"

"Yes, it is our wedding night. I will do my duty to you Jojen."

He nodded, "Our duty," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "Let's just get this over with."

I nodded and did my best not to cry, he leaned over me his hands on the bed as I laid down on my back, he loomed over me for a moment our eyes unable to move from one another. We both trembled and shivered. His hands move to the hem of my nightie sliding his hands across my skin as he pushes it up until it reaches my mid-thigh and he stops and gets off the bed pacing around the chamber.

"what is it?"

"I- Forgive me my lady but I-"

"Jojen," I began taking his hand and softly pulling him to sit beside me on the bed, "I am your bride, please… what is wrong?"

"I- I feel like I can't do this."

"Why not?"

"I know, I must do my duty to you. To be your husband and be an honour to our families I- I simply feel as if I am incapable of doing so."

"I see." I nodded, "Is it… me?"

"No! No no no!" He said squeezing my hand, "It is not you, Y/n, it's me it's anxiously me. You are very sweet, and you've been very kind, and you are very, beautiful it is not that I feel incapable of doing my duty to you… because of you."

"Then, is it… your preference?"

"my preference?"

"Well… when at a feast, there are those who most enjoy roast duck, and there are others who most enjoy roast pig. I enjoy roast pig, but most men greatly enjoy roast duck… but do you perhaps prefer roast pig? as I do?" I asked delicately,

"I… I do not have a preference" he said, "I think it's simply that I… have not tried anything at the feast."

"Ohh I see," I nodded, "I must be honest, neither have I. I have not tried anything at the feast however I know my preference is for roast pig even without trying the duck."

he nodded, "I uhh I do admit the duck seems most preferred to me too even without trying it,"

"Is it then… that you, simply are not hungry? to have never sampled anything of the feast?"

"No. No, I uhhh I am… very much… Hungry." He nodded,

"As am I." I nodded, "Then what is it?"

"It is simply never having… tried anything." he explained, "My father insisted given my betrothal to you that… such things could not be tried. So… this is my…"

"I understand," I nodded, "You do… know how the act is done?"

"I… I know. just… a bit nervous to us do so."

"I admit, I am nervous too Jojen."

"I uhhh… I don't want to hurt you."

"You must do your duty," I nodded, "as I must do mine."

He nodded and helped me to lay back down, he leaned over me and I could see how scared he was, but I imagined I didn't look much better.

"Please Forgive me, Y/n…" he whispered,

I nodded and he very quickly pushed my nightie up to my waist, his hands trembled as he unlaced his trousers, I didn't look I just stared at the stone ceiling and opened my legs, he took himself in his hand and tried for a good minute or two to make himself hard but it wasn't really working, causing him to grunt a little in frustration.

"Here. I'll help." I sat up a little and replaced his hand, immediately I panicked… ohh no. That's uhh bigger than I expected. But I did my best to smile and stroke him gently with my hand which seemed to get him hard enough,

"Thank you, Y/n,"

"You're welcome," I blushed laying back down,

he moved closer before he began to guide himself in, I did my best not to say anything given how much it hurt, he had to stop halfway to pull out and spit on himself for some kind of lubrication which when he went back in made it hurt much less, he began to move without a word and I did my best not to think about it much at first, it was strange and painful and awkward I knew I was bleeding as he took my maidenhead, in my mind I merely kept thinking that this was my duty. It's all it was just duty as his bride. That this will be my life until I push out an heir.

Slowly I became content with this as the pain slowly faded as I got more used to it,

"I- I'm not sure how much longer Y/n -"

"It's okay," I nodded,

"Are you sure? You don't seem… happy… or comfortable… I'll stop if you-"

"No, no we… must do our duty,"

"We must…" He nodded, "But… I do not want to be cruel Y/n."

He gently helped me to wrap my legs around his waist letting us move at a slightly new angle and I admit it felt a little better, he moved a hand down to rub on my clit softly with made my eyes wide and I gasped,

"Oh…"

"That okay?"

"Yes…" I nodded, "How uhh how do you-"

"I uhhh… I listen to a lot of the lords in the neck talk about stuff like this."

"Good you listened then," I chuckled,

He did too and got a little faster the bed creaking under us I struggled not to make any noise as it became somewhat enjoyable and pleasurable until he suddenly bit my neck and his hips stopped I felt the strange sensation of his seed filling me for a few seconds before he pulled back from my neck gasping hard, "Uhhh I uhh sorry I-"

"It's okay," I nodded,

He nodded and pulled out laying down beside me, for a moment we lay in silence until he spoke. "our duty is done for tonight,"

"It is." I nodded, "For tonight, I shall continue to do my duty until I can provide you an heir."

"…thank you, Y/n, I know this… isn't what either of us really wanted but, I swear I will do my best to be a good husband to you,"

"Thank you Jojen, I will do the same in turn."

"I admit… I am excited to have a child with you,"

I blushed a little, "I admit, I think it will be sweet,"

"Do you think… you could ever learn to love me?"

"I am sure I could," I nodded stroking his cheek and connecting our lips, his eyes went wide a moment before he melted into the kiss and began to kiss me back, we kissed sweetly and softly for a good while until he wrapped his arms around my waist and pushed himself closer, his hand slipped down to tap on my hip, I nodded and he moved back to being ontop of me he squeezed my thighs as he wrapped them around his waist once more…

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - "No More Scars", Part 2

No More Scars

Chapter Two: Debriding the Wound

“This is as far as we go.”  Jon and Sansa  - After rescuing her from King’s Landing, they have a long, winding road to Riverrun before them.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 fin

* * *

Sansa wakes sometime in the night with Jon’s arm still around her waist, and his intermittent whimpers at the nape of her neck. It makes her blink the grogginess away instantly.  

Jon rarely sleeps, and even if he does, he almost always wakes before her. And she’s never known him to have night terrors.  

His arm tightens around her waist, dragging her closer, her back pressed to his chest.  

“Jon,” she tries softly, before she calls his name again a little louder.  

Still no response, but he jerks somewhat, his whimper dying out.  

Sansa waits a while, her nerves lighting her skin uncomfortably, before she takes a single steadying breath and turns over, pulling his arm from her waist to do so. It settles back around her middle and she lets it, too focused on his pained, sleeping face to notice.  

She brushes a thumb between his furrowed brows, hoping to ease the tension there. “Jon,” she calls to him, attempting to rouse him.  

He dips his head closer, their breath mingling.  

Sansa eyes him in the dark, her pulse racing at the way his hand curls over the small of her back. She presses her fists gently up against his chest to keep the sliver of space between them, her eyes still roving his face.  

“Jon,” she tries again.  

The crease in his brow eases out at her soft voice, though his eyes don’t open.  

Sansa licks her lips, one of her hands rising tentatively back to his face. She traces her fingers along his temple, and then down along his cheek, ghosting over his jaw. “I’m here,” she says on a breathless whisper, not knowing where the words come from.  

He sighs in his sleep, nuzzling closer.  

“I’m here,” she tells him, her other hand flattening out over his chest, over his heart. She traces his knotted brow with tender fingers, eyes roving his face. “I’ve got you,” she whispers to him, her mouth braced close to his. “I’ve got you.”  

His terrors seem to flee in the night, beneath her cradling touch. She falls asleep still facing him, her hand splayed over his chest, his breath splashed against her lips.  

When she wakes in the morning, she’s alone. She pushes herself up to her elbows, looking around the camp groggily to find him by the horse, his back to her, a careful hand spreading over the horse’s neck as he decidedly doesn’t look at her.  

She rises, and wordlessly readies herself for another day of travel.  

* * *

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t Arya,” she says the next night after they’ve washed in the nearby river, laying out along her bedroll, eyes skyward.  

Jon glances at her with a piqued brow, lying similarly beside her. “What do you mean?” He folds his hands over his chest.  

Sansa continues to stare up at the stars, her fingers worrying a loose thread along the waist of her dress. “When you came to King’s Landing to find us. Or her. Or... well,” she tries to explain, her voice dying in her throat.  

Jon’s brows furrow together as he watches her.  

She sighs uncomfortably. “I know you wished to see her. To rescue her. And I’m... sorry it was just me you found.” She chews at her lip, unable to look at him.  

“I’m not,” he says easily.  

Sansa turns her head to him instantly.  

Jon gives her a lazy smile. “You’re my sister,” he says cleanly – absolute and sure.  

A steady silence passes between them, Sansa’s fingers stilled along the rogue thread at her waist.  

“You’re my sister,” Jon says again.  “And so is she.  We won’t stop looking for her.”  

“No,” Sansa agrees instantly, the breath tight in her throat. She swallows it back down heavily, a sudden pain in her chest.  

Her tangle-haired sister. Her mud-slicked sister. Her exhausting and stubborn and sharp-toothed –

Sister. 

Sansa’s eyes wet without her bidding. “No,” she lets out on a shaky breath. “We can’t stop looking for her.”  

Jon shifts onto his shoulder a bit, more turned to her as they lay beside each other on too thin blankets.  

And then it’s rattling from her – like a dam slowly coming down – her voice quaking beneath the brittle bite of panic. “We can’t stop looking,” she gasps out. “Because she’s out there.  And she’s – she’s all alone, Jon, and she’s... gods, she’s just... she’s just a child, oh gods, she’s just – she's just – ”  Her voice clogs in her throat, her tears sudden along her eyes.  

Jon reaches a hand to her cheek, turning her more fully to him, his thumb brushing at her tears. “Hey. Hey, look at me,” he urges her.  

She bites back the sob, eyes fixing to his, turning onto her side to mirror him, her knees knocking his. She reaches a hand to his wrist, as though in anchorage.  

As though the steady weight of him beneath her palm is the only sure thing left in the world.  

“We’ll find her, okay? We’ll find her, I promise you,” he says vehemently.  

Her eyes shift between his, her breath evening out, her fingers clenching over his wrist. “You promise?”  

“I promise,” he swears, dipping his forehead to hers.  

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, nodding fervently, feeling his pulse beating beneath her touch. Steady. Constant.  

Like him.  

Like his promises.  

She lets out a shaky breath at his lips, never minding the closeness of him.  

(Or rather, perhaps, needing it.)  

* * *

  He watches her when she sleeps.  Notices how comfortably she lays next to him now, how their bedrolls have slowly crept closer and closer over the weeks.  Until they sleep nearly shoulder to shoulder.  Until he can hear every delicate intake of her breath, every steady exhale.  

Until he can see the flutter of her lashes when she sleeps.  

Until he nearly reaches out to touch them, his knuckles grazing over her cheek.  

(He remembers the morning he woke to her braced against his chest, her hand over his heart, her mouth half a breath away from his, the warmth of her seeping into him like a summer’s dream.  

He remembers how he nearly leant closer, before he pulled back abruptly, blinking awake with a sudden, fierce lance of shame arcing through him, and he scrambled from her.)  

Now, he watches her when she sleeps.  

(Though he’s sure he should feel far more guilty about it than he does.)  

* * *

  “I need a new dress,” she says simply while they trot through the trees.  

“And why is that?” he asks behind her.  

She huffs. “Because mine is blood-stained now, and dirty and... and it’s unladylike.”  

Jon snorts behind her.  

She throws a baleful look back over her shoulder. “Perhaps you’re averse to cleanliness but I am not,” she says with a smack of her lips.

He laughs, the hot expel of his breath warming her neck. She curls her hands tightly around the saddle horn at the sensation.  

“And where do you expect to find this new dress?”  

“In town,” she answers primly.  

“In town,” he repeats dully.  

“Yes, in town. You know, where civilized people live?”  

He laughs again.  

It should not make her feel this warm, this anxious, and yet, it does.  

“We might be closer to Riverrun but that also means we’re closer to the Lannister forces pressing into the Riverlands. Some towns may be hostile, or overrun, or empty of supplies.”  

“We’ll be careful. Have Ghost scout ahead. And you’ll disguise me.”  

Jon leans over her shoulder to peer at her with an incredulous brow raised.  

She scoffs at him, shrugging her shoulder to brace him back. “Don’t give me that look. It’s possible if we’re careful.”  

“And disguise this head of brilliant red hair, huh?”  

“It’s called a scarf, Jon.”  

He chokes back his laugh. “I know what it’s called, Sansa, but we haven’t any. I didn’t exactly pack for more than the necessities.”  

“Then we’ll make one. Look, I just need to tear a piece from my robe and it’ll pass.”  

Jon stays resolutely quiet behind her.  

She doesn’t let his stubbornness derail her, though. “Jon, I need a clean dress, and you need clean clothes, too, and I need something other than rabbit meat or hardtack for one Seven blessed night and a single appearance in some wayward town is not going to bring the whole of the Lannister army upon us, I promise you.”  

Jon tugs at the material of the dress over her hip. “All this for a dress?”  

She twists in her seat to look back at him. “All this for a sense of normalcy, please, Jon,” she implores him.  

He doesn’t answer her, and she turns back in a huff of indignation, quietly stewing in her seat for two more hours before she sees the border of a small town along the horizon. She sucks a breath through her teeth upon recognizing it, turning swiftly back to look at Jon.  

He only sighs dramatically, his eyes still trained forward. “Who am I to deny a lady?” he drawls.  

Sansa smiles brilliantly, reaching a hand back to grasp the nape of his neck as she lifts herself just enough to press a kiss to his cheek, dropping back into the saddle with an instant flush to her cheeks, her breath caught in her throat. She looks resolutely forward, unable to muster words after the instinctual display of affection and gratitude.

Jon clears his throat behind her, the steady pace of their horse uninterrupted.  

* * *

“You’ll stay at my side at all times,” Jon demands of her once they’re at the edge of town, standing beside their horse.  

She nods at him. “I will.”  

“And you’ll listen to every direction I give you.”  

Another nod. “I will.”  

Jon sighs, looking down at the makeshift scarf in his hands. “And you’ll keep this wrapped around your head the entire time. Keep your gaze low. Don’t meet anyone’s eyes. Don’t –”  

“I will,” she assures him, her hands going to grasp his.  

He looks down at their joined hands a moment, his jaw working, before he pulls from her, spreading the scarf over her head, hugging it close around her face. He wraps one end over the other, tugging it closer, tucking her hair back behind the material.  

She peers up at him, eyes unblinkingly blue.  

His hands still around her cheeks, the scarf caught in his hold, her skin warm and infinitely soft against his fingers.  

His eyes shift back and forth between hers, his lips parting.  

She doesn’t look away.  

Jon clears his throat, framing the scarf more securely around her face one last time, his eyes drifting to where his hands finally settle at the end of the scarf hanging past her breast.  

“I need you to stay close,” he gets out roughly.  

She steps into him, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I will,” she tells him, sure and without hesitation.  

Jon swallows thickly. “Okay, then,” he says. He motions her back toward the horse, his hand settling low on her waist to ready her.  “Okay, then.”  

* * *

They manage nearly the whole visit into town before Lannister mercenaries stumble upon them.  

Sansa gets her dress, and Jon gets a fresh tunic and pair of breeches. They eat a meal at the inn, and Sansa’s stomach is near bursting when they finally leave, though it’s a happy fullness that fills her. Jon gathers information from the barkeep, and then they’re preparing the horse to leave.  

It’s just on the edge of town when a band of hired Lannister men come upon them. Sansa clutches the scarf closer to her face, though it makes no difference now. Their swords are already drawn, and Jon is already hauling her up onto the horse, stuffing the reins into her hands, a frantic look up at her before he tells her, “Ride.’  “Jon, no,” she says desperately, her stomach dropping at the men slowly encircling them. 

“Ghost will bring me to you. Don’t worry. Now go!”  He shoves her horse away.  

“No!” she cries, tears hot on her lids, her hand reaching toward him.

One of their attackers races toward her, only to be toppled by Ghost’s snarling, white form, like a flash of light in the slowly growing darkness.  

Sansa screams, steadying her horse when he rears up at the unexpected attack.  

“Go!” Jon bellows, smacking the hind of her horse and setting him to a gallop.  

“Jon!” she screams back at him, her horse flying through the night.  

The sounds of clashing arms carry to her ears far longer than she thinks they should.  

* * *

Sansa paces the grass, hands wringing before her. She’s tied the horse to a nearby branch, after riding and riding for Seven knows how long. It’s pitch black along the plains around her.  

The ground crunches nearby, her attention swinging to the sound instantly as she reaches for the dagger Jon keeps in the saddle pack. She pulls it from the sheath in a single, smooth motion, though her fingers tremble along the handle while she stands waiting in the dark, her own breath filling her ears.  

Two red eyes surface in the dark, and then the blurry, white form of Ghost follows it.  

Sansa sags with relief, her breath raking from her. The sight of him brings tears to her eyes. She drops the blade, running toward the direwolf. “Oh, Ghost,” she sobs into his neck when she finally makes her way to him, arms wrapping round him. He pants at her ear, the scent of blood still at his jowls, but he lets her hold him, and for a moment, Lady is back – there, and warm, against her. Her hands grip at his scruff with a blinding mix of grief and relief and yearning.  

“Jon,” she gasps into his thick fur, pulling from him. “Where’s Jon?”

Another sound breaks through the heated silence, and she swings wide eyes toward it, watching Jon stride up behind Ghost, his figure materializing in the darkness, a hand held to his shoulder in pain.  

She launches herself toward him on instinct, flying into his arms, sobbing into his neck when he wraps an arm around her back and holds her just as tight. “Oh gods, Jon, I thought – I was so worried that – oh thank the Seven, Jon,” she cries into his skin, fingers clenching along the back of his tunic. She pulls back to look at him, eyes roving his form. “Are you hurt? Are you – ” She stops when she sees his bloodied arm, her throat going dry. “Jon...”  

“It’s nothing. But we have to move.”  

“Jon, wait, you’re wounded.”  

He’s already dragging her back to the horse, reaching down and picking up her fallen dagger, placing it back in its sheath along the saddle.  

“Jon,” she argues.  

“Dammit, Sansa, there’s no time,” he snarls at her.  

She blinks in surprise at him, stumbling to a halt beside the horse, his good hand already on her waist, ready to lift her up into the saddle. She braces trembling hands at his shoulders in response, like muscle memory, jerking one hand back when it settles along the bloodied shoulder guard of his wounded arm.  

“We have to move,” he tells her again, voice low and forceful.  

She nods tearily at him, her voice caught in her throat, and then she climbs up into the saddle, trying to ignore the grunt of pain he sounds out when he helps her up. And then he’s swinging into place behind her, both arms wrapping around her waist to reach for the reins.  

Her breath is thundering in her chest.  

“Ghost,” Jon calls out, a silent command following the name, as the direwolf races off into the darkness.  

Jon kicks his heels in, sending them flying once more.  

* * *

Jon doesn’t let up the ride for hours, not until they nearly lame their horse and Sansa is begging him to stop so she can treat his wound, tears already in her eyes.  

When he finally relents, she slips down from the horse after him. He reaches up for her, hands alighting her waist as always, but his grip isn’t firm. He sways slightly on his feet when she drops beside him. She stills, eyes blinking furiously through the late afternoon sun at him, finding him pale and clammy.  

“Jon, you’re unwell,” she says, voice wavering as she puts a hand to his forehead. She pulls it back instantly. “Seven, you’re burning up.”

He shakes his head at her, going to remove their pack from the horse. “I’ll be fine. It’s a minor wound.”  

Ghost lingers a few feet from them, head low, ears back, as he watches.  

Sansa tries to halt his unpacking of their bedrolls.  “Stop.  Just... stop.  Your wound could be infected.  I can help you clean it.”  

“If it needs cleaning, I can do it myself.”  

“You’re running a fever already, Jon, just stop being so stubborn.”  

“The fever will pass with rest.”   

“It won’t.”  

Jon throws the bedroll to the floor, eyes flashing up at her. “Then what do you expect me to do, Sansa, huh?” he growls at her.  

Ghost paws at the dirt across from them, a low whine in the back of his throat.  

“I expect you to let me clean the wound,” Sansa snaps back.  

“There isn’t time. We use what time we have to sleep, and then we’re back on the road,” he bites out.  

“I don’t care what you think there isn’t time for. You need to be taken care of before this fever gets worse.”  

“I just need rest.”  

“And I need you!” she shouts, her chest heaving with it.  

Jon’s mouth clamps shut, his eyes shifting back and forth between hers.  

Sansa’s throat bobs, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She glances down, takes a breath, lifts her head back to meet his gaze. “I need you to get me home,” she continues on a quaking voice, tears already hot along her lids. “But how can you protect me if you’re sick? How can you wield a sword in my defense if you’re trembling like this?” she asks, grasping for one of his hands, fingers tightening over his sweaty palm.  

Jon works his jaw, mouth a tight line.  

Her face softens as she licks her lips, eyes still trained on his. She doesn’t release his hand. “I want to help you, Jon.”  

His brows furrow painfully, his mouth opening but no words escape him.  

She steps closer, finally releasing his hand to settle both of hers along the laces of his jerkin. “Please, let me do this,” she whispers in the space between them.  

He goes for her wrists, halting her from undoing his jerkin, but his hold is weak – like him. His skin burns, and Sansa isn’t sure how much of that is fever.   

Her breath stills in her throat as she watches him, fingers lingering on his laces.  

Jon swallows tightly, a wetness over his eyes suddenly, his lip quivering, and the image strikes Sansa with a fierce, unrecognizable sadness.  

“I don’t... want you to see,” he croaks out, barely above a whisper. He blinks at the wetness along his eyes furiously, his hands trembling over her wrists. “I don’t want you to see what they did to me,” he gets out hoarsely, the words cracking at the end, and he has to dip his head down, unable to keep her gaze for longer.  

Her shoulders slump at his admission, that fierce sadness inside her turning sharper, burrowing deeper, until her ribs are rattling with it – anchored by a new and unforgiving ire.  

Ire at those who ever thought fit to betray her brother.  

Her hands slip from his jerkin, noting how he doesn’t undo his grip from around her wrists. “Do you think I would judge you?” she asks brokenly.  

He shakes his head, lifting his gaze to meet hers once more. A worn, resigned sigh leaves him. “I think you would comfort me,” he tells her. “And that I could bear even less.”  

Sansa’s mouth dips into a frown, her own eyes tearing. “I won’t make it without you, you know,” she says simply, her whole body slumping with the sudden truth.  

Jon stares at her, his chest slowly rising and falling. He keeps his words behind the cage of his teeth.  

“So, either you let me help you,” she gets out evenly, eyes determined on his, “Or this is it. This is as far as we go.”  

Jon closes his eyes in exhaustion. “Sansa...”  

She pulls from his grasp and winds her hands around the back of his neck, forcing him to look at her, her thumbs anchored along his jaw. “I don’t see what’s been done to you when I look at you, Jon, I just see... you. I only want to see you. Because you are more than what they’ve done to you.  You’re the man who came for me. The brother who never gave up on me. The one who promised me: no more scars.” She gives him a watery smile, her chest heaving unexpectedly when she catches his gaze falling to her lips for the briefest of moments. She shoves the feeling away, smothers the flutter in her gut. She licks her lips and continues, thumbs brushing along the edge of his jaw, his beard coarse beneath her touch. “Let’s keep that promise then, Jon. No more scars, okay?”  

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep, settles his hands over hers.  

“Please, just... let me,” she begs on an almost sob.  

It feels like eons upon eons before he finally reacts, before he’s tugging her hands from round his neck and lowering them to the laces of his jerkin once more, slow and unsure, a tentativeness to his motions that stirs every ounce of tenderness in her.  

Sansa barely manages to contain her brilliant, sob-tinged smile, broken on a hiccup, the tears welling in her eyes.  

But he doesn’t stop her anymore, his hands falling from hers in surrender when she grips at the first looped tie.  

Thus – knot by knot – she undoes him.  

* * *

Sansa manages to finish dressing the wound on his arm without abjectly staring at the holes in his chest.  Jon’s tunic lays across his lap, his bare chest beading with sweat, the grotesque stab wounds in his stomach looking eerily like they belong on a corpse – never healing and dried of blood.    

When she ties the knot in the makeshift bandage around his arm, her hands linger there a while, her eyes finally drifting back to his scars.  

“They’re disgusting, I know,” he mutters, his gaze turned from her.  

Sansa settles back on her haunches as she watches his face, a sigh leaving her.  “They’re... upsetting,” she answers.  

Jon works his jaw, his hands twisting the tunic in his lap.  “You don’t have to placate me, Sansa,” he gets out gruffly.  

Sansa wraps her arms around her legs, her chin settling on her knees as she sighs.  

Jon finally glances at her out the corner of his eyes, his hands stilling over his tunic, the tension taut in his knuckles.  

She gives him an aching look.  “Do they hurt?” she asks softly.  

Jon swallows thickly, eyes shifting back to his lap.  “Not anymore.”  

A wounded breath leaves her, her eyes slipping closed with the sound.  

Jon keeps his eyes on his knuckles.  

“How... how did you survive it?” she manages after a short struggle with the words.  

And then he lets out a rueful chuckle, his head shaking with it.  “I didn’t.”  

Sansa picks her head up from her knees as she looks at him, her brows furrowing in confusion at him.  

“When I said I gave my life for the Black, that’s exactly what I meant.”  He expels a short breath through his clenched teeth, a hand going to wipe his sweat-slicked brow.  “My men took issue with my orders, and so they disposed of me.”  

Sansa’s eyes snap wide open, a flush of alarm raking through her at the words.  She unwinds her arms from around her legs, turning to fold them underneath her instead as she leans toward him, a gentle hand at his elbow.  “Jon, what are you...?”  

He meets her eyes finally.  “Melisandre of Asshai, Stannis’ Red Priestess,” he explains.  “She brought me back.  Revived me for her Lord of Light, or some other such bullshit, I don’t know,” he grumbles out, a hand scrubbing at his brow, and then wiping down the length of his face.  He heaves a labored sigh at the words.  “I can’t rightly explain it.  And I don’t expect you to believe it, anyway.  But that’s how it went.  I was dead, and then I wasn’t.  Couldn’t find much reason after that to stay.  There was nothing left for me at the Wall, and I’d fulfilled my oaths, after all.”  He lets out another dark chuckle.  “’I pledge my life and honor’,” he mocks, shaking his head at the ancient oath.  “Guess they took that, too.”  

“They didn’t take your honor,” Sansa says vehemently – suddenly – the words leaving her before she even knows they’re on her tongue.  

Jon gives her a piqued brow in answer.  

Sansa licks her lips, considering her words, and then she’s shuffling closer, a hand settling on his knee in comfort (thought she couldn’t rightly say it was for his or hers).  “A man without honor wouldn’t have come for me,” she assures him, a fierceness lighting her words that makes her own throat go dry.  

It’s crazy – this death and resurrection business.  She’s never heard of such magic.  And surely, it’s a sin against the Seven.  It makes no sense to believe his story at all, and yet here he sits before her, the mortal wounds he’d suffered clear evidence of the act.  

And even still, more than that – more than the scars lining his chest, or the desolation in his voice at the retelling, it’s simply... him.  Jon.  

She finds herself believing if only because it’s Jon.  

(If only because a part of her has already taken it as truth – this growing trust between them.)  

“They didn’t take everything of you,” she promises him, her fervency instant and urgent.  “They didn’t take the important parts.  I know, because... because you’re here.”  She licks her lips, her pulse beating wildly beneath her flushed skin.  “And because a lesser man would have stayed in the grave.”  

Jon blinks at her, his mouth parting slightly, his brows furrowed sharply down.  

Sansa closes her eyes, a shaky sigh leaving her.  “I’m sorry, if that was... if I was...”  She clears her throat, opening her eyes once more.  “I’m sorry,” she says simply, because she cannot find any other words.  

‘Sorry.’  

For his death.  For this life anew.  For his brothers’ betrayal.  For being the task he had to undertake.  For being the sister he hadn’t wanted to save (even if he tells her otherwise).  

‘I’m sorry.’  

For ever thinking she could ease his pain.  

Sansa’s eyes water instantly, her chin trembling as she tries to hold back her sob.  “I’m so sorry,” she manages in a quaking voice.  “I’m so, so sorry, Jon.”  The tears overcome her suddenly, without warning, and without reprieve.  She braces a hand to her mouth, a sharp intake of breath rattling through her lungs as she blinks back the wetness, furiously trying to curtail her distress.  

(She thinks of his rigid body in the snow, his empty gaze trained skyward.  She thinks of Ghost’s howl in the distance.  The pool of blood gathered beneath him.  The silence of night blanketing him.  And the loneliness, the loneliness, gods the loneliness.  

As he lay dying.)  

“Hey,” he says gently, a hand going to brush the hair from her cheek.

It breaks her.  

Cleanly and abruptly.  

He reaches for her, just as she expels a staggering breath into his neck, her arms wrapping round his shoulders, tightening, and tightening, and bracing him to her, one scarred chest to another, and she practically falls into his lap, sagging against him, her fingers digging into his back as she clutches him, a hiccupped sob escaping her when she asks him, voice trembling, “Are you okay?”  

Jon actually laughs.  The sound vibrates against her own cheek, and she cries harder.  

“Are you okay?” she asks desperately.  

Jon’s laugh peters out against her shoulder, his arms firm around her.  “I’m okay,” he chuckles.  

But it’s not enough assurance.  And so, she holds him for a while longer.  

She holds him until his scars have bled into her own chest.  Until she understands that debriding a wound first means to let it die.  

* * *

She watches him through that night, making sure he doesn’t try to pull the blankets over him in his fever.  

“I’m cold,” he whines in his half-sleep, eyes squeezed shut, his breath raking from him harshly.  

But Sansa is firm, dragging the blanket from his grasp when he tries to reach for it, keeping his chest bared to the night air. She presses a cool compress to his forehead, pours a splash of water into her cupped hand, before pressing her palm against his cheek, his jaw, his neck.  

His trembles peter out well before morning, his breath evening out, his sleep finally coming easy. Sansa stays seated beside him, Ghost curled at his other side. She blinks back the exhaustion, a hand to her brow.  

The sun is nearly risen.  

Sansa glances north, the long stretch of plain half-lit in a soft blue, the sun still climbing from beneath the horizon. The wind rustles through the grass, the world waking around her.  

“Ghost,” she calls, with another press of the damp cloth to Jon’s forehead.  

The direwolf lifts his head, peering at her.  

“He needs to eat to keep his strength.”  

Ghost’s ears twitch at her words, his eyes still trained on hers.  

She nods off to the woods near them. “Go on, then. Bring back what you can.”  

He only watches her for a moment longer, before he’s rising gracefully, stretching his jaw wide with a whining yawn, shaking his shoulders out. And then he’s off, a flash of white in her periphery.  

The worst of it passes with the night.  

* * *

She’s doing her best to skin the dead fox Ghost has brought back to her, the fire already started, when Jon finally wakes.  

The image of her grimacing as she pulls the blade down the length of the carcass, her eyes squeezing shut momentarily, nearly has him laughing. But instead, he reaches for her hand, halts her in her task, sitting up along his bedroll with the blanket fallen to his lap.  

She nearly cries from her relief.  

(He isn’t entirely sure whether said relief is from his waking or from not having to prepare their morning meal, but he finds he doesn’t particularly mind either way.)  

They eat their fill and pack the bags with only a bit of fretting on Sansa’s part when he goes to hoist her up into the saddle, arguing against the use of his injured arm.  

But his strength is returned, his fever gone. And the road continues on.  

They ride out again.  

* * *

Sometime in the early afternoon, Sansa’s exhaustion finally overtakes her, having been up all night at his side. She slumps back against his chest, her head falling upon his shoulder, and Jon winds his arms tighter around her to keep her steady, keep their jostling to a minimum.   

“Are you okay?” she’d asked him the previous night.  

And it had been such a ridiculous question at the time, such an unexpected response, that he’d had no choice but to laugh.  

(Because his first instinct was to kiss her, actually, and he still isn’t sure how much of that he can blame on fever.)  

So, he laughs.  

So, he holds her tight against his chest.  

So, he keeps his longing swallowed back behind the veil of duty.  

(So, he wishes this road never ends.)  

* * *

“Robb never sent you, did he?” Sansa asks him finally, speaking their brother’s name for the first time since Jon had stolen her from King’s Landing in the night.  

He stops mid-unrolling his bed mat, crouched beside the fire. He looks up at her, but her back is to him, her hands stilled along the pack of their horse.  

He has no answer to give her.  

“I know,” she sighs out, turning finally, so that he can see her profile, her own bedroll held tight to her chest. Her eyes are dry, trained on the dark stretch of plain past their camp.  

Jon leans back on his haunches. “Sansa...”  

“You never answered me. And I don’t imagine you ever would have, either. You’re loyal to him, after all.”  

He stands, a hand wiped over his mouth. “Sansa, you need to know – he wanted to.”  

“But it wasn’t enough to want to.” She glances at him, mouth pursed tight as she tosses her bedroll to the ground beside his. “That’s clear enough now.”  

He heaves a breath, reaching for her arms to turn her more fully toward him. “Look, Sansa.” He licks his lips, his chest rising slowly and heavily at the words. “When I left the Wall, I promised myself I’d swear no other oath but to our king, to our brother, Robb. And I meant to keep that. I still do.”  

Sansa stares at him, her mouth a fine line.  

Jon sighs. “He wanted to make the trade for Jaime Lannister, but his position made that... difficult.”  

“Because Arya and I are daughters, not sons.”  

Jon frowns, knowing he can’t refute her statement, even though he wants to. Even though he wants to wrap his arms around her and tell her that she is worth any trade, any deal, that brings her back to them, that keeps her safe and whole and with them.  

Even though he wants to tell her how angry he’d been with Robb when he’d yielded to his advisors on the account.  

“So, why are you here?” she asks eventually, eyes shifting between his.  

Jon’s hands slip from her arms, the breath raking from him. “Because even if Robb couldn’t officially sanction a rescue, we knew there was no other choice.”  

Sansa narrows her eyes at him, pensive. “’We’?”  

“Your mother and I,” he answers on a sigh.  

Her brows shoot into her hairline. “My mother sent you for me?”  

“Not... exactly,” he says.  

She gives him an expectant look, arms crossing over her chest.  

“I came upon her attempting to release Jaime Lannister.”  

Sansa cocks her head at him, her brows furrowed. “She went against Robb’s order?”  

“For you? Of course, she did.”  

Sansa swallows thickly, her gaze falling from his, her fingers clenching along her arms. She’s silent for many moments, just breathing, eyes trained on his shoulder, before she looks back up at him. Her voice is steady and quiet when she asks him. “What happened?”  

“I offered to come for you instead. I knew that releasing Jaime Lannister would be considered treason, even if it was your mother who did it. Robb wouldn’t be able to forgive her, not publicly, at least, not without losing the support of the lords. And yet, we couldn’t just... leave you or Arya.” He heaves a sigh. “It seemed the best option for everyone involved. Robb couldn’t make the trade without risking political backlash, your mother couldn’t risk weakening his authority by helping Ser Jaime escape, and you and Arya couldn’t remain as captives of our enemies, or tools of their vengeance.”  

“And you?” she asks anxiously, eyes imploring on his as she takes a step closer, her arms falling back to her sides.  

Jon clenches his jaw, brows furrowing at the sudden recollection of those few days in Robb’s camp before he’d headed south. “Me?” he asks, throat tight. He shakes his head, a resigned smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “I was already dead once. I didn’t really have anything left to lose except family.”  

Sansa sucks a sharp breath through her teeth, never looking away from him.  

His half-hearted smile drops, his eyes shifting between hers. “Father told us, didn’t he? To take care of each other. Well, looks like winter’s here. And I’m tired of being a lone wolf. Aren’t you?”  

Sansa laughs then, teary and broken off, a hand going to her nose as she tries to smother her sniffles. “Aye,” she says in agreement, nodding, “I am.”  

“A pack starts with two, after all, doesn’t it?”  

Sansa blinks at him, a tenderness branching across her features, and a warmth blossoms in his chest at the sight. “Yes,” she answers breathlessly, her hand falling from her face. “Yes, it does.”  

He doesn’t tell her that he’d have gone anyway, with or without Catelyn Stark’s gratitude, with or without Robb’s silent pleading.  

He doesn’t tell her that he regrets it now – not coming sooner.  

He died up at the Wall, after all.  

And perhaps a part of her died back in King’s Landing.  

(Both of them, too young for such death.)  

But winter is about preservation, about patience, about fortitude. And the farther north they trek, the harsher the wind.  

(Like Father said, he thinks.)  

Jon almost reaches for her hand.  

Almost.  

His hand tingles at her missing warmth.  

(Because a pack starts with two.)  

* * *

When they ride, his hands rest atop her thighs, the reins in his grip, her back settling against his chest.  They mold to each other, seamlessly.  

His breath stays always at her ear.  

If she only turned – just a breath –   

But Jon swallows back the thought, his knuckles going white over the reins.  

The weight of her against his chest never lessens.

* * * 

Sansa can’t sleep. She lays staring up at the stars instead. She isn’t brave enough to glance at Jon beside her, to know whether he lays awake just the same as she.  

But with her eyes trained skyward, with her breath stilled in her chest, with her heart hammering against her ribs – she's only just brave enough to stretch out her hand.  

Her fingers light upon his hand, tentative and trembling.  

He doesn’t move, doesn’t respond.  

She lets the air fill her lungs in a long, steady gulp, and then lets it flood from her in a single rush. Her hand curls more surely around his.

She stays holding his hand in the dead of night for many long minutes.  

Just before sleep overtakes her, Jon turns his hand beneath hers, bracing his palm to hers.  

Sansa blinks back the drowsiness, a sudden alertness lighting her bones.  

Jon threads his fingers through hers, gripping her back.  

She breathes low – tight – once, and then again.  

She turns to him.  

His eyes are skyward, but his grip is sure, unmistakable.  

(Even in the dark.)  

She can’t take her eyes from him, she finds – breathless at the realization.  

His thumb grazes her knuckles, the heat searing in its intimacy.  

(Because even in the dark, their hands have learned to find one another.  

Because even in the dark, they have learned to hold on.)

[morewoe]

The  fates,  spinning  golden  thread  on  their  spindle.  The  banshee  in  a  tree,  pointed  finger  and  screeching.  The  church  grim,  red  eyes  in  the  dark  across  a  foggy  field.

TW:  nightmares,  pregnancy,  injury,  death

Myranda  Karstark,  Lady  of  Karhold

Myranda  finds  herself  back  where  she  began,  at  the  gates  of  Karhold  with  nothing  to  her  name  but  the  cloak  around  her  shoulders.  She  passes  through  the  gates  into  the  courtyard  she  grew  in,  and  it's  like  none  of  it  ever  happened.  Like  she  never  left  at  all.  She  passes  the  same  familiar  faces,  and  eats  the  same  food,  takes  her  horse  down  familiar  paths,  lingers  in  the  same  shadows  she  had  since  she  was  knee  high.  She  tells  herself  her  time  in  King's  Landing  did  not  change  her.  The  irony  is  not  lost  on  her,  that  in  her  eagerness  to  prove  useful  to  her  family,  she  nearly  lost  everything.

She  seeks  comfort  in  the  same  place  she  did  as  a  child,  at  the  base  of  the  weirwood  tree,  and  under  watchful  eye  she  feels  safe.  She  sleeps  less  and  less,  dreams  filled  with  smoke  and  scales,  dark  rings  under  eyes  making  her  look  even  more  the  ghost  that  haunts  Karhold,  instead  spending  nights  wandering  the  halls,  the  Godswood,  anywhere  she  can,  until  she  falls  asleep  as  the  sun  starts  to  rise.  She  should  feel  safe  here,  should  sleep  well  knowing  the  dragons  would  not  follow,  but  the  stone  walls  that  surround  her  no  longer  feel  as  sturdy.

She  writes  to  the  new  friends  she  made,  long  letters  that  make  life  sound  more  idyllic,  softer.  They  tell  of  family  coming  together  in  time  of  need,  and  make  her  sound  stronger  than  she  is.  It  is  a  lie  she  allows  herself,  with  no  one  to  contradict  her.  The  raven  to  Bear  Island  is  the  one  that  flies  the  most,  though  she  tells  self,  and  maester,  that  it  is  simply  concern  for  welfare.  The  attack  was  hard  on  them  all,  and  she  worries  about  those  she  left  behind  in  her  eagerness  to  return  to  the  safety  of  youth.

When  the  invitation  arrives,  Myranda  knows  what  she  must  do.  She  is  sent  with  the  same  mission  as  last  time,  to  use  marriage  to  forge  alliance  that  would  advance  House  Karstark,  and  though  the  thought  is  less  appealing  to  her  than  ever,  she  knows  she  will  do  as  she  is  bid.  She  makes  the  long  journey  south,  eyes  ever  watching  the  sky,  always  fearful  of  what  she  may  find.

Amos  Tully,  Lord Heir  of  Riverrun

Amos  keeps  himself  busy,  because  the  alternative  might  send  him  mad.  Sitting  with  the  knowledge  of  how  close  they  came  to  destruction,  it  makes  him  feel  weaker  than  the  Tully's  the  came  before,  who  had  the  good  foresight  to  leave  the  capitol,  when  things  started  going  south.  Of  course,  that  line  of  thought  is  not  productive,  and  he  has  enough  to  fill  his  time  without  wasting  thought  on  the  past.  With  both  wife  and  sister  injured,  he  does  what  he  does  best,  and  organises.  He  funds  the  maester,  anything  he  needs,  spare  no  expense,  and  then  has  another  sent  to  him  by  the  Vale,  and  finally  feels  safe  enough  to  leave  either  bedside  for  long  enough  to  check  on  the  tentative  allies  he  seems  to  have  made.  It  is  costly,  but  his  father  is  easily  convinced  that  it  is  worth  it.

And  then,  to  both  his  joy  and  utter  terror,  Syrena  announces  she  is  with  child.  He  is  elated  at  the  news,  for  how  could  he  not  be?  He  imagines  a  child  as  spirited  as  his  wife  on  better  days,  imagines  teaching  them  to  fish,  sitting  them  on  his  knee  and  telling  them  stories.  On  worse  days,  he  frets  about  how  he  may  fall  short.  He  starts  to  become  more  fearful,  there  are  days  where  he  feels  he  barely  knows  what  he  is  doing,  and  he  is  supposed  to  raise  a  child?

He  questions  internally  about  withdrawing  his  application  to  be  Hand.  It  was  one  thing,  in  the  Red  Keep,  in  a  time  of  purported  peace,  to  sit  by  the  monarch,  but  after  the  attack,  he  thinks  of  the  danger  it  would  put  his  family  in.  It  does  not  make  the  draw  of  power  less  appealing,  but  a  voice  in  the  back  of  his  mind  is  unflinching  in  it's  whispered  doubts.

When  the  invitation  arrives,  he  wastes  no  time  in  packing  his  things,  and  travelling  with  Syrena  to  Highgarden.  The  vulnerability  of  travel  makes  him  nervous,  but  most  things  make  him  nervous  these  days,  and  so  an  unflinching  pace  is  set.  He  tells  himself  that  all  will  make  itself  more  clear,  once  he  is  back  in  the  swing  of  court.  As  much  as  he  would  like  to  stay  in  the  safety  of  Riverrun,  he  cannot  help  but  be  drawn  to  the  potential  of  the  court,  and  besides,  there  are  people  outside  of  his  small  bubble  he  needs  to  check  on.

Gysella  Lannister,  Lady  of  Casterly  Rock

Gysella's  wounds  are  more  visible,  much  to  her  utter  dismay.  She  had  woken  in  a  panic  to  smoke,  disorientating  and  dizzying,  in  a  keep  not  her  own,  so  not  as  well  known.  In  her  haste  to  escape  the  fire,  no  matter  what  she  ran  towards,  she  found  herself  falling,  so  much  dust  and  smoke  in  the  air  she  cannot  see  what  is  two  feet  in  front  of  her  face.  She  lands  first  on  her  chest,  catching  a  piece  of  debris  that  knocks  the  air  from  her  lungs  and  makes  her  wheeze,  and  when  she  can  finally  breathe  again,  that  is  when  she  notices  her  leg.  At  first,  she  thinks  it  broken,  and  all  hope  lost.  She  pushes  and  claws  and  fights,  and  yet  it  will  not  hold  her  weight,  even  as  she  leans  against  a  wall,  and  she  makes  little  progress.  All  hope  lost,  until  unknown  person  pulls  her  arm  over  their  shoulder,  and  together  they  hobble  from  the  wreckage  of  the  Keep.

Maesters  confine  her  to  a  bed.  They  tell  her  the  leg  is  not  broken,  the  muscle  torn.  They  warn  her  that  attempting  to  move  could  lead  to  it  never  healing  correctly,  and  the  fear  keeps  her  in  bed,  though  not  without  complaint.  She's  a  sullen  creature,  prone  to  bouts  of  anger  and  frustration.  She  insists  all  news  be  brought  to  her  directly,  and  scours  the  lists  of  injured  and  dead  like  they  are  a  lifeline.  As  much  as  she  thought  she  wanted  the  heir  to  Pyke  dead,  it  was  hard  to  deny  that  even  she  thought  it  an  unfitting  end.  They  were  friends  once,  after  all.

She  considers  commandeering  the  first  ship  to  the  Iron  Islands,  to  see  for  herself  the  people  she  used  to  hold  so  dear  to  her  heart  were  unhurt.  It  did  not  dull  the  anger  she  still  felt,  she  wasn't  sure  if  anything  would,  but  it  put  it  into  perspective,  a  larger  picture  than  just  her  personal  vendetta.  She  wanted  him  laid  low,  but  only  by  her  own  hand.  Nothing  else  would  do.  Of  course,  she  is  in  no  shape  to  leave.  Eventually,  it  doesn't  hurt  to  breathe,  though  she  still  thinks  something  may  not  have  healed  quite  right.  Every  now  and  then  there's  a  twinge  in  her  chest.  Not  fear,  of  course.  Her  blood  was  iron,  and  she  did  not  feel  fear.  Not  now,  not  then,  not  ever.

Paranoia  is  a  flavour  she  is  used  to  on  her  tongue.  If  the  Red  Keep  was  a  target,  who's  to  say  the  other  great  houses  weren't  also  in  danger?  When  court  is  reconvened  in  Highgarden,  she  almost  considers  remaining  on  the  Rock.  Almost.  Instead,  she  leaves  for  the  Reach  without  complaint.

TL;DR

Myranda  has  more  outwardly  facing  anxiety,  panic  attacks  and  nightmares  that  have  made  previous  insomnia  a  thousand  times  worse.  Amos  internalised  all  of  it  and  is  telling  himself  he's  over  it,  with  everything  new  in  his  life,  but  he's  really  just  ignoring  the  problem.  Gysella  is  more  internal  in  her  strife,  because  her  previously  accepted  anger  feels  a  lot  pettier  than  it  did  before  death  and  she  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  it  all.

[nyrasbloodyclover]

the great war (aemond targaryen x oc)

masterlist (read the warnings!!)

a/n: tw for this chapter!

3. the wedding

They were packed and ready to leave for Riverrun. Her father was waiting for her beside their carriage. She walked up to him and gave him a small smile— something to make him sure of her agreement.

The weather was foggy and cold. She could barely feel her fingers underneath the gloves, but the coat made up for it.

Just as she wanted to step into carriage, something brushed her dress. She looked down only to find her direwolf— Iris standing beside.

Reila kneeled to pet her and say her goodbyes, when her father said, "She's going with you don't worry."

That sparked a sense of happiness in her, and sort of relief. So she quickly went into carriage, along with her father and they were on their way.

•

The wedding ceremony would be held in a week. They were traveling for the last three days and she felt exhausted. 

Her father looked troubled but she didn't want to press. Reila knew that sooner or later most of the Westeros is going to be turned into battlefield.

"I'm proud of you, my child." Cregan broke the silence that spread around them.

"It's the least I can do for us," she took his hand and looked at the sky outside the carriage. The sun was setting fast which immediately made her feel tired. 

•

When Reila looked up she felt happy. It must be the same as being happy. But she was certain that she found a distraction from her mother's death that would help her cope.

The dresses, the cakes, all the small talk and endless hours of preperation exhausted her to the bone.

She was standing in front of a mirror, looking at her reflection. 

Her hair was partially up, decorated with small beads that matched with her white dress. It felt wrong to wear such color when she was grieving, but she had no other choice. It was embroidered with gold thread around the collar and skirt.

The maids helped her tie the corset and made her hair perfect for today. She was sad that she was leaving her family and home behind, but maybe change was good. Maybe it would help her overcome the loss.Final touch were the white gloves.

She was ready to go, but one of the maids reached for her hand.

"The necklace, my lady." she said, handing her the emerald stones.

Reila hesitated for a second. It was your mother's dying wish, she scorned herself. Uncertain, she reached for the jewels. She wanted to put it herself.

"Thank you. You can go now." She bowed and left Reila in her room. Technically it was her for now. 

Reila managed to clasp the necklace behind her neck then she looked at the final product. She was as beautiful as ever. The perfect bride. 

She realized that this meant accepting the Faith of the Seven. Tully's had the godswood but decided to accept the Seven as their religion.

She thought of their first day at Riverrun. It was calm. That's the best word she could use. Kermit smiled when he saw her and his father made sure we were settled comfortably.

They also foumd a place for Iris to stay which made Reila feel even more welcome.

Cregan Stark was waiting in front of her door with teary eyes that made Reila want to cry too. Tonight, everything is going to change. 

•

The Septon was an old man. Reila stood in front of her soon-to-be husband as she felt the gaze of every person in this room on her shoulders. Kermit Tully was much taller than her. His almost red hair matched the light of the candles that were practically everywhere. The Septon began speaking.

"You may cloak the bride and bring her under your protection." Reila turned and felt hard fabric of the said cloak on her shoulders. When she turned, the Septon continued.

"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife..."

She read of the Faith of the Seven during their trip. They were supposed to hold hands and the Septon would tie them together, representing their  union.

"Let it be know that Lady Reila of the House Stark and Lord Kermit of the House Tully are one heart, one flesh, one soul."

She was at peace right now, but she desperately wanted to see her mother in the crowd of these strangers. Reila wanted her final approval, which, of course wasn't going to come.

Now was the time for them to speak.

"Father, Smith, Warrior," Kermit and Reila began simultaneously, "Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger."

Kermit continued, "I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days."

Reila repeated the beautiful vows and they kissed. Rhaenyra better win this war.

•

The music, the food, sweets and meat and wine, loud chatter and the dance— all made her feel like she belonged here. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad. Reila knew her mother would be happy to see her happy, so she made a promise to herself that's going to be her goal tonight.

After hours of feasting and talking with the Tully's it was time for the final ceremony which made Reila a bit uncomfortable. The bedding.

She barely spoke to her mother about it, so her knowledge was minimal. She didn't know what to expect, but she was ready to perform her duty without question.

That was when Kermit came to her. "I have to speak with you. Privately."

She excused herself and went with him. She doubted that he was as nervous as she was.

They were in a abandoned hallway. She didn't know where it led and was curious to find out, but that had to wait.

"What did you want to speak about?" She asked him. Reila felt as if he was towering over her, but payed no attention to it.

"The bedding ceremony, my dear wife."

Her cheeks reddened. "What about it?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure you know how it's performed, the basics at least. But The Seven require that they watch us. To be certain the marriage is consumed properly."

Reila panicked. She wasn't sure she was okay with that. "Could we..avoid it somehow?"

"If you insist...I could show you a way."

She was completely clueless to what he was saying. Her mind wasn't working like it was supposed to.

"What way?" She asked but didn't even get to process the question herself before he started kissing her. It wasn't patient nor gentle. She hissed at one point, realizing he bit her. Reila felt unpleasant. He was practically attacking her mouth with his, wanting to slip his tongue inside, but she wouldn't let him. It was all so sudden.

"Could you stop?" She gasped between his kisses.

"I don't think so." Then he went lower and did the same with her neck. He wasn't biting this time, Reila noticed. She desperately wanted to get out of there and go find her father tell him about this, do anything to make this right, make him stop, but his grasp was hard.

He gripped her hands violently, so that she couldn't move, and began playing with her skirt. "Make a sound and I'll skin your wolf before you." She went rigid. Her eyes filled with panic, realizing this is serious and this is happening—to her.

He pushed them in one of the rooms and locked the doors. Could it be hers? She couldn't even see how it looked like because he turned her around and her face met the soft mattress. She felt him lifting her skirts and she choked back a sob that was threatening to unravel.

If she starts crying she wouldn't be able to stop, so she held back tears as long as she could. Then he buried himself in her and everything ached and burned. She wasn't able to move anymore. He was careful not to ruin her hair or rip apart her dress. She felt horrible pain between her legs that he had no intention of soothing. Over and over again he went in and out her at one pace that made her want to rip her throat with screams. But she couldn't.

Nobody would believe her. If she talked to Lord Tully he would probably dismiss her or not even pay attention. She could tell the maids but what was the point? They couldn't help her. And she had no intention of burdening her father with this. War is coming. He has bigger problems.

The night dissolved into nothingness. She didn't know how long passed, but the voices weren't there and neither was her husband. She was alone, finally and when she looked around she realized that she's in her room. He raped her on her own bed and just walked away.

She got up as fast as she could and moved from the bed looking at it like something filthy. Her legs ached and when she glanced back at the bed, stains of blood were covering it. 

Reila covered her mouth with her hands, careful not to cry too loud. Tears were dripping down her cheeks to her neck as she quickly stepped out of her gown, only to see dried blood in between her legs. 

She fell then crawled to the bathroom, and tried to get rid of the blood, to make herself feel human again. 

[indigoraysoflight]

14 or 28 for Ned and catelyn whichever you prefer. Thank you.

Hey nonny! Here you go ♥️

14. Airplane

Thundering heartbeat pounded through the silence. Beads of sweat soaked through the cotton shirt. Seatbelt taut around the waist. The plane started whirring, groaning, buzzing louder and louder—

"Do you want to hold my hand?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure-"

"-yes"

"But-"

"-no."

The plane jerked forward.

Ned clutched Catelyn's hand tightly, breathed in sharply, and pressed back in his seat.

His shame hit him in full force a moment later but he didn't let go as the noise of the plane filled the space and blocked his ears.

It's fine. I'm fine. It's fine.

It's bad enough that he'd been forced to stay in the godsforsaken muggy heat of Riverrun for a week to deal with the Tullys when he could've spent that time with Jory, Lya and Ben up north in the crisp, cold Winterfell summer – but enduring two long flights in on top of that? That was pure torture. Thanks to his dumbass brother who decided to get too flirty with the oldest Tully daughter in front of her father.

The staunchly religious Hoster Tully flat out refused to host Brandon while his daughters were still under his roof "no matter how lucrative their business alliance was". So their father had sent him – the only bad flyer in the family – to Riverrun to secure the business deal by any means possible.

So the ever protective Hoster Tully had saddled Ned with the duty of safely escorting the oldest Tully girl back to Winter Town where she was finishing her PhD at WinterU. Their acquaintance had zigzagged between witty comebacks and polite conversations about the weather – both kept each other at arms length, humoured each other for their parents sake and neither tried to hide it.

Aaaand now Ned broke that unspoken pact and embarrassed himself by clutching her hand like a terrified little boy watching "the exorcist" for the first time. But for the life of him he couldn't let go as long as the plane kept getting faster and making those loud noises. He was going to punch Brandon when he got home.

I'm a Stark, damn it, I'm not afraid of this plane taking off and immediately crashing into the ground and exploding. Ned took another deep breath. In his periphery, Catelyn bit her lip to curb her smile.

"Shut up."

But it just made her laugh. Catelyn turned to him now with impossibly blue eyes, auburn curls escaping her twisted bun, and the flush in her cheeks spreading down to her collarbones. She placed her other hand on top of his.

"Close your eyes and hold on to me – it'll be over soon. My mother was a bad flyer too." Her voice barely audible over the sound of the plane lifting off.

Ned let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing only on the warmth of her hands around his own. Idly thinking about how slender and small her hands seemed compared to his. Then suddenly the noises stopped, they were up in the air and he opened his eyes.

The sun was bright and warm through the window. He turned to her to thank her but his words crumbled on his lips.

The sunlight threaded through her hair and tangled into the curls and set them alight. Tendrils of auburn kissed by fire curled around her face. The light bounced off the blue pools of her eyes. The flush in her cheek deepened.

"See? All good. You'll be home in no time." Catelyn gave him a reassuring smile.

"Yeah. Home." That was all he could manage.

Ned's heartbeat calmed down. The beads of sweat dried on his shirt. The sounds of the plane faded in the background. The seatbelt light blinked off. He no longer felt afraid. His hand still clasped with Catelyn's.

But he didn't let go and neither did she.

[self-shipping-doll13]

Still Awake

Word Count: 1.1k

Cw: Sleep Issues, Hinted at Power Imbalance

Outside, the wind howled like a frenzied beast, raging through our tiny window. Heavy rain lashed furiously against the glass, accompanied by growls of deep, guttural thunder. Every so often I would see a bright, searing flash of lightning, illuminating our bedchambers for only half a second before it was gone. I lay there, silent, warm, safe. Autumn storms - the kind I feared would shipwreck us on the journey here - but I was warm, and I was safe. 

Wasn’t I? Protected by a jutting finger of weathered stone and mortar. Petyr called it ‘Drearfort.’ 

Lighting struck again. His eyes were open, too.

“Awake, still.” He tutted softly.

“So are you,” I whispered back. “You always are.”

Petyr’s lips curled in a smile, which I returned through the darkness. There was a rustling of bedsheets as his hand slid upwards, and his fingers threaded smoothly through my hair. I actually went limp on reflex. I might’ve purred, like some doted on, pampered cat. 

“I can tell, sweetling.” He said after a while, quiet. “Pretending, you breathe evenly, slow and measured. But when you’re truly asleep, you’re quite restless.”

“Oh. Don’t tell me I kick you?” I tried not to sound too mortified. 

“No.” Petyr hummed, low with an undertone of laughter. “You do struggle. As if you’re trying to run away from me… So I hold you gently. Like this.” He snaked his arms beneath me, over, encasing. Possessive but gentle, holding me down. 

The storm only deepened as the night continued on, but it didn’t reach us wrapped in our cocoon of furs. My kitten’s soft body lay atop the place where our legs intertwined together. Silent and warm. Safe. I drifted off, but only briefly. The lightning sparked in another brilliant flash, and his eyes were still open. They gleamed silver, like two coins. Like a wolf’s. 

“Tell me a story,” I murmured. “About you.” 

“Me?” He said, far too amused. 

“Yes. I feel like I still know nothing.” 

It wasn’t a lie. Petyr kept his secrets near to heart, expertly redirecting and then directing conversation. Although he was given to the occasional impulse. 

“Well,” he said. “Now you know where I was born. Humble beginnings for such a humble man. You can see why I’m not too fond of the place, I’m sure.“ 

I most definitely could, though he still refused to tell me why he’d returned in the first place. With myself in tow, still freshly wed and at his mercy, wondering if he’d ever fulfil his promise to bring me to the Eyrie. But even I could tell Petyr’s stay here was tinged with a reluctance, disparaging the small, desolate tower as ‘not suitable for my lady.’ Which I took to also including the unspoken: ‘not good enough for me.’ 

“I don’t know as much as I’d like,” I rephrased, huffing. 

“Hm. Why the sudden question, my love?” He asked. I imagined his raised brow. “I do hope this burning curiosity of yours isn’t what you’re losing sleep over.” I hid my face. I’d piqued his interest now, which meant I’d not escape without a healthy dose of teasing. 

“Is it really that strange that I’m curious?” I paused, trying to get over my embarrassment. I knew I was giving him what he wanted now. “As your wife I ought to know you better, shouldn’t I? I’d really like to get to know you better, Petyr.” And that also wasn’t a lie. 

“That’s very sweet of you,” he said lightly, smugly. “And you are rarely so forthright with your desires. So I will tell you one story, and then you will rest. Yes?” 

I nodded, relaxing. At our feet, the kitten stretched. 

“Let’s see…” Petyr thought for a moment, slipped his hand back to stroke his beard, and chuckled again. “I was raised as a ward in Riverrun. But you know that already, don’t you?” I remained silent. He’d divulged several details of his stay in Riverrun to me - perhaps one of those occasional impulses. The memory recalled vague discomfort.

He continued on. “When you see what the lap of luxury can offer you, nothing else will satisfy…” Then Petyr licked his lips, a gesture I knew all too well. “Riverrun was… Emblematic of all I desired. To me - vastly preferable to an isolated rock flooded with sheepshit. But I am getting away from myself. Nearby, there was an orchard full of apple trees. Dozens of them, hundreds, I think. Shiny red and green apples - not up to the standard of Reach-bred perfection, but fresh and tart and lovely. Like you, my darling.” He squeezed me, and I squirmed, unable to contain a bashful smile.

“But I was a small boy,” Petyr explained. “If I wanted my apples, I had to climb high and shake hard to dislodge them. I might reach out and pluck a few to a basket, yes, but why not claim them all?” He sighed. I tried to imagine Petyr as a child, but I was unable to picture him without the moustache. “Ah, why are you laughing? In my young eyes, the land was mine, the apple tree was mine. It was a simpler greed.” 

He quieted and left it there, hanging on a thread. Petyr had just evaded my question - telling me nothing of substance, really - amusing anecdote though it was. But perhaps in some ways that was for the best. A particularly violent gust of wind slammed against the windowpane and made me jump, forcing down a thick shower of rain as heavy as hailstones. By then, I’d fallen prey to a different unease: 

Winter was coming. Certain and swift as death. Lying there, I thought of all the apple trees in the world shrouded in a blanket of fallen snow. Of the bounty of the Reach, brittle and barren, Northern blizzards whirling in shards of ice, rivers frozen solid. Of my ancestral mountains, where roars of thunder resounded like the dying groans of slain giants. 

“Try and sleep.” As if sensing my disquiet, Petyr leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “Of all my habits, do not emulate this one. I will keep guard for lions.” 

The Lannisters… Every so often he would remind me of what I’d put behind me. Yes, I had much to be grateful for… I was safe. Wasn’t I? Protected. I nuzzled into the crook of his neck, feeling his pulse there, warm blood stirring; a heart pumping faster than I expected. The soothing hand curled fingers at the ends of my hair and traced gently down my spine, resting at my hip.

Like that, Petyr held me until daybreak.

Dividers by @/sligheach-sidhe

[strangesmallbard]

Three sentence fic: Catelyn x Cersei

The letter was addressed to Cersei.

Not her king nor her lord father or the imp usurping his position at court, whom all customs dictate should receive this offer. Sealed with the red-and-blue trout of Tully, her own name became a mockery in looped, delicate script. Cersei crumpled the letter between two fingers and thought to send a servant to fetch Sansa. Your mother wrote you from Riverrun, sweetling. She sends word of your brother. As the girl’s wide Tully eyes filled with gratitude tears, Cersei would toss the letter into the hearth and watch her charge struggle to concoct a pretty platitude.

She broke its seal instead. In the end, Catelyn Stark placed this delicate dove in the palm of Cersei’s hand and asked her to feel its little heart beating the pace of war drums. In the end, the letter was addressed to her.

The skies above the Red Keep were clear and blue on the day Cersei saw the fruits born lush and ripe and red. She wore a fine cloth-of-gold gown with myrish lace, while Lady Stark stepped outside the carriage still donned her heavy brown winter cloak. Her face was a ghostly mockery of the serene woman standing beside Ned Stark in Winterfell. Lined and empty—until she met Cersei’s gaze. Then, she hated.

Cersei’s breath quickened. Months spent waiting for Sansa Stark to crumple and her mother was the loose thread all along. She waited to feel the triumph like the blood of a lioness’ first kill, hot and sweet. But Catelyn Stark didn’t blink. Even when she allowed her ugly companion to remove her cloak, revealing her rounded belly.

“Where are my daughters?” Catelyn Stark barks. “We had an agreement!” She tries to lurch forward, but her ugly companion holds her back. She fixes Cersei with a judging stare, huge teeth snarled and pimply forehead wrinkled.

Cersei only smiled. She stepped forward. Her entourage stepped with her. “Waiting most eagerly for their mother, Lady Stark. But first…” She beckoned for Maester Pycelle, who bowed low and made to approach Ned Stark’s widow.

The ugly woman reached for a sword belt. Cersei’s lip curled. “Maester Pycelle is simply confirming your claim, Lady Stark. I’m certain you understand why we cannot trust the words of maesters who serve traitors to the realm.”

After a silent conversation, the sword belt was left alone. The ugly woman faded into the background as Catelyn stepped forward, still glaring and glaring. She didn’t flinch when Maester Pycelle pressed probing fingers onto the cradle where her child grew. He bowed his head toward Cersei to confirm the obvious and returned to her rows of servants, fading too.

Queen and hostage crossed the courtyard. All at once, Cersei was met with wind-struck red cheeks and red, red hair and the memory of a young girl’s laugh in a godswood. Jaime, that’s not how you play Come Into My Castle! You’re as bad as Petyr!

Catelyn’s gaze cut beside her, then returned just as quickly. “I’m surprised the Imp isn’t here. We still have matters to discuss.”

Such insolence. Cersei almost called for Ilyn Payne and Ned Stark’s broadsword, but she took his wife’s hand instead. “Tyrion is handling matters in the city today, my lady. He’ll see you when he returns.” The little monster will enjoy seeing you in the chains. “In the meantime, you and I have much to discuss as well.” She let her gaze fall. “You’re carrying low,” she murmured. She reached out a hand to Catelyn’s belly and kept it there.

Lady Stark startled like her daughter might have done, but only for a moment. Cersei watched, enthralled, as she maintained the hate in every line of her face, in the tightening muscles of her hand. She wanted to claw Cersei’s throat out, but she could only struggle in the air for the right words. Her face flushed prettily and Cersei felt a sharp, strong kick into her palm.

She gasped and let warm breath spill out of her mouth to hide the memory of Joffrey kicking just like this, when Cersei thought he would split her in half. But outside her own feeble body, the kick seemed stronger still. Is this how Robert felt before he fled her side for a hunt? Did he imagine twenty years into the future, when the boy could decide where to aim his first blow?

“If it please Her Grace,” Catelyn gritted, “I should like to see my daughters now.”

“Of course. You must rest as well—the babe is most discontent with the long journey.”

The babe kicked again. Ned Stark’s heir, all Cersei’s to shape and break and mend, over and over again, The Father’s knowing hand stroking true. One day, Tywin will see the boy silent in a nurse’s arms while his mother supplicated before the Iron Throne, her son tall and strong underneath his gold crown. Her lord father will not look at her way across the dais; such things show the common folk a weak Hand. But Tywin would smile.

For this prophecy to come true and damn the other to the seven outs of hell, however, Catelyn Stark must break. Cersei stared until Catelyn appeared to finally remember what her Septas taught and inclined her head. Only then did Cersei remove her hand from Catelyn’s belly and fold their arms together. They walked towards Maegor’s Holdfast as might a pair of girlhood companions, without all the silly gossip and giggling. When Jaime is free, I’ll tell Cat she kissed me in the godswood that day. Not him. Never him.

When they arrived at the barren moat that separated the holdfast from everywhere else, Cersei stopped abruptly. She released a saddened sigh and adorned a devastated expression. She savored every moment of Catelyn’s confusion as it unfurled into fear. Then she dealt the killing blow herself. “My dear lady…I’m afraid I have some dreadful news about sweet little Arya.”

[casimirtully]

setting: a secret force of 100 Second Sons have quietly departed Riverrun the night of The Fifth Feast, with plans to attack The Quiet Isle following night. That morning, before The Sixth Feast, King Casimir has come to the Mooton quarters to speak to Jalabhar privately about the idea of a covert assignment while they await the impending bloodshed…

@jalabharmooton

he is anxious. family murdered, and though he feels the loss, he knows it is nothing compared to what the lord of maidenpool feels.

while the women closest to casimir live, those closest to jalabhar no longer do. he’ll never forget the look on his face when he told him.

“there are many things we need to speak on,” he says from across the table. “and we will. all of it.” how do you apologize? for this?

“but i wish for you to get your justice. your revenge — whatever payment the memory of your daughters demand.”

he pauses, eyebrows drawing together. "at the quiet isle, i can attack cleanly. openly. the ships that test the blockade.” on his terms, on his land, where they made the rules. but to avoid outright war, he couldn’t risk sending his men against a country with a slave army.

“…and when the fire of slaughter burns, shadows grow long. emiliee’s letters — they had names… i want them paranoid. i want them to think they’re next. until the price is repaid.” he looks at him, long. “what would that entail?”

[nicholaslannisters]

setting: riverrun, the riverlands. the queen’s ball during lithia, the annual summer solstice celebration. the heir of lannisport, accompanying his parents, finds himself on the dance floor with house tully’s youngest princess.  @mellaratully

His lady mother had, blessedly, lessened her constant conversation of marriage since arriving at Riverrun. The entirety of the carriage ride had consisted of it — quickly becoming so unbearable, that Nicholas Lannister had found himself astride his horse rather than suffering it for the last leg of the journey. 

His aunt had been at the courtyard upon their arrival. Another blessing, it seemed. Lady Cordelia Lannister had quickly been scooped up by her sister, Lady Ryger, and his father off to shake hands. He would be safe for the time being. 

Only for the time being. For when the sun went down, and the wine and whiskey started flowing like The Trident itself — he was in trouble. If his mother liked to talk, she liked to talk even more when sharing a drink with her sister. 

It was how he had found himself before Princess Mellara, the second born in the matched set of red-headed Tully girls. She was not unknown to him — Nicholas had visited his Ryger family many times, and spent many such holidays in Riverrun’s great feasting hall. But where he thought of Casimir Tully as a formidable man — though unwilling to take what was rightfully his — his youngest sister was… 

“She has a b—“ 

“Manners, Nicky darling."

Translation -- no matter what was said, she was still royal-blodded.

His mother, though she had pushed forward many riverish ladies, had seemed tense as of late. Lady Cordelia had a deep sense of love for The Riverlands — but she had fallen in love with Tysen Lannister at a young age. She had spent more of her years in The Westerlands than she had in her homeland. She was as well aware of their King’s opinions on riverish ladies as he was. Agreed with them —  but that would not stop her from presenting what she considered an accomplished son, nor would it stop her from making sure Nicholas was never viewed as anything less than. 

He much preferred brushing one of his horses to this mess of unspoken politics... where his thoughts might freely wonder to other things. Like how close the coat of the new black mare he'd collected was to his new favorite shade of onyx -- how he might find a way to compare the two.

Yet eventually, the wine and whiskey had at last caught up to him. Cordelia had hooked her arm through Nicholas’, and steered him toward the princess. They had both introduced themselves — Nicholas with a stiff bow, his lady mother with a willowy curtsey. His mother had smiled, broadly, and nudged him as music began to swell behind them, though had made none of her normal loud remarks of his un-banded finger. Gods, be good. The Heir of Lannisport intended to speak with a different Tully that night — and had intended not to dance with any of them. 

“Would you like to — oof.” Nicholas had begun, his voice lacking some of its normal jovial quality. A sharp elbow to his side had cut him short, and he stifled the groan of pain with a cough. His lady mother, his assailant, patted his arm as if to make sure he was alright. Tutting her tongue, thin eyebrows drawing together. 

His jaw working, Nicholas smiled again, dipping his head in apology. “I would love to share a dance with you, Your Highness.” His words seemed to satisfy his mother, who curtsied once more as Nicholas extended his hand to the youngest of the River Princesses. 

Nicholas glanced over Mellara’s shoulder, and caught his mother sending him one last sharp look behind her as she walked away. Manners. 

He looked at the princess once more, and offered a smile. She was right — and his father wanted talks on the table with the Riverlords. He might not have agreed with their choice of queen, but he knew better than to snub them. 

“Forgive me, Your Highness — my lady mother has a great love of meddling.” 

[lucerysxestermont]

location: the grounds of riverrun, during luc and monty's visit for trade within the riverlands

@lucius-rivers

in the intricate labyrinth of riverun's halls, luc found himself trying to pull up his memories of how to navigate the halls. although he had once visited these spaces during a fleeting visit with a cohort of seasoned maesters, the details had blurred, leaving him to wander in pursuit of his cousin and the promised sanctuary of the library. 

and yet somehow despite his attempts at finding the library he found himself outside the castle walls near the training ground. amidst a dance of clashing steel, luc spied various men locked in the practice of sparring, honing their combat skills.

approaching a figure who stood apart from the fray who luc had yet to meet before. this man exuded an aura of strength and handsomeness, features hinting at noble lineage but he was unsure which house the man was from.  "excuse me, sir," he called out, already threading his words with an apologetic melody. "my sincere apologies for the intrusion on your training. but i am supposed to be meeting my cousin in the library but i seem to found myself turned around…well a lot. would you be able to direct me?”

[bemercifuls]

#BEMERCIFULS is a dependent mumu for swordshq by elle.

ruling lady cyra tully, ruling lady of riverrun.

introduction.

threads.

wanted plots.

ruling lord steffon tarth, ruling lord of evenfall hall.

introduction.

threads.

wanted plots.

[grandhotelabyss]

riverrun. Yes, probably the writer Aaron Gwyn, who's done two threads now—one, two—and amusingly replied to someone who self-righteously asked how reading Finnegans Wake made one "a better human."

I can't be much help, however. I've certainly read some of FW over the years. In Colin MacCabe's Joyce seminar back in the year 2001 we read the Shem and Shaun part and the conclusion with Anna Livia Plurabelle; in graduate school I was in an FW reading group for a few months where we did the first 100 pages or so. But I've never read the whole thing, whatever "reading" here means.

I didn't enjoy the reading group, through no fault of theirs, because they quite correctly leaned in to the aspect of the book—maybe the only real aspect the book has in the end—that calls for a cross-word puzzler's head full of verbal trivia. This tends not to be the level on which I enjoy literature.

MacCabe, on the other hand, persuaded me of book's weight with his psychoanalytic classroom gloss on lines like

If you spun your yarns to him on the swishbarque waves I was spelling my yearns to her over cottage cake.

A cursory Google turns up MacCabe's interpretation here:

As Anna thinks back over her past life, she remembers how much her husband (the ubiquitous figure who is indicated by the letters HCE) wanted a daughter, hoping for a female in the family who would believe his stories, who would give to him the respect that he feels is his due. But the father is inevitably disappointed for the mother teaches her daughter that beneath the stories and the identities lies the world of letters and desire. While the father tells the son stories, the mother teaches the daughter the alphabet: “If you spun your yarns to him on the swishbarque waves I was spelling my yearns to her over cottage cake” (FW, 620). The father’s yarns (stories) are displaced by the mother’s yearns (desires); telling gives way to spelling. It is this struggle between meaning and sound, between story and language, between male and female that Finnegans Wake enacts, introducing the reader to a world in which his or her own language can suddenly reveal new desires beneath old meanings as the material of language forms and reforms.

Is this enough to make me proceed through the verbal thicket? I can't shake the feeling that Joyce here demands too many public rights for a purely private fixation. Updike, introducing Nabokov's Lectures on Literature:

For Nabokov, the world—art's raw material—is itself an artistic creation, so insubstantial and illusionistic that he seems to imply a masterpiece can be spun from thin air, by pure act of the artist's imperial will. Yet works like Madame Bovary and Ulysses glow with the heat of resistance that the will to manipulate meets in banal, heavily actual subjects. Acquaintance, abhorrence, and the helpless love we give our own bodies and fates join in these transmuted scenes of Dublin and Rouen; away from them, in works like Salammbô and Finnegans Wake, Joyce and Flaubert yield to their dreaming, dandyish selves and are swallowed by their hobbies.

This may also by true of VN's Ada, which I never finished. We each draw the line in a different place. I'm sure I'm only denying myself an advanced form of pleasure. This is, after all, what I'd tell people who with a truculent and phony populism would spurn the incomparable joys of Ulysses.

Re: Flaubert and Joyce—I'm too lazy to hunt for it, but I think I actually said that Ulysses breaks the sentence free. Flaubert immobilized prose by turning it into blocks of precision reportage—granted, this is not quite fair to Flaubert—but Joyce loosened it up again by turning it into poetry, "poetry" implying both euphony and polysemy. Pound, quoting a German to Latin dictionary in ABC of Reading: "Dichten = condensare." Finnegans Wake is, I can't deny it, the logical-teleological next step in the Hegelian process, making every single word a whole world, Blake's "heaven in a grain of sand."

(Some of what's said against FW could be said against Pound's Cantos—of which I've read some—and Blake's Jerusalem—of which I've read all, whatever [again!] "reading" here means.)

Since I am not actually barred from this promised land, why do I still content myself with what Stephen Dedalus calls, with unsurprising reference not only to a book everybody knows but also to a book nobody does, "A Pisgah Sight of Palestine"? Is it time for me to give the Wake another try?