#Commander Bolton

[pedroam-bang]

Dunkirk (2017)

“We shall never surrender.”

[sorayax]

I recently watched Dunkirk and this is my incorrect characters interpretation :3

Tommy Shelby you gorgeous man, FOR F**K SAKE TAKE A BREAK!!

Alfie, i know you're obsessed with Tommy but, DAMN !!!

OMG Poirot?! Where're your gorgeous mustache go?!?!

Druig, bro you are cute, but i see you're already done with this SHIT!!

Harry, i think we will miss you're incredible hair for a little while...

Aegon, i'm glad you're team red now! Keep stay away from alcohol!

Just a tiny Jacaerys Targaryen waiting his uncle. STAY SAFE KID!!

Mariah are you still looking for Midas box or Felix? Keep serching boy

[entitled-fangirl]

howl at the moon.

Cregan Stark x wife!reader

Summary: The Boltons wish to correct their behaviors and win back the Stark's favor for a previous mishap. But a Stark should never trust a Bolton.

Warnings: cursing, blood, physical fighting, poisoning, death, pleading for life

A/n: based on an ask! This is one of my darkest ones, so please read at your discretion!

Masterlist

.............................................................

Cregan groaned as he stretched, sitting up in bed and looking over to the sleeping form next to him.

He hummed happily at seeing the woman lying beside him with her messy hair and a grin even in the dream world.

He leaned over, smoothing the hair from her forehead to place a kiss there. 

She shifted at the feeling and soon, her eyes peered up into his, puffy with the aftereffects of sleep.

Cregan smiled before he willed himself up from bed to begin dressing to break fast.

"Joining me this morning, pretty girl?" He asked over his shoulder. 

She sat up, holding the furs to cover herself. "Perhaps I need a good reason to."

His smile turned to a grin when he turned around to look at her, "And perhaps I have a good reason."

She let out a soft laugh, "Oh really? Pray tell, my lord."

He took steps to her side of the bed, each one heavy to match the darkening look in his eyes as he neared her. "Am I not a good enough reason, wife?"

A teasing grin came to her lips, "Prove it."

His eyes lit up with a fire. He threw his leg over her, pulling himself onto the bed above her. He leaned down to brush his lips against hers, "Perhaps I need to."

They skipped breakfast entirely.

…

"Any word from the prince?"

Cregan shrugged, "Not yet. I don't believe we should hold our breath either way. We have other matters currently to attend to."

The men at the council table all nodded in tandem. 

"If that is all," Cregan sighed. "We're done here."

They all stood, giving various words of thanks as they left. 

Cregan stood and pulled his cloak over him, stopping when one of the men approached him. 

"My lord, may we speak?"

The Lord of Winterfell nodded, "Speak your mind, Bolton."

Lord Bolton sighed, "I fear I've angered you. And if I have, I owe you a plea of forgiveness."

That was the understatement of the century. 

Bolton had wished since his daughter was born that she be betrothed to Cregan. In fact, Rickon Stark had actually heard out the man's plea years before. 

But she was far too young, and it left a bad taste in Cregan's mouth at the thought. 

Denied of it, Bolton had left in a huff, nearly cursing the Stark name as he went.

That was years ago, and things had calmed.

But the wound had reopened when Cregan took Y/n to wife. 

She was no northerner. 

And Bolton hated her for it.

He had grown rather defiant of Stark's commands after the announcement of their betrothal, and it seems even after the wedding, things hadn't changed.

Until now.

Cregan grunted, "I am a man that does not pretend, Bolton. Do you wish for my forgiveness because you are truly regretful, or only because your defiance has gotten you nowhere?"

Bolton let out a tense smile, "Indeed, I am ambitious, my lord. But I truly wish happiness upon you and our lady of Winterfell."

Cregan bit his lip as he stared at the man. After all this, he's suddenly sorry?

He walked past the man, exiting the meeting room and calling over his shoulder, "I'll forgive you when I see improvement."

He then turned around, "I'm a man of action, Bolton. You better be as well." And continued down the hall as if the interaction had not happened at all.

But it seemed Bolton had been adamant about it because his son was begging forgiveness from the lady at the same time.

…

"I don't understand," Y/n said with a tilt of her head.

Randall Bolton, Lord Bolton's only heir, walked with her outside of the stone walls of Winterfell.

"My father… he… he was rather upset when my sister didn't become a Stark. I suppose he's feeling regretful that now that you're here."

She nodded, "I see." She mulled it over before asking, "Well, Cregan didn't swear to it, did he?"

"No, no he didn't. His father only entertained the idea. Nothing became of it."

She hummed as they continued their walk. She finally stopped to fully look at him, "I have no ill will towards your family, if that is of any reassurance. However," she paused. "I will not speak for Cregan. I will not make him decide based on me alone."

Randall smiled, "That's all I wished for. The last thing I want is the Lady of Winterfell to be angry with me. I don't believe I'd rest at night with that knowledge."

She laughed lightly, "Then I do hope you rest well tonight."

"I surely will, my lady."

Another smile from her, "Wonderful. I must return to my duties, but I do hope we get to speak again."

"As do I."

The two walked in opposite directions before he stopped, "You know, I've just considered this."

She turns to look at him.

"Should Lord Stark truly give us his forgiveness, perhaps you'll visit the Dreadfort."

"I wouldn't wish to intrude-"

"-Nonsense." He smiled, "It is on the way to the Wall. Next time Lord Stark makes his trek there, we will be happy to house him." He paused, "And you, of course, if you accompany him."

She nodded, "That sounds lovely. I'd like that. Thank you."

…

"They're all pigs, really."

"Cregan!"

"They are!"

She sighed lightly and leaned back against the headboard of their bed, pulling her legs up, "You're too firm."

He turned to her. His eyes softened a bit at the sight of her so comfortable on their bed. He let out a soft breath. "And you're too kind."

"How are they to prove themselves if you never give them the chance?"

Cregan grunted, "If they want my approval so badly, they should not have acted so in the first place."

She rested her head on her knees as she looked at him, "Can you blame a man for wanting the best for his daughter?"

He whipped his head around to her at her words. 

Perhaps he hadn't considered it like that.

She continued, "If there was even a slight hint that your daughter could do well in life, would you not push for it all you could?"

He stared at her, his eyes studying intensely. "One chance. A disapproving stare and I'll gut them all."

She threw her head back with a laugh, "You cannot gut every man you disagree with!"

He grinned, "It's not for me. It's for you."

Her brows furrowed.

"I'll not have disrespect to my girl, that I promise you."

…

"Got everything, my love?" He asked. 

She tried to answer, but was too occupied trying to tie the strings of her cloak together with gloved fingers.

He let out a breathy chuckle, "C'mere, girl."

He gripped the strings with ease, beginning to tie them.

She tried to look down at it, but he gently pushed her chin up with one of his fingers, "Can't see when you do that."

She opted then to stare at the broad man in front of her. So focused on tying the strings of his little wife's cloak.

Once done, he shifted the cloak, righting it on her shoulders, then running his hands up and down her arms to make heat for her, "You're ready?"

She nodded, and the two moved to begin their long trek.

…

The Dreadfort wasn't as far as she had thought it was. 

And thought it had fort in the name, she still didn't expect it to be as intimidating as it was.

But Randall and Lord Bolton were quick to greet the group.

Cregan made no effort to initially return the greeting as he moved off his horse and immediately go to hers to help her down.

She was the first to speak to them, and all the while, Cregan kept a steady and firm hand on her at all times. 

It was one thing to beg for his forgiveness, but to use his girl for her empathy so easily?

They played her like a fiddle, and he hated the sound of it.

…

A few hours of rest and recovery and the two found themselves dressing for supper.

"They've been kind thus far, Cregan. You have to give them room to improve."

He let out a long sigh as he buttoned his vest.

She took that as answer enough.

She turned to the mirror, righting the dress on her as reached behind herself to tie it.

She stared down at the ground in concentration of what she was feeling, and almost jumped when his fingers joined hers.

"C'mere, pretty. We'll be here all day if you do it like that," he teased.

She laughed lightly and pulled her hands away to let him do it.

It wasn't the first time Cregan had messed with the thin strings of her gowns.

All the practice had made him quite good at it.

He leaned into her, "This is their one chance."

"But if you are constantly looking for something to be wrong, then you have no intention of finding them right."

His jaw clenched and he accidentally pulled too tight, making him let out a soft apology before continuing, "I have trusted them with the most precious thing I have. What more of a chance can I supply them with?"

She looked up at him in the mirror, "And what's that?"

He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, "Must I say it?"

Realization dawned on her and she smiled, "Am I truly the most precious thing you have?"

He had to hold in the laugh he procured at her question. "If I am truly a wolf, my love, then perhaps you are the moon."

She hummed as he finished tying her dress.

Once finished, he pulled her back into his chest to speak lowly in her ear, "You are truly like the moon to me."

She leaned against him with a furrowed brow as they looked in the mirror. 

When she said nothing, he continued, "I am drawn to you, pretty. I dunno why. I'm like a wolf, hunting every night, desperate to satisfy a hunger for something I don't understand." 

His grip on her tightened, "And so, I call out, hoping that the one thing that is my greatest asset is listening for me. A bright moon that lights my path."

He kissed the side of her head, "You know, my father once told me that he believe that wolf and the moon to be great lovers when on earth together."

She finally spoke up, "A legend?"

He shrugged, "Dunno. But father said their love was so strong that it outshone the gods, so they were punished and separated at death. Now stuck for eternity, yearning for one another but shall never feel the other's warmth again."

She let out a breath and placed her hands on his around her waist. "Then I don't want to be the moon."

He leaned down to kiss her shoulder, "Why's that?"

"I don't want to be separated from you."

He smiled, "Neither do I, my girl." He let her go and moved to pick up his boots, "Let us finish here before we're late to sup."

…

With a little bit of wine, Cregan had managed to relax. 

In fact, he even smiled a few times. 

"And then he brought me a donkey!" Randall announced the punchline.

The table erupted in laughs.

Y/n turned to Cregan, absolutely enamored with his laugh. 

And when his arm stretched over the back of her chair as well, she had to cross her legs to keep herself focused.

Her husband leaned over to her, "Not hungry much?"

She looked down to her plate that had been hardly picked at, "Weary from the journey, I believe."

"You know," Lord Bolton said as he leaned forward. "We have an incredible collection of tapestries hanging in one of our corridors. Perhaps Randall could show you."

She looked to the Lord, Randall, then to Cregan. Cregan stared back in silent communication.

She sipped her wine steadily then nodded, "Yes, that sounds lovely."

Cregan stood and held an arm out to help her up, which she took. 

She turned to him and placed her other hand on his chest. "I'll retire after for the night." She tilted her head, "Enjoy yourself, but don't leave me waiting too long, my wolf."

He grinned, "I wouldn't dare."

She laughed lightly and moved to Randall, but a confused emotion ran over her face.

"You alright, Lady Stark?" Randall asked. 

She nodded, "Yes. Yes, I'm just fine."

Cregan watched them carefully until they were out of range. 

…

"And this one," Randall pointed out, "was weaved by my great grandmother. They said she predicted the choosing of King Viserys over Princess Rhaenys."

She looked up with a furrowed brow, "Do you believe that?"

He smiled, "No."

She hummed and moved towards the tapestry, but her legs buckled on her before she could and she fell to her knees.

Randall was quick to move to her. He crouched down, "My lady, are you alright?"

She held a hand to her forehead. Everything was spinning so fast. 

"Let me grab the maester-"

"-I don't-"

"-Stop. I'll not have my Lady Stark ill."

He made quick work to barking at a servant to find the maester.

He practically picked her up himself, helping her to her chambers.

…

"Lord Stark," one of the servants interrupted.

Lord Bolton grumbled, "This better be important."

"My lord, your presence has been requested in your chambers."

Cregan's brow furrowed. That was unlike his wife.

Bolton grinned, "Perhaps you've kept the lass waiting too long. Needy little things, wives."

The servant shook her head, "The maester was fetched for the lady, my lord."

Cregan immediately moved to his feet, not caring about the chair that fell over loudly at the force. 

"Lord Stark," Bolton started.

"I have no time," Cregan stated with no hesitation.

And he made quick work to journeying down the halls of the fort to her. 

…

"Why not? I don't understand," A voice whispered in one of the corridors.

Cregan paused, moving down the hall towards the sound.

"I'm sorry, but that was my order." A new voice.

"And what if I'm the one demanding something?" The first voice asked angrily.

"I follow your father, not you, Randall. I'm sorry."

Randall.

"You're the fucking maester, you can't just-"

"I do what I am told. As should you."

Cregan's eyes widened and he began to travel faster, hoping to relieve the horrid pain that started in his heart.

…

When he entered their chambers, she laid asleep on the bed, the furs pulled over her to preserve heat. 

But her skin was already too pale and a layer of sweat had formed. 

Cregan cursed lightly as he sat on the bed. 

What the hell had happened so suddenly?

His hand started to shake as he brought it up to her face.

Her skin was cold. 

He began to shake his head in denial. 

The maester entered and Cregan jumped. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to frighten you."

Cregan felt weak. He had never felt weak before.

The maester moved to the bed, "We've done all we can for her. It's a passing illness. Only time will heal it."

His teeth began to grind. "I don't believe you."

The man looked thrown off, "My lord?"

Cregan grabbed the man by the tunic and shoved him to the wall, growling in his face with a fire that was terrified of being extinguished. "You're letting her die."

The maester's breath quickened and denied his words, "My lord, I'm doing all I can."

"What's keeping me from ripping your throat out here now?" Cregan asked with a set jaw.

"I… um… I suppose nothing my lord."

"Then fucking work."

But when Cregan released him, he ran from the room.

He growled and moved to follow him when a cough sounded from the bed.

A groggy and weak voice came from the woman, "Cre…Cregan."

He moved to her, pulling her hand in his as he sat on the bed, "I'm here, my girl."

She let out a whine, "It all hurts."

He nodded, "I know."

She stared at him in thought as hot tears flooded her eyes.

"Am I going to die, Cregan?"

A breath involuntarily left his throat. 

He'd seen death. Looked it in the eyes himself. Watched it take everything from him. His father. His brother. Kings and rulers fell everyday at its hands. 

He couldn't let it do this to him. 

He shook his head, "No. No, my girl. You'll live."

They both knew it was a lie.

When the tears began to run down her face, he cradled her to his chest like she was glass. 

"Don't let me die, Cregan! Please, please. I'll… I'll be good. Please… d…don't let me go!"

He stared at the wall in pure fear. 

When had he ever felt fear?

He wasn't sure he had before.

He'd have recognized the feeling of that twisting in his gut with every sound of her sobs.

She began to hiccup profusely and he was practically holding her up all by himself.

He pulled her flush against him.

"Shhh… you've gotta breathe for me. Please. Please."

All of a sudden, there was silence. 

He just stared at the wall. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.  

He didn't want to look at her. But human nature made him yearn to look disaster in the eye.

He pulled her from his shoulder.

Dead.

The sound that ripped out of Cregan's throat was animalistic. 

And he pulled her to him once again, rocking her back and forth in an attempt to comfort her. 

Even he knew it was in vain, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything else.

…

"I'll kill you!" Randall roared.

"Keep your fucking voice down," Bolton cursed.

"You're killing an innocent girl for what? Revenge? On something that never happened?"

Bolton's eyes locked into stone, "Don't speak on something you don't know, boy."

Cregan walked in, a mere shell. 

His eyes were looking nowhere and everywhere all at once, as if waiting for a hidden truth to reveal itself. 

To wake up from a dream. 

Bolton feigned innocence, "Is everything alright, my lord?"

"She's dead."

Oh fuck.

A breath escaped Randall and he began to shake his head, "I can't sit by with this."

"Randall-"

"My lord," Randall ran forward to Cregan. "My lord, he's plotted th-"

"-Quiet!" Bolton yelled.

But Cregan had heard it.

His eyes slowly wandered up from the ground to the older man's body, each inch giving him more life.

When they settled on the Bolton's face, the wolf of the north was seething.

His voice was so low, it sounded like thunder, "I'll have your fucking head."

"Now, Stark-" he tried to reason.

Cregan marched forward, quickly closing the distance between them before he grabbed him by the tunic and landed a heavy punch in the face.

Blood seeped from the man's nose, but Cregan was far from finished with him.

Servants rushed forward to stop him, but Randall quickly aided him in keeping them away.

Cregan landed hit after hit on the man.

And when he fell to the ground, it only spurred Cregan on. 

Blood stained his hands, tunic, pants, even his hair. 

Cregan didn't care.

When the man let out a bloody smile, and Cregan's hand faltered.

The man spit blood to the side, "Maybe if the bitch hadn't indulged herself in the wine, she'd have this by now."

He pulled a vial from his pocket. 

An antidote.

Cregan turned into an animal, panting harshly with a wild look in his eyes.

He only saw red, completely out of reason with his actions. 

Only when Randall had physically pulled him from the man did he come back to.

Bolton's face was unidentifiable. 

And Cregan finally felt the stick residue of the blood on his hands. 

It felt like it stained beyond his hands. Deep into the bone.

He sat on the ground, holding back the overwhelming urge to cry.

…

Never did a day pass where Cregan didn't wear the vial around his neck.

And he couldn't bring himself to leave the walls of Winterfell when the moon was out there to greet him.

A painful reminder of what had passed.

She had said she didn't want to be the moon.

So he had to promise himself to not become the wolf.

However, it didn't stop his howling at night in dreams, yearning for the love he had lost due to the jealousy of not the gods, but man.

..................................................................

Cregan Stark taglist: @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @callsignwidow, @8812-342, @nyxbranwenn,

[raventreehall]

a storm of swords dash simulator

🍋ladyjonquil Follow

i don't want to reveal too much but i had a really great day today hawking and riding and received some really exciting news (and maybe a potential marriage offer!) wow wow wow!!! haven't felt like this in so long 🥰

🤡florianthefool Follow

i'm so happy for you my jonquil

🐦littlefinger Follow

thanks for sharing my lady

🏹kissedbyfire Follow

PISSED OFF AT MY BF RN 🤬🤬🤬 NEVER TRUST A SOUTHERNER AND ESPECIALLY NEVER TRUST A CROW!!!!!!!

👸🏼daenerys-targaryen-tracker Follow

🐎raeqqo Follow

by the law of the dothraki she must return to vaes dothrak to take her place alongside the crones of the dosh khaleen. it is known.

🐉3heads Follow

shut up and go sack a defenseless city or something

🍁weirwoodzz Follow

hey do you guys remember when theon greyjoy took winterfell last year and killed the stark boys? has anyone heard anything else about that? feel like it kind of just disappeared from the news cycle, what happened to greyjoy?

🪓cerwynnation Follow

lord bolton's bastard killed him

🍁weirwoodzz Follow

oh really? wow. kind of extreme but deserved i guess

💗ramsays-sharpest-blade Follow

Ramsay isn't a bastard, King Joffrey legitimized him two months ago and Lord Roose is going to make him castellan of the Dreadfort soon. He loves his son and trusts his abilities. Plus, Ramsay is being awarded for his efforts in saving Winterfell and putting a stop to the ironborn raids in the North by being betrothed to Arya Stark—would a bastard be granted that honor? I don't think so.

Also, Theon isn't dead, Ramsay is (rightfully) flaying him for his crimes in the dungeons beneath the Dreadfort. Gods, I'd love to see Ramsay thrust the knife under his skin!!!!! 😜

#ramsay bolton #house bolton #our blades are sharp #theon greyjoy

🐐the-goat Follow

i'm boutta come into thome real money real thoon 😈 💎💎💎💎💯

🏰freygirl73 Follow

ughhhh my sister is getting married tmrw and my brothers keep going on about getting revenge on king robb while he's here for the feast... like i just wanted some food :/// iswtg that's the only good thing about my siblings weddings and now they're saying there won't even be any and i'm gonna have to go into hiding before the bedding ceremony or something. why can't my family just be NORMAL

🐟greenfork Follow

TW: Red Wedding, death, violence

A masterpost on what happened at the Twins and what it means for the Northern independence cause, the War of the Five Kings, and the realm in general.

Also a bunch of links on how you can help people affected in the Riverlands.

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HELL YEAH BROTHER 🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

🔥heatofdorne Follow

i wanna ***** ********* on ellaria sand's **** and *** ****** then call in oberyn and ***** **** them both until **** *****

🤎pate7534 Follow

🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

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why are there so many crabs on my dash rn

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TYWIN LANNISTER IS DEAD 🦀🦀🦀🦀

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actually i think it's still for king joffrey

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lol i thought it was for robb stark

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maybe it's for the mountain?

⬛️ freezingmyarseoffonthewall Follow

DOLOROUS EDD LORD COMMANDER 300 AC

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DOLOROUS EDD WILL LEAD US TO VICTORY AGAINST THE OTHERS

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mother have mercy i was walking by the great sept of baelor (i wanted to pay my respects to our blessed king joffrey) but i was blocked by a knight of the kingsguard—i believe it was one of the kettleblacks, unfortunately i always forget which one has been elevated to the kingsguard—because the queen was keeping vigil over her son, so i prayed outside instead. yet only a few minutes passed when i swear i saw the kingslayer arrive (he seemed to be missing a hand!) and enter. then, and this is the most disturbing part, i swear to the father that i heard noises of fornication coming from inside! i know for a fact that the only other person inside was the queen mother. could the rumors be true? i feel dirty even writing this. i wonder if i should tell my septon.

❤️‍🔥stannis-sweep Follow

stannis has literally been telling y'all and you didn't listen 🙄

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[starsofjewels]

Mama, Papa and Baby Too

Ramsay Snow (Bolton) x Lady Bolton! Reader, Roose Bolton x Lady Bolton! Reader

NSFW!!

Any and all characters depicted in NSFW pieces are of legal age. All characters are also consenting (Unless specificed by piece)

Please read responsibly.

DARK FIC: This piece includes or is focused around a situation some readers may find uncomfortable or disturbing. Know your limits and keep yourself safe.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Incest (Stepmother x stepchild), non-descriptive/ implied incest (father x child), voyeurism, breastfeeding, foreplay (fingering + handjob), riding (Roose), Little(-ish) Ramsay, non-descriptive mention of assault (in regard to Ramsay's conception)

The Boltons are their own warning

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

I've never published any smut before, so why not, in true GOT fashion, start off with a weird little incest-ridden oneshot? The gods may smite me, but Ramsay is still my baby boy, so here we are.

I apologise in advance for this characterisation of Ramsay, even though I fear it fits his character exceptionally well.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Word count: 2.5k

You had known your stepson was unstable since before you had wed his father. A bastard boy conceived out of rape, raised by an insane servant until his mother grew tired of him, and threw him on the steps of the Dreadfort. Anyone in the North could recount the stories surrounding Ramsay Snow, how he tormented the serving girls in his father’s employ, commanding his pack of dogs to tear flesh from the servants’ bones, and naming each new pup after a girl he had slain. How he burned, and destroyed, and caused so much havoc across the Dreadfort and the lands surrounding it.

When you first arrived, to be married to the boy’s father, your maids told you, with varying levels of excitement, what he had done to Roose’s previous wife, and their only surviving son. Supposedly, your new stepson had tortured Lady Bethany to the point of insanity, to a degree that her hair fell from her scalp and her skin flaked. Her only living son, Domeric, had a worse fate still, succumbing to an ‘illness’ commonly believed to be poison in the hands of his jealous half-brother.

You are given a silver dagger to hide in your skirts, and told to not use it sparingly. Ramsay is unpredictable, and cruel, and Roose will not try to stop him. 

Roose does not allow you to meet him until after the wedding. The day you finally do, the staff refuse to look at you, or speak with you as they usually would. You are taken care of, of course, fed, and bathed, dressed in Bolton pink. You feel like a sacrifice, being made-up to appease some vicious god. 

“Sit, wife.” 

It is not a question, but you answer anyway.

“I have no need to sit, lord husband.”

You watch him roll his eyes, fixing himself a little. You stand in silence for a good few moments, until you hear unfamiliar footsteps, which you assume belong to your stepson. 

Ramsay stops in the doorway, eyeing you up as you are sure his dogs do their prey. You want so badly to reach out and take Roose’s hand, or run off. But there is no comfort for you, not now. You know your fate here, and it is not to be coddled like a doll.

He steps closer to you, and again, and again, until you can clearly see his cold, blue eyes in the dim light, sizing you up, as though he can tell exactly how to torment you.

Instead of striking you, or grasping at your hair and pulling, Ramsay cautiously wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder. You gasp in surprise, expecting far worse. Glancing up at Roose, you see his brow furrow in apparent confusion, he goes to speak, Ramsay does first.

“Mama…”

He sounds like a pathetic little boy, a baby, and some part of your heart is filled by it. He takes your hand in his and puts it to his own head, and you stroke his curls as he seems to want you to. The boy preens at this, pushing himself further into the embrace.

“It seems the boy likes you, dear.”

You almost smile at his words, looking down to the boy, still hiding away in your hair.

“Aye, it does seem that way.”

Roose has shown no signs of affection towards you before, much less openly giving you pet names. You try to ignore it, putting it to the side as a one-off, a part of his surprise towards Ramsay’s affection towards you.

Your stepson stays attached to your hip for the rest of the evening. He follows you everywhere, insisting he cannot do anything without you, and although you understand the oddness of the situation, if this is what it takes to prevent yourself having the same fate as Lady Bethany, you are willing to indulge the monster. 

He practically squeals in delight when you give him a sip from your wine when his father is not looking, having been barred from partaking after sunset following a particularly violent drunken escapade, the one sliver of actual parenting Roose had enforced. 

By the time he is ready to retire, he is squished up beside you in your chambers, practically on your lap. You are distracted from your sewing by him gently butting into you, trying to grasp your attention. Looking out at the dark night outside your window, you glance back at Ramsay, already nearing sleep.

You sigh, setting him up on the unused side of your bed. It takes barely a moment for him to shuffle across the sheets and wrap himself around you, clinging like a baby. There is no point in denying him, part of you knows he would sneak in later, anyway.

Eventually, Roose comes to you, dressed in his nightclothes. He has never spent the night with you before, much less in your own rooms. He slips in beside his bastard, watching the two of you with mild curiosity.

“You’re good with him.”

“Thank you.”

He scoffs slightly, leaning back against the headboard to look down on the sleeping Ramsay.

“I have never seen him like this. He’ll be asking to suckle from you next, dearest.”

There it was again, a small hint of your husband’s affections for you. You are terribly glad the dim night hides the blush on your cheeks.

“He would not!”

You can make out Roose nodding his head.

“Really? He’s a man grown, Roose.”

“As if that could stop him. Keep yourself clothed around him, no matter how much you trust him, He’s a mischievous one, our Ramsay. Give him a chance and he might pounce.”

You feel Ramsay smile against your chest, and you realise he’s not yet fallen asleep. Summoning your best act, you look at your husband with mock surprise,

“My boy? Oh, I find that hard to believe, lord husband. Is he not just an angel?”

Ramsay tucks himself tighter against you, and a smile finds itself upon your lips. You kiss his curls gently, the boy giggles, glad that you consider him to be your own.

-    -

The night, though young, is dark. As the Stark words always say, winter is coming. You can feel it in the cold, in the way the trees tilt in the breeze. You rest your head against Roose’s chest. The flames and your furs keep the room almost uncomfortably warm. You are the lady of the Dreadfort, after, you of all people must be shielded from the oncoming trials of winter. 

The storm outside is bitter and cruel. The wind is harsh, and you are certain trees will have fallen by the morning. Every so often, if you try particularly hard, you can hear your son’s dogs howling at the weather from the kennels. You turn, your back now to Roose. He reaches his arm around you, holding you closely to him. 

And your moment of intimacy, in less than a second, is ruined by the gentle tap of a hand against your bedroom door. Just from the sound of it, you know exactly who it is. You smile softly,

“Come in, darling.”

Ramsay shuffles into your bedchamber, like a child, a pout on his face which you can see from the light of the fire beside him. He is dressed in his nightshirt, his hair messy, and you know that you are in for a long night.

“Want to sleep here, Mama.”

He makes no effort to speak to your husband, not when his precious mother is waiting for him. Though Roose attempts to grasp your arms, you reach out for Ramsay, and he leaps into your bed. Before long, he has wrangled you onto your back, snuggling viciously into your chest. His attachment to you has only grown in the months you have spent as his mother, to a degree many might consider unsettling.

“Oh, love, did the storm scare you?”

The boy nods weakly, just the hint of a smile ghosting his face. His father scoffs,

“He is not a babe, my dear, the boy can manage a bit of wind.”

Ramsay glares at his father, before going back to affectionately nuzzling you. You stroke his cheek gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It is very late, Ramsay. You should try and get to sleep now.”

He shakes his head,

“Nuh. Can’t.”

Roose sighs, having given up completely, resting his head back against his pillow. Though your hands are preoccupied by the Ramsay in your arms, you lean over to kiss his cheek, something of an apology.

“Why can’t you sleep, darling?”

“I’m hungry, Mama,” He practically pleads, “I can’t sleep if I’m still hungry.”

This is always his excuse. Hunger. You think the boy must have a stomach the size of the Riverlands for how much he complains of it. But, you know his excuse well, and what it always ends with. So you smile, sweetly, and lean closer to his face.

“And what does the master want for his supper, then?”

He practically paws at your breast, begging with his big eyes, almost whimpering.

“Milk, please. Milk, Mama.”

You sigh affectionately, pressing another kiss to his face, and letting him tug down your nightdress. 

“Just a little to settle your stomach, and then off to sleep, alright?”

“I promise, Mama.”

Though you are yet to have a babe of your own, Ramsay’s consistent suckling has eventually caused your breasts to swell, your body preparing its hardest for a baby who is, in fact, a grown man. This delights your boy, of course, who could spend the rest of his days living off of nothing but the milk you’ve provided him.

He is enthralled when you help his mouth find your nipple, suckling immediately. His brow furrows, waiting impatiently for his reward. He groans when your milk touches his lips, snuggling you more, mumbling thanks, or praise, or something hidden by his face buried in your breast. 

You hear Roose shuffling. He sits up, and roughly pets his son’s hair. Ramsay’s eyes flick open, he glared again at his father, relaxing as you shush him gently,

“You’re alright, sweetling. Mama’s here.”

Ramsay moans again, and you feel him shift against your leg. Roose makes a laughing sound from the back of his throat.

“Someone is in need of a little affection, Mama.” He teases lightly, nipping at your neck. His stubble is rough, adding to your sensitivity. “Perhaps you should take care of our boy, and I’ll look after you.”

“I want to look after Mama!”

The boy has detached from you, pouting once more. You kiss his nose, wiping some of the milk from his mouth,

“You are looking after Mama by being a good, quiet boy. Let Papa have a turn, hm?”

He grumbles, but goes back to your breast, suckling again.

Roose, ever pragmatic, slips his hands quickly between your thighs, delving two fingers at a time into your cunt. He chuckles again at how ready you are, continuing to spread kisses up your neck,

“You get your mother in such a state, Ramsay. Here, taste.”

Your husband puts his finger to your son, you whine at the loss of pleasure, and the boy cleans it off as a starving dog. He looks from his father, to you, and snuggles up against you.

“Milk is tastier.”

And you cannot help but smile, quickly replaced by another gasped moan as Roose goes back to his previous activities. You take his hand, leading him up to your clit with no words spoken. The two of you have an understanding now. In between your groans and little twitches, you notice how Ramsay’s heart rate gets faster, how he grinds just a little against you. 

“Ramsay?”

A pause.

“Mama?”

“Do you need help there, sweetling?”

He whimpers, having been caught, but nods anyway. You help him shift his nightshirt up to his hips, and carefully find his cock with your free hand. Your boy moans immediately, his hips buck, and he looks up at you with a sense of pleading. He whimpers,

“Mama… more…”

“Soon, my sweet boy. Enjoy your milk.”

You stroke him in a soft, rhythmic pattern, making sure to pay just enough attention to his weepy head to keep the boy on edge. Roose continues to tease you, you gasp every so often, reaching out for him, groaning his name. You come first, stopping your movements upon Ramsay to grip Roose’s arm, crying out for him. Ramsay takes your hand, trying to help. You kiss your husband softly, and then return your affections upon Ramsay. Roose leans back, watching.

You wrap your hand around Ramsay’s cock just the way he likes, and his nails dig into your arm. The boy nips on your breast as he comes, moaning with a mouth full of milk. Most of his mess is caught by his nightshirt, which makes him much easier to clean off. Once he has calmed down just a little, you slide him off you. He cries out, still complaining even as you shush him.

“Papa deserves a treat, too, don’t you, Papa?”

“I do.”

You sit Ramsay up, tired and comfortable, and the two of you share a private laugh as you straddle him, sinking yourself quickly upon his cock. There is no time for play, not when you have been so worked up by the evening’s activities. He moans, and you remember the man behind his cold demeanour. The one who loves you, who desires you even more than your son does.

“My- Careful, love- We are not a rutting dog, are we?”

“Hm- Your fault for being such a tease, Roose…”

He scoffs, replaced quickly by another groan. It is, indeed, his fault for teasing you. You bury your face in his neck, and bite down upon it. He moans out in surprise, jolting suddenly. The action is enough to send him over the edge, and he finishes inside of you, just as a self-respecting lord should. 

Ramsay, naked, bathed and half-asleep, lies on one side of you, Roose on the other. You are the lady of the house, after all, you deserve to be treated as such. Ramsay snuggles into your chest again, full and sated.

“Hm- How is my big boy?”

Instinctually, you reach out to rub his stomach, which seems to settle him,

“Sleepy- Mama…”

“Then sleep, silly boy. Mama will be right here.”

It takes him a little longer to drift off, but you can tell, as you boy goes limp, almost drooling against your shoulder. Roose kisses your hair affectionately.

“He really does love you, dearest.”

“Mh. He’s happy, and so are you. That’s all I care about.”

“Everyone is happy tonight. Mama, Papa and Baby too.”

You give him a tired laugh, and kiss your son’s forehead. Feeling yourself begin to sleep,

“Goodnight, darling.”

“Hm- Love you.”

[imaginesinthewind]

Blood of my blood

Pairing: Jon Snow x f!reader

Summary: The night before the Battle of Bastards, promises are exchanged between Jon and you. Inspired by an Outlander quote from Jamie Fraser. If you recognize it, you earn a cookie.

A/N: A small fluffy Jon Snow drabble, because I can't sleep. Very tooth-rotting romantic. You are warned.

"Where were you? I looked for you, over there."

You would have recognised that voice anywhere. Raspy, soft, deep. And low.

The cold was biting your cheeks, causing them to turn more pink than usual. As the last men were exiting Jon's tent, where the last war council was held, you realised that you had been standing there for way too long, staring into the nothingness, ghosts dancing across your eyes.

You slowly turned around to face Jon. His black curls were held backwards, making him look more and more like his father; not only in looks, but also in attitude. He looked tired, and worried. But a cold determination was glowing in his gaze.

His arms slowly came to surround you, pulling you towards him and his comforting figure. And suddenly, it seemed that the ghosts you were facing silently faded away.

"You're worried," Jon noticed.

A small sigh escaped your lips, and your hands came to rest on his shoulders, playing with edges of his armour.

"I only just got you back," you whispered, avoiding his eyes. "And... I mean, if anything were to happen--"

"(Y/N)", Jon cut you off.

A callous hand lifted your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"You don't need to worry yourself sick about me. I've been through way, way worse."

The hint of a smile danced across his features.

"I will always come back. You should know that by now. Plus, there is only one thing you need to worry about."

One of his hands softly caressed your baby bump, almost invisible to the naked eye. You had told Jon a few days ago; and now, more than ever, it was like his actions to take back Winterfell from Ramsay had some kind of undergoing urgency.

He held you closer to him, and your head came to rest on his chest. You remained there for a few seconds, content in his embrace, breathing slowly.

"Promise me," you finally whispered. "Promise me that you will come back to me."

There was a moment of silence. But then, Jon pulled you away from him. His face looked serious and soft at the same time as he looked at you; like you were the moon of his life. The one and only thing that made sense.

"I can do better than that, love."

His harsh northern accent contrasted with the softness of his voice.

You frowned, and watched in disbelief as Jon suddenly got on one knee.

"Jon," you began, but he cut you off again.

"No, (Y/N). Let me do this, once and for all."

He grabbed your hand and squeezed it. Suddenly, Jon, your childhood love, the one you had lost and found again, looked desperate.

"I don't have anything to offer you, (Y/N). I have no lands, no titles. But I know this. When I'm with you, I am no longer this commander everyone expects me to be. I am just a boy in love, all over again."

Jon stood up again, and grabbed both of your hands.

"You are the blood of my blood, bone of my bone. I gave you my body and you gave me yours, so that we could become one. So, please. If I win this, be mine. Marry me."

Your heart grew bigger in your chest, as if it was about to burst. Burst for this sweet and devoted man in front of you.

Your vision blurried, and you nearly threw yourself in his arms.

"Oh, Jon..."

You closed your eyes and held him tight.

"You are worth all of these things, and more even. I love you. Yes, I will marry you."

Ramsay Bolton would not live to see another night on this earth.

Somewhere in the dead of night, Jon made an oath to himself.

[gojuo]

this show went from aemond killing luke (who took out his eye) to purposely killing his brother, because of some drunken joke.

Aemond embarrassed him at the council by also speaking Valyrian fluently and Egg could barely complete a sentence, they were even!

kill a sibling and and not feeling the slightest bit of guilt He takes aegon's dagger and walks away casually as if it wasn't his full brother dying there) about it is something only the worst of the worst would do such as gregor clegane, euron greyjoy and ramsay bolton. it's sick..nothing like stannis and maekar who killed their brothers but had no happiness about it

even daemon targ didn't dare try to kill viserys wtf

we are doomed. we expected complexity between aegond and we received and we received an attempt at fratricide and regicide 😭

It's just not even remotely an interesting or compelling or sympathetic character arc or motivation to me, sorry. I didn't care for Aemond in the book, I loved him in the show out of spite, now I'm back to not caring about him bc this is just not the type of character whose development, whether it be a progression or a regression, I enjoy following. My bridges are burned 😬

Side note maybe but I've noticed how it's Daemon that's getting the sympathetic portrayal concerning his family over his narrative foil Aemond, which, in my opinion, is another aspect of the Greens Condal is taking away and giving to the Blacks that I've been harping on about in posts and tags everywhere lately.

The greatest of his rivals was Daemon Targaryen, the king’s ambitious, impetuous, moody younger brother.

Fire and Blood, p. 354.

As King Viserys had no living son, Daemon regarded himself as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and coveted the title Prince of Dragonstone, which His Grace refused to grant him…but by the end of year 105 AC, he was known to his friends as the Prince of the City and to the smallfolk as Lord Flea Bottom. Though the king did not wish Daemon to succeed him, he remained fond of his younger brother, and was quick to forgive his many offenses.

Fire and Blood, p. 355

Thus did matters stand in King’s Landing late in the year 105 AC, when Queen Aemma was brought to bed in Maegor’s Holdfast and died whilst giving birth to the son that Viserys Targaryen had desired for so long. The boy (named Baelon, after the king’s father) survived her only by a day, leaving king and court bereft... save perhaps for Prince Daemon, who was observed in a brothel on the Street of Silk, making drunken japes with his highborn cronies about the “heir for a day.” When word of this got back to the king (legend says that it was the whore sitting in Daemon’s lap who informed on him, but evidence suggests it was actually one of his drinking companions, a captain in the gold cloaks eager for advancement), Viserys became livid. His Grace had finally had a surfeit of his ungrateful brother and his ambitions.

Fire and Blood, p. 359.

Prince Daemon was not amongst them, however. Furious at the king's decree [naming Rhaenyra heir], the prince quit King's Landing, resigning from the City Watch. He went first to Dragonstone, taking his paramour Mysaria with him upon the back of his dragon Caraxes, the lean red beast the smallfolk called the Blood Wyrm. There he remained for half a year, during which time he got Mysaria with child. When he learned that his concubine was pregnant, Prince Daemon presented her with a dragon's egg, but in this he again went too far and woke his brother's wroth. King Viserys commanded him to return the egg, send his whore away, and return to his lawful wife, or else be attained as a traitor. The prince obeyed, though with ill grace, dispatching Mysaria (eggless) back to Lys, whilst he himself flew to Runestone in the Vale and the unwelcome company of his "bronze bitch." But Mysaria lost her child during a storm on the narrow sea. When word reached Prince Daemon he spoke no syllable of grief, but his heart hardened against the king, his brother. Thereafter he spoke of King Viserys only with disdain, and began to brood day and night on the succession.

Fire and Blood, p. 360.

After Mysaria lost her unborn child, Daemon hated Viserys. He had no love for his brother anymore and began his grooming of an 8-year-old Rhaenyra to get closer to what his biggest wish in life was: the Iron Throne.

Notice how this is not him in the show but Aemond now? The bullying + brothel plotline to make him hate Aegon is not there in the book. In contrast, Aegon, Aemond and Daeron together actually hated the Strong bastards and none of them, especially not Aegon, were friends.

The sins of the fathers are oft visited on the sons, wise men have said; and so it is for the sins of mothers as well. The enmity between Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra was passed on to their sons, and the queen’s three boys, the Princes Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron, grew to be bitter rivals of their Velaryon nephews, resentful of them for having stolen what they regarded as their birthright: the Iron Throne itself. Though all six boys attended the same feasts, balls, and revels, and sometimes trained together in the yard under the same master-at-arms and studied under the same maesters, this enforced closeness only served to feed their mutual mislike, rather than binding them together as brothers.

Fire and Blood, p. 377-378.

It was Viserys actually who hurt Aemond over being dragonless, NOT Aegon.

Only the middle son, Prince Aemond, remained dragonless, but His Grace had hopes of rectifying that, and had put forward the notion that perhaps the court might sojourn at Dragonstone after the funeral. A wealth of dragon’s eggs could be found beneath the Dragonmont, and several young hatchlings as well. Prince Aemond could have his choice, “if the lad is bold enough.” Even at ten, Aemond Targaryen did not lack for boldness. The king’s gibe stung, and he resolved not to wait for Dragonstone.

Fire and Blood, p. 380.

Aemond in the book was also never characterized as lusting after the throne like Daemon was. He's always been presented as a staunch supporter of Aegon's birthright.

One-eyed Prince Aemond, nineteen, was found in the armory, donning plate and mail for his morning practice in the castle yard. “Is Aegon king?” he asked Ser Willis Fell, “or must we kneel and kiss the old whore’s cunny?”

Fire and Blood, p. 397.

The greatest danger was deemed to be Storm’s End, for House Baratheon had always been staunch in support of the claims of Princess Rhaenys and her children. Though old Lord Boremund had died, his son Borros was even more belligerent than his father, and the lesser storm lords would surely follow wherever he led. “Then we must see that he leads them to our king,” Queen Alicent declared. Whereupon she sent for her second son. Thus it was not a raven who took flight for Storm’s End that day, but Vhagar, oldest and largest of the dragons of Westeros. On her back rode Prince Aemond Targaryen, with a sapphire in the place of his missing eye. “Your purpose is to win the hand of one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters,” his grandsire Ser Otto told him, before he flew. “Any of the four will do. Woo her and wed her, and Lord Borros will deliver the stormlands for your brother. Fail—” “I will not fail,” Prince Aemond blustered. “Aegon will have Storm’s End, and I will have this girl.”

Fire and Blood, p. 400.

“You must rule the realm now, until your brother is strong enough to take the crown again,” the King’s Hand told Prince Aemond. Nor did Ser Criston need to say it twice, writes Eustace. And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror. “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed. Yet Aemond did not assume the style of king, but named himself only Protector of the Realm and Prince Regent.

Fire and Blood, p. 437.

I know people like using this passage as evidence that Aemond wanted the crown, but this is the only sentence that insinuates such a thought in the entirety of F&B, and it then also gets shots down immediately in the next sentence after. People can yap about how Aemond knows he can’t do or say anything as long as Maelor is alive, but when this one sentence—which gets rebuked pronto anyway—is the only evidence you have for that headcanon vs. Daemon who in the text explicitly and repeatedly is said to want to throne and hate his brother, then it’s just not a supported notion in the text or subtext at all.

That “‘Tis I the younger brother who studies philosophy, history and swords etc. etc.” is also nowhere in the book. This second son complex is just a show invention that used to be Daemon’s in the book now given to Aemond in the show, because of course Condal wants Daemon to be far more sympathetic in the eyes of the audience through exploring his love and guilt towards his brother and Rhaenyra with the Harrenhal hallucinations, rather than Aemond, whose actions snowballed into Blood and Cheese and who has a far better character arc lying in wait if that love and guilt he feels towards his brother post-B&C had actually been his.

Show!Aemond is such a wasted character, really. They had so much potential in him becoming an unhinged, murderous psycho falling into impatiency (reason for leaving KL and Cole unprotected) and mania (reason for carpetbombing the Riverlands) because of the immeasurable guilt he feels for what his actions have caused his family (Kinslaying!! The greatest sin in Westeros!!! Blood and Cheese!! ASOIAF’s most atrocious event that kinda happened because of him a little bit!!!)... And yes, it’s not a justification but it’s a reason for why he would do such monstrous things in the book because that’s just how a young, 19-year-old, emotionally volatile, new-to-the-horrors-of-war Targaryen prince with access to nukes would act like once he’s wholly consumed by the guilt of Blood and Cheese and war and the failure at Rook’s Rest and his brother’s disability therefore he’d become unable to face his family anymore culminating in what’s basically his suicide above the God’s Eye... His obsession with facing Daemon could have been because he feels like he has to redeem himself towards his brother for kinda being the cause of Jaehaerys’ death... but Ryan Condal does not want the viewer’s focus to stay on Blood and Cheese or else that would mean negative feelings towards Daemon and Rhaenyra are validated, and also the Greens can’t love each other and care about each other or how else can Condal portray them as fuckups unworthy of positivity so that the viewer does not get attached to them or root for them? Blood and Cheese and Jaehaerys have practically been forgotten by the Greens and the show by now. Nobody cares anymore! How many times has anyone even said his name? Uggghhhhh.

That love and loyalty the Greens feel for each other was, of course, all propaganda 🙄 Daemon in the book got his somewhat redemption through saving Nettles at the cost of betraying Rhaenyra, so fuck Condal for switching him and Aemond around and fuck Condal for cutting Nettles in order to whitewash Rhaenyra some more. And then stealing the love and loyalty the Greens had to the family and giving it to the Blacks. Ugh.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

61 - Scattered Pieces of Truth

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 18.6k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, past traumas, past character death, possessive tendencies, smut, handjobs, p in v, accidental voyeurism,

Notes: You may notice that leading up to a certain accidental incident, that I didn't build up to it with a horribly ill fitting contrast of beheading a toddler. Take notes, Condal. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

To the few in the room, the sight could be seen as a rather strange one. At least in context. To Olly, you had been introduced in his life as a fierce figure commanding an authority which granted him mercy at what he felt like was the end of his path. You offered him empathy and forgiveness but showed none of the same to Ser Alliser Throne and beheaded him the day you had arrived. In a way you were the image of an intimidating Queen to the boy in ways stories only whispered about Targaryean women of the past. But in other ways, you also were the closest thing to a mother he had left.

Counting his blessings, Olly knew that whatever older brother sort of figure he had once seen in Jon, he had ruined the night he shoved a dagger through his heart. But yet somehow you took Olly in regardless, and found a place back in the world for him when many times over he felt as if he lost his. So to him, being allowed to stand at your side in moments like this were odd, a side of you he had only ever seen before in memories of his own mother. Perhaps he was a bit jealous, but after he had done everything to warrant you executing him, you took him in as your own and kept him by your side so that he served someone who understood his complications.

On the other hand, he was not the only traitor in the mix whom you spared. Theon stood with a life so vastly different then the one he once lived, he felt practically a stranger to him. The day Ramsay Snow had sent him into Moat Cailin to negotiate the other Ironborn to surrender, he could remember such a wave of conflict. The way blood was spit into his face and called a woman for trying to say there was honour in a fair defeat. How on one side he could hear himself trying to voice through a shaking in his muscles that he was actually Reek, but then he would also stand there and see you.

In the dungeons of the Dreadfort, sickly, ill, covered in so much sweat, grime, and blood that he almost did not recognize you. The way you had tore your head up from hiding in your arms with tears staining your cheeks as he told you he didn’t actually murder Bran and Rickon. The way you looked at his state, his circumstances and he knew you had forgiven him. How no one had called him Theon Greyjoy but you. When one man had murdered the commander in order to desperately accept Theons terms, he had remembered who he felt like next to you and Robb. Someone who could be better then his worst parts, only to have Ramsay lead his men in and flay them all alive.

Theon had stood silent as Ramsay wrapped an arm around his shoulders insisting that traditions were important, as to why he had done it. But all he could do was stand there. Not even shaking or twitching as he normally would. He wasn’t really Reek then, he was Theon. And afterwards when they had returned to the Dreadfort to prepare the move to Winterfell was when Roose Bolton gave Ramsay his legitimization from King Tommen.

Once Ramsay was no longer a Snow, the less Reek did Theon feel on the inside, and the more he felt determined to not let Ramsay turn you into that either.

Finding the only bravery he had in years, Theon had shot Myranda in the back with arrows to stop her from attacking you. When you had found your only bravery in you, you plunged a kitchen knife so deep into her mouth that you had been covered in her blood for days. All he could do was hear how close you both were to being caught and how frozen in fear you were. How weak as he was Theon managed to find that strength, he had picked you up to jump from the battlements, a height you yourself had once hoped would kill you. He had shaken you out of your daze, and Theon never forgot that what convinced you to stand with him and run wasn’t even the promise that he was taking you to safety or taking you to Jon.

What got you up and standing was Theon offering his hand and promising that he wouldn’t leave you behind. Yet if he looked back then and seeing now, it was night and day. Not a hint of the same person stood there and it was difficult for Theon to put into proper thoughts. The relief of being able to witness you getting to this point, but also the conflict of truth coming this way, quite literally.

Of course, for all of them, Maester Wolkan saw it in the most direct way. He hadn’t met you before, or after escape. Hardly days had passed by the time he was summoned to the dungeons to examine you, since you had awoken to new life. He had seen you at every part of your worst. Once he had walked out in the courtyards here in Winterfell to a scene of Ramsay. Your dress torn off, shivering in a short shift in the snow as Ramsay had knocked you to the ground and threatened to slice the remainder off when he had to interject. Saying that marrying you would not be possible if the boy let you freeze to death.

He had shoved you to the snow even more as he got up to storm away, Wolkan managing to get you gently to your feet and covered to guide you inside but had so little reaction from you. Numb like your skin felt bare in the freezing air. Most of that year he knew you, there was not a hint of life in your eyes, and it was truly a feat he could claim saying you were the saddest girl he’d ever known. Yet here you were now, something nowhere near that sight.

A smile bright and shining on your face as you looked down to little Eddard, toying with his small kicking feet as if to tickle the bottoms of them each time he got to wiley. It had been close to a week passing since arriving home and Maester Wolkan had insisted on seeing the baby again to check both his health and state of growth. Question after question and it seemed the little one had gotten fussy laying there on his own.

Causing you now as Wolkan made his final examination for the day, you had knelt down closer so your eye level was more with where the baby lay. Hands always on him in one way or another, distracting him sometimes long enough that Wolkan could do something that might have otherwise been distressing. Or leaning up closer to his forehead with a kiss and gentle shushes to soothe him or pull out a small babble.

He was much how he was in your womb, a constant trouble maker. Always demanding of your attention, but the more affirmations he was healthy, the better you felt. The less as if you feared you had doomed your son to a difficult, short life simply because you had birthed him for too early. At the very least however, with both Theon and Olly in the room, you would be spared any questions regarding yourself for now. The less you thought about your state of mind, the better.

“I suspect within a fortnight, the little Prince will have caught up in growth to any other infant his age should be.” Glancing up to your side, your hands almost automatically moving around little Eddards grabbing insistence to dress him properly and warm once more. The others had been correct, there had been more then enough people around Winterfell and Winter Town whom wished to bring gifts and clothes to the newborn.

Nodding a bit, you had glanced down every now and again to give a little narrow eyed smirk to the trouble maker before finally giving him what he wanted. Carefully picking up him in your arms and resting him carefully up high on your front, as it seemed your neck and shoulder being his favourite place to hide away. “And you’re certain there is nothing more I could be doing to help with that?”

Shaking his head, Wolkan reached out to very playfully nudge a knuckle against the baby’s cheek whom both gave a small amusing sound but also squirmed closer to you at the same time as if he couldn’t decide. “You and the King have done a tremendous job in the face of a very unfavourable start. I assure you there is nothing more you need do then what you are right now.” Face only falling troubled a small it you clarified in asking if it was normal that at this young he seemed so shy. “Many highborns are surrounded by people all day and night when they are born. Always attended to by many, they get used to it rather quickly as a result. Little Eddard however had a start very reliant on his mother and father alone. It is only natural he will take more time to get used to being around as many as he is living in a castle.”

Glancing down, you could see his little hands mindlessly grasping at strands of your hair that sat closer to your shoulder. Almost holding it close to him as a young one may do with a plush toy, the thought no doubt crossing your mind if what happened had made him too reliant on you. Which was not at all what you wanted, people thinking you were raising your son to depend on his mother rather then grow up learning to be strong and stand on his own. Boys like Joffery, raised without being taught what being a leader entailed and hid behind his mothers skirts at every instance he could not yell and shout into getting his way.

The flash across Wolkans face with the growing concern of doubt on yours had you stand up straighter before the issue could be even slightly brought to your attention from his point of view. “I thank you, Maester Wolkan. I know you have much else on your plate, I won’t keep your time any further.”

Always a man not perturbed by dismissal in your manner, he was nothing but understanding likely of what you avoided. “No thanks needed, your grace. This is exactly what I am here for.” A nod given, before turning and gesturing to Olly to make leave, knowing Theon would follow.

At this point, even if you told him not too. Nevermore were he and Jon on the same page then when it came to watching you like a hawk. If it wasn’t Jon it was Ghost, if it wasn’t Ghost it was Theon. And somehow if it were neither of them, you still could not shake that feeling like eyes kept following you. The wrappings around your healing hands were cause for some concern, but not enough you couldn’t figure out why it felt as if eyes all around were watching you.

The only people who knew so far of the other day were Bran, Jon, and yourself. No one else had any reason to think they should keep an eye on you for that purpose, and yet they still did. It was odd for some to watch you of all people so motherly with such an easy smile attached, as it was odd for you to grasp the idea that it was somehow more complicated and difficult being back here then it had been for months out alone in the far North.

Another pair of eyes though, scoured the letter sent his way. The pile which came before were all of mystery, this one of answer, and yet it all felt as complicated as before.

Everything was complicated. Jon couldn’t condemn you nor Bran for what you were not saying about what occurred yesterday. He wasn’t even so sure Bran understood whatever he had spent over a year doing that far North. These sights, these visions Jon had. They always felt different then the way you’d describe yours. The dreams different too. Jon had walked your dreams, you never did his. Jon had never found himself lost in whatever visions he saw, he was here and saw there. It felt like it matched more of what Bran was experiencing then you, but if Bran didn’t really understand what this all was, Jon knew he had not a chance for himself. Let alone expecting you to explain it to him in ways he could grasp.

Instead, Jon focused on other things. Things which he’d rather not but were right in front of him. Or, the thing, the person. The man with the pin of a mockingbird attached to his cloak wandering his home as if he had a plan that would fall into place. Out of everything Petyr Baelish had done, he was smart enough to lie and cover his tracks to the point he stood in the Stark home as if he were not an enemy.

Both men were well aware Jon did not fall for it, but that made it worse. He already knew to navigate the suspicions of a man whom did not trust him. There was little Jon could prove, and what he could had to be careful. He and Arya had debated it just hours earlier.

Irate and pacing in his study, only Arya felt comfortable enough with Jon to rant and rave and yell the manner which she did. It wasn’t personal, so Jon felt no reason to tell her to calm down. With her, that would certainly not calm her any way. “We know everything he’s done to the point we could write a book about it. How is that not enough?”

Gloved hands braced against the wood of his desk, Jon stood behind it looking at her with a lower, more firm tone. “We can’t just accuse him of anything, you know that. If I drag him into court and throw nothing but accusations I can’t prove at him, he walks out of our walls for good.”

Arya’s face scrunched in frustration, Jon did know the feeling to well. An antsy sensation as if to physically fight back against a man only capable of mastering the art of mind games. Your name coming from her mouth, Jon too could sense the strong anger over it. “What he tried to do to her, and you think it’s safer having him here?”

A pit of something dark sat in Jons stomach. You had gone to take the baby to see Wolkan, he knew where you were and who was with you. He needed to swallow down that swirling void telling him to never let you out of his sight. Saying that to you was one thing, but to control you to that degree was another no matter what a specific part of himself said. Pushing through, a roughness was no doubt evident in his voice. “He almost had her killed when he was a thousand miles away in the Vale. I don’t know who he controls out there, but I know the limit of his reach here.” As soon as Arya tried to argue back, Jon continued on. “And if I accuse him now and can’t prove it, if I banish him from Winterfell or the North, Sansa leaves with him.”

Stopping in her tracks, Jon recognized the hesitation in her eyes attempting to smooth over with indifference. “You don’t know that. She came all the way back here, why would she leave if-”

Cutting her off, Jon felt uncomfortable with the why, but he explained it regardless. Arya needed to understand the gravity of the problem, even if he was hiding it from you. “Haven’t you wondered why even though you two spent your whole childhoods arguing about everything, why is it now it seems Sansa is only interested in fighting with me?”

The hesitation again he knew, she hadn’t quite considered that until then. “She’s just upset about learning she has no claim.” That was more of an excuse of cope and both knew it.

Jon just had to be the one to vocalize it more then he had to you. “Littlefinger knows he can’t manipulate me into giving him what he wants.” Your name coming from his lips, “And he can’t just try to do it with her either, with how much of a past they both know about. He’s smarter then that. His only chance is to use Sansa. And put her against me. And who’s the easiest person to do that with right now?”

Your name came from both of them, Jon in a tense frustration, Arya in a sort of defeat.

Walking around his desk, Jon leaned back to it’s front. Arms crossing in front of him as he watched Arya cease her pacing before he continue. Arya first asking how he was doing that. “I’m a bastard. It’s easy to find things about bastards to look down on.” Demanding more of what specifically, he knew that these sorts of things to Arya of all people, were not what she’d ever consider. Certainly not now. “I’m a bastard, married to a highborn girl. Who before me, was married to my highborn brother. If you’re assuming the worst about me, what does that look like?”

Face twisting into disbelief, Arya tried fighting back. “She knows you better then that, Sansa knows you’d never force anyone into being with you-”

The truth though hurt more then that, far more. “She doesn’t think I forced her into anything. All Littlefinger needs to do, is give Sansa the idea and she let it grow on her own.” It always came back to you, and he hated it. “People look down at me like I’m a liar, like I’m manipulative on purpose. If you tell someone bastards are born from sin, it’s not too hard to convince that person that I seduced her into being with me for my own benefit.”

It did take a good moment for Arya to connect what he was implying, but Jon knew it. The signs all begun to point to it, and now he was sure. The easiest way to keep Sansa from accepting the circumstances of Robb disinheriting her, is to use the one person Sansa always looked up to as an older sister and paint her as a victim of a bastard’s lust and deceit. To convince her that Jon was using you to keep his title and favour amongst his men. And Jon returning to Winterfell with you and a newborn made that look worse.

He and you had joked of it on the ship home from Dragonstone, but it was true. It is far harder to separate a King and a Queen from one another, if the man gifts her a child. And a son and heir no less. “I was always protective of her, but now it’s different..it’s..more intense and to someone looking for the worst in me-”

Finishing for him, again Arya’s tone had been defeat and a tinge of frustration, understandably. “It just looks like you’re controlling her.”

Jon was protective of you, possessive to the point sometimes he wondered if controlling you that way would make things easier for you, so you didn’t have to worry. But he also knew that wasn’t right, that wasn’t the part of him that Ned Stark raised. He struggled already, having to be apart from you during the day when for over six months he had you all to himself every single hour, but this was something else. This was a despising burning feeling in his heart at being apart from you, wanting you to just stay beside him and listen to what he told you for your own good.

He didn’t want to be that way, but a dark part of him always felt now like it would be so much safer for you if you did, even though the man in him knew that wouldn’t be good for you in every other way. He had tried to vocalize it to you in a softer way, and you had tried to dissuade him from such thoughts, but it continued to fester. Those parts of Jon that Sansa was worried for you about, weren’t made from nothing. Because part of Jon was that way, or wanted to be that way with you. She was just wrong about the why.

Being a bastard had nothing to do with this obsessive feeling. Just the blood running through his veins.

Sitting there now, Jon knew he had to still be careful. Sansa was his sister, and she belonged here, in her home with her family, but if Jon made the wrong move or was too bold too early, she might leave and not return. And with what winter storms approached, Jon knew that couldn’t be an option. He had to be careful, he had to stick to not only what he could prove, but what he had the right to prove.

Littlefinger had done many things, but Jon knew if he was using you to manipulate Sansa against him, if Jon could prove to his sister that the man tried to have you killed, that would sway her. Perhaps make her realize the extent of the manipulative things he spoke about Jon. Proving in a trial that Petyr Baelish had orchestrated an attempt on the Queen in the North’s life was as good of something to end this shadow he held on the Stark family, then every other crime he’s committed.

But between Jon and Arya, both knew they had a good chance at finding a conclusive way to do that, he just had to be quick about it, and somehow he needed to get it across to Sansa that even if just for the trial, she needed to trust him. Whatever other problems the two of them would have after, could be dealt with later. Right now, he needed to ensure two things alone.

Making Littlefinger pay for his crimes, and ensuring those crimes would not bring his little sister down with him. So as he wrote a raven to send off, Jon knew this was just one of the many people whom he needed to reach out too. His father would have done this as thoroughly and as properly as he could, and so Jon would do no less then that.

Jon just had to remind himself, he was only like one father. Not the other. He didn’t know how he’d handle being more like one then the other, so if he refused to think about it, maybe it this one problem would just disappear.

If only Jon didn’t spend most of the next hours after that, tense trying to figure out where you were and who you were with, and certainly not summon you to his side like a servant just to appease that darkness. Though as he descended the dark steps down further into the undergrounds, Jon did for once that day, find himself grateful that you were not here.

He knew what his men had informed him of, and for all accounts, she had been acting quite a good prisoner. Her brother in law had not protested any of it, nor did the members of House Ryswell. Jon had laid out very publicly what he was accusing her of, informed them he had the written evidence to back himself up, and his men had taken up in defence when she had suddenly stood from her seat in an aggression.

Having written to Lord Dustin and Lord Ryswell both, he knew the options were there. They were not protesting to her having been in Winterfell's dungeons these months, but he also did not wish for his time spent as her jailer, to be seen as keeping her from everyone else she knew.

Dark eyes peeking from more messy dark hair, Jon could see Barbrey Dustin while physically looked more worse for wear, she did not appear to be in ill health. Fed proper meals twice a day, accommodate her needs within reason, and allow her to be attended too should she need aid in her health. But according to Maege, she had not been much of any fuss. Kept to herself, and didn’t speak to anyone on the matters she was arrested for.

If Jon were honest, he was not expecting any respecting gesture whatsoever, nor would he really blame a prisoner for not doing so. Yet she with an expression twisted into her permanent frowning scowl, stood up with ease, and gave a half effort curtsy. “Your Grace.”

A nod back, Jons response seemed to act as fair permission to sit once more. “My lady.”

Coming closer, circles under her eyes were prominent, but they looked less hateful then the day she glared up at him being accused of a crime. Jon had not spoken to you what they had discussed alone, but just enough to ensure that he got the information he needed. Information, which was to be of use in a different way he ever intended to use it. Her voice came out more in a strained husk as if speaking was more on the side of foreign to her at this point. “It has been many months since I’ve had any sort of visitor. The last I expected of them would be yourself.”

Jumping right into the point, Jon spoke with an even tone and not with much in the way of easing her into his purpose. “Are you aware that for the past week, Lord Petyr Baelish has been in Winterfell?” Past the dim shadows casting onto her with firelight, Jon may have been able to more clearly see her skin pale, her shoulders stiffen. “He returned my sister Sansa, now that it is safe in the North for her.”

Both were patient in the silence, and the flickering away of Barbreys eyes spoke many stories all doused in a degree of fear until a more push for sternness came through. “I called you a fool once, I suspect needing to do so again for thinking that is all his intentions, would be unnecessary?” Only a single nod, and it forced her to find her words. Switching between looking up at him and drawing away in thought as if the fear had only just occurred to her. “So, what? Are you here to feed me to the wolves?” A breath passed between as she tilted her head in almost an amusement for herself. “Or, so to speak.”

Once more, Jon did not bother addressing the worst of whatever she would say to him. Pandering to her ire was not how he got a full and fair confession out of her, and he would not start now. “Lord Baelish has done more to hurt my family then you know, and finally we have him here. Right in front of us. If we were at war, I’d be able to keep him here, in our lands where I could surround him and kill him. But you and I both know he isn’t a man that fights with weapons. He’s smarter then that. Which means if I am going to bring him to justice, then I need to be smart too. Fight things his way.”

Glancing him up and down before turning away, Barbrey inhaled as she leaned her head against the wall facing forward once more. “Every man and women in the North despises him, why not simply drag him into court? Cut his throat and be done with it.”

Quick to respond, Jon held no room for doubt on his meaning. “That isn’t the kind of leader I want to be, and that isn’t who my father raised me to be.” A small lift of her eyebrows in some gesture of her own understanding, Jon pushed passed it. “I can only charge him for crimes connected to the North. To my family. But if I’m going to do that, I need to leave no room for doubt. If I declare him guilty, then I need all of my men to know what I know that led me to that conclusion.”

Muttering, she still did not return to look at him. “So what is it you want from me?”

Thinking for only a moment, Jon crouched down to much more evenly meet her eye level, his voice dropping in tone and volume as if to match. Without the furs adorning him, not standing over her, Jon knew making himself look less intimidating here was the right approach. “You told me the truth, all the truth. And for that I thank you, but right now I need more then honesty. I need your help.” Allowing a moment of quiet before continuing, Jon knew to give her the time to process each stage here. “I’ve written to your father and brother in law. Both have agreed to my terms, that you will be allowed to return either to Barrowton or the Rills for the remainder of your sentence. You’ll be stripped of your title, and to any right of Ladyship you’ve once had, but you can walk in whichever home you choose without chains.”

There was only one plausible caveat to that kind of offer, and her eyes rising up to the ceiling with a deep inhale and exhale from her nose told Jon she had put it together. “The sheer fact that a slimy weasel such as him hasn’t already sent an assassin in to murder me is my only remaining proof the Old Gods even vaguely care about my life. And now you come down here after months, and ask me to step into a public trial and give all of those same details but for him to know I betrayed him over?” A false laugh which did not reach her eyes left. “If this was an attempt at a joke, your grace, I would return back to your depressingly humourless self. Making others laugh does not suit you.”

Little had even hit his skin with such words. “Tell me. Do I look like the kind of man to come down here and make jokes about your safety? Make light of a man who I know tried to have my wife murdered?” Dragging dark eyes over to his, only a spot of guilt did Jon see within her gaze before she once more broke it.

Another laugh that time more of a huff leaving her chest. “Forgive me, but some days I’m not quite sure which wolf’s blood you really came from.” Were Jons blood capable of freezing so suddenly his heart would stop, it would’ve happened all in a laughing breath of Barbrey Dustins words. He made not a single indication as such, but he felt his heart unfreeze from the fires around and beat faster and more painfully then before. “Brandon had no children as far as he knew, but women looked to him like no other man. Were I not to know any better, I’d say you were more likely to be Brandons then Ned’s, given how impossible either of you seem to have been able to take a joke.”

If Barbrey was implying that Ned Stark was funny compared to his Uncle Brandon, Jon crouched there more understanding why many southerners all deemed Northerners as cold and humourless. Either way, the cut was meant more as a jest to entertain herself then force Jons mind to spiral. Stay focused he told himself. “If I hold a trial for Petyr Baelish, and I can’t prove his guilt, then he will leave Winterfell and take my sister with him. If he leaves now, my brother and sister will never see Sansa again and they only just reunited. Winter is coming. You know it, I know it. There isn’t a worse time to allow him the chance at keeping my little sister from her family then now when they all need each other the most.”

Jon had yet to know how he was going to mend that long since broken bridge between he and Sansa, but giving her reasons to distrust him more and leave with the one man who Jon knew had nothing but ill intentions towards her, was not an option. Their father had confessed to a crime he didn’t commit for a chance to try and protect her, and Jon would not let him down now by making him die for that in vain. Sansa could hate and distrust him all she wanted, but she was a Stark, and Jon had to keep what was left of them together now more then ever.

Giving Barbrey no room to even speak before he continued. “You were someone important to my uncle. I don’t want to dishonour that memory by keeping you locked down here for the rest of your life, you deserve to be home. You won’t have any power, but you won’t be down here in chains being fed whatever the guards are kind enough to give you in hopes it’s warm. Do this for me, and you will return home. I swear it.”

It was not a promise made by a heart tree, but Jon was a man who would hold himself to a promise as such regardless. He had to keep his family together, and Jon would be damned by all of the gods if he didn’t do every single thing possible to protect you from the man who tried to murder you.

Still though, as Jon returned to the ground level he couldn’t shake off one thought. No, it was not the blood of Brandon Stark making Jon as intense of a man as he was, it was someone far worse.

It was someone he was struggling day by day, to pretend he was still nothing like.

Tormund Giantsbane loved his people, he really did. But he also would be the first to admit what a bunch of stubborn pains in his ass they all were. It had taken Mance Rayder over twenty years to get them all to stop fighting and work together, and even now it was as if they were incapable in their blood of not getting on his nerves.

Yet if there was one perk of his people, and him having spent so much time around fancy southerners, it was that settling problems was a lot easier. More then once Tormund would simply walk up to a pair ready to rip each other to pieces, and grab at both their collars and yank them apart or throw one off the other with a yell to shut the fuck up.

The free folk worked better with someone leading them, each clan always had one chieftain but as a whole group someone needed to tell them what was what and keep them in order. So from town to town Tormund would travel keeping everyone in check and on track with their purpose out here. The last time he had been in this place, what the southerners called the Gift, felt so far away it was a lifetime ago in comparison to where he was now.

Sure he had climbed the Wall more times then he could count, but none of those times south mattered beyond what ended up being the result of the last major time. The whole lot of them had followed where Orell said he saw something. Arriving at the Fist of the First Men, they had all gathered around the spiral formation of dead horses bloody and scattered. He and Mance had the same thought as the later knelt down with a frustrated disdain looking it over. “Always the artists.”

He knew for a fact who there didn’t quite get what was going on, two for a fact the way they spoke briefly about it. Ygritte had spoken up, “I thought you said there were dead crows.” When Orell confirmed that there had been, it seemed as if it was only Tormund and Mance who understood what was going on.

Well, them and the crow. Back and forth Jon and Mance went about what happened, how many men Mormont brought out here and a silent unnerved understanding in him about what he knew had happened here. Mance noting that Mormont took a big gamble coming out this far, and that the best fighting men had to be dead, and they were far from home. Which was when he said it. “Tormund, climb the Wall.” Telling him to bring the crow with him since he may be useful. “If not, throw him off the Wall.”

Tormund had spent much of that time south really not caring what Orell kept going on about. Jon hadn’t given them any reason to not trust him yet, and Tormund knew what was really getting him worked up. It was pretty pathetic if you asked him, the fact that he felt so threatened by a crow of all men. Orell wanted to fuck Ygritte, she was into the crow. He was mad and made it everyone else’s damn problem. That was, until Orell was right.

“Make the crow kill him. You’re one of us now. Prove it.”

A fight broke out in the rain, and in truth, Tormund had more then his fair share of time to think about after he was thrown in a cell in Castle Black months later. His size, his skill? And he didn’t even try fighting Jon, not once. Instead he all but held Ygritte down to stop her from losing her shit, yelling at her to accept that he was still one of them.

He knew her for a long time, she was one of them, but he’d be damned to say she was unbearable to deal with after that day. All she could do was walk around in a mood, or rant and rave about wanting to kill him. Once telling her as simply as he could, “When you actually do, then tell me all about it. For now, I’d rather talk about anything then your crow.”

Then they attacked the very villages his people lived in now. Tormund now didn’t make excuses for it, he did what he did and couldn’t take it back, but in their own way he and Jon understood each other. Tormund was a solider, did what his leader told him to do and he did it well. Attack the villages near the Wall to draw them out, but that didn’t work so they kept hitting more and more until it was clear they were forcing them to hit them at Castle Black directly.

For Jon, that night was probably as good a win as he could’ve imagined for how few men it turned out he lied about having. A thousand he said, and maybe there were a good two hundred at most, and still he managed to hold them all off on both sides. In his memory though, was Tormund ever angry.

He liked Jon, always did. Came into the tent with attitude, snapping back to his threat by saying all men die the same no matter what size they are. Liked him from then on, and truthfully, of course he saw it coming. Orell kept saying it, little signs kept coming from Jon that told a different story then what he was pretending to say, Tormund knew it was coming and that made him angry the most.

That he saw this coming, and liked the crow anyways. And now he was mad for it. Out of his whole band of men he led, only he was left alive. Surrounded by crows but none wanted to get anywhere near him with his anger. He’d cut anyone down who came close. Only for a deep rasping voice to approach him in a frustrated defeat. “It’s finished, Tormund. Let it end.”

Not his best moment it was, hissing out, “This is how a man ends-” Only for the moment he moved with his blade, did Jon shoot him in the leg with a crossbow and knock his blade out of his hand and sending him to the ground. Not bothering to even stay as he told the other crows to put him in chains for now. Dragging him away, Tormund had shouted spitting that he should’ve thrown Jon from the wall when he had the chance.

But everything after that stayed in his mind. The way Jon spoke about the now dead Ygritte with something clearly angry saying he had no choice in what he did with her, and how Tormund got the clear sign what went on between them wasn’t quite what Ygritte would walk around boasting it was. The way Jon spoke of the woman he really loved already being dead and slaughtered like an animal, and the way he admitted that this King who showed up was the father of the woman Jon loved.

Gods help him there was way more about this Jon Snow for Tormund to think about then he expected in those days. But despite it all, as Tormund walked through the village all but yanking a passing child up by his neck telling him to “Hand it over.” Putting the knife attempted to be stolen back on his person, and the child to his feet telling him to scram, did Tormund know that somehow he still wouldn’t have traded any of where he was now for a better version of how he got here.

That dark eyed crow who walked into the tent that day, and yet now Tormund walked the village wondering when he’d get his ass back. He went off beyond the Wall and took you with him, but the other men around Jons castle weren’t quite the same. Part of him still could laugh, Tormund had not fathomed how insufferably protective of you Jon was going to be out there. He wished some days he could’ve joined this journey just for a chance to see him keep you tied to his side like you were a baby who couldn’t be left alone.

Dalba asked once what if you two were dead, and he never bought into that. Weaker men then Jon had survived out there, and at least he had a real cause motivating him. Still though, waiting to know what was out there, what happened, what would happen and when you two would get back was tedious and aggravating. And Tormund could only push around his daughters husband so much before that stopped amusing him.

Which was why almost on instinct, did Tormund at first swear it was Jon and yourself riding into that village. From a distance he sure as hell looked like him, and he could only see a blur that looked like a darker haired woman on the horse behind him. Though the closer they rode as a crowd gathered, did Tormund not have a single clue who the woman was. Hands tied in front of her, a narrowed brow as she sat in a silence but he did certainly recognize the rider.

It wasn’t Jon, but gods knew Tormund was more then familiar with what black haired Stark just came riding up. Years ago, Tormund would’ve used getting this close to sink a blade deep in his head, but both men approached the other in almost amusement as it was not much meaningful apprehension. “Everyone thought you were long dead.”

A tease on his tone that Tormund could pin as so close to Jons came right back without hesitation. “I’m surprised you didn’t hunt down my corpse and bring me back, just to kill me yourself.” Tormund lamenting that he had thought about it and the silence between could’ve turned the air.

Instead both men shook hands, a strange understanding it seemed of where both were to stand with each other now. “The fuck are you doing all the way out here?”

Gesturing back to the woman on the horse, her eyes tore through the village no doubt putting together that they were not the average Northerners. Benjen Stark at the very least, was always a lot less annoying to listen to then the bloody Halfhand used to be. “Taking this one to Winterfell. She’s Jons prisoner, should be in his dungeons where he’d want to keep an eye on her.” Asking what she did, she finally looked away from them and down with something no doubt of guilt, and Benjen hesitated. Dark eyes twisting behind in what to say before settling on a non answer. “Nothing good.”

“How the hell did you find a prisoner of Jon when hes all the way out north?”

Benjen’s answer was short and rather matter of fact. “He’s not anymore.” Taken back, Tormund only stared at him for an explanation when he elaborated, including you this time. “Both of them have been back for a few days. They found his little brother, my nephew out there. Poor lad can’t walk anymore, so beside bringing him back and a newborn, they had no room for a prisoner going home.”

Out of everything just spoken, Tormund asked one thing in question. “Newborn? What he find an abandoned baby out there?” As if turned out, the truth was even more baffling.

Much like Jon though, Benjen skipped passed any talk not of the matter at hand. “I need to take her to Winterfell, and Jon asked to get you to come with me when I did. Hasn’t had time to do it himself if you can believe that.”

Unable to help himself, Tormund looked to the side where Ryk stood, a mocking tone of strong condescension dripping from his words as he brought up your name. “She’s been married to Snow half the time you have my daughter. How come she already had a baby and you can’t even manage to shoot out one long enough to even flirt with the idea?”

By the time Tormund was up on his horse, his eyes found that of the woman tied up to the back of Benjen's, asking before the man walked up to interject. “What the hell did you do to piss Snow off? Try to kidnap his girl?” The way she said nothing, and the way she looked down to nothing and no one by the time they set off spoke volumes.

Something serious had happened that neither she nor Benjen were yet willing to slightly share. That was fine though, he’d get it out of Jon one way or another.

Knelt down, you had the wooden side pulled down just in front of you. One hand rested soothingly on the baby’s front while the other sat atop his head, your thumb running back and forth as finally you watched his eyes slip closed and the rest of him falling asleep. All day no matter what you were doing he was a fussy little thing, always being mischievous and demanding of your attention it felt.

Not anything close to frustrating but certainly much more tiring then you had been expecting, almost feeling as if you weren’t finding the time to do what other things you should’ve been. Staying knelt there, your hand on his front slowly moving to rest beside him, your chin propping your head up on your forearm and yet the sight before you struggled to match your thoughts.

Taking care of little Eddard wasn’t unpleasant, you adored having him with you and getting to watch him get used to having a real home. But another part of you would then glance to the men always hustling by in the castle, someone going this or that way, the work piled onto Jons desk and how he was always so busy. Filled to the brim his days were, and you had always been there to do what he couldn’t get to, or shouldn’t have too. You were his Queen, and so you acted it.

Now though, it wasn’t so simple. Your day was dedicated to the baby, it had to be. He was a newborn, brought into the world a month early and had to always be watched. That not even mentioning how you did not feel comfortable leaving him alone with people for long periods of time, perhaps your mother was the exception but none else. You didn’t trust that he would be alright being away from you or Jon for so long and he didn’t like it either. But that meant you had begun putting so much on Jons shoulders that you should’ve been lifting.

Slowly pushing up from your thighs to stand, you slowly paced over to his desk. Not messy it was, but not as organized as you knew he preferred it with so much to handle. One thing then the next, you found yourself growing that guilt inside with seeing everything he had to deal with and you had done nothing. You weren’t just his wife, you still were a Queen. And you had not been supporting him as such.

Ink scratching away at each paper, everything strictly organized to what you knew was preferential to Jons way of thinking. How frustrated he must have been you thought. Days now and he worked all alone, doing everything until so late and that was your fault. He would never say it, but it was. You had let yourself off too easy.

Jon worked harder then anyone, what right did you have to not push yourself to the exact same level?

In the back of your head you knew little Eddard was awake, but he had seemed content with staying comfortable in his cradle as you worked away. Brows narrowed almost in a scowl the more you worked, ignoring the strain it felt on your eyes to look only at the sights of paper, ink and candlelight for what must have been well over an hour if not two. Yesterday Jon had even said he wanted you by his side more, but what if the thing he truly meant is he wanted you back in your position as you used to be?

The door behind you both opened and closed without your notice, and yet it was the sudden high pitched yet excited nonsensical noise coming from the baby which drew your gaze to look at least over to him. Sounds of weapons being stored away with a clank indicated where he was in the room, but returning back your narrowed gaze kept writing instead of addressing it. Him arriving was not an excuse to stop.

Jon pulled down the wooden holdings, at the same instance the baby’s hands shot up asking either to grab or be picked up, his babbles a language Jon understood on his own. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, you could hear Jon lowly mumble, “I missed you too.” Releasing him a bit more from his swaddle, you could hear the grin in his voice alone as he responded to his son as if an average discussion was being had. “Were you good for her...now we both know that’s not true.”

You hadn’t at all seen Jons gaze try to flicker over to you as if to bring you into his little moment with the baby only to hesitate. A pause in voice and eyes as he took in your demeanour and what you were doing before turning back.

Pressing another kiss to his forehead Jon murmured, “Behave for me, alright? I need time with your mother too.” Whatever babbling noise came from your son, you hardly noticed until a warm figure came to your side. A hand running down the hair at the back of your head while he leaned against the desk beside you, without sacrificing being able to see you. Murmuring your name one, twice before Jon took the liberty to use his grip on your hair to tilt your head to look up at him, disturbing you only when your quill left the paper. “I asked how long have you been at this?”

Opening your mouth to respond, you found yourself closing it just as fast in a question Jon no doubt picked up on. How long had you been here? You thought no more then an hour, but if the light filtering in from Jons window in a tinted golden glow spoke anything it must be treading on multiple hours. Dipping it once more in the ink, you shook his grip off in a dismissal and continued on. “Just finishing up a few things while he was asleep, is all.”

If he believed that or not, Jon yet gave no indication. Leaning down to catch your eyes, Jons face twisted in something more troubled as you did not even seem to realize he wanted your attention more. Instead, his hand moved around to grip your chin, turning you to look back up at him. Gesturing with a nod to the work sitting out, Jon asked a little more firmly, “What’s all this?”

It seemed there was a disconnect between you both, the majority laying in your hands not really picking up that something only started to bother him right then, your tone light and without suspicion of his narrowing eyes. “Nothing that I wouldn’t normally help you with.” Gesturing to one pile and continuing as if everything was fine. “These are all written up, they only need your signature before being sent off-”

Calling your name a little more firmly, Jon leaned forward to invade your personal space, not yet letting go of you. “No, I meant why are you doing all of it?”

Your silence was genuine. Lips parted and unsure as to what was going on when you were doing what you were always supposed to have picked right back up for him. Stammering in a quiet until the correct words slowly and carefully formed as your gaze drifted away. “I’m not sure what you mean, I always handle these things for you. It’s just the-”

Shaking his head to cut off what specifics you had worked on, Jon now looked as confused as he was growing frustrated. “Darling, that’s not what I’m asking.” Genuine in asking what was he asking you then, Jon drifted again to let his hand cup your cheek, running his thumb along your jaw. “Why are you doing all of my work for me?”

It came out as naturally as it did instinctively. “I’m sorry-”

The sigh leaving Jon was followed by his hand dropping from you entirely. A grimace as he exasperatedly pinched the bridge of his nose before his equally as frustrated gaze melted into his voice and tone as if in scolding. “Why are you sorry?” He knew you didn’t have an answer to that, nor did he let you waffle about in silence trying to consider the right answer to placate him. “I didn’t leave all of this here, expecting you to do it for me. It’s my responsibility, not yours.”

Oh there was quite a gap in the air of understanding the more you attempted to find the point he was making. “I..I am aware you didn’t tell me to do it, but I always do things like this for you. It’s my responsibility to help you.”

Jons interjection increased in a tone you were misreading as annoyed with you. “I never asked you to do the work I created for myself, for me. You know that I didn’t.” You tried to defend yourself more confused inside that he didn’t need to order you to know what was expected of you. “What is it you think I expect you to do?”

In your own mind, in the world you knew and understood of women in your position you thought nothing of the way you said it. Jon however, just stared down at you in a disbelief for a good heavy number of seconds as if you had spoken it to him in a foreign language. “To raise your son, to help you rule?”

Standing up, Jon passed by you for merely a few paces. Turning around halfway, your hand gripping the top of the chair with something more wide eyed as he looked back to you, seemingly not at all considering your confusion. “What is this?” You didn’t respond, you didn’t know what he was trying to even ask and he knew it. “Think about what you just said, and tell me when you figure out what the problem with that is.”

Truly he hadn’t said it rude or in any condescending manner, but it clawed at your insides thinking it did while too notably misreading the expression on his face as directed towards you personally. Nothing you said stood out, you didn’t understand. The words spoken were a pure guess and both you and Jon knew that. “I shouldn’t be helping only when possible, I should always be helping you no matter what-”

Cutting yourself off, Jon turned from you pacing even further into the room as he ran his hand down his face. Now much further away, it was even harder to read his real intentions of emotion. Gesturing out to you and motioning to his desk with his eyes growing darker. “And you think this is the way I expect you to do that?” Clarifying that you didn’t say that directly, Jon cut you off almost the moment your mouth finished forming the letters of the end of your sentence. “Since when have I ever expected you to do all this for me?”

Something was wrong, and you felt that unwelcome heat growing behind your face at not knowing why or for what. “Jon, we’ve always shared work this way since before-”

“Since before you gave birth to our son.” Before you even had a chance to let that thought drag you down into it’s depths, Jon elaborated. “I didn’t want you forcing yourself to work into the night when it was just me and you. I certainly don’t expect you to stretch yourself thin when you’re caring for our baby on top of that.”

Taking pity in you, Jon sighed out before holding his hand out to you. Gracefully pulling you to your feet, Jon guided you close enough that both of his hands could settle firmly along your hips. Voice small against what his had been, but still not on the correct path. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you-”

That time, Jons sigh was followed by his eyes closing shut. Forehead dropping to rest against yours but his tone was no longer filled with what you thought was annoyance. “I’m not upset, darling. And don’t apologize you didn’t do anything wrong.” Muttering gently that you didn’t feel it was that way, Jon lifted his head. Pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting back against you in a similar fashion as before. “How about you tell me where all this is coming from, because I know you’re not getting it from anything I said to you.”

When you found not an answer right away, Jon shifted both of you. Sitting you down on the furs at the edge of his bed, him now kneeling on the ground in front of you, both hands still by you sides up at your waist now. Grey eyes bright and wide looking up at you, with his hair pulled back making them stand out so perfectly in the hint of golden glow beside him. Your own hands sat in your lap, partially holding at the skirt of your dress in a manner indicating to Jon clearly that you were more on edge then he thought.

Your voice was quiet, trying to find a way to explain it to him without saying the wrong thing again. “I only was trying to say that, I’ve been taking care of the baby so much that I have barley helped you with anything. And last night you said you wanted me by your side more, I thought you meant by your side as in, doing the work with you.”

“With me or for me?”

As it so happened, your answer of apologizing for overstepping was not the right one still. Yet, it was not frustration or anger which came from Jon as a result. His head dropped a bit as a laugh freely left in a bit of a breathy manner. Eyes shining with his smile attached so handsome it was a cruel sight each time you always wanted to keep.

Lifting his head back up, Jon ran a hand that time down the side of your face, cupping your cheek with his grin still beaming with something holding no shred of frustration like before. “It’s a good thing you’re beautiful, because sometimes it is exhausting getting through that thick skull of yours.”

Face dropping flat only drew more of a laugh freely out of him, and smothered in you which he no doubt had caught you trying to hide. Dryly you let your eyes drag to the side of the room away from his grey ones.

Surging upwards, that time Jon caught both of your cheeks, bringing your flat expression to meet his grinning one to press his lips to yours. Nothing needing, but keeping you against him in something more deep then chaste alone, but not guiding you enough into anything to work you up too much with. Just his soft lips against yours taking what breath you had for himself, as you’d always chose to.

Just barley pulling away, you could feel his lips brushing yours with every word. Your hands resting along his shoulders as if trying to dig into the muscle for him. “I’ve never met a woman more stubborn then you.” Asking with a bit more light in your tone, asking if that was an insult or not, Jon just pulled you right back to his lips. “Yes.”

You pulled free that time as your head dropped, a laugh slipping through pulling a softer one from Jon. Running a hand down your hair again, Jon nudged your nose with his to gain your attention. Eyes dark but not angry or annoyed as you previously feared. “You gave birth what? Nearly two weeks ago? And for six months before that I dragged you all through the far North almost your entire pregnancy. I almost lost you twice after you gave birth, and we get home only to realize we still have to watch our backs.”

The tips of your fingers reached out, scratching gentle against the facial hair coarse against his jaw. “Sometimes you say things and I don’t always understand that they mean something different then what I thought. You said you wanted me by your side more, and because we already spent so many hours apart today I thought that you meant you wanted me doing my equal share of the work like we used to.”

Jon only nudged your nose gently again, that time not quite moving away as he kept you there in the near nuzzling like gesture, his breath warm as it draped across your skin. “Right now, you’re duty is to be my wife. To take care of yourself, and help raise our son.” The hand on the back of your hair gripping you a little firmly as if to grab your attention further. “Not my son, our son. Everything you went through to bring him into this world, darling. I don’t want to hear you putting yourself down by putting your importance here as less then me.”

Only a gentle murmur as your hands still toyed across his shoulders. “I didn’t want you to think I don’t want to help you.” Rather then addressing it, Jon only brought your lips back to his.

Barley managing words through each chase of your lips he pursued when he himself tried to pull back. “Right now, our son needs you more then he needs me. I never had a chance to be with my mother when I was his age, I don’t ever want to take that from him or you.” Nodding, you didn’t say anything further, nor did you need too. As if your lack of protest sometimes spoke better of your understanding then words spoken in the air. “I’m happy dealing with all of this, if it means I know you’re taking care of yourself. But I’ll make myself clear this time, even if you have the baby, I want you in more of my meetings from now on. You take care of him, and I’ll feel better having you by my side. But that’s all I expect right now.”

Not yet any response to him directly, your eyes opened, peeling to the side to the sound of a small sound you were growing familiar with. The fussing of a grumpy wolf pup. “I have two needy wolves vying for my time now, I can’t disappoint either of them, can I?”

Jon chose to go get him, the mumblings spoken to his son as he picked him up and you felt such a shine of sunlight sparkling in your heart at how Jon truly had a son that is just like him. You almost couldn’t wait for a few more years to pass, you wanted so much to see right now how close they would both be the older he got. Sitting back on the bed by your side, Jon only moved an arm enough to tug you closer to him. Your head without thought resting more down against his shoulder, your own hand letting go of your dresses skirt.

Dancing across little Eddard’s front as he right back made those same motions being grabby while a smile came about all three of you. Jons gaze being swapped between you and the baby, the sight more then either of you could’ve ever dreamt of to have with one another. Leaning more into your hair, Jon rasped lowly in your ear enough you were sure he may have been able to feel the slight shiver down your spine. “We have enough going on, don’t add to it by worrying I expect more of you then what you’re already doing.”

Little Eddard toying against the wrapping now fresh once more around your palms, tone a little distant but not so out of the room that you felt disconnected from the present. “And if this starts getting worse again?” You needn’t elaborate, you could all but feel Jons heavy gaze drifting towards the wrappings.

“None of what I said about this changed. Whatever all of this means, it isn’t just you anymore. We take it slowly, but I’m not watching you get worse trying to understand it.” Nodding gently, as the baby begun to settle better with both of you there, so did you turning more to hid away a bit in Jons neck. Feeling him turn his head enough to nuzzle against the top of yours as he whispered gently. “I won’t tell you to stay out of it, but for right now let me handle Littlefinger.”

Another small nod, your voice was apprehensive. “And Sansa?”

But Jon too was firm. “Right now, her problem is with me. I have to be the one to handle it.” Asking gently if he truly thinks Sansa distrusted him the way he suspected, Jon did not waver. “I know she does. But she has to accept just because she doesn’t understand you and me, that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. If I could change the way I am with you, I would. But I can’t.” Arguing there was nothing wrong with the way he treated you, you sensed that hesitation. But also, the sense Jon today did not wish to discuss it. Which was fine with you for now, that one was at his pace, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t make him feel more at ease over it.

Murmuring for him to let you take the baby, you watched his eyes drift closed just as you picked him up to lay him back down, the amount the little one needed sleep as active as he had been all day. You turned, and that time prompted Jon to stand. Slinking in behind him, you only just took off enough layers from him that his softer undershirt remainder. Beckoning him to sit right back down, you took an easy spot up on the bed behind.

Just as Jon asked what you thought you were doing, did you reach up to his shoulders, tense as anything. Digging deep into the muscles, within an instant no doubt his head dropped with a grunt leaving from deep in his chest. “I’ll always find ways to take care of you to, you know.” Muttering your name almost in a not very impactful warning, you continued on kneading into his muscles until they relax and massaged the remainder until you moved along his shoulders to more of his back. “We both take care of the baby, you take care of me. Someone has to take care of you, and I’m your wife. Which means, yes, it is my responsibility.”

A small huffing laugh left him, muttering low and a bit slurring together the further into leaning back into your touch he got. “Is there even a point trying to argue this anymore?” Your answer only a short no, and that huff turned far more into a laugh you could feel under your palms. “We’re both too stubborn for own own good.”

Reaching forward, your lips found his cheek almost pressing there gently to his suprise. Moving back to behind him just as you caught sight of Jon intending to turn around to try and kiss you much more urgently, and the frown attached to his face now a symbol of the grumpiness which came from not getting it. Slowly however, you let one of your hands drift up to his shoulder again only to make your own path sinking down into the open top of his shirt.

Grey eyes fluttering closed as he leaned back into you much more noticeably that time, you let your hand drift down his firm torso over to his heart. Your fingertips tracing over the deep wound never to be healed but yet the strong beating underneath it spoke of the most unusual of truths. Reaching behind, you read his ask without needing to be told.

Letting your other stop its work, Jon brought you closer to drape across his back as he tugged your other hand up to his lips. Pressing a kiss firmly to your hand and keeping a hold on it. “Do you really want to do something for me?” Your nod was nothing but genuine and innocent, yet not even did you quite yet register the lower bass vibrating through into your chest as he spoke. Jons other hand reaching up under the end of his shirt to grab at yours, pulling it slowly but with a purpose downwards to his hips.

Glancing back as much as he could, your breathing picked up as they flickered over what he could manage to see of you. Your voice something almost meek or unsure. “You want me to..”

Brows narrowed slightly, Jon almost teased unfairly. “Everything we’ve done, and this makes you nervous?” Your nod again was only innocent, were Jons intentions innocent he may have laughed. Instead the deep exhale only made your blood burn a little hotter. That time, Jon only shifted long enough to rest both of your hands down by his hips, the laces of his breeches toying at the edges of your finger tips. “Come on.”

Biting down on your tongue roughly, you willed yourself to keep the air calm and not doubt what he was asking. Out of anything you had the least understanding of what to do here, but Jon rested both of his own hands against the fur beside him. One lace then the other, any other man would’ve accused you of taking this long to tease or put a show on. But Jon let you go at the slow pace knowing it was simply what you were comfortable with.

Enough room for your hand to slink in, only an exhale left Jon as you did so but otherwise remained steady as he looked over his shoulder at you with a steadily darkening gaze. Wrapping a hand around his cock, already rather hard, a whimper nearly left you much to Jons dismay at you covering it up at the fact that you couldn’t even wrap your whole hand around him. How thick his cock was and you never got used to how intimidating it could be.

But you held at his hip to steady yourself, trying to move gently. Grip loose, and nothing but light strokes inhibited by the clothes in your way but he made you work around it. He didn’t make it easy for you. Just a husk of a voice drawing your senses into something hazy as he muttered, “Tighter. Grip me tighter, darling. You know that.” Jon inhaled deeply as you did, his cock twitching somewhat in your hand as you tried to continue. Barley moving far from the base of his cock, but now tighter in holding him you were still slow and kind, Jons head shaking with a voice any but you would mistaken for annoyed. “Think about how rough I am with you.” Barley did you pick up the pace, and that time an order came out almost in a growl. “You’re nowhere near close to how tight your cunt is around me.”

Again you tried to follow his instructions, and each time he let you stroke up and down his cock until a rising animal inside Jon once more reared its feral head. Telling you to pull him out, both of your hands had to do so. You always were so gentle with his cock as if he didn’t fuck you with it until you would pass out. As if you were incapable of being anything close to rough with him, and it only made Jon throb in your hand thinking about it.

The moment his thick length was out for your eyes widening and audible swallow, Jon sent a hand down to cover yours. His head whipping back to meet your surprised ones almost jumping back, the glare in his eyes took up so much space no grey remained underneath the black as he held your hand so tightly around his cock you could almost feel the blood rushing through him under your palms. “I fucked your ass until you cried for me, and you still do this.” It truly felt like his words did not match the angry looking darkness staring back to you. “I’ve tied you up and left you bruised and you still touch me like I’m the delicate one.”

It wasn’t an accusation but you felt lost for an answer as he started to move your hand with his own. Rougher strokes, faster and not even allowing you to ease the raw feeling by running your hands over where seed leaked from the tip of his cock. “I was too afraid to try and do things like this for you before, now more then ever someone should be gentle with you.” Jon muttered as his cock throbbed in your hand, teeth gritting as he watched his much larger hand almost hide yours completely against his thick length, that he didn’t treat you gently but your words made that growl in his chest come out as his head dropped back a bit. “I want you to do whatever you want when you have me in your bed, you deserve to have that much.”

Jons eyes fluttered shut as you diligently followed the pace he kept your hand moving up and down his cock at. As if he were alone, he was getting you to stroke him the rougher way he would handle himself. Only a fluster rose in your chest at a rather indecent thought, that before your time together now, you had never known just how much he would get himself off each night, and how often it was apparently about you.

Had you both been people that were allowed to be together back then, would Jon have truly stopped that rain filled night where he kissed you. He had you alone, wet from the downpour of rain in the sky and his lips urgently attached to yours pinning you against a tree. How far would he have taken it, had Jon felt the severity of the animalistic instincts he harboured for you now? Even more improper you thought, how far would you have been happy to let him take it with you?

Jon had been too unsure back then together to let you try it, but in another world where he was truly the wolf then as the one in front of you today, what sight would it have been? Shoving you down to your knees, nowhere to go and the sounds of your mouth taking his cock deep smothered by the rain but not hidden from his dark eyes.

But you weren’t the only one with images in your head, yanking your hand from his cock suddenly, Jon turned on you in an instant. Shoving you higher up the bed and roughly forcing you flat on your back. Shoving the skirt of your dress up enough he yanked your thigh high up on his hip, leaning over you stretching you out more and more indecently as if to let his cock run against your core, growing wetter and wetter at the feeling.

His other hand was pressed into the fur beside your head as he looked down at you with such a raw need that his eyes almost looked that of a wild animal. His voice rasping with a scratch against it, a growl asking for release. “And if I want you on your hands and knees?” Your eyes were wide, almost unfairly innocent as your hands reached up to his shoulders, Jon did not blink. “If I flipped you over now, dragged you back on my cock, show you how a wolf breeds his mate, you’d want that?”

Your nod almost did him in. You did not do anything but increase your breathing to match your racing heart blazing inside your torso, but to Jon it was torture. You answered his depravity with such innocence every single time. Voice light and breathy gazing up at him with not even lust, but an adoration against his own lecherous thoughts. “I promise, anything.”

Jons breathing was almost in heaves, his muscles tense looking down at you as if seconds away from ripping your clothes off with his bare hands to tear open the fabric for good. Dragging his eyes down your body and back up, tilting his head as if to implore you to make him proceed with caution. Your name much sweeter on his lips then his gaze and touch. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t keep giving me permission to do all of this. I-” That time he swallowed roughly, leaning his forehead down to yours, the hand beside you now cupping your hair at the back of your head to keep you where he needed. Rasp still rough but much more of a whisper against your skin. “I was only born because his men didn’t stop Rhaegar from doing whatever he wanted. You can’t keep letting me act like that with you, you shouldn’t let me treat you this way.”

Nudging up to run your nose brushing against his, a barley there kiss left to his lips as you cupped his cheeks. “This is nothing like that, you know this. You aren’t him just because you feel more passionate about your wife then other men.”

Shaking his head, it was as if he could entirely ignore how hard he still was against you. “One of Eurons men said something to me after they took you. That they were surprised I hadn’t locked you away in a tower so other men wouldn’t touch you.” Just as you had begun assuring him with a soothing comfort that someone else saying it didn’t mean anything, did Jon cut you off with something struggling inside his own self admitting it. “They aren’t wrong.” Pulling back to look you better in the eye, he was as intense as he was bright in his eyes looking down at you. “Sometimes I do want that. Tie you up, lock you away. Anything to stop the world always trying to take you away from me. Hide you away from everyone else because I don’t know how else to protect you.”

The words he said were one thing, yet another was who he was. Had Ramsay spoken such words to you, if Euron ever did now, you’d be filled with that very terror of a past you had only seen in dreams of nonsense. Yet, not a shred of that fear existed in you looking at Jon. Anything that which would terrify you with other men, Jon was the exception. Perhaps it was the wrong way to encourage it, but you were nothing but genuine. Thumb running over his cheek. “And I’d still love you.”

One leg still high on his hip, Jon nearly tore at your dress. The fabric ripping at a seam along it’s edge as he yanked it up, shoving your other leg wide. Both of you nearly on one side of the bed more to the point it almost obscenely hovered in the air with nowhere to go. Jon didn’t bother undressing any further, the hand on your leg moved to your hair only long enough to force you up to his lips in the same moment he pushed deep inside of you.

The kiss hardly gotten off the ground when he pulled back, a snarl growling from him as he sunk as deep as he could inside of you. The stretch had you gasp, but also a bit of pain mixed in. You weren’t nearly as wet as Jon would’ve prepared you to be, and yet that pained burned inside your core with something in need. Twisting and turning like a coil, as if however you were now, was all you truly needed to take such a thick size.

Forcing your leg higher up his side, he left your hair to hold open your other leg wide. Dark eyes stared down at you, barley even blinking as he took no time to build you up. Pulling only halfway out, Jon roughly thrusted back inside of you, drawing a blatant cry from your lips, head falling back against his pillow as he did it again and again.

Your leg hurt from how wide and strained he held it wide, but his cock sunk so deep every instance, and yet your already tight walls clenched more and more around him begging not to leave. The pain bled into your veins, floating across your body in a sting and yet the growing wetness you covered him with masked the part of it which would be too much. Your heart floating inside of you as it raced to seek out breath your lungs did not have.

Jon so roughly pounded inside of you, staring down with dark eyes near black and a grunt trapped in his chest the more and more he went. Harder and harder no doubt tears had welled in your eyes, the sight alone drawing a growl out. “Fuck..”

Pushing your leg on his hip wide against the other side of the bed, Jon let both go as he reached up to your dress. The laces attached to the front hardly making it to halfway undone before Jon roughly grasped at the fabric and just tore it with a hiss. Hovering over you more, his eyes stared down now at your breasts moving as much as he fucked into you with force. Were his own clothes not in the way, the sound would’ve echoed off the walls and out the window for any to hear. Husking out as he dragged his eyes from your breasts to your eyes again, “I know they’re still sensitive right now,” One again Jon grabbed your legs, kneeling up straighter as he shoved them wide again, ignoring any pain the stretch might have put you in because he was so utterly deep inside your soaking cunt. “The way I love you isn’t normal, I know that. It never has been, but I can’t change that and I don’t want to scare you away.”

He could not do this as he dragged against your sensitive walls each slide of his cock deeper and deeper as if you were designed by the gods to fit him in perfection, created after Jon so that you could be made to fit everything about him and only him. That maybe you had always existed for him, it was always him your purpose was supposed to be, and death only intertwined you both together in a way that would never separate that connection again.

Wrapping a hand around to the back of his neck, your eyes hooded, lips parted as small noises of need kept leaving you as the sound of how wet you were each time his cock slid inside of you filled the air beyond your need of sound. “Never,” You had so little air to give and it all drenched into your voice like a siren in his ears. “I belong to you, I’ll always belong to you..”

Truly, it was something of a fight. The man inside of Jon desperate to kiss you and assure you that he’s always belonged to you too, but the animal in him, the predator pounding his cock into your walls which never once even thought to resist him, said something much more possessive. One which spilled from his lips, hardly even noticing to Jon that he said them aloud. “The moment I laid eyes on you, you belonged to me, and I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me. Anyone.” Rambling further, Jon shifted so that he could stay atop you, mounting you as your feet pressed against the furs at each of his sides, arms wrapped around him as he held your face in his neck by a grip on your hair, the other grasping at his headboard, the leverage forcing his cock roughly inside of you to the point Jon would later be able to see his own nails having carved into the wood. “You were born for me, made for me- fuck I’ll never let you go,”

Neither of you really heard what he said, Jon pounding so deep inside of you, the feeling no doubt going to make standing delicate. You knew already you would be able to feel his cock sliding in and out of you so perfectly until he finally would fill you again next. Jon hid in your hair as he held you to hide his neck, your words somehow sweet and soothing as if he had spoken nothing terrifyingly depraved. “I love you.”

Jon could hardly give himself the space to pull you back to look at him before he captured your lips, kissing you so deeply that the second your lips even somewhat gave space he slid his tongue inside of your mouth. Brushing with a greed to taste you as he would anywhere else he wanted to feast, not even able to pull himself from your kiss long enough to say it back as he was so desperate too. He needed your lips more then he needed to tell you how much he loved you back.

Legs at his sides shaking, Jon could sense your end was racing towards you. Not as roughly, but Jons hips fucked into yours faster and faster. Forcing your orgasm sooner and sooner, he needed to feel you cum around his cock. Unable to even move back with his pace, you had no choice. Laying back in his kiss, legs spread wide and just taking it when his cock dragged again and again over such a perfect spot that you nearly tore from his kiss. Jon only pressed your head further into the bed to keep you to him the whine singing into his mouth.

One pound, another and another, rougher then the last if his skin was bare as yours, it would’ve sounded almost on the edge of violent. But sinking deeply, Jon never ceased even as his orgasm came over him during the middle of your own.

An ankle wrapping around his calf as if to beg him closer, you felt Jons cock throbbing with a growl vibrating against your front before you were suddenly filled with a hot feeling. Fucking so steadily in and out now that both of you had so thoroughly soaked your core, Jons seed spilled inside of you with thick spurts one after another as if to fill you as long as he was still hard.

None of it even slightly could escape, his cock so thick inside of you that he knew if he did this every single day, sooner or later your body would be ready to get pregnant again. Jon filled you over and over as your head grew dizzy even in his arms by the time his hips slowed. His cock still deep inside of you as your hearts raced. Jons head dropped, resting against your forehead, as you both barley were coming down.

If the gods were cruel, and they were, they had planned this just to humiliate you. But the guards weren’t at the door, and with it closed, that typically meant that you were likely in there. Guards stayed outside the door to protect the King, you preferred your own leave you be. So slipping in quietly, there was no mistakening what this was, nor the roughness of the scene having been walked in on.

The gasp of shock was enough, the sudden rise Jon moved from your front, but to wrapping an arm around your front to all but shove you to hide your bare form. His eyes formed in a significant glare automatically and hardly found it within him to ease up upon realizing what happened. His voice tore through your ear in a husk, a breathless rasp seeped with something that was much more detectable as anger. “Sansa-”

You hidden in his front, Jon could sense the humiliation within you rise at being caught, as if you had done something wrong. It was not the time nor the place, but Jon certainly didn’t want you feeling embarrassed that people knew he took you as such. He wanted to throw away that guilt women like your septa growing up had taught you to be ashamed of. But moments like this did not help.

Sansa stood still somewhat by the door with eyes wide looking at the fire by the wall. Her voice a clear high pitched embarrassment in a whole other manner but just as stammering of a strong wish to turn the time back a few minutes and knock first. “The door was unlocked,” Jon could feel you practically trying to melt away from this situation, your name being the next thing Sansa said. “I thought she was alone, I was looking for her.”

Looking down to you, and then trying to look to the other side where clearly the baby had been awoken by the sudden shift in the air and raising of voices. Jon knew there really was no hiding what she walked in on, a hand tucking himself back in as the other prompted you to move a bit, Sansa turning around now facing the other direction with a whirlwind of regret for just this once deciding she didn’t care to abide to boundaries.

She had no idea what was worse, walking in on her own brother having sex with his wife, or laying in bed in the Vale forced to endure her aunts insufferable screaming and grunting on her wedding night.

Already knowing Jon was modestly dressed, he mostly tied the laces of his breeches properly with a jaw clenched in tense frustration before grabbing something for you to wear. Turning you to face him as he slid the sleeves down your arms, his eyes sought out yours as he tightened the laces at the front. An apology ripe in his gaze for not locking his door. Though you would’ve argued that he hadn’t come in for that intent.

Turning you once more so your back was to him, Jon gently moved your hair to lay in front of you gathered to one shoulder, now doing the final ties at the back. His voice truly stern in a manner that sounded just like when their father was as frustrated with one of them, also using it as an indication she could turn back around. “What was so important you couldn’t stop to knock?”

Facing you both once more, it was clear now that a bit of the embarrassment had subsided in most parties, save for you Jon knew, considering you had just stood in a silence letting him take charge of the conversation. Once more, there it was, plain as day on his little sisters face a distrust that he hated that it conflicted with his own struggle inside presently. Her throat clearing a bit, Sansa stuck to a more diplomatic route then perhaps she had intended on the walk over, indicating to you. “I wanted to talk to you.”

To you both, Jon spoke for you as there was a large pit in your stomach feeling ill for being walked in on in such a manner that you were too embarrassed to speak, trusting Jon knew your words for you, which he did. To Sansa though, Jon was aware it appeared as if he wasn’t allowing you to speak for yourself. “About what?”

Eyes flickered between both of you, Jon finally finishing your dresses laces. Palms smoothing down your upper arms, an unspoken gesture to calm yourself down, knowing the whiplash of such an intense, unplanned encounter was not clashing well with having to shift to everything being normal without any time to come back down to your head properly. Sansa though, didn’t see it that way even if she chose to address on but glance at you as well. “There were just things on my mind I wanted to talk to her about.” Asking what things in a gruff manner, it did stand out to Sansa how much like their fathers short tone Jon reminded her of. “About Petyr.”

Jon read the lie and she knew it. She wanted to talk to you alone about Jon. But as unfortunate of a time as it was, he may as well get it out there. But not quite yet, or at least, not this specific part. Talking about Jon was too talking about Petyr Baelish but he was going to address one alone before the other together. Looking over your shoulder, your eyes turned to meet as if reading his mind seeking you out.

Leaning down, Jon pressed a lingering, but chaste kiss to the side of your head. “Do me a favour, go find where Arya and Bran are and bring them to Wolkans study.” Your eyes narrowed, the silence a question and his nod the answer, you knew it was not a dismissal. Asking if he wished for you to take the baby, Jon ran his hand up and down your arm more. “I’ve got him.” Hesitating as you were to walk passed, Jon picked it up. Your head was a mess no doubt, he had been rough and spoken rough and sending you away this soon was confusing your ability to reclaim your senses as normal. Pulling you back to him, Jon captured your lips in a small kiss, murmuring finally back, knowing only you’d hear it. “I love you.”

Nudging you to move, he could imagine the uncertain, tight lipped smile you attempted to give Sansa as she watched you walk out of the door. Jon moving towards his sons bed, he reached a hand down, pressing gentle against his front with brighter eyes and a smile hinting on his lips already calming whatever building distress little Eddard had picked up on in the room.

His tone was more commanding of authority then Sansa expected. It felt no doubt, more like she was speaking to the King rather then her older brother as he didn’t even look up from his son to speak. “We do need to talk about him, and you. All of us. But this needs to be brought out into the open.” She didn’t say a word. Jon lifted his head up to meet her eyes with a more serious narrowing then he just had before, prompting her to be the one to say it. “Say it. Whatever it is you’re thinking, Sansa, just say it.”

One could describe it as a stare off, nothing in the air between glares that were not the crackling of the fire and small tender sounds from the baby Jon stood beside. Grey and blue with something that had been brewing for days and days now. Jon had once tried to talk to her about this, but she wanted to argue, so he shut it down before it got out of hand. Then Sansa continued to escalate things by arguing with him publicly in front of his men at every chance. But this was something he wouldn’t ignore.

Jon had his insecurities, he held his fears of turning into the blood father he never wanted, but he knew without any doubt he was not mistreating you the way Sansa was painting him to be. He was certainly not using you to be King in the North.

By the time Sansa found the words to spit it out, both knew this would escalate again, and part of Jon wished he had told you to take little Eddard with you. Knowing he did not like losing his temper around him. But she now alone in the room, found the right time to say it in a very spitting manner. “I wasn’t brought up the same as you and Robb were, but even I know our father didn’t raise you to act like this.” Pressing her on what specifically, Jon almost regretted it considering how quickly he felt his temper flaring up as she said your name. “The way you treat her-”

Already Jons voice raised in an anger. “You mean the way I treat my wife?”

Sansa’s jaw twitched, something he knew what she was trying to not say but he could see it clear as day as she talked around it. “I’ve known her almost as long as you have, you know. You’re not the only one here who cares about her well being.” Jon had interjected, something to the subject of he’s never claimed otherwise but Sansa had other idea. “No, you haven’t. I’m claiming it.” Pressing her again on what, “Claiming you don’t really care about her well being.”

Keep it pushed down, Jon thought. He truly did not want to get this angry at his own sister but bringing you up was always going to be a subject that had Jon a bit touched. Through an even tone of gritting teeth did Jon force himself to not let the worst of his impulsive temper get to him. “No offence, Sansa, but you have no idea the thing’s I’ve done to protect her. To keep her safe, to take care of her.”

Stepping forward, Sansa waved dramatically over to the bed were the fur was clearly still rustled by specific activities as she too raised her own voice. “By what? Pinning her to your bed so she can’t leave like you’re a dog?”

Not to her fault, but Sansa naturally had not a single clue why Jon stared at her in quite an enraged manner that spoke a little more surprisingly to her, that Jon was withholding something quite serious inside. His words low and carefully chosen as he spoke them slowly. Taking his hand from his sons bed, hoping he understood Jon didn’t want that anger near him. “The way I spend time with her, isn’t for you to start speculating over. You walked in on something you shouldn’t have, and you’re the one assuming things without having any idea what you’re talking about.”

Moving closer to meet her more in the middle of the room, nothing of their glares changed, save that Jon held an eerily unblinking stare towards her as she spoke. Now attempting to match his volume at a minimum. “The last time I saw you, you were leaving for the Wall after we both watched her marry Robb. Then I finally come home after Robb’s dead, I find out she’s alive, and you’ve left the Wall to come here, call yourself King, and marry her.” She was smart, leaving the fact of giving you a child was part of her original issue, but pressing that with the baby in question in the room at least to her, felt like an inappropriate part. “And everytime I see you with her, you’re always all over her. Trying to seduce her. What am I supposed to think?”

Breathing deeply in and back out, Jon reminded himself. If their father never spoke to him in that kind of anger, he wasn’t going to start doing it here with his little sister. But Jon also had to be careful what he approached, and how to unweave this web of endless falsehoods that had been placed into her head about him. “The only times you’ve seen me with her in that manner is when you’ve walked in on it, or spied on us when you knew you weren’t supposed to.” It said a lot to Jon that she had no rebuttal to that. “You may not understand my relationship with her, but that doesn’t mean you get to start judging me for it without any context. I can’t tell you what to think, but I will tell you that jumping to the worst conclusion isn’t fair. It’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to her.”

Motioning to her almost as if he were talking down an animal, Jon continued before giving her a chance. “If you think I don’t know what he’s been saying to you, you’re wrong. I know exactly what he’s been telling you about me.” Asking more on the quiet side how he knew, Jon let some of that anger go. More wide eyes pleading with her to just listen to him about this for once now that they were both adults. “Because people have been saying those things about me for my whole life. I’m a bastard, a walking reminder of sin and lies all because of a birth I had no control over. Highborns get told to look out for people like me, because I’ll just seduce and manipulate someone into giving me what I want. People hear what my surname is, and judge me because they already decided I can’t be trusted.”

If it was guilt sitting on Sansa’s face, he didn’t go out of his way to point it out. Nor how she remained rather quiet in her slow formed attempt at any kind of fair retort. “You’re my brother, I do trust you-”

Jon didn’t yell, if anything his voice lowered to more of an exasperation, something tired and knowing and finished with hearing that over and over. “You don’t. If you trusted me, you wouldn’t be standing here accusing me of using the woman I love for a title I never asked for.” Sansa blinked away multiple times whatever she was considering saying. “I can’t change what happened, or what Robb decided. I can’t even tell you why. I wasn’t there.” Your name came next from his mouth. “But she was. And instead of asking her why she and Robb did what they did about his crown, you’re blaming me. And choosing to accuse me of using her for my benefit, when I’m the one who owes everything to her. Including my life. I’m sorry you’re hurt, and I’m sorry you came back for something you didn’t know was already decided could never be yours.”

Closing the gap between them, part of Jon wondered if his sister had always been this noticeably tall. They almost didn’t even stand eye to eye, in fact she was a breath taller now. Or maybe she always was this tall, but too he wouldn’t have known that. Before this past week, Jon wouldn’t have been able to even say the last time he and Sansa spoke just the two of them. Jon felt like he didn’t even know her, but he had no way to even try as long as she was ready to paint him out to be something he wasn’t.

In truth, it was likely the most honest Sansa had been since that night she sought you out by the glass gardens, even if it seemed not even Jon knew of that night. You had kept it to yourself as long as she wanted it to be just between you. But here of all places, Sansa let herself just say what was truly on her mind. “Sometimes I don’t now if I really came home. Or if I’m still just a liar doing whatever Petyr tells me because I don’t know what else do to anymore.”

Head shaking the slightest, Jon stepped closer as his tone lowered. Were he to ask in that moment, Sansa could’ve pinned exactly who Jons demeanour reminded her of so vividly it took her off guard.

“If it must be done, I will do it myself.”

The exasperation and defeat once the anger had simmered out, realizing that nothing was as simple as he had thought it would be, and how no matter what being said or done would hurt her, her father never stood forth to kill Lady because he wanted to. He did it because allowing an outsider to so strongly dictate what happened in his family was not something he’d allow. She had rarely considered how much of their father Jon was like, but in that moment, it was like looking at a darker haired version of Ned Stark.

Speaking softer, but still with that heavy weight behind of something bigger then just this argument weighing him down came through. Jon only hoping some of this was sinking in over the words of people like Littlefinger. “I know you’ve been through too much, you, Arya, Bran, all of you lost your chance to still be children after father died. But you’re still a Stark, and you’re my sister. Winter is coming and something more dangerous is coming with it then fighting over who gets to be crowned what. But I can’t even try to protect you from that, or anyone if you keep doing this. He’s not helping you because he wants whats best for you. He wants you to think I’m using her, to hide the fact that he’s using you.”

Eyes wider, something more human in them then he’d seen in days, or perhaps years in her. The voice speaking nothing like the woman who came back, but much more the naive girl who left years ago. “I don’t know if I’ve ever trusted him, but I had no choice.”

Jon was firm, but still that familiar comfort she recalled in their father as Jon held her arms to focus her to look at him properly. “I won’t tell you what to do, but before you decide what you really want, you need to hear the truth. The full truth about who he really is. He’s a dangerous man-”

“I already know.” Looking up to Jons confusion, he could see something much like what he felt just then. A truth that she hadn’t seen coming, but this time he was the unknown party. “I know he’s dangerous. And I know why.”

As it turned out, Sansa’s why was not anywhere near close to yours and Jon why.

Sitting at the head of the table, Sansa had relayed the story. Arya, Bran and Jon all taking it in with the same understanding between them, and the same questions of why. The day Joffery had been poisoned, Ser Dontos whisking her away to something he called safety. Only to get to the ominous ship and slowly put together the truth of what Petyr Baelish had done and the lengths he went to frame it otherwise. Maester Wolkan helped direct the discussion, he and Jon both sharing the same glances of trying to piece together where this all fit into what they already knew. “He had me keep the poison without knowing it, and already knowing he was helping me escape he must have known too they’d blame me.”

Arya leaned forward with numerous questions of her own, the present one being the same on her brothers minds as well. “But if they arrested Tyrion Lannister right away, then he would’ve also assumed they’d blame him, since you running makes him look more guilty.”

“Like he was covering for her to escape.” Jon added of his own, his own eyes you felt glancing to you at the other end away from everyone else. Your pacing had gotten to the point you needed someone to take the baby for you because now you were the one who couldn’t settle. Something was eating at you this entire story.

You could believe Petyr Baelish had the resources to kill Joffery, and you knew why. It was the same why to the question of his betrayal of you and Ned Stark that day in the throne room. A man with seemingly no motive is a man they never expect. Until you thought darkly, until he plays that card too many times.

If your time with the Seaworths had taught you anything about gambling, and gods know Ser Davos’s eldest son Allard certainly spent much time teaching you to gamble when out at sea, you knew the best cards could only ever be played once. Otherwise the pattern be recognized too often. How many times now had Petyr Baelish played that card of feigning ignorance of his own betrayal. First yourself and Ned Stark, tricking Catelyn into betraying Robb, betraying Sansa herself by lying about his involvement in the attempt on your life.

But there was one element that kept picking at your brain. One person that came up again and again in Littlefingers lies and something stood out to you without knowing what. Your palms under the wrappings almost felt as if they were bleeding again, the feeling of the blade Catelyn fought against to save Brans life. The events played after were ones no one was left alive here to know but you, you and-

The moment the thought came to you, your head rose up slowly. Something washing through your veins in a realization so stunning you hadn’t even felt it’s cold take over the room and direct attention to you.

Your lips parted the moment it you regained your senses to focus on it, and yet the very second your eyes looked to Brans, to neither of your controlling, did yours and his both turn white.

[theghostofpyke]

A week of Theon: Truth or Lies

As an frequent reader of Theon escape & recovery fic, I'm aware that a recurring fantasy in fandom and fanfic goes something like this: Robb, Jon, "the Starks", or another main character knew that Theon 'vanished', maybe even that he's held captive by Bolton. They are very angry at Theon for what he did, but when they find out about the torture, they are horrified. Maybe they are spurred into action to help or protect Theon.

I much understand the id-appeal of these types of stories. However, this is, of course, not the story we are told in the books. Personally, the story in the books makes me even more emotional. So for the prompt: "True and Lies" let's look at the truth of who knew about Theon's torture, and what it meant to them:

🐺 Jon 🔥

Jon has been in the know that Theon is being tortured by Ramsay Bolton, specifically flayed, since A Storm Of Swords:

“Jon,” said Maester Aemon, “much and more happened while you were away, and little of it good. Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself again and sent his longships against the north. Kings sprout like weeds at every hand and we have sent appeals to all of them, yet none will come. They have more pressing uses for their swords, and we are far off and forgotten. And Winterfell . . . Jon, be strong . . . Winterfell is no more . . .” “No more?” Jon stared at Aemon’s white eyes and wrinkled face. “My brothers are at Winterfell. Bran and Rickon . . .” The maester touched his brow. “I am so very sorry, Jon. Your brothers died at the command of Theon Greyjoy, after he took Winterfell in his father’s name. When your father’s bannermen threatened to retake it, he put the castle to the torch.” “Your brothers were avenged,” Grenn said. “Bolton’s son killed all the ironmen, and it’s said he’s flaying Theon Greyjoy inch by inch for what he did.” “I’m sorry, Jon.” Pyp squeezed his shoulder. “We are all.” Jon had never liked Theon Greyjoy, but he had been their father’s ward. Another spasm of pain twisted up his leg, and the next he knew he was flat on his back again. “There’s some mistake,” he insisted. “At Queenscrown I saw a direwolf, a grey direwolf . . . grey . . . it knew me.” If Bran was dead, could some part of him live on in his wolf, as Orell lived within his eagle? “Drink this.” Grenn held a cup to his lips. Jon drank. His head was full of wolves and eagles, the sound of his brothers’ laughter. The faces above him began to blur and fade. They can’t be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell . . . grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones . . . how could Winterfell be gone?

In this scene, injured, freshly back from his quite traumatising mission beyond the wall, Jon is quickly filled in by his comrades about what he missed: The fall of Winterfell, Bran and Rickon's murder, Theon's torture.

It's a lot to take in, and Jon reacts with doubt: His warg abilities make him suspect that Bran is still alive, his character judgement make him doubt that Theon would do such a thing. He's right on both counts, but in between everything else going on in his life he doesn't particularly find the time to reflect on it further.

Jon will briefly think of Theon in subsequent chapters: Channels the memory of Theon when using a bow. Mentions Theon when remembering Winterfell. In fact, nearly all of Jon's - few - thoughts about Theon will be in context of Winterfell's loss: Winterfell…. but it was torched by Theon, so it is no more :( Ser Rodrik….. but he was slain by Theon Turncloak. All my memories are poisoned :(

Theon's torture is not on his mind. Grenn told Jon of Theon's torture with the aim to comfort him: Your brothers were slain but they are being avenged! Jon is not particularly comforted, but nor is he disturbed. Jon has one and half books of thinking about what Winterfell means to him and about Bolton in the context of Arya (whom he thinks a lot about) to consider how Theon is faring and if this particular rumor is true; he doesn't. Theon's torture is a minor detail.

🐟 Catelyn 🐺

“Did Ramsay mention Theon Greyjoy?” Robb demanded. “Was he slain as well, or did he flee?” Roose Bolton removed a ragged strip of leather from the pouch at his belt. “My son sent this with his letter.” Ser Wendel turned his fat face away. Robin Flint and Smalljon Umber exchanged a look, and the Greatjon snorted like a bull. “Is that . . . skin?” said Robb. “The skin from the little finger of Theon Greyjoy’s left hand. My son is cruel, I confess it. And yet . . . what is a little skin, against the lives of two young princes? You were their mother, my lady. May I offer you this . . . small token of revenge?” Part of Catelyn wanted to clutch the grisly trophy to her heart, but she made herself resist. “Put it away. Please.” “Flaying Theon will not bring my brothers back,” Robb said. “I want his head, not his skin.” “He is Balon Greyjoy’s only living son,” Lord Bolton said softly, as if they had forgotten, “and now rightful King of the Iron Islands. A captive king has great value as a hostage.” “Hostage?” The word raised Catelyn’s hackles. Hostages were oft exchanged. “Lord Bolton, I hope you are not suggesting that we free the man who killed my sons.” “Whoever wins the Seastone Chair will want Theon Greyjoy dead,” Bolton pointed out. “Even in chains, he has a better claim than any of his uncles. Hold him, I say, and demand concessions from the ironborn as the price of his execution.” Robb considered that reluctantly, but in the end he nodded. “Yes. Very well. Keep him alive, then. For the present. Hold him secure at the Dreadfort till we’ve retaken the north.”

At the Twins, Roose tells all present - Catelyn, Robb, Wendel Manderly, Robin Flint, Smalljon Umber - of Theon's torture, bringing grisly proof: A piece of Theon's skin.

As Grenn did with Jon, the knowledge that Theon is being tortured is offered as comfort. Catelyn is comforted.

“Your first duty is to defend your own people, win back Winterfell, and hang Theon in a crow’s cage to die slowly. Or else put off that crown for good, Robb, for men will know that you are no true king at all.”

(Catelyn speaking to Robb)

When she said that, it felt as though a giant hand were squeezing her chest. “I want them all dead, Brienne. Theon Greyjoy first, then Jaime Lannister and Cersei and the Imp, every one, every one. But my girls . . . my girls will . . .”

(Catelyn speaking to Brienne)

Catelyn, who has been openly fantasising and demanding Theon's death and Theon's torture from the young warriors at her side (Brienne, Robb) in prior chapters, is actively opposed to Theon being helped, freed or rescued. The thought of Theon getting freed from Bolton's clutches is upsetting to her.

🐺 Robb ⚔️

In the same conversation, Robb learns of Theon's torture. He disapproves: Flaying Theon will not bring my brothers back. I want his head, not his skin.

He, however, also doesn't oppose it. He doesn't forbid it. He doesn't punch Roose in the face. He doesn't gather his men to hurriedly ride to the Dreadfort. He doesn't demand Ramsay's head. (I list a few fanfic scenarios, here).

When faced with sound tactical reasoning, Robb explicitly allows Theon's ongoing captivity at the hands of Ramsay. Even while knowing Ramsay is torturing Theon. Even with the information that Ramsay is in charge and Ramsay is "cruel" as per Roose's words.

Notably, Robb doesn't qualify his approval of Theon's ongoing captivity with something like: Very well, keep him alive and treat him well / stop torturing him / don't cut any more piece off him. It's just: Very well, keep him alive, for the present." Robb allows Theon's captivity to go on as is.

🪝 White Harbor🧜

Davos thought back on the tales they’d heard. “Winterfell was captured by Theon Greyjoy, who had once been Lord Stark’s ward. He had Stark’s two young sons put to death and mounted their heads above the castle walls. When the northmen came to oust him, he put the entire castle to sword, down to the last child, before he himself was slain by Lord Bolton’s bastard.” “Not slain,” said Glover. “Captured, and carried back to the Dreadfort. The Bastard has been flaying him.” Lord Wyman nodded. “The tale you tell is one we all have heard, as full of lies as a pudding’s full of raisins."

Just another example of how well-known the tale of Theon's captivity and torture is. Davos, Robett Glover and Manderly have been at different places at different times, but all of them have heard the same tale of Theon's flaying.

🦑 Asha 🪓

Asha Greyjoy was seated in Galbart Glover’s longhall drinking Galbart Glover’s wine when Galbart Glover’s maester brought the letter to her. “My lady.” The maester’s voice was anxious, as it always was when he spoke to her. “A bird from Barrowton.” He thrust the parchment at her as if he could not wait to be rid of it. It was tightly rolled and sealed with a button of hard pink wax. Barrowton. Asha tried to recall who ruled in Barrowton. Some northern lord, no friend of mine. And that seal … the Boltons of the Dreadfort went into battle beneath pink banners spattered with little drops of blood. It only stood to reason that they would use pink sealing wax as well. This is poison that I hold, she thought. I ought to burn it. Instead she cracked the seal. A scrap of leather fluttered down into her lap. When she read the dry brown words, her black mood grew blacker still. Dark wings, dark words. The ravens never brought glad tidings. The last message sent to Deepwood had been from Stannis Baratheon, demanding homage. This was worse. “The northmen have taken Moat Cailin.” “The Bastard of Bolton?” asked Qarl, beside her. “Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, he signs himself. But there are other names as well.” Lady Dustin, Lady Cerwyn, and four Ryswells had appended their own signatures beneath his. Beside them was drawn a crude giant, the mark of some Umber. Those were done in maester’s ink, made of soot and coal tar, but the message above was scrawled in brown in a huge, spiky hand. It spoke of the fall of Moat Cailin, of the triumphant return of the Warden of the North to his domains, of a marriage soon to be made. The first words were, “I write this letter in the blood of ironmen,” the last, “I send you each a piece of prince. Linger in my lands, and share his fate.” Asha had believed her little brother dead. Better dead than this. The scrap of skin had fallen into her lap. She held it to the candle and watched the smoke curl up, until the last of it had been consumed and the flame was licking at her fingers. Galbart Glover’s maester hovered expectantly at her elbow. “There will be no answer,” she informed him.

I'll admit that the timelines are a bit confused to me, but it seems to me that Asha is one of the last of our named characters to learn about Theon's fate. Prior to this letter, she thought Theon dead.

We have several indications that the ironborn as a people and the Greyjoys as family have not been informed of Theon's captivity and survival, nor of his torture:

Before the priest could answer Gorold Goodbrother, the maester's mouth flapped open once again. "By rights the Seastone Chair belongs to Theon, or Asha if the prince is dead. That is the law."

Or Asha if the prince is dead. They don't know if he is. He might be.

They had spoken in the Sea Tower, as the wind howled outside the windows and the waves crashed restlessly below. Balon had shaken his head in despair when he heard what Aeron had to tell him of his last remaining son. "The wolves have made a weakling of him, as I feared," the king had said. "I pray god that they killed him, so he cannot stand in Asha's way."

Well, this is brutal, but clearly, Balon never knew what happened to Theon. Balon has many faults but this kind of sneaky dishonesty isn't one. Had he known about Theon's captivity and torture, he would not have claimed ignorance.

And Theon, if he lived, was just as hopeless, a boy of sulks and smiles. At Winterfell he proved his worth, such that it was, but the Crow's Eye was no crippled boy.

Aeron, too, is in the dark on whether Theon survived.

Only now do the ironborn receive letters telling them of Theon's situation. The letters don't aim to negotiate Theon's future, nor do they offer his death or release (understandable, as they are written by Ramsay, who wants to keep Theon for himself). They use Theon's fate as threat and show of force. This is happening to him, this could happen to you.

"Each of you" implies several such letters were sent. Asha. Dagmer would seem likely. Maybe some more along the Stony Shore? Unclear to me whether the Iron Islands proper (aka Euron or Erik Ironmaker who rules the Iron Islands as Euron's steward in his absence) have gotten a similar letter yes or no.

Asha is very affected by this letter. Most of this chapter she spends ruminating and reacting to her (lack of) options:

What does it matter? My father’s dead, my mother’s dying, my brother’s being flayed, and there’s naught that I can do about any of it.

But at least once it is implied she might have wanted to go rescue Theon, had she been able to.

She could turn merchanter, as Tris seemed to want, or else make for the Stepstones and join the pirates there. Or … “I send you each a piece of prince,” she muttered.

I read this as: Or… she could go find Theon.

She won't be able to, as immediately after, Deepwood Motte gets attacked and conquered by Stannis' forces and Asha taken prisoner.

She'll keep thinking of Theon and Theon's fate several times, in brief, vague memories tingued with guilt, often connected to her mother.

🩸Some Context 🩸

On the one hand, torture is normalised in the world these characters inhabit.

Manderly has a torturer. Stannis has a torturer. Jon Snow, some chapters prior, learned that Qhorin Halfhand had wildlings tortured. One of them Qhorin had tortured to death and "too quickly for him to be of much use". Jon is not upset by this and will come to respect Qhorin.

People get tortured for all sorts of reasons: To question them, to threaten others, to provide particularly gruesome deaths that leave an effect on enemies or allies (and so on).

On the other hand, there are some rules.

The flayed man was the sigil of House Bolton, Theon knew; ages past, certain of their lords had gone so far as to cloak themselves in the skins of dead enemies. A number of Starks had ended thus. Supposedly all that had stopped a thousand years ago, when the Boltons had bent their knees to Winterfell.

We learn, for instance, that the Boltons had to stop cloaking themselves in their enemies' skin when they bent the knee to Winterfell. It's somewhat unclear to me here if flaying as torture method at all was banned or "cloaking themselves in their enmies' skin" in specific.

After all, not only Joffrey but also the good Blackfish Tully throws threats of flaying people around, which would imply that flaying is not per se considered too abominable to consider.

“I mean,” said the Blackfish, “that you owe His Grace your thanks for his forbearance. He played out that mummer’s farce in the Great Hall so as not to shame you before your own people. Had it been me I would have flayed you for your stupidity rather than praising this folly of the fords.”

The Blackfish is not serious in this threat (probably) but think of violence you (your culture) would consider truly descipable. Would you, even unseriously, as "a good person", boast of doing this to someone?

The Bolton banner is considered abominable, though. There's a rumour about a room in the Dreadfort where the Boltons hang their enemies's skins deemed dreadful enough by at least the Stark children to be suspected to be "only one of Old Nan's stories"

"Gods, I was so scared. And the Greatjon’s not the worst of them, only the loudest. Lord Roose never says a word, he only looks at me, and all I can think of is that room they have in the Dreadfort, where the Boltons hang the skins of their enemies.” “That’s just one of Old Nan’s stories,” Bran said. A note of doubt crept into his voice. “Isn’t it?” “I don’t know.” He gave a weary shake of his head.

(Robb talking to Bran)

So flaying yay or nay is is a bit ambiguous to me, but

Roose himself calls Ramsay's treatment of Theon exceptionally "cruel"

Manderly & Co discuss Ramsay as extremely cruel abnomaly, and house Bolton as "cunning and cruel"

Barbrey Dustin reacts with horror to seeing Theon, which tells us that the way Ramsay treats his prisoner is considered beyond the realm of "normal", even in this brutal world, even by vengeful, vindictive women like Barbrey who do not shy away from a little cruelty

If we assume that flaying was in fact banned in the North, when Bolton spreads the word that Theon is being flayed by his Bastard, he's conducting a double PR-move:

One, rejoice in our mistreatment of the turncloak who destroyed Winterfell and Winterfell's heirs. (Invoking the memory of Stark to cement their power; "we are avenging Winterfell")

Two, we are flaying again, and don't you in fact like it? (Defying the memory of Stark to show that They are now in charge according to their Own rules. Stark might have banned flaying, but we flay. A power-move against the memory of Stark.)

What is being done to Theon is then something that "should not" be considered acceptable (this is no honourable way to treat prisoners; this is an exceptional and cruel mode of punishment; skinning your enemies is abominable; it was banned; this is not a regular hazard of going to battle and being a war prisoner) yet it is, because it speaks to people's desires and political needs that if it is done to Theon we will accept and even welcome it.

"Theon is secretly tortured" vs. "Theon is publicly tortured and the world approves" makes for two very different stories and very different narratives for Theon, as well.

There's no recuperation, here. There's no "if they had known they would have".

It is simply that Theon's mistreatment is the price that is being paid. To maintain or reinstate power in the North. To create order. To manage a story of heroes (us) and villains (them; vanquished, under our control, punished). This is true of Theon as a child taken hostage and it is true of Theon as young adult getting tortured.

The knowing of it is the point. For a surviving Theon, it means living in a world that approved of his captivity and a world that approved of his torture. I think that very compelling and if GRRM ever writes these books I look forward to seeing this Theon.

[leupagus]

Am I writing this largely because I enjoy the idea of Sansa and Stannis constantly hissing at each other like two belligerent cats? Listen,

x

By the first week of the siege, Sansa was forced to admit — if only to herself —that warfare was far less exciting than she'd imagined. When she had been told of Robb's victories in the Riverlands she had always pictured him triumphant upon a fearsome destrier, sword held high as he cut down his enemies before him. Then he'd been killed and she had lived through the Battle of the Blackwater, waiting either rescue or slaughter by the very man who was now her ally. That had not been exciting, precisely, but it had not been this dull and plodding affair. A far cry from the valiant knights and noble battles she'd read when she was a girl; but she'd had precious little turn out the way she'd been taught.

She slept at the camps near the front lines, in the same soldier's tent she and Brienne and Podrick had shared for the past four months. Stannis had made all sorts of ridiculous protests about "ladies" and "danger" until she'd had to remind him, once again, that her eight thousand men gave her the freedom to dictate her own movements.

"All very well while we're waiting out here, my lady," he'd growled in response, after his requisite glare at her flawless logic, "But when battle joins, you'll be nothing more than a nuisance."

"In which case, I'll be quickly killed and you can have Rickon installed as Lord of Winterfell instead," she'd replied, "as you were hoping to do in the first place." That had shut him up, at least, and he'd gone back to scowling at Winterfell's walls.

Every night when she returned to the camp, she stopped at Stannis's tent and joined the conference with their commanders and lieutenants. It was then that she learned about the waging of war: how men were best deployed, how training was maintained even in the midst of a siege, how sickness was kept at bay so that it did not kill more soldiers than did the battles. Stannis disliked her presence there, too, but she was rapidly coming to understand that he would only be truly happy when she was out of his life for good. Possibly not even then. He did not seem a man much given to smiles.

The men did not share Stannis's view, at least; as she walked through the lines each morning and night they stood to bow to her, and press the back of her hand to their foreheads as she remembered they had done to Mother so long ago.

"They say that the old gods have brought you back to us," Lord Reed told her one day, as he accompanied her on her daily walk to the winter town. "That they were angered when the Starks were driven from Winterfell, and that they're drawing you all back here one by one. They say that Robb Stark may come back from the dead, such is the rage of the gods, and avenge all who wronged your house."

Joffrey had been diligent in recounting every detail of what had happened to Robb's body after Roose Bolton had killed him. She repressed a shudder to think of it and held more tightly to Reed's arm, grateful for the warmth of him at her side. "I hope they are not disappointed if all they get is me and Rickon."

Reed chuckled. "They're well-satisfied, my lady," he said. They walked into the winter town just as the sun broke over the mountains. "You're a sight prettier than the Young Wolf ever was, that's certain."

The winter town was where her real work was done each day. It was the custom every winter for the smallfolk of the North to leave their hides holdfasts and journey here, bringing what they could cart or carry. The winter town would eventually house nearly one in three of every soul living in the North, seeking shelter together to endure the cold.

The Boltons had not bothered to do their duty, laying in no provisions and building no new housing. Up until now it had mattered little; even as the winds had begun to blow, few smallfolk had dared to come take shelter under the banners of the flayed man. The town itself had been all but abandoned, until word of the Starks' return had begun to spread throughout the North.

Now the winter town seemed to double in size with each passing day despite the ongoing siege of the Keep. Sansa had her hands full in directing builders, organizing kitchens, allocating what resources they had to feed and shelter everyone. In this she was aided by any number of friends and allies: those servants and household members who had first escaped during Winterfell's seizure by the Ironborn, or who had endured that but had fled the Boltons' brutal takeover; the households of her lords who had come to support the siege; even Lady Umber and her formidable staff lent a hand before she returned to Last Hearth. Her most steadfast assistants were Rickon and Shireen, who at first had joined her out of boredom but were now her little lieutenants, breathlessly updating her on all events of the previous night as she joined them for breakfast each morning. She received aid also from her men in the armies, assigning their builders to fortify the town in much the same way they were fortifying the siege camp.

Her lords approved of this; Stannis, of course, did not.

"You seek another threescore soldiers?" he demanded one evening.

The siege had now dragged on near a month. Bolton's men showed signs of distress, Lord Flint reported with no small satisfaction; they would not last much longer. But this had brought a fresh concern, and Sansa had broached it during their evening conference.

"We need to build up the palisades along the eastern side of the winter town," Sansa insisted, pointing at the map spread out along the table, with the various pieces representing the various companies all arrayed neatly atop. Stannis's wooden flaming hearts were outnumbered by Sansa's wolf heads two to one, though many of hers appeared hastily-carved from whatever spare wood was at hand. She reached for a flaming heart on the far side of the Keep, well away from the siege. "It need only be for—"

"Give me that," Stannis snapped, snatching it back. "Those men are covering the huntsman's gate, should any of Bolton's forces be cowardly enough to attempt escape rather than stand and fight."

"And you anticipate that happening in the next day?" she demanded, resisting the urge to lunge for the piece the way she used to with Robb when he had teasingly stolen her embroidery, holding it just out of reach. "There must be fifty or sixty men out of twelve thousand that can be spared."

"Why are the palisades in need of building up in the first place?" Stannis demanded, as Lord Glover opened and then shut his mouth to reply to her. "This winter town of yours is folly — you cannot grant entry to every farmer and tinker who pleads for shelter."

Sansa gaped at him in outrage, though even as she did so she was heartened to hear the murmur of her lords at such a comment. "That is precisely what is done, and has been for every winter since before Bran the Builder set stones to build Winterfell!" She glared at him. "This is a refuge, Your Grace."

"This is a siege, my lady," he retorted, looming over her. She thought longingly of the beautiful heeled shoes Margaery wore; she needed only a few inches to match Stannis's height, and see what good his looming did him then. "The smallfolk congregate here at their own risk!"

"My people congregate here because they believe I will keep them safe, and I will do so. With or without Your Grace's help!"

"Without, if it pleases my lady!"

Half-ready to club him over the head with the nearest chair, Sansa grabbed the flaming heart out of his hands and waved it in his face. "What are these men supposed to do, if Bolton and his soldiers escape out this way?"

Stannis looked too near a fit of apoplexy to reply, so it was Lord Cerwyn who cleared his throat and answered, "They are charged to report back, my lady, with some following at a safe distance to see where they go."

"It's perfectly obvious where they'll go," Sansa snapped. "Lord Bolton will make for the Dreadfort."

"Of course he will," said Stannis, finding his voice at last, though he did not try for the wolf's-head piece again. "That doesn't mean—"

"I know three dozen local boys who could hide along the route from the huntsman's gate to the eastern road and bring back reports, without clomping about the forests in full armor," Sansa said, slamming the piece down at the winter town. "And they might be able to bring back some food, while they're at it. Unlike your soldiers, they know how to hunt in the Wolfswood without frightening off half the game."

A few days later, she had her men.

[jackoshadows]

In the books:

White Harbor

“Was ever snow so black?” asked Lord Wyman. “Ramsay took Lord Hornwood’s lands by forcibly wedding his widow, then locked her in a tower and forgot her. It is said she ate her own fingers in her extremity…and the Lannister notion of king’s justice is to reward her killer with Ned Stark’s little girl.” - Davos, ADwD

Winterfell:

"The bride weeps," Lady Dustin said, as they made their way down, step by careful step. "Our little Lady Arya." ... What do you think passes through their heads when they hear the new bride weeping? Valiant Ned's precious little girl." ... "Lady Arya's sobs do us more harm than all of Lord Stannis's swords and spears. - The Turncloak, ADwD

The Boltons about the Northmen marching with Stannis:

“Even ruined and broken, Winterfell remains Lady Arya’s home. What better place to wed her, bed her, and stake your claim? Let Stannis march on us. He is too cautious to come to Barrowton…but he must come to Winterfell. His clansmen will not abandon the daughter of their precious Ned to such as you. - - Reek, ADwD

The northmen marching with Stannis:

"Winter is almost upon us, boy. And winter is death. I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. No one sings songs of men who die like that. As for me, I am old. This will be my last winter. Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel it spatter across my face when my axe bites deep into a Bolton skull. I want to lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue." - The King's Prize, ADwD

Stannis to Lord Commander Jon Snow:

… more northmen coming in as word spreads of our victory. Fisherfolk, freeriders, hillmen, crofters from the deep of the wolfswood and villagers who fled their homes along the stony shore to escape the ironmen, survivors from the battle outside the gates of Winterfell, men once sworn to the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, and the Tallharts. We are five thousand strong as I write, our numbers swelling every day. And word has come to us that Roose Bolton moves toward Winterfell with all his power, there to wed his bastard to your half sister. He must not be allowed to restore the castle to its former strength. We march against him. Arnolf Karstark and Mors Umber will join us. I will save your sister if I can, and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow. You and your brothers must hold the Wall until I can return. - Jon, ADwD

Lord Commander Jon Snow on the Wall:

"He's to marry Arya Stark. My little sister." Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll fight him. "Your sister," Iron Emmett said, "how old is …" By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily. - Jon, ADwD

You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … "I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said.

The roar was all he could have hoped for, the tumult so loud that the two old shields tumbled from the walls. Soren Shieldbreaker was on his feet, the Wanderer as well. Toregg the Tall, Brogg, Harle the Huntsman and Harle the Handsome both, Ygon Oldfather, Blind Doss, even the Great Walrus. I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard. - Jon, ADwD

Stannis sending Arya to Jon Snow for a debt owed

"Oh, and take the Stark girl with you. Deliver her to Lord Commander Snow on your way to Eastwatch." Stannis tapped the parchment that lay before him. "A true king pays his debts." Pay it, aye, thought Theon. Pay it with false coin. Jon Snow would see through the imposter at once. Lord Stark's sullen bastard had known Jeyne Poole, and he had always been fond of his little half-sister Arya. - Theon, TWoW

Even the traitors Karstark pretending like the others:

Lord Arnolf shoved himself up, a vulture rising from its prey. One spotted hand clutched at his son’s shoulder for support. “We’ll take (Winterfell) for the Ned and for his daughter.” - The Sacrifice, ADwD

Us reading A Dance for Dragons: The North is marching for Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Ned Stark. Arya Stark is a pivotal character, a Key to the North around whom the North plot revolves. Various Northern factions are uniting behind her, the Lord Commander broke several oaths of neutrality and died trying to save her, two kings tried to save her.

Sansa stans/Jonsa shippers:

They hate it so much that the North plot revolves around Arya that the only thing they can do again and again is gaslight the fandom with this false equivalence that talking about Arya's importance to the North is making light of Jeyne's rape and abuse.

Also, Ramsay marries Arya Stark to give legitimacy to his stake over the North as Lord of Winterfell. Which is why Manderly wants Rickon because his claim supersedes Arya's. These morons pretending that discussing this plot is an insult to Arya while they hand over all of Arya's book themes, characterization and relationships to their fave is hilarious.

Like every other day there is a post of how Sansa is the MOST IMPORTANT because EVERYONE WANTS TO MARRY HER and she is the ONLY KEY TO THE NORTH - because the Lannisters, Tyrells and LF are all plotting to marry her off etc. The whole Jonsa shite is about Sansa deigning to make the poor bastard Jon legitimate by marrying him etc. Their world revolves around Sansa's marriage. But apparently discussing how Arya's marriage to Ramsay to hold the North is driving the Northern plot is insulting to Arya's character 🤣

When even the author has given all these interviews pointing out that replacing Jeyne with Sansa on the TV show changed the entire story because 'Fake Arya' is essential to what is happening in the North, these stans can only regurgitate this tired old nonsense and attack book readers for discussing what is actually in the books instead of making up headcanons on how their unqualified fave is the only candidate to be QITN

[bonkbobl]

daydreams

ROOSE BOLTON X READER

a/n : this is just a break for me because i have to write a essay for my midterms and its eating away at my mind. why cant i just major in being roose boltons stupid little slut womp womp

summary : roose bolton loves cumming inside you and he loves knowing that you love it too.

Your face pressed uncomfortably into the sheets, no longer did you trust your arms to hold your body up as your husband mercilessly pounded you. And so your body was jostled back and forth, Roose gripping tightly onto your hips.

Cries tumbled out of you and though you attempted to muffle them in your sheets, the efforts were fruitless. The walls of Winterfell were familiar with your cries, each and every night. Just as they were equally familiar with the soft, wet smacks of your spongey cunt grasping onto your lord husband for dear life.

Oh the sounds you were making.

"Please," You begged, vaguely, though Roose knew what you wanted. Even so, he liked to make you say it. A lady should learn to communicate with her husband properly.

With an iron grip, Roose's right hand tangled into your hair, his left coming under your neck. He pulled your back to arch up and your hands shot out to stabilize yourself. But only just your fingertips could reach the bed. The top of your head nestled into his clavicle and you stared up at him, the same pleading visible in your eyes.

"Tell me what you want," He whispered, his control over your body in this new position allowing him to pound you faster and harder. Yes, you'd tell him what you want, if only you could utter a word.

The intensity of your moans reached new heights and Roose could see that you were tumbling toward your release, so as a reminder of the rules of your husbands bedchambers, he gave you a firm smack on your bum. A wordless threat of worse punishment because he hated repeating himself.

"P-please cum in me. Please let me cum. I w-want..." Your cunt spasmed squeezing around him as you struggled to keep yourself up. Oh you were so close. So so close. "Mmmm," You whined frustrated, "I want your seed spilling out of me."

Roose hummed in approval at first but that controlled, almost condescending noise melted into something far more wanton and unbecoming of his character when you began to jerk your hips back as an attempt to meet his hard thrusts.

"Now."

He needn't ever repeat that command for you to obey.

---------------

"Roose."

His lord didn't respond verbally, only focusing on you and the rest of the counselors at the table to act as his response.

Your cunt continued to pulse around him and you never halted your actions completely, rolling your hips against him to ensure you milked every last drop of his seed. Greedy little thing.

His chin had been resting on his hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair he was sitting on. He tapped his lip with his index finger, stalling, cold eyes not as distracted before but as soon as he tore them away from you, the set and hardened once more. "Ramsay will take back Moat Cailin. It is settled." His gaze flickered back to you, who stared at him inquisitively. "You are all dismissed."

Except you.

Thats what you took it to mean, lingering behind as all the scared men scurried out the room.

"What is in your mind, my lord?" You asked, standing up and making your way around the table.

"Stannis Baratheon marches on us."

"You are worried about Stannis Baratheon?"

"Not particularly."

You chuckled, a hand reaching for his scruff. Your fingertips ran over his jaw and chin but your husband tended to remain clean-shaven. You felt him melt to your touch.

Roose raised his brows, amusement masking any physical response to your touch. Your breeches must be soiled by the way he pumped you full this morning.

"What were you thinking about, my lord?" You smiled sweetly, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips.

A small, content smirk graced his features.

"My victory."

"Your impending victory?"

Roose shook his head, a rare deviousness present in him, "I am sure I succeeded in siring an heir within your belly this morning. I know it."

You pulled back, amused. He was daydreaming. Daydreaming of your private moments in his bed chamber. During his war council. "Oh your mind is dancing about with memories of your victory over my womb," you teased, "and what if you are wrong, my lord?"

"I am sure you would not mind my trying again."

[medievalandfantasymelee]

THE HOT MEDIEVAL & FANTASY MEN MELEE

QUALIFYING ROUND: 100th Tilt

Geralt of Rivia, The Witcher (2019-) VS. Roose Bolton, Game of Thrones (2011-2019)

Propaganda

Geralt of Rivia, The Witcher (2019-) Portrayed by: Henry Cavill

“Look at him. Rugged yet pretty, that regal scowl and the alluring golden eyes. He looks like he can protect you and guess what, he will! He may grumble and grunt complaints about it but if you've been trusted to his care, he'll make sure nothing happens to you. And watch out for those rare instances you can get him to smile; catching one of those can change your whole outlook on life. Bonus: looks extra-hot when dirty and streaked with someone else's blood”

Roose Bolton, Game of Thrones (2011-2019) Portrayed by: Michael McElhatton

“Oof, that man. He has such a commanding presence and a voice that you just want to listen to forever. Delicious..”

Additional Propaganda Under the Cut

Additional Propaganda

For Geralt:

“The body on this man is pure insanity. How can anyone be this huge? And while he's super-hot when fighting ferociously with a snarl on his face, he's also super-hot with a cute little smirk on his face while he leans back against something with his arms folded and sleeves rolled up. The forearm porn alone, my god!”

For Roose Bolton:

[what-do-1000-swords-look-like]

Rewatching 8x05 for writing reasons, which is just a brilliant episode, despite any reasons some might have to hate it, valid or invalid. Miguel Sapochnik is directing and you see his talent and epicness in every shot (that man deserves a freaking Emmy already, I said what I said) but also there are so many things being shown here that if you muted the episode after Daenerys makes her decision, during the battle scene, you would be able to tell exactly what each character is thinking and what's really going on in the story besides the surface action.

Which brings me to that one scene that a lot of people said the woman being attacked as a stand-in for Sansa in the episode for Jon. They are correct and here's how.

Jon is walking through the melee, only coming to life to defend himself when Lannister soldiers are trying to attack him. The Northerners aren't listening to him, they're attacking innocent civilians, Grey Worm is on a killing spree, Davos is trying to help people get away from the bloodshed, Dany is burning the city, Tyrion is off somewhere horrified, Cersei is watching in terror from the Red Keep... But during this scene, the sound is muted to a point where the sounds of battle happening all around Jon sound very far away. We're now seeing what Jon sees, we're in his shock fugue with him. We see on his left civilians, namely women, being brutalized by soldiers -> he keeps walking. We on his right a woman being knocked down to the ground while a child is watching in horror, blood spatter and bodies all around her (and obviously traumatized & also in danger herself since no one is left to protect her) -> he keeps walking. He then sees a Lanniser soldier telling people to run, something his soldiers should be doing (and something he himself should be doing like Davos) but he's not. While the sounds are still muted, Jon notices another Lannister soldier about to rush him and he goes into autopilot & fights the soldier off. He then looks around in horror.

This is not what he signed up for and he almost looks lost, like he doesn't know what to do. Then the sound comes back fully and he hears a scream. In all of the melee, chaos, and death around him, he hears this one woman above the rest and turns to see her being dragged into an alley to presumably be assaulted by one of his own men.

Sure enough, she's about to be and she is trying to crawl away when the man catches her again. Jon ends up saving her, threatening to run his sword through the man. When the latter tries to fight him off to go back to assault this woman, Jon kills him and tells the woman to hide.

So how is this woman standing in for Sansa besides the obvious?

Two ways.

1) Ramsay was the former Warden of the North, the former bastard of Roose Bolton who was a Northerner who "served" Robb Stark, the first King in the North, before betraying him to the Lannisters. The soldier Jon faces off with is a Northerner and is supposed to be under Jon's command as Warden of the North and the former second King in the North.

2) Sansa is who stirs Jon into action when he feels lost.

Every.

Time.

And the parallels between the gif above with Dany and the dagger to the Northern soldier that had Jon's sword run through him, and Jon's staring almost sadly at the man, realizing he had to kill one of his own are far from being coincidental.

Not only was this a precursor to what would occur in 8x06 (and why Jon would make the decision he did) but it also is symbolic of the dynamic between Jon and Sansa as a whole. She's the one who stirs him into action, no matter how terrified or traumatized or angry he might be in that moment (like the shock fugue). No matter how lost he might feel. She gives him direction and dare I say a purpose when he has none (after his death; after the WW are defeated & Dany has gone into tyrant mode).

No wonder we weren't allowed to see Sansa's (or Arya's) reaction to the news of his being a Targaryen.

No wonder Jon told Melisandre not to bring him back if he lost the Battle of the Bastards (after Sansa told him if he lost, she wouldn't be going back to Ramsay alive).

No wonder Jon was not happy with Sansa on the dock in 8x06.

She's always stirred him into action when he doesn't want to be or know how to do it himself (after his death).

He passed a woman he could have saved.

He passed a child he could have helped.

He saw someone on the other side helping and doing the right thing.

The only time he steps in to help someone else is the woman about to be assaulted.

(x) "You are the shield that guards the realms of men. You've always tried to do the right thing. No matter the cost. You've tried to protect people. Who's the greatest threat to the people now?" (no reaction)

"Do you think I'm the last man she'll execute? Who is more dangerous than the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?" (no reaction)

"And your sisters? Do you see them bending the knee?" (a little bit of a reaction)

"Why do you think Sansa told me the truth about you? Because she doesn't want Dany to be queen." (more of a reaction)

"No, but you do. And you have to choose now." (he hesitatingly goes to confront Dany and then 🗡️)

It's not just about her being his "sister" or because she's Lady Stark or family or because they were the last two Starks once upon a time. She literally stirs him into action and gives him purpose. Her pushing to go back to Winterfell led to him caring about the WW invasion again. Her being the one he chooses to protect ended a tyrant and changed history, leading for her to become the first Queen in the North and regain Northern Independence, where she can be forever safe.

It was always Sansa for him, starting in 6x04.

[ladystoneboobs]

[Bran, to Theon:]“But you’re Father’s ward.” [Theon, to Bran:]“And now you and your brother are my wards. [...] You’ll tell them how you’ve yielded Winterfell to me, and command them to serve and obey their new lord as they did the old.” -Bran VI, aCoK “He[Ramsay] is a great hunter,” said Wyman Manderly, “and women are his favorite prey. He strips them naked and sets them loose in the woods. They have a half day’s start before he sets out after them with hounds and horns. From time to time some wench escapes and lives to tell the tale. Most are less fortunate. When Ramsay catches them he rapes them, flays them, feeds their corpses to his dogs, and brings their skins back to the Dreadfort as trophies. If they have given him good sport, he slits their throats before he skins them. Elsewise, t’other way around.” -Davos IV, aDwD [Roose, to Theon, about Ramsay's mother:]"[...]I was hunting a fox along the Weeping Water when I chanced upon a mill and saw a young woman washing clothes in the stream. The old miller had gotten himself a new young wife, a girl not half his age. She was a tall, willowy creature, very healthy-looking. Long legs and small firm breasts, like two ripe plums. Pretty, in a common sort of way. The moment that I set eyes on her I wanted her. Such was my due. [...] This miller’s marriage had been performed without my leave or knowledge. The man had cheated me. So I had him hanged, and claimed my rights beneath the tree where he was swaying. If truth be told, the wench was hardly worth the rope. The fox escaped as well, and on our way back to the Dreadfort my favorite courser came up lame, so all in all it was a dismal day." -Reek(/Theon) III, aDwD

something something the way theon tries to rectify his childhood trauma by taking his captor's place as lord of wf and taking ned's younger sons as his "wards"/hostages, while ramsay repeatedly reenacts different versions of his own conception by hunting and raping peasant women. except theon fails in his role reversal when (unlike him in his own captivity at wf) bran and rickon escape custody. and ramsay enhances roose's "dismal day" by killing all the women he catches to prevent any more bolton bastards and further punishing those of them who fail to give him "good sport" (which his mother apparently did not give roose) while those who do satisfy him are "honored" with a quick death (and a canine namesake). and then the consequences of theon's failure to replace his captor/cold noerthern father figure include losing wf to house bolton and becoming the new "reek"/another of ramsay's dogs. (meaning he made himself ramsay's prey but gave him "good sport" in the experience)

ramsay starts out as deceptive dark trickster figure/evil adviser/devil on theon's shoulder in clash but he's also a dark mirror of theon, and a more successful one at that, not just better suited to villainy but more able to get away with his crimes. neither will ever be truly accepted by their fathers but ramsay is made heir once he's the only son while theon is rejected as such despite his better birth. ramsay profits from the alleged kinslaying of his actual brother by blood, while theon is more openly condemned (and seen as still not punished enough) for (falsely) killing stark boys who were never his actual kin. it's almost as if ramsay is an evil force who came into being to find theon and was drawn to him upon his return to the north. we first learn of the bastard of bolton's existence after theon returns to pyke and learns of his father's invasion plans, then his last hunt with the original reek just shortly precedes the ironborn attacks, all so that he's captured and waiting in wf right in time for theon's real plan to go into action, and we don't actually meet (disguised) ramsay in-person through dialogue with rodrik cassell or any other northerner but only when theon arrives as the new lord to free him from the dungeon. as the first reek may have corrupted ramsay, ramsay-as-reek corrupts theon. reek belongs to ramsay and ramsay belongs to reek.

[misguidedasgardian]

The Winter Sun (6)

6. New Gods

MASTERLIST

Summary: Are you sure this is what you want?

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, medieval and asoif customs, arranged marriage , AGE GAP, Cregan is 12 years OLDER than reader), talks about sex, might miss some warnings

Wordcount: 3.3k

Notes: I'm sorry for the delay! and I'm so happy you are liking this story! this is new territory for me

“We can have new dresses made for you”, Sara muttered happily as she gave you some of the dresses she didn’t wear anymore, luckily, you had similar physiques. 

“I wouldn’t want you to spend unnecessarily for me”, you said, embarrassed, “besides, I have plenty of winter clothing, specially for riding my dragon, it will get here… eventually”

“In two months!”, she fought

“Right…”, you sad, a little embarrassed 

“Let’s say… we made them, do you know how to sow?”, you nodded, “great, we will make our own dresses, I bet you know what the ladies in King’s landing are wearing this season”, she winked at you and you giggled.

It was nice having Sara, she was like the sister you never had. This morning she had come to you and you spend most of the morning dressing, fixing your dresses and now, you were starting doing your hair. She had offered to do yours and you offered to do hers 

“I don’t know how to do your hair in a targaryen way”, she whispered, as she brushed your silvery strands, “those braids you were wearing when you got here, they were beautiful…”

“How do you fix your hair in the north?”, you asked, with a shine in your eyes. Sara smiled at you

“Like this…”, she made two small braids, and tie them together at the back of your hair, to put order to you hair, but still she left it free, it was simple, yet… meaningful

“Thank you Sara”, you in turn, arranged her hair with thick braids, as a Targaryen would wear, the same day you arrived. You did not know how to braid your own hair but you did know how to braid another’s.

“You look like a northerner”, Sara said happily, looking at you through the mirror, “well, almost, except for the hair”, she giggle and you did as well, you were wearing a gray dress, the color of House Stark, your jewelry, though, necklace, and rings, were all with the Targaryen heraldry, and your silver hair… It was very signature.

All the cold colors made you look almost ethereal, different from what you used to wear though, different… not precisely bad.

You hoped Cregan would like it.

Sara took your hand and led you through the Winterfell’s passages and hallways, down one floor and to the first one, and you walked to the main hall, which served as a meeting room, former throne room, and dining hall. 

You heard Cregan speaking inside the room, he seemed angry, and commanding.

“If she does, the ceremony won’t be big, all the lords and ladies, the most important ones, are here. Let's do it in three days' time, with a small banquet after, we are in autumn, we can’t splurge this far into winter… besides… we don’t even know if she is sure to continue with this engagement”, and then you entered, and all those present, the maester, the master at arms, all those who worked in Winterfell, Lords and Ladies of other houses, all turned to look at you. Dressed in Stark gray, your hair arranged like a proper lady of the North. 

Cregan stark looked at you wide eyed 

“I see her pretty determined”, muttered the Lady Bolton, and Cregan seemed to come out of his estupor

“Your Grace… you look… fine”, he finished, and even though if it was a strange compliment, you felt nervous all the same, playing with the rings on your fingers

“Thank you my lord”

“We were discussing the ceremony”, he said, “it should be held in the next few days, although, if you want to invite people from kings landing they will take time to arrive…”

“I don’t think they will want to make the journey”, you answered sadly, “we should do as you please”, you said with a shy smile

“Maybe it’s not what you’d expect, but the celebration won’t be as great as a princess’ should be”, he said in a warning tone.

“You are right, my lord, we are too close to winter, only a few guests and one dinner should be enough to celebrate our union”, you said and he seemed genuinely surprised. But then he only nodded

“very well”

“I would like to send ravens to notify members of my family, but that is enough, one to king’s landing, one to Dragonstone and the other to Driftmark”, you said confidently

“I’ll see to it, my lady”. Said the old maester with a shy smile, you nodded and thanked him.

If he didn't want to marry you, he would have said something, right?

He was not the same man you remembered from five years ago, it was true, you didn’t expect him to be, but… he was cold… he was rough, he… looked at you like this weakling, like this rachitic pup that would not last the week

But if he didn’t want to marry you, he would have said so, right?

With that thought, they let you use the library to write your messages.

They were three of them, all three the same.

“I, princess (Y/N) of houses Targaryen and Stokeworth, will wed Lord Cregan of House Stark at the end of the week, as it pleases King Viserys, the ceremony will take place in The God’s wood, under the traditions of the Old Gods in Winterfell”, it was brief and communicative 

You sealed them with your personal seal, and gave them to the maester, a nice old man with kind eyes. Maester Celwyn, was his name

All three ravens flied south, two of them flew slightly East. They took three days to arrive at their destination, at almost the same time.

The one in Dragonstone was received with a cup of wine and by the hand of Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince.

He frowned when reading the news of your own hand and letter, he would recognize it everywhere. He never showed it, but he always kept a close eye on you, no matter where he was, or what he was doing, he always had eyes on you. Maids, servants, Kingsguards. He personally, hurt by looking at you, you had his brother’s eyes, but… you were the only thing he had left of him. 

So you escaped the Keep and threw yourself at the arms of Cregan Stark, it could have been worse. They could have betrothed you to that one-eyed cunt, those were his thoughts, you had successfully escaped him, but, so far? He should have betrothed you to Jace, or even Lucerys… but he had his own daughters to take care of…

Either way, he tried to recreate in his mind what his brother would have thought about this, would he approve of the union? He knew his brother held great respect for the North and its people, especially the Starks, he believed them to be the most honorable family in the realms so… perhaps…

Or the sheep had walked willingly towards the jaws of the wolf?

Were you more sheep than you were dragon?

He had yet to see that.

He drank the last of his wine in his cup and then went to find her wife, Rhaenyra, he found her with her sons in their High Valyrian lessons, she looked at them approvingly as Luke, Jace and now Joffrey learned.

“We have received a letter from the North”, he sang. Rhaenyra looked at him interested

“Really?”

“From your little cousin”

“(Y/N)?”, she asked

“She is betrothed to Stark, set to be married before the week’s end”

“To Cregan Stark?”, she asked. this caught her sons’ attention

“Our aunt is set to marry Stark?”, asked Jace, a smile on his face

“Apparently, it was the King’s idea”, he muttered

“My father can barely speak, this is the Queen’s work”, she said bitterly

“perhaps”

“She wants the North under her wing”, she said

“My niece is no Green”, he said with warning in his voice

“She is not for us either”, said Rhaenyra, “when the time comes, will she convince Cregan to support us?”, she asked.

“This is not about what is going to happen then”, cut Daemon

“Are we going?”, asked Jace, “to the ceremony?”

“We could never make it, not with the youngest”, said Daemon

“Send us, Luke and I”

“I don’t think it’s proper”, said Rhaenyra

“Don’t think it’s proper?”, asked Daemon

“Let’s just send a gift”, she suggested with a tight lip smile. And that was the end of it.

In Driftmark however, the letter went straight into Rhaenys’ hands.

She read it with kind eyes and a shy smile. The union was perfect, the Starks will protect you properly, and care for you. You had your dragon if you ever wanted to get out of the cold North, and they will make great allies.

She was certain your father would have approved of the union. 

Lord Cregan Stark was an honorable man, poor man a widower, he needed someone kind hearted like you, with your shyness and your blushes and your smiles, you were going to do him good. 

“Let’s send them a barrel of our finest wine”, suggested Corlys, “she is going to need as much dragonfire as she could drink, that poor girl is going to freeze up there!”, he laughed

“The wolf will keep her warm”, she said with a knowing smirk

“Or perhaps he will devour her whole”, he said back, and Rhaenys laughed as he shared knowing looks with her husband in front of the fire.

“We will send her gifts”, he said confidently.

“I have something better in mind”, she said gently, giving him a look.

Rhaenys had a very close relationship with her cousin, they were kindred spirits, and had so many things in common. Rhaenys was older than Aegon and he looked up at her when they were young he followed her around like a lost puppy, and then when they were older they became friends. 

The distance was the only thing separating Rhaenys from being close to you. She had tried, unknown to you, to make you her guard, but Queen Alicent, and before her, Viserys, had gently refused her, claiming that your father would have preferred you to stay in the Keep. She knew they were wrong. 

So you fled as far as you could, away from your family, up there, all alone. 

And now… the third raven.

Never arrived at King's Landing, nobody knows what happened to him.

Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was the Gods, you would have thought that it was your father himself from the heavens who intercepted the raven and made him lose his way.

If it had arrived… Perhaps you would have never married Cregan.

But it didn’t. 

Only the Raven of Stark, accepting the proposal and dictating you will marry soon, that only arrived.

It was also miraculous that the letter was not intercepted by Aemond, and it arrived safely at the hands of Otto Hightower. 

He smiled, pleased.

The North was his, and he didn’t even need to move a finger.

He had sent Aemond to Oldtown to see his brother, to distract him, he could not have his grandson messing this up, he could not have that. That girl was not for him, she had no allies, no money, no real connections. Nothing

He was good only to sell away, like cattle. 

Your house sigil was a sheep was it not?

The Queen twisted her lips in disgust at the response of Cregan, he did not speak of you returning to King’s Landing, which meant the wolf had sunk their teeth on you and they would not let go.

If she was the one to have a dragon she would have flown it North and dragged you back, make the wolf come south to marry you, but leaving you alone there, it was improper. You went there, a young lady, alone. Perhaps the wolf had already bedded you.

It should have been Aemond

The Queen bit her nails, worried.

Her father had promised he was the one to break the news to Aemond, but it was her who lied to him, who promised him to her. And she couldn’t deliver. 

Aemond wanted her so much, it scared her. She had heard of that deep infatuating Targaryen men could feel, but she never thought one of her sons could be the cruel heir to that dark inheritance. 

She shook her head

She was going to find her son a nice girl to marry, an heiress from a great house, pure, and a devout follower to the Gods. She nodded, sipping on her cup of wine, that was the right path. The gods guided her North for a reason.

Days passed slowly in Winterfell, and you had barely seen Cregan.

Sara was the one to introduce you to the population of the castle, people who lived and served there. 

People seemed weary of you, looking at you like the stranger you truly were to them. You had always heard that Northerners were weary of strangers, mistrustful. And it was proven to be true.

You were supposed to be the future Lady of Winterfell, their lady, how could you make them trust you?

You guessed that being kind and patient, you wanted to prove to Cregan he had made the right choice.

Also, you were distracted with something else… your things had not arrived yet, you thought they hadn't even left King’s Landing… so… Sara and you were determined to make your wedding dress and as the tradition dictates, your maiden cape. 

You weren’t sure that the cape was a part of the Northerners traditions, but you hoped so.

And Sara had said that yes, you were to make one, your maiden cape, and Cregan was supposed to give you one back. A bridal cape.

You'd decided to make yours with Targaryen colors, black, red and gold. As a farewell to your house, in hopes of avoiding Aemond you had sunk yourself in embroidering lessons, so you had become quite good at it. Right now you were sewing red dragons into the black fabric. Perhaps you’d add a green one, the color of the Stokeworths

Sara and you were interrupted by a commotion outside, you didn’t quite understand what it was, until a guard reached your door, and announced you had a visitor, and you couldn’t understand who that might be.

Until you reached the main hall, and you only had to look at her back, and her hair to know who that was 

“Aunt Rhaenys?”, you called eyes filled with happy tears. She turned around and smiled warmly at you

“Hello my sweet girl”, she greeted and you jumped into her embrace. She held you tightly against her, her hand caressing your back. 

“You came! you didn’t have to…”

“As soon as I saw the letter”, she cradled your face in her hands as she looked at you, “someone should give you away, right?”, she said gently, and you nodded enthusiastically

“I will be honored if that person is you”, you said honestly, you loved your aunt so much… well… technically she was first cousin to your father, but it was your dear aunt.

“Let’s walk darling”, she suggested, and with an excited nod, you took her to the God’s wood, where you could be alone. She, as you did, looked around the trees and found it beautiful

“Have you been to Winterfell before?”, you asked, and she nodded

“A couple of times, many years ago”, she whispered, you nodded. you both sat by the heart tree, in one of his thick branches

“My sweet niece, are you sure this is what you want?”, she asked, and you, without even questioning, nodded enthusiastically

“I like the North, I like it here, this is what uncle Viserys had wanted”, you muttered, “the council had the idea to betrothe me to Lord Stark, and, I know him since I was ten”, you muttered, and she smiled warmly

“I’m glad, it is a good match, he will take care of you”, she said with a shy smile, arranging a wild lock of hair behind your ear

“I’m going to be happy”, you assured her, even though Cregan was not in it yet, you knew he was going to melt eventually.And she nodded, believing it

“You know what to expect, right?”, she asked, changing the subject, “of your wedding night?”, she asked then

“I’m supposed to give myself up to Cregan”, you muttered shyly, “he is supposed to give me his seed and I’m supposed to give him heirs”, she sighed

“Not the shit the Septas teach you”, she chided, and you blushed scandalously and shook your head. “The real thing…”

“I heard some maids talking about it…back in King’s Landing”

“Sex”, she said

“Sex…”, you whispered, “one of them said she had done it with a stable boy and his…”

“Penis”

“Was big and it hurt so much, he made her bleed”, you told her

“In the first time it will be blood”, she said gently, “and it will hurt, but… if he is gentle it won’t hurt that much, if he is gentle and giving it will give you great pleasure”, she explained, you nodded, not quite convinced. She leaned in and pushed you gently, making you smile, “sex is a great way to a man’s heart”, she whispered in your ear, “it will make him and most importantly, it will make you happy”, she said like it was the greatest secret of all

“sounds really nice”, you admitted, with cheeks red of embarrassment 

“remember what I’m telling you”, she muttered with a complicit smile, “sex is the safest and quickest way to a man’s heart”

“Do you think he’ll… like me?”, you asked wide eyed, and worried.

“Oh honey”, she whispered, “he had no obligation to say yes, he did for a reason, and trust me, he wouldn’t have if you didn’t look like this”, she said, winking, and you smiled widely. 

You both shared a comfortable minute in silence, your wedding was set to be in two days time, lords and ladies already arriving from far corners of the North, you had met so many people you couldn’t quite remember all of their names.

But Cregan Stark himself appeared in the God’s Wood, certainly looking for the last visit who came in a dragon, certainly scaring, again, all of his people. Who weren’t used to the flying creatures as the population of King’s Landing.

“Princess Rhaenys”, he greeted, and your dear aunt nodded

“Lord Cregan Stark”

“We were not expecting you”, he said seriously

“I received the letter from my naive, it was not an invitation but certainly, I had to make the journey to be with her the day of her wedding, wouldn’t you think?”, she asked, and he, with a new found respect on his eyes, nodded, his eyes wouldn’t leave hers

“I agree, the family of my bride should be there for her”, he said and then his eyes found you and a hint of a smile on his lips, “I’m glad she has at least one of the members of her family, shall we expect Lord Corlys?”

“No, just me”, she said

“We will have a room prepared”, he said firmly. It was like the faceoff of two alpha, an alpha wolf, and an alpha dragon. And it looked like they respected each other

“I know it isn’t customary for a woman to be a part of the Old Gods marriage ceremony, but I, as the closest kin, her aunt, I will give her away”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way”, he said firmly, “the old gods do not discriminate, kin is kin, blood is blood”

“Good”, she said.

You were glad to have your aunt there. 

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