#and I was thinking what if one of the free folk women made a cloak from his pelt for Jon to wear

[buildoblivionthenwewilltalk]

another take on my KitN!Jon based on a cool idea by @aemontargaryen-bloodraven about jon having a weirwood crown in twow (cos I read it and immediately became obsessed 😭)

[lazypanartist]

Hi i went with a different take on this one i hope you enjoy this blind box!! Also, another Yokai reader because i find them so fun to write.

- 📝 anon

---

Leonardo never thought you'd be here. If he did, he never in a million years would have dragged himself into these rafters, let alone his brothers. Never snuck his family into this free showing of New York Indie Music show by the docks. Never gave them a front row seat to his downfall.

After all, he never knew you of all people joined a band.

He was about to say they should all bounce, say that he and his hermanos should ditch and go get some pizza, but…well, his wretched darling little brother looked over one of the metal beams he laid across and down at the newest band on stage, and perked in curiosity.

"Hey! It's your ex!"

Awesome. Cool. Super super cool.

Donatello looked down as well, scrunching his snout some before going back to looking at his phone. "Let's see here…Ah yeah, Dark Lighthouse. Looking at everything here, it seems they're friends with the guitarist and sometimes lend their voice to some songs. My guess is the band is using one of those."

What rotten luck. That six month old wound opened up like the eye of a storm.

"And you didn't say anything because…?"

"Uh, you said you both agreed to split and that it was cool? Plus, I didn't know they were performing a song they had a part in."

Leonardo grumbled and looked away, back down at you, eyes trailing over your agitated shadow under the harsh lights. Tendrils of your hidden form twisting and weaving anxiously.

He remembered when you got that crack on your cloaking broach. Your shadow never did look right after that, but it still compressed your much bigger, more sharp and tentacle-y form down into a handsome package that fit in his arms nicely. It never mattered how you looked though, either form was marvelous to him.

"You good man..?" Raphael patted his shell. "You're lookin' pale."

No. He was sitting above the reason why he couldn't move on. Sitting above the person who severed ties with him with no explanation.

The sea monster yokai who had sunk his heart like a stray lifeboat.

"I'm fine."

"You wanna head out?" His older brother asked, looking down at you as well. You looked distant, but even he could see you were trying to calm your nerves. The small audience was milling about, not really paying attention as you set up.

Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes-

"No! No, it's fine. They just gotta sing one song and then it's onward to the next band. It's whatever, I don't care." Leonardo watched as you turned to the drummer, who said something that you gave a stilted nod to. He knew he was lying through his teeth, but he couldn't leave. Something about it sat poorly in his gut.

Mikey gave him a disapproving look. "Nardo, it's fine if we head out. It's-"

"Let's stay. Just one song."

Sighing, the youngest shrugged and the four continued to watch Dark Lighthouse get ready. "I think that's a bad choice, but if it gives you some closure, okay…"

He wondered if you would sound like you did when you used to sing with him in the kitchen, making breakfast burritos or scrubbing last night's supper off the plates. He remembered calling you a Siren once, with how your voice would lead anyone to you.

You gave him a half hour talk about how Sirens were bird women and you were decidedly more sea creature-y and not like the temptresses. Apparently it was a big deal between the avians and sea folk.

A guitar began to play, strumming a riff that made him think of a rocking boat on dark waves. More instruments dropped in, and he could feel the salty air and the whirling ocean breeze.

And then you began harmonizing with the rest of the band members, and Leonardo felt his heart crush the air from his lungs and fill with only thoughts of you. And then your swirling voice pulled him in.

"On some level I think I always understood

That these hands of mine were clumsy, not clever."

Leon saw the nights he shared with you in the mystic city, cooking with you only to find you'd cut or burn yourself. Nights he'd hold your clawed hand gently and wrap a plaster around the offensive area. The sharp nails made you have issues with fine motor things, but he marveled at them all the same, decorated with colourful bandages or not.

"And I tried to do the best that I could

But try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to hold you."

The terrapin thought of how you always seemed so…distant. 

You were never good with physical affection. He thought you might have been similar to his brother Donnie, but instead of being overstimulated by touch sometimes…

It was almost like you were scared to touch him. Like he would break.

"It's a secret I keep tucked inside my chest. With this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful."

He wanted you back. He felt like a ship, longing to dock but being turned away. Aching for respite but having no option to find a port.

"There is love that doesn't have a place to rest…" 

He still loved you. Six months did nothing to turn the tide in his chest. And he had a feeling you loved him, too!

Leonardo thinks that scares you.

"-But it would have buried you if it had settled on your shoulders…"

Like you thought your love was nothing but a burden to him.

The night you left him played on repeat in his mind. How you claimed you would do nothing but hold him back. He wished you would let him make the decision of whether you were bad for him or not. Wished you weren't so sure you would be his misery.

The ninja continued to watch you, your voice cascading and washing through the crowd like a riptide. People watched, sure, but he felt riveted by your performance. He swore, he could taste the sea breeze of your breath. Could feel the whirlpools your cold hands would trace along his shell's scutes.

"On some level I think I always understood

That a ship could never really love an anchor."

Your thoughts swam with your dark tendrils latching to the anchor line of a ship, his ship, pulling it down, down, down to its doom.

"So I did the only thing that I could

And severed the rope to set you sailing from my harbor…"

You had to cut him free from you. Leonardo, as funny and handsome and charming as he was, would never be happy with the quiet, cold, hard to love likes of you. It would end in tragedy, and you loved him enough to sever your monstrous tendrils that held fast to him.

Sea serpents, krakens, beastly yokai like you…they never got a happy ending. He deserved one. And you'd provide him the opportunity to be free of you and have it.

"There are times when I still wonder about you."

The red eared slider peered over the support beams more. He wanted so badly to leave, but felt like he was drawn to your melancholic voice, knowing he would just be dashed upon the rocks his ship wrecked into. Donatello had to keep a grip on the lip of his shell to make sure he didn't fall from the rafters and do just that.

Even now, you held back, even when it hurt you. Your feelings, your fears…

Your voice.

Leo knew your voice could rip his heart asunder. 

"You are someone I have loved, but never known."

Did you love him still, he wondered? Loved him like he loves you?

It made his heart skip a beat, the ebb and flow of his tide disrupted.

Why weren't you singing like he knew you could?

Why did he want you to? Why did he want to become shipwrecked, sunk into the depths of your echo and scattered like debris along the sharp, unlit cliffs you warned and threatened and promised him?

"And you'll never see the reasons I had

For keeping my claws away, when they were close enough to hurt you."

He wanted it to hurt.

Saltwater trailed down his cheeks as he leaned more, the drops glittering through moonlight and stage lights like the rain of a monsoon before landing on your hands, which clutched the mic like a life ring. You looked up.

Your eyes met.

Brine stung your eyes.

"I am selfish, I am broken, I am cruel."

You never looked away. Leo couldn't find he could either. His heart was too busy fighting the current of your voice, sinking fast into your undertow into the frigid, pitch black depths.

"I am all the things they might have said to you."

Why was he here? Why was he here, now, just when you felt you could finally move on and never think about the warm sun and cool breeze Leonardo brought with him? Why now, when your emotions laid bare and raw and ripped open like whale fall?

You were unwound from him, like plastic and fishing net snipped free of a sea creature's throat. So why was he here, and why was he miserable, and why is it always your fault?

Where was his sun and wind? Why was he nothing but a deluge, dark and miserable as he stared wide eyed down at you, his rain touching the abyss you dwelled?

"Do you ever think of me, and my two hands?"

Leo found himself mouthing his answer as he felt the phantom touch of your clawed, webbed digits on his skin or the cold brush of a smooth tentacle along his arm.

Yes. 

"And wonder why

They never soothed your fevers"

But you soothed his fears during sleepless nights.

"And wonder why

They never tied your shoes"

But you picked him up after particularly brutal fights.

"And wonder why

They never held you gently"

But you sat near him, close enough to touch despite fearing he would catch upon your unpleasantly sharp bits when he craved closeness.

"And wonder why

They never had the chance to lose you"

But he lost you.

The song closed, the rocking ocean waves of the melody ceasing when the band finished, and you dove away off stage, wiping your face silently as you slunk away.

Leo was no better, Michelangelo having to help haul him back onto the rafters they hid in and talked to him quietly, whispering that he would be fine and that they should leave and how he would feel better after time and pizza. Needing to gather himself, Leo asked his brothers to go on ahead, telling them he would catch up soon.

Raphael gave him a tight squeeze, and soon it was just him in that rundown warehouse's ceiling, shuddering breaths making him feel like he was fighting to not breath in sea water.

You slid down the metal siding of the venue, staring at the cold, wet concrete of the alley. Streaks of oil slick soiled your clothes while you did nothing but watch. Three shadows passed to the left, not far from you, and you could hear familiar chatter like that of gulls as they flew away, sailing home across a sea of rooftops like a flock of albatrosses.

A fourth landed nearby, and you struggled to not shoo him away. Instead, you pretended like you weren't there, willing to let your vessel sink below the waves rather than address the other.

Leonardo sat next to you, silently. 

A nautical pennant was raised, awaiting your own.

Your head bowed, accepting his request to communicate despite six months of radio silence.

The two of you talked quietly, sitting on the wet ground as a chill seeped deep into your bones like arctic waves. You played catch up like he wasn't a ship spiraling in the eddies of a maelstrom, like you weren't Charybdis ready to pull him down to you once more. Like the two of you would wash up on black and white sand beaches dotted with coral reefs and promises of safe seas.

"...It uh. Really hurt me when you left. But…it was supposed to, wasn't it?"

You, your feelings bottled tightly like a model ship and held near to your chest, didn't say anything.

"Yeah. I figured. You know, dooming us from the start doesn't make the whole superstition about sea monster yokai being cursed with love any easier to navigate. You gave up before we had a chance."

"...You deserve something that won't ruin you later."

"I mean, yeah. Maybe. And maybe that would have been you, but it could have not been."

You had long since removed your broach. If he was seeing your raw feelings, he should see you as well. Your eyes slowly trailed over to where he sat next to you, pressed against your scaled shoulder.

"...I guess."

"I think…you should try to be a bit more willing to hope for good things. It might do you good."

These waters were treacherous, and neither of you had a way to navigate. He could see the sky, the wind direction, and any approaching weather. You could see the depths, hidden dangers and strong channels and currents that might sweep someone away.

…But. You had each other, one able to help where the other would fail.

Your tightly clenched hands let go, dropping and shattering your bottle.

"I'm scared. This all scares me."

"I know."

"It makes me scared FOR you."

"I know."

"I don't know what to do…" You whispered, flag held aloft. "I don't know where we go from here, what we do from here." You swallowed down an anchor. "I'm sorry. I really am."

Leonardo slowly, slow enough that you could pull away should you wish, tucked his hand into yours and squeezed it. A rush of warm, southern winds fluttered your heart and sail.

The terrapin threw you a line, mooring his ship to you. And you held it fast with scales and fins and claw.

"I accept your apology, and I forgive you. It's okay to mess up."

You wanted to argue against his words, but in doing so you would no longer be tethered. So, instead, you held tighter and trusted his direction.

"You're right."

"Of course I am!" He smirked up at you charmingly, and your tentacles twisted and writhed as you remembered what made you fall so hard for him in the first place.

His smile. His warmth. His wit.

His sail caught a breeze, and your thick, finned tail caught a current, the two of you maneuvering away from the rocks and high tides.

"Can we try again?"

Another rope tossed down. You caught it between rows of teeth and began to pull him, cautious to not shred the lines he gave you.

"I would like that. I will…try being more open about how I feel."

"And I'll listen more and take them more seriously. I know the whole 'love is doomed for sea monsters' thing really gets to you."

You gave a shaky smile, and he gave his own back.

Leonardo's raft touched the pebbled and rocky shore gently, and as he looked back into the cool, kelp-dotted shallows, he could see you, waiting. Listening. There for him like he was for you.

It wasn't a sun soaked paradise, with tropical reefs and golden sand, but it was yours. It was your love. And you would work until it became what you both deserved and needed.

OHHHHH MY GOG!!!

I don't think I've ever seen this concept done.. sea monster Yokai my beloved 💕

[quinntamsin]

"So your the Lady of House Ceallach?" the Castellan asked as they sat in a wheelhouse on the way to Kingslanding. "Yes," Denna Ceallach replied with a smile. "But your wife-" "Is the Lord of my House," replied Denna. "That's obscene." The foolish Andal replied. "What that two women are in love, or that her family was willing to maintain the succession without worrying about someone's cock or maidenhood?" she replied. "Uhhh." The man stared at her and made a sign of the Seven. Denna cackled, she was a Dornish woman living in the North. THe Blood of the Rhoynar and the First Men would flow their her children's veins, and they would grow up free of the Seven's corruption.

House of the Dragon S1E9 "The Green Council". The Dance has begun, a waltz which will result in the fall and death of the House of the Dragon as it withers away from its own poisoned heart. We are reminded that the King told the Queen a broken version of the Song. And, thus he died, and so now we are set as the two Dragon's start the dance. The Chamber is open and the orchestra is ready to start the opening. The blood of Dragons and Oldtown will flow. We open in the darkness of the throne room, the line of swords leading to the Iron Throne is far darker and bereft without light. The King is Dead. Mourning has come to the SEven Kingdoms as a young boy, I'mm assuming this is one of Daemon's sons or mayhap Aegon's son, leaves the room. Servants appear to be doing something and pay no mind to the kid dressed in finery. This isn't a son this is a servant boy who is informing someone that the King has died. In the royal chambers as she gets dressed and informs her father who seems truly saddened by Viserys death. He asks who knows the King is dead and they discuss who knows. If the Princess finds out she will fly to Dragonstone to claim the throne. A meeting of the Small Council is called and they inform them. THe Greens are preparing to make their move. Otto informs them of the "Final Wish" of the King and how Aegon II second must rule. Lord Beesbury calls it for what it is as the rest called for Treason. Criston Cole appears behind him who thrusts him down and kills him. The Lord Commander calls for his Cloak and Criston refuses. This incel bastard kills a fucking Lord of the Small Council and they refuse to deal with the body. Otto calls for it to continue and the Queen calls out their bullshit. Good thing she actually refuses to kill them because knowing Ottos incompetent one would have survived and ensured a bloodied Dance. Lord Westerling calls out their bullshit since Otto wants to use them to assassinate a member of the Blood Royal. He walks away, and Criston of course steps up because not is murder of innocent gay folk and elders but families is on the menu as well. The man is a fucking monster. Alicent goes to talk to her daughter and I think she knows that Aemond is nearby and her fate is coming. The Knights of the Kingsguard prepare to attack and now they have to find the King. Because Aegon the False is such a shitty King he is going to walk off. All of the servants who know the King is dead are tossed into the Brig under the fucking Rat of Whispers. Aemond the Beast offers to go with the Incel-Knight to find the newly to be anointed King. Meanwhile, they have locked Rhaenys in her apartments. Aemond shows them where he could be and we see how Criston considers  himself a "Lover of Women". So the Prince isn't going to street of silk and Aemond gets hit on by the courtesan. And the Lords of the realm of gathered a Lord refuses to bend the Knee. Many LOrds and Ladies keep their oath as those who refuse are taken away. All the while Larys is watching the little rat. In Flea Bottom the Twins are searching hard as well as Criston and Aemond. This race to find the King as a girl is following the Twins and as we draw near to some sort of Loud crying we see a fighting pit.Where they are tossing in -Children- Seriously, what the fucking fuck Aegon is a monster. WE see a fucking silver haired child. The Prince is just going to be a bad King. When one of the Nobles moves to leave we switch again to Aemond who is right. He is the more workable of the two, as the TWins discuss how the King is unfit. The girl offers to take them to the Prince as yes, the White Worm is making her damn move. Our escaping Lord is taken away since he was caught by Larys (who I am happy to die horribly). Meanwhile we switch to the Silent SIsters preparing the body of Viserys I, and the Queen sitting in her mourning. All she had to do was talk to Rhae and this could have been avoided. But Otto and the Hightowers are so set on playing Kingmaker that they are willing to burn the entire realm over it. ALicent is truly grieving for Viserys death, this poor woman, while yes a Karen, has been in the middle of it all. She then tries to make a play to the Queen-Who-Never-Was, and wow. This woman is not really smart. Bringing up Rhaenys possible rule is a hard attempt. This woman is doing her best, but she doesn't get it. RHaenys admits that the Queen is rightly put in her place as she is in a gilded cage. Conditioned by her father and groomed to appease the King and constantly bombarded by men like Criston and Larys. She's in a prison that will prevent her from making choices really that do anything but benefit her Uncle and Father's terrible ambition. Back in Flea Bottom we see the White Worm meeting with Otto. Aemond and Criston catch the Hand speaking as the WOrm calls for an end tot he corruption of the Gold Cloaks. THe WOrm makes a point she is a superior Spymaster, and honestly if Otto wasn't a misogynist he would have snapped her up and put her in place of Larys. If you can get this woman aligned to the Crown then fuck yeah she'd own it. The TWins find the drugged Prince in the Great Sept as the Hand. THe Brothers we can see in this moment are considering his death. Just as they move to take him Cole and Aemond find him and the King moves to run away. Honestly, if Otto had killed the King and put Aemond we would have gotten another Maegor the cruel. Eryk is being smart in refusing to take part. Arryk loses his sword and we can see they decide to ignore the Hand in favor to the Queen. The Queen goes to talk to her father as she has won the Game so far. This is a well acted passive aggressive discussion. Alicent is standing up for herself finally. "A sacrifice has made for the stability of the realm." Please, for once, I'm not sure if either are correct. Cole is named Lord Commander, a bad idea. She's trying for strength, but she doesn't get it. She should have called for Rhae and let her see her father. she could have sat down and told her what her father said. Asked what it meant and Rhae would have had a chance to fix things. And yet as she walks away into her room there's that fucking COnfessor. He's here to snitch on the Hand, and inform the Queen Mother of the White WOrm. This is the move which he wants to seize the spy network from a WOman so he can be Master of Whispers. Anyone notice how this series is about shitty men taking power from women? Like seriously? Or shittier men killing fine men because they speak for justice? And then we get a scene to Larys fapping to the Queen's feet. FOR FUCKING SAKE THIS WAS UNECESSARY. LIke really. This entire episode has a nice layer of intrigue to it. One of the twins comes for the Princess and they head to the Dragon Pit as she stops to stare at what appears to be a fire. I think this is a moe to get the Princess killed. Is this a move to get the Princess killed or is it something else. WE see a purge of fleat bottom happening as Rhaenys is lost in all of the chaos. In the Great SEpt the Iron Crown is being prepared as the Drunk King is being sent to be crowned. Aegon admits his father didn't like him. I mean this is Aegon the Failure we are talking about. The King reveals the Dagger from earlier, as she doesn't know what it is All that' is a Valyrian artifact. He asks her if she loves him and she replies "You imbecile." THe point here is that yes, she loves her child she loves enough to literally try to drag him back from a live of literal depravity. Otto just hid Aegon's shitty life. Rhaenys along with all the citizens of the city are pushed into the Great Sept to see anointment of a new King. The announcement of the former King's death comes in the Great Scept where all gather. Otto Hightower play's up the bullshit as the GOld CLoaks march in to form a line for the foolish boy that is to be King. Aegon walks down in this somber occasion, people watch his passage, and we can see he doubts himself. I can see they studied some English coronations because the entire set up is very similar to what I've Westminster Abbey and English coronation imagery is very similar to this. The High Septon begins his blessing of the Seven while anointing him in oil. Rhaenys makes a getaway to the lesser part of the Dragon Pit. So this isn't Baelor's Sept okay that makes sense. As they all stand in this very literally awkward moment each bowing in a way to the new King Otto smiles. High Septon starts the call for the King and as the False King stands there and we see his own self assurance questioned. WE know something is about to happen. The din of the crowd roars in the background as those darker cello tunes slide in. He lifts Blackfyre and yup, he's accepted his future death and that of his entire branch. The fool. Aegon II bathes in the adoration of the people, and the Queen smiles. A massive explosion happens as a DRagon, Meleys breaks free. Many people die as the Dragon with its rider atop it  moves stare at the Greens. Alicent puts herself in front of the Dragon, and awaits the call of Dracarys. Meleys roars as the Dragon makes its way free and off to Dragonstone. Yes, oh yes, the fools, you must take Rhae's hand for the dance is now in swing. Gay Canon There is a lot to unpack here, from how Alicent decides she has enough heart to not murder an entire family. To how the White Worm is seemingly "exterminated" by Larys. As I watch and think, I see another possible ship here. That between Mysaria and the Queen, or more appropriately, Mysaria and Helaena. Yup, a good story here wold be Mysaria saving Helaena from her future fate and spiriting her away to be kept safe. I'm calling this Hysaria for now but others should jump on this as a rare ship. Thoughts on Alaenyra, so, I think right now my current idea is based on a few elements taken from the Empire of the Dawn theory as well as the Dragondreamer ability. I'll try to spin up a story in the future, but it may not be for some :D Hottakes:

First, this entire episode continues to paint most of the men including Aegon in Alicent's life as shitty people. Otto is in full swing here being the misogynistic shit as well as Criston murdering without a second thought.

Beesbury's death was uncalled for and brutal, I want Criston to die horribly. Westerling, who btw is Graham McTavish aka Dwalin, just owns it as he walks away from the corruption of the Green Council.

The Hightower Hand murdering all the Lords who don't agree with him really just shows how he's a terrible Tywin impostor as well as a mad King sit-in.

This makes me SOOOO Happy when the Hour of the Wolf will happen.

The Child fight was fucked up, and the fact that all of Flea Bottom might see slaughter over one ask is shitty.

Larys isn't master of whispers since the actual position doesn't appear to exist.

Larys is a literal manchild who deserves to be impaled ala Dracula.

Mysaria is definitely not dead, you don't get THAT much power without having backup spies in place to prepare for contingencies.

Rhaenys should have killed the Greens. Yes, it would have been Horrendous, but it would have ended the war.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Jon I (Chapter 7)

The big cheese!

Six days ago, the largest hound had attacked him from behind as the wildlings camped for the night, but Ghost had turned and lunged, sending the dog fleeing with a bloody haunch. The rest of the pack maintained a healthy distance after that.

Hounds and direwolves are fighting.

+.+.+

The girl laughed scornfully. "For one o' us. D'ya think you're the first crow ever flew down off the Wall? In your hearts you all want to fly free."

"And when I'm free," he said slowly, "will I be free to go?"

"Sure you will." She had a warm smile, despite her crooked teeth. "And we'll be free to kill you. It's dangerous being free, but most come to like the taste o' it."

Ygritte, and the illusion of choice...

+.+.+

"They don't much care for that beast o' yours," Longspear Ryk said to Jon.

"They're dogs and he's a wolf," said Jon. "They know he's not their kind." No more than I am yours.

A dog is not a direwolf. :)

+.+.+

A dozen women sat nearby in a circle, fletching arrows.

Arrows for my brothers, Jon thought. Arrows for my father's folk, for the people of Winterfell and Deepwood Motte and the Last Hearth. Arrows for the north.

Arrows for the north!

Don't mind me, just suffering my normal paranoia whenever arrows are mentioned.

+.+.+

There was no doubting which tent was the king's.

[...]

Here at least they found defenders; two guards at the flap of the tent, leaning on tall spears with round leather shields strapped to their arms.

We're visiting the Queen of Thorns and King-beyond-the-Wall in back-to-back chapters. The similarities won't stop there.

Smarter people than me have already observed these are twin chapters, so I won't highlight every single parallel. (Go look, it's a lot.)

Outside its tall carved doors stood two guards in gilded halfhelms and green cloaks edged in gold satin, the golden rose of Highgarden sewn on their breasts. - Sansa I, ASOS

+.+.+

A pregnant woman stood over a brazier cooking a brace of hens, while a grey-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sat crosslegged on a pillow, playing a lute and singing

Songs are being sung in back-to-back chapters.

The old woman called to Butterbumps. "Fool! Give us a song. A long one, I should think. 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' will do nicely." - Sansa I, ASOS

+.+.+

The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,

and her kisses were warmer than spring.

But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,

and its kiss was a terrible thing.

The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,

in a voice that was sweet as a peach,

But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,

and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.

As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,

and the taste of his blood on his tongue,

His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,

and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,

"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,

But what does it matter, for all men must die,

and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"

The Bear and the Maiden Fair is about Sansa, therefore my gut tells me the Dornishman's Wife is somehow related to Jon. Don't ask me how though.

Important to note, the words will be changed in the future.

Abel rubbed the sleep from his eyes, took up his lute, and launched into "The Dornishman's Wife," whilst one of his washerwomen beat time on her drum. The singer changed the words, though. Instead of tasting a Dornishman's wife, he sang of tasting a northman's daughter. - The Turncloack, ADWD

+.+.+

The bearded man laughed so hard he sprayed bits of chicken everywhere. He rubbed the grease from his mouth with the back of a huge hand. "A blind boy, must be. Who ever heard of a king without ears? Why, his crown would fall straight down to his neck! Har!"

Hmmm.

Jon felt as blind as Maester Aemon. - Jon VII, AGOT

Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm.

+.+.+

The King-beyond-the-Wall looked nothing like a king, nor even much a wildling. He was of middling height, slender, sharp-faced, with shrewd brown eyes and long brown hair that had gone mostly to grey. There was no crown on his head, no gold rings on his arms, no jewels at his throat, not even a gleam of silver. He wore wool and leather, and his only garment of note was his ragged black wool cloak, its long tears patched with faded red silk.

Pretty close to what I imagine Jon would look like as king.

+.+.+

"How did you like the song, lad?"

"Well enough. I'd heard it before."

"But what does it matter, for all men must die," the King-beyond-the-Wall said lightly, "and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife. Tell me, does my Lord of Bones speak truly? Did you slay my old friend the Halfhand?"

The character that has the next POV should probably start to worry over these words constantly following her around.

And I don't mean Arya.

+.+.+

Beside the brazier, a short but immensely broad man sat on a stool, eating a hen off a skewer. Hot grease was running down his chin and into his snow-white beard, but he smiled happily all the same. Thick gold bands graven with runes bound his massive arms, and he wore a heavy shirt of black ringmail that could only have come from a dead ranger.

[...]

Tormund rose to his feet. "Hold. You gave Styr his style, give me mine."

Mance Rayder laughed. "As you wish. Jon Snow, before you stands Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts."

What? Is? This?

Tormund is wearing thick gold bands graven with runes. Runes. Why runes?

The description perfectly matches the Horn of Joramun:

Two queen's men brought forth the Horn of Joramun, black and banded with old gold, eight feet long from end to end. Runes were carved into the golden bands, the writing of the First Men. - Jon III, ADWD

Now, get this. Tormund gifts those runes to Jon:

The wildling pulled off the band from his left arm and tossed it at Jon, then did the same with its twin upon his right. "Your first payment. Had those from my father and him from his. Now they're yours, you thieving black bastard." - Jon XI, ADWD

Strange, right?

I don't know what to make of this. Horn-blower and Breaker of Ice isn't helping.

+.+.+

"The good woman at the brazier," Mance Rayder went on, "is Dalla." The pregnant woman smiled shyly. "Treat her like you would any queen, she is carrying my child." He turned to the last two. "This beauty is her sister Val.

+.+.+

The night your father feasted Robert, I sat in the back of his hall on a bench with the other freeriders, listening to Orland of Oldtown play the high harp and sing of dead kings beneath the sea. I betook of your lord father's meat and mead, had a look at Kingslayer and Imp . . . and made passing note of Lord Eddard's children and the wolf pups that ran at their heels."

I've never liked that last line.

+.+.+

"Bael the Bard," said Jon, remembering the tale that Ygritte had told him in the Frostfangs, the night he'd almost killed her.

"Would that I were. I will not deny that Bael's exploit inspired mine own . . . but I did not steal either of your sisters that I recall. Bael wrote his own songs, and lived them. I only sing the songs that better men have made. More mead?"

No, we have Bael-ish for that.

+.+.+

"Your father would have had my head off." The king gave a shrug. "Though once I had eaten at his board I was protected by guest right. The laws of hospitality are as old as the First Men, and sacred as a heart tree."

+.+.+

"Here you are the guest, and safe from harm at my hands . . . this night, at least.

Weird foreshadowing developing between these two.

"You flatter yourself, crow. I never broke a sweat."

"Next time you will," said Jon. - Jon VI, ADWD

+.+.+

Guest right or no, Jon Snow knew he walked on rotten ice here. One false step and he might plunge through, into water cold enough to stop his heart. Weigh every word before you speak it, he told himself.

Words are being weighed in back-to-back chapters.

Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. - Sansa I, ASOS

+.+.+

When he set the horn aside he said, "Tell me why you turned your cloak, and I'll tell you why I turned mine."

[...]

"You will have heard stories of my desertion, I have no doubt."

"Some say it was for a crown. Some say for a woman. Others that you had the wildling blood."

[...]

Mance Rayder rose, unfastened the clasp that held his cloak, and swept it over the bench. "It was for this."

"A cloak?"

"The black wool cloak of a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch," said the King-beyond-the-Wall. "One day on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it when the smell of blood drew a shadow-cat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?" He chuckled. "It shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wisewoman did some healing. She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me." He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. "But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears . . . and most of all, no red. The men of the Night's Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said.

"I left the next morning . . . for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could wear any cloak he chose."

You know what I think? I think Jon will decide to leave the Night's Watch after being gifted a cloak as well.

There will be no red or black in that cloak though.

+.+.+

"You say you were at Winterfell, the night my father feasted King Robert."

"I did say it, for I was."

"Then you saw us all. Prince Joffrey and Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, my brothers Robb and Bran and Rickon, my sisters Arya and Sansa. You saw them walk the center aisle with every eye upon them and take their seats at the table just below the dais where the king and queen were seated."

Unreliable narrator... George R. R. Martin? Jon Snow? I don't know.

Bran did not walk the center aisle at the feast.

+.+.+

"And did you see where I was seated, Mance?" He leaned forward. "Did you see where they put the bastard?"

Mance Rayder looked at Jon's face for a long moment. "I think we had best find you a new cloak," the king said, holding out his hand.

Call me a hater, but I've always thought this was flimsy.

It's good motivation to leave Winterfell and your family, but it's not a great reason to desert the Night's Watch, where all brothers are equal, and even a bastard can rise high.

Final thoughts:

I'm confident I missed crucial foreshadowing in this chapter. Oops.

Ygritte Death Countdown

4 down, 6 to go. :(

-> return to menu <-

[hewantshisbrideback]

Jonrya AU: Other Engagements

Summary: The remaining Starks gather some time after the Long Night is won to discuss possible plans for marriages and alliances. With Jon crowned King of the Wall, ruling under Daenerys, High Queen of Westeros, discussion of who will reign by his side as queen over the north is paramount. But Jon is not the only wolf for whom a match must be made.

“Proposals," Rickon groaned and tossed back his head, auburn curls glinting. "My spear is still crusted with blood, and we're already talking of politics?"

"And how long a grace period were you expecting?" Arya snorted, shaking her head. Her dismissive words were born partially of relief. 

She had been speaking with the washer women when Jon found her and pulled her away. He had lead her to a small, stony room, recently rebuilt, containing only two windows, a small side table of wood, and her siblings gathered around in a semi-circle as if for a ritual. 

Her hackles had risen in an instant, but Bran had quickly laid her greatest fears to rest. There was no new tragedy to break their hearts, no new disaster to ravage their land; only the tedious intricacies of a civil society.

“A longer one,” the boy groused. Arya imagined that in his mind, there was likely no tragedy more agonizing than such tedious complexities.

“Oh? Are you inconvenienced?” She tilted her head at him. "Shall we postpone rebuilding the kingdom until the armory's polished nice and new?"

"Can we?" He asked. For a moment it was difficult for her to tell whether he was serious. Maybe the boy didn’t know himself. She cuffed him lightly over the head with a scoff just to be safe, and the grin that broke on his lips was wild.

Still, she had to admit he wasn’t exaggerating. Hardly a moon had past since the last dregs of the Others had been sighted, had been felled, and already there were talks of contracts, engagements, and promises between names she recognized only from war letters and fireside whispers.

During the blight, there had been hurried ceremonies in Great Halls, like that between Princess Val of the Free Folk and the gentle Willas Tyrell. However, there was no need for hushed vows in torch-lit gatherings anymore. What was left of the nobility, and whatever names had been gilded by the Long Winter, would want feasts, balls, parades through the streets.

Arya thought she almost preferred a quiet cloaking in the night. Perhaps that was only natural. After all, she had been present for the wedding of Val and Willas, and no better a pair had been made than they.

She recalled what a sight they’d been: the free woman’s flushed cheeks painted orange with firelight, the lord of the Reach’s nervous brown eyes pinned to his bride’s easy smile, rapt and adoring. They had danced for only a short song, but they had whispered all throughout, and had been whispering to each other ever since whenever she saw them.

The warrior princess and her lord of roses. She could count at least three songs that had been written of them since, the battles the lady fought and the bed of flowers her lord laid down for her, but none of them noted how they made each other laugh, how they sat at each other’s side like old friends.

"Bran is right,” Arya blinked from her thoughts in time to see Sansa grimace and continue, “We may have put aside our differences to face a greater threat, but that won't make for a lasting peace now that the threat is extinguished.”

"Fine," Rickon groused, then pursed his lips, surveying the room sullenly. "So, we're looking to pick up a queen already?"

Arya flinched, eyes snapping to Jon. Perhaps Rickon had been right to moan and whine. She knew her cousin would be married off eventually, now that he'd had a crown foisted onto him, but the idea of helping select his bride settled like shards of ice beneath her ribs. She cursed herself. How selfish she was. Finding a queen for the North was in the best interest of all who inhabited it, and here she was, unable to look at this as of yet faceless woman as anything but another competitor for Jon’s attention.

"A queen for the North?" Sansa contemplated, sounding as equally troubled as Arya felt. Her hopes that Sansa might object in her stead were dashed in an instant. "I suppose it bears discussing--”

"We can't," Arya blurted, panic coursing through her like lightning. Her siblings turned to stare at her. She flushed under their baffled eyes. Swallowing her shame and clearing her throat, she leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. "Well, we can't. We can't start making decisions yet. Not on our own. The dragons. They have a stake in this, too."

Jon lingered on her for a moment. She held her breath, brow cocked defiantly, but he made a noise of agreement that showed she need not have worried. "That's true. I'm heir, second to Aegon. Daenerys lets me keep my name, but she will want a say in who shares our blood all the same."

"You're right. It may be one day that the children of your union and hers are married themselves," Bran conceded. “It won't do to decide without her.”

Her sister nodded, expression poised and thoughtful. "That’s true. I suppose there should be some talk between us and her, even Aegon perhaps, before we think about who would be a suitable choice.”

The ice in Arya's chest melted, soft like relief, but colder and heavier, and she made an effort to ignore the stab of resentment at her sister’s next words.

“Jon, you can send her a message, invite her to share her thoughts. Of course, you could always visit her in person as well, if she prefers it.”

Jon's jaw ticked as he nodded, eyes flickering towards Arya, only to snap away as if it burned when she returned his gaze. For a moment, she was petrified. Had he noticed? Had he noticed how upset this talk of queens had made her?

"Alright," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "I'll draft a letter after supper."

His words were disappointing, and his tone was resigned, but it was also familiar. She felt her heart calm. It was no use to fret, over any of it. They were close, and given all that happened, it only made sense for her to be worried. She shouldn’t be afraid for him to see it. 

And at least the decision itself had been delayed some, Arya thought, staring at the ceiling, even if only until Daenerys had enough time to consider the best use of her nephew.

"Great!" Rickon looked around at each of them. "That's that, then, isn't it?” Sansa tutted at him for his impatience, and Bran shook his head, and Rickon threw up his hands. “If we can’t do anything without the queen’s say-so, why stand here brooding over it now? Just wait until she tells you what to do."

“She’s not just going to tell us what to do.” Arya tried not to quibble over semantics with Rickon, as he was still learning the world of kings and courts, but she couldn’t stop herself this time. “Daenerys isn’t a tyrant. No doubt she has prospects in mind, but the choice is ultimately Jon’s.”

“Which is why it’s worth going over the options now,” Sansa added on, “to prepare ourselves for when we do make that decision.”

“And we will,” Bran intercut, "but we can afford to set it aside today. There are still some other arrangements we need to consider.”

“What arrangements?” Jon rumbled, but the stiff set to his jaw and the scowl inching onto his lips made it clear he had some idea and, evidently, disapproved already.

If Bran sensed his ire, he ignored it. “Arrangements for the rest of the Starks."

Arya blinked. She had seen the eyes of visiting nobles and their kin lingering on her brothers and her sister. Even she had received some curious glances. But somehow she’d still managed to overlook the obvious, managed to fool herself into thinking that they had more time.

“Are we really to be parted from each other so soon?” she murmured.

Bran gave her an appreciative glance tinged with grief, and in that glance she felt all those lonely years already spent apart, a splintered pack. After spending this many fighting so hard to reunite, she felt sick imagining any of her family leaving Winterfell. No wonder Jon was on edge.

“I don’t like it,” Rickon grumbled in tandem with her thoughts, and from the looks on everyone else’s faces, they weren't the only ones. 

Sansa had folded in on herself, a brooding edge to her perfect mouth, but with Rickon’s complaint, she moved beside him, tucking his stray red curls behind his ear, a gesture that smacked of their late mother to a degree which hurt.

“Nevertheless,” she muttered after a moment, hand retracting and interlacing with the other, but she could not bring herself to follow through and continue the thought. No one could.

The room was still and heavy with preemptive sorrow, until Arya could bear it no longer. What would they do, sit in silence in this room until the fire dwindled and the sun set? There were meals to be had and men to appease, even just this evening, and waiting wouldn't stall the inevitable. Bran knew that. They all knew that. Sucking in a solemn, silent breath, she asked, “So then which of us is to be married first? And to who?”

Sansa opened her mouth, face wilted with regret, but Bran shook his head dismissing her, and the rest of them mirrored him. There was no need for a defense to be made.

“I’m well aware of the union between you and Sandor Clegane,” Bran assured her. “I would never ask you to break your vows. Aside from this, your first two marriages would have diminished your prospects regardless, one of which still needs to be annulled. Sansa is not an option. I mean you no offense, sister."

Sansa did not look offended. If anything, her expression spoke to some small, secret amusement. Arya was just glad that she wasn't weeping.

“No,” Bran continued, “by now, the attention of our allies has wandered to our other sister, Princess Arya.”

Arya was still beneath her brother’s cool, blue stare. She used to squirm whenever someone referred to her title aloud. By now, she’d nearly grown used to it. After all, she’d answered to far too many ill-fitting names to abandon Arya Stark for her accompanying titles, so she wasn’t left with much choice. 

Now, something in her felt hollow, as though if the wind began to blow, it would whistle through her insides, and she’d be able to hum without using her mouth.

“They intend to offer their sons to Arya." Jon's words were slow and pointed and metered all the way through. “Have they no daughters for you or Rickon?”

“I did not say that they are not looking out for their daughters as well,” Bran reasoned, just as slowly and emphatic as his cousin had. “But of the three of us, Arya is the most attractive option. She cannot give them a royal title, but it’s no secret what she means to you, and the North at large, or that she’s earned the favor of Daenerys. Every wifeless heir on the continent will be interested.”

She must’ve imagined the way his fists clenched. Jon was smart. Men underestimated him, always, but he was smarter than all of them. He should've expected this, even if, somehow, she hadn’t. Of course suitors would seek a princess’s hand. It would not matter to them whether that hand was supple or calloused. Jon knew that. If he didn’t, he should’ve.

If the world had taught her anything, it had taught her that nothing staves the ambition of powerful men. Not even death. Not even ugliness.

“Good.” The word startled her, even more than her sister’s soft hand suddenly pressing to her cheek. But she smiled, albeit with closed lips, as Sansa's furrowed gaze swept over her features like she'd never seen them, like she was trying to absorb all she could for safe keeping. “You’ll have your pick of the lot.”

“Septa Mordane would be quaking to hear such talk of Arya Horseface,” Arya snorted in response, provoking a wry smile from Bran, an expression she sheepishly mirrored.

“Be serious, Arya,” Sansa huffed with a noble frown, hand falling from her face to clutch her wrist in earnest. Arya adjusted her clasp so that they held hands instead, and Sansa's thumb swept the back of her hand in search of comfort. “That silly, old nickname couldn’t be more ill-fitting. You’re quite pretty now.”

Jon made an ill-tempered rumbling noise, and Arya wanted to press him, but refrained in front of the others. He’d been reserved since he was a child, but ever since the Long Night began, he’d been downright secretive. She wouldn’t pry, at least not until she’d gotten him alone.

“It’s true," Rickon cut in, offering a rakish grin. “You should hear the free folk talk of you, sister. They say such things I’ve had to threaten to gut near half of them. They might’ve tried to steal you already, if they weren’t so frightened of Jon. And me, too, of course!”

The others stiffened, but Arya saw his assurance for what it was and spared a moment to thank the old gods for her littlest brother. Though her gratitude didn’t prevent her from rolling her eyes.

“The freefolk have a might different set of standards than the noble lords of Westeros. I can only hope that my reputation is not too far spread. It’s too much harder to see a she-wolf wed than a proper lady,” she drawled, letting go of Sansa as she paused and turned to him with a shrug. “Though I suppose in another world, a marriage with some wily freefolk warrior might've suited, and done well to unite the North.”

Rickon puffed up with pride, though on behalf of whom she had no idea.

“You can’t be serious,” Sansa huffed, then turned an admonishing glare on her brothers. “I know that you have all grown quite fond of the wildlings, having spent so much time with them, but however helpful they’ve been, there is hardly a suitable match for a lady amongst them.”

“A princess, now,” Bran reminded her, and Sansa nodded firmly.

“Suitable how?”  A sneer curved on Rickon's mouth. “I’m not the one who wants to marry her off, but a free man can be good as any lord of Westeros. It wasn’t a wildling who tortured the poor girl in Arya’s stead, was it? And your good Joffrey was a prince. It seems that didn’t stop him from being vile.”

“Rickon!” Arya snapped in warning.

The youngest Stark stared her sister down, burning as remorselessly as the sun, but Sansa’s face was stone and her eyes blue flint.

“That is not what I meant,” she amended calmly. “Of course, the wildlings are no more capable of cruelty than the rest of us. That being said,” her words sharpened to points, like they were her talons, "the lords of Westeros will not stand to see one Stark sister married to a former knight and the other to a wildling. Not when order has just been settled and peace is still in question. If we marry Arya to a wildling, we spit in the faces of our Northern lords and our Southron neighbors both.”

“Aside from that, we don’t need another tie to the free folk,” Bran noted mildly. “With Tormund in our council, Val in the reach, and Jon their chosen king, their loyalty is as guaranteed as we could hope.”

Arya shrugged. “Well, as far as I've heard, if I were to be stolen, I'd hardly be in a position to refuse."

"Perhaps not, but I don't think Jon would be all too pleased to wake up and find you stolen by one of his subjects." Bran was watching Jon as if it were his sole, solemn duty. "I imagine they'd only get so far before he stole you back."

Jon flinched violently and it was a shock, how pale and harrowed he looked. 

"It’s not like anyone could ever steal me away in the first place," Arya reminded him quietly, and when he looked at her, his mouth was pressed into a bitter facsimile of a smile.

“Unfortunately,” Rickon mumbled, and when Sansa and Jon simultaneously turned to glare, he merely scuffed his foot against the ground defiantly. "I mean it. At least then she could've stayed in Winterfell.”

Ridiculous boy. Arya nearly pulled him into a hug, but Bran interrupted her before she could move and his next words kept her still.

"It's not entirely out of the question,” he professed. “It’s possible she’ll find a suitor who will be able to reside in the North."

Arya felt her heart stutter. “You mean, like someone who’s not an heir?”

“No,” Sansa asserted. “If you snub the heir of one house for another’s second son, their entire territory will take it as an offense.”

“No, I was not specifically thinking along those lines,” Bran amended. “There are those with other circumstances under which you may be able to remain.” His eyes slid curiously to one of the windows as he tilted his head. "Ned Dayne, for example. We’ve received word that he intends to act in service to the Queen’s Greater Westerosi Council. You get along well, don't you?"

Jon stepped forward before she could reply, straightened to his full height. His stare was locked on her, stark and unyielding against the pallor of his cheeks, like stones atop snow dunes. "How do you know the Sword of the Morning?"

Arya felt apprehension tighten like a cord around her throat.

This had been the way since they’d reunited.

When Jon introduced her to his allies, she’d beamed like the sun. They had delighted her, despite her jealousy, for all the years she’d spent apart from him, that he’d been with them instead. The jealousy didn’t matter as much as the relief that he’d found friends. She took them as her own. She had been excited for him to do the same with hers. She had been so sure he would, it hadn’t even felt like hope. She’d just known.

But when she brought Jon to Gendry, explained who he’d been to her, he met the smith with suspicious words and a dark glare. When she told him of Hot Pie, or Lommy, or Weasel, or any of the number of sailors and whores from Braavos, he answered only with sarcasm and silence. And the Hound...

Now she’d be the first to point out that Sandor Clegane had not been her friend, or her ally, when they first travelled together. But she would also admit, begrudgingly, that he’d become something close by the time he accompanied her to the Wall with the Brotherhood. Jon had known that. Still, when Sansa brought the Hound into their home as her husband, Arya had heard the King of the Wall bellowing his objections from the other side of Winterfell.

"We travelled together, for a time," she replied carefully. Her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth. "Not very long.”

“When?” he prompted impatiently.

“When I was with the Brotherhood,” she confessed, “back when it was still lead by Beric Dondarrion.”

“You didn’t say anything.” In other circumstances, these words might’ve been a mere observation, or even an expression of concern, but here and now, they were an accusation.

He had mentioned the Sword of the Morning to her before in passing, but by that time, around the time poor Morgan Umber started running away whenever she waved in his direction, she had heard just about everything he had to say about her friends. So she had decided not to mention it. That would be easier.

Except now it looked like she’d been keeping secrets. She cursed the gods and all they stood for. “He wasn't the Sword of the Morning then — just a boy."

"Oh, just a boy," Rickon snorted. "Just another boy, you mean?"

Jon glowered but said nothing.

"That's right," Sansa tittered, with a sudden little smile. "You’ve collected so many. The blacksmith, the baker. Even that boy from House Umber. And now, the heir of Starfall."

"Gendry wouldn’t be a bad match either," Rickon piped up, a grin forming. Like Jon, he had been wary of the smith when Arya first introduced them, but unlike Jon, that had since changed. There was a higher degree of respect between the Free Folk and the Brotherhood than between either of them and any of the other factions. They worked together more easily, and more often, and Rickon was always with Osha and the free folk. Between this growing familiarity and Gendry's formidable reputations both as the Bull of the Brotherhood and the Arm of Stoneheart, a friendship had formed.

Her sister, on the other hand, had been entirely lukewarm when it came to the blacksmith. It was clear she saw him as beneath Arya’s station, but he was useful and she’d kept any complaints to herself, likely as recompense for Arya’s support for her and Sandor. This worked in Gendry’s favor as Sansa hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, only saying, "Who knew your habit of collecting strays would come so in handy?"

Arya's cheeks warmed. "They're not strays."

Rickon shrugged. "Not anymore, I suppose.”

"They're allies!” She insisted. “They're vital allies."

This time, Bran shrugged. "They can be both," he suggested innocently.

Arya growled and whacked his shoulder gently, turning to Jon for even a drop of support, but the only thing she found was frustration marring his brow. They were stalling again, wasting time. Arya sobered. She felt a bit like a child, finding Jon so troubled and having been so oblivious.

"Jon?” she ventured. “What are you thinking?"

He was quiet for a moment and she thought he might scold them, but instead he responded, "It's as Sansa said before. A knight is hardly a suitable match for a princess, let alone a smith."

Arya prickled at his words. True as they may be, in the political sense, the insinuation that her friends were somehow beneath her would never sit well with her. She knew that Jon was just being practical, that he had too much sense to hold a man's status against his character. 

But then, he seemed to make many exceptions to sense when it came to those she cared about. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to marry Gendry, but she knew she’d prefer him to most, and she wasn’t about to let Jon discount him without objection.

"Gendry isn't just a smith.” She reminded him stiffly, fighting to remain civil as he huffed and turned away. "He leads the Brotherhood without Banners. He has earned the respect of Westeros.”

"And the smallfolk adore him. He's not just some war hero to them," Rickon added eagerly, looking to her, and she nodded him on. “He means something more. The whole Brotherhood does. They love them.”

"And he may not be a lord, by his own choice," Arya concluded, "but he is a Baratheon. That could mollify at least some of the lords."

"And would it mollify Daenerys? Or Aegon?" Jon snapped. "When it was a Baratheon who killed their family and sent them into exile in the first place? I may be their kin but I can only do so much to protect you."

"I thought that Daenerys granted immunity and legitimacy to Robert's children in exchange for recognizing Targaryen rule?" Sansa asked, hands moving to her hips. "Even Edric Baratheon has bent the knee."

"So how do you think she feels about Gendry, then, the only bastard to refuse her offer of a title and land? And the leader of a band of fools," Jon spat the word like it tasted foul on his tongue, "who reject the authority of anyone who wears a crown?"

Why Jon was suddenly spouting hostility at the Brotherhood he'd vocally appreciated during the war, Arya wasn't sure, but as much as she took issue with his slander, it wasn’t the time to bring it up. "If Daenerys does see the Brotherhood as a threat, then a marriage between us could be a means of establishing peace before a conflict breaks out...”

The look Jon gave her was that of a wounded animal with its prey cornered. She forgot what she had been about to say.

"If you think," he hissed, "that I'm going to risk your life on the premise that it might prevent disputes between that menace and the Crown, then I am going to have to disappoint you."

"And what of Edric Dayne?"

Arya could only watch as Jon turned away to face her sister, whose chin jutted out defiantly at the king. That imperious timbre sent shivers down Arya’s spine. She hadn’t heard her sister take such a lofty tone with Jon in ten years.

Jon, on the other hand, just sounded irritated. "What of him?"

"As a candidate for Arya's husband,” Sansa deadpanned, as unamused with him as he was with her. “Is something wrong with him?"

"Is this not the boy that used to traipse around with the same Brotherhood?" Jon enunciated his words as if he was speaking to someone extraordinarily slow and particularly annoying, and if his goal was to offend, then by the way Sansa bristled, he had succeeded.

"His involvement with the Brotherhood was minimal, contingent on his position as Ser Dondarrion's squire, and has already ended," she pointed out hotly. "It would have to, either way, seeing as he's not just a lord, but the heir to Starfall." 

"And you think as the heir to Starfall, he and his bride will not be obligated to return to Starfall?" Jon replied just as impatiently. "He could afford to pick up the mantle of Sword of the Morning and run around the continent as a knight during the war, but do you truly think he will forfeit his responsibilities at the behest of a girl he knew when he was a squire?"

"But what if he forfeits his claim? If he intends to work for the council, he will."

"Then there is no guarantee he settles here."

“Oh,” Sansa made a cruel, ladylike sound, something like a laugh but not. "Is that all?"

The whites of Jon’s eyes had never been so visible. "Is that all?"

"Is that all, that she may have to leave? Is that your only qualm?"

"He offers her nothing!"

"He's a lord. He's an heir." Sansa lifted a finger with each point she made. "He's a war hero. He's a celebrated ally to the Martells, and to the Targaryens!"

Jon scoffed, loud, and so unlike him at all that Arya's jaw fell a little. "If a king with Targaryen blood is not enough to guarantee peace with the Targaryens, then a marriage to Edric Dayne will do no better! He offers her nothing!"

"He offers her security and kindness!" Sansa roared, calm breaking like the sea against cliffs. "He and Arya are not just familiar with each other — they're friends. Do you understand how rare and precious it is? As far as safety and happiness can go, there's no better assurance than that."

"What of our assurance?" Rickon snapped, stepping into line with his cousin, opposing Sansa. "We can offer her better than that."

"Exactly, Rickon!" Jon crowed, towering above them all even as he leaned in to emphasize his point. "Her family, in Winterfell, is better than that."

Her sister sputtered at his malice, turning to Arya, but she could only stare back, face still slack with surprise. Helpless, Sansa seethed, shaking her head at them all. "And so, what? She will never marry anyone?"

"I don't see why she has to," Rickon grumbled, but Arya barely heard him as Jon crossed over to her, took her by the shoulder, and tucked her into his side. "At least right away.”

"She doesn't," Jon agreed, gaze soft and raw, as if he’d been stripped bare and bleeding before her and didn't mind at all. What was she supposed to do? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Time? But then he said, “She won’t.”

Sansa shrunk back as if slapped and Arya stilled under his arm. This was a voice she'd only heard him wield on the battlefield, or in court, deep as a wolf and imperious as a dragon. He had never been the king with them, not with his family, no matter how they'd fought or what over. But now, he’d raised his head to look at Sansa with narrowed eyes, and did not seem to see a cousin at all.

He continued steadily, "We have every right to keep her."

Sansa’s teeth were small and peeked out from her mouth like she wanted to run but when she met Arya's gaze, her mouth shut. She straightened her posture, her chin dipped low and humble this time. "You are a Targaryen king, but you're not her head of house. You may have a say, but the final word is Bran's."

Jon’s grip tightened and Arya winced as he positioned himself between the two sisters, almost as if to make sure Sansa wouldn’t reach out and grab her.

"Oh, did you forget?" she asked, so elegantly applying salt in the wound.

"It seems Bran has," Arya interjected. "Surely he has something to add?"

She looked to her brother, silently imploring, but he merely made a contented hum. Part of her wanted to tear her hair out, another wanted a go at his. She did not see what was so amusing about their siblings spitting and hissing at one another over her marriage prospects. Jon and Sansa were volatile enough as it is, some days managing genuine cordiality and others only just barely maintaining a facade of civility. This couldn’t help.

"Bran will do what's best for Arya," Jon spoke on his behalf, drawing her even closer, so her chest was pressed to his ribs. His heat warmed her like a furnace. "I trust him with that much. He loves his sister."

"And I don't," Sansa inhaled, eyes wide and stepping back. "That's what you mean, isn't it? Be honest with us, Jon. Arya and I have made our peace and moved past our childhood quarrels, but clearly, you haven't. You still hold them against me, don't you?"

"It's nothing like that," Arya assured her with a furrowed brow, gesturing for her cousin to corroborate. Jon didn't say a word.

Sansa looked down at her and soon deflated. "What would you know? He's an entirely different person to you.” She turned back to Jon, her voice low and scathing. “You’re making me look like a villain for suggesting she marry at all, but I’m just trying to find her someone who will be good for her before it’s too late. I will not allow her to suffer like I did.”

"No, you would just exile her from her home, to live with strangers.” There was no room for argument. There never had been. “Arya has been away from home long enough without you sending her away once more."

"Away from home, or away from you?”

She might’ve said more, she must’ve said more, and Jon must’ve said more too, but Arya couldn’t stand to hear another a word of it. What was the point of this bickering and bullshit? All the while Bran just sat there with that inscrutable certainty as his eyes trailed after Jon, and what did any of it matter?

“Enough!” she howled, pushing at his chest and ripping out of Jon’s reach.

His arm hung in the air for a moment, expression hurt, but she didn't have the time to be sorry.

"Were either of you going to ask me what I thought? Or are you two happy assuming you know what's best for me, as well as the North, and the rest of the kingdoms?" she snapped. Sansa, Jon, and even Rickon all began speaking at once, but she'd had enough of listening for an entire week. “Shut up! I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all of you.” She sneered. “What a waste of time.”

Sansa objected, and Jon tried to defend himself, but it had been, nothing but a waste of time and a strain on their throats. If this was the way things would go, she was better off being stolen by the free folk. She was half tempted to leave her window open in invitation. They might not even have to bind and carry her.

"We are not going to make these decisions in a single evening," Bran's voice raised now, cutting through the clamor like a sword through cloth. "I knew that when I brought it up. Although, I had thought we'd at least get the chance to discuss some of the prospects for Rickon and me. But that can wait for now. We have other engagements to attend to.”

"Right," she croaked. Meals and men. Meals and men. She was supposed to meet with Ser Davos and Lord Manderley. Through the window, the sky was orange. She swallowed, but her throat kept dry. "I'm already late. I have to go.”

She moved to leave, and Jon moved to follow, but Bran called out and asked him to wait as the door swung shut behind her, and that was the last she allowed herself to hear before breaking into a sprint.

X

@mysticalmuddle This isn’t the fic I was talking about before, but I thought you might like to be tagged anyway, seeing as you’re basically the sole reason I ever post my fics! Thank you for all your encouragement, you are amazing.

[thelustybraavosimaid]

Oh my dear gods.

Jon doesn't like warrior or violent women? Well you could have fucken fooled me:

Ygritte was much in his thoughts as well. He remembered the smell of her hair, the warmth of her body...and the look on her face as she slit the old man's throat. You were wrong to love her, a voice whispered. You were wrong to leave her, a different voice insisted. He wondered if his father had been torn the same way, when he'd left Jon's mother to return to Lady Catelyn. He was pledged to Lady Stark, and I am pledged to the Night's Watch. (Jon VI, ASoS)

--

"Who is Ygritte?" Donal Noye asked pointedly.

"A woman of the free folk." How could he explain Ygritte to them? She's warm and smart and funny and she can kiss a man or slit his throat. (Jon VI, ASoS)

--

"I can do more."

Why not? thought Jon. They are all convinced she is a princess. Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. (Jon XI, ADwD)

--

All the same, the wildling princess was not beloved of her gaolers. She scorned them all as "kneelers," and had thrice attempted to escape. When one man-at-arms grew careless in her presence she had snatched his dagger from its sheath and stabbed him in the neck. Another inch to the left and he might have died.

Lonely and lovely and lethal, Jon Snow reflected, and I might have had her. Her, and Winterfell, and my lord father's name. Instead he had chosen a black cloak and a wall of ice. Instead he had chosen honor. A bastard's sort of honor. (Jon III, ADwD)

He very explicitly has a preference and it is not Sansa. George talked about this, recorded in an SSM. How can anyone even suggest something like that when he says stuff like this?

And yes, I will take your women too. I have no need of blushing maidens looking to be protected, but I will take as many spearwives as will come. (Jon V, ADwD)

If you think any of these passages means the complete opposite of what's being stated, I really don't know how to fucken help you lmao

Also a person who explicitly likes flowers, like a lot, is Arya. It's stated in Sansa's very first chapter.

Arya shrugged. "Hold still," she snapped at Nymeria, "I'm not hurting you." Then to Sansa she said, "When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion." (Sansa I, AGoT)

And she gives Ned flowers:

One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did, he only hugged her and thanked her for the flowers. That just made her worse. (Sansa I, AGoT)

Singing is something just about everyone in the damn series does, that's not a Sansa trait. Having children, getting married, or wanting a family are not Sansa-specific traits. Ruling Winterfell is not a Sansa trait. The northern lands are harsh and the Stark kings of old were noted to be just as harsh. Brandon "Ice Eyes" Stark literally stripped slavers naked and hung their entrails on heart trees as a warning, and that's just one example.

Hot houses is a Sansa trait apparently, I'm dying 😂😂 what is this shit

This person also added in this:

You really want to start on Val? Fine. He turned her down. Winterfell, her, future kids. Easily. If it was Ygritte it would of been a harder choice. And even afterwards, he happily stands aside for Mance’s son.

This is particularly why I think some of the people who ship Jonsa either skim through Jon's chapters or just bypass them entirely and get their information from Jonsa metas.

Jon refused marrying Val and claiming Winterfell for himself for a reason, and Ghost's presence helped him reach his decision:

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre's. He had a weirwood's eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one. And he alone of all the direwolves was white. Six pups they'd found in the late summer snows, him and Robb; five that were grey and black and brown, for the five Starks, and one white, as white as Snow.

He had his answer then. (Jon XII, ASoS)

He ultimately refused Winterfell because by accepting Stannis' offer, he would have to burn the godswood and the heart tree. He would be betraying his own religion by doing so.

This is literally in the text.

"Yes," he said, hesitantly, "kings have legitimized bastards before, but...I am still a brother of the Night's Watch. I knelt before a heart tree and swore to hold no lands and father no children."

"Jon." Melisandre was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. "R'hllor is the only true god. A vow sworn to a tree has no more power than one sworn to your shoes. Open your heart and let the light of the Lord come in. Burn these weirwoods, and accept Winterfell as a gift of the Lord of Light." (Jon XI, ASoS)

--

Winterfell. Belongs. To. The. Old. Gods.

His friends were still out in the practice yard, but Jon was in no fit state to face them. He left the armory by the back, descending a steep flight of stone steps to the wormways, the tunnels that linked the castle's keeps and towers below the earth. It was short walk to the bathhouse, where he took a cold plunge to wash the sweat off and soaked in a hot stone tub. The warmth took some of the ache from his muscles and made him think of Winterfell's muddy pools, steaming and bubbling in the godswood. Winterfell, he thought. Theon left it burned and broken, but I could restore it. Surely his father would have wanted that, and Robb as well. They would never have wanted the castle left in ruins.

You can't be the Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born, he heard Robb say again. And the stone kings were growling at him with granite tongues. You do not belong here. This is not your place. When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said...but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman's hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods. (Jon XII, ASoS)

[irishmacguirefucker]

Meeting Tilly Jackson

A.N: (So originally this was going to be for my au but I realized that if I wanna write Tilly in my AU i need to properly understand her background. We don't have a lot of specific details in the game, so i wrote this. Essentially its how Dutch found Tilly and took her in. She’s 14 in this. I will probably have a part 2 soon. Its a little dialogue heavy)

(TW: Sexual Assault of a minor is mentioned but nothing happens, blood)

Wordcount:  3110

-

Tilly Jackson has a family. They may be a little odd, different than what everyone else might consider a family, but a family nonetheless. Dutch and Hosea her father figures, Susan Grimshaw a motherly presence. Sisters in Karen, Mary-Beth and the other women of the camp, brothers in Arthur and John and most of the other men. The titles don't matter so much as the feeling of safety and comfort and appreciation among them. She missed her late mother of course, but she hoped on some level her mother would be happy with how things turned out for the girl in the end. Being kidnapped at the age of 12 was nothing short of traumatizing, and for a long while, things only got worse. The Foreman gang was the opposite of a family. They were nothing to her but the people who stole her away from her mother claimed to own her. The ones who tried to take advantage of her. The night that Malcolm Foreman tried to make advances on her and she killed him was the night she would consider herself grown. 

She's not sure exactly how long she was alone, it must have been under a year. She went to find her mother only to hear of her death, and with nowhere else to go she just kept running. The further she made it the less likely that Anthony Foreman would find her and pay her back for what she did to his cousin. She knows that it was early spring when she left. The snow had barely been off the ground, she supposed that no longer being wrapped in a ratty cloak and scarf was the reason that gang member thought to make his move. 

Dutch found her just when it was beginning to get cold again. 

Despite considering herself grown, her body disagreed. The shoes she ran away in were already ill-fitted, and by that autumn they were practically falling apart. Her toes stuck out the front. She had done her best to steal clothing off people’s clotheslines, but they rarely fit.

Dutch caught her doing just that. He had been watching the property of some well off folks, planning on casing it with Arthur later that week. He watched as a girl no older than 14, snuck out from the tree line in a torn-up blouse and a too-long skirt.

She was clearly not experienced in stealing as she tripped over her skirts up the property, but she made it to the side of the house mostly successfully. She quickly tore down a long dress and an undershirt and quickly started back to the tree line. She stared wistfully at the property's large orchard and nearly turned her course towards it before hearing the owner of the house open his front door and stealing away into the forest. Even from a distance, Dutch knew what that hesitation meant. She was hungry.

Dutch was hardly one to let a promising little thief like her starve in the forest, so with a passing glance at the house he stood from his hiding spot up the hill and mounted the Count.

Tracking was never one of Dutch’s strongest abilities but she made it rather easy, with footprints in the mud, a scrap of fabric where her clothing caught a branch, etc. Eventually, he reached a spot where she seemed to trip and fall, and then there were a few drops of blood here and there as he followed. He knew he was getting closer, the blood wasn’t dry. He dismounted his horse and began leading him forward when suddenly she jumped out from behind a tree wielding a large rusted hunting knife. 

“Don’t come any closer! You can take your clothes back, here.” She kicked over the items he had just watched her steal. “Don’t tell the law, and I’ll disappear. I don’t have anything more to offer you.”

Dutch grinned, she was strong-willed. But he also observed that her cheeks were sunken in, and her skin was dull. She was visibly malnourished, and there was blood dripping from one of her small hands. He hoped it was a branch she cut herself on and not that dirty knife of hers.

He put his hands up in a friendly gesture.

“I’m not the man you robbed earlier, don’t you worry. I watched you steal that dress, you’re quite the little thief.” 

She was doing a damn good job of hiding her fear, but Dutch was experienced in seeing past such facades. She didn’t seem scared of the weapon she was holding, as the young and inexperienced often were when they wielded such an item. She just seemed scared of him. 

“Why did you follow me, it ain’t your things I stole. I have nothing to give you, so you best just leave me be.” She didn’t stutter, her high pitched voice remained unwavering and strong. Dutch tried his best to look unthreatening, something he didn’t find himself having to do often. 

“Well, I myself was planning on robbing that house myself later with a few of my friends, perhaps I just wanted to see if you had any advice for me as a seasoned visitor of that property.”

She didn’t believe him and didn’t lower her knife, but she didn’t run either. Good. “Now if I reach for something in my saddle bag here are you gonna come at me with that big old knife?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Dutch smiled. “Well if you and I are gonna talk business I thought that maybe I could pay you for your time, little lady.”

She finally lowered the knife a little, seeming less afraid but very suspicious. “You wanna pay me for information on that house?”

“I do. Information is worth a lot to us outlaws, you should know that well Darlin’” He slowly turned to the horse. Even if she did attempt to stab him, she wouldn’t get to him before he could turn around, so he wasn’t worried. As he was digging through the saddlebag she spoke up behind him.

“Don’t call me Darlin.” 

He smiled at her bravado but kept looking through the bag. “Well, you’ve yet to give me something else to call you Miss. Ah! Here it is!” He turned back to her holding a small stack of cash and a wrapped parcel. 

“Yeah, well neither have you!” There’s that reminder that he’s talking to a child. They’re always so petulant. John had been just the same, though a little more rabid. “Well, I’m Dutch, Dutch Van der Linde.”

He studied her face for any sign of recognition, but there was none. Good, less reason for her to be afraid of him. She didn’t give her name just yet. 

“Are you with the Foreman brothers?” She asked boldly. “I won’t let you take me back, I’ll kill you before you get me back there.” That would explain her fear, she wasn’t just a thief. She was a runaway from another gang.

“Now I’ll tell you right now Miss, I’m not with Anthony Forman or his little gang. The only gang I’m with is the Van der Linde gang, and I promise me and mine won’t bring you any harm.”

“You...You lead a gang?” She was shaking, it was starting to get colder as the sun was setting. 

“I am, but we aren’t like those bastards you knew. We’re just good people, looking to live free.”

Then he did something bold, a gesture to help her feel safer in the presence of a gang leader. Hopefully, she would be a little more at ease. “Do you mind if I sit down Miss-” 

“Jackson. Tilly Jackson.”

He smiled. “Miss Jackson. Do you mind if I sit while we talk? Tracking you was quite a little adventure.” 

“Go ahead, I guess.” 

“Thank you, Tilly.” He sat down on a log just to the side, and she lowered her weapon fully but gripped it tight. “Now, go ahead and take this.” He took a couple of bills and tucked them into the string around the parcel. She stared at it suspiciously.

 “I didn’t tell you nothing yet and I ain’t stupid mister Van der Linde, why are you giving me this.” 

He smiled and leaned forward to place the parcel on the ground in front of him, between them. 

“As I said, you’re quite the thief and I think you could help me out. Doesn't hurt to butter up the informant. There's some food in the package, I thought you looked a little hungry.”

She seemed to stare at the parcel longingly and something clenched in Dutch’s cold heart. The poor girl must be starving.

 “I…I don’t have no info for you, Mister Van der Linde. I just needed the clothes.” She seemed disappointed to be saying it, but she didn't lie to him like he thought she might.

“Well...maybe you could just keep me company then Milady. Good company is hard to find among us outlaws, as I’m sure you know.”

In a flash, she was back two steps and her knife was raised once more.

“I ain’t that kind of girl. you can keep your fucking money and go pay a real whore for your damned “company’”

This was the opposite of the outcome he was looking for, and entirely at the fault of his own poor word choice. He should have known better, there are only a few things that can happen to a young girl in this country to put her on the run and make her fear good company. 

“Now listen here, Miss Jackson. I am not that kind of man, I wouldn’t take advantage of you like I’m sure the bastards in Foreman’s gang tried. It’s like I said it, my gang is just good men looking for freedom and money. You can leave right now if you want and I won’t stop you, or you can stay and eat some, and I promise I won’t even look at you funny.”

She stood frozen, knife gripped tight. She seemed to be weighing her options. Dutch had yet to pose a threat to her, his weapons remained holstered. He hadn’t even tried to come close to her. She steeled her nerves and spoke again. 

“Then...Give me one of your guns. If you really ain’t gonna try nothing then give me one of your pistols and if you try and do anything bad I’ll shoot you.”

In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have even considered it. But this wasn’t some criminal who he was wringing for information. This was a terrified little girl who was too afraid of the man in front of her to even eat food when she was starving. He slowly reached for his left holster and pulled out the pistol. He made a big show of flipping it in his hand so that his finger stayed away from the trigger as not to scare her, and he placed it beside the parcel. Gently he pushed them both over with his foot and sat back on the log with his hands beside him. 

She stared at him, and quick as lightning she grabbed the items from the ground. She backed up to her spot and slowly sat on the ground. The pistol was too big for her hand, and her other hand was getting blood on the side of the wrapped meat. Slowly she unwrapped the piece of dried venison, not breaking eye contact with the man sitting before her. “Why are you being so kind to me, I ain’t never heard of a ‘Good’ outlaw, we’re all just killers and thieves.”

He took note of the word ‘we’ before killers and thieves. Perhaps there was a reason she was so steady holding that knife. “I suppose no truer words have been spoken Miss Tilly, but I was never the type to watch a young lady suffer…You know, I found my son Arthur when he was about your age. The boy was just starving in the streets, stealing what he could. Quite like you are now.”

She didn’t respond, just stared at him a moment longer before taking a large bite of the meat. He hadn’t seen someone eat so ravenously since he fed John for the first time.

It took a lot of talking to get her to let her guard down. She didn’t reveal much about herself, other than that her mother died and she wasn’t part of the foreman gang, she was just there. Though the tension in her shoulders slowly sapped away as she filled her stomach and let herself calm down. They spoke for a few hours and he tried his best not to treat her like a child, god knows they hate when you do that. He couldn’t help but notice that she just seemed so sad. Once all that fear subsided and she spoke more freely, it was clear that she was lost. She mentioned her mother’s death with deep sorrow, her eyes going glassy before she seemed to catch herself and move on. 

Eventually, her hand stopped bleeding, and he tried to catch a look at it as she gestured. The sun was nearly set and he would have to get back to camp before they went looking for him.

He told her as much and he watched that deep-set sadness seep back to her features. 

“Oh… well. It was nice to meet you Dutch.” She used his first name for the first time. He stood up and she did as well, wincing as she used her injured hand to push off the ground.

“You know... you could come back with me and let our doctor take a look at that hand. Well...she ain’t exactly a doctor, but she can fix it. We wouldn’t want that getting infected, it’s far easier to be an outlaw with both hands.”

She wanted to go with him, he could see it in her eyes. Good friends are hard to come by when you’re a child with no home. 

“And perhaps, you could stay awhile. Learn how to be a real outlaw instead of a dress thief.” She seemed offended at the comment, a funny little scowl crossing her features. She was thinking about the offer, and he hoped it sounded at least a little better than sleeping alone in the forest. 

“If I come to your camp….nobody's gonna try and touch me?”

 “Absolutely not my dear, if they try I’ll cut off their hand myself.” She seemed to giggle a little at the notion, a sound he would take pride in. She sobered up and asked; 

“And I can leave whenever I want? I ain’t gonna let anyone try and say they own me ever again.”

“If you come to camp, Tilly Jackson will remain a free woman, but you’ll have a home to come back to if that’s what you would like.”

He watched her hesitate a little longer. Some coyotes barked in the distance and she shivered.  “Maybe just for a little while. Just to try it.” 

“And you can leave whenever you want.” he reassured.

“And I can leave whenever I want.” She repeated it back like she was convincing herself. He turned his back to adjust the Count’s saddle and give him a sugar cube, and he heard small footsteps come closer to him.

“Um. Can I give him one? He’s real pretty.” Dutch turned and she was at his side, staring at the large animal. She was even smaller up close, and he could see that her bones stood up against her dark skin.

“You know, I think he would like that. Now here, take just one of these and put it in your hand flat. Don’t worry, he won’t bite you.” She went to take it from his hand before realizing her hands were full with the knife and Dutch’s gun. 

“Oh. Here you go, Mister Dutch.” She tried to hand him back the gun. Bravely he thought, to give up her best defense, but he didn’t take it.

“I’ll tell you what my lady, It’s gonna be a bit of a ride to get back to camp and I don’t want you feeling like you can’t hold your own. You hold on to that one just until we get back, alright? We can put your knife in the bag safe and sound.” She obliged, putting the hunting knife gently in the saddlebag and holding on to the pistol. Then Dutch gave her the sugar cube and she held it out to the horse gingerly. The Count had no such hesitation and stole the treat from her hand quickly, the softness of his nose near her fingers making her giggle.

“Now, I think we might just be ready to move! Can I help you up milady?” He said, with a ring clad hand extended like a butler. The gesture made her giggle more and Dutch was happy to see the sadness put aside for a little while. She took his hand in her much smaller one and let him lead her to the side of the saddle.

“Now, can I lift you or do you want to go stand on the log over there?” She could read the underlying notion. The hidden meaning of ‘Do you want me to touch you’, ‘is it okay if I lift you’, etc. He was being more considerate than anyone she had ever met. She took a deep breath and put a little trust in him.

“You can lift me if that’s okay.”

“It would be my honor milady.” He lifted her onto the horse’s rump and tried not to think about how light she was. How he could feel her bones through the layers of her shirt. Once she was settled, he climbed up himself. Before they got going he pulled out his canteen and an apple from the bag. 

“Here. Dinner will be done by the time we get to camp and there’s no reason you should go hungry back there, that just wouldn’t befit such a distinguished young lady.” She accepted the food, and he set the Count into a walk to get them out of the underbrush. Once they were on the path he pushed into a more brisk pace, but he wouldn’t risk trotting with her back there, the count’s trot could be rather rough and she’s so thin she would just be thrown off.

It would be a long ride back to camp at this pace, but it just gave him more time to get to know her and tell her about camp. 

[hjbender]

Do you think Loki will be into stitching? Like Frigga would be, do you think Loki will be happy to spend time occasionally embroidering things for his children (by hand or magic) and Thor? I am not talking about melk-folk Loki. :)

I could absolutely see Loki sewing. Or weaving. Or any of the other textile arts. 

I think he would naturally be drawn to these crafts, and not just because of his mother (Frigga being the goddess of weaving and spinning) but because it’s a reflection of his personality. He’s a schemer, an idea-generator, and a creator (mostly of chaos, sure, but it takes a lot of intelligence to come up with a good trick. Seriously.) He’s cunning, full of ideas and mischief and mayhem and humor and sarcasm, he never takes anything or anyone too seriously. I bet he can manipulate thread and yarn as easily as he manipulates people. And when his plot/project is over, he’ll have something to show for it: either a great story or a zany, totally unique and inimitable craft. 

Also, since sewing, spinning and weaving has long been regarded as “women’s work”—just like using seidr—the fact that Loki embraces it would just go to show how much of a rebellious, tradition-burning, shapeshifting, genderfluid paragon of awesomeness he is. Ergi? Argr? Who are they? Loki says fuck gender norms—

If you’re keeping track of Loki’s arc in the comics, he has evolved from the god of mischief (neutral) to the god of lies/evil (evil, obv), and is now the god of stories (neutral-good), and what better metaphor for a storyteller than someone who brings individual threads together to form a bigger picture? 

I headcanon that Loki, given his chaotic (read: uncontainable, wildly free) nature, would never use a pattern. He would either work it out as he goes along or make patterns of his own, because following someone else’s pattern is just not what he does. He makes his own way, walks his own path. And besides, following the rules is boring (and rules were made to be broken). He doesn’t just think outside the box; he thinks outside of everything. He’s the type of kid who never colored inside the lines and used all the wrong crayons—not because he didn’t know which colors were supposed to go where, but simply because it amused him to see his teacher get exasperated. I bet he would even invent his own needles and type of stitching. He bucks tradition and never follows the norm.

“You just listed all of my best qualities,” he might say, a gleam in his eye and a sharp grin on his lips.

And those qualities are what make his work so special and unique. They may not be beautiful or expertly-crafted with all the fancy stitching and borders and nice, complementary fabrics, but they’re highly personal works of art. Pieces of himself, really. And he doesn’t give himself away (read: open up and show his vulnerable side) to just anybody. Anyone gifted with one of his works would be absolutely flattered and indebted. And if the recipient is one of his family—Thor, Frigga, or one of his children—then you can be certain that that thing was made with the special brand of love he feels for that particular person.

I imagine him making a cloak for Thor—ordinary looking, maybe even a little ugly, but laced with magic and power, able to help Thor disappear and move faster than lightning. For his child(ren), a bizarre, fun quilt of bright colors and mismatched fabrics that will protect and bestow good dreams to anyone who cuddles beneath it. For Frigga, a long sash that can be worn in a number of ways, and imbues its wearer with a glowing radiance that is a reflection of Loki’s own carefully guarded love and appreciation. Gifts from Loki are things to be cherished, just as he cherishes the few people he lets into his heart.

This was such an excellent ask, anon. Thank you for sending it!

[paper-chain-queen]

Once Upon A Dream *4*

Bakugou X F.Reader

Sleeping Beauty x Fantasy BNHA AU

Words: 2,000+

Notes: you should know that this was supposed to be a one-shot.... oh well here’s the final bit :) enjoy

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The Beautiful Queen took a seat at her throne, giddy for her dauhger to join the party. Everyone else in the grand hall was still starting to wake up, groggy from their unscheduled nap. Except for the guests from the Dragon tribe who were already deep into the feast, lounging as they drank from wine goblets and ate turkey legs.

“Mina!” Eijirou called out as he ran towards his mate, her black and gold eyes widened as she spotted him and gleefully jumped into his waiting arms.

“Eijirou! I thought you were with Katsuki meeting his mate.” Mina asked as she nuzzled into the red dragon shifter’s chest.

The boy gave her a bright smile and told her to ‘just wait’ which made her pout.

The rest of his friends jumped in, demanding information and the three queens only giggled at the young folks’ antics.

“Wh.. When did you get back, darling?” The King Nadir stretched as he woke up, looking over at his Queen.

“Just now, dear, now straighten yourself out, it’s a big day.” The Queen got out her handkerchief and wiped away some drool at the corner of his mouth. 

 “Oh, yes. Where is our daughter? Is she back? Where are those fairies?” The King straightened up and looked around the large ballroom. 

 The trumpets blew, and the King jumped up in his seat, the anticipation killing him, the women all giggled as King Nadir reminded them of a child on his birthday.

“Come along, we’ll watch from here.” Momo guided her comrades to a stone balcony overlooking the ballroom. This was the moment they had all been waiting for, for 18 years. It was bittersweet, they would no longer be with (y/n) in the cottage in the woods, but at least she was happy and safe, her Prince by her side.

“Wait... isn’t that... Queen Mitsuki? When did they get here.” The King asked as he suddenly noticed a few other Dragon folk.

“We have a bit of catching up on dear.” His Queen comforted, giving his hand a tight squeeze. 

Everyone watched the large staircase as the Dragon Prince walked with the Princess, her hand wrapped around his bicep, a shy smile on her face. The Princess’s cheeks were rosy red as Katsuki wore a cocky grin, whispering something in her ear, which only made her hide her face with her free hand, a large ruby and gold ring resting on her ring finger. Katsuki only laughed before kissing her cheek as they continued down the broad staircase. 

“Is that?” Sero asked as she immediately recognized the Dragon Prince. 

“Yep,” Eijirou confirmed 

“With the princess?” Denki’s mouth dropped open. 

“Yep.” 

“Look how cute they look!” Mina practically squealed as she jumped up and down in excitement. She had to resist from morphing into her dragon form and roaring in delight. 

 When the handsome coupled reached the bottom of the stairs, (y/n) leaned up and whispered something in Katsuki’s ear, and it was his turn to go red as the Princess giggled and left his side to greet her parents. 

The Queen wrapped her arms around her daughter and then led her to the King, happy tears in his eyes. 

 “Father.” The Princess slightly bowed her head and reached down to lightly graze his feet, uncertain what to do, and the King only laughed and embraced his daughter for the first time. 

 “Welcome home.” The King whispered, a gentle smile on his lips as he patted her dark locks. 

The three faires watched the reunion from above, Izuku was in danger of flooding the balcony with all the tears leaving his eyes and Momo was quick to hand him several handkerchiefs. 

 Katsuki walked to the King and Queen and (y/n) returned to his side. The Dragon Prince bowed respectfully to the majesties.

“... Is this?” King Nadir asked his wife, who smiled up at him, reading his mind.

“Yes, dear.”

“Well then, Son, thank you.” The King wrapped his arms around the young Prince, clapping his back, and Katsuki coughed tried to hide his pain, (y/n) ’s old man was stronger than he looked. 

 “.... Do they not have shirts where you are from?” The King jested as he pointed out the very exposed Dragon Prince’s chest, who rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, not sure if he was making a good impression on his true love’s parents. 

 ���Son? Nadir, you can’t be serious.” An angry man that (Y/n) had never seen stepped forward and basically towered over, his teal eyes glaring at her and her Prince. 

 “THis is outrageous!!! You think I’m going to stand by and let this savage-” 

 Katsuki let out a yell of defiance was ready to teach the rude red-haired man a lesson, but someone beat him too. 

 (y/n) in a small rage curled up her fist and sucker-punched the tall man square in the jaw, her large engagement ring leaving a lovely red mark on the right cheek. 

 “That’s my future husband, you are talking about.” (y/n) huffed, ready to take down the intimidating man a notch if needed.

“That’s my girl.” Katsuki smirked as he took the hand she had used to sucker punch into his hand to check on it, kissing her knuckles tenderly as she smiled at him. Her hand and the ring was fine, Enji’s face on the other hand... well maybe it was an improvement. 

 “Sorry, King Enji, true love conquers all, even betrothals.” Queen Sabina smirked at him, and Enji sneered before stomping off.

 “Oh that’s right.” (y/n) gasped and looked around for the Prince she was promised too, catching sight of a two-toned prince standing with his snow-haired mother. 

 She lifted her royal blue skirt and rushed over. 

 “Prince Shouto, I presume.” (y/n) asked as she stood in front of the Prince. 

 “Yes, Princess. I’m glad that you are well. I apologize I didn’t introduce myself upstairs, there was.... a lot going on.” He said, giving her a polite smile. 

 “Thank you. I thought I should say... I’m sorry that I must break the betrothal. But I hope we can move together in friendship.” Princess (y/n) hoped that the Prince was nothing like his father.

“I would like that.” His smile grew and lightly took her hand in his, the future of the neighbouring kingdoms would seem to be at peace.

“Beat it Half N’ Half.” Katsuki barked at Shouto as he grabbed (y/n) ’s hand and dragged her away. The beauty smiled apologetically at the red and white-haired Prince, who just blinked owlishly as he watched. 

 She didn’t make it far till she felt her body ripped from Katsuki’s grip, and the Princess was looking into black eyes with gold iris’s.

“Oh my god! You’re her!? You’re the one that had Katuski tearing apart the treasury! You’re gorgeous! And wow, nice right hook! Hey, how did you two meet? What do you like about him? Wha-” The excited girl with pink scales was ripped away.  

 “Fuck off raccoon eyes.”

“Boo! Your no fun Katsuki!” Mina pouted as she crossed her arms, slightly fuming that her girl-talk was interrupted.

“Don’t mind him, babe, he just doesn’t want to chance anyone taking his girl.” Eijirou stepped up and threw his arm over his mate’s shoulder, trying to keep his two favourite people from causing a scene. 

 “Princess (y/n), this is my mate, Mina. Mina, this is Princess (y/n).” Eijirou introduced the two, (y/n) curtsied to the pink dragon shifter, but Mina just rushed forward and bear-hugged the Princess. 

 “We should go flying soon, I’ll show you all the spots. We’ll have a girls day and visit the hot springs and -” Mina rambled until Katsuki had enough and threw his sunshine over his shoulder and ran away to the other side of the ballroom before anyone else could take her away from him. 

 The orchestra started up and (y/n) patted Katsuki’s back as she still being hauled like a sack of flour.

“Dance with me?” She requested.

“Only for you.” Katsuki placed her down on the floor, and her delicate hand slid into his large, rough as he placed his other hand on the small of her back, his fingers softly feeling the exposed skin in the space between her cropped blouse and skirt. 

 The two danced across the marble dancefloor, the crowd watched in awe how in sync and graceful the couple danced as if they have done this times and times before. 

 As they danced, Katsuki leaned close to (y/n) ’s ear and sung softly, and she joined, only loud enough for the two to hear. For it was their song. 

 I know you and walked with once upon a dream

“Why, Izuku, what’s the matter?” Momo asked as she caught the green fairy trying to hide his sniffles. 

“I just love happy endings.” He wailed, and Uraraka just giggled at her emotional friend. 

 “Oh, don’t they look lovely.” Uraraka gushed as she swayed with the music. 

 “Yes very- blue?!” Momo gasped as she couldn’t believe she had let the Princess walk in anything but pink. It was merely the superior colour in the red fairy’s eyes.

 “Make it pink.” Momo waved her wand and (y/n) clothes changed from the royal blue to bright pink. 

 “eh! What?! Make it blue.” Uraraka jumped in shock before retaliating and changing it back. 

 The two tried to out spell the other while Izuku just enjoyed the dance, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stop the two. 

 Momo missed her target, and Katsuki’s cloak turned bright pink.

“Pfft.” (y/n) tried to hold back a giggle, but Katsuki just growled, even (y/n) ’s parents laughed lightly at the sight.  

 “Ya damn fairies!!” He snarled as practically bared his teeth at the three on the balcony.

“Whoops sorry!!” And the fairies all hid from view while Katsuki ripped his now pink cloak off his back.

“Here, I’ll take it from you, buddy.” Eiji said as he jumped in, and Katsuki threw it at him. 

 “I thought that colour looked quite nice on you.” The Princess couldn’t help but tease as she laid her hand on his shoulder, fully able to admire his jewellery and muscles now that his cloak was gone.

“Get over here, I’m not done with you.” Katsuki smirked and took her around the dancefloor in a waltz once more. 

 I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream 

I know you, that gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam 

And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem 

But if I know you, I know what you’ll do 

You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream 

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.-.--.-.-.-.- 

. 

 “and they lived happily ever after.” The beloved and trusted Uncle finished 

“What happened to them?”  The children protested to the end of the story, what happened next?

 “They lived happily ever after. What more do you need?”

The door creaked open, and everyone froze, all three wore guilty looks on their faces. 

 “You were supposed to be asleep hours ago.” A woman with long dark hair top with a gold crown, her massive red and gold skirt gliding across the ground.

“aww Mama, Uncle Eiji was just telling us a story.” The young girl pouted, her large ruby eyes working their magic.

“was he? What was it about?” She asked as she sat down on the soft bed. 

 “A beautiful princess, and dragons and curses!” Her four-year-old son, with his father’s ash blonde hair, crawled his mother’s waiting arms. She had been in exhausting diplomatic meetings all day long, and she was in desperate need for a little cuddle time.

“My, now, where would he get such a story?” The woman teased as she rocked her young son in her arms, and the red-haired man gave a guilty smile. 

 “C’mon, time for bed.” She tucked in her children and placed a kiss to their heads, promising them that they would go for a picnic the following day. 

 “Sorry My Queen, they asked for a story, and I couldn’t resist those big eyes.” Her long-time friend apologized, but he was smiling as he did so, hos sharp teeth on full display.

“Nothing to apologize for, thank you for looking out for them. How are the hatchlings?” She asked as he walked her to her chambers.

“They are starting to use their wings, it’s a bit hazardous but really exciting.” His broad proud grin was infectious. 

 “If you and Mina are free tomorrow, then perhaps we can all go for a picnic in the meadow by the cottage where I grew up. Maybe without scaring the deer this time.” Queen (y/n) proposed, and Eijirou nodded. 

 “Mina would love that. Though I can’t promise the little ones won’t try and catch a squirrel or two.” Eijirou mentioned and (y/n) giggled, Eijrou’s kids were just curious, she knew she didn’t have to truly worry about the safety of her animal friends. 

 “Goodnight, my friend.”

“Goodnight, your majesty.” He gave her a small salute before running off, eager to make it home to his own family. 

 The woman walked into her bedroom, the guard opening the large ornate door for her. 

 She hummed a song as she removed her crown, heavy earrings and bangles, only leaving on her wedding ring, a gold ring with a large ruby guarded by a gold dragon. 

As she brushed out her hair, she let her heart’s song slip from her lips. 

 (y/n) wondered how Eijirou told the ‘infamous’ tale of Sleeping Beauty. He probably dramatized it a bit, but she was certain it was better than the way her husband told it. 

 “This Bird-beaked bastard was in my way to you. So I demolished him. Easy.” 

 She slipped her choli over her head and arms wrapped around her from behind, and warm lips kissed her bare shoulder. 

 “I can never get enough of you, why is that Sunshine?” A husky voice spoke into her ear before laying another a kiss on her neck. 

 “BEcause you are insatiable- eep.” She squealed as the man pinched her bottom. 

 “How are the brats?” Katsuki asked a gentle tone despite the gruff term of ‘endearemnt’ for his kids. 

 “Looking more and more like you every day, it’s not fair.” (y/n) pouted as she turned around in his grip and threw her arms over his shoulders. 

 “I’ve got strong genes. Maybe the third one will look like you.” Katsuki loved that his kids looked like little tan versions of him, and they had her smile, the world needed more of that precious sunshine she created. 

 “Insatiable.” (y/n) teased as she removed his cape and let it fall to the floor, her bare chest touching his. Katsuki’s fingers fidget with the tied knot holding up her skirt before pulling on it slightly, letting the heavy red and gold skirt slip away to the floor, leaving his Queen bare and vulnerable before him. 

 “Or the fourth... Or the fifth.” 

 “You just want your own little army of Dragon Princes and Princesses.” She teased as his hands traced up and down her bare back before resting on her hips, playfully giving her soft skin a squeeze... 

 “You gotta problem that?” A devilish smirk crossed his lips, but his ruby eyes held nothing but adoration for his Queen. 

 “Not at all.” She easily gave in and leaned into his strong form, resting her head against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. 

 He subconsciously patted her hair and started humming a familiar tune, swaying from side to side in an intimate dance, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as his true love close. 

 (y/n) kissed the skin around his heart and then leaned up to meet his lips in a tender kiss, a tenderness that only she brought out of the Dragon King.

But if I know you, I know what you’ll do 

You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream

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The End

[deliciousdetectivestranger]

Sons of Sita (2012), Ashok K. Banker

“I intend to beg my wife’s forgiveness and take her and our sons home, if she will agree to come,” he said. 

Sita’s knees buckled. Both her sons looked up in alarm as they felt her weight shift, and they caught her arms tightly, holding her up. She regained control of herself and nodded to them. Still, they remained alert in case she should lurch again. 

Maharishi Valmiki looked at Sita. “What say you, Lady Vedavati? Do you think Lord Rama Chandra deserves forgiveness?” 

She looked at the guru, avoiding Rama’s gaze for the moment. “I cannot say if he does or does not deserve it. I will not judge him. I cannot judge him. I can only speak for myself.”

“Then will you or will you not forgive him?” the maharishi asked gently. 

Sita was silent a long moment. Everyone gathered around waited as well. Luv and Kush looked up at her face, holding her hands tightly. 

“I will,” she said at last. 

A great cheering rose from the ranks of the Ayodhyan army. Word had spread through the army of all that had transpired that day and everyone knew that Rama had found his long-exiled wife and sons. To the masses, it meant that Ayodhya had found her queen. After the threat of war hanging over their heads and the likelihood of war against their neighboring kingdom of Videha no less, it was a treat to see their liege’s martial obsession diverted into a more gentle preoccupation. Kings who loved were easier to love than kings who warred. 

The expression on Rama’s face as well as Sita’s showed nothing but love. 

A white-cloaked figure strode forward with a stern face. Pradhan Mantri Jabali gestured at his king. “Samrat Rama Chandra, you cannot simply take her back.”

Rama shot Jabali a cursory glance. “I can do as I please. She is still my wife.”

“She is an exile. And she was exiled for good reason. Her secret kinship to Ravana, lord of Lanka, and the fact that it was kept hidden from us for so long, endangering not just our kingdom but all mortalkind, is partly the reason. But there is also the matter of her purity.”

“Purity?” spat Nakhudi, stepping forward angrily. “You speak of purity? How pure are you? How pure is any man? Why do men only speak of purity when it comes to their women!”

Jabali gestured dismissively at Nakhudi, ignoring her outburst. “As a husband, you may do as you please. But as king of Ayodhya, you must also uphold dharma. And dharma demands that any woman you choose to instate as Queen of Kosala should prove herself worthy of that position and respect. You cannot expect your people to respect you if they do not respect your wife.”

“Why should they not respect her?” Rama asked, forehead creased but his tone not angry, not yet. 

“For the same reason that any husband hesitates to respect his wife if she stays for even one night under another man’s roof.” Jabali pointed accusingly at Sita. Luv and Kush glared angrily back at him. “Your wife was abducted by Ravana and stayed for months under his control.”

“Yes,” Rama admitted, “but we learned later that he was her father by birth.”

“That is irrelevant to the question of purity. Who knew what transpired with her during the time she was incarcerated in Lanka? A den of demons, lair of rakshasas and all manner of vile asuras.”

Rama’s face hardened. “She underwent the agni-pariksha as was required by our customs. She passed the test of fire successfully.”

Jabali shook his head. “The error you made, if I may call it that, was in holding the agni-parikhsha without any witnesses present.”

“There were witnesses by the millions,” Lakshman countered, stepping forward. He gestured at Hanuman, standing to one side quietly, watching the debate with his arms folded over his greying chest. “Our friend Hanuman was there. As were the entire vanar nations and rksaa nations.”

Jabali’s face twitched in a half-smile. “I meant civilized witnesses. Aryas. The noble folk. Not monkeys and bears!”

Hanuman bristled at the tone of derision but made no comment or move. After a decade spent with mortals he had probably become inured to their racist epithets although it was evident that he did not appreciate them. 

“Then take my word for it,” Rama said. “And my brother’s. We were there. We witnessed her succeed in the agni-pariksha.”

“And what of the past ten years?” Jabali asked slyly. “Once again she has been away from your house, who knows where or with whom?”

Rama had no answer to that. Even Lakshman was silent. Bharat and Shatrugan looked on angrily but said nothing because they could not offer anything worthwhile in such a matter. It was Maharishi Valmiki who spoke up then. 

“I will vouch personally for the reputation of Lady Vedavati whom you know as Queen Sita,” Valmiki said. “Her honor is spotless.”

Jabali laughed harshly. “We cannot take your word for it, Maharishi. The people must be appeased. And the people are not easily appeased. They have been betrayed too often. The conniving late Queen Kaikeyi, the scheming asura-worshipping Daiimaa Manthara, the intrusions into Ayodhya, the near-invasion by Ravana’s son Atikiya. Jabali spread his arms, affecting a guileless expression. “It is not I who questions the authenticity, Samrat Rama. It is the people. They would need to see it with their own eyes in order to be certain.”

“See it?” Lakshman asked angrily. “Do you mean we should hold another agni-parikhsa just to appease the people’s doubts?”

Jabali shrugged. “If she is truly innocent of wrongdoing and pure as you claim, there is nothing to fear. Besides, it is not I who demands this test, it is dharma.”

“Dharma!” shouted Nakhudi scornfully. “You change your interpretation of dharma to suit your own interests!”

Jabali wagged a finger of warning at the oversized woman warrior. “Mind your tongue, woman. Otherwise you may well be compelled to undergo an agni-pariksha as well.”

“Enough!” Rama said angrily. “If this is the only way, then it must be done.”

He looked at Sita. “I know you are spotless and beyond reproach but what Pradhan Mantri Jabali says is true, a king serves his people and the people will talk. We set very high standards of morality in Ayodhya and in order to enforce those standards I must prove that my family and I abide by them as well. Nobody must have the right to raise a finger and say a single word about you or anyone else in our house once you return home. Therefore I ask you to do this, not for my sake or even for your own sake, but for the sake of the people we serve. For the sake of dharma. Do this one last thing and we shall be together again, forever.”

Sita looked at him sadly. “I thought you might have changed after all. I thought you genuinely meant it when you begged my forgiveness, that you sincerely wished to undo your mistakes and do the right thing at last. I kept my love preserved like an acorn in a bushel for ten long years, in the hope that someday perhaps we might be reunited, that someday you would see the light of reason. But today I realize that it is not possible. You never truly desired forgiveness. You were never sincere in your proffer. You did not ask with genuine intention. All you desired was a queen, not a wife. A figurehead to place on the throne beside you, like the stone statue of me your army carries before it. A pure, perfect idol of a woman. Not a woman herself.”

“Sitey,” Rama said, “you misunderstand me entirely. I came here to ask you to come back. But I live in the service of my station. A king serves the people. Yatha raja tatha praja.”

“‘As does the king, so do the people,’” Sita translated. “So do it. Show the people that you believe in my fealty. That you do not need a fire sacrifice to prove my…purity! Do this and prove to them that to doubt an honest woman is itself a stain on her reputation. To point a finger is itself a sullying of honor. To gossip and speak about someone without their being found guilty of any wrongdoing is itself a crime. Deny this unfair demand and prove to your people that dharma comes from conviction not compromise. Dharma breaks but does not bend. Dharma is the same for men as well as women. Do this and show the praja that you are truly a raja of dharma. Not merely a servant but a king of dharma. Do this, Rama. Do this for the sake of all mortalkind for you are as close to a god as it is possible for a man to be. Do this one thing and you shall be pure yourself, unsullied, and undoubted by history for all time to come. The eyes of countless generations watch you now. You are the one being judged, not I. Do this and prove to all humanity forever that Rama, King of Dharma, can pass this final agni-pariksha. The test of trust. Prove that you believe without question in my so-called purity and need no superstitious ritual to confirm it for the naysayers and doubters of the world.”

Rama was silent a long moment. Even the birds in the forest seemed to have fallen silent as if listening and waiting now for Rama’s response. The entire army, arrayed out for yojanas behind Rama’s royal chariot, waited silently as well, word of mouth having passed on the urgency and import of what was being discussed here. The world itself waited. 

Finally, with head bowed, Rama sobbed a single sob and said two simple words, “I cannot.”

Sita was silent for a long moment, even longer than the time Rama had taken to respond. Finally, she raised her head, lifting her hands from the shoulders of her two sons who looked anxiously up at her. And she said in a voice that cracked like thunder: “Then be a broken god forever!”

The earth heaved and cracked beneath Sita’s feet. Luv and Kush cried out and stumbled, reaching out for their mother, not asking for her help but in order to help her. To their surprise, Maatr pushed them away with a firm but not unkind gesture. They staggered back even as the entire section of ground on which Sita stood broke free of the surrounding earth and rose up high into the earth, as if shoved by an invisible fist from below. Everybody around her fell back, staggering and stumbling away from the rising fist of ground. Debris and stones fell, and packed dirt crumbled and spilled over as the ground split. Everybody moved back, away from the heaving earth. A great gaping hole opened in the ground, cracking in a rough circle over three yards wide that forced everybody to move back. Then the cremation pyres heaved and lurched, and fell into the gaping hole! At once, fire leaped up, huge gouts of flame blazing up, as if the smoldering pyres had ignited some underground fuel. The fire roared over a dozen yards high, rising steadily. 

Luv and Kush went berserk with panic. “Maatr!” they cried out together, scrambling to their feet. They ran forward, halting at the crumbling edge of the rough circle that had appeared and which separated them from the fist of risen earth upon which Sita still stood. Flames roared upward from the circular gash in the earth and dirt and pebbles crumbled and fell away from beneath their scrambling feet. Nakhudi saw the danger and leaped forward, grasping hold of one of them with each meaty arm. She held them tight, pulling them back. Great archers they were and gifted with the power of brahman, but when it came to simple muscular strength, they were no match for Nakhudi’s wrestler bulk. 

Still, they struggled mightily. “MAATR!” they cried, young boyish voices almost girlish in their panic. 

Sita turned and raised a hand, palm outwards, to comfort them. “Do not fear for me, my sons,” she said affectionately, “I am safe in my mother’s arms.” 

As the other ashramites moved back out of the way, guided by Dumma and the other rishis, Rama and his brothers came forward to try to help. Bejoo and Somasra came forward as well. But the distance was too far to leap, the flames too ferocious and each time anyone came close to the edge, the flames seemed to leap higher, almost as if forbidding anyone from trying to save Sita. 

“Stay back, my friends,” she said, her voice clearly audible to all in the ashram clearing. Word of what was transpiring was constantly being passed on from soldier to soldier through the long lines of Ayodhya’s army. Those who were within viewing were gawking with amazement, unable to comprehend what was happening. “Prithvi-maa, the earth herself is my birth mother. It was she who was seeded by Ravana resulting in my birth. That is why Maharaja Janak of Mithila found me while ploughing his field. I was literally born of the earth in a furrow. And now, to that same earth I shall return.”

“MAATR!” cried her sons. Nakhudi’s powerful arms strained to hold them back as they fought and kicked and struggled to break free. Had she let go, there was no doubt they would have tried to leap across the cleft to rescue their Maatr—and would surely have died trying.

“Sitey,” said Rama from beside them. “Sitey, forgive me! I know I have transgressed against you. I came here today to try to make amends.”

“And you failed, Rama,” she said sorrowfully. “You failed utterly. That is why you will always be a broken god. Revered and worshipped, honored and admired, but also doubted and despised. Each time someone speaks of your great works and exploits, another will remind them of your banishment of your wife and ask what god would do such a thing and question your divinity? Today you had a chance to answer them once and for all, to silence those doubters, and you failed yet again. Now, for as long as your memory shall live, you shall be adored as a deva yet doubted as a man.”

“I am a man,” he said, dropping to his knees before the fiery pit. “Just a man. Know me as a man. Understand me as a man. Not as a god.”

She shook her head sadly. “That is the eternal dilemma of heroes and those who worship them. How can greatness have flaws? How can perfection contain a blemish? How can a deva do wrong? And eternally, in answer to those questions, people shall answer a single name: Rama. They shall offer you prayers, yes. But they shall do so knowing that they are prayers offered to a broken god.”

“Come to me, Janaki,” he said, tears rolling from his eyes. “Join with me again. Make me whole.”

“Don’t you want your agni-pariksha?” she asked bitterly. And the flames roared up, engulfing her. 

“Maatr,” her sons cried. 

“Cry not for me, my sons,” her voice said from within the flames. “These fires shall not burn me, nor the earth suffocate. The heat of the sun will not blacken my skin, nor the cold of winter freeze my blood. My bones will not turn to dust with the passing of time nor will my hair shrivel and come undone. I shall return to the earth and shall be eternally present in her every aspect. Think of me every time you see a flower bloom, a tree offer you shade, or the ground provide you with sustenance. I go home to my mother’s bosom. For that is our sanskriti. When a woman is not accepted at her husband’s home, she must go back to her mother’s house. And this is home to me. From whence I came, thither I return. Before I go, witness my agni-pariksha, tell all in Ayodhya of me, for even in parting, I remain Rama’s wife, and lest a single finger be raised in accusation or a single gossiping tongue speak with doubt, let all see and bear testimony that the sacred agni did not singe a hair on my head or harm me. Pure, did you say, Pradhan Mantri Jabali? Is this pure enough for you? Or do you need to ladle ghee upon my body to satisfy yourself further? Perhaps what men like you truly desire is to cremate women alive rather than accept that they are flesh and blood and human as you are. If Rama is a broken god it is because of this one flaw: he could not accept his own wife without questioning her purity!”

[sj-thefan]

A Wedding in the North* (Ramsay’s Lady)

Warning: Smut (I’ve indicated where if you wish to skip it), violence and death

They both woke with a smile that day, for it was the day they were to be united forever. The sun was shining, and a fresh layer of snow had fallen the night before. Despite the dull, grey stone of the Dreadfort, Lady Y/n couldn't help but find the day to be beautiful. The long winter would come, and it would be harsh, but for now, the people were content with the small, fluffy flakes that fell from the sky.

House Katermal had arrived less than two days ago, and nothing had gone wrong yet. Y/n was delighted to see her little brother, Darron. She didn't realize how much she had missed him until she saw him climbing off his horse. He was only 16 years, but already he was beginning to grow into a man. She was sure he would be taller than her. He was still skinny, though, something she was sure her father would try rid him of. They had never been close. Their father often kept him indoors, and he had a strict schedule. Still, something about him seemed different. Less childish, maybe? He didn't spend much time with her since being at the Dreadfort, although that wasn't completely unusual; he often preferred being alone.

It was good to see some of the people Y/n hadn't seen in quite a while, but she had to admit, she didn't miss a lot of them. They were free to leave as soon as the wedding ended.

On the morning of her wedding, she didn't see Ramsay. She and Ramsay had decided the evening before, that they would wait to see each other until they were both under the weirwood tree. They wanted their wedding day to be special and the moment when their eyes would meet as she walked down the aisle would be even more perfect if it were the first time they were seeing each other for the day.

The lovers were excited. Lady Y/n had to admit the butterflies that had begun fluttering in her stomach were quite unnerving and, though he'd never admit it to anyone except his wife, Ramsay was nervous too.

After eating and taking a bath, Y/n tried to find something to distract her from her nerves. She couldn't leave her room for risk of seeing Ramsay, so she settled in her chair by the window and began to read. It didn't work very well as her mind kept focusing on the wrong words. Instead of the words in front of her, her mind rehearsed the ones she would say later today.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of daydreaming, Lady Y/n's maid, Haynna, along with Myranda and a few other serving girls came to help her get ready.

The dress she had had made was a soft white with long sleeves that turned into lace near the ends. The neckline was speckled with lace and red jewels which were replicated in her veil. The skirt flowed smoothly as the white fabric faded to red at the bottom with more of the red jewels scattered to aide in the transition.

Her hair was divided with the upper half being twisted into a braided and pinned to the top of her head and the bottom laying curled perfectly on her shoulders. Myranda pinned the veil to her head and lifted her hair to wrap the Katermal cloak around her shoulders. Y/n glanced in the mirror, admiring the blue icicle she would never wear again.

"You look beautiful m' lady," Haynna said.

"Thank you," she responded, turning to her maids. "You've done wonderfully. You may leave now." She began to turn away but noticed the sullen look on Myranda's face. "Myranda," she called. "Stay."

All the maids gathered their things and left, leaving the two women standing in front of each other.

"You love him," Y/n said, turning back to the mirror and smoothing out any imperfections she saw.

Myranda didn't speak, but when Y/n glanced back at her, her eyes were focused on the floor. It was enough of an answer.

"It's a good thing." Myranda glanced up in shock. Y/n had turned back around and was smiling at her. "If Ramsay is to be Lord of the Dreadfort, he's going to need loyal subjects. He trusts you-" she paused and stepped forward until she was right in front of Myranda. "-and I trust that you will obey him."

"Yes, m'lady," Myranda mumbled in response.

The Lady stepped back. "Call me Y/n. If we're to be friends, we must be on a first-name basis, and I very much want to be friends with you."

"Of course, m-" she paused, "Y/n." The name felt foreign to her. She had always called her superiors by their title, except Ramsay, but he was her lover.

A knock at the door made both the girls turn their heads. Myranda quickly remembered her job and rushed to the door. With a glance back for confirmation, she opened the door.

Lord Katermal stood before them with a grin on his face.

"My beautiful daughter," he spoke as he entered the room.

"Father," Y/n acknowledged his presence. "Thank you, Myranda. That will be all." She smiled at the girl as she left before turning to her father. "Is it time?" she asked eagerly.

He nodded. With a small smile, he offered his arm to his little girl. "You look just as beautiful as your mother did."

She took his arm and smiled up at him. "Thank you, father."

Night came early in the North, and Y/n was thankful. If she had to stay in her room much longer, she would have gone insane with anticipation.

The air was cool and crisp as they walked towards the godswood. Y/n could see the lanterns held by the few guests ahead and her smile grew even more. She knew her brother would be among the guests and, although they moved on, she felt her mother and twin's presence. She pushed her thoughts of the dead out of her mind and stepped forward. It was time.

She was the most beautiful girl in Westeros, and she was all his. That was all Ramsay could think when he saw her and her father make their way through the trees. When they paused at the end of the aisle, his eyes locked with hers and time stopped. Y/n's smile seemed to light up the night, and her eyes were filled with excitement. Ramsay couldn't imagine what he looked like, but he was sure he wasn't as beautiful as his bride. As much as he didn't want to show weakness, he smiled, a true, honest, and happy smile. One that only she seemed able to bring out of him.

Before he knew it, she was standing in front of him. He hadn't noticed she was moving as he stared at her. As his father began the ceremony, Ramsay hoped he would not be absent-minded again and forget his line.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Roose spoke.

"Y/n, of the House Katermal, comes here to be wed," Aberam responded. "A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Ramsay's eyes didn't leave hers. "Ramsay, of House Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. Who gives her?"

"Aberam, of House Katermal, who is her father."

"Lady Y/n," Roose said. "Will you take this man?"

She didn't hesitate. "I take this man."

Ramsay stepped forward and grasped her hands before they turned together to the weirwood tree and knelt in prayer. All the guests followed.

After a few silent moments, Ramsay and Y/n stood. He then gently removed her cloak and handed it to her father, who gave him a slight nod. He then took his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. As he did so, he whispered in her ear, "my beautiful wife," which cause the smiles to return to both their faces.

He offered his arm, and the two walked back to the Dreadfort for the feast.

Everything had gone perfectly. They wanted the ceremony to be small, and it was. Only House Katermal, a few members of House Karstark and Umber, and some of the household were in attendance as most of the men were off fighting in the war.

The new husband and wife spent the night hand in hand. As they greeted guests and made small talk, they never left each other's side. They even shared a few dances.

Finally, the servants brought out the desserts.

"I made sure to get the finest apples for your pie," Lord Katermal told his daughter. He and Lord Bolton had split up the duties for the wedding, and he was in charge of the feast, including desserts. Y/n's favourite had always been apple pie. "I tried some last night; they truly are delicious."

"Thank you, Father," she said as she watched the servants bring out the pie.

Ramsay noticed the smile on his wife's face and quickly hurried her to the table of desserts. Unfortunately, they were not the first. A large man had found his way to the apple pie and had a large piece piled on his plate. He was mid-bite when Ramsay spoke.

"You pig!" he spat. "Don't you know any manners? The lady should be the first to get her food." As Ramsay spoke a look of regret flashed on the man's face before it morphed into fear.

The plate fell from his hands as they went to his throat. He tried to spit out the half-chewed food, barely missing Ramsay and Y/n.

Y/n's grip tightened on Ramsay's hand. She didn't understand what was happening, but it was a truly disgusting sight.

Blood began leaking from the fat man's nose and eyes. His eyes were bulging as if they would pop out of his head. His veins became prominent as his skin changed to purple. Finally, he collapsed to the floor without a heartbeat.

Maester Tybald made his way over to check the fat man's pulse. When he felt nothing, he looked up to Ramsay and shook his head.

"Ramsay?"

Her voice was soft and filled with fear. They had been about to eat the pie. It was meant for them. Whoever poisoned the pie must have known Y/n couldn't resist apple pie.

He turned slowly to Lord Katermal. "You brought the pie, my Lord?"

He nodded.

Ramsay didn't want to make a scene – at least no more of one then had already been made. He respected his wife's father. He had raised her so he must be a decent fellow. But it didn't quite make sense, why would her father want to kill them, he had been the one that suggested Y/n was ready for marriage. She had feared something like this might happen. It was still possible she had been right.

He nodded his head towards a door, trying to take this conversation away from the common folk. Lord Katermal understood and made his way to the sitting room

, followed by Ramsay, Y/n, and a few guards. Roose followed with a quick comment to the remaining guards to not let anyone leave the feast.

"Why did you try to poison us?" Y/n had been the one to speak first, not quite believing the situation that was unfolding before her.

"I didn't."

"You brought the pie, yes?" Ramsay asked. Lord Katermal nodded sadly. "And it was the pie that was poisoned." His eyes filled with rage. "If it wasn't you, who poisoned it?"

"I don't know," the lord sighed. "It was baked last night. Only the servants, myself and-"

"-Y/n?" a quiet voice said causing everyone to turn to the door.

Darron was standing just inside the door with a confused look on his face. Y/n glanced at Ramsay, giving him a nod. She trusted him to figure out the truth of what was happening and what they should do about it.

She walked towards Darron, putting her arm around him and leading him out of the room. She didn't want to go back to the hall, where everyone was still gathered. It was likely that she would be faced with too many questions for her to handle. So, she took him out the other door which led to the library.

It was dark in the library; the servants hadn't lit the lamps since it was unlikely anyone would be using it tonight. Y/n hurried to the nearest lamp, grabbing the match beside it any lighting the lamp before moving to light the rest.

"What's going on, Y/n?" Darron asked once all the lamps were lit.

"Someone poisoned the pie." She sighed, sitting down a chair by the table and resting her head against her hands.

"You think it was father?"

"Yes," she paused. "I mean, no. I don't really know. He brought the apples, and he knows how much I love apple pie, but I don't understand it."

He moved to rest against the wall, thinking over her words.

"You don't need to worry about this, though." Y/n stood up, feeling as though she couldn't stay still any longer; she had to do something. "You can go back to the party."

"Why does everyone always do this?"

She furrowed her brow as she turned to face her brother. His demeanour had drastically changed in less than a minute. "Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm some child who can't do anything."

Y/n focused on her brother. He was angry, far angrier than he should be for a kid who was just told to leave the adults alone. His jaw was clenched tight as he frowned at her. His hand tightly gripped the sword at his side. She never liked the tradition of wearing a sword at all times, but now she was starting to think she should take it up herself.

"Darron." She tried to speak calmly, but the fire in his eyes frightened her. He had never looked at her like this.

"No!" He kept his voice stern but made sure to keep it low to not gain the attention of the men in the other room. "I'm tired of it. Father is the worst at it. Did you know he was sick? You probably did – I wouldn't be told until he was gone. I heard him talking to Maester Rylan just before we left. 'I shouldn't have sent Y/n away. Someone has to take over when I'm dead.' What am I? Some servant who's just been pretending all this time."

Y/n tried to move to the door. Darron was pacing as he ranted. She hoped he wouldn't notice if she slipped away. He noticed.

She froze when he drew his sword, pointing it directly at her. "Darron, please, don't do this."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You've always gotten everything you ever wanted." She stepped back as he pushed the sword closer, her eyes flitting all over the room, trying to find something that could help her. "If I want even a little bit of something, you've got to go. I'm sorry Y/n, it has to be this way." She stepped off the carpet, a thought – a flicker of hope – reaching her chest as she remembered the day the vase fell.

A loud noise filled the sitting room, pausing Lord Katermal's defence. "What was that?"

Ramsay looked around, his eyes settling on the door to the library when the sound came again. He instantly rushed forward, drawing his sword as he thrust the door open.

Darron was holding his sword to Y/n's chest, the fabric of her dress straining.

"Son? What are you doing?" Lord Katermal was looking over Ramsay's shoulder. He was shocked to see his last son about to kill his only daughter.

Darron looked over his shoulder to see he had an audience. "It's the only way." He turned his focus back to his sister but found she had stepped away while his attention was off her. He swung his sword at her anyway.

She fell to the floor, tripping over her dress which was in no way suitable for the situation at hand, yet her brother missed.

"No!" he screamed, running forward to try and hit her.

Her eyes fell to Ramsay when his sword pierced her brother.

Darron's body crumpled to the ground, his face frozen in anger.

Ramsay quickly rushed to his wife. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "Thank you."

Ramsay helped her up keeping an arm around her waist as he turned to her father. "I'm sorry, Lord Katermal, I couldn't let him hurt her."

Aberam nodded as Ramsay and Y/n passed to leave the room.

As they rejoined the party, several people came up to try and figure out what had happened. He ignored their questions, leading his wife to the dance floor and slowly swaying to the music.

"Are you sure you're okay? You don't have to lie to me."

"I'm fine, Ramsay. Darron wanted to kill me; he didn't love me, so why should I fret over the person who would have stolen my life." Ramsay leaned down to kiss his wife. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

A few of the people who saw the kiss started chanting and yelling.

"It's time for the bedding ceremony!"

Y/n had dreaded this part. She didn't want to be stripped naked for others to see, and Ramsay agreed. Her body was only to be seen by his eyes. So, they had made sure to clarify to all the guests that they were not to undress the newlyweds. Doing so would result in severe punishment. Still, the guests were excited to drag them to their chambers, saying all the things they wanted to do to them.

Y/n tried to tune out the comments made by the men who pulled her to Ramsay's chambers. Instead, she focused on the event that was about to take place.

Finally, they both made it to the room. Ramsay closed the door on the loud cheers that were still echoing in the hallway. He turned around with a bright smile.

"Ramsay," Y/n whispered. "I don't like that there are people out there listening."

"They're just jealous. I get to spend the night with the most beautiful girl in all of Westeros, and they have to go back to their dreary lives." He kissed her passionately, pulling her close.

*Smut starts*

She hummed when he moved to her neck, sucking and biting the pure skin. His hands found the ties at the back of her dress, and he quickly started undoing them. She did the same to his vest, but she was quicker, her hands smaller and faster than his. She pushed him back until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. "I think you need to take this off," she whispered in his ear, biting it as she tugged at the now loose leather. He moaned, quickly shedding his vest along with his tunic, placing his hands on Y/n's waist and pulling her back in for a kiss.

He moaned when her hands found their way into his hair and tugged. He pulled back, looking into her eyes. "Beautiful."

She turned around, so her back was too him. Moving her hair, she glanced over her shoulder. "Think you could finish what you started Lord Bolton?" She smiled as she felt him practically rip the fabric apart. She let it fall, cascading over the curves of her body till it pooled at her feet. She turned back around. Ramsay was looking her up and down with a wide smile on his face.

"Beautiful," he whispered in her ear as he pulled her down to the bed, flipping them, so he was above her. "And it's all for me." He pulled away to strip himself of the rest of his clothes.

Y/n spread her legs, beckoning him forward. "Only for you."

He crawled back over her, lining himself up. "I'm going to make you feel so good." He kissed her deeply as he pushed in, causing her to moan.

"Fuck," she whimpered when he started thrusting. Her eyes fell closed as her arms gripped onto him. Slowly, the pain faded and was replaced by pleasure.

"Open your eyes," he demanded. She obeyed, feeling a tingle start to grow in her stomach. He hadn't been demanding with her before. Sure, she had seen him order the servants around, but he had never taken that tone with her before. She liked it.

Ramsay started moving faster when her eye's opened. When he fucked his bedwarmers, he never looked them in the eye. Most of the time, he took them from behind so he wouldn't have to look at them. But Y/n was different. He wanted to see her, to see the pleasure he was giving her twist her features, and her eyes, they were the best part. They were blown wide with lust and love as he was sure his were too. He had truly found someone to love.

He pulled out, pushing her legs up out of the way so he could reach deeper inside her. With a kiss, he thrust back in.

"Ah," Y/n moaned when Ramsay hit a particular spot inside her.

"You like that, huh?" he teased, thrusting so he would hit that spot every time.

She moaned his name, her hips moving to meet in sync with his. The pleasure was building, growing inside her. Her hand gripped his back, pulling him closer; she was sure her fingers hand left scratches, but that didn't matter. All she could focus on was the growing ball of pressure, building inside of her.

She screamed when she felt it explode, filling her with the most intense pleasure she had ever felt.

"Fuck," Ramsay moaned as his climax washed over him. He collapsed on her, taking a moment to catch his breath before pulling out and moving to lay beside her.

A few cheers could be heard out in the hallway, causing the two newlyweds to chuckle. "Get a life!" Ramsay shouted at them.

"Leave them be," Y/n said, rolling so she was laying partly on him. "They're just jealous because I get to spend the night with the best man in all of Westeros."

He chuckled at her, placing a kiss on her head. "That's exactly right."

Previous | Next

[exodusmc]

Sun and moon

Genre: Royal au, fluff

Words: 3744

Paring: prince Jongin x princess reader

Warning!: arrange marriage(ish).

a/n: Reader will have white hair in this story but everything else is up to you :)

Gif is not mine

The ice folk were cold to the bones, similar to lands they lived in. Decorated with hair white as the snow on their ground. Their traditions baffled most of the other kingdoms, especially the Sun kingdom. Their people were smiling and tanned in their skin, laughs echoing over the whole land. So it was not a surprise when the king and queen of the Ice lands came to the warmer kingdom, how every man and women wanted to see them. Two carriages, pulled by white horses and shimmering of silver, passed by town after town, whispers following them, words of who was inside, especially the last. Not only were the rulers making their way through the Sun lands, their daughter was as well. No one knew what she looked like, a piece of black fabric, dusted with stars, was always covering her face and hair. 

“I wonder why they are here…”villagers glanced at the carriages as they passed, curiosity shining in their eyes.

All of them wanted to know why the distant royal family was on their way to the bright shining castle. Some whispered about marriage, some whispered about deals, but no one knew, no one would know, only the moon.

-

“Jongin!”the sharp voice of the head guard made the young prince grin wider. He was currently climbing the side of the red castle, trying to see if he could get higher than he had before. His arms worked hard, the yellow shirt rolled up to his elbows.”Come down immediately!”

“Soon Junmyeon!”he laughed back, the older male frowning harder. Jongin would kill himself one day with all his antics but he would do it with a smile. 

“No. You’ll come down now! The king and queen of the Ice lands are coming soon”roses in hues of orange and red crawled over the wall, letting Jongin stare at the flower for a second. His smile had fallen to only a stretch of lips at the mention of the other royals. He knew they were coming and he had a hunch why. The boy sighed, stopping by a ledge.  His golden skin was caressed by the slowly setting sun and he swore he felt a cold wind slip through his brown hair, a sign of them coming closer, of the princess.

-

He felt uncomfortable in the red clothing, adored with gold. The crown on his head felt like a thousand pounds. Jongin tried to sit still on his throne, fidgeting from time to time as Junmyeon sent him a hard glare. Swords that would do nothing in a fight were strapped to the side of his hip, poking every now and them at his side. The king was sitting in the middle, his throne lavish and a proud smile broke the old face. Jongin sighed a little too loud, tensing as he saw his father move to look at him but he never had a chance to speak. A man pushed the big doors open, his clothes blue and cold against everything warm in the throne room. His eyes seemed empty and his hair was blonde, something unusual for the people in Jongin’s kingdom. 

“The royal family of The Ice lands has arrived.”the man spoke loudly, back straight as he moved to the side, having Jongin's orbs following his for a seconds.”His majesty Bardhyl of the Ice lands!”

The king walked in, his shoulders wide and carrying a white cloak. His eyes were blue like the sky and he too had the empty look in them. It seemed like he had brought a bit of the winter with him, making Jongin shiver slightly. The king radiated power, his head topped with blonde lock and a silver crown.

“Her majesty Kiris of the Ice lands..”the queen had a more gentle look on her face, framed by pure white hair. She held snow storms in her eyes and Jongin was a little taken aback by her different beauty. Body wrapped in a dress blue as the morning and her crown dancing with grey and black. 

“Lastly, the daughter of the Ice lands, her royal highness Y/n.” Jongin leaned forwards slightly, eyes wide as he waited for the princess to step through the doors. Confusion painted itself over him when she finally did, so much that Junmyeon hit him lightly in the side. 

Her dress was pitch black, stars and moons shining in the dress, just like fabric covering her face and shoulders. It got quiet in the room, birds sang outside the tinted windows, until the Sun lands king stood up, smile evident on his face.

“It’s is good to see you again..”the bearded man laughed lightly and Jongin could feel awkwardness creep over his body.”I’ve missed you, just not the nagging…”

“Ashbel!” Jongins mother hissed at him and the young prince thought hell would break loose at his father's words.

But a deep rumble echoed through the hall, the other king was laughing and it made Jongin even more confused. His throat felt dry and he sent a glance to Junmyeon for help, which he didn't get as the head guard didn't move a muscle. 

“I’ve missed you too, just not the heat..”Bardhyl smiled, face lifted and eyes suddenly deep as the ocean. The ice queen chuckled lightly too, grabbing her husbands arm. 

Jongin was one big question mark. He had no clue his family knew the Ice lands rulers nor how close they were, but there they stood, cracking jokes with each other. He gaped like a fish, eyes moving between his own parents, the other royals and the princess. Slowly did the prince sit back, sulking like a child. The adults spoke light heartedly with each other but Jongin could help his mood to fall for every second which passed. He wanted to know why they were here, why the princess was here. The sun was peeking over the trees in the horizon, blessing his land with its last rays. He would rather be galloping in its light than sitting on the hard throne. 

“Well I guess it had been a long journey…”Ashbel mused as he sat down once again. Servants were making their way towards the two royal families, stopping in ear shot.”..So please go take a rest and make yourselves at home.”

Smiles broke over Bardhyl and Kiris’s faces, the princess quiet as a mouse. They nodded before getting escorted to the rooms which had been prepared for them. Jongin’s eyes lingered on the disappearing daughter, wondering why she wore a veil, why she didn't speak. The doors closed with a thud and he was already staring acusly at his parents, lips slightly pouting. 

“What was that!? Why are they here? How do you know them? Why is the princess hiding? Why-”his mother gently gripped his shoulder, shaking her head for him to slow down. 

“Relax Nini...Let us explain..”Thalia smiled, gazing at the king who sighed. 

“Before you were born, when I was young, would Bardhyl  often visit here. We became friends but after we got crowned did it get harder to see each other…” Ashbel had something dream in his eyes as he stared at Jongin, who felt a little weird thinking about the time before his father was a king.”We see each other as family but there just haven't been a good time to meet after you and the princess was born..”

The prince could feel his stomach drop, the more he listened, the more he understood where it was going. Junmyeon had stepped away, now situated by the big doors. Thaila rubbed circles over her son’s shoulders, face slightly fallen at the gaze he had. 

“They are here now because we thought it would be a good idea for you and her to meet each other..”Jongin felt his blood turn cold, hands turning to fists.”..before you’ll get married.”

His world fell, crashed down. Sure, he knew he would have to get married, have to grow up, but he didn't think it would be so soon. He felt like he hadn't done everything he wanted yet, he was not ready to get the duties of a king.

“As for the veil..It’s a tradition of there's. She will wear it until something happens with the moon, their goddess.”

A frown dragged over the prince’s lips. His eyes were harder than ever before, body tense. The queen had remorse in hers, she wanted to speak more with him about everything but the king was sure that this was a good idea, the marriage of two old friends children. 

“Jongin..”she spoke softly but the boy just stood up, eyes not as warm. He didn't want to be there anymore, not even close to the castle.

“I’m sorry mother..I’d like to go to my room and think about it…”Jongin was storming of the second his sentence was finished, the king shook his head as Junmyeon jerked to follow. 

“Leave him be, let him think..”

-

That night was Jongin slipping through hidden passages. His clothes were like a commoners and ran fast over the castle wall. The moon hung over his head, lighting his way through the forest. It reminded him of her, his betrothed, frown forming at the word. But he never knew about how the princess had been sitting in her window, staring at her moon just to see him hurry between trees. Your eyes followed him, feeling stuck in the tower, robbed from your freedom. Jongin may be against marrying you but so were you. You didn't want to marry, not yet at least. The song you sang made the flowers by your window blossom even as the night lulled the world. Their colors were so different from your world, the red rose burning in your white hair as you put it behind your ear. The prince seemed free in your eyes, not hidden by fabric and promises. A sigh left your lips and you wondered if the moon goddess really existed. You kept singing to her in hope of a miracle but as your eyelids become heavy, did your heart drop as well. 

-

A frown was evident on Jongin’s face as he was sitting by the table, eating away at his breakfast. The adults spoke with each other, nodding and humming, but he noted how the princess wasn't there. He wanted to ask why. 

“So Jongin what do you like doing?”Bardhyl asked, his eyes scanning over the prince. 

“I usually fence or go horseback riding..”he tried to be polite but it was hard.

“Oh..that sounds fun. I remember galloping through your lands when I was younger, your father could never keep up..”the sun king huffed, a bickering unfolding between them, as Jongin merely nodded before shutting out the sounds. 

Thaila glanced at him, her eyes sad. She knew how hard it could be, the thought of marriage, but she hope he would come around. He would soon have to face the duties of a king and she would like for him to have someone by his side. 

“How about you show princess Y/n the stables after we are done? I think she would like it..” the sun queen smiled, ignoring how her son tensed.

“She loves horses...I think she would appreciate it greatly..”Kiris’s voice had him a little wary, it sounded light but he could feel chills run down his spine. She brought coldness with her, she brought storms. 

“If you wish mother…”

  Jongin felt stiff as he knocked on the door to the room you were staying in. He didn't want to do it but the happiness of his father agreeing with his mother made him. The dark wood was pushed open and he was still slightly surprised at your veil. 

“Your highness? How can I help you?” the softness of your voice sent him into some sort of trance, staring blindly at you.”Your highness?”

“A-ah...My mother and the queen of the Ice lands expressed that they would see great pleasure in me showing you our stable..” he didn't know where to look as he spoke, no eyes to stare at, no eyebrows. 

“Oh..I understand.” the door closed behind you, body clade in a black dress but lighter than the one you wore the day before and with no arms.

Jongin walked beside you, almost squirming at the silence. You didn't speak more after agreeing to come with him, sweeping over the floor with a grace of a swan. The prince led you to the stables, dripping in the same hues of red and orange as the rest of the castle. Horse in mostly brown or red lined up through the building. Soft sounds left them as they chewed or simply stood still. Your orbs wandered over the magnificent creatures, hidden behind the fabric. In your eyes were they freedom, something to cherish. Jongin bit his tongue, trying to find anything to say, failing, but he walked to his own mare. She listened to him as he got closer, ears pointing forward. 

“This is Feu..My horse. She is a gift from a distant kingdom with a different tongue..”your eyes trailed over the animal, her eyes which were gentle and still strong. The quietness from you made Jongin uneasy, fingers trembling by his side.”Eh...Do you have a horse your highness..?”

“I have many...But they walk the lands for the most part..Run through snow and forest, your highness..”the prince nodded, sensing the stop in your conversation again. He sighed, feeling you glance at him but you could hid it with the fabric. 

-

Jongin stared at the moon over his head. Thalia's words rung in his head, how she ask what he thought about you, how she seemed down when he answered. Never had the prince sighed as much as he had this day and it had him craving the outside more. It was risky to go out again but he couldn't help it, slipping between stone walls until he stood by his mare, saddle and bridle on her already. Jongin was about to disappear when your voice reach him, licking down his spine. 

“I’m sorry your highness but may I ask where your of to?”he was already on Feu’s back, tense as a stick. You wore the same dress as before, fabric over your face but he thought he could see peeks of white hair from under it. 

“Oh, I’m just going for a late round..nothing special..your highness…”pink dusted over his tanned skin, covered by the darkness of the world but it seemed like the moon wanted you to see it, the cold light coming to grace over his cheeks. A small smile tugged at your lips, a smile Jongin couldn't see. 

“Would it be too much to ask  if I could join?” birds sang at you, answering in their tones, even if they should sleep. 

“N-no your highness...Let’s get a horse ready..”the prince got down from his mare, eyes wide in surprise at how you wanted to go with him, pushing on it. 

  “What is his name?”your fingers threaded through black mane, voice a little more childlike. Jongin glanced at you, still wearing the veil even when you rode the horse, yet you looked so fitting on the geldings back. The moon shone up the path between all the trees and he started to wonder about how you knew he was going away, if anyone else knew.

“I’m not sure...I only ever ride Feu…”it felt like riding with a shadow, a shadow who spoke with a sudden easiness. 

The prince did not expect for you to be so talkative after every other interaction he had with you, often ending after a short word or two. You had hummed an oh at his answer of not knowing the name of the horse, suddenly picking up a conversation about your own herd at home. Jongin listened, relaxing at your words, replying to your questions. You were wondering about essentially everything concerning his land. All the bright colors, all the smiles and scents. Never before had he wanted to see your face more than now. 

“Do you want to race?”the question rolled of his lips with ease, a grin pulling at them. He was fairly sure you would decline but as the trees cleared and the big open fields laid before the two of you, was he proven wrong.

With a light push and a laugh bubbling in your chest was your horse almost flying down the path. He ran fast, ears pointed forward. Feu tensed, ready to follow, while Jongin wasn't and nearly fell of as she took a strong leap forward. He shrieked slightly, falling into your laugh when he hear it. The sounds mixed with each other, creating something which lifted Jongin’s whole spirit. He hadn't felt so good in a while, eyes staring at your figure. Your arms were wide open, stretched like wings as you rode. The horse flew forward and you stayed on, impressing the prince. Feu tried to speed up, tried to get closer to you but you slipped away, disappearing into the other side of the forest. 

“She won..”a mutter left Jongin, pants following. His mare was on edge when he came to the the first trees, like she wanted to run more even when he asked her to slow down. 

You, however, stood wide eyed on a little higher point than the ground. The moon caressed your cheek, a hand this time instead of only light. She smiled at you, the once empty fingers holding your veil. White hair fell beyond your shoulders, eyes teary up at the sigh of the goddess you prayed to. 

“It’s okay now, your time as my muse is over. You know what you have to, share it with the rest…”her voice was all around you, coaxing more tears from your eyes. The veil you thought had held you back your whole life turned into a neckles, your constellation shining on a silver chain.”This is my gift for all the time we spent together..Now smile as we say goodbye..and don't worry the prince didn't fall of his horse..”

Your orbs left the goddess as she turned to the moon again, falling on the brown haired man. He stared at you, followed every feature he had never seen before. Jongin gaped, you didn't look like he thought..you looked better. A smile graced your lips and he fell, heart speeding up when he left Feu’s back. Why weren't you wearing the veil? The question swam in his head, gaze fixed on you when he stopped before you, bodies shining in the moonlight. 

“Hello your highness..”you studied him a little more, taking in his warm tones and deep eyes. The world was slightly different without the grey hues of your veil but you liked it.”Surprised?”

You looked mischievous, playful as you questioned him. Jongin on the other hand felt his mouth dry up, fingers itching by his side. He blushed slightly, searching for something to say, barely noting the silver around your neck.

“..yes?”you chuckled at him, sitting down on the soft grass, something you weren't really used to, since your land mostly was moss or snow. Hands played gently with it, waiting until the prince sat down as well. 

“Well, me too I guess..”Jongin’s eyes didn't leave you, not even when you pointed to small flowers hiding in the grass, sleeping.”I’ll show you something..”

He ripped his gaze from you, following your own down to the small white drops. But it snapped right back up to you when you started singing. The melody was enchant, a language nobody spoke, flowing from you until the flowers opened, turning the slightly green ground to white, like snow had fallen. Jongin gasped, staring around. He didn't know you could do this, he didn't know anyone could do this but as you kept singing, could he feel energy radiate around you. His fingers ran through the blooming flowers, hair standing all over his body, slowly relaxing at your voice, until you stopped singing. 

“Wow…”you smiled at the awestruck face he made, happy to show what you could do.”Wow..”

“Thank you..”Jongin grinned wide, standing up, dragging you with him and marched over to the munching horses. Now was it your turn to look rather surprised. 

“I know a place where you can see the first rays of the sun…”

-

 His breathing was deep, shoulders stiff as he waited with his heart in his throat. Jongin glanced towards the two big doors, getting more nervous by the second. People crowded the church, flowers as well. It was beautiful, reds played with blues in all hues and music floated softly around his head. The prince stood tall, body dressed in the Sun lands’ colors and some white for his future wife's side. Oh how he could wait for you to walk down the aisle. His father and mother stood by his side, smiling proudly, smiles only measurable with your family’s, even Junmyeon let his lips point up. The atmosphere changed, every child, woman and man turned to gaze at the doors. All wanted to know how you look but Jongin only wanted to have you by his side. Birds flew out as the piano sounded, your arrival echoing in his ears. A dumbstruck smile spread over his face as you walked through the doors, body dripping in a black dress perfect for you, white hair up and dressed in flowers with his colors. They stood in a great contrast to each other, made you even more beautiful. He couldn't help himself but to stare as you lifted your eyes to lock with his, your own grin growing. Jongin felt like everything was a dream when you stopped by him, smile dazzling in the sun, just like it did in the moon. This day turned out to be so different from how imagened how it would be. He wasn't locked down like he thought the first time his parents mentioned marriage and neither were you. Both were free to do what they wanted, to see what they wanted, the only thing was that they had someone by their side, someone to love.

[7deadlycinderellas]

If the summer of our lives could just come again, ch26

Ao3 link

The first comment Sansa makes upon seeing Val for the first time with Robb and Ned is,

“Wow, she’s pretty. Like, southern pretty even.”

“Bit too blonde for me,” Gendry comments, “Makes me think of the Lannisters.”

And blonde she is, and tall with regal features, even in her northern furs.

“Don’t be fooled,” Ygritte comments from her end on the line, “She had a man last I heard, story was she stole him, not the other way around.”

While the others are entering and helping unpack, Arya eyes Val. Her face looks three parts stony resolve, one part confused. She interrupts her assessment only to throw her arms around Ned and Robb.

“Oi, it’s been too long. Is that whole place still an unholy mess?”

Ned smiles fondly,

“Most of the most troublesome have either fallen to fights or finally calmed down. Most don’t much like the thought of being northerners, but they like the idea of being killed by Others even less. It’s an alliance of necessity.”

Sansa’s response is quiet,

“At least now they should be considered northerners by the rest of the seven kingdoms.”

Ned’s voice is sedate.

“After the wedding, I’m calling the banners. Whatever Tywin may try to throw at us afterwards will come upon chaos.”

Sansa nods.

Catelyn is standing beside Jon and Ygritte, and she steels her face and reaches to grasp Val’s hands warmly, or what she hopes passes for warmly.

Val’s gaze is distracted when she sees Ygritte.

“Mance and Jarl both?” Ygritte asks, her voice thin.

Val nods. She still hasn’t spoken.

“Dalla and the babe too?”

Val nods again, and then speaks.

“All dead at the Wall. I ran.”

Ygritte’s lips pinch,

“Damn it all, I’m sorry.”

“How did you even-”

Catelyn cuts them both off,

“From what I’ve heard, it’s a very long story and you must be tired from the journey, let’s get you settled in.”

As Catelyn shows her the way, Jon sees Arya sprout up beside them and ask,

“What do you fight with?”

“Arya!” Catelyn admonishes,

“What? It’s an important question.”

“Anything I can get in my hands,” Val responds, quietly.

“See? We can work with that.”

When Catelyn leads her away, Val catches sight of Shireen and goes still. She’s standing with Jojen, Meera and Brienne a little apart from the rest of the Starks. Catelyn turns Val’s shoulders away, but Shireen feels the urge to pull her cloak over her face until she feels Jojen reach down and squeeze her hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” he reminds her.

The next moons are full of far too much sewing for Arya’s taste. Catelyn takes it upon herself to sew Val her maiden’s cloak and a proper gown for the occasion. Despite Val’s ferocity, she seems utterly at a loss at the power of Catelyn’s femininity.

And so Arya figures she might as well muck in. And she feels she’s done admirably, at least until one day she has to flee to the forge for a bit.

Arya shakes her head at Gendry while he works at a sheet of mail.

“We’ve been running hems,” she tells him. That’s just one thing. Sansa’s gotten it in her head to add lace to both her and Meera’s gowns she made them years ago, and they can’t seem to figure out how to dissuade her.

“Meera and I. She can mend things well enough, but never learned to do anything fancy, so we both just sort of stand back…”

She’s trailing off and Gendry fishes,

“Did something happen?”

Arya smiles grimly.

“I was doing a sleeve hem- slowly- when Shireen asked why I hold the needle in my right hand when I hold my sword in my left.”

Gendry quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Why do you? I’ve seen you write with your left hand too.”

Arya crosses her arms.

“That’s how I was taught. Septa Mordane was always very strict on doing things just as she did, and Mother always said I must listen to the Septa.”

There’s a bit of silence.

“Was it better when you switched?”

Arya sits on one of the benches.

“They were crooked as ever, but they sure took a lot less effort.”

The times she’d stitched wounds back together, Arya thought, she’d used her left hand too. It bristles at her, the thought that something that drove her so mad as a child might just have been caused by something so small. So many years, in shame. It wasn’t like she magically enjoyed doing needlework, but still.

Gendry senses her discomfort, and puts the mail down to sit next to her on the bench. He puts an arm around her shoulders and rests his cheek against her hair.

“We haven’t really talked about it have we?”

Arya looks at him funny.

“About what?”

“About what we’re going to do once all of this is over.”

Arya is quiet, far too quiet. Far quieter than she ever was.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” she admits, “I can’t seem to think of anything after…”

Gendry takes her hands onto his lap and idly rubs the backs of them with the thumb of his left hand. He kisses her head once, and squeezes his right arm around her more tightly.

“What do you want to do? If you could do anything at all with your life?”

Arya exhales through her nose, thinking deeply.

“All I used to want was to be back at Winterfell, with all of my family. I got that, I have it. It’s more than I could have ever dreamed of. But now Robb’s getting married and the war’s coming, and it’s like...I know it can’t be like this forever. Eventually, most of us will leave and go our separate ways.”

Her voice keeps trailing off, as though it’s getting lost.

“And it’s like my feet are itchy. I want to see- something, anything out there. Maybe it’s because I know that now if I leave it will still be here when I come back.”

Gendry brushes a bit of her hair behind her ear, and moves his lip to that one spot behind it that always makes her shiver.

“I guess we can talk about this all again once we do survive this war,” he whispers to her.

Arya nuzzles herself against him.

“What about you? Are you really content being a smith all your life.”

“It’s good work,” Gendry tells her, “I admit, I’d rather be known for making armor than weapons.”

“After this war you’ll be known for both.’

Armor, is what Sansa thinks of when the day of the wedding comes and her and Arya are helping Val into her gown and cloak. The gown is plain while wool embroidered with silver and gold.

Arya ties her stays, and then laces her gown over it. She hands her the plain white wool cloak as Sansa helps brush her hair.

Val looks at it,

“I thought it was the fur one.”

Arya shakes her head.

“That’s the bride’s cloak. This is the maiden’s. It’s supposed to be what you’re giving up.”

Sansa tries to work the brush through her hair gently. She’d tried brushing Ygritte’s earlier, only for Arya to shoo her off saying, “You’ll scare her all the way to Dorne if you try and brush her hair like you used to brush mine!”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa tells her quietly, “This is all horseshit.”

Arya quirks an eyebrow, and Val’s response is harsh.

“If you was so opposed to your brother marrying a wildling, you should have said something. Though I suppose you southerners would have to defer to your lords.”

Sansa yanks on the bit of hair she’s holding.

“Given our understanding of the Free Folk might make it seem like you might up and slit our brother’s throat one day, you should understand being a bit cautious. Besides, I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Arya tells her, with a wiley, hunter’s gaze trained on her.

“That is indeed, not what I meant,” Sansa replies wryly. “I was saying it was horseshit that when you chose to get married that it had to be something about forging a bond between two groups in hopes of surviving a war. Once the war’s done, you’ll still be stuck with Robb.”

Val mutters something about how he had never even proven himself by stealing her properly.

“If you want to follow that tradition so bad, steal him,” Arya tells her sardonically, “We’ve heard you’ve done it before, and there will be so much wine flowing at the feast it shouldn’t take too much effort, and most southerners don’t carry their swords to weddings.”

Even without Theon here to get Robb even further into his cups, Sansa muses. It really is a shame that one of his closest friends will have to miss his wedding, though Theon would have likely spent the whole day making awful jokes.

Sansa smiles, with just a hint of teeth.

“Remember though, that he is our brother. Mother says that once you’re married, you’ll be family too, but if you try to harm him in any way, that won’t stop us from slitting your throat either.”

Arya quirks an eyebrow

“Sansa may look like a perfect southern lady, but she’s grown as handy with a bow as she is with a sewing needle.”

“And Arya has always preferred swords and other things with pointy ends to proper ladies pastimes. We used to call her a little wildling.”

Val’s deflates a bit.

“I would have done about anything to get most of us out of that place,” she mutters, and Sansa feels a flash of sympathy. She understands being held against your will, “If you say he’s a good man…”

“He is,” Arya assures her proudly, “And Jon’s probably giving him a go-over right now. If anyone understands Free Folk women here, it’s him.”

They were right in fact. Robb was currently getting a shake down from Jon and Ygritte. There’s the usual, that Val won’t know her southern courtesies, that she might occasionally threaten people. That she has, in fact, been with men before him and won’t blush.

“And she might try and drag you off at some point tonight. Not that you should just let her do it, but try not to panic, she’s not going to kill you. Probably,” is how Ygritte puts it.

Jon shakes his head,

“I still don’t understand the whole bit about stealing your spouse.”

“Well you should,” Ygritte insists, with a conspiratorial grin, “You stole me. Twice.”

Jon wrinkles his nose,

“I did not!”

The argument devolves after that and Robb puts his head in his hands.

“Is this what my future looks like?”

Jon and Ygritte both nod.

“Best get used to it now.”

When Jon moves to lace up in doublet in the mirror (Made by Catelyn, embroidered by Sansa), Ygritte pats Robb on the shoulder.

“You don’t have to do what we talked about,” she tells him quietly, “But I think you really should try.”

Twilight has fallen, and it’s time for the ceremony. Ned comes to Robb, and Davos to Val. She looks at him warily before taking his arm.

“Tradition dictates that this should be your father,” he tells her, “But far too many have lost their fathers too young, and I seem to be standing in more and more.”

The weather that day is snowy, and the Godswood is under a thick covering of powder, but thankfully, it is not windy. This is a regular snow, not a blizzard. Everyone has their cloak hoods up, hiding their faces, as the wedding party meets under the Heart tree. Even the Free Folk who are in attendance, members of the household as well as a few granted leave from the Dreadfort, seem to recognize the winter weather.

The crowd isn’t enormous. Not all of the northern lords have been able to make the journey. Sansa fears that may bode poorly, for when Ned calls the banners. Despite the frequent ravens, and the visits by both Ned and Davos,

Ygritte’s in an emerald silk gown that Sansa had altered for her from one of her old ones, she’d been inspired, she told her, when she saw they shared the same hair. She’s shivering, and muttering about how ladies in fancy gowns were supposed to keep the freezing air from up their skirts.

Arya’s gown turned out wonderfully, Sansa thought. The layer of silver lace made the dark blue wool look almost like the night sky. Arya’s holding Gendry’s arm, and Sansa hears her ask quietly,

“You sure you aren’t going to up and want me to dress like this every day right?”

“If you wore gowns every day, it wouldn’t be special. Besides, you and I both know I prefer you in nothing at all.”

Sansa chuckles.

Everyone says their words right, and Robb and Val really do make a picture, Sansa thinks to herself. The other Free Folk in the group are all behaving, even if their faces range from bemused to outright mocking of the proceedings.

When everyone’s applauding, Sansa whispers to Arya, who’s on her left (Ygritte and Jon on her right),

“Marriage shouldn’t be the glue that holds these kingdoms together.”

Arya snickers.

“Only thing my marriage holds together is me.”

Arya doesn’t think of it, Sansa ruminated. Her marriage was only even allowed because of unusual circumstances, the best her and Gendry could have hoped for under normal ones would have been to run away together.

Sansa looks down the line at the rest of her family.

Jon is technically still breaking his oath to the Night’s Watch, not that anyone here really cared, and what with him being dead to them and all. Bran and Meera would actually be considered an excellent match, if it weren’t for the fact that they likely would have never met if it weren’t for the way their lives had been...disturbed.

Gendry interrupts her thoughts,

“Time for the feast though. There are worse things to try and find common ground over than food and drink.”

He has a point, though Sansa realizes his eyes are trained on one of the Free Folk men assembled behind Val’s side of the Godswood. With a start, Sansa realizes it’s Tormund. She feels a rush of fondness, and wishes to greet him, but knows it wouldn’t go well. She hopes he at least didn’t bring that fermented goat’s milk he drinks. That might cause brawls.

But, now is a time for merriment regardless. Maybe the last for a while.

The feast is quite subdued to be honest, but as grand as can be summoned. There is a huge stew of venison, mushrooms and roots, and meat pies, and enough wine is flowing that most of the guests might not notice that the middle of the pie is almost the same as the stew. Dried plums and apples have been soaked in water and honey and transformed into puddings.

And the wine and ale flow freely.

Much food is eaten, and much ale is drunk, and out comes the lutes and the pipes, and many begin to dance.

Sansa notes at one point, when the whole family is seated at the dais, that Robb appears to be only nursing his wine, and she thinks she realizes what’s going to happen.

The dais has been set up close to the entrance to the Great Hall, there’s nothing in the way of the exit at all.

It’s after all of them are quite full, when Sansa spots Val’s hand land on Robb’s arm. She looks confused for a moment.

“Are you-”

And with one swift movement, Robb hoists her up around the waist and throws her over one shoulder, heading towards the door. It’s close enough that she barely even yells, in surprise or objection, though she swears she hears Robb say, “I’ve got four younger siblings, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow.

Jon points at Ygritte.

“Her and Arya suggested it might mean something to Val that he at least try  to steal her as a wildling might. I told Robb to make sure and wear his chainmail under his clothes, or she’d bruise him through all seven hells and back, at the very least, if she didn’t break a rib or two of his.”

There’s a smarting of applause and shouts from the Free Folk in the room, and Sansa hears Tormund hollar “Watch out for her feet, lad, they’re the sharpest part of her!” and it helps put the image of chainmail at a wedding out of her mind. She sips her wine.

“Do we think she’ll escape at all?” Gendry asks.

“Not with how tight I laced her stays up earlier,” Arya interjects with a smirk. “Too bad I couldn’t find one of those freakish southern ones with the whale bones. What savages she would have thought us then?”

Sansa notes too that many of the northern lords who had made the journey for the wedding look terribly uncomfortable. Catelyn looks uncomfortable, too, but tries to hide it by sipping her wine.

“Do we think this had more or less dignity than a traditional bedding?” Ned inquires.

“At least it was done quicker,” is Bran’s take.

“And no one but Robb touched her at all,” Sansa adds. She turns to Ned, “I always heard you forbad the bedding at your and Mother’s wedding, was that true?”

Ned nods, eyes training gently towards Catelyn.

“I had thought that the day would be traumatic enough without adding that on top.”

He stands, and reaches for her hand, wordlessly asking for a dance. Catelyn’s hand shakes a bit as she accepts.

Sansa’s glad. She remembers pulling Shireen away from the bedding at Joffrey’s wedding. She remembers the terror of the possibility at both of her weddings. She remembers Arya brushing away any attempts to even suggest one.

Bran’s moved over to one of the other tables to sit with Meera, Davos and Brienne, and Arya and Gendry have gotten up to dance as well, so Sansa’s alone at the table. She finishes her wine. Another wedding down. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Shireen ask Jojen if he wants to dance.

Well, that might be interesting.

“The last wedding I went to was in the south. This part is pretty much the same, but the ceremony was completely different.”

Shireen’s not the best dancer, so they’re just keeping off to one side and going at half-speed. Well, her feet, not her mouth.

“I don’t remember the last wedding we attended back home,” Jojen admits, “I know most of our traditions are northern, but there must be some differences too. Weddings never really interested me much, I was never sure if I would end up getting married myself at all. Somehow, I didn’t think so.”

Bran had mentioned to him once, that when they had gone north before, that Jojen had seemed resigned. That he had apparently seen his own death and had come to accept it. Jojen feels like he’s spent most of his life in that state, even if it was never specific.

“Me either,” Shireen admits, “So much of how they educate girls is about marriage and wifely duties. But everyone always seemed to think finding someone to marry me would be hard, so I tried not to waste too much time thinking about it.”

She also imagined that if her father had ever managed to arrange a match for her, then it probably wouldn’t be an ideal one. Who could be convinced to marry a girl with a face like hers, even if she was his sole heir?

“Maybe once your father returns from the Wall, he’ll betroth you to one of the Stark boys.”

Shireen makes a noise that’s halfway between a giggle and a snort that thankfully hides the tightness she suddenly feels in her chest.

“Since we’ve gotten here, I’ve seen Rickon go off, or try to go off with four or five of the wildling girls here. One or two of the boys too. I doubt my father would approve. And after I bumped into Bran kissing your sister the second day I was here, I sort of figured he’d been spoken for.”

Jojen’s eyes suddenly go wide.

“Oh...did you not know that?” Shireen asks, suddenly feeling awkward in a different way. “They were a little embarassed but didn’t seem ashamed or like they were trying to hide.”

Jojen sighs deeply, his eyes downcast.

“They never really talk about what happened between them after I died,” he admits, “I just know Meera was really anxious about seeing him again. I guess I should have realized.”

He looks so lost, Shireen thinks. He said he never thought about marriage, but didn’t he ever want something like for himself at all? The tightness in her chest has returned,

“I mean,” she says, “They do go off by themselves a lot.”

Jojen frowns, a blank look on his face. They’re not dancing anymore, just sort of standing off to the side though their hands are still touching. Most of the rest of the floor is heavily into their cups already and aren’t paying them any mind.

“Well,” he says, “We do that too.”

Shireen’s heart is now thudding, she can feel her blood rushing to her ears.

“We do,” she agrees.

Her eyes fix suddenly on his lips. They’re nearly the same height, and she doesn’t even have to tilt her head. She could kiss him right now.

Should she?

She feels her hands sweat where they touch. She blames the wine, even though she didn’t even have half a cup. Maybe she’ll blame this on it too.

With a burst of courage she’s not sure where she got from, she leans forward and presses her lips to his. It’s brief, and soft, and when she pulls back she’s frightened to see his reaction.

“Was that okay?” she asks, searching his face.

There’s a long pause before he says,

“I think so.”

Another pause,

“Maybe you should try it again to make sure.”

A grin explodes on her face. Well, he suggested it, so she does.

And like Shireen thought, the only people in the room who even catch a glimpse are Davos and Brienne.

The old man feels a smile creep onto his face.

“Shireen spoke of you quite a bit at Storm’s End,” Brienne tells him, “the two of you were close?”

Davos nods.

“I have seven sons of my own. Shireen is the closest I’ve ever had to a daughter.”

And now he’s gotten to see her life continue well beyond where it had before.

Brienne glances at the end of the table.

“We’re alone now it seems. When did the others leave?”

“A few minutes ago when you were fending off the ginger fellow, Bran asked the girl to help him to his room.”

Brienne looks confused.

“He doesn’t usually need assistance for that does he?”

Davos shakes his head.

But, Bran thought as they made their way down the hallway, an excuse is an excuse.

Meera stokes the fire when he sits on the edge of his bed.

“One more wedding down,” he says, echoing Sansa’s sentiment.

“It’s too bad this one is just a sign of an impending war.”

Meera turns and sits next to him. She’s perfectly comfortable here. She’d snuck into bed with him a few nights in a row when Jojen had been ill and his cough had been keeping her from sleep. It had felt normal, like when they had huddled for warmth over the wall.

There’s something different tonight though. Maybe it’s the occasion, maybe it’s the firelight.

Bran leans forward to kiss her slowly. She turns to deepen the kiss, and a frisson of need rushes through the both of them and it’s like a dam breaks.

Hands that had previously only cautiously wandered, seek each other out with what she can only describe as a hunger to disocover the other’s skin. Meera’s hand hovers the ties at the front of Bran’s jerkin and she whispers, “please” against his throat before she begins to undo the ties.

She has to turn to let Bran’s hands find the laces on her gown and begin to undo them. She realizes they’re shaking.

With her laces undone, she turns to steady his hands with her own. They’re covered in calluses and scars from years of working the dragonglass, but they comfort all the same.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, runniing her fingers up and down his forearms, “It’s not like I’ve ever done this before either.”

Her words seem to calm him, he nods to her as she lets the top of her gown fall to her waist.

In what seems a split second, both are stripped bare, eyes drinking each other in and lips seeking to kiss each freckle, each scar. Bran’s hand tentatively finds it’s way between her thighs, eyes seeking hers in wonder when he finds her warm and wanting.

Meera’s head hits the pillow, and she looks up at Bran hovering above her. She feels no fear, she realizes, only anticipation. With a kiss sweeter than many of the previous ones, she runs her hands down the flat expanse of his chest and further down.

And just once more, she looks deeply into Bran’s eyes and whispers,

“Please.”

Meera doesn’t quite expect pain when he enters her, though she does have a sliver of fear of it, but all she gets is a queer pressure that she might describe as uncomfortable until Bran groans and moves and it begins to blossom into pleasure.

She whimpers softly and tucks her head against his shoulder until he freezes with a grunt that sounds pained.

With a rush of fear, she pulls back and he slips out.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks anxiously, eyes searching his face.

“It’s fine, he says, “It’s just my hip. It’s not used to moving like that.”

More disappointed than she’d admit, Meera reaches into her mind for the few bits of advice Arya had inflicted upon her over the years.

“Lay back down,” she says, nudging him on his back. She shifts a bit and slides her leg over. Gently, she raises and lowers herself back into his lap.

It’s different like this, she thinks, but no less heady. Bran gazes up at her with adoration in his eyes as she rocks against him, sweet words slipping through her lips as his hands seem on a quest to touch every inch of her. When she tenses and a rush goes through her she’d only felt from her own fingers before, Bran pushes himself up to rest his arms around her hips and kiss her through it, before he stills, groans, and finds his own release.

As she’s coming down he kisses her cheek and softly murmurs “I love you,” in her ear. She shudders.

After some unmeasurable time, during which Meera’s breath still won’t seem to return to her completely, Bran quietly says,

“We can’t take that back.”

With the sweat cooling on her skin, Meera suddenly feels incredibly vulnerable, and feels her words catch in her throat on their way out.

“Would you want to?” she asks timidly.

Bran rolls onto his side to look at her. He reaches a hand up to brush a bit of her hair behind her ear.

“Not even a little.”

Meera laughs, and kisses him again. He throws and arm around here, and she pauses when he shifts and winces.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is your hip okay?”

Bran nods,

“It does that sometimes, just completely locks up, and then is stiff as hell for a few days. I’ll go down to the hot springs tomorrow morning, and maybe I won’t have to spend the rest of the day walking funny.”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

Bran uses the arm he has around her shoulder to pull her closer, though he looks abashed.

“I should have asked, are you okay?”

She laughs, and pulls him closer,

“I’m better than okay.”

They don’t say another word after. Just they tuck themselves into each other and drift off under the furs.

When the sunlight peeks through the next morning, Bran wakes with a start to the sound of people moving about in the hallway. Meera already has her gown pulled over her heard, though only half laced, and her feet in her boots.

She crawls back on the bed, and touches his lips with a fingertip.

“Everyone’s probably still hungover from last night’s festivities. I’ll sneak out the window.”

There’s a thickness in the air between them when she lingers. She surges forward to embrace him tightly before leaving and Bran fights the urge to cling to her.

Bran’s chamber is on the ground floor thankfully, but instead of the fresh powder Meera expects when she drops from the window, she lands instead on something soft.

She lets out a surprised “oof,” and stumbles, but the small shock is eased when she realizes it’s just Summer, sleeping in his usual spot under the window.

He raises his head to look at her, and Meera reaches out to pet his muzzle.

“Don’t blow my cover okay boy?”

She turns and scampers off, light on her feet.

She doesn’t even notice that the sky is a far darker gray than usual.

[jonsastan]

Jonsa Week - @incorrectjonsansa​

Day 6 - a time for wolves

They’d survived the war. Most of them. Arya and Brienne and Jaime and Podrick and Jon.

Jon is home.

Sansa had tended Arya’s and Jon’s wounds herself. She had taken the medicine and salves Samwell made, and soothed and bound the wounds herself.

Arya had broken her right hand and been slashed down her left leg, but the hand was set and wound stitched up. Sansa had stitched it. Her even, beautiful stitched holding her sister together.

Jon had added to his collection of scars, one across his bicep, another down his leg, an arrow through his shoulder. She’d pulled the arrow out whilst Sam held him still. And burns, burns on his arms and legs and neck. Some from Daenerys, some from Rhaegal, but none too bad. Nothing that time and medicine and patience would not heal.

But within two weeks Daenerys was demanding their army march south to exact revenge on Cersei the Oathbreaker and take back the Iron Throne.

Jon had hobbled from his bed to join her.

“I promised, Sansa.” He’d whispered as she sat beside his bed. “I have to help her win the South so she won’t see me as a threat to her throne.”

She’d been so angry at him, He was so noble, and honest, and dutiful. He was Father all over again. She made him promise to come home, to come back to the North, to come back to her. And he promised.

Jaime went south too. But Brienne, Podrick, and Arya stayed in Winterfell. What was left of it. They stayed and they rebuilt as best they could. They housed and clothed and fed as many people as they could. Sansa gave orders, organised supplies, traded with allies and Arya was content to help the small-folk, to aid Gendry in the forge, to train with Brienne. They got an occasional raven from Jon. Telling them he was safe, they were winning, they all ended the same way.

“Sansa, I will keep my promise. -Jon.”

He had left Winterfell a kneeler, a potential prince, an injured soldier, he came back a King. Well, a potential king.

“She will grant us Northern independence. With the promise that the heir of Winterfell marries the heir to the Iron Throne.” He’d blushed as he said this and it took Sansa a second to grasp the suggestion.

“You mean, if we wed, the North is free?” Sansa felt her heart lighten. No more appeasing the hatred of the south, no more deferring to others for their safety, just the North. And Jon.

“I will not force you into a marriage you do not want.” He was so concerned for her, it was written in his brows, and eyes, and lips.

“And if I want you?” She asked feeling bolder than she had in an eternity. Jon’s eyes shot up to hers. There was hope in those ice grey eyes.

“Father promised me someone kind, and gentle, and strong.” she murmured moving toward him “I think he meant you.” And she was kissing him, or maybe he was kissing her.  

When their betrothal was announced Sansa had been worried. Worried about the Northern Lord’s reaction, worried about Brienne and Gendry and Podrick’s reaction, worried about Bran and Arya’s reaction.

The Lords had revelled in the idea. They were gaining a King and Queen in the North whose name is Stark. They were gaining independence. They were gaining everything.

Gendry hadn’t blinked an eye, saying something about the ways of Lords and Ladies. Podrick had offered congratulations, and Brienne has told Jon he was a good enough fighter to protect Sansa.

Telling Bran had been odd, as were most encounters with Bran. He’s almost smiled and said their Fathers would have wanted this. Before telling Sansa she would look beautiful. Arya had simply shrugged and said “It’s not like Jon was ever your brother. He was always just your family and now he’ll have our name.”

Within a week they stood before the Heart Tree, snow falling softly around them and Jon was not longer a Snow.

Not a month had past since Sansa Stark became a wife and a Queen than questions of an heir were being asked.

“Not even a whole moon’s turn!” Jon had fumed in their chambers. “As if planning a glass house, rebuilding Winterfell, and supporting the small-folk wasn’t enough, they want to add a child to the mix!”

“Do you not want children?” Sansa knew the answer, she knew deep in her soul, but she wanted to hear him say those words

“Of course I do. I’ve always wanted children, even when I thought I was just a bastard.” He smiled sadly as he came and sat next to her on their bed. “I thought I would name my son Robb.”

“And a girl?” She asked tentatively.

“Lyarra, maybe or Alys.”

“Would you mind having a girl before a boy?”

“I shall love all our children.” He paused and moved closer, embracing her. “I’ve been wondering about, perhaps, establishing a new custom or two for the North.” Sansa hummed a sign for him to continue. “You know how Mormont women are trained to fight?”Another hum from Sansa “And how the Dornish don’t consider sex in the line of succession?” Sansa turned her head to look at him. “I think we should suggest something similar to the Northern Lords.”

“Oh, Jon!” She kissed him, soundly and thoroughly, until she had to stop to breath.

“I take it you like the idea.”

“Yes.” She breathed before kissing him again, stroking his chest and hair and back, starting on the task of producing an heir.

Within two moons of their wedding Sansa was pregnant. She was a glowing figure when pregnant. Wylas Manderly said she looked like the Mother embodied. Sansa had smiled politely. She continued her duties, traipsing around the castle, slowly people began to follow, begging her to rest.

“Please, your grace. Just half an hour with your feet elevated” Samwell Tarly had begged.

“Maybe you shouldn’t run up the stairs to your meetings, your grace.” Brienne had suggested.

“You really should be wearing another cloak.” Arya had scolded. Until one morning eight months into her pregnancy Sansa could not be found.

Jon had been the first to notice, the first to panic, and the first to raise the alarm. Ghost had found her. She was sitting beneath the Heart Tree, on cushions and blankets with an embroidery hoop in her hand.

“The whole castle is in a panic.” He said with gentle reproach. Sansa’s mood had been unstable of late, she was prone to laugh, burst into tears, or start shouting with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Sansa did not look up from her work.

“I needed to be here. I needed Father, and Mother, and Robb, and Rickon.” Jon nodded his understanding and left her in peace. He organised to have warm drinks and food be brought to her at regular intervals but gave strict instructions that Queen Sansa was not to be spoken to unless she spoke first. Sansa was grateful.

Jon had always kept a cool head in a panic. It was his training as a soldier. He could command in battle, defeat White Walkers, ride his dragon. But the screams of his wife almost drove him mad. It did not matter that it was natural, that it was happening faster than most other births, that Queen Sansa was doing well. She was in pain, and he could not help. She was in pain and he’d gotten her into that state. He stood outside the door and paced. He’s tried to follow them into the birthing room but was told that it was not appropriate.

After the third scream Jon stopped in front of the door and listened for anything. And then he heard her, clear as crystal.

“I want Jon. Get me Jon!” He pulled the door open without a second thought and flew to his wife’s side. She gripped his hand and tried to smile at him.

“You are so brave, my love.” He murmured, bringing her hand to his lips. “Braver than I ever could be.” Her face was sweaty and her hair sticking to her forehead, her eyes were wide with exhaustion and fear. He truly believed she was braver than him. He had gone into battle, knowing that he might die, accepting it and not expecting anything. But Sansa had allowed herself to become pregnant, to anticipate a child, knowing her odds of surviving. She had allowed this to happen once and he knew she wanted it to happen again and again and again. She would die for a child she would never know.

“You’re not leaving me.” He murmured as Sansa squeezed his hand and shuddered. “Promise me Sansa. You’re not leaving me.”  Sansa gasped and winced.

“I promise.”

Their first son was born 20 minutes later.

Winterfell rang with the laughter of children and Jon could not have been happier. His eldest boy was almost ready to ride a pony and his younger sister was already following him around.

Jon’s son looked like him, brown hair, grey eyes and a solemn face even at the age of 5. His daughter looked like Sansa. With auburn hair and a gentle smile, with eyes such a pale blue they might have been violet. Sansa waddled toward him. She waddled when she was close to her time, but Jon would never tell her this.

“We’ve had a raven from the Queen in the South.” She handed the scroll to him. His aunt was informing him of her plans to travel North and meet her great-nephew and great-niece. Sansa had been concerned about this. That the barren Queen in the South would want one of her and Jon’s children to sit the Iron Throne.

“We are safe. We are home. We are together. We shall remain this way.” He pulled her toward him and pressed his forehead to hers. “I promise.”

[emospritelet]

Second part following on from this ficlet

x

The warm light around her winked out, and Belle stumbled a little, grip tightening on the hand she had taken.  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she could make out vague shapes of things; a heavy table and chair were off to the left, and a standing mirror sent a shaft of reflected blue moonlight across the room.

The hand she was holding pulled away, and she glanced at her new acquaintance.  He was not much taller than she, wrapped in a hooded cloak over what looked like leather breeches and knee boots.  Belle peered curiously inside the hood, but could only catch the faintest hint of his face, strokes of blue against the black suggesting the line of a nose, the curve of a lip.

“Well,” he said.  “That worked, then.”

“Where are we?” she asked.  “And why is it so dark?”

He stepped back from her, turning his head and flicking a hand outwards.  A ball of fire appeared at his fingertips, making Belle jump in surprise and squeeze her eyes shut.  When she opened them again, a fire was crackling in a large hearth, sending out flickers of orange and gold.  The man was watching her, still swathed in his cloak, and she clutched at her skirts a little nervously.

“Where are we?” she repeated.

“This is the Dark Castle,” he said, and tilted his head at her sharp intake of breath.  “You’ve heard of it?”

“I - I have,” she said, and licked her lips.  “You’re - you’re the Dark One.”

“Very good.”

He sounded pleased.  And surprised, though she couldn’t imagine why.  There were many tales of the Dark One in the books she had read, after all.

“If you’re here, in this castle,” she said.  “How is it that I reached you through that book?”

“Ah.”  He shook his head, seeming weary.  “Many years ago I did something very foolish.  The book is my punishment.  It’s a prison of sorts, although I can come and go when people have need of me.”

“Then why must you return?” she asked curiously.

“That is my curse.”

He didn’t expand, and she frowned in puzzlement.

“Then - then how did you get here?” she asked.

“Much like you, I expect,” he said.  “Desperation.”

Curiosity burned in her, and she opened her mouth to ask another question, but he had lifted a finger, cutting her off.

“But you didn’t come here to talk about me,” he said.  “You came to talk about your thorny little problem of an arranged marriage you wish to escape.”

“Yes.”  Belle glanced around herself, an unpleasant thought occurring to her.  “If you’re trapped here, does that mean I am, too?”

“No,” he said.  “You were not cursed.  I can return you to your library.”

“Oh.”  She let out a sigh of relief.  “Thank goodness.”

“Or something,” he said snidely.  “You won’t be trapped with the Dark One, my Lady.  No doubt this is something to celebrate, being free to leave the presence of evil.”

Belle raised an eyebrow, not missing his self-deprecating tone.

“I read about you,” she said.  “It’s said that you always keep your word, and that you never ask more from someone than they can give.”

“Hmm.”  A long finger tapped his lips.  “Finally, something written about me that’s actually true.  Usually it’s ridiculous tales of me being ten feet tall and having eyes of fire.”

“I read that, too,” she admitted.  “But I always thought those were just stories to scare people.”

“Are you scared, my Lady?”

“No.”

She realised it was true, and relaxed her shoulders a little, releasing her skirts and smoothing them with the palms of her hands.  He was staring at her.

“So,” he said.  “I believe we had an arrangement.  You give me your name in exchange for my help.”

“Not yet,” she said.  “There was another thing we agreed.”

“Another thing?”

His voice had grown higher with something approaching indignation, and it made her want to smile.

“You said that if I stepped out of the circle, I would get to see your face,” she said.

He snorted, shaking his head.

“It’s not a pretty sight,” he warned.

“I’ve found that beauty can be a burden as well as a blessing,” she said dryly.  “And handsomeness can be nothing but a mask for a monster.  Appearance means nothing.”

He was silent for a moment.

“You are very singular, my Lady.”

“Much to my father’s disapproval.”

He let out a chuff of amusement.

“Very well.”  Slender hands rose up to grasp the hood of his cloak.  “Prepare to be repulsed.”

He lowered the hood, and the firelight bathed his face, tiny scales on his skin glittering gold.  His face was thin, the nose a little crooked, his cheekbones high and his eyes large and amber.  Curling hair reached to his jaw, but she couldn’t see its true colour, though from the way it glinted she suspected there would be streaks of silver in it in the daylight.

“You don’t look so terrible to me,” she said.  “Perhaps that’s why you wear the cloak.  To appear more frightening than you are.”

“Perhaps you can stop trying to analyse me and give me what I asked for,” he said snidely.

“My name?”  Belle put her hands on her hips.  “We agreed that would be in return for getting me out of this arranged marriage.”

“Ah yes.”  He stepped back on one foot, mouth curving upwards in a smile.  “How would you like me to deal with your intended?  Evisceration?  Decapitation?  Turn him into a snail?”

“What?  No!”  Belle stepped towards him, shaking her head.  “Please!  I don’t want you to kill anyone!”

“You said he was a beast,” he reminded her. “Should I take him from you only to allow him to wed some other poor unfortunate?”

She hesitated, hands twitching in the air, as though attempting to grasp at something she didn’t fully understand.

“I - I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.  “It’s true, if he couldn’t have me, he’d have another.  Women are all alike, as he’s very fond of saying.  I’d pity her, whoever she was.”

“What has he done that’s so beastly?” he enquired.

“Nothing to me,” she said.  “Not yet, anyway.  I have a feeling that would come after we were married.  He’s outwardly very charming when it suits, but it’s all an act.  He has no respect for women, or for anyone below his station.  He’s callous, crude, vain and boorish.”

“Sounds like every other nobleman in this land,” he remarked.

“He revels in hunting and killing, in starting fights with those weaker than him, in war and battle,” she went on.  “He wants to squeeze every last penny out of the common folk on his lands, and cares nothing for starving children or poor men trying to feed their families.  He says - he says the peasants are vermin and need to be kept in their place, or they’ll overrun the nobility and bring them down.”

“He sounds delightful,” said the Dark One dryly.  “You’re sure about no decapitation?  I could make it a funny one.”

Belle sighed.

“I don’t want to be responsible for someone’s death.”

“I’m not asking you to do it.”

“I know that, but the result would be the same.”

The Dark One sighed.

“So, you wish me to save you from this arranged marriage, but not to allow him to wed anyone else, nor harm anyone else, but I’m also not allowed to kill him,” he said, sounding vexed.  “You drive a hard bargain, my Lady.”

“Perhaps you should have asked for more than my name, then.”

He chuckled at that, real amusement in the sound, his eyes glinting.

“Oh, I always get what I want from a deal,” he said.  “In the end.”

“Then we’ll both be satisfied, won’t we?”

He blinked rapidly at her, then tapped his lips with a finger again.

“He likes war, does he?” he mused.  “Perhaps I can use that.”

“In what way?” asked Belle anxiously.  “I don’t want war in our lands.  It’s already said the ogres are massing to the east.  My people have had a hard winter, if war comes on top of that…”

“You said no one should be harmed,” he reminded her.  “I keep my promises, my Lady.  Our deal stands.  I just need to think about it for a moment.”

There was silence, broken only by the crackle and snap of the fire.  Belle watched the flickering lights ripple over his face, that finger tapping rhythmically against a soft lower lip as his eyes held hers.  Eventually he lowered his hand, the tip of a tongue snaking out to wet his lips, leaving a sheen of moisture there.

“I can give you what you need,” he said at last.  “When are you to be married?”

“In two weeks’ time,” she said.  “Can you stop it?”

He smiled.

“But of course.”

“And no one will die?”

“Not by my hand.”

“Very well.”  She nodded, and put out her hand.  “My name is Belle.”

He took it, his palm cool and smooth against hers, and his eyes gleamed.

“Belle,” he said softly.

[cawolters]

NEW RAN - Places in The Empire

— Rise of the Blood Dawn trilogy

Worldbuilding?? What’s that? Never heard of her. Which is a shame because I’m writing a fantasy series and WB is kinda essential.

But whenever I find myself in desperate need of logical fictional setting slash structure, I usually just wing it. I do, really! And then I make some kind of marker in the document so I can find it and change it in edits. Yup!

It’s not the smart way around, it’s exhausting, but pantsing is what makes me write the story —AND FINISH IT. So I bear my cross!

Recently I’ve been prepping for finishing my second book in Rise of the Blood Dawn Trilogy (The Liar Alliance) and that means reading all my little scenes that I wrote last November for NaNoWriMo.

It’s a hoot.

And I thought you might think so too, so I’m sharing.

This little scene/glimpse is Shiroin seeing New Ran, the harbor city, for the very first time, and she would’ve enjoyed it (as much as a murderous emo empress can), if she wasn’t struggling to keep her very insisting necromantic magic snake from jumping out of her mouth.

Hope you like it!

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~Shiroin in New Ran~

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Blue. Crisp, brilliant, deep. And then white, blinding white in the cool sun. Those were the colors of New Ran’s banners that bellowed in the ocean breeze from every windowsill as we, Deria and I, rode through the city.

He had taken to horseback before we entered, no doubt to sit high and sparkle like a beloved jewel at his neighbor country.

The masses had poured out on the streets, the curious as well as the fanatic.

Women, children and men waved their crest flags and laced kerchiefs. They threw torn paper and white rose petals in the gust. It soared like snow down on the cobble stone street.

Their roar of adoration was mainly for Deria I would imagine, and the rest of roars, bellowing words of power, were for The Red Ruler. Me.

“Erah Erah, Behjer, Erah!” They cried in Gailian as one voice, pretending that I had already won the thousand-year war.

Hurray, hurray, victory, hurray.

It was strange to be admired. Loved publicly. And to have my name, or at least my newly required nickname, being cried out in worship. It surprised me that I did not hate it as intensely as I would have thought.

Kiel had said that he was going to New Ran. I wondered if he was still here. Looking at me from one of the cooler shadows perhaps. I hoped not. It would break something in me to know that we had been so close, and yet so far from each other.

With the help of the green-capes, who did a thorough job of keeping the crowds from flooding us, the caravan curved a corner. Instantly the narrow street dipped down a steep flagstone slope, allowing an unpolluted sight of the entire harbor with the mountains rising on either side of huge wide-mouthed ria. New Ran’s banners were inspired by the grand marina, a simple white ship on a royal blue background, but they did not come close to doing the view justice. The coast swelled with spearing masts, stringing the huge sails and gangly sea folk from swaying ropes between the yards. And beyond them, was the ocean, meeting the sky without a clear line to define the horizon by. Stunning.

Hurray, hurray, victory, hurray!

I took a deep breath and tasted salt. As much as I prized the virgin forests and sleeping mountains, I valued the ocean equally so. It smelled like a childhood I had briefly had, but tented to forget about. And though it was a treacherous thing to do, I closed my eyes and took another breath when the wind rose to greet us. The calls and yells dimmed as I took a soft memory in my mind’s hand. I turned it gently. It was heavy with grief but beautiful. For the shortest of moments I was on the beach with my mother. Holding shells up against the sun and seeing rays beam through pinholes in the pearl-shine.

Dream of sunshine, my little Bloom.

In the memory the voice should have been a sweet whisper. A light kiss on my eyelids, but it was sounding wrong.

I snapped my eyes open as someone repeated the words of my mother in a lethal and hissing voice. The memory shattered and my serpent snickered darkly as it flowed free of its grotto and out through my ribs.

Deria rode past me. His rankness on his prancing steed was the one of a King rather than a Prince and I was impressed by how quickly he had put on his fathers cloak, and then carried it so naturally. Deria waved and blew kisses from his palm to both men and women, it looked false and staged to me, but the people ate it like starving mice. When Deria twisted slightly in his saddle to see if I was watching him, he grinned wider to see that I indeed was.

Our eyes met and his were as lively as the colored banners in the wind. But my serpent had sent my heart racing from its sudden and horrid presence, and my own gaze felt cold and twitching. I could have made up for it by a smile, but I did not dare. My teeth had sharpened ever so slightly behind my closed pink lips. A smile would only flash Deria something nasty.

Instead I inclined my chin and flicked my eyes down to the street before me.

Looking reserved, rather than hungry for chewing through tendon and bone, would be the lesser of two evils.

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RBD WIP taglist:

@sweetsweetbabytree @blindandpassionate @sundaynightnovels @kainablue @girlnovels @oceanwriter @bexminx @whymanwrites @writingwordsanddrawingpictures @fukusigma @i-rove-rock-n-roll @corishadowfang @adie-dee @vhum @lilithderayne @machimaquiaveli @keiwriter @thesleevia @vxkassiopeiaxv @marewriteblr @goodvibesalltheway @james-stark-the-writer @somethingwriterly @zburatorii @wingedcatwblr @alessia-writes @alexiswrote @lynnafred @writingonesdreams @the-ichor-of-ruination @erethesilverking @shewolves @alexwillow @writersloth @xpouii @cirianne @ladywithalamp @capt-confusion @kukyreadscookie @writer-jessicac