#and he never blamed her for the war but instead protected her from any reproach FUCK

[nikoisme]

Yes Troy (2004) is shit,, but they were so real for having Hector hug Helen

[tatticstudio55]

Let’s look at these famous “parallels” between Dany and Cersei

(Because I’ve been re-reading AFFC and ADWD simultaneously and couldn’t help noticing these. This list might be expanded btw)

Dealing with a guest who’s pissing them off

CERSEI:

"Aye," her uncle said, "and from what I saw of Joffrey, you are as unfit a mother as you are a ruler."

She threw the contents of her wine cup full in his face.

DANY:

"Be that as it may, they do not trust you. The men of New Ghis feel the same. Words are wind, as you yourself have so oft said. No words of yours will secure this peace for Meereen. Your foes require deeds. They would see us wed, and they would see me crowned as king, to rule beside you."

Dany filled his wine cup again, wanting nothing so much as to pour the flagon over his head and drown his complacent smile. "Marriage or carnage. A wedding or a war. Are those my choices?"

Dealing with war refugees

CERSEI:

A hundred gold cloaks with staves and swords and maces could clear this rabble quick enough. That was what Lord Tywin would have done. He would have ridden over them instead of walking through.

[…]

"High Holiness," she said, "these sparrows are frightening the city. I want them gone."

"Where should they go, Your Grace?"

There are seven hells, any one of them will serve. "Back where they came from, I would imagine."

DANY:

"It shall be done, Magnificence," said Reznak mo Reznak. "What of these Astapori?"

My children. "They are coming here for help. For succor and protection. We cannot turn our backs on them."

Ser Barristan frowned. "Your Grace, I have known the bloody flux to destroy whole armies when left to spread unchecked. The seneschal is right. We cannot have the Astapori in Meereen."

Dany looked at him helplessly. It was good that dragons did not cry. "As you say, then. We will keep them outside the walls until this … this curse has run its course. Set up a camp for them beside the river, west of the city. We will send them what food we can. Perhaps we can separate the healthy from the sick."

Dealing with people who knows too much

CERSEI:

Qyburn arrived before the food. Lady Falyse had put down three more cups by then, and was beginning to nod, though from time to time she would rouse and give another sob. The queen took Qyburn aside and told him of Ser Balman's folly. "I cannot have Falyse spreading tales about the city. Her grief has made her witless. Do you still need women for your . . . work?"

"I do, Your Grace. The puppeteers are quite used up."

"Take her and do with her as you will, then. But once she goes down into the black cells . . . need I say more?"

"No, Your Grace. I understand."

"Good." The queen donned her smile once again. "Sweet Falyse, Maester Qyburn's here. He'll help you rest."

DANY:

The Shavepate had urged her to put the man to death. "At least rip out his tongue. This man's lie could destroy us all, Magnificence." Instead Dany chose to pay the blood price. No one could tell her the worth of a daughter, so she set it at one hundred times the worth of a lamb. "I would give Hazzea back to you if I could," she told the father, "but some things are beyond the power of even a queen. Her bones shall be laid to rest in the Temple of the Graces, and a hundred candles shall burn day and night in her memory. Come back to me each year upon her nameday, and your other children shall not want … but this tale must never pass your lips again."

Dealing with criticism and thinly veiled accusations

CERSEI:

"The Red Keep has had no master-at-arms since Aron Santagar was slain," Ser Loras said, with a hint of reproach in his voice. "His Grace is almost nine, and eager to learn. At his age he should be a squire. Someone has to teach him."

Someone will, but it will not be you. "Pray, who did you squire for, ser?" she asked sweetly. "Lord Renly, was it not?"

"I had that honor."

"Yes, I thought as much." Cersei had seen how tight the bonds grew between squires and the knights they served. She did not want Tommen growing close to Loras Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers was no sort of man for any boy to emulate. "I have been remiss. With a realm to rule, a war to fight, and a father to mourn, somehow I overlooked the crucial matter of naming a new master-at-arms. I shall rectify that error at once."

**

"Night soil can be washed away more easily than blood, Your Grace. If the plaza was befouled, it was befouled by the execution that was done here."

He dares throw Ned Stark in my face? "We all regret that. Joffrey was young, and not as wise as he might have been. Lord Stark should have been beheaded elsewhere, out of respect for Blessed Baelor . . . but the man was a traitor, let us not forget."

[…]

"War is a dreadful thing. These atrocities are the work of the northmen, and of Lord Stannis and his demon-worshipers."

"Some of my sparrows speak of bands of lions who despoiled them . . . and of the Hound, who was your own sworn man. At Saltpans he slew an aged septon and despoiled a girl of twelve, an innocent child promised to the Faith. He wore his armor as he raped her and her tender flesh was torn and crushed by his iron mail. When he was done he gave her to his men, who cut off her nose and nipples."

"His Grace cannot be held responsible for the crimes of every man who ever served House Lannister. Sandor Clegane is a traitor and a brute. Why do you think I dismissed him from our service? He fights for the outlaw Beric Dondarrion now, not for King Tommen."

DANY:

The weaver raised her head. "Every day we told each other that the dragon queen was coming back." The woman had thin lips and dull dead eyes, set in a pinched and narrow face. "Cleon had sent for you, it was said, and you were coming."

He sent for me, thought Dany. That much is true, at least.

[…]

"Others blamed Daenerys," said the weaver, "but more of us still loved you. 'She is on her way,' we said to one another. 'She is coming at the head of a great host, with food for all.' "

I can scarce feed my own folk. If I had marched to Astapor, I would have lost Meereen.

[…]

"Even then some said that you were coming," said the weaver. "They swore they had seen you mounted on a dragon, flying high above the camps of the Yunkai'i. Every day we looked for you."

I could not come, the queen thought. I dare not.

[…]

"It is good that you have come," she told the Astapori. "You will be safe in Meereen."

The cobbler thanked her for that, and the old brickmaker kissed her foot, but the weaver looked at her with eyes as hard as slate. She knows I lie, the queen thought. She knows I cannot keep them safe. Astapor is burning, and Meereen is next.

[…]

"These are not apples, Ben," said Dany. "These are men and women, sick and hungry and afraid." My children. "I should have gone to Astapor."

Dealing with prophecies

CERSEI:

She promised me I should be queen, but said another queen would come . . ." Younger and more beautiful, she said. ". . . another queen, who would take from me all I loved."

"And you wish to forestall this prophecy?"

More than anything, she thought. "Can it be forestalled?"

"Oh, yes. Never doubt that."

"How?"

"I think Your Grace knows how."

She did. I knew it all along, she thought. Even in the tent. "If she tries I will have my brother kill her."

[…]

It was a pity that Maggy the Frog was dead. Piss on your prophecy, old woman. The little queen may be younger than I, but she has never been more beautiful, and soon she will be dead.

DANY:

When Reznak and Skahaz appeared, she found herself looking at them askance, mindful of the three treasons. Beware the perfumed seneschal. She sniffed suspiciously at Reznak mo Reznak. I could command the Shavepate to arrest him and put him to the question. Would that forestall the prophecy? Or would some other betrayer take his place? Prophecies are treacherous, she reminded herself, and Reznak may be no more than he appears.

Dealing with sneers or matters of disrespect

CERSEI:

"One more thing. A trifling matter." He gave her an apologetic smile and told her of a puppet show that had recently become popular amongst the city's smallfolk; a puppet show wherein the kingdom of the beasts was ruled by a pride of haughty lions. "The puppet lions grow greedy and arrogant as this treasonous tale proceeds, until they begin to devour their own subjects. When the noble stag makes objection, the lions devour him as well, and roar that it is their right as the mightiest of beasts."

"And is that the end of it?" Cersei asked, amused. Looked at in the right light, it could be seen as a salutary lesson.

"No, Your Grace. At the end a dragon hatches from an egg and devours all of the lions."

The ending took the puppet show from simple insolence to treason. "Witless fools. Only cretins would hazard their heads upon a wooden dragon." She considered a moment. "Send some of your whisperers to these shows and make note of who attends. If any of them should be men of note, I would know their names."

"What will be done with them, if I may be so bold?"

"Any men of substance shall be fined. Half their worth should be sufficient to teach them a sharp lesson and refill our coffers, without quite ruining them. Those too poor to pay can lose an eye, for watching treason. For the puppeteers, the axe."

DANY:

"We are all dead, then. You gave us death, not freedom." Ghael leapt to his feet and spat into her face.

Strong Belwas seized him by the shoulder and slammed him down onto the marble so hard that Dany heard Ghael's teeth crack. The Shavepate would have done worse, but she stopped him.

"Enough," she said, dabbing at her cheek with the end of her tokar. "No one has ever died from spittle. Take him away."

Views on torture

CERSEI:

Even in the black cells, all they got from him were denials, prayers, and pleas for mercy. Before long, blood was streaming down his chin from all his broken teeth, and he wet his dark blue breeches three times over, yet still the man persisted in his lies. "Is it possible we have the wrong singer?" Cersei asked.

"All things are possible, Your Grace. Have no fear. The man will confess before the night is done." Down here in the dungeons, Qyburn wore roughspun wool and a blacksmith's leather apron. To the Blue Bard he said, "I am sorry if the guards were rough with you. Their courtesies are sadly lacking." His voice was kind, solicitous. "All we want from you is the truth."

DANY:

"If he is not the Harpy, he knows him. I can find the truth of that easy enough. Give me your leave to put Hizdahr to the question, and I will bring you a confession."

"No," she said. "I do not trust these confessions. You've brought me too many of them, all of them worthless."

 MISCELLANOUS

Dealing with adverse political faction(s)

CERSEI: gleefully send Loras off to Dragonstone to be killed, frame Margaery and Margaery’s cousins for adultery, publicly shame Mace Tyrell at Tywin’s funeral, insult the Tyrells at every turn.

DANY: marries one of their highest members, try to reach peaceful agreements.

Priorities

DANY:

“The Tolosi had replied to her request for an alliance by proclaiming her a whore and demanding that she return Meereen to its Great Masters. Even that was preferable to the answer of Mantarys, which came by way of caravan in a cedar chest. Inside she had found the heads of her three envoys, pickled.”

CERSEI:

Can’t think of a specific passage here, but we know enough of Cersei to guess that if she were in Dany’s place, it would’ve been written more like this:

The Tolosi had replied to her request for an alliance by way of caravan in a cedar chest. Inside she had found the heads of her three envoys, pickled. Even that was preferable to the answer of Mantarys, that proclaimed her a whore and demanded that she return Meereen to its former rulers.

[firewoodfigs]

we might be made of scars, but we’ll be alright

read on ao3 | song: miho fukuhara, let it out 

For @royaiweek day 3: old wounds - thank you mods!! 💕 y’all are amazing ✨ 

(a/n: it’s my first time trying out the “5+1 things” tag, and I thought I’d experiment with another writing style again xD feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated! <3) 

“This one had it coming, this one found a vein This one was an accident, but never gave me pain This one was my father's, and this one you can't see This one had me scared to death But I guess I should be glad I'm not dead” - Stone Sour, Made of Scars

i.

Lieutenant Hawkeye traces the long scar on the back of her calf idly as she changes out of her military uniform. It’s coloured a faded, nostalgic pink, and it reminds her of the innocent childhood that she shares with the Colonel.

She’d gotten it from a bad fall when she was only twelve, and her father’s apprentice had been terribly worried when he witnessed her limping back home. He had rushed over immediately with a first aid kit in hand, before propping her gently on the couch as he pleaded with her to let him take care of it.

It was hard to say no to such an earnest face like his. Having already suffered enough from the long walk back home, Riza wanted nothing more than to rest at that point. Eventually, she relented, though with a hint of distrust.  

Because they weren’t even friends then, and what business did he have being so nice -?

“It might hurt,” Roy whispered before dabbing the damp gauze pad on her wound.

Hydrogen peroxide on open wounds, of course, stung like hell. But for every wince, every grimace, he’d responded with a soft apology, whispering soothing platitudes as he worked on the gaping wound meticulously to avoid causing her further pain.

It was the first time Riza had felt a touch so tender and kind.

Even then, his compassion hadn’t stopped there. After he was done with the bandages he had practically ordered her to bed and appointed himself as head chef despite her objections.

“You can’t be moving around like that,” he said, ushering her into her room while lending his shoulder for support. He had helped her - much to her abashment, and much to his amusement - onto her bed, before commanding her to stay put while he prepared dinner. She obliged reluctantly, fiddling with her blanket while waiting for him.

Not too long after, he came back with a bowl of hot stew and a delighted, affable smile.

“Thank you, Mister Mustang,” she said shyly.

Roy frowned. “Please don’t call me that. Just… just call me Roy?”

She politely refused, telling him that it would be terribly inappropriate to do so, but something between them had changed. Any tension that might have existed previously was beginning to dissolve, and Riza was starting to treat him less like the plague.

Sensing this, Roy continued to stay by her side despite her proverbial disinclination for small talk, hoping to finally befriend the introverted blonde.

Over dinner, then, he’d regaled her with tales of his unfortunate misadventures with alchemy when he first started out and silly jokes that he often made with his sisters. In turn, she had reciprocated with reserved laughters and hunting mishaps of her own and a budding trust.

In the end, the injury became an insignia of when her loneliness ended, and when their friendship started.

ii.

Then, of course, there were the scars on her back that contained deadly secrets, prolix poems and meaningless apologies. To an alchemist, the intricate, complex array might have been beautiful. A transfiguration of sorts, even.  

To Riza, though, it was nothing but disfiguration in its purest, most unadulterated form. Engraved within were memories of pain and abuse and estrangement, and she would have honestly appreciated being able to live without a daily reminder of those.

He had known he was dying, even before Roy returned from the military, and had called this his parting gift. To her, to an apprentice worthy of its power, to the world. Donatio mortis causa.  

Riza thought it was the furthest thing from a present - it was her father’s curse to her, and it would haunt her even after his death.

And when he’d finally passed… Riza had been terrified to show it to Roy.

It wasn’t so much that she didn’t trust him, but - would anger consume him at the realisation that her father had done this to her? God forbid - would he think of her as ugly, marred? Would he still think of her as desirable?

But he was the chosen one; the one that her father had deemed worthy of learning flame alchemy. Ultimately, her desire to assist his goals, his wonderful dreams and ambitions for the future and for the country had outweighed whatever trivialities that might have deterred her from doing so.

With trembling hands, thus, she had unbuttoned her cardigan to reveal the array to him. He’d been speechless. There was a silence that lingered in the thin, dusty air of the Hawkeye manor, but before it could persist he had crossed the distance between them in two long strides.

“Riza,” he whispered. Her hands weren’t the only ones trembling - his hands were, too. She felt it when he rested them on the planes on her back, tracing the grooves of her spine reverently, affectionately.

The trembling hadn’t stopped even when he circled his arms around her waist to bring her into a warm embrace. He had whispered apologies onto her shoulder, then. Blamed himself for not being there to stop his teacher, her father, from doing this to her, for leaving her alone to deal with this. It was a sincere apology, unlike the ones inscribed onto her skin.

Suddenly, the weight on her back had felt a little lighter - perhaps from a burden shared, or from his sweet reassurances.

Either way, Riza remembers it as the night where her trust in him had developed into full bloom.

iii.

Eventually, though, Riza comes to learn that psychological wounds ached more than physical ones. The latter was temporary, but the former - hell, they were indelible, inescapable. This much was heavily reinforced, at least, by the horrors of war that they had encountered during their time in Ishval.

She’d told her superior officer that a gun was good, because it didn’t leave the feeling of a person dying in her hands. It was a partial lie. One that she was willing to let slip from her mouth placidly if it meant that she could be by his side and utilise her gun as a tool for protection, rather than murder and war and genocide.

Because no matter how much she scrubbed her hands after in the sink, she realised that she could never wash away the red on her hands. While the distance between her and her unfortunate victims meant that blood had never fallen on her hands, the entire experience had stained her soul a deep crimson.

It warped her heart; her conscience and morality, and it was a burden that she - no, they - would carry to their graves.

Nonetheless, Riza finds herself sending a short prayer of thanks to any god willing to hear from a wretched sinner like her as she stares at Roy’s peaceful sleeping form. Dreamless slumbers like these were uncommon for the Flame Alchemist, the Hero of Ishval, but it seemed like they were getting increasingly frequent as they progressed along further with the project after the Promised Day.

(Of course, neither of them had come to forgive themselves entirely. They probably never would - for their burdens and sins and iniquities still remained, and would linger on to their very last breaths.)

But their work of atonement and reparation had assuaged their consciences somewhat, even if only marginally. Roy, most of all, deserved this brief respite. He’d been working himself to the bone ever since he regained his vision, and she found herself having to play the role of babysitter less and less.

Riza allows a subtle smile to cross her stern features as she drapes his coat over his tired frame before returning to her paperwork.

iv.

After the war came the burns on her back. They’re splattered across her upper back in irregular splotches of pink; etched with guilt and reluctance and self-reproach.

To say that asking Roy to burn her back was difficult would be a gross understatement. He had already endured enough, and to ask him to use the power bestowed upon him to burn even more skin was akin to putting him through another round of purgatory.

Riza was disinclined to repeat his suffering, but she needed it. Desperately. She couldn’t bear the thought of creating another Flame Alchemist, and the array was literally a back-breaking burden. She’d begged him once, twice before he relented. Very unwillingly.

They’d gone back together to Tobha to do it, back to the now-decrepit Hawkeye estate that held an eerie resemblance to a haunted mansion. In some ways, it was poetically fitting - ending it where it had first begun. The estate bore apparitions of their innocence, their childhood memories, but now it would bear the ghost of flame alchemy as well.

Riza came to learn, then, that whatever she’d conceived of as pain from having hydrogen peroxide dab at an open wound paled in comparison to fire searing her skin. It took all of her willpower to not scream, but she withheld the urge to do so. Even if it meant biting her lips, digging her nails into her palms until they bled.

Like he had once done when they were children, Roy was quick to come to her aid. He came with water ice-cold and embraces lovingly-warm; painkillers and repeated apologies and constant reassurances.

Riza manages to respond to all of this with reminders of forgiveness through her pain. Because for the first time since the needle had met her skin, since the war, she’d felt free. Liberated.

Libera me.  

Roy had allowed her to be Riza Hawkeye - her own person, her own being - instead of just the bearer of a lethal, fatal secret that could kill thousands. Despite how much it pained them both to burn her back, she's never been more grateful.

Had she murmured her thanks, her apologies? Riza’s not quite sure. The memories after are a blur. She only remembers passing out in Roy’s arms and the tender, apologetic kiss on her forehead before unconsciousness had dawned upon her like a comforting blanket to stave away the unbearable pain.

The cold water falling on her skin in the shower reminds her of his warmth after the flames had died down. Riza can’t help but laugh slightly at the distant memory.

It’s ironic - Roy lives up to his moniker for reasons more than one.

v. / vi.

But none of the scars she’s sustained throughout her life can compare to the ones they’d gotten from The Promised Day.

The only comfort through all the hell they had endured was probably the fact that they were now lumped together in the same hospital room. Nonetheless, the quiet solitude of night-time is filled with unspoken apologies and unshed tears. It’s unbearable. Roy can feel the guilt radiating off every fibre of her being despite his blindness, despite the distance separating them -

- and so he orders his subordinate to come over.

Hesitantly, Riza complies. She crawls into his bed cautiously, careful not to jostle the wounds on his hands. They mark her failure. Roy was nearly killed before her very eyes, and she’d been powerless to stop it as the sword pierced through his palms. She wants to cry, wants to wail out loud and mourn for his loss of sight, for how useless she had been in the face of it all -

- but her vocal cords are strained. The only thing that escapes her throat is a soundless sob. Riza forces herself to hold in her tears - you don’t deserve to cry, no, stop - but Roy knows. He knows her like the back of his hand, and so even if she’s temporarily mute he can already hear what she’s going to say; even if he’s blind he can see the tears beginning to glimmer in her ochre eyes.

With a bandaged hand he carefully finds her face and caresses it tenderly. “It’s not your fault, Riza,” he whispers.

There’s a wetness to her cheeks now, like it’s raining. “Please don’t blame yourself,” he murmurs. “If anything, all the fault’s mine.”

As if to reinforce his point, his fingers make their way down - to her jaw, and then to the dressing on her neck. A sigh escapes his lips as he traces the scar underneath, remorse and regret dripping from his fingertips. 

“No -” Riza croaks. Not your fault, Roy.  

“If it’s not my fault, then how could it ever be yours?”

She’s silent again. There’s so much she wants to say - I’m so sorry, Roy, I should have been there, should have done something, can you ever forgive me, I was so afraid to lose you - but the wound renders it impossible.

Regardless, they’ve always had a knack for understanding each other, even without words or eye signals.

He searches for her face again, using it to guide his lips to her forehead. “Not your fault,” Roy says once more for added emphasis. His voice is louder than a whisper this time. It’s filled with conviction and relief and affection, and in their close proximity he can’t help but press a chaste kiss on her messy fringe.

“I was so afraid of losing you, Riza. Nothing scared me more than seeing you bleed on the ground, watching you almost… almost dying.”

They’re both crying uncontrollably now.

“But you’re alive, and that’s all that matters. I might never get my sight back, but I have the Hawk’s Eye with me,” he manages to quip through his sobs. “With you by my side, I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine, Riza. As long as we’re together.”

Riza manages a slight nod under his chapped lips, before reaching for his hand to place a gentle kiss on it. It’s a soothing salve to the dull ache underneath and a promise, a vow. I’ll always be with you, Roy.  

Roy retracts his hand to wrap his arms around her, pulling her body to his chest in a tight, haphazard embrace. Riza feels his heart beating against hers, all life and strength and fervor, and she thinks he’s right.

“We’ll be alright, Riza. I promise.”

[moonlitgleek]

If it is an abusive situation and Ned does nothing to intervene, doesn't that make him complicit in the abuse? He's not an abused spouse powerless to prevent his son's abuse because he's terrified of his wife. Of the three of them, Ned is the one with the most power, agency and options in this situation. I understand not telling the truth about Jon's identity right after the war. Catelyn was a stranger to Ned then. But after years of marriage, he still can't trust her with the truth?

I’m going to level with you, I hate that argument. I find it baseless and deflecting, and it holds Ned to blame for the completely wrong things.

While Ned definitely has his own share of fuck ups and missteps in this situation, I do not consider not telling Catelyn the truth one of them. I’m not sure why this theory that telling Catelyn about Jon’s paternity would have fixed the state of affairs in Winterfell gained such traction in fandom when it clearly contradicts what we can infer of Catelyn’s character motivation in her treatment of Jon. The general consensus on Cat’s motives is that she acted out of anger and hurt at Ned’s nominal infidelity, fear of the prospective danger Jon could pose to her children and resentment over her lack of control in a situation that she was forced to accept and had no say in. Of those, only Cat’s negative feelings wrt Ned’s nominal indiscretions would be assuage by the truth of Jon’s paternity, though that would probably be replaced by anger and hurt over Ned’s lies. But for someone whose main anxiety revolved around the prospective danger Jon could pose to her children, I don’t see how knowing that Jon’s identity could bring Robert’s wrath on all of them would change Cat’s fear for her children. Or how she, as a politically-minded person who already had the Blackfyres in mind and who bought into the prevalent societal stigmatization of bastards, would fail to see the possible parallels between Jon Snow and Daemon Blackfyre or grow concerned over what Jon’s knowledge of his identity could mean for her family.

From where I’m standing, the truth exacerbates the prospective danger that Catelyn feared from Jon on a few levels. Don’t forget that Ned’s decision to conceal and protect Jon, while morally above reproach, is still legally condemnable by the lights of their society and thus extremely dangerous to know, something that Ned was very aware of. Bringing Catelyn in on the secret not only puts her in danger but also forces her to be complicit in what is essentially treason and compels her to be party to keeping a risky secret that she never signed up to keep. Meanwhile her concerns over Jon potentially trying to supplant her children still apply because he is still publicly recognized as Ned’s son, and she can’t very well tell anyone that he is not Ned’s unless she wants to bring everything down on all of their heads. That situation would only augment Cat’s lack of control and her resentment over it. It’s also clear that Ned feared a situation where Cat would have to choose between Jon’s life and her children’s, which is not an unreasonable fear. Basically, the truth puts Catelyn in a very bad position, endangers her and endangers Jon, without offering any significant change to the state of affairs in Winterfell. Jon would remain the easiest target for Cat’s resentment. She’d still want to neutralize his double prospective danger as both a Targaryen descendant and Ned’s publicly recognized son. She’d still want a distance between him and her children. And I don’t imagine she’d be particularly enthused about Jon being in Winterfell when Robert comes. That’s why I don’t fault Ned for not telling Cat the truth.

What I do fault him for is his woeful mishandling of the situation. That the situation was inherently flawed was nobody’s fault, but it is on Ned how he chose to deal with it, and he made a right mess. There is a lot of room between telling Catelyn the truth, and what he did in telling her (and Jon) absolutely nothing, which only served to make a crappy situation worse for everyone involved. Scaring Cat into silence by implementing his patriarchal power was objectively a dick move that amplified her lack of power. Ned’s trauma, protectiveness of Jon, the fact that he is an uncomfortable liar and that this line of questioning hits all of this explain his actions but they don’t make them acceptable. Ned was the person with the most power in this situation and he screwed up royally in not giving Catelyn and Jon even the most cursory explanation or assurance. It wouldn’t have fixed things, but it sure would have made it a little bit better for Jon and Catelyn on an emotional level instead of the wild thoughts each agonized over. And while I understand that Ned’s position had him caught between Jon and Cat in a situation where making things better for one largely comes at the expense of the other, I do think that he should have done better by Jon in the matter of Cat’s treatment of him. There are things that I don’t think Ned really saw (i.e, Cat’s refusal to address Jon by his name since she frequently uses Jon’s name in conversations with other people and in her own internal monologues. She just doesn’t address Jon himself by it as per his PoV in AGoT) but he also clearly failed Jon by willfully letting things go, as he did in the matter of him joining the Night’s Watch. His angered reaction to Catelyn’s ultimatum and her previous comment on his protectiveness of Jon suggest that there were places where he put his foot down, but the fact that Ned ultimately takes the relatively easy way out by signing off on Jon’s departure for the Wall is not something I look favorably on him for. Jon’s complicated feelings about his father didn’t come from nowhere.

That said, I wholly reject the implication that Ned somehow caused Jon’s abuse by not telling Cat the truth about his paternity (or by raising him in Winterfell in the first place as I’ve seen sometimes in other arguments which is another can of worms and a world of hell no). Again, this is an inherently flawed situation due to a societal hierarchy that is broader than everyone involved, but the choice of how to deal with that situation is on the individual characters. Cat’s choice to take out her frustrations on Jon is on Cat, and I dislike the deflection of that responsibility onto Ned. I understand that this builds on analyzing the situation that Cat was in, which I’m sympathetic to, but it still sidesteps the real issue which is that she was willing to take her resentment and fears out on a child and that shouldn’t be the case even if Jon was Ned’s biological son. The main issue is that Cat shouldn’t have treated Jon like that, not because Jon wasn’t Ned’s but because he was an innocent child that wasn’t responsible for how he came to be. Knowing the truth shouldn’t be the deciding factor on whether Jon gets treated as a person or not.

[fortunatelylori]

Hi! I apologise in advance if this question comes off as antagonistic, because I'm worried that it will, but please know that I'm genuinely curious. I've been reading some comments by you and @nothinghappensinalstonville and noticed you're both very critical of Sansa during her arguments with Jon, and seem to think he was absolutely right and she was absolutely wrong. (part 1 of 2)

My question is, can you elaborate on why – if you believe she undermines him and her advice to him is always wrong – you think she’s a good match for him, why you think they’d be a good team, why she’d be a good queen to his king? I’m sorry, my question sounds petulant even to my own ears, but I don’t mean it that way, I promise! I truly would like to hear your thoughts on why she’s good for Jon when you seem to think she’s been so wrong in all their interactions. (part 2 of 2)

Dear nonnie,

…..

I’m trying very hard to contain my frustration right now because you seem like a very nice person. However, I spend a lot of time and energy writing my posts and comments. I try, to the best of my abilities, to be fair and as objective as I possibly can and explain my point of view in detail. That takes quite a bit of thought and effort on my part so to know that, in your case at least, all of that was an utter and complete waste of time is a deeply disheartening feeling. 

To make it clear, I have no issues with people disagreeing with me or having different interpretations. Nor do I have issues with people sending me asks where they challenge my views. What I do take issue with is when my opinions are misrepresented or I’m accused of saying things I didn’t say. 

If you’re genuinely curious to find out my opinion, you could have checked out my blog before sending me this ask. I have a meta page all set up for anyone to go through and see what my opinions are. 

There is a tendency in the GOT fandom to believe that stanning a character should mean that you believe that character is above reproach, is never wrong and anyone who might disagree is not a “true fan”. By and large, the Jonsa fandom is more open to debate on the nature of characters than other groups but even in our little corner, there is a tendency to try to protect the character of Sansa from any and all criticism, mostly in relation to Jon. 

I understand the impulse to a degree. Sansa has been my favorite female character since season 1. I’ve gone on the bat defending her time and time again and I understand people being protective of her because Sansa is very much a maligned character in the rest of the fandom.

However, the way I stan characters doesn’t conform to this approach. To give you a clear example, my favorite literary character of all times is Scarlett O’Hara. That’s not because I believe she is perfect and beyond reproach but rather because of the complexities of her character that include both positive and negative traits. My liking of Sansa Stark is the same.I like characters, flaws and all and I have no problem discussing those flaws and I don’t think I should stop doing it just because fans in general are unfairly criticizing Sansa. That is not a valid argument to me. I would find it completely disingenuous and hypocritical on my part if I spent my time criticizing every other character, which I do, but stopped myself from doing it with Sansa because my opinion does not conform to the general consensus of the Jonsa/Sansa fandom or because she’s already unfairly criticized in other places. 

So, let’s get this over with: 

seem to think he was absolutely right and she was absolutely wrong

you seem to think she’s been so wrong in all their interactions.

I never said that. In this post I said the following: 

My problem with the way this whole thing is presented in the fandom is that it’s taken as a very black and white issue and people feel compelled to either defend Jon or defend Sansa.

The discourse is either:

“OMG! Look! Sansa is undermining Jon! Dark Sansa is coming, people! Alert the presses! This episode … this season … in 2035. It’s coming!“

Or

“Sansa is right. Jon is stupid. He makes decisions with his heart, instead of his head.“

Except that things are never as simple as that and it’s this type of decision that could cost you in the larger scheme of the game of thrones. Deciding whether to pardon the child of a bannerman that betrayed you could go many different ways.

And also: 

So to say that Sansa was right in this situation and Jon was wrong is oversimplifying things. It’s those kinds of decisions that a medieval king/lord is always struggling with and there is no 100% guarantee that you will make the right choice. Jon and Sansa are very young and they have a huge responsibility on their shoulders. There’s a lot you need to learn in order to be a successful ruler, and that goes for Sansa as well as Jon.

In my addendum to that post, I also said: 

I have also talked in the past, on several occasions, about Jon being a poor communicator, acting like a lone operator and blindsiding Sansa with his decisions despite them needing to act like a united front.

In a post I wrote just yesterday, I said this: 

Since season 6, Sansa has been frustrated that Jon doesn’t listen to her:

1. When she argued that he shouldn’t take Winterfell until they had enough men.

2. Before the battle of the bastards, when she warned him about Ramsay and felt that he wasn’t taking her opinion into account

3. In season 7, when she argued against his decision regarding Alys and Ned.

4. In season 7, when she felt he was paying too much attention to the NK and not enough attention to Cersei.

5. Still in season 7, when she told him not to go to Dragonstone and he blindsided her by announcing to everyone that he was, in fact, going.

So this: “this is the way he is, the way he’s always been. he never listens to me” business is a standing issue between them since the start of their relationship in season 6.

I didn’t find it strange that she would say that. She was angry and venting and she’s frustrated with Jon always doing things without talking to her or taking her opinion into account.

if you believe she undermines him 

Except I don’t believe she’s undermining him which is why I wrote an entire meta attacking the “undermining” argument that you can find here. 

In case you don’t want to bother reading all of it, here are a few excerpts: 

Now people have pointed out that, as one of his vassals, Sansa has every right to question him publicly. The problem is that’s not how Jon sees her. He very distinctly separates Sansa from the rest of his court. And since we already had the “we need to trust each other” scene at the end of season 6, I think it’s safe to assume that he sees the two of them as a unit that is supposed to be on the same page so the fact that Sansa speaks out against him in public, instead of privately, feels like a betrayal.

However, if there’s one thing you learn sooner or later, is that there are two sides to every story. That’s why it’s never a good idea to side with one party whenever couples fight.

Because if we look at things from Sansa’s perspective, you can see how she might feel dismissed. The fact of the matter is Jon isn’t the world’s greatest communicator and failed to talk his decision over with Sansa before announcing it to the Council, which in turn makes Sansa feel sidelined, hence her aggressive snark and Joffrey digs.

And that’s because the audience support is very much skewed  in  Jon’s favor. Being on tumblr, sometimes you forget that the Jonsa fam is very much the minority and that exclusive Sansa fans are the unicorns of this fandom (#love4unicorns). The vast majority of this audience will not look at Jon as an unreliable narrator, as every character in this show is, but as the ultimate authority on how this scene should be viewed.

If he says he feels undermined, then it must be because he’s being undermined, which by extension means that Sansa will betray him.

I simply believe that just like Jon, Sansa makes mistakes not only in their conversations but in her approach to certain issues, like the Alys/Ned incident. Jon and Sansa’s arguments, in my opinion, are not clear cut or black and white. There are points to be made on both sides of the debate and pretending like Sansa is completely correct and Jon is wrong is oversimplifying things, as is the reverse. I’ve already talked ad nauseam about the Alys/Ned situation. So here are a 2 other examples: 

Sansa warning Jon that they don’t have enough men  prior to the battle of the bastards: 

She is correct in that they don’t have enough men. That doesn’t change the fact that they’re stuck in the middle of freezing, wintry terrain, a fact that is brought into the plot by Davos who says Stannis lost the war primarily because of the weather, which is in fact correct. In addition to that, by that point they’ve already tried to gather up more men and were denied at almost every turn. It’s not that Jon can’t count, it’s that he doesn’t see any possibility of getting more men and is afraid that he’s going to lose the men he has if he waits. That is a valid argument. 

The reason why Sansa is so resistant is because she knows there’s the possibility of getting more men but dreads having to resort to calling the Knights of the Vale because Littlefinger comes attached to that particular deal. Jon can’t really be blamed for that since he doesn’t know. 

Sansa warning Jon that Ramsay will try to trick him: 

She is correct in her assessment of Ramsay. However her: “Don’t do what he wants you to do” isn’t going to help Jon much, is it? What does that mean? How do you build a strategy around that? She doesn’t know either. Saying that Jon should have listened to Sansa in this instance is … I mean, listen to her about what? He can do absolutely nothing with the info that Sansa provides. 

Her being angry that Jon doesn’t specifically ask for her opinion in a meeting where she is present is also, quite frankly, debatable. Could he have asked? Yes. Could she have just said what she thought instead of taking her frustration out on him in private? Also yes. 

That’s about it … These are the instances where I kind of lean  towards Jon’s point of view more than Sansa’s but also acknowledge the fact that she has reasons to say the things she says, thus making it a more complex situation than one of them being wrong and the other right. 

For those 3 instances, I am now stuck writing another extremely long post trying to defend what are not, as far as I can see, opinions that should garner this amount of controversy. 

But since now I must also atone for those opinions by proving just how much I love Sansa, here is the list of reasons why I believe they’re a good match and she’ll make a good queen to Jon’s king: 

1. She is more politically minded than he is. Their debate on trusting Tyrion is proof enough of that. She also has experience in dealing with an extremely treacherous court in King’s Landing and that will prove very useful in managing their future court. An experience Jon completely lacks. 

2. He has a tendency to be impulsive whereas she is more controlled and strategic. They balance each other out. Jon is a big picture thinker which is fine but that can cause him to miss details that might turn into huge conflicts later on whereas Sansa is much more aware of the subtleties of situations and can identify potential risks. 

3. Jon has a hero complex and a self-sacrificing streak, where he wants to save and protect everyone. Sansa is more willing to accept the possibility that you can’t always do that. But Jon will continue to try to protect people so he needs someone to protect him, sometimes even from himself which is what Sansa can do for him. 

4. In my post regarding the alliances that Sansa and Jon can make, I called Sansa the most eligible match in Westeros. The amount of allies and strategic power she can bring to the table is undeniable and will be among the main reasons why they end up king and queen.

5. They’re both humanists. Despite Sansa’s more calculated temperament (something she learned, btw because naturally she’s not a calculated person),  she would have given a mob of people that attacked her and almost raped her bread if she had had it, she takes charge of calming the spirits of the women during the Battle of the Blackwater and as Jon’s regent, she supervises the food storing and preparations for winter. They both have the same view of what leadership is and the kind of leaders they want to be. They both very much see leadership as a duty and want to do right by the people that they govern.

6. On a personal level, they’re both romantics who dream about a quiet, domestic life. They want to have children and raise a family. So their personal goals and temperaments are aligned. 

7. Jon is insecure, particularly when it comes to how other people view him and since the moment they have been reunited, not only has Sansa understood that but given him the validation he needs to feel secure, content and happy. In turn, Jon can be the brave, gentle and strong man that Ned promised Sansa and that she’s always dreamed about. 

8. They fight a lot, they both make good and bad point along the way but at the end of the day, their fights are constructive and lead to both of them growing and developing as people. They push each other to be better. 

There are probably many more reasons that can be added but this is all I can come up with at this time. 

One more thing I’d like to add before I finish this:

I was under the, perhaps mistaken, impression that people sending me asks or reading my blog were interested in my honest opinion on topics and not just in answers and posts that validate their pre-existing views. If that is the case, I don’t think my blog is for you. I will never shy away from expressing my thoughts on a subject, even when that might be controversial. So if that bothers you, I understand. Please unfollow me, block me or otherwise scroll past me if you feel leaving a comment disagreeing is not enough. I don’t want to make anyone’s fandom experience anything less than a happy one, if I can help it. 

So, in an effort, to keep the Jonsa fandom experience a positive one for myself, I’d like to let everyone know that this will be my final answer on this subject. If you’re ever tempted to send me an ask telling me that I don’t think Sansa is entitled to voice her opinions, that I think Sansa is undermining Jon, that I’m trying to steal her agency in order to prop up Jon or that I think Sansa is always wrong and Jon is always right, please know that I will delete those asks and not answer them. I really don’t like doing that because I love talking to you guys and I really appreciate your interest in my blog and my opinions but at this point, if you still believe all of those things, there’s literally nothing I can say that will change your mind. Thank you for understanding!

Have a nice day, nonnie!

[it-was-so-human]

For my prayer has always been love

It was the most convenient marriage of convenience possible.

(The fact that the thought of marrying Jon Snow had occasionally made her heart flutter just a little however was admittedly a touch inconvenient.)

TW: Reference to past assault

For the Jonsa Historical Event, @jonsa-creatives 

Also on AO3.

---

London, England 1822

This was hardly what Lady Sansa expected from her life.

Well, perhaps the marrying a duke part wasn’t far off—but she truly never expected for the duke in question to be her Father’s heir. The exceptionally poor distant cousin.

But it has been many years since the dreams and aspirations of her mother and governess felt like anything but fairytales.

It was twelve years since her parents died and eight since her brother Robb.

And just over a year since the unbearable loss of Bran after a long illness. It wasn’t unexpected, he was so young and so prone to infection ever since his fall. But the pain still remained scratching and raw.

And the Starks, once a proud home, now without sons. And an estate left in tatters without proper stewardship for the past decade, the land and houses on it in shambles.

The cousin was inheriting an old and great title yet somehow more penniless and debt ridden than before.

The Stark coffers were dry. 

And the only money to the family name tied up in an exceedingly comfortable dowry set for Sansa since birth.

And Jon Snow would have to marry for a dowry. 

His lover, a wealthy widow he first met as and officer on the continent, a known great beauty with silver hair, was unable or unwilling to marry a penniless man. Newly titled though he may be.

What a pity for the new Duke of Winterfell, Lord Stark. 

(Would he return to her? His lover? After securing his wife’s funds?)

And Sansa was conveniently there, the Stark daughter fostered by her aunt and her second husband. Once a diamond of the first water, Sansa had been ruined far too much to make any respectable man’s head turn.

(And her remaining guardian at best unconcerned, at worst complicit in her fall.)

The gossips didn’t care for the truth, found enough wrong doing on her end to cast her aside. Many years later and lips still curled at Sansa’s name.

(But Jon Snow didn’t care, didn’t and wouldn’t ask about Ramsey Bolton.)

And since her aunt’s death, the murmured disapproval among the governors of the Vale Estate regarding her as underfoot grew. Increasingly raising eyebrows at her uncle’s fondness for her.

It was a neat and tidy solution. She was almost permanently on the shelf and now she would be the new Lord Stark’s bride.

The most convenient marriage of convenience possible.

(The fact that the thought of marrying Jon Snow had occasionally made her heart flutter just a little however was admittedly a touch inconvenient.)

He had kissed her hand after formally asking her to marry him. Never mind that his man of business and her Uncle had long drawn out contracts and decided on terms.

It was a kind gesture. As if he valued her opinion.

And he gave her such a hesitant smile after asking. One that felt so shy yet sweet that she couldn’t help but share a small one in return.

(And it was the first time she felt that unexpected, unpleasant, unnecessary, wondrous fluttering.)

((She didn’t think she could feel those type of things. That she could not only be comfortable with a man’s touch... but almost enjoy it.))

That was before she felt the disdain in eyes, his smile turned mocking.

“I am so pleased by your acceptance, Princess Sansa. To have a betrothed so above reproach is the highest honor.”

Oh.

She would not take his words personally though. His use of an old childhood taunt. 

She was used to it by now. What man would wish to marry her?

And he was reportedly a man of good character. War-hardened perhaps, but good.

((And he would free her from her Uncle whose gaze and hands lingered too long and was decidedly not good.))

She’d known Jon as a girl. From afar at least. Best friends with Robb, he summered at their estate. He was a serious but good young man.

(But oh god, she wasn’t the kindest to him growing up. How can she ask he be kind enough to forgive her adolescent arrogance?)

He served with her brother’s troop in the Peninsular Wars. Declared a war hero. And left with scars to tell the tale.

And thought to be a bastard until an enterprising solicited discovered his parents’ marriage license.

And he had broad strong shoulders and kind dark eyes.

If all this were in a salacious novel she was found reading as a girl, Aunt Lisa would have had her head. (Would have again called her whore.)

But this was no work of fiction.

This was her life.

(Maybe six years ago she would find him too rough, but now she only hoped his roughness would not be turned on her.)

She was stripped of her hope and innocence long ago, during her first season. Too much scandal plagued her since.

She would not be marrying a proper gentleman.

She wouldn’t be courted. Or loved.

Or even liked.

A duke’s daughter that circumstances brought down down. She felt weighted and tired and hadn’t dared to hope.

But she would have the security of a marriage. Protection was more than a fatherless girl could hope for.

And she would be grateful. She would make herself grateful.

She would be a good wife.

(And then she might still be able to have a family yet. That was the one dream she still held fast.)

—-

Last year he had an existence he could manage, a promotion and good posting, a comfortable lover, only occasional nightmares, and an understanding of his place in the world.

He wasn’t a great honorable man, but he was a good enough. He could live with himself. 

He wasn’t a man who held disdain for a bride and title that was never meant to be his.

He wasn’t the sort go lash out at a lady. Dangle the swapping of fortunes in front of an unlucky girl. 

No one had ever claimed Jon to be cruel. But that was before years of war and before he was then named an heir to a crumbling estate.

And told marriage to save it and all those dependent on its livelihood was his duty.

Sansa Stark was convenient. 

But a duke’s daughter wasn’t meant for the likes of him.

He was an inconsequential orphan boy who was able to scrape the barest of army commissions.

He’d grown up rough. No Eton for him. He was a soldier--but a good one.

But perhaps ruined daughters could marry rough.

Ruined daughters who once smirked at seemingly bastard sons.

Perhaps they married dukes so unrefined and scarred and poor that even the most desperate of society misses looked away in horror.

Sansa and him didn’t belong together.

She held herself absolutely... regally.

He knew it before, but it was only reinforced when he took her hand that day.

Her silly pampered softness in his rough work hardened hands.

And he left that stupid kiss on them.

Pressed his lips against her hand. He could kick himself. 

What had come over him? He had meant to ask her in person as a sign of good will.

Instead he proved himself uncouth in his lack of grace at playing a gallant gentleman. He knew his awkward fumbling was sloppy.

Wasn’t at all refined

And he found himself... lay the blame on her. Wanted her to feel uncomfortable too. Turned his smile almost mocking to cover up his embarrassment.

Marrying to save an estate that was barely his in anything but name? That was bad enough.

And it had ruffled unbearably to think that Lady Sansa Stark was his attended bride.

But if he was honest, he was not truly angry. He was tired.

Battle weary.

(Didn’t want a marriage that would be a fight too.)

And he had seen it in her eyes too. A sorry kinship of sorts.

Was this broken lady the once beloved daughter of Ned and Caitlyn Stark?

She looked so humbled and he had wanted nothing more than to see a haughty look return to her eyes.

Perhaps that’s why he made a fool of himself.

(Or perhaps the truth was he just wanted to feel her smooth porcelain skin on his lips.)

But he had quickly remembered it would do well to not forget she was a pampered princess.

One with a soft smile they could make a man’s heart race. (Before it flickered into a pained grimace. One that seemed all too commonplace on her.)

It was badly done of him.

She was a beauty. A true lady in ever sense. Her voice smooth and melodic. And so very accomplished. And thoughtful. Had nursed her brother until his last breath. Had tried her best to care for dependents of the Stark estate with her small allowance.

And she was going to be his wife.

She would be Lady Stark and perhaps one day the mother of his children.

Children! He’d never planned those.

But the idea of little red headed babes he found wasn’t completely objectionable.

—

Jon couldn’t miss the smirks and loud snickers Baratheon and his friends sent his way at the club last night. Spoke loudly of his engagement followed by raucous laughter and pitying glances.

The Soiled Heiress. 

And Sansa has been on the receiving end of those smirks since her first season.

Had been on the receiving end of scorn she was never raised to expect. Would never had to expect if her father or brother had lived, if her guardians were worthy of the name.

She would never have been left so vulnerable. Would have had her honor defended at sunrise.

Scorn when what she deserved was... regard.

A young lady deserved that much at least.

He may prove to be a terrible husband, but he didn’t want her to feel that he thought lowly of her.

(It was himself who was low low.)

So when he called on her, he brought flowers. The pretty hot house variety were a luxury he could scarcely afford but he wanted her to have something.

She liked pretty things as a girl and though her austere dresses no longer reflected such, he imagined it would still be the case.

(Perhaps so many blooms looked far too ostentatious?)

But when he presented them to her, her shock turned into unmistakable pleasure.

And the way her eyes lit up made him feel lighter inside than he had in ages.

“Thank you Lord Stark. They’re beautiful... I haven’t received flowers in si-...” her cheeks burned and he felt an anger on her behalf. “I don’t receive many bouquets.”

And he didn’t care if he embarrassed himself too much, gave up too many of his cards, left his pieces on the board vulnerable to attack.

His voice felt hoarse.

“Then I vow that you will receive so many bouquets you’ll run out of vases. Out of tables.”

—

He seemed so earnest. Not a fanciful declaration of a suiter. There was no artifice there.

And she felt so grateful. Not the feigned variety of a good wife.

But a genuine rush of gratefulness that warmed her inside.

She could feel bitter that something so simple made her eyes sheen, but she honestly only felt that fluttering again.

And she didn’t want to ward it off just yet.

It felt good.

“There are a great deal of tables in Winterfell, Lord Stark,” she managed.

She took his hand in hers in thanks... his warm calloused palm... and what she felt like in that moment...

“I look forward to the challenge, Lady Sansa.” 

The feeling? It could be described as hope.

---

(Forgive me, I am ridiculously out of practice?!?) 

[hysterialevi]

Lotus pt. 13 (Batjokes)

Author’s note: This one’s a shorter chapter, but I hope you guys enjoy it regardless. As always, thanks for taking the time to read this story, and I appreciate all the support.

From Tiffany’s POV

DIVINITY CHURCH

Holding the photograph in my hand, I struggled to let it go as I replayed the paused memory in my head, almost able to hear my dad’s laugh fluttering in the background. I was just a little schoolgirl when he took this photo, and to see where we’ve ended up ever since that time...it hurt.

All that innocence, all that joy, all those years spent together -- and all that was left of us was a burning city.

Dad was gone, Luke was living in his own world, mom had locked herself in the house...and now, Bruce was also slowly drifting away -- plummeting deeper and deeper into Lotus’ irrevocable clutch.

If I was being honest, I didn’t even know if “Bruce” existed anymore. It seemed like Lazarus was his only identity now, and every shred of humanity he ever held in him...had vanished. Bruce himself might’ve “returned” from the dead, but the Bruce I knew was still sleeping in that morgue. And I’d be foolish to believe he’d ever wake up.

Taking a deep breath, I finally followed the actions of the other people attending the vigil around me, and laid the photograph down with care, lighting a single candle next to it. Countless candles had already been set aflame outside of the church, and even more people had gathered around to remember their loved ones.

There were photographs of late husbands, wives, parents, and even children -- all of them killed either by Lotus...or Lazarus himself. It was a sight I never thought I’d see, and I would’ve given anything to forget it.

Glancing off to the side, I averted my attention from the vigil for a moment when I noticed a mournful Blake standing not too far away from me, staring lifelessly at a photo of Avesta as he silently said his goodbyes.

He wasn’t wearing his Agency uniform tonight, and instead, wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, along with a dark jacket and fresh bandage plastered on his cheek. He appeared even more desolate than when I last saw him, and it seemed as if the emotion in him was gradually disintegrating further and further as the days flew by.

I couldn’t deny that his recent behavior worried me. I mean, everyone was being pushed to their limits because of this chaos, but Blake seemed especially damaged. I feared he would break soon.

Quietly making my way over to the agent, I patiently stood by as he placed Avesta’s photograph down, giving it its own spot of esteem among the clusters of candles. He didn’t utter a single word or shed a single tear, and the longer he remained without displaying any type of sentiment, the more worried I became.

I abruptly broke the disturbing silence and faintly cleared my throat, barely getting Blake to even look at me.

“Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?” I asked in a light-hearted manner, trailing behind him as he wandered off to a more private location away from the vigil.

“No,” he replied bleakly. “There are enough people in there.”

I shrugged. “I just thought you’d want to rest after everything that happened at City Hall. I know Lazarus roughed you up quite a bit.”

Blake’s expression sank grimly at that, and his eyes fell to the ground in reproach as he leaned against a tree, barely touching the candles’ light.

“Psh, I was one of the lucky ones. It’s true, Lazarus gave me a thrashing, but at least I didn’t get my stomach torn open.”

I blinked both out of confusion and disgust for a few moments, thrown off-guard.

“Wait, w-what do you mean?”

“Lazarus was torturing the Mayor,” Blake explained, his voice low and flat. “Just...cutting and slicing him open like a bloated pig...but I didn’t save him. I didn’t intervene. Instead, all I did was use him as a distraction so I could get away, and disabled the EMP generator while the Mayor was screaming in my ear, crying for mercy.”

Blake’s rough tone softened with guilt. “I...I let the Mayor die, so I could live. It’s the only reason I’m here now -- and the only reason he’s dead.”

The man gazed hopelessly at me with heavy eyelids, almost as if he were looking straight through me.

“...How do you forget something like that? How do you justify your fight against crime...when you’re as heinous as your enemies?”

I frowned out of sympathy and carefully approached Blake, offering him any kind of reassurance I could give.

“Blake, you can’t blame yourself for the Mayor’s death. Lazarus killed him. Not you. It’s not your fault.”

Contrary to what I expected, that statement only ended up sparking his grief into annoyance.

“I may not have killed him, but it’s the Agency’s job to protect people, dammit!” He snapped back. “We came to Gotham to save lives, and yet, the death toll over the past week has been higher than the death toll over the past year! What are we even doing here if we can’t help for shit? Avesta is dead. The Mayor is dead. And now even Waller’s in the hospital, ready to slip away at any moment -- all because I failed to do my job. Not to mention we have no escape at this point, considering Bane blew up Gotham Bridge. We’re trapped in a living hell, and so long as Lazarus lives...it’s never going to end.”

I raised my volume slightly, hoping to break Blake out of his enraged trance.

“Hey, Blake, stay with me, okay? I know things have been difficult, but we can’t give up now. Lazarus is murdering defenseless civilians, and unless we step up to fight back, we’re all going to die. We can’t let that happen. We can’t allow him to kill anymore innocents.”

That didn’t seem to help much, and Blake only continued to carry on with his rant.

“What does ‘innocent’ even mean anymore...? Am I innocent? I’ve killed people, Tiffany. Do you understand that? People just like you and me who had families waiting for them at home -- families that never got to see them again...until they lowered them into their graves. The Mayor was brutalized and tortured because of me, for god’s sake! Because I valued my own life more than his. Do you still think I’m innocent?” Blake shook his head. “...No. You only label me as such because I claim to do it for the greater good. But guess what? That’s the exact same goal our enemies are fighting for.”

The way Blake was speaking admittedly sent me into a state of alarm, and at this point, I didn’t even know what I could say or do that would calm his nerves.

Desperately trying to think of something, I hurriedly jumped in before Blake’s psyche could deteriorate anymore, and found myself mindlessly stepping closer and closer to him as we argued.

“We are not our enemies, Blake,” I said sternly. “We both kill people, yes, but we kill murderers. They kill innocents. That’s the difference.”

He scoffed, unconvinced. “And how do we know who’s who? Let me tell you something, Tiffany. If our war with Lazarus has taught me anything, it’s that there are only two types of people left in this world. Those who have blood on their hands, and those who lie. It’s just how the world works now, and as much as I want to see that maniac’s head roll off his shoulders, he is right about one thing: this road is leading to death’s door no matter how hard we fight, and there’s not a damn thing we can do to change that.”

Blake began to roam away from me before I could say another word and distanced himself from the vigil, waving a quick goodbye as he vanished into the night’s shadows, disappearing more with every step.

“...It’s like Lazarus said, Tiffany. There’s no crueler method to torture a man than giving him the illusion of choice.”

From Gordon’s POV

GCPD, COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE

“Due to yet another devastating attack conducted by Lazarus, City Hall is now in ruins after being hit by a number of missiles,” the news announced, “and the Mayor has officially been confirmed dead. Reports say that multiple agents and police officers were severely injured during the attack -- including Director Waller herself -- and I’m afraid the condition of Gotham Bridge is no better. The notorious Bane struck again tonight and detonated a series of bombs on the structure, completely decimating its architecture. At the moment, there is no way out of Gotham by car.”

Shutting the television off with a remote, I slapped the device back down on the table with a bit more force than intended and took a seat at my desk, contemplating on just what the hell to do from here.

Waller was stuck in the hospital, City Hall had been destroyed, and as of tonight, there was no way we could evacuate Gotham’s civilians -- not efficiently, anyhow. The weight of leading the Agency and the police force both fell on me now, and with the heavy amount of losses we just suffered, morale was lower than low. 

Fortunately however, there was a bright side in all this. We knew where Joker and Lazarus would most-likely be hiding, thanks to Quinn. The Bonus Bros’ Carnival, she told us -- at the funhouse, specifically. Apparently, Joker had turned the abandoned park into his own personal base of operations, and guarded the perimeter better than his own life. If we were going to infiltrate that place, it was going to take every single one of our people. And even then, things would be dicey.

I just wished I could’ve heard the whole of what Waller had to say about Bruce and Batman. It sounded like she knew where the caped vigilante was sneaking around, and to say I was concerned about Batman’s safety would’ve been an understatement. That man was a hero to Gotham’s people -- a hero to me. If someone like Lazarus was able to take him down...we were in some serious, serious trouble. 

Fighting a war without Batman was like firing a gun with no bullets. If there was any chance we could relocate him, I’d be the first to take it.

“Commissioner?” Someone suddenly said, snapping me out of my thoughts. It was Montoya.

“Renee,” I greeted, bringing my mind back to business. “Something you need?”

Closing the door behind her, Montoya took on a more empathetic tone. 

“Actually, I just wanted to see how you were doing. Y’know, with everything that’s happening. That fight with Bane was intense, and City Hall didn’t do so well either. As tough as it is, it’s important we keep our heads high in times like these. So, how are you feeling?”

I let out an irritated sigh, tugging at my collar. “If I’m being honest -- like hell. In all my years working with the GCPD, I’ve never seen something like this. At first, I didn’t take Lazarus too seriously, since he was nothing but a CEO, but I can see now what a goddamn mistake that was. I guess Wayne has more of his dad’s blood in him than we realized. Why couldn’t he have turned out like his mother instead?”

Renee sat on the edge of the desk. “Because people like her don’t survive in Gotham.”

I nodded at that, rubbing my chin in thought. “Sad, but true. If we’re lucky though, tomorrow will be the day we finally gain the upper hand. According to Quinn, Joker and Lazarus are skulking somewhere inside that deserted carnival just outside of town. They’ve got a lot of people guarding their little hideout, and even more guns. I’m not gonna lie -- it won’t be easy. But we can’t back down now. Not after all the damage they’ve dealt.”

“I hear you, Commissioner,” Renee agreed. “I just hope our men still have the strength to fight. Lazarus certainly knows how to drain morale, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that our chances of success aren’t great. But if Gotham has been able to survive for this long, I'm sure it can survive this. Even with Lazarus at the top.”

“You’re right,” I replied, “it’s just difficult to see victory as a possibility when a dead man is doing better than us. Despite there being no guarantee of survival though, I promise you I’ll do everything I can to smoke that son-of-a-bitch out of his hole, and put an end to him for good. I’d rather cure Bruce than kill him, but that might not be an option at this point.”

Renee stood up from her seat. “Whatever you think is best, Commissioner. I’m with you.”

“Thank you, Montoya. As tragic as things are, it’s good to know you’ll be here through it all.”

She beamed warmly at me, smiling out of gratitude. “I have faith in you, Gordon. Now try to get some rest, would you? You’re gonna need all the strength you can get for tomorrow.”

I chuckled and followed Renee as she headed out the door, the two of us secretly terrified of what was about to unfold the next day.

“Don’t need to tell me twice. Though, maybe someone should remind Lazarus what the word ‘dead’ means again.”

Renee’s face lit up with courage. “If it comes down to it, we’ll be there to show him.”

I smirked at that, taking one last look at my office before flicking off the lights. 

“You’re damn right we will.”