#but I've BEEN to snow

[mirandashadowborn]

Star Stable: There’s a BLIZZARD! Here’s some nice warm clothes! (gives you a cardigan)

Us: 

[expelliarmus]

[greywoe]

"The she-wolf laid into the squires with a tourney sword, scattering them all. The crannogman was bruised and bloodied, so she took him back to her lair to clean his cuts and bind them up with linen."

[wearecrowley]

[saessenach]

quick doodle of AGOT!Jon + the reason why he is not allowed anywhere near the dais while court is visiting Winterfell

[starflungwaddledee]

artfight attacks of @aseuki's lady helia and @das-a-kirby-blog's cherubim knight!

[noonemonitorsmyscreentime]

What I think is kind of interesting is that if Dean Casca Highbottom, seeing exactly how good of a student Young Coriolanus Snow was, had taken the boy under his wing instead of despising him and trying to get revenge on a boy that never knew his father (and who only had of his father the words of others about the great man that he was), he might have had a good helping hand in stopping the games he so deeply despised.

It would have been, at the same time, quite a revenge on Crassus Snow to use his son to dismantle the Games the man helped implement. Not only that, but it would have offered young Coryo a person to depend on during his most formative years where he had to grow up under the immense pressure of keeping up appearances, taking care of an ailing grandmother and fighting everyday to keep himself and his family fed.

What Casca failed to realise during the 10th Games was that there weren't 24 tributes, but 25. Snow was fighting for survival just as much as the rest; of course, with the caveat that Snow was never in danger of losing his life. But, for a boy who had for all his life to survive instead of to live, those two might have been the same thing. In saving himself, Coryo would also save Tigris and his grandmother, while all the other tributes were saving mosty themselves since they would be going home with nothing to show for winning the games other than their lives and some (crippling in some cases) trauma.

Maybe things would have played out differently, maybe not, but we have seen time and time again through all four of the Hunger Games books, the power of a kind gesture: Peeta with the bread, Rue healing Katniss, Katniss singing to Rue, Mags sacrificing herself, Boggs treating Katniss like a young traumatised girl when no one else did. Who knows if Snow (and, in turn, the rest of Panem) wouldn't have benefited from it?

[gomzdrawfr]

thinking about how when Price and Raven take off their helmets and their first instinct is to tidy up the other person's hair instead of their own

[emmcarstairs]

Only after I read and later watched The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes did it hit me just how much The Hunger Games as a literary work is influenced by the Romantic movement of the 19th century. Its exploration of a revolution sparked by the common men is at the heart of THG. But while the trilogy focuses on its political ideas, TBOSAS discusses the themes of individuality, art's longevity, and Nature as a teacher. Lucy Gray, the songbird, is the teacher who, using her creative genius, attempts to shake the foundations of Snow's cold rationalism rooted in the Capitol's Classicism (think of all the Latin names!) Lucy Gray and Snow are really Emotion and Reason caught in an eternal conflict. And despite being briefly swayed in the woods of District 12, Snow turns his back on Nature/Lucy Gray's lessons. He could never thrive there. While Lucy Gray's spirituality and art transcend the cage of her own narrative.

[fluffyfangirl]

(I like to believe that Max threw the snowball, but let's be honest - the rest of the party would do that, too)

[jugacolours]

[expelliarmus]

[coryothesub]

I need a Coryo smut where the reader finds him smelling her panties while masturbating.

Take example from this lovely anon and send more asks because interaction gives me dopamine

I took the liberty of making this a peacekeeper Coryo thing, because that sounds just like something a peacekeeper Coryo would do.

nsfw / mdni / pk!sub!coryo / district!dom!reader

You returned home after a long day of hard work and to your great dismay your front door was open.

Had you forgotten to lock it or someone had broken into your house to look for food or your non-existent valuables? Or maybe those were the goddamn peacekeepers again? In District 12 you just never knew.

You grabbed a knife from the kitchen and started inspecting your shack not sure whether the possible intruder was still there. 

Then you were caught off guard by soft moans and whimpers coming from the bedroom. You actually thought you recognized this voice from before.

You put the knife down and peeked through the crack in the door just to discover that your suspicions were right. It was Private Coriolanus Snow laying in your small bed, resting his back against the pillows. 

He was fully dressed except for his cock outside his uniform pants, his hand wrapped around it as he was pumping it at a rapid pace. You bit your lip realizing he was a well-endowed young man, well above the average. 

He didn't notice you as his eyes were closed and his face was buried in your panties that you had forgotten to throw in the laundry basket after changing before work.

He let out a series of sweet moans as he breathed in your scent coming from the tiny piece of fabric and his cock jerked in his hand. Such a naughty little pervert.

The sight of the handsome uniformed man pleasuring himself was undeniably arousing. You didn’t even notice at which moment you brought your hand down to your most heated area and let it dive under the waistband of your panties. You felt a pool of treacherous wetness on the tips of your fingers as soon as you reached your clit. Your mind wasn't sure how you felt about this but your body was ready to go with it.

You bit your lip to avoid moaning in unison with the indecent young man occupying your bed.

He groaned deeply, sinking his nose deeper into the white fabric of your panties. It felt like he was about to cum soon and that certainly wasn’t something to be allowed. You walked into the room and cleared your throat loudly.

Coryo sat up quickly tossing away your underwear and trying to cover his exposed manhood with your pillow. His eyes widened in terror and his already flushed cheeks tinted red as you walked over to the bed and your eyes met his with a furious look.

“Private Snow, what the hell are you doing here?” you spoke to him in a stern voice before ripping the pillow away from him and uncovering his painfully hard cock.

“I-I was just sent out on patrol a-and…” he tried to think of an excuse but no sensible words were coming out of his mouth.

“Maybe I should take you to your commander and inquire about the details of this weird little mission if yours. Pretty sure it didn't include patrolling in my bed with your dick out and your face buried in my panties, huh?”

Coryo looked at you in horror, wide-eyed and gaping. He felt his eyes welling up with tears of shame just at the thought of his higher ups finding out. There was no other option but to beg pathetically.

“Please,” he spoke with clenched teeth trying to prevent those pathetic tears from running down his face.

“Please what?” your tone grew even harsher as you felt your cunt getting impossibly wet from him being absolutely helpless at your mercy.

“Please don't go to my commander!” Coryo pleaded, his voice teary and frightened.

“You will have to behave then.” 

“Yes, I will do anything, I swear!” he quickly stood on his knees, grabbing at the hem of your dress.

“Okay then,” you sounded just a bit more admissive. “You’ll have to obey everything I say. One wrong move and all your peacekeeper friends will find out what a filthy little pervert you are.”

Coryo nodded quickly.

“Lay back!”

The blonde boy assumed his previous position, resting his upper body against the pillows.

You pulled down your panties and waved them in front of his face mockingly before tossing them aside and crawling into the bed across from him. After finding a more comfortable position you parted your legs causing Coryo to let out a soft gasp at the sight of your pretty pussy.

You started rubbing yourself lazily and noticed his hand reaching for his stiffened member.

“Nuh-uh!” you shook your head in disapproval. “Naughty little perverts like you don't get to touch themselves.”

Coryo put his hand away quickly. It took a whole lot of focusing to control himself while you were playing with your cunt so deliciously. 

“Feels so good,” you moaned softly and threw your head back as you felt the warm feeling of pleasure washing over your body.

Coryo flared his nostrils watching you with the most pleading look you had ever seen. His cock was literally aching for touch and he needed you so badly.

You watched his despair with a shit eating grin and released yourself from the rest of your clothes making his situation even more unbearable.

You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, your pussy lingering just above his aching member.

“Here, have a taste!” you pushed your fingers between his lips and he started sucking around them hungrily trying to savor every last drop of your juices.

“So hungry…” you teased before pulling your fingers out of his mouth and grabbing his throbbing cock causing him to let out a soft whimper.

He quickly realized the torture wasn't nearly over when you pressed the tip of his dick to your puffy folds and started rubbing against it feeling his velvety skin brushing against your sensitive spot.

Coryo's breath hitched, feeling the long awaited friction. He needed to be inside you so badly.

“Please,” he begged, voice whiny and broken. He looked so adorably pathetic. “Please, I need you, just let me…” 

“Oh look at you, peacekeeper boy,” you kept teasing, rubbing his tip against your clit. “Such a slut for me. So damn pathetic.”

You felt Coryo's dick twitch in your hand just as you said those words.

“Please,” he mouthed, completely dazed from your relentless teasing. “Can you say that again? That word…”

“Oh,” you felt slightly surprised. “You love it don't you, slut boy!”

Coryo's eyes fluttered as he let out a sigh of contentment. As pathetic as it sounded, being called a slut by a district girl while he was still dressed in his full peacekeeper uniform felt strangely arousing.

“Slut!” you repeated, slapping his cheek just as you dove down on his cock, burying it in your dripping wet count.

Coryo's brain shut down completely and he let out a desperate groan. He’d almost thought this would never happen.

You wrapped your hand around his neck feeling his pulse wild and restless under your touch  as you started riding his cock.

“Oh, fuck, Coriolanus!” you moaned out his name feeling his massive dick stretching out your tight walls. Edging him had made you quite desperate for your own release and you knew for sure that none of you would last much longer.

“P-please! Keep going…” Coryo begged unthinkingly although you had no intention of stopping.

You leaned closer to him as your pussy was still bouncing up and down his shaft and locked your lips with his. The boy tried to meet your kiss hungrily but the pressure of your hand against his throat made him gasp for air. 

You kept lingering above his lovely pink lips enjoying his absolute helplessness under your firm grip. His adorable gasps and whimpers combined with his wonderful cock hitting against your sweet spot brought you over the edge and you climaxed, cumming all over his rock hard member.

You kept riding Coryo through your orgasm feeling his breath speeding up under your fingers. His pale blue eyes widened and his cock twitched against your walls just before bucking his hips up and releasing his load deep inside your tight pussy.

You climbed off him and sank in the sheets powerlessly.

“S-so… Is this gonna stay a secret? You know, between me and you?” Coryo asked anxiously post orgasm shakiness still present in his voice as he was zipping up his uniform pants.

“I'm gonna let you off with a warning this time. You're truly lucky that your dick is so good.”

“Thank you!” the boy blushed, secretly basking in your little praise.

You picked up your panties from the floor and put them in his hand.

“Here have these! Maybe having a pair with you will finally make you stop breaking into my house.”

[shoujoteatime]

I've currently been rewatching Snow White with the Red Hair and OH MY GOD

THE PASSION

I have seen many romance series' in my day, but very few pairings come close to the insane amount of chemistry that Zen and Shirayuki have! I've been fangirling all day watching them lol!!! 8(>ᗜ<)8

[lamentable-comedy]

drew a snowbaz. please enjoy.

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Thirteen - It is the night to celebrate your dear friend, but the tensions with Jon only grow greater.

Note: This is the same day as the previous chapter

Ch 14

You have never seen a nameday so beautiful, the ones within King’s Landing are grand, opulent, but here in Highgarden, they are beautiful. The Great Hall is decorated with flowers, a feast the likes you have never seen set along the walls. The musicians are far more skilled than those in King’s Landing, and you find yourself enraptured by the fragrant blossoms surrounding you.

Margaery enters the hall on the arms of Tommen and Loras, Robb’s necklace in place, his ring on her finger, her gown is a thing of beauty, silk, and gossamer fabrics, delicate but vivid embroidery. Her hair is twisted up in an intricate style, her crown set between two strands of hair left down to frame her face, she shines in the dying sunlight, the sky behind her ablaze with pinks, red, oranges, and golds.

She and Tommen start the first dance, with those around them cheering to her health and the health of their marriage.

You have not yet seen Jon, and you are unsure whether you want to or not. He has been distant, holding you at length, avoiding you when he can. In the last few moons, you feel you have spent less time with him than you have the entire time you have known each other, and it is…strange. The distance hurts, he is your closest companion, your friend, your soon-to-be betrothed, your sworn shield, he has been by your side since you were five and ten. But now, now he is virtually a stranger to you. Not fully one, as there are still moments, times, when his eyes soften as he looks at you. When he carries you to your chambers because you drank too much with Margaery, when you learned he slept outside the door to your room when your travel party stopped at inns along the Roseroad.

It is those moments of warmth that worsen your pain. It would be preferable if he were to close himself off completely, act as the Kingsguard does, instead of this back and forth. Then in time, you would be able to bury your feelings deep enough that they would no longer be a sharp, piercing pain but a dull throbbing ache that could be ignored. That would be swept over like the ocean waves sweep over the sand.

Jon claimed his distance was because he was busy. That he was devoting himself further to his swordsmanship, that he needed to act with greater care and propriety in order to not draw suspicion upon you both. Yes, his reasons could be seen as understandable, but no one has ever truly cared. Since you were both young you have acted in a companiable and familiar manner, but now with the way he is acting, people are far more suspicious than they were before. How he does not see this you cannot understand. You know he is not an idiot but, it seems there are still ways of the court he has not learned.

You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exposed without Jon at your side, perhaps he has grown tired of you? Your silk gown is a petal pink with silver embroidery, that cinches at your waist and dips low to display your décolletage. It is beautiful, but far more revealing, than you would normally choose to wear. Would Jon like it? He most likely would not even notice it, given how he avoids looking at you. 

Your hair is loose and styled in waves, and your customary golden bangles have been swapped for ones of silver, a diamond necklace is draped around your neck. Small rubies gleam from their places below the diamonds hanging from strands of silver. It was a gift from your Uncle Robert, given to you on your first Maiden’s Day. The irony is not lost on you that your aunt would choose it for the day on which she is attempting to sell you out like a broodmare. Though you will not deny, it is one of your favorite pieces.

Finally, you spot Jon, and it feels as if someone has draped a warm blanket over you, no longer feeling so alone among the crowd of strangers. He is with your father, which is both strange and not so strange, but what is strange is that Jon wears no armor. Instead, he is dressed in his house colors, in finery you did not know he owned, his hair pulled back, his sword nowhere to be found, and he is wearing rings, well one ring, a signet ring.

“Father, Ser Jon, this is quite a surprise. Have I been tricked, and it is truly my nameday?” You try to jest, taking a step towards Jon, a force of habit you cannot break, reaching to run your fingers down the arm of Jon’s doublet. “You look so very handsome, my champion, is this new?”

He takes a step back, avoiding your touch, and it is a dagger though your heart. He has never rejected your touch before, truly he must have lost feelings for you, but when, and why? Has another slipped beneath your nose and taken him from you? How would it even be possible?

Your Aunt Cersei was right, there is no point to loving men, they will always disappoint you and when you love them it will only hurt you more.

The hurt must have shown on your face, your father reaches for you, but you shrug him off, avoiding both their eyes.

Fine, if Jon wishes to be distant, then so shall you. “The Dowager Queen has a list of suitors she would like me to dance with tonight, I am afraid I will not be able to spare a dance for either of you.”

“A pity, but I understand, do have fun, little lion.” Your father says, giving your hand a pat before heading off towards the nearest feast table.

Jon remains in place, unable to meet your gaze. His boots are shiny, his strong shoulders, muscled arms, and broad chest displayed by the gray cloth that encompasses them. He is so very handsome, a marble statue, a god, an ancient warrior, a conqueror who takes what he desires.

Y/N now is not the time, you are angry with him, and he does not care for you. You internally chastise yourself, donning a mask of indifference.

“Well, are you going to return the compliment, or are you too busy to even speak to me?” You fully fail to sound unaffected by his actions.

“You look very nice, My Lady.” He says, in that same stilted tone that makes you want to scream.

You take a step closer, glaring up at him, unable to stop yourself. “Why are you speaking to me in this way, it is me, y/n, not some stranger.”

He sighs, and takes a step back from you, that same uninterested, stiff tone, drilling into your mind, past your walls of civility, hitting deep, triggering the tripwire of your insecurities and anxieties disguised as rage. “My Lady, it is not proper—”

“Shut up, shut up, I do not wish to hear from you until you stop acting like this.” You snap, anger boiling over in your chest. “Get out of my sight, Lord Snow.”

You turn away from him, blinking back angry tears, and search the hall for your aunt.

You have danced with an Algood, a Tarbeck, a Swyft, a Crakehall, a Blackmont, an Arryn, and Tommen to give yourself a break from the suitors. As well as a Hightower which your aunt quickly ushered you away from telling you he was a fourth son who had slid his way in, and not on her list. Now you dance with a Bracken.

Lord Hendry Bracken, who will be heir to House Bracken if his uncle does not have a son before he dies. He has light brown hair, ale-colored eyes, and a sweet smile. He is not necessarily charming, or overly handsome, but he seems kind and does not talk over you as the Blackmont man did.

“And then my cousin Bess chased me around the halls with a frog in her hand until her father caught us.” He says, laughing as he tells a story of his time growing up alongside his five female cousins.

You laugh as well, imagining a little Hendry running from a frog carried by his cousin, who was no more than a year older than him. “That is terrible, you poor thing.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, do not pity young me, after my uncle forced her to put the frog back outside, I ended up venturing into the gardens to ensure it had returned to its pond safe and sound.”

Your heart warms at his words. “That was quite sweet of you.”

He blushes and shrugs. “I have always felt compassion for those smaller and less able to defend themselves, especially when it comes to animals, they have no voices to speak with, so we must speak on their behalf.”

His sentiment makes you think of Ghost, of the way he and Jon communicate wordlessly.

“It is an admirable trait.” You say, giving him a radiant smile. You could not see yourself falling in love with Lord Hendry, but his kind words and humorous stories have lightened your heart, if only for tonight.

The song comes to an end, and you find yourself reluctant to leave him in favor of a new suitor.

“Perhaps we might exit the floor and refresh ourselves? Have you tried the wine in the golden glasses? The wine within is from a vineyard named for Queen Margaery, and it is perhaps the sweetest, most refreshing wine I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.” Hendry suggests, offering you his arm.

You take it with a grateful smile. “I have not, though the queen was telling me all about that very vineyard on our journey here.”

Hendry leads you over to the table and hands you a glass, you take a sip, about to speak when a flash of yellow and white catches your attention.

Jayne Westerling. You truly have no reason to dislike the girl; she is quiet, shy. Your Uncle Jaime described her as not a beauty worth losing a kingdom for, which you will admit you laughed at. But there is simply something about her that irks you. Something that sets you on edge, as if her sweetness is a farce covering a far more devious countenance.

You track her movements, your glass still at your lips, your grip on it tightening when you see her stop in front of Jon, your Jon, with two wine glasses in her hands. They have been talking, dancing, and spending time together. Is it her? Has she somehow stolen your champion?

“Lady Lannister, are you quite alright?” Hendry asks.

Jayne smiles, laughs, throws her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously, and you drain your glass then slam it down onto the table. “You must excuse me, My Lord, I have something I need to take care of.”

It is simple, find Margaery, have her direct you to her cousin who would anger Jon the most, and dance with him, as close to Jon and Jayne as possible.

The Tyrell man whose name you do not know, and do not care to learn, attempts to talk to you, but you are intent on listening to Jon and Jayne’s conversation.

There is more giggling, more flirting, and when you hear Jon compliment Jayne’s dress, telling her she looks like a flower maiden in summer, you turn to your dance partner.

“Do tell me about yourself, good sir, I am quite interested.” Your voice is not overly loud, but loud enough for Jon to hear, and it is dipped in honey, heated by the flames of desire, as near as you can fake them at least.

The Tyrell begins to blather on, and you laugh in all the right places, leaning in close, and letting him spin you in a way that nearly bumps you into Jayne.

When the song ends, you go up on your toes and whisper your thanks in his ear, letting your hands linger on his chest. You step back and giggle as you curtsy, agreeing to a second dance with him when Jon catches your wrist.

“My Lady, you are needed.” He says, his eyes steely as he leads you out of the Great Hall and down a side hallway.

The hallway is darker than the Great Hall, and it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. “Is it my father?” You ask, looking around, there is no one in sight.

“It is clear you cared not for the blathering on of that foul man, and yet you agreed to a second dance. Tell me, what game is it that you are playing, My Lady?” Jon demands, his eyes blazing, his hand still holding your wrist as he comes to a stop.

“How would you know if I cared or cared not for his words? Perhaps in the few moons you have been ignoring me, I have changed my interests.” You counter, fixing Jon with your own withering stare.

He laughs humorlessly. “You do not change interests, not so much that you find talks of hunting and tanning to suddenly be enrapturing.”

“I do find a good hunting tale to be interesti—did I not tell you to leave my sight?” You say, cutting yourself off before Jon can drag you off course.

He takes a step towards you, looming over you, his lips set in a hard line. “You did, but you did not say I could not return to it.”

“Semantics.” You wave your hand dismissively. “I do not want to see you, and I do not appreciate being pulled away on a lie.”

Another step. “It was not a lie.”

“Who needs me then? Surely it is not you, the honorable Lord Jon Snow.” You snark, crossing your arms over your chest.

He does not answer, simply watches you, drinks your torchlit form in.

“If you have nothing to say, then I shall return to Lord Tyrell, he had much to say to me.”

Suddenly your back is pressed against the wall, the stone cool against your heated skin, Jon’s strong arms encaging you, his head dipping low, his voice even lower, his dark hair still tied back and his eyes nearly black in the shadows of the hall. “You cannot keep on this way.”

You look up at him, still breathless from the dance and your argument. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flit down to your rising and falling breasts, soft skin exposed by the low-cut gowns your aunt had made for you, gowns meant to tempt your potential suitors, the ones you wished would tempt him. “You know what you are doing, y/n.”

“I do not, so unless you are going to tell me, I would ask you to release me.” You say imperiously, though you hope he does not release you. It feels as if it has been ages since you had his attention fully on you, since he dared to stand so close.

“The laughing, the flirting, the smiles and fluttering of eyelashes, the pouts? You are driving every man in the room mad with desire.” He says, his accent thickening, the rough brocade making your stomach flip, your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I am simply enjoying the party; I cannot control if men look at me, if they wish to dance with me. Would you have me say no? Answer every lord and knight who asks for a dance with an icy glare and utter contempt?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Jon growls, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his hands curling into fists on the wall above you, his chest heaving with the act of self-restraint. “I would have you tell them to sod off, that your hand is spoken for.”

“But I cannot, there has been no formal betrothal, and it would be rude.” You tell him, lifting your chin in defiance. He has been hot and cold with you, and you are sick of it, you need to hear him say it, hear him admit he still wants you.

“Others take them and any sense of rudeness, you are mine.” He snarls, gripping the back of your neck, his fingers spreading out into your hair, his touch is not harsh, but firm, for Jon is never rough with you.

Goosebumps adorn your skin, liquid heat filling your veins. It feels good to hear him say it, to see him so possessive, see him feel the way you have felt watching that Westerling girl fall all over him. “Am I? Because it seemed that perhaps Lady Jayne had taken my place.”

Jon laughs, the sound harsh. “The Westerling? You have thrown a fit because of some girl I met only tonight?”

“I am not throwing a fit, I am acting as an unmarried lady must, to secure a match.” You argue, throwing the unmarried part in his face.

He shakes his head, before dipping it lower, trailing his lips along the curve of your neck nipping at the skin as he goes. “If you wish to be a married lady so badly, my lioness, I will take you to the Godswood right now and throw my cloak over you. Would that suit you? Would that cease these unneeded flirtations?”

You draw a quick intake of breath, eyes fluttering shut as Jon kisses the crook of your neck, using the hand in your hair to guide your head, exposing more sensitive skin to his touch.

“Would my starlight like that? To finally be Lady Dayne, the pretty lioness with her husband who trails after her, devoted, desperate, a lovesick wolf pup who wants only to make his lovely wife happy?”

This, this is what you have needed to hear.

“Yes, please, Jon, I want to be your wife.” You say, your hands pressed to his chest, desperate to feel his heart beating beneath his doublet.

“I want you to be my wife as well, more than you will ever know y/n, but we must wait.” Jon says softly, and your eyes fly open, the illusion shattered.

You shove at his chest angrily; he predictably does not move, but you do it again anyways. “Gods take me, I cannot wait any longer. I cannot stand pretending I am interested in others. I cannot stand their lewd words, their stares, and I cannot pretend that I am unfazed by the stares you get, the whispers I hear, the maids and ladies that do not shy away from lusting after you.”

“I know, I know, but—” The sound of footsteps makes him jerk away from you, and you turn away from the sound, arms folded across your chest.

“Oh Lady Lannister, Ser Jon, I had wondered where you two had run off too.” Jayne’s voice is cloyingly sweet, and it infuriates you.

You turn towards her with a placid smile. “Apologies, Lady Westerling, I seem to have eaten something that does not agree with me, and Ser Jon was helping me to my chambers.”

Jayne makes a sound of sympathy. “Was it the shellfish? I find they are often the culprit.”

“My Lady does not enjoy she—”

“Yes, it was.” You take a step away from Jon. “Ser Jon, will you escort Lady Westerling back to the party? I will return to my chambers on my own.”

Jon moves to argue, but your expression is unyielding, and you storm off in the direction of your chambers, wiping away angry tears as you go.

You know it is not fair to blame Jon, he is trapped as you are, but you are still angry. Gods, your father was right. It would be easier if he was a Targaryen, then he could steal you away on a dragon. No one would argue, no one would be able to cite him as not a good enough match for you, they would have to accept the marriage or face dragonflame.

The sound of hurried footsteps nearly makes you turn, but you have no desire to see who is coming down the hall, especially not as tears continue to slide down your face.

“Lady y/n, please, wait.” Jon calls.

“What, whatever could you want?” You snap, continuing to walk forward, vision slightly blurred, tears dripping onto your dress.

He catches up to you easily, pulling you into a shadowy alcove. “I simply wish to talk, to understand what has made you so angry.”

You fix him with a stunned look, blinking away your tears. “How can you not know? I have stated it quite clearly.”

“I understand you are upset that we cannot yet marry, but the plan y/n.”

A sob rips from your throat, and you shake your head. “It is more than that and you know it.”

Jon cups your face, his own a portrait of guilt-ridden agony. “Please, please, do not cry, my starlight, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“Do not tell me what to do.” Your words sound much less sharp than you wished them to.

He wipes your tears away with his calloused thumbs catching them as quick as they fall. “I am sorry, y/n I am so, so sorry, I never should have danced with Lady Westerling.”

You pull away from him with an angry sob, continuing your blind storm down the hall. “I do not care about Lady Jayne.”

Jon beats you to your chambers, opening the door for you, giving you no choice but to enter or keep walking down the hall.

You enter, keeping your back to him as you throw open the balcony doors, lungs burning for fresh air. You are suffocating under the weight of this night, of this unknown plan, of the hurt you feel knowing you can not go a single day without speaking to Jon, without being near him. Yet, he seems to be able to survive moons without you.

“Then what do you care about, because I am lost, y/n.” He says, and you can feel his presence behind you, still in the doorway, close but not close enough, just as he has been since he spoke with your uncle.

“You! I care about you, Jon, as I always have.” You tell him, turning to face him, throwing your arms in the air helplessly, tears streaming down your face.

“Then why did you cast me from your sight?” He wears that hurt puppy dog look that never fails to melt you, but your anger keeps you frozen.

How can he not know? How can he not see the pain he has caused you? Jon is not a fool, he is not blind, and truly there is no one who can read you better than him and yet it is as if you have suddenly been written in another language.

“You have been so cold, so distant, these past few moons. Then you storm up to me tonight and act as if I am doing something wrong. As if I am hurting you, when it is you who has been hurting me.” You tell him, your hands balled into fists at your side to hide their shaking. “Even now you stand so far from me, and I know you say you are training, that you wish to protect our reputations, but I cannot go on like this.”

Jon says your name softly.

“No, Jon, I cannot hear another excuse. I know my uncle said something to you, but is he truly the man to take advice from? Seven knows I love him, but…” You wrap your arms around yourself, wiping your tears with your sleeves, uncaring if they are stained with cosmetics. “If there is someone else, if I have lost your affections, you must tell me because I cannot understand what else would cause you to hurt me in this way.”

“There is no one else.” He says fervently, desperately. “Y/N I swear it to you, there is no one else.”

You cannot look at him, casting your eyes towards the moon. “I love you Jon, but I cannot bear this distance any longer, you must make a choice.”

“A choice?” He rasps, the sound so quiet it is nearly drowned out by the wind.

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but they must be said. “To end this strange game, you are playing and return to being the man I have known for the last four years or continue to play it, and I will ask my father to release you from my service and allow you to return home to Winterfell.”

Your words linger in the night air, the space between you and him not even the length of two grown men, yet it feels like an ever-widening chasm.

“You would release me from your service?”

You wipe away a stray tear, throat tight with grief. “If it is what you desire.”

“You would send me away?” His voice is strained, and you chance a look at him.

He is beautiful in the moonlight, a tragic beauty, as to look upon him pains you. His dark eyes cannot settle on one part of your face, as if this is the last time they will ever see it. The thought tears at the flimsy hold you have on your composure, and you press your hand to your aching chest.

“I do not want to.” You sob, curling your fingers around your necklace, desperate for something to hold onto. “But I cannot play your game, I am drowning without you, and if you wish to leave, if it will make you happy—”

Jon crosses the balcony in two large strides, and pulls you into his embrace, crushing you to his chest. “I love you, gods, y/n I am so sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you. I do not wish to leave, do not send me from your side, it would not make me happy, you make me happy.”

“Then why, why have you kept your distance from me? There have been so many things I wished to tell you, so many times I wished to reach out, but you turned from me.”

Jon rests his forehead against your own. “Your uncle, he spoke of his grief, how he did not wish me to further entangle myself with you as it would only cause us both pain.”

“Why would you listen to him?”

“Because I was afraid, and I felt…guilty. If he had seen it, then others would. I thought that if I kept my distance until we were formally betrothed, I could spare you further harm.” He sighs and rubs his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

“Clearly.”

He squeezes your arms playfully. “It harmed me too; do you think it was not torture? That I did not miss you? That I did not curse myself for turning from you, that I did not drive myself mad trying to stay away from you?”

“Seems well deserved.” You pout, wrinkling your nose, even though you know you are being slightly petulant.

“Aye, it was.”

You bask in his warmth, listening to the sound of his breathing, clinging to him like a drifter at sea. “Is that the only thing you have been keeping from me?”

“There is more, I cannot tell you until the morn, but I will give you something to tide you over.” Jon says, wiping away the remainder of your tears with his calloused thumbs.

“More waiting, how wonderful.” You deadpan.

His voice drops to a whisper, a smile tugging at his lips. “My father is alive.”

You jerk back, shocked then delighted, soon Jon will be claimed, you truly will be able to marry soon. “Truly? Oh, Jon, that is wonderful news.”

Jon pulls you back, tilting your head gently and ghosting his lips over yours. “It is. Though I would rather speak of him in the morn, for I found myself missing your touch greatly these past few moons and have not yet gotten my fill.”

With a giggle, you melt against him, looping your arms around his neck, letting him tilt your chin up so that your lips meet. It is like returning home, laying down in a familiar bed, the stress of the day falling away. He smells different, a hint of spice, and you taste no hint of wine on his tongue.

“Did you not drink tonight?” You ask against his lips, your heart pounding as it always does for him.

“I could not risk finding my way to your chambers, bolstered by wine again. Not when it had been so long since I have held you in my arms. I feared I would fall upon you like a savage beast.” He breathes, his hands gliding down your body, the silk so thin you can feel the warmth of his hands through it.

“I would not mind that.” You admit, running your fingernails lightly down the nape of his neck, relishing the shiver it brought forth, a soft groan slipping from his lips.

“Do not tease me, I beg of you.” He pleads even as he pulls you closer, his nose trailing down the curve of your face.

“I should, you paid me such a horrid compliment in the Great Hall, it would only be fair.” You say, an indigent whine slipping past your whispered tones.

“I do apologize. I wished to say how beautiful you looked, how you shined, how if you were a goddess I would fall to my knees and worship you endlessly.” He says, tracing the curves of your body with his fingertips.

You let out a shuttering breath, eyes closed, as you allow Jon’s words and touch to wash over you, to ease your emotions as they always did.

“Is that better, my starlight? Am I forgiven for such a grievous blunder?” He teases, nipping at your bottom lip.

“If you do that trick with your tongue, you shall be.” You say breathlessly, as the tip of his tongue darts out to soothe the sting.

“As you wish.” He says, recapturing your lips wholly, his tongue meeting your own in a familiar dance.

A wolf whistle followed by drunken cheering has you both dropping to the floor, chests heaving, and hands pressed over your mouths to keep from laughing.

“Perhaps we should move this inside?”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film