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theusurpersdog · 5 years

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So Game of Thrones ended on Sunday, and for now it’s going down as potentially the worst ending of any TV show ever. Some of the backlash has come from the more nonsensical elements, such as Bronn being on the Small Council, anyone in Westeros defending Daenerys (the show literally framed her like Hitler, come the fuck on), Tyrion deciding who was King while in shackles, etc. But the truth is, none of that would’ve mattered if the emotions rang true. And that’s been a problem since the show started; go all the way back to Winter is Coming and you’ll see that the Starks have always been sidelined - both as individuals and as a family - in favor of the Lannisters. George Martin is writing a character piece about the Starks and how they survive, and the show was never going to stick the landing when they fundamentally didn’t understand that.

I’m not the first to point this out, but man did it really bother me this episode. D&D really could’ve phoned in 95% of this story and just shown up to love the Starks and everyone would’ve been at least satisfied, and they just couldn’t do it. So many years of bad writing and idiot plots and plain stupidity hasn’t lost Game of Thrones hardly any fans, because the ones they had were deeply invested in the characters GRRM had created and were willing to overlook just about everything to see those characters have some sort of conclusion. That’s why their entire audience has turned against them now - they didn’t care about the Starks for 8 seasons, and GRRM’s ending required the audience and the writers care deeply for Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran.

For all of GRRM’s talk about wanting to break his reader’s hearts, and D&D’s version of his story as this GrimDark nightmare, GRRM’s story has a real, emotional heart to it. People debate whether it was a fantasy story with the false premise of a political period piece, or a political story with a touch of fantasy intrigue - but the truth is, this story is and always has been a character piece centered around the Starks and how they survive and rebuild after family tragedy. In number of povs and chapters, they literally overwhelm the series. Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Catelyn all are in the top povs as well as Ned, who is still competitive despite being in exactly 1 book of the series. Having the Starks as the center of the story, the point in which almost all the action revolves, is what grounds all of Martin’s series even as his povs reach 30+. Martin was being very serious when he said Arya, Sansa, and Bran were the heart of his series. You need them because they make it worth it.

So let’s break down how D&D ripped the heart out of asoiaf’s chest. The biggest problem the show had was something book readers have known for a long time, but didn’t fully realize until Sunday night: The Bran Problem. GRRM has stated multiple times that Bran is his hero, yet the show has never had any interest in his story. They made an entirely random decision not to include flashbacks or dream sequences, which immediately cuts out about half of Bran’s content. But not only did they take away his magical importance, they also stole his political importance. Bran was Robb Stark’s heir, Lord of Winterfell and first in line to be the King in the North. Yet they took Bran’s story away from him and gave the focus to Theon Greyjoy, a character more appealing to the tastes of David Benioff and Dan Weiss. So we never got to see the King of the Six (should be eight but whatever I’m just dying inside) Kingdoms acting in any leadership capacity. And, last but certainly not least, D&D took all emotion from Bran. And no, I don’t mean when he came back from beyond the wall a husk of a person. That was awful, but the damage was done seasons before. If you’ve read the books, you’ll know and love Bran Stark because this is who he is:

He sent sweets to Hodor and Old Nan as well, for no reason but he loved them

Bran was a sweet boy. Everyone loved him

The roots of the trees grow deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought, I'm not dead either

Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit them from time to time

He is a sweet boy, quick to laugh, easy to love

Bran has always represented happiness and people coming together in GRRM’s story. Ned wants to bring him to King’s Landing because he’s universally loved and will ease the conflict between Joffrey and Robb, and just the thought of him being alive makes Jon bury his ego and reach out to his Night’s Watch Brothers. He is Meera’s little Prince, someone that Howland Reed’s children are willing to go beyond the wall and die for. He accepts food on the road beyond the Wall, and promises he’ll repay his debt many times over. He’s the boy who looks back into the past and just wants to see his dad again; who reaches out to save Theon, even when Theon took everything from him. He is Eddard Stark’s son, soft and kind and loving, brave when he is afraid, loyal and honorable, and he is a good person. He’s young, but he is fit to be a King one day.

But no, D&D didn’t stop at Bran. Let’s talk about Arya Stark, and the little girl who never was. Was there ever a character more suited to D&D’s tastes than a little murder girl hellbent on revenging her family’s killers? But was there ever a character further from Arya Stark? She is nine years old when Ser Ilyn takes her father’s head, of course she is brash and reckless and childish, wanting to avenge him. But she is all of those things because she is still a kid. Below the surface, she is very scared and very hurt. Unlike the show’s version of Arya, who is upset Joffrey died because she couldn’t do it herself, the Arya of the books has a realization that Joffrey dying means nothing because she’ll never get Robb back. Arya isn’t turning into an assassin because it would be cool, she’s running away as far as she can.

You can watch the season finale of Game of Thrones s4, and be right in concluding that Arya Stark leaves The Hound for dead in a ruthless move of brutality as she goes to pursue her dreams of being an assassin. Now read the end of A Storm of Swords, and you’ll find an Arya who refuses to let Sandor take a piece of her no matter how he abuses her, and goes to Braavos because she is so afraid that no one could love her anymore - and most of all she leaves because with Winterfell sacked and held by the Boltons, she genuinely thinks she has lost her home. Arya doesn’t make a well-adjusted decision to leave Westeros, she’s trying to keep her head above water before she drowns in grief. Disassociating from her pack is the only way she can cope with the unbearable amount of loss she has suffered, especially at such a young age. But GRRM’s version of Arya is fierce, brave, loyal, loving, and above all she loves her family.

Then there is Sansa, the most empathetic character in GRRM’s whole world. The unfailing hope and kindness in which she views the world are her defining character traits; she echoes GRRM’s own worldview, one where you can see the good and the bad in everyone, and choose to forgive - and if not that, still refuse to be cruel in kind. Sansa is the only one who looks at Sandor Clegane, looks at the ruin fire made of his face, and see that his eyes are why he’s so ugly - and then reach out to show him mercy. The girl who was beaten everyday of her time in King’s Landing, and still mourned Joffrey because he was a person and he died and she understood that it was still awful. She wishes knights who literally beat her bloody would fall off their horse, then feels bad and ashamed when they do. Sansa Stark is kind above all.

And the show took this character and made her cold. They tried to make her Littlefinger. Surprise! Nobody cares about the emotional well being and happiness of Petyr Baelish for a reason. Thankfully Bryan Cogman was there to run interference between Sansa and D&D, so she wasn’t fully the Ice Queen D&D wanted her to be, but goddamn how do you take Sansa “if I am ever Queen, I’ll make them love me” Stark and make her cold?!

The biggest problem with stripping the Stark kids individually of their emotions, is that they can no longer exist as the family GRRM created them to be. Without Arya, Bran, and Sansa’s emotional arcs, everything becomes meaningless. Who cares that Ramsay Bolton is the one to rebuild Winterfell in the show? Certainly not an audience that hasn’t been told to care.

You’ll notice a trend in the type of chapters that D&D decided not to adapt into Game of Thrones; think of all the chapters that are the emotional heart of GRRM’s story. Not the shocking character deaths, or dragons, or plot twists. The moments of intimacy between GRRM, his character, and you as the reader. The moments so small yet so impactful, the lines you remember not because they pushed the plot forward but because they honestly moved you in a way that you felt hope, longing, love? Those chapters are almost always either from Bran, Sansa, or Arya; and are always about their connection to their family. D&D adapted none of them. Here’s three great examples:

Done with Wooden Teeth

When Arya is a serving girl at Harrenhal during A Clash of Kings, it really sucks. Unlike the show, she is not cup bearer to Tywin Lannister; she is just like everyone else: abused, mistreated, underfed, miserable, and uncared for. She’s already at a pretty low moment in life, then the news breaks that Bran and Rickon were murdered by Theon Greyjoy and Winterfell has been sacked. And Arya doesn’t even have someone to grieve with; the one person she tries to tell, Elmar Frey, tells her nobody cares about a serving girl’s brothers when he’s just lost his Princess (the irony...).

The news that her family is dead almost breaks her:

As Arya crossed the yard to the bathhouse, she spied a raven circling down toward the rookery, and wondered where it had come from and what message it carried. Might be it’s from Robb, come to say it wasn’t true about Bran and Rickon. She chewed on her lip, hoping. If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I’d just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan’s stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn’t ever fly back

This is Arya giving up. Everything she’s done in this book so far has been to get back to Winterfell, or to Jon at the Wall. Her making the decision to fly away (which she’ll follow through on in A Storm of Swords) is a defeat, the acceptance that she’ll never get her family back.

If the chapter had ended here (it doesn’t), D&D still would’ve gutted it, because no Stark gets to react to Bran and Rickon’s death in the show. Not even a minute of screentime given to the Heir to the North and his brother dying; not a moment where their family can grieve the tremendous loss.

But Arya is a Stark, so before she gives up on her identity, she visits the Godswood:

“Tell me what to do, you gods,” she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf

The Godswood is very important to the Starks for a couple different reasons. First, only the men of the North worship the Old Gods, and the trees is the connection they have to them. The Old Gods were who Ned went to for guidance, and every single Stark has huge moments of understanding in front of a Godswood (none of which made it into the show...). But, more specific to the Starks as a family, Bran speaks to his family through them and guides them toward home. So even though they don’t understand that Bran is calling to them, the Starks are drawn to the trees for help.

And the trees always answer them. The Starks get a real, physical response when they ask the Godswood for help:

Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father’s voice. “When the snows fall and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said.

“But there is no pack,” she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. “I’m not even me now, I’m Nan.”

“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you.”

“The wolf blood.” Arya remembered now. “I’ll be as strong as Robb. I said I would.” She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

In her lowest moment, Arya re-finds her strength by remembering she is a Stark, a direwolf who belongs to a pack. The Godswood gives her Ned as comfort, as a reminder of who she is and what she should do. There is an incredible emphasis on family here. It would be impossible to adapt this chapter unless the writers and audience fully understood just how committed to each other the Starks are - which is why they didn’t adapt it.

I’m Not Dead Either

When Bran finally leaves the crypts at the end of A Clash of Kings, he’s close to giving up on himself entirely. He spent three days inside Summer, and returning to the body he views as broken (”Bran the Broken” is something he calls himself when he feels upset, not the monikor he’d give himself as King) is really hard for him. And when he finally leaves the crypts, he comes out to a Winterfell that has been destroyed; Ramsay has set the place ablaze and killed everyone. Bran knows Ser Rodrik is dead and Maester Luwin is soon to be as well. He looks around him and sees all this destruction, all he smells is fire or blood. But one thing in Winterfell stands unharmed; Summer takes off running for the Godswood:

The air was sweeter under the trees. A few pines along the edge of the wood had been scorched, but deeper in the damp soil and green wood had defeated the flames. “There is a power in living wood,” said Jojen Reed, almost as if he knew what Bran was thinking, “a power strong as fire.”

After Bran says goodbye to Maester Luwin, and him and Rickon part ways with no idea where either is heading, Bran has one last moment to look on Winterfell and find hope:

Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought, I’m not dead either.

Bran looks back at Winterfell, and because he’s able to see the unharmed Godswood and the Kings of Winter still seated on their thrones, he can understand it’s not dead, just like him. Again, a Stark is drawing strength from their connection to each other, and through a Godswood.

I Am Stronger Within the Walls of Winterfell

This next one, you’re probably thinking “but the show did adapt Sansa’s snow castle chapter”, and I’m here to tell you they didn’t. I could write an entire book on how that scene is the perfect example of how adaptations fail; they *technically* adapted it, with pretty much the same events, but it was completely stripped of its emotional impact and narrative importance. It is the perfect microcosm of why Game of Thrones was a bad adaptation of A Song of Ice and Fire, as well as how D&D consistently missed the emotional beats the Starks were supposed to have.

The show’s version of this chapter somehow centers it around Littlefinger, while simultaneously underselling the fact that Lysa killed Jon Arryn (they sandwiched this episode and scene between Tyrion’s trial and Oberyn’s death, when this chapter ends A Storm of Swords. All of the climaxes in that book, and GRRM saved this one for last). The end product is a rather forgettable scene that most people overlook.

In the book, this chapter is everything. It is the best chapter in asoiaf, and the best writing of anything ever. Period. And it’s a chapter centered around Sansa’s relationship to her home, to Winterfell. Unlike the very small castle of the show, Sansa spends hours building a castle big enough that she can step inside and continue building details. The fact that she can stay outside for hours, while several onlookers get too cold and go back inside, is a reminder that she is a Stark.

And this chapter is centered around a Godswood. The tree never took root, because the Eyrie is too high for weirwoods, but the courtyard Sansa’s in was meant to be a Godswood. And since she doesn’t have a real one, Sansa builds her own inside her snowy Winterfell.

Being up in the mountains is also the first time Sansa’s seen true snow since she said goodbye to Robb in Winterfell, and just the thought of it makes her dream of home and of memories with Bran and Arya. She wakes up having dreamed of home, and thinks she’s sleeping next to her sister until she wakes up enough to realize she’s not in Winterfell.

When Sansa’s alone with no real connection to home, she finds the closest thing to Winterfell (the failed Godswood) and builds her own. She literally gains strength from it:

She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

Her home and her family give her strength to stand up to her abuser, just as Arya was able to escape the abuse of Harrenhal and Bran escaped the Boltons.

There is way more than these three instances, but these are the best examples of D&D failing to adapt the Starks as a pack, or as individuals with feelings. Of course the ending didn’t feel right emotionally, because we had no explanation for what emotions led our Starks to their destinies.

I’ll probably make a post specifically about this in a couple days or weeks, but I can see GRRM’s ending stuck within D&D’s sloppy rush to the end:

The first time Arya leaves Westeros, she leaves because she thinks all her family is dead or taken, and that Winterfell is gone forever. At the end, she’ll leave because she is sure her family loves her, and that she has a room in Winterfell whenever she wants to visit Good Queen Sansa. Arya is also fast to make friends of all different people, and would start her own pack of rogues as she travels the world.

Sansa won’t be alone because she, like Arya, is good at finding her own pack. (And GRRM has built his world out so extensively, it’s honestly a joke to think we could be in a crowded room and recognize no one). Sansa’s friends are her people. She throws feasts constantly, and like Ned, always has a seat at the High Table for the small folk. She has many ladies in waiting, true friends of hers that help her write songs and stories, and sew dresses. She is a good and kind Queen, and visits the Wall constantly as she helps the Lord Commander resettle the Gift.

King Bran the Wise (or ya know, just not broken) rules from his Weirwood Throne on the Isle of Faces, at the heart of his kingdom. After Daenerys burns King’s Landing, he moves the capital since The Red Keep was a monument to Aegon’s Conquest - a symbol of tyranny King Bran is trying to move forward from. He fills his council with highborn and lowborn alike. He constantly talks to his siblings; Sansa waits for him at the Godswood, and Arya and Jon see him through Ghost and Nymeria.

Just because they’re far in distance, doesn’t mean they aren’t a pack. They all know the others are safe, and that they’ll see see each other soon. GRRM will invest the right amount of time explaining the emotional beats of this ending to make it feel right. He cares so much about the Starks. He wrote them a whole epic fantasy because he saw Bran finding pups in the snow. He loves them more than we do, guys.

The Starks are the Giants!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#game of thrones #Sansa Stark #Arya Stark #bran stark #asoiaf meta #if you're wondering why Jon wasn't included #it's because that boy was a whole mess #needs his own post to explain the unique injustice that was done to him

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shootwinterfest · 5 years

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Five Times Root Spent Christmas Alone

(And One Time She Didn’t)

Shoot Secret Santa Gift by @amandadawnblock

Samantha Groves was seven years old the first time she’d woken up on Christmas morning entirely alone in the small house she shared with her mother.

She hadn’t noticed at first; filled with excitement for the holiday, she had rushed out of bed and down the familiar hallway in just her socks and pajamas, nearly skidding into a wall as she hurtled around the corner into the living room.

Blinking slowly, Samantha looked around in confusion. The space under the Christmas tree was glaringly empty and her stocking hung limply from the wall where her mother had tacked it weeks before. Rubbing her eyes to get the sleep out and half-hoping it would change what she’d seen, she frowned when the room remained empty of gifts.

Taking a seat on the couch, Samantha solemnly stared at the Christmas tree with cold eyes, cataloging what she knew in her mind. Always a precocious child, she was well-aware that her mother wasn’t like other moms. She had always liked to hit and scream at Samantha for things she didn’t understand and over the past year, she had started to drink a funny-smelling liquid that had made her even meaner.

Still, for all of her mother’s flaws, Samantha had never woken up on Christmas morning without a single gift under the tree or in her stocking before and her jaw tightened as she resolved with bitter disappointment that it was better to never expect things of people and that Christmas was a stupid holiday anyway.

She spent the day taking down all of the decorations and the Christmas tree that seemed to mock her with the empty space beneath its’ branches every time she looked its’ way. Only fear of her mother’s punishment and knowing that she would be the one forced to clean up the mess kept Samantha from doing what she wanted and smashing every stupid, fragile ornament across the ground until the tree looked as empty as she felt.

When she’d finished, she retreated to her bedroom and lay back down on her bed. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the sloppily wrapped package from under her pillow and turned it over in her hands, a hollow feeling settling in the pit of her stomach as she stared at the name tag.

To: Mom

Love: Samantha

Her eyes stinging with tears that felt hot as they ran down her cheeks, she ripped open the present and glared at the picture frame that she had made herself during the little downtime she had between homework, keeping the house spotless and trying her best to take care of her mom. When Hanna’s family had taken her to Corpus Christi with them, Samantha had spent most of the precious few days combing the beach for the most beautiful shells in her mother’s favorite colors and, upon returning home, she had spent hours painstakingly decorating the frame so that none of the original frame could be seen for the shells.

Inside the frame was a photo of Samantha with her mother from the previous Christmas. Hanna had come over for Christmas dinner and she’d been the one to take the photo of the two of them. They were posing in front of the Christmas tree with her mother’s arms wrapped around her and beaming smiles on both of their faces. But what drew Samantha’s attention in the photo today was the pile of presents she could see scattered on the floor behind them and the reminder of the emptiness she’d awoken to today so filled her with rage that she screamed; a loud, primal sound that frightened her but also felt good.

Pulling her arm back, Samantha gave in to the rage filling her body and threw the picture frame across the room as she could. She felt a thrill of satisfaction fill her only to be followed by a pang of regret that twisted in her stomach as she watched the frame shatter into pieces. Shells flew everywhere as all of her hard work came undone in an instant, but Samantha brushed away the thought and clung instead to the rage.

Puling her knees up to her chest, she rested her chin on them and stared at the shattered remnants of her mother’s now-ruined Christmas present and tried to ignore everything she was feeling as she waited for the stupid day to be over with. She stayed in that position until the shadows enveloped the room and she finally deemed it late enough to go to bed.

Only after she had brushed her teeth and crawled back under the covers did she realize that her mother had never come home.

Although it wasn’t the first time that she’d left Samantha on her own overnight, she had never stayed gone for quite so long and it was with a sinking feeling in her chest that she thought that this was the start of something bad, something worse than she’d already been experiencing.

Samantha had no idea how right she was.

II.

After her first Christmas alone, Sam had never had to spend one in an empty house again. All she’d had to do was say one word to Hanna and her friend had made sure that she always came to her house on Christmas and Hanna’s parents always made sure that she had presents and a stocking filled to the brim.

It was something that she’d never quite taken for granted but she’d certainly never thought that she would lose it.

But when Sam Groves woke up on her thirteenth Christmas, it was to a cold, empty house and an even colder realization that there would be no more Christmases with Hanna. The Freys could hardly even bear to look at her anymore and although she understood, it was just one more loss to add to her ever-growing collection; just one more reason for her to tell herself that it was better not to trust anyone and that way, she wouldn’t be disappointed when they eventually let her down.

Slowly climbing out of bed, Sam went to her window and silently gazed out. The sun was shining brightly and if not for the chill in the air, she might have been able to pretend that it was summer outside. For a moment, she desperately wished that she could pretend, that she could ignore this holiday altogether and pretend like it was any other day.

Stifling the pang in her chest, she sharply turned away from the window and sat down at her computer. Powering it on, her fingers flew across the keyboard as she typed in her password and then the code she’d written that allowed her to access the hard drive, having realized that she needed far more security for the activities she’d started to immerse herself in already.

Once she was in and connected to the internet through less-than-legal means, she pulled up Trent Russel’s bank account information and scrutinized it carefully. Though it had been mere months since Hanna had disappeared with him, Sam had grown impatient with the lack of movement to arrest the perpetrator and so she had resolved that she would have to handle the justice side of things herself.

She’d thought of the perfect plan, too. Unfortunately, she would need to wait a few years to make sure that it was perfect and that nothing could be traced back to her. But Sam was hardly a stranger to waiting; sometimes she felt as though she’d been waiting since the day she was born for the day when she would finally leave Bishop behind her forever. And nothing meant more to her than her new mission to get justice for Hanna; Sam knew that she would wait for as long as it took to make her plan foolproof and see Trent pay for what he’d done.

Growing restless and not finding anything new or noteworthy in Russel’s bank account, she exited the browser and shut down her computer before turning to look at the framed photo of her and Hanna on the desk. She couldn’t remember when it had been taken exactly, but it was her favorite. Hanna was all smiles, beautiful and outgoing and without a care in the world as she stood front and center in the photo. Meanwhile, Sam was hanging back and gazing at her in an awe that she still felt when she thought about the fact that someone like Hanna had seen fit to be friends with someone like Samantha Groves.

It was a perfect metaphor for their friendship and Sam swallowed, feeling tears stinging her eyes as she reached out to trace the glass covering Hanna’s face as she silently vowed once more that she would do whatever was necessary to see that her death was avenged.

Years later, Samantha Groves would say that this was the moment that she’d become more Root than Sam.

After making her resolution, she’d gone downstairs and for once, she’d found the lack of decorations and presents to be a relief rather than a burden. Here, there were no reminders of Hanna or her favorite holiday that she’d made Root love just because of how happy it made her. There was no Christmas tree, her mother having given up on it long ago and Sam deeming it unnecessary since there were no gifts to put under it anyway.

Her house was as dark and empty and silent as it always was but for once, Sam found solace in it, finding the atmosphere soothing rather than stifling. Not even the sight of her mother’s beer bottles littering the floor surrounding the couch was enough to dampen her mood.

They may not have been perfect or even close to functional, but Sam was suddenly intensely grateful for the normalcy of everything in her life, no matter how fucked up. It stood in stark contrast to the way everything else in her life had spiraled so far out of her control and she took comfort in knowing that as much as everything else had changed, her mother and the way they lived likely never would.

Sam eyed the beer bottles and decided to clean, more so out of a restless need to do something than actually wanting to clean a mess that would be back with a vengeance within moments of her mother’s eventual return. Grabbing a trash bag, she cleared the floor and coffee table of the bottles before wiping the table down with cleaner and a rag, having to make several passes before she got all of the sticky remnants of spilled alcohol off and leaving it almost shining.

She worked tirelessly throughout the day, moving from room to room and barely tracking the way the sun’s light moved through the house as the hours passed. Though she did her best to keep up with the cleaning, her mother often whirled through like a hurricane and left everything an even bigger mess along the way. The only room she didn’t go into was her mother’s; she’d learned her lesson long ago with a punch to the nose and a slurred warning to “keep her nose in her own business and stay the hell out��.

Sam almost shivered at the memory before she caught herself and scowled at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. That day had been one of too many that had blurred together, but it would always stick out to her regardless because it had been the first time she’d told Hanna the truth when she’d asked.

They had been laying in the middle of a field somewhere in the middle of both their houses, a natural meeting point where both could ignore their home lives. Sam’s nose had bruised and swollen and when she’d seen Hanna’s gaze tick to it before she could help it, she’d felt a rush of fear followed by gratitude when Hanna forced her eyes back up and just asked her a question about something else.

After nearly an hour of talking about everything and nothing at the same time, Hanna had rolled over to face her and she’d followed suit, giggling as Hanna reached over and plucked grass from her hair, twirling it in her fingers in front of Sam’s eyes.

Grinning triumphantly at the sound of Sam’s giggle, a rare sound coming from her indeed and only ever coaxed out by Hanna, her friend had tossed the grass down and leaned forward, very gently and deliberately pressing her lips to the very tip of Sam’s nose until she’d sucked in a shuddering breath.

“My mom did that,” Sam had whispered then, like she was revealing her darkest, most precious secret which, of course, she was. She’d steeled herself then, waited for Hanna to recoil from a girl whose own mother couldn’t tolerate her but when she was met only with silence, she slowly forced them back open to see Hanna staring at her with a sad, terrible kind of understanding that set her stomach twisting into knots.

Without saying a word, Hanna slowly sat up and unbuttoned her shirt. Turning her back to Sam, she shrugged it off and the younger girl swallowed hard when she saw the bruises on her back. There were yellows and purples and greens and all that Sam could think about was that it looked like a modern art piece. “A Study In Fatherly Cruelty” she would later bitterly think whenever she caught a glimpse of Hanna’s colorful back, which would be more often now that she knew the Secret.

But on this day, all that she could think of to do was to lean forward and very gently press her lips to the bruise in the middle of Hanna’s back and she smiled against her skin when she felt her friend shiver but lean back into it. She knew what it was like to be touched with tenderness after being met only with violence for so long and she marveled at the trust between them, that Hanna would allow her to see her, to touch her while she was like this and she resolved to do it as often as she could.

Six months later, Hanna and Sam were at the library when Sam watched her climb into Trent Russel’s car and leave and she’d always regret that she’d had such a short period of time to keep her promise.

With a sigh, Sam shook her head and retreated to her room when she heard the sound of her mother’s car pulling up, the broken muffler making an awful racket and giving her plenty of warning. She hurriedly locked her door and turned her light off, crawling into bed and trying not to breathe as she heard her mother stomp through the house, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she waited to see what kind of a night it would be.

Exhaustion slowly began to overtake her as she lay there listening, the sound of her name mercifully absent and as she rolled over to contemplate actually sleeping, she was surprised and relieved to see that it was well past midnight.

One Christmas down, only an unknown number to go, she thought ruefully as she closed her eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

III.

Root sat silently on the couch, black-painted fingernails drumming on the arm as she watched the clock tick down to midnight. She could almost feel the seconds slipping by as she followed the countdown to the last Christmas she would ever spend in this house that was so haunted by memories, both good and bad and all the in-between.

Somehow, it was fitting that her mother had chosen to die on Christmas Eve. Even in Bishop, Texas, a town so small that doctors still made house calls, holidays were still a sacred thing and although she’d been able to arrange for her mother’s body to be picked up, it would be December 26th before anything could even start to be arranged and Root knew it would be at least a week before she could finally leave and start the life she’d been planning to live for so long now.

She took a small sip of the wine as the clock finally ticked past midnight, grimacing in distaste before holding the glass up in the dark emptiness of the living room. A manic smile was painted on her lips as she chuckled, a dark and ominous laugh that no one was around to hear.

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Root smirked, draining the glass despite the bitterness and setting it back down before unfolding her long legs from underneath her and making her way up the stairs.

Although it had been years since Root had spent Christmas with another person, it somehow felt different when she awoke the next morning with the knowledge that she was truly alone in the world now, that her mother wouldn’t ever stumble in the front door blind drunk and looking for a target ever again.

Looking around her childhood bedroom, Root felt an odd sense of loss as she realized that one day soon, she’d walk out of there and never return. Though the house had never felt like a home to her, there was something different about her bedroom with its’ many memories and it having been the only retreat she’d ever had.

She wondered what it would feel like in her new existence, living in different places as often as she knew she would. She wouldn’t have time to memorize the chips in the paint, the way a former leak in the roof had left a dark stain on the ceiling. There wouldn’t be memories hidden in every corner, either.

Sometimes, Root would glance at a certain spot in her room and be frozen by a memory that would play in front of her eyes like a movie, only a thousand times more real. Hanna, painting Root’s nails black for the first time and starting a tradition that she’d carried on in her name ever since her death. The wall where she’d so long ago flung the Christmas present she’d worked so hard on for her mother, shattering it and her ability to trust along with it.

And on the very bed where she now sat, knees hugged to her chest and arms wrapped around them, she could almost feel Hanna’s arms wrap around her. She could almost smell the cloying scent of the perfume Root had never had the heart to tell her didn’t suit her; almost feel the soft, hesitant feeling of Hanna’s lips pressed against hers in what had been both of their very first kiss.

It had been days before Hanna had been killed and even years later, the timing of it made her heart ache. She’d always had feelings for Hanna, always known that she was different from the other girls who were even then starting to show signs of being boy-crazy. It’d never been a secret she had shared with Hanna and somehow, that had made the unexpected kiss all the sweeter. Her chest had felt warm and tingly and her entire body had thrummed with the knowledge that Hanna had taken a chance just because she’d wanted to kiss Sam, not because she knew that Sam wanted it.

Sometimes, Root caught herself wondering at what might have been if she’d asked Hanna to come over that night at the library, caught herself wondering how different she would be if Hanna had never died.

And really, that was the word for it that Root alone seemed willing to use. “Disappearance” was bandied about like nobody’s business, but nobody seemed willing to admit the truth of the matter. Even now, after seven years and getting justice for Hanna all by herself, Root still felt a rage blacker than anything she’d ever known fill her when she thought about it.

It was a rage and a grief that she felt most prominently on two days out of the year: the anniversary of her death and on what had been Hanna’s favorite holiday that now felt so empty without her around to force Root into the spirit of it with her lame jokes and holiday specials with hot cocoa.

With a sigh, Root climbed out of bed and slowly made her way downstairs, feeling all the world like a ghost in a world that no longer belonged to her as she did. She started a pot of coffee and rummaged through the cupboards for breakfast, eventually settling on cinnamon toast because it was quick and would be easy on her stomach that was already all tied up in knots.

As she sipped the coffee and ate, Root mentally ran through her plan again. She’d been increasing her online presence lately and taking more and more jobs in preparation for this day, and her offshore, untraceable bank account was very well padded. She could go anywhere she liked and just enjoy herself for quite some time before she’d need to do another job, not that she’d take the opportunity.

No, Samantha Groves might have enjoyed a vacation, the kind she had once planned out with her best friend in the middle of a Texas field, but Samantha Groves was as good as dead and buried and would be as soon as she made it out of this godforsaken town and Root was left in her place. Root, the woman who’d spent years planning the perfect murder in order to get justice for that same best friend who’d been taken away far too young and long before Samantha Groves was ready to lose her. Root was an adrenaline junkie who loved proving her superiority over everyone and only took on the most challenging jobs almost solely to prove that she could.

Root would dive even more into work once she was out of Bishop, Texas and had left Samantha Groves behind forever. She didn’t know where she would end up once she left, but after a lifetime of unstable stability such as the home she’d shared with her mother, she was beyond ready for the excitement of moving from place to place, never staying anywhere for long.

She’d long ago learned that home meant nothing, not to her. Maybe once she’d believed differently, thought that she could have a home away from her house with Hanna’s family, but they’d eventually let her down too, never so much as speaking to her again after Hanna had disappeared, and she’d given up.

As she ate the last slice of toast and drained the rest of her coffee, Root’s gaze ticked over to the clock and she was relieved to see it was already early afternoon. The sooner that this holiday was over, the better as far as she was concerned and as she washed her dishes in the sink, she tried to pretend that the grief wasn’t settling in her chest like a cold, hard weight making it difficult for her to breathe.

It was a weight that she knew she’d carry with her for the rest of her life. Root wasn’t naive enough to think that leaving Bishop in her rear-view would be enough to dissolve it and frankly, she wouldn’t have it even if it would. The pain and the grief were markers of Hanna’s short life; they were proof that she’d been here and that she’d mattered to someone, to Root, and she wouldn’t trade that for any relief in the world.

Frowning when she heard the house phone ringing, Root dried her hands on the hand towel beside the sink and went to answer it, automatically rolling her eyes at the voice on the other end of the line. It was a so-called ‘sympathetic’ neighbor, the kind who called under the guise of being neighborly and polite but was just hoping to get a scoop to pass along the gossip hot line that buzzed all around Bishop as it did in every small town. She kept her tone cordial and chose her words carefully, enduring the conversation more than holding it until she could finally get them off the phone.

Rolling her eyes, Root reminded herself that it was almost over. She wouldn’t have to play their stupid games for much longer and then she could make her escape, leave Bishop and all of its’ nosy, gossiping residents behind her forever. She just had to bide her time until then, make sure that no one would be interested enough to wonder about Samantha Groves once she was gone.

Frowning as she glanced up at the clock to see that barely an hour had passed, Root huffed and tried to think of a way to wait out the annoying, painful holiday that she wished she could just erase from existence.

Pulling out her laptop, she decided to do some work on the virus she’d been contemplating for a while. Although trolling some geeks on online forums with a gibberish code that meant nothing but amused her to watch them scramble to find some meaning in was a fun way to pass the time, Root had bigger plans than that.

Much, much bigger.

By the time she was pulled to look at the clock again with eyes that were burning from being locked on the computer screen for so long, Root wasn’t too surprised to see that it was long-past midnight now and the dreaded holiday had ended.

More importantly than that, however, her virus was coming along quite nicely and although it would be a few years yet before she decided to unleash it, the devastation it would cause was already slumbering between the lines of code, just waiting for an opportunity much like Root had always been slumbering inside of Samantha Groves, just waiting for a crack to slither through that had come when Hanna had been killed.

She’d infected Sam like a virus of her own making and Sam had been happy to let her. Root was everything Sam wasn’t: bold, confident, unafraid, free. She took the things Sam had long dreamed of and made them into reality through her sheer force of will and lack of caring about the consequences. She was all too happy to become Root and she knew that once she left Bishop, Samantha Groves would be as good as dead and buried and she couldn’t wait.

And as Root fell into her bed that night and said farewell to her last Christmas alone in this miserable house, she thought she could feel Sam’s excitement mingling with her own at the prospect of getting out of this town.

For the first time, Root fell asleep on Christmas Day without having shed a single tear or cried out in rage one single time and she considered that quite an accomplishment.

IV.

If it wasn’t for the Machine using a streetlight outside the window of her cage, Root would never have even known it was Christmas.

She’d long ago lost track of time in here, not that it mattered all that much. She would have stayed in Harry’s little cage for as long as it took for him to realize that neither she nor his creation, her God, would do anything to hurt anyone. But time was a luxury that they didn’t have and though she knew her constant prodding and attempts to get through to Harold weren’t exactly helping, she also knew that she had to make him see that.

She pursed her lips as she considered the date and wondered if Harry and the others would be in today or if even two ex-assassins and the man who’d created God Herself celebrated Christmas.

Her lips curled up in a smirk as she tried to imagine Sameen in a Christmas setting, a scowl on her face and an itchy trigger finger on her gun as she tried to blend into the merry setting. Of course, the fantasy ended as soon as it had begun when she realized that she was being ridiculous. She’d seen Shaw’s file, after all; Sameen Shaw was, for all intents and purposes, dead and her mother had died not long after receiving the news.

Even if Shaw did happen to celebrate Christmas, she had no one left to celebrate it with and the thought made pain flare up in her chest, the connection she already felt to the Persian seeming to strengthen with the realization.

With a sigh, Root glanced out the window again but the Machine was silent, seemingly only having wanted to fill her in on the date for whatever reason. Root wished that she could ask her why she’d thought it important, wished that she could speak to Her to pass the time today. But seeing as how that was impossible, she busied herself wondering how she should fill her day today, frowning at the books that surrounded her that she’d already finished.

She would have given anything for a computer in that moment, her fingers practically itching for the familiar feel of a keyboard beneath them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone so long without access to a computer before, but she thought it might have been before Hanna. It had been far too long at any rate, and Root had taken to writing codes out by hand a few days ago just to relieve the itch. She wondered if this is what withdrawal felt like, if she was experiencing the things addicts always did and laughed at the thought.

Addiction did run in her genetics after all.

The hours seemed to tick by endlessly as Root sat on her makeshift bed and watched, tracking the sun’s progress across the sky and trying to ignore the hunger pangs in her belly. It would appear that Harry and the kids did take the holiday off and really, she shouldn’t have been surprised that they’d forgotten about her, the unwanted prisoner that none of them knew what to do with.

Reese wanted to kill her, she knew; hadn’t he threatened as much when she’d called to thank him for finding Hanna, ensuring that she would get a proper burial and finally exposing the truth of her death?

Harold was a bit trickier to suss out, but she suspected that he just didn’t have a clue because she scared him as much as the Machine did. Her willingness to follow any order her God gave her was clearly terrifying to him and no amount of explaining that She had kept her in the asylum to learn how to be a better person would convince him otherwise. She was pretty sure that Harry would keep her in this cage for as long as he possibly could just so that he wouldn’t have to make a decision.

And as for Shaw… She couldn’t help but smile again at the thought of the intriguing woman. They’d had quite the first encounter, with Root posing as Veronica before the real woman had roused Shaw’s suspicions. But things had only grown more enticing after that and Root often wondered about where things might have gone if they hadn’t come for the real Veronica and their intimate encounter with the iron had gone beyond a mere threat. She’d longed to hear the hiss of the iron against Shaw’s flesh, to leave a mark on her that would always be Root’s and no one else’s and it was a shame that they’d been so rudely interrupted.

Of course, there was the fact that Shaw had shot her in the weakest moment of her life, but she’d also dug the bullet out of her in the car on the way to the asylum afterward and they’d had a quite enjoyable experience together that night in the CIA safe-house.

Shaw was a wild card, pure and simple, but Root didn’t think she wanted her dead. If anything, Root rather suspected that Shaw would be the one to eventually crack and let her out if the right circumstances presented themselves as she knew they one day would.

She just hoped that it wouldn’t be too late by then.

Shaking her head, Root turned to stare out the window again, trying to pretend that it didn’t hurt to spend another Christmas alone. She hadn’t been dreading the holiday this year, actually, having been curious to know what the Machine thought of it and being happy with the thought of having Her in her ear to distract her from things.

She really should have known better than to think that things would ever work out for her in regards to the holiday, though. Somehow she felt even lonelier now that she knew what it was like to have the Machine as her constant companion and she wished once again that she could speak to Her about anything.

But wishing was useless, she told herself as she shifted on the uncomfortable bench that doubled as her bed and studied her nails. She was locked in this cage for the foreseeable future and that was that. Even if she could leave, she knew that she wouldn’t. Harold’s cooperation was integral to stopping whatever She saw coming and Root knew that he would never agree if she gave him any more reason not to trust her. And, of course, there was the other reason, the one that Root was incapable of expressing even to herself.

From the first time she’d gotten a glimpse of Harold, Root had known that she’d met her match. The brief glimpse that she’d gotten into his network had been breathtaking, elegant even. The way he coded was a work of art and when she’d gotten the briefest of hints about the Machine…

Harold had created God and for that alone but for so many more reasons, Root would do anything he asked if it meant that one day, they could perhaps be colleagues or maybe even friends.

Pulled from her musings by a flickering of the streetlight, Root smiled softly as the Machine spoke to her, informing her that it was after midnight and yet another Christmas had passed.

After Hanna had died, Samantha Groves had thought that Christmas couldn’t possibly get any worse, get any harder for a lone little girl with nobody left in the world that she could count on.

She’d been wrong, and Root blamed the little bit of Sam Groves who still existed beneath her skin for the fact that she couldn’t sleep for the bitter ice that seemed to fill her veins as she stared out of the window of Sameen’s former apartment and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do with this fucking holiday this year.

Years ago, she’d thought the worst possible pain had been inflicted on her when she’d watched the only person in the world who gave a damn about her climb into a car and she hadn’t said a word. She’d long-blamed herself for Hanna’s death, for not listening to her gut and intervening but just watching in numb silence as Hanna was led to her death like a lamb to the slaughter and Sam Groves the only witness, the one nobody would believe.

She’d been so very wrong about that.

When Sameen had pulled her into a bruising kiss, gripping her arms so tight that she’d had bruises for days (but not long enough, never long enough), her heart had soared and despite everything, she hadn’t been able to keep her wits about her enough to realize what Shaw meant to do until she was being hurtled backwards into arms that captured her and held her and why wouldn’t they let her go?!

For the second time in her life, Root had been forced to watch as someone she loved was taken away from her and once again, she hadn’t been able to move until it was too late. She’d managed to free herself from the grip of whoever had been holding her, but the gate was already down and though she clung to it as though she’d rip it down if she could, she’d known that it was fruitless and she’d screamed as she’d watched the bullets slam into Sameen’s chest.

The sounds coming from her were hardly human and she could barely recognize them as her own as she beat at the bars and clung to them in turn, trying to get to Sameen as she went down and Martine approached, the doors slowly closing on the view of the blonde pointing her gun at Shaw’s head. It had been all too like watching Hanna climb into Russel’s car but never knowing what had happened to her.

Root shuddered and stared at the drink in her hand, wondering when it had gotten there but deciding not to question it as she tossed it back. It burned going down but Root welcomed the pain, knowing that she deserved it for her many sins.

For all her trying, the Machine refused to give Root any information about Sameen either, and that was a betrayal that she simply couldn’t take. She had spent so much of her life longing for something that made sense to her the way that the Machine had and for her to turn on her now… She tilted the glass upward, draining the last of it.

She’d thought the silence was unbearable before, but now the Machine never spoke to her and her implant was always impossibly silent. She knew she was being punished for ignoring the Machine’s order to stop looking for Shaw but frankly, Root didn’t care. She would do whatever it took to learn Sameen’s fate, Samaritan and the Machine be equally damned if She couldn’t respect that.

Sometimes, Root wondered if Harry had been right about Her all along, though it was never something she would have spoken out loud. She’d once thought the Machine could love them, that she did, but now she wasn’t so sure. How could She expect Root to live with herself if she didn’t devote herself to searching for Shaw? How could She abandon her at the time Root needed Her guidance the most if she really did care for them?

How could she abandon Sameen to Samaritan’s clutches after all of the good Sameen had done with them, for them?

She swallowed hard, taking another punishing drink and frowning at her empty glass. She was getting to have a problem now, she knew. She remembered the signs well from her own mother, could see how she was following in her footsteps even now.

“Just one to take the edge off,” her mother had muttered on more than one occasion after going to a meeting she’d promised Sam she’d attend. “Just need one...”

The next morning, little Samantha Groves would wake up to her mother blacked out on the couch yet again, bottles and glass surrounding the couch and she’d sigh, knowing it was starting again.

Though she hadn’t quite reached the point of blacking out yet, Root was all too aware that she was drinking too much these days. She’d started to ache for it recently and she frowned as she tried to remember the last time that she’d gone a day without a single drink and realized that she couldn’t remember, it having become a constant companion to help her get through the night.

Somehow, that little reminder combined with the Christmas parade choosing that moment to take over the television was enough to fill Root with a new purpose. Switching the television off, she poured the bottle of Scotch down the sink and followed it up with every bottle she had in the house.

She hadn’t come all this way from Bishop, TX to an elite assassin to one of the good guys just to turn into her goddamn mother, she thought with a vengeance that suited her, that felt good. And she certainly wasn’t about to fail Sameen because she was too weak to survive without her, not when she knew that Shaw would have moved heaven and hell to get her back if their positions were reversed.

And somehow, she knew with all the certainty in the world that she would get Sameen back. Although the Machine refused to tell her anything about Shaw’s condition, she knew it in the way that she’d always known her Christmases would be spent alone after Hanna. She knew it in the way that she could feel their connection still beating strong between them, as strong as Shaw’s heartbeat had felt against her the day that Sameen had kissed her and pushed her away to save her, to save them.

She knew it as surely as she knew that her fucking name was Root and that she wouldn’t be taken down so easily, not when Sameen was out there waiting for her.

Her eyes narrowed and she took a deep breath, resolving to ignore the holiday as much as possible as she started to come up with a plan to force the Machine’s hand. She wasn’t sure yet when she would implement it, but just having a plan was good.

Even an acolyte as devoted as she had her limits, and she was about to teach the Machine a lesson of her own about pushing them.

For the first time that she could remember, Root was home.

The war had been won and the surviving team had scattered in order to avoid the last of Decima as it slowly died out. Though far less dangerous without Samaritan’s all-seeing eye, none of them were foolish enough to think that their desperate death flail couldn’t be catastrophic if any of their agents found them.

Unfortunately for Root, that meant that she had been forced to say goodbye to Shaw again, less than a month after she had finally gotten her back. And although she took comfort in knowing that Sameen was safe, having spoken to her whenever the Machine could arrange a secure line for them, a part of her knew that she wouldn’t rest easy or consider the comfortable apartment a true home until Shaw was there with her.

Sighing softly, Root snuggled into her pillow and closed her eyes, but with a severe lack of action and the exhaustion left over from waging war on an ever-smartening artificial intelligence, she had slept more than her share and found herself wide awake despite her best efforts. Almost as though to taunt her, her neighbor chose that moment to turn their radio on at an ungodly high volume, blasting Christmas music straight through the wall and assaulting her good ear.

Taking the cue, Root climbed out of bed and headed into the living room. With a brief glance around the room, she realized that there was nothing to be done. The apartment was as clean as she could get it and there wasn’t even any of her usual clutter of electronics to be picked up. Pouting as she wondered about how she was going to get through this day, she sat down on the couch and studied the TV warily, wondering if it was even worth trying to find something on that wasn’t the damn parade or a holiday movie.

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and Root frowned, immediately put on guard. Reaching under the couch, she withdrew the taser she had secured underneath it and slowly approached the door. The Machine’s lack of chatter made her feel somewhat at ease, knowing the amount of security cameras around the building but still, she knew that she couldn’t be too careful.

Root couldn’t help the broad smile that overcame her as she brought her eye to the peephole and saw who was waiting on the other side. Now, she understood the Machine’s silence more than ever and whispered a heartfelt thank you as she scrambled to unlock the door and pulled it open.

“Hey, sweetie,” she crooned, reaching out to caress Shaw’s shoulders as though to convince herself that she was really there. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

Shaw shifted from one foot to the other, looking almost nervous as she gave a jerky nod and tried to avoid Root’s gaze. “Yeah, well, I remembered what you told me about Christmas.” She managed to give Root a tight smile that spoke more to her discomfort than anything else could. “I didn’t want you to be alone today.”

Root swallowed, touched beyond measure by Shaw’s thoughtfulness but knowing that she wouldn’t appreciate her showing it. “Thank you,” she said softly anyway, reaching out and taking Shaw’s hand in hers so that she could pull her into the apartment.

As she’d predicted, the apartment immediately seemed to brighten with Shaw’s presence and Root felt like she could finally breathe in it for the first time. She couldn’t help but beam at the smaller woman and the effect she had on her. “Home sweet home,” she mused, suddenly noticing the bags in Shaw’s hand and the delicious smell wafting from it. “Sameen, did you bring dinner?”

“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t have anything here,” Shaw snorted, and Root tried to look offended but failed miserably. She knew that they were both thinking about a night just a week after Shaw had come back home and Root had endeavored to make her dinner. The night had ended with the Machine rambling fire safety rules and statistics about their local fire station in her ear while Shaw used a kitchen chair to take the batteries out of all the smoke alarms in her apartment.

“Besides, you shouldn’t get too excited,” Shaw hurried to add, making Root suspect that she was worried she was about to get what Shaw had termed ‘gushy’ on her. “It’s just harissa, a chicken stew that we always had on Christmas growing up.” She frowned, and Root waited quietly, knowing that sharing things like this didn’t come easily to Shaw and not wanting to interrupt the rare moment. “It’s dumb.”

Root was already shaking her head and put a gentle hand on Shaw’s wrist as she smiled tenderly. “It’s not dumb, Sameen, and thank you,” she told her quietly, holding her gaze until she saw Shaw give her a small but genuine smile.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered, disappearing to the kitchen so that she could set things up. Root couldn’t help but smile again at how at home she already seemed and she tried to ignore the part of her that was wondering how long they had before they’d have to split up again.

“Are you coming or what?” Shaw demanded, re-appearing with a delicious smelling bowl, steam still rising from the contents as she stirred it absently.

“Yeah, I am,” Root assured her, giving her arm a gentle squeeze as she passed by her.

The harissa was as delicious as Root had expected and she found herself eating far more than usual. Between the two of them, they finished it off and Shaw gave her another smile when Root slipped her hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze again.

“Shaw...”

“I know,” she said softly, meeting Root’s gaze and making Root melt again at the understanding she saw there. Their eyes said everything for them and once again, Root was left to marvel at the way they didn’t need the words that both of them had always struggled with when it came to other people.

She knew that Shaw understood exactly what she was thanking her for; she’d told her the night before the final battle between themselves and Samaritan about Hanna, about her mother, about Christmas. She knew that was why Shaw had come over today, could still hear the words she’d whispered in the pitch black of night that had given her the strength.

“I’ve never had anyone on Christmas, not really. I’ve spent every one alone since Hanna died and sometimes, I’m scared that I always will.”

Shaw’s arrival said far more than any words could ever convey and Root leaned forward to kiss her softly, the lingering taste of the harissa blending into the kiss in a way that just felt right and made Root feel more than ever that she was finally home.

But as was their normal, the kiss didn’t stay soft for long and it was hours later before the pair were panting softly while lying in bed facing each other. It was, as far as Root was concerned, the perfect way to spend Christmas but Shaw wasn’t quite finished yet.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she said bluntly, making Root giggle.

“That’s okay, I didn’t get you anything either, sweetie,” Root winked, lazily tracing patterns along Shaw’s back.

Shaw rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile at Root’s antics. “I didn’t get you anything because I want us to move in together,” she blurted out, refusing to meet Root’s gaze.

Root froze, staring at Shaw in shock and disbelief. Had Sameen “three nights” “I don’t do relationships” Shaw really just asked if they could move in together?

Though Root had long ago accepted that she was the exception to Shaw’s every rule, something that had come far more easily ever since her return from Samaritan and willingness to admit that she cared for Root, she was still taken off guard. Her mind was whirling as she stared at Sameen, scrutinizing every detail of her expression and the way she’d offered.

“Do you really mean that, Shaw?” she asked softly, her voice small and vulnerable, far more Samantha than Root in that moment. “You’re not just saying it?”

Shaw sighed and met her gaze. “Yes, Root, I mean it. The Machine called me a few days ago to let me know that Decima’s gone and we’re safe. I asked Her not to tell you because I wanted to surprise you.”

Root could hear the unspoken words in her sentence: “and I didn’t want you to think that I only came over here and asked to move in because the danger passed and it seemed like the thing to do” and she couldn’t help but smile at the sentiment.

“Are you going to answer me or just keep smiling like an idiot?” Shaw grumbled, breaking Root’s trance and making her laugh.

“Of course I want us to live together, Sameen,” she said, pulling her into a kiss and feeling her relax against her. “Wait a minute,” she grinned, her eyes shining with glee. “Did you just say that you’re moving in as my Christmas present?”

“Root.”

“That’s so incredibly romantic of you, Sameen. Do you want to watch a Hallmark movie together? I can make hot cocoa and we could build a gingerbread house.”

“Root,” Shaw growled, but Root’s smile only grew more impish as she climbed out of bed and meandered into the living room, not even having to look behind her to know that Shaw would follow.

“Come on, Sameen,” she winked, settling in on the couch before flipping on the TV and scrolling through the channels. “Ooh! It’s A Wonderful Life, that’s a classic.”

Shaw huffed in annoyance as she practically collapsed on the couch beside her and Root had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she remembered that time years ago that she’d tried to envision Shaw surrounded by holiday festivities and how close to perfect her imagination gotten her expression, if her current one was anything to go by.

“I’m not watching this crap,” she informed Root coolly, trying and failing to seem completely disinterested.

“That’s okay, it’s almost over anyway, sweetie,” Root winked, changing the channel again and finding the Rudolph special on. “Here we go, this one is even better!”

“I never understood this crap,” Shaw muttered, glaring at the television as the reindeer were bullying Rudolph. “What’s the lesson supposed to be anyway, bully someone so that they’ll feel indebted to prove themselves to you? It’s dumb.”

Root laughed and rolled her eyes, teasingly putting a finger over Shaw’s lips and shivering when Shaw nipped at it. “Come on, Sameen, where’s your Christmas spirit?” she winked.

Shaw huffed again but let Root pull her in to her side and Root smiled, remembering a time years ago when she’d watched this same film in a similar position with another girl who’d meant almost as much to Samantha Groves as Shaw did to her.

But where Hanna and Sam had never gotten a chance to explore what could have been, Root knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she and Shaw had been granted an absolution that neither of them necessarily deserved but that would never be squandered anyway.

And as Root enjoyed her first Christmas in over twenty years that wasn’t spent alone, she found that she couldn’t stop smiling.

~FIN

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sodalitefully · 5 years

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Cat!Slash part 3!

In which Slash’s background finally comes to light. Fluff with mentions of sex (including some mentions of teenaged sex so heads up there) but nothing terribly explicit. A bit of AU worldbuilding stuff before the fic under the cut, gotta explain some things for this fic to make sense.

Check out my masterlist for more cat!slash (and other stuff)!

“... And then Duff realized his plan might backfire on him, because Slash started to honest-to-god purr in his arms, and even after living together for almost a month, there was no surer way to get Duff worked up. Sure, Slash was basically making Duff’s point for him (that Slash was all his and he was all Slash’s, so no one better try to get in their way), but Duff really, really didn’t want to pop a boner in front of the man who could make or break his career.”

(So, regarding training and intimacy: Catpets have sexual needs, same as humans, and most often, those needs are met by one or more adult members of their adoptive household. Since sexual companionship is part of most pets’ role, it’s often introduced as part of their training curriculum in their late teens. This makes the pet safer and also a more desirable candidate for adoption. Other subjects covered in training will vary, but household chores, etiquette, and work skills are common, and a basic education is required by law. Slash spent his childhood with his mother in various households, and his teens elsewhere in foster homes where he received most of his training. I have a lot of thoughts about how this universe works, so if anything doesn’t make sense just ask! 😅)

=^^=

Slash was no stay-at-home pet: anywhere Duff went, Slash could be found on his arm, from rehearsals, to errands, even a meeting with the record label. The execs sure didn’t seem to mind an extra body in the meeting room – some of them seemed to really appreciate Slash’s presence, in fact, but Duff made sure to stare them down whenever their eyes lingered too long… Slash had only been with him for a few weeks, and Duff was still very protective. However they might have minded the twenty minutes Slash and Duff spent going at it in the restroom after the meeting wrapped... Based on the looks they got on their way to the elevators, the room may not have boon completely soundproof. Regardless, the rest of the band had long gone by the time Slash and Duff reached the ground floor.

“Saul?” Duff heard a man’s voice call out from across the lobby, and immediately Duff felt Slash stiffen and twist around in his arms to find the source of the voice. Duff followed Slash’s gaze and saw David Geffen himself, staring at Slash in open surprise.

“Mr. Geffen?” Slash responded, using that polite, perfectly-trained-kitten tone of voice that he only rarely used when he wanted people to think he was proper (for example, when the apartment received noise complaints because Slash was blasting music, or when he got restless during a technical delay before a show and started flicking picks around, one of which clipped Tracii in the ear).

“Saul?” Duff echoed in confusion, as David Geffen made his way over to them.

“It is you! What a pleasant surprise to see you here!“

“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Geffen.”

“It’s been ages since I saw you last, you were just a kitten! You’ve been doing well, I hope?"

“I’ve been doing very well, thank you. But I go by Slash, now.”

This seemed to finally trip Geffen up, because he did an obvious double take, looking between Slash and Duff and Slash’s collar and Duff’s hand on his pet’s waist. It finally clicked just who Slash was with now: of all people, the booze-swilling, hairspraying, delinquent bassist of his label’s newest and sleaziest hard-rock band.

Geffen’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. How did a broke wannabe-rocker manage to adopt a pet panther? The band’s cash advance wasn’t that good. He was looking at Duff like he was wondering if his intentions might be less than pure.

Duff wasn’t about to let that misconception stand, so he made sure to be extra-sweet to prove to Geffen that he and Slash are a perfect match. He slid his hand up from Slash’s leather-clad waist and began stroking his hair, lightly scratching at his scalp as Duff cooed down at him, “Slash, sweetheart, you didn’t tell me you knew Mr. Geffen!”

And then Duff realized his plan might backfire on him, because Slash started to honest-to-god purr in his arms, and even after living together for almost a month, there was no surer way to get Duff worked up. Sure, Slash was basically making Duff’s point for him (that Slash was all his and he was all Slash’s, so no one better try to get in their way), but Duff really, really didn’t want to pop a boner in front of the man who could make or break his career.

Geffen didn’t seem entirely reassured, but he put on a smile. “Duff, maybe you and, ah… Slash? Would like to join me for dinner sometime. We could go over some thoughts I have regarding your band’s future, and your lovely pet and I could catch up a bit.”

Well, Duff wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to schmooze with the boss, even if it was obviously just a set-up for Geffen to check in on Slash’s well-being, to make sure Duff wasn’t corrupting his poor, innocent catpet – Duff was offended by the insinuation, but he had to admit Geffen’s sentiment was in the right place. He kept up the sickeningly-sweet tone as he responded:

“We would love to join you, wouldn’t we Slash?”

=^^=

“What the fuck was that all about?” Duff exclaimed as he and Slash wove through parked Cadillacs and Corvettes until they reached Duff’s old pickup truck. “How do you know David Geffen?”

“We used to live in the same neighborhood,” Slash explained as he swung into the passenger seat. “Up in Laurel Canyon. He was always nice to my mom and I, but I’m surprised he still recognized me.” As if there were more than a handful of pet panthers in the entire state of California. “Though he could have been a little less judgmental about… us.”

“Yeah, I didn’t miss that look he gave me, like I might have kidnapped you or something.” Duff’s lip curled into a sneer, offended at the very thought, but he brushed it off quickly. “Laurel Canyon... Why does that sound familiar?”

“Hm, well I guess some pretty famous people lived there back in the day,” Slash shrugged.

“Oh?”

“Um... David Geffen, Jim Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Glen Frey –”

Duff just stared. Slash eyes were wide open and perfectly honest, and slowly it sunk in that he was being perfectly serious. Self-doubt started to creep into Duff’s mind – Slash outclassed him by a mile, just like he’d secretly feared – but Slash cut himself off in the middle of the list of names and smiled at him, easy as anything.

“Relax, it’s not like I slept with any of them or anything. I was just a kitten.” Slash tried to keep the mood light with a little teasing. He leaned in like he was about to tell Duff a secret: “My mom slept with Bowie.”

“She what?” Duff’s head actually hit the low roof of the car. Slash just nodded sagely, barely holding in a fit of laughter.

“We even lived with him for a little while. I saw his dick once,” Slash stage-whispered with a wicked grin.

“You’re kidding.” Duff was at loss for words for at least half a minute before – “What… what did it…?”

“Long and pale. What did you expect?” Slash wasn’t even trying to hold back his laughter anymore.

“Christ.” Duff muttered as he put the truck in reverse and pulled out of the lot. “You know, I’d figured that a fancy cat like you must have come from some crazy Hollywood mansion or something… but seriously? Bowie?”

“Guess I’ve always had a thing for rock stars.” Slash leaned over to land a kiss on Duff’s bare shoulder.

“Aw, Slash…” Duff blushed a little, he always did when Slash said something sweet. “I’m not all that. Just some punk kid from Seattle with a shitty apartment and a shitty car and a sweet, beautiful cat who’s too good for me.”

“Bullshit. You’re gonna be a superstar, Duff. But even if you weren’t, I’d still want to be with you and no one else.”

Slash watched the soft expression on Duff’s face for a few blocks, but after a while he couldn’t resist the urge to give him a little more of a hard time.

“You’ll never guess where I was trained.”

“Jesus, do I want to know?”

“Seymour Cassel’s. You know, the actor? At least for part of my training, I kinda moved around a lot, never really go the full, formal experience.”

“Yeah, it shows,” Duff teased.

“Now there I saw a bit of action. He had quite a guest list, you know.” Duff groaned in mock despair.

“For fuck’s sake, Slash. How am I supposed to impress you in bed if you’re gonna compare me to every star on the Walk of Fame?”

“Don’t exaggerate, Duff, I was still pretty young after all. Mostly I just watched, gave the occasional blowjob… some other things…” Duff groaned again, lowering his head to rest on the steering wheel when they pulled up to a red light. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, Duff.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” His voice was muffled as he spoke down into his lap.

“You’ve got about the same size dick as Mick Jagger."

Duff’s head shot up like a rocket. “Jesus Christ, Slash!”

“I’m dead serious, Duff…” Slash was not dead serious, in fact he could barely speak through his laughter. “If you were 20 years older, you could be twins!”

Duff spluttered at him for a second before giving up. “Fuck off, Saul,” he muttered.

“Hey!” Slash gave him the most utterly offended look, nearly comical in its genuineness, but Duff just rolled his eyes.

“You know, I can��t believe that you never thought to mention your birth name. Do you know how many adoption papers I filled out with ‘Slash’?”

“It’s not my fault if you actually thought my parents named me Slash,” Slash huffed in the snobbiest tone he could muster without losing himself in a fit of giggles.

“Well, what was I supposed to think?”

“I don’t know, Michael, what were you supposed to think?”

A car horn blared behind them; the light was green.

Duff flipped off the car behind them, then pouted at Slash as he pulls through the intersection: “Suck a dick, babe.”

“Maybe later, love.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll just be thinking of Mick Jagger the whole time.”

“Well fine then, I’ll just have to move back to England, pay a visit to Mick Jagger’s mansion and see what he thinks of my blowjobs, won’t I?”

“Hey, what happened to still wanting to be with me even though I’m not rich and famous?"

Slash knew very well that Duff was teasing, but he still felt Duff’s heartbroken tone like a punch in the gut. Duff might have been a badass punk rocker but as far as Slash was concerned, it was his job to make sure that he felt protected and loved at all times, so he immediately scooted over on the bench to lean against Duff’s side. He buried his face in Duff’s shoulder, curled his tail into his lap, and started to purr.

“Oh, hell, baby. Love you too."

Slash was generous with his affection – or at least, he was when it came to Duff. But Duff still found himself a little overwhelmed whenever Slash made a point of making him feel as loved as possible. He was damn lucky that they had found each other, that Slash was here with him instead of –

“Wait. What did you mean, move BACK to England?!”

=^^=

Poor Duff, the adoption agency really didn’t tell him anything. And if he’s being honest with himself, he never wanted to ask because he’s afraid that someone richer, better, and more qualified to take care of a pet (perhaps someone from Slash’s past) will someday try to take Slash away from him. It’s not that Slash acts shallow or materialistic at all, it’s just that Duff isn’t a millionaire rock star just yet and generally exotic pets like Slash are adopted into mansions, not apartments - adopting a panther instead of a normal catpet is extra af and usually a status thing. It’s easier to focus on their time together in the moment than to worry about where Slash was before. Duff stresses about these things, Slash does his damnedest to help ("Sir, that’s my emotional support catboy boyfriend").

On a lighter note, I could have kept writing their banter forever; in fact I probably drew it out too long already. I had fun with it though, I hope it isn’t hard to tell who’s speaking when I don’t specify.

Also, that Mick Jagger thing? Like, my favorite part of Duff’s book.

#ok I feel like I could have written this better but it's been sitting around for ages and i haven't really made any changes #besides finishing a few paragraphs #so here it is #sluff #slash #duff mckagan #saul hudson #gnr #guns n roses #guns and roses #mine #sodafics #some edits november 2021 to match ao3

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crowkingwrites · 6 years

Text

War Creatures (Ch.34)

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Summary: In a crossover of the Nine Realms and Westeros, you find yourself in the dawn of a rebellion. Odin, Lord of Pyke, has made alliances with your family, House Grover of Highgarden. Your father’s army will join Odin’s army to overthrow the King and take the Iron Throne. There is just one cost to this alliance.You must marry the dark, young prince Loki.In a world where Kings do as they wish, where war is an oncoming storm, and peace is nothing but a dream, you are lost but brave. Loki is more powerful than he seems, and love will grow from the flames of war.

Words: 2060 // [AO3 Link] // Seasons 1-3 of War Creatures - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33

:Loki’s POV:

Loki pulled his sword out of a man. He watched him bleed out and choke on his own blood. His eyes rolled back and his soul left his body. Loki looked to the struggling man on his left. Another one of Frey’s sons. Loki didn’t clean off his sword and poke him through the back, ending his life.

“That was too easy,” he commented. Loki was surrounded by dead Frey men and women. King Malekith sent no support to his most loyal man. Walder Frey paid for it. His body was strung on the bridge. The rope twisted as his body hung there like seaweed sticks to the sea. Loki’s army moved on from the blood shed on the Twins and headed north towards his own people.

He remembered tales from his mother when he was sick. Frigga would sit next to him and tell stories of the terrible Frost Giants.

“They were savages,” Frigga said. “People who knew nothing but how to survive.” Loki considered himself a survivor of his own family. They fed him lies. Covered up his true heritage and for what? A lifetime of betrayal, war, hate? It hurt him to his core. To know that he did not belong his own family, but to a family who did not know him.

The northern roads grew colder at night. He watched some of the boys freeze in their metal cages and look upon him with disgust. Other boys looked upon him with gratitude. Either way, Loki did not care of the boys’ opinions. They were safe from the mad king. He would return them home to their families. He would not stoop to the king’s level.

The roads turned to ice and snow when his army reached the North. It was a large and wild land. Every southerner lived in fear of north’s men and the Frost Giants. Old magic was said to be more dangerous than the gods themselves. Still, Loki moved forward. He had no fear. He had old magic of his own.

The Frost Giants did not live in a village like most assumed. They had a fortress built to last every winter that befell the Nine Kingdoms. Winterfell belonged to the men. World’s Edge belonged to the Giants. The fortress bordered the sea on the Grey Hills. Their homes craved into the frozen rock. Their fortress towered Winterfell by thirty feet. Any man who approached it felt the hard stare of the giants who guarded the gates and the road.

Loki was at the head of his army when they approached the main gates. He was met with the same cold stare by three guards.

“Who comes?” the first giant’s voice boomed.

“Loki of House Laufeyson. Dark Prince of the Iron Islands. Future King of the Nine Kingdoms,” Gryff’s voice boomed back. He may be a dwarf, but his voice carried more weight than anticipated.

“Loki…,” the first giant’s voice trailed off as he took in the sight of him. A long, black cloak covered Loki. His golden-horned crown stood out against the white landscape. His grey fur collar kept his face warm. His banners whipped in the wind behind him. His familiar blue eyes struck the giant.

The first giant left the other two and the army waited in silence. Soon after, the gate was opened to World’s Edge. Loki and his army rode inside to discover the true size of the fortress which was unlike anything they have ever seen before.

:Lia’s POV:

Weeks went by without hearing anything of Loki’s status. No one said he was dead, but no one could confirm his safety either. My belly swelled to a larger size now. I could feel the weight of our child. My hand rubbed along the size of my stomach and I felt it. A kick! It was unlike anything I ever felt before. I felt so many emotions that I didn’t realize what I said.

“Loki! Come here! Our child—

My voice trailed off when I realized who I called out for. I felt myself sink into the chair I sat at. A tea made for a new mother’s health warmed me, but it was not the comfort I wanted. Out of the corner of my eye, a visitor came onto the balcony.

“I heard you calling, dear,” Eir said. “Did you need something?”

I shook my head. “I was speaking out of turn, I guess. I may as well be calling out to a ghost.” I frowned. Eir sat down next to me.

“I heard what you said. Do you miss him?”

“Very much so.”

“I have heard tall tales of your marriage to him. I was there at the wedding. He didn’t look so happy.” Eir chuckled. I laughed with her.

“He wasn’t. He didn’t enjoy the spectacle of it all.” I blinked and remembered a particular memory of that night.

“Did you like the food?” I asked him. “The fish was wonderful, but I’m sure you have had better.”

“It was okay,” Loki exhaled. He continued to look around at everyone else. His eyes narrowed to the right of me. I looked in the same direction, but I only saw Ser Petra talking to a high merchant.

“Is something wrong?”

“Don’t speak,” Loki answered right away. He kept staring at the pair, sitting forward a little more. I sat back, confused. People watching was interesting, but to do it so intensely was concerning. His eyes narrowed on Ser Petra as if he knew something.

“I remember Loki was suspicious of one of my knights that evening. Ser Petra, I believe,” I laughed. “I’m not sure why. He’s one of my father’s most loyal knights. He protected my family during the siege here. Loki just kept staring him down as if he meant to set him on fire.”

“Men,” Eir said. “And they claim women are more emotional. Speaking of emotional, how are you feeling?”

“It’s been almost three months, and I don’t know whether my husband is alive or dead. News of that battle is old and yet I know nothing of it. It weighs on me. Mostly at night when I can feel his absence. I want our child to have a father. I felt them. They kicked!”

“Ah, my summer child. What you felt was movement,” Eir corrected me. “You are only four moons along in your term. The baby will kick later.”

:Loki’s POV:

Loki and three of his men were lead to the center of the fortress. A tall and narrow room with no windows. Candles lit in several corners gave the room a dim but manageable light. The current leader of the Frost Giants sat there. His eyes were darkened by the little light in them. His deep wrinkles could tell you stories of his long life. His face lit up when Loki entered the room.

“Loki. Little Loki,” he chuckled.

“Excuse me? I come into your home—

The Leader raised his hand, and Loki shit his mouth slowly as if a ghost had gently squeezed his lips together. The Leader laughed and coughed as if he was clearing the dust in his lungs. His black feathered crown moved on his head.

“I only jest,” he shook his head. “I never thought I would meet you. Now that you stand before me, I feel joy in my chest. My nephew has come home.” The wrinkles in his face deepened when he smiled.

“Nephew?”

“My name is Yik’in. Your father, Laufey, was my younger brother,” Yik’in explained. “A warrior and a hero if there ever was one. He carried our name proudly. He fought with dignity, divinity, and with grace. When we rebelled against the kingdom, I was so sure we would win. We only wanted to live by our code. Our laws. Laufey led the invasions.

“He traveled along the border, going south, bringing blood and gold to the King. I didn’t think Lord Odin would be his end. I thought he killed all of you. Laufey, your mother, and you. News of your survival never reached here. I cried for years, feeling guilty and weak from it. My daughter, bless her, she wanted to be at peace with it all. Until I heard the news.”

“News?”

“Of Iced Steel and your touch,” Yik’in smiled. “I knew it had to be you. Only you. When the news reached me, I wrote to your father immediately. I wanted nothing to do with him and his rebellion anymore.”

“Which is why you wrote to me?” Loki’s breath was shaky. Everything started to make sense. A weight Loki never knew was there lifted from his chest. He felt like breathing was easier here. Tears started to line his eyes. “You wanted me to come here for an alliance, but you wanted me to come home.”

Yik’in’s arms reached out to the young boy. Loki embraced the old man and held him as long as he could. Loki fell on his knees in front of his uncle. His uncle’s hands touched Loki’s face, turning it blue under his touch.

“Welcome home, Loki,” he said to him.

Loki and his men were welcomed into the fortress. The Frost Giants had treated them warmly, feeding them hot food and good ale. Some of the men smoked sourleaf around the fire in bonding ceremonies. Loki found himself bonding with his uncle and helping him walk around the fortress and the surrounding under cities.

“I am glad I have met you,” Loki said. “And I am glad that you support my cause. But why me? Why quit your alliance with Odin?”

“Lord Odin is an awful man. He fights with little to no honor at all. I expect hi golden-haired son to be every inch like him,” Yik’in confessed. “I hate him. He took my brother from me. He took my nephew from me. He took my freedom from me, and yet he is a better man than King Malekith.”

“And you think I am a better man than Lord Odin?”

“I know you are. I have been following this war, boy. I’ve seen your victories and your losses. I’m impressed. You would make a better king than both of them combined.” Loki felt a warm feeling of pride wash over him. He felt the weight of Iced Steel at his side.

“I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“You won’t. I have a faith in you that burns from the same fire that burned my hatred for those men. I heard they made you marry a southern girl. We can fix that. You could have one of our girls—

Loki held his hand up. “No, I’m happy, uncle.”

“Happy?”

“Yes. Lady Cecelia is everything I wanted. I was arranged to marry her, but ultimately she has my heart and my child.” Loki’s eyes widened. His child. He was set on the task of being here that he had forgotten about his own future child.

“Happiness and a child? Why do you look so worried, boy?”

“I forgot I was having a child!” Loki put his face in his hands. He groaned. “Oh, I am awful.” Yik’in patted his back.

“Boy, you are at war. Her belly swells. She is at work. You are at work. Let the girl worry.”

“She is not a girl, uncle,” Loki’s tone changed. A darkness fell over his eyes. “If you support me as your king, I will remind you that she is your queen. You may be my uncle, but she is mine. That will be the last time you insult what is mine.”

Two guards rushed to Yik’in’s side as Loki towered over him. Yik’in waved them away and looked at his nephew seriously. His old eyes saw a fire burned behind his young nephew’s eyes. The same fire that burned in Laufey’s eyes.

“That is why you’ll be King,” Yik’in said. “You defend what is yours. You destroy your enemies. You wield Iced Steel as if it was made for you.”

“You speak of me like I am your hero. I just threatened you,” Loki looked to his uncle’s guards.

“I know. You threatened me. Your own uncle. I can only imagine the horrors that await your enemies.”

“How many men will you give me?” Loki pushed his boundaries. Yik’in stood straight.

“How many men do you need?”

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sicklyscribe · 6 years

Text

dreamed a dream last night

“In the Interim” - Writing set during any of the gaps between seasons

“The number of their worries grow

and with them the number of their solutions —

but the answer is often a heavier burden,

even when the question hurts to bear...”

“Freya, the bunny isn’t working, the Beethoven isn’t working, the aromatherenchantmentwhatsits are definitely not working, and I --” the screeching monster (he adored her really, he did, but his ears were already the most sensitive ears in the world and she was trying to deafen him) in his arms had taken a gasping breath and was back at full decibel volume, and well, that should convey exactly the kind of urgency he was trying to elicit in this 1:38 AM phone call. “-- Just, please, get over here.”

He considered calling Marcel, Marcel was always good with children, wasn’t he? In theory. Klaus couldn’t ever recall Marcel tending to an actual infant. Klaus was the one who used to be good at this, a millennium ago, almost as good as --

Klaus’ thought stopped in his throat like an aborted sob. He gulped it down, pacing and pacing and pacing that rug bare. He pressed a kiss to his daughter’s fussy, anger-flushed forehead. You’ve already checked her temperature three times, and all it’s done is make her angrier and you more convinced that the thermometer is broken.

What if she really was sick? When was he supposed to run at full hybrid speed to an emergency clinic, and compel the smartest-looking doctor there to give Hope his full attention? What if this was some strange, witchy wolfy vampiric infant virus that --

Any sound that wasn’t his pacing feet, shuddering breaths, or Hope’s animal wails was an epiphany in those moments, so when the lock clicked downstairs and the front door opened into the courtyard, Klaus nearly wheezed with relief.

Someone was running up the stairs, so fast, much faster than Frey--

“What’s wrong?!” Elijah was out of breath, meeting his tired eyes with frantic ones as they slid from him and zeroed in on his agonizing niece. He seemed confused, and Klaus’ expression joined in it once he fully realized that Elijah was here.

“She -- she won’t stop crying,” Klaus tried to keep his voice from cracking, tried to be the confident and capable parent he needed to be in front of Elijah, he couldn’t give Elijah one more reason to hate him, not now.

Elijah ran his hands through his hair, still dazed. Klaus now noticed the hair was sopping wet. A plush black hoodie had been thrown over long sleep pants... and accented with a pair of hand-made italian leather dress shoes. He was looking at his phone, and laughing under his breath?

He pressed a button and Klaus strained to hear Freya’s voice over Hope’s sobbing, and the din of wherever the hell Freya was.

“’Lijah! You’ve gotta-- -- -- ing out -- -- urgent -- -- Hope can’t -- -- Klaus -- gotta run!”

When the voicemail ended, the two brothers locked eyes over the screaming baby and for once they were on the same page: our big sister is a well-intentioned mess when she’s drunk.

Elijah broke the glance by looking up to the ceiling and heaving a relieved sigh. “I thought --” he couldn’t finish the sentence; only sighed again.

There was the briefest of pauses in Hope’s wails. When she started up anew, Elijah’s attention was all on her.

“I suppose...” he said softly, nearly an apology, “while I’m here.” He tried to shrug it off.

Klaus did the same. Passing the baby to his elder brother had been difficult for him in the past few weeks, when Elijah would visit Freya and Hope and pointedly not visit him. The monster in him knew that he would never have had this chance with his daughter if Elijah had not clawed and kicked and spit -- in the most distinguished of ways, of course -- beside him and against him to this very end. Or, one with a hundred percent more present parents. At least.

The monster in him knew that Elijah’s goal for over a year had only ever been to give Klaus the chance to love his daughter. The monster in him feared, above all else, that there would come a day when Elijah would realize that his daughter was too precious, too good, too innocent to be loved by him. That she was a much more deserving recipient of his blind devotion than he, and in one fell swoop he would lose them both.

The monster was barely a passing thought as Elijah reached for his niece in this moment. “Hello, sweetheart,” he cooed into the screaming bundle. “What’s got you so upset, now, hmm?” He gave her his finger to grab and throttle, and she took it eagerly. It reminded Klaus of the afternoon of Hope’s first day, in this very compound.

Klaus recited the list of actions he had taken since the start of the fit, nearly three hours ago. Elijah nodded, occasionally humming or whispering as he rocked the baby girl in his arms. A few drops of water from his wet hair dripped onto her, but she was too fed up to notice.

He then watched as his brother’s eyes narrowed and focused on the floor. The calculation he made was quick, but significant. “Niklaus, she’s nine months old.”

When Elijah moved his finger from Hope’s fist to pull gently at her bottom lip, Klaus cursed himself for being so stupid. He had pointedly avoided reading any of the modern baby care literature Elijah had left sitting around the house during the pregnancy, but he didn’t need a book to tell him this.

Klaus immediately moved to be close to Hope, which meant he was close to Elijah. Their heads hovered an inch away from the other as father and uncle both gently ran the pad of a finger over Hope’s irritated gums. This, of course, only made her scream louder, but Klaus felt as if an entire mountain had been lifted from his back.

The brothers looked at each other, and for the second time that night, there was peace in their connection as they laughed, breathlessly. The smile didn’t leave Elijah’s lips as he addressed his niece again. “You know, your Auntie was just this size when her teeth started coming in, too.”

“Was she?” it wasn’t just Klaus’ voice that broke, it was everything within him. “I can’t remember much about her and Kol as infants, but--” He couldn’t say the name. The brother’s eyes flicked to reach one another’s gaze for the briefest of seconds, the image of a tiny honey-brown-haired baby boy in their memories. He had teethed early, and it had scared and confused them all.

He had teethed early, and the only one who could calm him had been Niklaus, rubbing his angry gums and singing about dreams.

Klaus heard Elijah clear his throat. Without a word Hope shifted hands again, and Klaus found a rhythm in his swaying steps around the room and his gentle press along the ridge of his baby’s gums.

“I forget so much about him,” Elijah whispered after many long, long minutes, and Klaus only heard it because Hope’s wails were turning into softer whimpers. “I don’t remember the sound of his voice anymore.”

It was an awful thought, but Klaus could remember Henrik’s voice. He didn’t wish to share the memory with his brother, though, didn’t want to describe the strain of Henri’s throat as blood pooled in his lungs and he pleaded “Help me, Nik--”

His eyes were wet and he had to sniff back the gathering tears. “I remember his smile, sometimes.” he offered instead. I remember his fear and pain, always.

“Another thousand years and I couldn’t forget that,” Klaus could hear Elijah’s own smile as he spoke, still a whisper.

“I’m so sorry,” the Hybrid ducked his head down, curled himself over his child, not sure who he was apologizing to but knowing that the pain in this room was his fault, it always was, and it had started so long ago, and he couldn’t stop it.

He felt his brother move in the room, felt him standing at his shoulder.

“You didn’t kill him, Niklaus,” he was pleading, why did he sound like he was the one apologizing? “And you didn’t kill us.”

I killed our mother, Klaus added. I cursed my child’s mother.

The hand that had been missing on his shoulder softly made its way into place, gripping him gently and securely and stopping the black cloud of torment that had been spilling from the core of him ever since that night tied to the cross, forced to lose himself, after having lost Henrik, lost his life, lost his identity, lost Tatia. You are a monster among monsters, the memory told him. You, you bastard, do not even have a family that wants you for who you are.

Hope’s crying had turned to fitful huffs and gasps. The scent of her -- baby shampoo and diaper paste and Hope-ness -- filled his nose. Elijah’s grip tightened, slid to cradle his neck. A tear dropped silently onto his baby’s nightie.

“I’m sorry, Elijah. I don’t want to be this way.” The apology was not a thousand years old, this time, it was frustratingly recent. Frustratingly... perpetual.

Again, he heard a smile in his brother’s voice, but he felt the pain in it too. “Why else do you think I’d never leave you?”

His hand had stopped in his reverie, and Hope began to fuss again. Klaus’ tears fell readily now. Elijah leaned in, cupped her cheek, but leaned further until the brothers’ foreheads rested against each other. It only lasted for a moment, but Klaus felt himself begin to knit back together -- just a little, just for a moment, just for now.

Elijah’s hand still rested on his shoulder as he began to sing.

“Drømde mik en drøm i nat

um silki ok ærlig pell,

um hægindi svá djupt ok--”

His brother’s gentle voice faltered, with emotion, with a failing of memory, perhaps.

Klaus remembered. He remembered his mother singing it to him, Elijah singing it to him, when nightmares of wolves and serpents kept him from going to sleep.

“Mjott,” he offered in a whisper.

Elijah took a breath, smoothed his hands over Hope’s forehead. “um hægindi svá djupt ok mjott

um rosemd með engan skell.“

Klaus found himself joining in for the second verse, this time remembering that this had been his lullaby to Henrik, as well. To Tatia’s child, the fussy babe, and he cursed himself for not giving it to Hope ‘til tonight.

But it felt right to give this song to her alongside Elijah. It felt right.

They sang, Klaus’ mediocre timbre hiding beneath Elijah’s handsome bass. When one forgot a word, the other remembered, or filled in something that sounded right. No one on earth was still alive to tell them they had got it wrong. Rebekah was terrible with lyrics.

Hope calmed after a few rounds, and Klaus’ tears dried up, and they started the song over again as they crept cautiously towards the crib. Elijah picked up the blanket and the two teddies as Klaus lowered her onto the mattress. When she was settled, her uncle tucked her in. It would be a few more months before they could leave her stuffed animals with her at night, but they stood watch over her on her dresser across from the crib, the bunny and the wolf.

“Friðinn, ef hann finzt, er hvar

ein firrest þann mennska skell,

fær veggja sik um, drøma þar

um silki ok ærlig pell.”

Once more, for good measure, they hummed through the tune another time. Klaus stood nearly mesmerized by the soft but oh so powerful in-and-out of his daughter’s calm breathing.

He felt Elijah’s hand on his shoulder one last time, but it was not as soothing as it had been before. This was a goodbye.

author’s note below the cut

This song’s earliest record is hundreds of years after Klaus and Elijah’s childhoods took place, but we only know the first two lines. The version I’m using is a modern re-imagining (and an adaptation into old Norwegian, rather than old Danish, which is perfect) of what the rest of the song might have sounded like.

I dreamed a dream last night

of silk and fair furs,

of a pillow so deep and soft,

a peace with no disturbance.

And in the dream I saw

as though through a dirty window

the whole ill-fated human race,

a different fear upon each face.

The number of their worries grow

and with them the number of their solutions —

but the answer is often a heavier burden,

even when the question hurts to bear.

As I was able to sleep just as well,

I thought that would be best —

to rest myself here on fine fur,

and forget everyone else.

Peace, if it is to be found, is where

one is furthest from the human noise —

and walling oneself around, can have a dream

of silk and fine furs.

-- source (and explanation by the composer)

As for the rest of the fic, I didn’t really put much thought into how old Hope would be during this time, since it makes my head hurt to think about. I did reference baby development schedules, though, so Hope’s ailment isn’t all that uncommon for however old she was during the interim.

Elijah holding Hope’s hand is a reference to this s1 finale drabble I wrote a while back!

#ogappreciation18 #Klelijah #Hope Mikaelson #Klaus Mikaelson #the originals #my writing #Elijah Mikaelson

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fandomfanficsgalore · 7 years

Note

Any Leon helping Frey who can't sleep for whatever reason fall asleep? Thank you so much! I love you and have a great day/night

Aw you’re so sweet thank you

Cool night air stirred her hair and sent it dancing along her bare shoulders. Above, the stars scattered across a dark expanse, lit only by a full, round moon, which sent a silver glow upon the streets and store tops down below. A soft sigh left Frey’s lips, as quiet as a breeze.

Yet, someone heard it.

“Tough night, princess?”

Frey whipped around, her eyes landing on a shadow. It stepped forward, and her shoulders sank in relief as Leon approached, an easy grin spread across his face. Somehow, it didn’t look as intimidating as it did during the day. In the moonlight, it almost appeared softer.

She watched as he took a seat next to her, crossing his legs. His usual fan was nowhere in sight.

“You could say that,” Frey settled on lightly, turning away. She could feel his eyes on her.

“Want to talk about it?”

Frey glanced at him before covering her surprise with a small shake of her head.

“Not really. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

Frey tilted her head, watching out of the corner of her eye as he leaned back on his hands and tilted his head back to stare up at the sky, just as she had been doing.

“Why are you up?” she inquired.

Leon pursed his lips, and for a moment Frey thought he wasn’t going to answer her, or at least throw out a joke to brush off the question.

“Thinking about the past,” he said instead, his dark eyes boring into the moon as if to make it reveal its secrets, “Silly, I know, since it can’t change. But that’s human nature, I guess.”

Leon sighed and lifted his head, meeting her gaze. They sat so close they were almost touching, but they didn’t.

“Nightmares,” Frey blurted out. Understanding lit in Leon’s blue eyes, and she felt suddenly then that he was someone who completely understood. She could see it, like they were of kindred spirits–he had nightmares, too.

“Well,” he said, “Good thing we have each other for company, huh? It’s cold out.”

A gust of wind rippled their clothes as if to prove a point, and goosebumps erupted along Frey’s skin. She nodded, drawing further in on herself.

They sat in silence for a long time. She didn’t realize she was shivering until a warm arm wrapped around her shoulder and her side pressed against Leon’s. She couldn’t help but stiffen and he chuckled.

“No ulterior motives, you’re highness,” he murmured, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not exactly dressed for the weather.”

Frey glanced over and found it was true. Leon wore his usual vest over nothing else, displaying goosebumps along tanned flesh and quivering muscles. Frey felt her cheeks warm as she looked away. If Leon noticed anything, for once, he didn’t mention it.

Leon sat quietly, enjoying the silence.

“Seems like it’s getting warmer,” he muttered. When he got no response, he turned to find that Frey’s head had fallen to his shoulder, her eyes closed and lips parted, fast asleep.

Leon blinked and then chuckled. He shifted into a better position and tilted his head back, gazing up at the stars as the princess at his side slept.

#rune factory #rune factory 4 #rf4 #rf 4 #leon #frey #frey x leon #leon x frey #freyxleon #leonxfrey

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didsomebodysaychaos · 5 years

Text

An abandoned outline for a story I nicknamed “The Pirate Story”

Prompt image:

Most epic adventures don't start out with an application and an insurance waiver. That's why Freyja-Frey for short, thank you very much- was confused when, after having promptly sunk the ship she was on along with everyone else aboard, the pirates who had taken her prisoner handed her her suitcase, then asked her, rather kindly, if she would mind filling out some paperwork.

BEFORE ALL THAT SHIT HAPPENED ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Freyja packed up all the stuff she cared about into a single suitcase, all the while making various disgruntled noises. She was being forced to move across the Atlantic Ocean to *get married* of all things. Having discovered she was asexual almost six years ago at the age of thirteen, Frey was thoroughly DONE with the assumption that she was going to get hitched to some rich douchebag in Portugal, of all places. She didn't even speak Portuguese, for crying out loud! If that wasn't bad enough, her family insisted she take a ship there. Bluh Bluh Bluh.

Frey was frogmarched from the ship she had been on and onto the pirates' ship, where she was promptly restrained. She was vaguely proud of the fact that, in the process of being restrained, she had managed to claw one pirate's arm. *Huh. Turns out those damned acrylics Mother Dearest made me get are good for something,* Frey thought. After attempting to use the aforementioned plastic nails to saw through the rope restraining her and failing (and realizing exactly why people with acrylics hated having broken nails so much), Frey contented herself with heckling the pirates as they went back and forth between the two ships. "You call that a jump? My grandmother could do better, and she's in a wheelchair!", "Are y'all just taking your time or are you so idiotic you haven't realized there's a hold full of valuables yet?", and "If y'all unloaded any slower, you'd be moving backwards!" were just a few of the myriad of insults yelled. Frey got so caught up in her heckling (which she was enjoying quite a bit) that she failed to notice the awed looks the crew were shooting her, as well as the muttered comments about how she would make a good <captain? first mate? idk>. The captain was especially amused by her antics, chuckling quietly as he started inventory on the freshly-stolen goods.

"Sorry about the rough treatment earlier. We had to make sure that if there were any survivors, they wouldn't spread the story that we offer people jobs on the ship instead of taking prisoners."<said> a man with a mop of brown hair. Still thoroughly confused, Frey asked the only question on her mind. "What the actual fuck is going on?" she exploded. "Why do you guys want to hire me, anyways? Oh GODS, is this some kind of pervy thing? Cause let me tell y'all, I'd rather jump off the ship into a shark's mouth than sleep with any of you guys." The expressions of the crew ranged from shocked to amused as they all worked together to move the sunken ship's cargo belowdecks. "What? No! Why would we-Ohhhh. You think that since it looks like there are only men on this ship except for you, we're all desperate for release. Well, normally, you wouldn't be wrong. Luckily for all of us, there are a few misconceptions in that statement. First of all, there are other women on the ship, as well as some people who don't identify with the gender binary. Also, all of us don't limit our romantic and sexual interests to people of the opposite gender. In fact, all the people on this ship were rescued from being mistreated or even killed because they're interested in other people of the same gender, or don't like the gender they were born as and want to change genders, or fluctuate between a few. That reminds me, I forgot to ask: What's your name, pronouns, and orientation?" Brown Hair Guy asked. "My chosen name is Freyja, Frey for short, no you can't know my given name. I've honestly never thought about what pronouns I'd choose, and my orientation is no," replied Frey with a wry smirk. "None of the above, not interested, can I have cake instead?" Frey's dry sarcasm elicited more than a few amused huffs from various members of the crew, including Brown Hair. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Frey. Nice namesake, by the way. I'm Jormungandr, Jor for short. I'm the captain of this ship, the *<World Serpent? IDK>." said the man, apparently called Captain Jormungandr. Frey was, again, confused. "What do you mean, namesake? I found the name Freyja in a book of names in my parents' library, and decided it fit better than what I used to be called." Frey asked. "Well, both of our names come from one of the oldest mythos that exists, which many people consider to be very close to the truth. Your name is shared with the goddess of war, love, magic, and gold, among other things. My name comes from the name of the serpent that is said to encircle the world, sleeping at the bottom of the ocean until Ragnarok, the end of the world." "Huh. That's cool." "Yep! Anyways, back to the boring stuff. What do you say to the job offer?" "Hmmm...Let's see. You sunk my parents' ship, made it so I can't get to where I was being sent, and killed anyone who could send help to get me where my parents were sending me. Hell yeah, I'll take the job! You saved my ass from a forced arranged marriage with some rich douchebag in Portugal!" "Oh really? What was the person's name?" "Uhhhhh... I don't remember. I've just been calling him Mr. Douchebag." "Well then. Guess we'll keep an eye out for anyone flying the Portuguese flag." "If we find him, I have just one request." "What is it?" "I get first dibs." She grinned maliciously. A few of the men shivered at her sudden shift from

Important genderfluid name shturf Unusual pronoun set Frey uses sometimes: Ze/Zir/Zirs. As in "Oh, that's zirs" "Ze left an hour ago" "That's zir jacket" Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Enbyfriend(or SO/significant other or MINE)

Who to write in and as who ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miss A (Long, blackish brown hair, green eyes, glasses, mega bitch): some kind of snooty, stuck-up governess who tries to get Frey to "act like a proper lady" and Frey's like "Bitch what part of 'WE'RE RAIDING YOUR SHIP' do you not get? Also, not a girl right now." and miss A is like "My goodness! Such language!" and Frey fuckin' smirks and just starts swearing a blue streak for no reason. Jor hears them, goes to see if something's wrong, and sees Frey grinning like a loon with Miss A looking like she's gonna faint. Frey just says "So this dumbass basically asked for it. Told me to act like a proper lady." and Jor just does the Obama "seems legit" face, laughs, and proceeds to empty the room of valuables and supplies while the sputtering governess is just like "Oh goodness! Stop that! Come back!" and Frey and Jor just start fuckin' cackling then in sync yell "SUCK MY DICK" and walk off, still cackling

[finding Douchebag scene: One day they target the ship of Mr. Douchebag, and the whole crew's like "Oh no" and frey's like "OH YES" and she's literally the only one to board the ship, but she takes out EVERYONE through sheer anger, and you can hear her yelling "THAT WAS FOR TRYING TO MARRY A NINETEEN YEAR OLD, AND THAT WAS FOR TRYING TO MAKE ME MOVE TO PORTUGAL, AND THAT? THAT WAS BECAUSE I FELT LIKE IT" and Jor's just like "That's mah girl" and everyone else is like "Holy shit it's a good thing she's on our side"]

"Ship off to starboard! Flying the Portuguese flag!" *Excited Frey noises* "Hand me the <spyglass? Telescope? IDK>." Frey looks over and starts cackling rather loudly "Alright y'all can relax. I can handle this one. It's *HIM*." everyone is like "Oh shit, on your own?" Jor is like "Guys. This is Mr. Douchebag we're talking about. The only thing we should worry about is securing their ship to ours and thinking about how much fun this is gonna be to watch" Jor steers the ship over, and the crew make sure to use those holdy rope thingies Frey fuckin' vaults onto the other ship screaming "DOUCHEBAG YOU USELESS FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK" For a while, the only things you can hear are angry/sadistic Frey noises, screams, and blood spattering. Then she gets ahold of him and fuckin' drags him up to the deck hogtied, and says "I found him. Y'all wanna watch this next part?" and everyone's torn between staying and going to watch Frey fuck the guy up. Jor tells the first mate to stay behind and make sure nothing goes horribly wrong, then goes to the other ship, sneaks down into the galley, gets SOME FUCKIN' POPCORN, and sits down to watch Frey do the classic "You done fucked up, it's torture time for you and rant time for me" thing. [end]

[Weapons training scene, use whenever] "So, we figured since you're on our crew and all, you should have some weapons training." "Oh, cool! So, what weapon will we be starting with?" "Well, we figured you'd rather have something that didn't take as much physical strength, so we're gonna start you off with a pistol." *Amused, condescendingish laughter* "You do realize I have quite a bit of physical strength, right? After all, who do you think moved half the cargo from that Cuban ship while y'all were dealing with the guards?" "Alright then, what weapon would *you* like to learn how to use?" "Hmmmm...Oh, hello"(practically purred) "This is mine now" (pointing at cutlass) *under breath*"Should've known you'd like the sharp, pointy things." (LATER) Frey is slicing the shit outta a training dummy and saying "Did I forget to mention I was trained in fencing? Got to Nationals one year!" and everyone is even more terrified of pissing her off. [end scene]

[Snake eye scene] It was half past midnight, and there was no moon. Frey was wandering the decks aimlessly, Jor not far away, when she saw a glow under the water off the port side that reminded her of Jor's eyesocket tattoos. However, there was one key difference: The glowing area was MASSIVE. She padded over to the glowing water, and froze. Underneath the murky waters, a golden, slit-pupil eye easily four times the size of the ship stared back at her. As soon as she recovered from the initial shock, she tried to get Jor's attention. "Jor! Get over here! You're gonna wanna see this!" she hissed. "What is it? Is it one of those glowing squid again?" he murmured back, already on his way over. "No. It... Uh... Well, it looks like your namesake." Frey muttered as Jor peered over the side of the ship. Immediately upon looking down, his jaw dropped and he began to murmur something in what sounded like Old Norse.

One time some dumbass on a ship they're raiding tries to flirt with/do the naughty dance with Frey. He's like "Hey, hot stuff. How about you come back to my cabin and I show you a good time" and Frey looks at him with this "You dumbass/wait what the fuck" look, and he keeps going and Frey's holding in zir laughter until Jor walks by with the guy's money and shit and makes an amused snorting noise. Suddenly Frey just LOSES IT and starts dying of laughter and the guy's like "What's so funny" and Jor just turns around, tilts his head back, and yells "ZE DOESN'T WANNA FUCK YOU" (a la that one guy from a slap on titan) and just walks away howling with laughter. The guy gets offended and tries to go after Jor, but Frey stops him and pulls out zir sword and the guy's like "Whoa there where'd you get that? A nice girl like you shouldn't have things like that" and the ENTIRE CREW JUST FREEZES and Frey's like "Care to repeat that?" so he DOES and everyone's like "Hooo boy he's dead" and Frey just says "Okay, fine. I'll go below-decks with you. I wanna show you something" and ze basically drags him off to somewhere dark belowdecks, then turns around and just says "Boo" and since zir tattoos are glowing THE GUY PRACTIALLY PISSES HIMSELF and tries to run but Frey blocks the exit, and does a Chaotic Neutral-style murder (aka just desserts style) and like 10 minutes later ze comes back on deck fuckin' covered in blood, and Jor's just like "The scare 'em and pare 'em thing again?" and Frey's just like "Yep! He nearly pissed himself!" and Jor's just...SO GONE for zem. Like, he starts calling zem "Mina hjarta" which means "My beloved heart" in either old english or old norse or maybe a mix of both I don't remember but it's just SO CUTE and hE SLIPS UP AND CALLS HIM THAT ONLY ONCE AND IT'S THE SCENE WHERE FREY ALMOST DIES and when Frigg shows up she sees Jor cradling Frey's body like he's made of glass, and after Frey's healed, Frigg's just like "oh btw adorable nickname for your not-bf" and they both just fuckin' FREEZE and Jor says "W-WHAT DO YOU MEAN NOT-BOYFRIEND?! WE'RE JUST FRIENDS!" at the same time as Frey says "Well, guess THAT cat's out of the bag. Also, thanks for checking pronouns" and Frigg is just...So Done(TM) and is like "OH FOR MY SAKE JUST KISS ALREADY" BECAUSE DEUS EX MACHINA IS THE BEST and Jor's just like wait how did you know about the nickname and Frey is like "You do realize like half the crew's psychic and you're loud, right?" and Frigg just starts snickering because JOR'S FACE IS THE *EXACT* COLOR OF A TOMATO and HE SOUNDS LIKE A SKIPPING CD AND IT'S HILARIOUS

[Frey's coming out scene!] "Hey Jor?" "Yeah?" "Uhh...I've been thinking about the question you asked me when I first joined the crew." "Which one is that?" "The one about which pronouns I prefer. I've been going around and talking to a whole bunch of the crewmates who changed their pronouns, and it made me realize something." "Mmmm?" "Jor, I...Uh...I think I'm genderfluid." The words came out in a rush. "Alright then," He smiled gently, "Which pronouns would you like me to use for you right now?" "Right now, I'm nonbinary, so they/them works for me." "Do you still want to be called Frey, or is there another name you'd like me to use?" "Well, Frey's a gender-neutral name, so I'll stick with it" They grinned. "Looks like I made the perfect name choice back then" "It would seem so" Jor chuckled softly AAAAAAAAAAAAAA THEY'RE SO SOFT I CAN'T ASOJDLGJDFLKGDFLOEIRJEDFNKV

Things Frey will say to scare the crap out of people "You know, having a hangover is exactly what it feels like to thirst to death. I wonder what would happen if you combined the two." "I heard you can kill someone if you hook them up to a water IV. By the way, are you a light or a heavy sleeper?"

Somehow work in the phrase "Entire countries haven't known what to charge me with for *years*, and you got it in a glance. That's kinda hot"

Description of peeps Freyja (Frey for short, birth name Francine or some shit, no last name bc she renounced it): Skin color: PALE AS FUCK at first then tan Hair:reddish-brown, wavy, reaches little bit below shoulders Eye color: Height:5'4" Build: Not very curvy, but has a fencer's muscle combined with enough muscle to have the upper body strength to do acrobatic pirate shit Personality: WILL kick your ass, but has a soft spot the size of the sun if she trusts you (fuck up ONCE and you're in the doghouse for a LONG time) Outfit: baggy but easy to move in pants and a loose t-shirt, uses a cloth strip to keep her hair back

Captain (Jormungandr, Jor for short): Skin color: Very tan Hair: Windblown, medium brown, cut shortish Eye color: this gorgeous golden color that he was bullied for (got called "snake boy" a LOT) Height: 5'10"ish Build: Pretty thin but with whipcord muscle Personality: Kind of laid-back but still keeps the crew in line, will let Frey kick your ass if you pissed them both off, but if you hurt Frey you're F U C K E D Outfit: Celebrity lookalike bit Personality: Jack Sparrow meets Appearance: Voice: Brandon Urie-ish

Crew members' names (need anywhere from 25-125, with around 40-80 being a deceint amount): Sigyn [Norse goddess of ](Trans mtf), Kali[goddess of ], Caerus [Greek god of opportunity, luck, and favorable moments], Phobos [Greek god of fear] and Deimos [Greek god of dread and terror](Twins/boyfriends? IDK?)(Part of raiding party), Babd Catha (Celtic goddess of war. Symbolizes life, enlightenment, wisdom, and imspiration. Name can mean "boiling", "battle raven", and "scald-crow". Has cauldron filled with boiling mixture that produced all life. Other spellings are Badhbh, Badb, Banba), Bel (Celtic fire and sun god, also god of purification, science, fertility, crops, and success. Symbolizes element of fire, health. Closely connected with druids.),

Scene where they're on this island where there's some kind of drug (Weed? Lotus flowers? I DUNNO) and EVERYONE on the island is addicted. Like, you walk through the streets and people are just sitting around mumbling things. The song High by Sir Sly would ABSOLUTELY be in the background. The crew'd all have bandannas around their noses and mouths to avoid breathing anything in, because none of them wanted to get addicted to something like that. (Some of the crew's parents mad trouble with drugs/alcohol)

Captain: Jor First mate: Quartermaster[in charge of supplies and in charge of dealing with minor problems]: Sailing Master[navigation and piloting]: Gunners(leaders of artillery groups[4-6 men per gun]. Watch for safety and usually aim the cannons): Boatswains[supervisors]: Surgeon(s): Airmid (Celtic goddess of medicinal plants. Can revive the dead), Cook(s): Cooper[in charge of maintaining barrels]: Carpenter[maintained ship's wood]: Musicians: Angus Og (Celtic; Has harp that plays irresistible music) Mates[Apprentices to ppl w/ big jobs]: Riggers[worked rigging and unfurled/furled sails]: Mages: Mostly just raiders: Arawn (Celtic god of the underworld, terror, revenge, and war),

People who are just kind of existing around the world as Frigga's "disciple"y people: Arianrhod (Deity of Air element, reincarnation, full moons, time, karma, retribution), Aine of Knockaine (Celtic goddess of love and fertility, later known as fairy queen. Goddess related to moon, crops, and farms/cattle. Revered among herbalists and healers and is said to be rreponsible for body's life force.), Artio (Celtic wildlife goddess), Blodeuwedd (Celtig maiden form of triple goddess. Symbolizes wisdom, lunar mysteries, initiations. Helps gardens and children grow), Flidais (Celtic goddess of forest, woodlands, and wild things.),

Frigg's alt. IDs: Anu (Goddess of manifestation magic, moon, air, fertility, prosperity, plenty. Mother earth goddess and maiden aspect of Morrigu)

Brighid (Celtic goddess of fire and water, in charge of midwifery, healing, crafts, smiths, poetry, and inspiration; basically human potential. Possibly began as a sun goddess. Imbolc is her day. Aka Brigit, Brigid, Brigindo, Bride)

Cernunnos (Celtic god of virility, life, animals, forests, and the underworld. Symbolizes element of earth, love, fertility, death, the virile male aspect, and the dark half of the year. Sacred animals are bull, ram, stag, and horned serpents. AKA Cerowain, Cernenus)

Cerridwen(Celtif moon, grain, and nature goddess. Patron of poets, greatest of all the bards. Symbolizes luck, earth, death, fertility, regeneration, inspiration, the arts, science, poetry, and astrology. Sacred animal is a white sow.)

Cyhiraeth(Celtic goddess of streams, her scream fortells death)

Dagda (God of earth/all father. God of death. Symbols are harp, 2 swine, and bottomless cauldron of plenty)

Danu (Celtic goddess of rivers, water, wells, prosperity, magick, and wisdom. Patroness of wizards)

Diancecht(Celtic god of healing and medicine. Sacred to druids bc healing powers. Lost hand, got new one made of silver, then got his hand back. Killed his own son bc he was a better healer.)

Don (Celtic Queen of Heavens and goddess of air and sea. Ruled over land of the dead, corresponds to Danu. Symbolizes control of the elements, the moon)

Druantia(Celtic Queen of the Druids. Fir goddess and mother of tree calendar. Symbolizes protecc, knowledge, creativity, passion, sex, fertility, growth, trees, and forests.)

Dylan (Celtic sea god. Silver fish is symbol)

Goibhniu (Celtic god of blacksmiths, weapon-makers, brewing. AKA great smith)

Gwydion (Warrior and magician god, god of enchantment, illusion, magick. Symbol is white horse)

Llew Llaw Gyffes (Celtic god of harpers, healing, poets, smiths,

TITLE IDEAS ~~~~~~~~~~~ Rainbow Sea Of Pride and <Truth? Love? Becoming? Joy? Blessings?> The Pride of the Chosen Few A Pride of Pirates Of Snakes and Wings

Hello naughty children it's anachronism time ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Doesn't exist ------------- Planes Freight ships (like the metal behemoth ones) Cars Coal power plants (They're mostly/all ocean wave-based, solar, and wind-based) Oil-based plastic (they figured out how to make it out of corn!) Big factories (Most things are still made local)

Exists ------ Homophobia Pride flags Acrylics Glow in the dark tattoos (Bioluminescence FTW!) MAGIC(BUT SCIENCEY MAGIC)

How le fack magic works ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Healing: Basically able to release pulses of bioelectrical energy from hands (esp. fingertips) that communicates to the body "Okay, you gotta heal faster! Go make more xyz cells!". Takes a lot out of both the person healing and the person being healed. (unless you're frigg. frigg doesn't give a frigg about logic) Can also send electrical "orders" to make muscles relax. Massage w/ healing magic built in is A M A Z I N G Fighting: Basically sending conflicting and overloading signals to the person's nerves and muscles via touch (most of their weapons are staffs and the like coated with a superconductor so they don't have to actually TOUCH the person)

HOLY SHIT COMBINE THIS WITH THAT PAINTING PROMPT AND HAVE IT WHERE PLANES WERE NEVER INVENTED BC THEY'RE BAD FOR THE ATMOSPHERE BUT THEY FOUND ALTERNATIVES FOR MOST THINGS IUSDHUDIFJVHN IN THIS FRIGG'S CHOSEN ONES ARE THE GAYS(TM) ASDFGHJKJ WHAT IF WHEN THEY DO RAIDS AT NIGHT THEY HAVE GLOW IN THE DARK TATTOOS SO THEY SCARE THE CRAP OUTTA THE ASSHATS THEY'RE RAIDING

SHIPS CAPTAINS CAN MARRY PPL JOR OFFICIATES J=HIS WEDDING TO FREY FOR LAUGHS BUT RIGHT AFTER IT STARTS FRIGG SHOWS UP AND DOES IT :D

[Sleep deprived ramblings] Fuckin what if Frey gets pissed off and somehow fuckin summons Kali into her body She's like "HELLO MOTHAFUCKA HEY HI HOW YA DURN BOW DOWN BITCHES" and there's just blood and fire everywhere and she's got glowing extra arms, like a LOT of extra arms, and she's just glowing blue, and Jor's like "Oh shit what just happened?" then Frey's like "Oh they pissed me off a little too much btw gimme banan and choc" and he's just like FRIGG HELP US ALL IS SHE GONNA BE LIKE THIS EVERY MONTH and Frey's just like "IDK depends" and then goes back to being her best Kali self and the ship they're raiding just kind of... disintegrates right after she's done and the THOUSAND FUCKING GLOWING ARMS just fade away and Jor's like "Feel any better?" and Frey's like "Eh? Kind of??" and everyone just kind of collectively pisses themselves a little.

FREY DOES THE DICKING DOWN SOMETIMES AND JOR'S A POWER BOTTOM [End]

The glowy bits look like ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Frey ~~~~ Face: Bright turquoise in eye sockets and on eyelids, but more drippy blood red below eyesockets down to jawbone. Chest: Gold swirly thing on collarbone Back: White feathery wings with red bloodstains Arms:Gold bands around forearms, red on hands that looks like blood dripping off Abdomen: Legs:

Jor ~~~ Face: Yellow in his eye sockets and on his eyelids, with a black bit so that his eyes look like snake eyes when he closes 'em, GLOWING CANINE TEETH Chest: patches of green, red, and glowing black scales that get bigger as they go down Back: more parches of scales Arms: Ghostly blue snakes coiling around his arms all the way to the shoulders Abdomen: gradually becoming more and more snakeskin covered from top to bottom Legs:

What if I bring in a whole bunch of stuff from ancient myths? They're definitely gonna be sailing along one night and the ocean will seem to have a golden glow and they'll look down and see one MASSIVE (like, 5 or 10 times the size of the boat) glowing amber-yellow snek eye looking up at them

One day, Frey gets hurt in a night raid (like, bad gash bad, not OH SHIT SHE GON' DIE bad that's a different bit) and Jor FUCKING LOSES IT, calls everyone back, and CHARGES ABOARD THE OTHER SHIP IN FULL GLOW MODE AND just says "Hello naughty children. It's murder time." and then just...Death and destruction to the asshats. When he's done, he comes back fucking COVERED in blood and Frey looks at him all worried and he says "Don't worry, none of it's mine" and Frey's just like "K good" nad everyone's like "Yeah they're meant for each other now if they would just GET THEIR HEADS OUT THEIR ASSES"

Another time, Frey gets hurt bad enough to be almost dead and Jor kills the one who did it but then afterwards he's just all sad and when Frey's about to die he prays to Frigg and FRIGG SHOWS UP LIKE "Hey, don't worry my child/friend. I'll heal her. After all, this ship is full of my chosen ones" and everyone's like WAIT WAT DE FAK and she stays and tells them the story of the other blurb I wrote and she's like "Yeah and this is the FIRST TIME someone has asked me for help in the last thousand years guys what the fuck" and everyone's like "Oh yeah monotheism took over and fucked shit up" and Frigg's like W H A T THIS IS NOT PERMIT and goes off pocahontas style to kick ass and take away people's monotheism cards.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SHOULD JOR BE A FATHER/UNCLE FIGURE OR A ROMANTIC INTEREST HELP Mmmmmmmm...Lurve, but Frey gon' be genderfluid, so this is gonna be a fun ride

Animatic to phietto remix of lone digger where the beginning sound fade in fade out thingies are warning shots, the bass coming in is the footsteps of the pirates boarding, and the shit rlly starting is when Frey gets stolen, then it cuts to a montage of the beginning

THE GAY PIRATE NERDS HAVING DANCE(GAVOTTE?) NIGHTS THAT ALWAYS WND UP TURNING INTO ORGY NIGHTS And Frey is just in the corner/on deck like "Oh look there's all SORTS of nope over/down there. Lots and lots of nope! I don't want any, thanks" and she doesn't realize she yelled this aloud until the orgy devolves into laughter

FREY AND JOR DRINKING CONTEST WHERE THEY BOTH DRINK "EXTRAOOOOOOOOOOOOORDINARY AMOUNTS OF ALCOHOL" AND THEN GO ON A RAID AND EVERYONE'S TERRIFIED BECAUSE THEY'RE BOTH CRAZY DRUNKS (Frey tying herself to the front of the ship and shrieking IM A MERMAID BITCHESSSSSSSSSSSS)

Jor started the pirate ship because he was abused by his mother. His mother verbally and emotionally abused him, and when he tried speaking up for himself, he got yelled at and called horrible, horrible things. He eventually couldn't take it and left, saying he would never return. He packed up everything he owned into satchels and bags and joined a crew. He was safe there, until something went horribly wrong, and everyone onboard died except for him. He rechristened the ship, and began doing what he does now. However, certain swear word combos will make him flinch. The crew know this, so they have an unspoken list of "You can swear, but you can't use these specific combos" going on

PLAYLIST ~~~~~~~~ Writing it: doing it right daft punk

Actual themes: Lone digger phietto remix Little swing aron chupa

Frey: Confident demi lovato Black betty caravan palace <Maybe>

Jor: The Greatest Show Panic At The Disco

OH SHIT IS FREYJA THE GODDESS OF FANFIC? AFTER ALL, LUST, WAR, LOVE, DEATH, FERTILITY. BESICALLY FANFIC. Again, if anybody wants to flesh this out or add something to it, feel free! Just please don’t steal it or use it without credit

#yes i know there are an ungodly number of typos #i write using txt files #because my computer hates google drive and anything related to it #i think my computer might be a microsoft loyalist #my writing #pirate story #raging dumpster fire #outline #story outline #semi-abandoned project #image prompt #prompt based #prompt based writing #writing

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readbookywooks · 8 years

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Sansa

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind . . . and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. "It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last. The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks as white as freshfallen snow. Ser Jaime wore the white cloak as well, but beneath it he was shining gold from head to foot, with a lion's-head helm and a golden sword. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before. "His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm," she whispered to Jeyne. Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. He had cut down three of Rhaegar's bannermen on the Trident. The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until the septa told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand. Other riders Sansa did not know; hedge knights from the Fingers and Highgarden and the mountains of Dorne, unsung freeriders and new-made squires, the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses. Younger men, most had done no great deeds as yet, but Sansa and Jeyne agreed that one day the Seven Kingdoms would resound to the sound of their names. Ser Balon Swann. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Bronze Yohn's heir, Ser Andar Royce, and his younger brother Ser Robar, their silvered steel plate filigreed in bronze with the same ancient runes that warded their father. The twins Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, whose shields displayed the grape cluster sigil of the Redwynes, burgundy on blue. Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason's son. Six Freys of the Crossing: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, Ser Emmon, Ser Theo, Ser Perwyn, sons and grandsons of old Lord Walder Frey, and his bastard son Martyn Rivers as well. Jeyne Poole confessed herself frightened by the look of Jalabhar Xho, an exile prince from the Summer Isles who wore a cape of green and scarlet feathers over skin as dark as night, but when she saw young Lord Beric Dondarrion, with his hair like red gold and his black shield slashed by lightning, she pronounced herself willing to marry him on the instant. The Hound entered the lists as well, and so too the king's brother, handsome Lord Renly of Storm's End. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the north. "Jory looks a beggar among these others," Septa Mordane sniffed when he appeared. Sansa could only agree. Jory's armor was blue-grey plate without device or ornament, and a thin grey cloak hung from his shoulders like a soiled rag. Yet he acquitted himself well, unhorsing Horas Redwyne in his first joust and one of the Freys in his second. In his third match, he rode three passes at a freerider named Lothor Brune whose armor was as drab as his own. Neither man lost his seat, but Brune's lance was steadier and his blows better placed, and the king gave him the victory. Alyn and Harwin fared less well; Harwin was unhorsed in his first tilt by Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard, while Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann. The jousting went all day and into the dusk, the hooves of the great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged wasteland of torn earth. A dozen times Jeyne and Sansa cried out in unison as riders crashed together, lances exploding into splinters while the commons screamed for their favorites. Jeyne covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff. A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. Even Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval. The Kingslayer rode brilliantly. He overthrew Ser Andar Royce and the Marcher Lord Bryce Caron as easily as if he were riding at rings, and then took a hard-fought match from white-haired Barristan Selmy, who had won his first two tilts against men thirty and forty years his junior. Sandor Clegane and his immense brother, Ser Gregor the Mountain, seemed unstoppable as well, riding down one foe after the next in ferocious style. The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated. The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one. Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad. After they carried off the body, a boy with a spade ran onto the field and shoveled dirt over the spot where he had fallen, to cover up the blood. Then the jousts resumed. Ser Balon Swann also fell to Gregor, and Lord Renly to the Hound. Renly was unhorsed so violently that he seemed to fly backward off his charger, legs in the air. His head hit the ground with an audible crack that made the crowd gasp, but it was just the golden antler on his helm. One of the tines had snapped off beneath him. When Lord Renly climbed to his feet, the commons cheered wildly, for King Robert's handsome young brother was a great favorite. He handed the broken tine to his conqueror with a gracious bow. The Hound snorted and tossed the broken antler into the crowd, where the commons began to punch and claw over the little bit of gold, until Lord Renly walked out among them and restored the peace. By then Septa Mordane had returned, alone. Jeyne had been feeling ill, she explained; she had helped her back to the castle. Sansa had almost forgotten about Jeyne. Later a hedge knight in a checkered cloak disgraced himself by killing Beric Dondarrion's horse, and was declared forfeit. Lord Beric shifted his saddle to a new mount, only to be knocked right off it by Thoros of Myr. Ser Aron Santagar and Lothor Brune tilted thrice without result; Ser Aron fell afterward to Lord Jason Mallister, and Brune to Yohn Royce's younger son, Robar. In the end it came down to four; the Hound and his monstrous brother Gregor, Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, and Ser Loras Tyrell, the youth they called the Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd. His last match of the day was against the younger Royce. Ser Robar's ancestral runes proved small protection as Ser Loras split his shield and drove him from his saddle to crash with an awful clangor in the dirt. Robar lay moaning as the victor made his circuit of the field. Finally they called for a litter and carried him off to his tent, dazed and unmoving. Sansa never saw it. Her eyes were only for Ser Loras. When the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst. To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off. When Sansa finally looked up, a man was standing over her, staring. He was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, almost as old as her father. "You must be one of her daughters," he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. "You have the Tully look." "I'm Sansa Stark," she said, ill at ease. The man wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird, and he had the effortless manner of a high lord, but she did not know him. "I have not had the honor, my lord." Septa Mordane quickly took a hand. "Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king's small council." "Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away. By then, the moon was well up and the crowd was tired, so the king decreed that the last three matches would be fought the next morning, before the melee. While the commons began their walk home, talking of the day's jousts and the matches to come on the morrow, the court moved to the riverside to begin the feast. Six monstrous huge aurochs had been roasting for hours, turning slowly on wooden spits while kitchen boys basted them with butter and herbs until the meat crackled and spit. Tables and benches had been raised outside the pavilions, piled high with sweetgrass and strawberries and fresh-baked bread. Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the king himself sat beside his queen. When Prince Joffrey seated himself to her right, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the awful thing had happened, and she had not dared to speak to him. At first she thought she hated him for what they'd done to Lady, but after Sansa had wept her eyes dry, she told herself that it had not been Joffrey's doing, not truly. The queen had done it; she was the one to hate, her and Arya. Nothing bad would have happened except for Arya. She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate. He wore a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion's heads, and around his brow a slim coronet made of gold and sapphires. His hair was as bright as the metal. Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again and send her weeping from the table. Instead Joffrey smiled and kissed her hand, handsome and gallant as any prince in the songs, and said, "Ser Loras has a keen eye for beauty, sweet lady." "He was too kind," she demurred, trying to remain modest and calm, though her heart was singing. "Ser Loras is a true knight. Do you think he will win tomorrow, my lord?" "No," Joffrey said. "My dog will do for him, or perhaps my uncle Jaime. And in a few years, when I am old enough to enter the lists, I shall do for them all." He raised his hand to summon a servant with a flagon of iced summerwine, and poured her a cup. She looked anxiously at Septa Mordane, until Joffrey leaned over and filled the septa's cup as well, so she nodded and thanked him graciously and said not another word. The servants kept the cups filled all night, yet afterward Sansa could not recall ever tasting the wine. She needed no wine. She was drunk on the magic of the night, giddy with glamour, swept away by beauties she had dreamt of all her life and never dared hope to know. Singers sat before the king's pavilion, filling the dusk with music. A juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. The king's own fool, the pie-faced simpleton called Moon Boy, danced about on stilts, all in motley, making mock of everyone with such deft cruelty that Sansa wondered if he was simple after all. Even Septa Mordane was helpless before him; when he sang his little song about the High Septon, she laughed so hard she spilled wine on herself. And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy. He talked to Sansa all night, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, sharing little bits of court gossip, explaining Moon Boy's japes. Sansa was so captivated that she quite forgot all her courtesies and ignored Septa Mordane, seated to her left. All the while the courses came and went. A thick soup of barley and venison. Salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. Snails in honey and garlic. Sansa had never eaten snails before; Joffrey showed her how to get the snail out of the shell, and fed her the first sweet morsel himself. Then came trout fresh from the river, baked in clay; her prince helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within. And when the meat course was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen's portion from the joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate. She could see from the way he moved that his right arm was still troubling him, yet he uttered not a word of complaint. Later came sweetbreads and pigeon pie and baked apples fragrant with cinnamon and lemon cakes frosted in sugar, but by then Sansa was so stuffed that she could not manage more than two little lemon cakes, as much as she loved them. She was wondering whether she might attempt a third when the king began to shout. King Robert had grown louder with each course. From time to time Sansa could hear him laughing or roaring a command over the music and the clangor of plates and cutlery, but they were too far away for her to make out his words. Now everybody heard him. "No," he thundered in a voice that drowned out all other speech. Sansa was shocked to see the king on his feet, red of face, reeling. He had a goblet of wine in one hand, and he was drunk as a man could be. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!" Everyone was staring. Sansa saw Ser Barristan, and the king's brother Renly, and the short man who had talked to her so oddly and touched her hair, but no one made a move to interfere. The queen's face was a mask, so bloodless that it might have been sculpted from snow. She rose from the table, gathered her skirts around her, and stormed off in silence, servants trailing behind. Jaime Lannister put a hand on the king's shoulder, but the king shoved him away hard. Lannister stumbled and fell. The king guffawed. "The great knight. I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer." He slapped his chest with the jeweled goblet, splashing wine all over his satin tunic. "Give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!" Jaime Lannister rose and brushed himself off. "As you say, Your Grace." His voice was stiff. Lord Renly came forward, smiling. "You've spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet." Sansa started as Joffrey laid his hand on her arm. "It grows late," the prince said. He had a queer look on his face, as if he were not seeing her at all. "Do you need an escort back to the castle?" "No," Sansa began. She looked for Septa Mordane, and was startled to find her with her head on the table, snoring soft and ladylike snores. "I mean to say . . . yes, thank you, that would be most kind. I am tired, and the way is so dark. I should be glad for some protection." Joffrey called out, "Dog!" Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night, so quickly did he appear. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog's head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. "Yes, Your Grace?" he said. "Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her," the prince told him brusquely. And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there. Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. "Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?" He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "Small chance of that." He pulled her unresisting to her feet. "Come, you're not the only one needs sleep. I've drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow." He laughed again. Suddenly terrified, Sansa pushed at Septa Mordane's shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it. The Hound snatched up a torch to light their way. Sansa followed close beside him. The ground was rocky and uneven; the flickering light made it seem to shift and move beneath her. She kept her eyes lowered, watching where she placed her feet. They walked among the pavilions, each with its banner and its armor hung outside, the silence weighing heavier with every step. Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. "You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor," she made herself say. Sandor Clegane snarled at her. "Spare me your empty little compliments, girl . . . and your ser's. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?" "Yes," Sansa whispered, trembling. "He was . . . "Gallant?" the Hound finished. He was mocking her, she realized. "No one could withstand him," she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite." "That's unkind." Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. "You're frightening me. I want to go now." "No one could withstand him," the Hound rasped. "That's truth enough. No one could ever withstand Gregor. That boy today, his second joust, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn't fastened proper. You think Gregor didn't notice that? You think Ser Gregor's lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, you believe that, you're empty-headed as a bird for true. Gregor's lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Look at me. Look at me!" Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. "There's a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I've watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look." His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look. The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face. The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks that gleamed red and wet when he moved. Down by his jaw, you could see a hint of bone where the flesh had been seared away. Sansa began to cry. He let go of her then, and snuffed out the torch in the dirt. "No pretty words for that, girl? No little compliment the septa taught you?" When there was no answer, he continued. "Most of them, they think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was dragonsbreath." His laugh was softer this time, but just as bitter. "I'll tell you what it was, girl," he said, a voice from the night, a shadow leaning so close now that she could smell the sour stench of wine on his breath. "I was younger than you, six, maybe seven. A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father's keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don't remember what I got, but it was Gregor's gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him, he was already a squire, near six foot tall and muscled like an ox. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like. "My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise, Ser Gregor.' " The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away. The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. "He was no true knight," she whispered to him. The Hound threw back his head and roared. Sansa stumbled back, away from him, but he caught her arm. "No," he growled at her, "no, little bird, he was no true knight." The rest of the way into the city, Sandor Clegane said not a word. He led her to where the carts were waiting, told a driver to take them back to the Red Keep, and climbed in after her. They rode in silence through the King's Gate and up torchlit city streets. He opened the postern door and led her into the castle, his burned face twitching and his eyes brooding, and he was one step behind her as they climbed the tower stairs. He took her safe all the way to the corridor outside her bedchamber. "Thank you, my lord," Sansa said meekly. The Hound caught her by the arm and leaned close. "The things I told you tonight," he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. "If you ever tell Joffrey . . . your sister, your father . . . any of them . . . " "I won't," Sansa whispered. "I promise." It was not enough. "If you ever tell anyone," he finished, "I'll kill you."

#GameofThrones

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totesmccoats · 7 years

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Secret Empire #9

I’m honestly just tired of this story at this point. This is, like, the third issue of just spinning tires.

With the shield down and New York back in this dimension, the world’s heroes, united, takes the fight to Steve Rogers, aided by the mutant nation of New Tian.

And there are some cool moments in the book: Magneto finally getting into the frey, refusing to bow to Hydra; Odinson finally doing a thing; Black Ant and Taskmaster switching sides and releasing the younger heroes. Individual panels and pages are enjoyable, but the issue itself is boring. Nothing new happens. It’s another issue of the villains overpowering the heroes until the heroes unite to overpower the villains until a last scene twist where Steve reveals a superweapon. The story has stalled, and, having given up trying to be about anything in particular, has nothing to do or say anymore besides big fight scenes spread too thin across all of Marvel’s characters.

Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #3

Can Zdarksy write a spin-off series that follows Jameson around as he tries to scandalize everything Spider-Man does and also get his career back? I want that sooo bad after the two pages of this issue he’s in.

The rest of the issue sees Spider-Man, the Human Torch, and Teresa confronting the Kingpin to find out what nefarious scheme he’s planning that involves the encrypted Stark phones. The issue is light on plot, heavy on character humor, including a cameo by a really young-looking Karnak, who reveals Spider-Man’s greatest weakness.

The Flash #29

Flash’s new powers don’t include his usual healing factor, leaving Barry exhausted after his fight with Shrapnel. Luckily, Kramer’s been pulling enough weight at the office for both of them on the department’s investigation into possible police corruption. But with Barry too cautious to use his powers to help him with his CSI work, he begins to wonder how useful he really is to the force.

This issue reads a lot like a hangover after last issue’s power trip. Barry feels awful – emotionally and physically – after his encounter with Shrapnel and his inability to contribute at work without his usual powers; and it feels as though he resents needing other people’s help to do his job. It’s not quite the “black suit” type story I was expecting going off last issue, but I’m enjoying this twist on Barry’s normal self-loathing.

Batgirl #14

I haven’t picked this series up in a while, but seeing that this issue began an arc with Nightwing and flashbacks, I had a feeling it’d be right up my alley…and it is!

Batgirl and Nightwing both receive a text from an unknown source, and find a couple of henchman who remind them of someone they knew for a summer back when they were younger. The henchmen tell them that blood is on their hands before committing suicide. They both agree that only one other person would know about that summer, and track down the Mad Hatter.

And in flashback, we find out who that person was – a woman named Ainsley who substitute taught Barbara’s computer science class during her first semester in Gotham. The flashbacks also show us some of the earliest moments in Barbara and Dick’s relationship.

Man do I love me some DickBabs. The flashback scenes make this book worth it for me; seeing tiny Robin trying to flirt with Batgirl…and it slowly working as she realizes he’s actually kind of cute and has his own depth. It’s what I want from my comics, truly. I generally hate teen drama, but throw in some superheroes or murders or whatever – a splash of camp and color – and I am there!

Nightwing: The New Order #1

One issue in and I can already tell that DC is drinking Marvel’s milkshake with this one. Using the same conceit of Secret Empire, only doing it as an out-of-canon story, setting up that it actually plans to show how a hero could slide into fascistic behavior instead of just having it come from a magic cube, and also limiting it to only six issues.

In 2028, Nightwing is forced to use a device that depowers 90% of the metahuman population on Earth, and in 2040, leads “the Crusaders” in an effort to depower the remaining 10%. His secret identity now public knowledge, Dick is a celebrity, widely applauded for saving the world and doing what’s necessary to keep the peace. And though Dick believes he is doing the right thing, and the hard thing, he’s finding it harder to live with the knowledge that he’s disappointing those closest to him, like Alfred Pennyworth; and refuses to talk about what happened to his son, Jake.

As of this first issue, this story is already doing a number of things better than Secret Empire. Besides what I already noted above, one big thing is that the story makes Dick a tool of a fascist government rather than its leader. Dick is an enforcer and a conduit for the anti-meta laws; but as far as we know, he didn’t make them. They were a reaction to a choice he made in the past – a choice that apparently saved the world – and he’s still trying to save it by doing what he still believes to be the best course of action by catching and depowering supers. The book is already exploring how fascism rewards it’s participants by making them believe that they’re doing what’s best for the world by fighting a force that would mean their end. We can still sympathize with Dick, not just because he believes what he’s doing is right, but because he’s being told by everyone around him that it is, even when he has his own doubts.

Shipwreck #4 and #5

Dr. Shipwright meets an engineer in the wasteland attempting to build her own trans-dimensional apporter, and we discover the final moments of the Janus experiment that caused him to be stranded on another Earth. Then, the Engineer reveals that she has a piece of Janus, a piece that has a chance of helping Shipwright return home; but he’ll have to make a deal with someone from his past before he can use it.

Neither issue feels like enough of the story on their own, so I’m glad that I managed to pick both up together after forgetting I hadn’t read issue #4 when it came out. Also, unlike the previous issues, there’s no time-skip between these two, making them feel even more like a pair. Being the penultimate two issues, it also makes sense that these finally fill us in on almost all of the missing pieces of Shipwright’s past. But, as close as we are to leaving this world – presumably – issue #5 in particular provides enough out-there imagery of it, such as children wearing brown paper bags on their head using a telephone pole as a maypole outside a burning church, that kind of makes me wish we had more room to explore.

Comic Reviews for 8/23/17 Secret Empire #9 I'm honestly just tired of this story at this point. This is, like, the third issue of just spinning tires.

#batgirl #dc comics #marvel #nightwing #secret empire #shipwreck #spider-man #the flash #the new order

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crowkingwrites · 7 years

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Bang Bang! (Ch. 14)

Pairing: Ramsay Bolton x Reader

Summary: The Red Wedding happened a week ago. Your boss, Petyr, insists on celebrating the men who “won” this victory, the Red Kings, an assassination group run by the sour-looking Roose Bolton. You, one of Petyr’s favorites, is tasked to find out more about these Red Kings. Who are they? Who are their clients? Who is next?You’re very good at what you do until you meet him. What do you do? Girls like you can’t fall in love. Does the Pretty Bird fly away with him? Or does she ruin the Bloody Bastard and everything he has?

Words: 2761

Read on Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11108982/chapters/28302969

You opened the door to the Bird Cage to find a mixture of chaos and order. Boxes were stacked in various piles. Furniture was moved around in separate corners. You stepped on a piece of moving tape that was connected to a box that was labeled ‘Kitchen’.

Quickly, you carried your bags to your room. Other favorites had their doors open and boxes outside their door. You heard a squeal behind you. Arms flung around you and held you tightly.

“You’re alive!” Ros yelled into your ear. “Thank God! I thought the assassin prince was going to kill you or hurt you.”

“He didn’t,” you replied. “He wouldn’t hurt me.” Ros made a face at you.

“Oh really now?”

“Yes, really,” you said with confidence. You heard a loud noise from Vanessa’s room. “What is going on around here?”

Upon entering Vanessa’s room, you find make-up spilled everywhere, and a very frustrated woman about to lash out. Vanessa’s room was mostly packed. Her closet and dressers were empty. Sheets, blankets, pillows, all packed.

“Vanessa?” you asked. She turned to face you with a disgusted look on her face. The disgusted look faded into an apologetic smile.

“Hello, Y/N,” she greeted, standing up. “Sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.”

“Petyr?”

“No, one of his teeny little birds,” Vanessa corrected you. “I goddamn hate those little girls.” “Good thing you won’t have to deal with them anymore then. Since we’re going to Vegas,” you said, entering the room and picking up the mess. Ros followed.

“No, you and all the other favorites are going to Vegas. I’m going with the rest of the birds to Malibu.”

“What why?” You stopped to look up at her. Vanessa closed her door.

“Baelish wants me to teach his little babies. He wants me to be their den mother and to nurture them into perfect little whores.” Vanessa ignited her lighter and lit her cigarette. “This whole place is going to shit because of her.”

“Who?”

“Lysa Arryn. Ever since they got engaged, everything’s changed—

“Whoa, wait,” you held up your arms “Petyr’s engaged to Lysa Arryn?”

“Yeah where have you been?” Ros asked. “Have you been so self-involved with the assassin boy that you haven’t seen what’s been going on?”

“Assassin boy?” Vanessa asked out of confusion. A moment later, she realized who Ros was speaking about, and she turned sharply to you. “Ramsay? You’re still seeing him? Are you insane?”

“No!” you stood up. “I’m not insane. Yes, I’m still seeing him. He’s my bo—client, and I will keep seeing him until I don’t want to anymore. Besides, he takes good care of me.” Vanessa crossed her arms.

“You need to be careful with boys like him. He’s not who you think he is.”

“I know him better than you,” you said. “He won’t hurt me.” Vanessa rolled her eyes and sighed.

“As I was saying, Lysa has got her hands in everything, as does Petyr. He has all of the success to the Vale in Vegas now which is why you’re going there. Cersei gifted Petyr Harenhall Church in Malibu.”

“A church?” you inquired.

“An abandoned one,” Vanessa picked up the rest of her make up to pack it away. “I’m not sure why. But, they renovated it for us. Some of the girls are excited to go to Malibu, others are angry that the favorites get better treatment.”

“You’re frustrated,” you said.

“This is all so sudden, don’t you think? The engagement, the moving, everything. Did you see this coming? Something’s going on here. Petyr’s not telling us everything.”

“I know you’re suspicious, Vanessa, but maybe it’s for the best.”

“I agree with Y/N,” Ros added. “Petyr has never driven us down the wrong path.”

“I’ve known Petyr for a long time, girls,” Vanessa sat down and took another drag of her cigarette. “He tells me everything. He didn’t tell me about Lysa. He didn’t tell me about moving. It’s just as a shock to you as to me. This isn’t him. I don’t know what he’s planning.

“I know that he’s keeping an eye on the Red Kings for Cersei, allied with the Red Kings against the Freys and Lannisters, and somehow he’s got his hands dirty with the Arryns and Starks. But why now? Why get engaged so fast? He doesn’t love her. He never did.” Vanessa growled with frustration. The thought of leaving her alone started to sound better and better.

After packing a few boxes yourself, Charlotte and Ros entered your room and closed the door behind them. They put a finger to your mouth before you could protest.

“We came to talk,” Charlotte said. “We have an idea for you.”

“We want to team up to gather more information on the Red Kings,” Ros said it flat out. You narrowed your eyes on her for a moment, and then it hit you. All this time, you were supposed to be gathering information on the Red Kings for Petyr. Ros was right. You were self-involved with Ramsay.

“Yes. Yeah. That sounds good,” you nodded. Telling Petyr about Theon wasn’t going to be easy.

“Well, several of the Red Kings have told me about plans against the Lannisters. It seems that Roose doesn’t trust Cersei,” Ros commented.

“Not true,” Charlotte disagreed. “Domeric told me that Cersei is suspicious of her own spies. Some of them have proved disloyal to her recently. Her little brother, Tyrion, may have bought some of them.”

“Fair,” Ros nodded. “The feud between the Freys and the Boltons is still going on though. Ted and his guys got into a bustle last night with them. The Freys don’t mean much, but they’re making a lot of noise for a gang led by a bitter old man.”

“You could say the same for the Red Kings,” Charlotte laughed, it filled the room. “Roose is a bitter man, but he makes calculated moves. You two need to be careful. Roose has Red Kings everywhere.” You narrowed your eyes at Charlotte for a moment, but then looked to Ros.

“How many Red Kings are you with?” you asked her.

“Three, they’re my main clients now. Why?” “You have three Red Kings. Charlotte has Domeric Bolton, and I have Ramsay,” you walked around the room. “Charlotte’s right. Maybe we do need to be careful. Things could get sloppy if any of them figure out what we’re doing here.” Ros and Charlotte agreed.

The Vale had been a classic Las Vegas casino and resort for a long time. Lysa married into the Arryn fortune just as Catelyn married into the Stark fortune. People were suspicious when she became a widow so suddenly, but rumors were swept aside when Ned Stark signed a tight contract with Robert Baratheon.

She had inherited everything, and rightfully so. She had kept her counselors close to her during her time of need while being a single mother and running a high-end business. Although, those rumors about her mental well-being never went away.

Landing in Vegas wasn’t easy, your stomach turned into knots. Ros grabbed your hand and led you through the airport.

“Keep it together,” she whispered into your ear. “You can do this.”

“I don’t feel so good,” you replied. Charlotte looped her arm around yours, taking you other side.

“Can you believe this? Vegas! We live in Vegas!”

Ros shot charlotte a dirty look. “You know Vegas isn’t all that. We are here to work, not play. Besides, we three still need to gather information, get new clientele, and make money.” You looked around. It still had the same feeling.

People excited to win. People excited to fuck. The same under feeling of depression and addiction still raised your hairs on the back of your neck. Vegas was not a family-friendly town, it was one riddled with something awful.

“You’re doing it again,” Ros still guided you through the airport. “Just like when we met the Red Kings. You’re getting nervous over nothing.”

“I was right to be nervous back then.”

“I thought you said Ramsay didn’t hurt you.”

“He didn’t.”

“Then why get nervous now?” You looked around the outside of the airport, and then in the car. Everything was completely harmless, but the same feeling lingered like the smoke of a cigarette. Growing thin, but you could still smell it in the air.

“Memories,” you muttered to yourself. The car drove you and the favorites straight into downtown Vegas. It still looked the same in the daylight. You tried to not let it get to you. Breathing, breathing would work. You closed your eyes and let breathing become your focus. You breathed in and let the darkness wash over you.

Everything felt still. Everything felt calm. This was a different Vegas. This was not the Vegas you came to years ago. You were protected. You were smarter. Everything was going to be fine.

When the favorites arrived at the Vale, you were almost beside yourself. You had your own room again, but it was so much bigger this time. You had a queen sized bed along with two matching night stands. If you walked a couple of paces it led to a balcony with furniture outside.

Next to the balcony was a wall of windows that overlooked a main street of Vegas. It looked smaller, and less intimidating. A marble bathtub sat by the window on a platform. Once you lived here longer and with some permission, you wanted to put some of your own touches on everything.

You heard a knock at the door. “Come in.”

“Y/N,” Petyr entered. “It’s been a while hasn’t it?” He smiled at you like an old friend. You nodded still looking around your surroundings.

“It has,” you replied. Petyr closed the door behind him.

“So, tell me what you think.” He gestured to your new room.

“This is all so sudden, Petyr,” you told him. “I mean, the engagement, moving. What’s this about? I feel like you’re not telling us something.” Petyr sat down at one of your soft lounge chairs.

“I could say the same about you,” he folded his hands. “It’s been a couple of days since you came back, and yet no word about Chicago.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Petyr waited for you to start. This was his deal. He let you go away with Ramsay to Chicago. Now it was time. You couldn’t lie to Petyr, he would know.

“The Red Kings or Ramsay and his men were after Theon Greyjoy. They used me to help kidnap him, and they tortured him.”

“Why? Is it because of the Stark boys?”

“Yes,” you shifted your eyes around the room. “Ramsay told me this was Tyrion’s doing. He paid for the hit. For Sansa Stark.” Petyr’s eye twitched when you mentioned her name. His fingers fumbled, and his breath hitched. He regained his composure and continued.

“Did they kill him?”

“No, but they kill some of his friends,” you kept going. “Ramsay’s after them now.”

“The Greyjoys?”

“Yes,” you confirmed. You felt a pang in your stomach, and it kept growing. “I think Roose is trying to get the Stark’s and Lannister’s favor.” Why would you say that? You didn’t know that. You watched Petyr mumble something like ‘he’s working against me’ under his breath. He stood up and exhaled loudly.

“Anything else?” Petyr asked you.

“I saw his phone,” you blurted out. “I could get access to it.” Petyr smiled widely and gave you a warm hug.

“I knew I could depend on you,” he said into your ear. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, unlike other girls.” Petyr let you go, and you felt puzzled.

“Other girls?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Petyr explained. “Let’s just say everyone I brought here I trust them. Now, no playing around for anyone tonight. All of you start working, but four of you have important tasks. Olyvar and Ros are going to be with Lannisters. Charlotte is being escorted by one of the top lawyers for the Vale at a dinner tonight, and you, my dear, have a new client who is very excited to meet you.”

“Who is he?”

“Andrew Dustin,” Petyr started. “He caught word of us moving here and he wanted to set up a meeting with you. Very nice gentleman.”

“What’s his deal?” you crossed your arms. Petyr never let nice gentlemen come to you.

“He told me that if he gets to be with one of my favorite birds, he will give me important documents that could lead to Joffery Lannister’s impeachment. I want you to get me any information you can anyways. It could serve us well.”

“Joffery’s impeachment?”

“Yes,” Petyr replied. “With Joffery gone, Cersei and the rest of the family lose a major part of their influence on this country and the wheel.”

“I thought we were allied with the Lannisters?” Petyr honed in on you.

“Everyone is our friend. Everyone is our enemy. Everyone around you can and cannot be trusted. You have to see every possibility, understand?”

“Why are you telling me this?” you questioned him. He stood back and smiled proudly at you.

“Because you’re smarter than the rest of them,” Petyr told you. “You’re better than the rest of them. I have plans for you, but for now just do as I say.” Petyr left the room, leaving you to your thoughts.

You never thought yourself better than anyone you worked with. You never wanted to be one of ‘those’ girls. Ones who thrived living in riches and bringing others down. You always made sure to do your job regardless how you were feeling. Petyr saw something else in you, but not in Vanessa.

You glanced at your phone, hoping for some message or something. The screen flashed to no notifications. You shouldn’t be surprised. He was off hunting Greyjoys. A text from you couldn’t hurt.

[You]: I’m settled in Vegas. Petyr already set me up with a new client. A guy named Andrew Dustin. He’s supposed to have documents on Joffery’s impeachment. Thought you should know.

You pressed send, but it didn’t help the pang in your stomach. Telling Petyr about Roose’s plans wasn’t easy. Petyr had plans for you. He was going to take care of you. You were fine. You didn’t reveal anything that he wouldn’t find out from someone else.

That night, you strolled through the Luxor, watching tourists and gamblers lose their money. Petyr instructed you to meet with Mr. Dustin in the hotel part of the pyramid. You admitted the Luxor was beautiful, but it was clear that the pyramid was tourist trap. You couldn’t see the difference between here and the Vale or any other casino.

You wore a deep purple outfit. The neckline cut deep. When you stepped into the elevator a man eyed you. His mouth slightly open. Unfortunately for him, his wife caught him. She hit him in the arm, scoffed at you, and they left the elevator immediately.

14th floor dinged and you walked down the narrow hallways until you hit Room 1409. Petyr left you with the second key to the room. You let yourself in and sighed to find no one there yet. You could remember Lysa’s words from earlier today: ‘They will not do any of their business here. I will not have that in my hotel, Petyr. That filth!’

You’ve been called worse.

The room was standard for someone who claimed to be a big deal especially for someone who could lead to Joffery’s fall from grace. You didn’t like him as much as anyone else, but what he did not affect you. He was a mayor, not a president.

You sat on the bed and looked at your phone. 11:48PM. He was late.

You groaned and laid back on the bed. Why were men always late? You dolled yourself up and made it here on perfect time. You wondered if Olyvar had to deal with the same thing.

The door clicked open, and you heard someone walk through.

“Oh finally,” you greeted. “I thought you would have me waiting all night.” You stopped and smelled the air. You smelled this cologne before. It was heavy with a hint of old rose petals. The heavy footsteps came closer. A round figure appeared.

Three other men followed him. Each of them armed with ropes, guns, and duct tape. They smiled like hungry hyenas down at you. The door locked behind them.

“Hello, Y/N,” Mr. Kress greeted. “Sorry to have you waiting.”

#ramsay bolton #ramsay snow #ramsay x reader #ramsay snow imagine #ramsay bolton imagine #bang bang!#game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #ao3

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