#girl who was told he was like his father and nan it’s whole life

[drum-bot-brian]

im suuuchhhh a sam girly

[heterophobicdyke]

One of my aunties was raped and abused by her husband for decades, and when she tried to leave he stabbed the priest who helped her and threatened to kill her entire family including me. She went back.

Another of my aunties was raped and abused by her boyfriend for years. He smashed in the windows of my grandparents house while I was inside, 7 years old. Cops didn’t do shit.

My Nan’s best friend and her kids were chased down train tracks by the husband with a gun, shooting after them. They ran to my grandparents house and he dropped the gun because my pop said he would have to shoot him to come inside and kill the family.

My grandparents next door neighbour’s DOCTOR husband, no proof of abuse before, murder-suicided him and his family.

Another of my Nans (recently dead) had 16 siblings, most girls. They were all molested by their father, my great grandfather. My nan’s sister told us recently that she slept with the door locked and a window open so if he came in she could run. My nan got into a cycle of abusive relationships, suicide attempts and addiction for the rest of her life. She died because male doctors wouldn’t listen to the seriousness her stomach problems.

My dad was extremely verbally abusive to my whole family and emotionally/psychologically abusive to my mum while I was growing up and he only didn’t get consistently physical (he did towards my mum a couple of times as well as smacking us kids) because he saw his own dad beat his mum (the one in the above paragraph) to a pulp multiple times, including when she left because her husband was cheating with one woman and seeing multiple prostituted women.

I have multiple other relatives who were raped and abused by their husbands. One made her fuck a dog.

When I was 15/16, my friends were being taken advantage of 20+ year old men who even made one of my friends give a vile of her blood which he kept on him (and her), as a necklace, and he held a knife up to her throat when they “had sex.” She was told it was kinky and progressive. I found radical feminism on tumblr shortly after and it was the sex styles men have that turned me radical at 16. Not trans stuff. I was ripped from my high school friends and not allowed at any parties involving these men because I didn’t flirt and I didn’t fuck. I was a lesbian (who wasn’t even out at the time). I was a “frigid.”

My high school friends let me be treated this way by their male partners until the relationship would end and I’d have the salt and vinegar chips in hand and cradle them while they broke down that he was on to the next virgin pussy. Sorry but that’s how men see it and it’s how they are.

As an adult, I made really good friends with a bisexual woman at uni. We bonded over being the radical types of feminists. She got with a man. After years together I found out he cheated with a woman I know. At first she was done with him.l, when I told her. But he talked his way around to the point he made her stop talking to ME. Because I told her. In female bathrooms she kept trying to make out with me and tell me how sorry she was that in front of him she had to act like she didn’t know me, as if the only reason I cared was because I was a lesbian and “must have wanted to get with her.” I didn’t! I was there for her as a friend!!!

My cousin got with a dude who gave me a job as a writer. At first, I could write as many words as I wanted. Gradually I realised I was there for him to prove to her family he was a good person to be with. He stopped paying me, it started coming out of her account, and at that point I left the job. She’s not with him anymore—he physically/emotionally/psychologically abused her, starved her cat, hurt her kids—and we repaired our connection.

I’ve always been the lesbian friend/fam member having to watch my OSA besties/family being abused by men while they don’t listen to me. I’ve just got to stand and watch until they’re ready to get with the next abuser.

My family is a normal Australian family. We are not known for having it especially horrible, despite not being well to do with money. This is normal.

I am NOT THE ONE to talk to about how great your boyfriend or husband is and how radical you are for staying with him because you have enough money to donate to your local woman’s shelter. I am NOT THE ONE.

These examples are why I became a radical feminist. But I was a lesbian since birth. Only had crushes on girls and women since birth. Didn’t make a choice. But I think Mother Nature made me lesbian because of the abuse my family—not unlike other families, like yours, your family just might not have been as transparent with you—has endured. As an evolutionary thing. I have a right to discuss male/female relationships so go fuck yourself.

[baleriontheblackkitten]

A Game of Thrones - Bran I

Oh the innocence of summer days …

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king’s justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran’s life.

Immediately we are given some key information: summer is ending, and Bran is too young to have experienced anything but summer. Out of metaphor, he is a child, innocent to the dangers and evils of his world. But his innocence won't last long yet - he's been deemed old enough to see a man being beheaded. He's about to learn about the evil that waits outside of the happy bubble of Winterfell.

The fact that the first thing we see Ned Stark do it to behead a man in the name of the king's justice, obviously stands in simmetry to the last thing that happens to him. It is incredibly meaningful that he's bringing Bran along with his oldest sons to witness the beheading: Bran is younger than his sisters Sansa and Arya, but the girls are not taught in the matters of politics and leadership, and left carefully away from matters of death and blood. And yet, the very two Stark children who are not present to Gareth's beheading are the two who will be there to witness Ned's beheading. The girls are going to learn about politics and violence on their own skin - and, incidentally, Ned's insistence they stay away from these matters is going to hurt everyone.

(Interestingly, Catelyn was raised like a boy in this sense, as his brother was born late and his father was not really counting on having a male heir anymore, so he taught Catelyn about politics and leadership. Sadly her political savvyness does not save her, but not due to a failing on her part, but because her opponents stop acting on the level of politics and start acting on a whole different level. On the level of politics, eating the Freys' bread and salt would keep them safe. What Tywin and the Freys do is a betrayal of the rules of politics. But I'm sooo digressing.)

Another note about this first paragraph: the king's justice. It is the solemn name for the administration of justice carried in the name of the king of the realm, but it's also a little hint of what the king's justice is. We, the readers, know that Gareth does not deserve to die. What the Starks' party believes to be justice is not. Little foreshadowing of Ned learning the truth about Robert beyond the idealized image he has of his friend, and about the vipers' nest that the court is.

Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Bran’s skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

This, of course, sounds clearly like a pile of stereotypes (bits of truth twisted and blown out of proportion mixed with falsehoods) about the "others" in the sense of the "people who are not Us and are Bad", but that also intertwine with stories about the Others with a capital O. People in the North of Westeros have confused stories and warnings about the Others with the humans living beyond the Wall, which makes them identify the wrong target as the enemy.

Then again, I am sure that the tales Old Nan tells about the wildlings are true in the sense that some wildlings must have done those things in some form. "Slavers" is not really that uncommon in their world; "slayers" is a very generic word; "thieves" really depend on your concept of property. "Consorting with giants and ghouls" - not sure about ghouls but giants are just creatures who live up there and have relations with the humans. Stealing children . . . while it's boys and not girls, the Others do that with Craster's male babies. As for girls, well, "stealing" someone can mean different things, and there are rituals around "stealing" a girl to get with her. Drinking blood from horns sounds like a ritual ancient populations would do - we know that ancient humans practiced cannibalism, most likely for ritual reasons. Drinking blood as a religious-y ritual doesn't seem that far-fetched and does not mean that a population is "evil", just with rituals that are different from yours. And. Well. Cannibalism is. Uh. A bit of a theme around here.

The part about women lying with the Others and giving birth to half-human children sounds like GRRM dropping a line that anticipates something that will be very important later.

I love how Bran sees his older brothers and his father, solemn and tall while he's tiny and does his best not to look out of place.

Bran’s father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father’s face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.

And I cry. Ned's arc in the book is struggling between acting as father and as Lord Stark, just like Cat will be struggling with juggling her role as mother and Lady Tully-Stark, and it's not a struggle that any of them can win. Just like Robb and Jon cannot win the struggle between their role as a brother and their respective roles as king and brother of the Night's Watch.

(Btw, thirty-five is a reasonable age to start getting white in your beard, Bran. It also usually makes men look hotter rather than older. I can tell you're 7.)

We are also introduced to a detail about Ned that is not really discussed much but I find so interesting: literally the first depiction we have of him is how he tells his children stories about the past of their land. It's usually the women who are portrayed as the keepers and tellers of the stories, but Ned is mentioned to do the same. It frames him in a "feminine" light, painting him as caring towards his children in a way Westerosi society tends to expect from women, especially with the adverb "softly" associated to him.

He's a good father by the fire of Winterfell. He's going to be disastrous at it outside of his home, and knowing that's not his nature makes it even more tragic.

To be fair, there is a divide in the kind of stories that Bran associates to Old Nan and the kind of stories he associates to his father: Old Nan is said to tell him about the horrors that lie beyond the Wall, stories of cruel men and monsters and blood; Ned is said to tell him stories of the ancient heroes and the children of the forest. This is a divide that says something about gender, but maybe also says something about how Bran perceives Old Nan and his father respectively. And also something about how their culture perceives their past … The man will tell the children about an edulcorated, "inspiring" version of the past; the elderly woman will focus on the gritty details to frighten the children a little (be a good child and obey your parents or the Evil Things will get you - classic old lady babysitting children move!).

(This reminds me of my dad telling me tales like Odysseus' adventures or the stories of the Scarlet Pimpernel when I was little. Forgive me the personal anedocte but my dad has passed away between my first read of the books and now - I wonder if I'll read the books differently because of it.)

Anyway. Ned' stories and Old Nan's stories - what is the truth? Probably somewhere in the middle - there are no heroes, but no inherently evil men either. Humans are just humans, their noble ancestors and the wildlings alike. (The Others, on the other hand …)

“Ice,” that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke.

That's a big ass sword. No wonder they decided to just make two normal swords out of it. But also I believe that Robb is not really that tall, Bran just thinks he's tall because Robb is his big brother, so "taller even that Robb" is not actually the amazing description Bran thinks it is. I am fond of my mental image of Robb as a short guy, okay? He's described as muscular while Jon is slender, so I imagine Jon as tall and Robb as stocky. He is forced by circumstances to act like a big important grownup but is just a kid trying his best :')

Anyway - first connection between the Starks and the Others. The Other that kills Waymar Royce has a longsword that is described more like ice than metal:

In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

And the Starks have a longsword called Ice. It is Valyrian steel, imbued with magic that can kill the Others, but its name recalls the Others, who bring freezing cold with them. Who are the Kings of Winter, really? The sword's name is a statement from House Stark - our weapon is ice. In fact, next to this detail, "winter is coming" sounds like something that used to be meant as a threat before shifting to more of a warning. Our strength is the cold, and the cold is getting stronger. It's no wonder there are so many theories about the Others being originally made by the Starks or even ancient Starks themselves! One thing it's for sure - whatever the Others are and however they came to be, the Starks are not alien to it.

The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy’s feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen who found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.

Oh Theon. How much is he an asshole and how much is he performing the asshole he's expected to be? Later, when he explicitly performs being what people expect Theon Greyjoy to be, he acts in a similar manner. Was it always a performance? Either way, Theon is so acutely aware of how he's perceived …

[Robb] was big and broad and growing every day - nobody say anything, this is Bran seeing Robb as big because Bran is tiny. "Growing every day" simply means he hit puberty really late and only now experiencing some growth spurt! This is also confirmed by the fact he's barely starting to grow a beard at all. He is short because I say so. *It is law Obama gif*

Robb and Jon are described so well as an age where they're almost grown but also still kids. They talk about the executed man like grownups but then race on their horses as a game like they must have done a million times since they were little … and I cry.

The conversation between Ned and Bran is so important and beautiful. It tells a lot about Ned, foreshadows Bran holding responsability as a leader and dispenser of justice one day (yes, I do believe he's going to become some sort of leader figure for the Seven Kingdoms, no I don't believe he's going to become Thee King of the Seven Kingdoms, as that won't be a thing anymore). A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is - I'm chewing glass. Ned's whole fall starts from standing up to Robert about sending assassins after an exiled kid and ends with a boy king who orders others to commit acts of violence.

“We hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. “One day, Bran, you will be Robb’s bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away.”

I'm thinking of Sansa and Arya, both - in very different ways - sentencing people to die by proxy while physically and symbolically away from Winterfell. Arya in Harrenhall with the names she gives Jaqen, Sansa in King's Landing speaking her truth about Joffrey to the Tyrells, which she later realizes was an unintentional death sentence. But later Arya starts committing her killings in person, and especially the sentence of the Night's Watch deserter reconnect her to the Stark way, as that's the very kind of sentence Ned is doing in his first appearance here. So I expect that Sansa, too, whenever she will need to sentence someone to death … maybe she won't swing the sword herself, as that's not exactly her thing, but she will look at the man in the eyes and hear his last words. I do think Sansa deserves to spill a little blood, though, as a treat. (This is kind of a joke, Sansa doesn't need to spill blood, but as a reader I find both options valid.)

“That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. “Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found!” Then he was gone again. Jory rode up beside them. “Trouble, my lord?” “Beyond a doubt,” his lord father said. “Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now.”

I cry. That's such a cute moment, Jon acting like an excited kid like he's supposed to be! Ned amused by his sons being mischievous boys! Robb and Jon talk in excited voices, Theon is laughing and joking. Chewing glass again.

The way the adults are disquieted by the presence of direwolves south of the Wall and want to kill them, while the kids are enamored by the pups and insist on keeping them … magical bond or not, it paints them as the kids they are, eager to keep puppies that the adults would rather not, considering them too much of a responsibility/burden.

Except the Stark kids won't just adopt any puppy, nope. I love the mental image of the Stark kids as absolutely crazy for everyone else's standards. Imagine being Catelyn Tully, normal ass person from some normal ass place. "Darling, the kids found some puppies, I told them they can keep them if they take care of them themselves" - you're like mmm well okay I guess, and then find out the puppies are monstrous mega-wolves.

“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.” Bran saw his father’s face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own. Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly. “The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”

And yet later Jon notices the sixth pup, which confirms him as a real Stark too, despite his name. (His name is also not his real name, anyway.)*

*I find it super funny when people making up "Lyanna lives" AUs keep the baby's name as Jon. Like. Lyanna had no reason to name her baby Jon. Telling everyone the baby's name is Jon is Ned's way to announce "yoo here's my bastard baby, which I named after my father figure Jon Arryn, definitely my own baby, see, no one else's, this is not suspicious at all".

This is probably too early in my re-read for spec about Jon's future, but hey. I struggle so much as picturing Jon ever becoming associated with a dragon, I'm probably the only person in the fandom, but hey.

The only way I could see it is if Ghost dies, leaving Jon without a direwolf, like Sansa. In that case I could see it as more believable.

Then again, Theon commenting that the albino puppy will be the first to die suggests to me that Ghost isn't dying any time soon. So, really, I can't picture Jon becoming a dragonrider! But again, we're just at the second chapter of the series. Speculation about the future books can wait.

(I did delete a wholeass paragraph here where I super digressed lol.)

Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

SIGHT THEME MY BELOVED. Red eyes, open and seeing, like a weirdwood tree's, like Bloodraven's.

Speaking of eyes! I never noticed the detail from this very chapter, "Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black". I had always pictured Jon with light grey eyes - not Bolton light, but not dark, either. Dark grey makes me think of Valyrian steel, described as the color of smoke.

Also. Speaking of the sight/eyes theme:

Bran’s bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. “Keep the pony well in hand,” he whispered. “And don’t look away. Father will know if you do.” Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away. […] Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched.

“The deserter died bravely,” Robb said. […] “He had courage, at the least.” “No,” Jon Snow said quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. […] Robb was not impressed. “The Others take his eyes,” he swore.

“If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. “One day, Bran, you will be Robb’s bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away.”

Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots [of the mother direwolf]

“Theon Greyjoy said, “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.” “I see one now,” Jon replied. Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb’s arms.

Mmm. There's a thing here.

As I was saying in the previous chapter, there's a whole theme around sight, blindness, and eye color. If an unnatural, unhuman blue is the color of the Other's eyes, blood red is the color of the opposite side. I don't think that, at the end of the day, it's dragons the definitive key to defeating the Others. Not Jon's Targaryen side, but Jon's Stark side. The direwolf. Sure, fire helps, but everyone assumes too easily, imo, that fire is the solution (Melisandre and the other followers of the Lord of Light, Maester Aemon when he supposedly realizes that the prophecy would be about Dany, her dragons being proof of it).

I know the series is called A song of ice and fire. But the Targaryens have very little to do with the North! Even in this very chapter, Ned highlights how the culture of the Stark differs from the Targeryens':

“[…] The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.” Bran had no answer for that. “King Robert has a headsman,” he said, uncertainly. “He does,” his father admitted. “As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks […]”

Bran is also the first character who flies, while in his coma from falling. No need for dragons, is there?

But I think I've written enough for this chapter! I'll stop here or I'll run out of things to say for other chapters.

So, what are your thoughts? (I'm speaking into the void as no one is reading these yet, but hey. Fake it til you make it.)

[mikkomacko]

Dear Daisy 6

Harry enjoys Saturdays. For the past two months, Saturdays have consistently been his day off from patrolling. Occasionally he'll get Sunday or Friday off as well, but he doesn't get his hopes up. It doesn't matter to him. He's completely fine only having Saturday off.

A shop in town (one he's yet to learn the name of because he's still confused by the French language), had a nice leather bound journal he'd bought the first week of being stationed in the city. It's similar to the one he'd left at home, the one he's comfortable with, so it makes writing his letters easy. Which is what Saturday is for. A letter to Daisy, a letter to Anne, a letter to Gemma, and a letter to Niall who's unable to fight due to his old knee injury. Today he gets through Anne's, Gemma's, and Niall's letters quickly. He's addressing one to Daisy when he pauses, recalling the letters she sent last week. Harry quickly flips to a blank page, scribbling the name of a man he's only spoken to a few times.

Dear Robin,

I wasn't sure you'd remember me after all these years. The last time we spoke I was about thirteen, right before my uncle started grooming me on the steel business. I've changed a lot since then which is why it was quite shocking to hear about you from Daisy. She told me of your generosity, a quality I'll always remember you for if the books in my library are anything to go by. I'd like to thank you for taking Daisy in while I'm away and distracting her with the gift of baking. She may not look it, but I know she gets awful lonely when she's left to herself too long. I remember a few years ago, when I was maybe seventeen or eighteen, I'd passed by her near the park where she was sitting in the grass, chatting with a pigeon. Of course I teased her for it. What kind of nutter talks to birds? But she'd gotten flustered and yelled at me, told me birds need friends too. She also mentioned being stood up by a boy from my mum's neighborhood so she was complaining to the bird. It wasn't really my business, as she so snottily put it, but I knew she was continuing to speak me because she was lonely. I suppose I'm glad that Bill whatever didn't show up that day.

I was worried about leaving her. Her family has hurt her. She wouldn't want to spend much time with them. And her friend Summer has taken up a babysitting job so her time with her is limited as well. Knowing she's enjoying her time with you brings me comfort. I can't thank you enough for watching over my love.

She told me of your son's and I'm sad to not know them very well. I'm sure they're just as wonderful as you if not more. Perhaps you could give me their names or where they're stationed and I could keep an eye out for them? I believe it's a fair deal; you watching my family and I'll watch yours?

Wishing you a happy fall and hoping the bakery stays busy,

Harry Styles.

The bakery is a big company in town so he doesn't need to ask for the address. Finishing up that letter and stuffing it into an envelope, a titter of giggles flows through the November air. Harry peeks up through his eyelashes, finding two girls in long coats not so subtly looking at him. A red head one wiggles her fingers at him, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Harry thinks she's the kind of bird they'd put on a postcard around here. With the Eiffel Tower behind her, trees turning autumn shades that compliment her hair. It's a nice picture, but not one he'd like to look at forever. French girls are pretty, but he prefers English. Particularly English girls with frizzy brunette curls and freckles on her nose and cheeks. Light brown eyes that stir like honey and drip warmth into his veins when they look at him, whether it be through tears of frustration or sparkles of adoration.

He ignores the girls, shifting his shoulders under his thick army coat. At least the uniform is warm. Harry turns back to the letter he had started writing to Daisy, teeth sinking into his chapped bottom lip as he continues to scribble.

Dear Daisy,

I've never enjoyed autumn. I find it uncomfortable. That brief period between the peek of life in the summer and the bittersweet end in the winter. The one thing that I do enjoy, is my mother's pumpkin soup. I'm glad Gemma visited you on Halloween and I'm glad you had so many pumpkins. I would say I'm jealous but I think that'd give you an edge over me so I'll admit to nothing. As for the fighter pilot girl, I wish I could have seen her. My father was a fighter pilot and I use to have a photo by my bed of him in his plane. One time I had a dream that my daughter flew planes, crossed oceans and looked down at mountain tops. She might've looked like that girl you saw. I can't know for sure seeing as I'm here and you're there. Again, I won't say I'm jealous, but do you think there's a chance she'll be a pilot again next year?

Anyway, I'm sitting on a bench in the grass around the Eiffel Tower right now and there's two girls watching me as if they'd have a chance. Suppose I should tell them I'm a married lad? Or should I let them dream? I reckon it'd rile you up if I didn't say anything so I'll stay silent. Who's jealous now aye?

Think I'll go to the bakery down the street after this. You've given me an awful craving with that dream of us in our house, dancing as your pies burn in the oven and my roast beef cooks to perfection. One of my bunk mates gets cookies sent to him from his mum. He likes to brag about it. Think ya could send me some oatmeal ones? Oughta show his mum who's boss.

I don't like raisins though. If there's raisins in my cookies I'll have no choice but to divorce you.

Until then, I hope you're staying warm. Niall told me he'd drop by sometime, check the heater and leave some firewood for you. I don't know if you'll need it but there's extra blankets in my closet as well. My nan knitted a nice green one for me a couple years ago. Spilled some tea on it once but it's awful nice. Feel free to use it. It'll keep ya warm at night. Not as warm as me of course, but it should suffice. If it doesn't you can go to the church and complain to my Nan's grave. Tell her Harry sent you and maybe she'll only hit you a few times.

Heard a rumor the other day that if things are still slow around here by December a few of us might be able to go home for a bit around the holidays. Don't get your hopes up too much but know I'm brown nosing the hell out of my sergeant for the next few weeks. It'd be nice to be able to hit you with a snowball. And it'd be nice to spend my first Christmas as a married man with my wife. I promise I'll keep updating you (only if you send me cookies). Don't tell my mum or sister, they'll try writing to my sergeant about sending me home and I don't need him knowing I'm a momma's boy.

I'll dream of you baking cookies tonight, tossing raisins into the trashcan just for me and I hope you dream of me sitting here, getting oggled by some Frenchies. Happy November love, enjoy this time in the twilight zone.

I'll be home soon Daisy, I promise

The Harry Styles x

~

Harry's week has gone by too slowly. Typically, roaming the streets of Paris or cleaning up around the base is enough to keep him from straying but not this week. Everything he does, everything he sees, everything he smells pushes his mind to Daisy. Mopping the kitchen floors reminds him of the day they worked together to clean her room. The trees remind him of how it felt to sit in the backyard with her, listening to her soft breaths as she worked on her blanket. The smell of the bakery, flour and cinnamon, remind him of her warmth and the cold air only makes him long for her even more. He doesn't think he's ever had such a terrible week, so he decides he'll push himself to do more next week. Initiative will definitely earn him a ticket home for Christmas, right?

He tries not to let himself get too discouraged as he collapses onto his cot, fingers clutching to the envelopes he received today as well as the medium sized box addressed to him. He's got a letter from his mother as well as Robin, but it's the one attached to the box that he goes for first.

Dear Harry,

French girls may have cute accents but can they make Robin's famous oatmeal cookies perfectly on their first try? I really hope not because then I've really got nothing going for me. Except for the fact that I've already got your last name of course.

I don't know how often you go see the Eiffel Tower but I'd appreciate a thorough description and rating of it from you please. I'd love to see the Eiffel Tower one day but I think I'd like to see the whole world too. Maybe your daughter will be a pilot and she can fly us all over the planet. If not, I'll have to divorce you myself. Assuming you haven't already divorced me by then. I think it would be funny if we divorced each other all the time. Then we could just keep getting married over and over again. I wouldn't mind it if you wore that suit you wore on our first wedding day. You looked really handsome. I was thinking of dragging Summer to town with me to get our wedding photo. If you're nice I'll send you one. If not, I'll save it for the holidays when you come home. I know you said not to get my hopes up but I also know you. You're a born leader Harry whether you like it not, and I'm positive you'll be allowed home.

I just realized something a bit funny. Home. Home used to be my parents house. The home I grew up in. Then I thought it’d be your house, the one I took over by planting flowers everywhere and actually cleaning. I don’t know what home is right now. I keep telling you to come home but what does that matter if I don’t even know where that is? Maybe I’m overthinking it. I hope you know your home Harry and I hope you’re able to come back to it.

Enjoy the cookies, I put extra extra raisins and love into them.

-Daisy o

Harry heart pounds, teeth biting at his bottom lip as he lays the letter down on his pillow and wiggles his finger under the seal on the box. Tearing it open, he fights back a smile at the smell of cookies that hits his nose. They’re not hot or anything, but they’re relatively fresh and wrapped up in a cute basket with green ribbon.

“What’d ya get Styles?” Pip, a bunk mate, asks from two cots over. Harry pulls the basket out, smirking at the other man.

“Gift from my girl,” he says proudly, chest puffing out “she’s a baker.” Pip chuckles at Harry’s sudden uplifted attitude, peeking at the cookies that do look quite delicious.

"Hope they're better than Frank's wife's." He makes a disgusted face and Harry laughs. Frank only shared his cookies once and they were bloody awful. He's never tried Daisy's baking but he's sure it's better. She's better than every other girl on the planet. How could her cookies not be better as well?

Harry tucks them safely into the little bedside table he has, glancing over her letter one more time because he loves her words before tucking it into the drawer that holds all his letters from her. He can't help but think of her claiming she knows him. If Daisy knew him as well as she thinks she does, then she'd know that his home isn't some silly house. And she'd know that he's her home. He's always been her home.

~

Time is supposed to heal. That's what Harry's always been told. The words first arose after his father died and he has blown them off for a long time. Until they rang true. Because one day Anne stopped crying, and people stopped leaving casseroles at the house, and Gemma started going on dates again, and Thomas showed up to chat with Harry more than he used to.

Time. Harry thinks he's pretty tolerant of time. He'd waited hours to speak to Daisy the first night he met her. He waited years to finally be more than the boy who almost killed her. And he's held onto two big secrets for all these years because he knows she'll need time before she can see him as someone she doesn't hate anymore. Years flew by so months should be a breeze. Right? Harry thinks so, but the two months away from Daisy are agonizing, and they're getting worse as days go by. Since when did November turn from 30 days to 300?

Extra training. Extra shifts. Extra work. Extra letters. Extra sleep. Yet nothing is helping to speed the process. He's gotten snippy (snippier than usual) to the point that he pissed off Frank for saying his wife's baking was "absolute shit" and he snapped at that red head girl in town for batting her eyelashes at him. There's a chance he told her she's skin to something the dog would drag in but he honestly can't bring himself to care at all. He just wants a moment with Daisy. Just one moment so he'll know that she's still is because sometimes he feels like he's been stuck at an army base his whole life and their marriage is all one big dream.

When the final day of November rolls around, Harry breathes a sigh of relief. He tells himself that he'll see her soon although he really doesn't know when soon will be.

He's hunched over a table in the cafeteria, hidden in the corner because he really doesn't want to talk to anyone, with his journal and mail sitting before him. He'd told his mum how hard the days were getting and she started sending letters more often, filling him in on random events and gatherings happening back home. He'd just gotten one yesterday talking about the neighbors starting a victory garden so he's a bit surprised to have another one so soon. Surprised, but grateful.

Dear Harry,

We've gotten more snow this week, enough for Niall to come over to shovel out the driveway for me. He stopped by your's and Daisy's home as well, insisting he help take care of "Harry's gals" as he put it. He's awful nice and I heard he's been checking in on Daisy often which is great.

I know you've really been missing her, and I hope this letter brings you comfort rather than heartache. Daisy is devastated without you. I do believe she's happy when she's at the bakery with Robin which I find simply wonderful, but there's multiple nights where she's shown up at my doorstep. She cries for you a lot, misses you more than I think you know. I think she sleeps better here. I always put her in your old bedroom and she's out like a light.

Please don't worry about her Harry. I'm glad she's come to me. She needs companionship and nurturing, both of which I can give. Know that she's safe and happy in your old room, and she's safe and happy with Robin. I know this may not be the happiest of news, but I want you to focus on the good part. Daisy misses you, and to miss you means she's gotten comfortable with you. She's cares about you Harry. I remember the days where I'd hear nothing but you bellyaching about her hating you. Think of how far you've come Harry, and use that happiness when things are tough.

We're all watching over Daisy and taking care of her. Now you take care of yourself, you've got a family waiting for you. I love you very much Harry, and I'm so proud of you.

-Mom

Harry's chest aches, bones collapsing with the image of his sweet Daisy dripping rain, crying in the middle of his mother's living room for him. He knows she's shy, and that she had a hard time being comfortable around his family. Not that he blames her. She was practically forced into the Styles family, so to know that she actually sought out Anne is heartbreaking. He's only ever seen cry a handful of times, all of them his doing, and the most dreadful time were her tears at their engagement party. She had looked so small and afraid, so desperate for safety that he genuinely hated himself at the time too. Because he did that to her. Well, not exactly, but he didn't fix the problem that was caused by his recklessness.

He can see that same look in her eyes. The one that came to mind when he was signing up for the army. Doe eyed, vulnerable, sweet, and innocent. Too precious for him to risk being hurt. He supposes he'd rather being crying over him than being crying over someone else's cruelty. At least if it's his fault he knows she's still safe. He'd never hurt her, not like the world would. Not like secrets between family members, and arranged marriages, and a German army would. No, he only teases her. It's his own stupid but relatively harmless way of getting back at her. She's been breaking his heart for years. He thinks it's fair that he gets to fluster her enough to tears sometimes.

But he never wanted her devastated and broken by his absence. Maybe he did his job too well. He somehow got her to be romantic with him after a decade of nothing but hatred. He cared for her, nurtured her, but then he had to leave, and that sheltered place he created for her left. He hopes she can find some sense of peace with his mother. Anne's always been the best mother anyone could ask for and Daisy could use that love right now.

Folding the letter back up, Harry decides he doesn't want to keep this one. While he feels appreciated and cared for because Daisy actually misses him, he doesn't want to have to be reminded of her teary eyes every time he comes across it. Harry's crumbling the letter up when another envelope is being thrown in front of him, smacking against the table top.

"What's this?" Harry asks gruffly, because the envelope is blank and thick so it couldn't have come in the mail. He looks up, heart jumping nervously when he's met with the eyes of his sergeant.

"Ticket home Styles," he says, lips quirking up under his thick mustache. "you've earned it. Taken on more work than necessary here. And I here you got a bird back home that doesn't want to spend Christmas alone."

Before Harry can say anything, sergeant is turning on his heel and heading towards the door. Harry stares in shock at the envelope, heart thumping in his ears. Pip had to have told sergeant about Daisy because that's the only guy Harry's ever talked to her about. After snapping at those French girls, he'd sat Harry down and told him to him everything. And he had. And now's he's got his ticket to Daisy. His ticket home.

[deploybits]

You are lucky some types of torture are legal, i now will have an anxiety attack looking at the sky

So here we are... The Ultima Weapon will almost certainly be housed in the depths of the complex. This is it, my friend! Gaius! Ah, Cid, my boy... You are late. There is something I always meant to tell you, yet the time never seemed right. It concerns your father. ...What of him? In the winter of his years, Midas came to abhor his part in Meteor. He told me that he wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole sordid business. But he did not wash his hands of it. He helmed the project until the day it killed him! Come now, Cid... you must know that he did not have the luxury of choice. By the time he realized his error, it was too late. Meteor had him completely in its thrall. Shortly before his... transformation, mayhap sensing that something was amiss, your father confided to me all the regrets of his life. Most of them concerned you. Early on in your career, he realized that while you had a talent for devising armaments, it would never fulfil you. Long before you knew your own mind, he saw that you would be far happier using your knowledge for peaceful purposes, and the thought touched him. He was a changed man for it, though he could not let it show. You blew holes in this place just so you could say this to me!? What is it you want, Gaius!? I want you at my side, Cid. Take up your father’s mantle, and become the Empire’s lead engineer. It is your destiny. My father had a change of heart - you said so yourself! Besides, I have long known my destiny, and I assure you, it lies not with the Empire! A pity. And what of you, adventurer? Will you not consider making common cause with me? No? And I can expect no better answer than this? So be it. It was your strength that made me proffer my hand in friendship, and it is your strength that makes me proffer now my blade. Save as an ally, you are too dangerous to be let to remain. Run, Cid. Or stay. It makes no matter. You cannot escape the past. Gaius, wait! ...Damn it! Knowing Gaius, he is headed for the Ultima Weapon. If we find him, so too will we find our quarry. With these instruments, we can monitor every nook and cranny in the castrum. I think it’s time we divided our forces. Pray go on and give chase. I’ll track your movements from here and guide you through the complex. We’ll stay in contact via linkpearl. Be careful, all right? Ah, there she is! I trust you recognize our old friend. “Maggie,” was it? They must have shipped her here from Centri. Considering all she’s been through, it’s a wonder she’s still operational. Tough old girl! Now that you’re suitably armed, you can blast open that bulkhead. The external walkway will take you back there. Follow it till you come upon a way down to the lower level. That bulkhead is composed of a special alloy. Extremely tough. Ordinary fire won’t leave a mark, I’m afraid. You’ll need to divert all power to the magitek cannon, as I did so memorably once before. As you may recall, the armor’s core is like to expire from the strain, but there’s no help for it if we want to press on. Now, listen well. Press...<buzzzzzz>...the control...<fizzzzzz>...engage ancillary...then fire away. Don’t mind the warning lights. You’re a natural at this! All right, the way’s clear, but it’s just you and your own two feet now, so be careful. You have been leaving a fine mess in your wake, adventurer. Is someone there!? Garlond, old friend. How it warms the heart to hear your voice again after all these years. ...Nero? Is that you!? You sound well. It would seem this savage land agrees with you. The highest ranking tribunus of the XIVth... It was you all this time? Tell me, Garlond. How long do you intend to keep all the glory for yourself? Uh...what? You’ve lost me. Don’t play the fool with me. Ever since the Academy, I have been condemned to live in your shadow. By all objective measure, I was the more talented of the two of us, yet that fate counted for naught beside your privileged birth. You were admired as the young prodigy simply because your father was the great Midas nan Garlond! When you defected, I felt sure my star would finally rise... But by disappearing, you acquired the status of a legend - your reputed genius gaining credence merely by dint of your absence! Instead of cursing you for a traitor, the people actually came to think of you more fondly! To this day, you are still the young prodigy of magitek! I, meanwhile, have ever been made to feel second-rate - I who have continued to serve our nation faithfully. Whenever I fail to excel - why, it is only to be expected! Yet when I exceed all reasonable expectations, people proclaim that I walk in the footsteps of the great Cid nan bloody Garlond! Nero, I... I don’t know what to say. It matters not a whit what I achieve. Your existence has rendered mine worthless. Even Lord van Baelsar saw fit to offer you a place at his side - and this in spite of your betrayal! Did he extend any such offer to me - the man who has remained loyal to him for all these years? Why, no. He did not. Long have I endured this injustice...but no more. Lord van Baelsar is in the midst of activating the fully powered Ultima Weapon. It is my magnum opus - the creation that will win me the recognition I am due. I will not let anyone interfere. Nero! What are you-!? Ever since I first set foot in this benighted land, I have watched you - ever move you have made, every step you have taken. You have felled eikons, a feat made possible by the Echo, a peculiar power which shields you from their corrupting influence. It is of little wonder that my lord has taken an interest in you. As have I, if truth be told. It is my desire to harness your power for use in the Ultima Weapon. Should I succeed, Lord van Baelsar will surely take notice! Beside this, Garlond’s achievements will be as child’s play! Come, adventurer, and yield to me the secrets of your power! This changes...nothing... Ahahahaha! The Ultima Weapon is activated, and it brims with the power of eikons! Nothing can withstand its might! Are you all right!? What of Nero!? ...Fled!? Damn it! In the instant prior to the blackout, the instruments detected a massive power surge from the deepest chamber. Gaius is certain to be there! We have no time to waste! Word arrived from the Alliance a short while ago. It seems the Order of the Twin Adder has completed its blockade of Castrum Centri. What hands they can spare are hastening this way even as we speak, and likewise for the Maelstrom. All that’s left is to destroy the Ultima Weapon! ...I should warn you: the chamber which houses the target appears to be saturated with aetheric energies. There’s bound to be heavy interference. But even if we lose contact, you must go on. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, all right? Look for the lift’s control panel - it’ll be somewhere nearby. Take the lift down, and you should find yourself in the chamber of the Ultima Weapon. Keep your eyes peeled - Gaius could be waiting for you down there. Oh, and don’t even think about dying. You’re too bloody useful! The interference is getting worse. I don’t think the connection will last much - Tell me...for whom do you fight? Hmph! How very glib. And do you believe in Eorzea? Eorzea’s unity is forged of falsehoods. Its city-states are built on deceit. And its faith is an instrument of deception. It is naught but a cobweb of lies. To believe in Eorzea is to believe in nothing. In Eorzea, the beast tribes often summon gods to fight in their stead - though your comrades only rarely respond in kind. Which is strange, is it not? Are the “Twelve” otherwise engaged? I was given to understand they were your protectors. If you truly believe them your guardians, why do you not repeat the trick that served you so well at Carteneau, and call them down? They will answer - so long as you lavish them with crystals and gorge them on aether. Your gods are no different from those of the beasts - eikons every one. Accept but this, and you will see how Eorzea’s faith is bleeding the land dry. Nor is this unknown to your masters. Which prompts the question: why do they cling to these false deities? What drives even men of learning - even the great Louisoix - to grovel at their feet? The answer? Your masters lack the strength to do otherwise! For the world of man to mean anything, man must own the world. To this end, he hath fought ever to raise himself through conflict - to grow rich through conquest. And when the dust of battle settles, it is ever the strong who dictate the fate of the weak. Knowing this, but a single path is open to the impotent ruler - that of false worship. A path which leads to enervation and death. Only a man of power can rightly steer the course of civilization. And in this land of creeping mendacity, that one truth will prove its salvation. Come, champion of Eorzea, face me! Your defeat shall serve as proof of my readiness to rule! It is only right that I should take your realm. For none among you has the power to stop me! I had not thought to be so hard-pressed. Your strength is...most impressive. Such power befits a ruler! Yet you lack the resolve to put it to proper use. A waste. Allow me, then, hero, to do that which you will not! Bear witness to the true power of the Ultima Weapon! But the Ultima Weapon is all-powerful! Why does my enemy still stand!? Can her strength truly be so great? It is the blessing of Light that confounds you. Lahabrea. Your foe acts under the protection of the Crystal she bears. So, this is what empowers her. Beyond mortal limits. If you are to prevail, the hammer of Darkness must needs be brought to bear upon the shield of Light. And so it shall, for the Ultima Weapon is host to a power of which you are as yet ignorant. Speak plainly, Ascian. The Heart of Sabik. It is the Weapon’s core - an enigma whose surface even the vaunted scholars of ancient Allag failed to scratch. The magic within has lain dormant for eons. Of what magic do you speak? A spell without parallel. Ultima. I sought the life force of the primals for no other reason but to quicken the core. For the true power of the Ultima Weapon lies within its now-beating Heart! Lahabrea... What have you done? No more than was necessary...for my god to be reborn. Damn you, Ascian! The hour is at hand! Behold but a sliver of my god’s power! And from the deepest pit of the seven hells to the very pinnacle of the heavens, the world shall tremble! Unleash Ultima! Ahahahahahaha! Such devastation... This was not my intention... Oh, Hydaelyn...it seems the task of keeping your champion alive has exhausted what strength you had left. Van Baelsar... Your enemy’s shield is broken. The rest I leave to you. We will speak later, Ascian. But first, I must deal with you. The question of who is mightier remains! Come, adventurer! Let us find the answer together! No... No, no, NO! Uh! Heed me... The subjects of a weak ruler must needs look to a higher power for providence... and their dependence comes at a cost to the realm. The misguided elevate the frail... And the frail lead the people astray. Unless a man of power wrests control...the cycle will never be broken. You... You of all people must see the truth in this. You who have the strength to rule... Pathetic. You boasted of unrivaled power. You were entrusted with the ultimate weapon. The ultimate magic! And still you failed. So much for the glory of man. The growing imbalance afflicting the planet must be redressed. If it is permitted to worsen, the very laws of existence - both aetheric and physical - will be warped beyond all recognition. Know you the root of this corruption? Hydaelyn! Like a parasite, she must be burned out if the planet is to recover. And naught but the return of the one true god will ensure her complete excision. Yet to pave the way for the master’s return, a chaotic confluence of untold proportions must needs be brought about. And that will necessitate the presence of the primals. needless to say, both you and your Scion accomplices can not be suffered to interfere in this endeavor. You will not leave this place alive. It is past time your flame was extinguished...“Bringer of Light.” If thou wouldst pierce the shadows...make thee a blade of Light. What!? The Light...it binds them... They are too many!

Aaaaaaaaarrrgh!!!

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

People have already said this but like...the four “rotten” children in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory weren’t villains. Their behaviour was due to toxic parenting, and so it’s the parents who should have been punished instead.

Augustus Gloop just liked to eat chocolate - yeah, he ate way too much of it but his parents should have restricted how much chocolate he ate and made him eat healthier food. Liking to eat chocolate isn’t a crime, and in fact it’s people like Augustus who make people like Wonka so successful - by buying Wonka chocolate bars and sweets. And yeah, eating everything in sight and bending down to scoop out of the chocolate river was dumb, but he’s a kid? Why wasn’t his mother near him so she could stop him? Isn’t that the whole point of having a guardian with each child in the factory? I don’t think just liking to eat chocolate makes someone rotten or a bad person - with the exception of the “would you like some chocolate?...then you should have bought some” comment at Charlie, Augustus wasn’t really a bad kid, just greedy. His parents should have put their foot down and made him eat healthier food/less candy.

Violet Beauregarde was ambitious and competitive, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Yeah, she was kind of rude at times, and she had a slight attitude problem, but you can see that her behaviour was clearly influenced by her mother, who encouraged and pushed her to be like that and to focus on “the prize”, on “being a winner”. Chewing gum doesn’t make someone rotten - she shouldn’t have been chewing the same stick of gum for three months straight, that’s gross, but again, it’s clearly due to how her mother pushed her to break a record and win. And yeah, not listening to Wonka by snatching the gum from him and not spitting it out when he said to was dumb, but are you surprised that she wasn’t listening when she had her mother saying shit like “my little girl’s gonna be the first person to have a three course gum meal!” and when Wonka was waving it in front of her like that? If he had immediately said something like, “DONT chew it because if you do then it’ll turn you into a giant purple blueberry”, maybe it might have put her off a little bit.

Veruca Salt...oof, I feel strongly about this one. She was just a spoilt brat, but that’s because her parents - mostly her father - spoilt her rotten. Her parents should have been firmer and told her “no”, as well as teaching her to say “please” and “thank you”. Her parents were the ones who spoilt her, and that’s why she behaves like a brat. They thought that they could buy Veruca’s love by giving into her every whim, and she learnt that quickly because she knows all she has to do is ask and she’ll get it - but it didn’t buy her love at all, it just gave her the idea that she could have whatever she wanted and when she wanted, not the idea that she was loved. Also, in the 2005 film, you can see her mother drinking in what I presume is the early afternoon, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the family situation was that the mother is barely involved in her daughter’s upbringing and drinks quite a bit, and that the father is trying to keep the daughter happy by giving her everything she asks for - because he doesn’t know how else to show love or affection or how to keep her from acting out...as with a lot of rich people, his solution to any problem is to use his money to buy his way out. It’s not like she was outright a bully or hurting anyone, she was just a little girl who had bad parents and could have been fine if she’d been taught to say “please” or “thank you”, or if her parents had taught her “I want never gets”

(Side note: I was spoilt by my three grandparents quite a bit growing up - with my paternal grandparents they would buy me whatever I wanted and then some designer stuff because they’re pretty well off, since they worked their entire lives, and my maternal nan would always buy me chocolate/biscuits/stuff when I went out with her, as well as using her pension money to take me to the Christmas pantomime - with my mum and sister and cousins - when I was younger. Grandparents do that because it’s not their child, so they can. But they and my parents always knew when/how to say no, and to encourage me and my sister to have manners. Spoiling a child on special occasions is fine, like Christmas or birthdays or days out, but not ALL the time)

Mike Teavee liked television and video games - who doesn’t? He was incredibly smart, even to the point of being rude, but that doesn’t make him a bad person necessarily. A lot of the time, parents will just put their kid in front of a TV and leave them there to entertain them instead of actually doing something fun with them - maybe that’s the case with Mike. He clearly knows his stuff though, and just because he liked television and video games, doesn’t mean he’s a bad person - his parents should have imposed stricter guidelines on his TV/game time. When I was much younger, my parents and grandparents were very clear that we had to do our homework BEFORE the TV was turned on; obviously when we were a little older, they expected us to know that we had to do our homework and that we would do it when we did (especially me, because I was frankly terrified of pissing off teachers). Television and games are fine in moderation - his parents should have been stricter and made rules about the amount of time he spent in front of the television set, maybe encouraged him to go outside or read a book.

None of these four children deserved to be harmed, mutilated and/or almost killed. If anything, I feel like the parents should have been the ones getting taught a lesson and not the kids - like maybe the parents should have been the ones getting sucked up chocolate pipes/nearly turned into fudge/blowing up into a blueberry/tossed down a garbage chute after being viciously attacked by squirrels/shrunk down and used in a taffy puller. Like...they’re kids. They’ll grow up and learn, and they’re all like 10-12 at the most in CATF - they’re not even teenagers.

Those kids are probably going to bear trauma and humiliation for the rest of their lives. Augustus was mostly just covered in chocolate, but he was literally eating himself (which makes me wonder if he did actually become chocolate fudge but...). He nearly drowned in chocolate and god knows what else happened to him before he was rescued from the fudge machine. Violet is permanantly blue - sure, she’s now freakishly flexible, which could be good for competitions, but she could also be bullied for the rest of her life for having blue skin and being able to contort herself like that. Also, not to forget the actual body mutation itself where she literally blew up into a blueberry and was rolled around, jumped on, and then juiced. Veruca was just covered in trash, but she was attacked and thrown down a massive floor hole/chute by angry squirrels - it wouldn’t surprise me if it hurt a bit, and if she had nightmares about squirrels attacking for the rest of her life. Just imagine if she was walking one day and saw a squirrel - she’d probably freak out and not be able to cope in public with it. Mike was put in a taffy puller and literally physically stretched; he’s now like six or seven feet tall, and he’s as thin as a piece of paper. He’d definitely get mocked for being that height and being literally little more than a paper cutout - god knows what that did to his internal organs and bones.

If Wonka really wanted to teach them a lesson, he could have done it by harming/mutilating the parents and having the Oompa Loompas sing about THEM - they could have learnt through their parents actions that if they carried on the way they were, they’d end up meeting the same fate. Maybe that’s just me though.

[gilgunizer]

I’m not scared of you. kyle spencer. Ep 1- Bitchcraft.

TW // mentions of rape

In a million years, Celeste Rhiannon Alexander would've never expected herself to arrive here at Miss Robichaux's Academy For Exceptional Young Ladies. She stood in front of the big gate, staring in awe at the place. Zoe Benson, her best friend since birth, stands next to her and places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Maybe this'll be good for us. Learning about how our powers work." She smiles and nods in response. How did they end up here?

Celeste giggled as she put an arm around Charlie and Zoe. It seemed like an ordinary day for the trio. When they reach Celeste's house, she waves the happy couple goodbye and says, "You guys have fun! If you know what I mean!" Zoe rolls her eyes at her and says, "You are such a dork! I'll call you later." And with that, Zoe and Charlie race next door. Alone, Celeste grabs a cookie from a jar on the kitchen counter and heads to her room to watch a movie. 20 minutes later, she overhears Zoe, frantically screaming Charlie's name. She runs straight into Zoe's bedroom and sees her covered in blood, a horrified look on her face. She looks over to see Charlie on the bed, unresponsive. Blood pouring from his ears and eyes. She knows Zoe. She knows she didn't kill him. Celeste hurriedly called 911 and their parents. She stayed the whole time with Zoe, crying in each other's arms.

Once everything had died down, it is revealed that Zoe is a witch and that she must be sent to the academy. Without even time to process this information, an older, fiery-haired woman and her supposed henchmen stroll in, taking Zoe away, firmly holding onto her shoulders. "Hey! You can't just take her!" Celeste shouted in rage. She kept trying to pull Zoe out of their arms, but she kept getting pushed away. "Back away dear, before you get hurt," The fashionable woman said with a glare. She didn't even bat an eye. Celeste felt herself getting angrier and angrier by the minute, her face growing hot. She hasn't ever felt this angry. With nothing left to do, she just kept glaring at the henchman, hoping somehow something would happen. Without warning, one of the henchman's suit began to catch fire and the other henchman quickly helped to put it out. The woman smirked and looked at Celeste and said, "Boys, it looks like we got another one." Her bags were swiftly packed, and she barely got to say goodbye to her mother. The girls were off to New Orleans.

The train ride was a bit of a solemn one. The girls learned the woman's name was Myrtle, and she told them the real story behind the Salem Witch Trials. She told them about how the real witches fled to New Orleans and started the academy. She also told the girls about their powers. Celeste had pyrokinesis, which was the ability to control, create, and manipulate fire. Zoe had the black widow, the ability to give someone a fatal hemorrhage through sex. Celeste felt terrible for Zoe. She'll never be able to experience true love. As for her, she never expected this to happen. She knew her grandmother had the same power, and even more, her grandmother told her all about it, regardless of her mother's objections. But she'd always believed that her cousin would get it. Not her. She put her hand on Zoe's shoulder as a sign of reassurance, and the train ride went on.

They walk into, what Celeste thought was a rather victorian-like place. It was quiet, maybe too quiet. Zoe thought she heard shuffling, but there was no one around. In a flash, someone in a black hood holds Celeste with a tight grip. The others push Zoe down onto a table. The main hooded person, wearing a red mask, raises a knife over Zoe. "O dark father, we offer this flesh up to you, blood, life, and all." "Get the hell off me!" she screams, the candles around her on the table erupting in fire. "Jesus, Nancy and Sarah, relax. We're just messing with you." The main girl takes off her mask. Celeste runs to Zoe's side. She instantly recognizes the main girl's face. "Holy shit, are you-" "Madison Montgomery, movie star." "Shit. When's the last time you made a movie, girl?" the girl on her left says, taking off her mask. "I'm Nan. Hi," the girl on her right says, also taking off her mask. "Zoe." "Celeste." "Queenie." "So bored now," Madison says, rolling her eyes. "So, is this all of you?" Zoe asks, looking at the three of them. "At the moment," someone says, walking into the doorway. She introduces herself as, "Cordelia Foxx, headmistress." "All right, girls, there's a van full of groceries in the driveway that needs unloading. I'll show Zoe and Celeste to their room. Then we meet for Midday Gathering. Let's go." The girls quickly walk out of the room, while Cordelia shows the girls upstairs. There's a room with three beds, one obviously already occupied by Madison. They dropped their bags down on their respective beds and follow Cordelia downstairs to the main room, where they meet for midday gathering. She explains how the coven began.

Cordelia explained how in 1790, the academy was established as a finishing school, with it facing new management in 1868. The supreme at the time, turned the coven into what it is today, keeping the name as a cover. It used to be home to as many as 60 girls. Over time, however, those numbers dwindled. Drastically. "Why?" Celeste asks. "We're a dying breed, Celeste. Many of the families who knew they carried the bloodline made a choice not to reproduce." "So, what's a Supreme?" Celeste asked, clearly intrigued. "An average witch is born with a few natural gifts. But in each generation, there is one woman who embodies countless gifts. Some say... all of them. She is the Supreme." "Are you the Supreme?" Zoe asks. The girls, who have now joined them on the couch start chuckling. "No. I'm like you. Just a witch. And a teacher. I'm here to help you identify your gifts and teach you how to control them." "She means to suppress them," Queenie cuts in. "Not suppression. Control," Cordelia corrects her. "She thinks it's still the 1600s," Madison also cuts in. "No," she shakes her head, then continues. "Back then, our kind understood the dangers. Today, so many families know nothing of their ancestry. Too many girls aren't lucky enough to have found us or weren't identified in time for us to have found them. Like that poor Cajun girl just outside Lafayette a few months back. Misty Day." Celeste remembered that name. She heard about it on the news the other night. She was labeled as missing, but something about that just didn't sit right with her. "She wasn't much older than any of you. And she had a gift, the power of resurgence. Misty could reach into that place between life and death and draw a soul back from the precipice, back to this side, back to life. To some, this appeared to be the God-touched power of resurrection. To others, necromancy." "So what happened to her?" "The same thing that's happened to women like us throughout the centuries." They knew where this was going. She was burned at the stake. "We are under siege, ladies. Our lives, our very existence is always at risk. Know this or face extinction." She sits up from her chair and walks off, which signals that the midday gathering is over. Zoe and Celeste head upstairs to unpack, with Madison following behind them.

"Look, I don't really do well with roommates do here are my rules. 1. Don't touch my shit. 2. If I ever bring a guy home, sleep somewhere else. And finally, 3. When I tell you to do something, do it." Celeste tried to keep her composure, but she just couldn't do it. "Okay, no. I get it about the whole no touching your shit thing but, doing whatever you say? Bitch, I'm not your maid. Do your own shit and we will do ours." Madison scoffs and lights up a cigarette. "You know, I have a feeling I'm going to like you. You're feisty." She then walks out of the room, leaving the two girls alone. Zoe finally speaks up. "That was.. awesome! I can't believe you stood up to her like that." "Please, it was easy. She thinks she's all hot shit cause she's a movie star, but she's all talk. She won't actually do anything." "Duly noted," Zoe quips. Dinner was in a few hours, so they just sat in their room, settling into the place.

When dinner was ready, they came downstairs and sat at the table with the rest of the girls, with Celeste sitting next to Queenie and Nan and Zoe sitting next to Madison. Spalding, the butler, comes to serve them their food. "Hey, Jeeves. Can I get some iceberg lettuce with a side of blue cheese?" Madison says, beginning her reign of terror. "Girl, be nice to Spalding. Poor bastard ain't got no tongue," Queenie responds. Celeste looks over at Spalding. It all clicked in her head. No wonder he stays so silent. "Is that true, Jeeves? Did you use your tongue for something wicked? Or maybe you just suck at going down," Madison quips. This clearly pissed Spalding off, and he grabs his cart and storms out. Madison lets out one last quip and quickly gets bored of the conversation. "So, new girls...what are you two in for?" "Zoe's boyfriend," Nan cuts in. "Nan, shut up before you get your ass in trouble," Queenie says, glaring at her. "Did you two kill him?" Madison asks. "No. It was an accident," Zoe says, shaking her head. 'It was an accident, Zoe. And you will find love again. A strange and unexpected... love," Nan says with a smile. Queenie slams her spoon on the table, clearly irritated. "Girl, are you deaf or just stupid?" "Tell us about this accident. And don't spare all the gory details," Madison says, sipping her drink. "So, why are you here?" Celeste cuts in. "My agent staged an intervention. Ever since my drunk and disorderly, I get blamed for all kinds of shit that I didn't do." "But you did it. You killed the man," Nan adds in. "I get it, bitch, you're clairvoyant," Madison then turns toward the two girls. "Do you want to know what happened?" Celeste was going to object but had a feeling Madison was going to tell them anyway. Madison then tells the story about her killing a man with a light fixture all because he said "hit your mark." "The light hit him just fine," she says with a smile. "All he said was 'hit your mark,'" Queenie replies. "Why don't you just do the world a favor and take an acting class, you D-list, Botox bimbo." With one slight hand movement, Madison spills Queenie's food all over her shirt. Without even thinking, Queenie stabs her own hand with a fork, causing Madison to scream in pain. "Stop it, you bitch!" "Stop what? I don't feel nothing. I'm a human voodoo doll. You like this?" "Stop! You're... you're gonna get in trouble. Queenie, stop!" Nan yells, trying to rip the fork out of her hands. She then pulls a knife to her throat. "I'll do it. I swear I'll do it." "Come on. Let's take a walk," Nan says, standing up. She huffs, "A walk? Fine. I'm not hungry anyway." She storms out the room, Queenie following behind her. "Like anyone believes that," Madison mutters under her breath, and Celeste almost smacked her across the face. "Well, that was disturbing. Given the choices around here, it looks like you two are my new best friends." she then checks her phone, then looks up at the girls. "Do you two own any clothes that don't come from the Gap or Hot Topic?" "Not really. Why?" Celeste asks. She sighs, then responds. "You guys can borrow something of mine. Frat party tonight. Just got the tweet." Madison whisks the girls upstairs and she digs in her wardrobe looking for "something hot" the girls could wear. she settled on three black dresses, with Celeste's dress being a strapless number. She decided to dress it up with a jean jacket, much to Madison's reluctance. They hop into Madison's car, heading to the miraculous frat party.

Madison, Zoe, and Celeste walk into the clearly packed frat party. All eyes turn to them. Mostly because of Madison. She is a movie star, after all. "What's a girl got to do to get a drink around here?" Madison says, her hands on her hips. A girl quickly whisks her away, leaving Zoe and Celeste alone. "I'm gonna go look around. you wanna come?" "No, I'll be fine here," Zoe says, quickly nodding. "Call me if you need anything okay?" Zoe gives her a smile and nod before she walks off. Celeste then walks into the sea of people, none of them paying any attention to her. She finds a red solo cup and pours herself a drink. She wasn't really much of a drinker but hey, free alcohol? who could say no? She stands in a corner and scrolls on her phone. She looks through old pictures of her, Charlie, and Zoe. She remembers how her life used to be. When life was normal.

Ten minutes had passed and she heads to look for Zoe, make sure she's okay. She sees her talking with a blonde boy. She eyes the greek letters embroidered on his shirt. Frat boy. Of course, she thought. But he doesn't seem like your typical frat boy. he doesn't seem skeevy. he seems kind, gentle, has a face anyone can fall for. "Celeste! Hey!" Zoe waves her over. "Kyle, this is my best friend Celeste. Celeste, meet Kyle." He holds out his hand for her to shake, smiling. She happily shakes it. "I'm gonna go look for Madison okay?" Celeste nods in response. "So, you're also from that finishing school right?" She smiles, "is it that obvious?" He lets out a chuckle. "Not really no, but I had a feeling." Celeste lets out a small chuckle. There was something warm about him. He just had this charm. She just feels safe with him. "So, tell me about yourself." He says, completely invested in her. "There's not much to tell really. I have a pretty bland personality." He looks into her eyes. "No, you don't. I just know you don't." She can't help but smile. "You know, for a frat boy you're actually pretty sweet." "Hey, hey don't let the shirt fool you I'm surprisingly a nice guy," He pauses for a second, looking down at the floor. "I love my frat brothers but, they're assholes sometimes. They don't think about the future as I do, you know?" She nods. She felt the same way. She loved her friends, but they never had any plans for the future. "I mean, I could ask 'em, 'what are you gonna do after college? who are you going to be?' and they just draw blanks." He shakes his head. "Well, what about you? What are you gonna do after college? Who are you going to be?" She asks, pointing to him. "I want to be an engineer. I want to actually do something with my life you know? I want to help people." She smiles at that answer. He really is genuine. "You're going to make sure the levees don't break again right? like they did during Katrina?" "Exactly! The last thing I ever want is for that to happen again. I'm going to make sure it doesn't." "But what about you huh? Once this finishing school is over, who are you going to be?" "Well..." "I can't find her anywhere. have you seen her?" Zoe says, running to the both of them. "What you think she ditched you?" "Honestly, I wouldn't doubt it." "Hang on, I'll look around upstairs." He walks past the girls and heads up the stairs. "Seems like you two were having quite the conversation." "Right? I mean, he talks about real stuff. Things that are important." "Maybe he's a keeper," Zoe says, giving her a nudge. "I doubt it. After this party, I'll probably never see him again." She lets out a sigh. All of a sudden, they hear shouting upstairs.

The girls quickly run up the stairs as quickly as they could, trying not to break their ankles in the heels that they were wearing. They ran into a bedroom to find Madison on a bed, completely out of it. She was gang-raped by those frat boys. Those assholes. "Madison?" Celeste quickly ran to her side and brushed her hair out of her face while Zoe tried to find a blanket. "Shit! Hey, did they give you something?" She could barely even talk. Zoe covered Madison with a blanket and stood beside Celeste. "It hurts," Madison moaned out. "Look, stay here okay? they're not gonna get away with this." Zoe grabbed Celeste's arm and they ran down the stairs, chasing the frat boys who just got onto a bus. They were seconds away from catching them, but they still kept on running after it. yelling "stop!" at the top of their lungs. They had stopped running when they realized there was no use. Madison, only steps behind them, comes up in front of them and stares down the bus. Without warning, she then lifted her hand and flipped over the bus, causing it to catch fire. Celeste was in shock. So was Zoe. Are they okay? Are they all dead? So many questions were running through their minds.

The drive home that night was definitely a somber one. Zoe drove, being the soberest one out of the three. Madison passed out in the back seat, and Zoe and Celeste were still too in shock to say anything. It was silent. No one even turned on the radio.

The night when they got home wasn't any better. Madison somehow slept like a baby, Zoe slept, but not well, and as for Celeste, she couldn't even sleep at all. Even when she tried. When morning came, the girls headed downstairs for breakfast, the news playing on the television not so far away. Celeste and Zoe watched on, their eyes basically glued to the tv. "The Louisiana campus is still in shock over the tragic bus crash last night. Nine members of the fraternity Kappa Lambda Gamma were on board. Seven of the boys died on the scene. Two were rushed to Troost Medical Center where they remain in critical condition. Officials will not confirm the identities of the deceased-" the tv was quickly shut off by Madison, annoying everyone in the room. "Hey, I was watching that!" Nan exclaims. "Why? It's yesterday's news. They got any Greek yogurt?" she asked Spalding. He was clearly not amused. Celeste and Zoe walk up to Madison. "We have to tell somebody what happened," Zoe says in a whisper. "The one we met, Kyle- Madison, he tried to stop it okay, and he was on that bus," Celeste whispers. "What are we talking about? The college boys?" an older blonde woman comes up behind the three. Celeste hadn't seen her before, seemed like no one has. She continued on. "Taken in the prime of their lives. Such a tragedy. Almost makes you want to cry, doesn't it? But, then, the world's not gonna miss a bunch of assholes in Ed Hardy T-shirts." "Who are you?" Madison asks. "You know, I've got to hand it to you. A bus flip? That's not easy. But you were a sloppy, little witch bitch," she says, facing Madison. She scoffs, "go to hell, you stupid hag." the woman then throws her against the wall with one flick of the wrist. Queenie laughs and says, "Say that." Now, I've read all your files. And you're never gonna become great women of our clan sitting around here at Hogwarts under the confused instruction of my daughter," she says, putting out her cigarette on a nearby plate. She then faces the girls. "We're going on a field trip," she eyes everyone's outfits. "Jesus. Go change your clothes. Wear something... black." Soon enough, the girls, all dressed in their best black outfits, joined the woman, Fiona Goode, outside for the field trip.

The walk was longer than expected, and Madison was already complaining. "Where are we going? It's too hot. My freaking vagina is sweating." "To Popp's Fountain. A kind of holy place for our order," Fiona replies. Fiona explained the story of an alternate coven that was down here in the 1970s. But It was damaged during Katrina. And since then it's been labeled a safety hazard by the authorities and it's been closed off ever since. "I don't understand. What are we supposed to do if we can't get in?" Celeste asked. "Tear the wall down. When witches don't fight, we burn." "This is seriously the worst field trip ever," Madison complains, but Fiona ignores it and continued. "Each one of you has a unique gift, but that's not nearly enough to be a real witch." "And you're a real witch?" Madison remarks. "She's the Supreme," Nan cuts in. "You know that one, she's smarter than all of you put together," Fiona quips, and they all keep walking. Once they get inside the home of Delphine LaLaurie, they are surprised to find Nan already inside listening to the tour. "You want me to get her?" Madison asks, but Fiona shakes her head. "Oh, excuse me. You can't just barge in on the tour without purchasing a ticket," the tour guide says, facing Fiona and the girls. "You're giving us a tour for free," Fiona says, obviously using some way to trick the woman. "For free. Of course," she says, then continues. She explains LaLaurie's chamber of horrors, and how she used human blood as a means to keep her skin young. Celeste felt disgusted. She was a racist bitch, and she didn't like the fact that she faced no punishment for her crimes. Or that's what she thought, until the tour guide continued. She explained that LaLaurie met her demise at the hands of Marie Laveau, a skilled voodoo queen. She had given her a deadly drink disguised as a love potion. Why? LaLaurie had killed her lover. Celeste knew about Laveau, her grandmother told her she knew her personally, taught her things. Made her powers even more powerful. The odd thing is though, LaLaurie’s body was never found. But the fact that she got what she deserved calmed Celeste's anger. With Fiona distracted, Zoe and Celeste snuck out to the hospital. Hoping, praying that by some chance Kyle was still alive.

They had finally gotten to the room they had them in, hoping that the second bed occupied was the kind-eyed guy they had met the night before. "Please, let it be him please," Zoe whispered under her breath. Walking toward the bed, the girls' faces were riddled with disappointment. It wasn't him. It was the rapist. The one who drugged Madison. "It should've been you asshole," Celeste breathed out through sobs. Zoe looks at the door, then back at Celeste. "Wait for me outside okay?" "What are you-" "Just wait outside," Zoe cuts her off. Celeste nods and closes the door behind her. She knew what Zoe was going to do. A few minutes later, she hears the monitor flatline, and Zoe quickly walks out of the hospital room. They decide to walk to the college where Kyle went, pay their respects. They learned a lot about him that day. He really was a kind-hearted person, loved by many people. Celeste looks down at Kyle's picture, surrounded by flowers. "I'm sorry you didn't get to change the world," she whispers and sheds a tear. She only knew him for that one night. But she knew, in her heart, that he was really something.

END OF EPISODE ONE.

[hangfiretales]

I found one of my short stories from a few years ago and was trying to figure out what needed to be polished up. And after spending the last few months complaining about the difficulty I have with using present tense, I discovered (with unfailing irony) that this story needed to be written in the present tense, of course.

*************************************

Anatomy of the Heart

‘That you, pet?’

‘Yes, Nan.’ Who else has a key? I add, but only in my head. She's pretty old. I can afford to be indulgent. 

I shut the front door, and the dusty quiet of home and cats and autumn collapses onto me. 

The lounge room curtains are closed against the afternoon sun but I can see her, sunk in her chair and dressed in something purple and polyester. Reading, of course, eyeball-deep in a comfortable romantic cliché of unbuttoned shirts and thrusting. There’s always thrusting. 

‘Library day, Nan?' I bend and kiss her hair, close enough to smell talcum powder and spearmint. 

‘Narelle had a stack ordered in for me.’ She half-closes the book to glance at the front cover. ‘I think I've had this one before, with the duke. He’s got a limp. That's alright, mind, I don't remember all of it so it's like new.’ 

It might have something to do with a certain sameness of plot amongst her chosen genre, but I say nothing. 

‘Long day, pet?’ 

And it has been, actually, so I tell her; enough to get a bit of sympathy, not enough to bore her. 

I’m rewarded with a pat on the arm and a clucking sound.  

‘Fancy him saying all that when you've spent so much time on it. Bloody professor should give you marks for effort, is what I think. Tea?’ 

And at my nod she straightens in slow motion and patters to the kitchen. 

I follow her to the bench. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. I wish it did. I put in more effort looking busy than anyone I know.’  

Nan acknowledges my attempt at humour with a nod but I know she doesn’t think of me as the funny one. That's always been my brother's gig.  

I open the fridge and get the milk out while Nan conveys sugar from jar to mug. One spoon. Two spoons. Pause. Another little bit of a spoon. 

‘I still don't know why you have to get a degree just to read books,’ she says. ‘Why can't you just read them on your own?’ She sniffs twice; once at the education system and once at the milk carton in her hand. She pours it. 

‘There's reading and then there's- like a deep critical understanding.’

But Nan shakes her head. ‘If you're not enjoying it, what's the point.’ A statement, not a question. ‘I've read hundreds of books. Thousands, probably, and nobody ever asked me to get a degree first. Waste of time with your degrees for reading, and degrees for making video games, and music and what-not. Here you go, pet, carry those out. I'll get biscuits.’ 

I take the brimming mugs back out to the lounge room and set them down on the coffee table. My usual seat’s piled up with The Last Cowboy and his horny friends so I sit down on the orange couch. At least one cushion stirs and becomes a cat.  

‘Don't sit on Valerie, she doesn't want your bum on her head.’ Nan puts a tray down next to our mugs: biscuits from a home-brand cream assortment; a jam-jar lid, for discarded teabags; two tea spoons. One’s a sundae spoon, actually, longer and handier for stirring a tall mug. I reach. 

Nan bagses it smoothly. 

‘Sit here. Sit in your spot, love. Move those things-’ 

I put the stack of books at my feet. 

‘And how is Alex going?’ 

Which is the real question, isn't it, even when she leaves it unasked. The endless questions, filling in her days with thrusting dukes and shirtless cowboys and endless curiosity over other people's boyfriends.  

‘Yeah, well, he's- yeah. No, he's good.’  

She gives me a look. And harrumphs. ‘What you need is a real man. One who treats you properly and makes a bit of an effort with himself.’  

‘Like Jack the Excessively Groomed Cowboy?’ I pick him up and read the back cover. ‘Sorry, Chuck the cowboy. The brooding rancher next door is about to change Gillian's quiet life forever. Can she tame his wild bachelor's heart? Blah de blah.’

‘Don't you be a snob. There's nothing like a good romance to pick you up.’

I put it down. ‘It's a bit different from the novel I'm reading for this assignment.’ I say it more breezily than I should.

‘Oh? Go on then. What’s your one about?’ 

‘Well.’ I sit back. ‘There's this girl who's in rehab for her broken back and her father is being blackmailed. He's a drug dealer. It's Danish. It’s-’

‘Any romance?’ 

‘She falls in love with her boyfriend's brother, who's a detective, and she-’

‘Ah, torn between two men. Any sexy bits?’ 

‘Uh, kind of.’ Thinking quickly, because it's tricky to explain the Scandinavian Noir context of the nude ice-fishing scene. ‘Just, you know, frustrated but not going anywhere.’

‘Hmm. Mine sounds better.’

‘Chuck the Impossibly Tanned? Or this one, the Duke of--’ I check-- ‘Really? Notchester?’

I flip it open. ‘Sheba arched her back luxuriously as the Duke ran lascivious fingers down her flushed throat towards the boundless promise of her bountiful breasts.’ She's going all out, this-- Mirabelle Thorne? That's a terrible pen-name.’

‘I've had a few of hers. She does nice historical ones with lords and that.’

‘Aha, look at this bit. Thrusting with gasping impatience between her yada yada. Thrusting, I told you.’ 

Nan looks at me, waiting. I haven’t told her. 

So I tell her. 

She raises a sparsely pencilled eyebrow. ‘You judge the whole lot on one bleeding word? Snob.’

‘I'm not a snob.’

‘Snob.’

‘Don't say that, romances just aren't my thing.’

‘Well, what does that say about you? Can't appreciate the budding love of two young people.’

‘Two or possibly more young people. This one has a heart-wrenching choice between the man who adores her and the man who desires her. One of them's a doctor. Oh. Anatomy of the Heart. I see. And the other one's-- really? An alpaca breeder. What kind of a choice is that?’

‘The doctor's job is to be the rich bastard and the other one's her true love.’ Nan glares over her mug. 

‘No, actually, I think the doctor’s poor. The alpaca breeder's fairly well-off.’ I’m skimming through it. 

‘Well, that's probably true. You seen what they're charging for an alpaca cardigan? Bleeding rip-off merchants.’

‘She shivered at the memory of his efficient fingers. Efficient--' 

‘What you need to do is, you need to sit your Alex down with a couple of nice romances and give him an idea of what you want. Give him a role model. Young lads these days don't have any role models, all these single mums and feefo workers.’ 

She might have meant FIFO. Which may or may not have been a snipe at both my brother and my mother in one handy package. 

‘Who says I want this?’ I look down at the cover artwork, which shows both the devilishly rumpled doctor and the rosy-cheeked alpaca man. Which one has the efficient fingers? 

I put the book down. ‘Thanks for the tea, Nan. I'd better get a move on with this assignment. Do you want me to cook dinner tonight?’

Nan finds her place in The Duke of Notchester, picking up the story mid-kiss. ‘No thanks, pet. We've got some spaghetti bol left from last night. If leftovers aren't beneath you.’

‘Sounds fine.’

I take the last chocolate cream biscuit when I leave. 

When I come out of my room later to get my reheated spaghetti, I’m not that much further along with my work. I’m still replaying Dr Chase's critique of my draft: unfocused and derivative, showing only a surface understanding of the criteria required. 

Yeah, well. 

Nan’s watching some cooking show on TV; a wok full of hot prawns and a posh summery voice. 

I contemplate the gap between the dinners we all tell each other we're eating and the actual dinner, the one in my hands.  

And take the plate back to my desk to eat. 

It isn't a desk, it's a card table in the corner, below the clock and the Johnny Cash calendar. I've wasted plenty of time on this assignment already. It’s time to get serious. 

I contemplate the gap between the romances that we read and the actual boyfriend, who’s totally committed babe but just super busy right now. 

Does the novel's idiosyncratic narrative style add interest to the text, or is it a distracting literary conceit? 1200 words. Use examples. 

I go back to the kitchen for a biscuit. All the chocolate creams are gone.

Nan’s watching something about celebrities eating cockroaches.

When I get back to my desk I discover that the assignment still hasn't written itself. 

Twenty-four and a half minutes or so later, I find myself chewing on my pen and I’m swearing because it's an expensive one-- I bought it for myself in the hope that it will inspire me to write better. Or more. Or more better. I can't tell if it's worked yet, but the pen’s starting to look ratty. 

She shivered at the memory of his efficient fingers. Was his mind elsewhere, as he performed with admirable though robotic fervour? 

I go back out to the lounge, which is empty of either cats or Nans. I find Anatomy of the Heart sitting on top of Holiday in Heaven and open it somewhere in the middle. 

He watched her through narrowed eyes. Does he find her as one-dimensional as we do? She raised her face, lips parted in surprise, closer to him than-- 

‘Pet?’

‘What?

Nan’s calling from the kitchen. 

‘Tea?’

‘No, thanks.’

I go back to my room. The book is still in my hands. 

This one wasn't written by Mirabelle Thorne, I don't have to check the cover to know that. 

I check the cover.  

April Winter. There’s a definite touch of dryness to her humour; the pseudonym, the title. Or is it a him? It could be. It could be anyone. I've heard a few tales of prestigious authors who churn out romances to stay busy while they wait to get famous. Or to pay bills, between critically acclaimed works that nobody wants. 

I sit down again and open it. It’s a romance, yes. The strong-willed city girl who thinks she’s in love with the wealthy country-boy alpaca farmer until she meets the handsome, serious, magnetic, penniless local doctor. Small town. Impossible choice. Whatever. The plot’s predictable and the woman isn't worth the Chapter Eight punch-up over her. 

But there’s something about it. Something sly, indefinable. The alpaca man is so smug, and the woman so exhaustingly feisty- when the doctor finally wins her, the town rejoices but I am left uneasy. The doctor has a coolness, a detachment. Even as he's declaring his love to her in the moonlit garden behind the old pub he's keeping something back. He's playing a game. 

I wonder if a sequel would unravel this, but of course: romance novels don't have sequels. She gets her man and there's no more to say. 

I get out my phone and do an internet search for April Winter, author. Anatomy of the Heart is her only book. Maybe she has other pseudonyms. Other names, under which she slips strange and unsettling love stories into the world. Or is it a he? 

The clock says eighteen past two in the morning. 

I pick up my pen and begin to write 1200 words on the gap between the type of text that makes a writer look intellectual and the actual books that keep you sitting up reading at your card table, far into the night. 

I use examples. 

*************************************************

[docholligay]

*WARNING, WHINING* I have been working on this all damn day+ and I am so fucking frustrated and upset about it, none of it turned out how I wanted and I hate it AHHHHHHHH. *END WHINING*

Something for father’s day! 2,400 and change. 

Lena Oxton was a cheerful sort, resilient and funny, who could generally find pleasure in her life even in the more difficult moments. She was not particularly given to long bouts of sorrow, preferring instead to quite experience all of it at once, get it over with, and move onto more pleasant things. There was no point, she figured, in dwelling on the things that couldn’t be helped. Life was short enough as it was, even when you knew what you future might look like, and she intended to spend the two to two hundred years given to her enjoying as much as she could. 

People loved this about her. She was the sort of person who could lift the mood of a room with her bright smile and loud, lingering laughter. Her happy chatter and quick, joyful movement had more than once led someone to a smile whether they wanted to or not. She was rather legendary, for her cheer, and people always wondered at how she managed it. 

But she was still human, and sadness still found her however fast she moved and how brightly she shone. 

Father’s Day was harder for her than it should be. 

She was hardly unique, in her little group cobbled-together group. Mercy was an orphan, same as her, and she hadn’t gotten nearly so long as Tracer with her father. Winston struggled with whether or not he had a father at all, or if he were only an experiment. Jack and Ana, well, Tracer wasn’t convinced that they were born of human beings anyway. So that was a solid seventy percent of them without fathers, what reason did she have to pout about it? 

And yet, every Sunday in June, she felt that little pang, that twist in her chest that said she was never going to see her father again, that she hadn’t hardly had a chance to say goodbye, that it was her death that had killed him, if you believed her grandmother. It was a heart attack, it was a broken heart, and they could both be true. 

That was the worst of it, she thought, sitting alone, as she often preferred to on this day, rubbing at the edge of her chipped tea cup. She had lost him, but he had also lost her. Losing him might have been tolerable if he’d at least been spared that. It seemed such an unkindness, a constant reminder that life is very rarely fair. 

“It’s only a quick flight, can’t tell you much. You know.” She smiled, “Be ‘ome for Christmas this year, they promised me.” 

The last conversation they had ever had, as Tracer quickly gathered up her things from her brief furlough. She’d believed it. There was no reason to believe the Slipstream would, at least temporarily and in a fashion, kill her. Why would she think anything else? 

“Tell me, soon as you’re allowed.” He took her elbow and kissed her on the temple. “And be careful as you can be, love.” 

He did know how it worked, and so he hadn’t pressed her too hard about the secrecy of the flight. He was, to a point, used to waiting around to hear from her, and she had always, diligently, told her that she was safe as soon as she could. He was an airman himself, but he could also be a proper worrywart when it came to the subject of Tracer. He never stopped her, but he always worried for her. 

“Dad, it’s nothing.” She had giggled. “Take your girlfriend out for a night or two, maybe, forget about the whole thing, and then you’ll ‘ear from me and remember you was supposed to be nervous. Nothing.” 

She’d given him a hug and rushed out the door. That was the last time she’d ever seen his face, and she hadn’t taken the care to memorize it, to know what it felt like to hug him tight, to take note of the every syllable and they particular way he said it. She hadn’t known. 

Grief and guilt are both complicated emotions, and it often struck Tracer that she was more sullen on Father’s day than Mother’s. It made her feel disloyal and ungrateful, and so she rarely told anyone. It wasn’t that she missed her mother less. It was that losing her mother was like losing a grand opportunity. It was the trip she never took, the house she never had. She had been so young that it was a part of her, the loss, as much as her mother herself was. 

Losing her father was like having her house burn down. It had been just the two of them for so long--at least as much as any Oxton is ever “just” anything--and they had been so close. She had never even considered moving out, why would she bother paying rent on a miserable flat when she and her father got on so well, and repaired their little place together, and cooked together, and teased each other about their dating lives? Why would she go elsewhere, when here she had a place where she was always loved and appreciated for what she was? 

And then it was gone. Oh, the house was there, and it was Tracer’s now, but if she fell asleep on the couch, there was not blanket set to cover her, dinner was never waiting in the fridge, and the only message on the whiteboard on the back of the front door was the last one he’d left. 

Keys. 

Wallet. 

Phone. 

Charger. 

Call your Nan while you walk to the tube. 

I love you, Dad. 

She’d never had the heart to erase it. He hadn’t either, in the six months she was gone. She returned to London to find her room exactly as she left it, excepting her small effects returned to where they belonged, Biscuit, her stuffed sloth, safely on her pillow. 

Tracer tried to cheer herself, narrowing her eyes in frustration at her own sorrow. She would make a chicken salad sandwich, and pack a bit of a lunch, and maybe she would head over to the East London Cemetery. It had been seven years. And there had been happy Father’s Days, for her, and for him. She had been spoiled by the joy of her life, in so many ways. Even in tragedy. 

She smiled as she remembered their first Father’s Day without her mother, strange as it seemed. She hadn’t hardly been gone more than a month, and her father was still so sad. Tracer had wanted, more than anything, to do something very special for him, to help him turn his face to the sun, like he always told her to do. 

Her Uncle Teddy had been the greatest help, being that he was a baker, and he and Mark had watched Tracer so much when her mother was ill that it wasn’t unusual at all for him to offer to take her for an afternoon. Teddy adored her--him and Mark never could afford to have one of their own--and she felt the same. So she skipped next to him down to Ballard’s Baked Goods and they had whipped up a little cake, which was hardly Teddy’s speciality, and the fact that Tracer had made it with only a little guidance was obvious, but oh how she remembered the look on her father’s face when she presented it proudly to her father, with tea, which had also, she thought quite expertly made. 

“Oh, don’t I ‘ave the most wonderful girl in all of London?” He smiled, and cupped her cheek, and kissed her forehead. “Look at all this!” 

They had eaten it together, sitting side by side on a small parcel of dirt behind the house, big enough to contain a block of cement, a tree, and perhaps one square foot of grass in a strip, but Tracer had known, in that moment, that they would make it, her and her father. They had each other, and that was enough. They could make the sun shine, even when it was cloudy. 

And she had, of course, found so much love in her life. The sun was easy to find, with all the people she had in, waving away the clouds. Tracer worried about a small handful of things, but none of them were ever that she would be alone. In truth, she really should be with Winston today, given his general troubles concerning Doctor Harold, and she nearly starting walking there, sandwich in hand, before deciding that she’d just like to spend a moment with herself. Or her father. Her parents. A fair amount of relatives stretching back to the first World War. Whatever it was that did or didn’t carry on after someone died, of which Tracer was never herself quite sure. 

The sun was bright today, wasn’t it? This was a rare enough treat in London, and despite the air of melancholy inside of her, she had to smile. Fathers were walking with their children, a few of them waving and smiling at her as they did so. It was the sort of day her father would have loved, where they would run around the Victoria Park together until he collapsed onto the grass, declaring the entire thing a disaster, as Lena was wound up, and he needed to be put to bed. 

Mostly, she went back, to her memories, after the Slipstream, when she was jumping around, trying to go home. There were a few times, though, where she got home. In her time, in her place, a living ghost. Tracer never liked to remember the few glimpses she had gotten of her Dad, then. But Father’s Day, they often couldn’t be shut out. The look on his face as he brought the box of her things into her bedroom. He’d taken out Biscuit and looked at him, just for a moment, before hugging him close and sinking to the bed, sobbing. 

“Oh Lena, my girl.” 

Those four words haunted her. Haunted her almost as much as the memory of him sitting on the couch, telling her Aunt Lily that the worst of it was not that she was dead. 

“If I just,” he was red-eyed and tired, “if ‘ad her body, Lil. If I could bring ‘er ‘ome....bury ‘er with Mary. Annie.” 

Her aunt, the oldest of all of them, with no idea how to comfort her brother through his worst nightmare. She felt guilty herself, sometimes, Tracer knew. She had four of her own, an embarrassment of riches, and her little brother, with his one. She was guilty, because was glad it wasn’t her. She touched his shoulder. 

“I know, Bert, really I do. It’s--grief is like that, sometimes, right? And--”

“Lily, I don’t think she’s dead.” 

He didn’t make eye contact with her, just stared into the carpet, and Tracer had tried so hard to scream to him, but nothing came out, nothing but the sheer cold of the lack of time pouring into her throat. 

“Oh--”

He held up his hand. “I know. But I get the sense--I get the sense she’s alive, and someone’s--” he looked up at the ceiling, “Someone’s ‘urting ‘er. I don’t know ‘ow it is I know that. But I do.” 

He was at least partly right, though he didn’t live to know it. He had never gotten rid of any of her things, marked her name on the gravestone but never gave up enough hope to lay her jacket and her sloth in the ground as all he had of her. 

He believed in her, always. He believed in her from the day she was born to the day she died the first time. Even when he said he’d accepted that she was dead, he believed she might just make it. Even after everyone said he’d gone mad, even after Overwatch had tried to suppress his call for an inquiry into Overwatch’s experiments. 

Your father was right, Mercy had said once, quietly. They should have been stopped so much sooner. He never got to know that, either. 

There was a little girl across from her on the tube, chatting happily to her father, who smiled sheepishly. Too little to know the unspoken rule of ultimate silence that lived in London’s trains. Tracer gave him a big grin. 

“Nothing ever really leaves the world, Lena.” He looked dreamily off into the sunset, the calls of children still playing echoing across the green, “Just, changes form a bit. New flowers grow from the old, right? Dead leaves, well, they’re the ones fertilize the trees. No,” he shook his head, “nothing ever really leaves us. Not if we can see it. When we look.” 

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him with all the skepticism of her sixteen years. “Dad, you do know I’ve no problem with you dating, right? Believe I suggested it. No need to tell me about renewal and all that.” 

“Lena!” He snapped off his flatcap and hit her playfully on the leg. “No need to step on every tender moment.”

“I’m not, I’m genuinely trying to discover what it is you’re driving towards.” She picked at the picnic dinner in front of her, enjoying the long London evening. 

He chuckled and looked back at the sunset. “Guess I’m not entirely sure meself. It’s just--I see so many people I’ve loved, in you. The best parts of them. Your mum, of course. Annie. Even people you never knew. And I think, ‘Bert, everything stays, some’ow. Changed, but, it doesn’t leave.’ That’s what I think.” He looked back at her. “I love you, Lena. You are a wonderful part of me life. I’m a lucky man, being your dad.” 

“Dad.” She looked away awkwardly, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, and opted to look at the cheese on the plate and mumble. “I love you too. ‘Course.” 

She hadn’t really understood what he’d meant, then. She was too young to know, hadn’t lost enough and found it again, to see the truth in what he said. Watching the little girl with her father, she knew it had been true all along. Her father had never left her. He was still here, in the little crocuses that peeked up through the grass. In her Uncle Teddy’s concern and gentle nagging. In the way Winston happily worked with her quick little mind, and called it never a burden, but a gift. He was with her every time she lucked into West Ham seats, and when she sat down to her family tea every Sunday with her mismatched and chipped china set. When she was loved. 

He’d never left her at all. And so there was nothing to find at East London Cemetery and Crematorium, at least today. 

The train screeched to a halt, and the voice from above announced her station. She got off the train, and walked right to the line headed toward Hackney Wick. Winston would be tinkering in his lab, trying to forget the day. She’d swing by the pizza place on the way to his house, pick something up, and she’d do a better job of making him know he was loved than Dr. Harold could have hoped for. 

Tracer was a cheerful sort, resilient and funny, and she did her very best to find pleasure in her life, even through the difficult moments. This was a gift given to her, she realized as she walked through the station, by everyone who had loved her, everyone who had entrusted her with the joy of this world, to be its bearer and its champion. She was all of their greatest dreams, and they were hers. 

Somewhere against the announcements and the chatter, Tracer heard it clear as day. 

“Proud of you, Lena.”

[durgas]

sigils, soulmates & the strangeness of fate

Summary: AU. Sansa Stark had grown up with the romantic tales of soulmarks. However, they did not guarantee happiness despite their power to match soulmates together yet Sansa still craved for one to appear on her skin and free her from her struggles. One did not appear, however, until she was riding to Castle Black to reunite with Jon. Eventual Jon/Sansa.

A soulmark was a rare thing in Westeros.

They might appear once or twice per generation and sometimes they did not appear at all. They might be from birth or might just appear, there was no logic behind their appearance simply magic as per Old Nan’s stories. They might not be reciprocated, appearing on one person alone meaning that person might know their soulmate and yet might not be destined to be together.

A mark would appear over time starting with the sigil and ending with the name if you were fortunate enough to get one, at least in Sansa’s opinion. They were a sign of true love, she had longed for one to appear since Old Nan first told them of the possibility. The last known one had been on Rhaegar Targaryen after his marriage to Elia Martell when a direwolf began developing.

The rest was history because then Rhaegar chose her aunt Lyanna, choosing to set aside poor Elia Martell. He crowned her aunt as his queen, something that Sansa thought deeply romantic at the time. Soulmates were destined to be with each other.

She had been too young to understand that soulmarks could be dangerous things which could tear a world apart.

Elia Martell and her children had been cruelly slaughtered because Rhaegar pursued his soulmate. Factions had risen and Westeros had been torn between sweet Queen Elia and fierce Lyanna Stark. A king had been killed whilst the Starks themselves had suffered terrible losses.

But, Sansa had been a girl of six or seven when she had first heard the stories. She was not yet wise enough to see the deadly consequences that followed Rhaegar’s actions, to see the war that erupted in Westeros which had cost the lives of her grandfather, uncle and aunt.

Her father, not willing to burden her with the terrible truth, had kept his silence of the true story of Rhaegar and Lyanna.

“When you’re older, sweet Sansa, I shall tell you the story in full” Her father said as often as she asked which was most weeks if not every.

However, as she grew older she began to learn bits and pieces of the whole truth. Her aunt Lyanna had been carried off by Rhaegar against her will which had been a sobering thought for Sansa. Soulmarks were meant to be beautiful things to unite two people who were destined to be together. She reasoned it away that it was not the fault of the mark but the method in which Rhaegar had chosen to make himself known to his soulmate.

And, so she still believed that soulmarks were a wondrous fortune but they must be dealt with carefully. If she ever had that luck, she would need to tread cautiously to unite with her soulmate.

When King Robert came with the Prince Joffrey, she had hoped with all her heart that she would see a stag develop upon her body.

No soulmark had developed yet her marriage to Joffrey was proposed and she was happy to marry the tender, loving prince she saw. Perhaps, it was for the best that she did not have a mark after all. She would still have the opportunity to marry a prince who would one day be king. Soulmarks were no guarantee of happiness anyway, she had thought to herself.

“My sweet lady, I am eager for you to become my wife” Joffrey had told her after the whole butcher’s boy debacle.

Yet, when her prince bade his men to dishonour her in front of the whole Court her mind again returned to soulmarks.

She pleaded with all the Gods she could think of for a mark to appear, for a reason to break her alliance with Joffrey even if it was with a lesser lord. She prayed for her soulmate to appear one day brandishing a sword dressed as a fine knight to save her. Maybe, the rose of the Tyrells would grow if she was lucky enough and she could be with Sir Loras. He was so handsome and a true prince, she had never seen him dishonour a woman.

A soulmate did not come but instead she was told she must marry Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf who did not even act like a proper lord. His appearance was frightening. He stank of wine. He was not a true prince.

“I will not hurt you, Sansa, Rest assured.” Tyrion, then her lord husband, said drunkenly.

Still, she had dreamed of a mark appearing despite being a married woman. If only to save her from being trapped in a marriage that not even her husband had wanted. How unlucky she had been!

Ser Dontos had come to save her and she had consoled herself thinking even he would be an acceptable soulmate and yet still she was unmarked. Frustration grew, she had dreamt of a mark all her life and now when she needed a soulmate there was nothing. She knew they were rare but it was the only hope she had when she had arrived at the Vale with Lord Baelish.

“Pretend to be my daughter, it will allow me to look after you” Lord Baelish had told her in his whispery voice.

She was grateful to him for taking her away from King’s Landing but her mind held suspicion that could not be easily quelled. Suspicion that turned out to be justified when they married her off to Ramsay Bolton under the guise that it would be beneficial to her so that she may get justice for her family.

If only that had been the case. Instead, again she was mistreated although this time was far worse than Joffrey had ever dared. Ramsay had no limits. She saw what a poor state he made of Theon, once so arrogant and proud, now reduced to a pitiful shell of his former self.

No longer would she waste her thoughts on soulmarks or soulmates.

“You are my wife now and Winterfell is mine” Ramsay had said as he abused her.

She was alone. No one was coming to save her, all her fine dreams of a handsome soulmate were destroyed. She had already suffered her share of men, she would not dream of a soulmate who might save her only to abuse her. She was no-one of importance now. No-one would come to save Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

So, she saved herself. She convinced Theon to help her though she sees the reluctance and fear in his once proud eyes. They run fast and far without a plan. She knows not what to do or who to go to, yet she knew that anywhere was better than staying with Ramsay until he finally tired of her.

On her way to Castle Black with Brienne, she felt an itching on her left shoulder blade. It was mild yet repetitive and she wondered what could be the cause. Perhaps her fur had irritated her skin. Brienne looked at her curiously when the normally ladylike Sansa itched it repeatedly without a care about who might see her. Matters came to a head when Sansa asked Brienne to check her shoulder blade.

“My lady, there appears to be a soulmark forming.” Brienne’s voice had been one of shock.

A soulmark showed Sansa that the Gods clearly had a twisted sense of humour.

She had prayed for years to be blessed with a soulmark and now when she had freed herself one chose to appear. She asked Brienne to look at it day by day so she could be updated with the progress of its appearance. It was three days after Brienne had first looked that she became certain of the shape, however she had some reluctance in telling Sansa because she could think of no suitable candidates.

A white direwolf on a black field had appeared on her left shoulder.

She wondered what that could mean for her. The direwolf was a symbol of the Starks and there were no Starks left as far as she knew save Arya who Brienne had seen. Bran and Rickon were possibilities but surely her soulmate could not be one of her baby brothers? They were Starks not Targaryens.

The thought had hit her faster than her mind thought to process.

Her bastard half brother, Jon, was a Stark by blood even if not by name. Regardless, they still shared the same father so he could not be her soulmate, it could not be possible. Before speaking, she would wait to see the name that formed.

“Sansa” Jon said in a voice that was familiar yet laced with an unknown tenderness.

She had tried not to think how Jon had grown into his features, far more handsome than when he had left to go to the Wall. She tried not to think of the battle hardened body she had felt when they hugged. And most importantly, she tried hard not to notice how he smelt of fresh clean snow mixed with a muskiness she could not place.

The soulmark grew and her fear had been confirmed. The name Jon Stark had appeared on her shoulder blade and she was struck with a mixture of pleasure and worry. After all these years, she had received a soulmark.

She wondered if Jon had one with her name somewhere on his body. Unconsciously, she licked her lips and thought what it would be like to see Jon without his shirt.

If Jon did have her name, he said not a single word although he noted he was far more protective of her than she had remembered. Perhaps, that might be because they were now far closer than they had ever been as they shared each other’s company throughout the day and night reminiscing about Winterfell in its prime. But, it would not do for her to dwell upon someone who was so closely related to her.

The battle for their home was won but the cost was sweet Rickon, a mere child when she left and now a boy she did not recognise. Jon had held her that night in his tender arms as she screamed and cursed and cried for all the family they had lost over the years but most for little Rickon whose future had been cut away from him. Sansa had been too lost in her grief to notice the tears leaking from Jon’s eyes and the expression set upon his face.

“Sansa” Jon said in that husky voice of his as the morning sun rose. “Is that a soulmark?”

Her dress had slipped slightly, the edge of her mark peeping as they moved away from each other. Unconsciously, her hand crept to touch it as she thought of what she could say when she noticed what appeared to be a tiny ‘S’ showing on his wrist.

“Is that an S?” Her voice seemed louder in her head.

He did not answer and the room fell quiet. She approached him, heart pumping faster and faster. His dark eyes looked at her but did not protest. She felt a strange heat burning in her face as they stood toe to toe, the closest they had ever been. Her nerves mounting, she watched as he rolled up his sleeve.

Sansa Stark.

Her name was written as if she might write it herself accompanied by a miniature of Lady neatly drawn on a snow white field. She felt as if her heart might stop at any moment. It was true then, her half brother was her soulmate. Her legs felt unsteady and her mind was racing.

Jon held her upright, his eyes not leaving hers. She steadied herself but did not move, did not push his hands away. Instead, she tilted her head and pulled down her gown so that her mark was fully visible.

Jon Snow.

She heard his heavy breath before she felt his calloused fingers brush her soulmark with a tenderness she had never expected. They stood unmoving for what felt like it could be eternity, neither of them willing to disrupt the moment. His hand moved upwards towards her face when she felt her feet step back.

“We are siblings, we cannot.” She had said with a warm flush in her cheeks as she turned around and left with haste.

He did not chase after her although she swore she heard him let out a noise of frustration. She had always wanted a soulmate and here one stood. His mere presence caused a heat in her body, a desire she did not know she had and yet she had to reject him for they were Starks not Targaryens. They were both children of their father, a fact that echoed around her mind again and again throughout the day.

She tried to rationalise it in her mind. She was deeply upset and he had comforted her, he felt protective because she was his sister but she knew the truth. He had reciprocated, he desired her just as she did him which was strangely pleasing.

They busied themselves, avoided each other wherever possible and did not speak unless it was necessary. He was proclaimed King in the North, and she supported him every inch of the way as a dutiful sister should do for her brother but it was not the same. Beneath their painted smiles, there lay feelings that had not been voiced and issues not yet resolved for they did not mention that moment.

“I have been called to Dragonstone and I must leave.” His eyes did not meet hers as he spoke. “You will be my Regent.”

She did not move. His words washed over her and it was not until he left that she allowed herself to feel. Why did she have to be cursed so? To have a soulmate that she desired and not to be able to be with him. It would have been better if the mark never formed. It was a constant reminder of all she could not have, of Jon’s love that would never be hers. She bit her lip until it bled, unwilling to allow herself to cry when she had rejected him.

He was gone.

In his absence, she acted every inch the Lady of Winterfell. She did not let anyone learn of the heartache that plagued her, did not weaken in public and she most certainly did not fail him.

It did not matter that most nights she would be seized by furious tears despite her attempts to pretend she was unaffected.

Things improved when Bran and Arya returned home. They took her mind off missing Jon although sometimes the sight of Arya fighting in the courtyard stung her in ways she could not explain. Perhaps, it was their similar features. The only two Starks to have inherited the dark hair and grey eyes of their father meant that sometimes if Sansa squinted Arya could be the female Jon although definitely shorter.

Her soulmark itched from time to time in his absence.

She wondered whether it meant he was in danger or whether it was something else. It was random enough that she put it down to chance at least until he returned home with the Dragon Queen. She saw the looks that passed between them and felt her mark grow hot as if it was outraged at Jon’s actions.

“Daenerys is our Queen” Jon had said to the whole of the North.

Sansa knew she could never agree but she abided by his decision. What choice did she have? They needed Daenerys to win the war even if it meant losing North according to Jon. Her temper had reared its head then, she would not lose her home to an outsider who had already taken her soulmate.

She was not cruel to Daenerys but she did not seek her friendship either for Sansa knew that neither of them cared enough for the other.

The alliance holds long enough to defeat the Night King. She questioned Jon’s decision again to bend the knee especially as it was Arya who killed the greatest threat to Westeros not Daenerys or her dragons. She had never been prouder of Arya than that moment when she and Tyrion left the crypt to see Arya being hailed as the ‘Hero of Winterfell’. The Starks did not need foreigners to protect them.

“I’m a Targaryen.” Jon had said in his gruff voice to her and Arya.

They had been stunned into silence for several moments.

Sansa could not decide whether this revelation was more shocking or that he was her soulmate. Her mind raced ahead, they were only cousins. They could be together. He was Daenerys’s nephew and surely that was not acceptable. Would he still accept her though after being rejected?

She strolled away, hiding her emotions. It did not matter anyway, he had made his choice choosing the dainty looking blonde Queen with her dragons over the North. Over her. She would just have to resign herself to the fact that they were not meant to be happy together.

Soulmarks did not equal happiness, a lesson she should have learnt many times over by now.

She watched as Jon left her again.

Her heart could not stop rattling with fear that he might die even knowing that he would never be hers. The battle was going to be fierce, she had no doubt of that and she knew Daenerys would let Jon die to become Queen. She had sacrificed a husband and a child already along with millions of innocents to become Queen of Westeros, she would not hesitate to use Jon.

Then, she receives a raven telling her that Daenerys is dead and that it was Jon who killed her.

She makes the journey to King’s Landing despite every part of her body protesting because she had hoped never to return. But, the thought of Jon was enough to keep her moving. The hope of happiness spurred her on even if she was unsure of Jon’s feelings. He might be in mourning for Daenerys, he did love her. She had seen it for herself. But, she could be patient.

She does not see him until the vote to elect Bran the King of Westeros when he is dragged from prison to stand trial for his crime.

His hair was longer, messier and his eyes spoke volumes of his sorrow.

She was determined to ensure he would be pardoned. He would not suffer for protecting Westeros, she would use every bit of her influence to see him freed. A fleeting thought shot through her mind that perhaps Jaime had been right to kill the king. He had reason enough and yet still he had shouldered the burden of being the ‘Kingslayer’ for all these years. She never thought she might find some sympathy for him.

“He’ll be going back to the Night’s Watch. They won’t release him.” Arya said as she kicked over a chair in anger.

That night, the two of them sat discussing every possibility to free Jon. Sansa was not sure if Arya knew the truth about her feelings but they were united in their cause. Father had been right, they were sisters and now they were close at last. They awoke in the morning, bodies slumped next to each other on the floor and Sansa surmised they must have fallen out of their chairs since she had a new bruise spanning the left side of her body.

They cornered Bran alone. It was useless as he would not do anything to aid their cause and Sansa sometimes wondered if he was their Bran. The Bran she remembered loved Jon and idolised him, this one did not seem too bothered about his plight. Arya raged and she reasoned but Bran did not even move on his stance.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered in her ear as they hugged for the final time.

His curly hair brushed her face and she saw the resigned expression set upon his face. She offered all the comfort she could muster before forcing herself to stand back and bid him goodbye. She felt a stinging in her eyes and quickly schooled her face back to that of a noble lady.

Sansa had lost Jon for good. No one was able to escape the Night’s Watch, it was a life sentence and she would not wish desertion upon him. That would only mean he would be executed just as her father did to deserters when they were children.

Her fate was sealed. She would never be able to experience the heady happiness of love that she had once dreamed about. The desire that flooded through her body at his mere touch would never develop into anything more, she would be cursed to live her life alone and unloved.

They would never be able to be happy.

Seven years later

She awoke with a strange burning where her soulmark resided on her left shoulder.

It was merely uncomfortable to begin with, however throughout the day she noticed the intensity increased and it began to itch painfully. She touched it gently, wondering if perhaps she had a rash or allergy that had caused her soulmark to sting so badly but she could feel no marks or spots. It did, however, feel hot to the touch so she summoned a maid with cool water and fresh cloths to bathe it which helped to ease the pain.

Her soulmark had been nothing but a burden for all these years.

Yet, now it was troubling her physically. She decided upon a soft silk dress, more reminiscent of her time in the South than the warmer woolen dresses she tended to choose, to allow her soulmark to breathe in the cool air.

The cold stung against her shoulder as she heard her name muttered at the doors of Winterfell in a voice she had not heard in years.

“Sansa.” Jon said as he swayed on his feet. He was paler than she had ever seen and propped up by Tormund who for once looked so serious. Her eyes followed Jon’s arm and saw the blood that was spilling out of his chest.

She shouted for Maester Martyn whilst she ran towards Jon commanding all those around her to make haste and prepare Jon’s room. The room that she had left untouched for all of these years out of hope that one day Jon would return to her although she had never wanted this to be the reason.

“I am here, Jon.” She steadied her emotions and took his hand as Tormund lay him upon the bed. “I am here.”

Jon groaned as the Maester arrived and began prodding at his room. “Aye, I can die a happy man now.” His voice was slurred and his eyes were emptying of all the emotions she was accustomed to seeing. He felt a tiredness sink upon him.

“You will not die, Jon Snow. You will not.” Sansa punctuated every word as her heartbeat pounded against her chest.

His eyes closed and Sansa heard Maester Martyn assuring her he would do his best but there were no guarantees with a wound this deep. Her vision blurred for a moment. She was dimly aware of Tormund pushing her into the chair next to Jon as the maester continued his work.

She had not waited all these years for Jon to die.

They were soulmates, he could not die now. And, she would fight tooth and nail for him if he survived. She should never have allowed him to go back to the Wall. He was hers and she was his. Slowly, she felt his hand grow cold and it began to fall away so she held it tighter as if that would stop him dying.

“I have dressed the wound to the best of my knowledge, Your Grace.” Maester Martyn said. He was a small man and shaking now under the pressure, nervously looking at Sansa. “If he survives the night, his chances are good. I will remain with him as you may want to take rest.”

“I am staying here.” Sansa said in a tone most unlike her laced with anger and frustration and sadness mingled together. “I will not leave.” Her soulmark was still burning with a fury but it was not important.

The maester did not protest any further nor did Tormund leave either so they sat as three around Jon’s bed. She felt Ghost nestle in next to her with a mournful whine. Jon’s chest rose and fell with fitful coughs throughout the night, however his hand grew warmer and warmer. She did not let go all night.

He did not regain consciousness for a few days. After the first day, Sansa had to be persuaded to eat and leave Jon’s side so she could conduct her queenly duties. She did them but was sharp tempered with all, rushing through her tasks so she could return to Jon’s side. She had lost enough. She would not lose Jon as well.

Sat in the middle of a council meeting, she felt the burn of her soulmark stop abruptly. Fearing the worst, she hurried to Jon’s room making the necessary apologies to all the Lords of the North who had gathered for this meeting. She prayed he was still alive as her every step pounded the cold, hard floors of the castle whilst her heart threatened to jump out of her skin with every beat. Turning the corner, she entered his room.

“Jon.” Sansa said with relief. He was sat up in his bed, pale but alive with those dark eyes lifted to meet her own. She threw herself at him, hugging his body with all her strength almost as if to will him to survive.

Jon held her tightly, ignoring the searing pain in his chest. “I’m alive, Sansa.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead patiently waiting for her to release him.

“I’m sor-” Sansa began but Jon cut her off with a kiss. His lips were softer than she had ever imagined and it sent a frisson of delight down her body. She responded instinctively with kisses of her own as she felt Jon cradle her face. They pulled apart for a moment and she stared with wonder at how beautiful he was with his lovely curly hair that she itched to touch so she did. She wound her fingers through his hair marvelling at his softness as she leant forward to kiss him again.

Hearing a cough, they quickly parted. Sansa could feel the flush in her cheeks and tried to put on the noble lady mask that she employed often. Smoothing down her hair, she tried to compose herself as she stepped away from Jon. Now, her soulmark felt so delightfully cool as if she had finally managed to please it.

“Why is it that someone with such a small pecker gets such a beautiful woman?” Tormund’s eyes glinted with mirth as he looked at the scene in front of him. Sansa was usually cold like ice yet she was blushing and Jon Snow was smiling, a welcome change from the serious boy he remembered. “Good you’re alive, Snow”

Jon laughed wryly. “Good to see you, Tormund.” Though he and Sansa were apart, he still felt her small, warm hand in his own.

“You make a bad habit of dying, boy” Tormund said brashly with a smirk. “Lucky your lady was here to save you.” His words did not betray the fear he had felt when he had brought Jon back to Winterfell, in all essence nothing but a corpse.

Sansa laughed, a lovely sound after so long. “It seems fate had a strange way of reuniting us after I believed all hope was lost.” After I rejected you, she added on silently. She would not lose the chance to be with her soulmate again.

“If only I could remain here.” Jon had never felt such happiness, was loath to give it up and yet knew he would have to return to the Night’s Watch. The vow was one for life after all. “As soon as I’m recovered, I’ll have to return”

Tormund could have shook him. “You died twice over for them, your time is done.”

“You were as good as dead when Tormund brought you, Jon.” Her tone was stubborn. She would not let him return.

Jon knew Sansa would protest but he could not break his vow. “But, I was not dead. I’m still alive, my love.” The word escaped him and he saw Sansa’s eyes widen. He looked at her, so beautiful with that vibrant red hair and determined Tully eyes, and drank her in. This would be all they could ever be.

“Jon Snow died for the Night’s Watch. You’re not him anymore.” Sansa had been ruthlessly efficient whilst he was unconscious despite wanting to spend every moment with him. “I had Bran legitimise you as a Stark.”

Tormund quietly slipped away, a feat that was quite impressive for a man of his stature. He did not want to be present for this conversation. Although, it would be rather interesting to watch Jon Snow squirm for he had no doubt that Sansa would get her way in the end. She was a fearsome woman.

Jon could not believe what Sansa said. All his life, he had wanted to be Stark and now Sansa had done so without his permission. He had sworn to the Night’s Watch. Anger bubbled up, she had taken away his choice. “I had made my peace with being the Lord Commander”

“I rejected you once and I should never have done so. This is our chance, Jon. Our chance given to us by fate.” Sansa knew she had been selfish but she would have done it a thousand times over to have Jon. “I could not watch you give yourself back to them just to die again.” Her voice was raised.

Despite being angry, he felt strangely attracted to this Sansa. To see her lose her composure and stand there with crossed arms and unflinching eyes, it only increased his desire. “That would have been my choice, Sansa.” He stepped towards her.

“Be angry with me, I don’t care.” Sansa felt electric shoot through her veins at the sight of him standing so close to her. “At least, you’re safe and you’ll be safe here.” With me, she wanted to add on. But, she could not make him love her.

Jon felt the frustration build. She was so gorgeously persistent and he wanted nothing more to kiss her, their argument be damned. She was biting the edge of her lip, something that sparked his next action. He gave in to his feelings and kissed her which definitely took her by surprise judging from the way her eyes grew bigger. He moved closer again, their bodies pressed against each other as his hands snaked around her waist. He felt a pain shoot through his chest but he was too busy to care.

She could feel his muscles push against her skin and his fingers delicately stroke the skin of her side whilst his kisses moved downwards towards her chest. She arched her neck to the side as he planted kiss after kiss whilst her hands explored his chest. She brushed her fingertips against his nipple, careful to avoid his wound, and was gratified by his groan. She had never been with a man like this who was tender and fierce in the same instant. His lips were now kissing the tops of her breasts and she could not help the noises that escaped her mouth as the pleasure intensified.

They moved against the wall in sync, his hands working deftly to untie her dress whilst she unlaced his shirt. Their hands freely roaming across each other’s bodies was all Sansa had ever wanted in a man. She felt him tug away her smalls and his fingers crept up her thigh, teasing it inch by inch. She let out a little moan.

“Sansa.” Jon’s voice was gruffer than normal as he said her name like a question. All he wanted was to take her against the wall but he knew of her abuse and would not take her for granted.

Sansa took him in her hands and drew spirals around his tip in response. “Jon.” Her voice was playful and she inclined her head. “I need this”

That was the only response he needed as his fingers carefully crept inside her. She was slick with wetness. He found her inner spot and massaged it slowly at first then harder and harder as her moans grew breathier and louder. She was panting, her body shaking and then he knelt to finish her with his tongue. He lapped up her juice, swirling his tongue around until he could delight in the taste of her sweet cum. Her body was like that of a goddess, perfectly formed and yet so imperfect too with freckles and moles like those across her stomach. She shuddered and he heard the loudest moan yet.

He stood up and hoisted her back to the wall as their mouths met again and again to kiss, each more desperate than the previous one. He looked at her face, flushed with a slight sheen of sweat, as she pulled him closer resting her weight in his very capable hands. He pulled her down onto him, entering her for the first time at a leisurely pace. They had waited so long for this moment, he wanted it to last as long as possible.

She heard his grunt as his seed released into her and she looked into his eyes normally so sombre and now lit up with passion. His hair was stuck to his face, she could feel the sweat run off him and yet she had never been happier. She reached up to brush away a stray curl as he set her on the floor and sat down himself. They leant against each other in silence for several moments, content to let the cool of the floor seep into their bodies.

“Sansa.” She liked the way he said her name. “Thank you.” His face was earnest as he met her ocean blue eyes. “For making me a Stark.” He quickly tagged on as he watched a smile appear on her face.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “Bran did that, not me. I just saved your life.” A smile played across her lips as she spoke in that teasing tone.

They stayed in that position for the rest of the night, talking of everything and anything until sleepiness took them both. It was not the most comfortable especially with the rough bricks pressing into their backs and the cramped position of their legs but it felt like home to Sansa. She had finally been lucky enough to claim her soulmate.

Epilogue

Bliss had settled itself upon Winterfell. It was evident to all those who visited, to all those who lived that Queen Sansa and King Jon were a well suited couple if prone to fiery arguments in front of the court.

Sometimes, Sansa felt as if she was dreaming. That she was still trapped in King’s Landing waiting for a soulmate to save her or stuck with Ramsey and his terrible abuse until she died. Then, she remembered that she had saved herself. And, it was only then that she had been so lucky to receive a soulmark although at the time it had caused problem after problem. She was living her youthful romantic dreams with Jon even if they were both hardened from all the years that they were just surviving.

They had married in the godswood in front of the whole of the North, had sworn their vows and then kissed for everyone to see. They were Jon and Sansa Stark of Winterfell, King and Queen of the North. Arya had returned from her travels specifically to see their marriage, Bran had sent his blessing and gifts with Brienne and they took their blessings in the crypt from their father and his mother.

Two children followed in quick succession, a blessing that Sansa and Jon were so grateful to receive from the gods. Little Lyarra and sweet Eddara were born less than a year apart and yet they were so very different. Eddara was a lady much like Sansa had been although far more vocal in her displeasure whilst Lyarra was very much like Arya if slightly more solemn in her manner. A third was on its way and Jon was certain it would be another girl although Sansa hoped for a boy this time. It would be nice to honour Robb this time, he had paved the way for the North to be its own kingdom.

Truly, soulmarks could be so dangerous yet for Sansa it had led to her every dream being fulfilled.

Thanks for reading! Can be found here and here as well :)

[theusurpersdog]

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[fabprewetting]

          𝕒𝕦𝕕𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕤 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕒 𝕚𝕦𝕧𝕒𝕥  —                  fortune favours the 𝕓𝕠𝕝𝕕

( non-binary | they/them | brigette lundy-paine ) —— isn’t that FABIAN PREWETT? yeah that is them, sitting there at the GRYFFINDOR table with those other SIXTH years. when sybill looks into that crystal ball of hers, she sees a closet full of far too much denim; a chilly early autumn day with leaves crunching beneath your boots; a to-do list on the bedside table with a third of the items crossed off dated a month and a half ago; wind wooshing past your ears and rushing through your hair miles above anything and everything; the bite of firewhisky hitting your throat; a cup of tea on Molly’s table, lukewarm because you’re late as usual. anyway i’ve heard they’re pretty LOYAL, SHORT-TEMPERED, and OBSERVANT. apparently they’re ‘FOR THE LIGHT' and PURE-BLOOD but i’m sure that’s not related. —— [ sab : EST : 25 : they/them ]

hiiiii squad. my name is sab and i am 25 years old! i’m nb and i use they/them pronouns. i am old to RPing as a whole (started around 2007) and have been on tumblr since ~2012, however i haven’t written a character since 2017 so i’m excited to jump back in! pls be gentle with me while i readjust and PLEASE plot with meeee! click the read more to learn abt my dumb sad stubborn deflecting lil’ nugget

BASIC INFO —

name: fabiana ginevra prewett fabian alford prewett nickname(s): fab, bean (by gid), alfie (by their gran) birth date / age: 3 april, 1960 / 16 zodiac sign: aries sun, cancer moon, scorpio rising gender / sexuality: non-binary / queer blood status: pure-blood, blood traitor ethnicity: english, irish nationality: english myers-briggs type indicator: ESFP-T house: gryffindor extracurriculars: beater on the gryffindor quidditch team, gobstones club, member of ‘for the light’

BACKGROUND INFO —

place of birth: st. mungo’s hospital for magical maladies and injuries, london, england current residence: chudley, devon, england / hogwarts castle, highlands, scotland grandparents: alford abbott [grandfather, deceased], molly abbott (née fawley) [grandmother] parents: liam prewett [father, deceased], ginevra prewett (née abbott) [mother, deceased] siblings: gideon prewett [fraternal twin brother], molly prewett [older sister] pet(s): family barn owl named apollo, maine coon for school named fluffy

BIOGRAPHY —

on 3 april, 1960, fabian prewett was born to two loving parents shortly before their brother joined them in the world. they were preceded by a sister, molly, who was everything you’d ever want in a sister. wise, fun to prank, and great in a debate!

fab and their siblings honestly had a pretty picturesque childhood. they grew up in west country, playing and running free in the fields surrounding their little home. they never had too much money with their mother working in regulation and control of magical creatures and their father at a secondhand broom shop, but what they did have they shared. the children never wanted for anything because they had everything they needed: kind and accepting parents, endless fun with each other, and a home full of love.

their parents have always been very vocal about their support for blood equality. they believe in a fair world for all, and they’ve always encouraged their children to believe the same. fab can remember as a kid going to protests with their parents, standing outside of the ministry holding hands with their father while he waved the family’s “silence is violence” sign. activism has always been an important part of the prewett family.

fab started to realize something was different about them from a pretty young age. when they were about 9 years old, they told their mum that they didn’t feel quite like a girl. she asked if fab felt like a boy and they responded that they didn’t. their mum told them that that was okay too and explained that some people don’t feel like a boy or a girl. if fab were alive in 2020 they’d probably use the word non-binary to describe themself, but in the year 1969, their mum taught them the word androgynous. when they told their papa, he totally understood. fab knew he wasn’t quite sure what to say in response to the news because he said “is that why you beat a bludger so good?” fab shook their head and chuckled but knew that this meant that nothing would be changing with them and their father.

when they started at hogwarts, fab realized pretty quickly that they didn’t like just boys or just girls. they thought that lots of different kinds of people were cute. they told gid about it and the two deepened their bond when gid shared that he was pretty sure he only thought boys were cute. after that they loved to mess with each other, gid asking if fab had a crush on bellatrix black and saying how vile it was and fab doing the same sort of thing to gid.

in 1972, their mum was murdered. it was reported as an “isolated hate crime” and took place at a protest she was attending alone. the kids were absolutely devastated, and their father obviously was as well.

their father died later that year. he was born with a heart defect and there were some complications with his condition that lead to his passing. now that the kids are older they joke that he died of a broken heart. shortly after his passing the kids moved in with their maternal grandmother who they call nan.

these events have definitely changed the way that fab behaves and that they see the world around them. fab is very hesitant to open up to people on a deeper level, preferring to drink and have fun and fuck around. they’re also very likely to deflect any serious sort of conversation with a joke of some sort.

fab is much more the image of the reckless and irresponsible gryffindor than that of the brave and daring sort, trying anything once without a thought towards the consequences that might come about. part of it is the thought that at this point, there’s not much left that matters. both their parents are dead, the war is looming, and fab is planning on laying their life on the line so they might as well have fun while there’s fun to be had.

[7deadlycinderellas]

no more math and history, ch2

Ao3 link

Ygritte’s alarm wakes the three of them twenty minutes before Reville.

Arya groans into her pillow, and Meera jumps up and starts pulling on her clothes.

“Quick!” she tells her, “Or all the good cereals will be gone!”

Arya groans again, but gets up and stretches.

No one who works activities has breakfast duty, so most of them leave bed before the campers in order to get first dibs on breakfast before they have to set up their activity areas for the morning.

Arya’s stomach growls and she ignores the smell of the cooking breakfast pizza from one of the stations to grab a box of Fruit Flakes from the buffet station. It’s always the same a pile of single serving cereal boxes and yogurt cups along with whatever the hot breakfast was that day.

She gets sidetracked by movement by one of the station windows. She grins at the sight of the curly hair atop it’s head, and she can’t keep her joy to herself.

“Hot Pie!” she yells happily.

Hot Pie is clearly not paying attention because he jumps and thumps his head on the top of the window.

He rubs his head and blinks blearily looking at her,

“Arry?” he asks. Arya chuckles. She wonders if he even remembers that’s not really her name.

He passes her a bowl and the milk pitcher and she eats her breakfast standing up while they catch up. There’s not too much to go over really.

When she tells him that she’d already seen Gendry the day before he had nodded.

“He always liked you better than the rest of us. Make sure to be nice, it’s been a hard few years for him.”

Arya’s surprised. That’s more wisdom than she thought Hot Pie had in his entire body. Maybe they’ve all changed a lot.

Hot Pie has to leave when he gets hollered at to come and help. Arya even smiles seeing the shaggy head and badly burned face of the man the meaner campers dared to call the Hound.

“Clegane, they still let you stay here?” she asks, spying the back of the old camp maintenance man’s head.

“Fuck off,” he says, without even a look to see who spoke.

After shoveling down her cereal, Arya leaves to help Ygritte at the stables. They feed the horses and muck out the stalls before running back to the cabin to change into their swimsuits and heading down to the waterfront.

The crowd has already begun to gather, boys and girls on opposite sites, counselors and CITs in back. Arya and Ygritte sneak into the line, next to Shireen, who looks somewhat apprehensive.

Gendry blows his whistle, and raises his voice until everyone can hear him.

“OK! Here’s how this works. Today you get your clip, you will wear this clip at all times here at the lake. If I catch you without a clip, I get to stuff you in an inflatable life jacket until you’re past the sand. Yes-”

He intones with a hint of humor,

“-This includes counselors too. The first test will be swimming to the first row of flags and back-”

He points out about twenty feet in the lake, where blue flags mark off the shallow parts of the water.

“Do this and you will get a blue clip, meaning you may swim freely in the same area. The second test will be holding your breath underwater for forty five seconds. This will earn you a yellow clip. You must have at least a yellow clip to use any of the camp’s canoes. Now the last test-”

He points out to the middle of the lake, where a rock can be seen. They call it the island, but it’s really just a large rock.

“You will swim to the island and back to shore without stopping. If you get tired and need one of us to come and get you, roll on your back and raise your right hand. If you complete this swim and earn your red clip, you may swim anywhere in the lake. But only when one of us is on lifeguard duty.”

He points down the sand to Lem and Tom, two of the other lifeguards.

He blows his whistle and motions for the boys to come and test first.

Arya watches Bran roll his wheelchair to the end of the pier while the other boys are wading in. He locks the wheels and lowers himself to the end of the wooden dock. Throwing his left leg over his right, he is able to get himself off the dock with a sort of twist and push.

Gendry’s watching him, Arya realizes, to wait until he gets in position with the other boys. It doesn’t take long, and she can see Bran whispering words of encouragement to the younger boys. And next to her, Shireen watches him too.

“He’ll be fine,” Arya assures her, “All of us Starks can swim. Our mother was a champion in secondary school and all of us could swim before we could walk.”

Her bathing suit still bears the black and blue logo of the Cerwyn Dolphins, the team she had swam for until this past school year. Bran had spent so many afternoons at the seven center pool, claiming that in the water it almost felt like his body was all his again. Mum had long claimed that all of them had Tully blood as much as Stark.

Shireen looks at her askance.

“You’re Arya Stark then,” she says, “Gendry told me yesterday. He said you used to be friends.”

“He did? We’re still friends,” Arya objects.

Shireen nods.

“I’m glad. He doesn’t seem to have many friends.”

Gendry’s already blown the whistle twice, and several of the boys have stepped out of the water and accepted their blue or yellow clips. Bran is not among them. When the long swim starts, Arya watches several of the younger boys watching Bran and whispering. When his hand slams onto the pier, Arya steps forward to congratulate him, and help him back to his chair.

“Mum would be proud,” she assures him.

“Blood of the fish, she always said,” Bran replied, as he took his red clip from Gendry.

“Where’s your unit off to this afternoon?”

“Sports field. I heard Grey Worm and Loras saying something about basketball today.”

“Hmm,” Arya muses, “Don’t let them know how good you are before you kick all their arses.”

Bran smirks and rolls off, and Arya returns to the line with the girls for her turn.

The test is barely a test. Arya got her red clip when she was ten years old. This year she’s the first back from the rock, Meera trailing behind her, and a surprise third, Shireen.

“Do you swim much?” She asks Shireen, when they’re towelling off and getting their clips.

“I grew up on the island of Dragonstone.”

Arya frowns, trying to remember.

“That’s that island down south where all the rich people rent houses for summer holidays right?”

Shireen nods.

“The place is packed with tourists in the summer, but there’s not a lot to do the rest of the year, so I swam. My father owns...owned, a lot of…”

Her voice trails off, and Arya knows not to push. She spies Gendry looking at them and changes the subject.

“Where’s your unit headed after lunch and quiet time?”

“Riding, all of the girls are really excited.”

“That’s great! That’s what I’m teaching. Have you ever ridden before?”

Shireen looks a little spooked.

“No, I mean, I’ve read a lot of books about horses, but I’ve never been on one.”

“That’s fine, we’ll teach you everything, it’s not something you can learn from a book..”

She can smell lunch from here, it’s apparently grilled cheese today, and she salivates. She doesn’t even stop to change before sitting beside Sansa, who’s polka dotted suit bears her own red clip. This is pretty much the only day that dress code isn’t enforced and swimsuits are allowed off the lake. After lunch Arya rushes back to the cabin to change out of her suit.

Quiet time is used for napping and writing primarily, and so no one throws up in the water right after lunch, so Arya skips out to go right to the stables, where her and Ygritte feed and water the horses, tack them up and lead them out into the ring.

Arya doesn’t even get the name of the unit counselor with Shireen’s group, though from the back of her head, she thinks she’s from Dorne. She understands, at least a little. If they stayed through activities, unit counselors would be on duty from sunup to sundown. This unit appears to be mostly girls between eight and ten. A good age for paying attention, but not always the most serious about the activity. When she had learned to ride all those years ago the rest of her unit had been mostly girls who were convinced horses were more like bicycles than real animals. Manure and hay and oats were disappointing to them, the manure neatly chasing off the prissier among them.

The first day with each unit always involves mostly covering the rules.

“I know it’s hot,” Arya starts, “But you cannot ride in shorts and sandals. You will have blisters like you’ve never had before, and your feet will slip from the stirrups and you will fall from your saddle. Long pants and boots with smooth soles are required here.”

“And don’t even think about taking off your helmets,” Ygritte interjects, “Or I will kick you out so fast your head will spin and you will have to spend the rest of the summer in other activities...provided word hasn’t already gotten out.”

As the CIT, the two of them have Shireen step forward to demonstrate how to check the saddle and the reins, how to put one foot in the stirrup and swing your leg over and how to position your hands and feet.

Shireen looks rather apprehensive through the whole deal, but she bucks up and does her best, and never utters a word of fear. She smiles and shouts encouragement when the two of them walk to help the other girls do the same.

When the period is done, and all the girls have mounted, dismounted and rode a single ring around the track at least, Shireen still looks ecstatic to be on the ground again.

“I never knew horses were so big,” she’d admitted while the rest of the girls were gathering their things to go.

“It’s not so scary once you get used to them. Horses aren’t the smartest of beasts, but they can sense if you are nervous or frightened.”

She pets Nan’s nose. She had put Shireen on her because she was one of the quietest and most sedate of the camp’s horses, and has never so much as stumbled with a rider on her back. She’s never travelled at faster than a slight trot either, but they can get to that when the time comes.

Her and Ygritte discuss the group as they’re taking down the horses, brushing them before re-taking for the next unit.

“Last year was worse. The same unit was full of girls who were hooked on that cartoon with the friends and the rainbows. Real horses were a huge disappointment to them.”

The two brush in silence for a while longer.

“I thought about writing Jon a letter last night,” Ygritte admits, “But every time I try, everything I write down sounds childish.”

Arya stays quiet. She understands. Jon was always her favorite brother, even though he’s only really her cousin. Ever since Dad had died and they’d all had to take on more responsibilities, all the things she used to go to him about seemed so small and insignificant. Fighting with Sansa, butting heads with Mum, things that used to drive her crazy suddenly made her feel like a baby to admit to.

And even though Ygritte was older than him, Arya gets how talking about bunks and campfires and patrols might seem childish to write about to someone who had just started basic training.

The unit after Shireen’s is pretty much the same.

Afterwards, when the rest of the campers are doing cleaning and inspections, Arya returns to the cabin to grab her soap and towel and take a quick shower. Most of the campers shower either after breakfast, during quiet time or right after campfire, so right now the stalls are blissfully empty. The cold water from the faucet still shocks her. She smiles, remembering how the first summer here, when the cold water had offended her enough that she spent most of her session refusing to shower at all. That might have explained why the rest of the Brotherhood dunked her in the lake so often.

It’s so hot in the Stormlands that by the time she’s thrown her jeans back on her cot and made her way to the mess hall in her shorts, she’s already completely dry.

She grabs her bowl of spaghetti and takes her place next to Sansa.

“Brienne says the zombie hunt this year is supposed to stay on land.”

Arya’s crestfallen.

“Is she tired of us Starks dominating it with our superior swimming abilities or something?”

Sansa presses her lips tight.

“Apparently they had a near drowning last summer. Pyp, one of the boys Jon used to hang around here. He had to be airlifted to the hospital in Storm’s End and didn’t come back the rest of summer. So the whole game’s land only now.”

Arya feels her stomach tighten. Something else on top of a beloved childhood memory. That feeling lingers through dessert and into campfire.

Even though it’s been a long, long first day, Arya still finds herself wandering to the pier after changing into her pajamas.

And Gendry’s right there beside her.

They’re quiet for a bit, when Arya notices what looks like a band aid poking out from under his shirt.

“What’s that?” she asks.

He chuckles.

“Nicotine patch.”

“You smoke?” she asks, aghast. They had both used to laugh at the way Polliver, the terrifying old maintenance man before Clegane had taken over, used to constantly have to duck out for a smoke every five minutes it seemed.

“I worked in a restaurant for a year. Never work in one if you can help it- the only people who get breaks are smokers lighting up. So I started, and then I couldn’t stop, and I hate it, so these will make me stop before summer’s over.”

“Yea,” Arya whispers, flopping onto her back, “I suppose camp’s good for breaking yourself of bad habits like that.”

There’s a long pause before she asks.

“So you’re not working there next year?”

Gendry scoffs.

“Gods no. Between last year and this gig, I have enough to pay my way at community college, only work part time if I want to. Not sure what I want to study though. I thought about taking up a trade apprenticeship, but Davos warned me that they can take a toll on your body really young.”

“Would he know?” Arya asks, wanting more information about his foster father.

“He worked at the docks since he was a boy, and only recently started managing his own crew.”

Gendry flops back beside her and swallows hard.

“I can’t imagine being in an office all day, but I don’t want to be one of those blue collar workers who looks down on education either.”

Arya smiles, remembering his stories about his mother studying over dinner every night when she was trying to go back to school. How she would have for sure, if she hadn’t gotten sick.

“You could study wildlife biology or environmental science, something that would involve spending all day studying things in forest or marshes or something. That’s what Meera wants to do. She can’t afford to go to university yet, so she joined the Conservation Corps, she’s going to spend the next two years building and maintaining trails way back in the sticks, she wants to join the park service eventually.”

Gendry furrows his brow in confusion.

“Aren’t they the one with the motto ‘hard work, low pay, miserable conditions and more’?”

“Yup, she’s super excited.”

They both explode into laughter.

Gendry leans on one elbow to look at her.

“I don’t know about that, but it’s a thought at least.”

They quiet again, gazing at each other in a way that makes Arya’s heart race again. He reaches out to touch her face and her heart nearly stops.

“Your earrings- I don’t remember, did you have those before?”

“Oh-” she reaches up to touch the studs, small silver wolf heads with tiny red rhinestones for eyes, “-no actually, my mom took me to get my ears pierced when I turned thirteen, later the last year you saw me.”

Her stomach sinks. She hadn’t wanted pierced ears, she had long proclaimed they were too girly, though mostly she was afraid of the pain. She had fought Mum so hard at first, insisting that they were stupid and she didn’t want them, only to finally relent when she saw how happy it made her mother. It was so soon after Dad had died, and there were far too few things, far too far in between that made Mum smile.

“I used to have to take them out at every gymnastics meet, every football game, every swim meet...but Mum told me I looked beautiful wearing them and I wanted so bad for her just to be proud of me.”

She reaches up and twists the posts in their holes.

“I leave them in all the time now, and sometimes I actually forget about them.”

Gendry’s face turns confused.

“You don’t swim or play anymore?”

“Seven hells, of course not!”

She chuckles.

“I left gymnastics after there was a scandal at our gym with one of the coaches. The facility just reopened, I’m planning to work there after school helping with the tumbling classes during the year. I left the football team after year 4, but Robb and Jon and I will still pick up a game at the park when we’re all together. And swimming-”

She swallows roughly.

“Bran swims at the Seven Center multiple times a week on his doctor’s orders- we both love it, so I take him. But I haven’t competed in over a year, not since before-”

She swallows again, the tears pricking at her eyes. Swimming always made her think of Mum. She remembers her face when she placed at her first meet, remembers her showing her all of her medals from her own champion years. She remembers that no matter how busy she was with church events or work fundraisers, she made every single event Arya competed in.

“I miss it,” she says, covering her face.

Gendry seems to have realized she’s become upset, but when he reaches out to hug her, Arya can’t handle it. She pulls away and stands.

“Goodnight. Thank you, Gendry.”

And she leaves him alone on the pier.

[a-song-of-quill-and-feather]

A piece that I wrote of Jon in The Other Stark Girl instead of writing the next chapter like I had planned on doing. Specifically being posted at the request of @margothedestroyerr I hope you enjoy kiddie Jon (he’s probably anywhere between 8-10 at this point idk exactly yet)

They’d returned from Winterfell a week back.

But Jon missed it, he found, and he wondered if this was how his mother felt. She’d seemed so at peace up north, and while Jon had never found his mother to seem unhappy at the Rock (aside from times of grief), she had seemed radiant the way he imagined someone should be when they are where they’re meant to be.

Perhaps it was simply because of her Stark blood. Winterfell was built, and always held, by Starks. The woman there that they called Old Nan had told him a few stories while they were there, in one of which she had said that Winterfell was built not only by the hard work and sweat of the Starks but the blood and magic in their veins.

It’s the blood of the first men, running through his mother and him and his siblings.

Perhaps it’s that, that made Winterfell feel so welcome to him. His blood was as much Stark as Lannister. And thus he was as much Northern as Southern.

He felt he fit better there, just a bit.

Little Joanna had stuck out like a piece of gold in a pile of stone. Glittering and glowing in her golden way as she moved around the keep with their younger cousin Sansa. Even Rickard, with his similarly dark hair, had looked more out of place than Jon had felt.

Jon had felt just as content— if not more— there as he did in his home here on Casterly Rock.

So he missed it. Winterfell with it’s stone towers and warm furs and hot springs. With it’s glass gardens, and ancient crypts. With it’s summer snow that had marveled all three Lannister children at the sight of it. With it’s sprawling Godswood and large weirwood that felt even more hauntingly divine than the one did here on the Rock.

He wonders, at the north, and it’s stories. Old Nan’s stories had scared Joanna and Rickard too much to listen to them. But Jon had found them almost more interesting than that of the stories the septa told them about the Westerlands and the south.

And the tales his uncle Benjen told, of the wall and the Nights Watch.

Those Jon had loved. Men donning black cloaks and swearing off everything aside from protecting the realm against evil.

It sounded more gallant and honorable than any knights tale he’d heard in his life.

He wishes he could have asked more. Learned more tales.

That wish is how he finds himself in Casterly Rocks library, a place he only really frequents when someone else makes him, in search of books of Northern tales and history.

It’s how uncle Tyrion finds him on one of the ladders with a scowl to his face and a dejection that he won’t find anything he’s looking for.

“I should alert the Citadel,” his uncle called, nearly startling him from his precarious balancing, “the young heir of the Rock finally visits the library with no outside pressures. A noteworthy event, one to be marked the calendars.”

“Well it’s not doing me a lot of good,” Jon grumbles, climbing down from the ladder and rubbing the dust from his hands down his pants. “I couldn’t find anything I was looking for.”

“Well I highly doubt you’ve searched the whole place,” Tyrion japes.

“That would take days.” Jon whines, glancing about the large collection of books and scrolls. “I’m more inclined to just give up and ask mother.”

“Oh?” Tyrion laughs, “that’s the first I’ve heard of you giving up on something in your life.”

“I’m not proud of it.”

“No; you shouldn’t be,” Tyrion glances about and starts in some other direction, motioning Jon to follow. “Giving up a pursuit of knowledge should never be a thing one’s proud of.” He stops by some other section further in the rows of shelves. “I assume this has something to do with your recent trip to the north?”

Jon nods, “I wanted to look up some stories, about the Starks and the Nights Watch.”

“The Nights Watch?” his uncle peered at him, when Jon nodded Tyrion simply shrugged and motioned for the young boy to grab the nearby ladder.

“Uncle Benjen talked of it, he was visiting too.”

“I imagine he would, when he heard of your mother making the journey north.”

“I liked what he told me, him and this old lady there. The stories sounded better than most of what Maester Creylen and Septa Cyrella tell us.”

“Do you want made-up stories or actual histories?” his uncle asked, his eyes scanning the tomes.

Jon paused, he knew there was likely a right answer for that. He also knew that it probably wasn’t the one that had first come to mind. In the end he answers almost timidly, “both, preferably.”

To his benefit his uncle laughs, “Alright.” He glances up the shelves again and adjusts the ladder, and climbs up it. Jon figures he should have offered to do it instead, but his uncle hardly ever liked being pitied and might have taken it as such. Tyrion is looking along the shelf and pulling out a few differing books, Jon steps up one of the steps and grabs them as they’re handed down.

“A book on northern folk tales, written by some half-drunk maester that served at the Last Hearth I believe,” Jon peers at the first book, “another of the history of the Long Night, imagine that will have to do with your Nights Watch beginnings, and that version is likely the least boring of the ones written. Though, some parts are still a bit of drag.” Jon settles the second book ontop of the first. “History and tales of prominent Starks of the ages. I’m sure your mother has knowledge if you wish further information than the maester who wrote that deigned to put.” Jon is settling the books in his arms when Tyrion climbs down with the last book, which seems almost the largest though the one on the Starks was considerably sized as well. “A history of the nights watch, it’s not entirely complete, as it is an old organization and things get lost to time.” Tyrion blows along the cover, a good bit of dust flying off and making Jons nose itch. “But, should tell you a good bit. I’ve only skimmed that one myself, so perhaps I’ll take a look as well.”

Jon shifted the books in his grasp, and frowned. “This feels like work the septa would give me.” He grumbled.

“You were the one in search of northern tales and history,” his uncle remarked with a teasing tone. “I’m simply proud you’ve finally sought a book all on your own.”

“I read plenty.”

“You could always read more.” His uncle counters.

“No one reads as much as you.” Jon points out.

His uncle laughs, “plenty of people read as much as me. Your mother for one reads near as much, and I imagine if she weren’t busy managing this keep she’d read more.” Tyrion glances to the books again, “you are under no requirement to read those tomes, though I will be annoyed that I went through climbing that ladder to get them for no reason.”

Jon looks at them himself, and sighs. “I’m going to read them.”

“Good.” Tyrion smiles, “I hope you enjoy them.” He starts towards another section of the library and calls back, “and that it entices you to read a bit more.”

Jon frowns but knows his uncle is only really in jest over the comment. He got on his father just the same about his aversion to books, and if Jon recalls his father is worse than him about it.

He shifts the books once more in his grasp before heading out from the library towards his room. Settling them across his desk he looks them over once more before settling on the history of the Starks, thinking that he should start by learning more of the family that half his blood hails from and go from there.

[skogmancalahan]

Tell me about your Jon & Bran feels.

ahhhhhhh, thank you for sending me this!! 

They are such an underrated relationship and y’all need to stop sleeping on them. They have a lot of parallels (books and show) and have similar storylines in regards to the white walkers but they also love each other a whole lot.

I mean look at them-

Part of him wanted nothing so much as to hear Bran laugh again. - Jon IX, AGOT 

 *cracks knuckles* get ready for the feels.

When we’re first introduced to Jon Snow, it's through Bran’s eyes and immediately you can feel the damn love. Jon takes himself out of the count for his brother who loves him so much.

He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. - Bran I, AGOT

And Jon’s goodbye to Bran?? It's so heartfelt and the first and only time he stands up to Catelyn (which we know took a lot of courage on his part). The show did us dirty by not showing us Jon’s tears. 

“He’s my brother,” he said. “You can’t stop me from seeing him.” 

“Bran,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I was afraid.” He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. Jon no longer cared. “Don’t die, Bran. Please. We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Me and Robb and the girls, everyone . . . ” - Jon II, AGOT

Leaving Bran behind like this literally breaks Jon’s heart. And he also tells Robb to take care of Bran. 

He remembered how excited Bran had been at the prospect of the journey. It was more than he could bear, the thought of leaving him behind like this. Jon brushed away his tears, leaned over, and kissed his brother lightly on the lips. - Jon II, AGOT

And then his reaction to realizing Bran has woken up is so precious. We see even Ned and Catelyn struggle with Bran’s new disability but all Jon cares about is that he’s alive. And fact that he cries again when Bran’s fate is unknown.

He looked at the words, but they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Bran was going to live.

Jon ran down the stairs, a smile on his face and Robb’s letter in his hand. “My brother is going to live,” he told the guards. They exchanged a look. He ran back to the common hall, where he found Tyrion Lannister just finishing his meal. He grabbed the little man under the arms, hoisted him up in the air, and spun him around in a circle. “Bran is going to live!” he whooped.  Jon III, AGOT

Even though he can’t be there for Bran physically, he makes sure to tell Tyrion to help him in some way. 

“I don’t know what message to send to Bran. Help him, Tyrion.” - Tyrion III, AGOT 

also, precious Jon giving his fish to Bran when he couldn’t catch one. And then Bran asks the heartbreaking question of whether he’ll see him again and the feels, y’all, the feels. 

“I didn’t catch anything,” Bran said, “but Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfell. Will we ever see Jon again?” - Bran IV, AGOT

Plus the ongoing foursome (robb, jon, arya, and bran) playing and doing activities together. 

he was a man grown now, a black brother of the Night’s Watch, not the boy who’d once sat at Old Nan’s feet with Bran and Robb and Arya. - Jon VII, AGOT

Playing, Jon thought in astonishment, grown men playing like children, throwing snowballs the way Bran and Arya once did, and Robb and me before them. - Jon XII, adwd

And when Jon deserts the night’s watch for Robb, he knows that even if he’s a deserter, Bran would most probably let him in. Bran, who knows deserters are killed, would probably break that rule for his brother even if maester luwin wouldn't. 

Jon knew he would find no safe haven. Not even at Winterfell. Bran might want to let him in, but Maester Luwin had better sense. - Jon IX, AGOT

lmfaoo Bran’s hatred for the Freys and him thinking a bastard can hold a keep. He and Arya are both super defensive of Jon’s place and it reminds us of how neither of them see Jon as anything less than their actual brother.

Ser Rodrik decreed that they would share Jon Snow’s old bedchamber, since Jon was in the Night’s Watch and never coming back. Bran hated that; it made him feel as if the Freys were trying to steal Jon’s place. - Bran I, acok 

“Then let Lord Hornwood’s bastard be the heir,” Bran said, thinking of his half brother Jon. - Bran II, acok 

Jon admiring Bran’s bravery and literally not caring what happens to him as long as Bran was safe.

They were close now, though. Jon could sense it. Even so, he did not think of the foes who were waiting for him, all unknowing, but of his brother at Winterfell. Bran used to love to climb. I wish I had a tenth part of his courage. - Jon VI, ACOK

And Bran activating Jon’s warging ability. Like that connection y’all, deep as hell. 

The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?- Jon VII, ACOK

My heart broke a little when Jon refused to believe Bran was dead.

“There’s some mistake,” he insisted. “At Queenscrown I saw a direwolf, a grey direwolf... grey.. . it knew me.” If Bran was dead, could some part of him live on in his wolf, as Orell lived within his eagle? -  Jon VI, ASOS

Bran risked Summer to save Jon’s life. Summer, who is a part of Bran, two and one, and yet Bran did it anyways and he doesn’t regret it.

“You helped your brother, if that was him in truth, but it almost cost you Summer.” 

Bran was terrified that Summer was off dying in the darkness. Please, you old gods, he prayed, you took Winterfell, and my father, and my legs, please don’t take Summer too. And watch over Jon Snow too, and make the wildlings go away.  - Bran IV, ASOS. 

Jon’s bitterness at knowing Tommen lived but Bran didn’t even though according to Jon, Bran was much more of a survivor. 

"At Winterfell Tommen fought my brother Bran with wooden swords. He wore so much padding he looked like a stuffed goose. Bran knocked him to the ground." Jon went to the window. "Yet Bran's dead, and pudgy pink-faced Tommen is sitting on the Iron Throne, with a crown nestled amongst his golden curls." - Sam I, AFFC

Bran not forgetting his pack, but especially remembering Ghost aka Jon.

No, the boy whispered, we have another pack. Lady's dead and maybe Grey Wind too, but somewhere there's still Shaggydog and Nymeria and Ghost. Remember Ghost? - Bran I, ADWD

and BAM! the most underrated relationship of the stark sibs. I can’t wait to see them reunited in the books! Thanks again for indulging my feels. 

[kaepop-trash]

AS: Proclamation

Rated: M for Smut, Angst.

Pairing: Jaehyun x Reader xYuta

Summary: Image makes up the life of a public servant. Being a person who needs to elected by the public only makes that worse. It all about image: the smiles, the babies at conventions, the fake girlfriend and far too many secrets. It doesn’t matter who you are behind closed doors, the people want a perfect candidate. One that doesn’t exist tangentially, only in the polls. Jaehyun knows this game better than everyone, and this is his olympic moment.

(A/N): special thanks to @jaehyunsbub for this wonderful banner. I love it so very incredibly much, it fits the tone of the fic so appropriately.

September, 2024

It was purely coincidental that Jaehyun had to be the only inhabitants of the house save for (Y/N). People started leaving in a rush once the hurricane warning was sounded. Even his parents were leaving claiming their presence at a dinner the next day. It was forecasted to rain heavily for the next three days and thunder was already quite audible.

Jaehyun was on the phone with a senator while (Y/N) sat on the large table at the side of the library, reading something with concentration. When the door opened Jaehyun turned only when she stood up, turning around his eyes met his father’s. Yet it was his mother’s gaze behind him, avoiding Jaehyun that both intrigued Jaehyun and unsettled him terribly— he turned to (Y/N) as an automated response.

“We wanted to speak to you.” His father spoke with a voice that struck him as too familiar, too dreadful. Jaehyun mumbled into the phone and hung up, his eyes met (Y/N) who had a similar unaccountable panic in hers. He turned to his father with hardened eyes as his parents came and sat on the sofa adjacent to him, “What did you think of the Jones family? Their daughter Olivia is very nice.” He spoke to his son with heavy approval in his tone. Jaehyun’s ears rang in the way it did before one blacks out and it made him wonder if he would collapse, his eyes were on his father but he wasn’t seeing much at the moment.

“I’m sorry?” His voice was slow, careful. His father’s demeanor seemed to solidify: his back stiff and his eyes resolute.

“I’ve spoken to the family, we think it's better to just get engaged instead of doing the dating thing. You're old enough." His father went on, the background he heard a chair scrape against the wooden floor. He didn't need to look up to protest.

"Sit down (Y/N)." His voice was resolute, when he looked up, she was watching him with a face clean of any expression. But her eyes watched him, "Sit down and listen." His eyes locked hers in place, she swallowed a lump down her throat. The distance the sky rumbled as the chair scraped back in place. She put her elbows on the table and watched him.

"I'm not going to get engaged to her." He turned around to his father, who grew increasingly restless and confused at the refusal.

"Why not? She's a fine girl!" He slapped the desk and both his mother and (Y/N) flinched.

"I'm sure she's great. But I'm not getting engaged." He sat back cooly, no remorse on his face. His father's face turned red and he stood up, flinging his hand across the air towards him with accusation.

"Why not?," He screamed so loudly the walls rattled, mirroring the oncoming storm. "Give me a reason Jung Jaehyun. I want to know what causes you to disobey me like this!" He spat across the room, his words razor sharp. Jaehyun turned to (Y/N) dismissively, his eyes fixing hers with curiosity and a sliver of hope.

"You know why I had to do it then right?" His voice was tender, his father was too saturated with rage to notice but his mother paid attention now.

"Yes. Working for him gave me credibility. It made me a worthy candidate." She didn't hesitate her eyes still stuck to his. Jaehyun cracked a smile, he was sure now.

"Yes and now you work for me." He reassured, "And nobody else matters." He shook his head once with resolution, she nodded in response, eyes filling in.

"What are you doing?" His father screamed so loud his ears rang, his voice filled the room and brought him out of the moment. "I don't want to hear anything you will—" His father began, Jaehyun turned, his gaze cold and feline sharp.

"I'm in love with (Y/N). If I'm marrying anyone it's her." He let the words out so easily that in that moment he wondered why he couldn't say it sooner, why he felt the need to conceal something that felt so normal. He even smiled at his father, his joy growing. When his mother gasped he turned to her, unsure of how to assist her emotions, "She makes me happy Mom, I mean that. I love her." He told her with sincerity: he needed one of them on his side.

"What utter bullshit are you coming up with? You love her? You think that's going to take you places? You've lost your senses!" He screamed more and in that moment Jaehyun wondered if the pulsing vein on his temple would explode.

"I don't know about love. But she'll get me places further than you and your manicured selections. I'm tired of you father, leave me alone. You want a son in government you have it, you want a son who's president." He took a deep breath, lips splitting into a smile, full of years of silence—misplaced power, "You won't get it unless I'm with her. Imagine if people find out I was with her all along. Nan even gave me her ring a year ago, they asked me to bring their granddaughter home. You know how she is, she just wants to see her daughter's son happy; the silly woman." He laughed bitterly. His father sat down while rubbing his face.

"What the fuck is all this Jaehyun? She's a criminals daughter. You asked your mother's father for his old ring, so I'm supposed to be okay with this atrocity?" He glared at his son, his voice hoarse but still loud, gritty words scratching against his sandpaper throat and spilling out harsh and abrasive.

"She's the lawyer who passed a unanimous law on a landmark judgement at the supreme court. The only person stuck in the past is you. You don't have to be okay with anything. You just need to shut up or get out of my life. Either way I'm done with this idea that what you ask me to do is a compulsion and not a suggestion. Who I marry is not up to your made up calculations based on made up beliefs. No one cares, most of all me." Jaehyun sat back; when he turned away, he almost missed his father lunging at his and his mother moving forward to stop him. The chair slid again and when his mother grabbed his father's arm, she was at his side.

"What are you doing? You can't hit a grown man!" His mother cried out while hauling him back.

"I'll do what it takes to keep my son in place!" His father roared, his mother pulling him back harder.

"Jaehyun move, your mom can't hold him." (Y/N) pulled him urgently, growing more eager when he refused to budge, "Please Jaehyun, he's going to kill you." When he turned to her at her whisper, her eyes were desperate, he shook his head and let out a scoff.

"He's not going to do anything. You know I'm too pale father, how will I explain a man sized red palm on my face to the press." He paused, tapping the arm of the sofa and humming thoughtfully, " In fact, you might just make it easier for me if you do hit me. It wouldn't take a day to explain why I had to cut you off for my happiness. You know how sentimental voters are." Jaehyun's voice was level, unafraid of the body looming over him, with years of similar sights of torture on his shoulder. But this time Jaehyun didn't need to flinch, his father might have had tradition on his side, but now Jaehyun had power on his. He watched as his father's body lost it's rage, coming to terms with the corner he was backed into as all untamed species usually are.

"Good. You understand now. Sure you don't approve, but you'll learn soon enough that the protest isn't worth it: I've watched you for years father, I know you." The room went silent after his remark, nothing left to say on his part.

"I'm never going to accept that leeches daughter as my daughter in law! Do you think that because I had pity on you and gave you a chance at the same opportunity as my son that somehow you're his equal? Don't you know how to appreciate charity?" His questioned her and she faced him, eyes sharp and unflinching.

"You put my father in jail. Took my rightful place at law school away and then gave me a loan and a job that you made me work myself off for your benefit. Just because I have the gentility to not come screaming at you, doesn't mean I don't know that your act wasn't charity as much as you assuaging your guilt with a throwaway act. I'm not daft Mr. Jung, only polite." She responded to him softly, ignoring his wide glares. She got up quietly after that and left, he didn’t stop her because she had seen what she had to.

“You can leave now father, there’s nothing else left to be discussed.” Jaehyun got up promptly, fixing his shirt and leaving the library.

He only kept putting off leaving because she spent the whole day outside with that horse.

Jaehyun remembered the time he was running through the grounds of his school at an ungodly early hour, preparing for a rowing match, when he spotted the most magnificent horse he had ever seen, it's skin was this shade of rich brown that looked almost red in the light filtering through the tree it was sniffing under. Jaehyun was mesmerised by the way it's hide gleamed in the sun and he moved a little closer to it.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.” A voice stopped his movement. He turned around to find a familiar face sitting under a tree, a half bitten plum in her hands, “She's a bit moody. Kicks like a nightmare.” She got up, picking up a hard looking helmet as her boots clicked with her steps.

“Is she yours?” He asked quizzically, tilting his head when she scoffed.

“I wish. It's just that I'm the only person she'll tolerate, so I ride her. She's quite good, incredibly fast. People just don't seem to find the patience for her.” She looked up and went over to the horse, petting it's snout gently. The horse seemed to respond to the gesture with a huff and a shake of it's head and (Y/N) seemed to laugh with delight. Jaehyun watched this happen before him.

“Merlot likes being pet but she won't admit it.” She smiled a little wider and Jaehyun mirrored it. He took a hesitant step closer and the horse seemed to grow restless as it clicked his hooves. Jaehyun took two safe steps back and stood back a little flustered.

“Calm down drama queen.” She smacked the horse's head and it nudged her making her chastise it again.

“I'm sorry she's horrible. I love it when people show her affection because she loves it, but she's a little shy.” She spoke about it like a person with character and it made him look over the creature again.

“It's alright (Y/N).” He smiled and she blinked thrice, caught by his charming smile and the way the early morning rays reflected in his eyes, before looking away and nodding, “I guess she's an acquired taste.” Jaehyun looked up at the horse while he spoke, nodding decidedly at the idea— frowning at the creature that seemed to be frowning back at him. He turned back to her when she laughed.

“I guess that's what it is.” She laughed once more, before lifting herself up to her saddle and riding away with a last nod of acknowledgement. As Jaehyun walked back to his room to get ready for class, he wondered why the encounter he had moments ago felt like something he'd dream when he's half awake. He just shook it away and planned his day ahead.

Jaehyun stood on the porch with a steaming cup of coffee before he had to put it down on the wrought iron table outside and venture out to spot the person he was in search of. It had started raining twenty minutes ago and she had made no gesture to return so Jaehyun decided to venture out with a large umbrella in his hand. His parents were still packing in the house and he saw her mother doing the same when he left his room. He ducked under a tree as he reached the edge of the raised hill the house was on— under which he saw the stable. As he had predicted, a light shone from inside through the dense downpour and with the promise of that he walked down the muddy slope and reached the stable with his pants soaked heavy with mud and parts of his shirt damp. His senses were the first to be assaulted by the stench of his surroundings as he looked at two restless horses on one side as they clicked their legs endlessly against the hay covered ground.

“Don't you want to go inside?” He spoke to the figure sitting in the corner on a metal chair, her hair dripping down and stuck to her cheeks.

“They're frightened. I can’t leave them.” She lifted her hand to point at the horses, “Go back inside, I'll be back in a while.” She mumbled as he came and bend down in front of her, pushing the hair out of her face and tightening his grip on her face when he realised how cold it was. This close he could see her trembling lips, beads of water jumping gently against the skin.

“Go.” She pushed his hand away and he combed his fingers through her hair, watching her close her eyes.

“How can I leave you in a storm when you're so frightened?” His voice was soft and her eyes fluttered open to catch his face, he gave her a gentle smile.

When he finally convinced her to go inside the house, her mother was waiting in the kitchen, who looked up when two silhouettes entered from the backdoor, setting her mug of coffee on the marble counter and looking between them. When her eyes focused on (Y/N) there was a passing guilt in them.

“If the reporter left because of me, I apologise for my behaviour.” She looked away from her with no remorse for him.

Jaehyun watched (Y/N) carefully as she caught the flesh behind her lower lip in her teeth, staring at her mother with an increasingly contorted face. She looked away from her and turned to Jaehyun, he didn’t bother looking away anymore.

“Sure.” She moved away from the door and towards the stairs, leaving pools of water in her path and disappearing to the first floor without another word. Jaehyun watched with a little disbelief. 

“If you ever ruin my daughter for your personal gains, i’ll destroy myself if it assures that the same happens to your family.” She spoke out to him, making him turn away from the entrance of the kitchen to her mother. It took him another moment to understand her words, cautious of them.

“Why did you do it?” He gave in to his curiosity. He wasn’t oblivious to her animosity towards him, he also didn’t underestimate the women’s intelligence to assume she didn’t understand. He had to but consider whose mother she was. She turned up to him as headlights crossed her face, eyes flooded with duty and Jaehyun almost pitied her.

“Because she’ll get rid of you by herself. Self-preservation has always been her way. I couldn’t trust an actual good man.” She stood up after that, picking up her things and leaving without a word.