#murder at the gallop

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Murder at the Gallop (George Pollock, 1963)

[nine-frames]

"Well, I've done some riding in my time, you know." "Oh?" "Junior Silver Spurs, Brockbrook, 1910."

Murder at the Gallop, 1963.

Dir. George Pollock | Writ. James P. Cavanagh | DOP Arthur Ibbetson

[espantajerias]

Murder at the Gallop (1963) George Pollock.

[1day1movie]

Murder at the Gallop (1963) George Pollock.

[fuddlyduddly]

currently ridiculously enamoured by this gorgeously clocky extra in a Miss Marple film from the 60's

[frances-baby-houseman]

I put on Gladiator 1 and y'all, this is pretty entertaining! If someone asked me if I was not entertained, I would say actually I am entertained!

[collinsportmaine]

“Murder at the Gallop” (1963) was the second of Margaret Rutherford’s Miss Marple movies. It was based on “After the Funeral”, one of Agatha Christie’s Poirot mysteries.

[insipid-drivel]

Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap

I'm going to go ahead and preface this with: I comment pretty regularly on clips and photos featuring horses and horseback riding, often answering questions or providing explanations for how or why certain things are done. I was a stable hand and barrel racer growing up, and during my 11 year tenure on tumblr, Professional Horse Commentary is a very niche, yet very necessary, subject that needs filling. Here are some of the literary and creative gaps I've noticed in well meaning (and very good!) creators trying to portray horses and riding realistically that... well, most of you don't seem to even be aware of, because you wouldn't know unless you worked with horses directly!

Some Of The Most Common Horse + Riding Mistakes I See:

-Anybody can ride any horse if you hold on tight enough/have ridden once before.

Nope. No, no, no, no, aaaaaaaand, no. Horseback riding has, historically, been treated as a life skill taught from surprisingly young ages. It wasn't unusual in the pre-vehicular eras to start teaching children as young as 4 to begin to ride, because horses don't come with airbags, and every horse is different. For most adults, it can take months or years of regular lessons to learn to ride well in the saddle, and that's just riding; not working or practicing a sport.

Furthermore, horses often reject riders they don't know. Unless a horse has been trained like a teaching horse, which is taught to tolerate riders of all skill and experience levels, it will take extreme issue with having some random person try to climb on their back. Royalty, nobility, and the knighted classes are commonly associated with the "having a favorite special horse" trope, because it's true! Just like you can have a particularly special bond with a pet or service animal that verges on parental, the same can apply with horses. Happy horses love their owners/riders, and will straight-up do their best to murder anyone that tries to ride them without permission.

-Horses are stupid/have no personality.

There isn't a more dangerous assumption to make than assuming a horse is stupid. Every horse has a unique personality, with traits that can be consistent between breeds (again, like cat and dog breeds often have distinct behavior traits associated with them), but those traits manifest differently from animal to animal.

My mother had an Arabian horse, Zipper, that hated being kicked as a signal to gallop. One day, her mom and stepdad had a particularly unpleasant visitor; an older gentleman that insisted on riding Zipper, but refused to listen to my mother's warnings never to kick him. "Kicking" constitutes hitting the horse's side(s) with your heels, whether you have spurs on or not. Most horses only need a gentle squeeze to know what you want them to do.

Anyway, Zipper made eye-contact with my mom, asking for permission. He understood what she meant when she nodded at him. He proceeded to give this asshole of a rider road rash on the side of the paddock fence and sent him to the emergency room. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't have the permission from the rider he respected, and was intelligent enough to ask, "mind if I teach this guy a lesson?" with his eyes, and understand, "Go for it, buddy," from my mom in return.

-Riding bareback is possible to do if you hold onto the horse's mane really tight.

Riding a horse bareback (with no saddle, stirrups, or traditional harness around the horse's head) is unbelievably difficult to learn, particularly have testicles and value keeping them. Even professional riders and equestrians find ourselves relying on tack (the stuff you put on a horse to ride it) to stay stable on our horses, even if we've been riding that particular horse for years and have a very positive, trusting relationship.

Horses sweat like people do. The more they run, the more their hair saturates with sweat and makes staying seated on them slippery. Hell, an overworked horse can sweat so heavily that the saddle slips off its back. It's also essential to brush and bathe a horse before it's ridden in order to keep it healthier, so their hair is often quite slick from either being very clean or very damp. In order to ride like that, you have to develop the ability to synchronize your entire body's rhythm's with the rhythm of the horse's body beneath you, and quite literally move as one. Without stirrups, most people can't do it, and some people can never master bareback riding no matter how many years they spend trying to learn.

-You can be distracted and make casual conversation while a horse is standing untethered in the middle of a barn or field.

At every barn I've ever worked at, it's been standard practice with every single horse, regardless of age or temperament, to secure their heads while they're being tacked up or tacked down. The secures for doing this are simple ropes with clips that are designed to attach to the horse's halter (the headwear for a horse that isn't being ridden; they have no bit that goes in the horse's mouth, and no reins for a rider to hold) on metal O rings on either side of the horse's head. This is not distressing to the horse, because we give them plenty of slack to turn their heads and look around comfortably.

The problem with trying to tack up an unrestrained horse while chatting with fellow stable hands or riders is that horses know when you're distracted! And they often try to get away with stuff when they know you're not looking! In a barn, a horse often knows where the food is stored, and will often try to tiptoe off to sneak into the feed room.

Horses that get into the feed room are often at a high risk of dying. While extremely intelligent, they don't have the ability to throw up, and they don't have the ability to tell that their stomach is full and should stop eating. Allowing a horse into a feed/grain room WILL allow it to eat itself to death.

Other common woes stable hands and riders deal with when trying to handle a horse with an unrestrained head is getting bitten! Horses express affection between members of their own herd, and those they consider friends and family, through nibbling and surprisingly rough biting. It's not called "horseplay" for nothing, because during my years working with horses out in the pasture, it wasn't uncommon at all for me to find individuals with bloody bite marks on their withers (that high part on the middle of the back of their shoulders most people instinctively reach for when they try to get up), and on their backsides. I've been love-bitten by horses before, and while flattering, they hurt like hell on fleshy human skin.

So, for the safety of the horse, and everybody else, always make a show of somehow controlling the animal's head when hands-on and on the ground with them.

-Big Horse = War Horse

Startlingly, the opposite is usually the case! Draft and carriage horses, like Percherons and Friesians, were never meant to be used in warfare. Draft horses are usually bred to be extremely even-tempered, hard to spook, and trustworthy around small children and animals. Historically, they're the tractors of the farm if you could afford to upgrade from oxen, and were never built to be fast or agile in a battlefield situation.

More importantly, just because a horse is imposing and huge doesn't make it a good candidate for carrying heavy weights. A real thing that I had to be part of enforcing when I worked at a teaching ranch was a weight limit. Yeah, it felt shitty to tell people they couldn't ride because we didn't have any horses strong enough to carry them due to their weight, but it's a matter of the animal's safety. A big/tall/chonky horse is more likely to be built to pull heavy loads, but not carry them flat on their spines. Horses' muscular power is predominantly in their ability to run and pull things, and too heavy a rider can literally break a horse's spine and force us to euthanize it.

Some of the best war horses out there are from the "hot blood" family. Hot blooded horses are often from dry, hot, arid climates, are very small and slight (such as Arabian horses), and are notoriously fickle and flighty. They're also a lot more likely to paw/bite/kick when spooked, and have even sometimes been historically trained to fight alongside their rider if their rider is dismounted in combat; kicking and rearing to keep other soldiers at a distance.

-Any horse can be ridden if it likes you enough.

Just like it can take a lifetime to learn to ride easily, it can take a lifetime of training for a horse to comfortably take to being ridden or taking part in a job, like pulling a carriage. Much like service animals, horses are typically trained from extremely young ages to be reared into the job that's given to them, and an adult horse with no experience carrying a rider is going to be just as scared as a rider who's never actually ridden a horse.

Just as well, the process of tacking up a horse isn't always the most comfortable experience for the horse. To keep the saddle centered on the horse's back when moving at rough or fast paces, it's essential to tighten the belly strap (cinch) of the saddle as tightly as possible around the horse's belly. For the horse, it's like wearing a tight corset, chafes, and even leaves indents in their skin afterward that they love having rinsed with water and scratched. Some horses will learn to inflate their bellies while you're tightening the cinch so you can't get it as tight as it needs to be, and then exhale when they think you're done tightening it.

When you're working with a horse wearing a bridle, especially one with a bit, it can be a shocking sensory experience to a horse that's never used a bit before. While they lack a set of teeth naturally, so the bit doesn't actually hurt them, imagine having a metal rod shoved in your mouth horizontally! Unless you understand why it's important for the person you care about not dying, you'd be pretty pissed about having to keep it in there!

-Horseback riding isn't exercise.

If you're not using every muscle in your body to ride with, you're not doing it right.

Riding requires every ounce of muscle control you have in your entire body - although this doesn't mean it wasn't realistic for people with fat bodies to stay their weight while also being avid riders; it doesn't mean the muscles aren't there. To stay on the horse, you need to learn how it feels when it moves at different gaits (walk, trot, canter, gallop), how to instruct it to switch leads (dominant legs; essential for precise turning and ease of communication between you and the horse), and not falling off. While good riders look like they're barely moving at all, that's only because they're good riders. They know how to move so seamlessly with the horse, feeling their movements like their own, that they can compensate with their legs and waists to not bounce out of the saddle altogether or slide off to one side. I guarantee if you ride a horse longer than 30 minutes for the first time, your legs alone will barely work and feel like rubber.

-Horses aren't affectionate.

Horses are extraordinarily affectionate toward the right people. As prey animals, they're usually wary of people they don't know, or have only recently met. They also - again, like service animals - have a "work mode" and a "casual mode" depending upon what they're doing at the time. Horses will give kisses like puppies, wiggle their upper lips on your hair/arms to groom you, lean into neck-hugs, and even cuddle in their pasture or stall if it's time to nap and you join them by leaning against their sides. If they see you coming up from afar and are excited to see you, they'll whinny and squeal while galloping to meet you at the gate. They'll deliberately swat you with their tails to tease you, and will often follow you around the pasture if they're allowed to regardless of what you're up to.

-Riding crops are cruel.

Only cruel people use riding crops to hurt their horses. Spurs? I personally object to, because any horse that knows you well doesn't need something sharp jabbing them in the side for emphasis when you're trying to tell them where you want them to go. Crops? Are genuinely harmless tools used for signalling a horse.

I mean, think about it. Why would crops be inherently cruel instruments if you need to trust a horse not to be afraid of you and throw you off when you're riding it?

Crops are best used just to lightly tap on the left or right flank of the horse, and aren't universally used with all forms of riding. You'll mainly see crops used with English riding, and they're just tools for communicating with the horse without needing to speak.

-There's only one way to ride a horse.

Not. At. All. At most teaching ranches, you'll get two options: Western, or English, because they tend to be the most popular for shows and also the most common to find equipment for. English riding uses a thinner, smaller saddle, narrower stirrups, and much thinner bridles. I, personally, didn't like English style riding because I never felt very stable in such a thin saddle with such small stirrups, and didn't start learning until my mid teens. English style riding tends to focus more on your posture and deportment in the saddle, and your ability to show off your stability and apparent immovability on the horse. It was generally just a bit too stiff and formal for me.

Western style riding utilizes heavier bridles, bigger saddles (with the iconic horn on the front), and broader stirrups. Like its name may suggest, Western riding is more about figuring out how to be steady in the saddle while going fast and being mobile with your upper body. Western style riding is generally the style preferred for working-type shows, such as horseback archery, gunning, barrel racing, and even rodeo riding.

-Wealthy horse owners have no relationship with their horses.

This is loosely untrue, but I've seen cases where it is. Basically, horses need to feel like they're working for someone that matters to them in order to behave well with a rider and not get impatient or bored. While it's common for people to board horses at off-property ranches (boarding ranches) for cost and space purposes, it's been historically the truth that having help is usually necessary with horses at some point. What matters is who spends the most time with the animal treating it like a living being, rather than a mode of transport or a tool. There's no harm in stable hands handling the daily upkeep; hay bales and water buckets are heavy, and we're there to profit off the labor you don't want or have the time to do. You get up early to go to work; we get up early to look after your horses. Good owners/boarders visit often and spend as much of their spare time as they can with spending quality work and playtime with their horses. Otherwise, the horses look to the stable hands for emotional support and care.

So, maybe you're writing a knight that doesn't really care much for looking after his horse, but his squire is really dedicated to keeping up with it? There's a better chance of the horse having a more affectionate relationship with the squire thanks to the time the squire spends on looking after it, while the horse is more likely to tolerate the knight that owns it as being a source of discipline if it misbehaves. That doesn't mean the knight is its favorite person. When it comes to horses, their love must be earned, and you can only earn it by spending time with them hands-on.

-Horses can graze anywhere without concern.

This is a mistake that results in a lot of premature deaths! A big part of the cost of owning a horse - even before you buy one - is having the property that will be its pasture assessed for poisonous plants, and having those plants removed from being within the animal's reach. This is an essential part of farm upkeep every year, because horses really can't tell what's toxic and what isn't. One of the reasons it's essential to secure a horse when you aren't riding it is to ensure it only has a very limited range to graze on, and it's your responsibility as the owner/rider to know how to identify dangerous plants and keep your horses away from them.

There's probably more. AMA in my askbox if you have any questions, but that's all for now. Happy writing.

[hedgehog-moss]

Pampérigouste escaped today and I almost didn't make a post about it because it's just more of the same isn't it? do people who read this blog really want to hear about yet another Pampe escape? Then I thought, that's like asking if people who read detective novels really want to hear about yet another mysterious murder. Probably yes. Also Pampe would have been offended to have such a successful escape go unreported.

I would like to say that my new fence is still fully Pampe-proof. She has not escaped a single time through breaking or outsmarting the fence, so now she does it by outsmarting me. Which doesn't happen all that often, because we are intellectual equals. But I let my guard down this morning—I'd just peeled some greenhouse carrots to make purée and I went into the pasture to distribute the peelings even though it was raining (see how I got punished for my selflessness?), and I left the gate open because I was right in front of it, obstructing it with my body.

Pampe dropped her carrot peelings and acted like she couldn't find them even though they were right under her feet, so I took pity on her and crouched down to gather them and offer them to her again (see how I'm getting punished for my compassion??) and she took advantage of this diversion. In the span of 0.2 seconds she slithered around me and she was out. It was a little bit beautiful. I don't know if you remember this photo of Pampe & Pyrgus, but it's a perfect illustration of what happened:

I sighed and ignored her and finished distributing the peelings to the other animals, and then went to the barn to get muesli to lure my nuisance back to her pasture. After escaping she initially ran towards the woods, but since I ignored her the whole time, she emerged from the woods when I returned, like, wait, did you notice I escaped? Behind your back, just earlier? Did you notice how I won and you lost?

It shouldn't have been difficult to get her back into the pasture with the help of her favourite snack; unfortunately Pampoldine is still a big baby who was distraught that her mum had left her behind yet again (she should be used to it, honestly, it's been like this since she was an infant), she started making these little panicky noises that Pampe has never paid any attention to—

—so when I propped the gate open with a branch to get Pampe back inside, Poldine hurried out instead. I wasn't expecting this, I thought it was clear that I had the situation under control and her mum would be back in 5 seconds. You could have just waited 5 seconds, Poldine.

Pampelune had no interest in escaping, but she's the matriarch and where her herd goes, she goes, so once the other two were out she barrelled past me as well. I opened the gate to bring 1 llama in and instead 2 llamas went out. Pirlouit besides me was like

For some reason the llamas galloped towards the road, instead of just hanging out in the woods where there's stuff to eat. Maybe because Pampe hadn't gone out in a long time and she wanted to be admired for her feat. Her wish was granted—2 cars stopped to say hi as I was miserably trotting after my llamas on the road in the rain. One of them was the post office lady who once herded my animals out of a pasture with her car, and she was like hop in, it'll be like old times!!!

The two people who stopped their car were enchanted with the encounter and they both told me that they missed the days when Pampe Sightings on this road were a regular thing. No one sides with my fence in the Pampe v. Fence conflict. I love the post office lady though, she had a Niagara song playing in her car when I got in and a minute later I muttered "I'll sell her to the butcher" and she started singing "Pampe ♪ Je vais devoir te vendre au boucher ♫" to the tune of that song. It fit the tune really well, too.

After we managed to get the llamas off the main road and back in the woods, she was like, godspeed, I wish I could continue chasing them with you but I have to go make lunch for my kids. I told her that now that the llamas were no longer on the road I'd just let them roam, they'll come home before night, no way I'm going to chase after them in the woods in this dog weather. So I went home and grumpily resumed peeling carrots and potatoes for my mash.

I sat in front of the window to do it so I could keep an eye on Pirlouit, who was wandering around the pasture like a cursed soul, drenched with rain, lonely and llamaforsaken. Sometimes he brayed to try and guide his friends back home, wherever they were, but he never brayed while I was filming. His braying is a poignant display of emotion and is not for public consumption.

I figured, if the llamas come back Pirou will spot them and perk up his immense ears, and I'll know to go out and open the gate. Instead at some point I looked up from my potatoes and saw my donkey finally at peace, grazing rather than pacing restlessly, and I went to look outside and his friends were back! And so was his appetite.

I had new peelings + some muesli to offer, but of course Pampe could tell this offering was a crude and blatant trap and refused to fall for it. Meanwhile her innocent daughter was like yay, snacks :) and followed me in the pasture, a llama entirely devoid of wiles.

After I got Poldine back inside I went like WELL since NOBODY else wants that delicious MUESLI I guess these deserving chickens can have it—and Pampe was here in the blink of an eye to shoo the hens away from her muesli.

She was grudgingly smiling about it, too. Like, point for you.

I love this pic where my chicken looks like she's herding the animals back in their pasture all by herself.

Everyone is home! Pampe and Pandolf are walking away in search of new adventures, Poldine follows her mum because of her abandonment issues, and Pirlouit is also following everyone very closely, like, I'm not getting left behind again.

I finally managed to cook my mashed carrots & potatoes (+ herbs from the greenhouse) and it's so nice to make food with nothing but ingredients you grew yourself! (To be completely honest I only managed to grow 3 carrots in the past few months but that's because I neglected them in pursuit of more flashy summer vegetables)

I also had an apple-plum compote for dessert made with my own fruit <3 Okay, the cheese course in between was store-bought. One of my friends really wants me to get goats and be self-sufficient in cheese and when I told her I would be constantly chasing my goats over hill and dale because they have a reputation to be insufferable escape artists she was like, what difference will it make to your life...

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 5) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

-

As it happens, the sun does rise the next day. 

You wake up gummy-mouthed, brow furrowing before your eyes even open. Sunlight filters in through the curtains, diaphanous and left open from the night before. Warmer than usual. It draws you back into its arms for a brief moment, ensconced in its warmth, bathed in the fuzzy in-between of wake and sleep. 

Memories trickle in slowly at first. It comes piecemeal; your first thoughts, a shallow pool that ripples when you dip your hands in, memories of the day previous scattering until you wait for them to come back together. You open your eyes to the window opposite you again. When you blink, it doesn’t fade like a dream. Your lips purse unconsciously because the truth is that you can’t recall ever sleeping in a room with a window. Or in a bed as comfortable as the one you’re in.

An arm around your waist pulls you in tight.

Your stomach swoops when you register the body behind you, a bracket of warmth at your back. Your immediate instinct is to kick away, go flailing off the edge of the bed and frantically search for the nearest object to brandish at the man in your bed. Then a hand runs up from your belly to cup your breast and your thoughts fizzle out again. His hand closes around the flesh and holds there, slotting your nipple between two thick fingers. Even with the fabric of your shift separating his hand from your skin, the feeling is electrifying. 

He grumbles against the back of your head and the sound reverberates through you. A full body shudder. Mildly peeved that your neck breaks out in a sweat. The sound is familiar though, as is the way he chuffs in his sleep, a brief expelling of air that glides over the naked skin of your neck. 

Something about his touch makes it click. You remember the glimmer of his badge and the rattle of the belt around his waist. The memory of his touch is bone deep; you’ve known John Price for less than two days, but you’ve felt almost every part of him by now. 

His legs tangle with yours under the sheets, a big thigh slotted through yours, giving you a perch to sit on. The two of you completely intertwined. You don’t remember falling asleep wrapped around him; maybe the slightest cuddle before rolling away to the edge of the bed.

When the hand on your breast squeezes, you inhale sharply. Loud. It echoes in the small room, the only sound apart from Price’s slow, even breaths. Part of you aches to move his hand. Again, he touches you where no one’s touched you before. You count your blessings that the sound of your gasp hardly makes him stir, sure that if Price were to wake up now, he’d never let you live down the way your nipples bead at his touch. 

As if your traitorous body answers to you these days. Your skin heats and sweats without your approval, heart always at a gallop when the man now known as your husband lingers close to you or sets a hand on your waist. Maybe in time it’ll become easier to withstand his touch, but the thought of lingering in his house even a week longer puts you on edge. 

It feels more like a curse than a blessing when his hand slowly draws back down the length of your chest. Panic sets in the moment his hand twitches, worried that Price might have woken up, but he breathes the same. Even, deep. He’s touchy in his sleep, always looking for some part of you to hold. You relax for a moment when his hand lingers on your belly. The weight is almost comforting, in a sense. Tender.

Then, it dips farther down. 

“John—John—” you whisper frantically, voice far too thin to pierce through the veil of sleep still shrouding him, trying to push his hand back up to no avail. He grunts in his sleep, curling around you. 

The hand on your belly sinks between your legs. It bunches up your shift, dragging the fabric of your nightdress between your legs. Your heart thunders in your chest. 

He cups your sex roughly, a firm hold that doesn’t budge when you try to squirm away. You’ve felt those fingers on your backside and curled around your wrist and threaded between your fingers, but between your thighs his palm feels wide. A man’s hand. The texture of his calloused fingers is dulled through the fabric of your shift, but you swear you can feel its heat.

He rocks the palm of his hand into your sex, the heel rubbing up into the apex of your thighs, making your whimpers go feathery and frail. You nearly bite clean through your bottom lip trying to stave off the moan crawling up your throat. His fingers rub at your hole through the gusset of your underwear and shift, the tip pushing just barely inside. 

A fevered, aching hotness spreads in your belly when his fingers sink in just the slightest bit. You can feel how sopping wet the fabric is, where he uses your own slickness to push inside. 

John practically growls when you finally cave and press your hand over his, tilting his hand just enough to grind the heel of his palm against your pearl. The shame is almost unbearable, so desperate for pleasure that you’d use a man in his sleep to reach your end. Hardly your heaviest sin, but it sinks into you anyway, another feather on the scale. Still, you choke back a suffering gasp and press down harder into his hand.

Pleasure suffuses through you when he grinds his palm just right. First, utter relief, the tension draining from between your shoulder blades and dripping onto the bed under you. Then, burning hotter than before, chewing your lip to keep quiet, terrified that you might wake John. Terrified that he might not, might keep you hovering over the edge with your feet kicking out. 

You’ve played at touching yourself before, but never with a firm, steady hand. Never without the aftertaste of guilt. It whispers in the back of your mind even now, a thorny prick, but then it whispers something else. It’s not sinful if he’s your husband, mumbled deliciously into the whorl of your ear, in John’s voice somehow. A husband doesn’t ask forgiveness for spreading his wife’s thighs open. He takes what’s his. 

John ruts against your bottom, huffing into your neck when you bite off a wail and breathe out heavier instead. The heavy shaft between his legs that you’d gotten a glimpse of the night before presses into the curve of your backside to nearly the small of your back. Thicker, hard as it is; you can only imagine how it’d feel to have that inside of you, to have him lay you flat on your back and bury his length into you. 

His hand tightens over your mound, gripping harder than before. Two fingers nudging at your entrance break you. It sends you down the side of a waterfall, frantically trying to swim your way back before plummeting down into the frothy depths, directionless in the water until you surface. 

John spills inside his trousers against your back. You feel it when he grunts and jerks against your backside one last time. 

You lie there, basking in the aftermath while the sun warms up the room. It’ll be at least an hour before the heat truly sets in. For now, it’s a gentle warmth. John’s hand is a loose hold between your legs now, petting your sex softly in his sleep. You feel your guilt just on the periphery, waiting with bated breath for you to come back down to earth. 

You feel John shift behind you and then a kiss is pressed into the crown of your head. Every inch of your body stills. 

“Morning, darlin’,” your husband croons, the smile thick in his voice. “That was a nice way to start the day.”

You’ve felt embarrassment before. You’ve felt shame, humiliation, horror, terror, guilt, and a medley of other sentiments that are part and parcel of living at the behest of others. So it’s not embarrassment that leaves you lying frozen in bed while John climbs out of the other side of the bed, but perhaps its cousin. 

It weighs on you so heavily that you can hardly even bring yourself to twist your head towards him. 

“You were—” your voice is brittle-thin when you speak “—awake?” 

He divests his nightwear with ease, pulling out a new day’s pants and shirt from the chest of drawers and then rounding the bed to take a knee by your side and cup your cheek. Not the same hand, you think wildly, staring at him wide eyed, still lying on your side. Frozen there. Tempted to say something else until he leans forward to press a firm kiss to your forehead. 

“I’m an early riser,” he says, a warm smile spreading across his face. He’s got a lovely smile, you think in a daze. 

He leaves you alone in the room, whistling on his way down the stairs. They creak one-by-one under his weight. When you finally sit up in the bed, you can vaguely hear him rummaging around in the kitchen. A pot clanging against a counter before the sound of the screen door shutting behind him. He must’ve gone to the well to fetch water. 

It takes an age for you to find the strength to get up out of bed. There’s still a wet spot on the front of your shift that makes you blink when it brushes against your legs. Then heat up like a roast duck. You’re tempted to change into your daywear and maybe bury the shift somewhere out back where you never have to acknowledge it ever again, but when you look over at the chest of drawers, all you can think of is John dropping trou just a moment ago. 

Your stomach aches all over again.

You limp hot-cheeked down the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast. The smell of fresh brewed coffee wafts from down the hall. You take a peek out the front window before joining him. Still hesitant, embarrassed like you’ve been caught. And you have been, you know. Caught and reeled in. Dragged to a courthouse and married to a man who hasn’t yet called you anything other than darling and honey. You wonder if he even remembers your name—or, your supposed name. 

Beyond the dirt trampled horse pen, a thick blanket of wild grass sways gently in the morning breeze, dotted with white wildflowers. Hardly a cloud in the sky today. Bluer than the bluest sea. This early, the sun only glints in the eye, a spectral everywhereness about it. In the noontime, it’ll hover overhead and glare down balefully, a sweltering curse. 

In the kitchen, John pours coffee into two cups. Rich stuff, not the bitter sludge served on the train or the watery cocoa that your aunt used to make to carry you through the brutal east coast winter months. You get a whiff of chicory. 

It must amuse him to hear you hovering in the doorway before creeping tentatively into the kitchen because he looks up with a little smile. You keep shame as a periapt around your neck these days, it seems; it must jingle when you walk. 

“Good morning,” John says. 

“You know—I didn’t know you were awake,” you blurt out, fists clenched at your sides. 

His eyes twinkle. “I caught on to that when you froze like a mouse.” 

The comparison makes your lips twitch. “You should’ve told me that you were awake.” You don’t have any right to scold him. Even as the words come out of your mouth, you know how foolish they sound and what they say about you. Little harlot that chases her pleasure with her sleeping husband’s hand. 

“Told you?”

“It’s only polite.”

“Polite.” There’s a teasing note in his voice that ruffles your feathers.

“It’s only right.” 

“Well then. Want me to wake you up the right way next time?” he asks instead, leaning back against the countertop. 

You frown. “The right way?”

He holds out a hand, beckoning you to him. You go, but with a stumbling step, nearly tripping into him when you take his hand. Without the barrier of your shift, you can feel the calluses on his hand when your fingers run over his palm. A shiver races down your spine. He reels you into his chest and holds you in place with a hand on your low back, pulling you so close to him that you’re practically leaning against him, as tangled as you were upstairs in the bed. 

John lets go of your hand to tip your chin up. “Barely got my hand wet, darling. Next time, I’m gonna pull that little shift up around your waist…wake you up nice and easy with my mouth. Drown out that voice in your head giving you a million and one reasons to leave. Yes, I can—” he huffs a laugh when you squirm in his arms, held steadfast to his chest “—I can tell you’re not yet settled. Maybe itching to run even, take the next train out. Go back to your old ways. But I said I’d make it good, darling, and I will. You just wait for tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I’ll make it good enough to give you a reason to stay.”

Your mouth is dry when you rasp, “Your mouth?”

“Every morning,” he promises, sun-sweet. “I’ll make it so you don’t have a care in the world apart from when you’ll come next.”

Flustered doesn’t even begin to cover it. His words make your stomach pull in taut, leave you a threadbare, panting mess. Like a new language, spoken in stuttered breaks when you repeat it back in your head; the words somehow sutured together into a phrase that you know you’ve dreamt and forgotten. 

In the wispy daylight hours, it’s hard to see where the edges of you diverge from his. You’re still back in the bed upstairs with your legs tangled in his and his arms pulling you in close, the burr of his beard scratching the back of your neck. Touching the dark hair of his forearms, the groves of the muscles there, the softness of skin giving way to the hard musculature underneath. 

And then he dips his head for a morning kiss, his rough whiskers against your lips breaking the spell. 

“You haven’t brushed your teeth,” you complain, face puckered up at the stale taste of his mouth. When he smiles against your mouth, you can feel his beard drag up your skin the slightest bit. He draws back. 

“Well, guess I oughta wash up. Think you can start breakfast ‘till I get back?”

Cooking you can handle. You coat the pan with a lump of butter that melts over the iron. Two eggs cracked and sizzling in the butter. When he comes back, John cuts thick slices of bread that you heat in the pan with the eggs, the butter making the bread golden crisp. And it’s quiet. It’s quiet and there are birds twittering outside in the trees, chickadees and red-winged blackbirds. 

“Do you have any fruit?” you ask. More of a mumble. 

He hums. “Canned peaches in the pantry. Jam too.”

The pantry’s well stocked. Jams and jellies, cured and salted meats stored away in jars. Cornmeal and other grains. Pickled and canned vegetables. It’s the fruit you’re after though—the preserved peaches with the gingham fabric nestled under the sealed lid. Thick, juicy slices that come out of the jar coated in their own syrup that spreads out on the plate and touches the edge of your toast, softening the hard crust. 

You sit across from him to eat. Breakfast is a quiet affair interrupted only by your eyes flickering up to his face with each bite. Interrupted only by your skittering heartbeat. It’s hard not to be drawn to him, tempted to sneak a glance. Though dressed in his daywear, the edges of sleep still cling to him faintly, in the lines around his eyes and the folds of his forehead. You catch your eyes caressing those spots with a tenderness that makes your heart flare red for a moment, troubled. Like a red hot iron glowing at its hottest point. 

There’s no denying that you’d like to stay the course. Perhaps just out of curiosity. 

You’re ruled by your history though. Again, you look over at him, watching him silently and wondering what it must be like to live without that pressed upon you. To not be fixed like a violet between parchment paper. You’ll leave eventually, you know; when the moment presents itself. Even now, though he stares down at his plate, contemplating something that he doesn’t vocalize, you know that he’s aware of your every move. If you should so much as twitch, he’d know. 

A day or two won’t matter, you hope at least; there’s always a chance that your name might come across his desk, but there’s little chance at this moment that he’ll link it back to you, not thinking of you as his wife of another name that he refuses to say. It sits in his mouth like chaw. What you can’t wait out are the men surely following your scent, dogs with their noses to the dirt, sniffing you out. 

There will be a moment when his attention shifts. You just have to wait him out. 

The next train out, you think, scrapping butter onto your toast, picking at the crust with nervous fingers. You set a peach slice on top to make the perfect bite, bashfulness sinking back when you have to brush the crumbs from the corners of your mouth. Good etiquette finds you wanting here, sitting at the breakfast table in your thin shift with nipples pebbling in the cool air, crumbs all over your face. 

John reaches across to drag his thumb just under your bottom lip, wiping up a drop of syrup. “Messy girl.”

The hammer comes down on the iron again, liquid metal poured back into the crucible. Swallow with a dry mouth. You just have to wait him out. 

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Murder at the Gallop (George Pollock, 1963)

[the-muppet-joker]

I just saw a horrifying Tumblr Post that pissed me off so much I began snorting and galloping. Should I pray about this? I fear the Lord has given me the cross to bear of horselike mannerisms as penance for murdering my brother.

[ichorai]

i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one.

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind. 

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?” 

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground. 

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along. 

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend. 

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed. 

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children. 

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose. 

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance. 

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb. 

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother. 

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything. 

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you. 

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror. 

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell. 

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end. 

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys. 

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak. 

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them. 

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd. 

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them. 

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod. 

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once. 

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story. 

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you. 

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril. 

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods. 

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

 The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder. 

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow. 

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak. 

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon. 

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them. 

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off. 

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted. 

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm. 

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied. 

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look. 

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters. 

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.” 

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror. 

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done? 

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more. 

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances. 

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs. 

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.” 

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.” 

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage? 

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected. 

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air. 

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me. 

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants. 

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father. 

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little. 

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that. 

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever. 

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye. 

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago. 

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well. 

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

 He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered. 

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally. 

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words. 

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper. 

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

[notebotted-x31]

comically insane Autistic person makes a really really elaborate concept

Yes this is for @bixels and @tulliok 's grand galloping 20s au... I wanted to make my very own self indulgent concept of cozy glow (Teolaí here)

I thought of a silly concept where she (An Irish Orphan) started doing magic to give herself a world to look forward to and stuff yknow like, and give her motives cause the show just went "oooo murderous 9 year old" as if her basis's weren't a literal 30 year old who was a villain because of the fact she was only viewed for what she could provide

Teolaí is a lonely orphan... a very lonely orphan, nobody choose to hangout with her so she dedicated her life to just sitting by herself, using and training her magic to form herself a world where she lives in peace... and not viewed as a nuisance.

Im normal send help

Edit: I fucked up the names I'm so sorry random user oh my god--

[charnelhouse]

teacups

pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k+ summary: Joel and you take a shower after a traumatic event. warnings: srs hurt/comfort. violence/gore. implied attempted sexual assault. trauma. panic attack. joel being too nice. A/N: same reader as the one in bad people and moments, but no need to read. Joel Miller Masterlist

Joel wondered if his luck had finally run out. His hand slid along the slippery kitchen floor as the man on top of him snarled. Joel was pinned in a way where he couldn't get a full breath in. He'd been an idiot, relying on threadbare information passed between smugglers. 

"You know that real nice house outside the wall? Only bout half a mile South? Apparently, it's empty. The guys livin' there got taken care of during a raid. A lot of shit probably left inside. Well hidden. I'll pay you to see what you can find."

Joel hadn't thought it'd be that dangerous. He needed a second pair of hands, and everything had been fine until three of the supposedly dead men had walked in on them, rifling through their shit.

"Fuck. Fuck," Joel hissed between clenched teeth as he attempted to reach for the knife that had been kicked out of his grasp. The man's arm around his throat tightened. 

Joel felt his vision tilt, his body shuddering forward. Everything was fluctuating between spots of bright yellow to deep gray. He wasn't scared for himself, but he was for her. She'd been taken into the next room. He could hear her screaming-

No-she was shrieking. Painful, warbling, animalistic noises that only rang out from people cornered without options. Joel knew them well. He'd caused them. 

His jaw clenched as she wailed, a tempest of sound that destabilized him. It cut him straight to the bone, and his head was galloping a mile a minute: no, no, no, no.

Beneath that mantra was something more explicit. Not her. Not her. Christ-not her. 

He swore he heard her shout his name. Beg: Joel. Joel. Please. 

Okay. Okay, honey. 

He went blind-white with a rage he hadn't felt in a long damn time. Despite his lack of oxygen, he braced his hands and knocked his head back. The guy yelled, loosened just enough that Joel shot forward and snatched the knife. He lifted his arm and flung the blade back, making contact with something squishy that gave under the sharp tip. Eye, he guessed, especially by how loudly the bastard was hollering. Joel whirled around to find him holding his face, blood squeezing through the creases in his knuckles. The handle trembling between fingers.

Joel jumped to his feet, jerking the knife out before driving it forward once, twice, and then a third time. He couldn't waste a second, so he jabbed the vulnerable areas. The man gurgled, frantically attempting to stem the injuries before abruptly collapsing. He’d bleed out.

Joel!

His name rocked through his head, and how much time had he just wasted? What if they'd hurt her past the point he couldn't help her? 

He ran.

***

Joel's hands were pulsing with his own heartbeat, dribbling blood from the violence of using a knife. Stabbing was a tricky business.

Joel.

As he tore through the house, he shouted her name, hoping it would comfort her to know he was coming. He'd been a fool to take her outside the walls of the QZ with only two guns and not sufficient information.

But-fuck-she'd handled herself before. 

He hadn't forgotten the night she'd taken out the three people who had killed her boyfriend. Luke had been a good man. A benevolent leader. When he’d been murdered, Joel hadn't exactly cared since he was focused on his own shit. Death had been normal. Loss was easy. Luke had been another name whispered through the channels of QZ communication.

But he did remember her.

Dolly.

It's what most of the community called her because she had a lovely, rich voice and sang a lot of Dolly Parton to help the kids sleep. 

Then, she went briefly insane. A switch flipped when she found Luke ripped and shredded with his guts out. She'd taken it in stride, seemingly calm and collected, as she wrapped his body and brought him to be burned. She'd then asked around, discovered where the three who'd done it were sleeping, and slaughtered them with a Ka-Bar.

Yes-the QZ's homecoming queen walked out of the woods covered in blood, and no one said a word. It was swept under the rug just like everything else, and who was going to complain about losing three assholes who'd murdered a decent guy for a couple ration cards and supplies?

The community had liked Luke. Respected him. 

Joel, admittedly, found the man foolish. Back then, he hadn't given Luke his attention, but once he started fucking his girlfriend, he mulled over his encounters with the blonde jock like he was studying a map. Who was he to her? How much had she liked him? How had he fucked her, pleasured her, made her smile? 

There was the tiniest piece of Joel that felt jealous. Luke was dead, but he still haunted her just like Joel's ghosts plagued him. 

Selfishly, he wanted her rage-her stunning wrath. The idea of that girl carving three people up to avenge his death was a strange, exhilarating image for him. 

In truth, Joel was deeply fucking attracted to her. Dolly. 

What had she said that night as they sheltered from the rain? The first time they'd had sex, and they both had been blind drunk. 

"He was an idiot.

"He still operated as if the rules hadn't changed. He didn't understand that you have to be a bad person to survive here. He trusted too easily. Far too empathetic for his own good." 

Joel never told her, but those words had lit a fire in him. That had been the moment he’d realized she wasn't just some sweet, pleasant angel who sang to kids. She was all teeth. She was smart-

She was still screaming. 

Joel sprinted, barreling through the final door into the dining room before he abruptly slid to a stop. He was puzzled at the scene before him. He couldn’t figure out what he was seeing.

Blood. Dark, viscous as syrup. It was all over the floors. There was arterial spray covering the pale, peeling wallpaper. Dolly was straddling one of the men, bringing her arms up and down in brutal strikes. Joel could hear the squelch of tissue. The creak of the wooden floor under her knees. She had stopped yelling at some point and now was breathing heavily-grunting low and rough. Across the room was the third guy, very obviously dead. 

Joel moved steadily toward her, calling her name softly. She wasn't hearing him, and he realized her sleeves were drenched in blood up to the shoulder. The silver of the knife continued to disappear into the purple-pink mess of the man's belly. His eyes were open and unseeing, mouth parted in shock.

"Dolly," he tried. Nothing. 

"Sweetheart." Nothing.

Finally, he lunged and seized her wrist. She yelped as the knife flew from her hand and skated across the floor. She struggled in his grip, making wet, hiccuping noises when she attempted to wrench herself from him.

"No," she spat. “No-no-no-”

Carefully, he pulled her off the man and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He shoved the side of his face against hers. She was twitching in his hold, shaking furiously. Her teeth clicked, her body taut with adrenaline. "Focus," he coaxed. "You focus for me, now."

She choked and sputtered. She attempted to crawl away, but Joel had her locked against him. Her heart was vibrating in her chest, thumping with the same fury as a battering ram. Joel scanned the room, fully digesting the utter devastation she had caused. Wordlessly, he turned her toward the paintings hanging on the walls. Gold-framed watercolors. It was something nicer, at least. 

"Look at that," he murmured.

She moaned, pushing against him. 

He waited.

***

"Joel," she gasped as if finally coming up for air. She was bending forward, nearly falling, and he latched to her back possessively.

Protectively. 

"Yeah?" His cheek was still glued to hers, his beard scraping her jaw. Both of them were slick with sweat. If he moved his head just right, he'd be able to kiss her, but it wasn't the time. Initiating something sexual seemed like bad form after whatever had gone down.

"Joel," she repeated, and he cleared his throat. Her thin, weary voice worried him.

"You're alright," he assured her. "They're all dead."

She said nothing, so he let her go lax in his arms. He studied the walls and the chandelier. He tried to count her heartbeats but found it challenging when the room stank of copper and viscera. The real stench of death.

Suddenly, she lurched in his arms.

"Teacups." She pointed to the white cabinet-so dusty it could be gray.

"Yes," he agreed slowly, puzzled. 

"Teacups," she muttered before it bloomed into a laugh that was verging on hysterical. "We should take them home." She turned, fingers caught in the opening of his shirt, tugging down like she was attempting to climb him. "Would be nice, you know? Have something pretty."

He grimaced, readjusting his stance, crouching lower to the point that his knees creaked and pain shot through his thighs. He ignored it and grasped her face, tilting it toward the delicate stream of moonlight. "Look at me," he ordered firmly. "Look at me, honey."

She did, her eyes flickering from the floral-stamped teacups to his face. She appeared gone-blood, tears and tears smeared across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was even wet with it. A disturbing memory infiltrated his head: Sarah's artwork that used to hang on their fridge. Finger-paints. Lots of red and pink. He swallowed before licking his lips. 

"Is this blood all theirs?" He asked, gesturing to her clothes. He was pissed at himself for not checking her sooner, but he figured calming her down had been the most necessary action. 

She lifted her shoulders before dropping them. She had gone somewhere else. Shit.

Gingerly, he maneuvered her into his arms to carry her up the stairs. He needed to clean her and wipe away the remnants of tonight’s mistakes. His mistakes.

***

"Get in the shower," he instructed, but she wasn't moving. He sighed, tenser now. He figured a hot shower would have excited her. A luxury neither of them had had in months, maybe longer. Joel frowned and scraped a hand over his face. 

She'd killed before, so he wasn't sure what this was? She seemed broken. Carefully, he reached for the hem of her jeans only to find her belt gone. He inhaled sharply as he began to scrutinize the rest of her outfit. He'd assumed things had gotten messy in the fray. Her sleeve was torn, and there was swelling along her throat. He took her face into his hands and moved it left to right, right to left. Looking closer, he realized her bra straps had been wrenched loose. Buttons missing on her shirt. When he pulled the collar to the side, he found a distinct bite mark. 

Joel cursed, jerking away instantly. She didn't flinch, only stared up at him sadly. 

He hadn’t meant to. It had been a reflex. A very poor one. He needed to try a softer approach and show her he wasn't fearful of her. He'd just been surprised. 

He reached for her again and began rubbing her shoulders. He found them cold and damp. Clammy. 

"They weren't infected." He was stating it as fact. Hoping.

She bit her lip. 

"Work with me here, baby. They weren't infected, right?"

She swallowed and shook her head. "It wasn't that." She blinked dazedly before continuing. "They tried…" she trailed off, and her eyes began to fill with tears. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, chewing hard as if she couldn't say the rest. She averted her gaze, and Joel felt sick.

"They didn't, Joel," she whispered. "They-they-"

He reacted immediately. 

Wrapping his arms around her, he hauled her body to his chest. "They tried," he confirmed. "They tried, and they didn't get close. You took care of 'em."

She broke.

She began sobbing into his shirt, muffling her mouth against the denim fabric. She was shaking, and Joel felt inadequate-completely lost. Inexplicably, he decided that this would be something Luke would most likely excel at. Kindness. Empathy. Understanding. Joel only felt nauseous. He felt ill with guilt and then had to banish the thought away, disappointed at his pettiness. She needed him, so he cupped the back of her head, using his thumb to draw tiny circles above her ear. 

After a few minutes, he spoke gently. "Do you want to shower?"

She fisted his collar, her back hitching under his hand. She was working herself up again, straying very close to a panic attack. He had to calm her down.

"I'll go in there with you," he offered. "I won't leave."

She stilled, though her shoulders continued to tremble in spurts of aftershocks. He could smell the blood on her. Rusty and metallic. 

"Okay," she agreed.

***

The shower felt good. Better than good. It was narrow and cramped, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she burrowed into Joel's naked chest, desperate to feel his skin. He had even been willing to get in fully clothed.

"You've been through a lot. I don't want to make you uncomfortable-"

"Shut up, Joel. It's fine."

The room was humid with steam, the air tinged with old blood. The shower floor had turned pink, and Joel had to detangle himself from her to search for wounds. He'd found a slit in her side, just beneath her ribs. Hardly serious, but it had to have stung. With a bar of valuable ivory soap that had been just lying on the shower step, he carefully dragged it over the injury. He crouched low, one hand holding her hip as he cleaned her. 

She said nothing as she watched him, her fingers running through his hair. Somewhere between washing her toes and beneath her breasts, he felt a strange affection for her. This was the most intimate thing they had ever done. The gentleness. The womb-like shower. The dim lights. 

 When he was done, he kissed the wound under her ribs, lips firm against velvety skin. He stood, and she regarded him with tender curiosity, her eyes far more present than they'd been ten minutes ago. He pulled her to him, his cock slightly stiffening simply because she was beautiful and molded into his frame, and his body reacted to her regardless of his intentions.

"I was scared," she confessed as the water sluiced down them, drumming the tile floor. "I was so scared they'd killed you already, and I couldn't do anything."

"I think," he said, lightly teasing. "You managed to do quite a bit."

She huffed, shoving her face into his throat, nose rooting along his jaw. She used enough force that his back hit the wall and his arms automatically rose to cradle her. He said nothing, just let her find him, use him as she needed. She'd been terrified for him even when they'd attempted to harm her. He swallowed thickly as a new wave of anger pulsed in the trenches of his marrow. He hoped one was still breathing downstairs, unable to move. Joel would make it hurt.

He felt her shift in his arms, and as she relaxed, it cooled his temper. She stood on tiptoes, her mouth running along his ear. He shivered and attempted to calm himself down-think of anything else. 

"I did it for me," she whispered. "But-but I also did it for you. I'd kill for you if I had to."

Stunned, he gripped the nape of her neck and forced her face from his throat. He pulled her eyes to his. He wanted to tell her that she'd certainly already done that. He didn't want her to have to, even if it shot heat through his bones.

"You did a hell of a job," he managed to say instead. He was drunk off the shower steam and hot water, and her breath was cool against his mouth. "You did so fuckin' well, sweetheart."

***

Afterward, Joel tucked her into one of the beds. She reached for him, her lids heavy and movements sluggish. He promised her he'd come back after he checked the house. He didn't kiss her, but he thought about it. Things were changing. He shook his head, interning those worries for another day. He swapped his tenderness with something easy. 

Anger.

He found outrage and clawed his fingers into its familiar texture. 

There it was. Fury and revenge were his old, perfect lovers, and he felt them as he stood outside her door. They touched him, caressed him, begging to be used.

For her. 

Joel would do this for her even if it meant nothing. Even if the damage was already done. He needed somewhere to put it. He needed somewhere to place those emotions because he certainly wouldn't take it out on her, fuck her simply for stress relief after what had happened tonight. 

"Joel?" From inside the room, her voice rang small. It distressed him. Bury that, too. 

He rested his forehead against the closed door, sighing. "Yeah?"

"Will you check if they're gone, please?"

"Of course."

***

Silently, he went downstairs, found a hammer from one of the men's belt loops, and then ruined whatever she had left still whole in the dining room. Skulls. Ribs. Bones. He crushed them all, fractured them to bits and pieces for what they had done to him and his. 

[cower-before-power]

Rest Easy, My Love

Pairing: Astarion x Fem Reader

Summary: Astarion is haunted by his painful memories more often than not, but you are always there to shelter him with your love.

Word Count: approx 1200

TW: Angst, hurt/comfort, allusions to Astarion's past, very very brief mention of Astarion unintentionally hurting reader, nightmares, slight dom reader/sub Astarion vibes (but nothing sexual), blood drinking

A/N: Had to write a little comfort piece for everyone's favourite vampire. He deserves peace and love and one big hug!

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT!

The first whimper comes softly.

So soft, had you not already been awake, you wouldn’t have heard it. Your skin prickles, and you freeze, ears straining hard for another one.

It comes not a moment later, still hushed but more plaintive. A quiet gasp of pain follows it. You set your water cup down on the bedside table, eyebrows knitting together.

You’d left your lover trancing peacefully not 5 minutes prior, your parched throat calling for a trip to the kitchen for a drink. In that short time, his pleasant memories must have transformed, morphed into the horrors he’d suffered at the hands of his former master.

Even after months next to him, it doesn’t make it any easier. Or your heart bleed any less.

Your body turns towards your pale elf, his marble brow creased, his perfect mouth twisted. Reminders to approach this softly flit through your mind. You’d learned early on in your courtship that a loud voice and a rough shake was not the solution.

(Part of you was sure Astarion has never forgiven himself for that night, for when he awoke from shadows to find you gasping for breath beneath him. You hadn’t blamed him for a second, but his self loathing was a trench dug deep, and you could only fill it so much with your reassurances.)

“My love,” you call softly, gently. “My love, come back to me.”

Your hands tremble with the urge to touch him, but you restrain yourself. Astarion is mumbling now, pleas sewn in between gasps, fists closing tightly around the cool silk sheets. His whole being shakes with fear and despair.

Gods above, if you could murder Cazador all over again, you’d do it happily.

“Astarion,” you raise your voice the tiniest pinch, just enough to coax him, “wake up.”

The man beside you suddenly jerks upright, a harsh sob escaping his lips as blood red eyes fly open. He gulps lungfuls of unneeded air, and if he had a working heart, you’re sure it would be galloping fiercely.

“It’s only me, my love,” you coo, hands up in a gesture of peace. “It’s only me, and I won’t hurt you.”

“Cazador-“ Astarion chokes out, eyes darting wildly around the darkened room. “Cazador, no-“

“He’s dead, precious,” you affirm. “Dead and gone. There’s only me and you, safe and warm in our bed. Just us and the love we share.”

Red eyes focus on your face, and the glassy sheen begins to recede. “Dead?”

Slowly, carefully, you extend an open palm to him. He only flinches slightly-an improvement wrought through time and trust. Though it still stakes your heart. “Yes, he’s dead. Many months now.”

A single dewdrop slips down Astarion’s cheek. His eyes are wet with tears now, memories fading into the background. It is safe now to cup his face in your palm, to brush the moisture away with the pad of your thumb, to bestow on him a tender touch he needs. To your relief, he accepts your affection with a nuzzle into your palm.

“Darling?” his usually rich voice is hoarse and broken with pain. “You-You’re here?”

“It’s me,” you stroke his cheek reassuringly. “I’m here, precious. Right beside you. Always.”

Your arms open wide like the gates of the Heavens, and your vampire collapses into them.

Every sob that tears from him rips you apart; every tear that soaks your skin drowns you in sorrowful anger. How dare that cretin hurt your angel so? How dare he etch such monstrous events into Astarion’s soul? Cazador deserves to burn. You damn him to the very depth of the Hells, and even an eternity there isn’t enough to atone.

“Shhh, shhh,” you croon, fingers running through silver hair as your love weeps into your neck. “Shhh, precious boy. It’s alright. You’re safe with me. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You kiss his hair, stroke his ears, squeeze him gently in your embrace. While most of you rages and shatters, a part thrills at the display of trust you are shown. Moons ago, you’d get nothing but a huff and some clipped words- a denial of the need for comfort. But now, now you are allowed to see, to hear, to touch Astarion at his most vulnerable. And more so, you are granted the privilege of easing his agony.

Astarion’s teeth scrape against the soft skin of your neck, his hands clutching at your chest desperately.

“I need-I’m sorry, please-“ he gasps, unable to voice his desires. But you know him inside and out, and you know what he needs.

You shake your head. “Never apologize,” you say, baring your neck to him. “Take what you need, my love. I am yours, wholly and completely. Take of me, and forget.”

Astarion nearly whines with gratitude, and sinks his fangs into your soft flesh. Like a babe at its mother’s breast, he sucks to soothe, less for the gush of blood down his gullet and more for the peace your taste brings. You taste and smell of home, of repose from every dark thing that’s ever haunted him. It’s a gift you’d never dream of denying him.

“That’s it,” you whisper, nails scraping gently against his scalp, “that’s it, precious boy. My good, precious boy. My wonderful love, my little star worthy of everything good and bright in this world. My heart, my joy, my Astarion.”

His body shudders at your praise. You continue to murmur it softly to him as he drinks, cocooning him in your love as best you can. Maybe you are no doctor, no healer able to stitch wounds and mend gashes, but you will bathe every hurt in your devotion most blessed. And healing will continue.

After a few moments, Astarion slows his gulping, his delirious pants becoming softer, gentler. His teeth detach but he does not, his now warm mouth pressing thankful kisses into your neck.

“Don’t ever leave me,” he begs, and his arms wind around you like twin vices. “Don’t ever leave me alone.”

“Never,” you vow, and you’d swear it on all the graves of your ancestors. “You will always have my love, precious. And I’ll always be here to chase away the dark. No god, man or monster will ever be able to tear me from you.”

Your vampire sighs, and the sound is full of shaky contentment. He sinks further into your softness, eyes slipping close as exhaustion takes its hold.

“I love you,” he murmurs, a last sentiment before he succumbs to actual sleep. You whisper your own feelings back, willing every syllable to etch itself into his very being. That your lover would be able to feel and grasps the depths of your devotion. That four little words can watch over him and protect him and turn his dreams sweet.

You know when he wakes again, none of this will be spoken of. He’ll act like this didn’t happen, like his rest was nothing but bliss. He’ll kiss you awake, teasing and light, his playful demeanor firmly back in place. But there will be love and gratitude in his eyes, and your own will affirm you’ll do it all over again, and again, and again. Until the dark no longer cuts, until the memories fade and burn to ash, until his smile always reaches his eyes.

For in your love, Astarion will come to rest easy.