#of course dragon aging seems to work like snake aging where they grow less and less as they get older but do continually grow forever

[lionblaze03-2]

Tbh nobody draws darkstalker big enough. I remember him like. Holding full grown nightwings in the palm of his hand. He is MASSIVE. He dwarfs all other living creatures. He’s kind of an eldritch abomination in my eyes

[silverlysilence]

An Emissary’s Duty

@madcapmiss and I have worked together to bring you this little collaboration steaming from the comment section of Spirit of a Guardian.  (She did most of the work meshing the two ideas into one and I formatted the DMs into this, please praise her).  Enjoy.

Officially he's come as a peaceful emissary, looking to negotiate a trade agreement with the young chief of the Hooligan tribe. Officially. Truthfully his people have sent him to take the boy’s measure and gather the pertinent information needed to launch a successful attack.

They've heard the stories, of course. Who hasn't by now?  It’s been the talk of the entire Barbaric Archipelago for the last few years.  The stories growing and new details added with each rendition.  Still, they're not fool enough to actually believe in such tall tales. They go beyond the realm of far-fetched and straight into the downright insulting.

They say the chief rides a Night Fury, the Unholy Offspring of Lightning and Death itself; more than that there are whispers he is more kin to the beast than he is to men. They say he struck down Drago Bludvist, a nightmare of a man who once slaughtered nearly every Chieftain in the isles in the space of a single night. They say he defeated a vast army from beyond the archipelago with only five warriors at his back. They say he built himself wings, that he can command dragons and call lightning and walk through fire. They say that he is so fierce that the queen of the fair folk herself asked him for an alliance, that when he grew lonely for companionship, he stole a god from Asgard itself for his lover.

The emissary, like the rest of his tribe, holds these stories in contempt. It's one thing to exaggerate your strength to ward off attackers, but this boy’s efforts have strayed beyond the realm of arrogance into utter foolishness. Stoick the Vast may have been formidable in his day but he must have long since lost his wits to old age if he's stepped aside to let a child trying to frighten them all with shadow-tales to take his place. Given the hubris of the tales, a few of the weak-minded foals whispered that they’d heard his tribe were acting on behalf of the Gods themselves. It was only right that more sensible, worthy men should deal with such upstarts before the Gods decide to take offence and retaliate against the whole of the archipelago over such blasphemy. And with a prize as rich as Dragon's Edge there for the taking, there's plenty of incentive to be...worthy.

He was expecting to see the dragons of course because there had to be SOME seed of truth in the stories for the rumors to have spread so far. There are more than he expected but it's fine. They've been fighting dragons for generations; they could still take the Hooligans with some cunning and a bit of Dragon Root. Though there are a handful of oddities beyond the dragons that catches his eye and makes him pause; the shimmering liquids in the alchemist's workshop, a burnt-orange orb of light that flickers in the corner of his eye as he passes a short brunet Viking only to disappear whenever tries to catch sight of whatever made the strange glow.

The minute distractions hold his attention far more than they should as he fails to notice the way the dark-haired alchemist looks at him from over her potions, or the sharp-edged grin she flashes at the young Guard Captain. He fails to hear the mean-spirited chuckle that escapes the stocky, mace-wielding warrior at her side when the burnt-orange orb seemingly appears off to the side but a twist of the head reveals nothing there. He doesn't see the danger in the way said Guard Captain goes from straight backed and polite to lazily welcoming.

He doesn't know to be alarmed by the very distinct silence from a pair of twins that only ever pass unnoticed when they have business to attend to. He does, however, take notice of the tattoos and scars the broad-shouldered man who leads him through the village at the young Guard Captain’s command. The man is strong, the emissary will give him that, and has obviously seen much of both war and the world, but he isn't worried. He's felled bigger of men under less than ideal circumstances. Case in point, the hulking blonde squealing over baby dragons isn't even worth mentioning, though the sword he carries on his waist would make a fine trophy. Better by far than those spears with blackened tips the pair of blondes lazily trailing them carry.

Then he enters the forge and his dismissive hunger shatters, his heart pounding in a helpless echo of the smith's hammer blows.

There's a tall figure looming over the anvil, wielding a large blacksmith’s hammer with the ease other men lift their ale flagons. His head is bent intently over his work and there is lightning crawling, dancing, skittering over his skin like ripples on water. A blinding bolt leaps from smith to anvil and the emissary flinches violently. A second bolt cracks from the anvil to a nearby workbench. He draws a shaking breath and firmly reminds himself that a single rumor validated is no reason for the creeping dread trying to rise in his throat. A third bolt leaps from the anvil to the smith, twisting around his arm like a snake before dripping down to race across black scales.

The emissary blanches. There, a terrible black beast is curled at the forge-master’s feet, near invisible in the shadows but for the acidic green of its eyes, the deadly fangs glittering from its snarl, and the lightning crackling across it's hide. The emissary swallows hard and though he tries to rationalize, to remind himself that yet a second partially-validated rumor is no reason for alarm, he cannot help taking an involuntary step back.

He doesn't get far. Someone is in the doorway at his back, blocking his escape route. The young Guard Captain's voice calls out to the forge-master, and a detached part of his mind wonders when she had arrived and where his original guide has gone. The man (is he even a man? Surely not. This- this thing before him cannot possibly be flesh and blood, to pretend otherwise is nothing but a polite fiction) doesn't respond right away.

Instead he sets his hammer down and walks away to quench the red-hot metal held casually in his bare hand. He plunges the metal into the barrel of water against the far wall, flames dancing up his arm as vivid green eyes crackling with storm-light glances over his shoulder towards the mortals standing on the threshold. The emissary could feel his hands trembling, his adrenaline spiking as his mind shouted at him to draw his weapon and fulfill his duty to his tribe, to strike down the threat before it could reach them. He still had the element of surprise on his side and even if he died in the attempt, even if the Guard Captain killed him afterward, his people would sing his praises and he would be welcomed into the Halls of Valhalla.

He wraps a trembling hand around the hilt of his blade as those terrible eyes seemed to wring both the breath from his lungs and the strength from his soul. He sends up a brief but heartfelt prayer for the courage to die well and is gathering himself for a desperate attack when a sneeze breaks the tense atmosphere. Once more the emissary's eyes are pulled towards the fiendish dragon curled in the deep shadows at the foot of the anvil.

For the first time he notices a delicate pattern of ice ferns curling across half the creature’s scales, spreading across the floor around it. Even in the intense heat of the forge the frost refuses to melt. The dragon rumbles, lifting a wing to reveal a slender silver-haired youth rubbing sleep from icy blue eyes. The boy stretches and the ferns spread almost searchingly across the floor, reaching the chief and twining lovingly up his ankles and calves almost to his knees.

The emissary feels his heart leap to his throat as the creature that is clearly NOT a mortal boy rises and nonchalantly walks across the room towards the chief. He doesn't even look in the emissary's direction, but the blade in his hand suddenly burns with a deadly cold that leeches all warmth from his flesh. He's forced to jerk his hand hastily away from the weapon or risk losing fingers to its chill. The youth smiles, kisses the chief softly on the cheek, and asks if the man would like for him to show their guest to Niflheim since he clearly didn't have any courtesy.

The chief agrees.

He collapses where he stands and begs; for lenience, for his life. He begs them to keep the white-haired jötnar runt away from him. The last earns him a terrifying scowl from the jötnar but the chief relents and the smirking Guard Captain leads him out of their lair, back to the alchemist's workshop where the dark-haired woman sits waiting for them with her shimmering vials and a too-sharp grin.

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                     i’ll spend this summer by your side

{Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark meet in Winterfell when they are just kids. Eventually, they grow up and the time for grown-up decisions comes. // a.k.a. gendrya arranged marriage childhood-friends-to-lovers au}

*ao3

*dedicated to the wonderful @yanak324​ - darling, without you I would’ve never written this fic, let along post it. thank you so much for everything <3

When the bones are good, the rest don't matter

Yeah, the paint could peel, the glass could shatter

Let it rain 'cause you and I remain the same

When there ain't a crack in the foundation

Baby, I know any storm we're facing

Will blow right over while we stay put

The house don't fall when the bones are good

- The Bones, Marren Morris & Hozier

A day’s ride away from Storm’s End, Arya falls asleep in a deep, damp forest that smells so much different than the ones in the North. With a crumpled-up letter underneath her pillow, she dreams of the summer afternoon many years ago – of when Gendry first arrived at Winterfell.

She was a child then, of course, but she remembers it surprisingly well; clutching on her mother’s skirts and watching, wide-eyed, a procession of horses and wheelhouses streaming in through the castle’s main gate. Robert Baratheon looked like a giant from Old Nan’s tales with his black beard and booming voice, and she had to tell herself to be brave many, many times before she managed to clumsily curtsy in front of him; anxiousness making her tremble, lose her balance and stain the hem of her dress with mud.

She recalls that Sansa giggled quietly under her breath while she gracefully dipped down, all auburn-haired and perfect. And Arya could just hear it perfectly clear in this laughter, her sisters’ and Jeyne’s dirty little horseface-s, murmured behind her back all day long, so she lowered her eyes as her cheeks reddened.

But then someone kneeled in front of her, taking her gloved hands in his. And when she raised her chin slightly, there was the bluest stare that she has ever seen, bright and clear and looking at her softly.

‘’Greetings, my lady. My name’s Gendry. Can I ask for yours?’’

Gendry. He looked far older than her, of Jon’s age. And he had the same kindness in his voice, the same warmth hidden somewhere in those winter eyes and that gave her all the courage she needed.

With back straight and head held high, she answered:

‘’Arya. I’m not a lady, tho. Don’t call me that.’’

Her mother hissed her name sharply and Sansa gasped, but none of that even mattered, as Gendry smiled. Still on one knee, he raised her right hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles delicately, just like stupid knights in Sansa’s stupid songs.

‘’As you wish, my lady.’’

***

He is to be fostered in Stark’s household, yet another one her mother had sighed, but with no malice in her voice. It is an honor, no matter how one looked at it and even Arya understands that. First Theon Greyjoy, brought by Father like a souvenir from Rebellion. Prince Jon next, on the insistence of his mother, the Queen, who wanted her son to grow up in the North as she did.  And then the heir to Lord Paramount of Stormlands, son of Father’s dear childhood friend.

Other boys give him some space to adjust to Winterfell and Sansa quickly deems him awfully gloomy and refuses to interact with him at all, her apparent delusions about finally meeting ‘’a true Southern nobleman ‘’ whatever that even means, shattered by Gendry’s stormy glare.

‘’I mean, he cannot even hold a proper conversation.’’ Arya overhears Sansa talking to Jeyne as they are sitting in the sewing room, embroidery hoops in their hands. That’s easily the most interesting thing Sansa has ever said around her.

But Arya herself is pretty curious about him. It is true, he looks gloomy and moody, he scowls all the time and doesn’t speak much at all, but so was Jon when he had first got here.  Maybe he’s just shy?  - she's wondering, although the notion does not work well with how he greeted her.

So, when she catches Gendry  alone one time during breakfast, just as he’s stuffing his face with oatmeal in a decidedly-unlordlike manner, she laces her fingers behind her back and asks him boldly:

‘’Do you miss your home much?’’

His chewing stops abruptly and he’s staring at her all surprised, his cheeks puffed out with food. He looks so comedic like that, that she feels a bubble of laughter buzzing in her throat, but she is determined to keep it there. Laughing at him now would be unkind and Arya wants to be kind to Gendry, the way he was kind to her in the courtyard. So she just hops on the bench next to him, uninvited, and waits patiently for him to swallow his oats.

‘’I- I don’t know, really.’’ He answers sheepishly at last, a little red on the face and still looking at her as if he was not sure what she’s even doing, sitting so close to him.

‘’You don’t know if you miss your home?’’ she repeats, bewildered. ‘’I would die if they made me leave Winterfell!’’

No doubt about it. Lyarra left some time ago, Sansa’s constantly moaning and whining about going South, to Reach or King’s Landing, and even  Robb has asked Father once or twice if he could go stay with their grandfather in the Riverlands -  but Arya’s of North. She was born here and here she intends to stay.

The corners of Gendry’s mouth twitch a little, as if he was fighting a smile.

‘’I miss my sisters a lot, but it’s enough of you that it almost feels like they were with me.’’ He explains. ‘’And it’s as beautiful here as in Stormlands, if not more. Even, if it’s so darn cold.’’

Arya's heart swells. No one has ever told her that they think North is more beautiful than South, not even Jon who just keeps on repeating that it’s decidedly less stinky than the capital.

‘’I think it’s beautiful too.’’ She admits quietly. ‘’Sansa says one day Father will have to marry me off to one of his bannermen, cause no Southern lord will want me, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. I never want to live in a place where there is no godswood. And I don’t want to marry anyway.’’

This time, he actually smiles at her and even chuckles for good measure.

It feels like an achievement, somehow.

‘’What do you want to do, then? If you don’t wish to marry?’’

Countless adults have asked her that before, but always in half-teasing, half-mocking tone, not believing any word she says. Gendry…  Gendry seemed to be actually interested in her answer. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and back bent so they are on the same eye level.

And once again, she is hit by how blue his eyes are. Her mother has blue eyes, same as Robb and Sansa and Bran and even baby Rickon. Arya’s living surrounded by the sea of Tully blue eyes. And yet, Gendry’s are more intense somehow, less washed-down.

‘’I’m going to go behind a Wall and be a spear wife. Or be an explorer, like Sea Snake or Elisa Farman.’’ She dreams about all that and more, about adventure and thrill. ‘’I’m gonna go to Shivering Sea and bring back an ice dragon with me, so everyone would know they really exist. I want to see the Wall and the Lands of Always Winter. ’’

She’s fully prepared for him to laugh at her. Everyone does. Even Father, even Jon, although their laugh is good-natured.

But Gendry doesn’t.

He just nods at her declarations and states:

‘’I don’t want to marry either, or to be a lord. If I could, I’d just be a blacksmith.’’

And just like that, suddenly, they are friends.

***

Sansa and Arya have their lessons separately of boys, probably to avoid subjects that may possibly wound their delicate young minds, but Arya keeps on begging Gendry long and hard enough that he gives in eventually and tells her more about Rheagar’s Rebellion, about Tourney at Harrenhall and The Great Conspiracy.

It is a little embarrassing, talking to him about all this, but less so if she touched the topic with Jon, who is always very tight-lipped about his parents. However, with years passing by, Arya begins thinking about her aunt more and more, with this kind of insatiable curiosity that surpasses any notions of being proper. Everyone knows that Rheagar Targaryen offered her grandfather a crown for his daughter in exchange for Rickard Stark’s men and loyalty. Everyone knows that Lyanna was promised to Gendry’s father at that time, but Lord Rickard, being an ambitious and reasonable man, agreed to Prince’s proposal, having easily calculated how far above Lady of Storm’s End is Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. Everyone knows of the Rebellion and King Aerys’ death and how Baratheons were the last ones to kneel in front of the new king.

The one thing that Arya wonders about is what exactly was Lyanna’s Stark position in all that.

Jeyne and Sansa and even Lyarra always make it into a song; of love forbidden, of blue winter roses, of Wolf Lady and Dragon Prince.

To Arya, it seems more mundane; more like a girl sold to the highest bidder.

‘’I met her, once.’’ Gendry tells her in Godswood, skipping rocks on the still surface of one of the hot pools. ‘’During the royal tour through Westeros.’’

‘’What she’s like?’’ she asks, hungry for details. Father never wants to talk much about aunt Lyanna. Jon rarely even mentions her name and every time he does, it is laced with such a desperate longing that Arya quickly learned to avoid the subject to spare him the hurt.

‘’Beautiful.’’ Gendry crunches on the bank of the lake, staring at the circles on the water. The cold breeze is playing with his dark hair, making it even messier than possible. He’s one and ten now, already taller than Theon and Robb and it doesn’t seem he’s about to stop growing any time soon. Standing next to him, Arya feels even smaller than usual. ‘’Dark-haired, long-faced. She looks like your father and you.’’

Her cheeks redden against her will. Many Northerners have told her that, which makes her head spin a bit, unsure how to imagine a woman who was somehow both beautiful and similar to her.

‘’Yeah, but I’m not asking about her appearance. I’m asking what she’s like.’’

Gendry ponders about her question for a bit, which she is well used to by now. He always takes his time thinking, making people call him stupid and slow behind his back. Which is both unfair and untrue – he doesn’t have a head for numbers like Arya or for houses and histories like Bran, but he is not dim-witted in any way. Especially when the issues of household management and smallfolk are concerned.  

I know he doesn’t want that, but he’ll make a wonderful lord one day, crosses her mind from time to time, watching as Gendry calls every single servant by their name and how he always remembers to pay a visit to the orphanage when they are in Winter Town.

‘’Sad.’’ He settles on, still avoiding her gaze. ‘’Kind and sad. For me, she looked quite lonely.’’

‘’How else can she look like? A wolf can never be happy in the cage. And I heard Father saying she has true wolf's blood, the way uncle Brandon had.’’ Arya doesn’t remember him well; he died when she was barely more than a child, slain while storming Great Wyk. His wife and daughter used to live with them a few years after he passed away, but then Lady Barbrey decided to go back to Rills to her father, so now even Lyarra is not around to remind everyone of Brandon’s hot-blooded nature and  Arya lost a partner in horse riding or secret archery lessons.

‘’Well, good luck to anyone ever trying to cage you.’’ Gendry says, playfully tugging on the end of her braid and making her shriek. ‘’You’re way too wild for that, Arya. Also, you’re all dirty from that leaves and we are already late for dinner, so enough of histories for now.’’

***

‘’One more time.’’ She orders, smirking, when the only answer she hears is a pained groan. ‘’Come on, you were the one who asked me to help you.’’

‘’It’s utterly embarrassing that you’re so good at this and I’m so hopeless.’’ Gendry fixes his stare on the parchment on the desk as if it personally offended him. ‘’These are just swimming in front of my eyes.’’

‘’Books are important.’’ Arya rests her cheek on the stone wall, letting it warm her skin pleasantly. ‘’If you don’t understand books-‘’

‘’-my liege lords will cheat me out of taxes, yeah, I know. But still. Can’t I just ask someone to check them for me?’’

‘’I suppose you can. If you trust this person enough.’’

Gendry sends her a side smile and leans back on his chair.

‘’Well, shame I don’t trust you then. As I don’t know anyone better at sums than you.’’

‘’Why don’t you trust me? How dare you even say so.’’ She presses her hands to her chest in fake-offense, deciding to ignore his praise. ‘’The audacity you have.’’

‘’Don’t play with me, Arry. You’re a terrible cheat. Especially at cards.’’

‘’It’s called strategy!’’

‘’Sure it is.’’

‘’It’s not my fault you are a sore loser.’’

‘’Only with you, my lady. Only with you. I wouldn’t be a sore loser if you were winning fair and square.’’

''Besides, I don't think it's really possible to cheat at monsters-and-maidens. Or come-into-my-castle.''

''And somehow you manage to do just so.''

***

Father lets Gendry work in the forge with Mikken sometimes when all his other duties are done, and Gendry simply loves it, loves it beyond all else – it doesn’t take a lot to notice that. Arya thinks him content enough most of the time, maybe even happy when he spars with Robb on the courtyard, warhammer against sword, or when he playfully wrestles with Bran and Rickon, always letting them win, or when he goes riding with Jon and they sneak her out so she can join them. But smithing, smithing is something else entirely.

‘’That’s just so common.’’ Jeyne Poole wheezes once, outraged, as Gendry passes them on a way to his chambers, soot coving his forearms.

Arya could just strangle her. Instead, she stops abruptly and stomps her foot.

‘’I don’t see how it’s something wrong. Other lords hunt with hawks or gamble – at least Gendry will do something useful at Storm’s End!’’

Jeyne opens her mouth and then closes it, clearly shocked. For a moment she seems to be looking for a good enough reply, but apparently comes short, because she eventually settles on gasping loudly and hurrying away, leaving Arya on the corridor alone.

Escaping from her embroidery lessons, Arya often goes to watch Gendry, as Septa Mordane would never even think of looking for her in the forge. So she has perfected sneaking in and perching on the workbench after discarding outer layers to bask in the heat.  They don’t talk -  to be honest, she is not sure he notices her much at all, too engrossed in his work. Surrounded by the sound of metal hitting metal and billows of smoke, Gendry looks so much different than he usually does, almost like he is some stranger.

Like he is a baseborn blacksmith, not a highborn heir to one of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Arya is wondering many times, as Gendry’s hammering hilts of swords with such force that the sound must be echoing through very bones of Winterfell; would they even meet if he was not nobility? If they both weren’t noble? For sure they wouldn’t, coming from where they come from, a whole continent between them. Even if they both were bastards (she scoffs internally at the idea; as if her father could ever have any children outside wedlock) she would be a Snow and he would be a Storm and bastard boys don’t get fostered, so they would never cross paths.

So, as much as she hates the notion of being a noble lady sitting idly and sewing all day long, she is grateful for being a Stark and she is grateful that he is a Baratheon. If only because she gets to sit between Gendry and Jon during meals and toss her greens onto their plates.  If only because she got to meet Gendry and to bicker with him and to see his smile.

On her tenth name day, he and Jon wake her up early and the first thing she sees is a short, narrow sword in Gendry’s hands.

‘’It’s – uhm, it’s for you.’’ He mumbles, his head low as he’s setting it on her lap.

Arya, breathless, runs her fingers along the hilt, tracing the elegant twist of silver metal. It’s perfect, it’s beautiful, it’s everything she has ever wanted. Sharp and slight, just like her.

Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I’ve got a Needle of my own.

‘’It was Jon’s idea.’’ Gendry adds hastily, before she manages to open her mouth.

‘’Aye, but Gendry made it.’’ Jon smiles with this shy, gentle smile of his. ‘’Don’t sell yourself short.’’

‘’You… made it for me?’’ Arya lets out, bewildered. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she registers Jon’s ruffling her hair and wishing her happy birthday, but all she has eyes for are Gendry’s blushed face, his blue stare and grime underneath his fingernails that flashes when he fiddles with the pelt on her bed.

His hands. He made a sword for her with these hands.

Gendry just nods in reply, smiling.

‘’It’s mostly Mikken work, to be honest, I just helped out, so it should be- uff!’’

Arya has her arms around his neck before he can even finish the sentence, burying her face in his shoulder. When he tentatively hugs her back, she feels so, so happy she could burst.

***

Old Nan is saying to anyone who cares to listen that it’s the longest summer in the living memory and it feels like that sometimes, it really does.

After snows have melted and it got warmer, warm enough that even Northerners shed their furs and expose their pale skin to the sun, one sunny morning, all of them, Winterfell little lords and ladies, go to the hot pools.

It is Arya’s favorite day ever and remains so for many years to come.

Even Sansa comes, sweeter than usually and giggling lightly in her pretty periwinkle dress as she sits on the blanket and plays with Lady, who is desperately trying to catch the loose ribbons around her mistress’ wrists.  

Jon also doesn’t swim; he's just standing awkwardly in the shallow part for the whole time, refusing to go any deeper no matter how they all push and pull, Robb and Theon laughing at him as they cut through the water with ease. The direwolves are still just puppies, all adorably confused by the lake before bravely hopping in and paddling one by one around the edge of the pool - all but Ghost, who, mirroring his master, is deeply distrustful of going in. Instead of following, he opts for sniffling the cattails and stumbling on his little paws in haste to get away when his siblings climb out and shrug water from their fur.

Rickon jumps in with a wild roar, splashing everyone head-to-toe and diving to nip at their ankles until Robb loops his little arms around his neck and hauls him across the lake and back.

And Gendry grabs Arya by the waist and seats her on his shoulders, so that she can reach up and pick fluffy white catkins from the willow trees above them, gathering them in her palms before letting them scatter on his dark hair like snowflakes.  He holds her pale calves tightly, grinning up at her and avoiding incoming swimmers so she won’t fall into the water.

The air smells like grass and berries and lemon cakes; it’s vibrant with laughter.  Gendry’s wet hair sticks to his head after he ducks underwater with her still perched on his shoulders and she uses this moment to jump off, right underneath the surface. They meet face-to-face, bubbles of air escaping from the corners of their mouths, but he doesn’t see her; he’s keeping his eyes closed as he’s floating.

He’s smiling so widely that she’s afraid his cheeks will split.

When she reaches for his hands and his fingers immediately curl around hers, instinctively knowing it’s her without having to open his eyes, something beautiful and painful blooms in her chest for the very first time.

***

‘’Tell me, Arya, whom do you prefer, Jon or Gendry?’’ Bran asks her once when she is ten and two and she scrunches her nose at how weirdly this question is phrased.

‘’What do you even mean by that?’’

‘’Well.’’ Bran slides from the windowsill to take a seat in front of her, the abandoned board of cyvasse spread in between them. ‘’You know they will probably marry you off to one of them, right?’’

What.

‘’How do you know that?’’ she manages to stutter.  Marry... Jon?  Her? Jon has been like an older brother to her for so long that at some point she forgot he is actually her cousin.

And Gendry?

Gendry, a maiden’s daydream. Even Sansa can’t ignore him anymore and suddenly stopped complaining about his rough manners. Even Jeyne keeps her mouth shut now and turns red when he says hello to her.  He is too tall for that, too broad and too skilled with his warhammer. Whores in Winter Town fawn at the sight of him, making him walk with his head low when he is passing brothels.

Marrying Gendry would be-

No, just no.

‘’That’s obvious. They both seem to like you a lot, gods know why-‘’ Bran smoothly avoids her smack, leaning back on his chair and continuing his rant, ‘’- and with Sansa going to King’s Landing – well, I think Mother and Father would make a very smart deal, arranging your marriage with either of them. These are also the only betrothals you could possibly agree too.’’

‘’I would never agree to marry Jon.’’ Arya states, suddenly feeling hot. She keeps her eyes glued to the dices laying on the table, just not to see Bran’s mischievous eyes. She knows what he is going to say and he doesn’t prove her wrong.

‘’And Gendry?’’

Gendry; billows of steam around him.

Gendry; his chest glistening with sweat as he brings the hammer down.

Gendry; calling her ‘’my lady’’ and laughing as she gets mad.

You would like Stormlands, he told her once, when they were deep in the forest, looking for wild berries. It’s harsh in the same way North is.

But it’s too hot, she moaned in response. - Northerners were not made to live that far South.

You could also say Southerners were not made to live that far North, he countered, reaching for her hand and helping her jump over a toppled tree trunk.-  But I and your mother live here and we manage just fine.

Instead of answering, she silently stands up and leaves the solar, fuming,  with Bran’s triumphant laughter chasing her.

***

Arya hates passionately nearly all the female skills Septa Mordane tries to instill in her, be it riding sidesaddle, embroidery or the art of polite yet meaningless conversations - but there is one exception that makes all the difference.

Dancing.

She loves, loves dancing, and even tho those least proper are her favorite, she does not find it too painful to go through the most formal ones.  There is something about spinning and clapping to the rhythm of the music that reminds her very much of sparring with Bran, her Needle in her hand.

After all, sword duels do look like dancing at times, in cases when it’s more about swiftness and agility than brute strength. When she was ten, her father secretly hired her a Braavosi water dancing teacher and well, let’s just say that spinning has long become a natural way of moving for her.

Still, everyone is shocked when she takes to her dancing lessons with no complaining; more so, when in mere weeks she twirls around her teacher gracefully, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She’s good at that, effortlessly; for the first time in her life she truly good at being a girl, shutting everyone’s mouths and making Mother smile proudly in the same way she smiles when Sansa presents her with needlework – and it makes  Arya feel both weirdly unsteady and giddy.  To her delight, she manages to learn slower styles quickly enough, that soon she’s going through faster and more complex steps, never missing a beat, smiling widely at Jon who often offers to partner her.

There is nothing challenging for her about dancing, really.

Not until she gets to dance with Gendry.

‘’You’re such an oaf.’’ – she whines, trying to adjust his stiff grip on her waist. ‘’It’s not so hard, seven hells, let loose a bit!’’

And he just stares at her, wide-eyed and unsure like a newborn fawn. One could think that she has him on knifepoint, not in the empty chambers where she asked him to help her practice.

In the hindsight, she should’ve just waited for Jon.

‘’Didn’t they teach you to dance in Storm’s End? Didn’t they teach you here, with the rest of boys?’’ she asks as he steps on her toes for the fourth time, completely out of rhythm even though she counts it out loud for his benefit.

‘’They did.’’ He spits roughly in response, suddenly dropping her hands and turning his back on her.

Arya’s left standing frozen, her arms loose by her sides and mouth opened.

‘’What has gotten into-‘’

‘’What’s that dress?’’

She looks down at her gown. It’s an old one of Sansa’s, altered in order fit Arya’s shorter frame. She needs a dress to practice dancing well, unfortunately, so she’s taken to wearing them more often, and this one is not terrible. It’s fairly practical, without those stupid dragging sleeves or a train. Just yellow linen trimmed with white lace around the collar.

She thinks it’s quite pretty.

‘’What about it?’’ she asked, bewildered.

‘’How come you’re walking around now, wearing dresses and dancing? Though you did not want any of this?’’ He is still not facing her, so she cannot read his expression. But his voice sounds heavy and rough and so, so unlike his. ‘’Though it was not you. Have you forgotten? You’re not Jeyne or Sansa, Arya. ’’

There is silence stretching between them and for a moment, all Arya hears is the hum of blood in her ears, boiling with anger.

She crosses the room in two long strides and slams her fists onto Gendry’s back, furiously hitting him until he turns around and seizes her wrists.

‘’Ough, Arya, seven hells-‘’

‘’How dare you!’’ There are tears spilling down her cheeks, hot tears of anger, but she just doesn’t care because how dare he. ‘’You think – just because- you think it’s only for Sansa? That I cannot be good at anything like that just because I’m – I’m-‘’

Against her best intentions get drowned in sobs and suddenly she falls forwards into Gendry’s arms, her forehead pressed against his chest. He’s anxiously patting her back, mumbling to her to calm down, but all she can do is cry.

‘’Just because I’m ugly, do you think I cannot be any good in dancing?’’ she sobs, her voice drowned against the leather of his doublet and she gasps in surprise as he grabs her shoulders and tears her away from him, leaning down to look her in the eyes.

‘’Arya, what are you even talking about?’’ he whispers, clumsily wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘’You’re pretty. So pretty. How can you even – don’t listen to Sansa, gods.’’

Gendry is a honest lad. He does not really try to kiss anyone’s arse or  play pleasantries. He has also never been in  any way dishonest to her. But now… now he’s both serious and honest, as he, once again, takes her hands into hers and repeats, loud and clear:

‘’You are not ugly. Don’t ever think like that.’’

She bits on her lip, searching for any note of falsehood in his voice, on his face. But she comes empty-handed.

‘’So why did you get angry?’’ she asks quietly, lowering her eyes to their linked hands.

He also looks down, suddenly sheepish, with faint blush coloring his cheekbones.

‘’It was stupid. I was stupid, I’m sorry. I just thought that you’re not interested in – all of that. And that maybe now you decided to mimic other girls. Which you don’t have to do. Sorry.’’ He shrugs and Arya knows that if he had free hands, he would be scratching the back of his neck.

‘’I am not.’’ She admits. ‘’I’m not – I’m not trying to be Jeyne. Or Sansa. I still think most of those things that Septa Mordane teaches me are stupid. But I like dancing.’’ She pauses for a moment, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. ‘’And I like this dress. And I think – maybe I don’t have to be one thing only. Maybe I could be a good dancer and a good horse rider. And I don’t need breeches to be a good archer. Maybe... I could be just me. ’’

Mother would gasp at her logic, Father would shake his head with this kind, sad smile of his.

Gendry just nods slowly, straightens his back and pulls them into a starting position again, this time leading her on the floor with a grace she would never suspect he possesses. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reply to her words. He just smiles at her softly, his grip gentle, as they move through steps and figures. And she knows that he understands exactly what she means.

***

The night before Gendry leaves Winterfell, she jumps from under the covers the exact moment when Sansa starts to snore and quickly wraps herself up in furs to keep the chill away. The castle is quiet and basked in the light of the full moon; not that it matters in slightest.  She could probably make her way blindfolded, for how well she knows it.

She finds him exactly where she expected; he adds some extra logs to the fireplace in the forge, stripped to his shirt and breeches. When she loudly coughs to announce her presence, he swiftly spins on the balls of his feet and greets her with a smile devoid of even an ounce of surprise.

‘’Came to say goodbye, didn’t you?’’ she asks, trying to keep her tone light, but she obviously fails, cause his brow immediately furrows and the corners of his lips drop down.

‘’Yeah.’’ His voice is soft like kitten’s fur, softer than ever before. He sits on the workbench and motions for her to move closer. Settling on the worn-out wood, she feels something heavy dropping in her stomach. She has been in this forge a thousand times and more already, but without Gendry here, she will have no reason to come again.

It’s almost as if he’s to take a part of her home away with him.

She lays her head on his shoulder and he takes her hands in his (when did his hands grow so big, how did that happen?) and for a moment, they just sit in silence uninterrupted by anything except the crackling of the fire and the sound of their breathing.

‘’I’m gonna miss it so much.’’ He admits at last, keeping his head low as always when he’s being very serious.

‘’The forge?’’

‘’The forge, Winterfell. The North. Your family. Jon.’’ he counts down. ‘’Hmm, and I suppose I will maybe miss you. Just a little though. Finally, some rest from your blabber.’’

Arya gasps at that, showing him off the bench to the floor, where he lays, laughing.

‘’I do not blabber!’’

‘’You do, sometimes.’’

‘’I do not!’’

They shoot back and forth, until Arya quiets down and bites on her lip. No more bickering.

Her eyes sting a bit, so she closes them and flops down on the bench.

‘’Will we ever see each other again?’’ she asks, refusing to look at him and swallowing the bile in the throat. She instantly wishes she did not utter this question, because how will she make it through if he says they won’t?

But Gendry is Gendry, so he doesn’t.

He raises up on his feet and sits down on her right side, this time wrapping his arm around her and pressing her closer to him, so that her head is resting on his chest.

‘’We will.’’ He answers, full of will and conviction. ‘’I don’t think there is anyone who could stop you from doing what you  really want, Arya. So if you will ever want to see me, you will find a way. And I-‘’ he hesitates for a moment as if he was trying to phrase his thoughts in a right way. ‘’- and I will find a way to see you again too.’’

‘’Okay.’’ She says softly, gripping the material of his linen undershirt and pressing her nose to it, trying to memorize how he smells, how he sounds, how he feels, trying to burn it in her mind. ‘’Okay, Gendry. No goodbyes, then.’’

He rests his chin on her head and when he breaths out deeply, her stomach does a somersault. Suddenly, a thought crosses her mind like a flash;  how we must look like, sitting like this. What would someone say, if they saw us now?

But it quickly evaporates, when his lips brush her hair and she hears his whisper.

‘’Aye, Arry. No goodbyes.’’

***

To her despair, Jon soon follows Gendry; riding back to King’s Landing, he leaves behind a string of maidens with broken hearts and Arya’s parents pretending they were not trying to find an excuse to make him stay as long as possible.  And with his departure, things start to change for good right in front of her eyes.

For starters, for the very first time in her life,  Arya learns how terribly and crushing lonely one can feel in their own home, surrounded by their own family.  She has already flowered, meaning that even Father won’t allow her to roll in the mud with a training sword anymore – not that she would have any partners in that anyway, with Syrio Forell also leaving, claiming loudly that he’s ‘’too old for living in such a stern climate and freezing his bones off every night’’.

Margaery Tyrell comes to Winterfell, all pretty and smiling, her rose-embroidered dresses too light for the cold and her cheeks always rosy. And Robb falls, even Arya can see that - he falls so hard and quick that it seems almost unbelievable. Soon, he’s all for strolling around the castle, chest puffed like a peacock and his betrothed by his side, too busy with getting out of his skin to impress Margaery to even notice anyone else, let alone his little underfoot sister.

And Arya likes Margaery well enough, even if she’s instantly Sansa’s new best friend the moment she steps through the threshold (she’s kinder than Jeyne, at least) – but the whole flurry of wedding-related activity makes her sick, especially since she cannot sit in the back of the room with Gendry and make fun of all this pomp and extravagance.

Right before Robb’s wedding, Mother starts to get terrible headaches (the aftermath of raising too many children, she grumbles) and is often bed-ridden, which forces her to finally allow Father to send Rickon to Riverrun. He is to stay with uncle Blackfish for a while, with the hope that maybe it will temper his wild energy a little – fool’s hope, in Arya’s humble opinion, but it’s not like anyone asks her for it.

Bran squires for one of Stark’s bannermen and every free time he has, he devotes to visiting Greywater Watch and the Reeds.

Arya is deprived even of Sansa’s meager company as both her sister and goodsister are busy preparing a dowry for Sansa’s upcoming nuptials. Then Sansa goes South, as eagerly as possible, and the castle becomes ever quieter, unnerving Arya so that she feels she’s surely going to go mad.  Robb’s all Lord-like now, Margaery’s wobbling around pregnant and glowing and it’s all terribly, excruciatingly dull.

So Arya fills her days with silently sitting by Father’s and Robb’s sides as they ‘re taking petitions and lonely horse rides with Nymeria. The winter is truly and well coming now, so there is a lot of work with properly securing livestock and supplies coming from the Reach and every pair of hands is needed, even if hers are small and soft.  She goes to visit Lyarra and aunt Barbrey once or twice and tags along with Bran to meet his betrothed, Meera. She practices archery with Theon, bothers Winterfell’s staff for hours with no end and talks with smallfolk more than it is proper. Twice a week, there are kids in the Winter Town orphanage waiting for her to come and teach them letters and it’s honestly far more fun than she thought it would be.

However, there are letters of another kind that become her main source of entertainment; every day she nags Maester Luwin endlessly, inquiring about ravens and looking for them in the sky or locking herself up with ink and quills in her chambers, pouring all the unsaid words on the parchment.  

Jon writes often;  mostly narrations of his days at court and some amusing anecdotes about annoying nobles. His letters abruptly stop coming for four moons around a year after his departure and when they resume,  he is different. Head over heels in love and married.

To his aunt in fact, which would be a little weird in any other case, but Arya supposes they are Targaryens after all. Even if King Rheagar decided to try to stop the traditional inbreeding by sending for Northern bride for his eldest son and marrying Princess Rhaenys into House Tyrell, no one is really that shocked by Princess Daenerys giving her hand to Prince Jon, especially given that her brother, Prince Viserys, has been one of the victims of the Rebellion.

I heard she’s gorgeous. Congratulations on your marriage, Jon. – she replies politely to the announcement and buries her face in her hands, sitting still for hours afterward.

Dear Arya, I am so very happy, becomes an opening line of every Jon’s letter since then and it makes her oh so confused and even more conflicted.

She has taken to watching her parents closer than ever; observing how they speak with each other, how they seem to understand one another even without any words exchanged. How they stroll through glass gardens during sunny afternoons, laughing quietly.

Accidental marriage, that’s what we are, her mother said to Sansa once, forgetting that Arya was also present, which seems to be a theme for women in her family. I was to marry your late uncle Brandon and gods forgive me, I was not very pleased when I ended up with his brother, nor was my lord father. But it all turned out for the best. By the time I became Lady of Winterfell, I didn’t care much for the title at all. I just wanted to be by Ned’s side.

Arya knows she is well past betrothal age. She knows everyone is wondering why her parents turned every single one of her suitors down. She would very much like to believe that’s because they decided to let her never marry and stay in Winterfell forever like she has begged them for many years, but it’s been a long time since that afternoon game of cyvasse with Bran and she is nowhere as naïve now as then.

She is spoken for, promised to, even if silently, even with no one mentioning that at all. And she is still trying to figure out if it makes her angry or not at all.

She feels Father’s gaze heavy on her every time she makes her way into the Godswood, a letter pressed to her chest.

Gendry writes rarely and even when he does, his letters are shorter than Jon’s, which also makes them infinitely more significant. He is not a man of many words and he is very busy now – it is not spoken loudly, but it is practically a common knowledge that Robert Baratheon is well on his way to drink and whore himself to death, so any duties that Gendry’s mother was fulfilling during his stay in Winterfell  fell on his shoulders as soon as he returned.  Arya understands all of that. At the same time, she still selfishly wishes for more; she just misses talking to him, the banter and silliness and honesty – all of it. There’s no one else who gets her better. No one who takes her as seriously as he did.

So she dutifully sends her own letters every week, raven after raven, even when there’s not much to write about, and cherishes whatever reply appears.

One time, sitting in Godswood with Nymeria’s heavy head resting on her lap, she realizes that, at some point, all of it has stopped feeling like living; it feels like endless waiting, holding her breath.  She is still in Winterfell, but what good is that if everyone else is gone or different. Everyone seems to be moving on to some grand things, with only her stubbornly stuck.  

And then.

Do you think still that marriage is always a cage? Gendry writes to her exactly three years after he went away and Arya’s not stupid. She knows where this conversation would lead.

She just isn’t sure if she wants to actually have it.

I think there are cages in which one feels content. - she replies carefully, after trying out tens of different ways of conveying her thoughts and tearing them all into pieces.-  But I still think caging a wolf may not be the wisest idea at all.

That time, the letter from Storm’s End comes quickly, probably as quickly as the raven managed, poor thing.

She goes riding for half a day until she gathers enough courage to read it, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of parchment all spotted with fat blotches of ink, as if Gendry pressed his quill way too hard in several places.

Even wolves have their hunting grounds, right? Vast, with a lot of space to breath. Their pack around them, running together. Not a cage, but a home.

With her heart beating fast, she closes her eyes for a second. All of it feels so heavy, so final. Couldn’t they just go back to being children in Winterfell? Why must they all grow up?

It makes her so angry. Where are those summer afternoons, what happened with them – with Gendry’s hands innocent on her ankles, keeping her safe and secure?

But then she comes back to reading and gasps at the next paragraph.

Arya, I am no bard, really. You know that. Must we do it this way? I need a lady and miss you so much and gods damn me, if you weren’t always the only lady for me.  Come to Stormlands. Marry me. I promise, I will never cage you. You can call yourself a lord. You can call yourself a blacksmith’s wife. I don’t care. Please, just be with me.

‘’Stupid.’’ Arya murmurs under her breath, feeling fondness filling her head to toe. Gendry always had a way of making things simple, of making her feel at ease.

She looks out of the window; at the silent courtyard, empty, save for a few servants hurrying to the kitchens for their supper. She supposes she could stay here, or tell her parents she will marry close to home and come back as often as possible. She doesn’t have to leave or cross the entire continent.

But her days would be long and empty; her nights -  cold. She would feel like a tree with its roots unmovable, forever in Winterfell’s soil. Bored out of her mind and static. She would be content enough, probably, only it’s never what she wanted. What she wanted was an adventure –

And what is a bigger adventure than going South? Managing a castle the way she wants? Spending the rest of her life with her very best friend?

There’s also the issue of duty, of course. Her duty towards her parents, towards the North. As much as Arya hates politics, she’s aware of how powerful betrothals are. Marriages mean security and supplies and wellbeing of the Houses involves and those, who serve those Houses. It was a coincidence that Robb’s bride came from Reach just as the winter was about to come for good. And her marriage to Gendry would potentially bring many, many benefits for the North, for the still-too-empty coffers and stocks.

Besides. Much better her best friend than some random Northern lord, who would take her Needle away and delegate her to women’s quarters to bear one child after another and gossip with other ladies until her ears fall off. Gendry would never do that to her, of that she can be sure.

Maybe it will be summer again, by his side.

***

Arya likes long letters, rambling and elaborate.

But her last one is the shortest by far, sent just before she straightens her back and knocks on the door to Father’s study.

Dear Gendry,

Just to make it clear; don’t ever expect me to bow down to you.

But aye. I will marry you.  

Yours, Arya

***

Ned Stark listens to her words with a solemn expression on his face, but when she’s finished, the corners of his lips raise up slightly.

‘’I knew this day would come someday.’’ He sighs heavily, reaching for one of the parchments laying on his table and placing it in front of her, so she could read it. “This is what Robert left me, along with Gendry.’’

The contents of the letter make her eyebrows shoot up.

It’s a godsdamned, straight-up business proposal of Robert Baratheon to her father, asking him to consider marrying her or Sansa to Gendry. There’s a lot of bullshit about joining families and old history, because Robert is still beyond obsessed with aunt Lyanna, even after all those years.

But at the root of it, it looks like any trade agreement she has seen in her life. And that just makes Arya so, so mad.

‘’I’m showing it to you now, because I feel you have a right to know.’’ her father says, before she has a chance to respond. ‘’But I don’t think it should influence your decision. As far as I know, Robert did not mention his wish to his boy either, which means you two chose each other on your own free will. That’s a good groundwork for marriage, Arya.’’

Does free will really exist?  - she wants to ask him, anger dying down into something akin to cool resignation in her gut. – Will I marry Gendry out of any feelings I might have for him, or out of loneliness or lack of a better alternative? Or maybe because it will make you and Mother happy? Does it even matter?

Ultimately, in a world she lives in, it doesn’t. So she closes her mouth and nods slowly when Father asks her if he should write to Lord Robert officially.

She just wishes it wouldn’t feel so bitter.

‘’Do you think we will work well? Together?’’ she asks quietly just before leaving the study and this time her father chuckles, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

‘’Aye, in fact. I do, Arya. I like this lad.  And he always smiles around you and you only.’’

***

So now she’s where she is,  Storm’s End on the horizon and anxiousness bubbling in her stomach.

Mother forced her into a proper gown in the morning, deaf to Arya’s arguments that Gendry has already seen her in breeches and linen shirts and still asked her to marry him, so she does not need to be all dolled up. At least the dress is nice – forest green, embellished with golden embroidery and with a corset that somehow allows her to breathe.  It, unfortunately, shows off more cleavage than she’s comfortable with, but she supposes it couldn’t be allowed with those stupid Southern fashions. She braided her hair herself – it’s so long now that it reaches the small of her back, so she opted for a simple Northern style, nothing too fancy, even accounting for the yellow ribbon woven through it. Her hands are clean, nails trimmed. She supposes she looks pretty, as much as she can.

She’s no Sansa. But, as far as she knows, Gendry never wanted Sansa anyway.

Why am I so nervous?

It’s just Gendry.

Three and a half years. How much did he change during that time?

How much did she?

They open the gates for them and suddenly she is the one riding into a courtyard of a foreign castle that she’s now supposed to call her home. I should’ve asked him how it felt like for him.

Storm’s End is just one drum tower, unlike any other holdfast she has ever seen. But it’s a very tall tower, she’ll give it that. It shoots up into the sky like a giant’s fist, the tip of it seemingly tearing through grey clouds above them.

Only Hightower in Oldtown is taller, as far as the towers go. Quality over quantity. -  Bran said to her cheekily sometime before she left Winterfell. –  I heard Lord’s chambers are up on the very top; you will have a nice view of the sea. It must feel like sleeping in a nest.

This castle fits Gendry somehow, with its strong, simple build. There are no frivolities in the grey walls, only endurance. Not a single unnecessary element, just brick and mortar and magic that helped it survive centuries and centuries. Solace and safety.

Arya thinks that even if she cannot love it like she loves Winterfell, she can at least respect Storm’s End for this one reason.

The whole staff stands in the half-circle around them, lowering their heads and curtsying when they dismount. Mother has insisted on coming, despite her aches – maybe because she still doesn’t seem to be very convinced Arya has actually agreed to marry someone – so she slowly and stiffly emerges from the wheelhouse. And Arya stands still, reigns in her hand and her eyes glued to the ground, because if she dares to look up – if she even steals a glance –

But before she can make that decision by herself, someone kneels on the gravel in front of her, making her stupid heart beat faster in her chest.  Of course, of course, he does that, because he is one big, stupid oaf.

‘’Hello, my lady.’’

Despite her best efforts, her lips curve into a smile and she lets him take her hand.

Gendry Baratheon’s voice is still warm and deep, and his eyes are still bluest she has ever seen.

But when he kisses her knuckles… oh, they are truly grown now. And betrothed to each other.  And it all comes crashing down on her suddenly, this realization.

He’s going to marry me. I’m going to marry him. Oh, gods.

Her panicked train of thoughts is interrupted by the collective gasp of gathered people when something big and grey moves from her side and pounces on Gendry, making him lose his balance and land on his ass on the ground.

Arya’s honestly a little bit annoyed with Nymeria, because the way she behaves is just ridiculous. She’s supposed to be this proud, scary direwolf, reminding those damned Southerners that Arya remains a Stark no matter what, that she has North in her blood and her very bones. She is supposed to be wild and untamed.

Instead, her horse-sized wolf hops in circles around Gendry, wagging her tail like an overly-excited puppy, not letting him stand up, before and resting her front paws on his chest, tongue lolling out and begging for scratches behind her ears.

And Gendry complies, laughing when Nymeria licks his face and patting her head.

‘’Hello, girl! Missed me much? You’ve gotten so big.’’ He coos at her as if she was a babe and, in the corner of her eye, Arya sees shocked expression of a petite blonde woman who surely must be Gendry’s mother, given the finery of her gown and how she immediately schools her features, and  curtsies gracefully in front of Father, along with three dark-haired girls surrounding her.

Aelin. Lara. Elinor. My soon-to-be-goodsisters.

‘’Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. Lady Arya. Welcome to Storm’s End.’’ Lady Isabelle Baratheon greets them politely, pointedly ignoring the fact that her son has just been tackled to the ground by a direwolf.  Lacing her gloved hands in front of her, she fixes her bluebell eyes on Arya, surveying her head to toe, until Arya starts to sweat under her stare. ‘’I am afraid my Lord husband is unwell right now and he is not able to attend to you properly. However, I hope that he’ll be able to join us at supper. Please, take your bread and salt.’’

Gendry, back on his feet after finally managing to untangle himself from an overenthusiastic Nymeria, stands by his mother’s side and bows deeply in front of her parents, giving her opportunity to see him better.

Those few years only did him good.

He’s so tall now; he has always been taller than all of Starks, even when they were kids, but now he positively towers above her and Mother, standing even higher than Father. When in Winterfell, other boys called him The Bull and the reasons for that also did not change. His chest, his shoulders, his thighs – all broad and muscled; Gendry could’ve been as well chiseled from solid stone. He’s still got those disheveled black hair, only now paired with a neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes are still as lovely and blue as in her memory, shining, when he steals a glance at her.

He looks more or less the same, truly. Only, either he got even more handsome or she just views him all differently now, because seeing him kissing her mother’s hand and hugging her father makes her feel all funny inside.

‘’Well then, shall we go inside? There is a lot of things to discuss.’’ Lady Isabelle says and something heavy like a stone lands in Arya’s stomach.

***

It seems like her wedding will be the event of the year, which should not surprise her but still somehow does.

Due to the fairly convenient location of Storm’s End and early announcements, nearly all Lord Paramounts of Seven Kingdoms confirmed their presence and Martells are sending Prince Trystane and Prince Oberyn which honestly is probably even bigger honor. Nearly all Tyrells apparently decided to show up, just for the kick of it. The King takes both of his queens with him and of course, Prince Aegon and Sansa will travel from Dragonstone to be earlier than the rest of the guest so that her sister could help with preparations.

Even Gendry’s gruff uncle Stannis will be there and he hates parties.

The pomp and extravagance are simply beyond everything Arya has experienced so far and she’s suddenly hit hard with realization how truly alien the South really is, compared with the stern, simple North. Nobody even thought of suggesting serving a baked swan at Robb and Margaery’s wedding. Arya’s need half a dozen apparently, paired with trays full of bloody oranges, lemons, and pomegranates, with stags made from sugar, towers of cookies and a truly monstrous meat pie.  There is to be a troupe of entertaining fire-eaters for gods' sake, and gods only know who will pay for it all.

All this talk about guests, their seating and stomachs does nothing, but makes Arya feel vaguely sick. She’s stuck at Lady Isabelle’s solar with her mother and soon-to-be goodmother for hours, completely mute after requesting for Jon and his wife to be seated not far from her. All she has left to do is half-seriously contemplate if vomiting on Lady Isabelle’s yellow silk slippers could potentially win her at least a day of solitude.

She would be happy to see Jon and to meet Daenerys and aunt Lyanna. And to finally reunite with Rickon, who’s coming with the Riverrun delegation. But that’s about it.

Oh, and she would also be very happy to see her fucking betrothed since she’s not seeing him now at all. So far, they barely had time to exchange a few words during meals, not even coming closer to the topics they actually should talk about.

Which is the fact that they’re getting married.

It’s not any more real now. Her mother asks her to choose between identical shades of white Myrish lace and Lady Isabelle regularly has a breakdown about the potential of rain on the wedding day, and the whole ordeal still seems like something out of the dream.

So she feels she should really just sit down and talk with Gendry as long as it takes until she feels grounded again.

Besides… she misses him still. And now she doesn’t even have letters to fill that void.

So, when one morning Gendry gently grips her wrist under the table when they break their fast and slips a note in-between her fingers (my lady, if you can sneak away from our mothers, I’ll be waiting in the stables), Arya almost shrieks with relief.

She quickly makes up some lousy excuse about her moon blood coming soon and feeling rather weak today, which works smoothly without any questioning from Lady Isabelle and makes Mother narrow her eyes in suspicion, but ultimately grants her freedom to hide her face under the hood and make her way through the Storm’s End crowded courtyard relatively undisturbed. Every step makes her stomach twist in anticipation; half-nervous, half-excited, she finds Gendry alone, standing next to a saddled black horse and speaking to it softly while feeding it a carrot.

He used to give treats to horses in Winterfell too,  she recalls fondly, pleasantly surprised with how relaxed she suddenly feels.

‘’Hey, Gendry.’’ she calls him softly, grinning as he stumbles on his feet while turning to her.

‘’Hi, Arry.’’ he responds with the old moniker he once gave her, and it makes both of them smile wider. ‘’You escaped my mother alright?’’

‘’Yours was not a problem. Mine might suspect something tho. By dinner I should be in my chambers, abed.’’ Arya steps a bit closer, her eyes wondering in awe as she takes the sight of the horse standing next to Gendry. ‘’Gods, who’s that beauty? Hello, sweetling.’’

She presents her open palm for the horse to sniff, while Gendry snickers:

‘’Knew you’d like him. That’s Thunder and he’s mine. So you might want to make acquaintance. ’’

‘’Lame name, if you’re asking me.’’ She gently runs her hand along the horse’s neck, enamored by his silky black mane and fine posture. ‘’But I guess it fits your whole Baratheon image.’’

‘’Wait till you see him run. This stupid name is not completely baseless. ’’ he shots back, with no bite in his words whatsoever. If anything, he just sounds fond.

‘’I assume you’re taking me for a ride then?’’ she asks, tearing her eyes away from the animal to look at Gendry.

In the half-shadow of the stables, she cannot see his eyes clearly, but, when he slowly laces his fingers with her, it tells her everything she needs to know.

‘’Would you like to get away from this madness for a while and see a little bit of Stormlands?’’

And to that, she cannot do anything but squeeze his hand and say aye.

***

Gendry was right, all those years ago; leaving all the fancies and properties aside, Stormlands are alike to North in a way indeed.

They ride through thick forests, soft-green and quiet except for the sound of the hooves of their horses. Instead of talking, they sink into a familiar silence, not feeling the need to fill it with words when they can just -

Be next to each other.

And then Gendry leads Thunders through the clearing, moving in-between trees until they find themselves on the open field at the edge of the cliff overlooking Shipbreaker’s Bay; the waves angrily hissing, as they break over rocks down below and clouds gathering on the strangely yellowish sky above.

It’s raw and wild and so beautiful it almost takes her breath away.

‘’Hey, Arry! Better catch up!’’ Gendry shouts suddenly and then Thunder shoots forward, passing Arya on her brown mare and soon leaving them far behind as he gallops along the ridge.

For a heartbeat or two, she sits completely still, breathing in the salty air and watching Gendry’s broad back getting smaller and smaller; she can feel the corners of her mouth rising up until she has a full-blown smile on her face. She lets the moment last.

And then she presses her heels to mare’s sides and follows.

The wind is whizzing in her ears as she rises up from the saddle, leaning along the horse’s neck and forcing her into a gallop, gallop as fast as she can. This is her favorite part, the one she can never get enough of; the sky, the grass, the sea – everything disappears. There is only cold biting her face and mare’s muscles dancing underneath her skin and Gendry’s breathless, booming laughter as she appears by his side. He pulls on the reigns of Thunder to regain the advantage, but even though his horse is swift and strong, Arya is way lighter and, between two of them, she has always been a better rider.

So they gallop together, so close to one another that it’s reckless as seven hells, the hooves hitting the ground in unison and their eyes locked. Arya thinks they could’ve run like that for a thousand years or more, but then, out of the blue, lightning splits the sky and rain starts pouring down mercilessly, immediately plastering clothes to their skins and making horses neigh and stumble at the loud boom of the thunder.

‘’We’ve got to wait it out, follow me!’’ Gendry’s voice is almost drowned by the noise of the storm, but fortunately, she remains close enough to hear them. Her mare dances in place nervously until Arya manages to calm her down and steer her behind Gendry, deeper into the land and back to the forest.

They find shelter in a cave; with its entrance half-covered by the vines and damp stone walls spotted with moss, it’s surprisingly comfortable. At least it’s dry, for what Arya’s more than grateful. She can already feel the cold rainwater freezing her to the bone and her teeth are clattering as she jumps from the panicked horse and pats her neck with stiff fingers.

‘’Hush girl, it is all fine. We are fine.’’

Thunder is pacing back and forth along the wall, only calming down when Gendry roughly grabs the reigns and whispers something into the horse’s ear. Soon, Arya’s mare neighs quietly and joins him to munch on some of the grasses growing in-between rocks.

Arya lets her go, herself still remaining near the opening of the cave, shifting on her feet to get warmer and rubbing her arms.

The rain falls so hard now that it sounds like a waterfall and, as she raises her eyes to Gendry and meets his stare, she realizes that she got her wish.

They are alone now. Completely, absolutely alone.

Both of them take the step forward at the same time.

‘’Fuck, you’re soaked. Now, take my coat.’’ Gendry’s tugging on the laces of his fur-lined cloak and throwing it on her shoulders before she can even protest. His hair is plastered to his head just like in pools in Godswood and, for a second she finds herself enchanted by the way raindrops drip down his face, along the line of his jaw.

‘’No, you’re cold too.’’ She shots back, grabbing his hands in hers, meaning to rub them together as she used to with Rickon’s and Bran’s in the North. But somehow, miraculously, Gendry’s skin is wet but still warm and she yelps in surprise, his heat making her fingers tingle.

He grins at her smugly.

‘’No, I’m not. What did you say about South being too warm for you, my lady?’’

‘’It is too warm.’’ She huffs in annoyance, trying to gather the will to drop his hands down and not finding it. ‘’But it’s hard not to get cold in a godsdamned thunderstorm. Should’ve known you’d be abnormal.’’

‘’I got caught in the storm too many times to be much affected by it.’’ He shrugs. ‘’Got used to. To be honest, they may be more sudden and vicious than the ones in the North, but you will see that they last far shorter.’’

‘’I didn’t know they sky can turn such a color.’’ She observes, stealing a glance outside behind her shoulder. ‘’It looked almost yellow before it turned dark.’’

‘’How do you think, where did Baratheon colors came from? We took them from Durrandons, who took them from the Stormlands’ sky before. Gods, you really should’ve dressed warmer.’’ Arya bites on her lip just in time to keep the gasp from escaping, as Gendry raises her hands to his lips and blows on them.  Hot air of his breath warms her palms and then travels through her veins; to the tips of her fingers, to her wrists and the crook of her elbows, to her neck and face, making her tremble slightly.

‘’You still have the smallest hands I’ve ever seen.’’ he grumbles, his thumb tracing circles on her skin.

‘’My hands are not small. Yours are just too big.’’

‘’Blacksmith’s hands. Mikken has always used to say so.’’ he recalls sadly, gleam disappearing from his eyes as he leans on the wall of the cave.

‘’You’re not working anymore?’’ she unlaces their fingers in favor of wrapping his coat tighter around her and moving closer to his side. ‘’In the forge, I mean.’’

He just shakes his head.

‘’Don’t have time to. Storm’s End… there’s a lot of things to fix, if I’m being honest. ‘’ his Adam’s apple bobs and Arya really wishes he wasn’t so tall, because then she could see his face better. ‘’And I really hope I can be honest with you, Arya.’’

‘’Of course you can.’’ she’s almost offended he can even think otherwise. ‘’We’ re-‘’

Friends, she wanted to say we’re friends, but we aren’t anymore, are we?  We are betrothed.

‘’Friends.’’ Gendry finishes instead of her, turning his head to lock his eyes with hers. ‘’No matter what, we’re friends first. And.. uhm… everything else…  next.’’

It’s quite dark in the cave, but even in the shadows, she can see blush blooming on his cheekbones. And maybe this sight of vulnerability gives her the final push to ask the question that has been burning in her gut far longer than she cares to admit.

‘’Why do you want me to be your lady, Gendry? You could’ve tried for Sansa’s hand. Or any of the Stormlands’ ladies. Hells, even Princess Daenerys or Jon’s younger sisters, if you were quick about it. Why me?’’

Rain’s still pouring down outside, but it does not matter, cause Gendry’s voice is nowhere as quiet and tentative as hers.

‘’You still have no idea, don’t you?’’ he chuckles, leaning his head back against the rocks and raising his eyes to the stone ceiling. ‘’Gods, Arya, I don’t know even where I should start. You’re - you’re so smart. No one has your head for numbers. And you are an excellent horsewoman. Not to mention a great archer. And undefeatable with your Needle. And you care so much for people! I mean, do you even notice that? You have such a big heart for everyone. You want to take care of those around you, even those lowest. You-‘’

‘’Stop it!’’ she raises on her toes and presses her hands to his mouth, silencing his words. She has never heard Gendry saying so much at once and she has definitely never heard him praising anyone the way he just praised her. She can feel her whole face burning.

Gendry’s blue eyes gleam like twin gemstones. He slowly raises his own hands and grips her wrists, pulling them down from his face.

‘’Will you let me continue?’’ he asks softly, but it does not sound like a question at all. One of his arms sneaks around her waist and he lowers his head so now they’re standing pressed to each other, nose-to-nose. She can see drops of rain sticking his eyelashes together. ‘’You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. The most willful. Most – most beautiful.’’

Air escapes from her lungs. Beautiful. Beautiful. He called me beautiful.

With his other hand, he cups her face and she can see his eyes hesitantly searching for any sight of discomfort from her part, but he will not find any.

There is no discomfort in Arya.

She is no scared.

All she feels is warmth, warmth engulfing her head-to-toe. Warmth like the forge in Winterfell, cause Gendry’s embrace doesn’t feel like anything else but home.

You chose each other. That’s a good groundwork for marriage.

She crooks her head slightly, letting her cheek fully lean against his palm. Still, in silence, her lips part as he rests his forehead against hers.

‘’I was not lying Arya, when I told you I don’t want to be a lord.’’ His voice drops to the lowest of  whispers. ‘’And after seeing how it looks like here, I definitely didn’t change my mind. The only way I will manage to do it, is with you. Nobody else, but you. Will you be the lady of those lands with me?’’

‘’I’ve already told you, stupid.’’ She huffs, placing her own hand on his cheek and smiling. ‘’I’ve already said yes. To you and to everything. But I hope you know, I’ll be the real pain in your arse.’’

‘’Ha, I know that.’’ He chuckles. ‘’That’s the only thing I’m sure of.’’

‘’What would you promise me in return?’’ she asks playfully, biting on his lips and watching as his eyes darken.

‘’Well, what would you want me to?’’

‘’Humor me. I’m giving you my hand, it better be something nice.’’

She’s thinking they surely must look like idiots, holding each other’s faces and smiling at each other, close enough that they share air and their noses bump.

But she just can’t seem to mind that.

‘’I promise to always be true to you.’’ His voice is like laughter and sun and weirwood leaves; his voice is like gravel on the Winterfell courtyard and the smell of the forest, the sound of waves crashing on the cliff. He is both the most familiar and the most unknown and there is nothing that Arya doesn’t feel when he whispers; ‘’To love you and to keep you wild. ’’

***

Sansa and her husband arrive two weeks before the wedding and her sister takes maybe two steps out of the wheelhouse before Mother runs to her and wraps her arms around her, Father soon following.

Arya watches the whole meeting from the sidelines, standing next to Gendry and trying not to bite on her lip too much. Sansa’s even more beautiful in her memory; she seems to be glowing from inside out the way expecting women are supposed to.

But well. She was always an expert in doing things she’s supposed to do. Why would pregnancy be any different for her?

Prince Aegon also remains in distance to the general merry-making, instead politely greeting Lady Isabelle and Lord Robert, who was wheeled outside on a chair, and whose head sags against his chest as if he was far older than he really is. Arya honestly admires Prince a little bit for coming so close to him, even going as far as kneeling on the ground to make talking to him easier. Robert Baratheon makes her feel a lot of things, pretty much none positive; and her general opinion of him is not improving due to the way his bloodshot eyes follow her every movement whenever she’s around him, a weird mix of nostalgia and desire written on his face.

Robert may hate all Targaryens with burning intensity, but apparently even he is not stupid enough to be rude to the Heir to the Iron Throne. Or maybe he doesn’t have the strength to be, gods only know. Anyway, he seems to be talking with Prince Aegon quite politely, every second word interrupted by the fit of coughing.

Arya thinks she’s probably staring at him a little too intensely, but she cannot help her curiosity; because she did not attend Sansa’s wedding, this is the first time she’s meeting her good brother. And what a sight he is – tall and lean like a willow tree, fair-haired; slim where Jon is broad, lithe where Jon is bulky. One would never guess they are half-brothers.

Where Prince nods his head in front of her, she notices his beautiful blue eyes, darker even than Gendry’s; like the evening sky long after sunset.  

“Arya.’’ Sansa calls for her from Father’s embrace, a small smile on her blushed face and her hands cupping the slight bulge of her belly. ‘’It’s so nice to see you, sister! Please, come closer.’’

Is it really? Arya almost scowls, but Gendry lightly pinches her side before she has a chance to and offers her his arm and, when they’re crossing the courtyard together, she’s feeling strangely giddy. Gendry’s wearing this doublet she likes, the one with claw marks along his shoulders (being subtle has never been his strongest suit) and it’s so good to be by his side, his longer strides matched with her quicker ones.  Marveling at that, Arya manages easily to kiss Sansa’s cheek and politely congratulate her on her pregnancy. She thinks she could even, maybe, possibly, do a little wedding-related small talk on her own free will… just as long as Gendry would be holding her hand the whole time.

***

When Sansa asks her to take a walk around the castle’s gardens, she does not think much of it. Maybe Mother asked her to, maybe she wants to gloat a little, or maybe she lacks female companionship. There could be a number of reasons, all ultimately unimportant.

At first, it goes as expected; they stroll agonizingly slow, Sansa babbles excitedly about the wedding and her babe and how beautiful Dragonstone is and everything else, and Arya listens to her quietly, trying not to look as bored as she is.

But then Sansa sits down on of the benches, taking yet another break. She quiets down for a moment, before lacing her hands on her lap.

‘’Are you in love with him?’’ she asks suddenly, her voice low and serious; a far cry for her previous cheerful tweeting. She keeps her eyes glued to the ground and refuses to meet Arya’s confused stare.

And Arya is simply dumbfounded. Not only to hear this question from Sansa, of all people, but to hear it at all. No one ever wonders about being in love. It’s a silly fancy for women of their kind and even Sansa, so enamored by the tales of knights and fair ladies must already know that. Love is something that one can wish for, but it’s not an end goal. Even Mother and Father have never mentioned it. Gendry and Arya like each other a lot, enjoy each other’s company, are of an equal station and actively asked to be matched, so it was far more than enough for them to be married.

But Sansa is asking about something else entirely. And so Arya finds herself quite at loss to what to say.

‘’I’m not.’’ – she says at last, deciding on the most honest answer she can think of. – ‘’But I think maybe I will be. One day.’’

‘’But you love him, don’t you? And even if you don’t, you know him. You know…’’ Sansa pauses and takes a deep breath before continuing. – ‘’ I am so very jealous of that. Have been, since the moment I realized you will be married to him one day. I met Aegon a week before we were wed and did not know a single important thing about him.’’

The sea breeze plays with stray pieces of Sansa’s beautiful auburn hair and the fringes of her scarlet dress. With her swollen belly and porcelain skin, she’s stunning beyond belief, just like she has always been. And yet, she’s sitting here and telling her, little Arya Horseface, that she’s jealous of her.

When Arya looks at her, really, truly looks at her beyond the perfect exterior Sansa pulls off so well, she notices a few things she has never bothered to see.

There is an unhealthy paleness of her sister’s cheeks and the sheen of sweat on her brow even though they were moving at the snail’s pace during a relatively chilly morning. The Targaryen red shade of the velvet of her gown crashes terribly with her hair. She looks-

Honestly, she looks unhappy.

‘’I still feel like I don’t know him at all.’’ Sansa adds quietly, putting her hands on her belly delicately. ‘’But you two grew up together and he was always so obviously fond of you. Didn’t even spare me a glance, same as Jon. I don’t know if Father intended one of them for you from the beginning, but even if he didn’t, it was soon decided.’’

And of course, Robert Baratheon wanted a Ned Stark’s daughter to marry Gendry right from the start.

Arya thinks about Bran’s absolute conviction, aligning now with Sansa’s words. Was it truly so transparent for everyone, that only she couldn’t see it?

But then again, Arya never wondered much about betrothals and marriages when she was a kid, definitely not even half as much as Sansa. So maybe she just never bothered to notice the clues right in front of her.

How Mother never forbade her running around with Gendry and Jon, long after it stopped being proper. Why would it matter if she got ruined, if it was by her future husband?

How Father turned his eyes away from Arya’s sneaking out to ride with Gendry through wolfswood and how he never said anything against him giving her piggyback rides to her chamber after the supper.

Arya opens her mouth and closes it back, finding no good answer to Sansa’s words.

‘’I think he hoped for either of us to marry him.’’ she says slowly, carefully. ‘’Because Gendry’s Robert’s son. But I’m sure at the beginning he was thinking about you more than me.’’

‘’He won’t be a bad husband to you. He wouldn’t be bad for me also, I’m sure.’’ Sansa chimes and Arya suddenly feels quite faint. Gendry marrying Sansa. How would that feel like? Would she feel anything at all, watching the two of them in front of Septon? Maybe not, if she didn’t know how it feels to stand in his arms, his body so warm and strong against hers. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

‘’But Aegon’s obviously a better catch.’’ somehow, Arya’s statement sounds more like a question.

‘’Oh, he is.’’ Sansa’s giggle is as delicate and lady-like as possible. But the scowl on her face isn’t. ‘’True prince from my dreams. I’ll be his Queen someday, just like I always wanted. What an honor.’’

Her words sound empty. Her eyes are empty; two blue glass marbles set in a lacquered mask.

It’s a particularly pretty spring morning. Soon, they will both go back to the castle and Sansa will surely throw herself into choosing right flowers for the ceremony or pleasantly chat with Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters about the weather for hours with no end. During supper, she’ll sit by Prince Aegon’s side and smile politely, eat like a bird and retire to her chambers early.

But for now, Arya’s standing in Storm’s End gardens in front of her beautiful older sister and, for the first time, pities her.

And maybe it’s just enough for her to bury all the resentment she feels for Sansa deep enough to sit on the bench next to her and lace his fingers with her.

Just enough, that when Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise and her hand twitches in her grip, Arya doesn’t let go.

***

Three days before wedding, they sneak out again; this time, to the beach below the castle.

There’s Gendry, his eyes laughing, his cheeks pink from harsh sea breeze; his pants cuffed so the material won’t get wet in the shallow water, standing next to her and showing her ships sailing somewhere in the distance.

And there’s also this insistent, dangerous thought that keeps on blaring in her mind on repeat ever since they left that cave.

Kiss me.

Kiss me, kissmekissme

She bites on her lip just to keep this plea inside, but he notices, of course he does, cause he is infuriating like that; how can one man be so absolutely dense one second and then suddenly turn perceptive like a hawk?

‘’What?’’

She lowers her gaze to her feet. Pale and submerged, they look like weird fishes.

‘’What, what?’’

‘’What’s going on?’’

The seagulls are shrieking, but it’s nowhere loud enough for her not to hear the sounds coming from the castle. Horses and people and everything. All this fucking noise.

Water splashes around Gendry’s ankles as he moves closer to her. She takes a step back, but he sneaks an arm around her waist, keeping her in place.

He’s so warm. Against sea and wind and sky, he is the warmest thing that exists, warmer even than Nymeria’s fur and Winterfell hot springs.

‘’Arya.’’

Even his voice is warm. Yet, his fingers still make her shiver when he raises her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his.

‘’I just- It’s stupid.’’

‘’I doubt it.’’ He says, so confidently that she almost laughs.

‘’How do you know that?’’

‘’Well.’’ He puts his other hand on her lower back. She is now locked in his embrace, her feet in-between his, his arms around her. ‘’You are not a stupid lass, Arya. So I don’t thank whatever you want to say is stupid either.’’

‘’That’s a stupid line of thinking, tho. Even stupid people sometimes say wise things.’’ Before she can stop herself, she puts her hands on his shoulders, lacing her fingers behind his neck. With the sway of the tides that makes them sway also, it feels a bit as if they were dancing.

‘’Gimmie an example of that.’’ He demands. He’s smiling; he’s always smiling when he’s looking at her, just like her father said. How could she not notice that before?

‘’You. Sometimes you manage to say a thing or two that makes sense.’’

He barks with a booming laughter, loud enough that he startles a few little terns that were resting on the rocks next to them.

‘’Oh, my lady, no one sweet talks me like you do.’’

He’s really, awfully handsome. If Sansa saw him like that, Arya thinks, she would die of jealousy. But I’m the one he wants, I’m the one he asked for.

He saw me, dancing with a practice sword on the courtyard, running around with my hair messy and dress muddied. He saw me and he saw Sansa. And between us two, he chose me. He’s the only one who ever chose me.

Gendry, still chuckling lightly, tucks stray streak of hair behind her ear and stills.

And he is the only one whom I could ever choose.

Courage fills her lungs as she admits sheepishly, in haste, before she can think it over;

‘’I don’t want my first kiss to be in front of all those people.  The king, the queens. My parents. All those lords and ladies. It’s just- I know you don’t – I mean-‘’ she starts to mumble and it suddenly feels too hot in his arms, too scary when he looks at her like that. She’s getting nervous again. Oh, gods. What did she even want to say? It was all a bad idea, the worst. ‘’I’m not asking you to- oh, fuck that, it was stupid, just forge-‘’

Suddenly, underneath blue, blue sky, ankle-deep in cold, cold sea, Gendry’s kissing her.

Her feet on the sharp, slippery pebbles, seagulls shrieking and thunder rumbling somewhere in the far distance, Gendry’s kissing her.

Smiling against her mouth, his lips chapped and warm, Gendry’s kissing her.

And she supposes she’s glad she brought it up at the end, cause it would be embarrassing as hell to gasp like she just did in front of all the guests; to freeze first and then close her eyes and melt, raising on her tiptoes and burying her fingers in soft, dark hair at the back of his head to press him closer to her. Their teeth clash and she winces, but he coaxes her lips to part with his tongue and – oh.

Oh.

***

The Royal House Targaryen streams through the open gate with all the pomp and extravagance possible.  And even Arya has to admit, they are truly a sight to behold. It’s hard not to gawk.

King Rheagar rides first, on a stunning white horse and clad in silver, which, paired with his skin and hair,  makes him look a little bit like a fallen star, as if he was out of this world. He’s far older now than when he took the throne from his father, but still as handsome; and those melancholic eyes are only part of the appeal… at least that’s what Arya’s handmaidens at Storm’s End claim. Then, there are his two Queens, who simply couldn’t be more different from each other; Elia Martell, dark and subtle, her eyes lined with kohl and swaddled in sandy yellow gauze and purple velvets versus Lyanna Stark, pale as the moon, her long brown hair cascading down her back and wide grin on her lovely face when she spots Arya’s father.

But as much as Arya wants to finally meet this woman, her eyes keep on searching, impatience burning in her veins until she spots Jon.

Prince Jaehaerys hops off his horse the moment the procession stops and, ignoring all protocol and curtesies, crosses the courtyard to gather Arya in his arms, spinning her around until she wheezes with laughter.

‘’Jon, let me go!’’ she kicks her legs underneath her skirts, suddenly feeling like a little girl again.

‘’I will, but only so I can take a look at you.’’ he chuckles, finally setting her on her feet and surveying her head-to-toe, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘’Well, you did not grow much, didn’t you.’’

She thinks her mother would positively whip her if she hit a crown prince of Seven Kingdoms in the presence of the rest of the Royal Family and that’s the only thing that stops her from doing just so.

‘’You, on contrary, should really stop growing. Nice to see you, friend.’’ Jon turns to Gendry, who grins in return and soon they’re patting each other’s backs, playfully wrestling like they used to back in Winterfell.

‘’My love, maybe you could introduce me?’’ soft, melodic voice breaks their reunion bubble and soon Arya’s looking at someone who surely must be the most beautiful girl she has ever seen.

Jon’s face splits into the most lovesick and sappy smile in the history of lovesick smiles as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

‘’You’re right, of course. Gendry, Arya- my wife, Princess Daenerys.’’

‘’Dany. Just Dany is enough, we are amongst friends, right? I heard so much about you two, you have no idea.’’ Daenerys winks at them playfully. She’s wearing a simple lilac dress and her silver hair is down, already messed-up by the wind, but Arya supposes it doesn’t matter at all if her face is so strikingly perfect and her body seems to be carved from marble by someone’s loving hands. Daenerys Targaryen would probably still be heart-stopping if she was barefoot and in rags.

‘’Oh, I think we may have some idea about the things he could tell you,  Your Highness.’’ Gendry lowers his head respectfully and Arya takes it as a clue to curtsy also. ‘’Welcome to Storm’s End.’’

‘’Please, no ‘Your Highness’ me. I told you, my name is Dany.’’ Daenerys clasps Arya’s hands in hers. ‘’I heard you have a similar problem with titles. Please, support me here.’’

‘’Of course – Dany.’’ Arya finds it easy to return the smile, squeezing Princess’ fingers. ‘’Besides, we don’t title Jon. It’s only fair not to do that with you.’’

‘’You’re only not titling me, because you have seen me sprawled half-naked on the snow after that prank that Theon pulled.’’ Jon murmurs grimly, but Arya can see how content he looks like with their introduction to his wife. ‘’After all, it would be impossible to remain dignified after that.’’

Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up and she narrows her eyes.

‘’I don’t believe I heard this particular story.’’

‘’You don’t have to know everything, Dany.’’

‘’Oh, but I definitely do.’’ Princess turns back to Arya. ‘’Can’t wait to learn what else he hid from me. We must get to know each other better. Please?’’

And because Jon looks so unquestionably happy when he stares at his wife and because Dany’s plea sounds so incredibly honest-  it’s enough for Arya to exchange a glance with Gendry before they both nod in unison.

It’s different now, when there is an additional person in their old good triumvirate. But somehow, she thinks this might be a change for good.

***

On the morning of her wedding, she wakes up too early - it’s barely grey outside, silent in the whole castle.  Even Nymeria is still deep in her slumber and apparently dreaming of running, judging by the erratic movements of her paws.

Arya jumps from under the covers, walking barefoot on the stone-cold floor to the window to check if Gendry was right yesterday, when he told his mother stop fretting about the weather -  it turns out he was indeed, because the sea is still and flat like a table and the wind has died down, leaving only chill breeze that makes her shiver and wrap her arms around her.

Tomorrow, she will wake up in different chambers, with a better view. And just like the water outside, she is strangely calm with this perspective on the horizon. It’s all right. It’s all good.

It will be fine.

One big, fancy ceremony and she will forever be allowed to kiss Gendry whenever she wants and they will never ever have to sneak out again to go for a horse ride. It doesn’t seem like a too big price to pay.

Alright then. Let the madness begin.

She bathes in rosewater, her cherry maids scrubbing every inch of her body with sea sponges until her skin is pink and itchy.

Then, her mother and sister dress her up in fine white silk adorned with ermine fur and pearls on the hem and around cuffs. The gown is lighter than a traditional Northern one would be, but still heavy and uncomfortable, and Sansa laces it tight enough that Arya has to stop herself from wincing every time she takes a deeper breath. They braid her hair in a soft coronet, adorning it with silver thread and small blue flowers, and they powder her face and paint her lips and cheeks with the rogue.

Sansa gifted her a long string of pearls from the Summer Islands for the occasion and now she takes it out of the box and loops it around Arya’s neck a few times, so that it would complement her dress. After doing that, she steps aside, with a satisfied smile on her face.

When they put her in front of the mirror, she has to blink a couple times to recognize herself.

‘’Look at you.’’ Her mother says, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she clasps her hands together and covers her mouth with them. ‘’You look so beautiful, Arya.’’

Arya’s heart clenches painfully and she looks down, avoiding Mother’s soft gaze. She has waited her whole life to hear those words.  To fit in. To feel like she belongs.

Right now, standing still in her beautiful gown, dripping with jewels and all dolled-up, she finally looks like a proper noblewoman. Proper lady. Even next to the glowing Sansa, queen-to-be in royal scarlet, she does not look out of place.

Beautiful, that’s how her mother called her.

It doesn’t feel good at all. It feels empty. It is empty, because the woman looking back at her from the mirror is not Arya, just some stranger in her skin.

Gendry, thou. – crosses her mind suddenly, filling her with warmth. – Gendry called me beautiful in the forest, when I had my hair loose and I was soaked to the bone with rain. Why would it matter, what anyone else thinks of me today?

Holding onto that thought, she wills her mouth to curve into a smile. If they want her to play the blushing bride, she will be one for today, easily. Because this marriage won’t be her shackles.

‘’Thank you, Mother.’’

***

First, they marry in Sept.

Storm’s End has a beautiful little chapter, ornamented inside with amber and colored glass, making it look like a jewelry box. When light pours through the windows, it basks people in an orange-golden glow and suddenly everyone and everything becomes simply ethereal. Women are porcelain figures. Men – carved marble. The smell of burning spices is making Arya’s nose twitch, harsh light is making her eyes water. At the back of her head, she registers all of it; Nymeria’s silent presence by her one side, Father’s by the other;  the sound of her maiden cloak sweeping the stone floor; Sansa’s red hair looking like a flame around her face.

But it all feels very much unreal, even when she stands in front of Gendry and watches how light dances on his face, turning his eyes green.  The Septon keeps on talking and talking, gods know what about. She doesn’t hear any of his words, only white noise pulsating in her ears. She is not really here, not really registering what’s going on - not until their linked hands are wrapped with silk ribbon and it’s time for them to say their vows.

For a second, her throat goes dry.

There is no turning back now.

She cannot breathe, cannot think, not will all those people watching her and with those godsdamned spices burning, not with her laces so tight and her heart so heavy-

Gendry’s fingers gently squeeze her own and it’s like a fresh breeze on a hot day, like a bucket of blissfully cold water poured on her head.

This marriage won’t be my shackles.

‘’Father.’’ He starts, his voice confident and loud, echoing through the chapel.

And she breathes in.

‘’Smith.’’ The corners of Gendry’s lips twitch slightly.

And she breathes out.

‘’Warrior.’’ She raises her chin up, looking him straight into the eyes and letting smile bloom on her face.

‘’Mother, Maiden, Crone.’’ They say in perfect unison, and Arya feels how her chest rises and falls, how her heart beats steadily, how everything is a song and she just wants to sing it as long as she’s alive.

‘’I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.’’ They stand so close to each other, their linked hands being the only thing that keeps their bodies apart; Gendry leans his head down and she does not care for guests or for the feast or for being the lady of Storm’s End when he’s right here and promises to be hers.

The Septon untangles the ribbon and Gendry’s fingers immediately fly to the laces of her cloak; but then, just as suddenly, he drops them.

He sends her a blinding grin and, instead of taking it off, he simply reaches for the Baratheon black-and-yellow cloak and pulls it on top of her Stark one and she’s quite sure no one ever smiled as widely as her at that moment, when gathered guests gasp and Gendry fulfills her promise to her in the most beautiful way he possibly could.

And then.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.’’ She almost sing-songs, feeling like a giddy girl about to dip into Godswood pools.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.’’ Gendry’s voice drops an octave lower, sending shivers down her spine, before she raises on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

‘’I now pronounce you man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.’’  The Septon announces, and it’s a perfectly lovely line, truly;  but all Arya ever wants to hear is Gendry’s breathy laughter as he embraces her tightly, sweeping her off her feet.

***

They truly do get married when the night falls, at least from Arya’s perspective.

The Godswood here is, of course,  not even close to what she left behind in Winterfell, but it’s easy to fool herself when it’s dark and lit with torches and bigger part of her family is there. Most of the guests decided to remain at the feast inside, so the ceremony is far quieter and simple – only aunt Lyanna, Jon and Daenerys stand next to Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters on the one side of the path, watching as Arya is once again lead towards her husband by her father. From the other side, Sansa sends her a soft smile, locked in Prince Aegon’s arms and Rickon whistles sharply until Mother whacks him on the head.

This time, Father pulls her close before giving her away, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and quietly telling her he loves her and this is when it really, truly hits her- this is goodbye. A farewell. Even of Gendry didn’t take her cloak off… since now, she’ll forever be Lady Arya Baratheon in the eyes of the world.

This makes her cry, just a little and it’s good that Gendry’s close enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

When they kneel on the sweet-smelling grass in front of the bloody-teared heart tree, she closes her eyes and silently asks the old Northern gods of her ancestors to replace Winterfell in her heart with Storm’s End. And for Gendry to never leave her again. And to finally feel that what she has is enough.

***

Aunt Lyanna dances through the whole evening with anyone and everyone who gathers enough courage to ask her; she twirls in her husband’s arms, spins around nearly all Kingsguards, claps along with the rhythm with her son and Prince Aegon, drags Arya’s father to the dancefloor despite his loud complaints.

She even steals Gendry for a song or two, promising Arya to give him back in one piece and just as handsome and bursting into laughter when Gendry turns red.

Elia Martell also dances her with husband, son, nephew and brother, but she is nowhere as blinding as Lyanna, nowhere as attention-catching. She spends most of the feast quietly talking with Sansa and Dayne siblings, only making an exception to sweetly congratulate Arya and Gendry on their union and to wish them to enjoy each other’s company until they’re old and grey.

Funny thing thou; while Elia seems perfectly calm and content to sit at the sidelines, Arya catches Aunt Lyanna longingly stare a little too long at the Stark sigil hanging from the ceiling along the Baratheon one; and, while she’s still a relatively young woman, there are crone’s lines deeply carved in the skin around her eyes. If observed long enough, her laughter sounds quite hollow and there’s some unhealthy nervousness about her quick, erratic movements.

She truly does resemble a caged songbird.

Beautiful and sad, that’s what Gendry said about her years ago. And although probably no one else would call her the latter, Arya supposes he was not wrong at all, just more perceptive than others.

King Rheagar’s sadness is out in the open. For Lyanna’s, one has to dig a little deeper.

But Arya’s  pondering about the subject is rudely, if deliciously, interrupted as Gendry’s lips suddenly brush her earlobe when he whispers:

“Would you do me an honor of dancing with me, my lovely wife?’’

She turns towards him, cheeks blushed, breath catching. Wife, wife, wife.

He’s straight-up fucking beaming at her. She hasn’t been even aware that he can make an expression like that. And when she immediately puts her hand in his, no hesitation, his smile stretches even wider, making his eyes crinkle and highlighting this tiny dimple he has on his chin.

It is unmistakable, how unabashedly happy Gendry looks like.  Oh gods, how could she even think about anything else than him this night?

‘’Lead the way, husband of mine. And try not to step on my toes.’’ She teases and bursts into laughter as he pulls her in-between dancing pairs and spins her around.

***

‘’Maybe we could just ran away.’’ Arya whispers, gently tracing the slope of Gendry’s nose with the tip of her finger. The guests behind their doors whistle and shout obscenities, but they could as well be far away in the North for how little attention Arya pays them. Her and her new husband are laying on top of Gendry’s magnificent featherbed, stripped to their small clothes and in no hurry whatsoever, all hushed voices and feather-like caresses. He’s playing with her hair. She’s exploring his features. Time feels sticky; thick and sweet like honey.

She wants to savor it, every single drop.

‘’Drop the titles, the castles. Just be us.’’ She sounds dreamy and, ultimately, it is exactly what she plans on doing. She’s gonna daydream. She’s gonna talk and talk with him, the way they have always did. And just hope that whatever follows won’t be the first thing that won’t come easy to them.

‘’What would we do?’’ he plays along, gently grabbing her hand and kissing the delicate underside of her wrist, his eyes shining in the moonlight, his lips parted. There’s something written on his face tonight and she does not know how to decipher this message; she only knows it makes her toes curl, her fingers tremble.

‘’You’d be my blacksmith.’’ Arya braces herself for a moment before she swiftly rolls on top of him, settling her hips against his and chuckling when he groans.

‘’And you’d be my Arya.’’

Mine, mine, mine – her blood sings, her breath catches as she watches how he lays spread underneath her, both rough and soft, vulnerable and strong and hers, hers to keep.

His hands rest on her waist and then move upwards, finding her breasts and she moans involuntarily under his touch,  evoking a wave of loud cheering from the corridor. Gendry’s pupils are blown wide, his eyes are so dark that they don’t even look blue anymore.

‘’Aye, I would be.’’ she agrees before lowering her head to capture his lips with hers. ‘’I would always be yours.’’

Never believe things men will tell you to bed you. They won’t mean it, not truly. - Septa Mordane used to warn her and Arya briefly wonders if the opposite is maybe also true. Right now, she would say everything and anything to get Gendry to move, to touch her, really touch her.  This dance they’re doing is marvelous, is delicious, is unlike anything else she has ever felt before. With the anticipation making her dizzy, with want making her silly, there are not many lines she wouldn’t cross.

‘’Say it again.’’ He demands in between kisses, twisting her nipple in-between his fingers and using her moment of weakness to flip them over, swallowing her breathy gasps with his mouth. ‘’Please.’’

‘’Yours. I’m yours, I’m yours.’’ She pants, giddy and happy, and letting excitement bubble inside her as he replaces his fingers with his mouth.

‘’And I’m yours.’’ He vows sweetly, pressing short, burning kisses down her body, stripping her of any shame until everything else disappears without a trace, wiped from the face of Earth, leaving only place for the two of them, together.

***

The next morning, Gendry takes her to the stables with her eyes blindfolded with a silk shawl.

‘’I know where we are going.’’ She whines, feeling more than a little ridiculous as he leads her like a child. ‘’I know you’re gonna give me a horse. Why do we have to do it this way?’’

‘’I’m a fan of all things proper.’’ Comes his answer and Arya’s absolutely sure she must be red to the roots of her hair cause there was abso-fucking-lutely nothing proper about how Gendry spread her thighs and licked her into oblivion just a few hours ago.

‘’Oh, surely you are.’’ She snickers, making him chuckle in response.

‘’Are you suggesting I did not – took care of you properly last night?’’

When did he become such a tease?

She’s just about to shoot something back, but Gendry takes her hand and places it on top of something incredibly delicate and warm.

‘’Say hello, my love.’’ He tells her softly, undoing the knot at the back of Arya’s head. ‘’I hope you’ll be satisfied.’’

In front of Arya stands the most magnificent pale sand steed she has ever seen. It is elegantly built, with the long neck, thin legs and small hooves; even while standing still, it looks like an epitome of grace. From underneath its grey fringe, dark eyes stare intelligently right into hers. The beast is calm like the untouched surface of the lake and Arya can do nothing else but stand and gawk, her hand still resting above horse’s nostrils; she’s just too enchanted to say anything.

‘’Trystane and Oberyn brought her with Dorne on my request.’’ Gendry continues, patting the horse’s side. ‘’How do you like her?’’

How do I like her?

Suddenly, Arya feels a strange urge to cry.

She has dreamt of a sand steed all her life. To just jump onto one and  - ran away, as swiftly as possible, faster than the wind. To disappear somewhere of the horizon, in the lands unknown. To become a tale incarnate. And Gendry knew it all well, for how many times she talked his ears off with her ice dragons, leviathans, Old Valyrias, Elisa Farmans, Princess Aereas and Sea Snakes.

And yet – he gave her this beautiful, beautiful horse and trusted her not to use it to leave him and shame him.

He’s looking so proud of himself. – she thinks, her heart fluttering in her chest like a moth around the flame. Gendry’s eyes are twinkling and he has his arms laced on his chest, standing tall and strong. He’s smiling at her, as always. – And he has a right to be.

‘’If you- if you expect me to call her Lightening to match your Thunder, you will be sorely disappointed.’’ She manages to utter at last, trying to keep her tone playful. – ‘’This would be ridiculous and we won’t be doing that.’’

Gendry barks a laughter, leaning back on one of the wooden pillars and glancing at Arya fondly as she lets the horse sniff her palm before gently pressing a kiss to its nose.

‘’How will you call her then?’’

Arya combs through mare’s fine, silvery mane with her fingers and recalls the feeling of steel grey waves crashing around her calves as Gendry was kissing her on the shore. The feeling of galloping with him on the cliffs, cold rain soaking their clothes. The Old Nan’s stories of the Northern Sea, filled to the brim with monsters from the wildest imagination. The image of the clear sky after the storm, pure and light.

The night they have just spent together.

‘’Shiver.’’ She finds herself stating, with one side of her face pressed to the horse’s warm, strong neck. Her mare smells like sand and sun and salt. Like the only freedom her husband can give her; the freedom to be who she is. ‘’Her name is Shiver.’’

***

As they’re seeing the royal guests away, Aunt Lyanna surveys them both for a moment silently, before exhaling deeply.

‘’Look children, I know you received a lot of well wishes already, but please let me add to the pool.’’ She reaches out and take their hands in her small, glowed ones – Gendry’s in her right, Arya’s in her left. ‘’I hope that your wedding was not the best day of your lives. I hope you will get many, many better in the future, each one more wonderful than the previous. I hope your years together will be as joyous as they can be.’’

Arya’s eyes involuntarily escape from Lyanna across the courtyard, finding Father’s still figure. Her parents are going to accompany royal family to the Capital before going back North and simply the thought of it makes her want to throw up. After they’re gone, only Nymeria will remind her of home.

After they’re gone, there will be no more ceremonies and pleasantries, or formal dinners to suffer through. Only day by day, years passing by.  

‘’My dear.’’ Aunt Lyanna pats her cheek delicately to regain her attention and looks her straight into the eyes, grey meeting grey. ‘’I know it’s hard for us, she-wolves of Winterfell, to live in the South. But you are strong. You will survive this separation – and soon, your childhood will become just a sweet memory to cherish, not something that makes you ache. Believe me.’’ She finishes quietly, quickly bidding them goodbye and hurrying to her horse with skirts fluttering around her ankles as if she was afraid she said too much.

Her voice rings true and Arya suspects she believes in her words. But Lyanna still looks so small and bittersweet in her blue gown, surrounded by the sea of crimson and black. She stands out, a single winter rose in the garden of glasshouse-grown ones. From one side, King Rheagar glances at her, brow furrowed. From another, Jon shoots her a concerned look, wrinkle on his forehead deep like a gash.

Mother hugs her tightly, caressing her hair and saying something about being proud of her, but Arya’s more or less fine until Father appears in front of her and stares down at her so lovingly that she’s sure her heart will break clean in half from the pain.

She can feel her lower lip trembling and before she can even notice, she’s locked in Ned Stark’s warm embrace, surrounded by the familiar scent.

‘’My girl.’’ He whispers softly, letting her tear up against his shoulder and holding her tightly. ‘’My girl, I love you so much. You are going to do so good, you’ll see.’’

‘’I’m going to miss you.’’ She cries, not even carrying if anyone hears. Let them know Starks love their pack. Let them know whose example she is going to follow. ‘’So much. But I’ll do my best.’’

‘’I know you will.’’ Father says warmly, his voice laced with such a certainty that she smiles through tears. ‘’You are a natural; you were born to order people around. And I’m sure you will be happy in Stormlands. Right, Gendry?’’

Arya still has her face pressed to Father’s fur collar, but she’s fully aware that he fixes  a particularly icy stare on her husband, because Gendry’s ‘’I’ll see to that, Lord Stark.’’ sounds a little nervous.

‘’You don’t need to scare him, Father.’’ She says quietly. ‘’You said it yourself; he will be good to me.’’

‘’Oh, I don’t worry about it. But it’s better to be extra safe than sorry, right?’’

So this is how she says goodbye to her family; her face wet and the corners of her mouth up, her husband squeezing her hand tightly as the horses disappear, swallowed by the woods.

***

A week later, just when she thinks all the hard talks and surprises are behind her, Lady Isabelle invites her for a tea in her solar.

Dressed in a teal gown and with her blonde locks half-up, her goodmother looks as delicate and bird-like as always and Arya wonders for the thousandth time how a woman like that put up with years and years of Robert Baratheon, how did she survive giving him a son and three daughters. If Isabelle is akin to a dove, Robert is nothing but a boar; big and loud and vulgar.

And still in love with another woman, even after all those years.

‘’Oh, Arya. Sit please.’’  The woman sets down her embroidery hoop on the table and reaches for a teapot. ‘’I hope you like tea? I heard Xingise don’t drink anything else.’’

‘’I do enjoy tea a lot, goodmother.’’ Arya dutifully takes a seat and watches as Lady Isabelle is pouring dark, sweet-smelling liquid into her cup. There are fresh cut roses in the vase between them and one of the petals falls off just as Arya’s trying to remember if the two of them were ever alone before. To be honest, she cannot recall such situation.

With a cling of porcelain, Gendry’s mother puts teapot back on the tray and announces simply:

‘’Robert and I will soon leave Storm’s End.’’

Arya’s eyes widen. She has expected – fuck, she doesn’t know what she expected, but definitely not this.

‘’Where to, my lady? I thought Lord Robert’s condition doesn’t allow him to travel.’’ She asks carefully, trying not to sound too brash, or, gods forbid, too happy. Even if she is a little bit happy. Which probably makes her the worst person ever.

‘’You are not mistaken.’’ Isabelle purses her lips into a tight line. ‘’But my husband is barely holding onto life the way he is now. Him and I will only trouble Gendry, and he does not need extra problems on his head. Especially… now that he already has you.’’

She could’ve as well slap Arya, for how painful this subtle jab was.

‘’Let me make something clear, Lady Arya.’’ Isabelle continues, any trace of sweetness gone from her voice. ‘’I was against this match, same as I was against Gendry being fostered in Winterfell, especially since we could’ve send him to Eyrie, to my family. Bringing you here is an insult to me, considering – well, considering.’’

Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna. Why won’t you just say her name? We both know you’re thinking about her.

‘’My son is a good man, I made sure of that. I thought there is not a trace of Robert in him, except his looks. But it seems I was wrong.’’

‘’Gendry is different than his father. Completely different.’’ Arya protests, but her words seem distant and distorted as if she was under the water. This whole conversation threw her completely off balance. Where did this woman hide this venom for all those weeks?

‘’Not when it comes to taste in women, apparently. ‘’ Isabelle scoffs and Arya curses in her head, this goddamn shadow of Aunt Lyanna always stuck to me. ‘’Still, I respected his choice. But you should know, you would never deserve him. Never.’’

Looks like an innocent flower, but there’s a true furious stag underneath          

Arya cannot hate Lady Isabelle; she cannot even dislike her now, not when it turned out she is not so bland after all. Years stuck with Robert, seeing his whores and wine would make even a saint bitter.

Besides…  she does understand where her good mother’s fears come from.

Arya laces her fingers on her lap, more lady-like than ever, and takes a sip of her tea.

‘’So let me be honest also; I love your son. And I intend to be a good wife for him. But I will never take your road. I won't ever let him harass me into becoming who I’m not. However, I believe I should thank you for raising him... Because I know he would never do that.’’

Lady Isabelle stares at her for a moment, before nodding slowly.

‘’He wouldn’t. He won’t. Hope you know how lucky you are.’’

In fact, Arya feels like she’s been slowly realizing that from the moment she stepped onto the Storm’s End courtyard and it’s only becoming clearer with time.

‘’Anyway.’’ Isabelle reaches for her own teacup, only the slight tremble of her wrist indicating she has just straight-up insulted Arya. ‘’I wish to visit my older brother and his wife in Runestones. I hope clear mountain air would do Robert well, not like the clammy heat here.’’

Oh, it will certainly do him good. – Arya narrows her eyes, trying to stop herself from chuckling. – So will being tossed in the wheelhouse for weeks, on the hard terrain, when he’s already so weak. You minx. I underestimated you.

Her goodparents do leave eventually, against Gendry’s loud and explicit wishes, and taking his youngest sister with them.  It takes five men to load Lord Robert onto the wheelhouse as he coughs and wheezes and Maester of Storm’s End refuses to see his lord and lady away, whispering to anyone who would listen that this whole idea is pure lunacy.

But it is easier to breathe in the castle without them and Gendry smiles more when he doesn’t have to visit his father every day and see him fading away. Even his two remaining sisters, Aelin and Lara, seem to be a little bit more carefree and talkative, and Lara goes as far as starting to practice water dancing along with Arya.

For all this bliss, Arya doesn’t kid herself into believing that is the last she sees of lady Isabelle. After all, she is of House Royce and Maester Luwin taught Arya her houses well.

And Royces of Runestones have a very memorable motto indeed.

We remember.

***

Little Lady, that’s how smallfolk has taken to calling her. Little Lady and Lady Wolf and Winter Rose even, sometimes, after someone starts to marvel at her likeness to Queen Lyanna. It stung at the beginning, made her stomach turn with irritation and her eyes roll. She could stomach Lady Wolf – it sounded kind of bloody fantastic, to be honest – but all the rest she was honestly despising.

Soon enough tho, a new addition come in front of each of her many names, the one that completely turned everything around.

‘’Our Little Lady’’ - servants address her tenderly, when they think she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Our Lady Wolf!” –  village children would laugh, crowding around her on the streets, tugging on her clothes and begging for sweets and stories.

“Yes, our lady is simply amazing, isn’t she?” – guards would whisper in between each other, after not-so-discretely watching her practice archery in the courtyard on a sunny afternoon.

She does not like being The Lady any more than she thought she would. But she supposes could be their lady, the lady of those people, when ‘’our’’ sounded like a bigger honorific that whatever followed it.

Stormlands grow on her, slowly and surely, like a vine covering stone. This beautiful, violent lands; deep, dark woods, blindingly white cliffs of Durrandon’s Point and Shipwrecker’s Bay’s angry, stone-blue sea.  The sky that seems to always be in motion, just like in the North. Storms, so constant and yet so breathtaking, leaving a peculiar aftertaste in the air. She spends every free moment on the horseback, riding from village to village and along the coast, exploring every inch and nook and letting Nymeria roam loose, until her wolf collapses by Gendry’s feet in the evening, panting and satisfied.

To be honest tho, there is not much time for Arya to waste it like that.

She’s keeping  herself busy, filling her days with bookkeeping and trade negotiations and construction of guilds, with breeding hounds and tending to horses. There is a lot to mend; Robert was a reckless spender and his wife loved unnecessary frivolities, but Arya’s sure they can pay off their debts just fine  if they will manage without peacocks for suppers for a while and cut the amount of lavish feasts in half.

Gendry shows her the maps of trade routes in the region and they spend hours upon hours of reviewing the stream of goods, arguing about the possible new harbors on the coastline and the construction of roads. She’s losing her sleep in favor of counting taxes, monitoring the state of their coffers and wondering what else they could possibly produce. Arya would’ve never guessed all of it would be so engaging, but it is. And all the work feels so very rewarding, so useful.

It’s easy to have a clear objective, when it has a name and a face, be it freckled Mel from the kitchens, her favorite guard Willen or Old Tom that sits in the docks all day long and gifts her with fresh clams every time she’s passing him on Shiver. It’s easy to work for them, to make their lives better. Especially because Arya’s and Gendry’s lives are already so good.

Soon, she introduces her favorite Winterfell tradition of dining with a different resident of the households, be it the Captain of the Guard or the Head Stablemaster. But instead of moving to sidelines like her mother used to, Arya sits on one side of their guest and Gendry on another one, asking questions together. Maybe, just maybe, she even talks more.

Maybe she generally does just as much governing as him, definitely more than is expected of her. Maybe people talk behind her back about how improper it all is.

Maybe, but Gendry himself certainly doesn’t seem to mind all that.

At night, he hoists her legs up, rests her calves on his broad shoulders and fucks her, long and hard and slow, nipping on her neck and collarbone now and then, or suckling on her nipples until she’s trembling like a flame in the fireplace, desperately beginning him with a broken voice that she doesn’t even recognize as hers to please, please, just go faster and finish her off.

She told him she would not bow to any man and she keeps her promise; she does not bow to him. She surrenders thou, gladly and sweetly, if only because it makes her all hot and wet every time he puts his hands on her and pins her down forcefully to cover her body with his. His grip is strong and bruising and maybe she should feel violated by that, but how does it even matter, if his kisses are so gentle and his eyes so loving? This is safety; this is her Gendry. She could close her eyes and moan all she fucking desires and he would never, ever hurt her.

She leaves scratches down his back and he leaves her skin peppered with love bites and they ruin and devour each other in the most delicious, delirious way there is.

How her mother and her sister warned her of a marriage bed. She wants to laugh every time she thinks about it.

***

A raven comes with news of Sansa bearing a healthy girl named Alyssa, said to be red of hair and purple of eyes.  And, as on cue, Arya’s moon blood comes once, twice and then stops.

Soon, her breasts fill up painfully and she stops sleeping well, fruitlessly tossing and turning in bed until Gendry sleepily gathers her in his arms and caresses her hair, calming her down.

And then she barges into the kitchens one day and demands, very loudly, for the cook to stop preparing fish, seven hells, can he just not, is it really that hard to understand that fish makes her sick?

And she knows what it means. She’s not blind or ignorant. But this knowledge feels heavy, so heavy that she’d rather leave it untouched than try to carry it on her shoulders. They have just settled into some kind of routine. This… this will turn everything around yet again.

Unfortunately, she did not marry a stupid man either. A little silly sometimes, but not stupid.

So, when he buries his face in-between her breasts one evening and her gasp clearly a pained, not an aroused one, he carefully rests his chin on her clavicle and breathes out deeply.

“Arya.’’

‘’Gendry.’’

He huffs in annoyance, raising himself up on his elbows and taking his weight off her.

‘'Arya, please.’’

‘’Yes?’’

If he plays dumb, she will also.

‘’Are you with a child?’’ he asks her, straight-up, and his voice – gods, his voice. Everything rings in it, every possible emotion; fear and excitement and anxiousness and hope and love. So much love and he doesn’t even try to conceal it.

And maybe it’s the babe – she seriously hopes so, because otherwise she’s just getting soft which is simply ridiculous – but Arya can feel her heart painfully clenching in her chest as her husband’s blue eyes flicker in the candlelight.

She gently cards her fingers through his thick curls, pushing them away from her face.

‘’Would you like me to be?’’ – she already knows the answer, but she still wants to hear it. Just.. just to be sure. Just to lean against his unwavering strength and drew from it when her doubts eat her alive.

He swiftly rises to a kneeling position and pulls her along, settling her on his lap with her arms looped around his neck and her bare thighs straddling him. A fresh wave of arousal crushes over her and she hums in delight as he places his hand on her hip, his fingers digging into her skin.

‘’Arya. I would be by far the happiest man in the world if you were.’’ He says solemnly, his other hand cradling the back of her head. ‘’But being honest, I am already happier than I ever thought I will be, having you with me. So tell me. Please.’’

He lets go of her hip to tentatively cup her still-flat belly and she just cannot drag it any longer, not when he seems to tremble in anticipation underneath her.

‘’Aye.’’

He breathes in and out deeply, his eyes still locked with hers. There is a dazed expression of his face and Arya’s sure no one has ever looked at her that way; the way Septas look at figures of Mother in Sept, the way Jon was looking at dancing Dany at the wedding, the way sunsets are supposed to be looked at.

He looks at her as if she was a gift sent from gods.

“Aye?’’

‘’Aye. I am.’’ She’s nodding and oh fuck, when did she start crying? When did she start grinning, when did he pull her head closer to his? When did he start kissing her, laughing against her mouth and tasting salt on her lips?

Aye, aye.

Aye.

It seems all the sweetest moments in her life start with just this one word.

***

Dany and Jon come to visit, just as they promised during the wedding; they arrive with a surprisingly small escort and the whole trip seems as informal as possible, for what Arya’s eternally grateful.

She has started to throw up so often and so much that she has grown frail, which drives her insane and irritable. It doesn’t help that the more she vomits, the more Gendry frets, so with the guests at Storm’s End at least he has something else to occupy himself with besides asking her if she’s fine the thousandth time a day.

Which she is. She is perfectly fine and perfectly capable of riding a horse or managing her duties. Thanks gods he has enough reason not to question it out loud, or else she would positively stick him full of holes with a Needle.

Which she is also capable of, just to be clear.

Dany, of course, looks like a daydream. She brings Arya a ton of books and even starts teaching her Old Valyrian, laughing at her butchered pronunciation. The Princess is also far more vocal about the situation at King’s Landing than Jon has ever been and all that she’s talking about gives Arya lots to ponder over in her head at night.

Especially Queen Elia revelation.

‘’I’m honestly surprised it’s not public knowledge already.’’ Dany simply states, ignoring Arya’s wide-opened eyes. ‘’They’re not even trying very hard to be discreet anymore.’’

‘’But – Arthur Dayne? And your brother, he allows it?’’

‘’Arya, please. In this whole situation they have, my brother is the one with the least power whatsoever. After all – ‘’ Dany takes a sip of wine from her goblet, smirking a little, ‘’- he is the one who caused this mess. First, he married Elia even though he didn’t want to. Then he married Lyanna because he wanted to. And one could argue whether or not he was right in any of those cases.’’

“And the children? I mean, doesn’t anyone question if they are really his?’’

Daenerys gracefully rests her chin on her hand and humms.

‘’Well, Aegon is Rheagar’s, there is no wondering about that at all.’’ Arya supposed it was true, given her good brother’s true Targaryen coloring. ‘’Rhaenys, well, maybe one could dig deeper when it comes to her, but why should one bother? It’s not like she is the heir of anything. She’s married now, shipped to Highgarden and, as far as I know, greatly enjoys wreaking havoc there.’’

Arya bites on her lips, looking out of the window and the busy courtyard.  She can hear the sound of hammered steel and that involuntarily makes her smile. They did a few changes in the staff of the castle and now they have such a good steward that Gendry manages to steal a few hours a week to work in the forge. He looks happier now; calmer. Even when he frets over her, it’s less frantic.

‘’You two are adorable.’’ Dany giggles, which makes Arya wheeze.

‘’Please, stop it.’’

‘’No, I’m serious. It really shows how much you care for him. And him for you.’’ Dany’s looking at her with eyes sparkling with mischief and Arya has only a second to brace herself before her almost-goodsister asks: ‘’Is it good in bed? I’m sure it’s good in bed.’’

‘’Dany!’’

‘’What? You’re with a child, do you think I’d believe a stork brought it to you one afternoon?’’

***

‘’Did you know that my father wanted to marry Ashara Dayne before the whole situation with uncle Brandon?’’ she asks Gendry one afternoon, making him tear his eyes away from the scroll he’s currently studying.

‘’What?’’

‘’Oh, yes. Apparently, they were very much in love.’’ She rubs the gentle curve of her belly absent-mindedly, looking at the gathering storm outside. The babe has just started quickening, and she’s starting to get used to the strange sensation. ‘’It’s not like it was not possible. Although that would surely be unexpected, to have a Dornish woman so far North.’’

Gendry murmurs something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like bloody Daynes.

‘’Oh please, stop it already. Ned’s a perfect noble knight.’’

‘’There’s nothing noble in the way he devours you with his damn eyes every time he visits.’’

Arya giggles, trying to imagine honorable, bland Ned ogling anyone.

‘’I think you are irrational. But rest easy; soon I’ll be too fat for anyone to devour me, with their eyes or otherwise.’’

This time Gendry’s groan is even louder and perfectly clear.

‘’Damn you woman, stop whining.’’ He raises from the chair and collapses on the bed next to her, making the mattress bounce. ‘’You know you’re beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Even more beautiful now. How many times will you make me say it?’’

‘’Take off your boots.’’ She grumbles, but softly. It’s hard to be irritated at him when he gets like that; when the candles are so short and she just wants to curl by her husband’s side and talk with him about just anything and everything until they fall asleep.  Gendry sneaks an arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him and resting his forehead on her back, between her shoulder blades.

For a moment they’re just laying like that; under the yellow canopy and buried in the soft furs, with a distant sound of thunder outside, as the room gets darker and darker.

‘’Sometimes I’m wondering if any marriages are happy at all.’’ She lets out with a sigh, making Gendry stir awake from his half-nap. He props himself on the elbow to take a look at her face.

‘’Your parents are happy, I think. Even if they wanted to marry different people at the beginning.’’

‘’Yeah, but- I don’t know. Can you really forget your first love completely?’’

Arya saw Ashara Dayne at the wedding, peering at her father from underneath a fan of dark lashes, her violet eyes so striking and her still pitch-black hair so lovely that even Catelyn Stark’s pale irises and greying red locks didn’t stand a chance in comparison.

And surely Mother must’ve looked at Father many, many times through the years and wonder about uncle Brandon and what could’ve been-s. How weird it must have been for her to live with him and aunt Barbrey those first few years?

‘’I cannot possibly know that.’’ Gendry says gently, raising his hand up to caress the side of her face and then placing it on top of her swollen belly. ‘’You were my first love anyway.’’

‘’You have never told me that before.’’ She breaths out. The babe flutters inside her anxiously and she reassures it inside her head everything’s perfect, everything’s fine. She has never asked him, truth to be told, but she did not kid herself into believing Gendry did not have any flings before he asked her to marry him. ‘’Did you – back in Winterfell?’’

‘’Of course I loved you in Winterfell.’’ He grins, spreading his fingers wider on her middle and trying to feel tiny kicks better. ‘’You were small and always dirty and absolutely unafraid. And underfoot at all times. And you loved to talk, but you would listen so patiently. I was gone before I even knew what’s going on.’’

Cold mud in-between her fingers , crusting her hair. Gendry making faces at her from across the table. How they made wildflower crowns for each other and the one she made for him fell apart in seconds, but the one he gave her stayed intact for the whole weeks.

She loved him then, that was never a question.

‘’But it was different.’’ Her voice is small, laced with too many emotions to untangle them all.

‘’Damn well it was different. ‘’ his arm sneaks underneath her back, pulling her closer until they’re face-to-face. ‘’Until I saw you in that green dress. It was like a lightning strike.. You have frighteningly nice tits Arya, really.’’

‘’Oh gods.’’ She starts to giggle, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck. His skin smells like iron and steel and fresh breeze and she inhales it as deeply as possible. ‘’One can always trust you to ruin the mood, Gendry. Here I thought it’s the time for grand confessions, but you just wanted to admit you married me for my tits.’’

‘’Not only for them.’’ He pinches the side of one of her breast lightly, making her yelp. ‘’But they were definitely a factor in my decision.’’

‘’I love you, you big, stupid idiot.’’ She admits in-between fits of laughter, her lips moving against his skin and shivering violently when he hitches up her nightgown to touch her naked waist that has just began to widen considerably.

‘’I love you too, you wild woman.’’ He chuckles, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of her head. His hand travels down and she can feel her eyelids already fluttering. ‘’More than I ever thought I would love anyone. And I really hope I can prove you wrong – with this no happy marriages thing.’’

‘’You’ve already did.’’ He slips his fingers in-between her folds and curls them, so her voice comes out like a sigh rather than a statement. The hell with how he disarms her, with how he makes her feel. ‘’Because I am happy, I really am.’’

She would never lie to Gendry, she’s sure of that. However, she also does not think she has ever been  as honest as she’s now, saying those words.

***

But the sky falls down upon them anyway.

Arya wakes up in the middle of the night, in the pitch-black chambers; Gendry’s still snoring beside her, the two of them cocooned by the soft furs. She keeps her eyes closed and tries to fall asleep again, to come back to the ever-pleasant dream of running through the Stormlands’ woods on all fours, searching for the prey. But some deep, unsettling sensation inside her keeps her awake; it raises in intensity until it transforms into  pain in her lower belly sharp enough to make her gasp. She shuffles a little, her hand immediately shoots to cradle her bump; and instead of easing, it gets worse with the change of the position, forcing her to kneel on the mattress with her thighs spread.

What’s going on? What’s going on, what’s going on – is running through her mind on a loop and she’s still too sleepy to really get scared until something within her tightens like a bow, making her spine arch and she’s sure she must let out a moan or whine, because Gendry stirs a little. And then whatever was tightened lets lose suddenly, only it does not feel like letting loose; it feels as if someone tore her insides in half, the way maids tears old shirts into rags.

Hunched-over, her lids shut close, and more awake than she has ever been, she begins to pray.

Millions of women  has surely prayed like that before and will pray like that until the end of times. There is only one prayer for a moment like that, the one no one had to teach them; no pretty hymn, but a broken litany.

Don’t, dear gods, don’t, don’t kill my child, please, please don’t let it happen, please, I’m begging you

But it’s for naught, of course.

When she opens her eyes, all she sees is blinding crimson spilling out of her, sticking to her skin, staining the sheets, staining everything.

There is wind blowing outside and wolves howling in the woods and Gendry sleepily asking her what’s wrong, but she does not hear any of that; all she’s hearing is white noise ringing in her ears endlessly, drowning her desperate no-s and please-s in it.

**

Arya's handmaiden Irene is everything Arya isn’t and more; tall and rounded, and fair-headed. Graceful. She curtsies beautifully and wears her hair up often, exposing the beautiful line of her neck.

But most of all, she has two small boys with identical gaps between their front teeth. They herd around Gendry’s legs in the courtyard like the rest of the children at Storm’s End, begging him to play hide-and-seek with them and shrieking with joy when he starts to chase them.

And the very sight of that grips Arya’s throat with an icy fist, stealing her breath away.

She used to play with those children too, teach them letters during sunny afternoons, telling them stories about North and defending them from the cook when they were caught in the kitchens with sweets in their hands. She used to love their presence, their high-pitched laughter and little hands. They were the only ones who listened when she asked them to call her by her name, not ‘’Lady Baratheon’’.

But ever since she lost her babe, she hasn’t been able to muster the courage to tend to other women’s children, Irene’s least of all.

Her boys are dark-haired and blue-eyed, and that inevitably makes Arya wonder, suspicion festering in her heart like maggots on the open wound. How old are they? Three and four? How many years has passed since Gendry came from Winterfell back to Storm’s End?

Numbers are swimming in her mind, stealing her sleep as she lays at night by her husband’s side, having once again escaped from his arms. She curls with her back to him, knowing full well she’s being stupid and inconsiderate and ridiculous. Gendry promised her he’d be true and gave her no reasons to believe he would ever break this promise.

And yet.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he had Irene on a side, or any other woman. Why wouldn’t he?

It’s been a long time since he was a boy with fine leather breeches stained by the Winterfell’s mud and she was a little girl, laughing together after they ate summer peaches, juice dripping down their chins.

Now they’re older and she is nothing but broken.

***

‘’My lady, would you like to go for a horse ride after dinner?’’

‘’I’m sorry, I don’t feel so well today. I think I’ll go and lay down for the afternoon.’’

‘’Lady Arya, would you like me to accompany you on your walk?’’

‘’There is no need Lancel, I’ll be fine on my own.’’

‘’Please, eat some more soup. Or maybe you’d like something else? Some ham or bread with cheese?’’

‘’No, it was enough. Thank you.’’

She burns letter after letter after letter; the fire in their chamber never dies down, fed constantly with Ned and Catelyn’s words, with Jon and Dany’s words, with Sansa’s words, with Bran’s words. Her words are the same and constant, on every parchment she sends back.

I’m fine, don’t worry about me.

It feels easier to lie when they are so far away.

It’s not so easy to lie to those who surround her, and so, for the first time in her life, Arya turns into a lone wolf. Her days are long now; nights even longer - stars obscured by the clouds and corridors of the castle empty and dark when she strolls through them hours before dawn, Nymeria following her soundlessly on her soft paws like a shadow, baring her teeth at anyone who dares to come closer.

It’s weird how washed-down everything has suddenly became, all those things that used to be vibrant and thrilling. The sound of Shiver’s hooves hitting the ground, the icy waters of Shipbreaker’s Bay washing her feet, the stone walls warmed by the sun. Her husband’s eyes. Food in her mouth, air in her lungs.

She naps plenty during the day and in her dreams, she’s back in Winterfell, she is still one and ten and the sky is still the right color. She’s running through the Godswood laughing; she doesn’t see her pack but she knows they’re there, she can hear their voices, she can almost see them in-between trees. And every time, just as she’s about to reach them, the dream turns into air and mist. No matter how fast she’s running, no matter how loudly she calls for them.

Time after time, she wakes up; one second she’s full and another - empty again.

***

One afternoon, as she’s sitting in her solar and reading a book still in her nightgown with Nymeria curled by her feet, Gendry all but barges in without knocking.

She almost jumps, startled, and her direwolf lets out a warning growl but Gendry crosses the room in three long strides and drops to his knees by her chair before burying his face in her lap. All without uttering a single word.

His fist clutch the material of her skirts and when she tentatively puts a hand on his shoulder, he starts to tremble.

‘’Gendry..’’ she sighs, as Nymeria licks his exposed forearms and flops back on the floor, apparently deciding he’s not a danger of any kind.

He’s still not saying anything, so she cards her fingers through his hair – how soft it is, she almost forgot it –  and dragging her hands along the sides of his face before gently pulling his chin up.

He’s crying.

He’s kneeling on the floor in front of her and crying, his blue eyes all wet an eyelashes tangled and she has never seen him like that before. And if she thought she was heartbroken before, she was damn wrong, cause this is what heartbreak feels like. She cannot even breathe.

‘’Gendry. What’s-‘’

‘’I should be asking you that. What’s going on, Arya? Where did you go?’’ he lets those word out of himself like arrows, fast and true. - ‘’Where are you?’’ he asks desperately, staring at her with such intensity that her first instinct is to hide.

‘’I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’ She says weakly and almost winces herself at the falsehood of this sentence.

Gendry’s face breaks.

‘’Arry.’’ He scrambles to his feet, instantly towering above her as he leans down to cup her face in his hands. ‘’Arry, please, don’t do this. Please, come back to me. Please.’’

His tears roll down his cheek and drop on her skin and it’s like the dam inside her was broken, because suddenly a sob escapes from her chest, once, twice, before turning into a wail and she doesn’t even notice  when or how, but she’s in Gendry’s arms, crying her heart out like never before in her life.

‘’Arya, Arry, my love, please.’’ He’s whispering sweet nonsense in her ear, letting her stain his shirt and holding her tight enough that her ribs hurt. He caresses her hair: ‘’It’s alright.’’

‘’No, it’s not.’’ She manages to let out in-between sobs. Her body feels hot; she’s shaking like a leaf on the wind and her crying only intensifies with every passing second. ‘’You don’t – you don’t understand.’’

‘’Arya, it was my babe too-‘’

‘’It died inside me!’’ she’s positively hysteric now, but it doesn’t matter cause he still doesn’t get it. She tears herself away from him to look at his face, her eyes stinging from salt so much that she’s barely seeing anything at all. ‘’I felt it die inside me, spilling out of me! You don’t understand – you don’t understand.’’

‘’You’re right.’’ He leans his forehead against her. ‘’I don’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Arya, I’m sorry.’’

She thinks he must be crying almost as hard as she is, for how many times he apologizes to her, their noses bumping and breaths shaking, until she buries her face in the crook of his neck and he embraces her again; they’re rock back-and-forth together like that for what seems like hours until her sobs turn into hiccups and he starts to speak again.

‘’But you didn’t give me a chance, Arya. You took it all and locked inside and – how do you expect me to compete with your stubbornness, huh? You cannot.’’

And it’s a testament of how much she loves him and how well he knows her, that, against everything, she quietly chuckles at those words.

‘’I’m sorry too.’’ Her voice sounds small and teary, but also like hers and it’s something that she hasn’t experienced for far longer than she realized.

There’s liberation in how they’re sitting, wrapped up in each other on the floor, faces wet and clothes disheveled. He breathes in; she breathes out. She can even feel his heart beating so steady and strong next to hers. She cannot remember ever feeling closer to him than in this moment, pouring all this pain and suffering she’s been feeling onto him and only getting love back.

‘’I- I should’ve talked to you.’’

‘’You should’ve. Or I should’ve never let you get so far. I will never make this mistake again.’’ He rubs her back in circles, his lips pressing to her exposed shoulder blade the sweetest of kisses. ‘’Please, don’t leave me alone. You promised you’ll be with me, you remember?’’

‘’Of course. We are family, right? Even if-even if I-‘’ she cannot force herself to finish this sentence, no matter that the words already hang in-between them heavily. Even if we won’t have children.

‘’Don’t think like that.’’ His arms tighten around her. ‘’We’ll get another shot. And yes, even if we won’t .. you’re all the family I need. Now and always. You are enough. More than enough.’’

She loops her arm around his neck, pressing his face closer to her body until he rests it on her shoulder. Her fingers tangle in the shorter hair at the back of his head and there are fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, but she’ll let them flow. It’s about time for them.

‘’You are enough for me too.’’  

***

This evening, the lady of the castle walks down the stairs in black-and-golden dress, hand in hand with her husband, and sits down by his side in the Round Hall of Storm’s End without any big ceremonies. Her eyes are a little red and she’s still too pale… but it’s nothing that good stew and a little bit of sunshine won’t fix, the cook reasons, peaking at the table from the kitchens and barking at the servers to bring some of those lemon cakes she likes so much to Lady Arya, gods, cannot they think about such things for themselves, must she tell them everything?

Arya’s not laughing, but she smiles and eats, and, when they pour wine into her goblet, she accepts. There is a traveling bard dining with them tonight; when asked, he sings some song about Nymeria of Rhyone and the corners of Arya’s lips rise up slowly, almost shyly, as she rests her head on Gendry’s shoulder and listens.

Some keener-eyed servants notice that Lord Gendry is holding her hand under the table through the whole meal and of course, every maid in the castle starts swooning, because how romantic is that? How lovely?

Stable boys, stewards or guards don’t care much about all this nonsense, or at least they claim so – even if they are quietly wondering how much time will pass since a certain short figure will appear on the courtyard again to order them around. Regardless of them, one thing remains true; all of the residents of Storm’s End, the oldest and the youngest alike, stare at Arya and Gendry this night and let out a collective breath of relief.

Arya would have to be blind not to notice that.  And she won’t be lying; it makes her feel a little bit soft inside.

***

Gendry turned out to be right in the end, as he as an infuriating tendency to be – they do get another shot.

At the height of the blooming spring, little Ned is born, piercing the ears of everyone at Storm End’s with his cries ever since his first breath.

Arya’s heart sings when they lay him down on her bare chest and he looks up at her – her boy, her sweet little boy who blinks his gray eyes at her and seems to know exactly who she is – and she caresses his chubby cheeks with her finger.

‘’Oh, hello, darling.’’ She must sound ridiculous, but it does not feel ridiculous at all. Not when Gendry first holds their son in his arms and stares at him with this pure adoration written in every line on his face and then doesn’t change the expression at all when he raises his eyes to her.

Not when she breaths in Ned’s perfect baby scent and then breathes out and realizes it’s the end of walking on eggshells and acting as if she was made of glass like they did throughout her whole pregnancy. Their babe is with them and he’s just – he’s just theirs to keep and to have and to love.

Not when Ned falls asleep on her breast while nursing and a drip of milk escapes from in-between his tiny lips and Arya notices he clutches a strand of her hair in his fist.

And definitely not when she wakes up in the middle of the night because it’s so hot and finds Gendry walking around the room shirtless, rocking Ned gently and singing to him lullabies quietly, his eyes shining in the darkness and the sound of summer storm outside.

It does not feel ridiculous.

It feels like she can finally stop searching for some unknown things; it feels like a cue to stop where she’s standing and let her roots grow deep.

Gendry snoring, his face so soft and smooth when he’s dreaming. Ned napping, his tiny head pillowed on her clavicle. Storm’s End; strong and ancient and hers and home, the sea always humming outside its walls.

All my summers and winters are yours. She makes her vow silently and lets her lids drop.

[dzamie-oc]

5: Sad

When I was eight years old, my grandfather warned me about starry-winged dragons. "They eat people, you know, that's how they get their name," he said, leaning forward in his chair, "their wings are black as void when they hatch from the egg. But when they grow big, and they eat a human..." He drew his fingers together, then opened his hand, like a twinkling star. "Plink! A new, white star, sparkling somewhere beneath their wings!" I took him dead serious, of course - age begets wisdom, and my grandfather had an awful lot of age.

At fourteen, I hiked into the woods on a warm spring afternoon. I was meant to stay with the others, but I sensed adventure off the beaten path. I took care to leave a subtle trail - arrows made from twigs, bound in blades of grass. A good adventuring story holds little worth if it cannot be told, after all. My path took me past a serene lake, under a stone arch some dark green lizards were fighting over, and finally into a dim cave. Once my eyes adjusted, I noticed another pair of eyes looking back at me. 

Laying on the stone floor was a dragon, scales black as night. It raised its head, then sat up. Through its folded wings, I caught a glimpse of tiny specks of light hidden beneath. “Hello there, little one. Why are you here? Humans do not often seek my counsel.” The dragon had a low, resonating voice that felt like it was speaking directly into my mind. The scaly head, easily twice the size of my torso, drifted nearer on a sleek, serpentine neck, letting the creature look over me before continuing, “besides, you are small for a human, a juvenile. I know of no human trail that leads to my den, so what led you to seek me out?”

A dragon, scales darker than the void, and wings filled with bright stars. A memory called out, insisting I back away, or even run, from an obvious man-eater. But I was fourteen. I had some years under my belt, and was confident that the adults were lying, or wrong. I had done a fantastic job of not dying for almost a decade and a half, and certainly this streak would not be interrupted. So I stepped forward, and told the truth: “I’m looking to find and make stories. Do you have any?”

The head drew back a bit and blinked. For the briefest of moments, I considered the possibility that I had irreversibly messed up. It passed, thankfully, and a few seconds later, the dragon smiled and giggled, mirth in its eyes. “What a fascinating question! You’ve found the right dragoness; I’ve known many humans, and heard many tales. Here, young human, I have at least a story for every star in my glittering wings. Come, point one out, and I will share its contents.” She sat up and spread her wings out, revealing two great expanses of shimmering, starlit night sky, held captive on a scaly canvas. That was the precise moment I truly understood the word “awestruck.” I hardly noticed my feet move as I stepped closer to her, watching as the stars twinkled, or at least seemed to, and reached out to touch one.

When I did, she jolted, half-furling the wing back up with another giggle. “Oh, I am rather ticklish; I did say to point for a reason. But, ah, you chose this one?” A black claw pointed to a star - in truth, I’d forgotten exactly which it was, but nodded just the same, eliciting a smile from the scaly creature. “Ah, the tale of Varren Kristaller, a spirited mailman. Let me see, where to begin...

“Varren was, as you might guess, a mailman. He was very good at his job, and took great pride in the work. You know the ‘neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night’ motto? Varren was that times a billion. In his line of work, he had dragged a mail recipient from an inferno, tightrope walked across a roaring river when the bridge was out, and even decked a territorial displacer beast when it stood between him and his goal. A thin, wiry sort of lad, but a sense of duty like you’d never seen. Until finally, he faced his toughest challenge yet: a mountain pass had suffered a rockslide, and the only other way from point A to point B was through an uncharted forest, filled with dangerous creatures...”

Her tale was riveting, and before I had realized, an hour had passed and I was sitting against her side, feeling her breath push her scales out and in while she spoke. “... He had seen the village, though, a mere ten minutes’ walk away! Sure, his legs felt like jelly and the snake’s venom was starting to rattle his brain, but you can bet: ten, fifteen minutes later, the mail was delivered. He had done it!” Her breath hitched and her gaze faltered after that sentence, so overwhelmed with emotions was she. Seeing the growing shadows on the ground outside, however, I was forced to bid her goodbye, thanking her dearly for the wonderful story.

My trip back was uneventful, my blazes clear to someone who would be looking for them. I got quite a dressing-down for ditching the others, though; they had thought I had died in the woods. It was a silly matter; I was fourteen, so I knew how not to get killed by the forest.

Years passed. I grew up, I took a trade, I worked steadily most weeks of the year. Love eluded me, though it’s not like I sought it out, either. One of my weeks off, however, I was seized by wanderlust once more - old, comfortable, yet somewhat unfamiliar after such a long time. This time, however, I let my friends and family know I was going for a walk in the woods. What I didn’t tell them, of course, was that I had a destination in mind.

The route had changed over the years. The pond was smaller - although, perhaps it was me who had gotten bigger - and the stone archway had collapsed, though there still stood a triumphant lizard, basking in the sun on its rock. The cave was much the same, but the dragon within was not resting as she had been the first time.

“Hello? Miss dragon?” I called out as I slowly stepped into the shadows. While waiting for my eyes to adjust to the low light, a scaly paw as wide as my chest pushed me firmly against the rock wall; it hadn’t hurt me, but I wouldn’t be moving without the dragon’s say-so.

“Pray tell, human, why have you come here? Fame? A trophy? I hope you do not seek a dragon’s hoard, for my cave is bare of such things.” The tense tone clashed strongly with my memory of her voice. Still, she did not sound angry, and her questioning pulled at my memories.

A quip came to mind - I did desire to take from her glittery hoard, not gold or gems, but something far more value. But, with the unerring confidence of adolescence firmly in the past, I knew that, if she desired, I would not return to the village. “Many of my friends enjoy the story of Varren Kristaller, and I would be much obliged if you would share another or two.” Using “story” and the mailman’s name so early, I hoped to remind her of our meeting decades ago.

To my relief, her eyes softened, as did her grip, and a smile curled her scaly lips. “Oh! Yes, the juvenile story-hunter. It has been some time, no? Do tell me you won’t make that mistake again!” The dragon laughed, stepped back, and spread her wings. They were as beautiful as I had remembered, if not moreso. Utterly enthralling... I wondered, silently, if she or another starry-winged dragon would hunt like this, simply baring their wings and eating their captivated prey. Her voice shook me out of my deep admiration, however. “Shall we play the same game, then? Oh, do take care not to touch - I am still ticklish, after all.” I smiled back, easily ignoring that her smile was full of sharp fangs and bigger than my entire head.

Stepping closer, I looked through the stellar skyscape of her wings before pointing at a large, bright star. “How about this one? Or maybe the dim one over here...”

‘Ooh, tough choice. I’ll start with the bright one, Sophie Ferrum the birdkeeper. The duller one is Savar Kiernari, a humble clerk; his title sounds less interesting, but both their stories deserve to be shared. If you’ve the time, I’ll gladly share both.” The dark dragoness smoothly laid down and reached out with a paw, beckoning me closer. Never one to refuse an invitation for a good story, I took a seat by her scaly chest, leaning back against her as she wove her tale. “Now then, Sophie was the proud owner of no less than four pigeons, a red-bellied woodpecker, and two cardinals. But this story is about a vacation she took once...”

“...and I would reckon that little book is still in that chest, buried beneath the library.” The dragoness scraped at the floor with her claws, as though digging a spot for the sole copy of the book. With her second story of the day complete, I stood up and stretched, immediately both regretting sitting by her for so long and resolving to never regret listening to her. Joints popped, stiff from remaining so still for so long, even with such a wonderful place to sit. When I turned to face her, however, my eyes lingered on her mouth, and a question struck me.

“If you don’t mind, miss dragon... what happened to them?” 

“Ah, pardon? What do you mean?” The smile on her sleek muzzle was gone, but she didn’t seem hostile or angry.

Well, in for a penny... “What happened to them? To Varren, to Sophie, to Savar? Envenomated and crippled, stranded in a tree, and driven to the woods in desolation?” I counted them off on my fingers as I spoke. “Their stories ended well, sure, but did they?”

The dragon visibly shrank back, and she glanced off to the sides. “Are you sure you want to know? They say ignorance is bliss...” she said, though even she didn’t believe it.

“And if I wanted ignorance, I wouldn’t collect stories. Now please, I won’t- I’ll do my level best not to judge.” I offer a smile to the stunning, scaly creature. “You seem to have a number of sad stories, but you pretend they’re not.”

She sighed, and even in the low light, I could see her chest and belly grow and shrink with the heavy breath. “Well... alright. Varren: too weak to move, found temporary refuge in a cave. Told his tale, pleaded his task be carried out in his stead, and was eaten by a dragon. Sophie: fell from the tree, shattering many bones. Begged a passing dragon to end her pain, and her story was found in the journal still on her. Savar: sought out the dragon and regaled her with his woeful tale. Pried her jaws open and threw himself on her fangs.” She cast her eyes downward, letting her star-speckled wings droop and brush the floor. “I have lived many hundreds of years. My wings carry on them two thousand, six hundred and forty-nine stars; thirty-one of them did not exist when you first found me.”

I stepped back, feeling my way against the wall. “Thirty-one? But that’s... do you hunt us?” I had suspected her a man-eater, but the sheer scale...

A large, scaly paw started to reach for me, pleading my stay, but hesitated and fell. “I do not consider it hunting. I find them in peril, I take careful heed of their story, and my wings gain a star.” She smiled then, but the twitch of her lips did not meet her eyes; she saw the fear in mine, and happiness eluded her. “Perhaps I could have saved some. Maybe all of them, although I doubt that. But when they are unwilling or unable to leave my company, I stop their breath, and keep what was their life alive with me. A story is no good if nobody is left who can tell it.”

I promised her I would think about her words, and then I left. Away from the dangerous forest and its black, starry-winged reaper.

It was probably a full year I dwelled on her words. Of course, I still worked, and in spare time spun the stories of Savar and of Sophie. When I was feeling particularly bitter towards the dragon, and in adult company, Sophie would fall from the tree, and Savar would cast himself upon the beasts of the forest. When I held her plea in good favor, Sophie merely lived with her birds as long as she could, and Savar walked off to lands unknown.

It was then with some hesitation that I found myself in front of that cave once more. “Miss dragon? I’m back. The storyteller.”

This time, she sat in the middle of the cave, staring at me. “If you have brought men to kill me, I must confess I may not take the time to learn their stories.” It was a similar fluid, yet guarded voice that had spoken to me while she held me to a wall. “But... I smell no others on you, nor do I hear the clanking of armor. You have rendered a decision?”

I steeled my nerves and stepped forward, approaching her slowly but steadily. “I believe so. After a year, I have only two questions. First being, have you any new stars?”

If there had been any emotion in her eyes, she had forced it out upon hearing me. Instead, she opened a wing and pointed a claw, a shadow over the night sky. “Next to my second claw, the dim one of that cluster of three. She was the only one.” 

I walked towards the indicated stars, but stopped well before being able to touch her. “Thank you for not lying and saying zero,” I said, “now, question two. What was her story?”

This time, her smile was genuine. I learned only one new story from that visit, but gained something far more valuable and precious to me.

Years and decades plodded along, as such things are wont to do. Friends and family grew, faded, and grew anew, but I would always make sure to visit the dragon with her star-speckled wings. Sometimes I would have to wait an hour or two for her to return to her home, but she always had a story for my eager ears, and a spot by her side, even when I had to start bringing my own chair. And then, after a hiatus of a few years, on a warm spring afternoon, I did not come alone. Two of my great-nephews helped me along the familiar path, with me pointing the way. The beautiful lake had, after some heavy rainy seasons, become a lively marsh; that crumbling arch fell further and grew cacti, of all things. And a young tree by the dragon’s cave had grown and thickened.

The boys tried one more time to change my mind, but I was adamant. I would walk in alone. They didn’t have to stay outside, and I would not return to tell them when to leave. It was a terrible thing, making them the bearer of such commands, but I hoped they would forgive me in time. Balancing against a sturdy walking-stick, I stumbled into the darkness.

“Dragon, I am here.”

I couldn’t see her against the cave walls, save for her eyes and her stars. It was nice of her to keep her wings open like that. “It has been some time,” she said, failing to hide her worry, “how are you?”

I shook my head, giving her a question of my own. “How many stars do you have?”

She winced at the question - she always did - and replied, “two thousand, seven hundred, and fifty-three.”

“Would you like another?”

The dragon stumbled and sputtered. She gaped in surprise, staring at me as though searching for any sign of a joke. But no sign came. After a deep sigh, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

“In truth? I would not. But...” As she neared, I felt a warm, humid breeze, blowing from her location. “But... I will have one, anyway.”

[lovedbytheaxe]

Snowfly Forest

The shuttle drops Bull, Fawn and A’zaela about a quarter malm away from the Snowfly Forest, at the point where trees begin to appear one at a time. There's still a bit of desert to traverse, but the forest takes shape so soon that it's almost eerie. Before long, the paths are well past overgrown; you have the sense that to turn around will be to lose your way entirely.

Crimson Bull frowns, attempting to push himself through the overgrowth. Crimson Bull: Wish I could lose a couple feet of height, damn brush. A'zaela Linh: It's only a bit better down here. A'zaela says, brushing away a twig that swipes at her cheek. Crimson Bull looks to Fawn Crimson Bull: Any idea where to begin? Timid Fawn herself huffs in irritation, she takes out a sizable knife from her hip and begins to take the lead, whacking away at any poor plant in their path... It's not a machete, but it will do. 

Timid Fawn: I'm more concerned for about any unsavory insects around here. Crimson Bull: Yeah, that's true...don't wanna get bit by anythin' dangerous. Sure enough, little white insects flit well over your heads. Sometimes they gather, but for the most part, they stay well away from the adventurers down below. A'zaela Linh takes note of them, being reminded of the fireflies she was so fond of when she was younger. Timid Fawn pauses at a fork, or it at least looks like one. She then freezes entirely, trying to listen to the sounds in the distance. She scowls. Crimson Bull puts a hand to the haft of his axe, ready for anything to jump out of the brush. Timid Fawn looks between A'zaela and Bull.  Timid Fawn: I'll let you two decide too on which way to go. We're a group after all. A'zaela Linh reaches for an ornate dagger at her hip, knowing that swinging her lance around here is more likely to swat at the ankles of her allies than be of any use.

A'zaela Linh and Timid Fawn see that one path looks somewhat more traveled than the other; stems are bent back somewhat, as if pushed through.

Timid Fawn nods forward to the path straight ahead that appears to be more traveled. Timid Fawn: This way maybe? Timid Fawn decides to stay her knife for now. Less noise to deal out. A'zaela Linh's ears flick as she listens for any more signs of trouble. She has a feeling trouble is going to find them no matter which path they take. Azaela Linh: That works. Timid Fawn frowns and tries to push through the thicket.. Crimson Bull: Suppose if I were on the run I'd pick a maze to hide in too...

With that, the trio set foot into a clearing. But while you were heading due south into the forest and you have not changed your course in the slightest, the light through the trees indicates that you are going due west.

Timid Fawn: I guess so... Crimson Bull: Remind me to cut this whole forest down when we're done here. Timid Fawn: And what good'll that do? Crimson Bull: It'll make me feel a hell of a lot better!

Once they enter the clearing, A'zaela's footsteps still, and a perceptive eye would see her tail and ears twitch intermittently.

A'zaela Linh: Do you all...hear that? A’zaela Linh asks while pushing further inside. She stops in the middle and kneels over to pick something up. Timid Fawn herself grows even more silent, if that were even possible and listens in on their surroundings. Timid Fawn: Best not stay out in the open like this for long... What do you hear? A'zaela Linh: Music. A’zaela Linh says calmly. A’zaela Linh: It's...this. A’zaela Linh holds up a stone. It's warm to touch, and it feels comforting in her palm. A’zaela Linh: Strange. I haven't heard this since… I don't know. I don't remember where I last heard this. Crimson Bull tilts his head curiously at the stone Crimson Bull: Well that's...suspicious? Timid Fawn squints at it. Timid Fawn: I only hear the forest… Timid Fawn leans in to take a closer look at it. Timid Fawn: Weird... A'zaela Linh runs her thumb over it, and a thought occurs to her. A’zaela Linh: It's...Do you remember what Ashelia's aunt said? That man -- he took auracite with him when he fled. Perhaps this is...? Crimson Bull: Seems odd he woulda just...dropped it out here. Crimson Bull gazes upon A'zaela Linh in deep reflection. Timid Fawn: I mean, he coulda been a little careless with it. ‘Specially fleein' like that. I dunno. Crimson Bull shrugs. Crimson Bull: Suppose it's better in our hands than his. Timid Fawn: Maybe... A'zaela Linh: Perhaps he's closer than we think. Crimson Bull: Only one way to find out, let's keep movin'. Timid Fawn: Could be... Keep your eyes 'n ears extra peeled.

The path grows ever darker, and the snowflies gather in greater numbers. Their buzzing fills the air until the noise is almost deafening.

Crimson Bull plugs his ears. Crimson Bull: What the hell is happening!? With fewer traces of sunlight, it becomes harder and harder to navigate. Only Bull and Fawn notice a pattern to the insects' movements: unlike most insects, these are billowing together /toward/ the darkness. And on the ground are specks of dark blood.

Crimson Bull takes a knee, inspecting the blood Crimson Bull: Here. Blood...think he hurt himself out here? Timid Fawn kneels down as well, looking the blood over for signs of its age. It's fresh. And the trail grows heavier as it leads on, into the darkness. Timid Fawn DEEPLY frowns, then points directly to the darkness, shouting over the buzzing of those dumb insects. Timid Fawn: Hope none of ya are afraid of the dark! Crimson Bull: Not that I'm aware of, no! A'zaela Linh: I've dealt with worse!! ...Probably?? Timid Fawn: Good! C'mon then! Stay close together! Timid Fawn proceeds to follow the swarm of insects, ever tense in her gait.

The snowflies have gathered in full overhead - and, just when their swarm cannot get any thicker, they dive in unison, obscuring the party in as deep a white as the darkness beyond is black.

Crimson Bull squints, shielding his face from the snowflies. Crimson Bull: Damn! Timid Fawn takes several swings at them from her face... What she swats away is replaced instantly. A'zaela Linh: OK, I'm okay with darkness but I HATE bugs!!

While all three of the party are strangers to this terrain, all three are experienced enough with their homelands to know that /something/ unnatural is taking place. Something does not want them here. But once again, to turn around is to be lost.

Crimson Bull shouts, still protecting his face from the onslaught of snowflies. Crimson Bull: No other way to go but forward! Push on! Timid Fawn desperately wants to light a torch-- a stick but that might not be a good idea for several reasons... A'zaela Linh is pushing forward as fast as she can. For someone who's covering her eyes and mouth, she's making pretty decent headway.

It goes on for a hundred paces - nothing but the snowflies, and the dark. And then it ceases.

Crimson Bull: What the...?

The party is alone, surrounded in a clearing so dark it may as well be night - and in the center of the wood stands a dark shape.

Timid Fawn feels more tense than ever. The abrupt end was beyond eerie. Crimson Bull readies hand on the haft of his axe, wary of the surrounding darkness Crimson Bull: Eyes up. Never know what could be there. Timid Fawn whispers, staring down the dark shape. Timid Fawn: Guys... Do you see this? A'zaela Linh's dragon sneaks out and circles around her wearily. It casts some light on the area, but not much beyond where she stands.

The figure turns in the darkness.

Grissom: Welcome, Riskbreakers.

The voice is wrong - metallic.

Crimson Bull jumps back in surprise, drawing his axe. A'zaela Linh reaches for her lance, her face drawn. Crimson Bull: Some kind of welcome that was! Timid Fawn sharply inhales as a chill goes down her spin, staring intently at the figure. She too draws her weapon.

Bull and Fawn see that this can only be Grissom - but though Hyuran, he's as tall as a Garlean. It's the shape of him that's all wrong, though: his Garlean helm is askew upon his head, and his limbs are too thin. They're the limbs of an automaton... or a dullahan.

Crimson Bull frowns. Crimson Bull: You must be the rat we're lookin' for. Why not make it easy and just surrender yourself? Grissom: A snake, perhaps. But not a rat. Grissom wears a single leather boot; the other foot has given over entirely to sheet metal. Timid Fawn: He don't feel right... Timid Fawn looks between A'zaela and Bull. Crimson Bull: What the hell are you...? Crimson Bull tightens his grip on his axe Crimson Bull: And give me a reason I shouldn't cut you down and find out.

By now, given her Miqo'te vision, A'zaela, too, can see the man's monstrous form in full.

A'zaela Linh: You must have had your reasons for doing this. Is...this why? Grissom: I am what the 9th Bureau made me to be. Is that not answer enough?A'zaela Linh: ... Timid Fawn: Whatever it is, we take it down now, and ask later. Crimson Bull smirks at Fawn. Crimson Bull: I'm all for it. A'zaela Linh isn't sure she is, but...she's in the minority here. Grissom - because it can only be Grissom - takes a single metallic step forward. Timid Fawn takes the blunted of her axe and bends while stepping forward too, swinging her axe towards his legs as swiftly as she could to try and knock him off his feet. Grissom steps aside with almost impossible speed. Grissom: This, too, was the legatus' design. Grissom draws a rapier, which glows with a horrible, nauseating sort of darkness. Timid Fawn mimics sidestepping, in an attempt to avoid being hit herself. A'zaela Linh: I don't understand. Reports said you were hyuran! This isn't something that can happen overnight! Grissom: Perhaps not. Or perhaps you, too, will come to see. A'zaela Linh has the feeling that he's staring into her somehow - or perhaps he's staring at the stone she has so recently tucked away. Crimson Bull rotates his axe in his hands, attempting to swing the flat of the axehead into 'Grissom's' body in an attempt to floor him. Grissom evades. But he makes no motion to counterattack just yet.

A'zaela Linh does a signature dragoon jump. She's unnerved, panicky--she goes for something risky and deadly.

In an instant, Grissom disappears. He's teleported - but he reappears in the same place where A'zaela lands. Her spear catches him on his right foot, the one still made of flesh; blood sprays out across the leaves, leather and skin tears... and something rolls out from within.

Crimson Bull, still riding an adrenaline high, launches himself into Grissom with a shoulder tackle. Grissom is staggering, and the blow lands; he's thrown further off-balance, his sword flailing wildly. Timid Fawn draws herself backwards to avoid him until she finds an opening to swing that same blunt side of her axe against his lower back to stun or temporarily immobilize-- she doesn't wanna kill him yet!

Grissom is thrown back, stunned; he sinks to his knees and coughs up another spray of blood. Grissom: R-Riskbreakers. Grissom repeats again, in that horribly metallic voice. His sword is well out of his reach, and with his mutilated leg and new head wound, he isn't getting up. But neither is he willing to back down. Crimson Bull looks around, he hears...a voice? Someone...familiar. He works his way through the clearing until he comes across a stone. Crimson Bull: What the… Crimson Bull murmurs to himself. Timid Fawn comes up behind Grissom while fetching a length of rope from her travel pack and ties his arms behind his back. She briefly gives her attention to Bull. Timid Fawn: What's the matter? Crimson Bull picks up the stone, it feels...soft, warm...like clay. Crimson Bull: This here. He musta been holdin' on to it. Grissom: It's beginning. Grissom says. His voice is growing weaker... and more human. Timid Fawn purses her lips in discomfort. Timid Fawn: What's beginning?

Yet for all his fading vitality, Grissom stares directly at Bull, then at A'zaela.

Grissom: Sword in hand, a warrior... clutches stone to breast... In sword... etched he h-his... fading memories. Timid Fawn grows frazzled, looking between the three. Timid Fawn: Godsdamn it, what's he on about?! A'zaela Linh: I don't know!! I hate this cryptic stuff! Crimson Bull looks to the stone in his hand. Crimson Bull: Somethin' involving this, I'm assumin'. Grissom: In stone, his tempered skill. By sword attested...

By now, Grissom’s voice is utterly human.

Grissom: By stone... revealed. Grissom goes still. Crimson Bull shakes his head. Crimson Bull: Ravings of a madman, maybe? Who knows. Timid Fawn pushes through this strangeness and tries to take off his helm to see if this is truly their target-- don't want to leave with the wrong man.

The man's helmet is almost - almost - sealed to his flesh. But it comes off with a good tug, and beneath it is an almost serene face. He's breathing, but very faintly.

Timid Fawn: Bull, are fine with carryin' him back? Otherwise we can take turns. Don't wanna tire ourselves over him... At least this way. The forest beyond is not entirely silent, but the snowflies have mostly dispersed.

Crimson Bull nods. Crimson Bull: Not a problem! I'll carry him as far as you want me to, yes indeed! Crimson Bull starts shake his limbs out. A'zaela Linh: I will...disarm him.

But the sword he carried is gone.

Timid Fawn: Right. Just let me know when you need a break... I want out of here as fast as possible for us. Timid Fawn nods to A'zaela Linh. A'zaela Linh pulls away from him after a solid search and shrugs. Crimson Bull begins to jog in place, he's feeling...jittery. Timid Fawn feels entirely confused. She thought the sword was there a second ago? A'zaela Linh glances at her and shares a feeling of apprehension. Timid Fawn does a quick body pat down of Gissom before giving the all clear.

There are no more perceivable weapons or stones or anything that might be a threat. There is only what looks like a small rosary, tucked beside his skin.

Timid Fawn nods to Bull.   Timid Fawn: He's all yours. Let's get going. Crimson Bull nods enthusiastically, tossing the man over his shoulder. Timid Fawn lofts a brow, taking serious note of Bull's shift in behavior. Crimson Bull: Everything's fine dear, let's get him back. Crimson Bull smiles at Timid Fawn. A'zaela Linh's brain immediately goes into a loading screen when Bull says "dear". She suddenly feels like she's missed something important. Timid Fawn scowls in suspicion. He's never called her dear before. Timid Fawn: Right... Timid Fawn starts back trying to find the path they took in. Grissom is heavy due to the changes that have overtaken his body. The path itself is easy enough to find and follow on the way back.

Crimson Bull: You could stand to lose a couple pounds there big boy! Goodness me! Crimson Bull bursts out laughing. Timid Fawn: Bull, lower your voice. We're still in a thick forest with the unknown... Crimson Bull cups his hand over his mouth. Crimson Bull: Oh! Right. When the party at last emerges, no less the worse for wear, it is the dead of night. Even so, the shuttle awaits to take them back to the Prima Vista - with Malla flying.

A'zaela Linh doesn't like how easy it was to get out compared to how hard it was to navigate, but she supposes she can't complain too much.

[thetygre]

30 Day Monster Challenge 2 - Day #15: Favorite Great Old One/Monster God

1.      Nurgle the Great Unclean One (Warhammer)

I think you can tell a lot about a person by knowing which of the Chaos Gods is there favorite. I’m not saying there’s a right answer, but I’ve always been a Nurgle man myself. Nurgle is more than just the daemon god of disease and entropy; he’s the god of the value of life. Nurgle loves all of his children equally, down to the smallest virus. It can be hard for people to accept that, to realize that they have as much cosmic significance as a single-cell organism, but that’s just because they don’t realize how much love the Urfather has for that little cell. In Nurgle’s phlegmatic embrace, all of us are equal, regardless of race, gender, or cell count.

Nurgle asks only that you spread the love he has so willingly given, so that all may be his children. Death and disease are natural parts of life; we struggle to fight them so, but they always come back to us. Through Nurgle, we may exalt in the power of pus and the greatness gangrene. We grow stronger with each infection, and every tumor is a sign of endurance. We do not die when the Plague Bearer calls us; we merely transform for the vermin and bacteria that consumes us, to be reborn in the eternal cycle. Truly, Grandfather Nurgle moves in wondrous ways.

2.      Ithaqua the Wind Walker (August Derleth)

It should come as no surprise that the god of all wendigos is one of my favorite Great Old Ones. The Ithaqua Cycle is probably the best thing August Derleth wrote, for what ever that’s worth. Ithaqua is just such a chilling god; the image of some skull-faced giant thing turning around a mountain is the stuff of nightmares. Ithaqua is the primal urge inside life, the need to do anything to survive in an unrelenting environment. He walks in the cold places of the world, but also in that cold space between worlds, spreading his cannibalistic madness from world to world. Ithaqua himself seems hardly necessary, or the countless wendigos that follow him. It’s the chaos and horror he causes between people in a desperate situation, pitting one man against the other and breaking taboos until only the strongest is left. Ithaqua is the cold and brutality of the North personified.

3.      Lolth the Queen of the Demonweb Pits (Dungeons and Dragons)

Lilith is so pastiche these days. You know where the real rebellious queen of evil action is at? Spiders, man, and Lolth is the Spider Queen. Lolth has been in Dungeons and Dragons since the beginning. Wherever the dark elves go, Lolth goes too, like any deity, and her absence from a setting is noticeable. She’s one of D&D’s greatest villains, and countless adventurers have lost their lives in the Demonweb Pits. Her entire realm is an arachnid hell crawling with spiders as small a mite to as big as her spider-golem palace. Lolth is an entity of contrasts; her priesthood is a strict matriarchy, but Lolth herself is absolutely insane. It’s hard to tell if there’s anything left of the elf goddess she used to be. Beneath the layers of scheming, beauty, racially motivated hatred, and plans to conquer the known multiverse lies a beating heart of blind hunger, an overwhelming instinct to survive by strength alone.

4.      Saaitii the Hog (William Hope Hodgson)

Saaitii is actually what got this particular entry in the challenge. See, I wanted to do just ‘Top 10 Great Old Ones’, but then I was worried that not everybody would know what the Great Old Ones are and it’s kind of an arbitrary category that Lovecraft wanted people to change from story-to-story for fun, so then I just broadened the category to ‘monster gods’ and now here we are. Anyway, Saaitii is a monster that William Hope Hodgson’s occult detective Thomas Carnacki encountered in his monster-hunting stories. The locals tell Carnacki that Saaitii is the ghost of a boar wrongfully killed long ago, but Carnacki suspects that it’s an extradimensional something using the spirits of dead hogs to try and come through.

First off, I just want to know what William Hope Hodgson’s deal with pigs was. This is explicitly his second pig monster story, following the pig men from The House on the Borderlands. But the usage of that aesthetic is definitely refreshing a little unsettling. In an age of meme-tentacles, we need new and different cosmic horrors. Pigs can be disturbing; we think of them as cute at best and filthy at worst, but rarely evil or malevolent. Even the meanest boar has a kind of nobility to it. But the Hog brings up images of mindless, vicious cruelty, dark things in the forest and filth. The concept of a higher life form like some extradimensional whatsit coming into our world through ‘lower’ lifeforms strikes a little close to the karmic bullseye for some, turning the tables on humanity and reminding us that in the eyes of the cosmos, we’re just so much more food.

5.      Ogdru Jahad the Seven Who Are One (Hellboy)

You’d think there’d be more dragons on the list, but so far it’s just the one. Seven. 369. Whatever. The Ogdru Jahad are the Hellboy/BPRD universes Great Old Ones, and the source of… a sizable amount of trouble there. Not all of it, but most of it. At the dawn of time, the Sons of God formed the mud of creation into seven great dragons that were filled with the shadow of the moon, for whatever reason. Things would have been fine and dandy there, but one little angel named Satan, for reasons that are still unclear, took the fire of God and filled the dragon with it, giving the Ogdru Jahad life. The Ogdru Jahad birthed their 369 offspring, and the angels had to fight them off before the whole Creation thing could get rolling. From that day on, every human culture has been warned about the Ogdru Jahad, and they have been ingrained in the human consciousness as the Dragon, from Tiamat to the Beast of Revelations.

It’s a nice fusion of Judeo-Christian Biblical lore and cosmic horror. I honestly don’t think it would work if it wasn’t for the fact that Satan is notably absent from the Hellboy series and, as of BPRD: Hell on Earth, the Ogdru Jahad are winning, where even their smallest children can cause natural disasters. I love conflating the image of dragons with cosmic monsters. Cthulhu as Leviathan, flying polyps as oriental dragons, hunting horrors as wyverns; it’s a direct play to the archetype that both types of creatures fill. The Ogdru Jahad illustrate that perfectly, simultaneously something the most modern of cosmic horror and the most ancient of monsters.

6.      Flowey the Flower (Undertale)

Flowey’s final form gets in on design alone. There aren’t a lot of monster designs that actually freak me out, but Flowey is just horrible. Of course that’s also because it’s a genius bit of sprite animation, with the usage of textures contrasting so hard with the rest of Undertale. It looks like something that ate its way inside out from at least three Madoka witches. The claws, the eyes, the mouths; it all makes something perfectly awful and abhorrent. And, of course, the music. I actually think Flowey’s boss theme rates pretty low compared to other Undertale boss themes, but the title is just something else. How are you supposed to do better than “Your Best Nightmare”?

7.      Rom the Vacuous Spider (Bloodborne)

It’s Rom. C’mon. Look, I know she’s not actually a Great One; she’s Kin, like Mergo’s Wet Nurse. But look at her. When I think, “What’s my favorite eldritch monstrosity boss from Bloodborne?” I keep coming back to Rom. Just look at her dumb, stupid face. One of her attacks is just falling over. That’s the most relatable a video game has been for me since I was an undergrad. Rom doesn’t want to hurt anybody; she’s just a giant, stupid bug/fungus thing. You could just walk away, man. You could just leave poor Rom alone. She’s doing her best trying to grant people eyes and you’re over here hassling her. In front of her kids, man. Just leave her alone.

8.      Moder the Bastard of Loki (The Ritual)

Y’know, as a jotun, this guy could have been on the giant list, but I feel like its design and concept are too unique for that. This is a special monster, a kind of revelatory creature. Its design is just out of this world, blending human and stag and those creepy little eyes. But there’s so much more to it than just a great design. Its ability to create illusions essentially gives it access to shapeshifting, tying it to the actual mythology of Loki and Norse giants. The actual ritual to appease Moder, where it picks a person up and impales them on a tree, is reminiscent of the story in Norse mythology where Odin impales himself on the World Tree Yggdrasil to gain the knowledge of the runes. Before a person is killed, Moder shows them something precious to them, or a defining moment in their life; it is, in its own way, giving the person a revelation about what is vital in their own universe. Moder, like any good monster, delivers a message about the meaning of reality to the people it encounters.

9.      Set the Slithering God (Conan the Barbarian/Marvel Comics)

I like this comic book version of a god. The actual Egyptian deity Set is fairly complex, and actually examining his character and divine portfolio gives insight into how Egypt’s culture changes over time. Comic book Set, on the other hand, is the god of snake villains. He is the snake villain to end all snake villains. Marvel cooked him up for their old Conan comics based off an offhand mention in one of Robert E. Howard’s stories because they needed Conan to have a nemesis. So Conan’s nemesis, the arch-wizard/priest Thoth Amon, worships the dark god Set, regardless of the fact that Thoth Amon appeared exactly once in the very first Conan story. Now, it’s fifty years later and Set is apparently one of Marvel’s Primordial Ultra-Deities.

It’s that mixture of traditional myth and the cosmic I like again, though this time it’s less H.P. Lovecraft ‘cosmic horror’ and more Jack Kirby ‘cosmic action’; new gods and a new mythology for a new medium, but still the same old story. Set is the Serpent, like the Ogdru Jahad, manifesting in human lore as everything from the serpent in Eden to Leviathan. He was the first murderer, able to absorb the power of any other god he ate, and even today he seeks reptile supremacy. Wherever there is Set there are snakes, enacting the cosmic cycle of death and rebirth while lounging in decadence.

10.   Haos the Ultimate Bio-Weapon (Resident Evil 6)

… We’re going to do this now, and then we’re never going to do it again. Because we’re going to talk about something good that was in Resident Evil 6. One of the most infuriating things about RE6 is that it had some of the most incredible monster designs in the Resident Evil series. Great designs. The kind of monster designs that other games only wish they could achieve. And they were wasted on one of the worst games the series has produced. One of those designs was Haos, the apparent ultimate bio-weapon engineered by (ugh) Neo-Umbrella in a secret facility at the bottom of the ocean good lord I’m putting this on a list with William Hope Hodgson.

Haos deserves a better game; its design is unnecessarily fantastic. It looks like a ningen crossed with a jellyfish. It’s some far future stage of human evolution driven to its most extreme and bizarre form. There’s something forlorn and sad about it, but also beautiful and powerful. Its concept is purely apocalyptic; Haos will rise from the bottom of the ocean before it finally dies and dissolves into a gas that will spread across the world, turning humanity into zombies and monsters. Herald of a world of gods and monsters and all that. Even its name is kind of cool; ‘Haos’ is literally Siberian for ‘chaos’. And every day I have to wake up with the knowledge that this wonderful, horrible monster was stuck at the end of a Resident Evil 6 campaign. It’s depressing. So here’s to good old Haos; at least here you’ll get some respect.

[roseamongroses]

Antithesis: “we can be seventeen”

[Specific-Summary]: They should expect growing pains. For not everything to feel right or make sense. That doesn't mean it'll always hurt, nor does it mean they can't have fun along the way. It's senior year. Everything may be different. It won't be senior year for long. Everything will be okay.

[General Warnings]: Implied Emotional Abuse, Implied Physical Abuse, Bad Parents are Bad Parents, Mild Sexual Content/jokes,Mentioned Homophobia, Mentions of underage drinking (backround), Some Catcalling,Cursing , Self Hate,implied pregnancy talk/inability to become pregnant, adults arguing where the “kid” can hear it, adults drinking,

[Tags/mood:] highschool au,  fluff and angst but its all good, chat fic, teen stress, its flordia no snow we die like men [Pairing:] Roceit (Roman Sanders/ Deceit Sanders), hinted future/possible logince/roloceit/loceit [Characters]Roman Sanders/Deceit (Dmitri) Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Logan Sanders, Patton Sanders, Remy (Sleep) Sanders, Nate Sanders, Dragon Witch (Diana) Remus “The Duke” Sanders (minor/brief)

(Ao3) (Previously)

(8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15)

(16) (17) (18) (19)

“Listen, Listen, she killed Clarisse,” Roman insisted, papers sprawled around him as he sat up on the couch, “Even if it wasn’t like fuckin’ cold-blooded slaughter it has to at least be manslaughter.”

Logan groaned from his spot on the floor, legs crossed and math textbook in lap, “You’re looking too far into it, Mildred wasn’t even that important of a character, more like a minor nuisance than anything or an example of the status quo--plus what would that even add to the plot?”

At that Roman snorted, “Plot? Lo, it’s all about the imagery,” he waggled his fingers for emphasis, “But I swear to hell I’m right about this. Sure I haven’t read it in ages, but like-- like c’mon babe back me up on this,” he whined.

Dmitri didn’t look up from his laptop, “Never read it,” he mumbled, scanning the screen.

“The shit,” Roman groaned, “You’re in AP Lit, what the fuck Dee,”

“Just because I read doesn’t mean I read for school,” he said eyes still concentrated on the screen.

Roman rolled his eyes, before snapping his fingers, “ Okay, in the beginning right,” started, “It’s established that she has two personality traits, right? She doesn’t pay attention to shit and likes to run things over with her car,--” he said, “Then a couple of chapters later Clarisse just fuckin disappears? It’s like a gun being introduced the first act, the being pulled the second act it’s not a stretch.”

“She could’ve gotten caught by the government,” Logan offered, setting aside the textbook since it’s long past the time since they’ll get any work done, “Or her death/disappearance was simply for plot convenience.”

“Yeah but that’s boring,” Roman drawled, “Plus of course it would allude to be being a big bad government conspiracy or deep dark secret--- that always could be a red herring distracting from the simple facts of the situation. She hit Clarise with her car.” he stretched his legs.

Dmitri lifting his laptop briefly so Roman could plop his legs down into his lap, “Like why would a character who we are told doesn’t pay attention nor care suddenly know how Clarrise died unless she was the one to do it? Hell, I doubt Mildred would even know Clarisse was dead unless she was directly involved. Sure she would have forgotten to tell Montag as it says in canon but it could be how she deals with guilt--with everything. Avoidance-- forgetfulness--the whole shebang.”

Logan rolled his eyes, “Mhm, sure thing,” he said, flipping the textbook back open, “Now about your math test.”

“Noooo,” Roman flopped back, “Why can’t we just watch a movie? We’ve been at it for hours-- It’s the weekend-- Plus Dee hasn’t seen high school musical we cou--” He frowned, voice a bit softer, “Dmitri you okay there?”

Dmitri blinked, a bit startled, “You could say that” he said, “Just thinking, that’s all.”

Roman cocked his head a bit, exchanging looks with Logan, “Bout what?”

He sighed, “Nothing just my birthday—“

Romans lit up at that, “Oh yeah! Where do you wanna go for that? I know you’re stingy about me getting you stuff but still—”

“Am I supposed to drive myself to my birthday date?” Dmitri mused.

“No of course not,” Roman rolled his eyes, “Lo’s driving you so you guys can look at the stars and make out while playing chess or some shit. I’ll be rewatching Princess and the Frog in my jammies.”

At that Logan finally tuned into the conversation,” Excuse me wha-“

Dmitri cut him off, “As much as you’re fond of projection Roman -- The jokes on you I like that idea.”

“For clarification which part of Roman’s ide—“

“Of course you do you fucking nerds—“ Roman said, and Logan resigned himself to a life of internal screaming.

Dmitri didn’t look phased, smile sly, “Funny, you seem to always have a thing for nerds--”

Roman’s face fell, and he was now stammering. Once again it felt like something unspoken went right above Logan’s head.

“Okay,” Logan loudly injected, wincing at how high his voice was, “ Let’s—move on and do some calculus okay? Plus Roman can drive you himself there’s no reason to get me involved.”

At that Roman had stopped, not so subtly inching away while Dmitri paused, “Huh,” he said, glancing at Roman, before nodding, “When did you get your license?”

“Who said anything about a license,“ Roman deflected.

“When did he get his license?” Dmitri asked again to Logan.

“A month or so ago—you didn't tell him?” Logan asked Roman with a raised eyebrow,

“I like him driving me around,” Roman lied.

“I’d drive you regardless Roman,” Dmitri said, redirecting his attention to Logan, “ He didn’t tell me for the same reason he never lets me edit any of his writing homework or help him practice driving, to begin with—he still gets embarrassed around me.” Dmitri corrected, hand tracing Romans calf.

“I do no—,” Dmitri shot him a look and Roman huffed,” Okay so I do—but that’s only because you tease me about it and it’s distracting,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dmitri said like a liar, “But one time we were at a cafe and he got so flustered because someone offhandedly said we looked cute together but that same night without even hesitation he—“

Roman not too gently rolled the ground, bringing his papers and books crashing to the ground with him as he loudly exclaimed, “Oh we should get back to work, Lo— can’t be slacking can we!”

“But I kinda want to know—“

“Calculus,” he squeaked ignoring Dmitri all together, “Now.”

—

Roman rubbed his eyes, vision adjusted to the dim light of his living room. A few more seconds and he processed the stark glow of Dmitri’s laptop from the couch and the distinct, albeit much slower than usual typing.

Carefully, he shifted Logan from his chest onto the collection of pillows and blankets, slipping onto the couch beside Dmitri, “You still working…?” he said yawning, plopping his head onto Dmitri’s shoulder. His eyes decided to flutter close rather than try and fight the obscene brightness level of the laptop to snoop.

The typing paused, a hand wrapping around Roman’s waist, allowing him to further snuggle Dmitri’s chest, before the typing resumed, “I...ca...can't sleep.” Dmitri said, voice still hoarse.

“Still thinking’ ‘bout your birthday?” Roman asked.

“More or less,” he said, sounding much more irritated.

“Then tell me more,” Roman countered. He was too pleasantly tired to bother with changing the subject and all too aware that the nice circles Dmitri was rubbing under Roman’s shirt was more calculated then Dee was willing to let on.

“I...I don’t know It’s just…” he said, “I want to ta...but I can…” he sighed, “I can’t find the words.”

“We have time babe…”

“You have a shift in a couple of hours, you should sleep,” Dmitri said.

“Mmm, fuck retail,” Roman eloquently mumbled.

Only then did the typing stops. Sounds of the cicadas, the occasional siren or car passing by, and the slow breaths of Logan filled the room before Dmitri finally answered.

“Do...I make you uncomfortable?”

“I’d so hope not,” Roman snickered, “Seeing as you’re already trying to work off my shirt.” Upon not receiving an immediate response, he opened his eyes, blinking back his remaining sleepiness, “Wait—shit sorry were you serious?”

Dmitri avoided his gaze,” Forget I said anything—never mind,” he said voice dropping to barely a whisper.

“No-No-no,” Roman objected standing up, the sudden loudness of his voice causing Logan to shift groaning before settling again. Roman dropped his volume, “Dmitri are you serious right now? Why would you think that?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I won’t until you answer mine,” Roman said hugging his arms. Dmitri glanced over him curiously, their eye bags much more evident despite the dim light. Combined with their bed head and ruffled too big attire—

“Stop fucking checking me out and just explain,” Roman snapped, and Dmitri’s focus cleared again.

“I’m not…” he finally processed the pinched expression on their face. They were tired.“ I do make you uncomfortable.” He said, easily letting dread wash over him, “I do don’t I...I always…”

At that Roman sighed, “No I know you didn’t mean it like that--” he saddled next to Dmitri, careful, “But you were drifting, I need you to try and focus okay? I can’t answer your question without knowing why. I don’t want to lie to you, but I don’t want you to use that as an excuse to be an ass to yourself. ”

Dmitri still looked doubtful and Roman waited for him to gather his words.

“I’m just like her,” he managed to say, “I complain and complain, but I act just like her,”

“Dmitri-”

“No, I do, “ he cut Roman off, tone divisive, “There’s a reason nobody likes me Roman---A reason Virgil fucking hates me, a reason why I don’t have any friends and probably shouldn’t--people call me a fucking snake.”

He slouched over, hair falling in waves to obscure most of his face, “I push and I prod and fuckin-dissect---for fun---because I can get away with it and I know it. Then I go and complain about how manipulative and toxic she is, like a fucking hypocrite. ” he paused for a moment, his face splitting into an unnerving grin, “Then I….Than I’m surprised when people start leaving.”

“I haven’t left,” Roman said.

“I’m terrible, you really should.”

“You’re not terrible,” Roman mumbled, a bit more firmly as he tucked himself back into Dmitri’s side.

“I make you uncomfortable.”

“Yes, a couple of times you did,” Roman relented, “But that doesn’t mean you’re terrible, it just means you’re a person and not my build-a boyfriend.”

“You never make me uncomfortable,” Dmitri said, shoulders relaxing despite himself as Roman pushed his hair back, “A real-life prince charming.”

“Liar,” Roman scoffed, “I know for a fact my dumbass frustrates you.”

“You’re not dumb,” Dmitri said, frowning.

“Yes, I a--” Roman inhaled stopping himself, “I can still frustrate you regardless, babe. Spending a lot of time with someone can do that sometimes. Does it mean you should ditch me and never look back? I sure hope fucking not.”

“I wouldn’t ditch you,” Dmitri grumbled.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Roman said soft, “So stop assuming I would.”

Silence filled the space comfortably again, Dmitri mulling this over.

“I’m still terrible,” he said.

“Dee,” Roman groaned, rolling up enough so he can take Dmitri's face between his hands, “God knows I can’t and won’t play therapist but can we agree to the fact that ---You. Are. Not. Your. Aunt,”

He smooshed Dmitri’s face eyes narrowed in a challenge,” You might have similarities to her, but that’s because you live with her, not because you are her. She’s made her decisions to be the way she is and you still can choose how you want to be.” Only then did Roman release Dmitri’s face with a dignified huff.

“I…”

“If the next word involves any form of calling yourself terrible I swear--”

“No no,” Dmitri assured, “ I wasn’t... It's just you sounded,” he looked away embarrassed, “A lot like Emile…I guess it caught me off guard.”

“Oh,” Roman said, “Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah...it is,” Dmitri said, “It’s just been a while…I miss him...a lot,” he admitted quieter and Roman looked up startled, but Dmitri quickly moved on, “Still…”

Roman frowned, vaguely compliant as Dmitri slowly drew him into their lap, “Still?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“You didn't mention what I did to make you uncomfortable,” Dmitri said.

“Dee,” Roman whined, “It’s st--”

“It’s not stupid,” he said, “You said it yourself, I can still choose how I want to be, I’m choosing now.” Roman still looked concerned, so Dmitri added on a bit softer, “Please? I want to know.”

---

@daflangstlairde

@ace-anx

@cataclysm-al

[lesmotsincompris]

Thoughts on GoT S07E02

This time I avoided reading other people’s opinions on the episode until I could watch it for myself. I wanted to see which flaws I would notice on my own and which would be more of a ‘fridge logic’ type of thing. So sorry if I’m gonna sound repetitive.

I actually tried to watch the episode live last night, but Brazilian HBO Go crashed for the second Sunday in a row. I can’t help but laugh, this is the one time of the year when most people actually care about HBO and they screw it.

So, the episode. I feel it had higher highers and lower lowers? But it still navigates ‘meh’ waters for the most part. My thoughts on it:

Dragonstone

Dany saying Dragonstone doesn’t feel like home is an interesting concept: how much Westeros is Dany’s home? If not Westeros, then where? What will book!Dany feel when she arrives? What is home, anyway? All great questions, so we know the show won’t explore them.

It’s great to see Daenerys calling Varys on his bullshit, but this should have happened two seasons ago when he first arrived in Meereen, not now that he took care of her city while she was gone and they had a fun cruise together. And again show!Dany basically shrugs away the fact that Varys tried to kill her! Why? What is he bringing to #TeamTargaryen anyway?

See, this is what happens when you cut a character or subplot without thinking of the consequences. Varys’ motivations earlier in the show make sense for a Varys that champions his perfect prince Aegon for the Iron Throne. They cut Aegon, but forgot to adjust Varys’ motivations accordingly and now are having to fix it.

But wait, there’s more! While book!Dany has many qualities that I admire and that can make her a great queen, I don’t feel comfortable backing her claim for the Iron Throne just yet. Just like Stannis had to learn to ‘save the kingdom to win the throne’ and not the other way around, Dany still has to deconstruct the ‘usurper’ narrative and understand why people in Westeros didn’t want the Targaryens anymore. Book!Dany hasn’t done this yet, but neither has show!Dany. On the contrary, the show goes out of its way to emphasize the ‘conquest’ aspect of Dany’s coming to Westeros, with her being a little more pyromaniac than I would like. What makes Varys think she’ll be a better ruler than her father? What makes any of her allies think that?

After careful consideration, Dany decides for starvation instead of burning. A true champion of the people! Yaaahhhs queen! Because that won’t get the innocent killed, I’m sure.

Show!Tyrion is a character I can’t stand anymore. All he does is mansplain things to Daenerys like she was some silly child and play the Reasonable Man™ to murder-happy Strong Female Characters™ Yara, Ellaria, and Olenna. Why is he on #TeamTargaryen? What does he add to the group or Daenerys’ cause? And I’m not even gonna comment on the idiocy of storming Casterly Rock by sea, but hey, this comes from the writers that think you can go around Moat Cailin. Someone should paint a map of Westeros in the writer’s room, just saying.

Olenna is another character I’ll be happy to see gone. What’s with ‘they won’t obey you unless they fear you’? Has she attended the Cersei Lannister School of Leadership too? And what is ‘be a dragon’ even supposed to mean?

Hey, at least Yara expressed her own thoughts this time instead of letting Theon do it. Progress, I guess.

Melisandre took a flight from Plot Airlines and arrived in Dragonstone just to deliver exposition on a prophecy. I love when the writers sudden remember they should have seeded certain things ages ago and expect we won’t notice if they shoehorn it now. Also why is Melisandre so convinced that Dany is hot shit? Because she has a fancy hair and dragons? On the plus side, we got Missandei translating things and that’s always welcome.

Speaking of Missandei, the scene between her and Greyworm was really sweet, if a bit too long. I think this scene worked so well because those two are the only characters in this show that I like with no reservations; everybody else is a jerk to some degree and I can’t bring myself to root for them. Great acting from Jacob Anderson, he did in one scene more than Kit Harrignton and Emilia Clarke do in a whole season. My complaints are Missandei’s lack of underwear (in winter? Really?) and the forced accents.

King’s Landing

Cersei has a point: what reasons do the nobles of Westeros have to believe that Dany won’t be like Aerys? On the other hand, you know who’s also like Aerys? Cersei ‘let’s burn the sept with everyone inside’ Lannister! Ugh, this show.

‘She has three fully grown dragons, my grace’ and Gilly still has a tiny baby, so dragons grow extra fast in this show.

‘It’s a long ride back to the reach’, says Randyll. Yeah, but if you leave now you can be there before the episode is over.

Qyburn follows the Essos Daily twitter account, so he knows details of the fight in Meereen. He also just watched The Hobbit and wants to do a Bard-on-Smaug to Dany’s dragons.

Oldtown

I barely care about book!Jorah, but I certainly don’t care about show!Jorah. He outlived whatever purpose he had in the narrative, I hate how his feelings for Dany are framed as romantic and I hate how the show simply forgot the reason why Jorah was banned from Westeros in first place. Yes, he is dead for his family, for the minor misdemeanor of SELLING PEOPLE FFS. Jorah is an unrepentant slaver and a creepy crush won’t suddenly make him a sympathetic character, quite the opposite.

Jorah’s greyscale moved at the speed of plot, but fortunately didn’t affect his face so that Dany can still love Iain Glen’s looks. I’m glad Dany x Jon are an obvious romantic endgame for the show, because otherwise D&D might actually pair Dany and Jorah.

Last week we had poop montage, this week we have an overly long scene of Sam removing Jorah’s skin. This is what makes bold television and mature entertainment, I guess.

By the way, isn’t greyscale supposed to be on your blood or something? It isn’t exactly a skin condition that can be cured by just removing the skin, or I’m sure other people would have tried it before. This treatment makes no sense, but when has that ever stopped the writers?

Winterhell

Sam’s raven arrived in Winterfell ridiculously fast, but it almost seems too slow compared to Dany’s raven. And I’m guessing nobody at the Wall bothered sending a raven saying that Bran is alive and well and coming their way ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Of course Sansa thinks Tyrion is the best. Who doesn’t think Tyrion is the best? He didn’t rape her, isn’t that the nicest thing a man can do for you? Ugh.

Again the writers’ choice to create conflict between the Stark siblings is to skip pre-meeting and make them argue in front of everyone. Again Sansa and Jon disagree because the plot needs them to disagree. Again the crowd cheers whoever is speaking.

Jon didn’t want to be king, he says. He just accepted it, he says. I can’t explain how much I hate this trope. Bad writers everywhere seem to believe that a good leader is the guy that doesn’t want to be a leader, because ambition is evil so a guy that wants to be leader must be evil. This is all levels of stupid and there’s no faster way to make sure somebody will do a lousy job than forcing them to do a job they don’t want to do.

We’ve moved on from trashing Stannis post-death to trashing Catelyn post-death. Ugh.

Somewhere in the Riverlands

Arya’s meeting with Hot Pie was weird. Hot Pie’s presence feels more like an easter egg than two old friends seeing each other after a long time. Maisie Williams is usually a great actor, but she’s been acting quite stiff this season. Maybe it’s D&D’s tradition of thinking that Strong Female Characters™ show no emotions?

Arya ‘heard’ Cersei is queen, but when she left Westeros Cersei was also queen, so...? It seems everybody gets their news super fast except for Arya. Maybe the cell phone signal at the Riverlands isn’t very good? Okay that Arya doesn’t know the Starks rule Winterfell again, but why didn’t she tried to go to the Wall as soon as she arrived in Westeros?

I hate that this is called ‘Battle of the Bastards’ in universe. It’s a stupid name on its own, but makes even less sense from a watsonian perspective. To call it ‘Battle of the Bastards’ is to make this a personal fight between Jon and Ramsay, but that’s not what it was. It was a battle for Winterfell and the North, a battle between Starks and Boltons even. Jon and Ramsay haven’t even met before that.

Nymeria showed up to announce that the show is officially cutting their husky-in-a-direwolf-body CGI budget. That scene felt super contrived and just made me angry at the writers. In the books we know Arya and Nymeria will meet again, and we know their connection is still strong, because Martin had been foreshadowing this for ages. In the show we never heard of Nymeria after season 1 and now she just showed up to say she won’t show up anymore.

Somewhere in the sea

I think the show reached a new level of racism, exotification and hypersexualization of PoC with “foreign invasion”. Good thing D&D won’t be showrunners for an upcoming tv show where the South won the Civil War. Can you imagine?

Yallaria didn’t live to its hype. Yara is bisexual, because of course a character that flirts with everyone is bisexual.

To whoever thought it would be a good idea to have the Sand Snakes as catty and childish murder-happy women: don’t.

The battle was confusing. Not only the lighting was terrible but also for the most part I couldn’t make sense of who was fighting for what side. Euron hired some Destruction mages from Skyrim so he could use Fireballs against the Sand Snakes. Maybe they’ll replace the dragonhorn with Odahviing?

It’s painfully obvious the showrunners want Euron to be scary, a Ramsay 2.0. and Joffrey 3.0. He even has a mustache to twirl! That’s only because they clearly can’t write a story without an obvious and defined human villain, who must be MOAR EVUHL than his predecessors. I won’t be surprised if we see Euron spitting on puppies and peeing on flowers. Sigh… This is just ridiculous.

Book!Euron is scary, but because we have subtle hints of his monstrosity. He’s a human villain, the last great human villain of ASOIAF, but he stitches the magical and the political arcs together. Show!Euron is just the same edginess and sadism we’ve seen before with other overused villains, now with a really silly appearance.

The plot needs Theon’s trauma to exist again, so Theon’s trauma exists again. I’m all for exploring PTSD and traumatic experiences on fiction, but that doesn’t mean you can ignore the trauma until it’s convenient for the plot or scream it away like Yara did last season.

I’m sure no misogyny will come from Euron having Yara and Ellaria captive. 

Extra comments

After months of studying, I think I finally figured the laws of succession in D&D’s Westeros: whoever is the closest named character is automatically the heir. See: Cersei in King’s Landing, Ellaria in Dorne, Edd in the Night’s Watch...

What’s with the funny editing? You know the thing, they show something gross, then show food that looks a lot like the gross thing… Come on, guys, you’re not twelve.

(maybe they are? That would explain A LOT)

Once more they’re not even trying with the costumes and wigs. Sansa’s wig in particular is so bad it’s distracting.

What’s with the forced accents? Why every time a character is supposed to be ~foreign~ they go with a generic broken English accent? If you want a different accent than the main cast, make them use an American accent! Why not?

What happened to Stannis’ men? Was this ever, like, explained?

So that was it, another hour with stuff happening.

[thepurpletrunk]

Chapter 2

Redreaming 

The drive home was short and sweet. During the trip I kept glancing at the trunk sitting in the passenger seat as if it was a friend who was accompanying me home. The icy roads lead me to my house deep within a labyrinth of suburban homes. I came upon the familiar grey brick and mortar of my home with only the spaced streetlights that left splotches of darkness on the road. My mom left the lights on by the garage as I pull in behind what I know is where my mom always parks her car. I automatically exit the car, almost forgetting to grab the trunk as I fluidly went through my nightly routine. I flip up the shield to the garage opener and I plug in the code to my garage door on auto pilot. In the mud room I slipped off my shoes and socks that became soggy as the snow melted. I swiftly tiptoed inside so as to not alert my mother who was seated on the couch for her nightly tv time. Her plan to record shows during the day so she could fast forward the commercials at night. It was Sunday so I already knew she was viewing The Bachelor. Before any progress could be made a brown figure darted across the hardwood floor. Theodora stood only a few inches off of the ground but her eyes were squarely locked on me as few huffs that barely sounded like a bark came from the muzzle of the brazen chihuahua. She started towards me with several noises spouting from her mouth such as squeaks, yips and squeals. Her long brown fur brushed against my shin as she began her lick attack on my now open skin.

“Hey Lin how was your day?” My mom says absent mindedly, not even looking away from the screen.

“Good.” I respond with a lack of interest in continuing the conversation. I reached down to pet Theodora, and as soon as she saw my hand descend she flopped over to reveal her belly. I squat down, and give her a good few rubs before I begin my ascent upstairs, heading straight to my room. I passed my brother's door in its usual position, closed, as he wasted the night away playing a game. My parents room lays barren as only one presides within the house.

I enter the door to my room and quickly lock it behind my back as I make a beeline to the open space at the foot of my bed. I gently set the trunk down on the fraying carpeted floor and inspect the “gift”. Was it all real? What if I had just fallen asleep on the train and dreamed up all of it? If so, did I just steal a trunk off the Metra???

My breath quickens as I go over all the different scenarios in my head of how I came across the trunk that lazily lays in front of me, but none seemed more odd than the truth. I audibly sigh as I begin to prod it to see if it would jump alive or start speaking riddles. None of that happened as it lay inert on the wood. Getting a closer look at the lock I see it is a simple button mechanism to open up the latches that hold the trunk together. I weigh my options as I ponder whether to enter it again and risk another strange encounter as the one that happened not even an hour ago. I check the time, seeing how much time I would have before it became too late, 10:27 What do I have to lose?

I press my finger to unlock the trunk and it pops open as soon as I stop putting pressure on the button. It cracked open slightly, seducing me to open it further, much like I did before. Opening it all the way, I made quick work of the descent and opening the door. This time, I was greeted by the smell of old paper and leather, not too dissimilar to my campus library. Entering into the new room, I was surrounded on all sides by leagues of books. The floor was a sturdy dark wood that did not give way to any noises as I stepped forward in wonderment. Ladders protruded off of the shelves that reached up 20 feet allowing access to the most distant books at the top. There was a walkway above revealing the second story of books that is accessed by a metal spiral staircase with dragons snaking up its metal supports. The ceiling arches illustrating the day sky as clouds pass through the scene above. Light emitting from an illustrated sun painted in a van Gough artistic rendition of what the sun would look like.

My trance was interrupted by someone clearing their throat and alerting me of their presence as I just noticed the plush leather chair and green reading light only a few feet from me.

“Excuse me miss, but I believe you are lost, might I ask how you happened to chance upon this place?”

A prim man stands in front of the chair with a straightened back and reserved features. He looked much less friendly than my previous encounter with a strange man in a box. His hair has more white amongst his curls than grey, with a thin nose and thick eyebrows sleet grey. Crows' feet protrude from hooded lids that hide hard hazel eyes. He patiently awaits my response as I stand flabbergasted at yet another unknown individual. He had a look of a scholar that had just got done reading a chapter and was interrupted by a student coming in to ask a question.

“I was given this trunk, Bryan Smyth gave it to me, and I'm not lost, I purposefully climbed into this trunk.” I clap back assert my confidence in my presence in the trunk.

He heaves a great sigh and grumbles, “of course he would do something like this. Allowing an unknown juvenile such power is exactly what that lawless, blunderbuss of a man would do.”

I giggle at the mention of blunderbuss, musing at his old timey disposition and speech. “He did seem to be a bit of a lollygagger”, I mimic in a similar accent as the unknown old timer.

“Yes, a true neerdowell.” he glanced off pondering,” so back to this issue. Did my friend by any chance tell you anything about this box he so graciously gifted you?”

“He didn't really say much, other than I could do what I wished with it.”

At this he began to pace and rub his chin with one hand while using the other for support. “I can not leave this scoundrel alone for a few minutes without him trudging off to who knows where to make a mess of trouble for others to clean up. I apologize for my actions, but I can not stand this man's shenanigans.”

“It's alright.” I respond awkwardly as the conversation dies down.

“Well on to business, my name is Andrew, Andrew Lazil.  it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” he reaches out with his left hand.

“Oh, Aisling Greenway nice to meet you too.” I accept his hand and he tightly embraces mine with his.

“Now” he states as he lets go and begins to walk back to his chair and assumes his prior position, “I am assuming there are many queries you must have on your precarious situation. Please ask away.” He sinks into the comfy chair as he beckons me and my many questions forward.

Where to start? Maybe start with Bryan? Probably should go with the magic trunk. Wait why is he even here in the first place?

“Um…” I stumble over my thoughts as I try to pull one string of questioning forward. As I struggle with focusing a chair materializes out of thin air a few feet in front of Andrew. With its sudden appearance all of my sense of thinking escapes me as I focus on the now present chair that appeared before my very eyes. WHat kind of magic is this?!? I stand stock still as my mouth falls open

“Ah do not worry the trunk can manifest whatever you need in the moment. I took the liberty of manifesting this for you, so our conversation can be more comfortable”

“Thank you” I say as I cautiously sink down into the leather chair. The lavish leather swallowing me just enough for me to be supported yet in a comfortable position. Andrew takes out his glasses that hung from his buttoned down shirt and places them on the tip of his nose. His eyes narrow on me as if trying to solve the puzzle of what question will be thrown his way before it even escapes my lips. “So. What is this place?”

“This is the place where dreams can be viewed. Any dream of a person who enters this trunk will be displayed here as a book that can be viewed by anyone who enters here and can only be removed by you. If anything crosses your unconscious you can find it here.”

“So all the books in here are dreams?” I begin to look around and the multitude of the hoards of books.

“Yes, each dream manifests itself however the owner of the trunk pleases. It Seems you are not unlike Bryan in your love for literature, I pray that is your only similarity. Any individual who enters the trunk's domain gets a section where their dreams are viewable.”

“Where are mine?”

“Hmm” he lifts himself out of the chair sauntering over to the bookshelf closest to the door, “since you were the last to enter the trunk, we can find yours here.” he gestures his hand toward shelves of hardcover books that vary in colors. “It seems that you name some of your dreams, wonderful.”

I stand up to stand beside him as he lazily scans over my shelves only focusing on a book or two before continuing his path down the shelf. “Wow, that's a lot of books.”

“Indeed it may seem so but it is actually quite average for your age. The more you dream the more show up, and you still seem to be a young adult, so your section will grow with time.”

“Why are some colored different? Not saying I'm opposed to the rainbow aesthetic.”

“That is for the sake of both you and me. They are colored to tell us what kind of dream it contains. When we dream we often have an overarching emotion that we tie to it. This shows in this manifestation such as the color yellow often finds itself on covers of dreams that are happier,” he plucks off a soft mustard yellow book. “While dreams that are more negative emotions and frightening take on a darker hue that is often black.”

“Cool, what does blue mean?” I say as I grab a soft blue book off the shelf that is eye level.

“Blue can mean a varied amount of things. As I said earlier shade is everything and that one seems to be a more sad one.”

“That's cool,” I say as I look around the barren library devoid of any other human presence, “are you the only one here? This place seems pretty spacious for only one person.”

“I am not the only reader here. There were more that used to reside closer to the door, but Bryan has the talent to irk anyone.”

“Reader?”  I question

“Ah I haven't properly explained my purpose here have I. I am a designated reader in this trunk, it is my job to redream dreams, read through them and advise you in deciphering dreams and their imagery.”

“So how do I redream a dream? Like can I redream any of them or are there restrictions?”

“Would you like to view one? Just pluck it off the shelf and open it. It is as easy as that.”

“Okay, so i just do this an….aaaaaaaaaa’

As I open the book I feel the tug of my very existence going into the book, as if gravity was compressing my body in on itself. My brain goes haywire with this new feeling and even when my body feels like it has ceased its physical existence. My vision goes as the once blinding flash of light gives way to darkness. Electricity runs through my senses and my mind muddles as my formless existence flows to an unknown place.  

Suddenly I find myself to be in a small bland room that feels vaguely familiar. It is the room that I visited in my dream a few days ago. This one I barely remembered in the morning when I woke up to my dreaded alarm. The walls are painted a soft yellow hue that reflects some of the light streaming in through the windows. Only one wall has windows, and each one takes up most of the wall. Two chairs lay at each window and in one sat me. I look younger than I do now, it is as if a picture of myself four years ago decided to jump out of the photograph and rest for a bit. It was peaceful, but the feeling of trepidation for something to come filled my chest and outlined the expression of the other me.

Soon the expected guest arrives as the window swings open to reveal Erin. She tumbles through the frame and closes the window and finds her way to the open chair, now only inches away from the other. Erin gazed out the paned window into an oblivion of clouds. A spike of pain shoved its way through my chest at the sight of my old friend who no longer holds that title in my heart. My throat constricts as I see a replica of me in the chair close to a person that in real life would never get within one-hundred feet of me.

“Hello, long time no see.” Erin said casually.

“You know exactly why we don't see each other anymore” I bite back with anger lined with hurt.

“I am good, how are you, I miss when we were friends and I didn’t have to hate you.” My doppelgänger states in a soft voice. She mirrors me in all ways, with her soft brown hair resting gently on the small of her back. Light skin with red undertones and deep chocolate eyes, that in the bright light contain a hidden green tree line around the pupil. Sparse dark brown freckles that litter my arm appear on hers. Even her voice sounds like a recording of my own.

“I miss you too. But you know you can't control me and what I do. What's done is done”

I feel myself growing angrier as I recall the situation on how I lost a friend I once held dearly. “You did something horrible that I can not forgive you for. I could ruin your life if I exposed what you did. You- you ruined it!” I explain as my eyes strain to keep tears from spilling forth at the scar in my chest from the old wound. My words struggling not to crack as my heart once did. Cracks soon begin to form along the walls and spread out causing them to crumble away.

The Erin I see before me does not react to my words, but carries on, “Things can never be as they once were and it is my fault, but I will not tell you in person, that's not how it works.”

“I really wish we could be friends again, to laugh as we once did, and hang out. I really do.”

“I know. I do as well.”

I stare at the scene before me as I listen to a conversation of my own subconscious making. Soon a tear trickles down my cheek and I lean my head back a bit to contain the reservoir of tears. These words I wish she would say, to take responsibility for the horrible thing she did to me and everyone around her. I also hear the truth of myself, my inner longing for the time when I did not mistrust those around me and I had faith in those I called friends.

Both the image of me and Erin look out into the expanse of clouds now completely exposed as the cracks overtook the weak wall leaving only a frame of Brocken wall. I know this is the end, but there is so much I want to say to her, so much more that needs to be said. I don't want this to end, it can't. I need to tell her how much she has hurt me!

I never get the chance as the dream fades away into a cloudless horizon as the library once agains dawns into existence. Andrew stands before me as I reign myself in from the emotional outburst. My heart reeling from the reminder of an injury that used to be long buried. My body drags itself back to life and a heavy weight settles into my bones.

Andrew notices my pained expression and comforts me, “It's alright, it's only a dream.” he lightly pats my shoulder to ground me best he could.

“Thank you.” I say breathlessly. “ I think I should go. I need to sleep and that was a lot.”

“I do not doubt that. You can exit the way you entered. I will be here anytime you need me.”

“Thank you.” I mumble and shift away from Andrew as I begin to hurriedly exit the library. Once I reach the door I look back at my newfound friend and give him a tender nod as I close the door and begin my ascent out of the trunk.

I lift the lid as I enter back into my cozy room. The soft brown of my walls invites me to find calm. As I exit the trunk I notice my room is just how I left it, and as I glance at the clock I see the glowing red of my alarm clock displaying 10:27. Dressing down to put my night wear on the night called my cluttered mind to rest. A tiredness sweeps through and I can only think of snuggling in my bed to have my third dream of the day.

[shanannigansthebibliophile]

The big day has finally arrived!!! I am so thrilled to present these fabulous authors and their books, as they help me officially launch R&R Book Tours! 

Six amazing books, six amazing authors, and six amazing giveaways!!!

eBooks, signed copies, and Amazon gift cards! Awesome right?

Quincey Wolfe’s Glass Vault (Release Date: May 16, 2017)

Some see it… Some don’t…

People in the town of Deer Park, Texas are vanishing. There is a strange museum, known as Quinsey Wolfe’s Glass Vault, that appears overnight. Perrie Madeline’s best friend and ex-boyfriend are among the missing. Perrie, along with her friend August, go on a pursuit to search for them in the mysterious museum. Could the elusive Quinsey Wolfe’s Glass Vault have anything to do with their disappearances?

A book that intertwines horror elements and retellings, with humor and darkness

Goodreads

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

About the Author

Her name is Candace Robinson, obviously. She’s just your average hemiplegic migraine sufferer. Her days are spent writing, book reviewing and traveling through books. She lives just outside of Houston, Texas with her husband and daughter, where it feels like the hottest place on Earth with the crazy weather. No, seriously, one day it’s 30 degrees and the next it’s 70 degrees! She is also the author of Hearts Are Like Balloons.

Candace Robinson | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram

GIVEAWAY

Seven Hours: Challenge Accepted (Release Date: July 31, 2017)

One pill every 7 hours. That could be all it takes to give Chanel the chance to finally see the world around her. Chanel is an independent 19-year-old, despite what her overprotective mother and senator father may think. Being the daughter of a Senator comes with its own problems, one simple afternoon out with friends becomes overwhelming when they’re swarmed by reporters. Keeping the secret of the experimental treatment close to her chest, she is able to fool everyone but her hawk-eyed bodyguard, Leon, that has now been assigned to protect her. Chanel doesn’t want a bodyguard, but will she get more than she bargained for?

Goodreads

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

About the Author

I wish I could sit down with you and have a nice warm cup of tea or a steaming mug of coffee, but since that’s not possible, how about a cyber-hug? I love hugs and coffee, a lot of coffee.

So, as an introduction, let’s start with, “I love to read and write”. I have so many stories inside my head that sometimes it’s impossible to know what’s real anymore. That doesn’t stop me from enjoying a great novel, though. Reading and writing is not all that I love, though it comes a close second. I love dancing, needlework, spending time with my family and friends, and most of all, the holidays. That’s when my family is all smiles. Smiles are the best, don’t you think?

I started writing stories for teen girls because I started writing in high school and I understood teen girls… or at least I thought so at the time. Throw in a hot guy, romance, and drama to get the perfect hypnosis formula for girls and some boys. Later, as I grew up, my characters grew up with me. I write a variety of books for all ages, mostly fantasy and chick-lit. An odd combination? You be the judge.

Currently, I divide my time between my family, work, writing, and a lot of cats. I’m also a new mother and you get to read about my journey on my blog once a month!

Visit her website at www.kernerangelina.com and her blog at www.kernerangelina.live

Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest | Goodreads

GIVEAWAY

Aggravated Momentum (Release Date: September 12, 2016)

Not everything is as it seems in what appears to be an average family. When danger lurks so close to home, skeletons emerge, and the darkest of secrets surface, causing twisted desires to become reality. Aggravated Momentum offers the perspective of some very diverse and unique characters, including fun, witty personalities to fall in love with, along with an intellectual killer to die for. You may be surprised as to whom exactly you can relate. Is it the cold, calculated murderer, whose name is yet to be revealed? Markie or Kam, the independent sisters, guilty of nothing more than getting tangled with the wrong people at the most inopportune times? Or, the cowardly snake curled in a hidden corner? Who are you, exactly? And, more importantly, who are they? The deeper you dig into the psyche of another, the more breath-taking are the secrets you will find.

Goodreads

Amazon

About the Author

Didi Oviatt is a small town gal who married a small town guy. Within a few years of experiencing a new families bliss, she discovered that she had a thirst to write. Now, after digging down deep and getting in touch with her literary self, she’s writing mystery/thrillers like Search For Maylee(coming soon), Aggravated Momentum, The Stix, and New Age Lamians.  Along with a six piece short story collection called the Time Wasters.

And don’t fret: there are two more Lamian novels in the works.

Didi Oviatt | Amazon | Facebook | Twitter

GIVEAWAY

The Old Man at the End of the World (Release Date: February 16, 2017)

THE GOOD LIFE meets DOUGLAS ADAMS meets SHAUN OF THE DEAD! – Dave F, Amazon

Gerald Stockwell-Poulter couldn’t help but feel it was extraordinary just how quickly his life had changed. One moment he was earthing up leeks in the West Sussex sunshine and the next he was rooted to the spot as Rodney Timmins from the end allotment ambled towards him, arms outstretched, blood pouring from a hole in his neck and a look in his eye which suggested that he was less after help and more after a helping of Gerald.

Now, as Gerald’s life takes a quick turn for the worse, he must do things he has never done before. After 87 largely well-behaved years as a model citizen, less than four hours into the ‘zompocalypse’ and he has already killed a neighbour, rescued a moody millennial drug dealer and forged an unlikely allegiance with a giant ginger Scotsman. And it isn’t even tea time.

Join Gerald as he and his newfound allies navigate the post-apocalyptic English countryside in their hilarious bid to stay off the menu.

Goodreads 

Amazon

About the Author

AK Silversmith is the author of The Old Man at the End of the World; a series of zombie apocalypse Bites centering on the world of 87-year-old Gerald Stockwell-Poulter.

Bite 2 is coming soon…

She was born in Tasmania in 1983 and now lives in western Ireland where the weather is similar but the zombies are still absent.

I have also put an author interview on my site if anyone is interested in more info.

AK Silversmith

Deaman’s Tome: Monsters Exist (Release Date: July 1, 2017)

From the time we are young, we fear the monster under the bed or in the closet, making it impossible to sleep without a nightlight. Then, we hear stories of Bigfoot, and maybe even the Mothman around campfires. When we are adults, we wonder if there might actually be supernatural creatures lurking in the shadows. Are these tall tales and urban legends only metaphors for what horrific things humanity is capable of—or do monsters exist?Go to some terrifying places with this cast of authors.

You will be dragged into mystifying realities where demonic fairies hide, where devil monkeys lure carnival-goers to their demise, where Goatmen seek to destroy their prey, and where the goddess of death puts out a hit on victims of her choice. These shocking tales will have you biting your nails and locating that childhood nightlight. Because, in the end, we all know monsters do exist.

*Theresa Braun put’s on her editor’s cap for this creepy anthology, in addition to writing her own story as well!

Goodreads

Edited by Mr. Deadman and Theresa Braun

Theresa Braun | Twitter | Facebook

Author Info:

Wallace Boothill: https://twitter.com/WBoothill

Theresa Braun: http://www.theresabraun.com

S.J. Budd: http://www.sjbudd.co.uk/

Gary Buller: https://twitter.com/garybuller

S.E. Casey: https://secaseyauthor.wordpress.com/

Mr. Deadman: https://deadmanstome.net/

Calvin Demmer: https://calvindemmer.com/

Philip Kleaver: https://twitter.com/pwkleaver

Sylvia Mann: https://twitter.com/SylvieM1971

W.C. Marchese: http://www.wcmarchese.com/

John Palisano: https://johnpalisano.wordpress.com/

Christopher Powers: https://twitter.com/Powers1902

Leo X. Robertson: https://leoxrobertson.wordpress.com/

M.R. Tapia: http://hinderedsoulspress.com/

GIVEAWAY

Roadside (Release Date: May 6, 2017)

Roadside blurb:  Zayne finds Serena’s lifeless body off the side of the road one morning. She has been beaten and left for dead. As she recovers, they become the best of friends. It doesn’t take long for Zayne’s feelings to grow stronger. Will the fear of ruining their friendship keep them from taking a chance on love?

Goodreads

Amazon

About the Author

Angie Dokos was born a reader and grew to be a writer. Okay, so the reading took a few years, but in the meantime, she was having someone else read to her. She enjoys hiking and loves to travel. She currently lives in the Atlanta, Georgia area with her husband and children.

Angie Dokos | Twitter | Instagram

Facebook | Goodreads | Amazon | Blog 

GIVEAWAY

Of course, R&R Book Tours wants to celebrate these fabulous authors, but I also want to thank the amazing bloggers who took the time to put together these monumental posts! You guys rock!!! Make sure you enter my giveaway too!

GIVEAWAY

Make sure you check out these amazing bloggers before you go!

Didi Oviatt

Where Dragons Reside

Rambling Lisa’s Book Reviews

Literary Dust

Ignited Moth

Brizzle Lass Blog

Kristen’s Novel Cafe

Ronnie Turner

Speedy Reader

Darling Bear Reviews

Nesie’s Place

D.E. Haggarty

Portable Magic

Thanks for coming to our blog party!

R&R Book Tours

                Launch Party Mega #Blitz: Celebrating #Indie Authors #BlogParty #Giveaways The big day has finally arrived!!! I am so thrilled to present these fabulous authors and their books, as they help me officially launch…

[textywall]

21st February 2017

My social condition

People. There are 7.125 Billion people living on planet Earth. According to Google. 7.125 Billion! That’s insane! And I’m pretty sure, also illegal in several parts of the galaxy! I can’t even begin to picture that number! Just, think of an Apple. Easy, you can picture an apple. Now picture two, now three, still easy. Now picture 10. Now 30. It may take a moment there to picture exactly 30 apples. Now, picture 7.125 Billion. It’s ridiculous! So ridiculous your brain can’t even comprehend it! And yet, that’s how many people are supposedly scattered around the planet! All with their own lives and experiences and stories! And that’s what this post is about. People, and stories.

I’ve thought about a lot recently. The main thing on my mind though, has been my interests. I’ve always convinced myself from an early age, that I’m a storyteller. I always believed I loved creating characters and worlds and entire universes to get lost in, with their own rules and their own stories layered upon other layers of other stories. I always thought this was my direction. Recently, I’ve begun to question. It was in a brief I’m currently working on for University. Very simply, we have to make a Documentary on something in the city. Now, what is a Documentary? It’s a story. A story of something in this world and the facts and journey behind it.

When it came to Documentaries, I only ever really liked one kind as a child, and that was nature documentaries. Specifically the one’s about sea creatures or insects. Those were my two big yes factors for documentaries! But, all in all, I’ve had a bit of a weird relationship with Documentaries. Since, really they are stories. All Documentaries are stories by their own right. And yet, I was only interested in one kind. And that was the Documentaries with animals. Quite specific animals in many cases. Now, to consider myself a story teller. I’d like to imagine I’d have an appreciation for all kinds of stories. Yet, there are many, many great in-depth stories that I just find boring! Now, this doesn’t exclude me from being a story teller, but as someone who’s making films for the story aspect, it got me thinking.

What if it’s not stories that interest me? What if instead, it’s people’s response to them? Let me explain. Back in School, I always used to play this game with my friends. It was very similar to Dungeons and Dragons, only I didn’t know about Dungeons and Dragons at the time. It was called Flipnote, and it was a game I’d devised which was essentially an RPG with stick figures! I made a little universe with planets and an evil faction and various monsters and terrifying threats which would pop up as the game went along. All of it was drawn on paper as pseudo comic-strips, and none of it would exist, if people weren’t interested in being involved. Since I’ve made the analogy to Dungeons and Dragons, think of me as the Dungeon Master. Everyone had their own little character with their own little ship and in some cases, their own little planet! Every night I’d lie awake in bed thinking up new creations and ideas, new threats that would cause us to react accordingly, and at the time, it was my favourite thing. Much more important than schoolwork of course!

But, as school got more tough, and people started growing up, there was less and less interest in continuing the game, and eventually, it just stopped on it’s own. People stopped showing an interest, so I, too, became uninterested in adding to it. I wasn’t particularly torn up about it, but it was a shame to see it go. It’d been my own little universe that all my friends truly got invested in and enjoyed. I loved watching them theorise over what would happen next and try to figure out ways to become more powerful by stealing a certain artifact that would allow them to harness the enemy instead of destroying them and it was magical, honestly.

When I was even younger, I wanted to write books. Mainly because I loved reading books! Little 6-year-old me would sit down and fold a sheet of paper in such a way that would create pages, and write tiny bitesize stories. One of my originals, being “The Monster and The Boy”. It wasn’t exactly a masterpiece, but I’ll always remember it as my first. I then created the sequel “The Snake and The Boy” which was exactly the same story only with a snake instead. We all know sequels are never quite as good.

Now, these two things, kind of combined, to create my aspiration of wanting to tell stories through any medium I could. Films naturally came up and I went with it! Enjoying the process for the most part! But, I don’t actually think it was ever the films that brought me enjoyment. In College, I worked with some incredibly passionate people! People who really wanted to make films and so, because people were interested, I got interested, and I started drawing from their motivation to become motivated myself! It got to the point where I was making some amazing content and loving every moment of it! From design to recording!

The contrast, is that in Uni, I’ve found incredibly passionate people, but for the most part, I’m surrounded by people who... almost seem like they don’t want to be there. Not to mention, last term was entirely centred around a person who really... had quite a negative effect on my experience. Now, as always I try to keep things going with my enthusiasm and I try to motivate people to create something amazing! But sometimes you can’t force people to do things! And, in that demotivation, that uninterest, I’ve found myself, also starting to lose interest. Suddenly, it’s almost like I don’t want to create films any more because people around me don’t want to! And I’m not blaming other people but, I’ll see if I can explain this a little better.

All my life I’ve been a people pleaser. I love helping people, making other people happy. It gets to the stage where I actively seek out people with problems just so I can try to help them! Now, this extends into everything I do. So when I see that something I’m doing isn’t making people happy, I’ll stop wanting to do it.

I made an advertisement as my last project. Usually I hate advertisements, but this one, I had so much fun making! I enjoyed filming, organising, talking to the people, everything! We showed it to the client and she loved it and then, that was it! Everyone else I showed it to was kind of.. meh, about the whole thing. I imagine mainly because it was an advertisement! But I was proud of it when the group was proud of it! I contributed a whole bunch because it made people happy! I made the whole soundtrack for it and people loved it! But as soon as I stopped seeing people happy, when I got that “Meh” reaction, I stopped seeing it as something great. Suddenly, this thing was... meh. It wasn’t making people happy.

In the previous post, I mentioned about a crush I may have. I think that crush is because I was making her happy. Finding new ways to make her laugh and entertain her has become something I’m looking forward to! Because I love seeing her happy!

...So the question I’m asking myself now is...

Do I really want to be a storyteller? Or am I just addicted to people immersing themselves in the worlds I create?

Is that actually love? Or am I just addicted to making people happy?