#raven might be a bastard but i want nothing but good things for him and yet. and yet...

[petit-etoile]

i  need  you  when  i'm  falling  apart

pairing  .  ⊱   astarion x tav wordcount  .  ⊱   3,489 part one  .  ⊱   here . content warnings  .  ⊱  mentions of canon compliant temporary character death,  spoilers for act iii endgame other tags  .  ⊱   canon compliant,  character study,  introspection,  p.orn with plot,  pwp,  vignette,  re-establishing relationship,  blood drinking,  m.issionary position,  tav is gender neutral archiveofourown  .  ⊱   here .  

taglist  .  ⊱  @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia,  @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene, @lavenderslemonade, @candyladycry, @chonkercatto, @foxxyhun, @nyxmainex, @angelmawss2, @godoffuckedupcats, @raviolixxx be added  .  ⊱   here .

summary  .  ⊱   You have learned to be good. It's time Astarion learns to be forgiven.

During the heart of spring, Astarion spends more time trying to avoid you than he does trying to catch up with you. You’re not even sure why he agreed to travel alongside you  —  but you do not ask. You press your lips together and push on anyway.

His eyes are cold, and red.

The first night when you set up camp in an abandoned temple, Astarion moves his tent to the other side of the sanctuary as if he cannot bear to be around you. Like you smell. You’ve never cared much for the thoughts or opinions of others, but an inkling of self-doubt creeps back into the depths of your mind. What is the cost of being good if no one treats you kindly?

Every interaction you have with him is like pulling teeth. You want to fight for the tieflings, and Astarion wants to leave them behind. You want to help Wyll find his father, and Astarion snorts. Any good deed you suggest, he finds the need to punish.

When the cambion Raphael reaches and touches your cheek with a promise of opulence and salubrity, you're reminded of a night two hundred years ago. You stumble out of the House of Hope as fast as you can.

You don’t stop walking until daybreak. One night, you explode on Astarion. Your feelings bubble up like bile in your throat.

‘I tried to look for you!’ you snap at him. ‘You can sit here, and you can be bitter, but if I had known, I would have looked for you! But I didn’t know  —  I didn’t know and it isn’t a crime!’

Astarion’s look of surprise is one thing. He furrows his eyebrows as if properly scandalized, and his frustrated scowl turns to ash when you throw his old cravat at him. You had kept it tied around your neck for two hundred years. You wouldn’t keep it a day longer.

It’s a horrifying mistake to go wandering off in the Underdark by yourself with nothing but a hunting knife at your side, but you never really gave much thought to how you would cope with the gravity of the situation. The fact that you knew Cazador only made matters worse. You stumble past the ruins of the Selûnite Outpost in hopes of running away from your past.

You don’t run into your past in the dark, but you do run into a Spectator.

You’re immediately thrown into darkness and narrowly avoid being petrified, but you have no idea what you’re going to do about this situation besides hide beyond some poor stoned soul. You might should have considered thinking it through. You might should have thought anything through but you didn’t, and that’s the only crime you’ve committed in quite some time. It isn’t a crime is something you’ve begun to repeat to yourself often.

You manage to defend yourself for quite a while in the darkness, but by the end, you’re nursing a nasty wound and bite from the Spectator that will take some time to heal. You’re tucked under some petrified Drow bastard when you hear Karlac’s battle cry and see Gale’s ice spell come from the cliffs. The one that catches you off-guard, the one that will always catch you off-guard, is Astarion flipping through the air with nothing but an elven bow like a prince from your dreams.

Defeating the Spectator is easier with allies, and even the Drow protecting it goes down without much of a fight. You nurse your wounds as best you can, sitting against the cliffs with a bleeding thigh, and try not to frown when Astarion approaches.

‘Give me that,’ he says quietly, snatching one of Halsin’s potions from your fingers. ‘Even after all these years, it seems like you still need protecting.’

You frown and pick at your torn breeches. ‘I know how much you hate that, your honor.’

Astarion looks at you for the first time in several tendays, eyes rimmed with red. ‘I never hated it,’ he says. He dresses your wound like it pains him to see it. ‘I don’t hate it even now.’ Astarion crashes into you full force the night you arrive at the Last Light Inn after you’ve talked to Jaheira but before you’ve talked to anyone else. You’re in your room, and the next thing you know, you’re not alone.

Two hundred years of loneliness are erased at that moment.

His teeth clack painfully against yours as he shoves you into the wall, too uncaring or too pent up to care about the force. He cradles the back of your head to keep you from cracking it on the wall, but other than that, Astarion doesn’t care about hiding the full force of his strength. He kisses you until your mouth is swollen and then he’s tearing your night shirt open with both hands like he can’t get enough.

‘Astarion  —  ’ you try to say, startled.

But you would be lying if you said you didn’t miss him too. You let Astarion push you around, until you’re both stripped of your clothes and he’s lying flat on his back on the hard wooden floor with you pulled into his lap, his cock pushed deep inside you, and his hands unable to stop wandering the planes of your body. Astarion all but sobs into your mouth as he fucks you. He holds your cheeks in his hands like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

When you’re both finished, no one moves from the wood floor despite there being a bed. You lie on your side next to him, memorizing the slope of his nose while you still shiver with little twinges of pleasure still racing up your spine and between your legs. Astarion’s eyes are closed. He’s pretending to sleep, or pretending to be dead so you don’t have to talk about what’s happened, but you’re curious anyway.

You reach across the distance and touch his chest. You know there’s no heartbeat beneath his ribs, but you like to pretend. You close your eyes and dream it has been nothing but two hundred years of happiness and bliss in Astarion’s home.

‘When I first saw you,’ you say quietly, ‘I thought you were a ghost come back to haunt me.’

‘Are you often haunted by ghosts?’ Astarion asks. He still doesn’t look.

‘I’ve been properly reformed while you were away,’ you tell him. You stare at his neck. ‘There was only one ghost I was running from.’

He smiles. ‘And now you’ve found him. What do you think about this haunting?’

‘I am happily haunted,’ you say honestly. He opens his eyes then and turns toward you, lips pressed into a firm line. ‘But you are not happily haunting.’

Astarion sits up then and you follow him, legs sticky and wet. You reach for his hands and pull them into your lap. You watch as he struggles to accept a kind touch. In a way, you understand that. You remember how kindly he treated you when you didn’t deserve it. You hold his hands even when he tries to run away.

‘I was ashamed for you to see me like this,’ Astarion explains. He looks away, hesitant. ‘My condition isn’t one that I’m proud of. It isn’t fair to say I was tricked, but  —  ’

‘Wanting to live doesn’t make you a bad person,’ you say.

‘Perhaps not,’ he says. ‘But I became what I often chastised you for. I am greedy. I am prone to lying and bouts of theatrics. I’ve killed. It was embarrassing to fall so low.’

‘And now you rescue orphans,’ you say, shrugging. ‘You helped the gnomes. You helped the tieflings. You’re going to help the gnomes and tieflings again. There’s still good in you, your honor, beneath all that vampiric avarice you despair over.’

Astarion laughs and turns away from you. He’s looking for his clothes, and your heart squeezes so tightly in your chest that you move before you can stop yourself. You drape yourself over Astarion’s back and pull his arms away from his smallclothes. You can tell by the musculature of his arms that you only succeed because he lets you.

‘Please don’t leave me alone again,’ you whisper against his shoulder. Your wet eyelashes tickle the nape of his neck. ‘I waited for you that night and… I don’t want to be alone anymore.’

Astarion stays that night.

He stays every night after that too. For what it’s worth, your third visit to Baldur’s Gate is hardly better than the first two.

Between fighting cultists, saving children, and trying to convince most of your party that they’re not going to become mindflayers, you’re beginning to run a little thin. You feel like you’re going to shrivel up and die. You feel like the world is spinning and falling apart. You’ve killed Gortash and you’ve killed Orin and you killed Ketheric ages ago, but now you’re trying to keep the Emperor from betraying you and sacrificing Orpheus, and Cazador’s invitation is sitting pretty in your hands, and  —  

Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? Cazador’s invitation is in your hands, and you don’t have the heart to show Astarion. You’re afraid of showing Astarion. You know that as soon as you show him the invitation, he’ll lose his mind. You’ve only just recovered him and you’re already worried about losing him again.

You bury the invitation in the garden behind the inn like you’re a dog with a bone. You shovel the dirt with your hands until they’re cracked and raw and bleeding and the invitation is buried six feet in the ground. It should scare you that Cazador knows who you are, but it doesn’t. You aren’t stupid enough to run headfirst into his trap. And Astarion isn’t stupid either, but he’s scared, and being scared makes you do stupid things. Astarion almost does a very stupid thing like you predicted he would.

The Rite of Ascension was right there in his hands, and he had almost consumed it. You aren’t sure what changed his mind at the last minute but you’re thankful. Astarion crawls into your arms that night and sobs for hours. ‘What are we going to do about tomorrow?’ Astarion asks you softly.

He’s been tracing patterns into your spine all evening. If he moves his hands now, you’d still feel his fingertips against your skin. You’re hiding your face in your arms so you don’t have to think about it. You can’t stop thinking about it.

‘We’re going to fight the Absolute,’ you say.

‘Like it’s that simple?’

‘I am going to look another god in the face,’ you say, ‘and I am going to tell it to fuck off back to Avernus.’

‘Do Netherbrains come from Avernus?’

You don’t know. You’re too worried to think too hard about the simplest details. So far, you’re every plan has been to go in, stab whoever is the loudest, and then leave before things get worse. It’s hard to keep your head above the waves as they keep crashing down on you.

You don’t want to talk about tomorrow. If things don’t go well, you’re all going to die anyway and all that planning will have been for nothing. You turn on your side and appraise Astarion’s expression. He’s looking at you with muted disbelief. You choose to ignore it.

‘What are we going to do after tomorrow?’ you ask.

Astarion opens his mouth to chastise you for changing the subject, but he closes it almost immediately. He doesn’t want to talk about it either. It’s a scary thing to walk into the end of the world with a sword and a dagger. At least Dame Aylin will be there. You hope she can just stomp the Netherbrain to death and then it’ll all be over.

‘I could always go back to being a magistrate,’ Astarion says conversationally.

He picks at a thread coming loose on his blanket.

‘If you go back to that, I’ll go back to being a criminal,’ you muse. ‘We can have nasty sex on your desk again. You always did look damn good in a cassock.’

Astarion laughs. He laughs like the sunlight that peeks through the window on a sunny morning. He laughs like the moonlight that splays on the cobblestone of Baldur’s Gate long after everyone else has already gone to bed. It’s hideous  —  it’s melodic and intoxicating, and you reach across the distance and touch his cheek without thinking.

You slide your finger across to his nose. You press your finger against the wrinkle between his brow, and Astarion starts laughing again so you do too. You kiss him while he laughs, and then he holds you and you both laugh together. He will never be a judge again. Your connections with the Zhentarim will die out.

Astarion brushes his fingers against your hip bone. He rolls out of bed like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do, and you miss him. Already without him, the bed is much colder. You dramatically crawl across to his side and press your nose into his pillowcase to smell the faint traces of whiskey that are left.

When he returns, he presents you with his old cravat which has been neatly restored almost to perfection. He had sewn it back together himself. You had worn it for two hundred years as a good luck charm against evil, and the wear and tear had nearly torn it to shreds. You’d never had the heart to try to tailor it yourself. Sewing wasn’t your strong suit, and you had never cried over Astarion’s death until the day you thought you had lost it.

Astarion neatly ties the cravat around your wrist like a promise. He kisses your skin and inhales as though in a dream, nose brushing against the fabric, like the touch of a ghost against your veins. Your throat tightens.

‘Wherever this takes us,’ Astarion says, eyes burning. ‘I want to be there with you in the end.’

You tuck inside your bed with Astarion that night and watch the moon disappear through the window. It’s barely daylight when you’re finally too exhausted to stay awake, and Astarion almost lets you both miss the final showdown. Lae’zel, however, doesn’t. ‘I don’t mind what we do,’ Astarion is saying, ‘once we get to the  —  ’

You watch with muted horror as Astarion’s skin begins to glimmer in the sunlight. The fire begins cracking under his skin, brimming against his cheekbones and nose and throat and hair much like Karlach when she overheats. You watch as the tips of his ears ignite, and then he’s searching for you frantically between all of your friends.

‘I have to go,’ he chokes out. ‘I have to  —  ’

There is a world where you let Astarion run alone, where you both get separated on the docks and never find one another again. He runs from the sun as he bursts with radiant energy and as stars pour from his skin, you forget what Wyll is saying, and you run after him.

Astarion finds sanctuary in melting shade beneath a set of boxes. He’s curled up into himself when you arrive, and you drop next to him, pulling your cloak over your heads. He looks up at you, bewildered.

But you have lived through losing Astarion once, and it has haunted you for two hundred years. You had known loneliness and fear and anger, and the thought of surviving it for even a day more makes your stomach roll. You press your forehead to Astarion’s and stand as tall as you can so the sun can’t touch him ever again.

‘Won’t your arms get tired?’ Astarion asks you faintly.

He watches you with a sense of wonder. His skin slowly returns to normal, no more flickering stardust and ash, and you grin. He slowly smiles too, nervous but you shake your head and keep your cloaked raised.

‘Never,’ you say. ‘Not when it’s you.’

‘My reform worked, then?’ he says.

‘I’ve learned about your stuck-up decorum,’ you say. ‘It’s true. I can confirm.’

‘A sense of propriety?’ Astarion asks, and if his voice goes any softer, you’ll melt too.

‘Let me carry the weight of your sins,’ you tell him sincerely, laughing a little. ‘And if we need to find another desk then we will. But I’ll be your knight in shining armor, your honor, and carry a parasol above your head as a proper chamberlain would.’

Astarion snorts. ‘That isn’t quite the job of a chamberlain.’

You hold the cloak up for two hours at least while Astarion recovers from the damage. You can’t help but notice that he looks happy and content even in the shadows. It must be because you’re there, although you’re hesitant to take credit for all his happiness. When you let down the cloak, the sun has set. When Astarion rises, he kisses your cheek sweetly. ‘The silence stretches on  —  I’m all alone,’ you muse, ‘Please, can I hold your hands, just for a while?’

Bernard’s arms wrap around you gently, and you wrap your arms around his steel ribs. You’ve taken up residence in the old Arcane Tower in the Underdark. You appreciate the permanent nighttime, and if you admitted you only did it because Astarion wanted to be close to his family, it wouldn’t be entirely true. With a bit of help from Gale, you’ve managed to turn the tower into a comfortable fortress. Sometimes Omeluum comes to visit you. Occasionally, there’s word from Shadowheart from the Selûnite Outpost. She’s hoping to restore it. She wants you to come visit.

‘Are you still playing with that dusty old thing, my love?’ Astarion hums from the doorway.

‘You be kind to Bernard,’ you warn him. ‘He’s my friend.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Astarion says, holding his hands up. ‘I’ll be kind to the scrap metal.’

You roll your eyes and step away, touching Bernard’s chest briefly. Astarion has just arrived back from a trip. There are spawn all over the Underdark now, and they treat Astarion as though he’s some sort of prince. They heed your word too, but none so much as his. Their eldest brother, their favorite. They tolerate  you if it means getting to see Astarion.

You’re a jack-of-all-trades and master-of-none now. You leave your handiwork for the day or night or whatever it is to go down to your bedroom and recline in bed. Astarion lights each candle one by one until the room is illuminated. You smile and watch as he works.

‘Having responsibility suits you well,’ you say, resting your cheek on your palm. ‘Although it’s funny how our positions have changed somewhat.’

‘I’m the contracted killer,’ Astarion says with a laugh. ‘Are you a magistrate now?’

‘I have at least four hundred years of life left,’ you snort. ‘I, Magistrate Judge Stick-Up-My-Ass, sentence thee to fifty years of community service!’

Astarion rolls his eyes at you dramatically and throws himself into bed, kicking off his boots as he does so. He smells of fresh oils and mist. You bury your nose in his hair. You practically burrow yourself into him, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a mindflayer. You squeeze him tightly in your arms.

‘We have a sprawling manse and all you can think of to do all day is mock me for a position I have not occupied in two hundred years?’ Astarion pouts.

You kiss his hair. ‘What else should I do?’

‘Well,’ Astarion says, tone turning conspiratorial. ‘There are a certain amount of fuckable places here. Several desks, I’ve counted them all, and couches.’

You contemplate it, but after several tendays on the road and a wiggling visitor in your head, you think the bed is the best place. You pull Astarion up to kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck so he can’t leave you. You never want him to go again. You bump your nose against his and hide a smile in his coiffed hair when he melts against your chest.

You sigh prettily when Astarion takes you in your velvet sheets that you float as though in a dream. Your troubles are long over, and that person you thought you lost  —  your immortal soul  —  has returned to you as beautiful as the day you lost him. When you shudder, Astarion brushes hair out of your eyes adoringly and tastes your pulse at your jaw. You dig your fingers into the small of his back.

It’s like you’ve found a family. A very bitey, very competitive family. Still, you wouldn’t change any of it for the world. You hold Astarion’s face in your hands and see the man you knew and the man he’s become. Slowly, you pull his mouth towards your neck and feel your heartbeat jump in your chest.

He bites you for the first time that night.

[misguidedasgardian]

Dragon's Mistress FINALE

MASTERLIST

Summary: Everything is coming to an end 

Warnings: cursing, mentions of war, mentions of death, humiliation, use of the word bastard and traitor, incest, childbirth, sickness, deaths of multiple characters, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount:  3 k

Notes: THIS IS IT PEOPLE! I’m wrapping this up, thank you all for being in this wild ride, it has been the most controversial piece I’ve ever written! jaja I fear that whatever I write next is not going to wake the same amount of sentiments jeje anyways, enjoy!

I really hope I can make it all justice jeje

Aemond often looked over at Blackwater bay, in the direction of Dragonstone and wondered how you were, what you were doing, if you were content.

He wanted to believe you weren’t, but deep inside of him he knew you were happy and content without him.

He also wanted to feel the baby moving within you

You only let him touch you when you were sleepy in his arms, and the dragonling restless in your belly, moving so much he was able to actually see him

It was a boy, he was certain, it was his heir

And he couldn’t wait to see him, for him to be born, he was going to dispose of Floris, send her away, he was going to keep his child.

He couldn't wait to sit the throne with his baby on his arms, to show the entire realm, his power and legacy

And he wanted to see his beautiful wife, be there by her side when she gave birth

But affairs of the realm kept him, from fulfilling his desire

Even if he had been acting as Prince Regent for years, now that he was actually King, things were incredibly different, now he was bothered with small and big affairs alike, the Kingdoms was settling after years and years of war

After losing half the treasury

People was growing restless, smallfolk who still support her half-sister the usurper, denied the increase in taxes and were not taking well to his own reign, even though he had reigned with a a hard for forgiving hand

But the way to hell was made with good intentions

And he meant well

Days after you left turned to weeks, and then to a coupe of months, and one day, he knew it, the day felt different from the others, an strange calmness to it, the birds had stopped singing and the sea was calm like a cup of wine

He only smiled faintly, looking out his balcony, he then retrieved himself to return to his Kingly duties for the day

A day after he received the raven

His Queen gave birth…

To a healthy baby girl

He frown upon hearing the news, dismissing the maester to keep with his duties of the day 

He wanted to see you, be there by your side

And when he was finally ready, he received other news

There has been a big fire in Harrenhal, ending the life of Lords loyal to his reign, and the one of Alys Rivers herself

Alys was dead 

In a rage, he called his master of whispers, the same one who had caused the fire that ended the life of his own father and brother

He didn’t want to believe what Corlys had insinuated, that Floris and Larrys were on it together to get rid of you, but now this?

He knew perfectly well that a palace like Harrenhal, with nothing to burn itself, only burned for the whims of men and not of those of ghosts

And when Larys Strong refused him an answer, that he didn’t know

Aemond didn’t believe him

The second most powerful men after him was against him, so he needed to get rid of him, the power Larys held with whispers and spies, it was too much to have against him 

But everything that he wanted to do, it was clouded by you

By his need to see you, but everytime he decided to go climb on hagar and travel to you

Something held him back

Something kept him away from you

Corlys front he shadows no doubt, not that he noticed 

Floris was held prisoner in her own room, still getting royal treatment because of the babe within her, but she was forbidden to interact with anyone…

And perhaps that is what spared her

When he decided to take to the skies in VHagar to go and see you… there had been a almost seamless interruption, within the chambers of the small council

The maester of laws started coughing

“I’m sorry your grace, I don’t feel well”, the maester took the liberty of placing his boney hand in the man’s forehead

“He is burning”, he whined, concerned

And chaos ensued all over the keep

The envoy from the North had come and with him, he brought the Winter fever

Aemond had never experienced fear like he did in those couple of months

He, as the King, had to remain secluded, fire everywhere around him to keep away the disease that infected the air. 

Seeing you was out of the question, he only received the ravens with tales of how Dragonstone was not accepting anyone from the exterior, and how they had remained spared from the wrath of the gods 

And Floris went into labor, just in time to receive the prince

And Aemond’s commands to the wetnurses were clear

Save the princeling

They shared concerned looks as they received a small, red, dark haired prince into the world 

Floris had a son, and so did Aemond

He held his newborn while sitting on the Iron throne, with a shy smile on his face, pedestals with fires lit up all over the room.

It was a small quiet boy, Aemond noticed, falling asleep immediately in his arms, against his chest

This is not what he expected

But fatherhood knocked on his door and he gladly answered

“The Gods are punishing us”, he raised his head to look at his mother

He had commanded her to stay in the tower of the hand for her own protection, and so far, the Queen had been safe from the fever, until now

Her face was red with temperature, he could see the sweat drops from here

“Mother”

“This is because of you, for marrying two Queens”, she whined, she took shaky steps towards her 

“Stay back”, he whined, having his son in his arms

“I want to see him”, she begged him, she was delusional, he could tell

“You have catched it”, he warned, standing up, ready to ran away from his own mother if needed be 

“The gods are angry with me”, she muttered, that twisted scowl on her face , “I failed them, I try to uphold the traditions, the faith the family, and i failed”

“You didn't”, he tried, to calm her, “You look unwell, I will fetch the maester”

“I don't need the maesters”, she said, and again, tried to come near him

“Don’t!”

“I just want to see him!”, she cried, “my grandson, the only one I have”

He had to call the guards to remove her from his space, he had to

He couldn’t risk himself of his son

Queen Alicent lasted seven days with the Winter fever before she perished, having thrown out all her green dresses, crying for her lost children

The fever also took half his small council, and Queen Floris.

The death of the later is still unknown, some say it was because of the childbed fever, others from the winter fever, and other that it was from neglect 

The last remnants of his past life were gone, he was now more alone than he ever was in his life, the court had been decimated, and he didn’t even knew who to trust

Corlys had fled, because of the scare of the fever, and he was faring well and everyone was on Driftmark and Dragonstone 

He stood alone

His only consolation is that you and his daughter were doing well, and not dying painfully of fever

. . .

You cradled your newborn daughter against your chest as she fed hungrily from you.

You had been so scared, and alone, but everything had gone perfectly, and after hard hours of labor, you heard a loud cry fill the room, besides yours anyways

A little silver haired girl

You shrieked of relief and happiness when the wet nurse placed a rosy-cheeked baby in your chest

She was so small and perfect, and as days passed you learned that she was so quiet, not at all fuzzy, she was a perfect baby, like she already knew she was a little princess

A girl

You giggled to yourself, fuck Aemond, but at the same time you felt fearful, but then you remembered you had Viserys, and Corlys, and the remains of your family to protect you, and you felt even better, everything was going to be alright

At least for your small family core 

You’d learn, by ravens and letters, that the Winter Fever has struck the capital

Civilians were dying by the hundreds, and it had struck the inside of the Keep as well, you received a personal letter from Aemond, expressing his concern for you and your daughter 

But you couldn’t be more relieved

Dragonstone was filled with life, the lords of the crownlands managed to send members of their families to make court in the castle, to be with you, you were getting to know them, and had dinners and interacted with all the ladies and lords, it was life fulfilling, you had never been able to do that before

And you found yourself happy one day

While the capital was submerged in chaos, you were dining in celebration of your beautifully perfect daughter, a princess to the Kingdoms, with your cousins, your grandfather, and all the lords 

You were happy

Or as much as you could

You didn’t even care that Aemond never took the time to visit you, perhaps he was sad you had given birth to a daughter and not a son, perhaps that is why he was keeping his distance.

The you received news

That Floris was dead after giving birth to a son

A Baratheon prince

Despite Corlys’ concern, you had none, you had your brother, your daughter, your dragon who had laid an egg for your child that hatched into a curiously looking pink little dragon

And then one day

Aemond was in Dragonstone

You could feel the court change, as the servants changed the banners of the red dragon for a green one.

The first thing Aemond did was held court and receive his subjects int he throne room, with you by his side, and then, after a long day, he dare to enter your chambers, while you were starting to feed your daughter

“Queens don’t do that, specially for a girl”, he whispered entering the room

“Is my child, and I will feed her from my chest if I chose to”, you said dismissively, he said nothing else, perhaps relieved you were actually responding to him

“Are you healed?”, he asked, you looked at him in wonder

“My King?”, you asked 

“Are you healed from giving birth?”, he asked, and you only looked at him sadly

You had the maids take your daughter away.

He served you wine, to relax you, and you had already surrender, you bathed him, as you offered him, like you used to do, but he grabbed you gently and dragged you inside the tub with you

“I’m so sorry for your losses My King”, you whispered as you massaged him, , straddling him, he only hummed

“I have children now, and nieces”, you can tell he was hurting, but didn’t want to show it, so you let it go. He looked at you with desire in his eye, as he took the sponge from your hand and he then cleaned you, specially in your breasts

“You look so beautiful”, he said huskily, you leaned in and kissed him, wanting to get it over with 

He took you in the tub, making you ride him sensually, it didn’t hurt, in fact, it was actually pleasurable.

“You are coming home with me”, he whispered in your ear, with him still inside, but after your both reached your peak

“I don’t think that is such a good idea”, you whispered, he sighed loudly, “the fever is still out there”

And that is how you convinced him to let you stay, you could tell he was hurting, you could tell that he was lonely, now more than ever, but he heard you, and left you in Dragonstone, after an entire month, he left alone

And for the first time, you felt him defeated, even though he was the king of the seven Kingdoms 

And that is how, weeks turns to months, turned to years

12 years later 

When you looked at your little brother Viserys you often wondered if he was also a son to Harwin Breakbones Strong

Your brother, at his eighteen years old he had the stature and built of the strongest Knight of the seven Kingdoms

You saw him practicing with his sword against Steffon, he was truly a great teacher, and Aerion was also a great student, quick on his feet despite his height, and strong in his movements. 

Your daughter giggled by your side as you walked together by the beach. and walked toward the Dragonmount for her dragon riding lessons, even though she and her dragon were connected in levels you were yet to understand yourself

“When is papa coming back?”, she asked, and you just shook your head

“I’m not sure my love”

Aemond visited often, he found reprieve in Dragonstone, in your arms and his daughter’s care, he took you like a vacation, and you saw him happy, but he soon left, he was the King he had duties, and even though he had refused to say something or share about his thoughts, 

Despite his very efforts, and yours, you had not been able to conceive another child, you couldn’t pass the first trimester before bleeding, and that was alright with you, but not with him, he was concerned. But you found reprieve in Dragonstone, and even though Corlys was getting very old, and he walked with a cane now, you still felt contented

Rhaena and Baela had married, one within her family, and the other with a Hightower from Oldtown, to your surprise, you were certain Daemon was twisting and turning in his grave 

But they were happy 

You found meaning, raising your daughter, and caring front he people in the Crownlands

Corlys had sent your way many Lords of the great families through the years, and you knew them all, and that was very strange

You could feel it

The air was changing

You could sense it 

And it all came to be, when Aemond drew his last breath 

He had been battling with an unknown disease for months, shortness of breath, coughs, spitting spots of blood 

He died, slowly and painfully, the servant found him in the morning, with blood dripping off his mouth.

He knew it was coming, the stranger was looming over him and he spent his last weeks weak, not being able to leave his bed, and there, he pondered, about how he was going to leave this life, with nobody by his side.

His son was scared of him, barely looked at him in the eyes, and his Queen was in Dragonstone, with no intention of coming to his side, shunned and threatened, his daughter, the apple of his eye, was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, but so gentle and kind. he couldn’t force her to come to court, she was still to young and innocent

He laid alone, on his deathbed

A single tear escaped his eye, as tumultuous thoughts invaded his mind

The time he made Vhagar rip Lucerys front he skies, the time he defended Aegon and burned Rhaenys to a crisp, when he slayed all the Strongs he could get his hands on, when he burn to the ground all the castles and cities in the Riverlands…

 The first time he took you against your will, whe he humiliated you and made you kneel

Your tears

Your cries

Everything, installed on his chest like a knife, twisting and turning until he could no longer breathe

He died, coughing blood

Whispering how sorry he was, when Floris, his mother, Helaena, and Aegon came to collect him

 The day Corlys had been preparing for for years

As soon as his spies let him know of the dark news, he sent the ravens to all corners of the seven Kingdoms

From the Wall to Sunspear and Oldtown, all the great families but one, the Baratheons, started a long journey, but not to the Capital, but instead

To Dragonstone

As you, and our daughter mourned, dressed in black, you consoled your child, who only had known Aemond’s good side, she glung to your side as you kissed her head

“I’m sorry my love”, you whispered, as you were in the balcony, looking out at the seas

From one day to the other, ships with banners from all over the continent came to the island, to your amusement

Rickon Stark, now a young man, came to you, as did Edmund Tyrell, Robert Tully, Alyssa Arryn, Even the princes of Dorne came, not to surrender but to support

Corlys introduced them all, to the new King of the seven Kingdoms

Viserys Targaryen

They all bend the knee to him

And proclaimed him King with the crown of Jaehaerys 

“I love you, always”, you whispered to him, as you took his cheeks and made him lean in so you could kiss his forehead, he held you back, kissing your temple in turn

“My lovely sister, you kept me safe, you protected me, cared for me, now is time I do the same for you”, he whispered, “I will protect you now, you will be safe”

Happy tears rolled down your eyes, you knew it was going to be hard, and that your brother was going to be unsafe, but it was what it was 

It was his destiny

So you traveled with all the great families to King’s Landing, Corlys barely made the journey, but he did, and that is what he had been expecting for all his life.

But when you entered the Throne Room, you found a skimpy kid sitting in the Throne, his Baratheon family by his side, who paled when they saw the greatest commitive the world had ever seen. 

Viserys calmly walk up the stairs leading to the throne, the King’s guards did nothing to stop him, he only looked down at the boy and smirked

“You are in my seat”

The reign of King Visrys was long and fruitful, called Jahaerys come again, he married your daughter on her seventeenth name day, and together they had two princes and two princesses

You remarried, a man from a great house, you didn’t bare more children, but you were so happy, and contended, and lived in Dragonstone for the rest of your life

Corlys passed weeks after he put Viserys on the Throne, his life work was completed, thanks to him, the seven Kingdoms were now united under one rightful King, continuing your mother’s legacy, like it was supposed to be

THE END

[safarigirlsp]

Happy Fuckin’ Birthday

Happy Fuckin' Birthday

Flip Zimmerman x Lawyer Reader

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Angst, maybe? Comedy. Abuse of process. Hazing Flip for his birthday, as one should. Birthday pranks. Bitchy Reader. If you want a sweet, submissive, shy reader, my fics are never for you xD

AO3 Link

A little birthday celebration for Scorpio season! I had this written timely on November 19, but just forgot to post it. Whoops!

Turning forty wasn’t something Flip Zimmerman was overly excited about. It had nothing to do with the usual dramatics and neuroses that plagued most people. He didn’t have any deep regrets in life; he hadn’t taken any stupid turns or failed to seize any major opportunities; he didn’t have a ‘one that got away’ – the things in life that can add up to a mid-life crisis or make a man dread the passage of years. He had the woman he wanted, the job he wanted, and for the most part, the life he wanted. Flip didn’t give a damn about the number of candles on his cake. What annoyed the hell out of him was the production everyone else in his life had to make over it. That might rank as one of his bigger regrets in life, telling people close to him when his damn birthday was. His birthday would be a perfectly fine day, if no one else knew about it.

To Flip, his birthday was just another day on the calendar. But could everyone else in his life ever treat it that simply? Fuck no.

Flip never took the day off for his birthday. He immediately lost respect for any man who did that. Women got a pass with such frivolous and indulgent things, but men had no business pampering themselves like candy asses. This year was poised to be a little extra good for Flip since his birthday fell over a weekend. He could guiltlessly spend it exactly how he wanted, which was also how he’d spend every other day of his life if he was free from all financial, vocational, and social obligations. Flip wanted to spend his birthday weekend hidden away in his cabin, sleeping, eating, and fucking just as much as he wanted, and not doing a damned thing else or talking to a damned person other than his girl.

So far, Flip’s birthday weekend had been precisely what he wanted. Starting Friday night, he had gotten his birthday wish in quantities sufficient to appease all his ravenous hungers. Saturday had been the same, and it had been glorious. He had put on a damn fine show for his girl, if he did say so himself. He figured it was the best way to demonstrate he was a vigorous man in his prime, not a doddering old bastard. Flip had allowed his lady to finagle him into sharing a steaming hot bath with her after dinner to break up the pattern. He didn’t want to admit how good it felt on his aching muscles. Even though it was only due to all the extra use over the past two days, or rather, due to the gross lack of use during the other days of the year, Flip knew his sore muscles would be used against him on his fortieth birthday. All the running and weightlifting in the world wasn’t really the same as the workout a man gets from a marathon between the sheets. He knew he was in for a generous ration of shit for his birthday, not least of all from his girl. He’d wonder what was wrong if she wasn’t giving him hell. Still, it was best not to load the guns for her.

Flip defined ‘sleeping in’ differently than most. He had been conditioned by his days in the military to be up before sunrise and ready to meet every battle with the dawn. He felt extremely lazy and indulgent when he let the sunrise wake him as it first peaked over the mountains and into his bedroom window. This attitude was in stark contrast to his wife, who considered mornings in general to be a vile institution and often bitched about how morning people were given entirely too much power in society.

Dawn on Flip’s birthday was one of those crystalline winter mornings where the light was tinted a soft pink-blue-white and frost coated everything in sight like icing on a diamante cake. It had snowed several inches during the night and outside the window, the mountains were gleaming spires, the ground was covered with fresh powder, and the pines wore a layer of snow like fancy ladies swaddled in white mink. Snowy mornings like this were Flip’s favorite kind of morning, when everything was still pristine and sparkling with promise. Before any bullshit settled in.

Groaning contentedly, Flip stretched as the sunlight danced across his face. He was still a little sore in all the places he wanted to be, and he was rock hard and ready for a proper good morning.

So far, forty felt great.

Half asleep, he turned and nuzzled his nose into the soft warm body lying curled next to him. A soft, warm, furry body. Grumbling and pulling his face away, Flip opened his bleary eyes and glared through his disheveled hair at the fat, black cat he had inherited when he had begun living with his girl. Some men have worse step kids to deal with, he reasoned now as the adorable black asshole looked back at him through slitted green eyes, as if she was just as entitled to sleep in his bed as he was. Narrowing his own eyes back at the cat, he asked her, “Where’s your mom at?”

His question was answered by the clanging of a pot on the stove downstairs and a couple choice curses in a familiar feminine voice. Now fully awake, Flip became aware of the scent of bacon, eggs, and pancakes – his favorites – and strong black coffee just how he liked it. This was a rare treat. Flip usually assumed the duty of cooking breakfast on the days they could enjoy it together. Hearing his girl down in the kitchen, slaving away over the stove at such an unconscionable hour, as she deemed it, made him grin at the effort she put in for him.

“Your mom’s a keeper,” he confided to the cat and patted her round belly. “But you’re a sorry little porker.”

Flip stretched again and ran a hand through his unruly hair. He thought he should brush it before going downstairs, but he knew how she liked it when he looked a little wilder than usual. She liked him best when he smelled fresh from a shower but looked unbrushed, unshaven, and what he thought was mildly unkempt. Women are nonsensical creatures, he had realized early in his dating career. He damn sure needed to brush his teeth and wash his face though. He pulled on the pair of jeans he wore the day before and the flannel shirt he had thrown across the room the night before, only bothering to button two of the center buttons. The phone he’d left in his jeans pocket buzzed insistently against his ass.

Should have turned the fuckin’ thing off, he lamented as he retrieved it and saw the tirade of missed calls. He knew what all those calls meant. But as long as he ignored them, he had plausible deniability, as the bloodsucking lawyers say. As his girl would say. He lost his phone; his battery died; service is bad out at his place; his wife threw it at his head and it broke against the wall.

Against his better judgment, and because it was Stallworth calling and Flip didn’t feel right about ignoring his best friend, he answered.

“What,” Flip grunted, leaving no doubt as to his feelings over this intrusion. He thought to himself, This is the beginning of a bad fuckin’ day.

“Good morning to you too,” Ron said in his easy, affable tone. “It’s a beautiful day out, isn’t it?”

“I have a feelin’ I’m not gonna think so after you tell me why in the hell you’re calling.” Flip walked sullenly to the bathroom while Stallworth ran through some pleasantries. Thankfully, he didn’t lead with Happy Birthday. Flip would have hung up on him. Flip lifted the toilet seat and unzipped his jeans.

“We just got a big break in that jewel heist case. Actually, I did. On a stakeout last night,” Ron said proudly, then paused. “Are you taking a piss while I’m talking to you?”

“We’d both be happier if you weren’t talkin’ to me, but you called,” Flip muttered and flushed the toilet. He held the phone toward the bowl so Stallworth could hear the rush of water, mimicking Flip’s interest in the matter.

“You’re a barbarian, you know that?” Stallworth laughed despite himself.

“Flattery don’t do it for me,” Flip said as he ran the sink, letting the water warm. He noticed four angry red scratches on the side of his neck from his girl’s fingernails and felt a rush of pride. “Go out and catch your jewel thief and take all the glory. Girls love that shit.” He splashed his face with hot water and lathered it with his soapy hands. “I’ll read all about your heroics in the paper.”

“It’s not that simple,” Ron said regretfully. “We need you on this one. You know I wouldn’t be calling if we didn’t.”

“I’m off. It’s a Sunday. And it’s,” he just stopped himself from saying my fuckin’ birthday. “Too fuckin’ early.”

“You think I like being the guy who has to roust the bear out of his cave?” Ron tried to joke to his entirely unreceptive audience. “We need you. Get dressed and get your ass out here.”

“God damnit.” Flip hung up and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Oh yeah, it’s gonna be a great day, he thought. Aloud, he grumbled to his reflection in the mirror, “Happy fuckin’ birthday, you old bastard.”

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

A scalding droplet of bacon grease jumped from the sizzling cast iron pan to land on your exposed thigh, making you cuss under your breath as you quickly wiped it away. You were always extra prickly in the morning. Flip deserves a nice birthday breakfast, you reminded yourself and inhaled deeply, deep enough to force a good mood down your throat along with the chilly morning air. Also in honor of his birthday, you opted for a casually sexy look as opposed to something more comfortable like pajama pants and a tank. You wore only one of his favorite shirts, worn until it was soft as velvet, and slippers. Early on you had realized he liked that look on you and something about seeing you in his clothes appealed to his innate possessiveness.

It was chilly inside the cabin, save for the heat from the stove. On cold winter mornings like this the little cabin furnace had to work overtime just to keep the pipes from freezing. To really get the temperature up in the cabin, a fire needed to be lit in the living room fireplace, but you were not that ambitious before sunrise and would leave it to Flip.

As you thought of him, you heard the wooden stairs creak and knew he was descending them. His footfalls were always light, he moved agility for such a large man. You pretended not to hear him and moved to the side of the stove, leaning forward in a provocative invitation under the guise of fiddling with the coffee maker. Predictably, Flip took the bait and wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing his chest against your back and molding his body against yours. But his arms enfolded you chastely around your waist and his hands didn’t roam higher or lower to seek out their favorite places.

“Happy birthday, old man,” you purred, rubbing your ass back against him. You felt he was wearing jeans and turned inside his arms to face him. He was fully dressed, right down to his boots. “You’re violating your own self-imposed dress code, or rather lack thereof, for this weekend.”

“I have good news for you, sugar,” Flip told you with a grin and kissed you deeply. “You get to sleep in today after all.”

“You mean after we succumb to a food and orgasm coma in a couple hours?” You grinned back. “I’d call that a nap, but suit yourself.”

“I got a call,” Flip started.

“We agreed no phones this weekend!” you cut across him, instantly bristling. “That was your rule. I have a big trial Monday and I’ve been ignoring my phone for a day and a half already. You better be joking.”

“You of all people know rules are made to be broken,” Flip tried again, still maintaining his grin that now looked moronic to you.

“I’m sore everywhere from you wanting to act like a horny teenager all day yesterday.” You raised a dangerous eyebrow. “I got up when it was still dark to freeze in your kitchen and get burned by grease to cook for you on your birthday, and you’re taking calls?” Your voice had dropped an octave and sounded deceptively calm. Flip knew these were very bad signs.

“I didn’t even take my phone out of my pocket yesterday. Ron caught me off guard this mornin,’” Flip used a reasoning tone, like he would when talking to a jumper. It didn’t help your darkening mood. “But listen, there’s been a big break in that jewel heist Ron and I’ve been workin.’ He got a tip, a hot tip, on where we can catch the bastard. But it’s tonight.”

“And Ron needs you to hold his hand for this escapade?” you asked testily.

“Well, he’s still a little green on things like this.” Flip rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the floor. He always did that when he was in trouble, like a grounded boy trying to look contrite. “I can eat breakfast real quick with you before I go.”

“Real quick?” you laughed sarcastically. “Just what every girl wants to hear?”

“How about I eat somethin’ else before I head out.” He winked at you, trying his best to lighten your mood.

“Yes, I’ve always loved the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am approach.” You glared at him. “How long will you be gone?”

“Well, I have to go in now to go over everything and get briefed before I go out to nab the bastard.” Knowing he was digging his hole deeper, he muttered the next confession. “And it’s at some fancy party down at the Broadmoor tonight. They figure I’d be better to walk in there and get the job done. That reminds me, I’ll need you to pick out a nice suit for me.”

“Let me make sure I understand you correctly.” You stepped away from him, beyond arm’s reach. “You’re leaving me alone today – on your day off, on a weekend, on your birthday – to go out to a swanky party at the Broadmoor while I wait here until you decide to show up again?” You raised your eyebrows. “And then, let me guess – when you get home, late, I’m sure, you want me to feed you dinner and fuck you all night again. Or will you have eaten dinner at your soiree?”

“Sugar, you know I can’t control the timing of these things,” Flip said regretfully. “Breakfast looks great. You look delicious. I don’t want to leave, you know that.” He shook his head and asked exasperatedly, “What do you want me to do?”

“It’s your birthday.” You crossed your arms over your chest and narrowed your eyes. “So, it’s your choice.”

Flip had been in enough life and death situations to know he was approaching one now. But he didn’t have much choice. “I have to go in. But I’ll be as quick as I can and I’ll see you tonight. I’ll make it up to you tonight, sugar.”

“This is such bullshit, Flip.” You were fully angry now. Flip knew he was going to be in trouble for a while. “I blew off my responsibilities to let you fuck me as much as you wanted this weekend, and what do I get? You blowing me off to run out and try to catch some petty thief? What happens if you don’t catch this guy today? You have no personal consequences. If I screw up at my job, I lose business and lose actual income, and still, I’ve been blowing off my duties for you this weekend. But you have to strut out to make an arrest now, just so you can dick wave.”

“C’mon, darlin,’” Flip pleaded, holding his arms out, as if you’d run into them. “It’s not like that.”

“No, it’s exactly like that.” You shook your head and shoved past him toward the stairs. “If you’re going to work today, so am I. I have a hearing to prep for, and at least I can bill three-fifty an hour. I’ll be late too.” You paused at the bottom of the stairs to twist the knife a little more. “Since you let these criminals interfere in our lives, maybe I’ll take your thief’s case pro bono after you arrest him and get him off in court instead of getting you off in bed.”

“Calm the fuck down!” Flip lost his temper and instantly regretted it. He calmed his own voice and added, “It’s not that big of a deal. Quit pullin’ your lawyer shit on me.”

“Are you having a senior moment? You must be getting old, after all,” you snapped and stormed up the stairs. “Don’t worry. Maybe we’ll celebrate your birthday next year.”

“You don’t think you’re overreacting just a little?” Flip asked foolishly.

“Not just yet, I’m not.” Halfway up the staircase you turned, pulled off a slipper, and threw it across the room at him. Flip ducked just in time to avoid a perfectly aimed headshot.

“You missed!” Flip bellowed triumphantly then added a cocky laugh.

You didn’t miss your second shot. You whipped your other slipper with more sting, sending it flying right into his chest with a satisfying whap. Then you turned on your heel and trotted up the stairs.

“Love you, sugar!” Flip shouted sarcastically after you. His face was hot and the thick vein in his neck pulsed angrily.

“Happy fucking birthday!” You slammed the bedroom door.

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

The drive into the station seemed longer than usual, possibly because Flip spent the better part of it grinding his teeth and strangling the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. He was not at all amused when Stallworth met him at the station door holding a cane.

“Take it easy, old guy,” Stallworth said, offering him the cane. “Need a hand getting to your desk?”

“You’ll need a hand pullin’ that cane out of your ass if you don’t get it out of my face.” Flip shoved past his friend and made his way to his desk, waving off several other old jokes and happy birthdays. His menacing glare would be enough to make strangers piss their pants. Sadly, his co-workers at the station knew this was mostly posturing and it did little to deter them.

Chief Bridges was waiting for Flip at his desk, leaning against it intrusively. He wore a shit-eating grin and said with every indicia of seriousness, “Forty, huh? You know what that means, Zimmerman. It’s time to re-take your firearms training. Maybe driving too. Make sure you’re not slipping as an old man. A man’s aim is the first thing to go.”

“Fuck you,” Flip growled irritably. “I’m in better shape now than I was in my twenties.”

“It’s worse than I feared.” Bridges grinned. “Sometimes, the mind goes first.”

“Forty’s not all that old,” Stallworth came to Flip’s defense. “For a tree or a tortoise.”

“Don’t let me catch you trying to get little blue pills off any trafficking suspects.” Bridges waved a finger at Flip. “I’ve had to write up more old farts for that in this department than you want to know.”

“Not one of my complaints.” Flip smirked. “You sound like you have some personal experience in that department, Chief.”

“I’m glad you’re a cocky sonofabitch, Zimmerman. And a ladies man. It makes this part of the job a helluva lot more fun for me,” Bridges said and Flip’s smirk melted away. “A ladies man is just what the doctor ordered for this sting. Turns out our jewel thief is a broad! Can you believe it? Word says she’s going to the event at the Broadmoor tonight and she’ll be wearing a black dress. All you have to do is sidle up to her, blow whatever smoke up her ass you need to, and get her to waltz right out of the party with you and up to the room we have setup. Stallworth will be there to help make the arrest in case you need backup. You think you’ll need a hand putting handcuffs on a woman once you get her into your bedroom?”

“I can’t fuckin’ do that and you know it!” Flip exclaimed angrily, on the verge of shouting. “I’m already in deep shit with the little woman over comin’ in at all today, and you think I’m gonna go out to a party and then bring some floozy back to a hotel room? I’ll do stupid things in the line of duty, but that’s a death sentence. No fuckin’ way.”

“Scared of a dame, are you, Zimmerman?” Bridges poked.

“I’m scared of the one I have at home,” Flip huffed indignantly. “I’d be a fool not to be. She’d string you up right alongside me, Chief. Find someone else. Ron’s single.”

“Our thief’s a tall gal. A woman won’t be interested in a man who’s shorter than she is, now will she? You’re the only man in the department who’ll be taller than her in heels.” Bridges looked at Stallworth and shrugged. “There’s a height requirement on this ride, and Ron’s several inches too short.”

“Just put a tail on her and grab her when she goes to the ladies room,” Flip suggested. “Easy.”

“If you haven’t noticed, the CSPD has been written up in the paper about once a month this whole year. All you overeager assholes making scenes and causing property damage during arrests,” Bridges chided both men, who had each been featured prominently in various articles. “The last thing I need is some big public scene at the Broadmoor to kick off the holiday season. Do you think this is a fucking negotiation, Zimmerman?”

“There wouldn’t be any negotiation if I told you to shove it up your ass along with my badge and gun,” Flip grunted, thinking that his job was interfering too much in his enjoyment of life.

“What else are you qualified to do? Public relations? Customer service?” Bridges laughed. “Being shacked up with a high-power lawyer the way you are, you should thank me every day for this job. You think a dame like that is gonna want some unemployed grumpy sonofabitch keeping her couch from running away. I got news for you, Zimmerman, cabana boys are about fifteen or twenty years younger than you.”

“Nope, I’ll go over to the dark side.” Flip smirked again. “The Feds have been houndin’ me pretty hard lately.”

“You’re getting to be a crotchety bastard in your old age,” Bridges said dismissively. He patted Flip on the back as he started toward his office. “Quit your bitching moaning and go get the job done. The faster you get it done, the faster you can be back home with your wife.”

“Sometimes I envy those whiny bastards who call in for their birthdays,” Flip groaned to Stallworth when they were alone.

“Too late for that now,” Stallworth said brightly. “Man up.”

“Manning up has never been a problem for me.” Flip glared at him and sat down heavily in his chair.

“What happened there?” Stallworth eyed the scratches you had left on Flip’s neck, pulling his shirt collar back to get a better look. “Are you being abused? Do you need a safe house interview? Was there some animal control problem with a bobcat I missed over the weekend?”

“I guess I’ve still got it,” Flip said proudly.

“Wow, and you left her on your birthday to come down here for me?” Stallworth batted his eyes and teased, “I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I feel like that’s a big step in our relationship.”

“She already calls you my work wife.” Flip shook his head. “Watch your ass, rookie, or there’s gonna be some domestic violence in our relationship.” Flip slumped in his chair, highly unamused and gestured for Ron to get on with it.

“Want me to talk slow when I go over this, old timer?” Stallworth teased, holding the casefile.

“Not in the fuckin’ mood.” Flip glared at his friend, not teasing at all. He snatched the file from Stallworth and slapped it down open on his desk. He was going to get this shit over with as fast as humanly possible. He retrieved a pair of glasses with large lenses and tortoise rims from his shirt pocket, a new addition to his wardrobe. He only recently capitulated to wearing them on occasion. But only for reading. He narrowed his eyes at Stallworth in anticipation. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

Before Flip could take in much on the first page, a commotion from the front of the station drew his attention. An argument and raised voices along with the shuffling of papers, all boded nothing good in a police station. Flip shoved up from his desk and hurried to see the cause of the uproar. Several officers argued with a fat little man who was so short Flip could only see the shiny top of his greasy bald scalp hovering chest level to the average sized officers around him. Dan Goldleaf was a private investigator who served papers in his spare time, one of the lowest forms of ilk to a cop, just above pedophiles and traffickers. Worst of all, the human shitstain worked for most of the defense lawyers in town.

When Flip approached the unruly spectacle, the trollish man excitedly waved the papers in his hand. He was gelatinously fat, and his whole body jiggled with the movement. He flashed a golden smile as he waddled to Flip. He pushed the papers into Flip’s chest and announced, “Here ya go, Zimmerman!” Quick as a ferret, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of Flip holding the papers in a clenched fist, a deadly glare on his face. Goldleaf straightened to his full height of around five feet and popped the lapels of his brown jacket, crackling a fresh mustard stain. The gaudy gold rings on every fat sausage finger glittered in the fluorescent lights. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Flip wanted to squish the greasy troll like a slug, but there were too many witnesses for that now. He looked at the crumpled papers he held in his fist and backed to the wall until his back was pressed against it. It kept him from pacing like a caged animal. He had been served with a formal looking document consisting of several pages. The papers had been sent by the law firm of Dewey, Cheatum & Howe. It began with:

CANDICE GOODING,

                        Petitioner,

 Vs.                                                                             

PHILIP ZIMMERMAN,

                        Respondent.

VERIFIED PETITION TO ESTABLISH PATERNITY

            COMES NOW the Petitioner, Candice Gooding, by and through undersigned counsel, Rob Cheatum, and in support of her Verified Petition STATES THE FOLLOWING:

“Christ, it’s a fuckin’ paternity suit from some bitch named Candice Gooding. Says she has a five-year-old kid and it’s mine! She’s comin’ after me for goddamn child support,” Flip gritted through clenched teeth. Every muscle in his body contracted and he shook with rage. He wanted to break something, or at least punch through a wall. He managed to grate out, “I don’t even know this bitch!”

“Candice Gooding,” Stallworth said slowly, enunciating every syllable, as if speaking to an idiot. “That doesn’t ring any bells?”

“It sure as hell doesn’t!” Flip was fuming, his chest flushed hot.

“What else could she call herself?” Stallworth mused, pretending to consider the issue. “Candy maybe?” Slowly, the red flush drained from Flip’s face until he was unusually pale. “Candy Goodie, maybe? Ring any bells now? Wasn’t she an ex-girlfriend some five, six years ago?”

“Motherfucker,” Flip groaned. He suddenly felt very old, as if he had aged a decade on his birthday. He leaned against the wall and knocked his head back against it roughly, as if he could bang some sense into his younger self. “She wasn’t my goddamn girlfriend, and you know it. She was just a slutty little cocktail waitress whose big dream in life was to be a stripper in Vegas where she could make the ‘big bucks.’ She was hot and easy and I fucked her a few times when I was hard up. Big deal. Any port in a storm, you know? Every girl I banged when I was footloose and fancy free wasn’t a girlfriend.”

“Guess you should have used some rubber to weather that particular storm,” Stallworth quipped, studying the papers more closely. “That candy must have been good if you went back for seconds.”

“Fuck you, buddy,” Flip said, really and truly wanting to punch something now.

“Better call your wife,” Stallworth suggested.

A look of pure terror flashed across Flip’s face for an instant before he could mask it. “Don’t you dare call her. Or tell her anything about this at all! Christ, you want to get me killed?”

“She’s a lawyer. Who do you think will be handling this for you?” Stallworth tried unsuccessfully to be helpful.

“Just haul me out back and shoot me now. Get it over with quick.” Flip dropped his head into his hands, shaking his head. “She can’t know a thing about this until I figure it out.”

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

“Hey, Sugar,” Flip crooned into the phone when you answered. “I was thinkin’ that since I have to get dressed up and put on the ritz tonight that you could get all dolled up too like you like and meet me after. I’ll take you out on the town and show you a real nice time.”

“I’m not in the mood,” you said, your tone told him you were far from appeased. “I thought you decided we were working today. And tonight.”

Flip had called while he was changing into his suit, a black one with a button up shirt in a dark shade of charcoal. He realized you had picked out one of your favorites for him that morning and it made him feel even guiltier. A nice suit usually had the effect of making him feel dashing, now it felt like he was dressing for his own funeral. Maybe I am, he thought to himself with a rueful smirk. Aloud, he said, “I know you’re mad as hell, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I love you, sugar.”

“I’m on the clock, Flip,” you said sternly. “Something you know a lot about, right? We’ll catch up later. Whenever that might be.”

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

On the drive to the Broadmoor Stallworth informed Flip, “I called a clerk I know at the court who can verify the paternity suit on a Sunday. It’s real.”

“It’s like all my birthday wishes are comin’ true.” Flip glared out of the window, particularly eyeing the couples walking down the street, having a much better evening than he was.

Stallworth had informed Flip of all the details of their sting, how the event was in a private room of the Broadmoor, how they had booked a suite under the name of Frank Zeiss, a cover name Flip often used. All Flip had to do was find the mark, lure her up to the suite, and help Ron make the arrest. Flip didn’t even want credit. He wanted to forget everything about this day and pretend his fortieth birthday was limited to the nearly perfect Friday and Saturday he spent with his girl. Before he had to leave on call. Why in the fuck did he have to answer his damned phone this morning?

Flip stopped in at the hotel bar before seeking out the private event room. He needed a drink for this shit. He ordered an Old Fashioned and swirled the tawny liquid around in his glass. He thought of the way you always laughed at him like he was an idiot instead of suave when he tied the cherry stem in a knot with his tongue for your amusement.

As he thought of you, to his horror, you walked into the bar and aimed right for him. Wearing a sultry blue dress that hugged your curves in all the best places, he thought his girl had never looked like more of a knockout. But…

“What the hell are you doin’ here?!” Flip grabbed your arm when you got close to the bar and yanked you to him.

“It’s nice to see you too,” you said with only a hint of warning in your tone.

“I’m glad you’ve retracted your claws a bit from earlier,” Flip said in a quick, agitated voice. “But it’s not nice to see you. Not now, not here.”

“If you’re here looking for someone, shouldn’t you have your glasses on, old man?” you teased.

“Watch it, sugar.” Flip stepped closer to you until your bodies were nearly touching. “This old man was still goin’ strong when you threw in the towel last night.”

“Nice suit.” You ignored him and ran your eyes over his body. “You clean up alright.”

“This isn’t a game.” Flip fought to keep his voice low. “You could get us both hurt.”

“So serious,” you chided dismissively and placed a hand on his chest. It was endearing how nervous he was at the concern for your safety. A bead of sweat ran down from his temple. “Relax, handsome. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty, right?”

“Funny,” Flip said edgily. “Now get the hell outta here and I’ll call you when I’m done. I don’t want to be distracted by you and I don’t want you mixed up in all this.”

“Actually, I wanted to find you sooner rather than later because I got a call from a colleague. It made me think you might be in some kind of trouble.” You watched him closely as you spoke. “Or should I say, opposing counsel. A lawyer named Rob Cheatum.”

Oh, fuck. Flip’s mouth went dry and he fought to keep his expression stern and to give nothing away. “Must be important for him to call you on a Sunday.”

“Actually, he called me Friday after work. But unlike you, I followed the rules you wanted for your birthday and didn’t look at my phone until I was driving in today. That’s when I saw it. He said he’s representing some woman in a case against you.” You looked straight into his eyes. “What the fuck is he talking about, Flip?”

“Sounds like some bloodsucker out to sue the department again,” he deflected unpersuasively. “Isn’t that how you people get in the holiday spirit, by drumming up business?”

“Oh my god, don’t tell me you lost your temper and punched a suspect again,” you sighed exasperatedly. “It gets old seeing your name in the paper.”

“We all know the only animals worse than lawyers are reporters.” Flip looked around, scanning for his suspect. “All the more reason for you to get outta here until I get this thing wrapped up. You don’t want to be included in a cover story with me when I cause a scene at this party, do you?”

“I can see it now.” You spread your hands like a banner. “Grouchy old man snaps at the younger crowd out having fun.”

“I sure don’t love you for your mouth, sugar.” Flip shook his head. He saw a tall woman in a black dress walking purposefully and fixed his eyes on her like a hunting dog. But there were several women in view wearing black dresses. And what was tall, anyway? The woman was probably five-eight, although heels always threw him off. Was that tall enough to be described as very tall? Probably not. Flip had been staring at her while running these mental calculations.

“Like what you see?” you asked, more to poke him than anything. You knew he was here under the guise of working.

“Not particularly. I’d give her a seven at best,” Flip gritted out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got a helluva lot better at home.”

“Speaking of, how long until the woman you’ve got at home is going to get some time with you?” you asked.

“Not long.” He shrugged.

“Not an answer, Detective,” you quipped.

Flip knew you only called him Detective when you were feeling flirty or feeling as mad as a wet cat. He knew which this was. Best to remain silent, he concluded.

“You’re here to grab some suspect, a woman, I gather from your roaming eyes,” you accused and Flip’s eyes darted immediately back to you, a little wider than usual. “You’re getting served papers from strange women, too. Is this some half-assed midlife crisis? Is it time for you to embarrass yourself trying to pick up eighteen-year-olds in a new convertible?”

“Whoa, pump the brakes on the crazy train.” Flip held up his hands in surrender. “I’m innocent until proven guilty.”

“Oh, you think this is a democracy?” you scoffed. “I don’t think so. This is a monarchy, and all ways here are the Queen’s ways.”

“I’ll tell you all about it later. I promise.” Flip tried a calming tone that had zero effect. “Just let me find this woman and then we can get outta here.”

“Fine.” You put your hands on your hips.

“Don’t fine me, darlin.’” Flip mocked your posture, also putting his hands on his hips. “I know what fine means.”

“This is ridiculous. I’ll find this damn woman in black myself.” You turned on your heel and walked away.

Flip took a bounding step after you and grabbed your arm roughly, stopping you. “You’re making a fuckin’ scene.”

“Is this guy bothering you, miss?” The bartender asked, a clear warning in his voice.

You looked at Flip’s hand where he gripped your arm and cocked an eyebrow. Flip slackened his grip and you yanked your arm free. You strode purposely through the bar and toward the series of the Broadmoor event rooms. You looked over your shoulder once just to make sure Flip was following you. He was, of course, walking stiffly a few paces behind with his shoulders set and eyes narrowed, looking ready and eager to bust some heads. The hotel was crowded with holiday traffic and you both knew he couldn’t grab you again without making an even bigger scene.

At the door to the private room, Flip caught you again, grabbing the door handle in front of you and pinning you close with his body from behind. To an observer, it might look affectionate but his body was rigid against you and his tone angry, “This isn’t the time or place for you to act like a goddamn prima donna. Knock it off.”

“Just think, all this because you had to answer Ron’s call this morning.” You grinned and before he had time to process the implications of your words, you pushed his hand down on the door handle and leaned into it.

Flip stumbled into the event room right at your back, a little off balance and fuming.

“Surprise!” A chorus of voices shouted inside the room.

Flip was nearly stunned by the cacophony of light and movement and shouting assholes inside the room. He stood, still gawkily positioned mid-stumble, blinking like a deer in the headlights. There were sparkly lights and girly decorations done in black and gold, and a table set with a giant cake and a few buckets of champagne. Music blared noisily from somewhere. All his traitorous friends smiled at him, Stallworth leading the charge of ingrates. Festive lights even shimmered on the greasy dome of Goldleaf’s head. The group of traitors yelled “Surprise!” again and then broke into a terrible round of Happy Birthday. Flip straightened and smoothed a hand over his suit, trying to look dignified while feeling like an absolute jackass for falling for this shit.

There was little Flip hated more in life than surprise parties. He forced a smile and thought that maybe it wasn’t as bad as those times he’d been shot. But no. The first time, he’d gotten some really good drugs. The second time, he got six weeks off and left the hell alone. The third time had given him one of your favorite scars that made him feel even tougher than he was. No, a surprise party was far worse than getting shot.

Flip squared his shoulders and put on his game face, steeling himself to endure a long night of socializing. He pulled you to his side just a little roughly and joined his own birthday party.

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

“That party must have cost a fortune,” Flip bemoaned. “I hope you didn’t foot the bill just to torture me.”

“Not a dime, actually. The owner of the Broadmoor is a client. Or rather, his son on his eighth DWI is,” you said nonchalantly. “He’s innocent, of course. Or rather, he will be once I’m done with him.”

Flip made a noncommittal grunt, still in the throes of post-party-trauma.

“He also threw in a free suite.” You looped your arm through Flip’s and steered him toward the elevators. “I’m sure you’ll like it more.”

The suite was equipped with a private balcony and hottub for guests who liked to enjoy the snowy alpine winters along with a steaming soak and a glass of wine. Flip held the door open for you like a perfect gentleman before slamming it closed behind him after following you inside. He held you at arm’s length when you tried to close the distance between you.

“I need a shower. I’ve been sweatin’ bullets all day thanks to you.” His lips were poutier than usual as he unbuttoned his shirt. Shrugging roughly out of it, he balled it up in his hands and threw it into the furthest corner of the room. Flip paused to glare at the shirt where it landed on the floor and huff a few breaths before storming into the bathroom as he unbuckled his belt. The slam of the bathroom door reverberated through the room when he kicked it closed. He continued to grumble and cuss under his breath inside the bathroom. The few words you could make out seemed to be in vehement criticism of birthdays and surprise parties and pondering the eternal question of just how much bullshit one man can take.

Smiling to yourself at his grouchiness, you decided to wait for him in the hottub on the balcony. Steaming jets and your warm touch would be just the ticket to turn his anger into something a lot more enjoyable for you both. 

As you peeled your own clothes away, you could still hear him bitching from inside the bathroom and it made you grin. The icy air hit you when you stepped naked out onto the balcony. Goosebumps rose across your skin, breath fogged from your lips, and your nipples peaked instantly at the chill as you quickly covered the few steps to the hottub. The crisp winter air made the hot water even more welcoming, and a cloud of steam surrounded you when you lowered yourself into the bubbling water. Leaning your head back against the edge of the hottub, you felt all the tension leaving your body as you waited for Flip. 

“I’m out here,” you called when you heard him emerge. “Come keep me company.”

Flip’s face and chest were still flushed from the heat of his shower when he walked onto the balcony, scowling. Pausing to linger in the doorway, towel slung around his hips, he leaned against the doorframe. He had to fight to keep his face stern as he looked down at your bare curves sitting tantalizingly amid the steam. 

“You’re not bad lookin’ for a double agent,” he told you, sucking at his teeth.

“Evil machinations are much easier when you’re pretty,” you teased and beckoned him to join you with a curled finger. “Don’t just stand there gawking about it, handsome.”

His scowl turned into something far more devilish as he tossed his towel back into the room and lowered himself into the hottub beside you. Slinging one arm behind you along the rim of the hottub, Flip wasted no time in pulling you close. Beside you, he turned to kiss your cheek, to nuzzle his nose softly against your skin along your jaw before he moved his lips to the place below your ear. Inhaling your scent, he began to lose himself in you. His kisses drifted to your neck and turned more biting and heated when you raised your hand to stroke his cheek. 

“I’m sure sorry for takin’ that call,” he mumbled against your skin. 

“Are you?” you asked with a laugh. “We’ll see if you learn anything from it.”

“I’m a quick learner.” Flip couldn’t help but laugh as his hand trailed up your thigh. 

Turning into him, you met his lips while he teased you with his fingers. Flip kissed you hungrily, his lingering anger coming out in his eager tongue licking into your mouth, his teeth clicking against yours, and his thick fingers pushing into you. 

“We’re not done celebrating yet,” you whispered into his kiss. “Your real birthday present is that I took next week off and arranged with the chief to note you as staking out a cabin for the week.”

He laughed when you told him the location, “That’s our address.”

“Is it really?” you feigned ignorance. “I’d call it a paid vacation on the taxpayers. As someone who gets shafted by Uncle Sam almost as often as I get it from you, I see no problem at all.”

“I thought you had work tomorrow?” Flip asked, looking at you with deep lusting respect.

“You thought so, yes,” you teased. “I’m off too.”

“So, you have to put me through the ringer first to earn it, huh?” He nipped your neck.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a grouchy bastard, you wouldn’t invite being screwed with, hmmm?” You twisted your fingers into his hair. “But we’ll never know.”

“A surprise party is playin’ dirty,” he said against your neck. “That’s hittin’ below the belt.”

“Funny thing is that I agree with you.” You tugged his hair sharply enough for it to be a reprimand. “Ron badly wanted to throw you a surprise party for your fortieth. I told him that I was giving you what you really wanted for the weekend, and that you would absolutely hate a surprise party. After a debate, Ron and I agreed that if he could entice you away from me today, he could inflict his surprise party upon you and I’d help lure you into it. It was insultingly easy for him, I might add. I really thought he’d have a harder time. So, I think it’s only fair to make you suffer a little on top of it. Serves you right for leaving me for your work wife.”

“So, you all gang up on me, huh? Wonderful.” He grinned. “You almost gave me a heart attack with that fuckin’ paternity horseshit. You arranged that awfully fast.”

“I thought it was nice icing on the cake,” you grinned back. “How long do you think it takes me to type a paternity petition? Fifteen minutes tops. Goldleaf is always happy to screw with you and so is Cheatum. A good time had by all. And just think, you chose all this.” You gestured grandly to encompass the enormity of the shitshow Flip had gotten himself into, “instead of staying shut in in bed with me all day.”

“I’ll never answer my phone again unless it’s you,” Flip huffed a laugh.

Deciding he had suffered enough for now, you slung your leg over his lap to straddle him. His cock was already deliciously hard and ready for you when you sank down onto him. No matter how many times he fucked you, it was always wonderfully intense before you adjusted to accommodate him. Flip’s hands smoothed down your sides, caressing you gently now before his fingers would grip bruises into you as you rode him. He kissed your neck and rolled his hips beneath you, groaning in that heady way of his when he was losing himself in the pleasure of your body.

The water sloshed in the hottub and steam whirled around you both as he fucked an orgasm out of you and followed you down into a warm, blissful afterglow. After several moments, cock still buried inside of you, he kissed your neck a few final times and raised his head to look at you with a satisfied grin.

“I hope this birthday was one to remember, old timer,” you teased as you moved your hands to rub the knots in his broad shoulders. “Forty’s a big one.”

“I really hate birthdays,” was his only grumbled response. 

“Spoken just like a grumpy old man,” you said amid a fresh stream of soft laughter. 

“Real funny, sugar.” Flip nipped at your skin before pulling you close again for round two. “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.”

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

© safarigirlsp 2023

Tagging some buddies! 

@babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @clydesfavoritegirl @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland @reveluving @vedavan @reylokisses @queen-of-elves @srorgana1 @kyloremus @looking4mymagicshop @lumberjack00fantasies

[carousel-crows]

5. Slider and Goose set them up

Anything for you doomsday :)

Prompt #5: Set Up

cw: swearing, implied sex

——

“Sli, they did it again.”

“Oh god. At least let me get drunk first.”

“It was like a full-ass eyefuck, too. Ice was all up in his face ‘n shit, snapped his teeth. If this keeps happening, I might throw up.” Goose flopped down on the sofa next to Slider, drinks in hand. 

Slider sighed and took a swig. “Maybe we should lock ‘em in a room together till they either kill each other or fuck.”

Goose laughs loudly. “You know, I think you're onto something here.”

Slider turns to Goose, deadpan. “I was only half-joking, Nick.”

Oh shit, what had he gotten himself into.

———

“Ice, you gotta come see this thing I found.” 

“What is it, Sli, another plaque?”

“Well, it's in this classroom.”

Ice sighed and followed him up the stairs.Why they hadn't taken the elevator, Ice didn't know. Maybe Sli wanted exercise or something. 

Ice trailed Slider as he led him into a small classroom. “What the fuck is so interesting that it needed to be hidden away?”

“You'll see.” Slider chuckled and opened the door for Ice.

The room was just another classroom… There was nothing special about this room. What the hell?

“Sli, what—?”

“You two need to figure your shit out.”

Ice turned to see Maverick barreled through the door. He saw that Goose and Slider were standing outside the door as it closed. The lock clicked. Footsteps growing more distant.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“To hell if I know, Maverick.”

“This wasn't one of your schemes? That's a first, the Iceman himself surprised.”

Ice scoffed and turned toward the room’s window, even though the blinds were closed. “I don't know what your problem is, but it's clearly not my fault our RIOs locked us in a room.”

He turned back to Mav, who stared at him. “What?”

Mav crossed the room in a flash, eyes flaring. Ice doesn't do anything till Mav shoves him, hard. 

“What the fuck, Mav?”

“You're such a dick.” Mav tries to shove him again, but Ice catches him and holds his shirt. 

Ice snaps his teeth. “And you're a brat. You think you can get whatever you want because you're sexy.”

They're so close. Both flushed and panting, adrenaline pumping, Mav moves again and Ice thinks he's gonna punch him, but Mav just kisses him right on the lips. There's no softness, it's all teeth and tongue. A fight for dominance.

Alright, if the bastard wants a battle, then a battle he'll get.

Ice leans down and grabs Maverick's thighs, hard enough to leave a bruise. He picks up Mav easily. Mav hooks his legs against Ice’s waist quickly, pushing his lips against Ice ravenously. 

———

“Come on, man it's been 20 minutes, don't you think we should go check on them?”

“Do we gotta? I kinda like this ‘peace and quiet’ thing.”

Goose begins to pace, worried. “But what if they actually did kill each other?”

“Chill, Mother Goose, we’ll go. Just give ‘em a little bit.”

“Nope, I'm going now.”

“Fine. God, Goose, you're so dramatic.”

They walk down the hallway to the locked classroom, nervous. It's dead silent. Slider unlocks and opens the door. Ice and Mav are sitting on the floor, rumpled, flushed, and tired. They're grinning like idiots at each other. 

“Y'all good?” Slider is smirking.

“Yeah, bitch, real good.” Mav glances at Slider and Goose before getting lost in Ice's eyes again.

“Oh my god, did you guys—?” Goose pales.

“Your fault.” Ice looks dazed.

“How—”

“Y'all are the ones who locked us in here.” 

“We didn't expect you two to fuck like horny teenagers!”

Ice laughs at that. “Have you met Pete?”

Pete turns, offended. “You were the one that called me sexy!”

Slider sighs. “Oh my god if you two start fight again, I'm locking you in here over the weekend.”

 “No!”

——

[smol-feralgremlin]

FebruarOC Day 4: Derra

Rolling his shoulders back and wincing as the ropes pinning his wings tightened against the still quite tender limbs, Derra faced down the four masked figures. Honestly this was just silly. Did they think he wouldn’t figure out their identities through their voices? He was young in terms of demi-godhood, but he wasn’t a child either. He didn’t have any wish to strike back against any of them either. He’d already done what he wanted and he’d accept the consequences of it.

“Derra Mieshtar, do you have anything to say for yourself on the matter at hand?”

“I’d do it again,” he replied with a grin. 

A moment of stunned silence followed his words. Derra settled back, more than pleased with himself. He’d had to listen to the whole lot of them yell and bicker at each other about who actually had the jurisdiction and right to sentence him to anything. Most of that he’d spent comparing the gathering to the imperial courts when no one could settle on an answer. And then comparing both to a pen of fowl when a hawk flew over. It was entertaining while it lasted.

“Are you in full possession of your wits, boy?”

He considered playing stupid before discarding the idea. It would be funny, but he was getting tired of this trial business. “Entirely so. Is there a problem?”

“The problem is that we aren’t so sure you understand the gravity of what you’ve done?”

“Drove a blade multiple times into the body of the wild god that fathered me before dismembering him and burying the parts far and wide across the country and over the borders.” Derra let his grin fall. “I have new ideas about how I’ll go about it next time. I’m thinking an axe.”

“He’s not the least bit remorseful,” one of the figures said with a sneer evident in their voice.

“Just as remorseful as he was about defiling my mother the way he did.”

None of them flinched at that. He didn’t expect them to. Deities and half deities did as they did, and humans just had to accept that. As it had been for years upon years until Derra did something about it. Maybe now they would think for a second before they acted. If one of their own could enact a consequence, maybe more might rise up and follow in his footsteps.

“None of you have figured out what to do with the boy,” a new voice said from behind Derra. “Imprison him in the Black Forest and don’t let him leave it. Make sure humans can reach him.”

“You’re proposing leniency?”

“No. I’m proposing measures to keep him in place so that Sita can deal with him once he’s formed himself a new body. Maybe the boy will have learned remorse in that time and beg for forgiveness.” 

Derra snorted as he craned his head around to try and find the speaker. He wasn’t going to beg the bastard for a scrap of anything. After a moment he gave up. His wings were in the way and his wrists were shackled too close to the stone for him to get a good angle on anything.

“Perhaps,” a masked figure mused. “It does keep him out of the way for a time. But why allow humans to have access to him.”

“I don’t know what role he plays in it all, but my visions tell me that people from all walks of life will seek him out. Heed my words, or don’t. It makes no matter to me.”

The masked figures looked at each other, giving nothing away with their body language. Derra frowned and tried again to see if there was any way to catch the barest glimpse of the speaker. Who in the eight winds were they?

“Don’t forget that he is his fathers son,” the speaker called from farther away. “Ask him about ravens.”

Derra wrenched his wrists while trying to turn, hissing with pain. How did they know about the ravens.

“Elessia is rarely wrong about these things.”

“It is better to let Sita punish his son.”

“Follow her words. Prepare a place for him in the Black Forest. It’ll be a long time before Sita can deal with him.”

Still sore from injuring his wrists, Derra grinned at the guards who came for him. As he his hands were released, he bowed to the four masked figures in as mocking of a manner as he could manage. He’d have to thank whoever this Elessia was for making sure he didn’t have to spend centuries in a hole. Right after he wrung out an answer as to how she knew about the ravens of course.

Still. He had a second murder to plan. He hadn’t lied about having new ideas about how to kill his father again. And he’d savour it as much as he was still savouring the first time.

[lucifer-kane]

Might fuck around and draw that bit with Raven and David... It really stuck in my brain and made me emotional. Talks to your past self and begs him not to die.

I do have to wait to draw it bc... I need quotes from that bit and they won't be readily available until what i assume is next month? Since at the end of this month is when all 6 acts air at once

[antebunny]

never fear, your fairy godmother is here!

(It's Wei Wuxian. He's the fairy godmother)

Wei Wuxian is riding high off a difficult case finally closed when the next call comes through. He’s staring aimlessly into the beautiful delta waters of Lotus Pier with Jiang Cheng when the tingling begins, a familiar sensation somewhere in his chest that tells him that somewhere is a worthy human in need of a guide for their happy ever after.

“–So then I thought, well what am I supposed to do? She doesn’t want a lover or a partner, but her future isn’t fame or riches either.”

Wei Wuxian isn’t sure that Jiang Cheng is actually listening to him, but he’s very proud of himself, so Jiang Cheng can suck it up. He’s used to finding his new charges in difficult and tragic circumstances, but he’s rarely found someone in quite such a sticky situation as poor Qin Su.

“And she insists that she doesn’t have someone in mind,” Wei Wuxian continues. “So you know what I did?”

“Uh-huh,” Jiang Cheng says vaguely, because he’s not listening at all. “Very cool.” He’s not a very good brother, Jiang Cheng. Well, they’re not related, but they also weren’t really born, they just kind of exist, so Wei Wuxian doesn’t worry too much about it.

“I found her a whole team!” Wei Wuxian finishes proudly. “I got a doctor from Qishan, who was looking to get away from her family, and her little brother, and a top disciple from Lanling, and boom! Team of four! That’s a family right there. They’re going to be friends for life.”

“Do you ever consider not boasting about yourself?” Jiang Cheng wonders out loud.

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian objects. “I’ll have you know I’m the number one fairy godmother!”

Jiang Cheng merely rolls his eyes. “As you haven’t stopped saying for the past hundred years.”

“Well, it’s–” Wei Wuxian stops mid-sentence and puts one hand behind him on the wooden planks of the boardwalk so he doesn’t collapse when his stomach rolls.

“Another one?” Jiang Cheng demands. “So soon?”

“I’m in high demand,” Wei Wuxian says weakly.

“But jiejie and I have spent all day making a celebratory dinner,” Jiang Cheng says, dismayed. Then he corrects himself. “I mean, jiejie’s spent all day making dinner for us! Do you want to disappoint her? Do you?!”

Wei Wuxian stands up. If he wasn’t still flushed with success, if only he’d listened to the odd, twisting sensation that said this was not a normal case of a damsel in need of true love, perhaps he would’ve stayed. Perhaps none of what followed would have happened. But perhaps it was always destined to happen.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” Wei Wuxian declares foolishly, and vanishes.

He appears in a thematically dark and twisted forest near sundown. The wind is whispering ominously through the leaves. Wei Wuxian pushes aside a branch in order to enter the clearing from which an ugly sobbing sound is coming from. It must be his new client.

By the light of the dying sun, Wei Wuxian can make out a hunched form dressed in fine white robes. The crying is quiet, but the person’s back shudders. They seem to be holding something. Wei Wuxian takes a moment to adjust. A great pair of black and red butterfly wings appear on his back. Humans more readily accept that he’s capable of inhuman feats if there’s something inhuman (but non threatening) about him. He usually goes for crow or raven wings, but he thinks the current setting might be a little inappropriate for that. Many of Wei Wuxian’s fellow fairy godmothers also opt for fancy robes, but Wei Wuxian’s never really felt comfortable with them.

Wei Wuxian clears his throat. “Hello,” he calls.

The man–because it is a man, Wei Wuxian quickly realizes, with a beauty he’s come to expect from his clients, and a cultivator’s sword–whirls around. He hasn’t got a very expressive face, but Wei Wuxian has spent hundreds of years around people. His client’s eyes are wild, disbelieving. He’s got a Lan ribbon on his forehead, one of the inner clan, if Wei Wuxian isn’t mistaken, and he never is. There are two tear tracks running down his cheeks, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Wei Wuxian steps closer. His new client staggers to his feet and looks away, but whatever he was holding or looking at is gone. When he looks back at Wei Wuxian, there’s an awestruck look of recognition on his face. Wei Wuxian grins, pleased to see that his influence has reached the ears of humans.

The man takes one shaky step forward. He seems to be trying to drink in Wei Wuxian’s presence, soak him in just by looking at him. Wei Wuxian can’t blame him. He is very impressive.

On that thought, Wei Wuxian spreads his arms wide. “Never fear, mortal! Your hour of distress has come to an end!” Above their heads, a cloud drifts away and allows the moon to beam through, bathing Wei Wuxian with soft light. “It is I, Wei Wuxian, your fairy godmother!”

Now his client is just staring at him blankly. Wei Wuxian’s grin falters. He lowers his arms and clears his throat. “Perhaps you didn’t h–”

“What’s a fairy godmother?” The client interrupts.

Really?

Wei Wuxian sighs. “I am in charge of finding you a happy ending, in whatever form that may take,” he answers.

He waits another beat. This is usually where his clients start thanking him.

The man does not look very impressed. “How does that involve butterfly wings?”

“I–!” Wei Wuxian starts, very offended and very taken aback. “I…thought they would be less threatening than crow wings?”

The man stares at him. Wei Wuxian vanishes the wings with a thought.

“Well, if you have a preference, just let me know,” Wei Wuxian grumbles sulkily. “I am at your service, after all.”

“That is unnecessary,” the man says flatly. The tears haven’t dried but he’s composed himself. He turns away from Wei Wuxian deliberately.

“What do you mean?” Wei Wuxian asks, chasing his client through the clearing when the cultivator starts to walk away.

“I am not in need of your help,” the ungrateful bastard says.

“Wh–! Yes, you are!” Wei Wuxian argues. “I wouldn’t be here if there weren’t a worthy damsel in distress in need of my services.”

At that term damsel in distress the man turns and gives him a withering, wintry glare. It’s under-cut by a deep well of loss, pain, and sadness that Wei Wuxian is convinced he can see on his client’s face. And to the rejection of damsel of distress, he can only shrug. It’s true.

“I’ll have you know I am the top fairy godmother,” Wei Wuxian says, in reply to the glare, as pretentiously as he can. “For the past hundred years. I have never failed a client. Whatever it is you want, true love, honor, treasure, a kingdom, I can find it for you. I promise you I have seen it all before.”

His client finally stops running away from him. Wei Wuxian saunters up to him. “If it’s love you’re worrying about, people are less narrow-minded than you think. There’s bound to be someone out there who’s exactly who you’re looking for. Well, most of them. Actually, my clients are sometimes a little narrow-minded. One of them specifically requested that I find a true love for him that had never been turned into an animal. A little narrow-minded, don’t you think?”

At this point, Wei Wuxian is up in his face, and his client is starting to look a little overwhelmed. Wei Wuxian backs up, gives him a little space. The Lan cultivator turns to look at the spot in the clearing where he’d been kneeling before Wei Wuxian showed up.

“Can you bring back the dead?” His client asks abruptly.

Wei Wuxian falters. “That’s–ehhh, that’s a, uh, gray area. Kind of depends. I’m going to lean towards no. Yeah, feels like a no. No necromancy here. I have definitely never done that before.”

The righteous Lan cultivator actually has the nerve to look disappointed in him. “Then I have no use for you,” he says stiffly, and starts to walk away again.

“Okay, hold up!” Wei Wuxian splutters, hurrying after him. The man does not hold up, forcing Wei Wuxian to keep pace through the dark forest. It’s no problem for Wei Wuxian, but rather rude, all things considered. “How rude! Here I am offering to solve your life’s problems and you question my abilities–you know I once created a whole celestial mountain for one of my clients–hey! Think of my reputation,” he begs, when his rude client continues to walk away. “I have never, ever failed a client before. Think of how it would look if one of my clients just walked away! Just give me a chance. Please. Please?”

His runaway client finally stops running away, right in a thicket of trees. Wei Wuxian almost bumps into him.

“This is important to you?” His client asks finally, without looking back.

“Oh yes, very,” Wei Wuxian knows immediately, because that’s the thing about his clients. They’re all good people, whether they’d like to admit it or not. The only people who like to help more than them are the fairy godmothers. “It would make me very happy to make you happy.”

The man’s shoulders relax ever-so slightly. “Very well.”

“Yes!” Wei Wuxian fist-pumps. He glances up at the moon, reminding himself that humans have to do things like eat and sleep. “Okay, first things first, I’ll get you home,” he decides. “Tomorrow we can–”

“I have no home,” his new client interrupts in a dispassionate tone that suggests this subject has one too many emotions for him to handle.

Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow internally and thinks of his Lan clan ribbon, but says nothing. He merely mentally files this client into the hundreds of lost-their-home clients that have come before him. There’s no telling why his new client lost his home. Usually they tell Wei Wuxian about their woes willingly, without Wei Wuxian having to beg them to burden him with their problems. But there’s a whole host of solutions to the no-home problem, exactly none of which Wei Wuxian can think of when the man reaches up and pulls his forehead ribbon off with trembling fingers.

“Um,” Wei Wuxian warbles. He averts his eyes from the now bare forehead. Later he’ll chalk it up to the difficulty in acquiring this client and the subsequent need to prove his powers that leads him to suggest: “W-what about my house?”

His client turns to face him. He looks a little shocked, but mostly confused.

“I live in the heavenly Lotus Pier,” Wei Wuxian says grandly. Well, he tries to say it grandly, but it comes out matter-of-fact. “I’ve got plenty of room. And you needn’t worry about politics up there.”

Slowly, his client nods, his face unreadable.

“Great,” Wei Wuxian says brightly. He reaches for his client’s hand, ignores the scandalized look he receives, and vanishes both of them to Lotus Pier.

They appear in a pavilion at the end of one of the many boardwalks. Enormous pastel lotus flowers dot the still waters. In the distance, the still waters cascade into a roaring waterfall that pours off the edge of the heavens. Above them, the sun is setting. Wei Wuxian’s client is winded from the sudden travel, so Wei Wuxian doesn’t let go of his hand. The scent of fresh water and spice sets in.

When the client steadies himself, Wei Wuxian tugs him out of the pavilion. The human’s eyes widen as the halls of Lotus Pier come into view, and Wei Wuxian smirks to himself. That’s the only reason why he’s sad that humans don’t come to Lotus Pier. He’d love a chance to show off his home more.

His client is still trying to take in the magnificent sloping roofs, the purple clouds and the dusk orange sky, when Wei Wuxian urges him into a walk.

“Come on,” Wei Wuxian says, still smiling widely. “We’ll be late for dinner.”

[earnestly-endlessly]

kind of an odd request — do you have fics where erik is grumpy with everyone else but a ray of sunshine with charles?

Hi anon, thank you for the ask. First and foremost, I'm so sorry for how long this took me but I've been searching for all the fics that come to mind that fit your request. Second, this is not an odd request because I love this trope so much. I mean, it's basically canon that he's grumpy with everyone except for his Charles, right? Anyway, I might add to this list later on, but I can't sit on this any longer and hope that you have found some fics that you enjoy!!

Fic Recs Where Erik is grumpy with everyone but a ray of sunshine with Charles

Twice as Blind – Darksknight

Summary: Erik is probably the biggest asshole on the face of the earth, and because of this, he'll probably die alone. Charles is a complete flirt and playboy and, probably, will never commit to anyone ever.

(The lesson here is that when you have two friends who are BOTH secretly seeing someone, well, it's probable that they're seeing each other.)

In the moonlight, on a joy ride – scarlettblush

Summary: Librarian AU. Charles is the young librarian and Erik is the college student who is completely besotted with him.

The Proper Care of Actors – Clear_Liqueur, Clocks, Etherei, afrocurl

Summary: Erik is an A-list action star who is notoriously difficult to work with, until the day he gets cast alongside Charles Xavier, rom-com darling who can charm the pants off movie audiences the world over and apparently even one Erik Lehnsherr. The paparazzi catch them out and about soon enough, and their real-life Hollywood movie romance becomes instant tabloid fodder.

Rumor Mill – ikeracity

Summary: Erik is the grumpiest, most foul tempered worker at Stark industries. His grumpiness is the stuff of legends.

So it's obviously the talk of the office when Erik is being made to go to the company party and he's bringing his husband. There's rumors flying round about how much of a masochist or equally antisocial bastard Erik's husband must be to put up with him. Others think he must be a meek mouse perhaps bullied by Erik.

What they weren't expecting was the confident, charming, adorable and unbelievably nice Charles that turns up on Erik's arm. What they certainly weren't expecting was how much Erik obviously adores his husband and how happy he is to let others see this.

Work/Life Balance – pocky_slash

Summary: Alex is pretty sure his weird, anti-social boss is a robot. Right up until the guy's adorable husband shows up. His adorable husband who happens to be a famous actor. His adorable husband who happens to be the very same famous actor who was the source of many of Alex's teenage fantasies.

Terrifying Domesticity – ishipitsobad

Summary: Erik is the most dangerous and notorious mafia boss around for miles, and yet the strangest things terrify him.

For example: his children, and his very pregnant mate.

Of kittens and teacups and love – Ren

Summary: Modern AU in which Charles and Erik are flatmates. Charles studies psychology and likes tea and chess and keeps bringing home stray kittens, and Erik lets him because he's maybe perhaps a little bit sort of in love with him.

Fools Rush In – LoveSupreme

Summary: Erik owns a cafe on the edge of campus and accidentally starts maybe-stalking a Biology Professor there.

Growing Pains – ikeracity

Summary: Twelve-year-old Erik Lehnsherr is an angry, closed-off foster kid with trust issues and a bad temper. Ten-year-old Charles Xavier is a lonely kid in boarding school who just wants a friend.

Logan pretends he doesn't think they're both fucking adorable.

Series

Home Together (The Finding Our Way Remix) – significantowl

Summary: Erik is not the sort of person other students strike up conversations with. His expression, his posture, every part of his manner say: Don’t talk to me. I don’t want to talk to you. But none of that stops the boy ahead of him in line with the collapsible white cane, and nothing can stop Erik from falling for him, like it or not.

Melted Ice Cream and Macaroni Art – pocky_slash

Summary: Everybody likes Charles. Nobody likes Erik. And that's really the source of Erik's doubts. Also, there's ice cream and a baby. Part of ‘the Daycare’ verse.

Walling in or Walling Out – stlkrchck

Summary: Erik stifles a sigh. Of course this is Mr. C. F. Xavier. Of course.

For the prompt: Charles and Raven are throwing a holiday party. Erik is the grumpy neighbor who is annoyed by how loud they are being. So he goes to complain, and Charles makes it up to him.

(Wise Men Say) Only Fools Rush In – wildelybroken

Summary: After reading a fic where Erik and Charles are super sluts, meet at what is presumably Raven and Emma's engagement party, and end up sleeping together, I made the following comment and just inspired myself.

"They start casually texting each other throughout the day, maybe while they’re bored or frustrated at work, and start out meeting up and sleeping together semi-frequently. And eventually they accidentally start dating without noticing it at first, not until Raven and Emma get them alone and are like “wtf you two super sluts are actually dating??” And at first they deny, but then they’re both like “holy shit, we are!” And they meet back at one of their places and they don’t have to say anything, they just look at each other and come together immediately, kissing passionately and ~making love~. In the middle of it they realise that’s what they’ve been doing for a long time now and they confess their love to each other and they live happily ever after because they deserve all the good in the world."

For Charles – Shigai

Summary: Tired of being told he has to find his 'heart', classical piano graduate Erik Lehnsherr decides to travel to Italy and drink from the famous Italian passion for music. While searching for it, he meets Charles Xavier, a graduate in Fine Arts who is basically travelling around the world perfectioning his technique, and who will turn his world upside down.

Together they will discover that, sometimes, what you thought you didn't need is what you needed the most.

Erik Hates People – Anonymous

Summary: Erik hates people- it's his rule, a way of living.

Sugar – humanitys_cutest

Summary: Erik glances at the clock for what feels like the tenth time in less than half the minutes. It feels like he's been in some meeting or other since the day started almost 10 hours ago, and he's had just about enough of listening to these pompous old men discuss what would be the best design for his building like they know anything about it. He tries as subtly as possible to massage his temples to assuage the building migraine, but he knows it's no use.

He just wants to go home.

Everyone Likes Charles – Rosawyn

Summary: '“Everyone who's met him likes him.” Cain's grin was even stupider than before. “Once you meet him, you'll see.”

It was almost like a challenge then. And damn. Erik hated saying no to a challenge.'

Still Going Strong – JackyJango

Summary: Speaking of forty-eight, Erik hates it. Hates it even more that others are aware of it. While he’s pragmatic enough to know and accept that aging is inexorable, the increase in number gives the people around him the freedom to pounce at him with questions, opinions and advice he'd fought to keep at bay all year.

Besides, Erik believes that youth is a state of mind, not a phase in one’s life.

You have a child’s mind in a man’s body, Charles constantly tells him.

But despite his age, Erik is healthy. He works out daily. His muscles are steel and he can dead-lift four hundred pounds. He can break bones without breaking a sweat. Most importantly, he can still carry Charles to the bedroom and fuck him senseless. And as long as Erik can do that, he’s perfectly happy.

All I know is pouring rain and everything has changed – hllfire

Summary: Charles meets Erik, the man he had heard about many times from his sister and some friends, on a rainy Sunday morning. The stories about Erik paint him as a distant and intimidating man, but Charles finds out that maybe the stories had been wrong.

How to Successfully Ruin Your Life – humanveil

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Charles Xavier accepts a job at his local café, expecting nothing more than a fun, new pastime. What he gets is a mysterious customer and a schoolboy crush.

Stolen – ishipitsobad

Summary: Erik is a miserable, grumpy, cantankerous bastard, and he has every fucking right to be. He drew the short end of the stick when he got the Underworld as his domain, and there isn't very much fun to be had in judging and governing dead souls who would rather be anywhere else but with Erik in the depths of Hell.

So when he meets Charles, brilliant and lovely Charles who is more popularly known amongst the mortals as Persephone, and feels the promise of something wonderful that could make his eternally doomed existence infinitely more bearable... you can bet all your drachmas Erik's not going to let Charles go any fucking time soon.

Erik Lehnsherr's Guide to Saving the Universe By Meeting Your Soul-Mate and Falling in Love in Less than 72 Hours – magneto, pangea

Summary:Army Pilot Erik Lehnsherr is just trying to enjoy his day off when a mostly naked person crashes through the roof of his car. Even more alarming, the strange falling naked person—who goes by Charles Xavier when he's not speaking an ancient dead language—brings tidings of the apparent potential end of the world, and begs Erik to help him put a stop to it.

Well. His mother has been nagging at him to go out and meet new people.

The Theory of Partnership Dynamics – Pangea

Summary: “Detective Lehnsherr, how wonderful to see you out on the job!” The fed in the front greets him as they draw nearer. He’s shorter than the other two by a full head, and he’s beaming at Lehnsherr as if completely undeterred by Lehnsherr’s paint-peeling scowl.

“What do the feds want?” Lehnsherr asks bluntly.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” the fed answers cheerfully. Then his gaze lands on Alex, and, impossibly, his grin gets even brighter. “Did you get a new partner?"

“No,” Lehnsherr says through his teeth while at the same time Alex says, “Yes.”

[atsukashii]

Hi is it ok if I request y/n x kuroo & she/her & ☀️ & pink please?

smooth like butter, like a criminal undercover gon' pop like trouble breaking into your heart like that

✘ hey google: how do you tell if a guy is flirting with you?

✘ GENRE: fluff

✘ WARNINGS: aged up characters, bookshop au

✘ WORD COUNT: 1.9k

“I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring in your own snacks.”

Closing your work locker, you raise an eyebrow at the familiar six foot, raven haired guy, who smirks down at you as if he just won first prize. In cringe worthy pick up lines? Yeah he can take that medal.

“Are you calling me a snack?” You ask, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Will you go out with me if I say yes?” Kuroo asks again, wagging his eyebrows at you teasingly, and you immediately know he’s messing with you.

“Not a chance.” Offering him a scathing glare, you spin on your heels and slip out the front door of the shop. When you’d first gotten the job at the small bookshop near your house, you'd have been ecstatic. Although you’d been less ecstatic about your new colleague who you’d never met before in your life, but had been slipping you cheesy and corny pick up lines every day for months.

You didn’t even know that there were that many ways to flirt with someone, but alas, Kuroo proved you wrong every shift. At first, you’d been a flustered bumbling mess trying to come up with a response, but as you caught on to how his hazel eyes glinted with untamed mischief, you’d decided that Kuroo wasn’t your favourite person.

That wasn’t to say that you by any means hated the guy, there was no way you could when he was literally one of the nicest people you’d ever come across in your life. He held doors open for you, and would volunteer to carry the new boxes of stock out back because they were heavy - although you had an inkling that was partly to show off. In the end, Kuroo is sweet, kind, and hilarious. But he thinks that hitting on you every day, and asking you out as a joke is also hilarious.

And it’s hilariously pissing you off.

Because somewhere down along the way, between the angel references and calling you a ‘cute-cumber’ you’d found yourself smiling at the lines. You found yourself anticipating getting to work shifts with him, just to see him and for the chance to witness the familiar rogue smile and the pure giddiness that emits from his very being.

But to him, it was a joke. And that left more than a bad taste in your mouth.

Adjusting your bag once more, you try to slide the store door closed behind you to keep the aircon inside - a stark contrast to the summer heat bearing down on you. Before it can close completely, a hand rolls the glass door to a stop and you find yourself once again looking up into hazel eyes.

“Not finished?” You snipe back, having reached your quota of fake flirting for the day. Kuroo doesn’t flinch at your tone, or maybe he just chooses not to notice judging by the smile that graces his face. Maybe, just maybe you could eventually get over him. It’s not going to go anywhere, if it was going to, he wouldn’t have waited literal months to make a move. So maybe, you can let him go.

“Oh I have plenty more for you princess, but I just thought you might want this first.” In his hand is a copy of the book you’d been reading behind the counter of your shifts. Blinking twice, you realise it’s got similar dog eared pages and a crinkled spine from continuous use - that's your book. Instinctively you peer into your bag on your shoulder, and alas, it's empty. With an empty mind, you take the item from Kuroo’s outstretched hand, and offer him a quick thanks as you try to swallow the emotion in your throat.

“You’re most welcome. Walk home safe, I'll see you tomorrow princess.” Kuroo responds with a rogue wink that has you flushing from head to toe. His knowing grin proves that was the response he was looking for, so you quickly shove the book in your back and practically run from your work - swearing that you can feel his gaze on you the whole way home.

Yeah, there’s no chance you’re going to get over him.

This is cemented on your next night shift. You stand behind the counter, your eyes glancing up from the book you’re reading to the group of teenage girls giggling amongst the young adult isle. Really, it should be an actual law for people to be as quiet in bookstores as they are in libraries.

The door opens once more, and you begin to groan internally at the thought of even more rowdy teenagers coming in, but instead Kuroo slinks through the door in all his six foot two glory. Dressed in his work shirt, some black jeans and his usual sneakers, he looks good and the bastard knows it from the raised eyebrows he shoots you when he catches you looking. You don’t reply, but instead turn back to your book, ignoring him and the gaggling teenagers who suddenly shut up as he walks past them to go to the back room. You can’t blame them as their eyes stay glued to his every movement. Kuroo walks like he was meant to carry the world on his shoulders, but instead spins it like a basketball on one finger. As if the most difficult things for him are effortless. Like a god amongst men. Okay, let's not go that far. If he ever heard that, his ego would asphyxiate everyone from here to the south pole.

“Do you like my shirt?” Kuroo’s question has you turning around before you can stop yourself, but you’re all levels of confused as he holds the hem of his shirt in pinched fingers away from his body. His shirt? It’s his work shirt…

“Uh it’s your work shirt…” You manage to mumble out, brows still furrowed, completely baffled.

“Yeah but its made of a different material.” He points out, moving closer to you, only looking up from his shirt and to you when he’s standing only a few feet away. “Boyfriend material.” His grin is actually blinding, so you’re not sure if you’re squinting from that, or from the way you scrunch up your nose in distaste at his line.

“I hate you.” You grumble, turning away and looking down at your book once more, letting your hair fall over your cheeks to hide the flush splashed brightly across them.

“Hate me? Why must you hurt me so princess?” Kuroo jokes, and you find yourself getting more and more disappointed as he grows quiet and begins to start on his own work for the shift. It’s not until you both notice the gaggling girls practically drooling on the floor at him that you decide you need to take your break.

Closing your book loud enough to startle the group of girls and the guy flicking aimlessly through a volleyball magazine at your side. “I’m going for my ten.” You offer in explanation as you try to move out back. You don’t get to even make it past the counter before there's a warm hand wrapping around your own. Kuroo’s hand completely engulfs yours in the best ways and you can’t help but gape at it as it pulls your walk to a stop.

“Are you alright?” He asks, drawing your eyes reluctantly from your entwined hands to his face, and once you spot genuine concern there, you hesitate with your response. How do you say that no, you’re not okay because would you be if the person that you liked jokingly asked you out on a daily basis for months on repeat? But never meant it?

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Kuroo doesn’t let go just yet, but instead scratches the back of his neck with his other hand nervously.

“You know, if I'm honestly bothering you, please tell me. I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable y/n,” He offers, shame and hurt flashing brightly in his eyes - and it shocks you stupid for a few seconds. It takes you an added moment that he’s talking about his teasing. Wait, he thinks he’s bothering me? Is he?

“Kuroo, if it was bothering me I would have told you alright?” You say softly, your gaze drifting back to your hand. “I mean sure sometimes it can be a bit much but that's mainly because I'm an idiot.” Not expecting those words, Kuroo’s nerves bleed into a confused frown that has you wanting to reach up and thumb away the line between his pinched brows.

“An idiot? Princess, if what I'm saying is bothering you-”

“It’s not what you’re saying that’s bothering me, it’s the joking.” The second the words leave your mouth, you wish you could reach out, grab them, and shove them back down your throat, because the way Kuroo drops your hand as if it burnt him hurts more than you thought it would.

“Joking?” His tone is utterly perplexed, and this time, you’re the one looking back at him with confusion. A loud laugh barks from his chest and you immediately feel embarrassed for absolutely nothing. Kuroo is laughing so hard and obnoxiously that tears actually crest the corner of his eyes, and at this rate you’re ready to just walk out the door if it means you don’t have to deal with this embarrassment for another second.

“You mean to tell me, that all this time you thought I was joking?” Kuroo gets out between laughs, and you feel your stomach drop at his words. What does he mean did you think he was joking? Was he not?

Your silence is answer enough because he runs a hand through his thick dark hair and leans back on the counter behind him.

“Jesus Christ Y/n!”

“You would laugh at me after you said them!” You defend, pointing an accusing finger in his way. How could you not think he was joking when he’d laugh at you, his whole being the very embodiment of mischief when he would say his lines.

“Because your face would go red and you’d tell me I was an idiot under your breath, because it was cute!” Kuroo rebuts right back, trying once more not to laugh, and you can’t help but groan. You cannot believe that this entire time, he was actually trying to ask you out on a date. Well, you can’t fault his perseverance and tenacity.

“Kuroo,” you grumble, bridging your fingers and pressing them to your forehead in thought, just trying to calm your raging heart at the fact that this is happening.

“Y/n,” he grins right back, and you can feel him closing in on your position before you can even see him. But once you open your eyes again, letting your hands fall from your face, Kuroo’s stunning features are right up close and more beautiful than you’d thought.

“Does this mean that you’ll go out with me when I ask this time?” You really do try for your pride's sake to not flush at his words, but heat still crawls up your neck and Kuroo’s growing smile tells you that your mental attempt to stop it isn’t working.

“Yes, I will.” You say, letting the smile tug at the corners of your mouth.

“Good, I'll remember that for my new line tomorrow.”

✘ A/N: more fluffy kurro for ya day, y'all i am l i v i n g for this man rn

©️ 2021 all rights reserved to atsukashii, do not change, edit, translate, or repost any works on any platform.

[yesokaythatsfine69]

You Sexy Thing (Levi Ackerman x reader)

Description: Often Captain Levi is a little shit, and sometimes- he needs to be reminded about who's in control.

Character(s): Y/n, Levi

Pov: 2nd person, third person

Warning(s): SMUT!!! PORN WITHOUT PLOT- PEGGING, 18+

A/n: I keep seeing all this talk about pegging Levi Ackerman but I couldn't find anything to show- so in the words of Thanos, "I guess I'll do it myself"

Word Count:

*none of the Gifs used are mine, full credit goes to the maker :)

Your fists clenched, nails digging into the palms, on the verge of breaking skin. The yelps of your fellow squad members caused your teeth to grind. They had to have ran over four miles today- probably more- they had to do suicides double time, all of this shit and more were because the lovely supreme commander of heaven and hell, Squad leader Levi Ackerman had felt their cleaning of the stalls had been less than ideal.

Currently you were in the midst of doing push ups till he deemed fit. You glanced up at the captain, watching as his silver eyes roamed over the lot of you. Even as you seethed and raged- he was still the most gorgeous sight your eyes had ever laid upon. Levi's hair was raven black, in contrast to his light skin and silvery orbs. His hair was what caught you at first- the way it seemed to fall over his eyes just a bit.

It was long enough you could pull your fingers through- you were sure. You could only imagined how soft it must be. Levi facial features also caught you at a loss for words- they were quite dainty. Long black eye lashes, a soft line nose, and thin pink lips. God, was he pretty.

Your eyes moved from their spot, away from your Adonis and to the ground. No matter how pretty he was, he was still a bastard.

You mumbled incoherently to yourself, flexing your fists. The pain of doing another pushup finally getting to you. "Tch, I think you've all learned your lessons." You looked up again, knees dropping. The Devil himself spoke, lifting his hand and waving it in dismissal. "Go to the showers, you brats stink." Blowing a strand of hair from your eye, you rolled your shoulders back, taking Petra's outstretched hand as you bounded up.

No one spoke as they dispersed. You were itching for a shower, and you practically ran to get one.

You were dead tired, dead sleepy, and running on pure anger.

You watched the water flow into the drain near your feet, fixated on nothing but the boiling water as it hit you. Your anger had not evaporated-it simply grew. If he thought he could've done a better job, maybe he should have done it. You slammed the water off.

Or perhaps- and this was just a thought- he could let you get some real training in, instead of wasting your time and energy on being punished.

Punished.

Your eyes narrowed.

You stepped from the shower, one foot at a time.

Perhaps...the omnipotent captain Levi deserved a punishment of his own. Something that would...bring him down a peg.

You smiled, remembering a certain box hid underneath just for this type of reason.

"I think I might have just the thing."

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Levi was just as sexy (if not more) than he was pretty. Something about him, oozed it. Maybe it was the way he walked, confident but not egotistical. They way spoke- his voice. His dry humor, his bleak expressions, his impeccable fighting skills and savagery...his taunt ass, or maybe it was the way his uniform hugged his body.

Your hands tugged at a box that laid deep beneath your bed. It scraped against the floor, finally sliding directly in front of you. You unhooked the latch, pulling out the important piece of equipment you'd need tonight.

You bit your tongue.

--------------------------------------------------

The truth was, you could spot a bottom from a mile away. It was also the people who needed control in their daily lives- people who needed everything perfect. At night they liked to take a break- to be controlled. Who were you to judge? You couldn't blame them, not hardly.

You knocked at his office door. It was late, barely a few minutes before lights out. For several seconds nothing happened, but you waited. Patience was a specialty.

"Come in." The tone was annoyed, and as you entered you could see why. He had stacks of papers before him, a signal candle lighting the room. Levi rubbed his temples, a sign that the dim lighting had an affect.

His eyes flickered up to met yours, "lieutenant Y/L/N?" The air was tense and goosebumps erupted across your forearms. "Captain Levi, I'm glad I caught you." His Expression remained unchanging. "Tch, yeah, I'm sure. What do you want, brat?"

You smiled, your hands intertwining from behind your back. "You to apologise." His entire body paused. Levi twitched his head to the side, a small movement. "Oh? So you're here to waste both are times then, y/l/n." You turned, locking his office door behind you.

Levi stood. "Oi, oi, oi, what do you think you're doing?" You turned back to face him. "The only person who wasted our time today was you." His eyes narrowed slightly. This was a side of you he hadn't been used to. Sure, he'd seen this intense focus on your face before, this same expression you wore when you sliced and diced titan after titan.

"Tch, what are you on about you stupid-" I'm flash you had his hair in your grip, dragging his head to you. "It's not nice to call people stupid, Levi." His eyes were wide, and his face was inches away from your own. "I can forgive that though, especially when you look so pretty like this."

His eyes sunk back, his shock leaving him. "Oi, I guess you've got me where you want me." You smiled, innocence twinkled in your irises. "Not yet I don't." Loosening your tight grip, you gently guided his head to close the gap between you two.

His eyes fluttered close upon impact, the tenseness he often carried with his resolve melting away with the warmth of your lips. You hummed, feeling the way he seemed to open up with your touch. Gently you scratched his scalp, pulling a sigh from his mouth.

When it opened you wasted no time slipping in your tongue. He tasted like tea, which wasn't suprising but was rather delightful. He let out a small groan as she gave his bottom lip a small bite, tugging softly. Her hands slipped underneath his shirt, dancing across his warm chest and abs. The feeling of what lied beneath was enticing and she pulled away eager to see it.

Levi groaned when you left him, an irritated, "y/n." Leaving his lips as his arms tried to find you, to bring you back to him. You escaped him though and worked to pull his shirt off.

When you had an object so important it was natural that worked as efficiently as possible to succeed. With that mindset you had him shirtless within seconds, Levi felt that had to be some type of record.

With his comfort in mind as soon as his shirt was off you folded it properly, working as efficiently as you had to take if off of him. When your eyes met his, they twinkled with something akin to admiration. You smiled and pulled him into a chaste kiss, his tongue moving to part your lips, but fire he could succeed you began moving.

You kissed his chin, and he frowned. "What are-" Then you kissed his neck and a shiver racked his body. His breath quickened and shook, your lips planting directly over his heartbeat. You sucked, making sure to leave him as many reminders of tonight as you could.

Your lips moved down his chest, blessing each nipple with a tug of teeth. Licking a stripe down his v line, you unbottoned his pants. He moaned, "y/n..." Watching as you tugged down his underwear with your teeth. His length sprained free, looking almost as eager as you.

"Stunning..." You spoke licking a line up his shaft. His legs shook at your move and you laughed, wrapping your first around his base. "It can't be this easy, Levi." He blinked looking down at you in bewilderment.

You lifted yourself up, becoming eye level with him. As light as a feather you stroked his cheek, his head leaning into your hand as though it were instinct. "I figured humanity's strongest would have put up more of fight." His eyes narrowed. "Especially since you seem to love giving orders." Your nails stabbed into his skin, his eyes widened and he pulled back "tch! You bitch!"

Your other hand grabbed his neck, squeezing it and bringing him to you. "I've wanted you for so long. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be so close and yet so far, to someone everyone wants." "Y/n." Levi whimpered as your hand tightened around his throat. "Maybe you do know how much you're wanted. Maybe you like it." You let go and he fell forward, you catching him.

"I guess we'll just have to add that to lists of why you must be punished." You pushed him to his knees, his pants still wrapped around his ankles. Your foot spread his legs apart, and kept them there. Your hand found his chin, pulling his face up.

"i hope you like this view, you'll need to get used to it." You pulled up your shirt, taking it off effortlessly. His eyes widened at your chest- you had chosen to go braless. Then, they relaxed, his tongue going between his teeth.

You pulled your pants off next, and then your underwear. The strap you had put on before you left your room flung out, and Levi looked between you and it. "Like I said, you need to be punished..." You stroked the strap on. "I consider this the punisher." You voice had dropped an octave lower.

Levi took on a dazed expression, half lidden eyes taking in the sight. "Open your mouth." His eyes flickered back up to you. They were big and puppy like."I said." You reached down and pinched his two cheeks together. "Open. Your. Mouth." His pretty little mouth popped open, and your hips thrusted the device in. Your hand ran through his hair as he sucked, when you reached the back of his head you pushed him forward.

Levi gagged around your cock, the fake tip hitting the back of his throat. Tears prickled, in his eyes, but your coos to take in more, to be a good boy for you, they caused his brows the furrow as he adjusted and did what he could to please you.

Using your grip on his head he allowed you guide him at your will, submitting to the drive of your hands. His eyes closed finally and your leg pressed up against his own hard on. "Who would've thought humanity's strongest could look so hot sucking dick." You spoke softly, causing your good boy to moan into the dick.

Finally, you pulled away watching the strings of salvia appear and separate as you let him go. His head bobbled towards you, his eyes barely open.

"fuck me...please." you bent down to where he was. "Oh baby..." Again, you stroked his cheek gently. "I'll do so much more than that to you. When I'm done with you...you won't be able to walk tomorrow." His breathe caught and you laughed. "Be my good boy and go to your desk. Ass out."

You watched him stand and walk to his desk, still filled with long forgotten papers and a dimly lit candle. You stood and moved to the neat pile you had placed his clothes in.

You pulled out his belt, smiling and snapping it. This could be useful.

You moved to where he stood, wrapping yourself behind him. "How well you listen, Levi." You slammed his upper body down onto the desk, pulling his hips up. His ass was on full display in the air, as perky as you imagined. Taking two fingers, you shoved them up is mouth.

Levi didn't need a command, his tongue went right to work. He wrapped it around your fingers while he moaned, pushing his hips against you and your cock.

"cheeky, cheeky." You smirked taking your free hand to grab his ass. Finally satisfied you pulled her fingers from his mouth.

"more..." His voice rasped out. "More? I haven't even started." With that you pushed your fingers into his tight hole. You began scissoring them, watching as he twitched beneath you. His breathing became louder the more you curled. Then you hit his prostate and he cried out, gasping at the intense pleasure you gave him.

Your fingers pulled out, and you reached for the belt that you had placed beside him for such a moment. "Tch, y/n please you must-" you reared the belt back and slammed it forward, the belt bouncing off his ass with a thrup! Sound. He gasped delightedly, his cheek pressed up against the cold metal of his desk.

Again you reared down, jolting his body. "You." Slap. "Think." Slap. "That." Slap. "You." Slap. "Can." Slap. "Just." Slap. "Treat." Slap. "People." Slap. "Like." Slap. "Shit." Slap. "Just." Slap. "Because." Slap. "You." Slap. "Are." Slap. "A." Slap. "Squad." Slap. "Leader." Tears streamed from his eyes, ass red and tender.

"you can't." You grabbed his hands from his sides, "and now you're going to be tied up with your own belt, right after you were just spanked with your own belt." You slide the belt around till it was tight enough to only hurt a bit.

Then you you raised his hands directly over his head. This was used as something to grip onto while you fucked him.

Her other hand made sure you two were properly aligned, and with little more than a grunt you thrusted in. A breath released from his body, a shout escaped his lips as you bottomed out.

You waited several seconds, gently stroking his face and cooing to him, waiting. Finally he nodded, telling you everything you needed to know. You pulled back, almost completely out, save for the tip before you plowed into him.

Your hips thrusted- hard and faster. The only way Levi Ackerman deserved- rough. Each time you bottomed out he grunted and it became a steady rhythm of grunts.

"nnnuh...nuuhhnn..ahhh..." He was drooling, each hit of his prostate weakening his resolve a bit more and making him a bit more needy for more.

Your position made it almost impossible for him to move and he could really only met your thrusts. "Harder!" He gasped out, tears running down his face, drool dripping from his mouth.

Your hand reached around and tugged along his dick, high pitched whines now leaving the captains mouth. "Y/n! Y/n I'm so close please, please." You bent down and bit into his shoulder, causing another Yelp to leave the squad leader.

"cum, bitch." You whispered to his ear and with a cry Levi Ackerman came, his eyes practically crossing as he painted his chest and desk white.

He laid their several seconds, breathing harshly and listening to the sounds of your praises. He was a good boy, he was. He was your good boy now, all yours.

Gently you helped him up and into his shower, fully discarding his bottoms and your strap, to take back to your room to wash.

You cleaned, scrubbed, and were as gentle as possible, making sure to help him to his bed.

You pulled your shirt over your head. "I can stay till you leave for breakfast...if you want that is but-" he cut you off. "Tch...Stay as long as you want." He pulled himself up and onto his elbows. "Especially since you didn't cum."

You raised a brow. "Levi, I appreciate it, but I don't think you're read yet...I mean- we-" again he cut you off. "Y/n, my mouth is always ready."

You paused. He was right, you hadn't cum and not very often did the people you slept with care. He was offering his mouth to you- not that Levi surprised you much- he was very caring and it seemed natural he'd be that way in bed.

You smiled and tugged off your shirt. "I hope you're hungry." You crawled into the bed, barely having to do a damn thing as Levi simply hoisted you up- as if you weighed nothing- and sat you on his face.

His nose carded through your folds- parting them for his tongue. Your hips buckled against him, thighs closing around his face. His hands came up and wrapped around them, pressing them together.

"Fuck, Levi." You moaned as his tongue licked from your hole to your clit, where he sucked for several seconds. Again he pushed his nose up into you, allowing you to ride his face and practically suffocate him. "God, you're so good." You squealed, yanking at his raven locks. He had definitely done this before and definitely knew how good he was.

He hummed into you, pushing you down each time your hips buckled up. Finally it seemed he had enough with your erratic movements before he flipped you into your back and moved so that he was on his stomach, mouth never leaving your core.

Your legs wrapped around his head as he ate, each time dipping his head in deeper to your core. His tongue fucked your hole with urgency, meaning, desire and finally with one final plunge you came, wetting his face.

He pulled away, allowing you to sit up. Your legs were shaky, but you moved so that you were directly in front of him. You licked your juices from his face, meeting him in a chaste kiss.

"Maybe I should be more harsh on you cadets more often." He spoke hurriedly as she pushed him down. You tutted. "Did you really learn nothing, my sweet boy?" He shrugged allowing you to pin his hands down above him.

"What can I say? I am the leader of the brats."

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BONUS

Erwin frowned at his friend and colleague. The two had been eating breakfast together and everything had seemed rather ordinary until Erwin noticed a bruise on the side of Levi's neck.

"uh..Levi?" Levi glanced up. "Where did you get that bruise?" Levi frowned at Erwin. "What bruise?" Erwin rolled his eyes impatiently. "The one on your neck."

"Hello everyone! I hope everyone slept well!" Hanji appeared interrupting the conversation. She slid into a chair on the other side of Levi, smiling happily.

Erwin made a few more glances at Levi's neck, but felt it best to leave it, lest he be smitted by the all powerful Levi Ackerman.

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A/n: BARK BARK BARK okay I definitely got a bit...carried away. Anyways I hope you enjoyed this, thanks for reading, and pls feel free to give critism!

[butterflies-dragons]

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

(Title from the namesake poem by e.e. cummings)

Jon Snow, Sansa Stark & Winterfell. An exploration.

A/N: This composition in no way denies the connection of the other Stark children, Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, with the north, Winterfell, the weirwood tree, and the old gods, but focuses primarily on Jon and Sansa.

I. WHITE AS BONE, RED AS BLOOD

(Art credit: White Wolf by  Kay-Ra)

Have you ever stopped to think about how Ghost, Jon's direwolf, is always described as the weirwood tree?

The weirwood is a species of deciduous trees found in Westeros, now found most commonly in the north and beyond the Wall. The five-pointed leaves and the sap of weirwoods are blood-red, while the smooth bark on their wide trunks and wood are bone white. Most weirwoods have faces carved into their trunks. This was done by the children of the forest in ancient days, and is now done by the free folk as well as other descendants of the First Men, such as followers of the old gods in the Seven Kingdoms praying to heart trees in godswoods. In some cases sap has collected in the crevices of the carved faces, giving the trees red eyes which have been known to drip sap as if the trees were weeping. A weirwood will live forever if undisturbed. Weirwoods are considered sacred to the followers of the old gods, and children of the forest believe weirwoods are the gods. [Source]

The weirwood tree is always watchful and silent:

The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

Bran had always liked the godswood, even before, but of late he found himself drawn to it more and more. Even the heart tree no longer scared him the way it used to. The deep red eyes carved into the pale trunk still watched him, yet somehow he took comfort from that now. The gods were looking over him, he told himself; the old gods, gods of the Starks and the First Men and the children of the forest, his father's gods. He felt safe in their sight, and the deep silence of the trees helped him think. Bran had been thinking a lot since his fall; thinking, and dreaming, and talking with the gods.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran VI

The weirwood tree is also called the heart tree:

At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. "The heart tree," Ned called it.  The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle's granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

The most famous weirwood tree in Westeros is the one in the godswood of Winterfell:

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Now, let’s see how Ghost is described:

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said. "Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup.  His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran I

And suddenly Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees …

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VI

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. "A very quiet wolf," he observed. "He's not like the others," Jon said. "He never makes a sound. That's why I named him Ghost. That, and because he's white. The others are all dark, grey or black."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Even Ghost backed off a step, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. The direwolf was big, but the mammoths were a deal bigger, and there were many and more of them.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

In the dark, the direwolf's red eyes looked black. He nuzzled at Jon's neck, silent as ever, his breath a hot mist.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

As the weirwood is called the heart of Winterfell, Ghost is also part of Jon:

When he finally put the quill down, the room was dim and chilly, and he could feel its walls closing in. Perched above the window, the Old Bear's raven peered down at him with shrewd black eyes. My last friend, Jon thought ruefully. And I had best outlive you, or you'll eat my face as well. Ghost did not count. Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

The face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree, is described as “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”:

At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. "The heart tree," Ned called it. The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

At the heart of the godswood, the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran III

When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

These features: “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding,” are distinctive of House Stark, and we find them specially in Ned Stark and Jon Snow:

Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran I

"I see." His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. "My brother does not seem very festive tonight." Jon had noticed that too. A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes. His father was observing all the courtesies, but there was tightness in him that Jon had seldom seen before. He said little, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes, seeing nothing. Two seats away, the king had been drinking heavily all night. His broad face was flushed behind his great black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest, and attacked each dish like a starving man, but beside him the queen seemed as cold as an ice sculpture. "The queen is angry too," Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. "Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn't want him to go." Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. "You don't miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

She [Arya] even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II

The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son.

—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II

When he had gone, Eddard Stark went to the window and sat brooding. Robert had left him no choice that he could see. He ought to thank him. It would be good to return to Winterfell. He ought never have left. His sons were waiting there. Perhaps he and Catelyn would make a new son together when he returned, they were not so old yet. And of late he had often found himself dreaming of snow, of the deep quiet of the wolfswood at night.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VIII

"Why should Lord Karstark want him dead?" Catelyn asked. Robb looked away into the woods, with the same brooding look that Ned often got. "He … he killed them …"

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn X

Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow's face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did they fill men with such lusts? "Lord Baelish, what do you know of Robert's bastards?" "Well, he has more than you, for a start."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IX

When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon I

“Who’s this one now?” Craster said before Jon could go. “He has the look of a Stark.” “My steward and squire, Jon Snow.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

And after the war, at Winterfell, I had love enough for any woman, once I found the good sweet heart beneath Ned's solemn face.

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V

Even after stumbling into his narrow bed, rest had not come easily. He knew what he would face today, and found himself tossing restlessly as he brooded on Maester Aemon's final words. […] Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born."

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

As you can see, Jon Snow’s face is as “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding” as the face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree.

To sum it up:

The children of the forest believe that the weirwoods are the old gods themselves.

In Ghost (red eyes, white fur, watchful eyes, silent), we have a symbol of the weirwood tree (red leaves, white bark, watchful eyes, silent).

The weirwood is called a heart tree, and Winterfell’s weirwood in particular is called the heart of Winterfell.  

The weirwood is a part of Winterfell (its heart) as Ghost is part of Jon.

The face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree, is described as “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”. This description also fits Ghost’s master: Jon Snow.

In Jon Snow and Ghost we really have symbols of the weirwood tree. Jon Snow and Ghost represent the heart of Winterfell.

Now, let’s talk about Winterfell.

II. RAISED AFTER THE LONG NIGHT

Have you ever wondered what the name Winterfell means? Has it something to do with the Stark’s motto Winter is coming?

Let’s analyze the semantics of the words that form the name. The word ‘winter’ doesn’t need a major explanation, we all know its meaning. And for the word ‘fell’, we have this:

Noun: 1. The English word fell comes from Old Norse fell and fjall (both forms existed). It is cognate with Danish fjeld, Faroese fjall and fjøll, Icelandic fjall and fell, Norwegian fjell with dialects fjøll, fjødd, fjedd, fjedl, fjill, fil(l) and fel, and Swedish fjäll, all referring to mountains rising above the alpine tree line. [source] 2. A hill or other area of high land, especially in northwest England. [source] 3. A high barren field or moor. [source]

So, the name “Winterfell” could mean “wintry mountain(s)”.

Verb: 1. Past simple of “fall.” 2. Transitive verb: a) to cut, knock, or bring down; b) kill.

Adjective: 1. evil or cruel [source] 2. a) fierce, cruel, terrible b) sinister, malevolent c) deadly [source]

I think George masterly played with the word “fell” as a verb and as an adjective here, because:

As the past simple of “fall,” winter + fell could refer to “the arrival of winter.”

For example:    

"You mean the Others," Bran said querulously. "The Others," Old Nan agreed. "Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks." Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, "So, child. This is the sort of story you like?"

—A Game of Thrones - Bran IV

It is also from these histories that we learn of the Long Night, when a season of winter came that lasted a generation—a generation in which children were born, grew into adulthood, and in many cases died without ever seeing the spring. Indeed, some of the old wives' tales say that they never even beheld the light of day, so complete was the winter that fell on the world.

—The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Long Night

Rhaenyra's chief supporters were her good-father Lord Velaryon, her cousin Lady Jeyne Arryn, and Lord Stark (though his help was slow in coming, as he kept every man to harvest what they could before winter fell on the North).

—The World of Ice and Fire - The Targaryen Kings: Aegon II

Then, “Winterfell” (winter + fell) could be used as the Stark motto, once the winter arrived.

But the verb “fall” also means:

1. to be beaten or defeated [source] 2. to be defeated or fail [source] 3. to suffer ruin, defeat, or failure [source]

So, “Winterfell” (winter + fell) could mean that “the Long Winter (Long Night) was defeated.”

Indeed, Brandon the Builder could have chosen the name “Winterfell” (winter + fell) for everyone to remember that the First Men and the Children of the Forest defeated the Long Night:  

The greatest castle of the North is Winterfell, the seat of the Starks since the Dawn Age. Legend says that Brandon the Builder raised Winterfell after the generation-long winter known as the Long Night to become the stronghold of his descendants, the Kings of Winter.

—The World of Ice and Fire - The North: Winterfell

But if we use “fell” as an adjective for winter (fell + winter) it means: a fierce, cruel, terrible, sinister, malevolent, deadly winter, that would be the perfect description for the Long Winter (Long Night).

For example:  

However, if this fell winter did take place, as the tales say, the privation would have been terrible to behold. During the hardest winters, it is customary for the oldest and most infirm amongst the northmen to claim they are going out hunting—knowing full well they will never return and thus leaving a little more food for those likelier to survive. Doubtless this practice was common during the Long Night.

—The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Long Night

I think George paid homage to J.R.R. Tolkien with the Long Winter (Long Night), because some similar events happened in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings World:

Fell Winter (First Age), was an especially long and bitter winter, with ice and snow from November to March.

Long Winter, was an extremely cold and long-lasting winter in Middle-earth, covering Eriador, Dunland and Rohan.

Fell Winter (Third Age), was an extremely cold and long-lasting winter in Middle-earth.

See: “Fell + Winter” (The Long Night) & “Winter + Fell” (Victory over the Long Night). We have to admire George here, it's amazing how good he is with the English Language.

Now let’s go back to Winterfell the castle. “Legend says that Brandon the Builder raised Winterfell after the generation-long winter known as the Long Night.” A castle rising after the end of winter... Where did I read about a castle rising after the winter fell before??? Oh yes! That’s from my favorite Sansa chapter:

The snow fell and the castle rose. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

This is such a beautiful scene with such a beautiful wording. GRRM not only gave us foreshadowing of Sansa re-building Winterfell in the future, but he also crafted that scene as a reminder of the First Men and the Children of the Forest victory over the Long Night at the Battle for the Dawn.

Dawn is what follows after the night ends, and it is Sansa Stark, a descendant of Brandon The Builder, a character heavily linked with the sun and morning and light (in other words: heavily linked with the Dawn), that wakes up, at dawn, to build a castle out of the snow that fell over the Eyrie’s Godswood, to build her home, the greatest castle of the North, Winterfell.

And as history repeats itself, the Long Night could be back again, so that’s why the Starks are always saying that “Winter is coming”. The Stark’s motto sounds like a warning for all the realm.

Yes, suddenly all of the Stark’s sayings, pronounced by our good old Ned, sound like warnings about the Long Night:

"The winters are hard," Ned admitted. "But the Starks will endure. We always have."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya II

And my favorite line from Ned:

'In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true … but what if we prevail?'

—A Dance with Dragons - Davos I

So, the second coming of the Long Night is certain, this has been foreshadowed since AGOT:

North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. "Why?" Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran III

But we also know that the Starks will endure and prevail at the end. Even if Winterfell should fall, which is very probable, a new symbol of their victory over the Long Night will rise again. With a new Dawn, there will be a new Winterfell.

Now, let's talk about what Winterfell means to Jon.

III. HE WANTED IT AS MUCH AS HE HAD EVER WANTED ANYTHING

(Art credit: Jon finds Ghost, by Magali Villeneuve © Fantasy Flight Games)

In a few words, Winterfell is what Jon wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything. He had always wanted Winterfell. But of course, since we are talking about Jon Snow, his strong desire for Winterfell would fill him with an enormous guilt; first and foremost due to his bastard status and secondly due to his vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch:

When Jon had been very young, too young to understand what it meant to be a bastard, he used to dream that one day Winterfell might be his. […] All he had to do was say the word, and he would be Jon Stark, and nevermore a Snow. All he had to do was pledge this king his fealty, and Winterfell was his. All he had to do … …was forswear his vows again.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

“That morning he called it first. “I’m Lord of Winterfell!” he cried, as he had a hundred times before. Only this time, this time, Robb had answered, “You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born. My lady mother says you can’t ever be the Lord of Winterfell.” […] Why am I so angry? he asked himself, but it was a stupid question. Lord of Winterfell. I could be the Lord of Winterfell. My father’s heir. […] Stannis wants me to be the Lord of Winterfell. But what do I want? […] He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. 

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

In the end Jon rejected Stannis’s offer and gave up Winterfell and he did it mainly for the love he had towards his family. With that decision he also remained loyal to his vows to the Night’s Watch, so, in other words, he kept his honor by doing his duty.Someone please tell Lady Stoneheart that Jon Snow, among all the Stark children, is the one who more profoundly internalized the Tully words: “Family, Duty, Honor”.

If Jon had accepted Stannis’s offer, he would have had Winterfell, but at an extremely high price: burning the weirwood tree, which, to him, would be sacrilege:

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

What precisely helped Jon find an answer to Stannis’s offer was his beloved direwolf, Ghost; that is to say, a symbol of the weirwood tree.

Indeed, after their separation beyond the Wall, Ghost returned to Jon just in time to help him choose between his deepest desire and his family and duty:

It was a long moment before he understood what was happening. When he did, he bolted to his feet. “Ghost?” He turned toward the wood, and there he came, padding silently out of the green dusk, the breath coming warm and white from his open jaws. “Ghost!” he shouted, and the direwolf broke into a run. He was leaner than he had been, but bigger as well, and the only sound he made was the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath his paws. When he reached Jon he leapt, and they wrestled amidst brown grass and long shadows as the stars came out above them. “Gods, wolf, where have you been?” Jon said when Ghost stopped worrying at his forearm. “I thought you’d died on me, like Robb and Ygritte and all the rest. I’ve had no sense of you, not since I climbed the Wall, not even in dreams.” The direwolf had no answer, but he licked Jon’s face with a tongue like a wet rasp, and his eyes caught the last light and shone like two great red suns. Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one. And he alone of all the direwolves was white. Six pups they’d found in the late summer snows, him and Robb; five that were grey and black and brown, for the five Starks, and one white, as white as Snow. He had his answer then.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

And at this point, we all know what was Jon’s answer, right?

“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

Yes, Jon’s answer was Sansa. Winterfell belongs to Sansa. He could have said ‘Winterfell belongs to my sisters Sansa and Arya’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to my trueborn sisters’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to the Starks’ but no. He said, more than once, that Winterfell belongs to Sansa. And I think there is an important reason for this wording. And that reason is that Jon and Sansa are destined to rebuild Winterfell and continue the Stark legacy.  

Now let’s talk about Sansa, Winterfell and the weirwood tree.

IV. COME TO THE GODSWOOD TONIGHT, IF YOU WANT TO GO HOME

Sansa’s journey back home starts with a godswood.

(Art credit: Sansa meets Ser Dontos in the godswood of the Red Keep by Jonathan Burton)

“Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home.” With these words Littlefinger trapped Sansa using her deepest desire to go back home, to Winterfell.

"But . . . my lord, you said . . . you said we were sailing home." "You look distraught. Did you think we were making for Winterfell, sweetling? Winterfell has been taken, burned, and sacked. All those you knew and loved are dead. What northmen who have not fallen to the ironmen are warring amongst themselves. Even the Wall is under attack. Winterfell was the home of your childhood, Sansa, but you are no longer a child. You're a woman grown, and you need to make your own home."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

Littlefinger words were a vile lie, but the author’s words were telling the truth: Come to the godswood and you will be home, only in the godswood you will find home. But not any godswood. Only Winterfell’s Godswood is Sansa’s home.  

It’s not a coincidence that every castle that Sansa visited in the south so far, had a godswood but not a weirwood tree. This image represents Sansa (the godswood) without Lady (the weirwood tree).

The south meant loss after loss for Sansa. And every one of those losses were seen as a cut from her northern roots. Without Lady, she lost her connection to the old gods. Without Ned, she lost her connection to House Stark. Without her hair color and true born status she lost her own identity and pride (Sansa may be dead as well. There’s only Alayne Stone).

But while at a superficial level Sansa could be seen as not a Stark anymore, she was always a Stark, a wolf, a skinchanger, a child of the wintry mountains of the north, it’s just that the author decided to make it subtle, hiding all those signs of Sansa’s Starkness in a form of poetry that can be easily ignored at a cursory reading.  

IV.1. SANSA AND WINTERFELL

The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter.

Sansa Stark was born at Winterfell, most probably during winter. She was the first Stark of the current generation that was born at Winterfell. Robb was born at Riverrun, Jon was born in Dorne, and while Arya, Bran and Rickon were born at Winterfell as well, they came to life during the long summer.  

Sansa feels pride to be a Stark of Winterfell and she uses that pride as a source of courage in frightening situations:

Sansa struggled to steady herself. She felt like such a fool. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a noble lady, and someday she would be a queen.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

Sansa tried to run, but Cersei’s handmaid caught her before she’d gone a yard. Ser Meryn Trant gave her a look that made her cringe, but Kettleblack touched her almost gently and said, “Do as you’re told, sweetling, it won’t be so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren’t they?”

Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

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

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

Sansa would shine in the south.

(Art credit: Loras Tyrell gives Sansa Stark a rose at the Hand’s Tournament by Jonathan Burton)

Sansa has always loved Winterfell, I have no doubt about it. But she wanted to see more, the whole new world of the south, warmer and colorful places like the Riverlands from her mother’s childhood tales, she wanted to attend tourneys and feasts, to listen the songs from famous singers and poets, to play the high harp, to dance with gallant knights. In a few words, Sansa wanted to be a lady in a song, she wanted to live her own song.

But the north and Winterfell lacked all of that:

Amon Shin in Maine asks, “If you lived in Westeros, which house would you like to be part of, or in which area would you like to live?” GRRM: Well, you know, there’s something to be said for being an honorable Stark, but you’re kinda cold all the time and poor and so forth. And you have a lot of land, but there’s not a lot of stuff on it, you know? On the other hand, if you’re a Lannister, you have a nice house and all the gold you want and all of that stuff.  So, there’s a lot to be said for being a Lannister.  I don’t know.  Maybe I could probably see me being a Lannister.  And I would always pay my debts.

—A Dance with Dragons | George R.R. Martin | Talks at Google - July 2011

And so they left her direwolf and his bodyguard behind them, while they ranged east along the north bank of the Trident with no company save Lion's Tooth. It was a glorious day, a magical day. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gentle beauty that Sansa had never seen in the north. Prince Joffrey's mount was a blood bay courser, swift as the wind, and he rode it with reckless abandon, so fast that Sansa was hard-pressed to keep up on her mare. It was a day for adventures. They explored the caves by the riverbank, and tracked a shadowcat to its lair, and when they grew hungry, Joffrey found a holdfast by its smoke and told them to fetch food and wine for their prince and his lady. They dined on trout fresh from the river, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before. "My father only lets us have one cup, and only at feasts," she confessed to her prince.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa’s breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind…and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. “It is better than the songs,” she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

She loved King's Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all.

[...] They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

Once, when she was just a little girl, a wandering singer had stayed with them at Winterfell for half a year. An old man he was, with white hair and windburnt cheeks, but he sang of knights and quests and ladies fair, and Sansa had cried bitter tears when he left them, and begged her father not to let him go. “The man has played us every song he knows thrice over,” Lord Eddard told her gently. “I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come.”   They hadn’t, though, not for a year or more. Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree, asking them to bring the old man back, or better still to send another singer, young and handsome. But the gods never answered, and the halls of Winterfell stayed silent.  

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

And who could blame her for those dreams and wishes? Certainly not the author. GRRM has projected his love for medieval tourneys, heraldry, pageantry, knights and chivalry on Sansa Stark:  

That whole story (The Hedge Knight) is built around a tournament. I love medieval tournaments, reading about them, writing about them. There's of course some of them in the main books, but this was an oportunity in a time of peace, not war, to look at a mediaval tournament with all its pageantry and the jousting and the combat and reveal a little of Westerosi History.

—In conversation: George R.R. Martin with Dan Jones FULL EVENT- August 2019

Tolkien imitators who came after him, a lot of them created a sort of Disneyland Middle Ages, you know, a sort of Middle Ages like you might see at a Renaissance Faire, but you don't have the dysentery, or the torture, or the leprosy, or the innate sexism, or classism, or racism that was so built into so much of that world for so many centuries, you really have to take, you know, I like the knights in shinning armor, the heraldry and pageantry as much as anyone, but you also have to include the fleas.

— Neuchâtel International Fantastic Film Festival - NIFFF 2014

The novelist is midway through something of a European tour. After his trip to Switzerland, he is due in Scotland for the Edinburgh book festival. It has often been suggested that Ivanhoe (by the Scottish 19th-century novelist Walter Scott) was, alongside the War of the Roses, a major influence on A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones. Martin was first turned on to Ivanhoe by the 1952 MGM movie starring Robert Taylor, George Sanders and a young Elizabeth Taylor. "I think it was Elizabeth Taylor at the peak of her...," his voice tails off before he clarifies. "She was the most beautiful woman in the world. I think I was nine years old when I saw that movie. How could you not fall in love with her? But the jousting and the pageantry of it made me love that story. Later, in high school, I did read that book. For a modern reader, it's a little tough to get through. The prose is very Victorian and thick but if you fight your way through it, the story is there. It has everything the movie has and more – the heraldry and jousting and the insight into the times. It was an influence in that sense."

—GRRM - Independent - 2014

Firstly, thanks for that very thorough response on the tournaments and knighthood. Fascinating. In particular given the notes about _Ivanhoe_ and its influence -- I've only witnessed the A&E production of it, although maybe about time I read it. Seems it might be ripe for ideas. GRRM: IVANHOE is well worth a read, although the style is very old fashioned, of course. Still it has some fabulous characters and scenes, and so far as I know the definitive portrayal of a medieval tournament, both melee and joust. It has been filmed three times that I know of. The recent A&E production had some good moments, as did the older Sam Neill version... the CLASSIC version, however, is still MGM's 50s version, starring Robert Taylor, Elizabeth Taylor, and George Sanders. The jousts are wonderful, Liz is radiant, and George Sanders steals the film as Bois-Gilbert. You should definitely rent that one and have a look.

—GRRM - 1999

He was asked or mentioned most of the stuff that’s already been covered, but one thing he talked about that I found particularly interesting was Romanticism. He said that he is a romantic, in the classical sense. He said the trouble with being a romantic is that from a very early age you keep having your face smashed into the harshness of reality. That things aren’t always fair, bad things happen to good people, etc. He said it’s a realists world, so romantics are burned quite often. This theme of romantic idealism conflicting with harsh reality is something he finds very dramatic and compelling, and he weaves it into his work. Specifically he mentioned that the Knight exemplifies this, as the chivalric code is one of the most idealistic out there, protection of the weak, paragon of all that is good, fighting for truth and justice. The reality was that they were people, and therefore could do horrible cruel things, rape, pillage, wanton killing, made all the more striking or horrifying because it was in complete opposition to what they were “supposed” to be. Really interesting stuff.

—US SIGNING TOUR (SEATTLE, WA) - NOVEMBER 21, 2005

Happy Anniversary Parris, Here's to almost 40 years and hopefully many more <3  The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom; to serve all, but love only one. ~Honore de Balzac

—GRRM - 2021

So, the perfect opportunity to leave the north and start to live her song came in the form of a betrothal with the Crown Prince and Sansa left her home with a heart full of hope and illusions:

She had last seen snow the day she’d left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands. It hurt to remember how happy she had been that morning. Hullen had helped her mount, and she’d ridden out with the snowflakes swirling around her, off to see the great wide world. I thought my song was beginning that day, but it was almost done.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

But the great wide world outside Winterfell wasn’t as idyllic as Sansa has thought…   On her journey to King’s Landing, she lost her direwolf Lady.

Lady wasn’t there. Lady was good. Lady never hurt anyone. She was innocent. But they kill her anyway.  

(Art credit: Sansa with Lady. Illustrated by Smirtouille © Fantasy Flight Games)

All of the Stark children were blessed with a direwolf and the ability to change skins with those magical creatures.

The direwolves were sent by the old gods to protect and guide the Stark children:  

Arya darted back, frightened now, but Joffrey followed, hounding her toward the woods, backing her up against a tree. Sansa didn't know what to do. She watched helplessly, almost blind from her tears.

Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping, jaws closing around Joffrey's sword arm.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

Bran’s wolf had saved the boy’s life, he thought dully. What was it that Jon had said when they found the pups in the snow? Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. And he had killed Sansa’s, and for what? Was it guilt he was feeling? Or fear? If the gods had sent these wolves, what folly had he done?

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IV

She showed Brienne her palms, her fingers. “These scars … they sent a man to cut Bran’s throat as he lay sleeping. He would have died then, and me with him, but Bran’s wolf tore out the man’s throat.” That gave her a moment’s pause. “I suppose Theon killed the wolves too. He must have, elsewise … I was certain the boys would be safe so long as the direwolves were with them. Like Robb with his Grey Wind. But my daughters have no wolves now.”

—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII

“Any man Grey Wind mislikes is a man I do not want close to you. These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father’s gods, the old gods of the north.

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn II

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

"The king is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns," the queen was saying to the two knights who knelt before her, but Sansa could not take her eyes off the third man. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly he turned his head. Lady growled. A terror as overwhelming as anything Sansa Stark had ever felt filled her suddenly. She stepped backward and bumped into someone.

[…] He did, and had since she had first laid eyes on the ruin that fire had made of his face, though it seemed to her now that he was not half so terrifying as the other. Still, Sansa wrenched away from him, and the Hound laughed, and Lady moved between them, rumbling a warning. Sansa dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the wolf.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

Sansa found herself thinking of Lady again. She could smell out falsehood, she could, but she was dead, Father had killed her, on account of Arya.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

The direwolves share the eye colors of the Children of the Forest:

“In a sense. Those you call the children of the forest have eyes as golden as the sun (Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria and Summer), but once in a great while one is born amongst them with eyes as red as blood (Ghost), or green as the moss on a tree in the heart of the forest (Shaggydog). By these signs do the gods mark those they have chosen to receive the gift. The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance. But once inside the wood they linger long indeed. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. Greenseers.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III

Read more about the direwolves’s eye colors here.

The direwolves are not only protectors and guides for the Stark children, they are also one with them, since every Stark child is a warg:  

And there’s the heart of it, Catelyn thought. “He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you.”

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn II

Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

"Bran the boy and Summer the wolf. You are two, then?" "Two," he sighed, "and one."

—A Storm of Swords - Bran I

“Lady,” he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

With Lady’s death, Sansa not only lost a protector and guide, and the possibility to develop her warging abilities, Sansa lost a part of herself.

But what is the meaning of Lady’s death? For the story and especially for Sansa’s arc?

As a plot device, Lady’s death directly meant a breach in Sansa’s relationship with her father and sister. As foreshadowing, Lady’s death presaged Ned’s own death. Furthermore, the sacrifice of the direwolf’s life was also necessary for Bran to wake up from the coma (only death can pay for life).

But in a more profound and personal level, Lady’s death intertwined Sansa’s story with Lyanna’s and Jon’s story, and it also deeply connected Sansa with Winterfell by foreshadowing that she will be the Stark in Winterfell at the end of the story. Let’s see.  

Sansa lost Lady as a result of several factors:

Prince Joffrey Baratheon being his usual psychopathic self, hurting Mycah and threatening Arya.

Arya Stark striking a royal (*).

Queen Cersei Lannister’s vengeance. Nymeria, defending Arya, bit Joffrey’s arm; but since Nymeria ran away, Cersei demanded for Sansa’s direwolf’s life.

King Robert Baratheon’s allowance of Cersei’s vengeance as a way to apease his wife’s wrath.  

Eddard Stark’s lack of reaction against the unfairness of Robert’s decision.

Joffrey’s true nature was known by Robert, and the King also knew of Cersei’s bad influence on his heir. Even so, Robert didn’t do anything to try and rectify that situation before or after the Trident incident:  

"I am sorry for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son was lying, I'd stake my soul on it. My son … you love your children, don't you?"

"With all my heart," Ned said.

"Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?"

"He's only a boy," Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hear the pain in Robert's voice. "Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?"

"It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned. You don't know him as I do."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

(*) Arya’s actions, despite being a crime, were made to defend Mycah. Arya Stark, a child of 9 years old, defied an unjust rule in order to protect and save an innocent boy,  something that not even the honorable Lord Stark was capable of doing in order to save Sansa’s direwolf.

So, Sansa was put in a very difficult situation, she was left to chose between her royal betrothed, the Crown Prince, and her sister and family. Take note that Sansa told the truth to her father, but at the prospect of defying a royal and her future husband or admit that her sister committed a crime punished by maiming or death, she opted for not agreeing with any of the parties, she said: “I don’t know, I don’t remember”.

So, let’s talk about adults actions here, because whatever Sansa might have said, either agreeing with her betrothed Prince Joffrey’s version or agreeing with her sister Arya’s version, it wasn't going to change Lady's fate.

Even before Arya was found, Queen Cersei Lannister, wanted her maimed or dead. And Jaime Lannister was very willing to do it:

"Do you see that window, ser?" Jaime used a sword to point. "That was Raymun Darry's bedchamber. Where King Robert slept, on our return from Winterfell. Ned Stark's daughter had run off after her wolf savaged Joff, you'll recall. My sister wanted the girl to lose a hand. The old penalty, for striking one of the blood royal. Robert told her she was cruel and mad. They fought for half the night . . . well, Cersei fought, and Robert drank. Past midnight, the queen summoned me inside. The king was passed out snoring on the Myrish carpet. I asked my sister if she wanted me to carry him to bed. She told me I should carry her to bed, and shrugged out of her robe. I took her on Raymun Darry's bed after stepping over Robert. If His Grace had woken I would have killed him there and then. He would not have been the first king to die upon my sword . . . but you know that story, don't you?" He slashed at a tree branch, shearing it in half. "As I was fucking her, Cersei cried, 'I want.' I thought that she meant me, but it was the Stark girl that she wanted, maimed or dead." The things I do for love. "It was only by chance that Stark's own men found the girl before me. If I had come on her first . . ."

—A Feast for Crows - Jaime IV

King Robert Baratheon was done with Cersei’s wrath about the incident, and even knowing Joffrey’s true nature, he let Cersei kill a direwolf, because at least it didn’t involve maiming or killing Arya Stark, a member of a great noble and allied house, and the daughter of his best friend.  

So, since Arya was exonerated of the penalty for striking a royal, and Nymeria ran away, Cersei took away the least she could get, the life of Mycah, the butcher’s boy, and Lady, the direwolf that wasn’t even there.

Now, about Ned Stark, he could have done a lot more. I can understand that he was astonished by his best friend Robert Baratheon not being the just man that he used to be in his youth, even after Catelyn had warned about it. I can also understand that he was triggered by his memories of Lyanna begging him to protect Jon’s life from Robert’s wrath in the past. But still, he could have done a lot more to stop Lady’s sacrifice. Jory did more by helping Arya to protect Nymeria.

In the end, after some attempt to beg for Robert’s change of mind or mercy, Ned Stark complied with an unfair rule, and following a flawed sense of honor and duty, he killed Lady. He killed an innocent. He was part of Sansa’s punishment for a crime she didn’t commit. He left his own daughter unprotected, depriving her of a gift sent by the old gods.    

Ned’s inaction are a contrast to Arya’s actions that impulsively defied Joffrey’s status as a royal member in order to protect an innocent. Arya’s actions emulated Dunk’s actions striking Prince Aerion Targaryen in order to defend Tanselle, the puppeteer girl. A true knight.

And this is not the first time that Ned’s actions were called out by one of his children (the heroes of the story), this happened before with Bran questioning this flawed sense of honor and duty after witnessing Gared’s execution.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

Two of the responsibles for Lady’s death, Robert and Ned, were deeply associated with Lyanna Stark. GRRM has also used Robert and Ned to connect Lyanna with Sansa:

"Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again," the king promised. "You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

Before Lady’s death, Ned pleaded to Robert to change his decision on putting down the direwolf, appealing to the memory of Lyanna, the woman Robert loved:

All Ned could do was take her in his arms and hold her while she wept. He looked across the room at Robert. His old friend, closer than any brother. “Please, Robert. For the love you bear me. For the love you bore my sister. Please.”

— A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

Sansa’s pleading for Lady’s life and repeating the word “promise”, triggered Ned’s trauma over Lyanna’s death, who dies while pleading to Ned to protect her newborn son Jon:

"Stop them,” Sansa pleaded, “don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady, it was Nymeria, Arya did it, you can’t, it wasn’t Lady, don’t let them hurt Lady, I’ll make her be good, I promise, I promise …” She started to cry.

—AGOT - Eddard III

He could still hear Sansa pleading, as Lyanna had pleaded once.

—AGOT - Eddard IV

“Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s statue whispered. She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood.

—AGOT - Eddard XIII

Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses.

—AGOT - Eddard XV

Ned carried Lyanna’s bones from Dorne to the north, to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell, the same way he ordered his men to carry Lady’s bones from Darry to the north, to be buried in the lichyard of Winterfell. Lyanna’s and Lady’s bones being buried at Winterfell, makes them literally Ladies of Winterfell:  

“She was more beautiful than that,” the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna’s face, as if he could will her back to life. Finally he rose, made awkward by his weight. “Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?” His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. “She deserved more than darkness …”

“She was a Stark of Winterfell,” Ned said quietly. “This is her place.”

— A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

They were all staring at him, but it was Sansa’s look that cut. “She is of the north. She deserves better than a butcher.” […] Shortly, Jory brought him Ice. When it was over, he said, “Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell.” “All that way?” Jory said, astonished. “All that way,” Ned affirmed. “The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”

— A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

Bran felt all cold inside. “She lost her wolf,” he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father’s guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady’s bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.

— A Game of Thrones - Bran VI

I like that Ned unofficially name Sansa, “Lady of the North” (Lady of Winterfell), when he said: She (Lady) is of the North.

The fact that Lady’s bones have already returned to Winterfell, makes Sansa the first Stark children that returned home. Also, at this point of the story, Lady being buried in Winterfell, makes Sansa the Stark in Winterfell.

In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm.

The day of the Trident incident that later would determine Lady’s fate, Sansa, inadvertently, sensed Ned’s death at the hands of Ilyn Payne the first time she met the King’s Justice, that’s why she felt such a terror that made her step backward and bump into the Hound, and for a moment she thought he was her father.

Another passage that foreshadows Ned’s death, that is also related to killing a magical creature like Lady, is Sansa’s wish for Joffrey to capture the white hart: 

“I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart,” she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. White harts were supposed to be very rare and magical, and in her heart she knew her gallant prince was worthier than his drunken father. “A dream? Truly? Did Prince Joffrey just go up to it and touch it with his bare hand and do it no harm?” “No,” Sansa said. “He shot it with a golden arrow and brought it back for me.” In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm, but she knew Joffrey liked hunting, especially the killing part. Only animals, though. Sansa was certain her prince had no part in murdering Jory and those other poor men; that had been his wicked uncle, the Kingslayer. She knew her father was still angry about that, but it wasn’t fair to blame Joff. That would be like blaming her for something that Arya had done.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

In the end Joffrey showed Sansa that he not only enjoyed killing animals, but he also enjoyed killing men. It was not the white hart what Joffrey brought back for her, it was her father’s severed head. 

Read more about the white hart here.

But the paragraphs that are more laden with symbolism and foreshadowing for Ned’s death are the ones leading to Lady’s execution.

After Lady’s death, Ned lost Sansa’s trust. Sansa was left deeply wounded, she resented her sister because Lady paid for Nymeria’s fault, and she resented Ned, because he did close to nothing to save Lady’s life and was the executioner himself. That’s why, when Ned told her that she is returning to Winterfell without a proper explanation, she felt that Ned is taking away beloved things from her once again, as he did with Lady. That prompted Sansa to defy her father’s orders and tell Cersei about Ned’s plans:  

"I didn't do anything wrong," Sansa pleaded with him. "I don't want to go back." She loved King's Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all. "Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I'll be good, you'll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen." […] Sansa cried as Septa Mordane marched them down the steps. They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

"It was for love," Sansa said in a rush. "Father wouldn't even give me leave to say farewell." She was the good girl, the obedient girl, but she had felt as wicked as Arya that morning, sneaking away from Septa Mordane, defying her lord father. She had never done anything so willful before, and she would never have done it then if she hadn't loved Joffrey as much as she did. "He was going to take me back to Winterfell and marry me to some hedge knight, even though it was Joff I wanted. I told him, but he wouldn't listen." The king had been her last hope. The king could command Father to let her stay in King's Landing and marry Prince Joffrey, Sansa knew he could, but the king had always frightened her. He was loud and rough-voiced and drunk as often as not, and he would probably have just sent her back to Lord Eddard, if they even let her see him. So she went to the queen instead, and poured out her heart, and Cersei had listened and thanked her sweetly … only then Ser Arys had escorted her to the high room in Maegor's Holdfast and posted guards, and a few hours later, the fighting had begun outside. "Please," she finished, "you have to let me marry Joffrey, I'll be ever so good a wife to him, you'll see. I'll be a queen just like you, I promise."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

By deciding to kill Lady himself, Ned killed a part of Sansa, his own daughter, so he not only killed a magical beast (In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm), but this could also be considered kinslaying, both crimes forbidden and punished by the gods, the old and the new.  

By defying Ned’s orders and telling Cersei her father’s plans, in order to stay in King’s Landing and marry Joffrey, Sansa unwillingly took part of the events that ended up with Ned’s execution.    

During the “trial”, Ned pleaded King Robert to change his decision on putting down the direwolf, appealing to the memory of Lyanna, the woman Robert loved. Then Ned decided that he will take Lady’s life himself using his sword Ice, in order to avoid having a butcher like Ilyn Payne do the execution. Before he struck, he pronounced Lady’s name in the same fashion Robb and Jon called the name of their direwolves before they both died.

Similarly, before Ned’s execution at the steps of the Sept of Baelor, Sansa pleaded to King Joffrey to spare her father’s life, appealing to the love he has for her.

But, as we all know, both pleas fell on deaf ears and both Lady and Ned lost their lives; bringing the story full circle, as Ilyn Payne himself cut off Ned’s head with Ice.

North and north and north again, stood Winterfell.

If Lady’s death wasn’t enough to open Sansa’s eyes and see the true nature of Cersei and Joffrey, Ned’s death certainly was:

"I don’t want to marry you,” Sansa wailed. “You chopped off my father’s head!” “He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I’d be merciful, and I was. If he hadn’t been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death.” Sansa stared at him, seeing him for the first time. He was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his face. She wondered how she could ever have thought him handsome. His lips were as soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. “I hate you,” she whispered.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

When Joffrey took her to the battlements to force her to see her father’s severed head on a pike, Sansa chose to focus on looking north, longing to return home:

And to the north … She turned that way, and saw only the city, streets and alleys and hills and bottoms and more streets and more alleys and the stone of distant walls. Yet she knew that beyond them was open country, farms and fields and forests, and beyond that, north and north and north again, stood Winterfell. "What are you looking at?" Joffrey said. "This is what I wanted you to see, right here."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

Sadly, Ned’s death was the catalyst for Sansa to finally open her eyes to reality, but that event also awakened her inner ‘Starkness’, because if any of the Stark children is the epitome of endurance, that is Sansa.

So, after Ned’s death, we see Sansa always finding her strength and courage in the memories of Winterfell and her family, yearning to go back north, to home, to Winterfell:

The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became.

— A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

“Do as you’re told, sweetling, it won’t be so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren’t they? “Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so … She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now. […] Sansa was tempted to beg off. I could tell him that my tummy was upset, or that my moon’s blood had come. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back in bed and pull the drapes. I must be brave, like Robb, she told herself, as she took her lord husband stiffly by the arm.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

The Broken Tower was easier still. They made a tall tower together, kneeling side by side to roll it smooth, and when they’d raised it Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. “That was unchivalrously done, my lady.” “As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home.” She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell. […] I am a Stark of Winterfell, she longed to tell him. Instead she nodded, and let him escort her down the tower steps and along a bridge. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

They made a race of it, dashing headlong across the yard and past the stables, skirts flapping, whilst knights and serving men alike looked on, and pigs and chickens scattered before them. It was most unladylike, but Alayne sound found herself laughing. For just a little while, as she ran, she forget who she was, and where, and found herself remembering bright cold days at Winterfell, when she would race through Winterfell with her friend Jeyne Poole, with Arya running after them trying to keep up.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

No matter how many time she has to say she loves her enemies, no matter how many times they put another house’s cloak on her shoulders, no matter how many times she has to pretend be another person, no matter how many times she has to lie, deep down she is always Sansa Stark:

"My father was a traitor," Sansa said at once. "And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well." That reflex she had learned quickly. "I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey." "No doubt. As loyal as a deer surrounded by wolves." "Lions," she whispered, without thinking. She glanced about nervously, but there was no one close enough to hear.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

"Robb's a traitor." Sansa knew the words by rote. "I had no part in whatever he did." […] Robb will kill you all, she thought, exulting. “It’s…terrible, my lord. My brother is a vile traitor.” […] "Well, Robb Stark is my father's bane. Joffrey is mine. Tell me, what do you feel for my kingly nephew?" "I love him with all my heart," Sansa said at once. “Truly?” He did not sound convinced. “Even now?” “My love for His Grace is greater than it has ever been.” […] "They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?" I pray for Robb's victory and Joffrey's death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. "I pray for an end to the fighting." […] Robb will beat him, Sansa thought. He beat your uncle and your brother Jaime, he’ll beat your father too.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

You may never love the king, but you'll love his children." "I love His Grace with all my heart," Sansa said.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

"I never meant . . . my father was a traitor, my brother as well, I have the traitor's blood, please, don't make me say more."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

They have made me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly. […] "You loved your brothers, much as I love Jaime." Is this some Lannister trap to make me speak treason? "My brothers were traitors, and they've gone to traitors' graves. It is treason to love a traitor."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

"So, who are you?" "Alayne . . . Stone, would it be?"

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

I am a Stark of Winterfell, she longed to tell him. Instead she nodded, and let him escort her down the tower steps and along a bridge.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter and Lady Catelyn’s, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.

[…] “You are Alayne, and you must be Alayne all the time.” He put two fingers on her left breast. "Even here. In your heart. Can you do that? Can you be my daughter in your heart?" "I . . ." I do not know, my lord, she almost said, but that was not what he wanted to hear. Lies and Arbor gold, she thought. "I am Alayne, Father. Who else would I be?"

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

As you can see, Sansa never loses her identity as a Stark of Winterfell. She is forced to lie and pretend, to hide and disguise, to play with false identities and loyalties, but deep within she was always a Stark, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.    

That’s why her journey back home is so important for her story, is the way to claim back her true name and identity, her agency and heritage, her home and heart.  

The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name.

The south stripped Sansa of her wolf and her father, of her name and her identity, and later constantly tried to strip her of her claim to the north and Winterfell.

After the Lannisters killed Robb without an heir (childless), with Bran and Rickon presumed dead, and Arya lost and also presumed dead, Sansa, aged 12/13, became the Heir to Witerfell and by far the most eligible single young heiress in Westeros. Then Sansa suffered constant objectification, by every character she interacted with. She was practically transformed into a stone castle, Winterfell, and the north itself, since the one that controlled her would obtain all her lands and power. Or, to use the euphemism from the Books, Sansa Stark was the “key to the north.”

Alone in the capital, she was spurned by King Joffrey Baratheon and became a ward hostage of the crown. The kingdom was at war and the grasping people around Sansa pretended to make her a Baelish and a Tyrell, but at the end they made her a Lannister. After that they made her a bastard and then they tried to make her an Arryn, twice. But these ambitious houses and men only wanted her for her claim. She was a means to get Winterfell and the north.

Sansa Stark was thrust into the world of medieval politics in her early teens and played a vital role in these power struggles. Despite the many discussions about the legitimacy of her claim to the North and the secret will of Robb Stark, Sansa is considered the heir of the ancestral lands and domains of House Stark, she is called ‘the key to the north’ by Tywin Lannister, the man behind his royal grandsons, King Joffrey and King Tommen Baratheon.  The North is the largest region of Westeros, and Sansa Stark’s claim to Winterfell and the Wardenship of the North is coveted by many lords in order to gain political power and influence.  

Most of these suitors were representatives from the ex seven independent kingdoms of Westeros, with the only absentees being from the Kingdom of the North (the bride’s homeland) and the Principality of Dorne. It was like a quest for the conquest of the north, the largest region of Westeros.

1. Joffrey Baratheon, Crown Prince and then King of Westeros (representative from the old Kingdom of the Storm). 

Sansa’s first betrothed, a match arranged by Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. When King Robert proposed Joffrey and Sansa’s betrothal, he was trying to reenact his own betrothal to Lyanna Stark, that was part of the so called Southron Ambitions Theory.

"Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again," the king promised. "You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

After Ned died as a traitor and House Stark declared Northern Independance, Joffrey broke the betrothal and married Margaery Tyrell.

2. Willas Tyrell, Heir to Highgarden (representative from the old Kingdom of the Reach). 

Sansa’s second betrothed, a match planned by Olenna Tyrell who secretly arranged this betrothal in order to expand their power over another great region of Westeros.

“I will be safe in Highgarden. Willas will keep me safe.” “But he does not know you,” Dontos insisted, “and he will not love you. Jonquil, Jonquil, open your sweet eyes, these Tyrells care nothing for you. It’s your claim they mean to wed.” "My claim?" She was lost for a moment. "Sweetling," he told her, "you are heir to Winterfell." He grabbed her again, pleading that she must not do this thing, and Sansa wrenched free and left him swaying beneath the heart tree. She had not visited the godswood since. But she had not forgotten his words, either. The heir to Winterfell, she would think as she lay abed at night. It's your claim they mean to wed. Sansa had grown up with three brothers. She never thought to have a claim, but with Bran and Rickon dead . . . It doesn't matter, there's still Robb, he's a man grown now, and soon he'll wed and have a son. Anyway, Willas Tyrell will have Highgarden, what would he want with Winterfell?

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

The Lannisters discovered this secret betrothal (thanks to Dontos and Littlefinger) and Sansa ended up married to Tyrion and Cersei betrothed to Willas.

"Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your father's place, since your brother is an attainted traitor. That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to marry my brother Tyrion." My claim, she thought, sickened. Dontos the Fool was not so foolish after all; he had seen the truth of it. Sansa backed away from the queen. "I won't." I'm to marry Willas, I'm to be the lady of Highgarden, please . . . […] If I had refused you, however, they would have wed you to my cousin Lancel. Perhaps you would prefer that. He is nearer your age, and fairer to look upon. If that is your wish, say so, and I will end this farce." I don't want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons named Eddard and Bran and Rickon. But then she remembered what Dontos had told her in the godswood. Tyrell or Lannister, it makes no matter, it's not me they want, only my claim. "You are kind, my lord," she said, defeated. "I am a ward of the throne and my duty is to marry as the king commands."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

3. Tyrion Lannister, Heir presumptive to Casterly Rock (representatives from the old Kingdom of the Rock). 

Sansa Stark’s husband, a match arranged by Tywin Lannister without Sansa’s free consent. He married Sansa following his father’s orders in order to take control over the north.

“I will not have the rose and the direwolf in bed together,” declared Lord Tywin. “We must forestall him.” […] "The girl's happiness is not my purpose, nor should it be yours. Our alliances in the south may be as solid as Casterly Rock, but there remains the north to win, and the key to the north is Sansa Stark." "She is no more than a child." “Your sister swears she’s flowered. If so, she is a woman, fit to be wed. You must needs take her maidenhead, so no man can say the marriage was not consummated. After that, if you prefer to wait a year or two before bedding her again, you would be within your rights as her husband.” […] “She must marry a Lannister, and soon.” “The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name,” his uncle Kevan put in. “Had that not occurred to you?” “If you will not have the girl, we shall give her to one of your cousins,” said his father.” […] The key to the north, you say? The Greyjoys hold the north now, and King Balon has a daughter. Why Sansa Stark, and not her?" […] Come spring, the northmen will have had a bellyful of krakens. When you bring Eddard Stark's grandson home to claim his birthright, lords and little folk alike will rise as one to place him on the high seat of his ancestors. You are capable of getting a woman with child, I hope?" […] “You shall never have Casterly Rock, I promise you. But wed Sansa Stark, and it is just possible that you might win Winterfell.” Tyrion Lannister, Lord Protector of Winterfell. The prospect gave him a queer chill. “Very good, Father.”

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III

They have made me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

The marriage was never consummated and after Joffrey’s death Sansa ran away from King’s Landing. Tyrion was accused of murdering Joffrey and condemned to die, but he escaped King’s Landing before his execution. Littlefinger is waiting for news of Tyrion’s death for Sansa to become a widow and then marry her with Harrold Hardyng; if not, she would need and annulment by the High Septon.    

4. Robert Arryn and Harrold Hardyng, Heir and second in the line, respectively, to the Vale of Arryn (representatives from the old Kingdom of the Mountain and Vale).

4.1. Robert Arryn, Heir to the Vale of Arryn. 

The match with Sweetrobin was proposed by Lysa Arryn, the mother of the little bridegroom. Lysa tried to manipulate Sansa to marry little Robert, calling her a beggar, and warned her to put aside her pride and be a submissive wife for her sickly son:  

"I . . . I am married, my lady." "Yes, but soon a widow. Be glad the Imp preferred his whores. It would not be fitting for my son to take that dwarf's leavings, but as he never touched you... How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?” The thought made Sansa weary. All she knew of Robert Arryn was that he was a little boy, and sickly. It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. But lying came easy to her now. “I … can scarcely wait to meet him, my lady. But he is still a child, is he not?” "He is eight. And not robust. But such a good boy, so bright and clever. He will be a great man, Alayne. The seed is strong, my lord husband said before he died. His last words. The gods sometimes let us glimpse the future as we lay dying. I see no reason why you should not be wed as soon as we know that your Lannister husband is dead. A secret wedding, to be sure. The Lord of the Eyrie could scarcely be thought to have married a bastard, that would not be fitting. The ravens should bring us the word from King's Landing once the Imp's head rolls. You and Robert can be wed the next day, won't that be joyous? (…) Do you read well, Alayne?"

"Septa Mordane was good enough to say so." "Robert has weak eyes, but he loves to be read to," Lady Lysa confided. "He likes stories about animals the best. Do you know the little song about the chicken who dressed as a fox? I sing him that all the time, he never grows tired of it. And he likes to play hopfrog and spin-the-sword and come-into-my-castle, but you must always let him win. That's only proper, don't you think? He is the Lord of the Eyrie, after all, you must never forget that. You are well born, and the Starks of Winterfell were always proud, but Winterfell has fallen and you are really just a beggar now, so put that pride aside. Gratitude will better become you, in your present circumstances. Yes, and obedience. My son will have a grateful and obedient wife."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

"I don't want to be leeched!" "My lord, your blood needs thinning," said Maester Colemon. "It is the bad blood that makes you angry, and the rage that brings on the shaking. Come now."

They led the boy away. My lord husband, Sansa thought, as she contemplated the ruins of Winterfell. The snow had stopped, and it was colder than before. She wondered if Lord Robert would shake all through their wedding. At least Joffrey was sound of body. […] “I will tell my aunt that I don’t want to marry Robert. Not even the High Septon himself could declare a woman married if she refused to say the vows. She wasn’t a beggar, no matter what her aunt said. She was thirteen, a woman flowered and wed, the heir to Winterfell. Sansa felt sorry for her little cousin sometimes, but she could not imagine ever wanting to be his wife. I would sooner be married to Tyrion again.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

But Littlefinger had other plans…  

4.2. Harrold Hardyng, second in line to the Vale of Arryn. 

Harry is betrothed to Alayne Stone, a match arranged by Petyr Baelish and Anya Waynwood. When Petyr Baelish proposed Harry and Alayne/Sansa betrothal, he was trying to gain more political power to further his own agenda.  

Her eyes widened. "He is not Lady Waynwood's heir. He's Robert's heir. If Robert were to die . . ." Petyr arched an eyebrow. "When Robert dies. Our poor brave Sweetrobin is such a sickly boy, it is only a matter of time. When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa . . . Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. That's worth another kiss now, don't you think?"

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

Harry, though... My Harry. My lord, my lover, my betrothed. Ser Harrold Hardyng looked every inch a lord-in-waiting; clean-limbed and handsome, straight as a lance, hard with muscle. Men old enough to have known Jon Arryn in his youth said Ser Harrold had his look, she knew. He had a mop of sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, an aquiline nose. Joffrey was comely too, though, she reminded herself. A comely monster, that's what he was. Little Lord Tyrion was kinder, twisted though he was. […] This time her eyes met Harry's. She smiled just for him, and said a silent prayer to the Maiden. Please, he doesn't need to love me, just make him like me, just a little, that would be enough for now. Ser Harrold looked down at her coldly. "Why should it please me to be escorted anywhere by Littlefinger's bastard?"

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

5. Theon Greyjoy, heir presumptive of the Iron Islands (representative from the old Kingdom of the Isles and the Rivers). 

There was never a betrothal between Theon Greyjoy and any daughter of House Stark. But Theon’s case was particular, because he got to invade and control Winterfell, but he never got a Stark bride.

The maester inclined his head. "I make no apologies for oathbreakers. Do what you must. I thank you for your mercy." Mercy, thought Theon as Luwin dropped back. There's a bloody trap. Too much and they call you weak, too little and you're monstrous. Yet the maester had given him good counsel, he knew. His father thought only in terms of conquest, but what good was it to take a kingdom if you could not hold it? Force and fear could carry you only so far. A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.

—A Clash of Kings - Theon IV

Later, as Reek, Theon witnesses how the Lannisters and the Boltons use Jeyne Poole, disguised as Arya Stark, to tighten their grip on Winterfell, marrying Jeyne with Ramsay Bolton, the same way Theon wanted to use Sansa when he usurped Winterfell.

Lord Ramsay filled his cup with ale. "That would spoil our celebration, my lord. Reek, I have glad tidings for you. I am to be wed. My lord father is bringing me a Stark girl. Lord Eddard's daughter, Arya. You remember little Arya, don't you?" Arya Underfoot, he almost said. Arya Horseface. Robb's younger sister, brown-haired, long-faced, skinny as a stick, always dirty. Sansa was the pretty one. He remembered a time when he had thought that Lord Eddard Stark might marry him to Sansa and claim him for a son, but that had only been a child's fancy. Arya, though … "I remember her. Arya." "She shall be the Lady of Winterfell, and me her lord."

—A Dance with Dragons - Reek I

Sansa ignores Theon’s past pretensions to be her husband, and the only time she thought about her father’s ward, she called him Bran’s killer.

6. Petyr Baelish, Lord of the Fingers and Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn. 

After Ned’s death, Petyr Baelish proposed himself to marry Sansa Stark. His proposal was rejected by the Crown, because he was too lowborn.

It came to her suddenly that she had stood in this very spot before, on the day Lord Eddard Stark had lost his head. That was not supposed to happen. Joff was supposed to spare his life and send him to the Wall. Stark's eldest son would have followed him as Lord of Winterfell, but Sansa would have stayed at court, a hostage. Varys and Littlefinger had worked out the terms, and Ned Stark had swallowed his precious honor and confessed his treason to save his daughter's empty little head. I would have made Sansa a good marriage. A Lannister marriage. Not Joff, of course, but Lancel might have suited, or one of his younger brothers. Petyr Baelish had offered to wed the girl himself, she recalled, but of course that was impossible; he was much too lowborn. If Joff had only done as he was told, Winterfell would never have gone to war, and Father would have dealt with Robert's brothers.

—A Dance with Dragons - Cersei II

Sansa ignores Littlefinger’s past pretensions to be her husband. Petyr Baelish publicly acts as Alayne’s father, but at the same time Littlefinger is grooming Sansa while they are alone.    

As you can see, despite their intentions, Theon and Littlefinger were never betrothed to Sansa, neither secretly nor officially, and their pretensions were unknown to her. Sansa is only aware of five of these suitors: Joffrey Baratheon, Willas Tyrell, Tyrion Lannister, Robert Arryn and Harrold Hardyng. A Baratheon, a Tyrell, a Lannister and a Hardyng… Where did I read about all these last names before??? Oh yes! That’s from The Hedge Knight and the Tourney of Ashford Meadow.

The Hedge Knight novella was built around the Tourney at Ashford Meadow. Lord Ashford staged the tourney to celebrate his daughter's thirteenth name day. His daughter was the queen of love and beauty and would have five champions to defend her honor. All other entrants were the challengers, and if anyone defeated a champion, they would take their place as the new champion. After three days of jousting, the champions would determine if Lord Ashford's daughter retained her title or if another would wear it. But we only know who were the last five champions after the first day of jousting.

The last names of four out of five of these five champions, match with the last names of the men betrothed or already married to Sansa Stark:

This could be a mere coincidence, as many had claimed, because after all, there wasn’t an Arryn champion in the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, they say. But I disagree.

As I explained before, GRRM has projected his love for medieval tourneys, heraldry, pageantry, knights and chivalry on Sansa Stark. So George writing a tourney in honor of a thirteen year old maiden, the same age of Sansa, can’t be a mere coincidence.  

Five final champions deciding if the thirteen year old maiden retained her Queen of Love and Beauty title or if another would wear it, as a simil of the greatest houses of Westeros deciding who would take away Sansa’s claim, can’t be a mere coincidence.  

The fact that Ser Tybolt Lannister and Ser Lyonel Baratheon defeated Lady Ashord’s brothers, Androw and Robert, during the jousting, the same way the Lannisters and Baratheons killed Sansa’s family and then married her with the suitor of their choice, can’t be a mere coincidence.

The fact that there is a Hardyng, instead of an Arryn, among the champions of the tourney, that illustrates the conflict in the succession to the Vale of Arryn, with Harry Hardyng waiting for Sweetrobing to die, to become Lord of the Vale, can’t be a mere coincidence. If you don’t believe me, ask Littlefinger why he replaced Sweetrobin with Harry as Alayne/Sansa betrothed?

The fact that Ser Humfrey Hardyng won a previous great melee at Maidenpool, where he “overthrew Ser Donnel of Duskendale and the Lords Arryn and Royce in the lists,” can’t be a mere coincidence. Ser Donnel of Duskendale and the Lords Arryn and Royce… Are these names unfamiliar to you? Because they remind me of Dontos Hollard, Robert Arryn and Waymar Royce. All of them romantically linked with Sansa. See? This can’t be a mere coincidence.

The Hedge Knight was originally published on August 25, 1998, in “Legends,” an anthology edited by Robert Silverberg. GRRM has said that he wrote this tale while he “was still in the middle of writing Clash of Kings.” A Clash of Kings was published on November 16, 1998. The deadline to send the works to Robert Silverberg was December 31, 1997, and GRRM surprisingly sent the tale on the deadline.

Willas Tyrell appears for the first time in A Storm of Swords (Sansa I), published on August 8, 2000. And Harrold Hardyng appears for the first time in A Feast for Crows (Alayne I), published on October 17, 2005. So I think there is no coincidence here, GRRM has planned the list of Sansa’s main suitors since he “was still in the middle of writing Clash of Kings,” back in 1997.

This repetition of the pattern in these two lists of men (Ashford champions & Sansa’s suitors), accentuates the importance of Sansa and her claim in the political scene of Westeros. After all, all of Sansa’s betrothals were arranged to gain political power through her claim to the north, which is the largest region of Westeros.

Will there be a Targaryen suitor for Sansa? There is a lot to say about it, but the Tourney at Ashford Meadow deserves its own post, one that will be finished soon, with the blessing of the old gods and the new.

Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.

(Art credit: Jon Snow and Ghost by Lauren K. Cannon)

In the south, every great house of Westeros were fighting to get Sansa’s hand in marriage in order to take Winterfell and the north under their control.

Sansa reflects about this objectification in the Books and gives us one of the saddest lines in ASOIAF, especially coming from a girl who yearns to be loved and always dreamed of getting married: “No one will ever marry me for love,” (because everyone only wants her for her claim to Winterfell and the north).

Meanwhile at the Wall…

Jon Snow was offered legitimation, Winterfell’s Lordship and a wildling bride (Val) by King Stannis Baretheon, in order to gain the northern lords and the wildlings support to his claim to the Iron Throne:

Your northmen do not know me, have no reason to love me, yet I will need their strength in the battles yet to come. I need a son of Eddard Stark to win them to my banner."

He would make me Lord of Winterfell.

[…] When the cold winds rise, we shall live or die together. It is time we made alliance against our common foe." He looked at Jon. "Would you agree?"

[…] "I agree."

"Good," King Stannis said, "for the surest way to seal a new alliance is with a marriage. I mean to wed my Lord of Winterfell to this wildling princess."

[…] "Does this mean you will not wed the girl? I warn you, she is part of the price you must pay, if you want your father's name and your father's castle. This match is necessary, to help assure the loyalty of our new subjects. Are you refusing me, Jon Snow?"

"No," Jon said, too quickly. It was Winterfell the king was speaking of, and Winterfell was not to be lightly refused. "I mean . . . this has all come very suddenly, Your Grace. Might I beg you for some time to consider?"

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

And Jon Snow rejected it all!    

“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

Yes, once again, Jon’s answer was Sansa. Winterfell belongs to Sansa. He could have said ‘Winterfell belongs to my sisters Sansa and Arya’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to my trueborn sisters’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to the Starks.’ But no. He said, more than once, that Winterfell belongs to Sansa.

Unlike Tyrion, Willas, Theon, Littlefinger or even little Robert, who pursued Sansa’s claim over her, there was a man who was offered Winterfell and chose Sansa over her claim: “By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.” – “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.” Among all the high lords interested in becoming the Lord of Winterfell by marrying Sansa Stark, the bastard Jon Snow refused to despoil his sister Sansa of her rights, even if her claim is the one thing he has wanted as much as he had ever wanted anything.

It only remains for me to say that, if there is to be a Targaryen suitor for Sansa, I believe that man will be Jon Snow, not Aegon (Young Griff). Because, who else would be a better correspondence for Valarr Targaryen, “the black prince with the white guardian,” than Jon Snow, the black knight of the Wall with the white guardian Ghost? But this is a matter for another post.

And for the readers that support the argument that Dunk was the one that crashed the tourney and later won the Trial of Seven (hence Dunk was the winner at Ashford), let me tell you that Dunk and Jon Snow are more similar than you think. Another character linked with Dunk is of course Brienne of Tarth. Brienne has sworn her sword Oathkeeper (made of Ice) to find and protect Sansa Stark.

Now, let’s talk about Sansa and Godswoods.

IV.2. SANSA AND GODSWOODS

She's gone back north, she has. That's where her gods are.

As I said before, Sansa’s journey back home starts with a godswood, the moment she got the anonymous note with this message: "Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home."

Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home. The words were the same on the hundredth reading as they'd been on the first, when Sansa had discovered the folded sheet of parchment beneath her pillow. She did not know how it had gotten there or who had sent it. The note was unsigned, unsealed, and the hand unfamiliar. She crushed the parchment to her chest and whispered the words to herself. "Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home," she breathed, ever so faintly.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II  

But the godswoods in the south are not like the one at home:

In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

After Sansa left Winterfell, she went south and got to live in two great castles that although they had a godswood, they didn’t have a weirwood tree. But no matter that, the godswood of the Red Keep in King’s Landing and the godswood of the Eyrie in The Vale were very important in Sansa’s arc. But there was another castle and another godswood…  

Only trees bare and brooding, their black branches scratching at the sky.

Ned killed Lady at Darry. The castle had a godswood, but not a weirwood:

The castle yard was full of eyes and ears. To escape them, they sought out Darry's godswood. There were no sparrows there, only trees bare and brooding, their black branches scratching at the sky. A mat of dead leaves crunched beneath their feet.

—A Feast for Crows - Jaime IV

There is no other description of Darry’s godswood. Jaime would have noticed if there has been a weirwood there; instead he mentions the black branches of the trees, the opposite to the white bone branches of a weirwood.

During the “trial,” Sansa chose to keep quiet about the Trident incident, she didn’t support Joffrey’s nor Arya’s version, she just said “I don’t know” and “I don’t remember”. And while it wasn’t exactly a lie, many readers considered her silence a betrayal to House Stark and they think she was punished with Lady’s sacrifice for not telling the truth.

It was a very complicated situation for Sansa, and as I said before, Lady’s death was the result of the sum of several factors (several other character’s actions/inactions), but this absence of weirwoods in the south (In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago), also serves to illustrate how the further Sansa goes south, the more she losses and the more lies she is forced to say.      

Later, Arya was glad to know that Darry was going to be burned by northern men, remembering that it was there where Lady was killed:  

Arya was glad to hear that the castle of the Darrys would be burned. That was where they'd brought her when she'd been caught after her fight with Joffrey, and where the queen had made her father kill Sansa's wolf. It deserves to burn.

—A Clash of Kings - Arya X

Arya’s reaction is very similar to Sansa’s wish for the Sept of Baelor to be burned by Stannis, since that was the place where Ned was killed:  

Dontos nodded. "He made a great pyre of the trees as an offering to his new god. The red priestess made him do it. They say she rules him now, body and soul. He's vowed to burn the Great Sept of Baelor too, if he takes the city." "Let him." When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she'd thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. "I want it burned." "Hush, child, the gods will hear you."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

Perhaps the gods heard Sansa's wish, and it will come true... We'll see.

The heart tree there was a great oak, brown and faceless.

The Red Keep had a godswood, but not a weirwood. Ned and Sansa could still sense the presence of the old gods, nonetheless:

The godswood was empty, as it always was here in this citadel of the southron gods. Ned's leg was screaming as they lowered him to the grass beside the heart tree. "Thank you." He drew a paper from his sleeve, sealed with the sigil of his House. "Kindly deliver this at once." [...] How long he waited in the quiet of the godswood, he could not say. It was peaceful here. The thick walls shut out the clamor of the castle, and he could hear birds singing, the murmur of crickets, leaves rustling in a gentle wind. The heart tree was an oak, brown and faceless, yet Ned Stark still felt the presence of his gods. His leg did not seem to hurt so much.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard XII

By the time she reached the godswood, the noises had faded to a faint rattle of steel and a distant shouting. Sansa pulled her cloak tighter. The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood; even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes. Sansa had favored her mother's gods over her father's. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli. Yet she could not deny that the godswood had a certain power too. Especially by night. Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me . . .

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

Ned took his daughters to pray in the Red Keep’s godswood after knowing that Bran woke up from the coma:

Arya bit her lip. "What will Bran do when he's of age?" Ned knelt beside her. "He has years to find that answer, Arya. For now, it is enough to know that he will live." The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard V

Sansa’s dream about Bran smiling is very telling, since Bran woke up from the coma precisely thanks to Lady’s sacrifice (only death can pay for life).

In this passage we can also appreciate the moon and sun imagery around the Stark sisters: Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later (Arya is the moon). When dawn broke over the city... "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." (Sansa is the dawn/sun).

Sweet lady, I would be your Florian.

Littlefinger not only used the godswood and the old gods to lure Sansa into his trap, he also used the songs. That’s why he sent Dontos Hollard, a defenestrated knight turned fool, a poor version of the legendary Florian, to help Sansa escape King’s Landing:  

“I prayed to the gods for a knight to come save me,” she said. “I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?” […] “The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all…” “Florian,” Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her. “Sweet lady, I would be your Florian,” Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her. […] “I vow, with your father’s gods as witness, that I shall send you home.” He swore. A solemn oath, before the gods. “Then…I will put myself in your hands, ser. But how will I know, when it is time to go? Will you send me another note?” Ser Dontos glanced about anxiously. “The risk is too great. You must come here, to the godswood. As often as you can. This is the safest place. The only safe place. Nowhere else.”

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

During their encounters in the godswood, Dontos and Sansa planned her escape from King’s Landing.

It was there where Sansa told Dontos about her betrothal with Willas Tyrell. That’s how     the Lannisters discovered this secret betrothal (thanks to Dontos and Littlefinger) and Sansa ended up married to Tyrion and Cersei betrothed to Willas.

They have made me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

And It was also there where Dontos gave her the hairnet with the poison that later killed Joffrey:

"You've waited so long, be patient awhile longer. Here, I have something for you." Ser Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his thick fingers. It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. "What stones are these?" "Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight." "It's very lovely," Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair. "Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It's magic, you see. It's justice you hold. It's vengeance for your father." Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. "It's home."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VIII

Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow.

(Art credit: Sansa Stark in the godswood of the Red Keep by Lauren K. Cannon)

Later Sansa realized that it was all Littlefinger’s plan. That Dontos sold her for a bag of golden dragons, that she carried the poison that killed Joffrey in her hair, that she was not going back home, to Winterfell, that life is not a song…

"He sold you for a promise of ten thousand dragons. Your disappearance will make them suspect you in Joffrey's death. The gold cloaks will hunt, and the eunuch will jingle his purse. Dontos . . . well, you heard him. He sold you for gold, and when he'd drunk it up he would have sold you again. A bag of dragons buys a man's silence for a while, but a well-placed quarrel buys it forever." He smiled sadly. "All he did he did at my behest. I dared not befriend you openly. When I heard how you saved his life at Joff's tourney, I knew he would be the perfect catspaw." Sansa felt sick. "He said he was my Florian." "Do you perchance recall what I said to you that day your father sat the Iron Throne?" The moment came back to her vividly. "You told me that life was not a song. That I would learn that one day, to my sorrow." She felt tears in her eyes, but whether she wept for Ser Dontos Hollard, for Joff, for Tyrion, or for herself, Sansa could not say. "Is it all lies, forever and ever, everyone and everything?" "Almost everyone. Save you and I, of course." He smiled. "Come to the godswood tonight if you want to go home." "The note . . . it was you?" "It had to be the godswood. No other place in the Red Keep is safe from the eunuch's little birds . . . or little rats, as I call them. There are trees in the godswood instead of walls. Sky above instead of ceiling. Roots and dirt and rock in place of floor. The rats have no place to scurry. Rats need to hide, lest men skewer them with swords."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

As I said before, this absence of weirwoods in the south (In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago), illustrates how the further Sansa goes south, the more she loses and the more lies she is forced to say.      

At Darry, she lost Lady. At the Red Keep, the Lannisters capture her father, friends and loyals to later kill them or put them into sex trafficking. She also “lost” her last name Stark to become “Lady Lannister,” and was forced to call her whole family traitors and profess how much she loved her captors and how very loyal she was to them.    

After her escape from King’s Landing though, a different tale started to be forged, the legend of Sansa Stark, ever a traitor to the crown, a devoted daughter of the old gods of the north:  

In King's Landing, Brienne had found one of Sansa's former maids doing washing in a brothel. "I served with Lord Renly before m'lady Sansa, and both turned traitor," the woman Brella complained bitterly. "No lord will touch me now, so I have to wash for whores." But when Brienne asked about Sansa, she said, "I'll tell you what I told Lord Tywin. That girl was always praying. She'd go to sept and light her candles like a proper lady, but near every night she went off to the godswood. She's gone back north, she has. That's where her gods are."

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne II

Oh the popular folklore! Always the best: During the day Sansa prayed to the Seven like a proper lady, but at night she was a wolf that was always howling in the godswood, talking to her nortern gods…  

A godswood without gods, as empty as me.

The Eyrie had a godswood, but not a weirwood. Sansa couldn’t even sense the presence of the old gods now:

Even the gods were silent. The Eyrie boasted a sept, but no septon; a godswood, but no heart tree. No prayers are answered here, she often thought, though some days she felt so lonely she had to try. Only the wind answered her, sighing endlessly around the seven slim white towers and rattling the Moon Door every time it gusted. It will be even worse in winter, she knew. In winter this will be a cold white prison.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

The Vale of Arryn and the Eyrie were as beautiful as the songs said, but Sansa couldn’t love them, they were no home:

"You look distraught. Did you think we were making for Winterfell, sweetling? Winterfell has been taken, burned, and sacked. All those you knew and loved are dead. What northmen who have not fallen to the ironmen are warring amongst themselves. Even the Wall is under attack. Winterfell was the home of your childhood, Sansa, but you are no longer a child. You're a woman grown, and you need to make your own home." […] It had been years since Sansa last saw her mother's sister. She will be kind to me for my mother's sake, surely. She's my own blood. And the Vale of Arryn was beautiful, all the songs said so. Perhaps it would not be so terrible to stay here for a time.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

Old snow cloaked the courtyard, and icicles hung down like crystal spears from the terraces and towers. The Eyrie was built of fine white stone, and winter's mantle made it whiter still. So beautiful, Alayne thought, so impregnable. She could not love this place, no matter how she tried. Even before the guards and serving men had made their descent, the castle had seemed as empty as a tomb, and more so when Petyr Baelish was away. No one sang up there, not since Marillion. No one ever laughed too loud.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

She awoke all at once, every nerve atingle. For a moment she did not remember where she was. She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya. But it was her maid she heard tossing in sleep, not her sister, and this was not Winterfell, but the Eyrie. And I am Alayne Stone, a bastard girl. The room was cold and black, though she was warm beneath the blankets. Dawn had not yet come. Sometimes she dreamed of Ser Ilyn Payne and woke with her heart thumping, but this dream had not been like that. Home. It was a dream of home. The Eyrie was no home. […] When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She did not remember falling. It seemed to her that the sky was a lighter shade of grey. Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

A godswood without gods (a godswood without a weirwood), as empty as me (like Sansa without Lady).

A godswood without gods (a lone wolf), as empty as me (lost without its pack).

A godswood without gods (a body without its heart), as empty as me (disillusioned with love).

The snow fell and the castle rose.

(Art credit: Sansa Stark making a snow-castle of Winterfell at the Eyrie - by Michael Komarck.© )

Snow imagery is very important in Sansa’s arc. Snow means home, family and love:

Sansa is prophesied slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow (Winterfell reference).  

The snow falling before dawn is what wakes her up from her dreams of Winterfell, the day she builds her snow castle.

She remembers Robb with snowflakes in his hair during their farewell.

She remembers the summer snows from the day she left Winterfell.

She remembers a snowball fight with Arya and Bran back at Winnterfell.

She associates snowflakes with lover’s kisses.

She associates the taste of snow with Winterfell, innocence and dreams.

She builds a snow castle that means to be Winterfell.

Sansa building her snow castle is a reminder of the First Men and the Children of the Forest victory over the Long Night at the Battle for the Dawn.

Sansa building her snow castle at dawn is foreshadowing of Sansa re-building Winterfell after the second Battle for the Dawn.

She calls the Eyrie “a castle made of snow” (Winterfell reference), the day she descends to the Gates of the Moon.

She (Alayne Stone) is called the daughter of a snowy mountain (Winterfell reference).

The snow is falling all around when she hears of Jon Snow and the wind howls fiercely like a ghost wolf, big as mountains.

That’s why Sansa building her snow castle is one of GRRM’s favorite scenes from the Books. 

It was only a castle when she began, but before very long Sansa knew it was Winterfell. [...] Soon her gloves and her boots were crusty white, her hands were tingling, and her feet were soaked and cold, but she did not care. The castle was all that mattered. [...] She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell. [...] Sansa said, “It’s meant to be Winterfell.” [...] “Winterfell is the seat of House Stark,” Sansa told her husband-to-be. “The great castle of the north.”

— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Read more about George’s love for Sansa and her snow castle here, here, and also here.

Sansa is hiding in a strange and alien place, pretending to be another person, with another family and other roots. But her dreams, her deepest desires and even the weather are there to remind her who she really is. So, as an act of defiance, she builds a snow version of her true home out of memory. On the outside, this could simply be seen as a child playing in the snow, but deep down Sansa was yelling at the world that she was a Stark, that she was a wolf, a ghost wolf, big as mountains.      

Sansa Stark went up the mountain, but Alayne Stone is coming down.

Alayne Stone, the natural daughter of Petyr Baelish, was born at Gulltown. She is fourteen years old and has dark brown hair. Her mother was a gentlewoman of Braavos, daughter of a merchant prince. Alayne was raised by Septas and devotedly instructed in the Faith.

Again, the absence of a weirwood, or any other species as a heart tree, meant that Sansa was surrounded by lies and something else was taken away from her. This time her hair color and true born status.

Sansa’s coloring: fair porcelain skin and rich auburn hair, works as a reference to the weirwood tree. We can also observe this reference in this passage:

She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. "You have juice on your face, Your Grace," Arya said. It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. "You're horrible," she screamed at her sister. "They should have killed you instead of Lady!"

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III  

Ivory (whitish) and red are the colors of the weirwood tree. The old gods reference and the mention of Lady make this passage very symbolic. The dress was a betrothal gift from Cersei, now stained with blood. Similar to Lady’s death that stained Sansa’s betrothal with Joffrey, who never forgot what happened at the Trident:

"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me." "That was Arya's wolf," she said. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III  

So, taking away her rich auburn hair color, was once again an attempt to cut her northern roots. Yes, Sansa’s hair color was a Tully feature, but a reference to the red weirwood leaves as well.

This is more evident when Jon reunites with Ghost and finds his answer to Stannis’s offer and refuses Winterfell in order to save the weirwood tree from the Lord of Light fires and protect Sansa’s claim to the castle. During this processes Jon says: i) Winterfell belongs to the old gods, ii) Ghost belongs to the old gods; and, iii) Winterfell belongs to Sansa. At this point the connection between Sansa and the weirwood tree is obvious and undeniable.  

But what Sansa resented the most, was having lost her last name and true born status:

"Do you require guarding?" Marillion said lightly. "I am composing a new song, you should know. A song so sweet and sad it will melt even your frozen heart. 'The Roadside Rose,' I mean to call it. About a baseborn girl so beautiful she bewitched every man who laid eyes upon her." I am a Stark of Winterfell, she longed to tell him. Instead she nodded, and let him escort her down the tower steps and along a bridge.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

"I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I'd ever let him harm my daughter?" I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

"Bronze Yohn knows me," she reminded him. "He was a guest at Winterfell when his son rode north to take the black." […] Lord Royce saw . . . he saw Sansa Stark again at King's Landing, during the Hand's tourney."

[…] A man fighting in a tourney has more to concern him than some child in the crowd. And at Winterfell, Sansa was a little girl with auburn hair. My daughter is a maiden tall and fair, and her hair is chestnut.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

So, when Sansa says: “Sansa Stark went up the mountain, but Alayne Stone is coming down”, it almost  sounds like a death. The author himself said that “Sansa may be dead as well. There’s only Alayne Stone”.  

But “winter is coming,” and the cold is ruthless, the old gods are sending snow (and Snow) for Alayne Stone, to nourish her subtle acts of rebellion like, building snow castles, blurting out her bastard half brother’s name, and indulging herself with lemony, lemony, lemon cakes.  

IV.3. THE HEART OF WINTERFELL

The castle might well be theirs, but never that godswood.

I tried to explain how Sansa started to become a symbol of Winterfell, no matter how many times other characters attempt to strip her of her true identity, and how many times readers question her Starkness. But the loss of Lady’s physical existence and the absence of weirwood trees in the south, made her feel empty, like a godswood without gods. But the heart of Winterfell, the heart of home, the weirwood tree, still stands back home and is fighting hard against invaders. 

Some of Sansa’s suitors got to know Winterfell’s godswood, but the old gods rejected their presence and made them feel unwanted, just like Sansa does with some of them:  

1. Theon Greyjoy

A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.

—A Clash of Kings - Theon IV

He watched the forest go from grey to green below him as light filtered through the silent trees. On his left he could see tower tops above the inner wall, their roofs gilded by the rising sun. The red leaves of the weirwood were a blaze of flame among the green. Ned Stark's tree, he thought, and Stark's wood, Stark's castle, Stark's sword, Stark's gods. This is their place, not mine.

—A Clash of Kings - Theon V

Meanwhile Sansa completely ignores Theon’s past pretensions to marry her, and the only time she thought about her father’s ward, she called him Bran’s killer.

2. Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion had only the vaguest memory of Theon Greyjoy from his time with the Starks. A callow youth, always smiling, skilled with a bow; it was hard to imagine him as Lord of Winterfell. The Lord of Winterfell would always be a Stark.

He remembered their godswood; the tall sentinels armored in their grey-green needles, the great oaks, the hawthorn and ash and soldier pines, and at the center the heart tree standing like some pale giant frozen in time. He could almost smell the place, earthy and brooding, the smell of centuries, and he remembered how dark the wood had been even by day. That wood was Winterfell. It was the north. I never felt so out of place as I did when I walked there, so much an unwelcome intruder. He wondered if the Greyjoys would feel it too. The castle might well be theirs, but never that godswood. Not in a year, or ten, or fifty.

—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI

Meanwhile, Sansa refuses to kneel for Tyrion to be able to cloak her (Dontos serves as stool), refuses his sexual advances with icy courtesy, never opens her heart to her husband’s offers to comfort, lies and outsmarts him about her visits to the godswood where she plans her escape from the capital, she makes him feel unwanted and hated, she puts a wall of icy courtesy between them that Tyrion never could climb or break:

No one had thought to bring a stool, however, and Tyrion stood a foot and a half shorter than his bride. As he moved behind her, Sansa felt a sharp tug on her skirt. He wants me to kneel, she realized, blushing. She was mortified. It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. She felt another tug at her skirt, more insistent. I won't. Why should I spare his feelings, when no one cares about mine? The dwarf tugged at her a third time. Stubbornly she pressed her lips together and pretended not to notice. […] He hopped down from the dais and grabbed Sansa roughly. "Come, wife, time to smash your portcullis. I want to play come-into-the-castle." Red-faced, Sansa went with him from the Small Hall. What choice do I have? […] "Well, talk won't make you older. Shall we get on with this, my lady? If it please you?" "It will please me to please my lord husband." That seemed to anger him. "You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall." "Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that. "I am your husband. You can take off your armor now." [...] "On my honor as a Lannister," the Imp said, "I will not touch you until you want me to." It took all the courage that was in her to look in those mismatched eyes and say, "And if I never want you to, my lord?" His mouth jerked as if she had slapped him. "Never?" Her neck was so tight she could scarcely nod. "Why," he said, "that is why the gods made whores for imps like me." He closed his short blunt fingers into a fist, and climbed down off the bed.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

Sansa's misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good. No words would ever make him fair in her eyes. Or any less a Lannister. This was the wife they had given him, for all the rest of his life, and she hated him.

And their nights together in the great bed were another source of torment. He could no longer bear to sleep naked, as had been his custom. His wife was too well trained ever to say an unkind word, but the revulsion in her eyes whenever she looked on his body was more than he could bear. Tyrion had commanded Sansa to wear a sleeping shift as well. I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Yes, and I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV

The way she looked at him, her stiffness when she climbed into their bed . . . when he was with her, never for an instant could he forget who he was, or what he was. No more than she did. She still went nightly to the godswood to pray, and Tyrion wondered if she were praying for his death. She had lost her home, her place in the world, and everyone she had ever loved or trusted. Winter is coming, warned the Stark words, and truly it had come for them with a vengeance. But it is high summer for House Lannister. So why am I so bloody cold?

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VII

He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy. […] He had always had a yen to see the Titan of Braavos. Perhaps that would please Sansa. Gently, he spoke of Braavos, and met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and unyielding as the Wall he had walked once in the north. It made him weary. Then and now.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

Once again, as it happened with the Hound, Sansa’s courtesy armors her against men that attempt to invade her body. In a similar way that the heart of Winterfell, the weirwood, makes the invaders feel unwanted and rejected.

3. Petyr Baelish

Littlefinger was never at Winterfell or the godswood, but he feels a deep hatred for the castle, he always dreamed of Winterfell as Catelyn’s dark and cold prison:

He walked along outside the walls. “I used to dream of it, in those years after Cat went north with Eddard Stark. In my dreams it was ever a dark place, and cold.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Littlefinger is the cause of the War of the Five Kings that killed Sansa’s parents and older brother and separated her remaining siblings. The war also caused the fall of Winterfell that was, invaded, sacked and burned by the Greyjoys and Boltons.

But there is a connection between Littlefinger, Winterfell and the godswood. Littlefinger has involved Sansa in several murders, Joffrey’s and Lysa’s being the more important (Dontos and Marillion also suffered murder and mutilation). The King’s murder was planned in the Red Keep’s goodswood, and Lysa’s murder was a direct consequence of Petyr kissing Sansa in the Eyrie’s goodswood.

Now Littlefinger is grooming Sansa, forcing sexual advances on her, and those started during the snow castle scene. The symbolic image of a giant invading Winterfell also plays as an innuendo:  

"May I come into your castle, my lady?" Sansa was wary. "Don't break it. Be . . ." ". . . gentle?" He smiled. "Winterfell has withstood fiercer enemies than me. It is Winterfell, is it not?" "Yes," Sansa admitted.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

The ambitious men that pursed Winterfell through marrying Sansa, also had to take her maidenhead and conceive an heir, in order to consolidate their claim to the castle and the north. So “coming into the castle” also means having sex and making children.      

Littlefinger is too machiavellian, it seems he has used the godswoods not only to trap Sansa but also to reenact his children fantasy of being Catelyn’s love:

I saw you kissing in the snow. She's just like her mother. Catelyn kissed you in the godswood, but she never meant it, she never wanted you. Why did you love her best? It was me, it was always meeee!"

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

But Sansa, like Catelyn, never wanted and will never wants Petyr Baelish as lover.  

Meanwhile at the Wall…

Jon Snow

Unlike Theon, Jon doesn’t feel rejected by the heart of Winterfell. Jon got a direwolf sent by the old gods that shares the weirwood’s coloring:

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Unlike Theon that invaded Winterfell and allowed the Ironmen to sack, pillage, kill and rape. And later let the Boltons into the castle to burn it. Jon wants to rebuild Winterfell:

They can’t be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell … grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones … how could Winterfell be gone?

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Winterfell, he thought. Theon left it burned and broken, but I could restore it. Surely his father would have wanted that, and Robb as well. They would never have wanted the castle left in ruins.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Jon wanted Winterfell, as much as he had ever wanted anything, but unlike Tyrion, Jon rejects the castle in favor of Sansa. And Jon would never forced himself on Sansa if she doesn’t want him as well.

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. 

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV

The wording of these two passages (“He wanted it” / “I want her”), the Winterfell references, and the guilt and angst for desiring something forbidden (“May the gods forgive me” / “I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is”), is way too similar to be a mere coincidence. Winterfell and Sansa are merged in the text.

Tyrion and Littlefinger sexually desire Sansa and used the same Winterfell reference as an innuendo:

"Come, wife, time to smash your portcullis. I want to play come-into-the-castle."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

"May I come into your castle, my lady?" Sansa was wary. "Don't break it. Be . . ." ". . . gentle?" He smiled. "Winterfell has withstood fiercer enemies than me. It is Winterfell, is it not?" "Yes," Sansa admitted.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Both Tyrion and Littlefinger have giant imagery around them, both even talk to her about the Giant of Braavos, both wanted Sansa politically (Winterfell) and sexually (her body), and Sansa has been prophesied slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow (Winterfell reference). I think that Jon might help her to fulfil that prophecy.

Indeed, Tyrion associates Sansa’s rejection of his advances as icy courtesy and compared that rejection with a castle wall and the Wall in the north:

"You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall." "Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

Sansa's misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV

He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy. […] He had always had a yen to see the Titan of Braavos. Perhaps that would please Sansa. Gently, he spoke of Braavos, and met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and unyielding as the Wall he had walked once in the north. It made him weary. Then and now.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

But Sansa is “stronger within the walls of Winterfell” and Jon at the Wall is “the shield that guards the realms of men.”

Sansa also throws a handful of snow at Littlefinger’s face during the snow castle scene:

The Broken Tower was easier still. They made a tall tower together, kneeling side by side to roll it smooth, and when they'd raised it Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. "That was unchivalrously done, my lady." "As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home." She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

A handful of snow… Wouldn’t be awesome if Jon Snow continue the Stark men tradition to beat Littlefinger out?

I was always suspicious of Littlefinger helping Sansa build her snow castle, but since Petyr Baelish has giant imagery around him, it all makes sense after reading this passage:

She looked as if she thought he was making that up. "How could men build so high, with no giants to lift the stones?" In legend, Brandon the Builder had used giants to help raise Winterfell, but Jon did not want to confuse the issue. "Men can build a lot higher than this. In Oldtown there's a tower taller than the Wall." He could tell she did not believe him.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Sansa will be certainly grateful if she can take advantage of any help Baelish could offer to rebuild Winterfell, but she will slay him anyway, as in the songs:

“If the tales be true, that’s not the first giant to end up with his head on Winterfell’s walls.” “Those are only stories,” she said, and left him there.

— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Unlike Petyr’s forced kisses, Sansa associates “snow” with lover’s kisses:

Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks.

— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Unlike Petyr, that has used the godswoods of the Red Keep and the Eyrie, to lie and trap Sansa, and is an awful replacement as a father figure for Sansa, Jon would never lie to Sansa in front of the old gods, like Ned taught him:  

Jon said, "My lord father believed no man could tell a lie in front of a heart tree. The old gods know when men are lying."

—A Clash of Kings - Jon II

As I said before, if Jon had accepted Stannis’s offer, he would have had Winterfell, but at an extremely high price: burning the weirwood tree, which, to him, would be sacrilege:

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Sansa feels empty like a godswood without gods, like a godswood without a weirwood tree, mostly because she lost Lady, but also because she feels like a lone wolf without its pack, and a body without its heart due to the extreme disillusionment she has suffered so far.

But Jon Snow has a direwolf that is a symbol of the weirwood tree, Jon himself is a symbol of the weirwood tree. And Sansa has become a symbol of Winterfell and the godswood, but she feels empty without her wolf. Then Ghost might complete Sansa’s empty godswood, and Jon might fill Sansa’s heart again. And together they could be a pack. And together they could rebuild their home. Please play North by Sleeping at Last here.  

So…

…One would have to wonder why GRRM is always comparing and contrasting Sansa’s suitors with her bastard half brother Jon Snow? What is the reason for that? Does that mean that something romantic will happen between Sansa and Jon in the future? Is that just a mere coincidence? If the same thing (Sansa’s suitor being compared and contrasted with Jon Snow) happened three times, can we really call it a mere coincidence? One would have to wonder… Why?     

IV.4. SANSA THE WOLF

My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

(Picture credit: Sophie Turner)

Acording to GRRM, all the Stark children are wargs or skinchangers:

“I don’t think this is necessarily a ‘Stark’ ability, though all the children have it to one extent or another. They also realize it to one extent or another”. [Source]

Q: Are all the Stark children wargs/skin changers with their wolves? A: To a greater or lesser degree, yes, but the amount of control varies widely. [Source]

Oh, George said all the Stark children of this generation were full Wargs. I thought they were like one shot Wargs and were only bonded to their wolves but no they can warg into just about anything. Bran is just the only one working on it. [Source]

Since Lady died, Sansa lost the opportunity to form a deeper bond with her wolf and to further develop and recognise her skinchanger abilities.

But I believe that Lady’s soul still remains in the world, and that’s why Bran calls and counts Sansa’s wolf as “Lady’s Shade.”  

Of late, he often dreamed of wolves. They are talking to me, brother to brother, he told himself when the direwolves howled. He could almost understand them . . . not quite, not truly, but almost . . . as if they were singing in a language he had once known and somehow forgotten. The Walders might be scared of them, but the Starks had wolf blood. Old Nan told him so. "Though it is stronger in some than in others," she warned. Summer's howls were long and sad, full of grief and longing. Shaggydog's were more savage. Their voices echoed through the yards and halls until the castle rang and it seemed as though some great pack of direwolves haunted Winterfell, instead of only two . . . two where there had once been six. Do they miss their brothers and sisters too? Bran wondered. Are they calling to Grey Wind and Ghost, to Nymeria and Lady's Shade? Do they want them to come home and be a pack together?

—A Clash of Kings - Bran I

Read more about Lady’s Shade here.

We also have this passage about a Child of the Forest long dead but part of her still remaining in a raven:

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.” “A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III

So it is possible that part of Lady still remains inside of Sansa, and that’s why Sansa always dreams with Lady (wolf dreams). Only Jon stopped dreaming with Ghost for a time, coincidentally, when they were separated by the Wall: 

The warg, I've heard them call me. How can I be a warg without a wolf, I ask you?" His mouth twisted. "I don't even dream of Ghost anymore. All my dreams are of the crypts, of the stone kings on their thrones. Sometimes I hear Robb's voice, and my father's, as if they were at a feast. But there's a wall between us, and I know that no place has been set for me."

—A Storm of Swords - Samwell IV

Most of Sansa’s dreams with Lady is about both of them running in a godswood (Lady’s bones are buried near Winterfell’s godswood), and although Sansa doesn’t remember much of her dreams, she always whispers and/or wakes up with Lady’s name on her lips:

Sansa sat up. "Lady," she whispered. For a moment it was as if the direwolf was there in the room, looking at her with those golden eyes, sad and knowing. She had been dreaming, she realized. Lady was with her, and they were running together, and … and … trying to remember was like trying to catch the rain with her fingers. The dream faded, and Lady was dead again.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

By the time she reached the godswood, the noises had faded to a faint rattle of steel and a distant shouting. Sansa pulled her cloak tighter. The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood; even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so…

She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

Tyrion dressed himself in darkness, listening to his wife's soft breathing from the bed they shared. She dreams, he thought, when Sansa murmured something softly—a name, perhaps, though it was too faint to say—and turned onto her side.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VII

Even after her nightmares, she thinks of her Lady:

"I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

Some readers have speculated about Sansa and her link with other animals, and the possibility of Sansa changing skins with them, like the black tomcat of the Red Keep, the old blind dog of the Fingers, and even the blue falcon that she observed flying above the Eyrie.

From the Prologue of A Dance with Dragons we know that cats aren’t good to warg into:

Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you.

—A Dance with Dragons - Prologue

During her encounter with the black tomcat of the Red Keep, Sansa “almost jumped out her skin.” This is a very interesting wording that almost sounds like skinchanging:

The serpentine steps twisted ahead, striped by bars of flickering light from the narrow windows above. Sansa was panting by the time she reached the top. She ran down a shadowy colonnade and pressed herself against a wall to catch her breath. When something brushed against her leg, she almost jumped out of her skin, but it was only a cat, a ragged black tom with a chewed-off ear. The creature spit at her and leapt away.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

“Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you”, maybe, that’s why after approaching Sansa willingly, the black tomcat “spit at her and leapt away”. This scene happens when Sansa was coming to the godswood to meet with Dontos for the first time. After Sansa arrives, she immediately thinks of Lady.

From the Prologue of A Dance with Dragons we also know that dogs are the easiest animals to bond with:

Dogs were the easiest beasts to bond with; they lived so close to men that they were almost human. Slipping into a dog's skin was like putting on an old boot, its leather softened by wear. As a boot was shaped to accept a foot, a dog was shaped to accept a collar, even a collar no human eye could see.

—A Dance with Dragons - Prologue

Sansa bonds with the old blind dog of the Fingers fast and easily. The dog is affectionate, tries to defend Sansa from Marillion’s attack, and is next to her after the nightmares of past sexual abuse by the Hound and Tyrion, provoked by the singer’s attack:

It was eight long days until Lysa Arryn arrived. On five of them it rained, while Sansa sat bored and restless by the fire, beside the old blind dog. He was too sick and toothless to walk guard with Bryen anymore, and mostly all he did was sleep, but when she patted him he whined and licked her hand, and after that they were fast friends. […] "Alayne." Her aunt's singer stood over her. "Sweet Alayne. I am Marillion. I saw you come in from the rain. The night is chill and wet. Let me warm you." The old dog raised his head and growled, but the singer gave him a cuff and sent him slinking off, whimpering. […] "I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

And about birds, this is what the Prologue of A Dance with Dragons tells us:

"Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won't like what you'd become." Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. "Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again. I know skinchangers who've tried hawks, owls, ravens. Even in their own skins, they sit moony, staring up at the bloody blue." Not all skinchangers felt the same, however.

—A Dance with Dragons - Prologue

We know that Sansa likes to go hawking, and she is better than Stannis at it:

“Do you hawk, Sansa?” “A little,” she admitted.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

The day before last she’d taken Sansa hawking. […] Sansa’s merlin brought down three ducks while Margaery’s peregrine took a heron in full flight.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

But once again trapped in a tower, Sansa wishes she has wings:

A falcon soared above the frozen waterfall, blue wings spread wide against the morning sky. Would that I had wings as well.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

Sansa warging abilities are hidden so deep in the text, they only shyly appear in the middle of George’s prose as little pieces of poetry:  

My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

Now tell me, what is that if not skinchanging?

And talking about birds, Sansa has already changed her skin with some birds, she was a talking little bird of the Summer Islands (repeating the right things to survive), then a mockingbird (as Petyr Baelish daughter), and she’s about to become a falcon (if she marries Harry).

And since cloaks could also be considered another skin, Sansa has already changed various cloaks. She was cloaked by a Lannister, then by her new father Petyr Baelish, and is about to be cloaked again by an Arryn.

But Sansa is a wolf, no matter how many skins she wears, she will always be a wolf:

A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf.

—A Dance with Dragons – Prologue

“She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf.”

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

“The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

As you can see, Sansa’s true skin is waiting for her at Winterfell…

A direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .

At Darry, the Lannisters killed Lady.

At King’s Landing, Joffrey used to punish Sansa in public, humiliating her for having the blood of a wolf, for being an unnatural creature like her brother Robb that defeated Lannister soldiers fighting with an army of wargs:

"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me." "That was Arya's wolf," she said. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway." […] “This girl’s to be your queen,” the Imp told Joffrey. “Have you no regard for her honor?” “I’m punishing her.” “For what crime? She did not fight her brother’s battle.” “She has the blood of a wolf.”

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

So, the Lannisters thought that Sansa was a tamed wolf. Tyrion used to call her his “child bride” or “child wife”, for everyone in the court she was the imp’s “little wife,” or the “little bird” in her gilded cage. But after Joffrey's death, Sansa began to be seen by her captors as a cunning wolf who hid under a sheepskin, an ungrateful wolf who bit the hands that fed her:

“That night, alone in his tower cell with a blank parchment and a cup of wine, Tyrion found himself thinking of his wife. Not Sansa; his first wife, Tysha. The whore wife, not the wolf wife.”

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IX

"It was sweet," lied Tyrion, "but I am married. She was with me at the feast, you may remember her. Lady Sansa." "Was she your wife? She … she was very beautiful …" And false. Sansa, Shae, all my women …

—A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion IX

“Your Grace has forgotten the Lady Sansa,” said Pycelle. The queen bristled. “I most certainly have not forgotten that little she-wolf.” She refused to say the girl’s name. “I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? She helped murder my son.

—A Feast for Crows - Cersei IV

And while Sansa wishes she had feathery wings, unbeknownst to her, she became part of the popular folklore when the smallfolk began to imagine her as a witchy kingslayer that later vanished in a puff of brimstone or changed into a “wolf with big leather wings like a bat” and flew away:

“I forgot, you’ve been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head.”

—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII

“The dwarf’s wife did the murder with him,” swore an archer in Lord Rowan’s livery. “Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jaime VII

In the same book and with a very similar wording, Jon dreams of a ghastly direwolf wandering around the Crypts of Winterfell:

The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

My personal theory is that the ghastly direwolf is Lady, because, among other reasons, this wouldn’t be the first time that Jon confused Ygritte with another redhead. 

These legends of Sansa the witch, the unnatural warg, the beastling, the skinchanger, the winged wolf that flew away from a tower window or vanished in a puff of brimstone, are at the same level of the legends about Bloodraven warging into a one-eyed dog and turning into a mist from a century ago:

How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? the riddle ran. A thousand eyes, and one. Some claimed the King's Hand was a student of the dark arts who could change his face, put on the likeness of a one-eyed dog, even turn into a mist. Packs of gaunt gray wolves hunted down his foes, men said, and carrion crows spied for him and whispered secrets in his ear. Most of the tales were only tales, Dunk did not doubt, but no one could doubt that Bloodraven had informers everywhere.

—The Mystery Knight

If Sansa or Lady’s Shade have really changed skins with the old blind dog of the Fingers, that would be almost the same as Bloodraven warging or shapechanging into a one-eyed dog. By the way, the old blind dog’s master’s name was Bryen, a name way too similar to Brynden (Bloodraven’s name)…

But back again to the “wolf with big leather wings like a bat.” This interesting image reminds me of dragons instead of bats, and I think that was precisely George’s intention, he was subtly referring to dragon wings:

[…] “They say the child was …” […] “Monstrous,” Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. […] “Twisted. I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat.

—A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IX

In the center of the Plaza of Pride stood a red brick fountain whose waters smelled of brimstone, and in the center of the fountain a monstrous harpy made of hammered bronze. Twenty feet tall she reared. She had a woman’s face, with gilded hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory teeth. Water gushed yellow from her heavy breasts. But in place of arms she had the wings of a bat or a dragon, her legs were the legs of an eagle, and behind she wore a scorpion’s curled and venomous tail.

—A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

So, this fascinating image of a “wolf with big leather wings like a bat” could be foreshadowing of Sansa wearing a Targaryen cloak in the future. Or at least having the support and protection of someone related to dragons.

V. SO LONG AS THOSE REMAINED, WINTERFELL REMAINED

Stone and Snow, that was all that was left of Winterfell. Just like she and Jon.

As far as I know, this line: “Stone and Snow, that was all that was left of Winterfell. Just like she and Jon.” comes from a piece of fan-fiction. Sadly I don’t know what fan-fiction it is from (if anyone knows please inform me, so I can cite it properly). But no matter its non-canon origins, this line summarizes a huge and beautiful theme in Sansa and Jon’s arcs: Rebuilding their lost and broken home, Winterfell.

Stone and snow is basically what the north is to someone from the south:

Well, you know, there’s something to be said for being an honorable Stark, but you’re kinda cold all the time and poor and so forth. And you have a lot of land, but there’s not a lot of stuff on it, you know?

—GRRM

"I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?" Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?" "Likely they were too shy to come out," Ned jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. "Kings are a rare sight in the north." Robert snorted. "More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!"

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

Moreso, after Robb Stark lost the north at the hands of the Greyjoys, people in King’s Landing considered the northern lands just a pile of stone and snow:

"And if we accept this alliance?" inquired Lord Mathis Rowan. "What terms does he propose?" "That we recognize his kingship and grant him everything north of the Neck." Lord Redwyne laughed. "What is there north of the Neck that any sane man would want? If Greyjoy will trade swords and sails for stone and snow, I say do it, and count ourselves lucky."

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III

But the stone is strong, the snow means home, love and family for the Starks, and the north also has its ancient trees and bones:

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell’s chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.

—A Clash of Kings - Bran VII

Like Bran, Jon Snow also considers stone (grey granite), root (oak, weirwood), and bone (stone kings) as the fundamental pieces of Winterfell:

They can't be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell . . . grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones . . . how could Winterfell be gone

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Maester Luwin also distinguishes stone and root as the main pieces of Winterfell:

The place [Winterfell] had grown over the centuries like some monstrous stone tree, Maester Luwin told him once, and its branches were gnarled and thick and twisted, its roots sunk deep into the earth.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran II

The toughness of stone and root has been highlighted by the author through the description of Yoren:  

Yoren was stooped and sinister, his features hidden behind a beard as black as his clothing, but he seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone.

—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II

Even the intruders recognize the strength of Winterfell’s stone walls:

He remembered Winterfell as he had last seen it. Not as grotesquely huge as Harrenhal, nor as solid and impregnable to look at as Storm's End, yet there had been a great strength in those stones, a sense that within those walls a man might feel safe.

—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI

Winterfell…

…Sacked, burned, broken and without a Stark within its walls (save by Lady’s bones). But the stone is strong and the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained.

Have you noticed already? Have you noticed the references to Sansa and Jon (and Bran) in that quote?

The stone is strong = The walls of Winterfell = Alayne Stone = Sansa Stark.

The roots of the trees go deep = The weirwood tree (the heart of Winterfell) = Ghost = Jon Snow (and Bran the three-eyed raven in his weirwood net).

Under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones = I believe this is a reference to Jon, Sansa and Bran eventual crowning as monarchs of the north and/or the whole kingdom.  

The pillars of Winterfell are stone, root and bone.

V.1. STONE

The stone is strong = The walls of Winterfell = Alayne Stone = Sansa Stark.

Sansa Stark has a lot of stone imagery around her.

Winterfell’s walls are made of grey granite. Grey is also a color of House Stark and I believe that Sansa will be the girl in grey on a dying horse from Melisandre’s vision.

As the Heir to Winterfell, Sansa was practically transformed into a stone castle, Winterfell, and the north itself, since the one that controlled her would obtain all her lands and power. Or, to use the euphemism from the Books, Sansa Stark was the “key to the north.”

Sansa reflects about this objectification in the Books and gives us one of the saddest lines in ASOIAF, especially coming from a girl who yearns to be loved and always dreamed of getting married: “No one will ever marry me for love,” (because everyone only wants her for her claim to Winterfell and the north).

Tyrion associates Sansa’s rejection of his advances as icy courtesy and compared that rejection with a castle wall that he never got to break:

"You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall." "Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

Sansa's misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV

He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

The castle wall that armored Sansa and Tyrion never got to break is a clear reference to Winterfell:  

He remembered Winterfell as he had last seen it. Not as grotesquely huge as Harrenhal, nor as solid and impregnable to look at as Storm's End, yet there had been a great strength in those stones, a sense that within those walls a man might feel safe.

—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI

And certainly, Sansa feels stronger and protected withing the walls of Winterfell:

Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. "That was unchivalrously done, my lady." "As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home." She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Sansa feeling stronger within the walls of Winterfell, sounds pretty similar to “the stone is strong” line from Bran quote cited above.

Later, while descending from the Eyrie to the Gates of the Moon, Mya Stone tells Sansa that “a stone is a mountain’s daughter.”

Men come and go. They lie, or die, or leave you. A mountain is not a man, though, and a stone is a mountain’s daughter. I trust my father, and I trust my mules. I won’t fall.” She put her hand on a jagged spur of rock, and got to her feet. “Best finish. We have a long way yet to go, and I can smell a storm.”

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

One of Winterfell’s possible meanings is “wintry mountain(s).” And Sansa Stark is “The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter”.

As the daughter of Petyr Baelish, Alayne Stone also becomes the Heir to Harrenhal, another great castle made of strong stone. Only dragon fire was able to melt Harrenhal’s stone walls:  

Stone does not burn, Harren had boasted, but his castle was not made of stone alone. […] And even stone will crack and melt if a fire is hot enough. The riverlords outside the castle walls said later that the towers of Harrenhal glowed red against the night, like five great candles... and like candles, they began to twist and melt, as runnels of molten stone ran down their sides.

—The World of Ice and Fire - The Reign of the Dragons: The Conquest

Moreover we have the parallels that Sansa shares with Jenny of Oldstones. And Oldstones serves us as an example of the strength of the stone.

Just like Winterfell was the stronghold of the ancient Kings of Winter, Oldstones was the stronghold of the ancient River Kings (House Mudd of Oldstones), both dynasties descendants of the First Men. And if we read about Oldstones, thinking about Winterfell is an inevitability:    

They reached Oldstones after eight more days of steady rain, and made their camp upon the hill overlooking the Blue Fork, within a ruined stronghold of the ancient river kings. Its foundations remained amongst the weeds to show where the walls and keeps had stood, but the local smallfolk had long ago made off with most of the stones to raise their barns and septs and holdfasts. Yet in the center of what once would have been the castle's yard, a great carved sepulcher still rested, half hidden in waist-high brown grass amongst a stand of ash. The lid of the sepulcher had been carved into a likeness of the man whose bones lay beneath, but the rain and the wind had done their work. The king had worn a beard, they could see, but otherwise his face was smooth and featureless, with only vague suggestions of a mouth, a nose, eyes, and the crown about the temples. His hands folded over the shaft of a stone warhammer that lay upon his chest. Once the warhammer would have been carved with runes that told its name and history, but all that the centuries had worn away. The stone itself was cracked and crumbling at the corners, discolored here and there by spreading white splotches of lichen, while wild roses crept up over the king's feet almost to his chest.

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V

Despite the pass of time the foundations of Oldstones remained and the stones were even used by the smallfolk to rise new buildings. The stone is really strong.

What also remained despite the centuries was the tomb of King Tristifer IV Mudd, also known as the Hammer of Justice, which immediately reminds me of the crypts of Winterfell and its stone kings sitting on their thrones with their swords across their laps.

And just like songs are still sung about a girl named Jenny from Oldstones who found true love with a Targaryen prince, I’m pretty sure that many songs will be sung about Sansa Stark from Winterfell and her own Targaryen prince.    

Finally, is worth mentioning that Stark means “strong” in German. And there’s a theory about House Strong (extinguished) being linked to House Stark. 

Stone = Strong = Stark

So by saying the stone is strong, we are also saying the stone is Stark. 

Alayne Stone is Sansa Stark. 

V.2. ROOT

The roots of the trees go deep = The weirwood tree (the heart of Winterfell) = Ghost = Jon Snow

The roots of the trees going deep is a clear reference to the trees from the godswood and especially to the weirwood tree, the heart of Winterfell, as Ned always said.

As it was explained above, in Jon Snow and Ghost we really have symbols of the weirwood tree. Jon Snow and Ghost represent the heart of Winterfell:

The weirwood tree  = red leaves, white bark, watchful eyes, silent, belongs to the old gods.

Ghost = red eyes, white fur, watchful eyes, silent, belongs to the old gods.

The face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree = “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”.

Jon Snow’s face and features = “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”.

This sentiment of correspondence and belonging becomes more evident when Jon reunites with Ghost and finds his answer to Stannis’s offer and refuses Winterfell in order to save the weirwood tree from the Lord of Light fires: 

Winterfell belongs to the old gods

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Ghost belongs to the old gods

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

By saving the weirwood tree Jon also stood up for Sansa’s claim to Winterfell: 

Winterfell belongs to Sansa

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

These quotes form an important sequence that joins Jon and Sansa and Winterfell thematically and symbolically. However, I must say that the sequence is incomplete. The first quote is still to be revealed at the end of this work.    

V.3. BONE

And under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones = Jon and Sansa (and Bran) eventual crowning as monarchs.

The Crypts of Winterfell contain the tombs of past members of House Stark, but only the past Kings and Lords have statues (the stone kings). Despite the tradition, Ned has statues made for Brandon and Lyanna. But inside the tombs and statues there are bones. The Crypts of Winterfell is basically an ossuary below the castle.  

All those ancient bones are powerful, as Melisandre explained:

"The bones help," said Melisandre. "The bones remember. The strongest glamors are built of such things. A dead man's boots, a hank of hair, a bag of fingerbones. With whispered words and prayer, a man's shadow can be drawn forth from such and draped about another like a cloak. The wearer's essence does not change, only his seeming."

—A Dance with Dragons - Melisandre I

Brandon The Builder must had known about the power of bones and that’s why he designed the Crypts of Winterfell to be the foundation of the castle.

In fact, all the north is full of barrows (the ancient graves of the First Men):

"The barrows of the First Men." Robert frowned. "Have we ridden onto a graveyard?" "There are barrows everywhere in the north, Your Grace," Ned told him. "This land is old."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard II

This is how the Crypts of Winterfell are described:  

"Your Grace," Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchres that contained their mortal remains. "She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

As the granite walls on the surface work as a frame for the living, the granite pillars under the ground work as a frame for the dead. And the stone kings also work as the foundation of the castle, not only in a systemic way, but also as the ancient legacy of House Stark, their history through the centuries, a past that they should not forget. The bones remember.

Also, the long procession of granite pillars placed two by two makes me think about all the pairs of Kings and Queens of Winter, and Lords and Ladies of Winterfell, that existed from the beginning, since all those couples are also the foundation of House Stark.

All the Stark children use to play in the Crypts:

Bran could not recall the last time he had been in the crypts. It had been before, for certain. When he was little, he used to play down here with Robb and Jon and his sisters. He wished they were here now; the vault might not have seemed so dark and scary.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran VII

Later the Crypts protected Bran and Rickon when the Greyjoys and later the Boltons invaded the castle.

Jon has a particular relationship with the Crypts of Winterfell. It was there where Jon disguised as a ghost covered in flour to scare his younger siblings. Later he named his direwolf Ghost and much later Jon was killed and will probably reside inside Ghost for a while.

As I said before, Winterfell is what Jon wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything, but his strong desire for Winterfell fills him with an enormous guilt. And all that guilt is represented in “the Winterfell dream” which is more like a repetitive nightmare for Jon, that always ends at the Crypts of Winterfell:

And then I find myself in front of the door to the crypts. It's black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IV

Last night he had dreamt the Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he'd heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VII

Until this point during those dreams, it was Jon himself who said “I’m not a Stark” and “this isn’t my place”, since he would never be the Lord of Winterfell or have the right to be buried there, but with every “Winterfell dream”, the stone kings gain more prominence:

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

"What everyone knows is that Ser Alliser is a knight from a noble line, and trueborn, while I'm the bastard who killed Qhorin Halfhand and bedded with a spearwife. The warg, I've heard them call me. How can I be a warg without a wolf, I ask you?" His mouth twisted. "I don't even dream of Ghost anymore. All my dreams are of the crypts, of the stone kings on their thrones. Sometimes I hear Robb's voice, and my father's, as if they were at a feast. But there's a wall between us, and I know that no place has been set for me."

—A Storm of Swords - Samwell IV

In these later dreams, the stone kings are the ones telling Jon “You are no Stark,” “There is no place for you here. Go away”. These words are pretty similar to the words Catelyn Stark told to Jon when he said goodbye to Bran:

Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. "What are you doing here?" she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless. "I came to see Bran," Jon said. "To say good-bye." Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. "You've said it. Now go away." Part of him wanted only to flee, but he knew that if he did he might never see Bran again. He took a nervous step into the room. "Please," he said. Something cold moved in her eyes. "I told you to leave," she said. "We don't want you here."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon II

And what was the reason for this change? I think the answer is that Robb Stark became King in The North:

Jon was still not certain how he felt about it. Robb a king? The brother he'd played with, fought with, shared his first cup of wine with? But not mother's milk, no. So now Robb will sip summerwine from jeweled goblets, while I'm kneeling beside some stream sucking snowmelt from cupped hands. "Robb will make a good king," he said loyally. […] "I've always known that Robb would be Lord of Winterfell." Mormont gave a whistle, and the bird flew to him again and settled on his arm. "A lord's one thing, a king's another." He offered the raven a handful of corn from his pocket. "They will garb your brother Robb in silks, satins, and velvets of a hundred different colors, while you live and die in black ringmail. He will wed some beautiful princess and father sons on her. You'll have no wife, nor will you ever hold a child of your own blood in your arms. Robb will rule, you will serve. Men will call you a crow. Him they'll call Your Grace. Singers will praise every little thing he does, while your greatest deeds all go unsung. Tell me that none of this troubles you, Jon . . . and I'll name you a liar, and know I have the truth of it." Jon drew himself up, taut as a bowstring. "And if it did trouble me, what might I do, bastard as I am?"

—A Clash of Kings - Jon I

Robb, who always had the right to have all that Jon wanted, now had also become a young king, like Daeron Targaryen, one of Jon heroes. Jon has an even higher standard to reach in order to prove the world that he is a man that worth despite of being a bastard:

Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their nature was wanton and treacherous. Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. I made a botch of that. Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon X

You can't be the Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born, he heard Robb say again. And the stone kings were growling at him with granite tongues. You do not belong here. This is not your place.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

And here is a good moment to say: Oh the irony! Because we all know what happened with Robb, he died just like Daeron Targaryen, young and with no children to succeed him. And is most probable that Robb had named Jon his heir in his will. So Jon Snow is likely to be the next King in the North, with the right to be buried in the Crypts of Winterfell, just like the ancient Kings of Winter that are sitting under the ground on their stone thrones.

But not only that, unbeknownst to Jon, he actually belongs in the Crypts of Winterfell, not only because he will probably become the next King in the North, but because his mother, Lyanna Stark, is buried there. Jon’s mother’s bones are buried in the Crypts of Winterfell. And the bones remember.

Lady’s bones are also buried near the Crypts of Winterfell, in the lichyard, and Jon had a dream of a ghastly direwolf wandering around the tombs:

The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

As I mentioned before, my personal theory is that the ghastly direwolf is Lady.

Ned carried Lyanna’s bones from Dorne to the north, to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell, the same way he ordered his men to carry Lady’s bones from Darry to the north, to be buried in the lichyard of Winterfell (near to the crypts). So Lyanna’s and Lady’s bones being buried at Winterfell, makes them literally Ladies of Winterfell.  

Traditionally, only the Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell have their statues carved in stone in the Crypts of Winterfell, with the sole exception of Ned’s siblings Brandon and Lyanna (And Artos Stark from the past). I believe this particular could be a hint that Bran (represented by Brandon) and Sansa (represented by Lyanna), will be crowned monarchs as well, with the right to be buried in the Crypts of Winterfell, just like the ancient Kings of Winter that are sitting under the ground on their stone thrones.

Winterfell is stone, root and bone. And through the years the castle has even taken the form of a tree, a labyrinthine stone tree:

To a boy, Winterfell was a grey stone labyrinth of walls and towers and courtyards and tunnels spreading out in all directions. In the older parts of the castle, the halls slanted up and down so that you couldn't even be sure what floor you were on. The place had grown over the centuries like some monstrous stone tree, Maester Luwin told him once, and its branches were gnarled and thick and twisted, its roots sunk deep into the earth.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran II

This image of Winterfell taking the form of a tree makes me think about the weirwood tree, the heart of the castle, and how the castle itself is emulating its heart growing in the same way as the heart tree. And at the same time, this image of Winterfell as a “stone tree” makes me think so much about Sansa as the stone, and Jon as the deep rooted tree.

To sum it up: If the heart tree is the heart of Winterfell, its ancient roots going deep represent the circulatory system and the stone kings in the ground play the role of the skeletal system, leaving the stone walls to be the exterior frame that contains all these parts.

As a simile of a living organism, Winterfell has its own blood as well:

Of all the rooms in Winterfell's Great Keep, Catelyn's bedchambers were the hottest. She seldom had to light a fire. The castle had been built over natural hot springs, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like blood through a man's body, driving the chill from the stone halls, filling the glass gardens with a moist warmth, keeping the earth from freezing. Open pools smoked day and night in a dozen small courtyards. That was a little thing, in summer; in winter, it was the difference between life and death.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II

“In my dreams it was ever a dark place, and cold.”

“No. It was always warm, even when it snowed. Water from the hot springs is piped through the walls to warm them, and inside the glass gardens it was always like the hottest day of summer.”

— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

There you have it!

As long as Sansa Stark and Jon Snow remain, Winterfell remains.

Sansa and Jon are the two pillars on which Winterfell will stands. They are destined to retake and rebuild their home together.

If Sansa and Jon join their lives in marriage and fill Winterfell’s walls with Stark children again, Winterfell will also remain through their heirs. The blood of Winterfell will continue. The Stark legacy will last.

V.4. STONE (STARK) AND SNOW

Winterfell is stone, root and bone, and snow is the castle’s cloak.

Winterfell walls are grey granite but the snow covering them like a cloak, especially during winters, makes the castle snow white. A perfect marriage.  

Grey and white are the colors of House Stark. The Stark sigil is a grey direwolf racing across a field of white. The bastard sigil is the same but with the colors reversed. In the same way, Jon and Sansa seems to be complementary of each other.  

The snow castle.

Littlefinger falsely promised Sansa to take her home. But then he told her that Winterfell is gone, so she must make herself a new home:

"But . . . my lord, you said . . . you said we were sailing home." […] His grey-green eyes regarded her innocently. "You look distraught. Did you think we were making for Winterfell, sweetling? Winterfell has been taken, burned, and sacked. All those you knew and loved are dead. What northmen who have not fallen to the ironmen are warring amongst themselves. Even the Wall is under attack. Winterfell was the home of your childhood, Sansa, but you are no longer a child. You're a woman grown, and you need to make your own home."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

So, as an act of defiance, despite being under the guise of Alayne Stone, Sansa built a snow version of her true home out of memory, yelling at the world that she was a Stark of Winterfell:

What do I want with snowballs? She looked at her sad little arsenal. There’s no one to throw them at. She let the one she was making drop from her hand. I could build a snow knight instead, she thought. Or even…

[…] The snow fell and the castle rose. Two walls ankle-high, the inner taller than the outer. Towers and turrets, keeps and stairs, a round kitchen, a square armory, the stables along the inside of the west wall. It was only a castle when she began, but before very long Sansa knew it was Winterfell. She found twigs and fallen branches beneath the snow and broke off the ends to make the trees for the godswood. For the gravestones in the lichyard she used bits of bark. Soon her gloves and her boots were crusty white, her hands were tingling, and her feet were soaked and cold, but she did not care. The castle was all that mattered. Some things were hard to remember, but most came back to her easily, as if she had been there only yesterday. The Library Tower, with the steep stonework stair twisting about its exterior. The gatehouse, two huge bulwarks, the arched gate between them, crenellations all along the top…

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Sansa and her snow castle passage foreshadows Sansa’s actively participation in Winterfell’s restoration.

And who else wants to restore Winterfell? Jon, the Snow of Winterfell:

“Drink this.” Grenn held a cup to his lips. Jon drank. His head was full of wolves and eagles, the sound of his brothers’ laughter. The faces above him began to blur and fade. They can’t be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell … grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones … how could Winterfell be gone?

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Winterfell, he thought. Theon left it burned and broken, but I could restore it. Surely his father would have wanted that, and Robb as well. They would never have wanted the castle left in ruins.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

That’s why this line: “The snow fell and the castle rose” makes me think that Jon will help Sansa to rebuild Winterfell, their lost and broken home.

The blood of Winterfell.

And Jon and Sansa could also “rebuild” the Stark dynasty, as they both share the dream of having children to fill the void of their lost family, their lost parents and siblings:

Willas would be Lord of Highgarden and she would be his lady. She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa’s dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children. I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall. I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister’s son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly’s boy as well. Sam would never need to tell his lie. We’d find a place for Gilly too, and Sam could come visit her once a year or so. Mance’s son and Craster’s would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Indeed, among all the Stark children, Sansa and Jon are the only ones that are called –or call themselves, the blood of Winterfell:

Jon’s throat was raw. He looked at them all helplessly. “She yielded herself to me.” “Then you must do what needs be done,” Qhorin Halfhand said. “You are the blood of Winterfell and a man of the Night’s Watch.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI

When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father’s face. Ygritte was with him, laughing at him, shedding her skins till she was naked as her name day, trying to kiss him, but he couldn’t, not with his father watching. He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night’s Watch. I will not father a bastard, he told her. I will not. I will not.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

“What if Lord Nestor values honor more than profit?” Petyr put his arm around her. “What if it is truth he wants, and justice for his murdered lady?” He smiled. “I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I’d ever let him harm my daughter?” I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter and Lady Catelyn’s, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

Children of the mountain.

And remember that Winterfell could mean wintry mountain(s)? Well, this possibility makes me think about one of my favorite Sansa and Jon parallels. They are the only Stark children that are called children of the mountain:

Soon they were high enough so that looking down was best not considered. There was nothing below but yawning blackness, nothing above but moon and stars. “The mountain is your mother,” Stonesnake had told him during an easier climb a few days past. “Cling to her, press your face up against her teats, and she won’t drop you.” Jon had made a joke of it, saying how he’d always wondered who his mother was, but never thought to find her in the Frostfangs. It did not seem nearly so amusing now. One step and then another, he thought, clinging tight.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI

“You’re mistaken. I never fall.” Mya’s hair had tumbled across her cheek, hiding one eye. “Almost, I said. I saw you. Weren’t you afraid? “Mya shook her head. "I remember a man throwing me in the air when I was very little. He stands as tall as the sky, and he throws me up so high it feels as though I’m flying. We’re both laughing, laughing so much that I can hardly catch a breath, and finally I laugh so hard I wet myself, but that only makes him laugh the louder. I was never afraid when he was throwing me. I knew that he would always be there to catch me.” She pushed her hair back. “Then one day he wasn’t. Men come and go. They lie, or die, or leave you. A mountain is not a man, though, and a stone is a mountain’s daughter. I trust my father, and I trust my mules. I won’t fall.” She put her hand on a jagged spur of rock, and got to her feet. “Best finish. We have a long way yet to go, and I can smell a storm.”

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

In both cases, Sansa and Jon are under the guise of bastards (Jon was under the guise of a bastard since he was born). In both cases we are talking about snowy mountains, the Frostfangs and the Eyrie with the winter upon them, that is to say: “wintry mountains”. So I think in both quotes those mountains are a symbol of Sansa and Jon’s true parentage: in Jon’s case, Stonesnake said that the mountain is Jon’s mother (Lyanna Stark) and in Sansa’s case, Mya Stone said that the mountain is Alayne’s father (Ned Stark). And those mountains will never drop or let their children fall. Those mountains are a symbol of Winterfell. Sansa and Jon are the children of the wintry mountains of the north (Winterfell), the blood of Winterfell, the two pillars on which Winterfell stands.

Hot springs.

Both Jon and Sansa think of the hot springs of Winterfell while while bathing in hot water:

The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became. Her maids sluiced the blood off her face, scrubbed the dirt from her back, washed her hair and brushed it out until it sprang back in thick auburn curls. Sansa did not speak to them, except to give them commands; they were Lannister servants, not her own, and she did not trust them.

— A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

It was short walk to the bathhouse, where he took a cold plunge to wash the sweat off and soaked in a hot stone tub. The warmth took some of the ache from his muscles and made him think of Winterfell’s muddy pools, steaming and bubbling in the godswood. Winterfell, he thought.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Very interesting similarity between the filthy water of Sansa’s bath and the muddy pools of Winterfell that Jon was reminiscing.

Ghost and Lady’s Shade.

Not only do Jon and Sansa seem to be made complementary to each other, it happens the same with their direwolves.  

Ghost stands out among the other direwolves, not only for his white fur, but for his red eyes, similar to the most especial Children of the Forest:

“In a sense. Those you call the children of the forest have eyes as golden as the sun (Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria and Summer), but once in a great while one is born amongst them with eyes as red as blood (Ghost), or green as the moss on a tree in the heart of the forest (Shaggydog). By these signs do the gods mark those they have chosen to receive the gift. The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance. But once inside the wood they linger long indeed. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. Greenseers.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III

This description: red eyes, not robust frame and quick few years upon the earth, is similar to the first description we had of Ghost:

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said. "Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind. "An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others." Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."

—A Game of Thrones - Bran I

But despite this preliminary description as the “runt of the litter,” Ghost grew up to be larger than his litter mates:

Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet. Ghost, already larger than his litter mates, smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Lady was the smallest of the litter and sadly the first to die:

“Lady,” he said, tasting the name. […] She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

This is a very interesting contrast between Ghost and Lady, as if their places were switched.

Sansa lost her wolf and Ghost lost his master, leaving these two Stark children somehow incomplete. But there is hope that both can fill in the missing part of the other.  

Then Lady becomes a “shade” that is a synonym of “ghost.” The same way that Sansa becomes a “Stone” that is a bastard surname like “Snow.”

And Jon will probably come back to life more beast than man, more savage, in contrast to ladylike/queenly Sansa.

Jon dreamed of a ghastly direwolf wandering around the Crypts of Winterfell, that seems to be Lady’s Shade:

The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

In a similar way, the wind howling fiercely around Sansa while she descended from the Eyrie to the Gates of the Moon, reminds her of a ghost wolf, big as mountains. This passage could be interpreted as Sansa sensing Jon’s death at the Wall:

"Ser Sweetrobin,” Lord Robert said, and Alayne knew that she dare not wait for Mya to return. She helped the boy dismount, and hand in hand they walked out onto the bare stone saddle, their cloaks snapping and flapping behind them. All around was empty air and sky, the ground falling away sharply to either side. There was ice underfoot, and broken stones just waiting to turn an ankle, and the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghost wolf, big as mountains.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

Take note of the similar wording between the “ghastly direwolf” and the “ghost wolf”. GRRM uses this resource (same or similar wording) a lot when he wants to establish a correlation or parallel. 

Stark and Snow

Lady’s bones being buried at Winterfell makes Sansa the Stark in Winterfell. In the same way that Jon is the Snow of Winterfell:

The singer rose to his feet. "I'm Mance Rayder," he said as he put aside the lute. "And you are Ned Stark's bastard, the Snow of Winterfell."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon I

And both have the possibility to become the head of their house and the monarchs of the north.

Despite not being Ned Stark’s bastard and having a secret parentage, “Snow” is part of Jon’s identity, the same way the snow cloaks Winterfell’s walls. And as to reaffirm Jon’s identity, the old gods sent him a direwolf as white as snow.

Jon and Ghost were separated for a time, when the Wall stood between them. During that time Jon even questioned being a warg, because he felt he lost his wolf. It was also during that time that Jon was tempted with legitimation as a Stark and the Lordship of Winterfell. But when Jon reunites with Ghost he found his answer to Stannis’s offer precisely in the wolf. 

Jon refused Winterfell in order to save the weirwood tree from the Lord of Light fires (Ghost is the weirwood tree) and protect Sansa’s claim to the castle (Sansa is Winterfell). This was the time when Jon said: i) Winterfell belongs to the old gods, ii) Ghost belongs to the old gods; and, iii) Winterfell belongs to Sansa. 

But at the beginning of the story, in the first chapter of the first Book (A Game of Thrones - Bran I), after saving the life of the direwolves (In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm), Jon said a similar line:

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said. "Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup.  His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind. "An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others." Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."

—A Game of Thrones - Bran

And we have our sequence completed! 

Ghost belongs to Jon

"An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others." Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."

—A Game of Thrones - Bran

Winterfell belongs to the old gods

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Ghost belongs to the old gods

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Winterfell belongs to Sansa

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

Just as the weirwood tree is the heart of Winterfell, it seems that all these quotes are there to tell us that Jon is Sansa’s heart. Because, it almost seems as if the final line will be (has to be) “Jon belongs to Sansa.” But with the same logic, we can also said “Sansa belongs to Jon”. Hence the title of this long essay is i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart), one of my favorite poems by the genius e.e. cummings:

The end.

[arsenicxarcana]

m5(4?) helping you rehabilitate banished lucio

or rather reacting to “hey i brought this hobo home can we keep him”

(tending towards nadia’s/THD)

NADIA:

oh you poor sweet summer child, what have you done

may lock him up in the dungeons at first, to make sure he can’t try anything

hope you like loud goat wailing that can be heard across the palace because the absolute LAST thing he wants is to be isolated again

you have to convince her he’s in no state to answer for his crimes like this, not yet, let him recover a little first - all he wants right now is a warm bed and someone to care about him, not taking over vesuvia

(and if this changes you can put him right back in jail)

this does not change, he’s mostly interested in staying close to you

for the most part she remains hands-off, just authorizing various acquisitions for him like any other guest

he will sometimes try to give her little gifts, usually food/wine or little trinkets left outside her door like a cat bringing dead mice

she takes them when no one is around

she may catch him at this one day, and they have a little talk through the crack in the door because he’ll bolt if she opens it

“i’m sorry” “i know. i can’t forgive you” “i know”

this becomes a thing, usually late at night, sitting by her door and telling her things, bringing her more specific gifts based on any troubles she might have had, asking her for advice about making you happy

eventually, maybe, you might even be able to convince them to take lunch together, with you sitting between them as a trusted shield

JULIAN:

he WANTS to say absolutely not, not in a million years, he doesn’t deserve the kindness, especially not yours

he WANTS to send him right back to the realms himself, or call the guards, anything to keep him away from you

but he is a doctor, and helping is in his nature

and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that this poor bastard needs help

and he knows what it’s like to be alone and uncertain of your future

lucio treats him as if they were already old friends, something that seems to endear and rankle him

at first he says he’ll only check him over to make sure he’s not hurt or sick, then you’re on your own, he washes his hands of this nonsense

then he says maybe bring him back around later for another check-up, just in case he missed something the first time

then he says that maybe you two could stick around for a little while, it looks like there’s a storm on the horizon

then he says the room above the clinic is open, most of the time, he’s much too busy to sleep as much as he should, if lucio needs somewhere to lie low for a bit

then he says actually there’s my place in south end, a bit more accommodating but no less abandoned, that might be a little more your speed

and then you find yourself all three coming back from a night on the town, crashing higgledy-piggledy in and around julian’s bedroom, a tangle of limbs and drunken laughter

julian attempts to cook breakfast for you afterwards, with mixed results

(just because lucio will eat it doesn’t mean it’s edible)

ASRA:

he trusts your judgment

usually

not this time, please put that thing back where it came from or so help me

i don’t care if he doesn’t want to go back he can’t stay here, not in this house, not after everything he’s done

there MAY be a fight and it MAY get ugly

either asra storms tf out or they kick both of you out for the night before he can do something stupid

they feel bad as hell, at least for you

if you’ve been kicked out, you take lucio down to the rowdy raven and set up together in the spare room above the bar (and he’s probably crying bc he’s about 75% sure you’re going to get rid of him for Causing Problems)

if asra left, you let lucio have the couch but you’re not about to sleep until asra comes back (crying less, still awkward as hell)

finally, either way, he comes to apologize

but he really, really doesn’t want you to keep the goat and pls think of an alternative? why does it have to be you?

“i’m the one that put him there in the first place”

you don’t! have to feel bad for that!! look at him he’s fine

(lucio currently all but hiding behind you and holding your hand tight, making the saddest little face)

“i can’t just abandon him again, asra. i couldn’t bear it”

oh, curse your good nature

they love that about you but right now it’s the bane of his existence

you tell asra he doesn’t have to forgive him, or even like him - just help me get him back on his feet, pls, just trust me

god. fine. but he sleeps on the couch. and the minute he’s no longer pathetic his ass is out the door

faust stop chilling on his shoulders i swear to god--

PORTIA:

she doesn’t have the old history, but she remembers the recent history (stealing your body and being a dick), so she’s still gonna be hostile

there will probably be at least one physical brawl

will probably definitely make him cry

feels bad about it

pepi seems to trust him for some reason (bc fuck you n*h) and she trusts pepi so it can’t be all bad??

gonna put his ass to work in the vegetable garden if he’s expected to stay in her cottage, which he might because it’s close to the palace (but far from people)

he might complain but honestly this is nothing compared to the realms

in return he gets good food, a warm bath, and a pillow pile shared with you, portia and pepi

portia will definitely help you socialize him, especially if you’re not that extroverted yourself, taking him on trips into the city

once he feels more comfortable around her they feed off each other’s energy until they’re one big mass of chaos

you regret your life choices

her cuddly, affectionate nature lines up nicely with his touch starvation and they often become inseparable at the bed time or other soft, quiet moments where you’re just in each other’s company

MURIEL:

lmao nah

unless this man finds the hobo first AND feels bad enough to not just leave his ass alone in the forest, good luck with getting him to help you with this

your memory privileges are absolutely revoked goodbye

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 25, Cassian POV prompt)

Notes: Many of you asked for the POV for when Cassian slept beside Nesta in the most recent chapter... so here you go! Apologies for any typos etc, I’m really tired today! Let me know if the tags don’t work...

Together, Cassian and Rhys trudged back to the bungalow. It was still snowing, albeit less than it had been earlier. White came down in light flurries, the flakes falling from the sky in whirlpools suctioned by the wind.

“Trust it to snow when we’re in the middle of relocating,” Rhys mused as the wind dropped, his voice purposefully light.

Cassian only grunted in response, weaving through the dug out camp fires set into the ground, which leant a lick of warmth and provided hot food for the Illyrians. Cassian tried not to think of the steam cabins set over the hot springs a few miles outside of the camp. Of how warm they’d be on his tired limbs…

A good steam in one the Illyrian steam huts usually undid the tension from Cassian like nothing else, but he'd prefer to scrub away the excess grime from his skin. Whilst Rhys might have magicked away the blood, sweat and dirt from him, Cassian could still feel it coating him like a thick oil. And whilst the thought of sliding into the tub and staying there until it turned cold would normally be the only thing on Cassian’s mind after this kind of long day, all he wanted was to settle himself anxiously into the armchair beside his bed and make sure Nesta was alive and breathing.

She wasn’t in agony at least. That open tether was enough to tell him that the tincture was working. And from the flash of irritation he had received a few moments ago, Cassian knew that she was finally awake.

“It’s time to build housing,” Cassian told Rhys after a long reprieve of silence, pulling his thoughts away from the female in his bed. He tossed the words over his shoulder, ploughing through the snow for the both of them before he met a well-trodden path. “You saw the state of the widows tents up the mountain. This is the time to start anew. To provide them with proper shelter. To start initiatives…”

“I know,” Rhys agreed. “It’s time to find a solution rather than opting for leniency when it comes to the war-lords and how they rule.”

Cassian nodded tightly. “We don’t have the luxury of allowing them free-reign over the camps anymore. And help needs to extend beyond us relocating one camp of widows. What of the other camps? What of the females there? The bastards? The poor?”

He sighed wearily at the situation that was so impossible he did not know where to start. “Nesta would probably have some good ideas. She comes out with things sometimes…” Cassian paused to drag his hands over his face at the same time as he shook his head, “Ideas like that seem to come to her as easy as breathing…”

Rhys nodded again, but it was not tight or dismissive. Wary, perhaps and a little tentative, as if he was weighing up how tightly wound his brother was. “We need ideas,” he admitted, “but right now you need Feyre and I to leave so you can rest.”

He eyed Cassian with a slight tilt of his head. His blue-black hair did not so much as move or ruffle in the wind. “I’ve never seen your siphons drain that quickly,” he observed, staring at the jewel that rested in Cassian’s armoured scales, right in the middle of his chest like an additional heart. The siphon that did not wink or glint in the dark, but remained cold and lifeless.

The drink Frawley had given Cassian had barely been enough to have his magic whispering back through his veins. He needed to sleep for his power to replenish itself. And whilst Frawley had barked at him to drink more tea before the day was out, he had yet to find the time for another mug.

It was a while before Cassian realised he had not responded to Rhys. He had been too stuck in his own thoughts, and by the time he glanced sideways at his brother, they were approaching the front of the stone bungalow.

Rhys was not looking at him. Instead, he was blinking in a way that told him something had just happened down that bond of his.

“Feyre kick you out?” Cassian asked, making his lips twitch upwards. The action alone was difficult and he just barely willed his facial muscles to obey. He knew that the smile did not reach his eyes. His body yearned for sleep in a way that told him he was ravaged. Something deeper than his bones and blood was begging him to curl up on the mattress beside Nesta whilst she slept.

It was a starved comfort Cassian had not known he hungered for with such ravenous intensity until that moment.

“She’s speaking with Nesta,” Rhys replied smoothly.

Cassian did not tell his brother that he had already guessed that. He only let out a soft grunt and levelled his brother with a ‘no bullshit’ gaze. “If you don’t forgive Nesta you will ruin the healing between the sisters.”

Rhys’s violet eyes came to rest on him. His brother opened his mouth and then closed it. “Is this really something to discuss now?”

When you’re raw and exhausted. When you are this protective.

“Probably not,” Cassian admitted, knowing that it could end in fists and he didn’t have the energy. “But if the sisters want to rebuild a relationship, then you need to let any past grudges go. Focus on the present. On the actions that matter now.”

A long silence. Too long. It wasn’t the sort of prolonged pause that was as sharp as a knife, but it held some quality that Cassian could not decipher.

Cassian hadn’t meant it to come out as a criticism barbed with thorns. Had intended to present it as casual fact. It was a truth that Cassian had only fully realised in that moment when Nesta had challenged Rhys in the living room. When Cassian had thought power could fly.

He’d known who he would have protected.

Rhys did, too.

And magic might have flown if Nesta had not been replenishing her power reserves. If Rhys had not seen Nesta save his mates life and wield her magic in such a selfless way. If his brother had not witnessed how Nesta had changed. How her concern for the females was the reason why her voice was fierce, rather than consumed by trauma and stubborn will.

Cassian wondered how different Nesta appeared to Rhys. Azriel could see it. The shadowsinger had grown to like her, Cassian thought. Enough to break his usual silence and interject when there could have been heated words. Azriel had assisted Nesta when she had been in pain rather than remain cold and impassive. Cassian had even spotted the shadowsinger’s lips twitch upwards at Cassian’s territorial behaviour, knowing all too well that it had irritated the hell out of Nesta.

And Rhys… his brother had welcomed Nesta to the Court of Dreams, something he did not do lightly. He had even said he would train her if Azriel was not available.

That was a concession in itself.

Cassian knew what a peace offering that was from his brother. And whilst it had been a stiff gesture, it had been the first thing Rhys had offered Nesta because she was needed and useful, rather than because she was Feyre’s sister. Because she cared about the Illyrians and she had worth amongst the females in a way that none of the High Fae had ever managed to attain.

Many thought Nesta had a heart of ice, but Feyre had been right all along; Nesta’s heart was too full — too aching — that she encased it into an impenetrable cage to protect herself.

Only now was that cage breaking… and without it, Nesta was more powerful, more formidable than ever before. There was no denying it. Cassian had felt it — all of it — when she melted that cage of ice and let everything finally hit her. And there was no denying that Nesta was someone with good intention. Someone who did care about others. She may have been lost for a very long time, but she had finally fought back.

It made Cassian ashamed for things he had said previously. From the minute Nesta had shed a tear for the humans who would not be protected in war, Cassian had known she was capable of more.

Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do.

Cassian could not have uttered crueler words. Knew what he’d been doing as he’d said them, desperate to get some sort of reaction from her. He had been so successful at reaching her before, but that day he had been unable to pierce that impenetrable, icy tavern. But even though she hadn’t shred him to ribbons, his words had still served a purpose. They had covered up the terrifying fact that he loved her more fiercely than he had ever loved anyone. That most of the time, he couldn't so much as think about her because it hurt too much to know that she wanted nothing to do with him, even after he’d worn his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see.

If Cassian had not brought Nesta back today, she would have died thinking his words to be true. Even as she sacrificed her life for someone so many perceived as unworthy.

“I’m working on it.” Rhys’s words pulled Cassian out of his self-deprecating thoughts.

Nodding shortly, Cassian raised his palm to the wooden door. It clicked beneath his palm and the bungalow hummed to life as he stepped inside.

He was not going to push Rhys now. Another time, yes, but not today.

The bungalow was wonderfully warm. The fire was still blazing silently in the living room, but Cassian barely noticed it. Instead, his gaze flew straight to the bedroom door.

It opened as he shucked off his shoes and knocked the snow from the tread against the doorframe. As he flung the wet snow from his wings that were burning from the cold.

Feyre looked weary and wrung out as the bedroom door clicked shut. She tried to smile but it came out more as a grimace. “She woke for a few minutes,” Feyre told Cassian, “but she’s just falling asleep again.”

“Is she in pain?” Cassian asked, even though he knew it wasn’t half as bad as earlier. Nesta’s walls weren’t back up yet — something he was mercilessly happy about — so he would have known if she was in agony, but it was habit to check. To throw them all off of the scent.

Feyre shook her head. “Not as much as before. She didn’t ask for any more of the tincture.” She rang her hands in front of her hips. She looked nervous. “I told Nesta she could leave, if she wanted to.”

Feyre looked as if she was expecting him to completely lose his temper, but Cassian only nodded tightly. She frowned. “Nesta said she wanted to stay to help, but—”

She stopped abruptly and cocked her head at him. Her brow knitted. “You already told Nesta she could leave, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Cassian replied tersely, stalking over to the fire to toss some logs onto the burner. He fanned out his wings so the heat sunk into the membrane. It felt delicious and he bit back a groan. “A long time ago,” he clarified. “Did you give her the sedative?”

Hazel met blue. Feyre did not look annoyed. To his surprise, her features only softened, as if her heart were aching.

“No,’ she replied with a small shake of her head, “she didn’t seem to need it. She could barely keep her eyes open.”

A tight nod. “Ok. I can watch her.”

It was not true. Cassian would watch her. It was not a choice he was giving Feyre or himself.

Closing the front door behind him, Rhys came over to press a kiss to his mate’s temple. As if he could sense Cassian’s impatience, he asked, “Ready to go?”

Feyre nodded.

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Rhys told Cassian.

“And if you hear from Az?” Cassian asked.

“I’ll let you know,” Rhys said, tapping two fingers to the side of his head.

Then they disappeared into nothing.

***

It didn’t take Cassian long to step into the tub. He had checked on Nesta first and foremost, but she had already been far, far under. Her brow had been knitted in anguish, but when he had rested his palm across her forehead, her features had momentarily smoothed, as if his touch had erased the visions beneath her eyelids.

The water was near scolding but Cassian endured it anyway, allowing the burn to scorch through his skin until he was thoroughly thawed. He stood there for too long, trying to wash away the memory of Nesta’s pale, blood-streaked face as her eyes rolled back into her head.

He was just finishing washing the suds from his hair when a sound pierced through the bungalow.

Cassian heard it at the same time as Nesta’s pain hit him square in the chest, travelling down that bond which, for once, was not clamped shut but wide open.

He was out of the tub before he had the time to think. Was half way to his room before he deigned to wrap the towel he’d grabbed on the way out of the bathroom around his waist. He dripped across the carpet, his hair water-logged and running rivulets down his neck and shoulders... But he didn’t even notice because all Cassian could feel was distress and terror so fierce the sensations were bitter on his tongue.

Bursting into his bedroom, Cassian found the sheets twisted around Nesta’s body. Her brow was creased again and fresh tears slid down her already stained face. But it was the sounds coming from Nesta’s throat that that made Cassian’s already aching heart wrench out of his chest. It sounded animalistic rather than Fae. It was deep, wounding horror and he would give anything to rid her of it.

“Sweetheart,” he called desperately. “Sweetheart, it’s a nightmare. You’re ok.”

But no matter how much he called, he couldn’t reach her.

Balling his hands into fists, Cassian sat down in the armchair and buried his head into his hands. But the sounds didn’t stop. Neither did the tears. It took everything in Cassian not to touch her. He was too scared he would trigger her battle trauma, that she was in so deep that her brain would conjure something he was not. Something threatening.

So he watched helplessly as mist began to seep from her fingers, her magic coating the bed in a pearlescent fog as those noises became truly feral. Called for her to come back to him until his voice was hoarse.

Unable to sit still anymore, Cassian tugged on some clothes before he came to sit beside her on the mattress. He rested his outstretched palm on the blanket, hoping that she would sense him nearby, but Nesta only sobbed harder.  

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice raw from trying to reach her. “You’re safe. You’re ok. You’re having a nightmare.”

He stayed beside her, murmuring comforting words. Clenched his other hand into a fist at his side. Let his wings snap in and out with such agitation they cracked through the air. He didn’t care. There was no-one to witness it anyway.

Cassian knew all to well how fiercely sedatives could clutch you to sleep. It was why he didn’t use sleep tonics. They made his nightmares worse — more vivid. He would rather suffer from too many sleepless nights than live through terrors he could not escape from. And he’d guess that the severe pain from Nesta’s injuries was manifesting into her dreams but the sedative was too fierce to wake her up.

“You’re safe,” he murmured softly. Words he had been saying over and over.

You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re with me. You’re safe.

For a moment, Nesta settled. But then she was moaning again, the sounds torn ragged from her throat as she began to thrash.

Cassian’s blood spiked with panic. Frawley had insisted that Nesta remain as still as possible. That movements to Nesta’s abdomen would not only be incredibly painful, but that they would undo the magic both she and Madja had administered.

And then Nesta started to scream.

It was one of the worst sounds he had ever heard. It knocked the breath from him and the chill that ran through his blood was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Cassian fell to his knees, barely registering the impact as his bones creaked.

“Amore,” he rasped softly in Illyrian. “Nesta.”

His wings extended outwards, furling around her like a protective shell — an instinct buried deep that pulled through his chest until his limbs obeyed. Something built into his DNA that had only been opened for Nesta. As if a key had finally been fitted into a lock and unveiled the most intrinsic part of him. Something only for her.

“Amore,” Cassian said again. The word soft, curling off the back of his tongue like a caress.

The screaming stopped, falling into stifled, suppressed shouts. Nesta’s pain travelled down their twisted of rope; the bond that had been open since Nesta had started to die that afternoon. The agony of it hit Cassian clean in the gut, knocking the breath from him with a whoosh, but he willed everything in him to soothe, pushed back on the pain…

There was a moment’s reprieve where the agony didn’t cut through him. When for a few seconds, Nesta stopped screaming.

Cassian jumped at the opportunity. Reaching deep inside of himself, he felt for that rope which even now, he could not let go of for fear that it would break.

And then he tugged. It was a gentle movement — smooth. More of a nudge than a prod, using just enough pressure for Nesta to feel it… to cut through the nightmares and offer a hand back to the light.

Gradually, Nesta quieted. Screams turned to shouts. Shouts turned to moans. Moans turned to whimpers. Until eventually, Nesta only murmured in her sleep, the sound unbelievably soft in contrast to the blood-chilling screams.

Hardly daring to breathe, Cassian lifted a hand to rest his palm against her forehead. Nesta’s skin was warm — flushed — but when she leant in a little to his touch, his heart beat so fiercely he felt it pulse in his mouth. And knowing how rare the moment was, Cassian indulged himself; allowing his fingers to trace a path down her cheek where before there had been tears.

Only Nesta could look so heart-achingly beautiful in the midst of a nightmare.

Only Nesta could make him lose all sense of himself.

Only Nesta could make him feel this vulnerable. As if even in her sleep, she was witnessing all of him.

This close up, Cassian could see every one of Nesta’s dark eyelashes. The slight upturn at the tip of her nose. The smattering of freckles that were so faint across the bridge of her cheeks, Cassian wondered if anybody but him had ever noticed them.

If she hadn’t rejected him, Cassian might have traced those freckles with his lips and fingers so many times he would know exactly how many there were… Would know what her lips tasted like when she wasn't about to die with him.

Time passed, stretching out far and wide before them.

Cassian wasn’t sure how long he stayed on his knees. What he did know was that Nesta remained settled. He did not move his hand. He continued to brush his thumb over her skin. Continued to soothe down that bond, until her breath evened out and no longer rattled in her chest.

When his legs had long gone numb beneath him and his back ached from leaning over the mattress, he retracted a wing with the hope of easing himself off the floor.

He had barely moved when she started to moan again.

Immediately, he threw a wing back over her. And everything ached inside of him when she settled again. The knowledge that it was him — the safety he provided — that warded off the nightmares.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he soothed gently. “I’m just going to move closer, ok?”

And without stopping to think, Cassian allowed himself to do what he had been yearning to do since before he had arrived back in the bungalow; he crawled onto the mattress beside Nesta and curved his wing over her.

Nesta settled immediately, her head turning on the pillow so it was tilted towards him. He could feel the soft flutter of her breath on his cheek. His heart leapt against flimsy strips of bone, reaching outwards until it beat in tandem with hers. The sound melded into one, filling his ears and making his pulse slow until it was thick and sluggish in his veins.

She was so warm. His body was only just ghosting hers but he groaned a relieved sigh as every muscle relaxed at the heat. At the knowledge that the bond had turned peacefully quiet. That Nesta was safe and unharmed. Content.

And then he slept.

He did not have a nightmare.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta

[alemoncakelife]

AU: Jon Snow Meets Alayne Stone

“Remember my sweet, he cannot recognise you.”

“Of course, father, for we have never met.”

Petyr smirked at her as the pair approached the party of Northerners. Sansa gripped her reins and held her breath. She had always thought of how sweet it would be to see Jon Snow again. Yet the notion of this reunion taking place among so many people, particularly Littlefinger, simply filled her with dread. Lord Baelish had laid such a careful collection of plots. He intended to have her win the heart of Harry the Heir, along with the whole of the Eyrie and most importantly Winterfell. Home. It was a delicate and treacherous game, as it always was with him. They could not have her half brother reveal her true name before its time. Otherwise more things may be lost than a game.

But all she had to do was remind herself that Sansa was not here. It was only Alayne. And all Alayne had heard of Jon Snow was the whispers from the other lords and ladies of the Vale. And as she drew her horse to a halt, there he stood before her. The awkward boy who sparred with Robb and Theon had gone. Now in his place was a stranger. A man, with hair as black as the midnight sky and eyes that shone like dragonglass. He wore the furs of a lord that reminded her so much of her father. Her heart twinged. Winterfell was so far from here.

“Lord Snow,” Petyr Baelish declared as he dismounted, “I trust your journey was a safe one.” Lord Jon bowed his head before replying that it was, although the bitter winds indicated that winter truly was coming.

“It may be coming sooner than any man can tell.” Baelish continued. When he and Jon were face to face, he gave the lad a smile that barely spread past his cheeks. Lord Snow couldn’t seem to return the expression and his mouth twitched briefly instead.

He never was confident in courtesies, Sansa thought fondly. Then she prayed to the gods that she’d look as much a stranger to him as he did to her, before she slid from her saddle and joined her father. 

“My lord may I introduce you to my daughter. Although her name is not all that dissimilar to your own.”

In that moment she knew she had to speak. But what if Jon recognised her voice? Sansa willed herself to meet his gaze and it was then that she was almost certain he knew. His hands had dropped by his sides and his lips were softly parted. It was as if her real name danced upon those very lips and longed to slip free. But she couldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t allow it! Sansa’s Tully eyes fluttered into a stonier stare. Her mouth curled into a smirk her Lord Father would be proud of. Her false one at least...

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Snow. My name is Alayne Stone.”

She curtsied. (Not as gracefully as Sansa would have.)

“Stone?” he said, piecing it together. His voice was lower and gruffer than she remembered. The longer she lingered on his face she realised just how many scars he bore. Sansa’s scars never reached her face. Each mark sparked a new question in her mind. It had been so long since he left. There was so much she wanted to know. What had he seen? What had he survived? In a way he was the only person of her past that remained to her. A part of her was desperate to know how big Ghost had gotten, but Alayne would have to firstly learn that Jon Snow even had a direwolf before finding that out. Yet all these thoughts vanished when she realised he was smiling at her. Smiling, truly. She knew it was true because his eyes shone brighter while the skin around them creased. He used to smile that way with Arya and her brothers.

“Alayne Stone. That’s a pretty name.”

What? Did she hear him correctly? Sansa had told him to say that. In another life when she was small and full of songs. She told him to give that exact praise to the ladies he’d meet. He remembered! After all this time he remembered! Half her head told her it was a foolish coincidence, but the other half screamed that Jon Snow remembered her lesson even after all this time! It was practically nothing and yet it felt like everything.She wanted so much to throw herself into his arms and weep and laugh and never let him go. Don’t be silly. Be Alayne. Instead she clasped her gloved hands together and tilted her head cooly.

“You are too kind, my lord. Perhaps once my father has shown you and your men to your rooms, you might tell me some tales of your time in the North. I hear it can be quite beautiful”

Jon’s expression darkened a little.

“It is, my lady. But sadly it is now in great danger. We all are. That is what’s brought us to you.”

The bluntness threw her a bit, but Alayne was not so swayed. She glanced at Petyr who was looking at her with what some might see to be pride or admiration, but she knew him better than that. He loved to watch her play.

“The world is indeed a dangerous place. But there is no need for such formalities with me. You may call me Alayne. Everyone does.”

“Thank you. You can call me Jon.”

“Jon.” It felt so nice to say his name. She wanted to say it again. But she really shouldn’t have.

First he blinked. As if he had misheard her. Then he opened his mouth as if to speak but nothing came out. It was a silence that felt longer than it likely was, and suddenly Sansa was all too aware of the Northern men and knights of the Vale that had been watching the three of them this whole time. What a stupid thing to do. She had no different voice. Saying his name must have done something. A wrong move on her part. If Sansa gave him enough time she was sure he’d find her in the woman before him. He made her feel like her brunette wash was fading from her hair with every second. Her cheeks burned. The little girl in her wanted Littlefinger to say something. To intervene. Surely he could see this unravelling like she did?

I must not be a Stark. Not now. Not yet.

What would Sansa Stark not do in this moment? Because whatever that was, Alayne Stone had to do it, and quickly. Then it came to her.

“Jon...Jon, Jon.” She played with his name before licking her lips and raising an eyebrow. This was confusing him. Good. Throw him off the scent. “I think not.”

With that she sauntered back to her horse and climbed up. She prayed nobody could see how her legs were shaking. Once she was mounted Alayne smiled triumphantly. “If it please my lord, I should like to call you Snow. I know so many Jons you see, but no Snows.”

“A-aye. You can call me that.” He tried to hide his fidgeting finger beneath his cloak. That red-haired girl from his childhood was falling out of his thoughts now. Let her disappear.

“Well then, dear father. Perhaps we should all head back to the Eyrie now. As you said yourself winter is approaching and these winds grow less forgiving.”

Petyr was beaming at her. Sansa couldn’t tell if it was that or the breeze that was causing the gooseflesh around her neck. Had there not been so many spectators, Lord Baelish might have tried to steal a fatherly kiss had his bastard daughter not retreated to her steed. 

“Very wise, my sweet.” He turned to Jon. “You must forgive my girl. Her manners are not always what they ought.”

“It’s alright. We bastards are not known for our courtesies.” Littlefinger allowed himself a small chuckle. He’d never looked slimier to Sansa than now.

“Indeed. We shall show you and your men to your rooms. Then we may discuss the matters you conveyed to me in your raven. I am most keen to be of service in any way I can.”

Jon Snow thanked him with a nod and they both got onto their horses. Sansa watched him. He moved with such strength. He must be a magnificent fighter now. Petyr never told her why he invited Jon all this way or how he might fit into his plans. Perhaps he didn’t. There was danger in that. 

“You did well.” He whispered, ensuring no-one else was listening to them. “When we return I will explain why he’s here, and of what value he may be to us.”

You will not make a pawn of him. Not if I can help it.

“Do you know what Jon meant, when he talked of us being in danger?”

“Yes, but do not fret my love. You and I both thrive in perils. Others may fall but we keep on climbing.” With that, Littlefinger galloped ahead, probably expecting her to follow like a good little bird.

But what does a mockingbird know of the winter? Be it wolves or bastards, Jon and I are a pack. If winter is coming, then I will protect him.

Sansa turned to look back at Jon Snow. They were the last of the Starks. She allowed herself to give him a small smile. Alayne Stone would be his friend. She would protect him in any way she could. And when the time came, she would tell Jon Snow the truth.

[sombreboy]

Tease me⇢kth x jjk

⇢18+ ⇢pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook ⇢genre: Smut, fluff, mxm ⇢word count: 5.4k ⇢warnings: profanity, tae sends jk pics of his cock smh, they skip class to fuck don’t do that educate urself my lovely peeps, dom!kth, sub!jjk, blowjob, fingering, anal, sex in public place, this is fiction pls use lubey lube

A/N: Serves as a oneshot within the Love Maze series AU, however can also be read on it’s own. Co-written with my lovely @velvetwicebang​ <3

Either the clock had been stuck on the same time for over a trillion hours, or Taehyung’s brain was having a blast poking at the boy’s established impatience.

It felt as if he’d been sitting through Mrs. Choi’s lesson for way too long now; his ass had certainly left a permanent imprint on the hard-as-shit chair. The discomfort only irked Taehyung even more, and the latter couldn’t be bothered to mask his see-through disinterest, facial expression resistant— Who the fuck needs calculus, anyways? Calculators exist.

The boy’s leg bounced from underneath the desk, wanting nothing more than to yell out ‘Fuck math!’ and storm out of there. But of course, he couldn’t do that. Not if he wanted to prove Jungkook wrong. The younger was smart as hell, and Taehyung knew how seriously he took his studies. Naturally, being in a relationship with someone so academically-driven also meant Tae couldn’t fall behind. And he was trying to prove to Jungkook that he was capable of getting good grades, when he actually tried..

The elder let out a soft sigh, gaze flickering to the front of the class, acting carefully before he pulled out his phone from the front pocket of his pants. 

To: JK Hey

Taehyung waited a minute, no response.

To: JK I’m boreed 

Jungkook always took forever to reply.

To: JK i know you’re seeing these smh, won’t even reply to your boyfriend

Suddenly, Tae got an idea. The elder flicked through his camera roll, lips slowly curling outwards into a cheeky grin before he attached a very personal picture..

To: JK meant to send this to you the other day I was soo fucking hard, can you see?? you like the view?

It was an image of his cock, the tip pink and swollen, veins running alongside the smooth edges. 

If this didn’t get Jungkook’s attention, Taehyung would be surprised.

Jungkook feels the incoming texts in the form of a series of vibrations against his leg, and normally he would ignore it completely... but he knows it's his boyfriend, so it was getting incredibly difficult to ignore. His lecture was boring anyway, the teacher blabbering about a topic he already excelled in, so he didn't feel as bad about sneaking his phone out underneath the desk…

Kook's breath hitched when he swiped the conversation open, only to be greeted by Taehyung's fat cock staring right back at him, so hard and--- it had the younger's thighs pressing together just thinking about the way it felt in his mouth. Heavy, smooth... fuck.

He glanced around, thankful he didn't have anybody sitting close to him for once. Tapping in his reply, his cheeks are hot, his lower lip caught by his bunny like upper teeth.

To: Tae I'm in class babe...

Jungkook sighed when he took another look at the picture, suddenly class was the last thing he cared about.

To: Tae ... I really love the view... I can't focus now

At first glance, Taehyung was a bit surprised Jungkook actually rolled along with it, but oh was he pleased.. He hadn’t intended for the conversation to turn sexual... not from the beginning, at least. The elder played his cards right, an unexpected dick-pic granted him his boyfriend’s undivided attention. Taehyung loved being the only one running through Jungkook’s mind..

To: JK oh yeah? thinking hard about my cock now? ooo naughtyyy 

He also fuckin’ loved to tease the hell out of Koo. 

To: JK i get really hard just thinking about you you and your cute ass

The elder comfortably leaned back in his chair, typing with one hand whilst the other lingered close to his crotch, itching to slip it past the band of his trousers..

To: JK that ass is tight as fuck too didn’t even need to jerk off to porn, i got off to the picture of you on my phone came so much, fuuck

Jungkook had to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from embarrassing himself, the natural urge to whine because of what Tae tells him through text was astonishing. The power this man had over the younger... one sentence and Kook is already uncomfortably adjusting his length that is resting against his thigh.

To: Tae Tae, seriously! you can't say things like this... I almost moaned out loud I can't focus!!!!

Jungkook stared at the picture for the umpteenth time, bit swollen lips parting lightly to exhale a longing sigh. His gaze flickered between the lecture and his phone again as he kept typing.

To: Tae fuck... and I'm getting hard. Want you in my mouth.

Kook blushed a bit as he sent the last two messages. However, two could play a game of tease during class... Tae might just be better at it. But that doesnt mean Kook won't at least try.. maybe he has a higher effect than he thinks.

Either way, Taehyung was a master of seduction, whether it be a quick fuck, or a sensual evening in bed--- it's undeniable that his sex appeal is off the roof. Hence why Jungkook is sitting in fucking class with his cock pulsating underneath the table. Shit.

The elder’s lean fingers curled inwards into a tightly-knotted fist, blunt nails sunk deep into the clammy flesh of his palm. All the while, Taehyung’s beast of a boner prodded at the fabric of his pants, the striking outline a cherry in a basket of strawberries. Anyone with a working eye could see Taehyung was worked up about something..

To: JK such a tease, baby so sudden? bet you were thinking about me fucking the shit out of your pretty mouth for a long time i know you like it real rough

The light film of sweat collected on his hand seeped onto the fabric of Taehyung’s jeans whilst he slowly smoothed his palm over his erection, the corner of his lip twitching in aggravation. He wanted to stuff Jungkook’s stretchable mouth full through the screen, fuck it hard until his dick turned limp.

To: JK naughty boy, you probably touched yourself to the thought of my fat cock before we were even together

He angled the phone down, pressing record before rubbing at his clothed cock, thumb swirling around the bulging head.

“Fuck..” Taehyung grunted softly, flipping the camera around to selfie-mode so Jungkook would have a different perspective. He kept it low, pretending the camera’s lens was Kook’s doe eyes, picturing his boyfriend on his knees— Taehyung staring down at him.

Even from such an angle, Tae managed to look intimidating. His raven fringe running past his hooded eyes, jaw clenching as he held in his moans, cheekbones prominent.. He had it all.

He tapped on the red dot once more, attaching the newly-made video before pressing send.

To: JK this the cock you’re thirsting for?? see how hard it is? it’s even harder when i fuck it real deep in you

Jungkook hovered over the video, swallowing tightly before pressed play. It was a dangerous game that his boyfriend played, and Kook knows he already lost. Taehyung's fat cock, his piercing gaze, even through a fucking phone screen had the younger mans insides clenching around nothing, his mouth salivating. He couldn't even hold back the quiet groan that rumbled in his chest, passing it off as an awkward cough to avoid attention.

To: Tae Yeah.. love when you're rough..

Koo blushes, ignoring the obvious statement of him touching himself to the thought of Tae prior to their relationship...

Although Jungkook knows he's already a puddle for the elder, he knows Tae does have a thing for the digital aspect of things... whether it be porn, nudes, or videos. Even when sending a simple recording of his cock, he made it look great... he was a natural with the lens.

Kook angled his own phone camera to snap a picture, squeezing his thick length through his sweatpants to show the prominent outline. Then he snaps a second one, very quickly of his bit swollen lips, sending both in one go.

To: Tae I want it so bad... See how hard you made me too...  I keep biting my lip or I'll whine out loud... you asshole

Koo smiles through the haze of lust, the endearing cursing between them still something they both just do-- and love.

A small, barely-noticeable smile pulled at the corners of Taehyung’s wet lips.

To: JK shut up... asshole you’re liking this

Then it was back to internally groaning over the pictures Jungkook had sent, lust-crazed pupils dilating at the mere image of those swollen lips wrapped snug around the velvety skin of his cock.

To: JK excuse yourself and meet me in the same spot don’t take forever

It was the last nudge; Taehyung had to act on his urges before he went crazy.

He excused himself from the lesson, lying saying he had to go to the restroom. Taehyung did need to get something out of his system, but it wasn’t what everyone else thought.

Jungkook licked his lips at the commanding invitation, swiftly putting his phone back into his pocket as he excused himself, also lying about his whereabouts. Luckily, he was easily let off without much questioning, being one of the teacher's favorites. Piece. of. cake.

He shoved his books into his backpack before hurrying towards their secret spot, internally competing whether he would possibly make it there before Taehyung this time-- just to rub it off in his face.

As Jungkook made it there, he looked around, not yet seeing the male... He glanced down at his phone, a small smile tugging on his lips. Did he make it first?

Turns out whenever Taehyung was horny, the boy could run a marathon. If there was something worth claiming at the finish line, Tae was there. This time, the prize just so happened to be his lovely boyfriend.. It was no surprise when he’d gotten there first, too impatient to miss a longing beat to his steps. But, being the cheeky bastard Taehyung was best known for, he hid from Jungkook.

When he made out the younger male’s figure, that was when he tip-toed out of hiding, pressing his chest to Kook’s back as his arms circled around his torso.

“Hey—“ Taehyung laughed at Jungkook’s startled jump, angling his neck to press a chaste kiss to the younger’s cheek.

“Relax, it’s me. Slow ass..” The elder joked, swiftly turning Koo around on his feet by a quick twist of the younger’s waist.

"Ah! Tae... shit, I've told you not to scare me like that..." Jungkook's annoyance quickly morphed into a grin, unable to stay mad as he twirled to face his boyfriend. His hands immediately find the elders soft, dark curls, itching to run his fingers through them.

"I wasn't slow, you must be sonic or some shit...." he chuckles, drawing Tae in for a kiss, unable to hold his bit swollen lips away for a second longer.

Taehyung acceptingly immersed himself in the warm, summery feeling of Jungkook’s lips, dipping his toe in the latter-infected waters. 

He breathed in Jungkook; he felt Jungkook’s presence all around. Every curve and dip of the younger’s body was a place Taehyung knew all too well.

He squeezed at Kook’s delicate waist. Taehyung’s lost count of how many times his needy hands would hold onto the flesh. It was the most familiar spot..

“Don’t think I forgot all about the, ‘want you in my mouth’ shit you pulled..” The elder practically muttered, tracing daring kisses along Jungkook’s jawline, down his neck, on his collarbones..

Anywhere that would allow the sudden intrusion.

“That got me so hard. You knew it’d faze me, huh?” Taehyung gently drove Jungkook’s back against the concrete wall, shuffling a leg between the younger’s, sensually rubbing at his boyfriend’s awakened crotch.

“You knew it’d make me wanna push you down to your knees and fuck your throat swollen, didn’t you?”

"Y-yeah-- fuck..." Jungkook immediately feels like he melts into the wall behind him, the cool surface juxtaposing the fire in his body. His cheeks are flushed red, snapping his chin to the side as he blushes, whining quietly when Taes knee massages his length. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he was brought to a full hard on, but then again; Kook being absolutely whipped for Tae is no news.

“Baby likes it rough, tsk. You know which buttons to push, alright..”

Taehyung tilted his head and aimed for the side of Jungkook’s neck, where he sucked greedily on the discolored patch whilst his hands snaked past the loose band of Kook’s sweatpants.

Fondling and jiggling a handful of Jungkook’s bare ass in his bigger hands, Tae purposely pressed their bodies closer together, leaving little room to the imagination.

He groped and squeezed at the plump skin, pulling Jungkook’s lower body away from the wall, grunting against his boyfriend’s neck as he left dark hickeys to linger on for days.

“So fucking gorgeous, my pretty boy..” 

Taehyung pulled away, seemingly pleased with his colorful creations.

“Now, get down on your knees, pretty.”

Jungkook didn't need to be told twice, abruptly dropping down on his knees in front of Taehyung, his strong hands smoothing down his torso to his thighs on the way down. His doe eyes stare back up at the elder with a mix of submission, admiration, and greed, licking his lightly chapped lips.

"You think I'm pretty?" Kook tilts his head like a curious puppy, his coyly cocked eyebrow morphing with his small smile that couldn't be helped. He always felt a bit giddy whenever Tae praised him in various ways.

He keeps his hands on Tae's thighs, slowly inching back to tug at the zipper, greedy to see and feel the weight of his boyfriend's cock on his tongue.

"Fuck my mouth, I'll look even prettier.." He whispers out his words, a bit flustered to utter them.

“Shit, I don’t doubt it for a fucking second..” Taehyung felt strapping as he confidently towered over Jungkook, one hand pressed against the wall whilst the other glided through Kook’s silky hair, caressing the younger’s scalp with gentle fingers.

“Always hungry for my big cock, who would’ve thought the prettiest boys would be so dirty..”

His thumb faintly brushed over Jungkook’s cheekbone, studying the latter’s submissive pose before him. Taehyung cockily widened his stance, feet shoulder-width apart and hips slightly jutted out.

He waited until Jungkook undid his zipper before taking control, tugging on his briefs just enough for his needy cock to pop out, his warm balls laying still against the waistband.

“You wanna suck my dick? Wanna know what your ass gets a taste of every time I fuck you?” The elder harshly bit down on his lower lip, “Stick your tongue out.”

Knowing he wouldn’t have to wait long, a faint smirk took over Taehyung’s features at Jungkook’s eagerness.

“Even your tongue is gorgeous, fuck.” 

With one hand around the base, Tae rubbed the head of his cock along the wet muscle, gripping onto a handful of Jungkook’s hair whilst he stared down at his boyfriend, internally praising him for being so good..

“Hmm..” He gently slapped the thick girth on Kook’s tongue; soft, wet splatter sounds taking over their senses.

Jungkook hummed in delight when he could taste droplets of Tae's precum with every gentle thud against his tongue. He inched even closer, opening his mouth wider as he stuck out his wet, flattened tongue further, as if begging for more already.

Kook is a shy boy, but when it came to Taehyung; he was a selfish, greedy man.

However, he knew not to get too greedy, unless he wanted to annoy his boyfriend. It was usually a one way ticket to limp town. Sometimes he wanted it, sometimes he didn't. 

Today was one of those days where he wanted it rough.

So, the younger didn't wait for instructions, neither did he say a word before he ignored the tug in his hair as he leaned forward, taking Taehyung's cock into his mouth. It was worth it, the smooth skin and tangy mix of salt and sweet coated his tongue wonderfully. His vibrating moan reached his throat, sure that Tae could feel it around his cock.

Kook's mischievous, doe eyes stared back up at him, his plushy lips stretched and reddened as they worked hard to accommodate Taehyung's girth.

“Wait, what are you doi— shit..” Taehyung’s heavy-lidded eyes abruptly enlarged; his initial shock vividly magnified on his features in the form of arched brows. He watched as his boyfriend’s plushy lips enclosed around his hardened length, spouting a thick blanket of warmth throughout Tae’s body, overpowering his cold demeanor. That’s all Taehyung did— stare. 

No one had ever disobeyed him, they waited for him to take control of the situation. Until now..

And if Taehyung wasn’t so fond of the power it granted him; he would’ve been less irritated at Jungkook and his sudden boldness.

The assertive grip on the younger’s hair returned as Taehyung harshly yanked him away from his cock, jaw muscles clenched and gaze intimidating. 

Who did Jungkook think he was? The younger was stripped of his control every time they fucked; Taehyung liked it that way. To say this was a surprise was an understatement..

“What have I told you about doing shit without my permission, Jungkook?”

However, no matter how much Tae tried to force himself to dislike it, he couldn’t. His boyfriend’s eagerness was endearing.

“Impatient boy..”

Digging his fingers deeper into Kook’s mess of a hair, Taehyung forced the younger back in once again. This time, it was on his terms.

He controlled the pace in which Jungkook’s head bobbed, rhythmic hips thrusting slowly to meet each plunge.

“Hmm.. fuck yeah.” The wetness lathering around him from inside Kook’s mouth tipped Taehyung’s head back, grunting softly as his eyes squinted shut, black curls sticking to the light layer of sweat exuding from his creased forehead.

At that moment, he didn’t have a care in the goddamn world. 

Taehyung towered further over Kook, extending out his free hand against the wall in front of him and fixing his grasp on Jungkook’s hair. The elder held his boyfriend’s head in place as he thrusted into him, hips eager and swift as he began fucking his mouth.

“Like that? Shame you can’t answer with a cock in your mouth..”

The sparkle of mischief in Jungkook's eyes never subsided, saying more than enough at the fact that this is exactly what he wished for. To spur on Taehyung's dominance, hearing, seeing and feeling the elder manhandle him and mock him-- fuck, the younger's cock was leaking underneath his pants.

"Mmm....mmhhh.." Jungkook hummed with joy, gaze glassy with tears from the burning stretch in his throat. It was bittersweet, but he was ever the masochist for Tae's big dick. He stared up at the various expressions of pleasure and coy mockery playing on Taehyung's face, only able to look up for so long before tears began to trickle down his cheeks, mixing in with the drool seeping out his mouth with every rough thrust, Tae's cock taking up the space in his throat.

Jungkook relaxed in the elder's hold, using his flattened tongue in his mouth to allow the slick length to glide effortlessly. He breathed heavily through his nose, however only able to do so every few drags when the head of Tae's swollen cock wasn't blocking the airway as it was lodged back in his throat with every snap of his hips.

Kook's grasp tightened on Taehyung's pants by his thighs, seeking some kind of leverage, muffled whines and hums stuck in his chest to be killed by the loud sound of wet squelches.

The piteous, gagged response of a hum fed into Taehyung’s inner sadist as he was physically driven to ram deeper into Jungkook’s mouth. He wasn’t worried— well, too worried. Of course Tae was precautious; he didn’t want to hurt his boyfriend. But he knew Jungkook could handle his hefty cock. After all, they’ve had plenty of practice during their time together..

They rarely spent a day without any action; Kook’s body was a magnet for Taehyung’s longing hands to obsess over.

“Sweet boy, takin’ all of my cock like a champ..” Tae hissed, entranced by the way he’d continuously bulge against Jungkook’s hickey-stained throat, feeling the sensitive tip roughly prod at the inflamed flesh. 

“Hngh.. so warm, baby. Almost as warm as your tight ass.” His panting grew thicker, losing the momentum he once started with, “Look at you, so fuckable. Hmph.. just wanna stretch the shit out of you, leave you open wide and shaking.” Taehyung yanked harder on Jungkook’s hair, knuckles lacking their natural color.

“I’d cum so much inside, fuck, you’d be so full.” 

With one last powerful, forced slam, Tae stopped the movement of his hips before he would break loose. All that talk made him realize how much he missed being inside of his boyfriend, even if he’d just fucked him a couple days ago..

“Pretty..” The pad of this thumb brushed under Jungkook’s eyes, wiping away the fresh tears that’d resurfaced. Taehyung slowly pulled his cock out, gaze softened as he stared down at Jungkook’s smaller position.

“Stand up and kiss me, baby. Wanna taste myself on your lips.”

Pebbles roll on the ground from the quick momentum of just how eagerly Jungkook got back up on his feet, arms clinging around Taehyung's neck to bring him in for a needy kiss. The younger's plush lips moved naturally against his boyfriend's, his familiar mouth bringing nothing but comfort and an immense need to taste more, and more.

"Ah..." Kook was gentle however, allowing Taehyung to be in control of the intensity, but the needy whines coming from the younger showed just how badly he wanted every single little thing the elder would offer.

"Taee...." Jungkook timidly moans against his lips, his erection pressing up against him like a needy boy. "You taste so good.. Can you taste it?"

“I do, baby, tastes good..” Taehyung leaned in for more, pushing his tongue past the small, hitched opening in between Jungkook’s puffy lips to ease the areas in which his cock took proper advantage of. The kiss was sloppy, yet precise as Tae carefully moved his lips against Kook’s smaller ones, pleased vibrations emitting from his chest.

Not bearing the emptiness in his palms, his hands resumed groping Jungkook’s ass.

“I’m gonna fuck you, Koo. Gonna make it quick, alright?” Tae pressed a soft kiss to Jungkook’s nose before tugging at the younger’s sweatpants and briefs in one go, too impatient to go about it any other way. 

“So aroused ‘n pretty..” Taehyung’s breath hitched at the sight of Kook’s hard cock, head oozing with droplets of precum. “Just like you.”

He carefully drove them back against the wall, this time pushing Jungkook’s chest against the concrete and tugging gently at the younger’s hip, making his ass stick out. 

His boyfriend didn’t need any prep, they’ve fucked enough times in the course of a week alone. But it didn’t hurt to tease Kook a bit— Taehyung never turned that down.

“Gonna stick my finger in, breathe.” Tae didn’t lie, his middle finger slowly pushed past the bundle of nerves trying to force him out, but he didn’t budge. His forehead was rested against Jungkook’s nape, lips slightly agape as he looked down at what he was doing. The elder’s other hand spread one of Koo’s cheeks, giving him a wider view.

“Shit, you cool? Found that sweet spot you always like..” The pad of Tae’s finger quickly rubbed at the side of Jungkook’s prostate.

“You love it when I tease it, admit it.”

Jungkook muttered breathy curses, placing his elbows against the concrete for leverage. His soft cheek pressed to the wall, flushed in the initial embarrassment of being this exposed-- in this place... Tae always managed to make him feel small and pretty-- and the praise only built on to his reddened cheeks... and throbbing cock.

"Ah..." His low curses quickly morphed into higher pitched moans the second his boyfriend's long, slender finger touched the one sweet spot that only he could reach. "Fuck, yeah.... I love it-- please, more."

Taehyung always knew how to please him, just with one finger he had reduced Kook to nothing but a slut for him. Every single time they fucked, the one word Jungkook would chant like a prayer was just that. More.

"D-don't tease me too much... I'll go crazy, please, stretch me more." Jungkook's pathetic voice was shaky, rutting his ass back against Taehyung's finger, his thigh muscles tensing and relaxing every single time his sensitive flesh was prodded.

Taehyung reached in deeper, the stretchable skin of Jungkook’s wet rim now surpassing his knuckle, clenching tight around the elder’s long digit as he massaged Koo’s warm insides. The elder’s cock throbbed against Jungkook’s soft cheek, jealous it wasn’t receiving any special attention— for now. Tae wasn’t planning on leaving it forgotten for long..

“I’ll stretch you out good, just be patient..” Tae left soft kisses along Jungkook’s shoulders and flexed shoulder blades, twisting his head slightly to continue against the crook of the younger’s neck, the silent sounds of his sweet kisses only audible to the both of them. 

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous, you know that?” The warmth of Taehyung’s breath clung on to Jungkook’s ear whilst he praised, lingering close until Tae’s face was no longer near; no longer trapping in the heat of his soft words.

“I’m gonna put it in, I know you’re dying to feel a hard cock in you. My hard cock..” Taehyung swiftly dragged out his finger, taking a hold of his dick and lining it up against Jungkook’s entrance, rubbing the tip against his puckered rim before gently advancing his hips forward, harshly biting on his lips as he did so.

“Hngh.. warm. Tight as fuckin’ always, fuck.”

Jungkook's drawn out moan sounded more like a whiny cry, muffled by his hand as to not want to draw any attention-- but it was hard. However, something about possibly being caught had the younger's entire being tingling with excitement. Maybe he was a little bit of an exhibitionist after all...

"Mmph... Tae, god... big.." Kook struggled to put together any sort of coherent sentence, muffling out words into his hand in between breathy cries. His fleshy insides constricted around his boyfriend's thick girth harder the deeper it drilled into him, taking shallow breaths to relax. His thighs shake with anticipation, he couldn't bear to be patient...

Jungkook arched his back further, hungry for more of Taehyung to enter him, glancing over his shoulder to see his expressions. If there was one thing Jungkook loved just as much as hearing how good he felt, it was seeing it as well.

The elder granted Jungkook just that— thick eyebrows knit together as he fully bottomed out, cock snug and protected in between Kook’s gripping insides, the unpredicted squeezes prompting the latter to grit his teeth until his jaw turned sore.

Taehyung engaged in promising eye contact, his bedroom eyes gazing deep into Jungkook’s wavering ones. Tae’s back remained slightly hunched as his blue-veined hands held onto the other’s hips, fingers digging into the sweaty crease connecting the younger’s hip bone and his leg. 

“Damn, been waiting to fuck this ass for a hot minute..” He added movement to his stance, keeping it slow and collected at the beginning for the sake of their enjoyment.

“My ass. I own this shit now, fuck..” The hitting of his pelvis against Jungkook became more noticeable, the smacking of their skin every time they met almost as distinct as Koo’s soft whines.

“Only mine to fuck raw and stretch.” Taehyung’s thrusting grew more aggressive, forceful snaps turning quicker and harder..

“I’m the only guy that gets to bust in this little ass, fuckin’ better stay that way..” 

The mere thought of another dude fucking Jungkook led Taehyung to grunt in displease, panting softly as he no longer worried about holding back, entering Kook’s ass again and again until he could no longer keep count.

Jungkook's doe eyes rolled back in pleasure, fluttering shut before he dipped his head low, his long curls falling forward as he faced down. Every snap of Taehyung's hips drew a louder moan out of him, every inhale a hitched breath, every exhale a whiny moan.

"Only y-yours, Tae--fuck, want you, just you-- gah..." It was hard to speak when his body was jolting forward roughly with every thrust, his strong arms flexing to keep his head from thudding into the concrete wall from the brute force his boyfriend fucked him with.

"Don't want anybody else to fuck me, your cock-- ah, your cock is the fuckin' best... Want you foreve-eer, shit..." His moans were bordering on sobs at this point, the mixture of pleasure, slight pain, and his love for the elder made the entire experience euphoric; and Jungkook was addicted to it. They've done this countless times, and instead of growing bored of it, the younger wanted more, more, more.

"Wanna cum, babe, please-- can I touch myself?" Kook's eyes open, staring down at his bobbing, swollen cock, the reddened tip drooling with precum, aching for any touch. "Tell me I can, please."

“We’ll do it together,” letting go of one of Jungkook’s slightly-bruised hips, Taehyung reached for the younger’s hand that rested on the dirtied wall, leading it downwards to where Kook’s firm, pretty cock sprung with the sustained pace of his thrusts. Taehyung forced Jungkook’s fingers to close in tight around his own shaft, the elder’s bigger hand applying extra pressure as he jerked them in sync up and down, up and down..

The leaking precum sitting atop Kook’s tip helped alleviate the glide, movements swift and aggressive. Taehyung was the one in charge, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum..” He wrapped his arm around Jungkook’s delicate waist, pulling him in until his gasping chest molded against the small dip of Koo’s slick back.

“Cum with me, baby.” Taehyung’s jerk of his sore hand never faltered, and neither did each shove into Jungkook’s insides. He was much too excited to get them both over the edge, the upcoming release a certain high he could never get tired of.

Jungkook's loud, shameless sounds were a mixture of sobs and moans from the overwhelming sensations, his slick cock aggressively working towards his release along with his boyfriend's cock forcibly prodding at his sensitive prostate over and over. Kook's was fuckin' done for, he couldn't even attempt to hold back his orgasm if he tried.

"S-shit, fuck, fuuck--!" Nothing but curses rolled off his swollen tongue, words a foreign concept pushed to the back of his mind when all he could think about was Taehyung's fat cock entering him again, and again until every musce in his body tensed up, his cock stiffening in the grasp of both men before it began to pulsate in a rhytmical pattern, spurts of cum gushing out against the concrete wall.

"God-- cumming, ah, o-ouch..." Kook's high pitched whines in pleasure distorted into oversensitivity quickly, pressing his forehead against the dirty wall, gnashing his teeth together. "D-don't stop, please, cum in me-- T-taehyung.." His breathy voice pleaded, his thighs shaking to keep him up. He was grateful for the tight hold of his boyfriend around his waist, or he was sure he'd fall to his knees without a doubt.

“Oh fuuck, that’s my boy.. you’re cumming— hmph!, so much, cute.” Taehyung’s hips mindlessly picked up their thrusting until they stuttered, sleek body coming to a complete stop before Tae threw his head forward in a rasped shout, swelled cock twitching as it released the elder’s heavy load deep into his boyfriend’s clutching insides.

“A-ah.. ah, oh..” The hold around Jungkook’s waist had tightened, holding him closer as Taehyung’s way to steady himself after such a powerful climax. The elder’s body quivered slightly, feeling himself slowly soften while his cum dripped from out of Jungkook, running down the latter’s wobbly legs and onto the ground.

“Wow..”

He made sure Kook was steady enough before pulling out, withdrawing from the younger and immediately resting his back against the wall. Taehyung wiped at his face with the lower fabric of his shirt, the material sticking closely to his heaving chest.

“That was great, I didn’t think you’d let me fuck you in a public place.” Tae turned to look at Jungkook after tucking himself back in, smiling tiredly. 

“You simp... I know you wouldn’t have done that for anyone else.” Now Taehyung was teasing, giggling cheekily as he called Koo out for his unforeseen actions.

© sombreboy 2020. Do not edit, repost or translate.

[fourmarkdove]

Fawn - Part 4

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Title: Fawn - Part 3

Words: 3.2k

Summary: Yennefer confirms Geralt’s suspicions and a rift is created between you and the White Wolf. Angst. Suggested smut. Fluff. Hurt/comfort.

Pairing: Geralt x reader

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, miscarriage, abortion. If you’re triggered PLEASE skip ahead. Please check out the trigger warnings (tw:) in the tags!

A/N: Don’t blame me. It was that fricking wish! I’m not happy about it, either, but it’s canon. Comments welcome. Thanks for reading as always!

Like an expectant father waiting outside the delivery room, Jaskier paced just outside the tent while Geralt sharpened his sword near the fire.

“No. Get out before I portal you away,” Yennefer demanded yet again when the bard poked his head in and asked for an update. 

“She’ll come out when she’s ready,” the burly Witcher grunted. Another plume of purple smoke rose from the tent door and static sizzled inside. Jaskier began thinking of a verse that needed to rhyme with “plume.”

Wiping her hands, she emerged and motioned at Jaskier: “Watch her. Geralt, you’re with me.”

Sauntering across the way to her own much larger, and much more richly furnished tent, Geralt followed behind like a puppy.

“Well?”

“Well? Well, I saved her life, darling,” the raven haired woman smirked, turning to face him once they reached the foot of her lavish bed. Tossing aside the cloth, she twirled a finger and a dozen candles lit around the space.

He was not impressed by simple tricks. “What happened? It wasn’t just poison, was it? It was a curse.”

“Yes, my love,” she sighed, bored with conversation, so she lifted his shirt and ran both hands up his muscular torso, making the tense fibers just under his skin twitch. “I lifted it though.”

Craning his neck low, he crushed his mouth to her plump lips. The relief and gratitude expressed in his kiss melted when feral heat took over. They were souls bound together by a wish he made years ago to save her life. As such they were drawn time and again to this exact moment.

She moaned, tugging at the ties on his breeches pressed against her stomach. Biting down on his bottom lip suddenly, she flattened her palms to his chest and pushed him back to the bed, intent on climbing him and claiming payment for a job well done.

*

“So she’ll be able to travel soon?” Geralt huffed lazily, one arm under his head on the pillow. 

“You’re really taking her back to her father?” Yennefer sighed, playing with the glistening sweat droplets along the center of his chest.

“That’s the plan.”

“Well, if you do travel with her just have her take it easy the next few days.”

“Why?” He arched an eyebrow down at the naked woman still tangled up with him under the sheets.

“Well, she’s with child, Geralt. But the child is much smaller than it should be. She probably needs to see a real healer to have it dealt with anyway - given the circumstances.”

His brow furrowed sharply and he gripped her upper arms, dragging her off of him as he sat up. “Dealt with...?”

She sighed, running the back of her fingers down the sinews of his forearm. “Mm. She told me who the father is. I just went to his wedding just last month. It's a bad idea to show your new bride your bastard child. So yes… dealt with.”

“Wedding?” he mirrored, breaking into a cold sweat. “Did you tell her this?”

Yennefer shrugged and rolled over. “I alluded to it. Hmm. You know she may not need a healer on second thought. Baby isn’t well. Body might try to reject it after this, so watch for - where are you going?”

Stepping into his breeches, he glanced over his shoulder at the raven haired woman lounging in bed still. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Why? Did you want to attend with me? The food was decent but the wine was weak. I so would have loved to have dressed you, though.”

His frustrated growl was not lost on her but she didn’t budge by the threatening sound of it. “She told me where you met. Geralt, I said I’d try to save her life but she’s your whore. I’ve done more than enough here, my love. If you leave this tent tonight, I’ll be gone by daybreak.”

He didn’t even have his pants tied before he stalked out of the tent barefoot into the dewy grass. Jaskier heard him coming from his own cot opposite yours. Finding it quite impossible to sleep anyway, he met the Witcher at the tent flap opening.

“That witch gave her something to sleep but it’s not quite doing its job,” the bard forewarned, touching Geralt’s shoulder. He held his friend back just a moment longer to catch his golden-eyed attention. “It’s not you she’s been calling for.” 

Jaskier excused himself, ducking past his friend breathing hard with his jaw clenched. Every muscle up the back of his legs and across his spine snapped into tension; the coppery scent of bloody cloths left on the table sent his senses into a frenzy the moment he stepped inside.

“N… no… n...” you moaned in your fitful sleep, writhing and grasping at the pillow under your head.

Cat eyes dilated in the near dark, his attention drew to the shadow of your body tucked under a thin blanket. In two strides, he dropped by your side and dragged the tear-soaked hair from sticking to your cheeks. 

Your head rocked back and forth on the pillow, your expression wrought with grief, one hand grasping at nothing but air until his fingers closed over it. 

He lifted his brows in the center, anguish lining his forehead. Your breathing came in hiccups, clearly crying in your nightmare.

“Wake up, little fawn,” he rumbled, pulling deep from within to sound calm so as not to frighten you. “Come on, wake up.”

“Ah…” Your legs shifted under the blanket and you inhaled deeply.

Your wet eyelashes flashed open, revealing still slightly ink-stained black tears rolling down your cheeks. “Where is he? Where’s Acheros?”

Rolling his eyes at the sound of his name, Geralt backed up into the shadow of a tent peg. “That’s a good fucking question.”

“Why did he leave me in that horrible place?” You pressed, eyes bleary from tears, pain and exhaustion.

“Hmm,” he grunted, sitting back against the other cot.

“He said he’d always come find me. ‘Nothing in all of eternity could keep us apart,’ he said.”

Another frustrated grunt as Geralt sat back. As Jaskier stoked the flames of the fire outside, the walls of the canvas tent illuminated with flicks of orange light.

You stayed silent a long time, letting the length and breadth seep into your conscious thought. Curling up on yourself, you rolled over into the tent wall and away from the brutish man sitting in silence across from you. “Is it true? Did he - get married - without me?”

“Mmm,” Geralt hummed in the affirmative, dropping his head back as the reflected orange flames danced on the ceiling. He cursed under his breath. 

There is a screech a striga makes when you deliver that final death strike straight through its heart; the sound is horrendous up close. Because of their circulation system, it takes them a moment to go, all the while realizing they’ve met their end. And then there is the soft little squeak of a rabbit as its neck is being broken. It doesn’t understand what is happening to it and doesn’t expect the end.

Neither startled cry at their moment of death is as difficult to listen to as your trembling gasp and wailing sob at the exact moment your heart broke in two.

Snarling his upper lip in disgust, he planted a fist on the ground to stand up, but stilled hearing you speak into your own hands.

“But… this is his child. And... I’m his.”

“Fuck.” Geralt replanted himself and sighed harshly, rubbing his rough thumb of one hand into the palm of another.

“What?” you shuddered, glancing over your shoulder. “But I love him...”

“You’ve said,” he husked, glancing at the exit with an arched brow and a changed mind. Waking you from that nightmare, he actually considered taking you in his arms and comforting you with all of the strength he had in him. He was not particularly given to tender moments, but if you’d have asked, even whimpered, anything at all, he’d have moved heaven and earth to shelter you.

You turned away from his frustrated growling. “Where is he? He should be here.”

With a huff of rage, he lifted to his feet and took the one large step to the door. Rolling over, your torso twisted and you yelped at the sharp pain. “Ah - fuck! What -“

“You were very sick,” he oversimplified, glancing behind his shoulder. “Yennefer…”

“Yennefer? She says she’s the ‘Love of your life’? I thought I was dreaming but she’s really real?”

“You should know Yennefer saved YOUR life.”

You mewled, ripped the covers down your thighs and tugged at your torn shirt, trying to find the source of the overwhelming pain.

Setting his jaw, he breathed deep and clenched his fist to keep from absolutely roaring at you. “You wouldn’t have survived - to be reunited with whoever this arsehole is, since that’s clearly all you can think about.”

It was neither his tone nor his words that shook you, rather the ache in your belly. “Something feels wrong.”

“As it should. Sleep.”

“Fuck you,” you spat holding your middle, getting up onto your feet much more slowly than he did. Bumping chests, you glared up at him. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew and you didn’t say a damn thing.”

Nostrils flared, patience dwindling, he looked over your head; he knew the second he glanced down and saw the pain in your eyes, it’d just add fuel to his  fire and one of the two of you needed to be levelheaded. 

“Not for certain until Yen told me a few minutes ago. Although I had suspected something like this when you told the story yesterday.”

Suddenly alert, you bolted toward the tent flap, but a heavy arm across the front of your shoulders blocked your way. Desperately, you reached both hands out. “Please! I need to go home. I just need to see him. He’ll explain and fix it.” 

Your pained gaze finally lifted to his, digging your fingernails into his forearm locked across your chest.

His sharp gaze narrowed. “There’s a reason he didn’t come back for you. Showing up on his doorstep, now, won’t produce the results you want, I guarantee you.”

“But - I did everything I was told to do,” you gasped, blinking back tears that spilled down your cheeks anyway. Dropping your head, the tears dripped freely onto the ground. Tilting your shoulders just slightly into him, you bumped your forehead against his chest and stayed like that a long while.

“I hate you...” you sniffled and hiccupped, speaking slowly, clearly drained.

“Mmph.” He grunted, holding the back of your bare neck.

The rage had worn around the edges like two fighters in the last round dragging their feet; both of you were slow to swing back.

“Come on,” he encouraged as gently as he could muster, thumbing behind your neck. “Lie down.”

He sighed, glancing down at your trembling, balled up fist thumping against his chest.

“I-I h-hate y-“ you sobbed, nosing into his chest. “I h-aate-“

“I know,” he grumbled, closing his hand around your fist. “You hate me.”

He rested his chin on your head and carded his fingers through your hair. Feverish tears eventually gave way to panting, then to soft breaths against his skin.

“What am I going to do?” you croaked, dragging your fingertips down his spine, releasing the muscles you’d been clawing into. “I don’t know what to do.”

“The first thing you’re going to do is get some rest,” he graveled overhead. Not giving you a second to protest, he collected your wrists from behind his hips and drew you back to your cot, throwing open the covers with his free hand.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you whined, giving him a side eyed glance.

“Lie down and count geese then,” he huffed, clearly not budging on it.

With a long sigh, you crawled in and curled up, pressing your face down into the pillow. Your eyes closed when the blanket rugged up over your shoulders.

Hearing your voice just barely mumbling into your pillow, he came down onto a knee and tilted his head. 

“Hmm?” he graveled just above a whisper. “You don’t mean that. … No, you don’t. … Hm? Fine, I will. Sleep.”

Settling down cross legged, he reached over the short expanse between you and the edge of the cot. As promised, he smoothed over your hair, and hummed a deeply soothing tune, the one he’d sometimes hum to Roach when she was being groomed. 

Tag Team: @ly--canthrope​ @marswritings​ @fire-in-her-veinz​ @thiclikeh0ney @uncoolcloudyhead​ @michelle-1185​ @boop-le-snoot​ @tearsontape13​ @confusinglump​ @mary-ann84​ @the-soot-sprite @wanderingsoulcelticheart @henry-cavill-obsessed​ @ruthoakenshield​ @nerra75​ @raspberrydreamclouds​

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