#still not sure if i did the cloak justice

[nwluxx]

I seriously miss kyuubi cloak Naruto!! I wanted to imagine an older Naruto still struggling with his relationship with Kurama, where the nine-tails chakra seeps out when Naruto feels rage.

[wonderlanddreamer]

Alfie Solomons x Reader

Summary: This fic is based on this request. I'm not sure if I did it justice, but as soon as I started, the words just kind of wrote themselves.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content. 18+ Only. MDNI.

The familiar scent of freshly baked bread and the faint aroma of whiskey greeted you as you entered the bakery. The air was thick with the mingling fragrances, a comforting yet heady mix that immediately made you feel both at home and slightly tipsy. The place was bustling with activity, men in flour-dusted aprons hauling hefty sacks of flour and trays laden with golden pastries. 

You adjusted the strap of your bag, feeling a pang of nervousness as you approached the counter. Your brother had insisted you handle the administrative side of the family business, and the rough atmosphere of the bakery always put you on edge. Today felt no different, the air crackling with the intensity of a place where hard labour and harder men intersected.

"Oi, who’s this then?" A burly man with a thick Cockney accent barked, his voice slicing through the noise like a knife. He eyed you up and down with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. His companions, rough-looking men with hardened expressions, smirked, their eyes gleaming with opportunistic malice.

"Just here to see Mr Solomons," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the din of the bakery. You hoped the mention of Alfie Solomons, the notorious and respected owner, would be enough to deter any further questioning.

"Don't think I've seen you around here before, love," another man sneered, stepping closer. His breath reeked of stale whiskey and tobacco. "Maybe you’re lost, eh? Need a bit of help finding your way?"

Before you could respond, a pair of rough hands grabbed your arm, pulling you closer. Panic surged through you as you struggled to pull away, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum. The men’s laughter echoed around you, a chilling sound that made your skin crawl.

"Oi! Get the fuck off her, you filthy sods!" Alfie's voice boomed across the room, making the walls vibrate with its intensity. The men immediately released you, their faces paling as they stepped back, their bravado evaporating in an instant.

Alfie Solomons, with his rugged beard and piercing eyes, stormed over, his presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure. His dark overcoat billowed behind him like a cloak, adding to his imposing figure. Without a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the ringleader by the collar and slammed him against the wall with a force that made the shelves rattle. "Touch her again, mate, and I'll feed you to the bleedin' pigs, you hear me?" Alfie growled, his voice low and menacing. “Now fuck off, the lotta ya.”

The man nodded frantically, his face pale with fear, and Alfie released him with a forceful shove. As he turned to you, his expression softened slightly, though his eyes still burned with an intensity that spoke volumes of his protective fury. "You alright, love?" he asked, his voice a blend of concern and restrained anger.

You nodded quickly, trying to steady your racing heart. "Yes, Alfie, I'm fine. Really," you managed to say, though your voice wavered slightly.

"Fine, my arse," he grunted, his tone sceptical as he gently guided you by the elbow towards his office. "Come on, let's get you a drink. You look like you could use one."

In the relative quiet of Alfie's office, the chaotic noise of the bakery faded into a distant hum. Alfie moved with a determined grace, pouring a generous measure of whiskey into a glass. He handed it to you, his rough, calloused hands brushing against yours with surprising gentleness. "Drink up. It'll calm your nerves," he urged, his voice softer now.

You took a tentative sip, the whiskey's warmth spreading through you, easing the tension that had coiled tightly in your shoulders. Alfie settled into the chair next to you, his close proximity making your heart flutter in a way it only seemed to do when you were with him. There was an undeniable tension in the air, an electric current of unspoken words and hidden feelings that crackled between you.

"I apologise for that," Alfie drawled, his voice low and rough, "New folk can get a bit rowdy. Usually I just leave ‘em to it, but you, love, you got this way about you. All sweet and innocent, makes a bloke wanna protect you."

Your cheeks flushed at his words, and you looked down, feeling shy under the weight of his intense gaze. "I don’t know what you mean, Alfie," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as your lashes fluttered up to lock your eyes on him.

"Oh, I think you do," he replied, leaning in closer. His breath was warm against your ear, and the intoxicating scent of whiskey and musk enveloped you. "You play all sweet and innocent, but I see it. The way you blush, the way your eyes light up when I talk to you like this, all close and whatnot. You like it, don’t you?"

The room seemed to shrink around you, the outside world fading as Alfie's words drew you into a private moment suspended in time. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your pulse quickening as his proximity and the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe.

 "Alfie, I..." you began, your voice trembling with a mix of apprehension and desire.

"Shh, it's alright, love," he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your ear. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down your spine. "No need to be shy. I like it. Makes me wanna do all sorts of filthy things to you."

Your breath hitched, and a surge of desire mixed with nervous excitement coursed through you. Alfie’s hand moved to your thigh, his touch gentle yet possessive, as though he was staking a claim. "Tell me to stop if you want, but I don't think you do, do you?" His voice was a low, seductive rumble that made your heart race.

You shook your head slightly, unable to find your voice. The roughness of his exterior and the tantalising words contrasted sharply with the tenderness of his touch, creating a heady mix that left you yearning for more.

"That's my girl," he whispered, his voice a gravelly promise of everything you secretly craved. "Let's see just how much of that sweetness we can turn into something wicked, eh?"

He moved his hand further up your thigh, his fingers teasing the edge of your skirt. Each movement was slow, deliberate, and torturous, making you acutely aware of every inch of space he closed. "You like it when I talk dirty, don't you?" he murmured, his lips brushing against you, sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine. "You like being my sweet little thing, all innocent and pure, while I think about all the dirty things I wanna do to you."

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a whimper as his hand continued its slow, torturous path. The anticipation was maddening, the boundary between fear and desire becoming increasingly blurred. "Please," you finally managed to whisper, the word escaping your lips as a desperate plea.

His eyes darkened with desire as he watched you, a slow, wicked smile curling on his lips. His gaze held a fierce intensity that made you feel both vulnerable and exhilarated. "You don't have to be shy, love," he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper that seemed to resonate deep within you. "I wanna hear you say it. Tell me you like it."

Your breath came in shallow gasps, each word he spoke sending a shiver through your entire being. The tension in the air was almost palpable, a charged moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. "I... I like it," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with a raw honesty that surprised even you.

"Atta girl," Alfie growled, his hand sliding further up your thigh, his touch both gentle and possessive. The roughness of his voice sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire deep within you. "I knew you did. So how much can a sweet lil’ thing like you take, eh?"

He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, sending waves of electricity through your body. "You wanna know what I think about when I see you, love?" he murmured, his voice dripping with raw, unfiltered desire. "I think about bending you over this desk, ripping those pretty clothes off you, and making you scream my name for all of fuckin’ Camden to hear."

A whimper escaped your lips, your body aching with a need you had never felt before. The intensity of his words and the proximity of his touch were almost too much to bear.

"What, darlin’? Eh?" he teased, his hand slipping under your skirt, his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear with maddening slowness. "Tell me what it is you want?"

You closed your eyes, struggling to find your voice amidst the overwhelming sensations. "I want you, Alfie," you whispered, your voice trembling with desire and vulnerability. "I want you to touch me."

"That's my girl," he said, his voice a rough purr filled with satisfaction. His fingers slipped under the fabric of your underwear, finding your most sensitive spot with an unerring accuracy that made you gasp. "So wet for me already," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "You really are my sweet little thing, ain't you?"

You gasped again, your body arching towards him as he began to move his fingers in slow, deliberate circles. Each touch sent ripples of pleasure through you, building a tension that was both exhilarating and unbearable. "Alfie..."

"That's it, love," he said, his voice low and rough, resonating deep within you. "Let me hear ya. Let me hear how much you want this."

Your hands clutched at the fabric of the couch, your knuckles turning white as your body trembled with each exquisite touch. The world outside seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of you in a cocoon of shared desire. "Alfie, please... I need more..."

He chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound that sent another thrill through you. His eyes glittered with a predatory gleam, his smile a mixture of dominance and affection. "Oh, I'll give you more, alright. But first, I want to hear you beg for it."

You bit your lip, your body trembling with a mix of anticipation and desire. "Please, Alfie," you whispered, your voice breaking with raw need. "Please, I need you. I need you so much."

"Good girl," he growled, his fingers moving faster, his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. 

A moan escaped your lips, the sound echoing in the small, dimly lit office, your body responding eagerly to his every touch as you moaned out his name.

"That's it, love," he murmured, his voice rough and thick with desire. "Let go for me."

With a cry, you felt your body shatter, pleasure crashing over you in relentless waves. Your body convulsed in a series of involuntary spasms, a profound sense of euphoria washing over you. As the waves of pleasure subsided, leaving you breathless and trembling, you collapsed against him, seeking the solidity of his presence. 

Alfie's fingers lingered on your skin, tracing invisible patterns that sent electric currents through your body. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours with a magnetic pull that made your knees weak. "Turn around," he commanded, his voice a gravelly whisper that left no room for argument. "Bend over the desk."

Your breath hitched at his words, a rush of anticipation and desire coursing through you as you obeyed, positioning yourself against the sturdy wooden desk. The cool surface felt grounding against the heat building inside you, a stark contrast that heightened your senses. Alfie moved behind you, his presence dominating, his large hands sliding up the back of your thighs with a deliberate slowness that made your skin tingle. The fabric of your skirt bunched higher and higher, exposing more of your flushed skin to the open air.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with desire and approval. "Just like that. Y’know, I reckon you've been waiting for this, yeah? Waiting for me to take you properly."

You couldn't muster a response, your body trembling with a mix of nerves and excitement that made it difficult to form coherent thoughts. The sound of rustling fabric filled the small office as he undid his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle sending a jolt of electricity through you, making your heart pound even harder. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back towards him with a possessive strength, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of his arousal pressing insistently against you.

"You want this, don't you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned over you, his beard brushing tantalisingly against your neck. "Tell me how much you want it. Tell me you need it."

"I want it, Alfie," you whispered, your voice trembling with a potent mix of vulnerability and desire. "I need you. Please."

"That's what I like to hear," he muttered, his hands sliding down to your thighs, caressing your skin with a reverence that made your heart soar. "You're so good for me, love. So fucking good, just like I knew you'd be."

With a swift, decisive movement, he pushed your underwear down and entered you, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, an intoxicating mix of pleasure and pressure that made you gasp. Your fingers gripped the edge of the desk, your knuckles turning white as your body adjusted to the sudden, intense sensation. Alfie paused for a moment, allowing you to acclimate to the feeling, his hands still firm on your hips.

"Fuck, you're tight," Alfie groaned, his hands clutching your hips with a possessive grip as he began to move. "So fucking tight and so bloody perfect."

Each thrust was powerful and relentless, driving you closer to the edge with every movement. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the room, mingling with your gasps and his guttural moans, creating a symphony of raw desire that echoed off the walls. The desk creaked beneath you, a testament to the force and intensity of his movements.

"Say my name," he growled, his voice rough and demanding, dripping with dominance. "I want to hear you say it, love.."

"Alfie," you cried out, your voice breaking with the intensity of your desire. The sensation of his powerful thrusts was overwhelming, each one sending a jolt of pleasure through your entire body. "Alfie, please, don't stop. Please."

"That's right," he grunted, his pace quickening, the force of his thrusts becoming almost brutal in their intensity. "You're mine, love. All fucking mine. Remember that."

Your body trembled, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. Alfie's grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin with a ferocity that sent shivers down your spine. You could feel the tension coiling tighter within you, a spring wound to its limit, ready to snap.

"Come for me," he demanded, his voice a rough whisper. "I want to feel you come around me. Now."

With a cry, you felt your body shatter, the waves of pleasure crashing over you again with a force that left you breathless and trembling. Every muscle in your body tensed, then released in a flood of ecstasy. Your vision blurred, and the world narrowed to the exquisite sensation of Alfie moving within you, his presence overwhelming and all-encompassing.

Moments later, Alfie followed you over the edge, a deep, primal groan vibrating through him as he found his own release. His body tensed against yours, the powerful surge of his climax filling you completely. He held you close, his breath ragged and heavy, his heartbeat thundering in his chest.

For a moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the pounding of your hearts, a symphony of shared intensity echoing in the silence. Then, slowly, Alfie straightened, his hands caressing your back with surprising gentleness as he helped you to your feet. The transition was tender, almost reverent, his touch a stark contrast to the raw passion that had just consumed you both.

"You're alright, darlin’," he murmured, his voice softening into a soothing rumble that seemed to envelop you. "I've got you."

You leaned against him, your body still trembling from the intensity of what you'd just experienced. The warmth of his body was a comforting anchor, grounding you in the aftermath of the storm. "Thank you, Alfie," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude and something deeper, something more profound. It was more than just thanks for the physical pleasure; it was an acknowledgment of the emotional sanctuary you found in his presence.

He chuckled softly, his eyes warm and filled with a depth of emotion that took your breath away. A hint of a smile played on his lips, a rare softness that he reserved only for you. "No need to thank me, love," he said, his voice gentle yet firm, each word a vow. “I'll always take care of you, you hear?"

His words settled over you like a protective blanket, wrapping you in a sense of security and belonging that went beyond the physical. You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of the moment. It was a deeper, more enduring warmth that filled your heart and soul, a testament to the connection you shared.

In Alfie's arms, you felt safe. More than that, you felt cherished and valued. His fingers continued to trace soothing patterns on your skin, a silent promise of his unwavering devotion. The rough pads of his fingers were a comforting contrast to the softness of his touch, each stroke reaffirming his presence and his promise.

"Turn around," he commanded softly, his voice a gravelly whisper that made your heart flutter with a renewed sense of anticipation. "I wanna see your face."

You obeyed, turning to face him, your eyes locking onto his with a mixture of vulnerability and adoration. His gaze softened, a tender smile curling at the corners of his lips as he cupped your cheek in his hand. The roughness of his palm against your skin was a grounding touch, a reminder of his strength and the gentleness he reserved for you.

"You're mine now," he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that made your heart soar. The words were a declaration, a promise, and a reassurance all rolled into one. "Understand?"

"I understand," you echoed, your voice a breathless whisper as you leaned into his touch, feeling a profound sense of contentment and belonging. 

His thumb brushed tenderly against your cheek, a cheeky grin turning the corners of his lips. “Now, I do believe you came here with business to discuss?”

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

Prince Rhaegar as a character often gets some deserved criticism - and a lot of underserved hate. And one of the things that I think he unfairly gets blamed for is Elia Martell's tragedy. Elia's death is one of the primary objections people have towards Rhaegar and Lyanna being depicted as a romance, with readers believing that if they were just tragic lovers, then that diminishes Elia's own tragedy.

I...disagree. It is understandable (and honestly right) that readers would rally behind Elia. Not only was she horribly brutalized and murdered, but her children suffered absolutely terrible fates as well.

However, in trying to center Rhaegar and Lyanna's doomed dalliance in this, a lot of readers are missing the answer that has been already provided to us within the narrative. Not only that, but this line of thinking also ignores the key context in which Elia's senseless murder is portrayed.

As far as the text goes, Elia’s death is laid squarely at the feet of Tywin Lannister and his men, Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch. It's House Lannister's burden to bear.

Doran for one, Elia's brother, directly blames Tywin Lannister:

“You mistake patience for forbearance. I have worked at the downfall of Tywin Lannister since the day they told me of Elia and her children.”

The Princess in the Tower, AFFC

Even Oberyn agrees:

“Dwarf,” said the Red Viper, in a tone grown markedly less cordial, “spare me your Lannister lies. Is it sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep for sixteen years. Jon Arryn came to Sunspear the year after Robert took the throne, and you can be sure that he was questioned closely. Him, and a hundred more. I did not come for some mummer’s show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this lummox Gregor Clegane … but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of that.” He smiled. “An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is, Imp?”

Tyrion IV, ASOS

“Is that the game we are playing?” Tyrion rubbed at his scarred nose. He had nothing to lose by telling Oberyn the truth. “There was a bear at Harrenhal, and it did kill Ser Amory Lorch.” “How sad for him,” said the Red Viper. “And for you. Do all noseless men lie so badly, I wonder?” “I am not lying. Ser Amory dragged Princess Rhaenys out from under her father’s bed and stabbed her to death. He had some men-at-arms with him, but I do not know their names.” He leaned forward. “It was Ser Gregor Clegane who smashed Prince Aegon’s head against a wall and raped your sister Elia with his blood and brains still on his hands.” “What is this, now? Truth, from a Lannister?” Oberyn smiled coldly. “Your father gave the commands, yes?” “No.” He spoke the lie without hesitation, and never stopped to ask himself why he should. The Dornishman raised one thin black eyebrow. “Such a dutiful son. And such a very feeble lie. It was Lord Tywin who presented my sister’s children to King Robert all wrapped up in crimson Lannister cloaks.”

Tyrion IX, ASOS

“Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne,” the Red Viper hissed. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children…“I came to hear you confess.”

Tyrion X, ASOS

Varys and Tyrion both understand that House Martell (but more specifically Doran) hates the Lannisters.

“The Dornishmen thus far have held aloof from these wars. Doran Martell has called his banners, but no more. His hatred for House Lannister is well known, and it is commonly thought he will join Lord Renly. You wish to dissuade him.” “All this is obvious,” said Tyrion. “The only puzzle is what you might have offered for his allegiance. The prince is a sentimental man, and he still mourns his sister Elia and her sweet babe.” “My father once told me that a lord never lets sentiment get in the way of ambition … and it happens we have an empty seat on the small council, now that Lord Janos has taken the black.” “A council seat is not to be despised,” Varys admitted, “yet will it be enough to make a proud man forget his sister’s murder?” “Why forget?” Tyrion smiled. “I’ve promised to deliver his sister’s killers, alive or dead, as he prefers. After the war is done, to be sure.” Varys gave him a shrewd look. “My little birds tell me that Princess Elia cried a … certain name … when they came for her.” “Is a secret still a secret if everyone knows it?” In Casterly Rock, it was common knowledge that Gregor Clegane had killed Elia and her babe. They said he had raped the princess with her son’s blood and brains still on his hands. “This secret is your lord father’s sworn man.” “My father would be the first to tell you that fifty thousand Dornishmen are worth one rabid dog.” Varys stroked a powdered cheek. “And if Prince Doran demands the blood of the lord who gave the command as well as the knight who did the deed …” “Robert Baratheon led the rebellion. All commands came from him, in the end.” “Robert was not at King’s Landing.” “Neither was Doran Martell.”

Tyrion IV, ACOK

Really, all the nobles know where to look at when assigning blame for Elia's murder. Tywin.

“Prince Doran comes at my son’s invitation,” Lord Tywin said calmly, “not only to join in our celebration, but to claim his seat on this council, and the justice Robert denied him for the murder of his sister Elia and her children.” Tyrion watched the faces of the Lords Tyrell, Redwyne, and Rowan, wondering if any of the three would be bold enough to say, “But Lord Tywin, wasn’t it you who presented the bodies to Robert, all wrapped up in Lannister cloaks?” None of them did, but it was there on their faces all the same. Redwyne does not give a fig, he thought, but Rowan looks fit to gag.

Tywin, for the most part, quite shamelessly tries to disassociate himself from his own moral failings; this is nothing new, because he follows this same MO with squarely blaming the Freys for the Red Wedding even though he played an integral part in planning for it.

“Then why did the Mountain kill her?” “Because I did not tell him to spare her. I doubt I mentioned her at all. I had more pressing concerns. Ned Stark’s van was rushing south from the Trident, and I feared it might come to swords between us. And it was in Aerys to murder Jaime, with no more cause than spite. That was the thing I feared most. That, and what Jaime himself might do.” He closed a fist. “Nor did I yet grasp what I had in Gregor Clegane, only that he was huge and terrible in battle. The rape … even you will not accuse me of giving that command, I would hope. Ser Amory was almost as bestial with Rhaenys. I asked him afterward why it had required half a hundred thrusts to kill a girl of … two? Three? He said she’d kicked him and would not stop screaming. If Lorch had half the wits the gods gave a turnip, he would have calmed her with a few sweet words and used a soft silk pillow.” His mouth twisted in distaste. “The blood was in him.”

Tyrion VI, ASOS

“And when Oberyn demands the justice he’s come for?” “I will tell him that Ser Amory Lorch killed Elia and her children,” Lord Tywin said calmly. “So will you, if he asks.” “Ser Amory Lorch is dead,” Tyrion said flatly. “Precisely. Vargo Hoat had Ser Amory torn apart by a bear after the fall of Harrenhal. That ought to be sufficiently grisly to appease even Oberyn Martell.” “You may call that justice …” “It is justice. It was Ser Amory who brought me the girl’s body, if you must know. He found her hiding under her father’s bed, as if she believed Rhaegar could still protect her. Princess Elia and the babe were in the nursery a floor below.”

Tyrion VI, ASOS

Tywin tries to alleviate himself of any responsibility by blaming his men, but the narrative actively calls bullshit on this (through Tywin's own son no less).

So the narrative shows through multiple POVs that Elia's murder is contextualized exclusively as a failing on Tywin Lannister and his men; not only was it a moral failing, but Tyrion also questions if it was politically necessary in the first place. It's also important to note that ASOS is when we really dive into the matter of Elia and her children (mostly through Oberyn), but we also have to remember that this is the same book as the Red Wedding. The Red Wedding, another one of Tywin's senseless massacres that he tries to postulate as politically necessary.

So, we have agreed that the blame and context for Elia's (and her children's) murder is presented through the lens of Tywin as an immoral politician who often makes politically unnecessary moves. But then we ask ourselves, can the responsibility of this tragedy be extended? Well, yes it can. And it has been in the text.

Ser Barristan extends this tragedy beyond Tywin and his men

...to King Robert.

“Prince Rhaegar had two children,” Ser Barristan told him. “Rhaenys was a little girl, Aegon a babe in arms. When Tywin Lannister took King’s Landing, his men killed both of them. He served the bloody bodies up in crimson cloaks, a gift for the new king.” And what did Robert say when he saw them? Did he smile? Barristan Selmy had been badly wounded on the Trident, so he had been spared the sight of Lord Tywin’s gift, but oft he wondered. If I had seen him smile over the red ruins of Rhaegar’s children, no army on this earth could have stopped me from killing him. “I will not suffer the murder of children. Accept that, or I’ll have no part of this.”

The Kingbreaker, ADWD

Ned Stark does as well.

Ned did not feign surprise; Robert’s hatred of the Targaryens was a madness in him. He remembered the angry words they had exchanged when Tywin Lannister had presented Robert with the corpses of Rhaegar’s wife and children as a token of fealty. Ned had named that murder; Robert called it war. When he had protested that the young prince and princess were no more than babes, his new-made king had replied, “I see no babes. Only dragonspawn.” Not even Jon Arryn had been able to calm that storm. Eddard Stark had ridden out that very day in a cold rage, to fight the last battles of the war alone in the south. It had taken another death to reconcile them; Lyanna’s death, and the grief they had shared over her passing.

Eddard II, AGOT

And so does Tywin, who uses Robert's tacit approval as justification for this senseless act.

Lord Tywin stared at him as if he had lost his wits. “You deserve that motley, then. We had come late to Robert’s cause. It was necessary to demonstrate our loyalty. When I laid those bodies before the throne, no man could doubt that we had forsaken House Targaryen forever. And Robert’s relief was palpable. As stupid as he was, even he knew that Rhaegar’s children had to die if his throne was ever to be secure. Yet he saw himself as a hero, and heroes do not kill children.” His father shrugged. “I grant you, it was done too brutally. Elia need not have been harmed at all, that was sheer folly. By herself she was nothing.”

Tyrion VI, ASOS

So if we can't extend the blame to Rhaegar, because the narrative doesn't do so either, what can we hold him responsible for? Let's take a step back and look at Rhaegar's culpability in this whole thing.

Was Rhaegar (and Lyanna) responsible for starting the war that would eventually lead to Elia's murder?

No. GRRM doesn't think so. The war actually started when King Aerys murdered the Lord of Winterfell and his heir, a bunch of other northern nobles, and then called for the heads of Robert Baratheon (Lord of Storm's End) and Ned Stark (the new Lord of Winterfell). Aerys broke the feudal contract, and so Jon Arryn declared war.

I don't think I would have stayed loyal to the Mad King. Do I think they were justified? Yes, and no. [...] There was no doubt that the Mad King was mad. He was paranoid and he was abusing his power. And Westeros has no Magna Carta or anything like that. There was no way to handle this within the rule of law. But was what they do justified? Especially when you consider that it was triggered by a personal grievance. The execution of Ned's father and brother was really a thing that radicalized Ned and put him in opposition to it. Robert was just rolling for a fight and didn't like the fact that he'd lost his girlfriend. So you know, the personal informs the political.

source

Rhaegar and Lyanna's disappearance was merely the spark - it led to a misunderstanding that caused Brandon Stark to ride to Kingslanding. What really caused the war was Aerys' Targaryens subsequent actions as the king. So if we want to blame someone for causing the chain of events that led to Elia's death as well as her children's, the author himself says to blame Aerys; even though I don't think this is right either because we once again stray from the necessary (and sole) context of Elia's murder - Tywin's bloody hands.

Fine. Rhaegar was not responsible for the war. But surely he is responsible for leaving Elia in King's Landing, right in the clutches of Mad King Aerys. Well, this again, is not true. As far as Rhaegar knew, Elia was in Dragonstone with Aegon and Rhaenys where he left them.

As cold winds hammered the city, King Aerys II turned to his pyromancers, charging them to drive the winter off with their magics. Huge green fires burned along the walls of the Red Keep for a moon’s turn. Prince Rhaegar was not in the city to observe them, however. Nor could he be found in Dragonstone with Princess Elia and their young son, Aegon.

“The Year of the False Spring”, The World of Ice and Fire

At some point, Elia was called to King's Landing. And it was Aerys who kept her hostage there as insurance against possible Dornish betrayal (remember, he was paranoid).

Side Note: Aerys kept another important political hostage in King's Landing along with Elia - Jaime Lannister; this is to deter anyone from trying to blame Jaime for doing nothing. He was a teenager and a hostage himself!

“My Sworn Brothers were all away, you see, but Aerys liked to keep me close. I was my father’s son, so he did not trust me. He wanted me where Varys could watch me, day and night. So I heard it all.” He remembered how Rossart’s eyes would shine when he unrolled his maps to show where the substance must be placed. Garigus and Belis were the same. “Rhaegar met Robert on the Trident, and you know what happened there. When the word reached court, Aerys packed the queen off to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys. Princess Elia would have gone as well, but he forbade it. Somehow he had gotten it in his head that Prince Lewyn must have betrayed Rhaegar on the Trident, but he thought he could keep Dorne loyal so long as he kept Elia and Aegon by his side. The traitors want my city, I heard him tell Rossart, but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat. The Targaryens never bury their dead, they burn them. Aerys meant to have the greatest funeral pyre of them all. Though if truth be told, I do not believe he truly expected to die. Like Aerion Brightfire before him, Aerys thought the fire would transform him … that he would rise again, reborn as a dragon, and turn all his enemies to ash.

Jaime V, ASOS

Ok, fine. So Rhaegar did not abandon her with Aerys then run off to Lyanna. But he should have done something when he came back, right? Why didn't he leave more Kings Guard with Elia and the children?

Well....this is a war. The knights of the KG are important assets on the battle field. Kings Landing, at the time, was not the most dangerous location. The KG were better off at the Trident, as a victory there would protect those who were left behind in KL.

And it's not that Rhaegar didn't do anything. Beyond going off to lead the battle himself, he tried to make moves that would help those who were back in KL (Elia and the children included).

He floated in heat, in memory. “After dancing griffins lost the Battle of the Bells, Aerys exiled him.” Why am I telling this absurd ugly child? “He had finally realized that Robert was no mere outlaw lord to be crushed at whim, but the greatest threat House Targaryen had faced since Daemon Blackfyre. The king reminded Lewyn Martell gracelessly that he held Elia and sent him to take command of the ten thousand Dornishmen coming up the kingsroad. Jon Darry and Barristan Selmy rode to Stoney Sept to rally what they could of griffins’ men, and Prince Rhaegar returned from the south and persuaded his father to swallow his pride and summon my father. But no raven returned from Casterly Rock, and that made the king even more afraid. He saw traitors everywhere, and Varys was always there to point out any he might have missed. So His Grace commanded his alchemists to place caches of wildfire all over King’s Landing. Beneath Baelor’s Sept and the hovels of Flea Bottom, under stables and storehouses, at all seven gates, even in the cellars of the Red Keep itself.

Jaime V ASOS

And Jaime's POV once again shows us that Rhaegar banked on victory at the Trident, and was fully expecting to come back to KL and amend the fraught political situation.

The day had been windy when he said farewell to Rhaegar, in the yard of the Red Keep. The prince had donned his night-black armor, with the three-headed dragon picked out in rubies on his breastplate. “Your Grace,” Jaime had pleaded, “let Darry stay to guard the king this once, or Ser Barristan. Their cloaks are as white as mine.” Prince Rhaegar shook his head. “My royal sire fears your father more than he does our cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour.” Jaime’s anger had risen up in his throat. “I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard.” “Then guard the king,” Ser Jon Darry snapped at him. “When you donned that cloak, you promised to obey.” Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “When this battle’s done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but … well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return.”

Jaime I, AFFC

So Rhaegar wasn't leaving with no care about what happened back in King's Landing. We don't know what he wanted to do with Aerys, Elia, Lyanna, and the aftermath of the war because he died at the Trident. But we do know that he, at the very least, was planning to do something.

So we can't blame Rhaegar (and Lyanna) for starting the war and we can't blame him either for abandoning Elia in King's Landing with no care about what happens next. So, again, what can we blame him for?

“It's not entirely correct that the Martells stayed out of the war. Rhaegar had Dornish troops with him on the Trident, under the command of Prince Lewyn of the Kingsguard. However, the Dornishmen did not support him as strongly as they might have, in part because of anger at his treatment of Elia, in part because of Prince Doran's innate caution.”

SSM, 09/11/1999

GRRM states that Dorne was angry about Rhaegar's treatment of Elia. What is this treatment, though?

Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty’s laurel in Lyanna’s lap.

Eddard XV, AGOT

Specifically, Rhaegar riding past Elia to crown Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty. Yes, that is a humiliation. And it's undeniable that no one was happy.

The crowning of the Stark girl, who was by all reports a wild and boyish young thing with none of the Princess Elia’s delicate beauty, could only have been meant to win the allegiance of Winterfell to Prince Rhaegar’s cause…Yet if this were true, why did Lady Lyanna’s brothers seem so distraught at the honor the prince had bestowed upon her? Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, had to be restrained from confronting Rhaegar at what he took as a slight upon his sister’s honor…Eddard Stark, Brandon’s younger brother and a close friend to Lord Robert, was calmer but no more pleased.

“The Year of the False Spring”, The World of Ice and Fire

But, humiliating Elia is not the same thing as being responsible for her death. The narrative never equates these two things in any way. Elia's death is about Tywin's immoral and blood thirsty political actions. It's about Dorne's desire for justice (or is it vengeance?) which they know they will not get from the Lannister regime. House Lannister's downfall in King's Landing will be brought about by Prince Aegon's rise - Aegon who is proclaiming to be the long lost son of Prince Rhaegar, and who is being supported by House Martell as of now.

We can criticize Rhaegar for some things, but Elia's death is surely not one of them.

[phantombre]

Uh...

...Rema?

Remember in the birthday post when I said that I had some more sketches?

Well I have more sketches:

Some other guys that I don't have posted designs yet but I really like.

Your Contrarian to me is very cowboy coded. I know he's the Bard, but... I don't know... He got yeehaw energy. (For the record, I do not think this is a bad thing. In fact, Cowboy Contra is a really interesting idea actually...) Also, I can only hope that my take on Contra has even a fraction of the smug that yours has.

World record for Living Being with the Most Sass obviously goes to Oppy. Your version, especially.

Paranoid is just the most adorable guy... Just look at him! Ahh!

I like to think that Cold can flare out his cloak like a peacock as he floats about. (As if his aura isn't intimidating enough.) Very spooky. :)

And I thought this was all...

...but it ain't...

As I was sketching, I had this idea:

My Hero was already pretty tall, but it'd be funny if he was still somewhat dwarfed by your Bard. (Also, the eye. Holy shit, I didn't know he even had eyes 'til I saw your redesigns. So unnerving. It's perfect.)

And wow! I still wasn't done. The hell is wrong with me?

I remember seeing the Guts Trio comic (which I adore, btw). I really like this panel:

...and this is all I can think about:

It's that scene from the animated version of the Little Mermaid with the pipe and the- ahhh! It's so good!

Poor Skeptic, though. He seems really roughed up trying to hang with Stubborn and Hunted...

Actually, you know what? I can't have this. He deserves better...

God, I haven't done a digital painting since my Long Quiet... Feels good. Need to do more...

Anyway, there he is! The reason this took me so long to post. Loosely based on that scene in your fic. Had to give him the utmost respect. He is a classy Detective, after all.

Okay... Just two more, I promise...

Part of this one was actually supposed to be part of the original gift:

Yep! I originally had the Narrators, but I couldn't finish it in time (also was trying to look for any references to your designs). I ended up recycling it for this comic idea.

But oh? What's this?

But of course! Your helmless Smitten is absolutely gorgeous! The most beautiful man!

Writing his dialogue, however, was the hardest thing for me. (Not even sure if I did it justice here...)

It was at this point that I completely ran out of steam (not permanently, but man, my brain hurts). I had a concept for a part two to the Smitten comic, but I am drained. I guess I can give the dialogue for it...

My Narry: Good Lord, he talks endlessly...

Rema's Narry: Yes, perhaps the most annoying of the bunch.

My Narry: Glad we don't have one-

?????: Oh, on the contrary, villains!

Rema's Narry: you can't be serious...

My Narry: WHAT THE SHI-

Gee, wonder who mystery dude is...

Anyway, this post is way too long. I am so sorry. My brain autopilots too much.

These are all additional birthday gifts for @remaking-machine. I hope you enjoy. Your art is very inspirational. I had a fun time.

Time to eep

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello babies, wooooooo only 2 more chapters to go. The last chapter is next, and then we have the Epilogue.... HOLY FUCKKKKKKKKKKK! I can't believ it honestly!! How crazy is that? Anyway... Enjoy <3

Chapter 108: Ash 

On the grass before the mouth of Blackwater Rush, fire consumed the bodies of those who had been responsible for crowning Aegon as King, and aiding in keeping him there.

The people who had aided in keeping you trapped in the walls of the Red Keep, to be subjected to two brothers cruelties. Those who had broken their oaths to your mother, to King Viserys, those who had turned cloak against them.

Lady Alicent Hightower, a woman who was conniving and bitter, a woman who conspired against your mother, was now naught but a charred and blackened lump on the grass, surrounded by her peers.

She had screamed out into the air, much as they had, but it was short lived as Vermithor’s flames consumed them, until soon enough, their bodies, and hers, were charred and nothing but ash and bones.

And you watched them burn, as their cries of agony became silenced, until all that could be heard was the flames that roared from your dragons mouth until he pulled away growling beside you. You looked at those accountable, and felt nothing but triumph. 

Joy.

Elation.

As though you were drunk, or high on the milk of the poppy or the sweetest and richest of ale from Dorne.

Of no doubt were you angry, vengeful, and out for blood, but in that moment, watching them die? It was sweeter than any honeyed wine in Essos, any spiced wine from Dorne. Sweeter than the nectar of any star fruit, or the taste of lemon tarts.

It was cathartic. 

It was justice.

And it was final.

They were gone, just like the others, and an example of what was to come if anyone dared try to question or go against the Queen again.

You would make sure of that.

Your father would make sure of that.

But despite the sense of finalisation of your mothers rule, there was something that pulled at your gut, a whispering in the back of your mind, and almost nagging that you knew, not all was done, and that there was something else that you still needed to do.

You turned, pressing a hand to Vermithor’s neck, patting over his scales as his crackling purr came out loudly into the air. You whispered to him, that you missed him, that he did a good job, and that you would be right back to be with him again.

The dragon huffed, spreading its wings wide before moving to take off into the sky again, flying down and around the cliff to make his way to the entrance of the Dragon Pit.

The Lords and guards dispersed slowly, casting back feeble glances at the smoking bodies of the traitors before making their way back inside of the Keep. You walked with determination, strides confident, until you stood before your parents, who looked at you with pride. 

“There is something I need to do.”

Daemon and Rhaenyra cast uneasy glances at each other before looking back at you. Rhaenyra’s mouth opened, lips parting to speak.

“I promise I will return.” You assured them.

As though Rhaenyra knew of what you meant, and Daemon sensing such shortly after, the Queen nodded to you, and pressed a hand against your cheek as she kissed the other, thrice, allowing for you to walk back inside of the Keep silently.

Aemond’s chambers were open, and as you walked inside, the smell of blood flooded your senses. Your stomach roiled, tears gathering in your eyes, but you steeled yourself with a steady breath, counting in your head as you walked. 

But by the thirteenth step, when you finally reached his bed, you were met with nothing but a pile of bloodied sheets and pillows, the red having turned brown and crusted, an almost outline of his body pressed into where he had laid.

As you looked at the empty bed, you felt his presence beside you. 

In your periphery, Aemond stood at your side in black, looking down at the bed he had passed in. His hair was pulled back in the small braids you had coaxed him to wear, and his usual sweeping black coat was atop his broad chest.

His face however, was impassive. Not sad, nor angry, nor relieved.

Just plain. 

Unfeeling.

Unmoving. 

A stark difference to Helaena or Lucerys.

Silver hair shifted over his shoulder as he turned to look at you, the sapphire of his eye catching the light in the chambers. 

Your breath caught in your throat, and a sob worked its way up as a small trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his seeing eye. But then his head kept turning, until he looked over his shoulder and down at the floor.

The Sept.

The frame of the painting was cool to the touch as you pushed it open, slipping through the dark shadows of the passage way, making your way down to the Sept. Each step had your breath hitching in your throat as you felt him follow behind you, and you had to remind yourself that he could not hurt you.

That he wasn’t real.

That he was gone.

King Aemond Targaryen lay on the cool stone slab of the Sept, still in nothing bar his bloodied breeches, not having been cleaned nor prepped for a funeral as no one knew what to do with him. 

Was he to be treated as a traitor, cut into seven pieces and mounted atop the seven gates as a warning? As a lesson?

Or was his burial to be swift, and quiet, down in the Sept, locked away beneath stone to never be seen again?

His hair was caught beneath him as you made your way over, brushing it away from his face with gentle and shaking hands. Though you knew he was dead, that he had passed and it had been at your hands, it still shocked you to find his skin so cold, so icy. So different to how it had been.

To how he would shower you in his warmth, nestled against his chest. How he would sit at your side and hold your hands in his, warm and confident. How he would press his heated lips to your cheeks, to your eyes, to your lips, the top of your hair, your hands. 

All the warmth that the man once had, that he had once given you, had bled from him at your hands.

And it hurt. 

It ached to know what you had done. 

A betrayal most foul.

A crime that you would have to live with for the rest of your days. Something that you could never forgive yourself for, and worried that the Gods would not either. That soon you would meet their punishment for having slayed him, another act of Kinslaying, a premeditated act so foul that you heaved a gag, stomach emptying beside him.

Leaning down over him, you pressed another kiss to his lips, cold and stiff beneath yours, “I’m sorry.” You whispered to him, stroking his cheek, “I am sorry for what I have done. I have betrayed you, betrayed you in a way that you did not deserve. Not in my eyes. I wish you would be here to see it all now. To see reason. If only you had seen reason, I would not have been pushed to do what I have done.”

A tear fell onto his cheek, which you wiped away with your thumb, “I do not regret it. I cannot. If I regret such an act, I will drive myself to madness. So I must live with this, Aemond. Live with knowing I have slain my love. The man whom I wed. Who I grew with. The father of my child.” 

Your sobs echoed in the Sept below, footsteps were heard behind you, their soft feet scuffling across the stone floor.

“You will always be with me.” You whispered down to Aemond’s body, hand coming to press against your stomach, “Always.”

When you turned, you came face to face with your brother Jacaerys, and behind him a Septa.

You swallowed, brushing away the tears that fell across your cheeks, “Please have his body removed and taken to the Dragon Pit.” You commanded the Septa quietly, who bowed and moved back into the shadows.

Short steps took you to Jacaerys, whose face was fraught with concern, eyes darting from you then to the body behind you.

“Walk with me.” You asked, looping a hand through his arm.

And he did.

As the two of you walked, a silence surrounded you both. One where there were too many questions left unanswered, and the static energy that flickered between you like flames made you speak first.

“I loved him.” Your voice came out unsteady, feeling Jacaerys’ eyes on you, “Against all odds, I did. And I know that I shouldn’t have, that he was cruel and unkind. That he took Lucerys from us. But I did. And I won’t apologise for it. Nor will I desperately seek the reasons as to why. It just is, and I hope that you can, some day, come to see that and forgive me.”

Jacaerys stayed quiet, holding your hand in his, his palm callused and dry, rough skin rubbing against yours.

“It has not been an easy journey here in this Keep. Being alone, subjected to their cruelty for months on end, it changes a person. But Aemond also changed, he became someone I could trust. Someone I could confide in. I know you may not belie-“

“-I believe you.” The young Prince interrupted you softly, his head turned to watch you carefully as you descended the steps toward the Dragon Pit, “I only wish that you had not been pushed to act as you have.”

You paused your steps, turning to face him.

Much of his boyishness had gone, and his face had hardened into a man, a light layer of stubble dusted his jaw and chin, and his cheeks had lost the soft charm that Lucerys had, and had hollowed to defined cheekbones.

He looked so much like Ser Harwin Strong.

“I have missed you.” You smiled tearily, patting his hand gently.

Jacaerys smiled back, leaning down to press a kiss atop your head, “And I you, more than you know.”

You resumed your walk, content to leave the quiet around you. Your challenges in the months past can be shared with your family later, perhaps when the dust has settled and all tales of survival could be told without tears. 

Perhaps then, you could tell them the truth of it all, and not just mere notes.

As you came to the Dragon Pit, the sounds of dragons filled the cavern loudly. It strange. It seemed so full of life again, many returning to a place they had not been in years, some joining for the very first time. 

You walked until the pit opened and the light from outside momentarily blinded you, causing the both of you to blink rapidly so that your eyes could adjust. Each step you took, took you closer to what you knew you needed to do. 

It was a short flight, over the beach of Kings Landing and to the rolling green hills that lay further down in the realm.

To ride upon Vermithor’s back after so long away was strange, and you could not help but cry tears of joy. But as you gripped onto him, holding a worn rope that had been slung upon his neck, you made a note to ask for a seat to be placed atop him.

No more would you ride without one.

The wind caught in your hair as he hovered above the ground, before moving slightly forward to land heavily atop the grass. You slid from his back, the view of Kings Landing behind you as the sun slowly began to set.

There on the grass, hastily wrapped in burial cloth was Aemond. 

Vermithor stretched his large head down to the body he had carried and sniffed at it, a soft cooing sound coming from deep within the bronze dragons chest. You patted his neck softly as you made your way over, looking down at the swaddled corpse before bending down to place one last kiss atop his wrapped head. 

The cream cloth had begun to stain red where some parts of blood had not dried fully and stained it burgundy. 

It was the smell that was the most horrid of it. Thick, and irony, the blood that coated his body made you breathe through your mouth in avoidance. But the breeze carried it away shortly after, and you stood back to look at the man you had loved.

A man you had grown up with, stuck to each others sides.

A man you had fought with, whether in the tunnels of the Keep, in the sky above Storms End, or the chambers that had been yours and his.

A man you had fought for.

A man who had taken so much from you, your freedom, your life, the unscarred skin of your flesh. Your brother. Your sanity.

And a man who had given you so much. 

Joy. Pleasure. A child. 

Love.

Your lips parted as you moved to speak the command, but your voice was lost with the wind as it crackled and split, a soft sob falling from your lips as tears fell from your eyes. 

Vermithor purred beside you, head nudging into your body softly as you continued to look down at his body, dry lips cracked and bitten raw as you tried to breathe the command again to the sky.

“Dr… Draca-…” Another sob, wracking your body as you smoothed your hands down against your sides. You lifted your chin high, sucking in a sharp breath, and then, you whispered it out against the wind.

A word that had been whispered in your ear for months. A word that had haunted you to no avail. A word that you didn’t wish to utter in that moment.

“Dracarys.”

The Bronze Fury reared his head back, before dropping it forward, fire engulfing the dead King’s body in flames, the sound blaring in your ears as you watched. 

It was not a pleasant smell, burnt flesh, but it dissolved quickly in the wind as his body became ash and bones, the dragon not stopping until it was sure that it was enough.

The flames subsided, and smoke rose from the ashes that lay at the scorched grass before you.

Did the Gods truly create this path for you?

A path of pain and destruction?

No end to the suffering that would follow you for the rest of your days, the shadows of the past, the whispers of those lost, the ones that you took?

There was no end to it.

No end in sight.

The smoke around you simmered away from the fire that had raged on, and now all that was left was ash. 

The ashes of the man you wished had stayed. 

The ashes of a man who had all hope taken from him as a child. 

The Gods path for him was a cruel one, starting from the moment he was born. No dragon. Loss of an eye. Everything taken from him, his life taken from him.

The chance to see and watch his child grow, taken from him.

But everything had been taken from you too.

You had lost everything.

And all for the throne. 

Was it worth it? 

All that loss? All that suffering? The scars on your body and mind? 

Was the culmination of all those worth the final moment in which you stood? 

There was no certainty into what the future would hold. 

Perhaps the Gods were not quite done with you yet, but deep down, all you could think; Was this all you had been made for?

To suffer at the hands of others?

Had you not given enough? 

Your mind, your body, your freedom, your spirit?

But Rhaenyra, your loving mother, she had given everything too. She had losses that almost mounted yours. Your brother. Her father. Your sister.

Was it worth it? 

It was then, as you looked down at the ashes, the wind blowing the blades of grass that survived around the singed patch, disturbing the embers and what little bones remained, that you saw a glint of something. 

A reminder. 

On unsteady feet, with silent tears tracking down your cheeks, you saw the round sapphire orb that you had spent what felt like an eternity looking into. 

There, on the grassy knoll, the Red Keep looming not too far way, and Vermithor shifting behind you, it was then, as you both looked at the surviving piece of Aemond, that you came to a conclusion of your questions. 

Yes, it was.

Or, it would be.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

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Bold is who I cannot tag!

[lunainfortuna]

{a little something}

Gwyn remained completely silent.

Although she could faintly hear a female fae talking to her, she refused to look in her direction – they were in a room, somewhere safe inside the library, and they were supposed to be talking about what happened in Sangravah. In addition to this fae, there was someone else with them: Clotho, who sat a little distant from them.

Everyone in this place was… hurt, somehow. And never once in her life, had Gwyn imagined she would need this kind of shelter. Maybe she had been too presumptuous in believing she had a good life, a good home.

And now, she was paying for it. While the female talked and begged for her attention, Gwyn thought back to that night. She felt empty and broken in a way that even reliving every second of pain she had been through, she felt nothing. She did not cry in front of these two people trying to help her. She just…

“Who was he?”

She asked, suddenly. Elvenia – the female – stopped her chatting.

“I’m sorry, Gwyn. Who are we talking about?”

Finally, she looked at both Elvenia and Clotho. “The male who saved me. Who slaughtered my sister’s murderers.”

Silence. Silence.

Were they afraid of telling her? She wasn’t scared. Every time that night came back to her mind, she always remembered him: his deathly figure and gentle hands; his anger and coldness and his justice. Maybe because he represented the end of all of it – because he pulled her up when she was drowning.

And sometimes she wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or hateful. Yes, he was her savior. But did she deserve to be saved?

Yes, Catrin would scream in her face.

But Catrin was dead, so there was only silence.

“I-”, Elvenia started to answer when Clotho’s pen moved.

The male who saved you is Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court, it said.

Gwyn read the paper, her movements stiff and slow. Pale as she shouldn’t be; bags under her eyes, broken fingernails, a messy copper-hair and hollow cheeks. Did he save her? Today, it felt like he did and didn’t. In some ways, she was not in this room, but dead on the same floor the others were.

What would he think of that?

She wanted to ask more because it was easier to finish this conversation on a topic that was not her sister or the… pain they forced on her. Perhaps, if she showed enough gratitude she would be released from this situation. People would believe she was fine.

“Why do you ask?”, Elvenia sounded curious – and careful.

Why did she ask, yes. Gwyn just wanted to put a name on a face she would never forget. Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster, had no idea, but when he arrived in that kitchen and made every soldier – every fucking soldier she hated so much – shiver to their knees, made them whispered in fear, scream and try to run away, made them dead… when he put the cloak around her.

This male had clung to her own self, to her own life. And she wanted to beg him to go back in time and save her sister instead. She wanted to scream and to fight him. Wanted to cry and thank him.

She wanted to be there again and to tell Catrin she should run and hide – help was coming. She wanted to be the one who killed the Hybern soldiers. She wanted to get up and cut their throats like Azriel did. She wanted to be soaked in their blood and not hers.

She wanted that day had never happened. She wanted Sangravah the way she remembered it before: beautiful, peaceful and not enough.

Gwyn desperately wanted to crawl out of her skin; she wanted to be far away from this library. She wanted her life back, her sister and to have never met Azriel. And yet,

Gwyn could break in half of gratitude for she had seen

those dark eyes and dark shadows.

“Are you still with us?”

Elvenia’s voice.

And then Azriel’s voice, her mate’s voice: I’m here for you.

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

warnings: none really?

pairing: Sihtric x you (f)

summary: A wet nurse raised you to keep you from being killed by your uncle. After her death, you ended up as a slave and developed a crush on a boy in Dunholm, who you never saw again after Kjartan sold you to someone else. You eventually became a warrior and a bounty hunter. After an eventful life you found back your brother, Uhtred, and joined his men. And one of those men used to live in Dunholm.

word count: 3,1k

Note: this was a request! I hope I did the idea some justice, and thank you for your patience :)

taglist: @clairacassidy @finanmoghra @uunotheangel @hb8301 @bathedinheat @neonhairspray @anaeve @bubblyabs @travelingmypassion @sylas-the-grim @anditsmywholeheart

'They call her the widowmaker,' Finan huffed. He looked at you from across the alehouse, as you laughed at something Uhtred had said. 'What d'ya think of that? Because, I think,' Finan burped, 'we should stay away from the woman. She might just kill us.'

'Why would she kill us? We don't have wives,' Sihtric scoffed, 'or a bounty on our head. Also, she is Uhtred's younger sister, he knows her and wouldn't risk letting her serve him if she was a danger,' Sihtric got up and threw his cloak around his shoulders, 'anyway, I am going to get some rest.'

'Yeah, yeah, leaving me with the baby monk again, aye?' Finan laughed as he rubbed Osferth's head, who slapped his hand away quickly and Sihtric nodded with a smile. 

Sihtric kept his eyes on you as he walked out, hoping you would meet them, but you never did.

'So you were raised in a secluded forest?' Uhtred smiled, 'that explains why you're tough as nails now. You did well for yourself, I am proud, sister. You get good silver for the bounties you take?'

'Good enough,' you smiled, 'but it wasn't always like this, Uhtred. My wet nurse took good care of me when she feared Aelfric would want to kill me too, like he wanted to kill you as a young boy. But she died, years ago. And then I fell into the hands of Kjartan.'

'Kjartan?' Uhtred raised his eyebrows, 'Ragnar killed Kjartan.'

'So I've heard,' you smiled proudly, 'I spent some years there, as Kjartan's slave, but I was sold again before Dunholm was taken from Kjartan. It was then that I learned how to become a warrior, to take care of myself. I don't need anyone, Uhtred, but I am so happy the gods made me cross paths with you again.'

'You will always have a place with me and my men,' Uhtred said and you drank to that. 'Speaking of Kjartan,' he continued, 'one of my most loyal men is Kjartan's bastard son. He helped us take Dunholm.'

You nearly choked on your ale. 'One of your men?' you took a quick glance at Finan and Osferth. You didn't know their names yet as you had only just found Uhtred earlier that day, but you had seen three men around Uhtred from a distance, and you didn't recognize any of them as a son of Kjartan. 

You had known his sons, they were present when you were a slave. Sven was a horrible boy, and you were happy to hear he died a horrible death. The other son, you remembered his name as Sol, was different from everyone else in Dunholm. He was your age. He was kind and gentle, but you only ever met him at night. It was unheard of to be kind to slaves, so Sol had to sneak around in the dark to talk to you, to make sure you were okay. He looked after you the best he could as a young boy, he always brought you food and water. You called him Sol because you had a crush on him and he always made you feel warm, like the sun. And in return he called you Mani, because your skin was, and still is, as pale as the moon, which he thought was beautiful. But when you were sold as a slave again, you never saw Sol again. And you always wondered if he was still alive. You remembered Sol had two different coloured eyes. As a little girl, you believed that one eye was lighter because he had the goodness of the gods in him, and that his other eye was darker because his father was Kjartan the Cruel, and it resembled the shadow that his father would always cast on him.

'Yeah, one of my men,' Uhtred smiled and looked over to Finan and Osferth, only to see Sihtric wasn't there, 'oh, I see he has left. Finan!' Uhtred yelled, and Finan stumbled over to your table.

'Lord?' he said, and deliberately kept his distance from you.

'Finan, where is Sihtric?'

Sihtric, you thought, I don't know anyone named Sihtric. But knowing Kjartan, he probably had at least a hundred bastard sons.

'Sihtric left, lord, he said he wanted to rest. But I think,' Finan paused, looked at you and whispered, 'I think he is afraid of the widowmaker. We all are actually, lord.'

Uhtred snorted and looked at you, 'sister, this is Finan, one of my men. And he tells me that they are afraid of you.'

'Are your men married?'

'No.'

'Do they have a bounty on their head?'

'Not that I know of,' Uhtred laughed.

'Then they have nothing to fear,' you grinned at Finan.

'Aye, see, that is exactly what Sihtric said,' he shuddered.

'Whoever Sihtric is, he is a smart man.'

'I wouldn't say that,' Finan grinned.

'Well, Uhtred, Finan,' you bowed your head to the Irish man with a devilish grin, 'I will also get some rest. Killing men is quite exhausting.' You winked at Uhtred, who wished you a good night, but he called your name before you could walk away, 'now that you serve me, tomorrow night you will guard the fortress with one of my men.'

'Fair enough. I hope it's with him,' you chuckled at Finan, who looked as if death had just spoken to him and he clutched the cross around his neck in his fist.

—--

The next day you spent hours at the stables, until evening, taking care of the horses and checking if everything you had with you was still intact. If you needed a new saddle or reins, now was the time to get them, before you would join Uhtred and his men on their journey in a few days. It was cold out, but you kept yourself warm by moving around. What also made you somewhat heated, was that you felt a hard stare in your back for a while already. You had glanced over your shoulder several times, and saw it was the man Uhtred and Finan had called Sihtric. He had dark, short hair with the sides shaved, exposing a tattoo that ran from his neck up to one side of his head. He had a sharp jawline and an intense stare. Normally, you would be flattered, as you thought he was handsome, but you were annoyed because you remembered Finan telling you they all feared you. If this Sihtric was really afraid you would kill someone, he should know better than staring you down. You had no plans of killing any men here, but Sihtric was high on your list right now if you decided to go on a killing spree.

After you had your dinner later that evening you made your way to the fortress stairs and climbed up. You had never stood watch before, but you figured it would be rather dull. You had been here for only one night, but it seemed rather quiet. Darkness had already taken over and the torches made for a warm atmosphere. You were in a fine mood, until you saw that the man you had to stand guard with was the man who made your blood boil earlier that day.

Sihtric quickly stood up as he saw you appear and he bowed.

'My lady,' he said. You gave him a quick nod and sat down several paces away from him.

This will be a long night, you thought to yourself when you saw Sihtric was fidgeting with his rings, not saying another word to you. You also had no desire to talk to him, so you just sighed and hoped dawn would approach soon. After what seemed like forever, you became more agitated with Sihtric's fidgeting. First with his rings, then he kept touching his mjölnir pendant as he quickly glanced at you, and soon he started to hum. And if there is anything you hated, it was humming. A shame, you thought, he is handsome, but useless probably.

You sighed loudly, again, and looked up at the moon. She was full tonight, and shone brightly over the fortress. The moon made you remember the boy from your childhood, Sol, and you smiled weakly. You didn't know Sihtric watched you, and to this day he would swear his heart had stopped when he saw you smile.

Just when you thought that Sihtric couldn't get any more on your nerves, he cleared his throat. Not once, not twice, but a whole three times before he finally spoke. And when he spoke, you really had to focus to figure out his rambling.

'I… when I was… back when,' Sihtric mumbled as he tripped over his words, 'I used to…,' he cleared his throat again, for the fourth time, and when he spoke again his words came out with such speed that you struggled to keep up, 'when I was a boy, I had a crush on a girl I had met. But one day she was just gone. Yet I never stopped loving her. And I always wondered if she was still alive, and if she was still as beautiful as I thought she was when we were young. This girl, she took my breath away as a boy. She… she was as pale as the moon, and therefore I called her Mani.'

Sihtric looked away from you when he had stopped talking, and he sighed nervously when you didn't respond to him. It's her, he thought, I know it's her. But she probably never loved me the way I loved her. She doesn't remember me.

'Sol?' you spoke so soft, you were surprised to see he snapped his head up to you.

'You called me Sol,' he smiled softly, 'you said it's because I-'

'Made me feel warm like that sun,' you finished his sentence before he could, and you stared at each other with wide eyes. 

You got up and slowly closed the distance between you and Sihtric. When you finally stood before him and looked down into his eyes, you saw that he had the goodness of the gods within him, and the darkness which used to be his father's shadow.

'My lady, I never told you my real name when we were younger, but my name is-'

'Sihtric,' you smiled nervously, 'Uhtred and Finan told me. And my name is-'

'(Y/N),' Sihtric said and chuckled nervously, 'Uhtred… told me.'

You both were at a loss for words, you just smiled at each other while trying to find out who was going to make the next move, and what that move would be.

'I… I never forgot about you,' Sihtric said.

'And I always dreamt of you,' you said, 'even these days, I still dream of your eyes. And I-' before you could finish your sentence Sihtric had got up, and he pulled you into his arms with such force that it almost hurt. He held you tight for a long time before pulling back to look at you and cup your cheeks.

'My gods,' he smiled, 'I knew it was you. The first moment I saw you yesterday, alongside Uhtred, your beauty simply punched the air out of my lungs. And I only ever felt that feeling once before, when I met you when we were young.'

'Oh,' you chuckled and felt yourself blush, 'you… you're…' you placed your hands on his arms and felt his biceps, 'oh, I mean, you… you grew up handsome.' And although it was rather dark, you could tell he blushed too. 

And suddenly, without any warning or stopping yourself, you felt your hands pull at his armour and you planted your lips on his. You felt Sihtric was surprised by your action, as were you, but it only took him a second to adjust to the situation and kiss you back.

And gods, you thought, he is a good kisser. Slow, gentle, but intense. Whoever gets to kiss him must be the luckiest-

You abruptly pulled away from Sihtric and took a step back as you tried to catch your breath. 'Gods! Oh, gods, I am so sorry!' you panicked, 'I don't even know if… like… are you… are you married?'

'What? No!' Sihtric panted, looking you up and down as he frowned, 'why? Are… are you? Married? Or… s-spoken for?'

'No! Gods, no. I'm not!' you breathed heavy, still feeling a little ashamed.

'Oh. Good,' Sihtric huffed, 'that's… that's good.'

'Yes, good,' you said and nodded, 'good,' you said again and became silent when you saw how Sihtric was looking at you. 

And faster than you could blink, Sihtric took a step towards you and grabbed your face to kiss you again. And he kissed you so deeply, so desperately and so passionately, as if he wanted to make up for all the lost time. And you let him, because you had missed him and wondered about him all the same. And if you had known he had become the handsome man that he is now, you would have longed for him all that time.

'I have always loved you,' Sihtric whispered, finally breaking the kiss.

'I have done too,' you smiled softly, 'but you look so different. I didn't recognize you.'

You couldn't resist running your hands through his short hair, only to feel it was soft and smooth, and he smiled to your touch, pulling you even closer against his body.

'Where have you been all these years?' Sihtric asked and leaned his forehead against yours.

'Everywhere,' you whispered, 'I loved travelling all this time. But… I don't want to be anywhere else ever again, other than in your arms.'

'I will never allow you out of my sight again,' he chuckled, 'but what happened to you? When you disappeared from Dunholm?'

'Your father sold me as a slave,' you said, and saw Sihtric's face drop.

'Gods,' he sighed, 'if he wasn't dead yet, I would've been the one to claim his life now.'

'Sol,' you chuckled, 'I mean, Sihtric,' you shook your head, to which he smiled, 'I'll need to get used to that.'

'You can call me whatever you want, my lady, as long as you never leave me again.'

'I have to confess,' you grinned, 'I thought you were handsome, but you really made my blood boil. The way you were staring at me earlier today, and how you were fidgeting and humming moments ago.'

'I'm sorry,' he smiled and nuzzled your nose, 'I tried to figure out how to approach you and confess my… my,' Sihtric stammered, and quickly shut his mouth.

'Confess what?' you frowned and watched him sigh with a shy smile.

'Confess my love to you.'

'Oh.'

'Too soon?' he grimaced.

'Well,' you blushed with a smirk, 'we kind of have known each other for a while already. But… maybe we should take it easy. We have both changed a lot since we last spoke.'

'We have,' Sihtric nodded, 'but my love for you never changed. But you are right. And I want to hear everything. All that you have done since you left Dunholm.'

'I will tell you everything,' you shivered suddenly, 'but maybe someplace warmer, at a better time, tomorrow?'

'Actually,' Sihtric smiled and took your hand, 'there has never been a better time.'

He threw his cloak around his shoulders and sat down, close to a small fire he had created before you arrived, and he pulled you in his lap. You giggled as he wrapped his arms around you along with his cloak, and without thinking you buried your face in his neck as your arms wrapped around his waist. You both chuckled nervously at being so close to each other. And as he made you feel warm, like he used to do when you were younger, you kept your promise and told him about everything that had happened since you had last seen him. 

Sihtric listened to every word you said and watched you with big eyes. You saw how he sometimes got distracted, then his eyes would wander down to your lips and a small smile would appear on his face. You teasingly nudged him every time it happened. But you didn't mind it, because you did the same when he told you everything that had happened to him.

And as Sihtric made you feel so warm and comfortable, you accidentally dozed off in his arms.

You were rudely awoken by someone clearing his throat and someone kicking at your feet. You almost jumped up as you opened your eyes, only to see Finan and Uhtred staring down at you and Sihtric, who apparently had also fallen asleep at some point.

'So,' Finan said, 'the fort has been breached and ya both slept through it.'

Finan snorted and you rolled your eyes. You looked at Sihtric who tried to hide a smile as he squeezed you in his arms, under his cloak.

'Sihtric,' Uhtred said.

'Yes, lord?' Sihtric replied and almost threw you off his lap as he stood up.

'What were you doing with my sister?'

'Nothing, lord!'

'Don't lie to me.'

'I am not, lord.' 

'Then why does she have marks on her neck?'

You quickly moved your hands to your neck, to hide any love bites that Sihtric might have left, and Sihtric just didn't know where to look as he tried to find the right words.

'I…I, she.. We didn't… I never-' Sihtric panicked.

'I am joking,' Uhtred laughed, 'she has no marks on her neck. Right, sister?'

You blushed and didn't answer, you weren't sure. There was a good chance that you had some love bites, as you remembered how Sihtric had cuddled you and planted kisses all over you before you had fallen asleep.

'Sister?' Uhtred asked again and slowly stopped smiling.

'And what if I had?' you suddenly snapped back at him, remembering who you are. 

You were a warrior, a widowmaker. You had been a slave and you had slaughtered men in shield walls. You weren't afraid of any man. Not even your brother.

Uthred was taken aback at your answer and didn't know what to say.

'I actually quite liked how Sihtric kissed me last night,' you said, 'and if I have any love bites on my skin, then I will wear them proudly, so everyone can see how well I am treated.' 

Sihtric's face went red as Uhtred and Finan turned to look at him.

'I knew Sihtric when I lived in Dunholm, and I have missed him ever since I was forced to leave. So, forgive me, brother, but I will not waste any more time. I just want to be with the man I love.'

You took Sihtric's hand in yours and made way to the stairs. You were planning on spending the rest of the day cuddled up in bed with him.

'Wait!' Finan suddenly yelled, 'this is the girl with skin as pale as the moon? My god! Sihtric would never shut up about you. It was about damn time he found you again. For a while I actually thought he had made you up!'

[awingedinsect]

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 10

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: cursing, alcohol use, Vessel is that bitch. Minor character death

“What do you think of my gift?”

Vessel head is bowed. He can feel the mark on his forehead flickering, burning; carving his flesh over and over.

“It’s beautiful.” He says.

He can feel the earth beneath his knees. What was once a blank plane is now something rich and almost real, a dark forest that creeks and twists with ancient power. It’s serene.

There’s a black cloak on his shoulders, the hood draped over his head. Another gift.

He looks up slowly, eyes scanning the trees as they whisper to him.

“Do you have a form?” He asks, hands clamped to his knees. “Can I see you?”

There’s a silence.

“I am something beyond sight.” The forest says. “I am a force, a saturation of thought. Any form I take does no justice to my entirety, nor any name, to what I am. Though to you, I am something you have needed since first you opened your eyes.”

Vessel feels something cold along his spine, slithering over his skin and dragging delicately like a mothers touch.

“…I believe you know my name.”

“Sleep.” Vessel whispers.

There’s a weight over his face. It turns his vision to slits as he looks up, feeling the touch drag along his shoulders and to his chest. His breath grows deeper as he feels his chin tilt up. “I am the author of your dreams. And you are the catalyst of my hunger. Worship.”

His lips part slowly, watching as his colorless surroundings seep fog into the little clearing until it rises up past his eyes. There’s a form in the haze; a singular bit of color that splits into six pieces that slowly gather before him.

Six glowing slanted eyes bore into him.

“Be my voice.”

When he looks down, he sees his arms covered in ash. His hands tremor and climb up over himself, admiring the palette of the trees as it bathes his skin.

“Does it please you to dress me like your home?” He asks. “…Why do I have a new face?”

“This place is what you make it, not me.” The eyes say, trailing over Vessel’s body. “The mask, is a sacrament of your surrender. You don’t need a face, only a mouth. And what is not necessary is not shown. Did you ask them to wear the masks?”

“…yes.”

“Is it almost time?”

“…yes.”

“Then stand, Vessel.” The trees twist and spread into four corners around him, the canopies spreading black and consuming above. He gets to his feet, setting the empty glass he finds in his hand on a table.

“Give your voice to me.”

He walks through the wooden door and opens it into a hallway, feeling the lights and the fog and the crowd all beckoning him. His cloak flows behind him and he reaches up, adjusting the mask one last time before mounting the stairs.

Worship. He thinks, unsure of what it truly means.

Worship.

He steps over wires, brain sloshing a bit more than it ought to be. But he’s truly not sure he could have gotten on stage at all without a bit of liquid courage. II is there, behind the drums. IV stands quiet and still with his guitar, arm free of the sling just for the occasion; it’s obvious how happy he is to be reunited with his instrument.

Vessel’s eyes move to III, dragging over him slowly as he makes his way across the stage. He didn’t talk much before the show, which was probably for the better anyway, if not a little concerning. He had hardly protested when the idea of the masks came up; something Vessel did not expect. Although if only one of them hid their face it might seem a little strange to the hundred or so people gathered in this tent to witness a mostly unknown band with a completely unknown name.

He wanders to the mic stand.

There’s a lot of eyes. More eyes than he had on him the first time. He’s safer this time, for sure; the paint, the mask, the hood… these things come together in a concoction free of normalcy and full of interest that has practically nothing to do with who he actually is beneath. All they want is a show, not him. But even with that thought he can’t look up.

There is a single pair of eyes he wants on him tonight and it’s not in the bloody crowd.

He pulls the mic of the stand and wanders off, trailing the chord head bowed. Can they tell he’s nervous? He prowls slowly as the music starts, looking down at himself bathed in the pale lights. The paint is honestly half-assed; splotchy and missing a whole few centimeters between his jeans and hips, displaying a glaring reminder of how rarely he sees the sun.

Whatever.

He picks up a water bottle and takes a small sip, before twisting the cap back on and just dropping it on the stage floor. He can practically hear III’s anger, and he can’t help but smile a little.

His lips hover over the mic, parting slowly.

“And I’ll see you when the wrath comes…”

“Do you have any songs you wanna add to the set, Vess?” II had asked. He sat with a pad and pencil on the couch. “That song you played at the bar, maybe?”

“Knocking on your bedroom door with money…”

“…actually, I’ve kinda been writing a new one.” He said, fingers twitching at his sides. “…I was gonna run it by you guys at practice, see what you think.”

“Building you a kingdom…” Vessel’s voice is low. Breathy. It draws a few screams from the crowd, something that does nothing to put out the fire simmering in his chest. God, it’s so much easier. He’s just a mouth, and they're just ears. And whether he understands it or not there’s a god who approves of that arrangement enough to make him promises he can’t begin to understand.

He glances at III, heart lurching when he sees the bassist strumming intently to his words.

“Dripping from the open mouth. I’ll show you what you look like…”

Both hand graze the mic, caressing the chord like his heart isn’t beating at twice its usual pace. “…from the inside.”

He steps up to the front of the stage, now casting a brief glance at all the sets of cold eyes now warming up as they watch him. It’s euphoric. Interesting. And it’s enough to make his back sticky with sweat.

“And I’ll see you when the wrath comes around.”

When the breakdown hits him, he can’t help but move. The sound erupts in the little tent like a call to a whole new plane of being and he closes his eyes, jumping side to side on the stage as the crowd reaches and roars for that plane. That Eden. His bandmates don’t hold back either, pouring their hearts through their fingers and giving everything they have to offer. And when he sees III actually kicking the air to the beat his face splits with a glistening smile.

He loves this.

Suddenly his head flares with a shooting pain. He doubles over, hands reaching up with the mic still trembling in his hold. He gasps and scrunches his eyes as a thought loud enough to terrify him seeps through the cracks of his skull;

“Don’t be driven to distraction. I will build you a kingdom, so long as you know to who you belong.”

His chin wobbles, a line of spit falling from his glossy lips. “Let’s load the gun.” He whispers below the music. “Load the gun…”

A wicked laugh falls out of his mouth as he straightens, forcing the pain deeper and raising his hands in the air. He ignores the wet tracks making their way down his face. He just smiles and bows his head, feeling the music flood his fucking form.

He floats on the brief silence as the song closes, chest heaving. It’s an intense quiet. Like a grave, at the bottom of the sea.

Then noise thunders into his ears like breaking waves.

They’re ecstatic; screaming and clapping and demanding more, maybe more moved than he is. He can’t believe it. Do they really like him- the music, that much?

He suddenly feels very awkward, aware of how lost he’d gotten and how insane he must have looked. He just stands there, stiff and still with a mic in his hands.

He gives them a little nod of thanks and retreats back as the next song starts up; one of II’s own.

• • •

Vessel’s still in his costume.

He feels a little silly, standing around in almost plain sight behind the tent. Although he’s sure that a lanky guy in paint and a mask isn’t necessarily the strangest nor most exciting thing to see at this festival.

He sits on the rigging, swinging his socked feet and looking up at the sky as dusk sets in over the chaos. He likes being secluded.

He takes a sip of his beer.

“That was insane.” IV says, pulling his mask off and leaning back against the structure. He drops his head back, swiping his face with his still-weak arm propped up on his guitar, and pops the cap off his own beer with a keychain. “God, I’m tired.” He says, taking a swig. “You?”

“…where’s III?” Vessel asks, voice a little quiet. He’s pretty drained after all that, body quite literally dripping with sweat. IV shrugs. “Off getting lit, most likely.” He says. “There’s plenty more shows to watch before the nights over, and he’ll probably be in as many pits as possible.”

“…and II?”

“Meeting up with some friends, I think.” IV rolls his head over, lashes flickering up at Vessel as he takes another sip of his drink. “What are you wanting to do, Vess?”

Before he can answer, II comes around the tent with a much taller man in tow. Vessel straightens, clearing his throat and blinking behind the mask. He wasn’t expecting company.

“Vessel! I want you to meet someone.” II says, pulling the guy by the arm. He’s a brunette, with soft features and a flushed, smiling face. He’s probably hit up a few drink stands himself tonight.

“Matt, Vessel.” II says, dropping the stranger in front of him. “Vessel, Matt.”

“Nice to meet you,” Vessel says, considering offering his hand but opting to just clutch his beer awkwardly between his knees. “Drummer, right?”

“Likewise!” Matthew says, still smiling wide as he shoves his hands in his jean pockets. “And yep, that’s me. Listen, man, I managed to watch your set- that was fuckin brilliant. Brilliant.” His eyes suddenly flick up and down Vessel’s body, smile quirking thoughtfully. “I like your style.”

If it weren’t for the mask, Vessel’s pretty sure his blush would be record breaking. But he just sits there instead, nodding and tugging his mouth into an award straight line of an expression that says “thanks” in the most casual way he can muster.

He fails a bit.

“What’dya think of the new name, Matt?” II asks, stealing the beer from IV’s hand and taking a long sip. “Does it suit us?”

“no man, it’s sick.” Matt says, turning to his friend, though his eyes are always just a fraction away from Vessel. “Though honestly, can’t believe you changed it! But ‘Sleep Token’ has a hell of a ring.”

IV snags his drink back from II. “Well, we didn’t exactly want to go down as the band that played before the damn crisis of the year happened.” He says. “Besides, it was time for a new vibe. Vessel actually came up with it.”

At the mention of the Blacklit room, Vessel’s body tenses. But he’s quickly distracted once more as Matt turns to him, grinning. “Oh really? What was the inspiration, then? Or does it just sound cool.”

“Um, both… I guess.” He smiles. “I mean, We all need Sleep, right?”

They all laugh a little good naturally, eyes gleaming as the dark sets in.

“Well,” Matt says, rifling through his back pocket and producing a pen and napkin. He starts scribbling it, eyes drifting to Vessel midway with a small smile. “If you ever wanna tell me more about it.”

He sets the napkin down on the rigging besides Vessel, casually dropping his pen back in his pocket.

Vessel swears he catches a wink before Matt turns back to II.

“Man, your percussions were wild. What was the name of that second song? Halfway through I swear…”

Vessel stops listening, eyes flicking down to the napkin as his fingers curl around it. There’s a little flutter in his chest, a smile fast growing on his lips as he unfolds it just enough to see the beginning of an area code.

He shoves it into his pocket, eyes twinkling under the mask and turning to IV.

IV takes a sip of his beer and offers him a small thumbs-up.

That night they all crash immediately. II, IV and of course III. After about twenty minutes of searching they managed to find the bassist in a mosh pit, screaming and shoving every person in sight until the whole thing nearly required security. He was wasted, and fell asleep against the backseat window with II on his shoulder as IV navigated them through traffic. Vessel sat shotgun, blinking away the alcohol with his hands in his lap, mask, robe and paint getting second-looks from other cars.

He thought he looked sick.

The next day they did nothing but practice until 5:00pm, when II suggested they all go get sandwiches. They did. And when they got home, the sun was already setting.

They all got ready for an early night.

“Anyone wanna watch some tv?” II asks, wandering out of his room in an oversized shirt and boxers. III is already digging through the fridge again, and II ducks under his arm, pulling out a beer before disappearing in the living room.

Vessel is leaning against the kitchen counter, a yawn trapped in his mouth while IV downs a glass of water before filling it up a second time for the singer.

“I’m good,” Vessel says after II, checking the clock on the wall. He nods his thanks at IV and sips the glass he’s handed. “I’m fuckin beat. Guess I didn’t sleep all that great last night.”

III is hauling a half-eaten banana pudding into his room, not bothering to say anything at all as he retires for the night.

IV looks at Vessel.

“You know, you do look off.” He says. “You feeling alright, bruv? …I heard you get sick last night.”

“What?” Vessel rubs his eyes. “Me? I…“

A horrified scream suddenly fills the house, turning his blood to ice.

“What the fuck-!“ III speeds out of his room, charging down the hallway to get into the living room where Vessel and IV have already gathered.

They find II on the couch, jaw dropped and wide eyes filled with the reflection of the tv.

“…found dead early this morning, in an abandoned home three blocks from his apartment.”

Vessel covers his mouth, a choked sound leaving him as he sees the face on the screen.

No way.

III and IV are already holding II, trying to quiet his cries. But Vessel feels empty. Devoid of reaction or even the ability to move.

“The man has been identified as Matthew Todd, a 22 year old college student.”

Tags: @thevenomousseprent @moonlit-valkyrie @mmendez0124 @yourviscera @rain-down-on-me @xzero01

[under-loch-n-key]

You're doing Psych Omens?? Amazing!! I especially like it cuz while Shawn isn't too dissimilar from Crowley in that he can easily fulfill a similar narrative role, Gus is so different from Aziraphale I think it'll really bring an interesting new dynamic to it, not to mention one of them having a human love interest would affect the dynamic further! Oooh, are you gonna make Lassie a witch hunter? That'd be extra interesting. Whatever you decide, I am looking forward to all the new dynamics!!! (If you do make Lassie a witch hunter, Juliet should be a witch but he doesn't know it lol)

Yes, I am~ and just for you lot, I will post my idea and first draft of a story plot and mini comic idea. Maybe a fic? I don’t know maybeeee. We’ll have to see. Lol. Depends on what all of you would like. [:

Sooo, anyways, here it is.

Shawn - Demon (former Angel. Gus’s guardian angel.)

Gus - Human (is aware of Shawn’s being. Was scared shitless at first. Probably got The Father (we love him) involved to try and exorcise Shawn at some point but eventually accepted Shawn as he was. Although, he definitely bitched him out for things he should’ve saved him/prevented him from doing.)

Lassie (Lassiter) - Angel (too tired for his job. Been on earth way too long. Honestly is considering being apart of the witchfinder army just to wipe out any evil beings. That would make his job a hell of a lot easier. He is still fuming about The Fall because Lassie’s got that loyal dog mentality. Lol.)

Jules (Juliet) - Human (she is like Anathema and is heavily empathic and spiritually sensitive so she is immediately and heavily drawn to Lassie and Shawn.)

Woody - Demon (lovable demon. Absolute weirdo and sweetie. Woody makes dark jokes and perverse jokes but he’s just seen as a weirdo at his job. Little does most people know he’s a demon. He really enjoyed Shawn’s company in Hell and was very glad to see that they are working together at the precinct in the overworked. He knows that working at a precinct full of angels is basically a death sentence but Woody is a bit of a masochist and we all know it.)

Sooo, anyways here’s the Prophetic Omens (no, you’re prophetic!) (Psych x Good Omens) crossover draft idea.

————————

Lassie is blue and Shawn is green. Their narrated dialogue will be too. The basic introductory won’t have any colour but I figured colour coding would be easier for some people.

Prophetic Omens will be set where the Santa Barbara police precinct is mainly dominated by angelic and human officers. Some demons are littered in there of course. When Shawn gets arrested like he did in the first episode, he can tell the others (Lassie & his first partner) are angel’s but he has his demonic aura and overall self cloaked. Lassie could sense that there was something off about him but couldn’t place it.

He’d get to the bottom of it though.

His suspicions never fully went away, but he found out what Shawn was during the time with Yang. Right before his mum was kidnapped, when Yang was in the Psych office because instead of Juliet & Lassiter leaving Shawn and Gus behind after Shawn snapped at Jules, Gus goes after Juliet to console her on what Shawn’s going through and to not take it too personally. He’d deal with Shawn later.

Lassiter stays behind to put Shawn in his place regarding how he acts all fun and games, but now that things are getting serious, suddenly the game isn’t fun anymore and to get on him about how he treated O’Hara. Shawn spins around and snaps at Lassiter with his true eyes showing and Lassie looks at him in shock and Shawn realises the slip and retracts.

“You..” “Yeah..” “You son of a bitch!” He goes to grab Shawn by the neck and push him into the wall “You caused all of this chaos didn’t you, Spencer? You sulphuric imps just didn’t learn anything from the fall, did you? Keep your grubby little mitts off of this plane or so help me and sweet justice herself, I’ll make sure you won’t be able to set foot here again.”

“Dude, get..OFF!” He pushes Lassiter away “as if you over glorified, holier than thou pieces of KFC are any better! You know, Lassie, you could miracle this away but you won’t. So, don’t blame me for this. Yang wasn’t my doing. I didn’t mean to hurt Jules. Well, I did, sort of, but you weren’t even supposed to stick around! That wasn’t apart of the plan, man! So, thanks a lot. Now the plan is ruined. Gotta think of something else now..”

Lassiter’s glare deepens and he scoffs, “you’re one to talk about ruining plans, Spencer. Does 6,000 years worth of sin not ring any bells to you?”

“Lassie, don’t be the e in bible. You’re crueler than I could ever be and you’re the angel here. I’m shocked you don’t even have a harp. Yeah, some things did not go the way it was supposed to a few years back, but do you have to recycle the same point in time? You couldn’t do anything more creative? Like ‘hey you remember that time when you and your lession of demons possessed some pigs? What was that about?” Ya know, something more with a flare.”

(Yes, that is an actual biblical story btw.)

“You always have a response to everything don’t you?..”

“Well, I was a guardian angel before I fell. So, having a response to everything was kinda in my job description..”

“I don’t think heaven would approve of you remaining by the side of your divined assignment.”

“Pfft, Please, they already don’t approve of me anyways, Lassie. You know that. Besides, Gus is my best friend, not an assignment.. Sure, he was freaked out to learn that his guardian angel wasn’t an angel anymore at all. Well, and there truly being a heaven and all that, but ya know. He got over it. He had more questions than a whole season of Jeopardy and don’t worry my lips were sealed. Buttt, the exorcism case made going to the beach in bare feet seem enjoyable. It was like hopscotch but, well, just hopping no scotching.”

Lassiter cracked an amused smile at the image. That explained why Shawn was more on his feet than usual while we were there.

He knows that he’ll have to tell heaven about the arrival of the enemy.

“I know that look..” “what look?” “You’re “it’s so hard being me” look. Just do what you gotta do; I already left Santa Barbara once, but for now..we have a killer to catch. Heaven can wait.”

I don’t look like that.. he thought. That’s not important now though. Lassiter nods, “you take shotgun and don’t mess up my seats, Spencer.”

Shawn grabs his bag of corn nuts “I would never, Lassifrass. I’d say I’m an angel but ya know.”

“No. Those monstrosities are staying here.”

“They’re delicious, Lassie. Don’t join Gus’ corn nut hate club. He doesn’t even have shirts for it!”

“You’re not bringing those into my car. I don’t need crumbs in my seats and I don’t need that smell left in my car. I just had it detailed.”

“You’re no fun, Lassie. Aren’t angels supposed to be symbols of positivity and fun? You’re seeming pretty grumpy there, Carly.”

“Shut up, Spencer. When we’re done with this, you will apologise to O’Hara. I don’t know what you were thinking but make it right. Also, don’t get yourself killed. I have a feeling there’s more about this Yang-goon that we aren’t being let in on..”

“I will, don’t worry about me, Lassie. To think, us working together. Sharlton & Shassie have joined forces at last.”

“Tsk. Don’t think I enjoy working with you. One case. Then we’re done. This is a matter of convenience, we were already talking. That made you convenient, nothing more.”

“Admit it, your heart hearts me.” Shawn points at Lassies heart and back at his.

Cuts to panel of Lassie’s face with a light red tint on his cheeks and he grips the steering wheel.

“I’d rather help McNab pick flowers for his wife. Now shut your mouth, Spencer. If we’re going to be in this car together, I’d like to at least enjoy some part of the ride. Preferably in silence.”

“Fineee. You’d miss my sweet nectar of a voice if I wasn’t here and you know it.”

“Not in a million years, Spencer. The times I’ve gone to bed happy are the days when your trap is shut and you’re out of sight.”

“And they call me the demon.”

Lassie smirks to himself as they drive to the crime scene to meet up with O’Hara and Gus.

To be continued…

——

Soooo, yeah, there is the first draft of stuff rn. If people want me to make it a fic, I will. Then I’ll doodle some art of them all to go along with it. The fic would probably take place at the beginning of that episode or even a few episodes before. Still deciding on stuff. Lol. I always do making anything Psych related. Lmao. M

Hopefully, you lot enjoy the first draft. 💛💛💛

[myechoecho]

The Double, ep 22-23

I love how in sync the Duke and Li are with one another. And how Li chastises him to the shock of everyone, though it simply amuses him.

I think the Duke is... impressed (that's not the word I'm really looking for) that she wants expand her plan. She hasn't forgotten her father, but these people need justice as well. If not, more people will get hurt. There really is a larger picture to all of this. Li is just naturally following the larger plan that the Duke and the Emperor are already executing.

I adore how in the first scene Li is the one to motion to him to follow her and then later he does to same to her. The way she smiles when she follows him. Girl, who are you trying to fool? People are also taking notice of them.

I'll probably lose my mind when they finally really, truly start talking directly to one another as opposed to saying things that have double or indirect meanings. Because the Duke basically tells her he was there for her. He warns her to keep calm. When he asks her if she has anything to say to him, she says to keep safe. Which doesn't sound like much, but is pretty huge for her. And I love the little head bonk with the fan.

The Duke watching Li bang the drum for justice for her father and him going back time to the last time it was struck when he, as a young boy, did the same for his father. The parallels!

He visits her in jail and she admits that she lost her cool but he also knew that she probably would. But then he sits beside her to comfort her. I'm not clear if she knew about his past at this moment (she does a later at the trial) but either way she knows he would do the exact same thing for someone who was wronged. Then he leaves, but not before he gives her his cloak. Which absolutely snuggles into with a smile because he is still with her that way.

My heart, he gave her his mother's handkerchief to repair. Li knows this, what it means to him, and treats it with the utmost respect. This is when we learn that she does know of his past.

The trial was a bit confusing, but that could because I'm tired. All seems to be resolve but of course the Princess ruins it all. I am curious to see how Li and the Duke will get out of that one

As for the Duke and the Emperor, they really are running a complex plan and investigation. I'm sure it also has something to do with the Duke's father. Honestly, I like the Emperor.

Yurong is really interesting. Because he is beyond tired and simply does not care. The Princess has provoked him and tormented him so much that he just just OVER IT. It's why he was able to fire back at the Princess. But when she slaps him, he's basically like "not this shit again" and kneels, because it's expected. At this point, I really do believe he's just biding his time. There's will come a time that he is going to snap and he kill her. I wonder how much Yurong has observed or the Princess has told him of her plans with the other king (whom I guess is the real power). The Princess, I suspect is the weak link.

It's her petty jealousies that make her claim (well it's the truth but still) that Jiang Li is actually Yurong's wife. She's not really in control and that's going to be a problem.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

50 - News From the South

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 16k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, disturbing and graphic imagery, character deaths, illness and disease, mentions of rape and sexual assault, trauma

Notes: An intermission bonus chapter set over a period of many months, covering previous chapters and future chapters. Various different and new povs to establish a plot basis around Westeros. Not every pov switch is made in a chronological order on the timeline. Does not feature Jon and the Reader. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

“Ser Barristan, I believe none here could dare question your honour.”

He could not have been prepared for what was about to unfold when those words had come out of your mouth. Things within the Red Keep had been tense longer then only the short hours since King Robert had passed, but now that intensity sat tenfold within the throne room. You had entered to the injured side of Lord Eddard Stark as both held that matching look with blazing expressions.

Something was to come and Ser Barristan had not the knowledge to guess it. When he approached you, you did him as well with but a paper sealed in your hand. You met his eyes when handing it, and he had long since regretted not recognizing it earlier. He had asked you before the King left for his hunt if something was troubling you, and you had been reluctant to answer. It was that very look you were giving him that said, whatever was about to unfold held part of that answer.

Looking down to it, there was no doubt of what it was as he informed the Queen Regent. “King Robert's seal. Unbroken.” Glancing back, you had stepped back to Lord Stark's side as he read forth what his late Kings final words were. “Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm. To rule as Regent until the heir come of age.”

When Queen Cersei had requested she see the letter, Ser Barristan had not thought anything strange yet. It would make sense, Joffery while almost seventeen, was still by all legal standpoints, a child. There was nothing wrong with such a deceleration and yet both sides of the room behind and in front of him seemed to radiate a feeling otherwise. The words and actions which came next only proved it. Ripping the paper she almost huffed a laugh. “Is this meant to be your shield, Lord Stark? A piece of paper?” As he reminded her that those were the Kings words, he was taken back very much as she so callously declared with ease, “We have a new King now.”

She continued to speak, telling them that if the two of you before the throne were to swear fealty to Joffery, the Queen would allow Lord Stark and yourself to simply return to Winterfell. But not only was something not right with pushing away both he and you with ease, there was something Ser Barristan knew was about to go very badly the moment the words left Lord Stark's mouth.

“Your son has no claim to the throne.”

Joffery yelled in an instant that he was a liar, but it was the expressions of you both. Steadfast and sure of yourselves you two stood tall against the power before you, not flinching to what you both clearly thought was right. It made him hesitate when the Queen demanded of him. “Ser Barristan seize these two traitors.”

He didn't move with much intention, hesitant of his duty knowing it had to be done but something inside him said this was wrong. Something was not right more then what was being said. Eddard Stark had instantly urged to the Gold Cloaks who shifted towards him, “Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man do him no harm.”

Ser Barristan had looked to you, but you only saw behind him the boy on the Iron Throne with something red blazing behind the green in your eyes. Something not that of a stag, far more that like a she wolf you stood as. Neither you nor Eddard Stark were liars or thieves, he was a man bound by honour and you carried the weight of your fathers fist of justice. He had known you since you were a girl, but you did not stand there looking as unprepared for life as you had at three years old.

Swords were drawn behind him and still he had not moved. Joffery yelled, “Kill them, kill both of them, I command you.” You raised your head, something far more sure in your eyes as you met that of your cousins and Ser Barristan felt the tension rising to something unsustainable in this calm.

Eddard Stark raised his own voice with a command that this room so desperately needed to listen too. He stood as Kingsguard, but as a man, something was telling him the truth lay on the side he was being ordered to arrest. “Commander, take the Queen and her children into custody. Escort them back to their royal apartments and keep them there, under guard.” The watch had all shifted into position, and one last plead of reason came. “I want no bloodshed. Tell your men to lay down their swords, no one needs to die.”

But in the seconds that followed, Janos Slynt had commanded his men, and in an instant, the Stark guards were all attacked. Around he stood watching the chaos, you and Eddard had moved to the others side instantly protective of the other even through your mutual shocked confusion, and just as fast, it all finished for you both.

When you had turned to face the Stark, Janos Slynt moved and rather violently grabbed you before hauling you away from Eddard, aggressively holding you at bay with a knife to your throat. Only feet away, to many's surprise, Lord Petyr Baelish snatched a dagger which sat at the Starks side and held it to Eddards own throat as well.

The Gold Cloaks had hauled you away from Eddard Stark, dragging you separately to the Black Cells as chaos around continued to erupt. But it was not the voices within the throne room or the Red Keep which drew his attention next.

It was a voice which had been nowhere near that day, and without shifting to any sight of someone coming behind him, did Ser Barristan hide away the small letter which had sent him down such a memory in the first place. “I'm not sure I have ever seen you sleep, Ser Barristan.”

Glancing to his right, Tyrion Lannister had made his way to where in the dead of night, Ser Barristan had found himself contemplating far too much. Looking back out to the city of Meereen, the knight only commented in return, “Not much sleep to be found in my line of work. Too much to be on the lookout for.”

For a man of such short stature, Tyrion was not without the ability to make up for it in speaking more words in a day then some did in an entire year. “Can't imagine what could be on your mind. Let me guess, is it that our Queen has returned from her unprecedented journey. Or perhaps it is the sickness spreading through the city making her priorities seem rather misguided? No. The most likely answer I suspect of what is keeping you up, is the boy.”

He attempted to rationalize it to himself, “It was dangerous and foolish to be anywhere near them.”

But it seemed the Lannister was not quite as convinced as the others were of Ser Barristans conviction. “Ah, now you are sounding much like Daenerys. If I recall, Ser Barristan, on many occasions you implored him to leave the city for his own safety. Strange you would blame him now.”

Eyes slipping closed, he withheld a deep sigh of regret. It was a horrid sight, one which their Queen had not even gone to see herself when informed. Only commenting with irritation that now Rhaegal and Viserion were free from their chains in the catacombs they were being kept. It bothered many, her lack of reaction to such a horrible event, and not a single soul spoke up about it.

Until it slipped from his mouth in the safety of such silence. “It would have been mercy if Rhaegal had eaten him alive instead. No one deserves to lay suffering like that for days. An awful way to die.” If Ser Barristan allowed himself, he still might have been able to hear the screaming of Rickard and Brandon Stark.

Daenerys at least, had not laughed when hearing of Quentyn Martell's death, but part of him worried if no laughter was more dangerous. Her father had been called the Mad King for a reason, he was paranoid and utterly lost in his loss of sanity by the end. He did horrible things because putrid voices in his head whispered that traitors were all around him. But was no reaction out of sanity worse then too much from insanity?

Tyrion was blunt about it, “The Martells will not be happy.”

Once more, he found himself taking the path he's always known. Sticking to his duty. “The Martells are all the way in Dorne. Unless they plan on marching here anytime soon, we have more pressing matters to worry about.”

Once more, he only spoke a truth and it frustrated him that it seemed as if Tyrion knew the questions on the inside of his mind. “He was a the son of the Prince of Dorne, and he died trying to tame one out of, what? A love for Daenerys? Sounds like a pressing matter if you asked me.”

It was nothing that time but honesty, he knew Tyrion didn't believe what he himself had just spoken. “He didn't do it out of any love. The boy did what he thought was his duty for Dorne, and now he died for it.”

“I cannot imagine she will be given much welcome there once she sets her eyes west. Even less once the rest of the realm starts to hear things. Which in Westeros, they always do.”

Ser Barristan reminded him sternly, not sure though if it was Tyrion or himself he was speaking to personally. “We don't serve those in Westeros. We are here because we serve Queen Daenerys. If we think her support in the Seven Kingdoms is weak, then it is our duty to fix that.”

Tyrion had one question though. “And if we can't, what then? I don't imagine leaving everything behind for a losing cause would be the last years Ser Barristan Selmy wishes to spend his duty towards.”

The raven scroll hidden on his person weighed a thousand pounds. He was currently acting as the Queen's hand. It was his duty to inform her of this, so why did he read it alone and why was it still hidden on him long after Tyrion had left him for the night?

But as he looked back to the night he could still see you, much more specifically, the first time he had met you. A small girl for even one of three, the most carefree he had ever and would ever see you. When not with your father or uncle, you had quickly attached yourself to Ser Barristans side. He would in the privacy of the open cliff sides of Dragonstone, pick you up to give you a better view of the sea beyond as you would speak in quiet tones instead of the excited girl dragging him by the hand only hours previous.

You never returned back to that excited girl, but remained the quiet one who always did what you were told no matter what. You always did your duty and never with anything selfish behind it. Some days, he wished you would, just to show him there still was a girl capable of being happy underneath your burdens. But then you were gone before he'd ever have that chance to find out.

It was not news to any at the time which hurt but to him. You were the niece of Robert Baratheon, as far as Daenerys was concerned, you being dead was only good news for her cause. The lightness in her eyes matched that when he had told her of King Joffery's death too.

“Without her in my way, I have one less significant enemy today then I did yesterday.”

You were the enemy, it was as simple as that. Then and now, his Queen was a woman who gave forth no care for when her enemies were slaughtered. But, the letter from across the Narrow Sea? He kept it to himself.

He was as conflicted as he was heart wrenchingly relived. Someway, somehow, you were alive. Somehow you had survived being butchered by the Boltons and the Freys. You had helped Eddard Starks last remaining son reclaim Winterfell and the North, you and him were allied both with Stannis Baratheon and held some sort of peace treaty with Aegon Targaryean, and your Northern King had brought the wildlings south of the Wall in another peace treaty.

Eddard Starks last living child, his bastard son Jon Snow, was crowned King in the North and you married him as his Queen. It seemed, things were happening back in his homeland which spoke of far less confidence for Daenerys pride in her cause, then she seemed to understand.

You and this Jon Snow had reclaimed the North, and made nothing but alliances in peace with what should be adversaries. Daenerys was building a body count, and sending back a boy prince of Dorne with a body so burned only a sheet was what any saw of him as they put him on the ship. And still Ser Barristan wondered, had she forgotten that little girls name Drogon had burned to death, and if she did, was he ready to face the truth of what all of these signs were adding up to? If you were the enemy, why was he hesitant to tell the Queen he was sworn to, that you were alive?

What would the Queen he served now, think if she were to learn that he was the very one who helped you escape Kings Landing with your life in the first place?

Or worse, how would she react, if she were to find out Ser Barristan still never regretted it?

Selyse Baratheon rarely wished to think of that night.

The lost feelings swirling her mind and the Lady Melisandre whispering in her ear what needed to be done, almost as if she would do it one way or another. She had managed to pull and pull at just at the right strings that she said yes. Selyse had said yes in a moment of desperation, and chaos had erupted from that very moment from then right up until in the early hours of the morning when the gates of Castle Black opened from the south.

The begging of her young daughter turned to screaming pleads and Selyse had been in tears trying to not hear it, trying not to go out there and see it. It wasn't until those pleads turned to true terror did she realize that this is what she feared she would become. Ser Davos, despite his own twisting turmoil had enough in him left to turn and haul Selyse from jumping into the fire to cut her daughter free herself, as she begged for it to stop. It had been men of the Nights Watch and the wildings both who put a stop to it, but it was far too late for no damage to be done. Shireen was still alive, but for how long she had wondered.

It was then the very large white furred direwolf which came sprinting up to where the scene had settled. Arguments of why the Lord Commander was no where to be found to have stopped any of this interrupted by the startling aggression of the direwolf growling, barking with something feirce behind it's intention. By the time the men who followed the wolf to investigate returned, they all quickly understood why the bastard boy had not been there to stop this before it got to that point.

The next days were no better. Confronting the truth of what she had done. When you had approached the small little pyre meant only to burn the already dead, you had done Shireen the decency to wrap her in a sheet. You hadn't wanted your baby sister to be remembered that way.

It was a strange feeling, that she was not regretful for not arguing to let the Lady Melisandre stay. She did not miss her, not after seeing the truth of what she was. But that did not mean Selyse never thought about her. For years she was someone Selyse thanked the Lord for sending to them. Now she could ask him, was sending her a test of her strength, and had the events of those horrible days proven she succeeded for him or failed?

Losing Shireen felt like her punishment, but then again, Selyse couldn't stop but wonder why if he sent the Lady Melisandre to them as a force for good, why was Selyse's heart less heavy and troubled without her any longer? The worst part, was that it was not the first time Selyse had doubted her presence in their lives.

You were dead. Or, you had been dead and none yet knew you were once more alive. Further and further into faith did she let herself fall after the dust settled. She had spent years denouncing you as a traitor with a thief of a traitor husband, but then Stannis had came to her. He didn't say anything, he knew letting her read the words of the raven scroll said it all.

It was strange after you were gone, it was as if her and Stannis could only cope by falling further into such belief and yet the more they did, the less and less sense did the Lady Melisandre make. The more her insistence's and goals seemed to not align with what Selyse thought their Lord would want. They soon were to part on the waters to Eastwatch by the Sea, and it was that night which Selyse had not forgotten. The night she went to go see her.

Already, she was not comfortable with the manner in which the Lady Melisandre was content with not hiding any of her nude form in front of her as she bathed. But then Selyse kept seeing, and more and more did something return which she had long told herself was not a right she had anymore. She was to give up her jealousy and insecurities on the matter, their Lord had wanted Stannis to have Lady Melisandre in that way. A way in which he had not looked at Selyse in for many years, if ever. But as she stood there, it became harder and harder to not wonder would Stannis have wanted Selyse more if she looked like that.

But she wasn't here to talk about that, and try as she might, Selyse was pushing through such insecurities to eventually find the core of what she wanted to discuss. Eyes naturally drawing to the brazier, her attention was drawn back to the Lady Melisandre's voice cutting through the quiet. “When I looked into the flames this morning, the Lord spoke to me. He said, tonight, you will have your last good bath in a long while. Make it count." Not quite grasping the point she was getting at, Selyse hardly gave a false laugh to follow when she explained, “A joke. Not a very good one, I'm afraid.”

Dismissing as best she could without giving away the degree of uncertainty in her head, “It was. I- humour isn't my strength.”

“That's because most jokes are lies. And you are devoted to the truth.”

Once perhaps Selyse would agree, but in that moment she was not so sure. It would feel some days as it she could not recognize herself while the woman was there. Pressing a little bit however, it in fact exposed the vast difference between their approaches. Selyse saw no reason to lie about the Lord of Light or his power, and yet it was what followed which led to those cracks of doubt in her forming more and more.

Climbing out of the water she was bathing in, Lady Melisandre walked to her cache of potions and vials, explaining the truth of her deceptions. “Most of these powders and potions, lies. Deceptions to make men think they witnessed our Lord's power. Once they step into his light, they will see the lie for what it was. A trick that lead them to the truth.” Moving along a shelf, Selyse stood as some of them were explained to her, but it wasn't until one vial did the doubt become quite loud. “And a drop of this in any man's wine will drive him wild with lust.”

It would be so much easier, she wanted it to be such an easy answer. But when Selyse asked, “Did you use it with Stannis?” She knew the truth was as necessary as it was hurtful.

“No.”

Once more her eyes drew down to her figure, was this what her husband wanted, Selyse wondered. Was the key to filling their marriage with lust as never had really existed between them, to only be found in the body of another woman? Selyse in truth, did not appreciate the manner in which Lady Melisandre approached her.

The sympathy did not feel real. It felt much like her days when you were young and Selyse would coddle you when you would get upset about things you were too young to understand. Gently cupping the side of her face, she was told, “Don't be upset, men never crave what they already have. It's only flesh. It needs what it needs.”

One part of Selyse inside snapped. Demanding to know why was it her flesh which Selyse's husband needed, and what did she say to him to convince him that was left out in what was told to her afterwards. The other, tried to justify it.

Don't doubt her intentions, Selyse told herself. Trust the lord sent her for a reason. She whispered the words to herself, but this time they did not feel as if they were what Selyse believed in their entirety. “No act done in service of the Lord can ever be called a sin. I thank God every day for bringing you to us. And Stannis to you.”

Finally, she found the strength in her to say it. As unsure as she was about it, she found the point she came to discuss. “He wants to bring Shireen with us. I think that would be ill-advised.” It could be debated now and then if Selyse meant it, what she had said. “My daughter has heretical tendencies, as you're well aware. I don't know if her doubt is real or simply meant to spite me, but whichever the case, she should stay home.”

Did she really not wish for Shireen to come because of her tenancies, or in truth, did the idea of bringing her young, sheltered, only remaining daughter to a place such as the Wall, simply fill her with fear? What dangers would Shireen be forced to experience in such a place?

Grabbing both of her hands, she played well. “I understand how you feel. But that is impossible. You don't need powders and potions, my queen. You don't need lies. You are strong enough to look into the Lord's light and see his truth for yourself.”

Guiding Selyse to the brazier, it was those next words which Selyse now, thought of all too often. It was those, which were what made Selyse not argue, when you sent the woman away for good. “However harsh it is. However hard for us to understand. You don't need my help, but I will need yours soon. When we set sail, your daughter must be with us. The Lord needs her.”

Selyse looked into the fire that night, and did not, in fact, see her daughters death. She did not see her as being the one to allow it. She did not see the guilt she would bare the rest of her life for her failures as a mother. No, all Selyse had seen in the flames that night, was a memory. The image of the final time she had seen her daughters alive and together and happy.

The manner in which you had jumped down from your horse and knelt down to catch just as Shireen threw herself at you, both so excited to see one another and how you never looked brighter on Dragonstone then how you smiled then. Cupping Shireens cheeks and pulling her in to press a kiss at the top of her hair in another hug. Selyse only saw what she had lost in those flames.

She could recall so easily a day in Castle Black, coming down to where Shireen had been with the wildling girl. Sending her and Sam away, turning to her daughter the moment they were alone and sternly warning her, “You need to stay away from that girl.” Asking why, Selyse had been short, assuming it spoke for itself. “She's a wildling.”

Yet Shireen gave only an answer that of a child could come to with such ease. “Her name's Gilly. She's nice. I'm teaching her how to read.”

Perhaps once Selyse would have found it in her heart to have thought good of such a thing. She knew her young daughter had been teaching Ser Davos and it had a positive impact then, but she could not see passed what felt like so much darkness stacking up on each other. Selyse didn't mean when she could come off as dismissive, but in the many months since she had lost you, she knew it was becoming less and less common to find that softness left in her to give to Shireen.

Flipping through the books sitting out mindlessly as she explained to her, “She's a wildling. Your father defeated her people, he executed their King for treason.” Passing her by closely with a low tone, muttering to her, “They could strike at him, by striking at you.”

Shireen's answer was soft, innocent, and naive. “Gilly wouldn't do that.”

They all knew she didn't know. Ser Davos had told her of you when the raven came, but he had not said how or the details of why. Stannis had not said, and neither had Selyse. Shireen was a girl, telling her such details would give her nightmares beyond what she'd ever had, it gave Selyse them for a long time.

But it hadn't made it easier, it hadn't made it any less difficult to handle. For every boy Selyse had lost, it was natural. It had been the fault of her own body's ill. Shireen knew you had been killed that night, and that you had been pregnant. She had not a clue that you had been butchered like cattle, and your unborn son with it. She had not a clue the whispers of a body so soaked in blood it was said the grey's and blacks of the dress on you, had been so stained it looked a deep red.

She had not a clue that it was whispered you had been so cut open from your womb that the stories spoke that you died within seconds. Shireen had no idea that they would never be able to bring your remains to your families proper home in Storm's End, because the Freys left not a single scrap of your body left behind to find.

So she turned to Shireen that afternoon. Short and stern, something dark in her eyes which told stories that dismissed the manner her daughter so easily trusted people. You couldn't even trust the men at your side, after all. “You have no idea what people will do.”

She not looked further into those days. Because Shireen did find out, and it was a fruitless hope and prayer that Shireen had enough left in her to have known her mother had begged and pleaded to take it all back. Shireen found out, and then you had come riding in through the gates with the Greyjoy that very next morning.

You had come back, but now it was Shireen who was gone for good. Though, now it felt difficult to recall that. While you were not dead again, you weren't here. Selyse understood why you and Jon had to do this, but she hoped it would not make her an outcast within her new home.

So far though, it seemed as if as strange as it was, as quiet and stand offish Selyse could be, those of the North who knew you well, were well used to such mannerisms. None pushed her out of things because of her quiet, more stern nature and some like Maege Mormont, had laughed with ease saying things such as, “Suppose now we know where she got it from.”

Jons sister Arya, loud and eccentric as she was, reminded Selyse a bit of Shireen. Some of her happier days, Shireen too was mischievous, clever and quick on the draw. Arya seemed much more abrasive then her own daughter ever was, but not something Selyse did not know how to work around. She clearly felt a void here now that her brother had gone, as Selyse did you.

Selyse was quiet but stern, and it worked rather well with Arya's loud brashness when things needed to be done. Selyse had for many years been the Lady of Dragonstone and with the help of her brother, ruled her husbands castle and small island villages as he worked in Kings Landing. Winterfell was far larger, but they found some form of synergy as time passed.

Arya would seem surprised Selyse was not put off by her nature, but she had commented to the girl one evening, “I raised two sullen and stubborn daughters. At least you listen.”

In return, Arya had looked away awkwardly before muttering in between bites, your name. “Did you ever get mad at her for not growing up to be a proper lady like the other girls?”

Selyse had to think for a good moment, but in truth she knew what that answer was. “Once earlier in my years raising her perhaps. But not terribly. Her attitude was one problem, but quickly I learned she did not have many interests in the things her septa wished for her to do. But if she did not wish to do those things, Stannis didn't force her. He preferred she spent her time learning under his wing then forcing her into things she hated, if they would not benefit her education.”

She hadn't said anything of it, but she could see cogs behind Arya's eyes turning all the same.

But still she would think. Did the Lady Melisandre know what was to come for Shireen? Was what she saw in the flames the ones which she would ignite around her daughter? What could she have done or said to convince Stannis not to have brought her?

More then once she had suggested sending her to Storms End, stay with to Alester. He was Shireens uncle and would have been thrilled to keep his niece safe in his company. But now she wondered, was the Lord testing her and she failed? The woman knew Shireen would be needed, what had she seen in the flames which she had not told a soul? Had she seen her daughter up on that pyre? She seemed shocked at the idea Stannis was defeated in battle to his end, but confident to bring him back with this.

Selyse knew she could not rid herself of her own blame, but part of her also felt used. As if Lady Melisandre never truly respected in Selyse's belief, and manipulated her into buying what she said without question.

Now, left with her only daughter and you had gone beyond the Wall unknown when you would return, and Selyse feared she would be alone once more should the worse come to pass. She knew what sacrifices needed to be made to ones own happiness or well being for this fight, but it was a hard ask to be left without either of her daughters for the remainder of her days.

It was all rather loud, the thoughts in her head. All Selyse could do, was hope as the months ticked by, you and Jon both would return home soon.

Until that was, the day Arya came to her chambers and suddenly both of them knew they had something far more pressing to do in their days to come then merely wait for you both to return.

Ser Davos Seaworth was once more reminded of his King's stern nature as he spoke of the Targaryean King down south.

“They would be fool to underestimate him.”

Walking at the side of King Stannis, Ser Davos felt both rather used to it and yet unfamiliar to a once normal place. Serving you and Jon was a very different experience, there was more charm amongst the Northerners, and the rowdiness was not a determinant to their cause, but somehow added to their unity.

But now, his place was once more at the side of the King he was sworn too. Winterfell was not his home, nor did he have any reason to stay despite finding companionship amongst the men there. It helped perhaps, that now Stannis had a firm cause without the back and forth flipping between kings and kingdoms to fight against. Here, he had one purpose. Prepare the Wall, and his men for what was to come.

Currently though instead of where his command was garrisoned at the Nightfort, the King once more found himself in the ranks of Castle Black. Working through plans and decisions specific to the Nights Watch and coming to agreements between him and the new Lord Commander in Edd. They were not leaving anything up to chance anymore, but that did not mean his Kings attention was not drawn away many times with news from the South.

Having received a raven discussing the movements of Lannister forces, it seemed all attention now was converging towards Aegon. For a good while, the remainder of the Kingdoms were in a mess. Riverrun had been stomped out in their final fights as forced led by Ser Jaime Lannister ended their remaining sieges, forcing the far inferior number of the River Lords to finally renounce their sworn loyalty to their late King and instead to the Iron Throne.

Now, the Lannisters were forced to turn their eyes to Aegon.

He had taken Storm's End which swiftly was being followed by him taking the Stormlands, no doubt due in part to Stannis ordering the remainder of his army North, giving the Targaryean ample opportunity to conquer without the early defeat of loss. It seemed the Lannisters considered his claim to be a lie, and the bravado of nothing more then a green boy of summer. Stannis, seemed to disagree. “My opinions of him aside, underestimating him at this point is unproductive to their fight.”

Ser Davos could tell that such an opinion did not seem to be very favourable, but he suspected it was more then the sort of ire held for those in the war previous. “What makes you think that?”

The answer from Stannis however, was simple. “They underestimated Robb Stark at every turn, and he spent three years humiliating them with defeat after defeat. They have less then half the forces they begun that war with this time, and to the realm, the fight for the Iron Throne appears to be a two sided one now. Lannister or Targaryean.” Shaking his head a bit, Ser Davos could almost sympathize with those back South.

Voicing as such, “Not sure how happy everyone is going to be trying to pick a side for that one. Not as if either family has a record which speaks highly of them.”

Glancing around, if he could say one thing, Davos would note that much of the organization put in place previously by Jon was standing strong. Knowing too well, had it been still under the likes of Ser Alliser Thorne, it surely wouldn't be in the same state. It appeared, the Nights Watch had to murder a second Lord Commander to finally learn that lesson.

It was admirable though, that even now faith in him had not wavered.

Thoughts drawn back to Stannis as he spoke. “If the realm still stands once winter is over, we can turn our attention then to putting my Kingdom back together properly. I will deal with Aegon then.”

He had let Stannis's forces leave, but that did not mean it was beacuse of peace. After all, the negotiation was made between Aegon and Jon. The King which he had an actual peace treaty already established. He was simply doing Stannis a kindness on behalf of Jon. But clearly, Stannis was sure to keep the boy in his attention. Letting the ball drop now, would only mean taking on Aegon then would be much harder.

Ser Davos, like most of them, knew not of the dragons flying in the east.

“I can station a thousand men at each castle, though I do wonder why it is you seem to be so confident resources can be shared between your men and my own.” Once Jons place of work now Edd's, the three men all looked at the layouts made of the Wall and areas surrounding it.

Edd had an answer to Stannis's question, saying it almost in passing. “Can thank Jon for that if he ever comes back.” Davos could see a slight raise in Stannis's eyebrow in a silent ask but the Lord Commander either did not notice or barrelled passed it anyways. “Was his deal he made with the Iron Bank, almost hoping we don't make it so I don't have to spend every day until I die paying it off.”

Davos counted himself grateful that of everything to come easy to him learning to read, numbers was as simple as any of it. There were only ten of them in different combinations and he didn't have to sound them out to figure out what the whole of their printed version meant. Looking over some of the papers, Davos too knew he was well acquainted with how the Iron Bank works. “You won't pay it off in your lifetime, or the Lord Commander after you or the next. The Iron Bank doesn't care how long it takes for you to pay them back, only that you do. The longer it takes in fact the better, build more interest up that way.”

“Know a lot about it?”

Edd and Davos both looked at one another with almost a degree of amusement as he titled his head. The hint of an exaggerated grimace forming on the elder mans face. “They run on predictability, what they know will be stable for the long run. They knew making a contract with Jon he wouldn't be paying it back any time soon, they were counting on how much interest they would build up in the long run.”

Stannis cut through, changing directory right back to the original discussion. “Resources won't be as much an issue. The more men guarding the Wall, the more it tells them the likelihood you will have the capability of holding up your end of the bargain.”

It seemed however, Edd held the same curiosity which had started the discussion about the dragon earlier that day, but from Davos. “So how do you know they won't just change their minds and start funding the Targaryean now that you're up here?”

The answer wasn't one Stannis answered, but one he and Davos both knew was written in blood.

Jon Connington could tell the frustration was mounting in Aegons shoulders, it was obvious.

Less and less as this went on did he look a boy anymore, but a man, a King struggling for his own cause. Lord Varys had not been kidding when he had informed them at the start of this journey back east, that Westeros will not be easy to take in the state it is in.

When confronted about his promises to have prevented making this any harder, the clever tongued eunuch had a simple defence and a detectable jest in his tone. “And when should we have struck, my Lord? When Robert Baratheon lived and would have seen our dear King and his army of sellswords thrown into the sea for his name alone? Or when Robb Stark was dominating the South in years of war as Balon Greyjoy invaded the North tearing the country into pieces?”

What was more frustrating, was that Jon Connington knew he had no argument against it. He had trusted the spider this far, there was no reason to doubt that now. But he let the best of his irritation take out on him anyways. Leaning in with more of a gruff mutter, “At least if we had done it when originally talked about, we wouldn't have already lost two whole Kingdoms.”

A huff left him as if with knowledge being explained to that of a child. “There isn't a family in all of Westeros which would side with Euron Greyjoy. If being Ironborn wasn't enough, his reputation speaks ill for itself. When our King sits on the Iron Throne do you think it will be a difficult choice for the people on whom to overpower?”

Gods be good, Westeros has changed too much since this was a place Jon Connington last had called it a home. The sheer fact of the Iron Islands engaging now in two rebellions was news all in and of itself, they were hardly better then those wildling savages. Enjoyed bloodshed and violence to an unseemly degree and had no organization beyond their ships. Not great warriors they were.

Balon took the North because it was empty and open as the Lannisters hid away from the Stark boy's army. What had Euron done since then? Nothing of importance, nothing which would truly effect Aegons fight. He did not care for Lord Varys' paranoid whispers of magic and whatnot though. He heard far too much of that from the King in the North. Asking him to believe such nonsense, a ridiculous and superstitious people.

Aegon though, Jon Connington was beginning to wonder if such words were beginning to weigh on his mind. They had been standing on the beach in Storms End when it happened. It was light and hardly stuck, but gently in the grey sky it had begun to snow. The distance in his eyes as he did so, and the hesitant look when asked what was on his mind only to have him talk around the real answer.

He had to take the Iron Throne, Aegon did not have time to think about scary bed side stories Jon Snow had told him about. Every now and again he would spot him looking at the North on their maps, or looking in the distance trying to see what was too far away. He never spoke of it, but it was on his mind, Connington knew it.

And it frustrated him as much as this war was weighing down on Aegon. Both were tense, but only one of them had to keep it together to keep the other standing. He still had time after all, he still had years to be that for him.

Aegon hadn't even said a word throughout the entire meeting. Hovering over his maps and not moving an inch as his mind and jaw were as set on something as could be. Connington was surprised at the choice in words Aegon made to speak, interrupting the back and forth between the two men. “If the choice is that easy Lord Varys, why is it we could not secure the Iron Bank for our campaign? As far as I am aware we approached far before they reached out to Stannis Baratheon.”

Choosing his words tentatively, Varys looked to Connington before directing full attention back to Aegon with clarity. “You must remember where your family comes from, your grace. What your true name stands for. The Bravvosi are a very sensitive and wary people towards Valyrians.” Aegon did not shift whatsoever, and Connington could not tell what that meant. For over a month now, any mention of family had been in discussion of the Martells. It had been even longer then that since the boy at all made any mention of his father. “They are descendants of slaves of the Valyrian Freehold. Their homes were destroyed by dragons, and were treated and used rather cruelly by their Valyrian masters. They would not trust you anymore then they do not trust in your aunt.”

Once more Aegon did not move, and Connington found it increasingly strange he was struggling to read the emotions of a boy he helped raise his whole life. He knew Aegon better then this. Interrupting whatever thought may come first, he spoke with a shortness. “When Daenerys sits with him on the Iron Throne, Lord Varys, I imagine such power will change their minds rather swiftly as to who they would be wise to support.”

Only raising his expression in an almost mocking, he seemed to disagree and once more Aegon allowed the ensuing argument to start as Lord Varys found a knowing tone. “In my humble opinion, I would say your estimation may be bordering on unrealistically ambitious. Having her sit by our Kings side may prove to be the quickest way to draw away support to those who would rather see him thrown back to the sea. They do not answer your requests for an audience when it was only him, and but with a woman such as her?” A slow shake of his head dropped his tone. “I dare not think the money they would be willing to offer to our enemies then.”

Leaning forward across the table, Conningtons voice dropped. “I would watch yourself, Lord Varys. Get used to spouting such opinions and you may find yourself in rather hot water once they marry.”

It was as if Varys knew something he didn't. The manner in which he didn't seem to find himself phased by such words. “Is that set in stone? Declared somewhere I do not know of?”

“We have been planning this since-”

Loud and commanding, Aegon cut through both of them with a heavy sigh to follow. “My Lords, this is not about who I am to marry. If my aunt wished to be part of this, she would be here supporting my claim. But she is not.”

Looking with a pleading, Connington urged him once more to be more cautious then this. This was the best plan, with both of them together the people would so obviously rally around the return of their proper rulers. “Aegon, it is best-”

“Leave us.” His eyes though, were only on Connington. Only he was being asked to leave the room.

Aegon did not blink nor repeat himself, as Lord Varys stood with a collected confidence in his place in this meeting, but yet he was being asked to leave? What whispers was the spider putting in their Kings ears about this? But it was not his place to argue with him.

Swallowing roughly with a twitch in his jaw, Connington gave but a small bow and a low, “Your Grace.” Before parting ways, the guards closing the doors behind him and leaving the two of them to discuss whatever it was they were plotting without him.

When had this started he thought, when had Aegon not sought his council first? When did that begin to change when their whole lives together he was the one there for the boy. He knew the bloody answer though, it was the same time in which Aegon also had begun letting part of his mind become preoccupied with that of the North.

Door slamming shut to his chambers, and the first thing reached for was not to remove the armour across him but to pour whatever wine sat on his cupboard. A grimace as Connington let it all slide down his throat in one go, until shaking it out and letting the bottom of the goblet thud against the wood once more. Some days he wondered how easy it would have been to die the manner in which he had told the world to convince of his death. Certainly he was frustrated enough to see the benefit in drinking ones self into a stupor.

If he could throttle that bastard King he would have. He and Aegon did not get along terribly well, but enough that they found kinship in their words to debate time and time again. That first meeting, Connington already did not like him. He had the audacity to stand there and yell at the true King of Westeros as if he were a child in need of lecture. Blaming him for things which he had barley been born during.

Nothing King Aerys did was Aegons fault, and nothing Prince Rhaegar-

Hands splayed out along the surface still, Connington stood up straighter, head tilting slightly as he put pieces together. The bastard too had yelled at Aegon for faults of Rhaegar, but that was just it wasn't it? Using something which looked on the surface raw and painful only to turn it into something to manipulate Aegon with.

Pushing off, his feet carried him into pacing about his chambers. Guilt was a powerful motivator, and there were many ways to manifest it. Dawning on him that if Jon Snow were to set the stones of doubt of Rhaegar to him, it would begin to falter his ability to stay focused. Then fill his head with lies and tales of monsters to distract from what he was doing.

Some said bastards were born from sin, of course this one couldn't be trusted. How though he thought, was he supposed to convince Aegon of this now? He would dismiss discussions of the North in their meetings, shut down speculations around intentions of the King in the North and his wife.

His insufferable, Baratheon bitch of a wife, he thought callously.

Jon Connington was a fool, wasn't he? This was not only about vengeance for thirty years past, this was the vindictive remains of Robert Baratheons blood to rid the Seven Kingdoms once more of House Targaryean. If Jon Snow was the manipulator, you were the one plotting it. Of course you would wish to wear Aegon down, weaken him so his enemies could take care of him for you.

Leaving the only good, benevolent rulers the ones in the North. And oh what a surprise, you also just so happened to be the heir of Stannis Baratheon. The only other man here with a true claim to the Iron Throne. It was all a ploy, use Aegons kindness against him to sneak your way into power once more by sicking your bastard husband on Aegon to fill his head with falsehoods.

Jon Connington was sure of it, he only had to figure out a way to convince Aegon of it too.

By the time he had sat carefully on his bed, he had the windows covered and checked the door was locked and bolted thrice now. He would live in his armour until he was sure he was alone. Before peeling off the final covering over his arm.

It wasn't so much bigger, but it was indeed, not as small as a patch of grey. Sooner or later, it would begin travelling down to his hand and then up his arm. He had to convince Aegon and soon, Jon Connington did not have time to let his King figure out this deception on his own. Before the greyscale took his mind first.

He had given Jon Snow the benefit of the doubt because of you, because you had come down to manipulate him into guilt about Rhaegar's actions against his family. A perfect couple you both were, willing to lie and manipulate just to swindle your father onto the throne which one day would be yours. He would not be surprised at this point either if Stannis too was to find himself manipulated out of your way.

Pretending you were dead, and now pretending your husband had been dead to spook the Northerners into worshipping you both. Aegon had allowed Stannis to pull his forces out of the Stormlands because of his peace agreement with Jon Snow. He couldn't imagine what you and the bastard were preparing for up there.

But as Jon Connington knelt to the ground, he pulled out the cache stored away full of the anythings hoping for a miracle. Not much was written to cure this, but he would try everything until he lost either his life or the remainder of his mind. He had to try for Aegon.

He couldn't let the vengeful pursuits of the Starks and Baratheons to get in his way, he had to finish what he started. But Aegon had pushed him out of the meeting that day, so what else was he being tricked into believing without Conningtons knowledge? He did not know.

He used to not think of what fate became of the girl Lyanna Stark, because she was just that. A girl who died with the paintings of Rhaegar as a monster. He once thought she was of little blame, but now he doubted it.

Perhaps Lyanna Stark was as much a lying snake as her nephew and his deplorable wife are.

Arianne Martell knew that the sun shined bright down on the lands of Sunspear and yet not a shred of that light was found in any hearts of the people that day.

The bells tolled and echoed across the halls as silence was given with a bow each time she had passed someone. Not often she found reason to adorn herself in black, but it it sat heavy on her person even in the striking heat. It had the last time too, but this time, somehow her dress made her feel as if it was sinking her feet into the ground to be swallowed by the earth.

Long had she lost track of the time she had spent standing there, but her eyes had not blinked despite seeing nothing but the same image. Most others had come and gone by the time she found the courage to go see him, and those whom came after did not stay by her silent side. She did not blame them, it was a pain to all, but only three of them felt it so deeply.

Trystane was still young, hardly even old enough to begin growing facial hair but he looked as old as she felt when he stood beside her that day. He hadn't known what to say, and by the time the tears wished to fall on him, he had left. Unwilling to cry in front of the sister who was still holding that all in. She hadn't blamed him for it, she would have too were she his age.

Others had come and gone, Ellaria Sand and her daughters, Arianne's young cousins included. Elia was Trystane's age but she had suffered a great loss too, as it was only years ago. In those days, it was Arianne who stood where she had. Beside a daughter unsure how to feel that she too, was not permitted to see the final visage of her loved one before his funeral proper. When Oberyn Martell's body had been brought home to Sunspear, the only ones who had seen the truth were his brother Doran and his paramour Ellaria, the later having witnessed the horror firsthand.

This time, Arianne spent the entire time standing there wondering if she should defy tradition and peel back the coverings to see the truth her father had told her was not for any eyes of his loved ones. She knew then when he had told her against it, it was worse then she had imagined. The truth of his wounds.

Returning home from the Stormlands for this news was devastating. Gone to seek the truth of one claiming to be family, and returning to find the death of another. Quentyn Martell had travelled across the Narrow Sea to seek the Targaryean girl, and if once she was unsure what to think of it, now she felt another. She felt something she suspected, was not unlike the red rage which seeped into the blood of many Martells when their loved ones were wronged.

Some will blame one thing, others will blame elsewhere but there was only one truth.

It wasn't until the sounds of feet echoing across the way and the distinct sound of something being rolled along with it did she know her silence had to find a voice this time. They had spent too much of their lives not speaking, and it had to end now.

Prince Doran Martell, Arianne's father was brought to be placed beside his daughter and only when the retreating footsteps echoed away did she speak. Her voice distant and faint but solid and sure. “I used to wish I could hate him.” Doran said nothing but to let his daughter speak. “I would look up to the star of Nymeria at night and hope he could see the same, and tell him however far away we were, that he will not rob me of my birthright. Over and over again I would tell him that, no matter how much he could not hear me. Even when you told me the truth, I was still angry.”

Her fathers voice was always calm. It was smooth as a knife slicing through warm butter sitting in the morning sun, and it had hardly ever been comforting. Perhaps there was still shreds of but a girl in her heart, but it felt as such now. “We are a stubborn people in our blood, and it took me a long time to learn it was me who held that problem, not your mother. She had not forgiven me for it, and now never will. If I won't blame her for it, I will not blame you for the same.”

As even toned as he, Arianne's voice hardly picked up to echo within the empty halls against the distance of bells. “You made wrong choices and paid for it, as did my Uncle, as did I. Blaming you won't take any of it back, nor will it change that you did not do this to him. She did.”

“Arianne-”

Not picking up her tone, but the sternness in it was all to similar to that of Oberyn she knew. “We can blame each other all we like, but there is only one truth father. I had a little brother until the days he set off to find her. And when he did, he returned to us under a sheet. Had he not gone to her, Quentyn would still be with us. I could still stand here and accuse him of robbing my birthright, and wishing you could have been honest with me earlier, but we can't. And I will not blame us for it, we have done enough of that.”

Doran's voice vibrated in a confidence through her chest, finding it's way to her heart. If for only moments, it helped ease them temptation to uncover the sheet to see for herself. “Every year since Elia was taken from us, I have spent my time with guilt. What more or different should I have done to protect her, but it was Oberyn who reminded me of the truth. We could stand here and argue amongst ourselves, or we could turn our eyes to the ones who did it to her, to her children.”

A sorrowful look crossed her face, one which even only from the side did her father catch. “He didn't look much like her.”

Doran however, felt not shaken by that thought it seemed. “He never had. Rhaenys did, though. Eyes, skin, hair all looked exactly like Elia had when I held her as a babe. She would write me, saying that Aegon had their purple eyes and silver hair, and it upset her to think that they would love him more then her daughter. The truth is not so different now is it?”

He had not looked how she expected. Her claimed cousin. Skin pale as the rest of them, eyes which turned from blue to purple depending on the sun and light shining around them, and a hair dyed a striking blue to hide the once secret. Arianne had not questioned why he kept it, but when asked why such a colour, it was his answer that felt like family.

“The Tyroshi have such drastic colours in their hair. That was where I would tell people my mother was from, and it was to honour her.” Arianne had wondered if that meant the one he still held onto was her, she had desperately hoped so. She did not remember what Rhaegar Targaryean looked like, but not once did his name ever come out of Aegon's mouth.

Only Elia, only Rhaenys. In a moment of quiet before she had left, he looked more of a boy then a man fighting to be King when he had said it. Looking at her with a sad smile, “I never knew what she looked like, my sister. I never met any of my mothers family, never knew what they looked like either. If I imagine my sister could have grown up to look as you do..” He had hesitated, brows narrowing not in nerves but in something painful she now understood. “Perhaps it would be of some comfort.”

Comfort was not found here though. Comfort was not what Arianne would ever use to describe anything of her home in such hours. Comfort was for those who had not been taken from their families with such cruelty and horror. Comfort was for those who wished for their lives to be comfortable, and that was not the life of those looking for justice.

Her father it seemed, could read her more then she expected. Cutting through the quiet once more. “I have kept you in the dark, as you have I. We cannot do that anymore. I have spent too many years letting you think I wished to push you away, and I will not waste the rest of mine doing it anymore. You are my daughter, I need you by my side. As equals.”

That was all she ever wanted. Her whole life she wished to be seen as such by her father, and as much as she wished she could be a child upset it took to this to let it get there, she wouldn't waste that time on such childishness. Her voice was low, something hinting at an anger. “They said the beast had snuck up behind him. As if hunting him down like prey. One of them flies free in her skies too. Who else has burned like my little brother?”

Her father had the right answer. “What did he say of her?”

Her answer was truthful, and as unsure as he was. “He didn't need to say anything. He's afraid of her, and that tells me as much as the complete truth.”

A choice was going to have to be made. One plan to the next, they all had to be on the same understanding, one united front. Arianne's plan to crown Myrcella was one she had believed in before it was stopped in its tracks, but she was no fool to the other side presented. None could prove or disprove that Aegon was Elia Martell's son, but he believed it, and if a scrap of possibility said he was right, that was enough.

Myrcella was a good kid, smart and bright and better then the mother she was said to look so similar to in every way, but if the realm were to be asked? There was only one side to pick. In due time Myrcella had every right to be Arianne's sister by law, but Aegon was her cousin by birth and blood.

Elia was her aunt by birth and blood. And it was her memory the Martell's fought to avenge. It was her which Oberyn had died to avenge. And even moreso, there was another fact to consider.

The realm would choose Aegon over Myrcella, but the realm too, would choose Aegon over Daenerys.

The Lannisters who killed her aunt and uncle on one end, and the Targaryean girl who killed her brother on the other. Who would the Martells side with? Arianne would say neither, Arianne would say blood protects blood. And her father had agreed.

So father and daughter stood there, looking over the sheet covering Quentyn Martell's body, burned so horrible by dragonfire that she could not even look upon his grown face one last time. Once she had refused to allow him to rob her of her birthright, but Daenerys Targaryean's dragon had robbed her little brother not only of his life, but the mercy of a quick death.

Targaryeans were dragons, but Arianne was a Martell. There was no light or burn brighter then that of a sun, and as winter would one day enclose on the lands, it was her responsibility to ensure the sun shined bright and protective over her people. It was a dragons nature, to burn it all away to cinder and ash.

She had never wanted Quentyn dead when she thought he wanted to take her place as heir to Dorne, but Daenerys Targaryean would come to Westeros and burn the lands with dragonfire and invade their people with blood to take what she thought was her birthright. They soon would hold the final funeral for Quentyn, but the sun would soon illuminate brighter then ever before. After all, Aegon was not cruel and he was the blood of her family.

The Targaryean girl was a dragon, and the Dornish had never been defeated by dragons before. They would not start now.

Ser Yohn Royce did not mean to sit there with such ire, but it was all he had left.

His patience had worn thin, and there was little he could do to stop what was coming any further, he had done all he could without compromising all he held dear and he had to hope he did enough. Now, all he had left was the hope he was a good actor, or liar. Depending on which they would see him as should it be discovered too early.

The day was surprisingly bright for how cool the morning air begun. The three of them sat there and the sight had yet to stop being so utterly pitiful. His Master at Arms could only work with so much, and this was next to nothing compared to where his own sons had been far before this age. Yet there he sat watching meek Robin Arryn get beat every which way by the boy sparring with him. At the rate he had been going, he was shocked the boy had enough in him to pick up the bloody thing.

“Sword up. Attack my lord, attack- don't cross your feet.”

Ser Royce looked at the sight, and dared not to peek to his side. He knew he was at odds with the man, and it was easier to play dumb and begrudging then contemptuous and suspicious. A huff left him as Robin once more tripped over his own feet at another parry. “My sons have had swords in their hands since the time they could walk. This one..”

If there ever was an understatement, Petyr Baelish had won it's greatest feat. “Lord Arryn will never be a great warrior,”

Interrupting with ingidnance, Ser Royce almost rolled his eyes at the pomp in such a claim. “Great warrior? He swings a sword like a girl with palsy.” Just as he finished speaking did a squire approach the benches where they sat, handing Lord Baelish a note.

Don't look he told himself. The man had eyes on the back of his head, and even if he didn't, there was no doubt the pair of blue eyes attached to dark hair would seek him out should he glance out of place. He was no fool, he knew even something as simple as a seating place was strategy to the slimy man next to him, and it was not out of the possibilities that Alyane Stone was here to watch what Lord Baelish could not.

After all, he was the only one who had not come around to trusting Petyr Baelish. He had been the only one of Lords of the Vale to protest against giving Littlefinger another chance to serve as Protector of the Vale in Robins name. He still protested it, but he at the time, was a fool.

He was as much a fool then as they thought he was now. It was why they watched him, they did not trust fools. Well as it turns out, he learned from his mistake and did not trust either of them back. Had one asked Ser Royce over a year ago if he would look at Alyane with such suspicion he would have taken offence.

The man did not believe the story she told, but he did fall prey to her name and her tears. Now realizing, it had always been an act. She no doubt had lied for him, and if Littlefinger hadn't told her what lie to tell, then she was always just as manipulative to come up with the very same he had separately. Neither option made Ser Royce comfortable.

He did not like Lady Lysa, but she was the widow to Lord Jon Arryn, and he had to respect her to respect the memory of the man he did greatly respect. Flung herself from the moondoor was the story father and daughter told. He thought it was no better then hogwash then, and he still thought it now. But then Alyane had told him who she was with utter tears and he fell for such acts.

Were he to brave a look at her now, nothing close to tears sat in her eyes. She was well postured, and prim and proper, a true lady and as watching of a hawk as ever. He'd known many a bastards in his time, and none he met were quite as formal as Alyane Stone.

What had the years in the Vale done to the crying girl he met that day? Did that crying girl ever exist?

Ser Royce dared not think of Eddard Stark would say. In a horrid way, he was glad he was gone. No one should see it end up this way, none wanted Petyr Baelish to be the one any grows up to follow in the footsteps of.

So he sat there, ever the disapproving brute watching the boy fail once more as Petyr glanced at her as he tucked the raven scroll away. Returning to the conversation before. “Some boys develop more slowly. He's still young.”

Arguing back right away he commented, “He's thirteen. Boys have been known to go to war at thirteen.”

Petyr Baelish insisted however. “He has other gifts.” When Ser Royce asked what those would be, the answer was all the more work to not act as if it meant anything suspicious to him, “The gift of a great name. Sometimes that's all one needs.”

Offering his hand out to Alyane, the two begun to step down onto the grass as he led her away from the fight. Ser Royce followed in toe, knowing once more, if he did not play as he needed, either one of them would sniff his intentions out.

They were leaving young Robin at the Runestones to be ward under House Royce, but the man was not mistaken. They were dumping a problem at his doorstep hoping to clear up their obstacles, and clog his time and effort up away from poking around them too much. So he agreed to take the boy in, but that did not mean much.

Petyr Baelish and Alyane Stone were not the only ones with plans none else knew. She played her part though, respectful and kind as she turned to him. “Goodbye, Ser Royce and thank you for all you've done for me.”

A small nod back, “I've done nothing more than my duty, my lady.” And that was it. Duty to be a fool and a host and once they were gone from his home his duty was to once more do the honourable thing. The right thing, even if it too, had proven to be the deceptive one.

Lord Baelish played his part well too, they both did. He taught her to play as well as he. “I have no doubt that upon my return, Robin's skills will have improved immeasurably.”

Glancing back to the boy, Ser Royce was almost sure he somehow, had gotten even worse in the minutes they spent looking away from the scene. “He'll be safe here. As for his skills, I make no promises.”

The carriage leading them away was said to be taking them to the Fingers. He doubted that. He knew more then doubt, he was sure of it. For everything Petyr Baelish did to keep his plans close to his chest, all it took was one little slip to unravel the workings of a webbing of lies. One single raven scroll put into the wrong hands by accident and a mystery had unveiled.

Afterall, he had wondered that day, what on earth did Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton have any sort of business sharing correspondence with Petyr Baelish. In the privacy of night, was the only time he read it. He trusted no eyes but his own in that moment and for good reason. News travelled, but why on earth was this news coming from her to him?

Why was Barbrey Dustin the one to inform Petyr Baelish, that you had married Eddard Starks last living child, his bastard son, and King in the North? And why he wondered as he read it, did it entail the name of a girl. Daisy. Who was she, and why was Lady Barbrey telling Littlefinger that Daisy could not get any of her girls anywhere near Jon Snow before the wedding. It had taken place the eve of their return from Dragonstone, Daisy had not the time to try.

What in seven hells did any of that mean?

Well, looking into things when he had as many names on one raven scroll as he did, was not something that was going to be terribly difficult. Maester Coleman had copies of many raven scrolls coming in and out of the main rookery, and when asked if any had come from Winterfell he had only a fair few. Those fair few, were the words of a girl named Daisy.

He had asked the man if anything seemed out of the ordinary from such letters, and he said no. But not before one thing, saying that Lord Baelish and Alyane both kept requesting that Lord Robin be given sweetmilk to handle his outbursts instead of essence of nightshade. It was odd the Maester commented, that small does of the later left the body after some hours in small does, whereas adding drops of sweetwine to milk would build up in the bloodstream. But that the requests had stopped just as plans to send him to the Runestones had been made.

How strange it was that such an oddity had ceased, around the same time Littlefinger seemed to find interest in learning that Jon Snow had married. Even more strange it was, the raven had said the girl Daisy could not get any of her girls near him before, so imagine Ser Royce's surprise when he learned the profession this Daisy worked, was running the Winter Town brothel.

It was easy then, figuring out at least part of it. The most standard reaction was what Littlefingers plan had hoped. Get a whore into Jon Snows bed before he marries you, and what likelihood was there that a wedding at all would occur in such an aftermath.

Ser Royce had never spoken to Eddard's bastard son before, but he had been beginning to suspect, this was not a mystery for one man. By the time the raven came for him, the sigil of a direwolf on the seal, Ser Royce knew that he had to be more careful then ever.

Two men never having met one another before, thousands of miles apart, had to piece together a mystery which was playing out right in within both of their homes. But that was months ago. Petyr and Alyane were leaving right now, and the Fingers was not where they were going.

It felt an insult to Eddard Starks memory to say it, but was certain, she was heading North with as ill intentions as the day she pretended to cry a sob story to garner his sympathy into hiding her in the Vale in the first place. She had lied to him from day one and she only got better and more clever about it, but Petyr's kind of clever was not to be admired. Any learning from the likes of him, was to be considered just as dangerous.

He could only hope his raven found Jon Snow with enough time to prepare. Ser Royce hated how much he did not trust Alyane, but it had to be said. Were Alyane Stone accompanying her father on a journey to the Fingers, he would not care.

But, it was Sansa Stark who was travelling with Petyr Baelish to Winterfell.

Theon Greyjoy could define himself as a man motivated by regret.

Each day he spent in Winterfell should have felt more and more like home but it didn't, in fact it fell far too much as if it grew emptier each passing one. He did his duties, sat in on council meetings, but there was nothing which truly put away that feeling deep inside that he had made a mistake.

He was angry, of course he was. Twice now you had left him behind, when a little over three moons past, did it mark a year since he and you ran from these very halls together. Grabbing you to jump from the battlements and run into the wolfswood below as the sounds of yelling and barking increased to gain on you. You and him knew then, you wouldn't leave the other behind. Not now, not after every horror you both were forced to endure with agony.

Theon had seen and known things which were utter nightmares and you had as well, and such knowledge of that did not make leaving that bond behind easy. If he could pin point the worst of it he had ever known Ramsay to force you to endure, it would be an easy mark on such a map of horrors. It felt just as surreal now as it did then. That such a threat used only to scare you to comply had come to pass. Theon hadn't dared think what happened between you and Ramsay to push him to force that threat into fruition.

As he stood walked down the steps now, the silence in here was calm and serene. Nothing like the heavy one in Maester Wolkan's study.

If any knew what to say, none dared break the rooms silence. It was deathly quiet in the most horrific of manners, and even worse so, you were the one between the three of them which looked the most dispondant over it. You had from the moment Theon was dragged into the room.

It was no mistake what he walked in on to some degree. In a morose manner he was almost getting used to that being the normal procedure. After the worst of it, Ramsay would send him your way to ensure you always looked clean and proper despite what was done. He'd only ever send Theon right after such events, knowing there was no hiding what occurred in the immediate aftermath. He was smart enough at the least, to know when to keep you away from the watchful eyes of the Northerners around at your worst.

A threat was one thing, even knocking you around in front of them was the other, but sometimes Theon would walk in on things he dared not imagine. Whatever occurred when he walked in that afternoon was long since done, but still you had not even been allowed to dress. Yet Ramsay was already keen on making his way. Telling him to bring you to Maester Wolkan before you caught something. He hadn't known right away what he meant, but he figured it out. As did Wolkan.

You didn't have to even answer his questions for them to put it together. Asking if a bite wound he was tending to on your calf was from a hound, your silence spoke that answer, and the subsequent wounds Wolkan tended to afterwards said all that was needed to be said.

Once more, Reek stood in a shaking quiet barley having the courage to look. But on the inside, Theon had the stunning realization that you weren't going to last much longer. Ramsay hadn't even yet married you and he had- he couldn't even think such words. There were many unspeakable things done to him, done to you by Ramsay and yet Theon finally found the worst of it.

Neither of you said a word as Wolkan prompted you to a number of ailments, and Theon dared not try and question what each one was for. He didn't want to know. You had no life in your eyes, you looked at neither of them and any words spoken were cracked in a painful sounding strain of a whisper as it that was all that was left of your will.

He did know however, you begged for death in your eyes. He should've gotten it over with sooner, he should've done it when you both first arrived at Winterfell. It wouldn't even matter now he supposed, there was little which was worse then this.

“If there's some part of you that still wants to atone for what you've done, you'll just slit my throat in my sleep before that day comes.”

Theon didn't, and part of him that afternoon stood there worrying his lack of action had made your life more of a nightmare then it previously was. You said no more in Wolkan's study, no more as you left into the halls, and once you had found a cold spot up on the battlements, hardly dressed for the snow falling around, you continued to say nothing. Not as the sun was up, not at the supper the Boltons forced you to play pretend at, and not as you were finally graced with the privilege of going to sleep. Knowing as you walked there, you could hear the judging giggles of Myranda who no doubt knew all about what happened by then.

Theon didn't see you until the evening the next day, when you were walking silently arm in arm with Lady Walda. The younger woman carrying the conversation with little input from you. There was more emotion of you that day, but a pain in your eyes that was drawing closer and closer to killing yourself. You had more strength then Theon, if he was forced to do what Ramsay had made you do the day before, he would've done it already.

It was that same evening did Theon see her. He had on more then one occasion during his time in the Dreadfort, but not often since their move to Winterfell. She was once more dressed in black and a thin lipped frown that likely lived on her every waking hour. Lady Barbrey Dustin was meeting with both Boltons by the time he came upon them. Forced to Ramsay's side when you were spending time with Lady Walda. Roose Boltons insistence no doubt he thought. Getting you to play nice with his young wife would make the lie sell easier when the time came.

Roose and Barbrey seemed close, cordial but friendly in a manner Theon knew was not the norm for the man. They spoke of things that didn't matter to Theon, but they at one point as his back was turned, spoke of you. To them of course, he was only Reek. And back turned or facing their way, Reek was a creature, not a person.

“It's foolish if you ask me. You risk those hearing of her by allowing such freedom.”

Roose Bolton was sat back in his seat, as usual the only one without a drink in hand and was a calm as ever despite the silent but agitated Ramsay next to him. “She has never attempted to run, she does not speak to any she is not permitted to. What else would you have us do with her?”

Barbrey answered without hesitation. “Lock her in her chambers. She shouldn't be allowed to roam even the castle grounds. All is needed is one to hear about her and the people will rally to her side.” It was still strange to think that the realm all thought you dead. Theon was forced to see you tortured every day as you wished you were dead.

Not blinking, Roose raised but one eyebrow. “The North will rally to her side, when we present her to them with an heir. She is not to be hidden away forever, eventually people will find out. We are simply waiting until the right moment to do so when we already have more allied to us then against. Anything they hear before then is rumours and hearsay.”

Little emotion was found in Barbreys tone or expression but at the very least something vaguely associated to compassion might have been a trace found in her words. Her glare found towards that of Ramsay. “Rumours are one thing, but if in the time I have been here even I have heard about whispers of those hounds of yours, then others might be inclined to hear and spread it as well-”

“I'm sure you'll make your point eventually.”

Not receptive to Ramsay interrupting her, she let a pause sit in the air before more of a hiss spat out towards him. “You wish to defile the girl before wedding her, fine. But have even a shred of decency and keep such acts to a whore in a brothel. She is still our Queen.”

Theon did nothing because Reek wasn't supposed to react in anyway.

Roose let his gaze flicker towards his rattled son, the later gripping the goblet in his hand so tightly were it made of glass it would shatter. Normally, no one said a word about the things Ramsay was doing. His voice was tight but fooled none in the anger being held back. “My hounds are girls, my lady.”

Barbrey was as quick on the draw as Roose was to let it happen. “If I am not mistaken you need at least one or two males in order to produce a new litter of bitches, do you not? I'm sure such a beast was fully equipped for the task in your mind.”

The air was tense, Barbrey wasn't even defending against what was done to you, just that it would look bad should people know about it. You were as much an object to be abused as Theon was. No one here cared about the inhumanity of it all. Of course some of the Lords knew you were alive. The ones who sided with the Boltons or were doing so not of their own volition, but they couldn't do anything about it as much as the common people could.

Theon wasn't even sure if Harald Karstark, who seemed to have have a grudge against you for unknown reasons to him, would think this was even remotely acceptable behaviour. But all the three in the room were doing, was sitting in a study bickering about it as if it was an inconvenience.

Air thick only as long as it took Ramsay to huff a fake laugh. “Now now, my lady, the poor girl is my bride, how could you say I'd ever allow such things to happen to her. Or do you need her word on it?” Only glaring his way, Ramsay continued with ever growing confidence. “Shall I bring my lovely bride in here, drag her from her sleep and have her ensure you not a soul, man or otherwise has touched her since coming into our care?”

It was all a ruse no one bought here. They all knew you would never confirm what he had done in any capacity, not here, not to people who wouldn't help regardless. You would say he was your betrothed, that you loved him and were happy Ramsay took such careful protection of your well being in these trying times. You would play along because admitting the truth would mean accepting it was indeed, happening to you.

And after this, Theon wasn't sure you would ever admit a thing Ramsay had done to you.

“Ramsay.” Roose's tone cut through the thick tension in the air. “I'm sure the Lady Barbrey only means to ensure your bride's reputation is not sullied due to false reports. Some whose ears it may reach might not take well to such allegations more then others. Regardless of their own position.”

Both Boltons knew too well who they were talking about, but Theon at the time had not put it together. But the elder Bolton was all too aware the risk it posed should a certain bastard hear even a shred of such rumours.

Though, much time later Theon would admit, even when both Boltons were dead and gone, neither you nor Theon had brought up that event for sometime. Not to yourselves, not to each other, and certainly not to Jon. For how much he knew of what happened to you, the truth was, Jon had only been told perhaps a third of it, and none of which were close to the worst.

But even now, Theon couldn't stop seeing it. He should've gotten you out of there so much sooner. He should've gotten you out of there the day Yara tried coming for him.

Had he not been in such a terror, Theon would've gone with Yara, and make her and her men rescue you before they left. Get you out of there before Ramsay had ever touched you.

Instead as the sun hidden by winter grey skies tried peeking through the middle of Winterfell, Theon thought of much but tried further not to think about the hounds. He could only think that being angry you had left for what was right, made him in such a drastic field of wrong.

Theon knew what was coming and he still got mad at you for leaving to fight it anyways. The sheer fact that you had found enough in you to do such a thing, after such horrors beat any spark out of your soul made Theon feel guilty for the way he said goodbye. Or didn't.

He knew what was coming, and the moment you came to speak with him about it, he was short, dismissive, angry, and overly formal to end the conversation. He knew you were leaving so he wanted you to simply leave. You didn't bring him the first time you took off, why would he expect any better that time?

It wasn't about him, he knew that. And Theon felt more and more unwell as the months passed. The North was closing in on six months since you and Jon and gone beyond the Wall and Arya had done a significant amount of work to ensure the people that you both were still alive.

She'd stand up from where she took her place in Jons seat, short as any but with that loud voice she could deafen a room with and remind them that they thought her dead for five years. She had crossed the Narrow Sea and back and she was still alive, so they had to have faith in Jon and in you that six months was nothing.

“Jon said it could take them three months to get to the Frost Fangs, meaning it will take another three to come back. They'll be home soon, and they will bring Bran home with them. They'll bring back your children, Lord Howland, Meera and Jojen. They promised, and has Jon ever broken a promise to you before?”

Arya was good at defending her brothers honour, as Theon was terrible at having faith in you.

For everything said between he and Yara, everything that happened, you were the only sister he cared about. You were the sister he wanted to see come home. Yara had told Theon not to die so far from the sea, well Theon wanted to tell you not to die so far from the only home that matters.

But, as it turned out, Theon only had one place he wanted to express that guilt within. He hadn't been down here yet, in all his time back he hadn't been down there. Each step echoed within the vast halls, and by the time each statue passed of faces he did not know, Theon felt himself growing nervous. The moment he passed the statue of Brandon Stark, Theon knew the one to come was the brother he was buried next too.

It looked so much like him. The statue of Eddard Stark. The sword carved for his hands looked like that of Ice, the sword he long thought would take his head before Winterfell felt like a home. Stern and serious as he always was, and Theon knew Jon was right. Ned Stark was a better father to Theon then Balon ever was.

Balon died, and Theon never went home. Never wanted to come back for him. But he did stand in the crypts looking at Ned and felt that pull. Hoping he understood all he shamed his memory with, was not forever a stain between them. But his head was a mess and he just wanted to apologize for it all.

Take back how much he wronged the family who took him in like he belonged, how much he wronged you for letting you leave thinking Theon did not care you may not come back. He was still just as much a fool as Balon thought of him the first days back on Pyke.

You were the one thing Theon truly had left, as much as everyone else around him tried to make make amends between each other, you were the only one who never questioned Theons place back in your life. He was there and you never wanted him to feel he deserved otherwise. And he was stupid enough to let you go beyond the Wall thinking Theon was actually angry at you for it.

You weren't abandoning him the way Yara did. But the night was quiet and he knew there was plenty of time to sulk. Only, Theon could leave it to Arya to come barrelling down the halls of the crypts of her family shouting his name.

Pushing where he made a home for himself sitting against a wall, Theon shot his arms out to snatch her by her forearms as she panted for breath. An urgency in her eyes and wide as her tone was short and serious. The words should have been ones of good news, but yet they came out in sound of fear and the face of a girl who knew what was coming to her doorstep. But this time, Theon knew why.

And he couldn't sit there feeling sorry for himself anymore.

[new-revenant]

Ghost-ish for the WIP ask game

oh this one is pretty interesting looking back on it. The title is based on the sone “God-ish,” and I named it and all the chapter titles that way because I was listening to Trickle, a cover artist, quite a lot. Still do now, although he unfortunately took the God-ish cover down :(. Anyways, here are some snippets of the fic! It’s about the Fentons going to Gotham, stuff happens.

Here’s the funniest part of Chapter 1, To Prepare and to Go to Gotham City(only chapter not based on a song):

“But-but what about Batman?” Jazz stammered. Everyone looked at her quizzically. “You know, I don’t think he’ll like some random ghost hunters shooting bazookas-“ she side eyed Sam, who was currently giving Tucker a Fenton Bazooka, “-in, or near Gotham City, don’t you think? We could end up wanted by the Justice League!”

“You’re right Jazzy-pants,” Jack put his hand on her shoulder, “So get your goggles everyone, we’re going vigilante!” Everyone now looked at Jack, absolutely bewildered.

“Jack, how did you come to the conclusion tha-Danny!” Maddie tried to reason with Jack while Danny rushed out of the vehicle. Sam put on a spare pair of goggles that was just lying around as she and Tucker followed him.

“YOU PICKED THE WORST PEOPLE TO MESS WITH GHOST FU-“ Danny yelled, rushing to the front of the GAV, facing the ghost before tripping on his cloak and falling onto his face.

Part of Chapter 3, Trickle Down, Ghost Town(I didn’t write chapter 2 lol):

“Jason, why are trying to put five people into a dumpster?” Tim sighed. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, cackled.

“Oh, they’re all from rival gangs that hate each other, and I’m thinking that if I put their unconscious bodies in a locked dumpster they’ll all blame each other’s gangs and start a gang war,” Jason explained, putting in the third body inside the dumpster.

Tim groaned, “And then you’ll swoop in and defeat them all, right? This is the most…creative idea you’ve had so far, I’ll give you that.”

“Yep, but I’ll only take out their leaders, so you don’t have worry about a thing,” Jason patted Tim’s head before setting out to chain up the dumpster.

“You know what? I highly doubt that. At least you haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“I haven’t killed anyone that you know of,” Jason joked as he finished putting on an absurd amount of locks on the chains, then kicked the dumpster and clasped his hands, “Anyways, I’m going to go raid a storage area that I’m pretty sure some of the Joker’s goons are in, you coming?”

“You already know that I’m going along with you, whether you like it or not.”

“Thanks for being my babysitter for what, the third time this week?”

“Well it’s less than last week!” Tim laughed and punched Jason in the arm, “Now let’s go beat up some goons!”

And the only stuff I wrote for Chapter 5:

“So, er uh, Danny, right? What made you think I was a Ghost?” It was a simple question, really. Jason thought-if just for a moment-that he would get a simple answer.

To his credit, the answer was simple. It simply led to many more questions.

“Well, I can sense ghosts, and I sensed you,” Danny said with a steady tone, kicking his feet from the chair that was just a bit too tall for him.

[a-fandom-reimagined]

You didn't turn at her approach and you didn't flinch when she draped her royal blue cloak over your shoulders with more care than you were used to.

"It's cold out," she noted.

"Indeed."

"Are you alright?"

You weren't. Or at least you didn't feel like you were. But you weren't about to tell this legendary Amazonian Warrior that.

"You know that party going on inside is being thrown in your honor, right?"

You did. That's why you were out here in the freezing cold.

Diana sighed. "I can't tell you what to do Y/N and you don't have to talk to me. But if this is going to work out then you need to be able to trust us."

This meaning you're being a member of the Justice League.

Your hands tightened around the balcony railing, the metal whining, bending under your considerable strength.

You knew she hadn't meant it like that but it felt like she was kicking you out when you just joined.

Figures. After the disaster with the last one, you promised yourself that you were done with teams anyone. You still weren't sure what possessed you to join the League anyway. They were so…different from what you were used to.

And at the time different had seemed…better.

Safer.

Now you weren't so sure. You weren't sure about anything. You turned meeting Diana's gaze, guilt spasmed in your chest. The Justice League had gone out on a limb in inviting you to join them. They'd thrown a party in your honor. You hadn't even thanked them. You barely bothered to learn anyone's name. "I'm…sorry. Everyone's gone out of their way to be nothing but nice to me and I'm messing it up. I just…I don't know what to do. I've been on my own for so long--"

"You're not messing anything up, Y/N," she said with a patient smile. "Everyone in that room back there has suffered a loss. You're not alone. We know what you're going through. And I know we can be a little…over the top but I promise you it's from a good place."

"I know that," you nodded.

"Good. Now do you want to go back inside or should I offer to walk you home?"

"I think I'd like to go back inside. Do you think you could introduce me to everyone? Again?"

Diana flashed you that all white grin of hers. "It would be my honor."

REQUESTED! | REQUESTS: OPEN | REBLOG DON’T REPOST | GIF?

[illym]

It's July, and so I have a new wallpaper.

The Valentines take a beach trip because I love the beach. I feel like Rammy would get extremely focused on sandcastle building, with Elphelt helping her build a castle around a sleeping Jacko. Elphelt is horrifically sunburnt because she seems the type to forget to put on sunscreen.

ID in alt

I did in fact think deeply about all of their outfits.

Ramlethal - I headcanon that Ramlethal hates the feeling of things against her skin, so she's partial to wearing large poncho style things over whatever she can stand to wear directly against her skin. It's how she avoids needing to put on sunscreen (for her torso, at least). This is admittedly a watsonian (in-universe) explanation for the doyalist (real world) reason she wears barely anything under her giant cloak. In addition, she's transfem in my au so the physique-obscuring properties are an additional benefit. The blue is because of her favorite aunt. Her hair is tied up to keep it a bit off her neck, but she didn't think to pin it away from her eyes.

Favored beach activity: sand building.

Elphelt - I saw that swimsuit on Pinterest and thought it was extremely cute. I think Elphelt would pick clothes based on how cute or pretty they are, with less regard for comfort or practicality. The bandana came with the swimsuit. I don't think she would have one of the same color off-hand. Since she's someone who forgets to wear sunscreen, she should probably wear a swimshirt and swimpants... Or get somebody to remind her.

Favored beach activity: Hanging out with the others, roaming nearby shops.

Jacko - In my au Jacko is transmasc, but I think he'd still wear a bikini style swimsuit. He likes how he looks, he's just a dude. Probably short jean shorts with ripped cuffs, and something that ties around both his neck and back for maximum security. He's here to swim, play, and have fun with no restraint. The hat is to avoid getting head exhausted while napping, and to protect his head from sunburn. Thinking about it, I don't know if he'd be the sort to remember sunscreen... The sand hopefully protects him.

Favored beach activity: Genuinely everything. Swimming, cooking, sand building, napping, burying people...

Bridget - Transfem who's only gotten so far on estrogen (she takes lower levels than most to make sure her fighting ability doesn't suffer for her unfamiliarity with her own body). She's wearing a cute swimsuit, it's just unseen because of her coverup. Probably something with ruffles to disguise the shape of her body a bit, in white and some blues to match the coverup. The hat is for style. She's remembered sunscreen, but forgets to reapply it after the initial dose.

Favored beach activity: Splashing around the water (But not actually swimming), hanging out with the others.

Sylv - xe wears a swimshirt and trunks because she knows xe can't rely on remembering to reapply sunscreen. Black shirt to warm up faster when getting out of the water, and funky patterned trunks to balance out the boringness of the shirt. To be honest, her hair should be tied back, but I couldn't figure out how to draw it well.

Favored beach activity: Splashing around, swimming, taking long walks along the shore (half an hour to an hour per trip), a little of everything like Jacko (but with less energy).

Robo-Ky and Justice - they hate the water and they hate sand and they hate salty air. There is no world where they would visit the beach. It's a tradition at this point for Sylv and Bridget to take the Valentine kids to the beach every year while the two mechs do their own things. If they were here... Robo-Ky would probably be flying a kite. Justice would crawl the beach for interesting shells. I don't know if Roger is here, but if he is, it's because he's the only one who can be dry cleaned.

[beautifultypewriter]

Hi! I don't know if it's okay but can I choose Jory from GoT for mystical magical saturday event?

Jory? Jory Cassel? You want Jory? Omg. This is the best day ever. I LOVE Jory!!! No one has ever asked me to write him before. Omg. I love this. Thank you!!! I hope I did him justice.

The Prompt: Covering someone with a blanket

You knew it was silly. You knew you should have gone to bed hours ago, but you hated not knowing if they were safe. If he was safe. So you made yourself comfortable in the main hall. Or as comfortable as one could be sitting on a wooden bench and leaning against a stone wall. At least you were close to the hearth where a fire was still burning low. You tried to keep yourself awake, eyes gliding over the words of the book you had brought with you. It was proving futile though as the words started to blur and your eyes started to slip shut. You hadn’t even heard the thunk of leather against stone as the book slipped from your grip and hit the floor.

The hour was late as a small party rode into Winterfell. The men were quick to dismount their horses and move into the warmth of the castle. Lord Eddard had led his men to the main hall, stopping a servant on his way to ask that drinks be brought. The boy scurried away and Ned ran a hand over his face as his men filed through the door, Jory being the last in. The men dispersed, collapsing onto various benches as their exhaustion truly hit them.

Jory moved towards the fire with slow purposeful steps, but stopped short as he took in the form of his Lord’s youngest sibling curled up on one of the benches. Jory stared down at you, following the gentle rise and fall of your chest and noting the awkward angle that your neck was bent at. He winced as he thought of how that was going to be the source of pain for you in the morning. As he stepped closer to you, you shivered in your sleep and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Wasting no time, he swung his cloak from around his shoulders and laid it over you. Your shivering stopped and Jory smiled to himself. He reached down and gently lifted you into his arms.

Though he could feel the eyes of the others on him, he paid them no mind as he moved to the side door. It was pushed open for him and his eyes met Ned’s. Jory gave him a small smile and Ned returned it as he nodded his thanks. The captain continued his journey to your room, being sure to take careful steps so as not to wake you.

When he reached your room, he was able to nudge the door open and carry you inside with no issue. Jory laid you gently on your bed, his cloak still draped over you. He went to remove it, but stopped himself. Leaving the cloak wrapped around you, he pulled up your blankets and smiled, “Sleep well.” He leaned down a pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. As he pulled back, he let his fingertips graze your cheek, watching as a smile formed on your lips, a warmth blooming in his chest.

Jory pulled himself away from you and walked to the door. He turned back to get one more look at you. He smiled at your serene form and hoped that he’d see you and his cloak in the morning.

[bravo4iscool]

Hi! Can I request a bjorn ironside x female where she is a mermaid? He saves her from being capture and they fell in love.

helloooo🗣️

of course you can request that hehehe. i hope i did your request justice. i must say, i don’t know much about mermaids, especially in mythology and all that…

tag list - @bumblebeesfromvenus @yazt09

(masterlist | join my tag list!)

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!

bjorn wouldn’t say he believed in mythical creatures. sure, he’s heard tales about dwarfs and gnomes and what else there might be; giants and even mermaids but didn’t quite believe all those stories.

if there were supposed to be such creatures why has no one ever seen them? why are all the stories just hushed whispers, a faint song in the wind?

but today would be the day bjorn ironside, oldest son of the famous ragnar lothbrok, would be proven wrong. today would be the day bjorn ironside would start to question his whole world.

he just wanted to relax, stare out at the sea and forget everything for a while when a fisher boat caught his attention. they were quiet far out but bjorn could see that they struggled with their nets. he slowly stood up and walked further towards the water. should he row out and offer his help?

the idea passes when he hears a faint shout of success. the fishermen managed to pull their net onto the boat and were now rowing back towards the harbour of kattegat.

bjorn keeps his eyes trained on the boat, walking towards the docks when it finally arrives after some time. he watches the fishermen leave their boat, a blanket draped over their net.

bjorn frowns and leaves, deciding to wait until nightfall to check the boat. he was the price of kattegat, there was little he wasn’t allowed to do.

once the sun vanished and the city fell asleep bjorn grabbed a cloak and a torch, sneaking out of the house. his feet carry him over to the docks, searching for the fisher boat.

when he finally finds it the blanket is still draped over the net. without much thought he pulls the blanket away, freezing when he sees a woman laying in the boat.

he stumbles back, almost dropping the torch. why would these men catch a woman out on the sea and just leave her in their boat.

he manages to squeeze the torch between two loose dock planks and climbs into the boat. that’s when he sees that—maybe—the woman in that boat wasn’t exactly a woman.

his eyes raked over her body, the swell of her naked breasts, down to her stomach, past her hipbone. his eyes stop at her tail. she had…a tail.

his fingers were itching to touch it, to make sure it was real but he managed to restrain himself. the tail was slightly reflecting the light of the torch, making it slightly twinkle in the night. just the like starts in the sky.

her face was…arguably the most handsome face he’s ever seen. the way it looked to soft and—and like it was made for him. he was captivated by her beauty and grace, even though she wasn’t conscious…

that was when he noticed how dry the woman’s—mermaids—skin was. it looked almost…crusty.

now, bjorn didn’t know much about mermaids but there was one thing he did know; and that was that they would die if they were out of the water for too long.

so, without paying it a second thought he hoists the mermaid up in his arms and stumbles out of the boat rather ungracefully. he can’t help but notice the way she fit so perfectly in his arms…

he couldn’t take the torch without so he carefully walks along the docks until he reaches a secluded part of the harbour. with the mermaid in his arms he slowly walks into the water, submerging her once he was deep enough.

he hoped and prayed to the god that he wasn’t too late to save her.

-

your eyes flutter open and your frown when you don’t feel the familiarity of the water. that’s also when you notice hands on your body.

your body jerks and you try to wriggle out of that someone’s grip. “hey, hey,” you can hear the person talk, trying to calm you down but you couldn’t think straight.

you weren’t supposed to be seen, you were supposed to be a legend, a tale, a mystery.

“your secret is safe with me.” your eyes finally find the person holding you, its a man—a handsome man. he’s staring at you, his eyes fixated on your face.

“could you—“ your voice is raspy as you start to speak. “could you let me go please.” his eyes flicker down to his hands before he pulls them back and clears his throat.

you immediately swim away from him, submerging your body in the water until only your eyes and the top of your head were visible. you eyed him, curious of who he was and he hasn’t killed you already. you knew you should swim away and forget him but someone pulled you towards him, you couldn’t explain.

“i’m bjorn,” he says after a few quiet moments, his eyes never leaving yours. “i saved you.”

you blink at him, slightly tilting your head to the side. so struggling in that fisherman’s net wasn’t a dream. it really happened.

you fully emerge your head and give bjorn a faint smile. “thank you, bjorn.” your voice is sweet as you talk and you can’t help but notice to blush on his face.

he swallows the lump in his throat and coughs. “i, uh, think is better, if you…” he points towards the open sea with his head before he looks at you again. “—if you leave. i don’t want you to get captured…again.”

“i should,” you hum, swimming towards him in a slow pace. “but i want to see you again.” you’ve reached him now, looking up at him.

bjorn looks down at you, understanding the urge to see each other again but he knew it wasn’t safe for you. “it wouldn’t be safe,” he mumbles as his hand slowly reaches out to cup your cheek. 

“what if i don’t care?” you question in a hushed whisper.

“you should.”

“i know.”

a small smile tugs at bjorn’s lips before he pulls his hand back. “you should go. it’s almost sunrise…” he doesn’t want you to leave but he knows you should. it’s better that way; safer.

you slowly swim backwards, ready to leave but then you turn around again and swim towards bjorn, pulling him down into the water and pressing a kiss to his lips.

bjorn takes his face into your hands, deepening the kiss before he breaks always to catch a breath.

you smile while you peel his hands away from your face. “i’ll see you again, bjorn.”

that’s the last thing you say before you submerge into the water, swimming away as if nothing ever happened…