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liron-ao3 · 3 years

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But of course.

Dean runs a hand over his face, completely exhausted. He's so tired. It's nothing unusual. He never sleeps enough. But this again?

Damn it!

Where is the angel!? It's a question he has asked a thousand times, never getting an answer. Just once and then he had found him, pulled him against his chest, smiled from ear to ear, huffed in relief as he felt Castiel's rigid body in his embrace.

He had managed to ignore that Cass didn't hug back. He didn't want to think about what it meant. He didn't want to question his own motives, either. Sure, Castiel was his friend. Dean is a loyal person. But more than once, Benny had asked him, "Why?" If the angel was really worth the hassle. He had never found an answer other than a disgruntled, "Yeah."

Dean pushes up from the empty bed, pulls a shirt over his bare chest and pitter-patters barefooted over the bunker's cold floor. He'd like to call for his boyfriend, but that would wake Sammy and with him likely Eileen. She's seven months pregnant and struggles enough to get sleep with her restless legs and heartburn.

It's the fifth night in a row that Dean woke up to an empty bed. The former angel suffers from insomnia that even tops Dean's worst phases. Every night, Dean prays that his love might find rest in his arms. He's not sure who he is praying to. Jack? Maybe. Anyway, his son isn't listening. Hand's off.

Dean shuffles through the common places where Castiel usually tries to kill time - the kitchen, the library, the main room. Once, he even found him in the storage room where the Empty had taken him, standing at the exact spot where he had smiled while Dean's heart shattered into pieces. But he hadn't smiled then.

He hasn't smiled a lot since he's back. Not even when Dean had told him that he loved him, too. Not when they first kissed. Not when they first made love. He assured him that he wanted it, wanted him. And Dean decided to believe him. It would become better with time, he hoped.

To each of the few smiles that Castiel mustered, there is melancholy. No. This word isn't strong enough. There's something as heavy a lead pressing the former angel down, tinting every good emotion grey.

Dean hates it, can't shake the feeling that it's his fault. He thought he did the right thing, fighting him out of the Empty. But all he had gotten were tired eyes and a "You shouldn't have done that."

It had made Castiel so happy when he told Dean that he loved him that it was enough to summon the Empty. But now that he has him, nothing really seems to pierce the veil of darkness. It's so much worse than the worrisome, honey-collecting version of Cass all those years back. At least, he had smiled then.

It's superficial and stupid to wish for this, Dean knows that. It was just another way for Castiel to cope. He always carries all the world's burdens on his shoulder, especially Dean's crap. But it's not fair!

Dean never expected an apple pie life. Not really. But with Cass, he had hoped for a slim slice of it. At this point, he'd be thankful for a crumb.

He scolds himself inwardly for this train of thought. He's ungrateful. He falls asleep with his man snuggled against him every night. He looks in blue eyes when they make love. He holds his hand when they watch a movie. It's so much. More than he ever dared to dreamt of.

Dean's steps grow wider and faster as he nears his Cave. Maybe—yes! There are flickering lights under the door and subdued music coming from the room. Dean takes a deep breath before he pushes the door handle down.

Castiel sits in the armchair that is labelled his boyfriend's in Dean's head. He looks at the tv screen, his eyes fixed on a bumblebee collecting nectar.

Dean chuckles softly, calling attention to himself, hoping not to startle Castiel. He doesn't. His partner doesn't even so much as flinches.

"Bumblebees are funny. By all rules of aerodynamics, they shouldn't be able to fly," Dean says, hoping to pull his boyfriend's gaze to himself.

"That's not true Dean. Humans were just too fixated on their formulas for aeroplanes to see the dynamics behind the wingbeats, the vortex they produce, not to mention the joint I added to make it possible for them to kink the wings and heighten the weight they can move even further.

Dean sinks into his armchair. "You worked on creating them?" Castiel hums in affirmation. "Why are you watching a documentation then? You know them better than anyone."

Castiel is silent for a long moment and Dean wonders if he somehow insulted him. But then, there's a sound that he hasn't heard way too long and it makes his heart clench.

A chuckle.

Not as free and loud as he knows it can be, but it's there, echoing in the sparsely decorated room.

"It reminds me that my existence had meaning."

The short burst of hope crumbles to dust at these words. Dean fights against the tears brimming his eyes. Castiel saved the world, more than once, and especially with his self-sacrifice. They wouldn’t have defeated Chuck without him!

"Your life has meaning," Dean says, his voice carefully schooled. Castiel chuckles again, bit tjis time without mirth.

"I know."

It feels rehearsed, like an automatic reply to soothe Dean's nerves. No. This won't do! Dean gets up and down on his knee in front of the man he loves. He cups his cheeks with both hands, relishing that Castiel leans into the touch.

"You are important. To me, to Sam and Eileen, to Claire and Kaia, and so many more. We need you, man."

"You'd be well off with or without me," Castiel answers evenly and Dean covers the pain with anger, lets it build up in the very familiar way. He clenches his jaw and lets go of this boyfriend's face, gets up, turns, and kicks a pile of DVDs through the room.

Then he turns back, outstretched pointer hovering mere centimetres from Castiel's face.

"You have no idea!" The force of Dean's words makes Cass pull back - not in fear but in gut-wrenching surprise. "I burnt you on that pyre, spread your ashes in the meadow. I got you back just to let Chuck let us screw over once again. I'm not proud to say this, but with you gone, I thought of flipping the bird to this shit of a life and go down in a damn vampire nest or something."

"Your life is not shit!" Castiel counters, always willing to make Dean feel and think better of himself. Hell, he did it even when he thought he would die for good.

"Yes, you're right. But still—" Dean runs a hand through his hair. His brain isn't awake enough for the depth of discussion they need to have and neither is Castiel's judging by the looks of his lover's red-rimmed eyes. He takes a deep breath. "You are my home, Cass. My rock. I don't say this to make you stay or to make you put on a brave face. I appreciate that you're not acting as if everything is fine. But we need to talk about what's going on in your mind. What makes you so sad all the time. I can't—"

Castiel looks at him with unhidden fear. Hell! The man fought demons and angels, God himself. He shouldn't look like that because of a hunter who feels so many things that he can never properly put them into words.

"I can't ignore it any longer. You need help. Hell, we all need therapy. But, damn it, Cass! I want us to be happy. I want you to be happy. And don't tell me you are. You're a terrible liar."

There is another chuckle and Dean wants to cry. Because it's all too much and not enough. He can't make his boyfriend better and that sucks big time. He's a doer, a carer, a damn Acts of Service love languager. He's shitty at gifts that his man understands, he's bad with words when it counts. But he can touch, is allowed to touch now. So he does.

He pulls Cass into his arms, feels him melt against him. He brushes his hand through the unruly mop of hair. "Come to bed. Sleep. Tomorrow, we'll take care of this, okay?"

He feels Castiel's head nod against his shoulder. He presses a kiss into his hair and pulls back, scrutinising him for a long moment. There is the ghost of a tired smile on his lips. Dean counts it as a win.

He switches off the tv and leads him to their bedroom, tucks him in before he slides under the covers, and pulls him close. "I am here. And I am happy that you are here. Never doubt that," Dean murmurs. "You're the best thing ever happening to me."

"But I'm broken, Dean. I can't be of any use to you, now that I lost the rest of my grace."

Dean huffs his anger out through his nose. "If you're broken, we'll find a way to fix you. And the other bullshit—don't you dare think that's what we kept you around for. You're family. Like a brother to Sammy, a father for Claire, the man I love. Don't get pissed, but your love has always been your strongest asset. You saved me from me a million times. Hell, just think of Jack." He takes a deep breath because his anger won't solve anything. "You are love and you are loved. You don't need to be useful and still, you are. Every. Single. Second."

Castiel looks at him with glassy eyes. "I want to believe you."

Dean presses a kiss on his forehead. "I know." He brushes a strand of hair out of Castiel's eyes. "Just promise me you'll try."

"I will," Cass whispers and then he smiles. Tired, but enough to form crinkles around his eyes. And it's just a start. Dean knows that. But it's enough for now.

"Sweet dreams, honey," Dean whispers and cradles Cass' head to his neck. "I'll watch over you."

#dean winchester #castiel #deancas #destiel #fanfiction #deancas fanfiction #deancas fanfic #destiel fanfiction #destiel fanfic #deancas oneshot #destiel oneshot #depression

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carbonitekisses · 5 years

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Last Chance for Honor

In which Jon breaks down after learning of his parentage,

From a distance, dragonsong echoes eerily through the godswood trees. Jon quickens the pace and wills himself to ignore the call. He may not be a Stark but he holds no allegiance to the three-headed dragon.

Jaime arrives at Winterfell to fulfill an oath,

His horse nearly throws him off when it hears dragons screeching high above them. He uses his metal hand to try and calm his horse and grips the reins with his left. The horse is not the only one left skittish and wary; people fearfully scan the sky and seek shelter. Jaime himself tenses as he remembers the ambush in the Reach. Burn them all... She really is her father's daughter. Jaime strokes the horse’s flank to soothe him before urging him forward once more.

and Daenerys learns of Cersei’s betrayal.

The king slayer stands in the middle of the Great Hall. He ports nondescript leathers and clothing, nary a roaring lion in sight. The only marking upon him is his golden hand—his sword was removed upon his arrival. He is vulnerable and defenseless, surrounded by both northerners and Unsullied preventing escape.

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"She killed them. Daenerys killed my father and Dickon because they wouldn't bend the knee."

"Don't say you're sorry. You didn't do it. You didn't know; I can tell that much."

"Why did you bend the knee to her?"

"And if we survive the Night King, what then?"

"Even if she ignores that the Baratheons won by right of conquest, the throne could never be hers by blood right."

"I mean that she's not the last Targaryen."

"I think you know, Jon. You're not simple. You never have been. Dragons don't let just anyone mount them."

"At the Citadel I—Gilly, really—found the High Septon's diary. And Bran confirmed it. Rhaegar and Lyanna married. And you, you're—"

"Listen, to me! Eddard Stark did it to protect you at your mother’s behest. If King Robert found out who you really were he would have killed you. Friendship with your father be damned."

"Jon, you're my brother. Snow, Targaryen, I don't care. But—"

"You can't just ignore this. Secrets like this will make themselves known."

"You believe that? That she won't care that you have a higher claim?"

"You know the Free Folk, you know the North. They'll never bend the knee to her. They might keep quiet while the dead march. But once this war is over I won't be surprised if a war between the living comes to pass."

"And if they don't bend the knee? Will she have them all executed like she did my father and brother?"

The memory of his father-turned-uncle is strongest here in the godswood. Jon remembers watching Ned Stark tend to Ice underneath the careful supervision of the heart tree’s weeping face.

The heart tree has never looked more heartless and cold.

Jon wishes he didn’t have a heart. His treacherous brothers should have done him the favor of cutting the pulsing muscle out of his chest. If Jon was a heartless man he would use Longclaw to tear and rip apart the bleeding face that’s watching him now.

Instead, he unsheathes Longclaw and unleashes his anger and fear upon an ash tree. He lifts his arm back and hacks away at the tree’s trunk.

Hit,

His father was never his father.

after hit,

He can't ever be a Stark. He isn't even a fucking Snow.

after hit, the tree takes it all without complaint.

He bedded his father's sister without knowing who she was, who he was, and–and–

Jon stops Longclaw mid swing and stares up at the cloud-filled sky. He opens his mouth to scream but instead chokes on unshed tears.

Winterfell’s bastard.

That is who he believed himself to be.

For the entirety of his life he had hoped his mother would still be alive. It did not matter if she was low or high born. And his fath–his uncle had promised to tell him. On the Kingsroad he had said—he had said—

Now, even his parting words, and where he said them, seem to mock him.

“You are a Stark. You might not have my name but you have my blood.

"The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother. I promise.”

He drops Longclaw into the snow, uncaring of where it lands. Tired and drowning, Jon falls against the butchered tree, its mangled flesh scraping against his own. The ground lures his weight down down down until he's on his knees.

For a second time, he mourns the loss of the man that raised him. The first was upon learning of his death. Now, upon learning he was never his father at all. He mourns the loss of a mother he will never meet. Not in this life and perhaps never in death. He mourns a father who will never compare to the man who raised him. A king who cast aside his wife, abandoned his children, and threw the seven kingdoms into the lion's den.

Sam was right; Jon knows that his lord fath–Lord Stark hid the truth to save him. He hid it under snow and in Winterfell’s crypt. Half-lies and omissions became a truth the world accepted because it was better than believing the honorable Lord Stark would lie—never minding the dishonor a bastard's existence brings.

Jon wonders if his life was worth such trouble.

He is the most honorable man I’ve ever known. He lied to the world, tainted his honor, and safeguarded the lie until his death to keep a promise of protection. Jon feels a sense of kinship and understanding with Eddard Stark. He might not be my father but in this we are alike.

The tree's scars run deep and jagged underneath his examining fingers. I'm a liar, too, like him.

I compromised my honor to protect the North and all those who inhabit it. It is an uneven exchange, he knows. My honor is a paltry price to pay.

Snow melts underneath his knees. He laughs. And laughs and laughs and cries. He's bent the knee to a tree of no consequence. He's bent the knee to a plant but never to her. He never did bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. Jon digs his hands through his hair and attempts to pull out the rotten memories that have taken root inside.

Wights on fire, Viserion falling. A hazy figure looming over him as he lies frozen-boned and immobile on a boat heading south. Tiny skulls littering the Dragon Pit. Hooded violet eyes following him. Dragons on a cabin door.

Silver hair, panting breath, skin that tastes of smoke and—

Jon savagely shakes his head but the memory clings on and refuses to leave. Pleasure, the memory says, you found pleasure in your aunt. Don't deny it; you’re a Targaryen. He found pleasure in her arms and she found pleasure in his; her moans and scratching hands told him so. If he hadn’t heard of her barrenness he might’ve never done it; the possibility of bringing another bastard into the world a cruelty he refuses to commit.

Jon knew crossing the threshold into her room would bind him to her for however long she wished it. When he looked down at her, waves crashing against the hull of the ship, he saw storms of fire in her eyes—inconstant and mercurial. He saw a queen who made no efforts to rescue her allies. He saw a woman hungry for power and prophecy. He saw a conqueror ready to take flight for the Red Keep at any moment, threatening to kill thousands for a metal chair.

(Missandei had claimed her to be benevolent and just. She told him how the Dothraki and Unsullied followed Daenerys and chose her as their queen. He wondered at how such an intelligent woman didn't notice the hypocrisy in her words; Westeros never chose Daenerys and yet she waged an unnecessary war to claim a continent that had already suffered under Fire and Blood.)

And so he gave her what she wanted and desired. She wanted him to warm her bed and so he did; he fucked her and she fucked him. He believed his body would be an inconsequential thing to give; he never gave her promises of love or affection and she didn’t ask for them. Daenerys wanted him, and he needed her. He needed her to never stray. He needed her to be truly committed to the Great War. He needed her to stay and fight, and not abandon the North like she did the Sands, Tyrells, and Greyjoys.

He sealed the exchange with a kiss.

Jon had yielded to the idea of a future with her, if she wanted that of him. Affection, he thought, wasn't inconceivable. He would have stayed at her side for however long she desired it.

I thought I could perhaps love her, in time. Jon rubs his face clear of frozen tears. But now? I can't continue this play. I've fallen into a trap of my own making and, he thinks of his family, possibly dragged them into it as well. The very people I've sworn to protec—

A raven caws and startles him. Jon looks above at the intruder. Its plumage is sleek and midnight black; it shows a keenness in the glint of its eyes. The black bird cocks its head to the side, and flies to perch itself on the heart tree's branches. Out of the thickness of the trees comes Ghost. He is as quiet as ever; white fur and red eyes a reflection of white bark and blood-red leaves.

"Ghost? What are you doing here, boy?"

His snout sniffs the snow around Jon, as if looking for something. Finally, he raises his head with Longclaw's grip in his jaw. The direwolf drops it before him, and urges him to take it. Once he does, Ghost walks in the direction of Winterfell only stopping when he sees that Jon isn't following him. Unsteadily, Jon braces himself against the ash tree and stands. His direwolf has never led him astray. There must be something happening in Winterfell.

The raven flies away to someplace Jon cannot see or follow. I'd almost believe it was waiting for me to leave.

Jon sheathes Longclaw and casts one last glance towards the heart tree. Keep my secrets, tree. And guard my heart, too. The weeping face stares back.

The ash tree weeps sap as well, but Jon pays it no mind. It has no face and therefore no mouth to betray him with.

Jon follows Ghost back to Winterfell.

As they get closer to the keep, Jon tries to cast off the dread that's climbed onto his back but finds it a futile task. Sam's whispered fear has lodged itself within his lungs and poisons him with each ebb and draw of breath:

"And if they don't bend the knee?”

He thinks of everyone who has opposed Daenerys so far. He thinks of little Lyanna Mormont. He thinks of Lord Manderly.

He thinks of Sansa.

His cousin. His headstrong and willful...cousin; a woman he knows will never accept Daenerys as queen, especially after learning of the Tarlys; the lady of Winterfell who has held the North together during its most turbulent time; a Stark whose influence and importance Daenerys has taken notice of and mentioned to him more than once.

"Will she have them all executed like she did my father and brother?"

Winterfell rises before him and he is Jon Snow once more.

Jaime’s horse nearly throws him off when it hears dragons screeching high above them. He uses his metal hand to try and calm his horse and grips the reins with his left. The horse is not the only one left skittish and wary; people fearfully scan the sky and seek shelter. Jaime himself tenses as he remembers the ambush in the Reach. Burn them all... She really is her father's daughter. Jaime strokes the horse’s flank to soothe him before urging him forward once more.

Bronn, the self-serving ass, decided to stay in Wintertown's shabby imitation of a brothel. "I'm not about to ride in with the Lannister that killed the dragon queen's father—I've seen her burn others for far less.” A dark look passed quickly before he said, “Call me a coward if you want, I don't care. Come and get me if they let you live, ey?"

And so it is that Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, rides into Winterfell alone and with no fanfare—a pitiful, though well-deserved, contrast to the last time he came. Back when he was despised for being a Kingslayer, not a Lannister.

Perhaps Bronn had the right of it, he thinks as he’s almost immediately apprehended upon passing through the gate, even I wouldn’t ride into Winterfell with Jaime Lannister if I could help it.

Faces with hollowed out cheeks sneer and yell out. Lannister, they curse and hiss, Kingslayer!

For these people there is no distinction between the two. Both are markers of depravity and cruelty. He refuses to lower his head in shame as he is escorted to gods-know-where. He cares not for their opinion. Judgement and a chance for honor lies elsewhere—and he is ready to face it.

The king slayer stands in the middle of the Great Hall. He ports nondescript leathers and clothing, nary a roaring lion in sight. The only marking upon him is his golden hand—his sword was removed upon his arrival. He is naked and defenseless, surrounded by both northerners and Unsullied preventing escape.

Daenerys presides over the hearing at the center of the head table, flanked by Jon, and Sansa Stark. Her council is present as are Bran Stark, Ser Davos, Lyanna Mormont, a northern lady, a lord from the Vale, and a lady knight. She and the north hold little love for the maimed lion. Let's see how well this lion fares.

“I see you are alone, Jaime Lannister,” she says his surname with veiled contempt. “When should we expect your sister’s armies to arrive?”

"There are no armies. There never was. I'm the only Lannister soldier you will see north of the Neck."

Daenerys remembers seeing Jamie Lannister for the first time.

This man, she had thought, this man took everything away from me when he killed my father.

Daenerys had looked at the murderer before her and had seen him for what he was. He wasn't the extraordinary creature that prowled her nightmares when she was a little girl. His skin bore no markings of wickedness. The hair atop his head was golden and soaked in sunlight. His armor was well-crafted but held no magical qualities. He was lacking a hand of flesh but that was the extent of his uniqueness. He was an ordinary mortal man. She was almost disappointed by him.

Jamie Lannister would have fared better under disappointment.

Today, Daenerys seeks justice and retribution.

"'I will march them north to fight alongside you in the Great War': is that not what she said?" she looks to Tyrion. "Your sister pledged her forces to fight alongside us in the war against the dead." Her eyes flick away from her Hand; he resolutely refuses to look at her, preferring to stare stupidly at his brother. "I withdrew mine and marched them north because she promised to do the same."

She should have never trusted a Lannister.

Lannisters are not lions, they are snakes hiding amongst the grass waiting to strike and sink their fangs. While Daenerys is here in this white wasteland, Cersei Lannister is reclaiming every last inch of land she had lost. All the sacrifices she has made turn to ash in her mouth at the thought of Cersei sitting calmly on the Iron Throne. I should have razed the Red Keep to the ground as soon as I landed on Westeros. Daenerys recalls how affectionately Tyrion spoke of his older brother. There was love there. Perhaps Tyrion never stopped working for the usurpers. Why should I believe there is wildfire underneath Kings Landing? He could very well be lying in order to save his family. Olenna Tyrel had the right of it. She was no rose, or lion, or wolf. She is Daenerys, mother of dragons, the last Targaryen in the world. The throne is my birthright. I've forgotten my house words: Fire and Blood. I would be queen of the seven kingdoms by now if I hadn't forgotten them.

She opens her mouth to order the Unsullied to apprehend him but Sansa Stark speaks to the right of her. "Why have you come north, Ser Jaime?"

"I'm no longer a ser, lady Sansa."

"The question still stands," Sansa Stark leans forward, "If your sister has failed to fulfill her pledge, why have you come north?"

"My sister does not control me. I cannot ignore what I saw at the Dragon Pit. And as somebody told me," here, a small smile, "This goes beyond houses. I have come to pledge myself to—"

Daenerys scoffs, "You murdered a king, my father, who you were honor-bound to protect. You have just confessed that your sister, Cersei Lannister, has broken her own oath to me. Why should I believe you? For all I know, she could have sent you to kill me. It's an efficient and tested strategy, using one Lannister man to kill a Targaryen monarch."

"Out of all the dishonorable things I have done, killing—"

Tyrion tries to silence his brother, "Jamie—"

"Killing your father is one I do not regret." Daenerys wishes she had Drogon here to burn away the defiance in the set of his brows. Strangely, his eyes deviate from hers and land somewhere to the right of the head table. "There are others I deserve to be punished for. But I will not apologize for plunging my sword into the mad king. If I hadn't he would have leveled King's Landing with wildfire. I'll never apologize for it."

How dare he speak about my father's murder in such a callous manner? She's aware her father was not a gentle man but she is tired of being reminded of it time and time again. It is not a statement he makes but an accusation against her. She is not her father. "You should watch your tongue, Kingslayer, lest you find yourself at my dragon's mercy."

"I've witnessed your dragon's 'mercy' in the Reach. Forgive me if I'd rather face the butcher's block. "

The lord from the Vale shares a look with the Mormont girl sitting next to him. He clears his throat and asks, "Speak clearly, Lannister. What happened in the Reach?"

Tyrion finally turns to look at her and Daenerys hates him for it. She will not be shamed for standing her ground that day. It is within her right as queen to execute any and all traitors. They are all hypocrites, these Westerosi. They execute with ropes and swords. She does it with dragonfire. In the end the result is the same, one less soul in the realm of the living.

The Kingslayer glares at Tyrion before whipping around to address the table where the northern council sits. "You don't know?" His question is met with silence. "She burnt a thousand wagons—most of which contained the last harvest." He takes a step forward, " She burnt—"

Sansa Stark interrupts him and tartly asks Ser Davos how many animals her dragons have been fed since they arrived.

Daenerys knows what she is trying to do and she will not stand for it. Sansa Stark might be lady of Winterfell, but Daenerys is her queen. She snaps to the right and wets her lips, "The Targaryen forces brought their own wagons of food, Lady Sansa, in case you’ve forgotten."

"I have not, your grace. Three hundred wagons is an easy quantity to remember—and fewer than a thousand. You brought some wagons of grain but little if any livestock which is what your dragons feed on." The red-haired Stark continues facing forward, not turning to look at her. "I ask again, Ser Davos: how many animals have the dragons devoured since landing in the north?"

The Onion Knight gives Daenerys an apologetic glance before answering, "Near seventy, my lady."

She continues her questioning, asking if they have all come from the Targaryen stock. Ser Davos replies in the negative, and Daenerys turns to Jon, incensed at his sister's attempt to undermine her. She had told him to keep his sister in line. He looks just as angry as her when his eyes meet hers before softening. Daenerys is glad at least someone sees how unnecessary this conversation is. Her dragons can eat whatever they want; without them the north will fall.

"Lady Sansa," Jaime Lannister says her name with urgency and takes a step towards the head table; Daenerys appreciates how Jon reflexively places his hand on Longclaw to protect her. "Burnt bushels should be the least of your worries. The woman sitting next to you burnt my men alive after they defeated the Tyrell army in Highgarden. Her and the Dothraki ambushed us as we were transporting the harvest back to the capital. The woman you have all proclaimed queen burnt Randyl Tarly and Dickon Tarly alive after they refused to bend the knee. Just like Aerys Targaryen did to your grandfather and uncle, she murdered a father and son."

Silence reigns in the Great Hall. She hears Jon's leather gloves tighten around his chair's armrests.

"I am not my father." She will defend herself if no one else will. "I let them choose. And they chose to die."

She hates Jaime Lannister and rues the day she offered Tyrion Lannister the golden pin that rests upon his doublet. Who is this oathbreaker to condemn her for handing out justice in her own kingdom? "It is within my right as queen to execute traitors. I now offer you the same choice, Kingslayer. Bend the knee to me or refuse and die."

"His life is not yours to take, Daenerys Targaryen," a whisper denies her from the right of Sansa Stark. "His life is not yet forfeit."

Bran Stark unnerves her. He knew about her brother and how he died. He knew about Viserion. The youngest Stark speaks truths and secrets as easily as others drink wine. If it were any other to interrupt her...Daenerys notices even Sansa Stark seems surprised by her brother's claim.

"Jaime Lannister pushed me out of the broken tower. He is the one that crippled me. His life belongs to House Stark."

The monster in front of her hangs his head in shame. The hall erupts with noise. Daenerys hears Jon speak for the first time, "You fucking—"

The crippled boy raises his voice, "It doesn't matter; we don't have time for this." The Great Hall falls into a tense silence ready to break at any moment. "Jaime Lannister, step forward and join oathkeeper. Fulfill the oath you swore—" he pauses, and beckons the lady knight. She stands with both her sword and the Kingslayer's "—here is your last chance for honor."

The Kingslayer is taken aback by Bran Stark's words. Here is your last chance for honor? What does he intend to do? Nonetheless, after taking his sword from the lady knight, he bends the knee in front of the head table and lays the sword on the floor. It is only right, she thinks, after what he did to her father. There is a sense of vindication, having the Kingslayer at her feet.

"I offer you my services, Lady Stark." Daenerys' jaw tightens. "I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa Stark confidently stands, her voice cloyingly innocent, "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor." Jaime Lannister lifts his head and looks at Sansa as if she were his salvation. Daenerys tastes blood. "I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise."

The traitor and murderer rises, now cloaked under the protection of House Stark—no, of Sansa Stark.

Daenerys has been robbed of justice. She has been denied retribution.

Yes, Olenna Tyrell was right. She is a dragon and she is tired of listening to clever men with clever plans that never work in her favor.

I will take what is mine with Fire and Blood.

#jon learns the truth of his parentage #jaime arrives at winterfell #dany learns of cersei's betrayal #read all tags please #grey!dany #pov trap #jon snow #jaime lannister #sansa stark #jonsa #jonsa fic #anti-daenerys #anti-jonerys #players & pieces #last chance for honor

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nctsukashii-archive-blog · 6 years

Note

"Hiii." He stumbles away from the doorway, entering the other's apartment. "Kokichi's workin. I can never be left alone, or else I'll do dumb shit huh?" He stares confusingly at the objects on the table, giggling to himself. "There was.. Something I gotta-" He interrupts himself, gasping as he headed towards the poor confused cat. "Oh no you're so cute." He's tearing up. "I would live for this damn cat."

When Saihara practically tripped his way into his room, Hoshi couldn’t stop the pang of sadness that his in his chest. How many times had this happened now? How many times had be seen Saihara shit-faced or tear-stricken? More times than anyone should have. The apprentice swallows his guilt at the words, ‘I can never be left alone or else I’ll do something dumb’, practically echoing in his head for a bit. How terrible, he mused to himself. Saihara’s frowns and tears were much more common than smiles and laughs.

“Careful with him,” Hoshi chuckled- although anyone could tell that it was forced, “Yuki needs to be treated softly.” The hour was then spent watching the drunk from afar roll around on the carpet, cat pawing around and an occasional chime when the detective was being a little too rough. Thankfully after a while Yuki escaped to his bedroom (he’d have to buy an apology treat for the guy), leaving Hoshi the ample opportunity to lay the bumbling drunk onto the couch to sleep. “He’ll play more in the morning. He’s tired, like you. Bucket’s on the floor in front of you if you need it. Just ask if you need anything, I’ll be right here.” Because like hell was he going to leave the foot of the couch after all that.

Couldn’t have Saihara hurt himself after all. Ouma would prolly get pissy, and overall it would just be worse for everyone in the long run. That, and it just hurt to leave family behind. Not that Hoshi deserved something like that anyways. Once or twice Saihara had gotten up, a drink of water here, a trip to the bathroom there (although a part of him wished Saihara had sliced his neck open with a razor when Hoshi himself wasn’t looking- at least when he’d get sent back to prison for a confession of homicide he’d be executed on the spot), before the latter hours of the night started to roll in without interruption.That was when his mind started to wander.

Maybe Saihara was finally realizing how dumb it was to bring a killer such as himself out of prison. All that empathy quickly diminishing once he truly realized what it meant to live near someone so horrible. Finally getting his head out of the clouds to see the stares people gave him when he went out, or the insults barely veiled in crowds as business would be carried out. Killers didn’t deserve second changes, and maybe the only thing that helped him realize this was a bottle of booze and tear stained cheeks.

Maybe Saihara was disgusted by the prisoner after all. Once he truly got to see how much the prisoner tried his best, without the confines of a prison school for help, it was just too repugnant to handle. Not that Hoshi would disagree with such an assessment; he himself held nearly nothing positive to say for himself no matter how much he tried and wanted to be normal and not so negative. A part of him believed Saihara would have just said it to his face, like the times he had truly gotten so angry at work, but that was just an assumption right? Did he even really know Saihara all beyond assuming things?

….No, he didn’t really. “What a friend I am, huh?” He asked aloud- voice barely a whisper. He knew jack shit about Saihara- absolutely nothing besides the general idea that Saihara is nice, or is really good at saving face. God, how blind was he in the end? Blind from the truth and the world by rose-tinted glasses that had thought someone would genuinely care or respect anyone like him. No wonder Saihara was drinking his guts out, it was the most obvious signal besides the avoidance of eye contact. Saihara just hated him, and this was the way he showed it without saying so.

But who was he kidding? Certainly not himself. Saihara was nice- a really nice guy, Hoshi knew it beyond assumptions just from the way the detective looked when he helped others. That smile and little glint of life in his eyes, that was honest kindness. A kindness he barely got to see. Saihara couldn’t lie to save his fucking life, despite the fact he lived with a liar. Ironic in a sense, but that only made the idea Saihara hated him dissipate into something far far worse.

Maybe Saihara was just stressed. Stressed about a killer so close, stressed about the endless paperwork that meant for him, stressed about the title of Supervisor (which Saihara had admitted he wasn’t quite qualified for, god why hadn’t he seen it sooner?) Saihara was trying his hardest to make it through it all- all the difficulty and the trial and error and all the police hearings and the mandatory visits and the papers and the people that talked about him behind his back and the rumors and the days he just had to spend near someone so revolting- it was probably killing him. Saihara was dying right before his eyes, booze in hand and face always wet- god Hoshi was dumber than he thought. This is just Saihara’s way of coping with stress. He’s too stressed out by everything and it’s all his fault for it. It’s all his fault for the way Saihara was hurting himself. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? It was so obvious. But he already knew the answer to that didn’t he?

He really was an idiot.A soundless laugh left his ugly mug, leaving nothing but a pit in his stomach. It felt so empty inside, nothing but a terrible sense of misery and pity and nothing that he wanted to do anything to get rid of it. He wanted to scream, to cry, to punch something, to hurt something, to kill something or himself or scratch or bleed or die die die-But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He was just too tired. Tired of trying, tired of hurting people close to him, tired of being alive. Too tired- too lazy, to just end it all himself and save everyone the trouble. Maybe because deep down he knew he selfishly wanted to stay alive for whatever reason; to find purpose in his empty shell of a life. But what if his purpose was to only hurt people? Did he really want to live if all he did was hurt others?No, he didn’t.

But it’s wrong to think Saihara would just be okay with scrubbing blood out of the carpet, or would want to throw out a corpse into the dumpster. The detective was stressed and hurting enough as is, he didn’t deserve to have to spruce up a corpse for officers when they’d inevitably come through the door. If he wanted to help, there was really only one way he’d be able to do it.

A shiver went down his spine at the thought- he’d forgotten just how awful it truly was since he’d been living near Saihara. It was horrifying almost, just thinking back to the same old way he’d been before. But, it was the right thing to do- the right thing for Saihara’s health. He wouldn’t let anymore family be hurt because of himself.

By the time morning came up, Hoshi had come up with a plan. A simple plan, but a plan nonetheless. It would make Saihara happy. It would make Saihara lively. It wouldn’t hurt Saihara anymore. It would save Saihara’s reputation from anymore defeat, it would make Saihara be honest, it would make Saihara guilt free. It was the best for both of them, no matter how much it hurt the prisoner to think about.

A click of the door and he was out, note placed on the coffee table in front of the couch as well as some Bufferin tablets and a glass of water. ‘Take two. I’m getting coffee and breakfast. Be back soon. Please be safe. I’ll have food when I get back.’

#09. I'M CRYING DETECTIVE; HOW SWEET THE SOUND #parchments :: inbox #blindedhope #alcohol tw #alcoholism tw #self harm mention tw #death mention tw #death idealization tw #suicidal thoughts tw #suicidal idealization tw #intrusive thoughts tw #ask for triggers if needed #//damn hoshi way to make everything abt urself u big selfish bitch : /

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mirrored-skies · 3 years

Text

Akem Manah

Johannes falters, turning their head to look over their shoulder at their students, as if wondering if you heard that: but you did, clear as day, even if you have no godly idea what it could mean...

Johannes — Udyana? Other half?

You all knew, however vaguely, of the tower’s legends, but up until now, you’ve been led to believe that they were... just that. A tourist story, to add just a bit of flair to this old field trip.

Nothing you expected to meet face to face with. Johannes’ — Udyana’s? — eyes glint in the fire of the torches around you, and you begin to fear that you’ve been sharing your time in this tower with an unqualified stranger.

The next words come out slowly and deliberately, the white-haired figure’s hands balling into an uncomfortable fidget with their lanyard, unable to take their eyes off their ‘other half’s’ extended finger.

“What are you talking about?”

This time, it is not a sneer, a grin, a snicker or a chuckle that escapes Iragala's lips. Instead, they break out in laughter- uproarious and cruel, the kind of sound only someone mad with anger could make. Then, they turn towards you all, the sixteen students of Hope's Peak, and address you all.

"Listen well, o children of man! For the one you see before your eyes, the one who had pretended to be your cicerone, is naught but a liar!"

They raise their right hand, emphasizing their point in a very theatrical fashion. They then glare at you- and it is clear that they are enjoying this far more than they should- and continue.

"Their true identity is that of Udyana! They are one such as myself, bearing the title of a deity, the heavy crown of this tower's protector!"

They say that last part with a tone dripping with disdain.

"My equal and opposite, indeed! As me and them both-"

"Be silent, you damned soul!"- Johannes snaps, cutting the other figure off with a sweeping gesture of their arm - in that instant, their sleeve is long and withered, a thick white robe. Their headband gleams in the tower's light, and there, shadows no longer cast on it.

— A mortal form is being shed before your very eyes.

"You will not claim to be my equal!" Their voice booms, echoing unnaturally in a rather busy room, and with another large gesture, their stuffy cardigan billows out into long white robes, and you swear they even grow several inches taller as their fingers stretch thinner and longer - whatever Johannes is, they are very evidently not human, and even the staunchest atheists among you feel a deep, unsettling fear at the sight of this.

"I wish to nurture, and you - destroy! You will not do as you please with these innocent mortals who did no wrong!"

...You feel like you've been caught up in something far, far above you.

Just looking at the people before you makes your head hurt — this is no dream, clearly, as the heat in the tower's air threatens to knock you unconscious, and the being before you is very clearly Johannes, even if changed in some way, but... what else could it even be?

You're not sure you have any answers for that, and can only watch as Udyana continues to threaten their other half — gesturing widely with an arm to try and usher you out, to somewhere safer than here, but Iragala's eyes pin your feet to the floor like a hapless moth on a taxidermist’s board.

Upon seeing this, Iragala gives another laugh, as they clap- mocking Udyana and their attempt at resistance, and by extension all of you- laughing at your protector. Then, their gaze sets once more upon their other half, and they clap their hands together. Shadows seem to envelop the room, now. On the walls, on the floor, dancing all around you- they are indistinct and shapeless, yet, if you glimpse at them, you feel almost as though they form a picture you understand.

Ropes, chains, something or someone being bound and torn apart. The place where the most shadows seem to be is the deity's face, as only their eyes shine through. Mad, furious, glaring eyes. If you had not had that feeling before, by now you are certain —

— This is something entirely out of this world. Those eyes cannot be human. That figure, too, cannot be. Right now, more than ever before, you understand. This is a demon...!

"You yourself should know, far too well...! By now, it is too late to stop this ceremony. You are powerless to save anyone, this time as well..."

They take another step.

"So, let us end this already."

They whisper something, but you cannot hear it. Even if you could, you could not make out what the sounds mean. All you know is that the shadows seem to converge on Udyana, almost as if attempting to swallow them. The light from their halo fighting against them, with both attempting to banish the other —

And on the walls behind them, you can see your tour guide's shape seeming to crumble, as if dragged down and chained... And no sooner has that happened, that the shadows recede. With the force of the shadows. Udyana drops to the floor, eyes rolling into the back of their head for a moment. It appears Iragala’s dark intentions may outweigh theirs — and for a moment, you remember the legends of a ritual involving this tower, the artifact at the top... You don’t want to be a part of this — watching these deities you hardly know, with more history than you could imagine, battle for your right to live when just a day ago you were on a regular class trip — but it appears neither Iragala or Udyana will let you go.

The latter is weakened, though the glare they give Iragala feels like it could turn one to stone. Still, they’re kneeling on the floor, clutching their head. They seem to be in a great amount of pain, unresponsive beyond glaring at the other deity — their face is quite pale, and they pant with exertion.

Iragala looks at them again for a few seconds, but takes no further action, probably deeming them a non-threat at this point. Instead, they turn once more to face you all.

#msplot #chapter1

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