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wackygoofball · 4 years

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Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - The Host AU

Jaime knows his days are counted when he is brought into one of those white-tiled rooms at the enemy’s HQ.

The Souls be damned.

At least the others escaped, he saw to that when the Souls stopped them on a mission. Tyrion and Davos will have taken Arya, Pod and the rest back to the hideout by now, so at the very least the rebellion can continue without him.

While not surprised, Jaime is still less than pleased to meet Stannis Baratheon, one of those bastards who decided to side with this alien race that invaded Planetos and takes over people’s bodies as they please to assume leadership over the world as they know it. Stannis let a Soul willingly take over, a Soul known as Melisandre, or as the rebellion calls her, “the boss bitch”. While Melisandre leaves him more or less in control over his actions, Stannis is just like them, and that means to Jaime that he has to go like every other bloody Soul.

Though sadly, that will soon include himself, as Stannis informs him. They will make him a Host as well. Jaime fights against the procedure as best as he can – because sure as hell will he go down fighting – but as he finds the Soul they brought in manifest itself inside him, he suddenly hears a none too kindly voice cursing him to stop the folly.

Listen. If you let me in, I will get you out of here, the voice tells him. But of course, Jaime doesn’t buy into that cheap kind of trick.

Because that’s some bullshit, lady.

You must understand this one thing: They will have a Soul inhabit your body no matter what you do. The only choice you can currently make is to let me in or wait for someone who does not ask first. I understand that you have no reason to trust me. And I don’t ask you to. I am asking for a truce.

How would I have a truce with some alien I don’t even know?

The name is Brienne and I am trying to help you – but all of that will be over soon if you don’t do anything. You can’t withstand much longer.

I am strong enough.

Right now you are not. I can ensure that you will remain conscious, just inside your own head, but I have to take over or they will realize the ruse. That’s all I have to offer, but I can promise you that I will bring you back home, even if it kills me.

Well, funny enough that will kill me as well, so I don’t fancy that alternative much.

Jaime, well aware that he is out of alternatives, lets “Brienne” take control, which puts him into the “backseat” of his own mind while Brienne calls the shots, telling a very pleased Melisandre and Stannis that she completed the mission and awaits new instructions.

“I am glad to see that you finally prove to be the god soldier you are supposed to be, Brienne, one who knows her place.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Though actually, not so much. Brienne stands true to her word and flees from the HQ the first opportunity she gets. And contrary to what Jaime feared, his mind remains alive, as Brienne did not seek full control over his mind and body, even though he will make sure to use any opportunity to be an ass about it.

And so, the long walk back home begins. In the middle of the Dornish desert, the rebellion built an underground haven to live and plan future strikes against the Souls taking over.

Though I still don’t understand why you are helping us.

Haven’t you heard? I am more of a rebel myself.

How comes?

Disagreements with the management.

Just that? Really?

I wasn’t the only one. We rebelled against Melisandre. She betrayed all ideals us Wanderers used to stand for.

Wanderers?

That was what we were before she made us nothing but Souls. We wandered across galaxies and tried to save life as we knew it.

By playing puppet master with people?

By learning what it takes to be human.

Jaime cautions Brienne that she won’t have an easy welcome, granted that they even make it to the desert without being caught – or nature killing them before they reach the hideout. He tells her that they have better chances by not telling the rest of the team that he is still in there but instead inform them that she took a hold of his body and that his consciousness supposedly faded in the process but that she wants to join their side and help them take down the HQ. As things currently stand, Jaime can’t take possession of his own body again, and until he can – which is a big what if – they’d do best not to upset the others any more than they will be anyway.

After all, Souls are not to be trusted.

On the verge of dehydration, the two reach the hideout. Though there is, as expected, no warm welcome, even less so when Arya decides to knock them in the back of the head when she catches the silver circle in Jaime’s eyes, which is a sure sign that a Soul took possession of a Host. Davos tells her to leave him and bring him to the hideout instead. As expected, Brienne is the hideout’s most wanted, and not in a good way.

Arya is perhaps most against them. As Jaime explains to Brienne, the reason why she has even more misgiving for the Souls than most others is that they killed nearly all of her family, safe for her “stupid sister” who joined Stannis for all they know.

As the two try to make a plan for how to go about their new situation, Brienne makes a point that they won’t ever trust her intentions to actually start a revolution amongst her own kind if she doesn’t do anything to prove her loyalty to their cause. Jaime is at a loss, but Brienne eventually comes to the conclusion that Sansa may be the key. She saw Sansa at the HQ and hopes that maybe they can convince her to come back with them. She may have important intel and it would help them to get Arya onboard.

Maybe.

You don’t know how to inspire confidence, you know?

I am just not fond of lying.

Which explains why you are so piss-poor at it.

While the mission proves more than dangerous, they eventually succeed in bringing Sansa Stark back home. And along the way, the two have to realize that they fight much better together than apart, even though it demands of Jaime to adapt his ways of fighting and support rather than lead.

Arya actually starts to trust Brienne thereafter, if cautiously so, even though things are tensed between the sisters even after the reunion. And while those two work through their issues, Jaime demands some hard truths from Brienne at last, as she tends to evade questions about who she truly is and what this is all about. In the end, Brienne has to give in.

We were very much like you. A humanoid race from a faraway planet, trying its best to live our lives.

Wait, you had an actual body before? You weren’t always those white, glowing parasites?!

While I tend to disagree with the description, yes, we weren’t always like that.

Then why did you all decide it was time for a makeover?

Not all of us took on this shape. We were selected few. The Wanderer Program was founded to save our world from extinction. Fewer and fewer children were born in every generation until we reached the breaking point. Our race grew sterile, if you will. And life as we knew it was on the verge of destruction. The Wanderers were meant to travel to faraway galaxies and find species like us, analyze their physiologies and social interactions and find out how they manage to battle global sterility. For such travel, we had to give up our bodies. They couldn’t possibly survive such a long trip across worlds. We wanted to find life again. Or so we thought… because some of us had a different idea. They wanted power. They wanted to exploit life. And they realized that the Wanderer Program, which succeeded to alter DNA in such a way that the soul could transcend the body, were the means of gaining control.

Power is a bitch.

I believed in the program, in what we did. Until I saw what they did to Renly.

Renly Baratheon?

Yes, he was my Host before we two… teamed up involuntarily.

To put it mildly. What of Renly, then?

He was no part of the rebellion, you may know. Yet, he was against Stannis and his practices. Through Renly, I learned more and more about what was behind the program I once joined in an effort to preserve life, not destroy it. Other Souls of the program formed a group, but one of them reported us… and as a result, the Hosts were all brutally murdered while we were still connected.

So you… witnessed Renly’s death as your own.

Yes. He died because of me. And after that, they put me in detention, telling me that I’d only ever get out if I learned my place. Until the day I met you. And that changed everything.

So what’s the goal for you now? Once we take on the HQ? What’s the next step?

Go back home and fix our problems. Pick up with where we left off with our mission. I found such goodness in people. I saw human compassion, friendship, love. And that is what I’d want to take home, even if I failed to find a solution to my race’s plight.

You are definitely the strangest Soul I ever met.

And you are the strangest Host I ever met.

Perhaps a truce is possible after all.

Only time will show.

And while Jaime and Brienne continue to bond, crisis is underway when Brienne learns of Tyrion’s “experiments” to separate Host and Soul, killing both in the process. Brienne is absolutely mortified, as Jaime knew about this, but didn’t ever tell her.

Though they soon have to leave that aside as well as the rebellion’s next strike is moving forward fast. Along the way, they learn some shocking news that may transform the very nature of their mission to a full-fledged rescue mission of a kind no one ever thought would happen as Souls have to fight for Hosts and Hosts for Souls.

Brienne and Tyrion form a fragile peace, though she leaves Tyrion with a baffling message before she heads out:

“I can help you complete your research, but only to my conditions. Once it’s all done.”

Though only time will show if she can reveal that information to him and if, indeed, the soul can transcend the body.

Or rather, if love can.

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #game of thrones #moodboard #aesthetic #got moodboard #got aesthetic #wacky tries gimp #I only later found out what I found weird about the movie #coz the Twilight Lady wrote the book it was based on #which explains all that I found shitty about the movie #though the premise itself was intriguing #and at the very least #it featured no sparkly vampires or creepy ass CGI babies from the underworld

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aliveanddrunkonsunlight · 4 years

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The Sleepless In Seattle AU no one asked for. (Most of the dialogue is borrowed directly from the movie, so thank you, Nora Ephron.)

Sleepless on Sevenmas

“Tyrion, if this is a prank, you’ve outdone yourself,” the man drawls, sarcasm dripping. Brienne wonders if he’s drunk. “This is quite extravagant. Now, who is this?”

“Melisandre of Asshai with Network Westerosi,” the woman replies firemly. “You are on the air.”

There’s a long pause and the man directs the question to someone, “You called the radio station?”

“Are you with me, Sleepless on Sevenmas?”

“Jaime. My name’s Jaime,” he practically growls.

Sleepless on Sevenmas

“We’re engaged!” Hyle announces so abruptly during Sevenmas Eve dinner, Brienne nearly chokes on her ham.

The table explodes. It is precisely the kind of attention Brienne does not like, but Hyle basks in. She is mildly swayed by the delight on everyone’s faces as they congratulate them. Hyle’s family has always been very welcoming towards her and although it will never be the familial comfort of her brother, Galladon, or the quiet love she and her father share, it is heartwarming to feel so embraced and adored by your significant other’s family.

After dinner, Hyle’s mom, sister, and aunt usher her away from everyone else, wanting to know if she has started thinking about venues, dresses, or flowers. It occurs to her then, she truly is the most unlikely person to get married simply because she doesn’t care about any of the details. She simply wants to live a life with someone she cares about and who cares for her. It’s something she never thought she would find and she is grateful everyday to find someone as solid and steady as Hyle.

Brienne says goodbye to him outside the house, feeling as if his whole family has their noses pushed up against the glass watching. She is driving to the ferry in order to be able to spend Sevenmas morning with her father while Hyle plans to join them later in the day.

The night is very still. She flips on the radio for noise, for company, switching through several stations of Sevenmas songs. One seems to be playing them backwards, so she switches quickly to the next station, and hears a woman’s soothing voice, one which instantly reminds her of her mother’s.

However, this woman seems to be doling out unwarranted advice. Brienne doubts she has any credentials for this type of work. It’s mindless noise until she reaches the ferry, she tells herself. Better than those inane Sevenmas songs.

“Our next caller,” the woman’s voice soothes, “is Sleepless on Sevenmas. Hello?”

“Hello?” A male voice replies. “Who is this?” he asks suspiciously.

“This is Melisandre of Asshai and you’re on Network Westerosi.”

“Oh, really? What are you selling tonight? Those replica swords? I already have several in my office.” The fact that the man doesn’t seem to know what he’s gotten roped into makes Brienne feel sorry for him, and she nearly switches off the radio in second hand embarrassment, but his jape about the replica swords makes her laugh. She knows exactly the ones she means. Hyle gave her one, The Just Maiden, for her name day last year because she was a distant descendant of Ser Galladon.

“No, I’m not selling anything. I just want to help. I want you to know that your nephew called and asked for some advice on how you might find a new wife.”

“Tyrion, if this is a prank, you’ve outdone yourself,” the man drawls, sarcasm dripping. Brienne wonders if he’s drunk. “This is quite extravagant. Now, who is this?”

“Melisandre of Asshai with Network Westerosi,” the woman replies firmly. “You are on the air.”

There’s a long pause and the man directs the question to someone, “You called the radio station?”

“Are you with me, Sleepless on Sevenmas?”

“Jaime. My name’s Jaime,” he practically growls.

“Jaime,” she repeats softly. “Your nephew feels that since your wife’s death you’ve been very, very unhappy and he’s genuinely worried about you.” Brienne can tell Melisandre is genuinely concerned, even if her advice may do little to staunch the man’s broken heart.

“Get out here. Get out here. Come on now, I’m not going to go through this alone.” She can imagine the man gesturing to his nephew, who can’t be more than 8 or 9, to come sit with him on the couch. She wonders if their home is decorated, if there are carefully wrapped presents waiting for tomorrow, if there is family invited to celebrate with them.

“I think it’s very hard for him to talk to you about all this, and I thought maybe if you and I could talk, it would make Tommen feel a little better. Jaime?”

“Talk to her. She’s a priestess,” the little boy says softly and Brienne’s heart nearly breaks.

“A priestess of what? Her first name could be priestess,” the man jokes and Brienne recognizes it immediately as a way to deflect attention, to avoid talking about the hurt he carries inside. She keeps hers carefully hidden away, too.

“Melisandre will be fine.” The woman’s voice can cut through bullshit one moment and yet is gentle and understanding the next. “Jaime, it’s Tommen’s Sevenmas wish.”

“Fine.” The man sighs, resigned.

“Okay, good. Now, I know this is difficult but how long ago did your wife die?”

The brittle sarcasm drops out of Jaime’s voice. “About a year and a half ago.”

“Okay. Have you had any relationships since?” Her voice remains delicate, soothing, trying not to scare a frightened animal

“Uh, no,” he scoffs, as if the idea was ridiculous.

“No? Why not?”

“Melisandre, I don’t mean to be rude…” Brienne can hear the wariness in his voice again.

“Oh, and I don’t want to invade your privacy,” the woman tries.

Now it’s Brienne’s turn to scoff, rolling her eyes. “Sure you do,” she says aloud, just as the stranger on the radio says the same. “Sure you do.” Surprised they share a sense of skepticism, it draws a smile across her face.

Melisandre is not so easily defeated, because she continues on, pressing him gently. “Go on, Jaime. I’m listening.”

Jaime sighs. “We had a pretty tough time there at first. But, we’re dealing with it. Tommen and I will get along just fine again, as soon as I break his phone.”

The woman laughs. Brienne is smiling. Underneath his cynicism, there is kindness and gentleness towards his nephew. She recognizes Jaime without even knowing him.

“I have no doubt that you’re a wonderful uncle to Tommen.”

“I’m his guardian. He lives with me and we try to take care of each other, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Tommen replies in his sweet little voice.

“That’s wonderful. But something must be missing if he still feels you are under a cloud,” Melisandre suggests and Brienne finds herself waiting anxiously for Jaime’s reply. When there isn’t one, she continues on. “Okay, just a few questions. Are you sleeping at night?”

“He doesn’t sleep at all,” his nephew answers for him.

“How do you know that?”

“I live here.”

“Look. It’s Sevenmas. Uh, Ellie, my wife, she really did it. I mean, she loved, uh...She made everything beautiful.” Quiet falls over the line. Everyone waits for him to speak. The heartbreak in his voice is palpable and Brienne finds tears in the corners of her eyes. She wipes them away, her mind traveling to her mother’s death, the darkness which settled over her father’s face and has never really left him. “It’s tough this time of year. Tommen misses his mother. I miss…” he trails off, unable to finish.

“Could it be you need someone just as much as Tommen does?”

The silence lays across the airwaves, across the miles between Brienne and wherever Jaime is, and she whispers into the darkness, “Yes.”

Melisandre tells him not to answer and they need to take a break. As soon as the sponsored ads begin, it jolts Brienne out of her reverie, the sounds of other cars passing by, the noise of the highway. She shakes her head. She must be more tired than she thought and pulls over to get some coffee.

“I bet he’s tall and has a cute butt,” one of the waitresses in the diner says to the other as Brienne steps inside.

“I bet he hasn’t bathed in weeks and he stinks,” the other replies in a thick Dornish accent.

“Shut up.” The first one glances up to see Brienne. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“A coffee black, please.”

“No problem, lovely.” She winks at her and turns to grab the coffee pot. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t kick this guy out of bed for eating crackers, you know what I mean?” the woman continues to her friend. Brienne frowns, unsure who they could be speaking about, as the diner is nearly empty.

But then she hears the radio is turned down low. They were listening to Sleepless in Sevenmas too. Whatever connection she felt moments ago in her car is less special than she imagined and Brienne feels silly for thinking it at all. She has someone. She shouldn’t be lusting after some random man on the radio.

“It’s not like this guy is much of a secret as they want to make us believe,” the woman with the thick accent speaks up. “Ellie? Come on. That has to be Elia Martell. He’s a rich asshole who would have no interest in any of us. It’s probably why he hasn’t found a new wife yet. So I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him.”

She opens her mouth to defend Jaime, but none of them really know him. His image is softened by his nephew, a dead wife, and a broken heart, but the waitress is probably right. He could be a jerk. Someone not deserving of their affections. Especially not when she has a good man like Hyle, someone she never thought would take any interest in her, but now wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

And yet.

She keeps listening. “If there is one question I could ask you,” Melisandre prompts.

“Oh, go ahead.” Despite what she realized in the diner, she feels drawn to him, to his voice.

“People who truly loved once are far more likely to love again. Jaime, do you think that there is someone out there you could love as much as your wife?”

“Well. That’s hard to imagine.” He takes a long breath. “But maybe. One day.”

#jaime x brienne #braime fanfiction #advent calendar fics #december fic prompts #advent calendar 2019

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delicrieux · 5 years

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-- valar dohaeris

+ all men must serve + chapter 3

pairing: jon snow x reader x various

summary: Tormund and Podrick try to get along with (Name)

warnings: none (i think) just swearing!

words: 2.7k

author’s note: this chapter is more light-hearted (kinda sorta not really)

tagging: @emmaamalie - @storiiteller

feedback is always appreciated xoxo

masterlist | ch.2 | v. d. masterlist | buy me coffee☕

THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI

The Hall is hot, humid, and full to the brim with people and their eager breaths. A small feast – the revival of Jon Snow and Lady Stark’s sudden visit – takes place in order to celebrate this victory before the storm. A great battle looms over the shoulders of the Starks and their loyal followers. A moment of happiness is what all of them deserve, especially before the call to arms.

You sit beside a timid round faced Podrick and a messy haired loud mouthed Tormund right across you. It was the Wildling’s idea to have you join them, as he had, eagerly at that, dragged you from the courtyard and shoved a goblet of dry, cheap wine into your hand. Its ruby surface is diluted and rose, bleak in front of your deep red garments. You are a red spring bird amongst the crows, shining like a midnight star, and for that reason alone you find men’s gazes wandering to you as the evening progresses, each look bolder than the last. Tormund had already drunk his wine, now filling himself more from the pitcher and spilling half of it on the table. He regards his slip of hand with a hearty laugh. Podrick beside you sips politely, his eyes shooting to Brienne of Tarth, the lady knight-to-be seated close to Sansa, set on never leaving the girl for too long.

“C’mon, drink up,” Tormund encourages, clinking his glass with yours and nearly knocking it over, “if you’re quick you might miss the fact that it tastes like piss.”

Podrick snorts into his drink, red-cheeked and giddy, as Tormund, in one impressive gulp, empties the glass, and then moves for the pitcher. You watch mildly impressed. This whole interaction is completely out of your element, and the stiffness in your neck, lack of movement, lack of even a shy glance outside the figures of these two men proves your discomfort visibly. Melisandre is nowhere to be seen, possibly locked away in her chamber, possibly watching the flames and the secrets which hide within them. You should have joined her, you ponder, staring at your full cup, you should be there with her, be preparing for what is instore for the future. You are here to help, not to mindlessly blabber and mingle with strangers you shall never see again.

“You seem unease, Miss.” Podrick comments, his voice gentle, concerned, as his brows knit together in wonder. You say nothing, uncertain if there is anything to say at all. Should you correct him? Lie? There is no point to it. Your fate is not intertwined with his; it would be a waste of time to even engage him. “Is our company…unpleasant?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Pond.” Tormund says, lowering the pitcher from his mouth, “Lady Red here’s probably used to somethin’ a lil’ more fancy than this shithole. Ain’t that right?” He looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to confirm his suspicions and prove just what a pompous royal you are: he had noticed you barely talking to anyone but the Lord Commander, and you and Melisandre rarely left the confinements of your chambers, and if you did, it was to watch eerily from the shadows as the men around you worked and swore.

“No.” You reply after a moment of hesitation, “I’ve…never been to a feast.” It is not a shameful admission, though his reaction ticks you.

“You what?” Tormund barks, laugher bubbling in his chest, “You a good liar, you know that?”

“It is true.” You persevere, voice unwavering, still cool, still unimpressed, “I am a priestess. There are no celebrations in the temple.”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve never had a drink before?” He raises a suspicious brow, “You buyin’ this, Poddick?”

“It’s Podrick.” The man nervously replies. Tormund merely dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

“Not wine, per se.” You say, raising your glass, curiously watching it, “I have had a drink of R’hllor’s Blood.” You catch his gaze, the pretty greens of his eyes twinkling in the firelight, “One sip and the whole world disappears into a cloud of smoke. And for the rest of the night you feel as if you are floating. There is no fear. Nor happiness. Simply a forever of tranquility.” You take a wary sip and regret it immediately. It is disgusting, “And then you awake, with no memory of what had happened. Some find it comforting. Others… unsettling. I say it’s better than drinking this.”

“I need me some of that.” Tormund hums, “You have it with you? Now?”

“Only for ritual purposes, I’m afraid.” You say, “And no. Did not think I would need it.”

“You’re a witch, aren’t you?” Podrick asks cautiously. You simply nod, “As in…A real one?”

“Does she look like a fuckin’ ghost to you?” Tormund questions, his voice rough and mirthful.

A small smile slips on your lips, “Not a ghost, I assure you. Though there are plenty of those that roam the Asshai rivers, hide in corners of old temples.”

“Sounds like a scary place.” Podrick comments.

It had never occurred to you, really, the prospect of fright associated with a city drowned in mist. It is always dark there, always gloomy, and even on the brightest days the sun is hazy purple and the clouds are a furious grey. The homes, castles, temples are built from glossy black stone which absorbs any shred of light that might touch it, creating a vacuum. The rivers are clear and ghastly, the waves of the sea crash in sounds of wails of drowned women, and the roads are always empty. From your room, if you were to gaze outside, you could see perhaps a few figures rushing from one place to another, hidden in cloaks and wearing masks. Then again, those might simply be illusions created by the fire.

“…People usually fear what they don’t understand.” You mutter, “Perhaps to foreigners it does sound a bit…odd. Then again, those who do not wish to study magic have no place there.”

“I don’t need fuckin’ magic when I got a sword.” Tormund starts, elated, as if telling a great tale, “One hand an axe, the other a blade. Cut your head off and stab you for good measure.” He winks, “Oh, you should see what’s beyond the wall. Freedom, is what it is. Freedom. Mountains of snow, the world seems fuckin’ endless. We move from place to place, wherefuckin’ever we like, and we don’t have to answer to any lord or lady. Do what we want, when we want. Beyond the wall is a beautiful fuckin’ place.”

“We?” You ask.

“Me and the Wildings. We travel together. We hunt together. You’d end up dead in a day out there alone.” He explains, near boastful, “And what about you? Form any prayer circles with the other ladies?”

“What Tormund is trying to say,” Podrick quickly intervenes, “is if you and the other priestess’s are close. You and the Red Woman seem amiable.” He finishes with a friendly smile, “Pardon us.” He shoots a glance at Tormund, he already opening his mouth, “We’re just curious. Ashai—Am I saying that correctly? - is so far away and…No one knows much of it.”

Close? You suppose that some might think so, but that would be untrue. You know of Cordelia from the Yi Ti(1), a woman with burgundy hair and chilling ice blue eyes. You have spoken to her once during a ritual, and her voice was permanently struck by sorrow, but melodious and pretty. Then there was Sheena from Nefer(2), a tall, inked woman, whose voice was rasp and low, reminding you of gravel crunching under your feet. But you would never consider them as friends, nor foes, simply other women serving the same God but with different purposes.

Then, of course, there is Melisandre, though friendship between you two is also not something that can be placed. She is more of a mentor, an authoritative figure that watches over you, but her loyalties lie and always will lie with the God of Light and Fire. The nature of your profession does not allow for relationships; there must be no ties to the real world. It is only temporary, after all.

“No,” You admit, suddenly struck with deep sadness as your eyes wander around the room, ears ring painfully with laughter. You feel incredibly small, and your shoulders cave with an exhale, “No, we are not…close.”

Tormund’s brows shoot upwards, “So, you mean to tell me, Lady Red, is that you have no fuckin’ friends?”

You look around again, as if only now noticing how tightly knit this group is, how everyone is conversing eagerly, filling themselves silly with drink, shrilling first notes of a song heard long ago.

“I suppose I don’t.” You confess, “No, I do not have any friends, as you call it. The Asshai’i are…not warm people. And we don’t talk a lot. We are but a small population wandering the maze of the city. We rarely meet. Some of us sail and never return. There is no time for…friendships to form.”

“Sounds lonely.” Podrick mutters after a pause, even Tormund not daring to break it. They note your worry struck face, as if they, too, are living this revelation along with you. It is lonely, indeed, but never have you noticed just how much. You should not care for such things. You did not even think of them before this dreaded conversation.

You have never been abroad, Asshai being your only point of reference. You know little of Westerosi customs and Melisandre had offhandedly once said that one learns these things with time, though a certain detachment must always be in place. The Red Priests must be ready to do anything and everything upon their God’s command. Relationships would only get in the way of that philosophy.

Tormund smacks your shoulder crudely, making you flinch and halt your train of dreaded thought. You glance up at him, finding him grinning from ear to ear, “It’s a good thing we found you then, ey? Cause you’d wish you never had friends if you were to talk to those.” He motions with his head vaguely to the Watchmen, his eyes twinkling with mirth. You crack a smile, secretly thankful for his weirdly convivial words.

JON SNOW

The first embers of happiness light up her face, and he eases in his chair, watching wistfully from afar. Jon had wanted to come to her aid once he saw Tormund drag her helplessly, and Podrick fretfully try to make her feel welcomed, even if evidently she did not want to be a part of their small group. He watched as they drank and she listened to their spouting, later engaging in conversation with Tormund which was never a good idea. He is brash, and zestful, and at times humorous, yet she seemed awfully cautious of her words and bearing no real connection to others, and Jon feared she might not understand, or take offense to something the Wildling had said.

His fear had melted when he noticed that she started to smile as she visibly relaxed in their presence. She raises her cup to her lips for the second time and takes a bolder sip. Tormund cheers happily. Jon grins to himself.

“Go talk to her.” Sansa says, startling him. A smile plays in her voice, “I saw you stealing glances at her all evening.”

He clears his throat, “Yeah, I saw you staring, too.”

Sansa shrugs, “She does stand out amongst the crowd. That and she looked properly uncomfortable.”

“That’s just part of Tormund’s charm, I suppose.” He adds, unsure of what to say. She regards him with a bored look. “What?” He asks.

With her head, Sansa motions to Ladybug, “Go.”

“You go.” He says defensive, “You’re…a girl. You probably have more in common with her anyway.”

Sansa almost rolls her eyes, “I doubt it. The only reason she gave me the Wolf was because you told her I liked needlework. I don’t think she did it because she actually enjoys it.” Her pretty eyes wander to the Red Woman, “She did not strike me as a type to enjoy anything, really.” Ladybug’s laugher rings in the hall like a bell, some men turning to her in wonder. “I suppose she is more approachable than the other one.”

“She’s kind,” Jon says, “if not a bit…”

“Tactless?” Sansa finishes for him. He nods sullenly. Her lips quirk upwards into a teasing smile, “See? You two have a lot in common already.”

“I am not tactless.” He retorts.

“Then prove me wrong and go.” She nudges him, “Come on, before your Wildling friend pours her another glass of this awful wine.”

THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI

The moon smiles down at you, half in bloom, its radiant light making the Wall glow. Wind howls in your ears, yet the cold air is refreshing after an evening of confinement within a room full of drinking people. The sweet scent of wine fades as the heavy door closes behind you, along with it snippets of laughs and chatter. The whole world grows pleasantly silent; the night is dark and starless.

Again you sense a restless evil which’s fingers reach from over the Wall, its watchful eye observing your small frame from the sky. You feel it – the shrill of the north, the frost collecting on bones, the sinister unease struck by peering into the void – and you pull your robes closer to your body, trying to keep warm, to feel comfort. Despite the eerie mirage in your mind, you feel a sense of familiarity. Darkness. Wisps of cool wind that sounds like whispers. If the structures were made from stone which can hold no reflection, then you would almost be certain you are back home.

Home. You have no home. Your home is wherever the Lord of Light deems it being. But overhearing Lady Stark tell Lord Snow of Winterfell with such conviction and such tenderness, it made you reconsider the meaning of the world entirely.

The door behind you opens and shuts once more, light spilling on the snow under your feet. You sense him before you see him, his aura now too familiar to be mistaken for anyone else. Jon Snow comes to join you by the railing, silent, brooding, following your gaze to the Wall, perhaps wandering what creatures hide behind it. He clears his throat in an attempt to catch your attention, and you tilt your head gently in his direction, “Saw you talking with Tormund.” He starts trying to sound impartial, “He means no harm, I assure you.” His concern comes out a bit awkward, and he avoids your gaze religiously because of it.

You nod timidly, your mind drifting back to the conversation, “I know.” You say softly, your voice carried by the wind, “It was…enlightening.” For a moment he figures you are joking, and snorts, but then he realises you are serious and hurriedly fixes a thoughtful expression, “You are lucky to have him as a friend. He will aid you in future battles.”

“Saw that in the fire?”

“No. It’s just…what friends do.”

A few snowflakes spiral from the sky; they land on your rosy cheek and kiss the skin with their cool touch. A few more spray the ground, your shoulders, tangle in his curly hair. The two of you move closer to one another, or perhaps he moves closer to you or vice versa, but the furs on his shoulder gently brushes yours and you smile lightly. He assumes you are pleased with the pretty sight of a starting storm. He is only partly wrong.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” You admit.

“It… doesn’t snow in Asshai?” He asks lamely.

You want to tell him that no, it does not, that it only rains ashes and that they are hot and foul smelling, and that they burn your skin. Alas, you settle with, “For R’hllor’s sake, read a book, Jon Snow.”

He coughs a laugh. You smile to yourself. He ushers you inside when the storm picks up.

(1) Yi Ti is said to be the richest kingdom in Essos (2) Nefer is a underground city of necromancers

thank you for reading xoxo

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