#and i wish you a joyous end of the year

[cntloup]

Fem!Reader giving birth, fluff

"Mrs. Riley, ready to push?" the doctor asks as you sob in agony, sharp stabbing pain shooting through your body. You cling to Simon and he holds you in his arms from the side of the bed, "Nooo, please! I can't!!" you cry out, tightly squeezing Simon's hand, "Love, look at me." he beckons softly, nuzzling your face, his calm voice comforting you for a moment before another wave of excruciating contractions strikes and you curl into yourself, crying desperately for them to get the baby out of you sooner. The scene in front of him breaks his heart. He wishes he could take your pain away.

"You can do this, lovie. You're the strongest, bravest person I know. You've come this far. I'm sure you can do it. And we're gonna have a baby girl, dove." he croons against your temple, plants a sweet kiss on your lips and soothingly rubs your back, his words causing you to feel a surge of courage and endurance. “Mrs. Riley, it’s time.” the doctor says and you start pushing, wailing and sobbing violently. He doesn't even flinch at the feeling of you grasping his hand so tightly to the point of almost breaking his bones, yet he trembles, panic evident in his eyes as you scream at the top of your lungs, but he stays strong for you as he holds you and coos praises into your ear.

After what feels like an eternity of pain and screaming, you hear the loud cry of your baby and let out a sigh of relief, flopping back down on the bed. “Dad, will you?” the nurse calls Simon and he places a loving kiss on your forehead and goes to cut the umbilical cord, tears well up in his eyes as they land on his baby girl. The nurses take her to clean her up and swaddle her.

By the end, you’re utterly exhausted, soaked in sweat and your throat dry and hoarse from all the screaming. Simon holds a glass of water in front of you with one hand and gently lifts your head with the other. “Attagirl.” he praises as you gulp down the whole glass and a content sigh leaves your mouth. “You did great, lovie. I'm proud of you.” he murmurs as he tucks away the strands of hair stuck to your damp forehead, "I love you." he whispers, kissing your lips, "Love you too, Si." you whisper back in a weak, tired voice.

His whole world has changed. He cannot believe how far he’s come. All those years, it never even occurred to him that he was even capable of falling in love and getting married, let alone having a child and creating such a loving family.

They hand you your baby and you cry joyous tears as you hold her gently in your arms, cooing at her softly. "Here, Si. Say hello to your daughter." you encourage him to hold her. At first, he panics, body slightly shivering. He takes a deep breath, leans forward and delicately takes her tiny, fragile body in his big, strong arms, gaze filled with love and adoration. He sits on the edge of the bed and embraces you. The moment he holds you both in his arms, time stops and everything else is a blur. It's just him and his girls. 

comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated ♥ 

Dad!Simon art by @ave661

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost riley #ghost simon riley #cod fanfic #ghost cod #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod #mw2 #cod modern warfare

[ichorai]

i’m not made by design ; jaime lannister.

track seven of BROKEN MACHINE.  

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 47.8k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/violence/murder/injury/blood, attempted sexual assault, this story covers the events from game of thrones s1-4, politicking, incest, talks of sex, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, reader is known as the bitter wolf and is ned’s youngest sibling, bittersweet ending

main masterlist. read on ao3!

You first met Jaime Lannister during the Year of the False Spring, at the Great Tourney of Harrenhal—you had only been ten years of age, still starry-eyed and gentle-of-tongue. Knights, lords, and ladies hailing from all over Westeros were buzzing about the opening feast. Chalices of golden ale, platters of fruit and cheese, and sizzling trays of freshly-roasted meats were splayed out over several long tables.

To your right was your eldest brother, Brandon, biting into a large turkey leg and gingerly offering you a piece when he caught you ogling him. To your left was your sister Lyanna, popping voluminous grapes into her mouth and chattering to your two other brothers, Benjen and Ned, across the table. Her grey eyes were alight with glee, and she tipped her head back to laugh when Benjen made a snarky comment about Ned’s overgrown hair.

You were well into your second serving of glazed lemon cakes when the crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood up front. A hush descended upon the crowd when the handsome, silver-haired man brandished a large, golden harp.

He sang a song of sorrow, one of tragedy and death. His voice was soft and beautiful, saturated with honey and rich soil. It was a strange choice for such a joyous event, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it. Your sister, most of all, as she had tears warbling over her stormy irises upon his serenade.

When Rhaegar finally finished, Benjen noticed Lyanna’s tearful eyes and began cackling loudly with no restrain. Your sister scowled deeply and poured her entire glass of wine over Benjen’s head, Dornish red dripping down his shocked face. The younger man moaned with grief at his soiled tunic, but was still giggling nonetheless. You had watched the entire ordeal with a wide, toothy grin.

As the feast progressed, more and more people left to go dance. You and Brandon were exchanging knowing glances when the great beauty, Ashara Dayne, a woman of lengthy midnight locks and dark mauve eyes, began dancing with Ned Stark upon Brandon’s request. The two of you cheered him on from the sides, embarrassing your quietest and shyest brother beyond relief, his cheeks stained with a permanent dusting of rouge.

“Come, little sister,” said Brandon, only seven-and-ten at the time, holding out his hand with a kind smile. The soft grey of his eyes gleamed with earnest. “You shall be my last dance of the feast.”

You glanced around, apprehensive. “Would you rather not dance with any of the other ladies present?”

“I’ve had enough dances with girls I hardly know, much less any I’d ever see again. Come, let me have a dance with my youngest sister. It may be a long while until I see you again after this.”

Acquiescing to his wishes, you slid away from the table and took his hand, beaming up at your oldest brother. The two of you were no good at dancing—you trod on his feet more times than you could count, and he wasn’t quite used to having a dance partner less than half his height, resulting in a clumsy waltz of flailing limbs and awkward shuffling. Nonetheless, the both of you were laughing and smiling regardless of your quickly-numbing feet.

The joy was abruptly leeched away when the hall grew eerily quiet, orchestral music halting mid-note. You stopped in your dance with Brandon, letting go of his hand to turn and see what was going on.

King Aerys shuffled in, back slightly hunched, his glossed-over eyes surveying the crowd. His white hair was long and tangled beyond salvaging, the ends split and the strands near his scalp bunching together in matted clumps. There was a sickly, pallid color to his skin. His hands were twitching wildly by his sides, long, ochre-hued claws scratching the bare flesh of his irritated wrists. 

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. You felt yourself step back closer to your brother, suddenly feeling a wave of fear dance through you. This was the first time you’d seen the King in the flesh—and from what you’ve heard, he was far from a good one. 

The rumors did not fall upon deaf ears—you knew he was going mad. Now that you were looking at him, it seemed so obvious. He went from yelling at his squire at the top of his lungs, threatening to burn him alive, to laughing hysterically about a trivial matter that was lost to you, until he began wheezing and coughing and spluttering spittle every which way.

All of a sudden, the King’s wild gaze fell upon Jaime Lannister, a young blonde sitting on the table across the hall from you, beckoning the young man closer to kneel before him. You craned your neck to get a proper look at him. He was a sharply handsome young man, with soft tendrils of spun-gold, and gleaming viridescent eyes. There were many tall tales about him—of his unending skill in battle, of his excellent swordsmanship, of his bold fearlessness. 

The young knight was called to swear the oath of the Kingsguard in front of the entire hall. You watched with muted curiosity—he was barely older than Brandon, and yet he was already swearing away his entire life to the Mad King.

What a waste.

What you hadn’t picked up on, however, was that Jaime was none too happy about this ordeal, either. His expression was not set in stone, subtle flashes of anger bubbling through his stoic facade.

The crowd burst into raucous cheers when he got back onto his feet.

You did not clap.

The King had sent Jaime away later that night to guard the Queen and her children, and you did not see him for the rest of the tourney. 

Perhaps that was a good thing—the Tourney at Harrenhal led to many, many things shortly in the aftermath. The abduction of your older sister, Lyanna, by the crown prince. The death of your eldest brother, Brandon, along with your father, Rickard Stark, by the hands of the Mad King. An entire war broke out. Your brother, Eddard, marrying Catelyn Tully in Brandon’s stead, and siring a newborn son, Robb. Off he went to battle not too soon after—leaving only you and Benjen and tiny Robb as the remaining Starks in Winterfell.

Rhaegar Targaryen dying from a blow by Robert Baratheon, who’d been madly infatuated with your sister. Or, at least, he’d deluded himself into thinking he was. 

Jaime Lannister slitting the throat of the Mad King.

Everything had spun by so quickly—it all happened in a mere few moons. You were infamously named the Bitter Wolf, for not once have you smiled since the deaths of your dear family. It did not help that Benjen soon left to the Night’s Watch, leaving your only kin left to be Eddard and his young son.

“The Bitter Wolf,” the people of Winterfell always whispered as you passed by, foolishly thinking that you couldn’t hear them. “Take care not to get in her way… lest she ties you naked to a stake outside the castle walls to freeze overnight.”

Thwack.

Little Bran stomped a small foot in frustration when his arrow flew wildly off course, splintering into the damp wood of a barrel beside his intended target.

Jon patted his half-brother on the shoulder comfortingly. “Go on,” he said, “father’s watching. Your mother, too.”

The second arrow whizzed straight over the target entirely, disappearing somewhere into the trees behind. Bran’s older brothers began to chuckle under their breath, an even younger Rickon joining in on their laughter.

“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” asked Ned from the platforms above the courtyard. You briefly thought back to when you were ten—right when the war started. When you’d lost Lyanna, Brandon, and your father…

The other two boys chimed in with their advice.

“Don’t think too much about it,” said Jon.

“Relax your bow arm,” piped Robb.

Having a certain soft spot for your young nephew, you decided to voice your own thoughts. “Keep practicing, Bran. It’s alright not to be perfect at first, despite what your foolish brothers may tell you. For years, I kept missing my targets just because I always gripped the bow wrong. There is a certain art to it,” you told the young boy with a steely tone whilst nocking your own longbow, lining your gaze up with the target. In the blink of an eye, you sent it arcing forward, impaling the center of the coal-lined circle perfectly. Robb whistled with an impressed expression coloring over his features. “Archery is something you build up to—you won’t magically learn to perfect it in half a day.”

From somewhere behind the lot of you, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing the target right beside the tip of your bolt. You rounded your gaze behind you to see your young niece, Arya, holding her own bow, and grinning widely, immensely proud of herself.

It was no secret that Arya admired you greatly, aspiring to be like you when she grew older. Ned would often lightheartedly blame you for his second daughter’s callous, wild, and unladylike nature, but you would always reply with a straight tone, “Arya is every bit Lyanna. I am not Lyanna.”

With a frustrated huff, Bran darted after his sister, angry that she had bested him in something she wasn’t even supposed to be good at. Arya scurried away with a cackle, mud and gravel flying up beneath her boots with her remarkable speed. Robb and Jon burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. 

The smiles fell away when you shoved a bow into each of their arms. “Alright, boys. You think you’re so much better than your brother? Show me. I want ten perfect hits—only grazing the circle does not count.” 

The two young men incredulously glanced up at their father, as if expecting Ned to save them from your stern wrath. Your older brother merely shrugged, half of a grin tilting his lips lopsided.

With a groan, the boys turned to do as they were bid, until Theon Greyjoy came bounding up to Ned with a message. A deserter from the Night’s Watch was captured not too far from Winterfell. An execution by Ned’s hand was in order for breaking a sworn oath.

Saved by the raven, you thought grimly, though you made a mental note to get them to practice again afterwards, even if it meant you had to drag them out by the ears. 

The biting winds nipped at the small amounts of exposed bare skin that wasn’t covered by layers of thick furs, turning your face frigid. Outside the castle walls, the cold was more daunting and the gales were far stronger. You were well-acquainted with this sort of weather, however, and showed no sign of discomfort when Bran quietly asked you if you were as cold as he was.

They set the deserter upon a log, his neck resting upon the wood for Ned to chop it off. The poor fool was mumbling incoherently, too quiet for you to catch, but you could see the panic crystal clear in his far-away eyes. 

“Don’t look away,” said Jon to his younger brother. “Father will know if you do.”

Bran blinked, looking up at you for a brief moment. You dipped your head in agreement. It was something he needed to face eventually—death was inevitable.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” said Ned. “I, Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

With that, your brother raised his longsword and swung it down cleanly onto the back of the deserter’s neck. His severed head fell to the frozen ground with a squelching thud.

“You did well,” you quietly told little Bran, who had a slightly disturbed expression upon his quickly-paling features, but did not flinch all the same. He didn’t look at you, feeling a certain sickness coiling in his stomach.

Both Jon and Robb gritted their teeth. The older of the two turned and led Bran away to the horses.

“Bran is an imaginative boy,” you told Ned once he lumbered over to you, sheathing his sword. “He dreams of fights and knighthood—the glory and praise of it all. He knows not of the blood and death that consequently comes with it. Prepare him for that, Ned. Or he will be left traumatized and shrouded with fear.”

No one had prepared me, you wanted to say, but bit down on your tongue.

Your older brother took a pause at your words, considering them seriously. With a grim nod, he strode off to speak to his second-youngest son.

The ride back to Winterfell was rocky and far colder than when you had left. On the way, the group came across a mauled carcass of a stag, its bloodied guts pooling out of its abdomen, flesh nearly clawed apart.

“What killed it?” asked Jon.

“Mountain lion?” offered Theon, eyes darting to the trees in search of such a beast.

You shook your head. “Mountain lions don’t venture up this far. Must be a Northern animal. Claw marks are too small to be a bear.”

With slow strides Ned walked around the dead animal and down a muddy hill, where a bubbling creek rushed by. You followed along, brows quirking upwards upon seeing the large body of a direwolf, fresh blood coating the entire front of its pelt. There was an antler sticking out of its throat—no doubt the poor wolf died in agony.

Your attention was brought down lower to small, yipping pups, suckling at the teats of their dead mother. 

“It’s a freak!” Theon said. 

You shot him an icy glare, making him whither beneath your eyes. “Show some respect. The direwolf died protecting her pups.”

“Tough old beast,” Ned gruffed, before pulling out the bloodied antler. 

“There are no direwolves south of the Wall,” Robb postulated, befuddled as to how this had happened.

“Now there are five,” said Jon, before picking one of the pups up by the scruff and moving it out to Bran. “You want to hold it?”

The pup whimpered as he was placed into Bran’s awaiting arms, wanting to go back to its mother. “Where will they go?” asked the boy. “Their mother’s dead.”

“They don’t belong down here—better a quick death,” said Ned, pulling out his sword once more. “They won’t last without their mother.”

Eager to please, Theon leapt forward, brandishing a knife and pulling the direwolf pup away from Bran. “Right, give it here.”

“No!” cried your nephew.

“Put away your blade,” you barked out, stepping closer to the ward. 

Theon gulped nervously, but was stubborn to a fault. “I take orders from your brother, not you.”

“Please, father!” begged Bran, ever the sweet boy. He had already witnessed one death today, and was not yet ready to see five more.

“Put it away,” you repeated menacingly at Theon, before looking to your brother. “Ned, there are five direwolf pups… one for each of your children. The direwolf is the sigil of our house—it would do us no good killing off our own symbols. ‘Tis a rare thing to find direwolves around these parts. This is a blessing, brother. Take it as one.”

With a sigh, Ned hung his head, before staring directly at Bran. “You will train them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves. If they die, you will bury them yourselves.”

Theon sheathed his knife at Ned’s words, thrusting the pup back into Bran’s grasp.

The group began to walk away, and you hauled up one of the pups into your arms, wondering whether it will go to Sansa, Arya, or Rickon, as Robb and Bran seemed to already have their pick.

“What about you?” Bran asked Jon.

The dark-haired man stiffly replied, “I’m not a Stark.”

The sound of another whimpering pup roped your attention away from the one in your arms. Jon knelt down by the stump of a tree, brandishing a pure-white direwolf, its eyes a hazy shade of crimson.

“Ah, the runt of the litter,” chuckled Theon. “That one’s yours, Snow.”

Jon still seemed disheartened, staring at the scrawny little thing with narrowed eyes as the rest of the group were already hitching their horses.

“Come on,” you nudged the younger man along with your elbow. “The runts always turn out to be the strongest. Perhaps not physically, but their wills are unmatched.”

It was not often that you were remotely affectionate to him, but when Jon turned to glance at you, your expression had hardened back to its usual state. “Now get on your horse, before I convince your father to abandon you out here.”

The month passed by in a blur. The direwolves were growing at a rapid speed, reaching taller than the height of your knee when they sat up, ears perked. News of Jon Arryn’s death had come not too long ago, and King Robert Baratheon was due to arrive at Winterfell any minute by now, along with his family, and a plethora of other royal subjects.

“I want to see the Imp,” Arya babbled to you, scurrying along by your side as you swiftly crossed the courtyard to the stairs that led to your chambers, eager to change into something more appropriate for the arrival of the King. 

“Why? Because you want to meet someone shorter than you, for once?” you asked her dismissively, allowing her to slip through the door behind you as you changed out of your muddied garments into much cleaner ones. “Take no offense to this, Arya, but Tyrion Lannister prefers the company of much older women.”

Arya hopped onto your bed, eyebrows furrowing. She reminded you much of your late older sister, and it pained you to look at her for too long. Your comment about Tyrion’s tastes flew right over her head. “I’m not that short! Bran and Rickon are much shorter than me!”

A derisive snort fell from your lips as you did up your tunic, leaning close to the warped mirror to make sure you were decent enough for the public’s eye. “Not for long, girl. Not for long.”

Before Arya could reply, you were already making your way out of your chambers, just in time to see Bran clamber down the tall castle walls, yelling out, “The King is here! I saw him, he’s here!”

Not ten minutes later, nearly a hundred horses clopped through the gates, carrying fluttering Baratheon and Lannister flags. 

You stood beside Catelyn, head held up high. To her other side was Ned, then Robb, then Sansa, then Bran, and finally, little Rickon. Arya pushed forth between Sansa and Bran, shoving her younger brother aside. “Move!” she gruffed, earning her an angry glare from both parties. 

Behind you was Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy, the former looking like he’d really rather be doing anything else, and the latter looking excited to see Southern folk—the girls there are much prettier, he’d always thought.

The King certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He’d grown twice as wide since last you saw him, rounded belly straining the buttons of his stretched coat. His dark beard was thick and long, wild locks of black hair hastily combed back. A servant had to place down steps for him to clamber off his horse.

Ned knelt down before his old friend, and you followed suit. The King strode up to him, beckoning your older brother to rise, along with the rest of the people of Winterfell. You stood back up on your feet, hands clasped behind your back. Your eyes wandered further behind the King, wondering where the rest of the royal family were.

“Your Grace,” said Ned, bowing his head. 

Robert scanned his eyes over the Warden of the North, thick brows quirking down with disapproval. “You’ve got fat,” he quipped. Pot, meet kettle.

Your older brother tilted his head, using his chin to gesture to Robert’s own protruding stomach. The King then let out a loud, wheezing laugh, spreading out his arms to wrap Ned in a tight embrace.

He gave Catelyn a hug next, exclaiming her name warmly. 

His dark eyes then landed on you. “Ah, the infamous Bitter Wolf,” he boldly said. He dared not hug you, wondering if you’d bite off his hand, uncaring that he was the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms. There was a pregnant pause—his gaze rested a second longer than it should have, for he couldn’t help but notice how you’d grown well into your features, sharing a few traits with Lyanna—though she looked much like your father whilst your appearance favored your late mother. “Time has done you wonders. Last I saw, you were only but a wee thing.”

“If only I could say the same to you,” you replied, voice sharp and level. Robert only gave a grand chuckle at your words, before moving his gaze back to Ned.

“Nine years—why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?” 

A ghost of a smile graced Ned’s lips. “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace.”

“From what? Naked tree branches and piles of snow?” he said, amused at his own jests.

A little ways behind Robert, you could see Queen Cersei Lannister step out of a carriage, lifting her golden skirts just slightly so they wouldn’t drag along the mud. 

“Where’s the Imp?” you heard Arya ask her sister.

“Will you shut up?” Sansa shot back, rolling her deep blue eyes to the side. 

The King walked on to see the Stark children, a proud glint to his expression. “And who do we have here? Ah… you must be Robb,” he said, shaking the eldest boy’s hand firmly. Robert looked at Sansa, brows raised. “My, you’re a pretty one.”

He then leaned down closer to Arya, who looked much too preoccupied looking for the Imp, asking for her name. Arya absentmindedly responded, still searching for Tyrion, not even bothering to look the King in the eye. Robert seemed not to mind, only barking out a gruff chuckle.

“Ooh, show us your muscles!” Robert told Bran, who immediately raised a scrawny arm with a small grin. The King wheezed a chesty laugh. “You’ll be a soldier!”

The last of the horses rode into Winterfell, and you keenly noticed a golden-armored knight climbing off his steed, tugging his helmet off his head.

Jaime Lannister. 

The man who killed the King. The very same King that murdered your father and brother.

Nearly unchanged from all those years ago, he was. His golden hair stood out starkly against the grey walls of the castle, green eyes bright and cunning. 

You hadn’t even noticed that you were staring at him until your attention was ripped away by Cersei Lannister, her hand held out in front of Ned. 

“My Queen,” he said, lightly kissing her knuckles. Catelyn bowed, a polite smile to her lips. You watched her with narrowed eyes, and for a brief second, Cersei met your cold gaze, as if challenging you to back down.

Before she could say anything, Robert strode back in front of Ned. “Take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects.”

To Lyanna. He wanted to see Lyanna.

Cersei scowled. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”

The King ignored his wife. “Ned. Let’s go.”

Your brother glanced apologetically at the Queen, before leading Robert away, down to the crypts.

“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asked a third time, bouncing on her feet. 

Nobody spared her a response, but Cersei swiftly rotated around to Jaime, taking hold of his arm. “Where is our wretched brother? Go and find the little beast.”

You watched Jaime huff in amusement, before striding off in search of Tyrion. 

When Cersei turned back to the Stark family, you were nowhere to be seen.

The feast was held at sundown. 

Your creamed potatoes were growing cold, but you hadn’t the stomach to eat anymore—not when Robert Baratheon was sticking his tongue down a servant’s throat only two tables away from you. So you opted to sipping on your drink instead, half-listening to whatever tall tale Robb was exaggerating to the lords around him.

It was only when half of the food was already scarfed down, did your brother Benjen arrive. He came clopping on horseback, striding through the crowded entrance and ducking between cheering men with overflowing chalices of ale. 

“Little sister,” he greeted, clapping a hand on your shoulder and drawing you into a tight hug. Surprised at the sudden embrace, it took you a moment to reciprocate his affection. Your nose buried into the thick furs of his coat. You did not smile, but there was a faint trace of fondness to your eyes. “You are looking as sour as ever. Not a wonder why people only ever call you the Bitter Wolf these days. ‘Tis a rare thing to see you at a social calling, much less one this crowded.”

“Aren’t you a charmer? I’m only here because the King ordered me to be. Why, I cannot possibly say,” you dryly replied, before shoving him away and handing him a goblet of wine. “Here. Must be better than what you’ve got up on the Wall.”

Benjen said something in reply, but it was muffled into the rim of the cup as he slurped it down with a greedy groan. “Ah, I missed this terribly. You can’t imagine how awful alcohol tastes up there. Where is our dear brother? Ned!”

The taller man strode away to the eldest Stark by the main table, cuffing his shoulder with a wide grin. Ned, however, was solemn-faced, pondering about the mad boy he had beheaded all those weeks ago.

You chanced a glance towards the King—he was far too occupied with two other ladies fawning over him to notice you slipping out of the Hall. With that, you began weaving through the packed throng, eager to take your leave.

To your dismay, you were stopped in your tracks by a taller figure, the dark lapels of his tunic brushing against your face with your sudden halt. You reared back a step, your narrowed eyes meeting his curious green ones.

Jaime Lannister.

“Excuse me,” you said, none too pleased about being stopped in your tracks. 

“Lady Stark,” he murmured, voice silken smooth. “Or, should I say, the Bitter Wolf?”

Annoyance growing, you only scowled at him. “Pardon me, Ser Jaime. Or, should I say, Kingslayer?”

Jaime frowned. The action twisted his sharp features in a manner that did not suit him at all, as if such an expression did not belong on such a face. The words stung like he’d just been slapped. Nonetheless, he pressed forth, determined to keep your conversation ongoing. 

“I hear your brother is to be Hand of the King.”

What was this? Amicable chatter? With the Queen’s brother, no less? You were bewildered as to how you got to such a predicament—you only wanted nothing more than to retire to your chambers.

“Yes, lovely to hear that I am the last of my siblings to remain at Winterfell,” you snarkily replied, deftly stepping around him and ushering out of the Hall. It was to no avail, for Jaime simply strode with you, ambling after you out into the cold snow. “Why are you following me?”

“Walking you to your chambers,” the blonde knight simply replied, as if it were common sense. “You were there, were you not? At the Tourney of Harrenhal? I saw you. Small thing, you were.”

A beat of silence. In the distance, a raven cawed. You could feel the tension in your shoulders only barely dissipate. 

“Yes,” you carefully replied. “I remember little of it… I was so young. Times were simpler then.”

Jaime huffed out a dry laugh and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for me, they weren’t.” It was clear to you that he was implying his time with the Mad King. You were given no chance to reply when he continued speaking. “You weren’t so bitter then. I saw you dancing with your brother… Brandon, was it?”

A lump formed in your throat. “Yes,” you quietly responded, voice suddenly hoarse.

“I’m sure a tournament will be held in honor of Lord Eddard’s new title, should he accept,” Jaime said, hands clasping behind his back. “I would hope to see you there, Lady Stark. Perhaps you can watch me best your brother in combat.”

Much to Jaime’s amazement, you scoffed, bordering on a near laugh. 

He had made the infamous Bitter Wolf nearly laugh! A strange sense of pride curled within the confines of his chest.

“Your arrogance will be your downfall, Ser Jaime. Besides—Ned doesn’t fight in tourneys. I wouldn’t, either.” You turned the corner to climb up the steps to your chambers, halting in your tracks to look down upon Jaime. “‘Tis a foolish thing, fighting for naught but gold and praise. When the enemies come striking, there is no gold waiting on the other side. Just the bittersweet relief of survival.”

Jaime tilted his head, considering your words. “It’s not always a relief.”

“Pardon?”

“Relief… not all are relieved to be alive,” he mused, hand resting upon the stone wall beside him. 

You observed the man before you. Perhaps you had severely misjudged him.

“Yes,” you murmured, casting your gaze up to the starry night sky. “I know what that’s like.”

The two of you stood in silence for a while longer. It was neither comfortable nor was it unbearable. It was simply just there.

“I’ll be retiring for the night, Ser Jaime. You’ve followed me this far—I could only hope you won’t follow me into my chambers,” you said in a warning tone, eyes locked intensely with his.

With a playful tone, Jaime pushed at the elasticity of your limits. There was a roguish grin to his mouth. “I would never. Not unless you invited me, of course.” 

And there it was again—your gruff scoff-laugh. Jaime stood up straighter, wishing to hear you laugh properly.

“Good night, Ser,” you curtly said.

“Good night, Lady Stark. Sleep well. Perhaps we’ll reconvene on the morrow,” he replied with a small bow of his head. With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back into the mess hall. You hummed in thought, thinking back to his earlier words as you slid into your dark chambers.

Not all are relieved to be alive.

You were up early the next morning, sharpening one of your many throwing daggers by the foot of the staircase. 

It all happened in a blur. One moment, you heard a faint thud from the edges of the castle walls. You thought nothing of it at first—brushing it off as one of the saddle boys accidentally knocking a barrel over. But the morning was still young, and you doubted any of them would even be up at such an hour. It would do you no harm to go check. And so, you sheathed your dagger and strode across the yard and rounded the bend.

The next moment, you were happening upon Bran’s small, broken body, laid across the grass and gravel, clearly having just fallen from a great height. You had yelled for the maesters so loudly that the entirety of Winterfell seemed to awaken at the commotion. With frantic motions, you gathered Bran up in your arms and sprinted towards the infirmary, murmuring panicked prayers to the Old Gods beneath your breath.

The startled Maester Luwin swooped to take Bran from you, setting him down on a bed to check on him. The small boy was unresponsive, but still breathing.

Catelyn and Ned came running in soon after. You took to comforting an anguished Cat while answering Ned’s solemn questions as to what happened. 

For the days to come, you rarely ever left your nephew’s side, curled up in a chair by the head of his bed, only ever leaving to occasionally clean yourself up and grab food for yourself and Catelyn. The boy’s poor mother was in shambles, often crying into his blankets and pleading for him to wake up. She prayed to her Seven Gods, begging them to bestow mercy for her sweet boy. When she wasn’t sobbing, she would read to him in a low, croaking voice, or occupy her shaking hands with needlework.

Cersei Lannister had appeared by the doorway the morning after Bran’s fall, clutching her thick coat close to her form. 

“Oh, I would’ve dressed, had I known you were coming, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, standing up to bow slightly. You glanced up from your own book, dipping your head in acknowledgement to the Queen.

The woman hummed. “Please, this is your home. I’m your guest.” She looked upon Bran, green eyes dark and thoughtful. “Handsome one, he is. I lost my first boy—a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter, too… tried to beat the fever that took him.”

Her words made you set your book down, brows furrowing.

She seemed to sense both you and Catelyn’s agitation, clasping her hands in front of her. “Forgive me. That must be the last thing you need to hear right now.”

“I never knew, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her palm. She was exhausted, having forgone sleep for the entire night.

“It was a long time ago,” Cersei replied wistfully. “Robert was furious… beat his hands bloody on the wall. All the things men do to show you how much they care.”

“Without actually caring,” you murmured, thinking back to his crazed infatuation with your older sister. Cersei’s stare turned to you, and she nodded once. 

There was a long, pregnant silence. The Queen cleared her throat and continued on. A thin film of tears warbled over her viridescent irises. “The boy looked just like him. Such a small thing. A bird without feathers. When they came to take him away—Robert held me. I screamed and battled, but he held me. I never saw him again. Never visited the crypts.” She drew in a shaky breath and fixed her stare back on the motionless Bran. “I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she will return your child to you, Lady Catelyn.”

“I am grateful,” Cat sniffled.

“Perhaps this time she’ll listen,” said Cersei. She turned to take her leave, but not before glancing at you. “You were the one who found him, were you not?”

You set your jaw at the question. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Hm. It is a miracle you were there… he would have been dead if not for you,” she murmured, a strange edge to her tone. The skirts of her dress swished noisily as she strode out of the room. 

The fresh air was doing you good. Your head felt much clearer as you made your way around the castle, the cold winds settling nicely over your skin, pleasantly tousling your hair. You made your way to the smithy, where you spotted Jon hovering over the wooden table where a blade was being carefully cleaned.

It seemed the young man was quite taken with the prospect of going up to the Wall with your brother, Benjen, and swearing the vows of the Night’s Watch. You weren’t too happy to hear of his plans on leaving Winterfell, but you supposed he’d feel much more at home further up North with people cut from the same cloth as him. Not only was Jon leaving to the Wall, but Ned, Sansa, and Arya were also going to the capital with the King quite soon.

“Jon,” you greeted, dipping your head at your nephew. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

The grey-eyed man shook his head, curls flying. There was a small, wary smile touching the corner of his lips. “I was going to come visit you and Bran before you left. I have something to give to Arya first.”

You peered over his shoulder to take a closer look at the thin sword. “A sword for your sister? Be sure your father doesn’t see you giving her that.”

Surprised flashed across Jon’s face. You were never one to pass up the chance to nag him until his ears fell away. “Are you not going to tell me off?”

“No,” you grimly replied. “King’s Landing is a dangerous place. The girl’s going to need it someday.”

Jon nodded once, pleased that you weren’t going to stop him. 

It was then that you heard a familiar voice susurrate from behind you, making both you and Jon turn around at the same time.

“Lady Stark, my deepest condolences for your young nephew. Let us hope he makes a speedy recovery,” he said. He was grinning strangely, in a manner that you rather misliked.

“Yes,” you responded stoically. “I suppose this is a farewell for us, then.”

The blonde knight tossed his head back in a confident manner. “Only time will tell, Bitter Wolf. You never know—our paths may yet cross again.” 

You couldn’t quite tell if that was a promise or a threat. Perhaps both.

You spared him a distant hum, turning back to look upon the sword Jon was having specially crafted for Arya.

“A sword for the wall?” the Kingslayer asked, head tilting. 

“No. I already have one,” said Jon.

The older man’s brows lifted. “Good man. Have you swung it yet?”

The bastard scoffed. “Of course I have.”

“At someone, I mean,” the knight clarified. Jon remained silent. “It’s a strange thing… cutting a man open for the first time. You realize we’re nothing but sacks of meat and blood and bone to keep it all standing. Let me thank you ahead of time, Jon Snow, for guarding us all from the perils beyond the Wall. Wildlings and white walkers and whatnot.”

Jaime tightly clasped Jon’s hand, clearly mocking the man with a condescending lilt to his words. It took no genius to discern that Jaime was no fan of the Night’s Watch—to him, they were nothing but a group of lowly thieves, rapists, and murderers.

The younger boy tried to pull his hand away from Jaime’s grip, but the blonde man merely grasped harder. “We’re grateful to have such good, strong men like you protecting us.”

“I’d appreciate it if you let go of my nephew, Ser Jaime,” you cut in, voice icy and eyes ablaze. You were rather indifferent to the blonde knight, but he was starting to get on your nerves. 

Jaime took one glimpse at your hardened scowl, before relinquishing his hold on Jon and stepping back. You couldn’t quite read the expression on his handsome features. “Give my regards to the brothers at the Wall. I’m sure it will be thrilling to serve in such an… elite force. And if not, well… it’s just for your entire life, right? Small price.”

The Kingslayer left the both of you glaring at his back, making his way back into the castle to find his brother. You looked to Jon.

“His arrogance will be his downfall,” you whispered, parroting what you’d told him the night of the feast.

Jon only grunted in response, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

It was easy to say goodbye to Jon. You knew he was going to be safe with your brother watching over him, and he was going to be much happier at the Wall without feeling out of place, like he did in Winterfell. You gave him a one-armed hug, pulling away to pat his cheek twice. 

“Write to me, will you? I want to know how you’re faring,” you said, tone uncharacteristically soft. It’d been nearly a month since Bran fell out of the window, and you weren’t keen on losing another one of your nephews. 

Jon nodded, lips pursed grimly. “Of course. Will you let me know if Bran wakes up?” he asked.

“When he wakes up,” you corrected.

“Right. When he wakes up. You Starks are hard to kill.”

Though you didn’t smile, there was a clear glimmer of fondness to your irises, one that Jon only rarely caught when you were speaking to Ned or little Rickon. The fact that it was directed to him for the first time made his stomach roil—he was going to miss you. 

“You’re a Stark to me, Jon. You’re my nephew, my blood… never forget that. Now, get on—Robb’s waiting to speak to you.” 

You ushered the younger man off to say his farewells to his half-brother, but Jon paused in his steps and lowly asked, “Before I go, I wanted to ask you… do you know anything about my mother?”

There was a beat of silence. You certainly hadn’t expected Jon to ask you that. “Your father never spoke to me about her. All I know is that she must’ve been a good person if Ned took a liking to her. I’m sorry… I wish I could tell you more, but I know little of the matter myself.”

You didn't miss the glimmer of disappointment to the young lad's grey eyes. “Don’t be. Farewell, Aunt Y/N.”

You watched Jon turn on his heel and walk off to speak with Robb.

“You don’t look too happy to see me off,” said Benjen, magically appearing by your side and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. He ruffled your hair with a mild grin. “Then again… you never really look happy, do you?”

With a scowl, you ducked away from his hands. “Oh, stop it. I’ll be seeing you again sooner or later, no doubt.”

“I’m being serious, dear sister. I cannot remember the last time I’ve seen you genuinely smiling,” he said, evident concern flooding his winter-hewn features. “Give me a smile—just one before I leave. You used to smile all the time when we were little.”

Before the war. Before father and Brandon were murdered.

You shook your head, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. “That was a long while ago, Benjen. I am not the same person I was before.”

Barking out a laugh, Benjen crossed his arms over his chest. “Indeed you are not. I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll be keeping Bran in my prayers.”

“You don’t pray,” you dryly said.

“I would for him,” your older brother replied solemnly before mounting his horse. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

Your own goodbye was too quiet for him to hear, as he was already clopping away. 

The next farewells in order were for Ned, Sansa, and Arya. Your brother tugged you into a loose hug, face grim. 

“Winter is coming,” he had whispered into your hairline. “Take care, Y/N.”

As for the two girls, Sansa was rather intimidated by you, and squeaked out a stiff goodbye, whilst Arya hugged you tightly, her face buried into the fabric of your tunic. You had frozen at first, but loosened with time and gently patted her head. 

There was too much of Lyanna in her, you thought with a frown as she pulled away from you and scurried off to get into the carriage behind her older sister.

Hours later, you found yourself sitting by Bran’s bed once again, Catelyn on the other side weaving together a prayer wheel for her son. You were flicking through a voluminous tome on the history of dragons, muffling a yawn behind your fist. It was only when Maester Luwin strode into the room did you pull your attention away from the book.

“It’s time we reviewed the accounts, my Lady,” he hesitantly said to Catelyn, hands clasped together. The woman’s eyes watered, and she glared at the maester for even thinking that she was up for speaking of money when her son was still hurt. “You’ll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us.”

She hummed dismissively. “Talk to Poole about it.”

Sympathetic, Luwin lowered his voice. “Poole went south with Lord Stark, my Lady. We need a new steward, and there are several appointments that require our immediate attention—”

“I don’t care!” Catelyn bit out. “I don’t care about appointments! My son needs me.”

Another figure stepped through the doorway. “I’ll make the appointments,” said Robb. “We’ll talk about it first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be happy to help, if need be,” you offered, nodding to Robb.

“Very well, my Lord—my Lady,” said Maester Luwin to the both of you, before dipping his head and excusing himself out of the room.

You casted a worried glance to Catelyn, who’d taken to intensely staring at her prayer wheel once more.

“When was the last time you’ve left this room?” Robb asked his mother. Crossing the room in three long strides, he reached out to open up the windows. The noise of the howling direwolves flooded into the chambers.

There was a tremble in her voice when she said, “I have to take care of him.”

“He’s not going to die, mother. The maester says the most dangerous time has passed,” Robb tried to reason fruitlessly. 

“What if he’s wrong?” she retaliated, eyes wild. “Bran needs me!”

Her eldest son shook his head. “Rickon needs you. He’s six. He doesn’t know what’s happening—he follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying out for you, for Bran, for father—”

The direwolves howled some more.

“Close the windows!” Catelyn cried, abandoning her prayer wheel to curl her hands into fists and knock them against her knees in frustration. “I can’t stand it! Make them stop!”

The howling only grew louder. 

With furrowed brows, you stood up on your feet to stand beside Robb and glance out the window. 

Your heart leapt into your throat. 

Fire.

Red, greedy flames. Licking at the air, spitting embers at the gravel. 

With urgent movements, you dashed out of the door to help put the growing blaze out, catching Robb ordering his mother to stay in the room.

When you returned to the chambers not fifteen minutes later, you found Catelyn curled up on the cold floor, murmuring prayers beneath her breath, her hands soaked in dark ichor. An equally bloodied Summer was laying protectively over Bran’s unconscious form.

On the other side of the room was a man, throat nearly turned inside out, crimson so dark it nearly looked black, gushing out of his neck.

And on the ground between them was a dagger.

A dagger to change the fate of the entirety of Westeros.

“This is where he must have fallen,” you whispered to Catelyn, gazing out from the opening in the tall tower. 

Your sister-in-law gritted her teeth. “Or where he was pushed.”

Anger bubbled within your throat. It made sense—Bran had never fallen before while climbing, and someone was sent to murder him not too long after the first failed attempt. 

“Who would do such a thing?” you asked in an icy voice, gaze scouring around the rest of the tower.

Catelyn knelt down on the ground, eyes widening. From the ground she picked up a long strand of blonde hair.

Fury turned your vision red.

Cersei Lannister.

Nearly an hour later, Catelyn had convened a small group she was sure to be loyal to her. Ned’s ward, the master-at-arms, the maester, you, and her eldest son.

“What I am about to tell you must remain between us,” she said, an urgent edge to her words. “I don’t think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was thrown.”

Maester Luwin bowed his head in thought. “The boy was always sure-footed before.”

“Someone tried to kill him twice. Why? Why murder an innocent child?” Catelyn whispered, blue eyes hardened. “Unless he saw something he shouldn’t have seen.”

Theon tilted his head. “Saw what, my Lady?”

“I don’t know… but I would stake my life the Lannisters are involved. We already have reason to suspect their loyalty to the crown.”

“Did you notice the dagger that the killer used? It’s too fine a weapon for such a man. The blade is Valyrian steel, and the handle is dragonbone. Someone gave it to him… someone with a lot of money,” said Rodrik, presenting the sharp dagger for everyone to see.

Enraged, Robb snarled, “They come into my home and try to murder my brother? If it’s war they want—”

“If it comes to that, you know that I’ll stand behind you,” Theon interrupted, ever desperate to please.

“Perhaps it is best you think first with your head before your fists,” you told the two bristling boys in a placating tone. “War is the last thing we need. We have to keep our emotions in tact… find out who did this. Justice will be served, but it mustn’t be rushed.”

Robb blew out a frustrated breath, but nodded. It was not wise to rush headfirst into war. Everybody had to be smart about this.

“Lord Stark must be informed,” said Maester Luwin. 

Shaking her head, Catelyn responded, “I don’t trust a raven to carry these words.” 

“I’ll ride to King’s Landing,” Robb offered. 

Immediately, Catelyn refused his proposal, not wanting to put another one of her sons in danger. “No. You are Winterfell’s heir—you should remain here. I will go myself.” 

“Mother, you can’t—” Robb began to protest.

“I must,” said Catelyn, heavy with finality. 

Rodrik pursed his lips before saying, “I’ll send Hal with a squad of guards to escort you, my Lady.”

Again, Catelyn denied the offer. “I don’t want the Lannisters to know I’m coming. Too large a party will attract attention.”

“Then let me accompany you,” said Rodrik. “The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone.”

Crestfallen at having to see his mother off, Robb whispered, “What about Bran?”

Catelyn’s lips trembled. “I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month. Bran’s life is in their hands now.”

By nightfall, Catelyn had packed a small rucksack to take with her, and Rodrik was awaiting her by Winterfell’s gates. 

“Watch my boys for me,” she murmured, taking your hands within hers and squeezing. Tears lined her eyes, threatening to fall, but none did. “There isn’t much you can do for Bran but Robb… Rickon… they need you.”

“I’ll be here, sister,” you said solemnly, squeezing her palms in a reassuring manner.

With that, you helped her mount her small horse, and watched as she rode off with Rodrik in tow. Robb came by your side, his jaw set.

“All my life, I’ve watched people go,” you said to him, wistful. “My father, my brothers, my sister, and now your mother. The waiting is the worst part.”

The younger man casted you a curious look—this was the first time he’s heard you speak of your past. He pulled a hand over his weary face. “I’m not good at waiting.”

“You’ll have no choice,” you told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, Robb. We have an entire castle to uphold. We must work together, you and I. You are a young man, with a heavy responsibility weighing over your head… but I will shoulder it with you. You hear me, boy?”

Conflict warred within the blue of his eyes. He looked so much like Catelyn, nothing like you or Ned. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

To his surprise, you pulled him into an embrace, and he couldn’t help but swallow down the lump in his throat, forcing away the sharp sting to the corner of his eyes. Never before had you openly shown him such affection, but these were changing times. You loved your nephew dearly, even if you weren’t one to show it.

“Come,” you said once you pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “Let us go have supper.”

A week had gone by when Bran awoke.

He was tired and groggy, and felt nothing from the waist down. He’d never be able to walk again, the maester had said. Bran was angry at the news, spending his days looking glum and solemn.

When Robb had asked him if he remembered anything, Bran merely bit his bottom lip and shook his head. You wrote to both Jon and Ned of the bittersweet news, sending the raven off first thing in the morning.

Nearly a moon later, Lord Tyrion returned back to Winterfell after his little adventure to the Wall, with a brother of the Night’s Watch, Yoren, accompanying him.

“I must say I received a slightly warmer welcome on my last visit,” the Imp mused, standing before you and Robb and Maester Luwin.

A scowl flitted over your features. “Winter is coming, Lord Tyrion. Not much warmth going around the North these days.”

Robb tilted his head. “Any man of the Night’s Watch is always welcome in Winterfell.”

“Any man of the Night’s Watch but not I, eh, boy?” Tyrion asked. 

With a steely tone, your nephew gritted out, “I’m not your boy, Lannister. I’m the Lord of Winterfell while my father is away.”

“Then you might learn a Lord’s courtesy!”

It was then that the door to the hall swung open, and Hodor lumbered in, carrying Bran in his arms.

“So it’s true,” said Tyrion, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?”

Maester Luwin responded on the boy’s behalf. “He has no memory of that day.”

Frustrated, Robb asked, “Why are you here?”

Ignoring the question, the Lannister looked back to Bran. “Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt.”

With a straight face, Bran quietly said, “Kneel, Hodor.”

The large man did as Bran asked. 

“Do you like to ride, Bran?” queried Tyrion.

“Yes. Well… I used to.”

Luwin’s brows furrowed. “The boy has lost the use of his legs.”

Brandishing a paper scroll, Tyrion easily replied, “With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.”

The small boy frowned at the wording. “I’m not a cripple,” he said, clearly upset.

“Then I’m not a dwarf!” Tyrion exclaimed before handing Bran the scroll. “My father would be rejoiced to hear it. Here—this is for you. Give it to your saddler, and he’ll provide the rest.”

He unraveled it eagerly, a smile touching his lips upon seeing intricate designs for a special-made saddle to accommodate for his legs. 

“Will I really be able to ride?” asked Bran.

“You will,” said Tyrion. “On horseback, you’ll be as tall as any other man.”

Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “What game are you playing at, Lord Lannister? Why are you helping my nephew, if you even are?”

“No game,” the Imp replied. “I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”

Bran smiled at the blonde, and Robb seemed to soften a bit at this.

“You’ve done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” he said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Spare me your courtesies, Lord Stark. There is a brothel outside your walls. There, I’ll find a bed and both of us can sleep easier.”

With that, Tyrion turned to leave. 

“I’ll be right back,” you told Robb, who watched you go with curious eyes. You said nothing more, getting up from your seat and hurrying out after the surprisingly quick man. “Lord Tyrion.”

“Ah, the Bitter Wolf—I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of speaking to each other alone before,” he hummed. “My brother seems to think you’re amusing… though you don’t quite look the kind to jape.”

You waved away his words, getting straight to the point. “Do you know where Cersei Lannister was the morning Bran fell?”

The Imp’s brows raised. “I can’t say I do… I was sunken into my whore and my cups… and Cersei avoids me like the plague. I scarcely know where she is even when I’m sober. Why? Do you believe my wretched sister played a hand in his crippling?”

“Indeed, I do,” you shot back, a sharp edge to your words. “These are dangerous times, Lord Tyrion. Sleep well.”

With no more to say to him, you turned on your heel and marched back into the hall, with the Imp’s gaze burning holes into the back of your head.

The small scroll the raven brought to Winterfell bore nothing but bad news. Catelyn had taken Tyrion as hostage in belief that he was the one responsible for Bran’s fall, as the dagger apparently belonged to him. She planned on bringing him up to the Vale to contest his crimes with her sister, Lysa. 

It is not Tyrion, you wanted to scream at your law-sister, even though she was thousands of miles away. It is Cersei Lannister. I am sure of it.

Not too long after the news of the Imp’s imprisonment reached you, another raven came flying into Winterfell. This time, its contents were far graver.

Jory was dead. Ned was seriously maimed on behalf of Catelyn—a spear pierced cleanly into his thigh—and he was tossed into a jail cell by order of Jaime Lannister.

Fury had consumed you whole when you read the little parchment, nearly ripping the paper apart from your tight grip. You had half a mind to ride to King’s Landing and demand your brother be freed at once, but you steeled yourself with reason. There was little you could do—the Red Keep was swarming with golden lions and hungry cats of the same ilk. It was no place for a wolf of winter.

When you had told Robb of the news, he was surprisingly calm about it, drawing away from you to mull it over silently. He did not want to jump headfirst into violence—but what choice did he have now?

“My mother shouldn’t have done that,” murmured Robb, voice lowered so nobody would be able to overhear. “The Lannisters will go to war with us for this.”

You hummed, pensive. “No, she shouldn’t have. It is not Lord Tyrion that pushed Bran—he may be a drunkard, but he is not a fool. He wouldn’t equip an assassin with his own personal dagger. Only an arrogant idiot would do such a thing.”

“Then who do you think did it?” asked your nephew, blue eyes cold.

“Cersei Lannister. Your mother and I found a long strand of blonde hair in the tower Bran fell from. Who other than Cersei has long blonde hair? I don’t know why she would do such a thing—but I’d bet an arm and a leg that it was her. She loves nobody but her own children… and she is none too fond of your father, or the King, or any of you. Perhaps Bran saw her with someone. Someone she wasn’t supposed to be with,” you said, tone slow as you spelled it out for him.

Brows raised, Robb reared back at the realization. His breath seemed to crystallize within his throat. “If word were to get out about Cersei’s couplings, the King would have her head on a spike. It would make sense for her to eliminate any… threats.”

“Yes, boy. We must keep this to ourselves for now—we could lose our tongues at the very least if we have no proof.”

The younger man blew out a sigh. The heavy burden laying over his shoulders seemed to only grow weightier by the minute. “Should we not tell Bran? About any of this?”

Both of you looked at the sweet summer child, hollering out excitedly as he rode about on Dancer, strapped into the new horse saddle Tyrion had designed. 

“He seems happy. Perhaps it is best we let him remain in such a state for a little while longer.”

It was then that Theon made his way to the two of you, having heard the news of Jory and Ned from a grave Maester Luwin. 

“Are you not going to make the Lannisters pay?” he asked Robb, grey eyes ablaze. 

Setting his jaw, Robb firmly shook his head. “I will not go to war.”

“It’s not war—” Theon firmly replied, “it’s justice.”

A scoff lodged itself in your throat. “Queer definition of justice, ey, Greyjoy? Is revenge the only way you settle fights back on the Iron Islands? ‘Tis a wonder the lot of you haven’t already murdered each other, then.” 

The ward bristled at your nonchalant comments, but decided to ignore you, addressing Robb once more. “Jaime Lannister put a spear through your father’s leg. The Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock, where no one can touch him—”

“It was not him,” you sharply corrected Theon, scowling. 

“What?”

“It was not Ser Jaime who speared Ned,” you repeated yourself, slightly quieter. 

Mirroring your frown, Theon shook his head with frustration. “What does it matter? He was there. He fought Lord Stark in front of a whorehouse!”

“What would you have me do?” demanded Robb, lifting his head in a challenging manner. “March on Casterly Rock and order the Kingslayer to come out of hiding? Then you are more a fool than I thought, Theon.”

Raising his voice ever so slightly, Theon retaliated, “You’re not a boy anymore! They attacked your father. The war has already begun, whether you like it or not. It’s your duty to represent House Stark when your father can’t.”

“And what do you know of duty?” you spat, glaring angrily at Theon. “It is not your house—I’m afraid you’re confusing captivity with duty.”

With an angry yell, Theon pushed himself up to his feet, towering over you, but you merely rolled your eyes to the side. The both of you knew that if Theon were to lay one hand on you, he would be hanging from a noose by the end of the day. Uncaring of the bridling man, you glanced around to look for Bran.

Where the devil was he?

“Where’s Bran?” asked Robb, wildly looking around for his younger brother.

Still upset, Theon hissed out, “Don’t know. Not my house.” With that, he stalked away, shoulders slumped.

You and Robb hurriedly scoured the forest in search of little Bran. A nocked bow was gripped in your hands, and a dagger was safely tucked beneath your cloak in case you ever needed it.

Finally, the two of you heard whispers and mutters coming from behind a bush, and you raised your bow with narrowed eyes. It was Bran on his horse, appearing frightened—and around him were four Wildlings, their furs muddied and their faces covered with soot. One of them had a blade against Bran’s paralyzed leg.

“Drop the knife,” Robb commanded, voice booming. He unsheathed his sword, the cold metal gleaming with the sparse rays of sun through the dark grey clouds. “Let him go, and I’ll let you live.”

The wildlings glanced at each other, snickering. One of them dove forward with a yell, arcing an axe down upon Robb. Your nephew was quick to parry and duck away, his sword slicing cleanly along the flesh of his throat.

You let your arrow loose straight through the eye of the wildling closest to Bran, and he fell back with an ear-splitting scream. With nimble movements, you ran to the horse, beginning to unbuckle the straps to the saddle keeping him in place. To your right, another wildling came charging at you, her dull axe swinging down to your arm. You jerked away before it could make a clean chop, but the blade carved a large gash into your forearm nonetheless, blood splattering all over your tunic. Pain blossomed over your hand and you rolled away before she could hit you once more. Robb came forward, slanting his longsword against the wildling woman’s jugular.

The last straggler grabbed your injured arm, making you cry out at the sudden pressure, the tip of his own dirty knife pressing into your jaw. A crimson bead leaked out from your skin, rolling down your neck.

Robb’s eyes widened. From his horse, Bran worriedly yelled your name.

“Drop the sword!” the wildling yelled, glaring at Robb holding his friend. “Do it!”

With slow, cautious movements, Robb reluctantly lowered his sword, but didn’t relinquish his grip on the woman. 

All of a sudden, an arrow flew through the air, piercing straight through the wildling that was holding you with a sickening squelch. More blood splattered over your face and you grimaced, shoving him away with a gasp. You rounded your gaze behind to see Theon Greyjoy, his face grim yet smug.

Robb was quick to rush to Bran, asking if he was alright. His blue eyes glanced at you with concern, noting how your entire arm was drenched with your dark blood. 

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered to him, wincing as you put pressure upon your gash. “Maester Luwin will stitch me up.”

“Do I not get a thank you?” Theon asked you, nocking another arrow to point at the wildling woman’s forehead. “In the Iron Islands, you’re not a man until you’ve killed your first enemy. Well done, Robb.”

A scowl crossed your features, but Robb replied in your stead. “Have you gone mad?” he growled out. “What if you’d missed? You could’ve gotten her killed!”

Indignant, Theon gruffed, “That wildling would’ve killed the three of you anyway, had I not been there.”

“You don’t have the right—!”

“To what? To save Lady Stark? It was the only thing to do so I did it! Would you rather her be dead?” 

You raised a hand to placate the two, tone calm and soft. “Alright, alright. Thank you, Theon. Happy? Can we get on with actual important matters now?” Your eyes darted to the last wildling alive.

Whimpering, she cowered beneath the tip of Theon’s arrow. “Please, m’lord, gimme mah life and ah’m yours,” she simpered, crawling closer to Robb.

Ever the tender boy, Robb bowed his head. “Keep her alive.”

She blew out a sigh of relief, kneeling down to press her head into the cold, damp soil with gratitude. You turned away, marching back to the castle, leaving a trail of blood dripping from the deep gash in your wake.

Benjen had disappeared. The small raven’s scroll was read over and over nearly ten times altogether… desperate for some sort of misreading or that the words would magically change. But they did nothing of the sort—your older brother had vanished into thin air beyond the Wall.

Before you could even begin to process your grief, another message came to Winterfell, written by Sansa.

Ned had been arrested.

“Treason?” Robb whispered after he read the message. “Sansa wrote this?”

“Sansa’s hand… but a Lannister’s words were stuffed down her throat. No mention of Arya either,” you growled out, pacing back and forth in front of your nephew, Maester Luwin, and Theon.

The old man clasped his hands in front of him, appearing grim. “You are summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new King.”

Brows furrowed, Robb spat, “Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his ass kissed?”

“This is a royal command, my Lord,” said Luwin. “If you should refuse to obey—”

“I won’t refuse. I’ll go to King’s Landing… but not alone. Call the banners,” Robb told the Maester, grave and solemn.

Lowering his voice, Luwin asked, “All of them, my Lord?”

“They’ve all sworn to defend my father, have they not? Now we see what their words are worth.” 

There was a glint of pride in Luwin’s eyes. He’d been the one to pull Robb out of his mother’s womb, and now he was practically a man grown. With a bow of his head, he turned to amble away, off to send the ravens to the bannermen.

Robb’s hands were shaking violently. It didn’t go beyond your notice when he clasped them over one another in an effort to stave his nerves away. 

“I’m going with you,” you told him firmly, surprising both Robb and Theon.

A protest formed on the tip of your nephew’s tongue. “No, you should stay here with B—”

“Ned is my brother. The only one left, if Benjen is truly gone. I need to go, Robb. I need to.” Your voice cracked with desperation and you reached out to tightly clutch at his shoulder, eyes cold with muted fury. “When the King summoned my father and my brother, Brandon, to King’s Landing… they never returned to Winterfell. And now Joffrey is calling for you… I can’t let you go alone. I’m coming with you—end of story.”

There was a lengthy beat of silence.

Eventually, Theon was the one that caved, barking out a laugh. “There’s no stopping her, Robb.”

“For once, Greyjoy seems to be finding sense,” you snidely remarked. 

A small sigh fell from Robb’s lips. “Alright. Perhaps this is the best thing to do—I don’t know if I could lead a war all on my own.”

“You’re not alone, my boy,” you told him, patting his cheek twice. “You’d have to pry my cold, dead body away from you if it meant I was to be leaving you.”

A grand feast was held for the bannermen’s arrival at Winterfell. Everybody drank and ate and chattered joyfully, exchanging tall tales of war and battle. Everybody save for Robb, who was still ridden with anxiety, prodding around pieces of chicken with the prongs of his fork, having no appetite to eat. You sat beside him, taking small bites of a berry cake. 

From across the table, Lord Umber was barking out, “For thirty years I’ve been leaving corpses in my wake! I’m the one you want leading the vanguard!” 

His efforts to convince Robb were fruitless. “Galbart Glover will lead the van,” he repeated himself, quite exhausted of the matter already.

“The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!” the old man yelled. “I will lead the van… or I will take my men and march them home!”

You paused mid-bite, placing the half-eaten cake down on your plate as you glared at the northman. Icy were your words as you threatened, “Do so, Lord Umber, and you would be hanging from the gallows in under a fortnight. Your house would be branded with the name of an oathbreaker.”

The man’s dark eyes hardened and he stood up from the table, slamming his fists against the top. Plates of food and cutlery clattered with the sudden motion. “Oathbreaker, is it, Bitter Wolf?” You stood up as well, which prompted Robb to get up onto his feet, along with the rest of the table—save for Bran, who glanced worriedly between you and his brother. “I’ll not sit here and swallow insults from a woman who doesn’t even know the first thing about war!”

“How dare you speak to Lady Stark in such a way?” Robb bellowed, making the older man’s heated gaze fall on him.

“And you! How could I be taking orders from a boy so green he pisses grass?”

With that, he drew his blade, the sound of steel singing across the table. In a blink of an eye, Grey Wind leapt onto the table and knocked Greatjon onto his back with a great thud. The direwolf’s sharp teeth sank into the Umber’s hand, tearing off two fingers completely. Blood splattered all over the floor, accompanied by his agonized shrieking.

With a frustrated growl, he pushed himself back up onto his feet, clutching his maimed palm close to his chest.

“My Lord father taught me it was death to bare steel against your liege Lord,” said Robb. After a considerable pause, he continued, much softer. “But doubtless… you only meant to cut my meat for me, no?”

Oh, Robb. Sweet summer boy… too kind for his own good, you thought with a mild scowl. It will be the death of him.

It appeared as if the Umber wanted to curse Robb out some more. He glanced down at the direwolf, its muzzle covered in his blood. A bolt of fear jolted down his spine.

“Well,” he reluctantly said, clearing his throat, “your meat is bloody tough!”

The rest of the hall slowly fell into laughter, chortling at the dissipation of what could’ve been a bloodbath. Robb laughed amicably, finally sitting back down to actually start eating his food. You didn’t laugh, nor did you touch the rest of your cake.

By the time the feast had waned away, you escorted Bran and Hodor out of the hall, following behind the large, gentle giant into Bran’s chambers. 

You sat by his bed once Hodor laid him down. With nimble, fleeting touches, you tugged the blanket up to Bran’s chin and brushed his hair away from his face. You were not the nurturing, motherly kind… you were not Catelyn, nor were you what Sansa wanted to be. You didn’t know how to care for Bran in the way he needed to be—Rickon even less so. But they were your family, and you needed to try for them… now more than ever before. 

“Have any of your memories come back?” you asked, tone soft. When he shook his head, you blew out a sigh. “That’s alright. You just rest for now. How have you been sleeping?”

Bran bit into his lip, as if contemplating whether he should lie or not. 

“I dream a lot,” he said, deciding to tell you the truth. “Every night. The same one.”

Cocking your head, you silently beckoned for him to go on.

“I see a raven… with three eyes,” he whispered. “Every time I get closer, it flies away.”

“Your mind knows no bounds, even in sleep,” you said, a hint of fondness to your gaze.

There was a long pause before Bran hesitantly queried, “Can I ask you a question, Aunt?”

“Go on, boy.”

“Does it ever… bother you? When people call you the Bitter Wolf?”

You leaned away from your nephew, humming in thought. “It did. It still does. It’s a constant reminder of my past.”

“Well, why don’t you order them to stop? You’re of higher rank than any of them!” squeaked Bran.

“The creatures of winter will always whisper, dear boy,” you murmured. “Only once the frost has taken them and iced their bodies into hard stone—only then would they fall silent.”

The young boy looked as if he wanted to ask you more, but the door creaked open, pulling both of your attentions to Robb, making his way into Bran’s chambers.

“What is it? Has something happened?” asked Bran, his deep blue eyes widening at Robb’s solemn features.

“It’s alright, nothing’s happened,” he replied, quiet. He met your gaze, and you nodded once in understanding. It was time to go.

It was then that Bran noticed Robb had donned his traveling furs. “Where are you going?”

“South,” Robb said. “For father.”

“But it’s the middle of the night!” he protested.

“The dark gives us cover for a few hours,” you spoke, voice only barely louder than a whisper. “The Lannisters have spies everywhere, no doubt.”

Bran reared back to face you. “Us? You’re leaving, as well?”

“Yes, Bran,” you told him simply, grim-faced.

“Can’t I come with you?” pleaded Bran. “I can ride now, you’ve seen me! And I won’t get in the way, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, Robb was already shaking his head firmly. “There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Until I return, that will be you. You are not to leave the castle walls while we’re gone. Do you understand?”

Crestfallen, Bran reluctantly nodded. 

“Listen to Maester Luwin. Look after your little brother,” you gently told him. “Be brave for us, Bran. Winterfell needs you.”

“Okay,” he mumbled. 

“Until we return,” Robb added, stepping forward to ruffle Bran’s hair affectionately. “We’ll ride together once I come back.”

A ghost of a watery smile traced the corner of Bran’s lips. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

With that, you pushed yourself onto your feet and both you and Robb made your way outside. Snowflakes danced with the cold wind. 

“Do you really think this is smart? Going to war with the Lannisters?” asked Robb. You glanced at your oldest nephew, lips pursed. He was so young… and already carried himself as if he were two decades older than he actually was. 

“No,” you quietly admitted. “War is never smart. But we don’t have a choice, do we?”

Robb hummed. “No. I suppose we don’t.”

A fortnight breezed by in the blink of an eye.

The war was steadily waging on—with Jaime Lannister at the crux of the oppositional side. To think that you had once thought him a decent man… it made your stomach roil just thinking about it. With Tywin Lannister’s armies approaching as well, Robb seemed to be vastly outnumbered in battles.

Your good-sister, Lady Catelyn, joined you in the Neck, the marshy region of House Reed. She had embraced you tightly, before pulling away to query about her two youngest sons with tearful eyes. You assured her that they were safe in Winterfell, pointedly avoiding the encounter with the Wildlings, not wanting to worry her any further.

Many strategy meetings were held on whether to move ahead on Jaime Lannister’s army, or Tywin’s. You butted heads with Greatjon Umber far too often, as you bore no liking for him and he would rather think with his fists than his head. Either way, the group would have to cross the Twins, which meant you had to garner the support of the Freys. The Lord of the Freys, Walder, was no man easily swayed. He had a penchant for gold and young girls, often of his own kin, and thought very little of his sworn oaths.

It was all one big headache. 

You spent many sleepless nights practicing your archery, which was hard to do with your injured hand. It was steadily healing, but still throbbed when overworked. On days the pain would grow too overbearing, you would write letters for the ravens to take. To Maester Luwin, enquiring about the boys. To the Wall, wondering how Jon was doing after taking the black… and if Benjen had returned. You dared not write to Sansa or Arya, knowing full and well it would only be intercepted by the cunt of a Queen, Cersei Lannister.

By the next three days, Robb had reluctantly agreed to have his mother go into the Freys’ castle in hopes of bartering an agreement with the prickly old man, since she’d known him when she was a young girl. 

When she came back, her face was solemn.

“Well?” Robb asked. “What did he say?”

“Lord Walder has granted your crossing,” she replied. “His men are yours, as well—less the four hundred he will keep here to hold the Crossing against any who would pursue you.”

The damn Lannisters, you thought grimly.

There was a steely glint to Robb’s eyes. “What does he want in return?” 

“You will be taking on his son, Olyvar, as your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in good time.”

Nodding, Robb stroked the shadow of a stubble growing along his jaw. “Fine, fine. And?”

Catelyn blew out a shallow sigh. “And Arya… will marry his son, Waldron, when they both come of age.”

You gritted your teeth. “She’ll be none too happy about that.”

When Catelyn nodded at your words, she pursed her lips, as if she had more to say.

“There’s more?” said Robb. 

“And… When the fighting is done, you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer—he has a number he thinks will be suitable.” Reluctance weighed heavily in Catelyn’s tone.

If Robb was upset at the news, he did well to hide it. 

“I see,” he said. “Did you get to see them? His daughters?”

“I did. One was… nearer to your age,” she replied, slow and cautious. “Do you consent?”

The poor boy, you thought. Having to give up his choice in exchange for duty. 

“Can I refuse?” he asked. For a moment, he looked as if he were his age again, eyes wide and fists clenched.

“Not if you want to cross,” replied his mother.

There was a long beat of silence. In the distance, his direwolf barked at a stray mutt passing by. 

“Then I consent,” Robb said. With that, he quickly stepped out and away from the tent, in need of some time to digest his new betrothal.

As you watched him go, you heard Theon come up to stand beside you.

“A small price to pay,” he crooned, a slight smirk to his lips. “A marriage to win the war.”

“You only say that because you’re not the one paying,” you lightly responded, though there was a sharp edge to your tone, as if warning him not to toe your boundaries. “Robb carries a heavy burden. Do well not to add yourself to that, Theon.”

With a nod, you excused yourself, heading back to your tent, itching to write to Jon of the news.

Two thousand men sacrificed to distract Tywin Lannister… whilst the other eighteen thousand took over Jaime’s armies.

And now Robb had the Kingslayer in his grasp. 

He was bound and kneeling before you and Cat, blonde hair caked with dried blood and face filthy with dirt and soot.

“By the time they knew what was happening, it had already happened,” said Robb, staring down at the Lannister with pure hatred roiling within the blue of his eyes. 

“You did well, Robb,” you said, keeping your narrowed gaze trained on Jaime. 

The knight looked to you, a lazy smirk curled at the corner of his bleeding lips. “Bitter Wolf. It is a pleasure to see you again. Terrible circumstances, but a pleasure indeed.”

You frowned. All you could see when you looked at him was his sister, who you suspected played a hand in Bran’s fall. His nephew, the cruel boy that had your brother imprisoned. He was a Lannister first and foremost… no amount of lives he took or saved would ever change that.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Ser Jaime,” you replied in a stiff tone.

Jaime merely hummed, before turning his head to face your good-sister. “Lady Stark. I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have lost it.”

With stinging words, Catelyn sharply said, “It is not your sword I want. Give me my daughters back. Give me my husband!”

Jaime swallowed, his throat itchy and dry. “I’ve lost them as well, I’m afraid.”

“Kill him, Robb!” said Theon, eyes wild. “Send his head to his father! He cut down ten of our men—you saw him!”

Brows furrowing, you shook your head firmly. “What use would that be, you foolish boy? Killing him would bring us nothing but Tywin Lannister’s wrath. We keep him alive for leverage.”

“Is that all I am to you, Bitter Wolf? A bargaining chip? You wound me,” Jaime sardonically gruffed, though there was a twinge of gratitude to his voice.

“You are nothing to me, Kingslayer,” you spat, effectively wiping away the smug look on Jaime’s face. 

Robb bowed his head at your words. “Aunt Y/N is right. He is more useful to us alive than dead.”

Catelyn nodded in agreement. “Take him away and put him in chains.”

Just as two of the guards were ready to haul him away, Jaime barked out, “We could end this war right now, boy. Save thousands of lives. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters. Just you and me—swords, lances, teeth, nails… you take your pick. Let’s end this here and now.” 

Save thousands of lives, he had said. A tempting offer. But would that be worth the life of your nephew?

Robb squared his jaw. “If we do it your way, Kingslayer, you’d win. We’re not doing it your way.”

The guards laughed as they began tugging Jaime along, off to shackle him down. “Come on, pretty man,” one of them cackled, kicking at Jaime’s feet.

Turmoil danced clear as day over Robb’s features. “I sent two thousand men to their graves today.”

“The bards will sing songs of their sacrifice,” said Theon. 

Robb momentarily shut his eyes. It was all so incredibly loud. “Aye. But the dead won’t hear them.” With that, he stepped forward to address the rest of the army. “One victory does not make us conquerors! Did we free my father? Did we rescue my sisters from the Queen? Did we free the North from those who want us on our knees? This war is far from over.”

Stone-faced, Robb turned on his heel and marched off. 

You blew out a long, tired sigh. From the trees above you, you noticed a rotund pigeon staring straight at you from a high branch. It chirped lightly, before flying off, making its way North. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, before stalking away, retreating back to your tent.

The sun had not yet risen when a ground-shaking scream tore through the camp. Guttural, visceral, rageful… 

Broken.

You had fallen to your hands and knees upon reading the raven’s message, wailing your sorrows to the ground. 

Ned Stark was dead. You were the only one of your siblings left. 

Dead. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. Killed by Joffrey’s command. Bitter wolf. Bitter, bitter, bitter wolf. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. 

Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and your eyes stung as if hot pokers were pressing against them. Thunder rumbled within your chest and you curled your hands into fists. Someone tugged you up and held you close. Your cheek was smushed into their neck and you cried even harder, sobbing hysterically.

Gods, give him back to me, you pleaded silently. Give him back. He was the only brother I had left. Give him back, give him back, give him back—

“Shh, shh, I know, I know,” Catelyn’s hoarse voice whispered into your hair. It took you a moment to realize that it was her cradling you.

Immeasurable guilt filled your lungs. She was the one who lost her husband. She had lost just the same as you, if not more so… and yet she was the one holding you, comforting you, mothering you. 

“I’m sorry,” you wailed against her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Cat, I’m sorry, I—” You dissolved into another fit of heart-wrenching cries, fruitlessly trying to pull away and wipe your tears. 

“It’s not you that should be sorry,” she patiently told you, cupping your damp cheek to gently stroke the hair away from your face. The blue of her eyes warbled with her own unshed tears. “Let it out, good-sister. Let it out.”

And so you did. For hours, you did nothing but cry until your voice mellowed into buzzing silence and your eyes could bear it no longer.

By the time the sun was beginning to sink down the horizon, you finally left your tent. 

Robb. You had to speak to him.

Your nephew was in the thick of the woods, far enough from the camp where nobody could hear him cry. Dried tear tracks on his cheeks reflected the waning light of the disappearing sun as he swung his sword against the tree over and over and over again.

He stopped when he heard you coming, hands slackening around the hilt.

When he turned to take you in, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that you were just as much a mess as he was.

“Robb,” you whispered.

“Aunt,” he whispered back.

“You poor boy,” you croaked, vision blurring over once more. In no less than three long strides, you made your way to him, tugging him into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Robb. I’m sorry.”

The young man only loosely reciprocated your hug at first, choking back his own tears. He had so much he wanted to say… but his thoughts came too quickly and too many at once, all lodged into the back of his throat. And so he fell quiet, soaking in your rarely-offered comfort. He had already cried out his promises of revenge with his mother, cursed his enemies with Theon, angrily strategized with his grieving bannermen.

All he needed now was some quiet support—a steady shoulder to lean on. And if that was all you had to offer him, he would gladly take it.

“You were right,” you whispered into his ear, expression hardening. “The war is far from over. Winter is coming, Robb. And lions do poorly in the frost.”

The hall was dimly lit with blazing torches hanging on the walls, casting ominous shadows across the room. You were seated beside Robb, with Catelyn on his other side. The bitter, the young, and the stone-heart.

“The proper course is clear! We join our forces with his!” yelled one of the bannermen.

He was speaking of Renly Baratheon, the late King Robert’s youngest brother. 

Frowning, Robb firmly replied, “Renly is not the King.”

“You cannot mean to pledge allegiance to Joffrey, my Lord!” the older man responded, affronted by the notion. “He put your father to death!”

Evenly, Robb said, “That doesn’t make Renly King. He’s Robert’s youngest brother—if Bran can’t be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can’t be King before Stannis.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, Lords leaning their heads together to whisper and heckle. 

“You mean to declare us for Stannis?” asked one of the Lords.

“Renly is not right, either!” exclaimed another.

“If we put ourselves behind Stannis, he would surely send us all to our deaths!” yelled a voice from the back.

Pounding his now-empty chalice down onto the table, Greatjon Umber stood up to address the riled-up mass. “My Lords—here is what I say to the two Kings!” He bent at the knees and spat a mouthful of wine onto the ground. “Renly Baratheon is nothing to me! Nor Stannis, either! Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery fuckin’ seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are wrong! Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to… and now the dragons are dead.” 

The sharp sound of steel rang loud and true as Lord Umber unsheathed his sword to point at Robb.

“There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to. They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair, as well. The King in the North!” he proclaimed. “My sword is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day, until my last day!”

A beat of silence.

One after the other, the rest of the Lords pulled their swords out of their respective scabbards to pledge fealty to Robb, and bend the knee.

Robb stood up, casting his gaze over the kneeling crowd.

“The King in the North!” they all cheered. “The King in the North! The King in the North!”

You glanced at Catelyn, noticing the conflict warring across her weathered features. Briefly, Robb caught your eye, and you bowed your head in an encouraging manner.

“The King in the North!” you yelled along with the rest of the Lords. 

No longer would a lion be able to hold their paw over a wolf’s throat. 

Robb was King now.

The King in the North.

It was colder tonight than it had been for the past decade. Your sigh misted into an opaque fog once you stepped out of your tent, small pinpricks of frost kissing your skin. Most of the knights and lords had retired to their own cotts, deep in slumber. Some of them were on the outskirts of camp, patrolling the perimeter in case Tywin was to come surging forth with his army to retrieve his prized son. 

And that was just who you were leaving to see. You needed to ask him the same thing you had asked Tyrion—if Jaime knew where his sister was when Bran fell.

The guards raised their eyebrows at you, as if asking what you were doing here at such a late hour, but you simply stared at them until they uncomfortably shifted to the side to allow you to pass by.

It was certainly quite a sight—seeing Jaime Lannister shackled. He was cold, you could see, the tip of his sharp nose was crimson and his fingers were quivering ever so slightly.

You had made no noise whilst stepping in front of him, silent as a wraith. Jaime only noticed you were there because of your shadow looming over him in a near menacing fashion.

“Lady Stark,” he greeted, strangely pleasant despite being bound, freezing, and starving. “You look lovely tonight. Had I known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned myself up a bit.”

“Ser Jaime,” you replied in a curt, level tone. 

The man before you tilted his head curiously. “To what do I owe such a pleasure? Is your bed lonely? Is that why you came? I’m not at my best, as you can see… but I think I could be of service for you. Slip out of those furs—let’s see if I’m up for it.”

His words were crude and unbecoming, but held no weight to them. Your expression remained unchanging.

“Celibacy is a part of the Kingsguard’s oaths,” you lightly said.

Jaime barked out a rogue laugh, leaning his head back against the stone wall. “Surely you know what everybody calls me. Oathbreaker.”

“For killing the King,” came your whisper. For a moment, Jaime could swear he caught a glimpse of gratitude within your stormy eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it came. “I can’t say I fault you for doing it. Aerys wasn’t fit to be King.”

The knight hummed, a ghost of a grin to the corner of his lips. “See… your brother seemed to disagree. He thought it wasn’t honorable. And look where his own honor got him—beheaded in front of his daughter, and placed on a spike by the walls of the Keep. Terrible shame, what happened to him. I wanted to have a clean duel with him before he kicked the can.”

Your fists clenched by your sides at the callous way Jaime spoke of Ned. 

The green of his irises gleamed when he looked up at you. “How does it feel? To watch your family die off slowly, one by one?”

“Your tongue likes to run, doesn’t it?” you murmured with a scowl. “You’ll understand what it’s like soon. The war is sure to leave a trail of lion’s blood in its wake.”

Jaime sucked in a humored breath. “Bitter Wolf, indeed. Tell me, how long have you had that long stick shoved up your arse?”

There was a long moment of tense silence. Your hand was hidden within your cloak, resting upon the hilt of a dagger. When you began to speak again, you ripped your eyes away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, training your stare upon an uninteresting stone on the ground.

“When I heard Aerys burned my father alive, I wept until I nearly blinded myself with my own tears. My father was a good, honorable man. My brother, too. I loved them dearly. The Mad King took them away from me and I hated him for it. I hated you, as well… the youngest of his Kingsguard just stood by and did nothing. But then, not too long after, I heard that you were the one who slit his throat. I still hated you—but I couldn't be more grateful. You were right to kill him.” 

Another beat of silence, this time longer. The atmosphere between the two of you seemed to shift. Jaime looked nearly stunned at your admission. “Do you still hate me?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft. It was as if he was eighteen all over again, having to ‘go away inside’ when he didn’t want to deal with what was going on anymore. Your gaze left the stone on the ground to meet his. “No, Ser Jaime. To hate is to care. I do not care—not for you, at least.”

Strange, Jaime thought. His chest seemed to ache uncomfortably at your cold words. 

Before he could say anything, your good-sister strode up by your side, her features stony and grim. For a moment, she met your gaze. If she was wondering what you were doing here, speaking to the Kingslayer, she didn’t ask. 

“Lady Catelyn!” said Jaime, grateful for the distraction from the uncomfort within his ribs. “Join the party—we were just exchanging war stories. Except… neither of you have been to war before, I’m afraid. Oh, well—I suppose I can just entertain you with—”

Before you could react, Cat bent down to grab the exact same rock you had been staring at, jerking forward to strike Jaime across the face with its sharp end. Pain rattled throughout his face, blood streaking down where she had struck him. He grunted at the impact, working his jaw gingerly once Catelyn pulled back.

“I would kill you tonight, Ser… pack your head in a box and send it to your sister!” growled Cat.

“Then do it,” Jaime replied, infuriatingly glib for someone who nearly had his skull bashed in. “Hit me again, over the ear. Again, and again, and again. You’re stronger than you look—it shouldn’t take too long.”

Frowning, Cat asked, “That is what you want the world to believe, isn’t it? That you don’t fear death.”

“But I don’t, my Lady,” said Jaime. “The dark is coming for all of us. Why cry about it?”

Lips curling with contempt, Catelyn spat out, “Because you are going to the deepest of the Seven Hells if the Gods are just!”

“What Gods? The trees the Bitter Wolf here prays to? Where were the trees when your husband’s head was getting chopped off?” he murmured. Fury coiled within your stomach, as black as tar. “If your Gods are real, and if they are just… why is the world so full of injustice?”

Cat’s fingers curled tighter around the rock. “Because of men like you.”

There it was again—his hoarse bark of laughter. “There are no men like me. Only me.”

More silence stretched thin between the three of you. You thought about your original purpose for coming here, pursing your lips. 

“Do you know where your sister was the morning Bran fell?” you asked him, voice hardened with steel. 

His eyes met yours—bright green to a frigid storm. 

“No,” he curtly responded, nose twitching as he sniffed lightly. A tell. 

A lie. 

“How did he come to fall from the tower?” Catelyn’s question was quiet, as if she were afraid of the answer.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaime said, “I pushed him out of the window.”

Shocked, you flinched back at his blunt confession, eyes widening. It was him. Him that put Bran in his coma, him that crippled your nephew. Was it him that sent the assassin, as well?

But… you’d found long blonde hair at the tower, undoubtedly Cersei’s. You had thought that Cersei was coupling with some nameless squire or stableboy, not her own brother. By the old Gods, that could only mean—

“Why?” whispered Catelyn, appearing like her heart had been trampled on and torn to shreds.

“I hoped the fall would kill him,” Jaime simply said.

“Why?” she pressed.

You were stunned and at a loss for words, lips parted and chest heaving. 

Jaime leaned his head back against the stone wall, inhaling sharply. “You should get some sleep, Lady Catelyn. It’s going to be a long war.”

The red-headed woman glared at him with the might of a thousand suns. She relinquished her hold on the rock, which had cut into her own palm, and stormed away.

Jaime and Cersei coupling… and her children were golden-haired with no trace of Robert Baratheon within any of their Lannister-esque features… 

The realization slammed against you like a tidal wave—Gods, the boy on the Iron Throne was a bastard. 

You would’ve laughed at the thought if not for the dire situation at hand.

It was no wonder Ned was imprisoned and later executed. He knew, just as you now. Only, he was foolish enough to get his honor in the way of his head. You had to be smart about this. A running tongue was a dangerous one—and you weren’t too keen on losing yours.

Jaime regarded you with a guarded look. He wasn’t aware that you knew of his vile doings with his sister. “Let me ask you again. Do you still hate me now?” 

Perhaps his father was right. Maybe he did care what others thought of him. 

Disgust ran thick through your veins at the sight of him. The man you had once begrudgingly respected, now a boy-killer. A sister-fucker.

With quick motions, you stepped forward, curling your hand around the front of his tunic, yanking him closer just as you drove your fist into the side of his face. Over and over again you struck him, rage shadowing over your wild expression, until your knuckles split and bled and ached with each punch. Jaime put up no fight. He groaned once you finally pulled away, shoving him back against the stone wall. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his lips.

Cold steel kissed his throat when you unsheathed your dagger, slanting it just below his Adam's apple. “One cut, Kingslayer. That’s all it’d take.”

“Do it,” he challenged, baring his teeth. “Do it.” 

If only you could. You still needed him… Cersei had Sansa in her wicked clutch.

“Never before have I changed my mind about a man so quickly. To hate is to care, Ser Jaime,” you bit out, words dripping with venom. “And I hate you, more than I’d ever care to.”

With that, you slipped your dagger back into its scabbard and turned on your heel to stride away, fury splayed clear as day over your features. You were going to tell Robb of your newfound knowledge as soon as morning broke.

Jaime watched you go with a soft exhale.

He found no sleep that night, but went away inside nonetheless.

Battle after battle, Robb found himself victorious. 

Camp after camp, Jaime found himself stinking of his own piss and shit. 

When you had told Robb of Joffrey’s true parentage, he huffed out a hesitant laugh, unsure if you were jesting or not. Then again, you were never one to jest.

And now he stood before his captive with you by his side, gazing down at the Lannister were pure contempt. This was the first time you’d seen the Kingslayer since he told you he pushed Bran out the window. And time had done nothing to mellow your anger.

“I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safe-keeping,” surmised Jaime, tongue darting out to lick at his dry lips. “But you drag me along from camp to camp… have you taken a liking to me, Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.”

Unfazed by his insults, Robb said, “If I left you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within the fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with the message: Release my son. You’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem.”

Jaime shook his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you to battle?”

“I trust them with my life. Just not with yours,” Robb quietly replied. 

“Smart boy,” snorted Jaime. At the crinkle in Robb’s expression, Jaime piped up with a mocking frown, “Oh, what’s wrong? Don’t like being called a boy? Insulted?”

From behind you, Grey Wind stalked up to his master, a growl rumbling low within his chest. For the first time, you could see genuine fear dance across Jaime’s green irises.

“You insult yourself, Kingslayer,” said Robb. “You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy. Perhaps you’ll be killed by a boy.”

Grey Wind lithely moved closer and closer to Jaime, snarling and pawing at the dirt. 

“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros,” you said, jaw squared. “Ravens detailing that the boy King, Joffrey Baratheon, is neither a true king, nor is he a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”

Jaime scratched at the shackles over his wrists, growing restless. “If that’s true, then Stannis would be the rightful King. How convenient for him!”

“My father learned the truth,” Robb hissed out. “That’s why you had him executed.”

Frowning, Jaime pointed out, “I was your prisoner when your father lost his head.”

“Your son killed him so that the world wouldn’t know who fathered him. And you… you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen,” accused your nephew.

Swallowing, Jaime coughed out, “Where’s your proof? Or are we just trading gossip like a couple of fish wives?”

“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.”

Jaime scoffed at that. “You think my father’s going to negotiate with the likes of you? You don’t know him very well.”

Bowing his head, Robb hummed in acknowledgement. “No, I don’t. But he’s starting to know me.”

“Three victories don’t make you a conqueror,” said Jaime.

“Better than three defeats,” your nephew countered. With that, Robb rotated on his heel and marched away, trailing his fingers along Grey Wind’s pelt.

The direwolf snapped his jaw only a hair’s breadth away from Jaime’s face. His eyelids squeezed shut, bracing himself for the agonizing pain. When none came, he cracked one eye open. The wolf was gone, leaving only you standing before him.

“When you were in King’s Landing, did you see my niece?” you asked.

“Sansa?” he replied. “Yes… in court here and there with her betrothed.”

Her betrothed. The bastard boy. Jaime’s son.

“No, not Sansa,” you snippily replied. You worried for Sansa, yes, but at the very least you knew she was alive in the Keep. There hadn’t been a single word about your younger niece in any of the ravens you’d received. “Arya.”

The Kingslayer pursed his lips. “Which one was she again?” Whether he was genuinely miffed as to who Arya was, or he was just pushing your boundaries to purposely annoy you, you couldn’t tell.

“I have no taste for your games,” you gruffed, your patience wearing thin. “I’ll see to the guards forgoing your meals for the next two days. Good night, Ser Jaime.”

Not waiting to see his reaction, you promptly turned and followed after Robb.

Theon had left for the Iron Islands in hope of garnering his father’s support, along with his large fleet of ships. Catelyn, on the other hand, was off to try and obtain Renly Baratheon’s allegiance.

You and Robb planned the next battles together. The cut on your arm from the wildling, Osha, was now fully healed, leaving only a dark mark in its wake. Whilst Robb and the Northern bannermen fought, you would watch from a distance, taking down Lannister-allied soldiers with your bow and arrow.

And once the battle was done, you made your way onto the field, side-stepping half-dead men and corpses alike, plenty with your arrows sticking out of their chests. Most of the casualties were part of the Lannister’s troup, and so you bore no sympathy for their pain.

You met up with Robb just as he was parting with a pretty girl—a medic, by the looks of it. She was leaving on a cart, hands bloodied and dark hair drenched with sweat. 

When you glanced at Robb, you could see the unmistakable glint of youthful curiosity and lust behind his blue eyes. With a sharp cuff to the back of his head, you growled out, “You are betrothed, boy. Do well to remember it.”

Robb scowled at you. “What are you on about? I was only talking to her.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “And my name is the Smiling Wolf.” 

“I’m a King now, Aunt. You shouldn’t be disrespecting me in such a way,” warned Robb, though his words lacked any true bite. 

With a huff, you patted his cheek softly. “You’ve been King for only a few moons by now. But you’ve been my nephew for your entire life. One takes precedence over the other, I’m afraid.”

Robb smiled at that, but it disappeared as he glanced around at all the dead bodies littering the hills, decorated with your arrow shafts. “You took down nearly four dozen of these men…” he said, brows raised. “And all from far away, as well. Color me impressed and a little intimidated.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you replied, walking along with him back to the tents to clean up. “I do what I can to help.”

“I’m grateful you’re here with me. With Theon and mother gone… it made me think about how you’ve always shouldered the burden of ruling with me, without complaint. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Aunt.”

Not one to be very good with sentimentalities, you tugged him into a brief embrace and let him go the next second, gently shoving him off into the tent.

“Alright, alright, boy,” you said, tone rife with affection. “Go take a bath—you stink of war.”

A week later, Catelyn returned to the camps. Accompanying her was a blonde soldier, a woman taller than any man amongst Robb’s army. 

“It’s good to see you, Cat,” you told her. “No battles have been lost just yet.”

The woman smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “King Renly… he’s—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Roose Bolton came running up to the two of you.

“Apologies, my Ladies,” he panted out, holding up a small raven’s scroll. “News from Winterfell.”

Initially, you were quite excited, because it’d been a while since you heard from Bran, Rickon, and Maester Luwin.

When you filed into the tent to listen to Robb read it aloud, however, your heart plummeted to your stomach upon hearing the news. Theon had taken Winterfell, holding Bran and Rickon hostage.

“I TOLD YOU, NEVER TRUST A GREYJOY!” yelled Catelyn to her son, face scarlet with fury and twisted with anguish. 

Teeth gritted, Robb announced, “I must go North at once.”

“There’s still a war to win, Your Grace,” Roose Bolton protested.

“How can I win a war, call myself King if I can’t even hold my own castle?” spat Robb. “How can I ask my men to follow me if I can’t—?”

With firm hands, you placed them on your nephew’s shoulders. “Robb. Stop—think about this. You have thousands of men at your disposal. You needn’t do this yourself. If you loosen your grip on the Lannisters now, they’ll go scurrying back home and rally more of their allies.”

The young man appeared conflicted. In his haze of rage, he hadn’t thought about the lives of all the rest in the war, only focused on his little brothers.

“Let me go talk to Theon,” Catelyn offered, worried to death for her two youngest boys.

“There will be no talk. He will die for this,” snarled Robb.

Stepping forward, Roose offered, “Let me send word to my bastard at the Dreadfort. He can raise a few hundred men and retake Winterfell before the new moon. My boy would be honored to bring you Prince Theon’s head.”

Bowing his head, Robb blew out a sigh. He glanced at you for a moment, before returning his gaze to Roose. “Tell your son Bran and Rickon’s safety is paramount. And Theon—I want him brought to me alive. I want to look him in the eye and ask why… and then I’ll take his head myself.”

It was the dead of night when Jaime Lannister escaped. 

In the process, he’d become a kinslayer, as well. Just another name to add to the extensive list.

The golden lion. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. Now a kinslayer. 

He had bashed his cousin’s brains in with a stone, alerting the young guard on duty. Jaime then strangled the boy, a Karstark, and fled the camp. 

The taste of freedom had never been so sweet.

And, inevitably, the taste of defeat had never been so sour.

By the break of day, he was recaptured. You had emerged from your tent at the loud commotion, fingers wrapped around the wood of your longbow. Men were jeering, yelling, and throwing rotten food and small stones. They were pushing and shoving, some unsheathing their blades with manic, greedy expressions. In the middle of the crowd was Jaime, rebound and so bloody you could barely see a clean patch of exposed skin. Strangely, he was smiling and laughing, seeming to enjoy how riled up the Northmen were. 

“Die, Kingslayer!” they yelled.

“You’ll pay for your crimes!” they shouted.

“Gut him! Put his head on a spike!” they screamed.

You forcefully wove your way through the crowd, brows knitted and your bow and arrow knocked at the ready. The men had parted instantaneously upon seeing you, all of them expecting you to order Jaime’s execution on behalf of Robb, who had temporarily left to accept the Crag’s surrender. To their enraged shock, you stood between them and Jaime, the tip of your arrow pointed not at the Kingslayer himself, but at the men calling for his head.

“Back the fuck away from him,” you barked out, voice loud and commanding. “Have you all gone mad?”

“Get out of the way, Bitter Wolf!” Lord Karstark yelled, hell-bent on getting his revenge for his murdered son. “I deserve justice!”

“Or what, Lord Karstark?” you shouted back with an equivalent ferocity, teeth bared in a near snarl. “You’ll cut through me to get to him? Need I remind you that if you were to lay a hand on me, you’d be laying a hand on the King’s blood.” 

Reluctant, a few of the lords lowered their weapons, stepping back slightly. Some held guilty expressions, looking like children being scolded by their mother. Most stayed their ground, angry that you were stopping them. 

Your countenance hardened. “If Jaime Lannister is dead, we lose any leverage we have over Tywin’s army—over Cersei, who has hold of my nieces! What good do you think would come of this? We put his pretty head on a spike, hoo-fucking-ray! Has it not occurred to you that we keep prisoners for a reason? That they’re not toys to toss about as we see fit?”

“You’re right, Bitter Wolf,” growled Karstark. “He’s not a toy. This monster killed my son. He deserves worse than a slap on a wrist and a few measly chains. He deserves death. Slow and painful, just as he did to my boy!”

It was then that Catelyn came rushing through the crowd, her pale features gaunt and eyes widened with fear.

“I understand your pain, Lord Karstark,” she assured, exhaust lacing heavy with each of her words. “He crippled my boy. He will answer for his crimes, in due time, I promise. Just not here.”

“If you try and stop me—!”

“I am the mother of your King!” Catelyn yelled.

Rearing back with frustration, Karstark bit out, “And where is our King now? Gone to the Crag, sure, but not to negotiate. He brought that foreign bitch with him!”

Your brows raised in surprise. The medic girl. 

Steel sang out as Brienne unsheathed her sword. “Threatening my Lady is an act of treason!”

“Treason?” barked the Karstark. “How can it be an act of treason to kill Lannisters?”

“In the name of my nephew, the King in the North,” you lowly spoke, bringing his attention back to you. The tip of your arrow was pointed right at his chest. “Stand down.”

With a squared jaw, Lord Karstark bowed his head. “When the young wolf returns, I will demand for the murderer’s head.”

“Wise men do not make demands of Kings!” protested Cat.

“Fathers who love their sons do.” With that, Karstark turned to stomp away, back into his tent.

The crowd slowly began to disperse. Only then did you put down your weapon, relaxing the drawstring. 

“Thank you for fighting for me, Bitter Wolf,” snarked Jaime, an infuriating smile plastered over his filthy face. “I’m surprised you would have put down one of your own men just for me. Growing rather fond of me, eh? Tell me, you haven’t lost your maidenhood yet, have you? It would be an honor to be your f—”

Gnashing your teeth, you swiftly knelt down in front of the Kingslayer, grabbing his grimy cheeks with one hand, squeezing uncomfortably tight, nails digging into his skin.

“I said we’d have you alive, Kingslayer… not whole. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t carve your eyes out with a hot spoon,” you hissed, eyes cold as winter.

To your fury, Jaime merely laughed, a roguish grin dancing across his bloody lips.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Take them. Take every part of me, until nothing is left. Let’s see what my father would think about having another crippled son.”

You released your hold on him, shoving his face back. 

“Gag him tight,” you told one of the guards. “Mix in shit with his food. Piss in his water. Make noise every time he falls asleep. It might very well be his last night amongst us—see that it’s spent in agony.”

With that, you stepped back, nodding at Catelyn, before retiring into your tent.

The later the night grew, the more drunk the men became, and the angrier they got. 

“He won’t last the night,” commented Brienne, her hand resting comfortably and cautiously over the hilt of her sword. “Won’t be long until the Karstarks draw their swords. And when they do… who wants to die defending a Lannister?”

With pursed lips, Catelyn bowed her head. “If he dies, my girls die with him.”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. 

“We need to release him,” your good-sister whispered. Her words made your eyes snap to her, lips parting. “We need to exchange him for Sansa and Arya.”

“Cat…” you began, about to protest, but the words lodged in your throat. She was right. The men were going to kill him if he wasn’t released—and Jaime Lannister was of no use to you dead.

A glassy film of tears layered over Catelyn’s blue irises. “I need my girls back, Y/N. I need them back, I need—” She covered her quivering mouth with a shaky hand. “If we give Jaime back to Cersei, we’ll make him swear to return the girls to us.”

You shook your head, frowning. “Jaime is a man with no honor—an oathbreaker. We cannot rely on his word. I’ll take him to King’s Landing to barter with Cersei. Threaten to put an arrow in Jaime’s head if Sansa and Arya aren’t handed over to me. I do not trust anyone else with the job but myself.”

A shiver danced down Catelyn’s spine and she tugged her furs closer to her. “You’ll need protection. At least bring Brienne with you. I trust her with my life. She can escort both you and the Kingslayer to the capital.”

Wistful, you blew out a long breath. “Robb won’t be happy about this, Cat. He’ll hate you for letting Jaime go. He’ll hate me for abandoning him. He’ll send a hundred men after us. We won’t be able to outrun them.”

“Not on foot, no,” said Brienne, stepping forward. “We take a boat down the river. We’ll put more distance between us and them that way—but only if we leave now.” 

Conflict warred within you. Was this really the smartest decision? Letting go of the Kingslayer?

And if you were to leave now… you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Robb. The dark thought of never seeing your nephew again crossed your mind, but you shoved it away. You’d see him again. He was a strong lad. 

“Alright… but Tywin will then have reason to march his army and slay Robb’s if they no longer hold his son,” you said, tentative.

Catelyn clutched your hands within her colder, quivering ones. “We are so close to winning this war already. This is a risk we must take for Sansa. For Arya. Please, Y/N. Please.”

With a determined nod of your head, you whispered, “I won’t let you down.”

The Kingslayer smiled lazily when he saw you approaching, Catelyn and Brienne in tow. To his muted interest, the red-headed woman ordered the guards to leave with a sharp tongue and a hardened glint to her eyes.

“Come to say goodbye?” he crooned. “I believe it’s my last night in this world. I could think of no one better to spend it with. You sure are the life of the party.” His tone dripped with sardonic mockery, to which you supplied no reaction. If Jaime wanted to provoke you, he would find himself sorely disappointed.

You had a mission tonight—and there was no time for jesting.

“They want your head, Ser Jaime. Do not make me hand you over to them,” you quietly said, just loud enough for him to hear. It was an empty threat, one that you couldn’t follow through, but Jaime didn’t know that. You were completely serious, for all he knew.

With a huff, Jaime said, “No, no, Bitter Wolf. You like me too much to give me away. Lord Karstark, however… he doesn’t seem very fond of me, does he?”

Scowling, Catelyn hissed out, “You strangled his son with your chains!”

“Oh,” Jaime simply said. There was no remorse in his tone. None at all. “Was he the one on guard duty? He was in my way—any other knight would’ve done the same.”

“You are no knight!” spat Catelyn. “You have forsaken every vow you ever took.”

Rolling his bright green eyes to the side, Jaime snorted in contempt. “So many vows. They make you swear and swear! Defend the King, obey the King, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? Like Rickard Stark, eh, Bitter Wolf?” A part of you seized up at the mention of your father. Jaime lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s just too many rules. They make sense alone, sure… but together? It’s a load of shit. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking a vow for another.”

There was a long pause. Jaime grinned sharply, feeling as if he had won the argument—if it even was one to begin with.

“Is that a woman?” he asked, changing the topic, eyes drawn to Brienne. “Where in the seven kingdoms did you find such a beast?”

“She is a truer knight than you will ever be, Kingslayer,” Catelyn replied, tone as hot as ever. 

At the offensive name, Jaime narrowed his gaze. “Kingslayer. And what a King he was! Here’s to Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm… and to the sword I shoved into his back. What did you say about me before, Wolf? That you were grateful that I did it?” 

You could feel Catelyn’s eyes on you for a moment. You didn’t grace either of them with a response.

“You are a man without honor,” said Catelyn.

“Hm.” Jaime tilted his head. “You know… I’ve never been with any woman but Cersei. So in my own way, I have more honor than poor old dead Ned. What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”

Jon.

“Snow—a bastard from the North.” Jaime smirked in a rogue manner. “Now when good old Ned came home with some whore’s baby… did you pretend to love it? No, I don’t think you’re very good at pretending, Lady Catelyn. You’re an honest woman. You hated that boy, didn’t you? How could you not? The walking, talking reminder that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark fucked another woman.”

You were no stranger to Catelyn’s grievances with Jon, but it sounded all the worse coming from the Kingslayer’s tongue.

“That’s enough,” you said, heavy with finality. “Your sword, Brienne.”

This is it, thought Jaime. This is how I’m going to die. Covered in filth and looking up at a snarling she-wolf. It isn’t so bad. At least she’s pretty—even if she never smiles.

Instead of the steel striking his head, it struck at his chains. They gave way after the third lumbering hit. His green eyes snapped up to you when you reached out to grab his arms, hauling him onto his feet.

“Come, Kingslayer. We have a long way to go.”

It was quite an amusing sight, Jaime Lannister falling off the horse with a sack on his head. He grunted through the fabric and you tore it off, shoving it into the pack slung over your shoulder. Brienne urged the horse to ride away, back to camp.

Jaime blinked up at you, vision still adjusting to the sudden brightness. “Ah, Lady Stark. You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.” He glanced at Brienne. “Oh, the big lady-knight came with us, as well? She is much uglier in daylight! Damn—and here I was hoping we’d spend more time alone together, Bitter Wolf.”

“Shut up,” you told him, stepping back to allow Brienne to haul him up to his feet and shove him towards the small boat. 

“Ooh, cranky today, are we? You want to turn around and go back home? I’m sure your little King nephew will welcome you back with open arms—or maybe not. Maybe he hates your guts now. Care to find out?” he goaded, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He sat down in the boat, Brienne following suit. 

You eased yourself in last, taking a seat behind her. 

He’s right, a voice snarked inside your head. Robb is probably furious with you. He’d never forgive you.

“And what might be your name?” Jaime asked the large blonde woman, tilting his head.

With a stony countenance, Brienne replied, “Brienne of Tarth.”

“Mmh, crescent moons and starbursts. Lord Selwyn Tarth is your father, no? You have any brothers and sisters?” 

Silence. Brienne began to row the small boat, taking the three of you downstream.

“Come on, it’s a long way to King’s Landing—we might as well get to know one another. Have you known many men? I suppose not—perhaps women? Horses?”

At the last question, Brienne purposefully struck the blunt end of the oar against Jaime’s knee, which made him grunt out in pain. 

“I didn’t mean to offend, my Lady,” he said, looking none too sorry. “How unlikely it is! It seems you’re not the only virgin amongst us.”

He fixed his stare on you, though your eyes were trained on the river banks, cautiously watching in case anyone had followed your trail yet. So far on your journey, you haven't come across a single soul. The Gods were on your side, for now. At his words, however, you curled your hands into fists.

“Tell me, Bitter Wolf, did any man in Winterfell ever dare to court you? Were they all intimidated by you? Or did you just bite off their heads as soon as one tried?” Jaime seemed genuinely curious, having known little of your childhood.

With a squared jaw, you replied in a steely tone, “They tried. The nice ones were politely declined. The more… pushy ones were stripped naked and thrown into cells of ice. The winter took their souls whilst their bodies froze.”

Jaime blinked, smiling in a fox-like manner. “Now that is a fine tale! Why did you turn away the nice ones? Are Northerners too ugly for you? They’re too solemn for my taste, I’d say… no offense.” 

You didn’t grace him with a response. 

For the next half an hour, Jaime chattered on and on about the most trivial topics. He’d ask the both of you questions, to which he was often met with dead silence.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re as boring as you are ugly?” Jaime asked Brienne.

With a roll of her eyes, Brienne rowed the boat harder. “You will not provoke me to anger.”

“I already have!” countered Jaime, excited that she was finally retaliating. “You look ready to slice my head off my shoulders. Do you think you could? Could you beat me in a fair fight?”

“I’ve never seen you fight,” Brienne replied in a leveled tone.

As if it were obvious, Jaime said, “The correct answer is no. There are only three men in the entire Seven Kingdoms that might have a chance against me—you’re not one of them.”

“All my life men like you have sneered at me,” the blonde woman stated. “And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust.”

“Unlock my chains, then,” said Jaime. “Let’s see who beats who.”

To his disappointment, Brienne spared him no more words.

His gaze landed on you once more, and to his surprise, you had dozed off to sleep, having gotten none the entire night while helping him escape. By the side of the boat, your hand was curled tightly around the longbow you had taken along with you.

Funny, he thought with a slight, huffy laugh. Even in slumber you were scowling.

Brienne had pulled ashore for a short break, and you were grateful for the opportunity to stretch your legs. She helped you out of the boat and over the large, slippery rocks it was slanted against. 

“Five minutes,” she told you kindly. Then, she looked over her shoulder at Jaime. “Five minutes!” she parroted, much colder this time.

You were really beginning to like Brienne.

Rolling his eyes, Jaime hobbled out of the boat as well. “Childhood must’ve been awful to you,” he commented to Brienne. “Were you a foot taller than all the boys? They probably laughed at you, called you names. Some boys like a challenge—one or two must have tried to get inside big Brienne!”

Brienne frowned. 

“Ah, did you fight them off? You probably did. But maybe you wished one of them would overpower you… fling you down and tear off your clothes. None of them were strong enough, were they? I’d be strong enough.”

“Stop it,” you calmly told Jaime. “Or would you prefer I gag you?”

With a smile, Jaime cocked his head to the side. “Oh, are you jealous? Don’t worry—there’s enough of me to go around.”

But you weren’t paying attention to Jaime anymore. Instead, your eyes were trained up to the creaking branches, where three women were hanging. They were discolored and slightly bloated—the bodies must’ve been up for around a day by now. A sick feeling twisted within your gut.

Around the neck of the woman in the center was a sign that said—

“They lay with lions,” read Jaime. “Tavern girls, most likely. Probably served my father’s soldiers. Maybe one of them gave up a kiss and feel—that’s how they earned this.”

“They earned nothing,” you coldly replied, stepping back slightly. “These are victims of war.”

Jaime barked out a laugh. “How hypocritical of you. This was done by your men, Bitter Wolf. The glorious work of Northern freedom fighters. Must make the both of you proud to serve them.”

Before you could spare him a response, Brienne gruffed out, “I don’t serve the Starks. I serve Lady Catelyn.”

“Hm. You tell yourself that,” said Jaime, allowing himself to be pushed around when Brienne shoved him towards a tree, ordering him to stay put. You moved to stand beside him, making sure he wouldn’t flee as Brienne made towards the thick rope tied around the tree trunk keeping the women hung up. 

Confused, Jaime asked, “What are you doing?”

“Burying them,” she replied.

“We shouldn’t stay here, we should get back on the river!” said Jaime. 

Scoffing, you retorted, “Eager to get home? I’m sure your sister would be delighted to have her fuck-toy handed back to her.”

“In exchange for you darling niece, is it?” Jaime immediately snarked back. “Oh, turns out I’m of great value after all, Bitter Wolf. Admit it. I’m important to you—”

Just then, a few men’s voices echoed through the woods. You pressed yourself closer against the tree, pulling the hood of your cloak up over your head so your face would be obscured by shadows. 

“Untie me!” said Jaime. 

“Shut up,” you replied. “Keep your head down, and pray they won’t recognize you.”

The voices were growing louder.

“Woah!” one of them said, having spotted Brienne. “What’s your business here?” 

“Traveling prisoners,” she hastily responded. 

The three men burst out into raucous, incredulous laughter.

“You? But you’re a woman!” exclaimed another one with a pig-nose and blackened teeth. “Well, fuck me! They’ve really gotten desperate for soldiers, haven’t they?”

Clearing her throat, Brienne started to say, “If you’ve quite finished—”

They began cackling at her again. You frowned, fingers curling around your longbow, which you had stealthily covered within your cloak. If you were to play the part of a prisoner, you had to look like it, as well.

“We’ll be going,” Brienne curtly said, in no mood to deal with the oafish men.

The men immediately halted in their laughter. “Now, hold on there. Who do you fight for?”

“The Starks,” said the blonde woman. She briefly glanced at you, nearly hidden behind Jaime. Good.

One of the last men, a red-head, pointed at the two of you. “What did they do?”

After a momentary pause, Jaime spat out, “Apparently eating is now a crime. My friend and I were merely trying to get some food.”

Hm. A good actor.

“By stealing it—which, indeed, is a crime,” Brienne added on. 

“It’s not a crime to starve, that’s justice for you,” Jaime murmured. You dared not speak, worried they would recognize you by your voice alone.

The pig-nosed man stepped forward, narrowing his beady eyes at you. “Where are you taking them?”

“Riverrun,” said Brienne. 

“Why?”

“Steal from the Tullys, it's their dungeons you’d rot in,” she quickly responded.

“No. I mean why not just kill him?”

A thrill of adrenaline and a twinge of fear shot through you, nestling within your feet, as if preparing yourself to act.

“For stealing a pig?” scoffed Jaime.

One of the men lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve killed for much less. Alright—have it your way… m’lady.”

The red-head squinted at Jaime. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

You were grateful that Jaime’s usually lighter hair was dirtied with mud and soot and appeared far darker than it actually was. “Have you been to Ashemark?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you don’t know me.”

Just as the three of you were about to stride off, pig-nose queried in a disgustingly prideful manner, “What do you think of these beauties?”

“I hope you gave them quick deaths,” Brienne reluctantly told him.

He smirked maliciously. “Two of them we did, yeah.”

White-hot anger coiled within your abdomen. 

“Wait!” exclaimed the red-head. “I do know you! That’s Jaime Lannister!” 

With a hoarse chuckle, Jaime said, “Well, I wish you’d have told me, I wouldn’t have had to steal that pig!”

“If this is the Kingslayer, I think I’d know about it,” said Brienne, urging you forward.

Noticing this, the red-head barked out, “And who’s the one in the cloak? Another Lannister?”

Couldn’t be more wrong.

“I was at Whispering Wood,” he vehemently said. “I saw him! They dragged him out of the woods and threw him down before the King!”

The King. Your boy, Robb.

“I have a question for both of you. And I want you to answer at the same time,” pig-nose snarled, hand on his sword’s hilt. “I count to three, you both answer. What’s his name?” He pointed accusingly right at Jaime’s chest.

“One.”

You discreetly lined an arrow up to your bow.

“Two.”

You pulled against the string.

“Three.”

You brandished the bow from out of your cloak and sent the arrow whistling through the air, straight into one of the men’s heads.

Unsheathing her sword, Brienne quickly slashed the throat of the red-head.

“Two quick deaths,” she hissed, before knocking pig-nose down onto the ground. Slow and painful, she drove the blade into his stomach and twisted, gutting him like a pig.

Jaime’s brows were raised, impressed at the both of you.

“Those were Stark men,” he said, surprised that you had willingly killed a man of your nephew’s army.

“There are always a few rotten apples in an orchard,” you easily replied, lowering your bow and knocking back the cowl of your cloak. “And rotten, they were.”

Brienne nodded, before heading off to bury the tavern girls.

“Do you know how long it’s going to take us to get to King’s Landing by walking through fields and forests?” Jaime just about whined, growing tired of the journey.

Without sparing him a glance, you asked, “And what do you propose we do instead?”

“We could take horses.”

“Too noticeable.”

“Take a ship, then.”

“And how will you pay the ship-keepers? Will you pay them with your own gold? The gold you currently do not have?”

Jaime frowned. “Walking, it is. How ever will we pass the time?”

Both you and Brienne glanced at each other, exasperated. 

“By putting one foot in front of the other,” the large woman told him, shoving him along.

Stumbling from the impact, Jaime blew out a sigh. “It’ll be such a dull walk.”

“I’m here to escort Lady Stark to King’s Landing and exchange you for her nieces. Dull is fine,” Brienne snapped.

Lolling his head over to you, Jaime spoke, “Is dull fine for you, Bitter Wolf? I’m sure you have so many interesting stories hidden behind that scowling exterior of yours. Tell me one!”

Deciding to indulge him for only just a little bit, you said, “What would you want to know?”

Jaime smiled triumphantly. “Tell me about Winterfell. I overheard one of the guards speaking about it—that Greyjoy pup claimed it as his now, has he?”

Stiffening, you shot Jaime a glare. “I will not be discussing such matters with you.”

His shackles clacked against each other as he raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk about something else.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “Tell me about your sister.”

Anger flooded across your features. “Shut up.”

“Why? Have I struck a nerve—?”

“Shut up!” you barked again, which made Jaime fall silent, though there was still a slight smile to his grimy face.

Sensing that he wasn’t going to get anything of value from you, Jaime looked back to Brienne. “What about you? How did you come into Lady Catelyn’s service? That’s something we can talk about, no?”

The blonde remained as sour-faced as ever. “Not your concern, Kingslayer.”

“It had to be recently. You weren’t with her at Winterfell… I would’ve noticed your dour head smacking into the archways.”

The memory of Jaime’s visit to your home flashed across your mind. Things had been so much simpler then. Until he pushed your nephew out of a window with the intent to kill the boy, of course.

“If you don’t serve the Starks… did you pledge yourself to Stannis?” the knight asked.

“Gods, no,” Brienne quickly responded.

Brows raising, Jaime exclaimed, “Ah, Renly, then! Wasn’t expecting that from you. He wasn’t fit to rule over anything more important than a twelve-course meal.”

“Shut your mouth,” Brienne hissed. It seemed Jaime had a particular talent for irritating the life out of both of you.

“Why? I lived with him at court since he was a boy, don’t forget. Could hardly escape the little tulip… skipping down the corridors with his embroidered silks. I knew him far better than you,” Jaime bragged, taking pleasure in getting beneath her skin.

Frowning, Brienne spat, “I knew him just as much as anyone else. As a member of his Kingsguard, he trusted me with everything. He would’ve been a wonderful King.”

Would he? From what you could recall, he never really cared much for the wellbeing of the realm. Nonetheless, you remained silent.

Jaime, however, cackled gleefully. “Sounds like you quite fancied him.”

“I did not fancy him,” she gritted out, a tad too fast.

“Gods, you did! I can see it all over your brutish face! Did you ever tell him? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being a part of his Kingsguard and whatnot… well, I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t quite Renly’s type. He preferred curly-haired little girls like Loras Tyrell. You’re far too much man for him.” 

How ironic, you dryly thought. “I didn’t take you one to gossip,” you said, sensing Brienne’s uncomfort. “Neither of us have quite the appetite for your foul rumors.”

“Oh, but it’s not gossip, Wolf,” said Jaime. “It’s very much true. His proclivities were the worst-kept secret at court!”

“Who gives a shit about what he used to do with his free time? It’s not like he was hurting anybody,” you retaliated. Truthfully, you bore no love for Robert Baratheon’s youngest brother, but since Jaime made it his mission to antagonize him, you couldn’t help but want to defend the late Prince.

Jaime dryly chuckled. “Don’t tell me you fancied him, too. He wouldn’t quite like you much, I’m afraid. He liked his affairs brainless and sweet-faced—two traits you sorely lack, Bitter Wolf. Hm… it’s a shame the throne isn’t made of cocks. They’d have never gotten him off of it.”

Snapping, Brienne grabbed at Jaime’s hair and yanked him back, her sword against his throat in a blink of an eye. You calmly watched, not moving to stop her just yet. She was a loyal, honorable woman, and you were confident Brienne wouldn’t actually kill him if it came down to it.

“Shut your mouth!” she just about shouted, baring her teeth in a snarl.

Jaime winced at the pain of her hand yanking his hair. “I don’t blame him,” he said, tone considerably much softer. “And I don’t blame you, either. We don’t get to choose who we love.”

The insinuation behind his words was as clear as day.

You bitterly scoffed. “But we do get to choose who we have sex with, don’t we, sister-fucker?” Rolling your eyes to the side, you gestured for Brienne to unhand him. “The journey is still long—let’s save our energy by spending it in silence.”

Brienne reluctantly relinquished her hold on him, but before either of them could say anything, the clopping of hooves pulled your attention away.

It was a simple tradesman, tugging along his packhorse, who had bundles of wheat and hay strapped to its back. He waved at the three of you, a smile to his innocent face.

“Hullo. Where are you lot headed?”

“South,” said Jaime. “You?”

“Riverrun,” the man said. “Stayin’ off the Kingsroad, are you?”

The three of you nodded.

“They get you no matter where you go,” he advised. “You can’t run.”

Ominous were his words, but he could simply be speaking of the road tax they were imposing amongst the common folk. Nothing more than that. 

Right?

“Looks like you two are safe enough. Meaning no offense, of course… I wouldn’t want to tangle with you lot,” he said with a chesty chuckle. “Seven blessings to you.”

Off the tradesman went, his horse in tow. You briefly wondered if he had recognized you or Jaime. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t.

“He knows who I am,” Jaime muttered under his breath.

“He doesn’t,” said Brienne.

“Maybe you’re right. But what if you’re not? What if he tells someone? We have to kill him,” Jaime pressed.

Blowing out a breath, you turned to him. “We’re not killing him. Unlike you, Kingslayer, I wouldn’t take innocent lives for no reason.”

Your words seemed to strike him in the face and he reared back with a sneer.

“And you wouldn’t risk his innocent life for your innocent nieces?” Jaime countered. 

A beat of silence. You could feel a lump growing in your throat.

Wordless, you beckoned Brienne to push Jaime along your path. There would be no more bloodshed than necessary.

The three of you had stopped for a break by the river. Brienne had told you to get some sleep, that she’d keep watch for a few hours. 

Body aching and weary with the long journey, you gratefully nodded, leaning against a tree trunk and pulling your cloak up over your head, slipping into a dreamless slumber.

It seemed that luck was not on your side, for you were startled awake by the clashing of steel not even two hours later. You scrambled onto your feet, blinking away your grogginess, and grabbed the bow you had kept by your side.

Jaime and Brienne were by the river, yelling at each other so quickly that you couldn’t make out anything they were saying. When you rushed closer, your eyes widened upon seeing one of Brienne’s longswords clutched between his grimy hands. 

Quiet as a shadow, you nocked an arrow to the drawstring, silently creeping up to the dueling two. Jaime was breathing in a haggard fashion, clearly exhausted by the fight. Brienne, on the other hand, had yet to break a sweat, but her movements were rough and lacked calculated grace.

“That’s enough,” you commanded, tone steely, raising your bow so the tip of the arrow pointed straight at Jaime. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, Kingslayer, we are doing you a favor by taking you back home.”

Before he could reply, a dozen clopping horses resounded from over the bridge, and you swiveled your gaze over to the group with baited breath as they drew closer.

They were carrying Bolton banners of flayed men. And riding on one of the horses was the tradesman you had let go. You squared your jaw. Mercy was to be your downfall.

“Looks like the Bitter Wolf has gotten the better of you, Kingslayer,” said Locke, the man leading the group crooned, thick brows raised. 

You exchanged a quick glance with Brienne, who still had her sword raised. 

“Let us go,” you said, raising your chin. “As your liege lord’s blood, I order you to let us go—!”

Locke barked out a laugh. “Let you go? If the King in the North hears I had the Kingslayer and his precious aunt and let you go, he’d be taking my head right off. I’d rather he takes his.” The man jutted his head towards Jaime, who began to slowly step back, your arrow grazing against the base of his neck.

There was no way you and Brienne could fight off all these soldiers.

With a scowl, you loosened your hold on your bow as Brienne simultaneously sheathed her longsword in surrender. 

One of the men grabbed your bow and arrows, breaking them over his knee with a cackle before he bound your wrists together with rope and roughly tossing you onto a horse. He moved to do the same with Jaime, who had tried to fight off with his sword, but easily batted to the ground in his already-fatigued state, shoved behind you. Brienne was forced onto another horse.

“Never thought I’d see you as a prisoner… for your own nephew, no less,” Jaime leaned forward to murmur into your ear. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it after a while.”

“It looked like Brienne had the upper hand on you,” you coolly said.

Jaime frowned. “She did not. I was in chains. Had I not been shackled, I would’ve easily beaten her.”

You gave him no reply, staring straight ahead with a cold, distant stare. The group began moving, and you swallowed down the urge to puke over the side of the horse.

“When we make camp tonight, there is a great chance those men will take you and Brienne and have their way with you.”

A moment of silence passed before you firmly replied, “They won’t. I am their King’s—”

“Their King believes you to be a traitor for helping me escape,” countered Jaime. “They’ll rape you, and they’ll call it justice. None of these men have ever been with a noblewoman, much less the Bitter Wolf herself.”

There was a thickness to your throat, as if you’d swallowed a mouthful of cold honey. 

“It’d be wise if you didn’t resist,” Jaime said, voice lowering. “They’ll hurt you more if you do.”

“You want me to just let them rape me?” you asked incredulously, loathing the way your voice tremored ever so slightly. You were afraid.

Jaime blew out a sigh. “I stood guard outside the Queen Rhaella’s chambers as the King raped her. Night after night, I could hear her screaming. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked Jonothor Darry once, ‘Are we not sworn to defend the Queen, as well?’ He didn’t even look at me when he replied, ‘We are… but not from him.’ And so I had no choice but to stand and listen. Listen to her pleading, crying, trying to fight him off—which only made the Mad King angrier. The maids said she looked as if she was mauled by a wild animal by the time he was done with her. Scratches, bruises, and bites littered her body.” There was a long stretch of silence before Jaime bowed his head. “It is better you let them get it over with. Let them have what they want, and they’d have no reason to hurt you anymore.”

“You said you had no choice,” you hoarsely said, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “You always have a choice, Jaime. Always.”

Though you couldn’t see his expression, you could imagine the way he would grimly chuckle. “I realized that right before I put my sword through his back.”

Your nose stung as you sucked in a chestful of air. “They’ll kill Brienne if she fights them. They can’t kill me, but they can and would kill her if she fights back—which she will.”

This time, Jaime was the one who didn’t grace you with a response, brows furrowed and his thoughts far, far away.

The chains around your wrists were cold. There was an itch on your back, but with your hands tightly bound together, there was little you could do about it. And so you slumped against the tree, stomach cinched with hunger, and back itchy as you watched the Bolton men eat their roasted meats over the fire, drinking fresh river water that your throat ached for.

Jaime and Brienne were bound to other trees across the camp. From this far, you couldn’t quite see Brienne, but you could see Jaime as clear as day—and he was staring out into the distance, not a single thought behind those green eyes of his.

Once the men had had their suppers and were mildly drunk on the wine they brought along with them, they stumbled onto their feet.

“I’ll take the big bitch first,” you overheard one of them proclaim. “You lot… can tame the Bitter Wolf. We can switch after.”

They burst into raucous cheers. Fear coiled within the bottom of your chest.

Let them have what they want, you could hear Jaime’s voice say.

His green eyes were on you now, watching you with furrowed brows.

“My Lord, I am Brienne of Tarth. Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to King’s Landing—!” Brienne began to protest when four men began dragging her up onto her feet, but was quickly cut off.

Grinning maliciously, Locke interrupted, “Catelyn Stark is a treasonous cunt. Orders were to take the Kingslayer and the Bitter Wolf alive. Nobody said shit about you.”

You didn’t see it when it happened. Sickening thuds, cracking bones, and a resounding slap. Brienne’s screams as they began beating her. From what you could hear, she put up quite a fight. Tears filled your eyes, and you yanked on your chains, knowing it would do absolutely nothing.

“Take her over there where it’s dark. I’d like a little privacy,” said Locke. “The Wolf can go over there—behind the bushes.”

Two men seized you on each side. Though you didn’t fight as wildly Brienne did, you were more calculated in your retaliation, allowing them to think you weren’t going to resist. But after the first few steps, you jerked away, shoving one of the men down onto the ground and using the cold metal of your shackles to wind around the other’s throat. Gurgling chokes erupted from his purpling lips.

You pressed, and pressed, and pressed—

Until another man came and hauled you off, striking you twice across the face, both of your cheeks stinging with the impact. You were bleeding—you could feel it dripping down your jaw, but you didn’t quite feel the pain just yet. 

In the distance, you could hear Brienne’s yells echo through the trees.

You bared your teeth in a snarl when the man yanked your head back by your hair, eliciting a tear to fall from one of your eyes. “I’m going to have fun with you, Bitter Wolf. You’re a pretty little thing when you cry—maybe I’ll ask your nephew if I can keep you.”

“You think my nephew would want me to be raped?” you growled as he began dragging you away. 

“He doesn’t give a shit what happens to you… fucking traitor,” he snarled, brandishing a dull knife gleaming with the reflection of the fire. The blade tore through your tunic and smallclothes, and you struggled to keep yourself covered with the few remaining scraps clinging onto your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat when he began undoing his own pants, a scream tearing from your chest when he held you down with his free arm. 

“No!” you shouted, so loud it felt like the ground beneath you rumbled. “ROBB WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF ME!”

The man’s hand wrapped around your throat, his thumb digging into your airway. You were beginning to grow lightheaded

Without thinking, you garbled out a cry, “BRIENNE! JAIME! JAIME, PLEASE!”

Please what, you fool? you thought. Brienne can’t help you. Jaime can’t do anything. Nobody can save you.

You kicked out against the captor, landing a solid punch to his face as you tried to crawl away.

From the camp, Jaime’s jaw twitched upon hearing you cry out his name, heavy and broken with desperation. The Lannister glanced up at Locke.

“You know who she is, right?”

Locke smiled. “Some big, dumb bitch from who knows where? Hm… never been with a woman that big.”

“Brienne of Tarth. Her father is Lord Selwyn Tarth. Ever heard of Tarth? They call it the Sapphire Isle… every sapphire in Westeros was mined in Tarth. I’d bargain that Lord Selwyn would pay his daughter’s weight in sapphires if she’s returned to him,” said Jaime, trying to appear nonchalant. “Only if she’s alive, though. Don’t think he’d pay you much if you brought him his dead, defiled daughter.”

After a long moment of consideration, Locke turned and called out, “Bring the big one back here!”

From the distant dark, Jaime heard you scream out again. You were still fighting.

“I don’t think it’s wise for you to handle the Bitter Wolf in such a way. It’s better to leave her honor unbesmirched. See, if you’re going to sell her off to Robb Stark… he loves his aunt very much. I saw it myself, during the year I was their captive. He wouldn’t take kindly to his kin being tossed around and raped in such a fashion,” he said.

Narrowing his dark eyes, Locke stepped closer to Jaime. “Unbesmirched?”

“Not defiled,” Jaime clarified. 

Much more reluctant, Locke huffed out a sigh, before calling out to his men. “Bring the Bitter Wolf back here!” He fixed his gaze back on Jaime. “Fancy word for a fancy man.”

“I hated to read as a child. My father forced me to study the books every morning before I could practice with my sword or horse. Two hours, every day, holed up in the maester’s chambers,” replied the knight. He caught sight of you being dragged back to the camp, your face bloody, leaves and foliage clinging to your hair, and your tunic torn off of you. “For God's sake, get some clothes on her! She’ll catch a cold and freeze to death in such weather! Little Robb Stark wants her alive, doesn’t he?” Jaime urged, cocking one of his brows upward. 

With a haggard sigh, Locke undid his cloak and shoved it onto your shivering, horrified form, your arms crossed over your chest in an effort to salvage what little dignity you had left. Jaime’s loose, running tongue had saved you from being raped. You grabbed at the cloak and wrapped it over your shoulders, pulling it tight around you.

Brienne, on the other hand, was brought back fully clothed, still struggling. Blood dripped from her nose, but she seemed otherwise physically fine.

“Your father…” said Locke, “he’d pay your weight in gold to get you back?”

“You’ll be a rich man till the end of your days,” he responded. “And your sons will be rich men and their sons after them. Lands, titles… you’ll have them all. The North can’t win this war. You’re a smart man, you understand that, don’t you? We have the numbers, and we have the gold. Fighting bravely for a losing cause is admirable—but fighting for a winning cause is far more rewarding.”

Locke nodded once. “Hard to argue with that.”

Jaime momentarily glanced over at you, staring at him with wide eyes. 

He looked back at Locke. “Now that we’re speaking man to man… I wonder if you really need to keep me chained to this tree. I’m not asking to be freed from my constraints, but if I could sleep lying down, my back would thank you for it. I’m not as young and spritely as I once was.”

The man in front of him smiled. “None of us are. Unchain Ser Jaime from the tree. I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat.”

“Hm, I’m famished, actually,” said Jaime, his stomach giving a loud rumble at the enticing thought of hot food.

“Famished—another fancy word,” mused Locke. “We’ve got a spare partridge on the fire.”

“Splendid. I do like partridge.”

Now free to stand, Locke led the Lannister closer to the fire—closer to you. You watched with narrowed eyes, unsure of what was happening, still reeling from the fact that you were nearly raped.

“Bring the bird here, and a carving knife.” There was a dark glint to Locke’s eyes that you misliked. “Any other fancy words you want to tell me, Ser Jaime?”

Before the blonde could reply, Locke had kicked out at Jaime’s leg, shoving him against a wooden log, his cheek painfully pressing against the dry bark. Two other men came forward to hold him down, and a third brought the knife.

Locke took it from him, pressing the blade just below Jaime’s one of eyes, squeezed shut. “You think you’re the smartest man there is… that everyone alive has to bow and scrape and lick your boots.”

“My father—”

“And if you get in any trouble, all you have to do is say ‘my father!’ and that’s it. All your troubles are gone. Hm? You got something to say? Want to tell me more about your rich, fancy childhood of books and horses? Careful, Kingslayer. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You’re nothing without your daddy. But your daddy ain’t here! Never forget that.”

The blade Locke was holding came away from Jaime’s eye.

You blew out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

And it came down onto his right hand, cleaving it right off his arm.

Jaime screamed so loud you flinched back against the tree in shock, eyes wider than saucers. Dark blood spurted from the amputated limb. You yelled out his name, chest rising and falling unevenly with rapid, panicked breaths. 

Locke turned his greedy eyes to you, slanting the crimson-slickened blade against your cheek, smearing Jaime’s blood all over your face.

“You keep silent, Wolf,” he snarled, grabbing at your face so you would be forced to stare at Jaime writhing in raw, undulated pain. “Listen to him… listen to his screaming. Music to my fucking ears.”

And so you did. 

For the rest of the night, you could do nothing but listen to Jaime’s agonized yells. 

In the next hour, he had passed out from the pain, clutching his severed hand to his chest.

“Jaime,” you whispered, trying to nudge his unmoving body with your foot, worried he was dead. “Jaime.”

He never replied.

The hand thumped against his sternum with each step the horse took. It smelled rancid: of rotting flesh and dried blood, accompanied by the stench of shame.

Shame.

That was all Jaime could feel for himself.

He was ashamed.

He could feel your eyes on him. Those pretty eyes of winter, usually cold and hardened… now gaunt with trauma and exhaust. If he looked closely, he’d be able to see the concern behind your irises, as well.

But he didn’t look closely, because he was too ashamed to. His own gaze was rooted to the moving ground, watching the foliage pass by. He felt like he needed to puke, but his stomach bore nothing for him to retch. The woodsy dirt seemed to grow closer and closer with every blink…

“How many of those fingers do you think we could shove up his ass?” one of the Bolton men jeered.

Locke coughed out a laugh. “Depends on if he’s had any practice. Is that the kind of thing you and your sister go for, Kingslayer? Did she loosen you up for us?”

The knight teetered on his horse. Your gaze flickered from him to your captors, brows furrowing.

“He’s going to fall,” Brienne called out, her voice rattling through the trees. The men paid her no mind, going on with their sneers and their crude japes. Again, she exclaimed, “He’s going to fall off the horse, someone help him!”

They all watched as Jaime slid off the poor creature’s back, falling face first into a schlop of cold mud. He groaned at the impact, weakly squirming in a fruitless attempt to try to push himself back up.

“Water. Please, water,” he croaked just as the group came to a grueling halt. Locke swung himself off his horse to stand in front of Jaime.

In a cruel manner, he unstoppered his leather water pouch, only to pour its contents over the top of Jaime’s head. 

“Just give the bloody man some water,” you snarled. “It’s been days. He’ll keel over without it.”

Locke rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough.” With a smirk, he shoved another waterskin into Jaime’s single quivering hand.

Greedily, Jaime ripped it open with his teeth and tipped the pouch bag to chug down what was inside.

“Hm. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a man drink horse piss that fast,” Locke observed.

Jaime doubled over, gagging, puking out everything he had just gulped down into the filthy mud. Two cackling men seized him on each side, but Jaime was quick to react, elbowing one in the stomach and grabbing his sword.

It was one against a dozen… Jaime when he had two hands would’ve beat the lot of them in a blink of an eye. But he was no longer Jaime with two hands. Just the one. 

A man kicked out at the back of Jaime’s knee, sending him sprawling forward. 

“Stop!” Brienne yelled, jumping off her horse. More men surrounded her, beating her down to the ground, as she was tied and weaponless. They placed the tips of their blades to her throat, telling her she had gone far enough.

You wisely stayed up on your horse, watching as Locke landed several kicks into Jaime’s stomach and chest. A sickening crack sounded out through the woods. You weren’t really sure what broke, but it didn’t sound good.

“Stop! Stop hurting him,” you gruffed. “You’ve already taken his hand. He poses no more of a threat to you than I.”

“And what are you proposing, Bitter Wolf?” Locke asked, spreading his arms out. “That I beat you, instead?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you spat out in a steely manner, “Yes. Go ahead. Beat me until my skin turns purple and blue. It won’t change the fact that you’d simply be wasting your time.”

Locke’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Fucking traitor.” He glared down at Jaime. “Be grateful the Bitter Wolf has decided to abandon her family for the side of the enemy. If I had it my way, I’d cut off your other hand and stuff it down your throat.”

A breath of relief slipped from your lips when Locke stepped away, leaving Jaime to lie in the mud for a few more seconds. The men eventually tossed him back onto his horse as if he were a sack of potatoes.

He wheezed every time he inhaled, still refusing to meet your gaze.

“Thank—” wheeze, “—you.”

“You did the same for me,” you quietly replied. 

Neither of you spoke after that, continuing the journey on in a mutual, respectable silence.

Harrenhal was much larger than you’d remembered. Then again, you were only a small child last time you came, hyper-focused on all the food and fighting.

The Boltons hauled you off your horse, shoving you onto the ground, followed by Brienne and Jaime.

From in front of you stepped Roose Bolton. 

Locke kicked Jaime to the muddy ground. “I give you the Kingslayer, Lord Bolton.”

“Pick him up,” he said with a dour expression. “He’s lost a hand.”

Cackling, Locke shook his head. “No, my Lord. He has it here!” He pointed at the severed limb tied loosely around his neck.

Roose scowled, stepping forward to rip the hand off of Jaime. “Take this away.”

“What? And send it to his father?” asked Locke, slightly miffed.

A muscle jumped in Roose’s jaw. “You’ll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it. This is the King’s uncle.”

The realization of the Bolton’s betrayal to Robb dawned upon you like a sharp strike to your cheek. “You… you fucking traitor!” you snarled, chest heaving with anger. “Fucking traitor!”

Roose arched a sharp brow. “Look who’s talking, Bitter Wolf. We’re on the same side now, you and I.”

You wanted to snap back, tell him that you’d never be on the side of the Lannisters. But you held your tongue—perhaps if you could play the part of a traitor to the North, they would treat you less harshly. Maybe even allow you to integrate into their group after long enough. You’d be a spy of sorts. You’d have to be patient… and play the long game.

“Cut them free. Apologies, my Ladies. You’re both under my protection now,” Bolton ordered. Someone sliced through your ropes, and you struggled to push yourself onto your legs, weak with exhaustion. “Find suitable rooms for our guests. We’ll speak later.” 

Just as Roose was about to stride away, Jaime croaked out, “Lord Bolton. Has there been word from the capital?”

“You haven’t heard?” he said. “Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King’s Landing… sailed into Blackwater Bay. Stormed the gates with thousands of men. And your sister, how can I put this…?”

Fear danced clear as day across Jaime’s features.

“Your sister is alive and well. Your father’s forces prevailed,” Roose hummed. Overcome with a sudden barrage of overwhelming sensations, Jaime jerked forward, falling to his knees with a pained groan. “Ser Jaime isn’t well. Take him to Qyburn.”

You watched as they led Jaime away, somewhere inside the castle. Another man nudged you and Brienne forward, taking the both of you to the baths, where you were to clean yourself up.

When the hot, steaming water kissed your skin, you couldn’t help but moan out in relief. It’d been months since you bathed in anything but cold, frigid river water. Brienne sank into the waters across from you, blowing out a sigh and respectfully avoiding her gaze to give you a bit of privacy.

“I never had the chance to thank you for taking me so far. Or trying to, at least,” you quietly said as you began scrubbing the dirt away from your skin. “Thank you. You’re a good woman.”

An indiscernible look flickered over her expression. “I failed you. I failed Lady Catelyn. You shouldn’t be thankful for that.”

“You kept me alive. You saved my life several times. You helped me during a long, rough journey. If that doesn’t warrant my gratitude, I don’t know what does.”

The two of you were silent for a while longer. You leaned back to wash all the accumulated dirt and oil away from your hair, lathering your body with fresh soap by the stony bathtub’s edge.

“May I ask you a question, Lady Stark?”

“You may.”

“Why does everyone call you the Bitter Wolf?”

You let the question soak in for a few seconds as you rinsed away the soap. “I haven’t smiled since the Mad King killed my father and my brother. Not much to smile about, anyway. I suppose they also call me that because I’m none too friendly around people.”

There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”

“Sorry for what? Sorry for asking or sorry that it happened?” 

“Both.” 

“It’s alright.” Another long moment of quiet. Then, you asked, “Do you ever miss home, Brienne?”

The blonde tilted her head. “Sometimes. My father is a good man, and Tarth is beautiful. I often wonder what my life would be like if I never left. If I stayed and married a nobleman, like my father wanted.”

“But it’s not what you want,” you quietly said. 

“No, my Lady. It’s not.” Brienne scrubbed away the dried blood on her bare shoulders with a brush. How it had even managed to get there, she wasn't sure. “Do you miss home?”

The thought of home made your chest ache. The fluffy snow, the direwolves, your comfortable bed. “Yes. More than anything, I miss my family. I miss my brothers, all of whom are gone now. I miss my sister, dead long ago. I miss my nephews, two of them may very well be long gone by now. I miss Robb and Catelyn, and I can only hope he’s not giving her too hard of a time. I can only hope he doesn’t hate me, that he can find it within him to forgive me. And I miss my nieces. It seems our little quest to save them has come to an abrupt end.”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably. The idea of failure still hung heavy over her broad shoulders. 

After another ten minutes, Brienne had found that her fingers were beginning to prune, and so she slipped out of the tub, wrapping a thin linen towel about her tall, dripping figure. 

She bid you adieu, but not without first saying, “I’ll protect you, my Lady. I may have failed in bringing you to King’s Landing and escorting your nieces out, but I will protect you with my life.”

Though you didn’t smile, Brienne could catch the faint look of fondness behind your usually frigid irises. “Thank you, Brienne. Truly.”

The big blonde exited the bathroom, having a guard lead her to her chambers. 

You sank further into the tub, wishing to just stay there for a little while longer and forget. Besides, you didn’t know when the next time you’d be offered a bath would be, and you wanted to savor it for as long as you possibly could.

You grabbed a scrubbing brush, lathering it with soap before running it up and down your body, still feeling immensely dirty despite washing it all away. The bristles scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t stop, memories of men touching and shoving you flashing across your thoughts.

“Not so hard,” said a familiar voice. Your head snapped up, thinking Brienne had come back for a moment, before your eyes met Jaime. He was tired and weak, tugging his dirty clothes off. “You’ll scrub all your skin off.”

Brows furrowing, you sank lower beneath the water to make sure he wouldn’t see anything. You remained silent, simply watching as he made his way to the bath, nude as the day he was born.

It seemed Qyburn had done quite a number to his stump, which was cleanly bandaged and no longer bore the coloring of rotten flesh.

When he lowered himself into the tub, he let out a long groan of relief. The feeling of hot water kissing his body was a simple pleasure he missed dearly. Jaime noticed you shifting farther away, until you were pressed up against the opposite edge.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice gravelly. “I told you before, haven’t I? I would never… not unless you invited me, of course.”

Those were his very same words from all those moons ago, when he was standing in front of your chambers in Winterfell. You looked at him, expression softening. 

“Your hand. What did Qyburn do?” you quietly asked.

Jaime waved the bandaged stump just above the water’s surface. “Want to see?”

Apprehensive, you slowly crossed the tub until you were only half an arm’s length away from him. With gentle hands, you reached out to take his arm, inspecting the wrappings and the visible outline of the stitches beneath it. 

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes. More than when it was lopped off, actually,” Jaime admitted, surprised at himself for being so honest with you. 

“And does it hurt now?”

“I was given milk of the poppy,” said the knight. “Numbs the pain.”

A shadow of disappointment danced across the green of his irises when your hands fell away from him.

You were entirely aware that the both of you were naked, and he was so close you could feel his leg brushing yours. You’d never been this close to a man in the nude before. Clearing your throat, you stepped back just a bit. 

“If I faint, pull me out,” said Jaime. “I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.”

“I should let you drown,” you murmured.

The blonde man tilted his head to the side. “But you wouldn’t.”

“No, Ser Jaime. I wouldn’t.”

“And why is that? You’ve grown fond of me?”

The quiet that stretched between you felt heavy and tense, thick enough to cut through with a knife. 

“I don’t know,” was all you said. 

“I can see it in your eyes,” Jaime said, a mild grin to his cracked lips. “You’re fond of me. When we spoke at Winterfell, you had the same look. Then it was gone when I was your nephew’s prisoner. And now it’s back… not many look at me in such a way.”

You paused in your scrubbing for a moment to look at him. “What are you talking about? You’re the Golden Lion. Everyone loves you.”

“No. They all want me to think they love me, because they’re scared. I know how they really feel. I’ve seen their hatred for seventeen years, face after face. They all despise me. Judge me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. Your law-sister, Lady Catelyn, had that face. Brienne of Tarth, too. Hell, even Roose Bolton, who betrayed his King in the North… he still looks down upon me. Everyone but you.”

You blew out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. What were you supposed to say to that? 

Before you could think up a response, Jaime continued on, “Have you ever heard of wildfire? The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn. The way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. Each time he burned a victim, he’d drag his Queen to the chambers and rape her until she passed out, then do it again and again, until he’s had his fill. He burned lords he didn’t like… Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys Targaryen saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city… beneath the Sept of Baelor, and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, and taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. He burned your father during a trial by combat, claiming fire to be his house’s champion. Your brother was put in a Tyroshi strangling device… forced to watch as your father cooked in his armor, and choked himself to death trying to save him.”

The corners of your eyes stung with a warbling film of tears. You knew Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed by the Mad King, but not like this. Not in such a miserable, painful way. You ducked your head as you furiously swiped the stray water away from your cheeks. 

“Finally, the day of reckoning came—Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory on the Trident. But my father arrived first, with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my father better than that… he’s never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the King didn’t listen to me, nor did he listen to Varys, who tried to warn him. Hm, but he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle… that grey sunken cunt.”

A long pause. You took a step closer when you noticed Jaime slumping back with a haggard sigh, the rims of his eyes red as he recounted the story. He was tearing up, just as you were. This was equally as traumatizing for him as it was for you. You had reached out, but didn’t touch him, stopping yourself before you did.

“‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the King, begging him to surrender. The blood everywhere, the dead bodies… it was a massacre, Lady Y/N. In response, Aerys told me to… he told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said.” A tear fell down Jaime’s grimy cheek. “‘Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.’ If you were commanded to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”

Your lips parted. “No,” you hoarsely whispered.

Jaime blinked away the tears, inhaling sharply. “First, I killed the pyromancer. And then when the King turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. So I slit his throat. I don’t think he expected to die. He… he meant to burn with the rest of us, and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies into ash. That’s where your brother, Ned Stark, found me.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” you whispered. “Ned would’ve listened—”

“You think the honorable Eddard Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me.” Jaime’s chest started to stagger with heavy, uneven breaths. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”

“No, Ned would have heard you out if you explained—”

Jaime’s face twisted into one of frustration. “Your love for your family blinds you, just as mine does for me. You were the only one, Lady Y/N… the only one…”

A wheeze and a puff. Jaime teetered forward, eyes slipping shut. 

Quickly, you darted forward just before he could fall into the water, holding him slightly upright within your arms. His face pressed against your shoulder and he groaned out something incoherent. 

“Guards!” you called. “Help!”

“The only one who called me Ser Jaime before calling me a Kingslayer,” he muttered against your skin, just before the guards rushed in to help him out. 

The dress they had given you to wear was an ugly shade of yellow. It was not at all akin to the type of dresses you would wear up in the North, which were thick and voluminous with high collars. No, this one had a tight bodice with a flowing skirt, its neckline square and plunging. It was a dress Southern ladies would be quite comfortable with, you were sure, but you were no Southerner.

Jaime’s green eyes had shimmered with slight mirth upon seeing you uncomfortably amble into Harrenhal’s mess hall, two guards forcing you out of your chambers so you would speak with Roose Bolton. In front of the knight was a generous plate full of roasted meat, along with a heaping of creamed potatoes and glazed carrots. It was a most appetizing meal, especially to a man who hadn’t had proper, hot food in longer than a year, but it proved to be hard to cut into the meat with just one hand. 

“Lannister gold,” said the knight, glancing at your dress as you took a seat next to him, before fixing his stare on your sour expression. He then went back to trying to cut his meat with his one hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Not as bad as hers, anyway.”

To his other side sat Brienne, who was forced into a frumpy pink dress, the collar rimmed with brown fur. Somehow, she looked even more out of place than you did.

“I see my men have found you both appropriate attire,” said Lord Bolton, smirking at your clear uncomfort.

“Yes, most kind of them,” Brienne replied, though it lacked any true sincerity. “You’re a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Stark’s orders to accompany Lady Y/N and Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing.”

With a scoff, Roose rolled his eyes. “If Catelyn Stark wasn’t the Wolf-King’s mother, he would have hanged her for treason.”

Growing frustrated at Jaime’s obvious struggles, Brienne reached over for a fork and stabbed it through the meat, allowing for him to cut through it easily.

“I should send you back to Robb Stark, Kingslayer,” said Roose.

You narrowed your eyes. “And here I assumed you already betrayed my nephew?”

“Gold is a tempting wealth, one that the Lannisters have in abundance,” Roose said, words sharp. “But it is easier to offer it than to dole it out.”

With raised brows, Jaime popped a piece of tender meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “And here you sit, watching me fail at dinner rather than tossing me into the back of a carriage and dumping me in front of Robb Stark. I wonder why that is.”

“Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you,”  Roose told Jaime. Then, he looked at you. 

“And we both know who would pay the most. Or who would make you pay the most if he found out you captured me and sent me back up North for a summary execution.”

A set of cutlery was placed out in front of you, and you trained your stare onto a dull butter knife. Not as sharp as you would’ve liked, but it’d do.

“Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill all three of you and burn your bodies,” said Lord Bolton. 

You wrapped your fingers around the butter knife, but, to your surprise, Jaime’s hand let go of his fork to gently rest over yours, as if to stop you from doing anything rash. This didn’t go past Roose’s notice, and he narrowed his cold, pale grey eyes. 

“It would be, yes… if you truly believed my father would never find out about it.” 

His hand slipped off of yours.

“King Robb is keeping him quite busy. He doesn’t have time for anything else.”

Humming Jaime, bobbed his head. “He’d make time for you.”

It seemed that Roose Bolton was convinced. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I will allow you to go to King’s Landing… as restitution for the mistakes my soldiers made. And you will swear to tell your father the truth—that I played no part in your maiming.”

“Very well,” said Jaime, seeming satisfied. It dawned on you that he thought both you and Brienne were to go with him. “My Ladies, may our journey continue without further hindrance.”

You bit down on your tongue when the Bolton simply smiled cruelly. “Oh, they won’t be going with you. They’re charged with abetting treason.”

Incredulous, Jaime said, “I’m afraid I must insist.”

“You’re in no place to insist on anything,” Roose scathingly replied. “I would have hoped you’d learned your lesson about overplaying your position.”

“Then let me insist. Send me back to my nephew,” you barked, brows knitting. “He can deal with me as he sees fit. I’m not going to be your prisoner.” 

With a wide smile, Roose Bolton pushed away from the table to stand. “Oh, but your nephew doesn’t know you’re here, Bitter Wolf. And I intend to keep it that way. It seems like you don’t have a choice.”

Before you could ask him anything else, Lord Bolton was already striding away. You exchanged a worried glance with both Jaime and Brienne, fear clutching around your heart.

They’d put you in chains, and tossed you into a dark room, Brienne in another far, far away from you to prevent an elaborate escape scheme from forming between the two of you. The one they put you in had little to light the space other than a single lonely torch hanging by the doorway, and a small, rectangular window that filtered pale moonlight through the glass. You sat on one of the cold, uncomfortable chairs, arms wrapped around yourself as you shivered. The dress they’d given you wasn’t one fit for the cold. You supposed they were probably aware of that. 

The door on the other end of the chambers creaked open. In strode Jaime, his arm in a sling, a guard following close behind.

You rose to your feet, face solemn.

“I thought you’d left already.”

“Tomorrow,” replied Jaime. He stepped closer. “I tried to bargain with Roose. He’s adamant on keeping you here. I’m sorry. I’ll convince my father to buy you out. No man can deny the gold when it’s presented right in front of him.”

You wrenched your gaze away, fixing them upon the torch’s warbling flames. “Why?”

The blonde knight tilted his head. “What do you mean, why? I’m going to get you out.”

“Yes, I got that,” you softly said. This time, your eyes met his inquisitive green ones. “But why would you want me to get out?” 

“Because I… I owe you a debt. You released me from my imprisonment,” he replied. 

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you strode forward the rest of the way, until you stood only inches from Jaime. You lowered your voice as you said, “I did it for a reason, Ser Jaime. Please… when you get to King’s Landing, swear you’ll send my nieces back to Robb. Send the girls to him, and consider the debt repaid.”

Jaime nodded. “I swear it.”

You studied him for a moment longer, eyes watering and nose stinging. “I wish there’s more you could do than simply swear. But I trust you, Ser Jaime. I trust you.”

Something within his expression changed, as if crumbling apart, piece by piece. He could see the anguish written across your complexion, clear as day. “Lord Bolton is traveling tomorrow. He’s going to the Twins for Edmure Tully’s wedding.”

Your eyes widened. “Edmure Tully? So… Robb isn’t the one marrying the Frey girl? It’s Edmure?” 

“Your nephew married a foreign girl,” said Jaime with a hint of a smile. “Stirred up quite a scandal amongst your people.”

“Oh, Robb. Foolish, foolish boy. The Freys couldn’t have taken that kindly,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, remembering the medic he was making heart-shaped eyes at. “But if Roose isn’t loyal to Robb anymore… he must be scheming something. What it is, I’m not sure.”

After a second, Jaime cleared his throat. Guilt splayed over his striking features. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’ll be left alone in this castle with Locke and his men. Without Roose, and without me.”

“Not another rape speech, Jaime,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Suddenly, Jaime’s hand darted out to grasp one of yours. Your eyes snapped up to his again, lips parting at the unexpected touch.

“Offer them money. As much as they might want. Even if you don’t have it, offer it. These men are greedy, sniveling creatures. Offer it to them, and they might just leave you alone,” said Jaime, deadly serious. 

You looked away again, squaring your jaw and nodding. A second passed before Jaime let your hand go. 

“Jaime,” you whispered, fear suddenly shadowing over your chest. “If your father buys me out, I’ll simply be moving from captive to captive. I won’t be returning home, will I?”

The blonde man’s features softened ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t be your captor,” he said. “I could never find it within me to stand back and watch you suffer just the same as I did.”

“I wouldn’t be your captive. I’d be your father’s. All my options seem to be dead ends for me,” you responded. Utter hopelessness flooded your features. “Thank you for trying, nonetheless. Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

It might have just been a trick of the quivering fire’s light, but you could’ve sworn there was a whisper of tears in the corner of Jaime’s eyes. “Goodbye, Lady Stark.”

He held his hand out for a handshake, and you took it firm and steady. With a dip of his head, he turned and left your chambers.

And then, you were alone.

“Qyburn hopes your father will force the Citadel to give him back his chain,” said Roose, striding up behind Jaime as the knight mounted a horse, struggling with only his one hand to aid him.

Snorting, Jaime retorted, “My father will make him Grand Maester if he grows me a new hand.”

Roose hummed with thought. “You’ll give my regards to Lord Tywin, then, I trust?”

A nod, and a slight smile. “Tell Robb Stark I’m sorry I couldn’t make his uncle’s wedding. And that his aunt dearly misses him. The Lannisters send their regards.”

There was a malicious sort of glimmer to Roose’s pale eyes. He bowed his head.

And off Jaime went, his horse walking slowly out the gate, a few Bolton loyalists accompanying him. There were eyes on him from every point of the castle, burning into him. Locke awaited by the gate a sneer to his lips. “Safe journey, Kingslayer. Ooh, nothing to say? I liked you better before… I don’t remember chopping your balls off, too!”

Jaime remained wisely silent, jaw clenching. 

“Don’t you worry about your companions. We’ll take good care of them. I’ve never had Wolf before, you know?”

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It settled heavy within Jaime’s stomach.

He rode out of the castle without looking back.

They took a pause on their journey around half a day later. His legs were weary and numb, but his stub throbbed. Qyburn took care of that, placing a strange sort of white ointment over the stitches before rebandaging them. In no time, the pain seemed to ebb away. 

After a bit of smalltalk on Qyburn’s rather disturbing confession to performing experiments on diseased men, Jaime swallowed uneasily and said, “You were in charge of the ravens at Harrenhal, no? Did you get a bird off to Brienne’s father in Tarth?”

Even if there was nowhere for you to go, Jaime surmised that at least Brienne would be able to return home with a proper ransom, right? 

“A bird flew off and a bird flew back,” said Qyburn. “Lord Selwyn Tarth offered three hundred gold dragons for his daughter’s safe return.”

“A fair offer,” hummed Jaime as he stood up to his feet to head back to his horse.

“Yes. An offer Locke won’t take.” 

Jaime faltered in his steps. “Why not?”

Qyburn frowned in thought. “He’s convinced Lord Tarth owns all the sapphire mines in Westeros. He feels he’s been cheated.”

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Jaime blew out a long breath. “They’d be fools to kill her.”

“Hm. These men have been at war for a long time. Most of them will be dead by winter, and they’re well aware of this. Both she and the Bitter Wolf will be their entertainment for tonight. Beyond tonight, I don't think they'd care very much what happens to her. They’ll have to keep the Stark alive for Lord Bolton, however. Use her as they see fit until he returns.”

Brows knitting together, Jaime shook his head. There was no chance he’d be able to live with himself knowing he condemned Brienne to her death, knowing you’d be raped and tortured and beaten when he could’ve put a stop to it. 

He turned to one of the men accompanying him. “We have to return to Harrenhal,” he said.

“Why?” asked the soldier, upper lip curling with contempt.

“I’ve… left something behind.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got orders from Lord Bolton to take you to your father in King’s Landing, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Cocking his face, Jaime narrowed his keen green eyes. “You think you’ll get a reward?” 

“I serve Lord Bolton. Any appreciation from your father—”

Cutting him off, Jaime hissed out, “Let me explain something to you. When my father sees me, the first thing he’s going to ask is what happened to my hand. And I’ll be telling him that you were the one that chopped it off.”

“I had nothing to do with—!” “Or,” Jaime interrupted once again, lifting a finger, “I could tell him this man saved my life, and he’ll reward you greatly. We’re returning to Harrenhal. Now.”

The man in front of Jaime considered his words for a moment, before reluctantly nodding, ordering the rest of the men to get ready to turn back.

He was going back to get you, one way or another.

Jaime hurriedly leapt off his horse once he was within the dreary confines castle. From afar, he could hear drunken singing and chanting. With quick feet, he rushed up several creaking stairs, up and up and up he went, before he came up onto an elevated platform more than twice his height, where hundreds and hundreds of men were gathered. He could barely hear anything over their loud song about a bear and a maiden.

To his horror, as Jaime pushed through the crowd, he caught sight of a large arena. And within it… was a large brown bear. 

Brienne was down there as well, in her tattered pink dress, her hands wrapped around a rather useless wooden training sword. And behind her, she was shielding you. Your expression was wild with terror, eyes darting every which way in an effort to search for a way out. The golden dress you were wearing was soaked with mud, torn in several places, and hanging haggardly off of one shoulder. Brienne was no better, with deep claw marks running along her neck down to her clavicle, blood dribbling down from the wound and staining her dress’ neckline crimson.

“Don’t spare her!” one of the onlookers yelled.

“Let the Wolf fight! Fucking coward!”

“Get on with it already!”

The bear roared angrily. Jaime could hear Brienne yelling, “Stay behind me, my Lady! I’ll protect you!”

“Well, this is one shameful fucking performance. Stop running and fight!” exclaimed Locke. Jaime’s eyes snapped up to him. 

“You gave her a wooden sword?” he asked, nose wrinkling with disgust. 

Locke glanced at the Kingslayer, thick brows raising in surprise. “Thought you’d gone.”

“You gave her a wooden sword!” he gritted out.

“We’ve only got one bear,” scoffed Locke.

Shoving people out of the way, Jaime stormed closer to the rotten man. “I’ll pay their bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires, whatever you want. Just get her out of there!”

With a smirk, Locke shook his head. “All you Lords and Ladies still think that the only thing that matters is gold.” He grabbed Jaime’s bandaged stub. “Well, this makes me happier than all your gold ever could! And that makes me happier than any of her sapphires! I’m sure taking the Bitter Wolf’s cunt for myself is going to be more pleasurable than winning the fucking war myself. So go buy a golden hand and fuck yourself with it!”

Furious, Jaime shoved Locke away, turning back to watch the fighting pits. The bear had swiped out at Brienne, causing her to fall back with a yell as one of its claws snagged against her jaw. You had yanked her to the side, effectively saving her from a deathly blow from the bear.

And without another thought, Jaime clambered over the railings, and jumped down. He had no idea what he was doing. His heart was racing within his chest, thumping an irregularly quick pace. All he could think was to stand in front of you and Brienne.

“Get behind me!” he yelled.

“I will not!” Brienne spat out a wad of blood as she struggled back onto her feet.

Just as the bear was about to strike again, an arrow shot out from the stands. You looked up to see one of the men Jaime had left with, clutching a crossbow. 

“What the fuck are you doing to my bear!?” Locke yelled, incredulous.

“Lord Bolton charged me with bringing him back to King’s Landing alive, and that’s what I intend to do!” he gruffed in response, loading another arrow.

The next one missed its target, landing into the large bear’s shoulder. Jaime took its distraction to his advantage, grabbing your hand and shoving you towards one of the tall walls. 

“Pull her up!” he ordered the people above. “Climb on my back!”

You did as he told with little complaint, hurriedly taking one of the offered hands and rolling onto the platform, breathless. Wasting no time, you got onto your feet and stormed to Locke, shoving him aside. You blew out a breath of relief as Brienne was also hauled up, leaving just Jaime in the pit. 

Terror clawed within your ribcage. Another bolt went flying to the bear, but it missed completely, skirting off to the side. Frustrated, you grabbed the crossbow from the man, loading another arrow and aiming with narrowed eyes.

Before the bear could maul Jaime in one strike, you let the bolt flying loose, and the sharp arrowhead pierced the bear clean through the skull. It fell down with one large thud, mud flying every which way at its collapse. 

“Help him up!” you told Brienne, placing another arrow into the crossbow and aiming it straight at Locke. “Put your hands on me, and I’ll have your eyes shot through the back of your head.”

To your relief, Brienne had helped Jaime back up onto the platform.

The men all around you booed, upset their entertainment was ripped away from them.

“You’re staying here. The big bitch, too,” said Locke, infuriated.

“If I stay, you’ll be dead. If Brienne stays, you’ll be dead. Is that a deal, or are you going to let me go?” When Locke found himself at a standstill, you growled out, “I’ll put a bolt through Jaime Lannister’s fucking head right now if you don’t let Brienne and I go. Do you think Tywin Lannister is going to be happy with his son dying by a Bolton arrow?”

There was a tense moment of silence. Locke stepped back, defeated. 

Jaime and Brienne both made their way to you, escorting you out of the castle.

“Sorry about the sapphires,” remarked Jaime just before he went down the steps, his smile sharp.

He caught up to you, still gripping the crossbow tightly. 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fucking peachy,” you spat. You casted a worried look to Brienne, quietly asking if she was too hurt to travel. When she expressed that she was fine, you finally turned your eyes back on Jaime. Your expression softened as you studied him. “You came back.”

“I came back,” he echoed, tone equally gentle. “Though, did you just threaten to have me killed up there, or—?”

“You know I wouldn’t kill you.”

“Do I?”

“You do.”

“Hm.” Jaime smiled. “I guess I do.”

The journey to King’s Landing was going by quicker than you expected. Perhaps it was because Jaime had become less of a thorn in your side, and more of a respectable companion. Most of the time, anyway. He was still quite an annoyance, pestering you for stories of your past and never failing to jest about your infamously stoic disposition.

The Kingslayer was not your friend, no… but he certainly seemed to be treating you as one. Were you treating him as a friend, as well? 

You were resting against a tree, arms crossed over your chest as you tried to find sleep. The crossbow you had taken with you was propped up against your leg. Brienne was on watch, sharpening her sword a few meters away from you. 

To none of your surprise, Jaime had come ambling past, dropping beside you with a mild grunt. You didn’t spare him a glance, simply humming in acknowledgement.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, lolling his head against his shoulder so he could look at you. The green of his eyes glinted with the pearly moonlight, sharp and curious. “You’re free to go if you’d like. I told you I wouldn’t be your captor.”

Freedom. Something you hadn’t tasted in a long while.

Slow, you turned your head to face him, startled to see how close he was. Nonetheless, you didn’t pull away.

“I need to find my nieces and bring them back to Cat. To Robb. This… all of this… it can’t have been for nothing,” you murmured. “I can’t give up now.”

The man nodded. “I’ll help you, then. I swore I would.”

“I know,” you whispered in return. Jaime studied your features. Tired and weathered, broken and determined. Your eyes, however, read nothing but gratitude. “I still can’t believe you jumped into a pit with a bear in it. It was a foolish thing to do.”

“Yes, well, it saved you from a gruesome death. Some would say it was brave rather than foolish.”

“Bravery and foolishness go hand in hand,” you mused, with a slight scoff. After a lengthier silence, you croaked, “Thank you, Jaime.”

The blonde smiled. You didn’t see, for you had already turned your head away from him to gaze upwards, to the hazy stars in the night’s sky. 

Not ten minutes of amicable silence later, Jaime felt a weight drop upon his shoulder. You had slipped into a peaceful rest, accidentally resting your head against the knight. For a moment, he considered moving, giving you more space to sleep for longer. Your hair tickled his cheek, and your chest rose and fell with unencumbered breaths. You looked so much younger when you were asleep, free of the waking world’s burdens and tribulations.

And so Jaime stayed still. Jaime couldn’t quite understand why he began grinning. He didn’t even notice that he was smiling like a damn fool, even after the sun had long risen and you had jerked awake when light rays danced across your irritated eyes, murmuring flustered apologies and stumbling onto your feet to hurry away with a lame excuse of checking on Brienne. No, the smile stayed for a long, long time. 

King’s Landing was smaller than Jaime remembered. Much smaller.

When Jaime stepped foot into the Red Keep, the first thing he did was go to see his sister. His beloved sister. Her door creaked open. Her back was to him. Golden hair shimmered beneath the sun’s waning light.

“Cersei,” he said. 

She turned, startled at the sound of her twin brother’s voice. Those sharp eyes of hers caught sight of his filthy state. Of his handless arm. 

Disgust flickered over her expression.

Hot shame washed over him. You didn’t look at his stump with that kind of disgust. No, you had looked at it with a certain kind of soft curiosity. Cersei looked angry, almost. Affronted that he would show up in such a broken, weak state.

Why wasn’t Cersei happy to see him? After all this time?

A few hours later, you were tossed down in front of King Joffrey, still in that disgusting, ripped golden dress the Boltons had given you. In contrast, Jaime had already been bathed, donned in golden armor and a white cloak. He hadn’t been able to speak with you since the three of you had arrived at the Keep.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“And what are we to do with you?” his nephew, his son, crooned, smiling wide as if he’d caught himself a prize. “Sister to a traitor. Aunt to a traitor. Bitter Wolf, indeed.”

You refused to meet Joffrey’s burning gaze. Instead, you were looking at Sansa, off to the side of the courtroom, her blue eyes wide and tearful. Youthful hope was plastered clear as day across her pale, beautiful features. Relief. 

“Maybe I should put your head on a spike,” Joffrey mused.

At his words, Jaime stepped forward. “Your Grace, Lady Stark saved my life several times. She was the one who helped me escape. She is the entire reason I’m here now.”

It looked as if Joffrey wanted to spit at his uncle for ruining his fun. Before he could say anything, however, Tywin Lannister interrupted, “As the Hand, Your Grace, I’d advise to exercise compassion for the Bitter Wolf. We should be grateful to her for returning one of your Kingsguard back to you.” He thought it wise to make allies with you—after all, you were now technically the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, with all the Starks dead except your nieces. The rest of the North would be keen on following after you, rather than Roose Bolton.

“What good is a Kingsguard with just one hand?” snarked Joffrey. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. “She helped you escape, then, Uncle? Did she play a part in the Red Wedding? She must have, if she was so willing to betray her nephew!”

Wedding…?

You finally tore your eyes away from Sansa, looking up at Joffrey. Confusion clouded your expression.

The blonde King raised his brows. He grinned so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split into two. “Oh, Gods, she doesn’t know!” He began laughing. It was a cruel and calloused sound. “Robb Stark is dead. The traitor wolf died at his uncle’s own wedding! His pregnant whore of a wife and his bitch mother, as well.”

At the news, your lips parted, and your hands came up to cover them. Tears were quick to sting the corner of your eyes, and burn the bridge of your nose. Roose fucking Bolton did this. You didn’t want to cry in front of the monster of a boy, you really didn’t. But you couldn’t help it—your nephew was dead. Your good-sister was dead. And you weren’t there for them. 

Did Robb die hating you?

A silent sob wracked your entire body and your knees buckled. Sansa took a step forward, but stopped when one of the Kingsguard snarled at her. 

The rest of the court had fallen into a hushed silence. It was only broken when Joffrey stepped down from the Iron Throne, smirking maliciously.

“Welcome to court, Lady Stark. We are… forever indebted to you,” he chuckled, taking great pleasure at the fact that he was the one to break the tragic news. Then, he walked straight past you, humming as he left the throne room. The rest of the whispering Lords and Ladies trickled out after him. 

Jaime watched, brows furrowed in concern, as Sansa finally was able to run forward and envelop you into a tight hug. You gripped your niece and cried harder against her. It shattered your heart in a million pieces when she began to quietly cry into your neck, as well.

Lips pursed in a tight line, Jaime spared you one last glance before he turned to head after the King. 

They’d put you in a large chamber, with large, arched windows giving you a perfect view of the ocean. Warm air billowed through, the breeze tousling your just-washed hair and cascading a heated flush down your face. You weren’t fond of hot weather—you were a Stark through and through, made of ice and snow.

The handmaids laid out a dark grey Southern dress for you to wear. It was loose and lightweight, with a neckline that plunged far too low for your liking, wide enough to only barely hang off your shoulders. The sleeves were long and drooped far past your hands. You narrowed your eyes, shifting the fabric around your waist, frowning at how it cinched uncomfortably. Damn Southerners.

There was a knock on your door just as you had finished readjusting the dress to the best of your abilities, and you turned to see Sansa quietly slide in, her handmaiden following after her. 

“My dear girl,” you whispered, reaching out to her. When Sansa stepped closer, you gently cupped her heart-shaped face with one hand. Her red curls were twisted into an updo, blue eyes scared and wide. 

She looked so much like her mother… her mother who was now gone…

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you roped her into an embrace. She was crying again, pulling away to hastily wipe her tears away, sniffling.

“I missed you,” she whispered. 

Though you’d never been too close to Sansa back when you were in Winterfell, as she wasn’t a fan of your cold nature, you still loved her, nonetheless. Sansa had lost her entire family in such a short span of time, she was immensely grateful to see you alive and well. A naive part of her hoped that you would whisk her away. Away from Cersei, away from Joffrey, and away from King’s Landing.

“Where’s Arya?” you asked.

“I don’t know. She disappeared when… when father…”

You nodded. Disappointment danced over your irises. Hopelessness. “She must’ve run out of King’s Landing. No doubt tried to make her way back home on her own. She could be anywhere from here to Winterfell by now.” Biting your lip, you encompassed her hands within yours. “Sansa, tell me. What’s happened here? Have they been treating you well?”

She shifted uncomfortably at the question. She hesitated for a moment, but quietly spoke upon remembering that you were her aunt, and that she could trust you. You were family. “No. Joffrey’s a monster. He’s cruel, and he likes hurting people. He’s pursuing Lady Margaery Tyrell now… and I’m married to Tyrion.”

“What?” Horror flickered over your expression.

Quickly, she added, “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, though… he’s not like Joffrey.”

From the corner of your eye, you could see Sansa’s handmaiden shift from foot to foot.

“That’s a relief. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes once more. “Better, now that you’re here.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that all on your own,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You poor girl.”

“What happened to you? Why did you leave Robb?”

“I wanted to save you and your sister. I thought that if I traded Jaime for you and Arya, I could… I could bring you back. It’s a long story, but… it didn’t work out. Your sister is gone, and Robb is gone, as well. Winterfell is not ours anymore. There is nowhere safe for us to go.” 

Fear made her lips warble. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… we must stay here for a while. It’s safest here. For now. But when we find an opportunity, we must take it.”

She looked like she wanted to protest for a minute, but she blew out a shaking breath. “Alright. I trust you.”

The weeks passed by in a breeze. A warm breeze. Jaime had grown rather accustomed to the cold of the North during his year of imprisonment. The heat down here was sticky and uncomfortable—especially beneath his golden armor. 

He never would have thought that he’d miss the sight of snow.

He was rarely given the chance to speak to you or Brienne, busy with his duties as part of the Kingsguard. But he would see you in the distance, hovering protectively over your sweet-faced niece, walking the gardens, staring out at the oceans, as if planning out an escape. It was a strange thing seeing the two of you together. The little dove and the bitter wolf. 

Exactly four weeks after Jaime had returned to King’s Landing his father called for a meeting with him. Apparently, Tywin had something to give him.

“It’s magnificent,” Jaime said in awe, slowly swinging the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, testing its balance. “Fresh-forged?”

“Yes,” said Tywin, stoic-faced. 

Jaime turned to look at his father. “No one’s made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria,” the knight commented, brows raising.

With a nod, Tywin sank into his seat with seamless grace. “There are only three living smiths who know how to rework Valyrian steel. The finest of them was in Volantis. He came here to King’s Landing at my invitation.”

Jaime hummed. “You’ve wanted one of these in the family for a long, long time.”

“And now we have two.”

“Two?”

“The original weapon was absurdly large. Eddard Stark’s. It provided more than enough for two swords.”

There was a long pause before Jaime stepped forward. “Well, thank you. It’s glorious.” As Tywin nodded, whatever small glimmer of pride in his eyes waned away when Jaime struggled to sheath the sword, with his only one hand to aid him.

“You’ll have to train your left hand,” his father gruffed.

Frowning, Jaime replied, “Any decent swordsman knows how to use both hands.”

“You’ll never be as good.”

A pause. Even with both his hands, Jaime was never good enough for his father.

“As long as I’m better than everyone else, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Narrowing his keen eyes, Tywin sternly said, “You can’t serve in the Kingsguard with just one hand.”

“Where’s that written?” Jaime snapped back. “I can and I will. The Kingsguard oath is for life.”

“The war is over. The King is safe,” said Tywin.

Jaime scoffed. “The King is never safe! How many people in this city alone would love to see his head on a pike?”

You, for one. Jaime knew you would snap Joffrey’s neck if you were ever given the chance to. 

Damn it. There he went, thinking of you again. It was as if you were some sort of disease festering in his mind.

“The King was protected by other knights while you were a prisoner. They will continue to do so when you go home.”

Ah. So that’s what this was about. 

“Home?” Jaime echoed.

“You’ll return to Casterly Rock… and rule in my stead.”

Tywin wanted him to go back and abandon all his duties. Find a wife from a noble house, bear children—preferably sons, and secure heirs for the Lannister household. But that was not who Jaime was. No, Jaime wanted… he wanted…

“You are the Lord of Casterly Rock,” reminded Jaime, studying his father as if he’d gone daft. 

Face ever so stony, Tywin replied calmly, “I am the King’s Hand. My place is here. I don’t expect to see the Rock again before I die.”

“You know what they call me? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. And now you want me to break another sacred vow,” sighed Jaime, blowing out a long, exasperated breath.

Tywin’s green eyes, paler than Jaime’s were, bore holes into his head. “You won’t be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieving the Kingsguard of his duties. The King will exercise that prerogative.”

How could Jaime leave his brother and sister here for a life he didn’t even want? How could he leave you with his monster of a nephew? How could he leave Sansa when he swore to you that he would get her to safety?

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” parroted Jaime.

Tywin’s upper lip curled into a slight snarl. “I don’t believe I asked you a question.”

“But I’m giving you an answer,” said Jaime. 

“If you think your bloody honor comes before—”

“My bloody honor is beyond repair, but my answer is still no!” Jaime interrupted, his voice raising in volume. “I don’t want Casterly Rock. I don’t want to marry some woman I barely know. I don’t want to bear her children.”

“Then what do you want?”

For a moment, Jaime struggled for words. Cersei, he thought. But Cersei doesn’t seem to want me anymore. Not with my hand missing.

“Supper would be nice,” said Jaime.

The older of the two scowled heavily. “For forty years I’ve tried to teach you. If you haven’t learned now, you never will. Go. If serving as a glorified bodyguard is the sum of your ambition, then go serve.”

“I suppose you want the sword back.”

“Keep it. A one-handed man with no family needs all the help he can get,” spat Tywin.

No family. That stung Jaime much more than he’d care to admit.

With no more words to spare his father, Jaime strode away, sword in hand, his white cloak fluttering with his departure.

A golden hand. Qyburn had brought him a golden hand.

“A work of art,” he declared.

Jaime wasn’t so impressed. The gold just brought more attention to the fact that he didn’t have a hand in the first place. Not to mention that it was heavy and clunky. He would’ve been much more satisfied with something dull and lightweight.

“If you like it so much, chop off your own hand and take it,” he dryly remarked.

Pouring herself a chalice of wine, Cersei rolled her eyes. “You’re such an ingrate. I spent days with the goldsmith getting the details just right.”

“Days?” Jaime asked, skeptical.

She shrugged. “The better part of an afternoon.”

Once it was properly fixed onto his stub, Qyburn asked how it felt.

“A hook would’ve been more practical,” said Jaime.

It was then that his sister dismissed the older man, thanking him for his services present and past. Jaime waved around the new hand, testing its lopsided weight. 

Finally, Cersei turned to him.

“Odd little man,” he quipped.

“I’ve grown rather fond of him. He’s quite talented, you know.”

Tilting his head, Jaime asked, “What past services? You were hurt?”

“None of your concern,” she calmly replied. 

Frustration licked its way up Jaime’s chest. It was as if Cersei was purposefully dangling her secrets in front of him, but kept him at a safe distance by not disclosing anything. He wanted to yell, throttle her, asking her to be plain and truthful with him. It was wishful thinking, of course.

“You let him touch you?” was all he could think of saying. 

There was a laugh to her tone. “Jealous?”

No. Bitter, more like—he’s spent too much time with you, perhaps. “Surprised. You never let Pycelle touch you,” he said.

“You think I’d let that old lecher put his hands on me?” She sipped on the wine. Then took another, and another, and another. “He smells like a dead cat.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a dead cat.” Narrowing his eyes, Jaime observed his sister finish what was in her chalice, reaching over to pour more. “You drink more than you used to.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The way her lip curled in disdain was eerily reminiscent of his father. Jaime felt the beginnings of a headache pound at the front of his temple. 

“Hm, let’s see. You started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the capital. My husband died in a tragic hunting accident.”

An accident you made sure to cause, Jaime thought. She is just as much of a Kingslayer as I am.

“Must have been traumatic,” Jaime sneered, dripping with irony.

“My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne.”

Our daughter.

“We suffered through a siege.”

Blowing out a sigh, Jaime barked out a humorless laugh. “A rather short siege.”

“One that I didn’t expect to survive,” she quickly snapped back. Wisely, she decided not to tell Jaime she was a hair’s breadth away from poisoning Tommen. “And now I’m marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden, while I’m supposed to marry her brother, a renowned pillow-biter.”

Without her noticing, Jaime had stood up and came to sit beside her. “Father disowned me today,” he said. 

“He can’t disown you. You’re all he’s got,” she said.

“You’re forgetting Tyrion.”

At the mention of her other brother, Cersei’s face twisted with repulsion.

“You don’t really plan on staying in the Kingsguard, do you?”

Jaime leaned forward, placing his golden hand behind her and his remaining one atop her knee. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was doing. Trying to kindle whatever there was between them again, perhaps. Desperately seeking what he used to have before he left King’s Landing. “Staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here, in the Red Keep with you.”

Just as he dipped his head forward, his nose brushing against her cheek, Cersei yanked herself away, standing up to stride back to the table and pour herself some more wine.

“Not now,” she said.

Frustrated, Jaime gritted out, “Not now? Then when? I’ve been back for weeks! What’s changed?”

“Everything!” she practically yelled. There was fire behind her irises. “Everything’s changed! You come back after all this time with no apologies and one hand and that bitch wolf and expect everything to be the same?”

Baffled, Jaime asked, “What do you want me to apologize for?”

“For leaving me,” she spat.

“You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?”

“I don’t know what you wanted. You weren’t here. You left me alone.”

It seemed that Cersei was so blinded by her rage, she refused to see anything from his perspective. They’d always considered each other to be their missing half. Now, Cersei felt more like a thorn in his side rather than something that’d make him whole.

“Every day, I was a prisoner. I plotted my escape, every day.”

Cersei shook her head. “But you didn’t, did you? Not until the Bitter Wolf set you free.”

“I murdered people so I could be here with you!”

“You took too long.”

“I… what? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you took too long,” she echoed.

There was a knock at the door.

“Go away!” yelled Jaime.

“Come in,” said Cersei.

The door swung open. Beyond his limit, Jaime stood up and shouldered past the handmaiden to storm out of the chambers.

Brienne fidgeted beside you as you watched Sansa pray down by the stony shores. What she was praying for, you weren’t quite sure. It seemed that Brienne was restless, seeing that Sansa was right there, but she couldn’t quite do anything about it. There was nowhere to take the both of you. She felt like she’d failed you—again.

Jaime came to stand by the two of you, commenting on how strange it was to see a Wolf in Southern drab, but quickly shut his mouth when you spared him an unimpressed look. 

“You made a promise,” said Brienne.

“Mmh, yes, to return the Stark girls to their mother, who is now dead,” Jaime replied. 

It was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack beneath all your jaw-gritting.

“To keep them safe,” Brienne emphasized.

“Well, Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money’s on dead. There’s a certain safety in death, no?”

Your stomach lurched. With a scowl, you spat out, “She’s not dead. Arya’s a smart, nifty little thing. She’s probably off posing as a stableboy somewhere. People always mistook her as one back in Winterfell, anyway.”

With a huff, Jaime continued, “Alright, well, regardless, she’s not here for me to protect. And Sansa Stark… well, she’s Sansa Lannister now, yes? Bit of a complication.”

Brienne drew herself to her full height, staring Jaime down. “A complication does not release you from a vow!”

“And what would you have me do? Kidnap my sister-in-law? And take her where? Where would she be safer than here?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me she’ll be safe in King’s Landing,” hissed Brienne.

Jaime wasn’t able to do so. Instead, he crossed his arms and narrowed his green eyes. “Are you sure we’re not related? Ever since I’ve returned, every Lannister I’ve seen has been a miserable pain in my ass. Maybe you’re a Lannister, too. Got the hair for it.”

Trouble in paradise? you thought in mild amusement.

Though you were reluctant to admit it, you said, “She’s not safe here. But this is the safest place she can be for now. I was thinking of the Vale, but Lysa Arryn is not sound of mind… I doubt she’d welcome Sansa into her home with open arms. There’s the Night’s Watch, where Jon is. But there is no way we could pass through the North without a Bolton hound sniffing us out.”

The blonde knight hung his head. “It’s better if you just stay here. Things will be less messy that way.”

Before either of you could fit in a reply, Jaime was already striding away. Brienne glanced at you apologetically, before heading away, murmuring something about having to speak with Margaery Tyrell.

Tyrion Lannister invited you to breakfast. You’d stared at the parchment with raised brows, chewing on your bottom lip in thought. From what you could recall, Tyrion was a sharp-tongued man, but Sansa was clear that he was kind. And so, you accepted the invitation.

Needless to say, you weren’t expecting to see Jaime there.

But of course he was there—they were brothers, after all.

The knight bowed his head in a silent greeting, looking overall weary but tried to offer you a small smile nonetheless. You nodded in return, taking a seat beside him. Tyrion watched the exchange keenly, sat down across from the two of you.

“How is the capital treating you, my Lady?” asked Tyrion, voice pleasant.

“Fine,” you replied hastily. “Hot. Dry. The air tastes like salt.”

With a chuckle, Tyrion began digging into his breakfast. “Yes, that would either be the piss on the streets or the ocean itself. You can never tell here.” 

You glanced down at the plate full of eggs and sausages and fried potatoes the cupbearer put down in front of you. Suddenly, you had no stomach to eat. It seemed Jaime was thinking along the same lines, because he had yet to touch his food.

Glancing down, you noticed his new golden hand. Following your gaze, Tyrion quipped, “That new hand is better than the old one.” He looked up at his cupbearer. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pod?”

With a quiet hum, you shook your head. “Heavy, immobile metal over real, living flesh? Your definition of better must align with expenses, then.”

Tyrion smiled a genuine smile. “It looks better.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Neither of you are eating. Why is no one eating? My wife wastes away, her aunt sulks around, and my brother starves himself.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jaime was quick to say.

“You lost a hand, not a stomach.”

Drawing in a breath, you gritted out, “You’d sulk if your entire family was killed, wouldn’t you?”

The comment made Tyrion wince slightly. “Apologies, my Lady. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just wanted to have a meal with my family. The tolerable ones, at least. I invited Sansa, but she politely declined. So please, try the boar. Cersei hasn’t gotten enough of it since one killed Robert for her.”

After a beat of intense silence, you sat up straight and began cutting through the food, eating slowly. It didn’t go past your notice when Jaime pushed his plate further away from him.

“A toast to us,” said Tyrion, lifting his goblet. “The dwarf, the cripple, and the Bitter Wolf.”

Both you and Jaime grimaced at the names. Jaime reached forward to grab his wine chalice, but clumsily forgot that his golden hand couldn’t bend to take it, effectively knocking it over. Purple-crimson spilled all over the table, dribbling down onto you and staining the dress you were wearing a darker shade of mauve. 

“I’ll clean it,” started Pod.

Jaime waved him away. “No. I’ll do it. Leave us.” He turned to you, frowning and handing you a dishtowel. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright,” you quickly reassured him, taking the rag and wiping away the excess. “It’s not my dress. Not my wine. It feels refreshing on my skin, actually.”

Jaime watched you for a moment, his eyes soft. 

Tyrion tilted his head. “Seems the wolf isn’t so bitter, after all. The journey softened you, I take it?”

At his words, your expression hardened, and Jaime sent him a sidelong glare. 

The younger of the two quickly backtracked. Gods, you were just not a very good conversationalist, were you? “My brother told me you shot down a bear to save him.”

“I did,” you curtly said.

“You and I are going to be good friends, I think,” Tyrion mused. He grinned wide, before taking another sip from his cup.

Joffrey’s wedding ceremony was a grand event. It was all decorations and Lannister heraldry, candles and flowers and bells every which way you looked. You didn’t care at all for it, really. As long as the monster wasn’t marrying your niece. It was a shame—Margaery Tyrell seemed a nice enough woman. At least, you knew Sansa took a liking to her.

You hadn’t even realized that the ceremony was over until people began clapping, Joffrey pulling away from his kiss with Margaery. If she was upset about the ordeal at all, she didn’t show it. Either she was as deranged as her new husband, or she was a very good actor. Jolting out of your reverie, you lightly clapped thrice before letting your hands fall back to your sides. Gods, this dress itched. A pale shade of pink, laced with golden thread. How the Southerners wore this kind of garb every day, you never knew.

Before you knew it, the wedding feast was commencing. Somehow, it was even more of a large-scale event than the ceremony had been. Performers in every corner, some swallowing swords, others juggling flaming torches, and a few with seductive eyes, twisting themselves into knots and rotating their bones in ways you never knew the body could bend. There were a million and one dishes lining the gilded tables, platters upon platters of rich foods, sweet pastries, fruits with cheese, and savory meats. Chalices of golden ales and honeyed wines were passed around, filled to the brim. Frankly, you would’ve enjoyed the event, had it not been in honor of the most rancid boy you’ve had the displeasure of knowing. 

The lords and ladies attending avoided you like the plague—either spooked by the deep glower etched over your features, or by the fact that you were the infamous Bitter Wolf herself… It didn't make much of a difference. Two people who didn’t treat you as if you carried a disease were Oberyn Martell and his paramour, Ellaria Sand. Both of them regarded you with poorly-hidden lust, offering for you to join them in their chambers after the feast, to which you had no idea how to respond. You were flattered, truly, and there was no doubt that they were both very attractive people, but you were in no mood to fool around in the capital. After you bid them a hasty farewell, Tyrion came to say hello as well, and you dipped your head in greeting. He was quick to walk away, claiming he was in dire need of alcohol in his system.

After the short interactions, you made a beeline for the royal table, wishing to be by your niece’s side—no doubt she was feeling anxious at Joffrey’s wedding, even if she wasn’t the one to wed him. 

Just as you grazed a hand against Sansa’s shoulder, clad by a soft purple dress, Olenna Tyrell made her way to the two of you. 

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you before, Bitter Wolf,” said the old woman, smiling kindly at you. 

“We haven’t,” you curtly replied. “Congratulations on the wedding.”

She waved away your words. “Congratulations to you for making your way to King’s Landing alive, despite everybody’s expectations. You were surely a surprise for everyone at court.” Then, she darted her eyes to Sansa. She reached out to brush her hand along her braids and the necklace resting against her clavicle. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother, and your nephew. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding… it’s horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage!”

Roose Bolton. The name seared hot fury through your chest. According to Jaime, Tywin had given the North over to the Boltons to take over—but he would be met with all the stubbornness of the Northern houses, and they wouldn’t bend the knee to anyone but a Stark. It was a relief to also hear that Tywin wouldn’t be helping the Boltons any further. 

Olenna’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit! Now that peace has come and all's right with the world… it would do you good to see some of it,” she told Sansa, smiling kindly. Then she glanced over at you again. “You look wonderful, Lady Y/N. You’re much prettier than I thought you’d be… your name carries a certain weight to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

She ambled away, and you rubbed your hand along Sansa’s back. From afar, you caught a glimpse of Jaime speaking with Loras Tyrell. The green of his eyes caught yours. “I’ll be back,” you whispered to your niece, before making your way to Jaime. You didn’t quite know what you were going to Jaime for. Perhaps it was because he was the only other person in the wedding than Brienne and Sansa you felt comfortable conversing with. What a long way the two of you had come.

“Y/N,” he greeted, straightening himself when you grew close. His heavy golden armor shone beneath the hot sun. “You look beautiful.”

There was a warm sincerity to his words, but you shook your head anyway. “In comparison to your months with me covered in mud and filth, of course.” After a pause, you asked, “What’s it like? Watching your nephew get married? I… I wasn’t there to see Robb marry the medic girl he seemed so smitten with.”

“It’s strange,” Jaime truthfully admitted. “Especially when I hardly know the Tyrell girl. My sister detests her, though. Calls her a whore more often than she drinks, and we both know how much she drinks.”

Though you didn’t smile, there was a glint of amusement in your eyes. “Be honest with me. I know he’s your nephew… your… your blood… but you can’t truly love him, do you?”

The knight bit the inside of his cheek. No, of course he didn’t. Jaime was well aware that he was a monster, beyond saving. “Family is family,” he eventually replied. 

The disappointment in your expression didn’t go beyond his notice. 

“I wanted to ask, Jaime,” you carefully began. “What would happen if I were to leave the capital with Sansa? Would you be ordered to bring me back? Or would we be able to walk away free?”

“Not this again. I told you, it’s safest for you to be here—”

“It’s a hypothetical. Would you turn me in if you were ordered to?” you quietly asked. “I need to know if… if I can trust you, Jaime.”

Jaime’s eyes searched yours. He stepped closer, hand lifting to grasp your forearm and tugged you to the side, where it was a bit less crowded. “No. Is that what you want to hear? That I’d betray my oaths for you? That I’d help you cross the world if you asked, honor be damned?”

Stricken by his words, you found yourself speechless. 

You cleared your throat after a long moment. “Well… even if that was true, it’s not like we’d have anywhere safe to go. My bannermen are scattered, and between them are the Boltons and the Freys. The seas are occupied by the Greyjoys and pirates alike.”

Jaime nodded. “Stay here. I can keep you safe from here.”

“Can you?” you challenged, eyes narrowed.

A bark of a laugh. Jaime spared you a roguish grin. “Don’t make me swear it. You know my habit of breaking my vows well by now.”

You blew out a breath. “Thank you, Jaime. Truly.”

“Yes, you chose a perfect time during my nephew’s wedding to discuss such matters.”

And then came a sound foreign to his ears—you laughed. You just laughed! It was awkward and barely counted as genuine, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Jaime’s mouth parted, gaping at you with amazement. 

“Did you just laugh?”

“What? Am I not allowed to?”

“No, no, it just… took me by surprise. It was nice.”

He smiled, wide and genuine. From the corner of his eye, he caught his sister glaring at the two of you with an intense, angry gaze. The smile fell away from his lips, and his entire body stiffened. You followed his gaze, raising your brows upon seeing Cersei. With a nudge and a grunt of a goodbye, you stepped away from Jaime, not wanting to antagonize the Lannister woman any further.

You moved to the tables to pluck at the sweet, fat grapes, popping them into your mouth with a pleased hum. Not too soon after, Brienne joined you, chattering about the food and how it reminded her of her own home. Just as you were about to ask her what her favorite dish was, glad to have someone you could call a friend, a certain blonde woman came forth to the two of you.

“Lady Brienne,” greeted Cersei. You turned to look at her. “Bitter Wolf. I owe you both my gratitude. You returned my brother safely to King’s Landing.”

The taller woman gave you a glance, unsure of what to say. You nodded. “Jaime did his fair share of saving. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him, either.”

The green of her eyes flashed dangerously. It didn’t go past her notice that you called him by his first name without his formal title of Ser. “Did he, now? Strange… I haven’t heard a thing about it from him.”

“Not such a fascinating story, I’m afraid,” said Brienne, grimly thinking back to the men trying to rape her.

“I’m sure you have many fascinating stories, Lady Brienne,” Cersei crooned in a condescending manner. “Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next, serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.”

Brows knitting together, Brienne protested, “I don’t serve your brother, Your Grace.”

“Hm.” Cersei lifted her chin pridefully. “I just find it funny how… a few moons ago, the Bitter Wolf was our sworn enemy, behind the mighty King in the North. And now here you are, safe in our capital, making seductive eyes at my brother. You betrayed your nephew, who’s to say you won’t betray my brother, as well?”

Seductive eyes?

Anger began clawing up your throat, smoldering hot. You swallowed painfully slow. “Is that all, Your Grace?” you asked in a level tone. She wanted a reaction out of you… to warn you to stay away from her brother. Her lover. You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of being upset. “Brienne and I want to go watch the performers, if you would excuse us.”

She looked infuriated at your dismissal, watching as you linked arms with Brienne and gently led her to the stage. 

“Are you alright, my Lady?” asked the large woman.

“I’m fine. She’ll have to do far worse than that if she truly wants to provoke me,” you replied. 

The two of you enjoyed each other’s company for a little longer, striding through the crowds and plucking food off of the mountain-high platters. Though she was younger than you, she carried herself with the weight of someone with several decades’ worth of experience. You appreciated that about Brienne.

Your conversations were cut short when Joffrey stood up from the royal table, screeching for silence. He was presenting a show—one depicting the so-called ‘history’ of the war. It was a crude rendition, riddled with falsities. 

You felt your heart drop to your stomach when several dwarves ran out in offensive costumes, depicting Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Joffrey himself, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark. One by one, they battled one another. Stannis killing off Renly, Robb taking out Balon, Joffrey eliminating Stannis with wildfire. 

Tears filled your eyes when Robb was the only one left standing, with only Joffrey left. You glanced at Sansa, who watched the show with a stony expression. Her time in King’s Landing taught her never to give anything away. Keep her emotions within herself, for her own safety.

And finally, you couldn’t take it anymore once they knocked his direwolf’s head off. The actor playing Joffrey grabbed the head and began to motion humping it, moaning as the crowd cheered. The real Joffrey—the one lounging at the royal table, only a few feet from your sweet niece—spat his wine all over as he laughed and snorted and chuckled. 

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. For him to disrespect your family in such a way… it was sickening.

Once the disgusting performance was over, Joffrey clapped and hollered. He turned to his uncle Tyrion, offering him to go and prove his worth by fighting the actors. 

In response, Tyrion said, “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace. I think you should fight them, instead. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first hand witness. Climb down from the high table and show everyone how a true King wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust.” He gestured towards the imitator of Joffrey who had pretended to fuck Grey Wind. “It would be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”

A hesitant ripple of laughter echoed across the crowd. Joffrey was so furious it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure of his clenched jaw. With no further words, Joffrey grabbed his chalice of wine, stomping over to Tyrion and tipping the cup over so the sticky liquid spilled out to drip down his uncle’s head.

“A fine vintage,” said Tyrion. “A shame that it spilled.”

Acknowledge me! Joffrey wanted to scream. Fight me! Show me how angry you are!

“It did not spill,” he gritted out. 

“My love, come back to me,” said Margaery, reaching out for her husband, wishing to quell the tense atmosphere. “It’s time for my father’s toast!”

The young boy made a grand show of being void of wine, and demanded Tyrion be his cupbearer, seeing as he was too cowardly to fight. He dropped the empty chalice for him to pick up, cruelly kicking it away just as it was within Tyrion’s reach. 

“Bring me my goblet,” he said.

He relished watching his uncle get to his hands and knees, crawling beneath the tables in search of the goblet. Your niece, your sweet, darling niece, stood from her chair to bend down and pick it up, as it was closest to her. She handed the cup to her husband, pursing her lips. 

The next few moments passed by in a tense haze.

Tyrion filled the cup. Held it out for his nephew to take.

Joffrey ordered him to kneel.

Tyrion refused to do so, staring straight at him with defiant eyes.

The pigeon pie came out, large enough to feed the entire wedding three times over. 

You watched as Tyrion and Sansa were about to leave the wedding, and you had half the mind to follow them, wanting nothing more than to be alone in your chambers for the night. However, before they could leave, Joffrey called out for his uncle once more.

“Where are you going? You’re my cupbearer, remember?” 

“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace.”

“No, no, no. You’re perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.” 

Tyrion glanced back at Sansa. With a huff, he made his way back to the table, handing the goblet back to Joffrey, and turned to walk back to his awaiting wife. 

The King gulped down the contents of the cup greedily. Droplets of Dornish leaked from the corners of his mouth.

“If it please Your Grace, Sansa is very tired—”

“No!” yelled the boy-king. “No. You’ll wait here and—”

He dissolved into a fit of coughs. Drank more of that wine of his.

Both you and Brienne glanced at each other. 

Joffrey wheezed. Cersei sat forward in her chair. Margaery’s eyes widened.

“He’s choking!” she screamed once Joffrey began clutching at his chest.

“Someone help the poor boy!” yelled Olenna Tyrell.

Joffrey staggered forward, falling as he continued coughing, spluttering, and choking. Bits of pigeon pie fell from his mouth, flecked with wine and a far darker liquid: his blood. This was no mere obstruction of his windpipe—this was the work of poison.

Your lips parted open as you watched Jaime hurriedly push through the crowd to get to him, kneeling beside him, calling his name, unsure of what to do. Cersei screamed even louder, shoving Jaime to the side, cradling her oldest son to her chest as she weeped.

His face turned purple. His eyes bulged out of his skull. Foam frothed about his lips. 

He twitched, and twitched, and twitched again. One of his hands lifted to jerkily point at Tyrion, who was watching on in confused horror. 

Blood dribbled out of Joffrey’s nostrils. 

A second later, the twitching stopped. 

Joffrey Baratheon was dead.

And you were too busy relishing in the fact, you hadn’t even realized that Sansa was gone.

It wasn’t often that Jaime visited the Sept. 

Now that Joffrey was dead… well, that was plenty of reason for him to go. Especially now that Cersei seemed to spend all her time there, hovering over her dead son like a vulture. When he came through the grand doors, he passed by his father and little Tommen, the former in the middle of telling the young boy about the duties of marriage, seeing as he was now King.

Tywin didn’t seem too upset that Joffrey was dead. To be fair, neither did Jaime.

“How are you?” Jaime asked, stopping in front of his youngest nephew. It wasn’t an easy thing—watching your older brother die in front of you at his own wedding.

“I’m alright,” he murmured.

Jaime nodded, patting his shoulder. “Good.”

Then, he made his way down the rest of the steps, Tywin leading Tommen out. Jaime dismissed the rest of the priests, wanting to be alone with Cersei.

Once only the two of them were left in the Sept—along with Joffrey’s corpse, of course—Cersei finally spoke. Her voice was croaky and hoarse with disuse. “It was Tyrion,” she said. “He killed him. He told me he would. ‘A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.’ That’s what he said to me. You saw it… you saw Joff point at him before he—”

Lowering his tone, Jaime whispered, “I don’t know what I saw.”

Cersei shut her eyes. “Avenge him,” she said, words warbling with emotion. “Avenge our son. Kill Tyrion.”

What she said seemed to strike Jaime across the face. He reared back, affronted. “Tyrion’s my brother. He’s our brother. There’ll be a trial. We’ll get to the truth of what happened.”

“I don’t want a trial!” she hissed. “He’ll squirm his way to freedom, given the chance. I want him dead.”

Tears slipped down both of her eyes. It was as if the dam inside her had finally broken under all the weight of her grief.

“Please, Jaime,” she sobbed. “You have to! He was our son! Our baby boy!”

He drew closer to her, tugging her into an embrace. Her fingers curled into the leather of his tunic. When she raised her tearful face to yank him into a desperate kiss, Jaime didn’t resist.

Then, as quickly as she had advanced upon him, she shoved him away yet again. Jaime was beginning to grow tired of her pushing him in such a way. It wasn’t fair. 

“Tyrion’s wretched wife, Sansa, has disappeared. No doubt she played a hand in Joff’s murder. I want you to find her. Kill her, too. And I want the Bitter Wolf locked up in her niece’s place.”

Jaime’s eyes widened as he regarded his sister with an incredulous stare. “What? But Y/N hasn’t done anything. She has nothing to do with this!”

“Oh, because you were watching her the entire time, when you should’ve been guarding my son? It’s not a wonder he was murdered right beneath our noses, then!” Cersei screeched, voice raising several octaves. “Tell me, do you love her? Do you love that fucking wolf traitor more than you love me, your own sister? More than you love your son?”

Jaime was at a loss for words. Did he love you?

When he didn’t reply, Cersei angrily turned away from him, drying her face with the fabric of her sleeves. “You’re a disgrace to us. To our family.”

She sounded exactly like father. Anger coiled within his stomach. Jaime narrowed his sharp eyes. 

“You are a hateful woman,” he seethed. “Y/N is anything but. Bitter Wolf, people call her, but she is not bitter. She is hurt. She is grieving. Just as you are. She saved my life, and I owe her nothing but my gratitude.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, Jaime strode away, off to go pay you a long overdue visit.

A knock on your door. It was the dead of night, and you were only minutes away from falling asleep, having exhausted yourself with tears and stress. You weren’t at all dressed properly for visitors. Nonetheless, you dragged yourself out of your bed, your shift hanging wrinkled and lopsided over your body. 

Your door creaked open, and you were tiredly blinked upon seeing Jaime on the other side. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shifted away from the entrance, silently opening the door wider to make space for him to come in. Without hesitation, the knight slid in, dipping his head as greeting. You’d been crying—he could still see the dried tear tracks on your cheeks, only faintly illuminated by the sparse candles in the chambers.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” croaked Jaime, looking every bit as defeated as you. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Are you alright?”

You gingerly shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a weary sigh. “My entire family is gone. Lost or dead.”

“Right. Stupid question.” Jaime cleared his throat. “We’ve both lost our nephews now.”

“It’s not the same, Jaime,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You know it’s not. Joffrey was a monster, and the world is better off without him. And I… I loved Robb as if he was my own son. The younglings, Bran and Rickon, as well.”

For a second, Jaime looked like he wanted to say something. Wisely, he held his tongue. He took a small step forward, closer to you. He was keenly aware that he was alone in your room, not at all appropriate for an unmarried lord or lady, but he really couldn’t care. The two of you were above that. Besides, he’d seen you naked before, for heaven’s sake! 

So why was he suddenly so flustered now?

“Cersei wants me to find Sansa,” he began, carefully. “And she wants me to kill her.”

Noticeably, you stiffened. Your eyes were wide, he could see the panic begin to set within your wintry irises. 

In a placating tone, he quickly reassured, “I would never do such a thing. Frankly, I’m offended that you’d think I would. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it, even if Catelyn Stark is dead.”

After a second, your muscles loosened. You avoided his eyes, but murmured, “I believe you, Jaime.” There was a soft silence hanging between the two of you. Finally, it was shattered when you asked, “What of your brother, Tyrion? What is to happen to him?”

Jaime nodded, glad that you were on the same wavelength as him. “I was hoping… you’d come with me to speak with him.”

The dungeons were much colder than above. You were well acquainted with the drops in temperature, but it seemed that Tyrion had yet to adjust. He was shivering, bundled up in a musty blanket that Podrick had brought him.

“To tell you the truth, this isn’t so bad,” said Jaime, glancing around the spacious cell. “Four walls. A pot to piss in… I wasn’t given such a luxury during my time as a prisoner. I was chained to a wooden post or a stone wall, covered in my own shit for months on end.”

The younger brother sent him a half-hearted glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Maybe a bit,” replied the knight. He glanced down at his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Complicated, yes,” said Tyrion. “And you brought the Bitter Wolf with you. Hello, Lady Stark.”

His eyes, sunken and empty, darted over to you, shrouded in the shadows behind Jaime. 

“Hello, Tyrion.”

“Hm. How is our sister?” he asked Jaime. 

Defeat danced over his handsome features. “How do you think? Her son died in her arms.”

“Her son?”

Something foul coiled within Jaime’s stomach. “Don’t,” he warned.

Tyrion let the matter drop.

“Do you know what’s to come?” you spoke for the first time since you came.

“My trial for regicide. Yes, I know,” said Tyrion. “I know the whole bloody country thinks I’m guilty. I know one of the three judges has wished me dead more times than I can count—that judge being my father. As for Cersei… well, she’s probably working on a way to avoid the trial altogether by having me killed.”

Jaime kicked at a small pebble on the ground. “Now that you mention it, she did ask.”

“So should I turn around and close my eyes?”

“Depends,” said Jaime. “Did you do it?”

A small smile traced Tyrion’s lips. “The Kingslayer brothers. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?” After a short pause, he spoke again. “Are you really asking if I killed your son?”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “And are you really asking if I’d kill my brother? How can I help you?”

“Well, you can set me free, for starters.”

“You know I can’t,” Jaime reluctantly said. “What do you want me to do? Kill the guards? Sneak you out of the city in the back of a cart? Have you forgotten that I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”

Frowning, Tyrion gruffed out, “Sorry, I’d forgotten, which is a miracle, considering how loud your golden armor is! I’d hate for you to do something inappropriate while I rot away in jail.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Jaime snapped back, “You’re accused of killing the King. Freeing you would be treason.”

“And was it not treason to put a sword through the Mad King’s back?” you quietly asked. Both men went silent at your words. “Even if the trial goes in Tyrion’s favor, which I highly doubt, your sister would stop at nothing to have him dead. He needs to get away from King’s Landing.”

Tyrion nodded at your words. “If the killer threw himself down before the Iron Throne, confessed to his crimes, and gave irrefutable evidence of his guilt, it wouldn’t matter to Cersei. She won’t rest until my head’s on a spike.”

“Not just yours,” said Jaime. “She’s offering a knighthood to whomever finds Sansa, dead or alive.”

Brows furrowing, Tyrion protested, “Sansa didn’t do this.”

“She had more reason than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Do you think it’s a coincidence she disappeared the same night Joffrey died?”

“It’s not a coincidence,” you said. “Someone must have snuck her out, knowing the blame would be placed on her. Sansa’s not a killer. She spent an entire year around Joffrey—if she wanted to murder him, he would’ve been dead long before his marriage.”

Jaime pinched the space between his brows in frustration. “Regardless of who did it, Cersei won’t rest until all of you are dead. I won’t let that happen.”

“Then we have to do something,” you said, words coated with a layer of urgency. “We have to find Sansa. With Cersei practically keeping me as hostage here in Sansa’s stead… we need to send someone we trust after her.”

Brienne drummed her fingers against the table. 

A sword of Valyrian steel was laid out in front of her. Both you and Jaime glanced at each other. 

“It’s yours,” said Jaime. 

“I can’t accept this—” she began to protest.

“It was reforged from my brother’s sword,” you said, voice soft. “And you’ll use it to defend my brother’s daughter.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “No, my Lady, this should belong to you, not me.”

“I’m no good with a sword,” you admitted. “They’re clunky things, far too large and hard to maneuver if not trained properly. I’m much more comfortable with a bow and arrow. You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother. Now, Arya may be far, far away from us by now, perhaps even long gone… but there is still a great chance of finding Sansa and getting her somewhere safe. Wherever that may be.”

Nodding emphatically, the large woman solemnly said, “I won’t let you down.”

“I had something else made for you.” Jaime pulled at a tarp over a mannequin, holding fine platelets of armor, hewn from the strongest of metals. “I hope I got your measurements right. It’s hard to judge by the eye.”

“I’ll find her,” promised Brienne. “For Lady Catelyn. And for the both of you.”

“I almost forgot,” Jaime added. “One last gift.”

Turns out Brienne wasn’t too keen on her last gift, Podrick.

You couldn’t quite understand why—he was a very sweet, innocent boy, ever the loyal squire to Tyrion. No doubt he’d faithfully serve Brienne, as well.

“I don’t need a squire. He’ll slow me down!” she exclaimed.

“My brother owes him a debt. He’s not safe here,” Jaime argued.

The woman looked like she wanted to protest again, but you intervened, “You’ll be doing him a favor. Cersei wouldn’t hesitate to be rid of him.”

“I won’t slow you down, Ser!” chimed Pod. He winced upon realizing his mistake. “Uhm… m’lady. I promise I’ll serve you well.”

“See? He’s a good lad!” said Jaime. 

As Pod went away to ready Brienne’s horse, you were left standing in front of her, contemplating how to say goodbye. They were never your strong suit. Every time you’ve said goodbye to someone close to you, it’d never ended well before. They usually never returned. 

Oathkeeper, Brienne named her sword once Jaime claimed that all the best swords have their own respective titles. 

“Find her for me,” you said, voice warbling. You stepped closer, placing a hand on Brienne’s arm. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry our time was cut short.”

“I will,” Brienne replied. “Thank you for everything, my Lady.”

“I owe you my entire life,” you said, rife with rare fondness. “Safe journeys, Brienne.”

She held her gaze with you for a moment longer, before nodding and heading off to Pod and their horses. 

Both you and Jaime watched as they rode away from the Red Keep, their figures growing smaller and smaller before they disappeared into the heart of King’s Landing.

“My entire family is gone,” you murmured. “And I just sent away the closest thing I had to a friend.”

Jaime was tempted to thread his single hand through yours. It looked like it’d fit perfectly. Instead, he merely observed your pained features, laced with regret.

“Look on the bright side,” he said, nudging you in an affectionate manner. “At least now I’m the closest thing you’d have to a friend.”

To his delight, you didn’t refute his statement. All you did was spare him a sidelong stare, and a quirk of your lips—was that a smile?—before turning and making your way back into the castle.

It was time for Tyrion’s trial. It was quite the dreary event—witness after witness called upon to spit accusations and twisted observations of Tyrion’s so-called monstrosity to the three judges. What piqued your interest, however, was when Grand Maester Pycelle claimed that the King’s fool was the last one to be seen with Sansa, spiriting her away after the feast. Residue of poison was found in her necklace. That was not a good look for neither Tyrion nor his wife, your niece. Though you didn’t believe she killed Joffrey, you would’ve been proud if she was the one who managed to do it and get away. 

Nearly five hours into the trial, Tywin finally called to adjourn for a break.

You were grateful for the pause in the trial, feeling the beginnings of a headache nursing at the front of your temple. As you left to go get yourself some water, Jaime quickly followed after his father into a separate room. 

Tywin poured himself a goblet of wine, swirling the rich liquid around before sipping. His green eyes fell upon his oldest son, stiff in his golden uniform.

“You’d condemn your own son to death?” Jaime hissed, disgust running rampant across his features. 

Unfazed, Tywin merely reached over to a platter of food to load fruits and cheese upon the prongs of his fork. “I’ve condemned nobody. The trial isn’t over.”

“Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it!” 

An uninterested hum. “I know nothing of the sort.”

Irritation bubbled within Jaime’s chest. “You’ve always hated Tyrion.”

“He killed his King!”

“As did I!” Jaime snapped. “You know the last order the Mad King gave me? He wanted me to bring him your head. And what was it for? I saved your life just so you could murder my brother? Your son?”

The worn features of Tywin Lannister hardened with his words. “It won’t be murder. It would be justice. I’m performing my sworn duty as the Hand of the King. If Tyrion is found guilty, he will be punished accordingly.”

“He’ll be executed!”

“No,” Tywin rebutted, voice raising loud enough to echo back against the stone walls. “He’ll be punished accordingly!”

Jaime drew in a sharp breath. “Once, you said family is what lives on. It’s all that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years. What happens to your precious dynasty when Tyrion dies? I’m a Kingsguard… forbidden by oath to carry on the family line.”

The father shoveled the forkful of fig and brie into his mouth. “I’m well aware,” he said after deliberately taking his sweet time to chew and swallow. 

“And what happens to your name? Who would carry the lion banner in future battles? Your nephews? Lancel Lannister? Others whose names I don’t remember?”

Sitting forward in his seat, Tywin shot back, “And what happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson’s killer?”

Finally, Jaime spat out, “It’ll survive… through me.”

A pause. Tywin reared back slightly, surprise flickering over his stony features.

“I’ll leave the Kingsguard,” said the reluctant knight. The words felt bitter and heavy on his tongue. “I’ll take my place as your son and heir… only if you let Tyrion live.”

Without hesitation, Tywin immediately said, “Done.”

Jaime certainly hadn’t been expecting that. His white cloak fluttered slightly.

“When the testimony is concluded and the guilty verdict is rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy. I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. In three days’ time, he’ll depart for Castle Black and live out his days at the wall.”

Relief flooded Jaime’s veins. His features softened. 

Tywin kept speaking, “You’ll remove your White Cloak immediately. You’ll leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You’ll marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. And you’ll never turn your back on your family ever again.”

“I have one more condition.”

Tywin narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”

“I’ll return to Casterly Rock and sire heirs for you… but only if the woman I marry is Y/N Stark.”

There was a lump in his throat. Letting go of his decades of servitude to the Kingsguard was much harder than he expected. If he married you, he’d be living up to his name, after all. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. 

This time, the surprise in his father’s expression was poorly concealed, clear as day. 

“Do you love her?” he asked, quick to return back to a neutral visage.

Did he? Did Jaime love you?

His lips pursed, and he trained his gaze on the ground. 

Tywin hummed whilst nodding. “Alright. The North may yet be given back to the Starks, should Roose Bolton and his bastard fail to take it for his own. You have my word that Tyrion will be spared.”

Jaime felt like he should’ve given his father his thanks. He didn’t. Instead, he stoutly nodded, speaking not another word, before turning and heading back to the trial room.

The bells tolled, signifying that the trial was to resume. You strode in just as the last bell rang out, catching sight of Jaime speaking to his brother by his stand. The knight was explaining to Tyrion what he was supposed to do: plead guilty, and beg for mercy to be sent to the Night’s Watch. With one final reassuring goodbye, Jaime stepped away, his eyes meeting your curious ones.

To your interest, instead of taking his place by the edge of the court, he wove through the crowd to get to you. 

“Jaime,” you greeted, still miffed as to what he was doing, standing beside you. 

“Y/N,” he said. “I have to speak to you. After all this.”

Another second passed. You studied his features, pallid and clearly anxious. Before you could interrogate him some more, Tywin called for a start. Across court, Jaime could feel his sister’s angry stare burning through the both of you. His hand brushed against you. Swallowing his nerves, Jaime curled his fingers around yours. You didn’t pull away.

He was to marry you. It was still hard for him to wrap his head around the idea. How would you feel about that? 

Angry, probably, Jaime thought.

The trial droned on. It was only when the last witness was called up—Shae, the whore that Tyrion had fallen in love with—did Jaime’s throat begin to close up. Panic clawed at his chest when he noticed Tyrion’s resolve began to crumble away.

He was anguished. The longer Shae spoke, the more questions she answered, the more miserable Tyrion’s expression grew.

Tears filled the brother’s eyes when he growled out his speech—on how he was guilty, yes. Not of killing the King, but of being a dwarf. How watching Joffrey die in front of him had given him more pleasure than a thousand lying whores. How he wished he had enough poison to kill everyone in the courtroom.

The lords and ladies in the crowd burst into scandalous gasps and affronted murmurs. 

Finally, Tyrion demanded a trial by combat.

You shared a worried glance with Jaime, who looked practically shattered at the turn of events. Sympathetic, you shifted so your entire hand slotted into his.

The crowd began to thin away when the trial drew to a close. The combat was to be in a few day’s time.

Before you turned to take your own leave, you looked at Jaime one last time. “What did you want to tell me, Jaime?”

His heart fell to his stomach. Now that his father couldn’t uphold his end of the promise, Jaime couldn’t guarantee that he’d have to leave his post as Kingsguard for Casterly Rock. He wouldn’t have to marry you.

The green of his eyes shone with pain when he finally met your gaze. Hopelessly, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.

With that, he let go of your hand, shouldering through the crowd to make his way out of the throne room.

Oberyn was named Tyrion’s champion. The Mountain was named Cersei’s.

To none of your surprise, the Mountain won. He’d crushed Oberyn’s head like a bloody watermelon with his bare hands. The memory was none too pleasant to relive, that was for sure.

The next day’s afternoon, Jaime heard the footsteps of his sister as she slipped into his chambers, uninvited.

She uttered his name, soft and sultry. Jaime only frowned.

“You won. You now have one fewer brother. Must be proud of yourself. There really is nothing you wouldn’t do, is there?” 

A cruel smile graced her lips. “For my family, no. Nothing. I would do things for my family you couldn’t imagine.”

“Tyrion is your family.”

“He’s not,” she denied.

“You don’t get to choose!”

Cersei snarled, “I do. And so do you. We choose each other.”

Do we?

On she continued, “You can choose the creature that chose to kill our mother whilst coming into this world—”

Brows furrowing, Jaime incredulously asked, “Are you really mad enough to blame him for that? He didn’t decide to kill her, he was an infant.”

“A disease doesn’t decide to kill you,” the blonde woman snapped back, “but you cut it out before it does, all the same. What do you decide? Who do you choose?”

She stepped closer. 

“The things I did to get back to you, to endure all that, only to find you actively trying to have our brother ki—!”

Before Jaime could finish his sentence, Cersei had propelled herself forward, yanking at his face with no abandon, pulling him close until his lips touched hers. 

“I choose you,” she whispered against him. Jaime felt sick.

“Those are just words,” he replied. With jerky movements, he gripped at her arm in a fruitless effort to keep her at bay, the golden hand she had forged for him hanging uselessly by his side. 

Cersei hummed an affirmative. “Yes. Just like the ones I said to father. I told him.”

“Told him what?”

“I told him about us.”

Dread filled his chest. “You told him?”

“I told him I wouldn’t marry Loras Tyrell. I told him I’m staying right here with Tommen, and with you.”

A foolish woman, Cersei was. She thought she was smarter than everyone, but this might’ve been the most idiotic thing Jaime could even fathom doing. Telling his father that he used to fuck his sister and fathered her bastards was a one-way ticket to being disowned. “You think he’ll just accept that?”

Cersei studied the dubiety in Jaime’s expression. “Go and ask him.” She kissed him again, and again, and again. Jaime was far too shocked to push her away. 

“What did you say?” he queried once he’d finally gathered his wits. 

“I don’t want to talk about Tywin Lannister,” she hissed, dragging her lips down to his jaw. 

Jaime didn’t want this anymore. He felt nothing when she touched him. He thought about how light his chest felt when you held his hand during the trial. No longer did he harbor such feelings for Cersei. Years ago, perhaps. Not anymore. Not now. 

“I don’t choose Tywin Lannister. I don’t love Tywin Lannister. I love my brother… my lover. People will whisper and make their jests. Let them. They’re all so small, I can’t even see them. I only see what matters.” She took his handless arm, lifting it so she could kiss the gold. To her, it was an act of love. To him, it was an act of pride.

 Having enough, Jaime pushed her away. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stagger back a few steps. 

“I can’t do this,” he said. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why?” demanded Cersei. She scrutinized him with a sharp glare. After a moment, she withdrew herself, upper lip curling in disgust. “You’re in love with her. With the Bitter Wolf. You love her.”

Horror sank its dark nails into Jaime’s shoulders.

“I’ll have her killed,” said Cersei, venomous hatred coloring her tone an ugly shade of green. “Have you watch as she gasps and chokes around the noose I’ll tie around her throat. She’s a traitor to the realm, don’t you know that, you imbecile? Aunt to a false King, and to the wife of the murderer of my son.”

Desperate, Jaime shuffled closer again, raising his hand as if he were taming a wild mare. “I don’t love the Bitter Wolf. I don’t. I swear it.”

I do, he thought. I love her.

And so, Jaime knew he had to keep Cersei away from you, at any cost necessary. Keep her occupied, for as long as he could. He pressed forth and kissed her. Her mouth was hard against his, but softened with each of his advances. 

“I love you,” he lied. “I love you.”

He repeated the sentiment over and over again, praying to any God that would listen that his sister would believe it. The hours passed by in a blur as Jaime kissed and licked and sucked every inch of her. She climaxed maybe once, or twice, or half a dozen times. Jaime didn’t know, and neither did he care. Most of the time he had disassociated back within his own mind, wanting nothing more than to just get it over and done with.

Eventually, Cersei blissfully passed out from exhaustion, fast asleep beneath his silken sheets. After making sure she was completely unconscious, Jaime slipped his clothes back on and snuck out of his chambers. 

The torches lining the halls of the dungeons did very little to illuminate the space. Jaime could barely see half a foot in front of him. Nonetheless, he hurriedly made his way to Tyrion’s cell. 

“Oh, go away, you son of a whore!” Tyrion yelled once the grill to his cell rattled opened, thinking it was one of the guards coming in to torment him. 

Jaime strode in, tilting his head. “Is that any way to speak of our mother?”

Shocked, Tyrion immediately sat up at the sight of his brother. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Jaime retorted, ushering his brother out and through the narrow halls. “A galley is waiting in the bay bound for the Free Cities.”

“Who’s helping you?” Tyrion asked, bewildered.

“Varys. You have more friends than you thought, Tyrion.”

Deftly, the two of them hurried through one of the many secret passageways of the Red Keep. The ceilings hung so low that Jaime had to duck his head so as to not smack his skull against the uneven stone. 

“There’s a locked door at the top of the stairs,” said Jaime once they reached the end. “Knock on it twice, then twice again. Varys will open.”

Tyrion looked up at his brother. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.”

Breath hitching in his throat, Jaime could feel the beginnings of tears sting the corners of his eyes as he knelt down and drew his brother into a tight hug. He pressed a lingering kiss onto Tyrion’s cheek.

This was the last they were going to see of each other. 

Anguish wrote itself heavy into his tone when he whispered, “Farewell, little brother.”

It ached to pull away.

Just as Jaime was about to go, Tyrion called out his name.

“Thank you,” his brother said. “For my life.”

Jaime nodded. He blinked away the tears as he gestured for him to go. “Quickly, now. Before anyone notices you’re gone.”

With that, Jaime rushed to abscond, taking twisting turns, straight to where he knew your chambers were. Ensuring there was nobody around, Jaime stepped out into the hall, knocking twice on the door and slipping in.

You startled at the intruder, sitting up on the bed, the book you were reading snapping shut, but relaxed slightly upon seeing Jaime. 

“Jaime? What’s going on?”

“You have to leave. Come with me,” he said, urgently striding forward and taking your hand in his, pulling you off the mattress and to the door. It was a relief that you were already fully clothed, and had no personal belongings to take with you, because there was simply no time for anything at the moment.

Brows pulling together, you demanded, “Jaime, tell me what’s happening. Where are you taking me?”

“Out!” he impatiently replied, slipping down the secret passageways once more. “Away. Away from King’s Landing—from my sister. She wants you dead. I can’t have that happen. There’s a boat waiting for you. Varys is helping.”

Finally Jaime yanked you into a dingy little room, lined with dust and rusted-over weapons. Shrouded in the shadows of the corner, Varys stepped out, pushing the cowl back from his head.

“Bitter Wolf,” he said.

“Lord Varys,” you carefully replied. “Why are you helping me?”

“I was fond of your brother, Eddard, however foolish he was with his honor. And, though we haven’t spoken before, your death at the hands of the Queen Regent would reign nothing but war from the Northerners.” He glanced at Jaime suspiciously before lowering his voice and saying, “My little birds tell me Sansa Stark is in the Eyrie, posing as Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter.”

All the air in your chest seemed to slip away. Sansa was alive. She was alright.

For now, at least.

“I can help you get to the Vale to be with your niece,” said Varys, gesturing down another staircase, which led to the waters. “There’s a boat ready for you, with everything you need inside—a map, a cloak, rations. A bow and a quiver of arrows, included. The crew will be silent, I can assure you.”

“How can you be sure?” you queried, cautious. Varys offered you a thin smile. “I cut their tongues out when they were young children. Little birds don’t stay little for so long, but they’re loyal to me.”

Horror painted your insides black. You had no idea what to think of Varys. You glanced at Jaime, who looked none too pleased at the notion, but gave you an encouraging nod.

Besides, what other choice did you have?

After a hesitant, quiet murmur of your gratitude to the eunuch, you slipped down the stairs, Jaime hot on your heels. He wasn’t supposed to follow you out of the Keep, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see you leave for himself, ensure that you left the capital safely.

The boat was a small, rickety thing, but it’d do. You spotted half a dozen young men and women onboard, deathly silent. Their eyes seemed to glow unnaturally against the dark seas. Unease settled within the pits of your stomach. 

You turned to Jaime, lips parting as you struggled for words. What could you say to him, after everything the two of you had been through together?

He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, grappling for a proper farewell. The words were lodged in his throat.

“You’re a good man, Ser Jaime,” you finally told him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Beneath all of your sister… and all of your father… there is good in you. There’s so much of it.”

Taking a step closer, Jaime gently cupped your face with his remaining hand, the golden one on his left arm feeling heavier by the second. You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to be vulnerable for just a moment. For decades and decades, you refused to let your guard down. With Jaime, you finally felt safe enough to do so. 

But you were leaving. 

It was a bittersweet feeling, he realized. He was glad you were going to leave: you’d be safer out there, looking for your niece in the Vale than in the capital with his wretched sister. But then again, he wanted you here. He wanted to be by your side, more than anything. To think, he had thought he was going to marry you only yesterday.

He leaned in closer, slow and tentative. There was ample time for you to pull away, but you didn’t. When his lips finally grazed yours, you finally pressed forward, fisting the lapels of his tunic, and tugging him closer. 

The kiss was soft at first, one of uncertainty and turmoil. It was quick to grow more desperate, pouring all the unsaid words and months of pent-up yearning into the embrace. You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against the side of his. He chased after your lips, but you forced yourself to turn your head away. 

Jaime’s entire chest ached. It ached and longed and screamed for you.

You had to go. The longer Jaime stayed out here with you, the riskier it was.

“I owe you everything,” you whispered, nose pressed against his cheekbone. There was an uneven warble to your voice. “Everything, Jaime.”

“No, you don’t,” he responded, kissing the patch of skin beside your pained eyes. “You did the same for me. We’re even now.”

A part of him wanted to tell you that he had asked his father if he could marry you. But he held the words back, knowing it would bring nothing but either of you pain. To love each other, only to never be able to be together. Jaime didn’t want you to feel that pain. You deserved to be free, to love a kind and soft-hearted Lord… someone that wasn’t him. That wasn’t a Lannister. That wasn’t the enemy.

After all, wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

A burning tear fell down his cheek. You offered him a watery smile. 

You smiled for him, after decades of never doing so.

Jaime loved you. He loved you more than anything. And he had to let you go.

Your hands slipped away from each other, and you turned to board the ship. The silent crew fluttered around you like ghosts, readying  to sail away in effortless coordination.

As the boat rocked into motion, edging away from King’s Landing, you heard alarm bells tolling in the distance, signifying Tyrion’s escape from prison. Jaime made his way back into the Red Keep, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the hazy fog.

The Bitter Wolf and the Golden Lion, Jaime thought. 

Now that was a tale certainly worth telling. 

#jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister fanfiction #jaime lannister fluff #jaime lannister angst #jaime lannister fic #jaime lannister x you #jaime lannister x stark!reader #asoiaf fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #jaime lannister

[screeching-bunny]

Part 2 on the yandere General hcs

Yandere! General pt.2

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Thoughts, Bad Writing, Stalking, Possessive Behavior, Reader is Referred as ‘You’

Pt. 1

Yandere! General is a battle-hardened leader with a reputation for being unyielding and fierce. An unapproachable force with a bloodthirsty aura present in his mannerism. So it’s no surprise that he’s out of place in the king’s banquet filled with joyous laughter and people waltzing onto the dance floor.

He feels repulsed by just being there, who cares if the royal family personally invited him, he should have stayed home. There were just too many people with ulterior motives for approaching and it didn’t help that the princess had a crush on him. God how he hated her, she just never seemed to want to leave him alone. She is a selfish little brat who whines all the time and always seems to balance others for her atrocious actions. “Please stay the night with me, I promise I’ll make it worthwhile? I’ve just missed seeing your face, I want to spend more time with you.” Yep, he really wished he stayed at home today.

Deciding that engaging in conversation with the princess was not worth it, he simply just ignored her and made his way outside to the royal garden. There, he sees a figure dancing in the moonlight. The way you moved had him transfixed and in a daze. He silently stares at them and waits for them to finish their performance. This dancer is actually you. Now the question arises, why are you dancing and in the royal garden no less? Well the answer to that question is quite complicated, actually.

Your father is a low leveled noble in the aristocratic society. Who is power hungry and strives to raise their social standing no matter what. Everyone in your family hates you and rarely acknowledges you. The reason for this is because your father cheated on his wife with a lowly maid working in his manor and conceived you. His wife, now your stepmother, was enraged by this and ended up murdering your biological mother. She was, however, never caught or tried. The only reason why she kept you around was because she thought that you would be useful for future purposes. Your family never really paid much attention to you and you have an older half sister who absolutely despises you. She treats you as if you were a dog or some common slave.

Your life was extremely miserable but the only thing that seemed to bring you happiness was dancing. You first learned to dance when you were eight. When one day you decide to sneak out of your father's manor and go visit town. Luckily for you, it was during that time that a festival was being held and you couldn’t take your eyes off of the dancers and secretly copied their moves. It wasn’t until one of them noticed you and asked if you would like to join them. Ever since then, you have been secretly going to town to learn and improve your dancing skills. It’s not like your family even cared that you were gone, heck they didn’t even notice.

Many years have passed and your love and passion for dance is still the same. This tranquility, however, did not last for long because the moment you turned eighteen your parents agreed to sell you off to be engaged to a rich but very old nobleman. No amount of begging and pleading could convince your parents to change their minds. It was always met with the same response of “Don’t you know we need the money? Why are you being so selfish?!?! How else could we raise our social status, don’t you know your sister needs this in order to have a chance with the crowned prince?!?! Just be lucky that you're alive and that we feed you!” You have never been more depressed. You’ve always dreamed of marrying for true love, you didn’t want things to end up this way.

The news of your engagement broke in high society which had helped boost your family's prestige. You had briefly met your soon to be husband and had to force yourself to not cry. After the meeting, your father severely scolded you and it was decided that the next time the two of you would meet, would be on your wedding day. Due to your family’s higher social status you were all invited to the royal banquet that was created to celebrate the country’s tremendous victory in the four year war. You’ve heard rumors about it and how it was mostly won due to the general who easily sunk ten battleships in one day.

The moment that you stepped foot into that room, you immediately felt as if you did not belong. You were so out of place and everything was just so suffocating for you. You had to go outside and take a breath of fresh air. When you made your way outside you noticed a beautiful path filled with followers and decided to follow it. There you saw a beautiful flower garden, none like you’ve ever seen before. Being there just felt so peaceful and relaxing. You couldn’t help but just live the moment and dance in the moonlit sky. During that time, everything just felt so right in the world.

After you finished your performance, someone coughed in order to get your attention. Looking to the right, your heart almost shot due to fear, it was Yandere! General. He starts to compliment your dancing and the way you shined brighter than any of the stars that night. You both chat for a few moments when he just randomly asks out of nowhere, if you wanted to marry him! You honestly could not believe this man, why would you want to marry someone you just met. Without batting an eye you quickly reject the offer and before he could say anything, one of his men went to inform him that the king wanted to speak with him. Clicking his tongue in annoyance he agrees to go and tells you that he’ll be back.

Watching him leave, you swiftly make your way to exit the garden and decide to hide out in one of the restrooms. When Yandere! General gets back and immediately tries to find you but to no avail because you successfully manage to avoid him and leave undetected. This does not deter him because he has been there to find you and orders his men to help his search. By the time that the sun starts to rise he learns almost everything about you. Your age, your family, and your engagement.

That same morning Yandere! General makes his way towards your house and demands for your hand in marriage. Your parents are unsure about what to say, on one hand you being married to the general would bring many benefits but, on the other, they already agreed to you being married to the old nobleman. Your father tells him about your engagement and Yandere! General responds calmly with, “Don't worry, I’ll handle it.” In the afternoon he mails the head of your fiancé to your parents. Welp problem solved, guess you’ll just have to marry him.

Running away in this situation is useless, the only thing that you can do is to just accept your fate. With a heavy heart, you interact with him everyday getting to know your future husband.

There were of course many protests from the upper class of society. How could someone like him marry a person of lower status? It just wasn’t right. These complaints mainly came from the princess who was the most vocal about it. She loved him so much how he could do this to her. She tried to stop the wedding of herself but Yandere! General threatened to kill her. When that didn’t work he told the royal family directly that if she tries to interfere any longer, then he won’t hesitate to rebel against the royal family. After that, all attempts were stopped.

Your wedding day is very grand, there is not one speck of dust to be seen anywhere. Everything seemed so perfect, with the best of items that only money could buy. There, in one of the rooms stood you, putting on your wedding outfit with many maids swarming you like a pack of bees. As you walk to the altar you are greeted with the smiling face of your fiancé. It felt like such a blur to you, that you could hardly even comprehend what was going on. It was as if some sucked all the air out of you.

“Do you take Yandere! General to be your lawful husband?”

“… I do.”

Pt.3

#yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere general #male yandere #yandere oc #gn reader

[tikkunolamresistance]

Anti-Zionism & Purim:

Purim is a wonderfully joyous, often colourful and very tasty, Jewish holiday celebrated every year on the 14th of the Hebrew month of Adar (which corresponds to late winter/early spring). A holiday where drinking is a mitzvah, some dress up as characters from the Book of Esther, we gift good food and most definitely argue about which hamantaschen filling is best. Purim is about Jewish joy, resistance and outliving those who wish for our destruction.

Purim starts the evening of Saturday 23rd March, and ends at sundown the following day, Sunday 24th.

What’s the Purim story?

It is a story of salvation, of Jewish survival and being against all odds. The story of Purim comes from the salvation of the Jewish from Haman’s plot “to destroy, kill and annihilate all the Jews, young and old, infants and women, in a single day”. Haman, or Haman the Agagite, was a royal vizier in the court of the Persian empire, to King Ahasuerus/Xerxes I (465 BCE) who was agrivated by Moredcai, of the tribe Benjamin, and his refusal to bow down to his demands— thus Haman seeked revenge on his rejection and convinces the King to issue a decree to kill all Jews in the Persian empire. However the genocidal plot would soon be thearted by Hadassah, or as we know her, Queen Esther.

Queen Esther was an incredible Jewish woman whom the King Ahasuerus (transliteration of Xerxes) had fallen in love with. The Queen revealed her Jewish identity and pleaded with the King to spare her people, to which then, the King was appalled by Haman’s treachery— ordering his execution and granting Jews permission to defeat their enemies.

This story is apart of the Five Melligot (Melligah meaning “scroll” in Hebrew), the Book of Esther.

How is Purim celebrated?

Celebrating Purim depends on minhagim (customs) amongst Jewish cultural and ethnic communities: Ashkenazim may celebrate differently from Sefardim, who celebrate different from Middle Eastern, North African, South Asian and Ethiopian Jewry!

However, these are some universal rituals:

• Listen to the Purim story, the Book of Esther, typically at a Synagogue.

• Eating good for Seudah, a meal had during the day of Purim. Including foods such as pomegranate and wine brisket, hamantaschen, boyosa, challah with various toppings, rugelach, onion and poppy seed rings, hojuelas, kreplach, pickled vegetables and so much more.

• Mishloach Manot, gifting food to friends and/or family.

• Tzedakah, charity, and Metanot L’evyonim, supporting those in need.

• Haka’at Haman: during Megillah reading, there is a custom to make noise at the reading of Haman’s name. From stomping your feet to booing, this minhag is associated with Jewry of France and Provence, though has roots in Talmudic sources. You can read more here.

• Drinking lots of wine!

If you have any specific cultural Purim traditions, leave a comment! Traditions vary from family, to minhag, to cultures!

So, what do we learn from the story of Queen Esther?

Where our Rabbis may dress as Queen Esther, and we get drunk because it’s might be your favourite mitzvah, where we stick to tradition and try a new hamantaschen filling, and hearing the megillah like it’s the first time, all over again. Purim is where we introspect through our celebration; the very expression of joy, against all odds, is where we seek our growth. We exercise our liberty, our bravery and boldness— like Esther, we do not hide our Jewishness, instead we decorate ourselves. We do not stand in the face of adversity and let it through, we crush it and celebrate our resilience. Purim is a reminder of pride, of resistance and using your voice for those who may have theirs silenced. Like Queen Esther, we must not allow genocide and violence, and certainly not in our name as a people who have faught against it through out history. In honour of Purim, we must use what power we have to call for Tikkun Olam— a better future, for all.

Purim is where live to see ourselves dance and sing, the complete expression of G!d— HaShem, the Divine, the Universe, our collective human spirit— we live to build a future of many more Purims, many more celebrations of collective resistance. We dance and sing, and dress up, and drink, as is written, so that there is no world without this freedom.

Families often get creative in teaching their children, and communities, the importance of Purim, by making decorative masks to communicate the importance of identity, or dressing up in fun costumes inspired by strong characters, wether from the Purim story or just fictional worlds. Art is an incredible and important way to communicate, so if you want to get creative and make your own mask, costume or simply create artwork inspired by the story of Purim— tapping into your creative liberty is a wonderful ritual to add to your own traditions.

You can also show your gratitude to people, such as friends, family, service workers, activists, with gifts and letters to celebrate them and their bravery, their selflessness. Do you have anybody you’re greatful for, who’s inspired you to be more selfless, to give back?

What can I reflect on for Purim?

Think about how you show your Jewish pride, how you express your Jewish joy. Do you want to be more loud, more unapologetic, more open? How can you show up for others in need, who are in need for their voices to be uplifted? How can you do your part in building a future that celebrates total liberation from what tries to destroy us? Purim is about celebration, about joy, so as you join in on the festivities however you celebrate, remember that this full expression of your Jewish self is an act of resistance against a history of Jew hatred, a history of antisemitism, and that our existence will outlive the powers that pretend to be on our side.

How can I incorporate Palestine into my Purim celebrations?

Following traditions of donating and tzedekah, you can donate funds to GoFundMes of Palestinian families seeking refuge outside of Gaza, to ensure these families can make it to safety and eat well. We’ll be reposting and sharing GoFundMes and other calls for aid all day on Purim, if you’re looking to do some tzedekah.

As millions of Palestinians in Gaza are imminently facing starvation, you could aim to organise protests and rallies with your communities to demand action to be taken for immediate food distribution into Gaza. Be vocal on Purim, we’ll try to update you with any anti-Zionist events that may be happening across the world.

If you live near a Mosque/Masjid or Islamic community centre, you coulf drop off some Halal-safe food packages for Ramadan celebrations; sweets, pre-packaged/cooked foods and pastries. Your local Islamic food stores can definitely offer more guidance, and be sure to look out for the Halal logo! But, importantly, it’s always good to contact the Mosque or Community centre beforehand to see what donations they’re accepting!

If you’re visiting Shul, now more than ever is your time to challenge the narrative. Why must we turn away blind eye to a genocide whilst we celebrate our survival? Why must we allow the pain we have felt, pass to another, in the name of our survival? If you feel it is safe to do so, it is so irrevocably important to challenge the Zionist narratives that use our history, our holidays, our peoplehood to inflict harm that we once felt. As Queen Esther did, we must speak, and we must not be afraid to do so.

Further Purim readings:

The History of Purim

Laws and Customs of Purim

History of Purim costumes

We’re wishing everyone a happy, safe, healthy and beautiful Purim— please share with us how you’ll be celebrating this year, and keep an eye out for tzedekah posts to donate to Palestinians in need!

#purim #anti zionist jews #anti zionist purim #purim 2024 #purim ideas #purim celebrations #what is purim #free palestine #purim for anti zionist jews #jewish holidays #info: purim

[stevesbipanic]

Inspired by this post by @liightsnow

Steve had always been quick to open his home to his friends.

It began of course with allowing Tommy to throw big parties at his house since Steve’s parents were away, later he would open his home to the kids to have a safe place to just be kids. Steve enjoyed having his friends around and it helped fill the silence of his usually empty house. So it was no surprise that when Eddie needed a new location for Hellfire, Steve was the first to volunteer.

He and Eddie had gotten close as Eddie recovered in hospital, he was fun to be around, loud and bright in a way that pushed away the thoughts as to how Eddie ended up in the bed in the first place. Wayne was appreciative of Steve keeping his nephew company while he was at work and Steve always reassured him that it was no trouble, most of the time Steve stayed even when Wayne was there.

There was one issue with hosting Hellfire however, the Hellfire boys. Jeff, Gareth and Grant had visited Eddie a few times after school, all their parents keeping them at home when they could after the “earthquake”, Steve always excused himself allowing Eddie to have time with his friends. Steve couldn’t blame the wary looks that they’d send him, he knew who he was in high school, even Eddie had assumed the same.

This lead Steve to now as he opened the door to the three boys, who were last to arrive. They all nodded politely at Steve before heading straight to where Eddie was calling them in the dining room. At first Steve tried to make himself seem friendly and approachable to them, demonstrating that he had changed since his years of being King of Hawkins High. He set out snacks and got people drinks, even remembering which drinks Eddie had told them were their favourites, but all he got were polite smiles and glances towards Eddie. After receiving similar treatment when he brought them lunch, Steve gave up his attempts and retreated to his bedroom to wait out the rest of the game.

Steve curled into a ball on his bed, knees tucked tightly under his chin as he wrapped his arms around is legs. He got an eerie sense of déjà vu to when he was a child and his mother would send him up to his room once he’d been “showed off” to the guests. His purpose complete and he was no longer needed, Hellfire had what they needed to finish their game without them.

Steve heard joyous cries downstairs and wished for a moment he would’ve been able to stay and watch. Everyone always sounded so happy when the game concluded, and he knew Eddie told the best stories. He knew he couldn’t though, he didn’t want to ruin it for anyone, especially Eddie’s friends.

He was getting ready to go downstairs and clean up, another thing similar to his mother’s parties, when there was a knock at his door.

“Stevie? You ok in there?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, Eds, I’m fine, game finished then?” Steve replied as Eddie entered the room.

“Yeah, it was great, you should’ve stayed to watch Gareth made the best final attack, you have a headache or something, why are you hiding up here?”

“Oh, um,” Steve looked down at his hands, “Thought I’d just be in the way down there, didn’t want to spoil the fun.”

Eddie made a face at this, “Spoil the fun? Sweetheart, everyone would’ve loved you to stay and watch, might get Dustin off your back about playing.”

Steve shook his head, “Your friends don’t really like me much, which I get, it’s fine, glad you guys had a place to play though.”

“Steve why did you offer up your place if you didn’t want to watch? And the guys think you’re fine what’re you talking about, did one of them say something?”

“You guys needed a place to play and I have an empty house, need to be useful someway now that there’s no monsters to fight and my parents cut me off, and no, no one said anything but they always act weird around me.”

“Fuck Stevie, you’re more than just someone useful you know that right? I’d want you around just because I like you around, sweetheart, you don’t have to earn that by offering your house.”

“You sure?”

“Very sure, wasn’t getting better in Casa Harrington, was I? Got better cause I had my favourite jock beside me.” Steve blushed at that. “And as for my friends, I think I know the reason they’re acting weird around you,” Eddie said guiltily.

“Why?”

“Might’ve told them not to embarrass me in front of you,” Eddie said sheepishly.

“Why wouldn’t you want them to- oh,” Steve smiled softly, “Eddie Munson did you want to look cool in front of me because you like me?”

“Would it be bad to say yes?”

Steve lent over and kissed Eddie’s cheek softly, “Not at all.”

When the boys returned downstairs holding hands to find the others cleaning up, Jeff let out a sigh of relief, “Thank fuck you got your shit together Eddie, Harrington can you make those sandwiches again next time, I don’t know what you put in them but Gare ate like 5.”

“Hey, you would’ve eaten just as many if there were any left!”

Steve laughed, “Sure, will make them a Hellfire staple every week.”

The following week Steve was met by wide grins when he opened the door, and celebrated with the party when they defeated Eddie’s villain. Sitting on Eddie’s lap to watch the campaign was a good new perk too.

#steve harrington #light angst ending with fluff #stranger things #eddie munson #steddie #ficlet #hellfire #hellfire boys

[biteofcherry]

No better gift

part of Nesting universe

soft dark mafia Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: Steve likes the gift you gave him for his birthday, but there's something else that he wishes go. And he will take it.

warnings: soft dark Steve Rogers; established relationship; intimacy; some things are implied and some of them are kinky 😏

Sweet raspberry scent of your lotion soothes you as you rub it into your skin after taking a shower. It wasn’t exactly a tiring day, but exciting enough to have you craving the peace and quiet of your home. 

Steve’s birthday was a rich celebration, though not like one might expect. 

There was no grandeur, or flamboyant displays of wealth. No business partners to pledge fake vows, nor celebrities to take hundreds of photos with. Quite the opposite, it was a rather small affair with family and friends only.

But Steve’s family and friends are a bunch of joyous, often loud people. So despite the celebration being somewhat nostalgic - held at Steve’s mom’s place - it was a lot. From the laughter and teasing stories, to the small display of fireworks that Steve’s people organized.

What you have learned over the past year is that while they are lethal criminals, they are fiercely loyal and surprisingly loving. 

And though it was Steve’s birthday, the true star of the party who stole all the attention was your baby boy. You could really catch a break and indulge (and Sarah’s cake was worthy of all the indulging), because others occupied him for hours. At one point you mentioned to Steve that he should find Bucky a girl, before Barnes really steals your kid.

All the fuss was exhausting enough for the baby that he fell asleep before you even got into the car. 

Back at home, Steve told you to take your time in the bathroom while he puts the baby to bed. One of the things which surprised you at first, was how present Steve is - both for you and your son. Not only dutiful, but openly loving and enjoying that time. And watching him with the baby melts your heart each time, as well other parts of your body.

When you exit the bathroom, Steve is already back in the master bedroom. Half undressed.

His shirt is on the back of the armchair, the button of his dark slacks popped open, but the zipper still up. Your gaze appreciatively roams over the wide planes of Steve’s chest, taking in the outline of corded muscles and the few, ornate tattoos on his body.

Left corner of Steve’s mouth curls in a smirk when he catches you staring. He crooks a finger at you and your feet move on their own accord, stepping between him and the bed. 

You lift on your tiptoes, pecking Steve’s lips sweetly. You’d like to maybe kiss him more, but your mouth also craves that huge slice of birthday cake which Sarah packed for you and at the moment the taste of it is kinda winning with the taste of Steve.

A little.

But you also want to cherish this quiet moment with him, soak up this warmth radiating off of him. You put a hand over his sternum, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart. Then slide your hand down his muscular arm.

“I hope you like your gift.” You tap the wide band of the black wristwatch on Steve’s wrist, shiny with novelty and black sapphires. 

“It’s hard to find a present for a man who has everything. Or who can afford anything.” 

You still consider it cheating, since to buy it for him you used the black card Steve gave you over a year ago. 

“I do like it,” he assures you, stepping so close you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact with him. 

He places a hand on your hip and skims his fingers up over the delicate fabric of your hand-painted, silk robe (Steve’s Valentine gift to you). He pinches the end of the silky belt between his fingers and starts tugging slowly.

“I love your other gift much more, though,” Steve’s voice drops to that low tone, thick as molten chocolate - and just as delectable. 

“Other gift?” A small frown forms on your forehead, quickly smoothing out as a shiver of pleasure spreads through your body when Steve unties your robe.

Warm, calloused hand slips beneath the fabric, touching your naked skin. It’s a gentle, yet so characteristically possessive touch. 

Over the months, even as your body changed with pregnancy and then after giving birth, Steve’s demand for your body never shifted. Not only it didn’t lessen, but at times it felt as if it grew.

He could be tender, especially when your body was the most sensitive, but there was always that control and possession; which both scared you and aroused you. 

Your nipples harden into stiff pebbles as Steve’s fingers brush over your breasts, your breath hitching a note when he pushes the robe off your shoulders completely. His touch travels back down, more brazen. His blue eyes darken as he takes in your naked body, so vulnerable and all his to play with. 

Hands flying to Steve’s shoulders, to keep your balance when he cups your tits, you gasp and arch. Heat unfurls in your belly in a wild burst as he pinches your stiff peaks. 

With how Steve’s eyes are focused on the darkened nipples and his tormenting squeeze, you know he’s remembering how milk spilled between his fingers when he did that to you just a few months prior. 

“I track your calendar, little bird,” Steve’s lips ghost along your jaw, as he slides his hands down your sides and over your ass. 

At the brush of Steve’s lips over yours, your brain stops following the line of thought. You nearly whimper, chasing his mouth when he holds off the kiss. 

“You’re ovulating.” 

Your half-closed eyes snap open at his hungry tone. Shocked with the revelation and the obvious indication behind Steve’s words, you arch back. But you don’t have the slightest chance of putting any distance between the two of you. 

Steve’s hands grip your ass and he hoists you up easily. A squeak escapes your lips when he tosses you onto the bed. 

Heart fluttering in your chest, you watch him climb after you - a deadly predator, determined on devouring his prey whole. 

The mattress dips under Steve’s weight and you feel yourself melting into the soft sheets, your pussy already weeping from the sheer sexual power of his aura. Still, instinctively your legs close. Steve yanks them apart. 

He settles above you, heavy and warm, pinning one of your wrists down. His other hand slips between your thighs, nimble fingers teasing your folds and clit until your hips rock back against his hand, pleading for more.  

“This will be your gift to me, little wife,” Steve’s eyes lock with yours as he pushes a single finger inside you.

“Swelling with my seed again.” 

Steve’s triumphant chuckle seals your fate as your pussy clenches around his finger eagerly.

#Nesting #Steve Rogers birthday drabble #Steve Rogers x reader #Steve Rogers x female Reader #Steve Rogers x you #Steve Rogers imagine #soft!dark steve rogers #soft!dark steve rogers x reader #mafia!steve rogers

[ghost-proofbaby]

EDDIE MUNSON - OURS

😭😭😭

ours (eddie’s version)

warnings: none. just tooth-rotting fluff <3

wc: 1.4k+

a/n: i got a little carried away. but i wish i had an eddie munson to go home to each night and just kiss and cuddle goddamn it

“Oh, is that your boyfriend?”

“He’s… interesting.”

“I guess when you said you had a boyfriend, I never envisioned someone like him.”

“You two are such… opposites! I mean- no! No, not a… bad thing, I suppose. Just… interesting.”

You were growing tired of it. You know people didn’t mean for their incessant questions or comments to get under your skin so badly, but they did. Any time someone at your new job caught sight of your phone’s lock screen – a joyous selfie of you and a sunburnt Eddie at the lake – or your work computer’s screen saver – a photo taken at dusk of Eddie on your couch, strumming on his guitar completely unaware – they had something to say. Something to point out. Whether it be the way you two didn’t seem to fit in their minds, or how rough around the edges he seemed to be. Some coworkers even pressed on how long you two had been together, pulling out the marriage card at a completely inappropriate time. One coworker had even made a snide remark on his long hair, saying “oh, I thought that was a girl! What a relief!”. It just…. It dug beneath your skin every time without fail, making you uncomfortable and irritated all in the same breath. 

You don’t understand why they cared so much. It wasn’t their relationship – they didn’t know you. You’d only started the job a few months prior. They could eat shit, for all you care.

Today had been a bad day. Maurice, one of the elderly women who worked at the front reception desk, had just been awful. She was always talking of you going on a date with her grandson, each time conveniently forgetting that you were already happily in a relationship, but today she’d crossed a line. She’d had her grandson physically come into the office at lunch time, and caught you just as you were on your way out the door to try and pick up something to hold you over until five o’clock would finally arrive. 

The one day you didn’t pack your own lunch. Go figure. 

“Oh! Dear! Over here!” she called  to you as you tried to scurry past her desk. You had held out the hope that the young man standing beside her would have occupied her, but no. No such luck for you on this wicked Thursday.

You took a deep breath before you turned slowly, forcing a polite smile as you faced the elderly woman, “What can I do for you, Maurice?”

“This is my grandson!” she animatedly motioned to the blonde boy at her side, and as he looked up, your stomach dropped, “Jason! The one I was telling you about!” 

Jason fucking Carver.

“Oh,” you tried to keep kind in your tone, but you were already feeling hatred prickle at the back of your neck. You knew all about Jason — he’d made Eddie’s life living Hell too many times to count. He was nothing like the angel Maurice had tried to paint, “I… It’s nice to meet you, Jason, but I really should get going. I’m on my lunch.” 

Jason didn’t take the social cue, stepping forward and stretching out his hand towards you, “Pleasure to finally meet the beautiful coworker my grandmother has been going on and on about. Words really didn’t do you justice.”

Gag. “You’re too kind. I do hope she also mentioned I’m already spoken for.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, glancing at Maurice for a second. “You’re taken?” 

You opened your mouth to say, yes, I am happily taken, but Maurice was already waving her hands about as if that fact of the matter was nothing more than trivial smoke. “Technicalities. She has a fling with that Munson boy-“

“It’s not a fling,” you stressed, your patience meeting its end, “We’ve been together for years. We live together. I’m really sorry, Jacob,” you purposefully say the wrong name as you turn to Jason, exasperated and not sorry in the slightest, “But I’m not interested. I’ll see you after lunch, Maurice.” 

You think you heard Jason call out a correction of his name from behind you, but you paid him no mind. Fuck him.

You ended up taking a longer lunch, not even caring for the consequences just so you could sit in your car and call Eddie. You described each person who walked into the building that you caught sight of, completely forgetting to scavenge a snack, too wrapped up in giggling at every ridiculous joke or story he makes up for the strangers.

He made it feel better. Maurice and Jason and everyone’s incessant comments forgotten. Their judgments never took this into consideration — this tranquility and Eddie’s ability to make you laugh until your ribs ached. They never considered the love that carried you home each night.

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

You practically speed the entire way home, forgetting to watch for any police cars half the time. Your poor front door cries out on its hinges as you barrel through it with only one thing on your mind: Eddie.

“Hey baby-“ Eddie tries to greet you, but he hardly has the time to set his guitar to the side before you’re falling into his lap where he sits on the couch. “Oof, bad day?” 

Your thighs bracket his hips and your nose is already nuzzling into his neck, his soft laughter shaking his shoulders slightly as your arms wind themselves around him to the best of your abilities. He returns the favor without hesitation; arms hold you close to his chest and you can feel his nose dip to graze along your temple.

“The absolute worst,” your voice is muffled by his neck, but he doesn’t seem to mind, so you continue, “I swear to God, if I had know this office was full of such judgmental assholes I would have never-“

“Woah, woah, woah,” he pulls you back slightly, bringing his hands up to hold both cheeks between his palms as his thumb trails softly against your cheek bone, “Are they being mean to you? Because if they are, just say the word – I’m not afraid to kick a couple of grandmas’ asses.” 

You laugh, sniffling a bit, still on the verge of tears out of relief of being home with him finally, “No, no. You don’t need to go and kick any elderly ass – today.” 

“What about tomorrow?” 

You pretend to think about it as you finally slide off his lap, sitting to his side as your legs remain draped on his lap. He’s quick to reach down and let his calloused fingertips graze a trail down your thigh, ending at your ankle before he wraps them around it and squeezes softly, “Hmm, I’ll have to think about it.”

“Yeah?” he questions, leaning his face down to your shoulder, peppering kisses there, eyes still attempting to glance up at you in adoration through thick lashes, “So not a no. Got it. I’ll have my boxing gloves at the ready.” 

You both laugh as Eddie continues his short assault of kisses. 

Your coworkers can say whatever they want. They can judge the two of you based on short snapshots all they please – they can’t take this from you. Not as his lips brush your collarbones, not as his palms massage your calves, and certainly not as he murmurs soft declarations of how much he missed you all day against your skin. 

“Say, you wanna play a song for me on that guitar, rockstar?” you say as you thread your fingers through his curls, noting the way they’re extra soft, as if he’d done a hair mask like you always pestered him to. 

He lifts his head and leans back casually against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded as he smiles at you like you hold his entire world in the palm of your hand, “Maybe later. Right now, I just wanna spend some time with my baby.” 

“Oh, I see,” you snort, “You’re gonna break out sweetheart instead? No more dragon-slaying for today?” you joke, referencing his nicknames for his two guitars. 

He only shakes his head and rolls his eyes at you, surging forward and capturing your lips against his, teeth clashing a bit due to both of your wild grins. He has you falling backwards into the couch cushions in an instant and lets his weight settle between your thighs, enveloping you in smells of home. Just him, just you, just the love that you two have gardened here. No opinions of others ever needed.

“Shut up. I love you.” 

“and it’s not theirs to speculate if it’s wrong. and your hand’s a tough but they are where mine belong.”

#speak now (ghost's version) #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #my writing

[h4arts]

belly conklin x fem! reader. where the reader is conrad’s best friend from school, and at first belly finds herself feeling jealous, but then she realizes she has a HUGE crush on her, and then they kiss!!

jealous, belly conklin -synopsis: since the age of twelve, belly had been jealous of your relationship with conrad. turns out, she was jealous of him the whole time. -warnings: underage drinking, kissing, angst with happy ending, very vague mention of a man not taking no for an answer, fem reader -notes: i got way carried away on this one, it's really long, i hope it's what you wanted!

Belly loved the summer house and the people in it. It was an extension of herself, the one constant she always counted down to, looked forward to, hated to leave, and always wanted to go back to. It had always been the Fisher and Conklin families, before Belly was born and long after she realized how joyous the place was. The summer she turned twelve, it became different though. That was the first summer she met you.

Conrad had spent the better half of a year begging his parents to let you go with them, that you were his best friend and he'd hate to leave you behind where all you'd have of this magical place were the stories he'd have when he got back. That's what Susannah had told Laurel when she questioned who you were. Belly just happened to overhear.

Belly hadn't cared much at the time. She'd thought that maybe another girl would mean less teasing, less jokes made at her expense. But as the summer progressed, she also felt jealous that you had just as much if not more attention from the boys as she did. They became your friends as much as they were hers. She decided then that she wished Conrad would've kept his school friends at school.

You had left a couple weeks early that summer, and Belly was glad things had gone back to normal for her last days at the beach house. It was just like it had been last summer, except it wasn't. You still lingered in the air, Conrad still talked about you and even Jeremiah and Steven did too. Belly found herself hoping as she got in the car that you wouldn't be back next year. That next summer would be the Fishers and the Conklins, no one else.

───☆───

The next summer had come, and Belly would be thirteen. It would be like any other birthday, just the parents, the boys, and her. But nearing closer to the beach house from the drive way, she knew by the laughter in the living room that you were back. Steven ran inside with Jeremiah who was previously helping with bags. Laurel gave a gentle squeeze to Belly's shoulder with a reassuring smile before following her son inside.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Belly promised herself she wouldn't let you bother her this summer. The beach house was supposed to be for happy memories and a fun summer. She wouldn't ruin that, even if she didn't like the changes it came with.

Inside, Belly was surprised when you stood to greet her with a hug, the smell of your perfume lingering even after you pulled away to help Laurel carry bags. It wasn't so strong it burned Belly's nose, but it was present enough to leave a mark that said 'I was here'.

That summer, she got sick and had to stay inside for a few days until she was better. The boys left every day without her but you stayed back and ate popsicles with her. You watched her favorite films with her and played various games with her. Then when the boys came back at night, you'd leave her with Susannah and Laurel to go hang out with them.

Even when she got better and the boys left to go camp at the beach like they had in a previous summer, there you were, trying to roast marshmallows over the living room fireplace so she could have smores too. When she asked where you'd gotten the supplies, you'd responded that Jeremiah was easy to bribe out of food with the right trade.

Belly had to admit to herself that maybe your presence wasn't so bad, that if you came back next summer, she wouldn't be so upset by it. She finally liked not being left alone or stuck with the moms watching old films, though she did enjoy it.

She was starting to think that maybe you weren't the worst thing to happen, but all those thoughts came crashing down one day at the boardwalk. Conrad asked her to go after they'd both been left alone in the house. He bought her a caramel apple, he walked down the pier with her, and when he asked to go play ring toss, Belly understood why he'd brought her. She remembered a conversation between you and Conrad earlier in the week when you and Steven had gone to the boardwalk by yourselves. You came back talking about a giraffe they had on the prize wall at the ring toss game.

When Belly approached the stand with Conrad, she saw him look right at it. She realized then that there was probably more behind the title 'best friend' when he spoke about you or when you laughed at something he'd whisper in your ear as everyone left dinner. She dragged him over to the ring toss game and said to win a prize. She walked away from him, leaving him to the pretty girl working the game.

Conrad found her later, confused as to why she didn't come back. In his hands were two prizes, which surprised Belly. He held out a polar bear with sunglasses to her. "They said it was the best prize they had." Belly took it, her other hand pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

"I like the giraffe better. Thanks though." Belly walked away, leaving Conrad standing in the middle of the food court with the stuffed giraffe he'd won for you.

Belly cried that night. She was jealous, Conrad had dragged her all the way out to the boardwalk to win you the stuffed animal you'd seen with Steven. It wasn't fair, that's what she told Taylor when she got back home before school. Belly hadn't said goodbye back to you that summer, too sick with dislike to say it with any meaning.

Belly hoped more than anything you wouldn't come back next summer, but she knew you would, so she would bring Taylor. She thought maybe with her best friend there, the thought of you and Conrad would be distracted from her mind.

───☆───

It was mid-June, and Belly absolutely regretted bringing Taylor. She was only concerned with seeking Jeremiah's attention, leaving barely any of her own for Belly. Meanwhile, Belly had to sit on the sidelines and watch you and Conrad. Racing to the ocean, sharing huge bowls of ice cream, sitting next to each other at dinner, talking in hushed whispers and laughing so loud it rattled her heart.

Belly had brought Taylor hoping it would distract her from you, but she was constantly with Taylor, which meant you had all of your time to spend with Conrad. It shouldn't have mattered to Belly as much as it did, you were here for him anyways. He was the only reason you were there.

Later in the summer, Jeremiah wanted Belly and Taylor to be the judges of a surfing competition. Belly thought it would be just him and Steven, she hadn't seen you or Conrad all day, but then you both showed up, surfboards tucked under your arms as he laughed and you just watched with a smile.

Belly stood up to leave, everyone else was too busy to notice. Taylor was transfixed on Jeremiah who was already running out to the water with Steven, you and Conrad still stood in the sand laughing, hiding in the shade behind your surfboards.

Laurel watched her daughter walk in the back door, shoulders hunched and a frown etched deep into her face. "What's wrong? Are you not having fun out there?"

"I don't want her here." Belly mumbled, sitting on the couch between her mother and Susannah who held a glass of iced tea in her hands. The ice was making the cup sweat, so when Susannah reached out to Belly, her hand was cool and wet. She would've hated anyone else doing that, but it wasn't anyone else, it was comforting because it was Susannah.

"You don't have to bring her next year." Belly's frown deepened. They thought she meant Taylor. And it was true, she didn't want Taylor there anymore, but she meant it about you. She was tired of looking at you having so much fun with Conrad. She was sick of watching you do everything with him. She hated that you were with him all year round and she was only there in the summer.

Usually when summer came to an end, Belly hated having to leave the beach house. All she wanted was to stay there forever. But this year, she was ready to go. She was ready to escape the jealousy she felt every time she looked at you and Conrad. She was upset with Taylor and Steven who she caught kissing at the beach after Taylor promised not to hurt Jeremiah. It felt like that whole summer was just them falling apart. Before Belly got in the car, she tried to avoid the painful goodbyes. Not because she was sad, but because she couldn't stand to leave this place with her last memory being of you. You always said goodbye last and you would hug her and she wouldn't say anything, leaving you standing there in the driveway like she had the last two years. She couldn't handle it, not after this summer's chaos.

She wasn't fast enough though, or maybe you had come outside earlier. Belly watched you walk down the porch steps, Steven's hand wrapped around your elbow as he said something stupid, judging by the way your eyes squinted in confusion before Steven shook his head, signaling to dismiss what he had said. He walked around to the other side of the car, and Belly turned to get in before you said anything. To her misfortune, you were faster, wrapping your arms around her shoulders in the same hug you gave her every time you said goodbye.

"Goodbye, Belly. Have a good year. I'm sorry we didn't see each other much." You spoke in a whisper, just like always. It annoyed her. She didn't hug you back, she didn't say anything. She pulled away, turned towards the car, and got in. Not once did she look back, she never did. Belly had done this every summer since you arrived, she couldn't stand you any longer than she had to.

As Laurel drove away, Steven turned up the music he had on aux. Taylor was staring down at her phone, tapping away furiously. Belly could still feel the cool press of your rings on her sun warmed skin, she could still hear the softness of your voice, she could still smell the faintness of your perfume that was carried in the wind.

Next summer, Belly wouldn't pay you any attention. She wouldn't watch one more summer of you and Conrad when all she could do was sit and watch.

───☆───

As soon as the car stopped, Belly swung open the car door and stepped out into the gleaming sunlight. The cool breeze felt good on her skin, it was the feeling she'd been waiting for all year. She was so glad to finally be back in Cousins for the summer, forgetting all about what happened the last time she was here.

The front door to the beach house flew open, and Jeremiah ran outside, followed by Conrad and Susannah who lingered back a bit. They all shared hugs and greetings, until Steven finally asked where you were. It was the question Belly had purposefully tried to ignore.

"She's not gonna be here for a while, her cousin's getting married." Conrad answers, and Steven seems upset with the answer but drops it. Belly wished it would take longer than just a while for you to get to the house. But, it made easing into summer that much better. She hadn't been the only girl in the beach house since she was eleven. It was just like old times, Belly, Steven, Conrad, and Jeremiah. They went swimming in the ocean, had lunch by the pool, Belly watched movies with the moms while they boys went to a party. Belly had gone to sleep every day for a week with a smile.

One morning when she woke up though, that peace was gone. Belly had gone downstairs for breakfast, only to find you standing in the kitchen with Jeremiah, flipping pancakes and dodging the strawberries Steven was throwing at you. Belly frowned, you were there early. It had only been one week. Conrad mentioned exactly that, moving down the stairs around Belly to greet you. Even he hadn't known you'd arrive early.

"My cousin and her partner are going a few hours south of here to meet other family that can't make the wedding. This is just a pit stop so I thought I'd say hi." While you spoke, Steven threw two more strawberries at you, neither of which you were able to dodge. Belly watched from the stairs as Conrad tried to wipe the stains off the white shirt you wore. They were noticeable, right in the center of your torso. "It's not a big deal." You told him, taking the towel from Conrad's hand. Belly's stomach twisted, he smiled at you so easily, and your hand was on top of his before taking the towel. Jeremiah and Steven didn't even notice, taste testing the pancakes. Belly turned around and went back upstairs.

She didn't come back until the afternoon, preparing herself to see you standing with Conrad again. Against everything in her, she'd put on the smallest bit if mascara and lip gloss, hoping she'd be noticed better. Maybe the attention wouldn't be on you then, and she wouldn't have to see Conrad staring at you. You were gone by the time she stepped of the last stair. Jeremiah told her you'd left an hour ago when she asked.

Belly went back upstairs to take off the mascara and lip gloss. She changed into her swimsuit and rushed back down stairs, diving straight into the pool. She hoped Jeremiah hadn't noticed the makeup when she asked where you were, she didn't need it if you weren't there. She wouldn't see you with Conrad, that was all she put it on for to begin with.

On the day of her birthday, Belly still hadn't seen you since the surprise visit. She opened her gifts from everyone, they all had pancakes for breakfast, per her request. Conrad had asked if she wanted to go to the boardwalk, Belly agreed. Steven and Jeremiah ended up going too, but they went straight to the arcade as soon as they arrived. Conrad followed Belly to all the things she wanted to do, until it led them to a picnic table for a snack.

Belly didn't think it was a good idea to ask, but she had to know. She asked Conrad why he was friends with you. Belly wanted to know what was so important about you that he couldn't even leave you back for two months to be at the beach house.

"She's been my best friend for years. I've known her almost as long as I've known you. I just never really talked to her until the year before I first brought her here." Conrad shrugged, he didn't understand the importance of the question. But now that Belly had asked it and received the wrong answer, she didn't understand why it was important for her to know either. But she'd already asked, she wanted a real answer.

"That isn't what I asked you." Conrad sighed at that. He took a long sip of his drink and paused, almost as if he really had to think about the answer. Maybe he was just trying to avoid it.

"She was there for me when I needed someone." He answered shortly.

"And no one else was?"

"That's not what I meant." She knew. But she wanted a real answer, not a vague one, not one that could be misinterpreted. And she'd already asked twice. There clearly wasn't anything special about you, or Conrad wanted to keep something about your relationship secret. Either of those explanations would've confirmed Belly's suspicions.

"She just, she makes people feel safe with her even if they don't know her. She's just got that about her, y'know?" Belly had never heard Conrad say that about anyone. But, it made sense to her now though, why he would drag you miles from your own home and family every summer just to spend that extra time with you. It also made sense to her that you were more than his best friend, and she had a feeling she knew just how much more.

"Hey guys, guess who I just saw outside!" Jeremiah ran up to their table, Steven trailing a safe distance behind. Belly and Conrad stood up, following Jeremiah and Steven to the exit. The sun was setting, Belly hadn't realized how long they'd been there.

Just as Jeremiah said, you stood in the parking lot alone, a jacket draped over your folded arms. Belly guessed you'd come straight from the reception, judging by your slightly smudged makeup and the dress you wore that rippled softly around your legs in the breeze. Once you saw them, you reached into the bag hanging from your shoulder and handed each of them a pressed flower.

"My cousin saved me the leftover ones for my room. I don't need all the ones she gave me." The boys clutched onto them like it was all they'd ever have of you, observing every inch of their flower like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Belly put hers in her pocket. She didn't look back at you after she did, not wanting to know if you'd seen her do it.

Back at the house that night, Belly sat in her room, looking at the clock every so often. It was late for her to still be up, even for it being summer. Everyone was asleep, so she got ready to go for a night swim. This was the latest she had ever gone, so there was no chance Susannah would come down tonight. She'd have the pool all to herself, but she was wrong.

On a chair across the deck from the door, you sat looking out to the stars above the ocean. Hearing the creak of the door, you look back to see Belly standing there, a towel tightly clutched in her hand. Belly was surprised when you didn't smile at her before you looked away. You always did, and it felt odd to Belly that you didn't. She wondered if something happened, if you were upset with her about the flower or if you finally gave up on trying to be nice to her.

Belly considered going to sit next to you, but as she walked farther out from the deck, she saw the look on your face, illuminated by the moonlight. You weren't mad, or sad, or upset. You were just there. There was nothing wrong, so Belly dropped the towel on the closest chair to the pool and dove in. She swam her laps, took short breaks to just float, and every time she looked back at you, you were still there, eyes never once leaving the sky.

Finally feeling tired, Belly got out of the pool and wrapped herself in the towel. She headed towards the door to go back inside, but something made her stop. Something made her want to go sit with you and watch the stars, just for a bit. You still didn't look away from the sky as Belly sat next to you, and she didn't say anything. She tucked her knees up to her chin to fully wrap the towel around herself and she watched the stars with you.

She had no idea what you were thinking, or if you were even thinking about anything at all, so she quietly kept an eye out for any shooting stars until you suddenly moved your hand to your pocket. Belly jumped slightly, not expecting you to move. You pulled out a small box and handed it to Belly.

"Happy birthday, Belly." Then you turned back to the stars. She carefully removed the lid from the box, revealing a small starfish charm glinting delicately in the light from the moon. "For the charm bracelet you've got. It's to remind you of this place even when you aren't here. I know how much you love it here." That was all you said, and Belly assumed it's all you would say.

She stared down at the charm, and thought back to what Conrad had said earlier at the boardwalk. She makes people feel safe with her even if they don't know her. She's just got that about her, y'know? Belly now knew how true that really was. Even back when she first met you, you had been the one to make sure she never felt left out, you'd sit with her when she was sick or when the boys would leave without her. You'd always tell her to have a good year when she left and you meant it every time, even when she left you standing in the driveway without saying anything back. You'd gotten her something to remember this place and all the amazing memories it held.

Belly realized there was nothing about you that she could hate. Not the way your voice lingered in her head all the way home at the end of the summer, not your perfume that she could smell long after you'd vanished from sight, not the cooling metal of your rings that came with every touch or hug you gave her, not the welcoming smile you always wore. Even tonight, when she first walked out the door and saw you. She realized if it had been anyone else besides Susannah, she would have turned around and gone back inside. For some reason, it didn't bother her that you were out there with her. She felt safe.

"Good night, Belly." Belly looked up from the charm to see you already halfway back inside. "Don't stay up too late, you'll hate yourself for it in the morning." You were gone before Belly could say anything back. She wished she would've said something, she didn't even say thank you. It made her think about every summer she never said anything back, never hugged you back, never looked back.

Summer was over fast after you got there. Belly didn't try to avoid your goodbyes this time, but she was confused now. Why was she now realizing that all the things she thought she hated about you, she didn't and never had? She still didn't hug you back. She still didn't say goodbye. But halfway down the street, she looked back. It was the first time she ever did, and she wished she hadn't. Your arms were crossed over yourself, the same way she did when she felt bad. You were frowning, and then Conrad was at your side, wrapping an arm wound your shoulder and leading you back inside, a gentle smile on his face. Had it always been that way?

───☆───

It was spring break now, and Belly was still confused about last summer. She tried talking to Taylor about it, but she couldn't form the right words. All those times she saw you with Conrad, was it really you she was jealous of? Or was it just wishing that she was doing those things with you instead. Did she hate your goodbye hugs because if she hugged back she wouldn't let go? She missed the nights the boys left and it was just you and her, making your own jokes to laugh at. She finally recognized that she wanted to be the one you turned to, not Conrad.

Her whole life, she was so sure she wanted Conrad, for him to want her and to be with him. Now she wasn't sure that's what she'd wanted. Maybe deep down, she'd wanted the giraffe at the boardwalk because you wanted it, and it was subconsciously as close to you as she could get at the time.

Belly had stared at her phone for hours over the course of spring break, debating whether or not to call. She had no idea what she would say if she did, but she didn't like being confused over it. Time kept passing and Belly never called. And before she even knew it, school was out, exams were done, and she was packing her bags to go back to Cousins.

The ride there was the same as always, but when the car pulled in to the drive, only Jeremiah was on the porch waiting. He hugged Steven first before Laurel made her way over to ask about Susannah, to which Jeremiah responded that she was inside sleeping. Conrad came around the house a few moments later, pausing at the sight of them like he'd forgotten they were coming. He quickly greeted them before Steven announced it time for a 'Belly flop'. Conrad and Jeremiah were quick to follow. Belly looked around for you, but you weren't there. She guessed you were inside somewhere, waiting for them.

When Belly hit the water, she heard a new tone of voice added over the laughter of the boys. Swimming back to the surface, she saw you over Conrad's shoulder. You were smiling, hitting Steven's shoulder playfully. Belly swam over to the edge of the pool where you met her and kneeled down to help her out of the water. Once you were both sitting on the ground, you pulled Belly in for a hug, getting the front of your shirt wet. You both laughed and for the first time, Belly hugged you back. Things were going to be different that summer, she'd make sure of it.

Something was already different, though. Jeremiah and Conrad had never really paid her much attention before, but their stares had lingered a little longer than they ever had. Even Susannah had said Belly looked prettier, and she wondered if maybe your stare would linger as long as the boys' had. She hoped so.

The bonfire party came later in the week, and to Belly's disappointment, you'd spent most of that time with Conrad more than anyone else. Steven had told her not to go, and that he wouldn't be responsible for her. Belly didn't really want to go, but if was the only time she'd get to see you, she would go.

She called Taylor that night, asking her friend's opinion on what to wear. The call consisted of less help than meaningless bickering about what she should say to you. After the call had ended, Belly stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wondered if the dress she'd put on would even be noticeable to you, or if you would even care.

A thud echoed from across the hall, breaking Belly's thoughts. She went to see where the noise had come from, which led her to your room. Before she could say anything, the door flew open, revealing you in a shorter dress than you'd worn before and your makeup that hadn't been redone since the morning. You were shocked to see Belly standing there, waiting for you to say something.

"I heard something fall." Belly watched the crease between your brows even out, the confusion leaving your face.

"I just knocked my phone over. No big deal." You shrugged, stepping out of your room and closing the door behind you. "Are you going to the party?" You ask, eyes tracing over the dress Belly wore.

"Oh, um, yeah. Don't tell Steven though." Belly looked down, realizing that Steven would see her once she got there, so you telling him wouldn't even matter.

"Don't worry about him, go and have fun. He can be mad later, you look great." You put an arm around Belly's shoulders, leading her to the stairs so you could go.

Steven, Conrad, and Jeremiah had already left, the party was undoubtedly already in full swing. Belly would have questioned why you didn't go with them, but she knew from Conrad and Jeremiah's stories that you were always late to parties anyways.

Belly went around to the passenger side of your car, waiting for you to get your keys. She glanced in the window of the backseat and saw in the small amount of moonlight a stuffed giraffe in the middle seat. The one Conrad won at the boardwalk. A frown pulled at her lips as you walked outside, unlocking the car. Belly immediately got in, looking out the window. Getting in the car yourself, Belly felt your eyes on her, and when she looked at your reflection in the window, she saw the worry in them.

"We don't have to go. We can stay back and watch movies." You say, pausing to put the key in the ignition.

"No. I want to go." Belly still didn't look back, but she truly did want to go now. She couldn't go back inside and go to bed. It felt like every time she thought maybe she had a chance, Conrad came right back. The giraffe in your backseat was proof enough that she was right. She was going to the party, either with you or someone else to distract her from that thought.

"Okay." The car started, and the whole drive, Belly didn't look anywhere but out the window. You'd glance at her once in a while, making sure she was still okay. Belly tried to ignore it, just focusing on the music softly playing from the radio.

Barely waiting for the car to park along the crowded street, Belly tried to open the door. You locked it before she could, causing her to groan in annoyance. "Promise you'll tell me if you want to leave."

"Fine." Belly still didn't look at you, and she tried the door again. "Just unlock the door so we can go."

"Look at me, Belly." Finally, she turned to look at you, one hand still on the door and frowning. "Promise, or I'll turn around."

"I promise." Her shoulders deflated into a more relaxed posture, and you unlocked the door. Belly split from you as soon as you got to the crowd of people drinking and laughing. She needed a minute alone before she could go back to you or she got caught by Steven.

"Hey, Belly!" Jeremiah was walking over to her, a full solo cup in his hand. He held it out to her, and laughed at the grimace on her face as she looked down at it. "Don't worry, it's just water. I'm driving tonight."

She took the cup, from him and downed about half of the water before handing it back. Her nervousness had dried her throat. Jeremiah just shook his head with a smile. "Wait, how'd you get here? Some creep didn't drag you here, right?" It was Belly's turn to laugh, and she shook her head, explaining she'd come with you.

"Actually, did you see where she went?" Jeremiah squinted, trying to remember if he'd seen you.

"I don't think I've seen her yet, I mean you just got here, right? Maybe Steven knows, he was hanging around by the fire." He responds, turning to go in the direction Steven was.

"No, I don't want him to know I'm here yet." Belly stops him, and Jeremiah frowns but doesn't argue.

"I can ask Conrad." Belly nods, and Jeremiah leaves the cup of water with her as he goes racing off to find his brother.

A few minutes later, Jeremiah comes back, reaching for the water cup back from Belly. He took a long drink before answering Belly's previous question about your whereabouts. "She's actually with him right now. They're over by the water." Jeremiah points towards the ocean in a vague pattern, but Belly thanks him anyway and makes her way down the beach.

However, as Belly got closer, she stopped, trying to register what was happening in front of her. You were kissing Conrad, and clearly so distracted you didn't even notice the tide getting the side of your shoe wet. Your hands were in his hair and his arms were around your waist and Belly felt so upset that she almost didn't notice the man standing a few feet from you drop his cup and walk away.

Steven suddenly appeared with Jeremiah and a girl she hadn't seen before, and she was too frozen to even consider trying to run away before Steven saw her. "Belly, what are you doing here?" Her eyes turned to Steven who was quickly approaching her, she hadn't seen you when you appeared next to her, gently taking her arm and leading her away before Steven got to her.

"Let me go!" Belly tried to pull her arm away from you. You didn't let her go until you were both a safe distance from the crowd on the beach.

"Belly, just breathe." You stood in front of her, and she tried to move around you. "Belly." You blocked her again.

"Just let me go."

"Go where? And who with?" Belly didn't know, she just wanted away from you, and Conrad, and Steven. She didn't know when her tears started falling, or when you hugged her and she fought against your hold until she finally gave up. She let you run your hand up and down her arm to soothe her, you let her cry into your shoulder. "I'm sorry." You whispered.

Belly realized she'd been right, that it had always been you and Conrad. No matter how badly she hoped, it would never be you and her. Maybe she could've changed that if she'd been nicer all those past summers, maybe if she would've matched your efforts to be there, that could've been her you kissed on the beach.

"Let's go home, okay?" Belly nodded, she let you lead her back to your car. Even when you'd gotten home, she let you lead her up to her room, wash the light makeup she had on off her face and laid out a change of clothes. After you'd left her with a 'goodnight', Belly lay awake staring at her ceiling. The summer had just started, she couldn't handle watching you and Conrad all summer. She had barely tolerated it in previous summers. It would hurt worse to see it knowing for certain that you loved him.

She wasn't sure how long she had laid there when she heard stumbling on the stairs followed by a string of quiet curses. She heard you and Jeremiah say goodnight before Jeremiah's door closed and Conrad's swung open, hitting the wall before there was a long pause of silence.

Belly quietly got out of her bed and went to her door, cracking it open just enough to see what was happening. You were backing out of Conrad's room, whispering something she couldn't hear before shutting his door. Belly closed her own door, it wasn't loud, but it was audible. She stood behind her now closed door, listening as you stopped on the other side of it.

"Belly," She didn't respond, she didn't move. She just stood and stared right at the door where your face you be if she opened it. You sighed. "Good night." Belly listened until the sound of your footsteps quieted and your door squeaked shut across the hall.

Belly couldn't fall asleep, even after she had been back in her bed for an hour. She couldn't stop thinking about what she'd seen at the party, what you might've told Conrad before you shut his door, what you probably did the rest of the year when you weren't at the beach house. She wondered if you slept more peacefully than her, not knowing how badly Belly's heart was breaking.

The next morning, Belly didn't want to leave her bed. She didn't want to see you and Conrad, it would just make last night more real. Unfortunately for her, her mother walked in at the exact second she turned away from the door to go back to sleep.

"Belly, you need to get up. It's already late." Laurel sat on the edge of her daughter's bed, pulling the sheets off Belly's head.

"No. Can't I just sleep today?"

"It's summer Belly, go out in the sun, you can sleep tonight." Laurel sighed, standing up and going back to the door. She told Belly that you, Conrad, and Steven had gone to get drinks and muffins. Belly got up then. She thought she could go downstairs, eat something, and escape the house before you got back. Jeremiah was the only one at the time Belly could stand to see without being lectured or heartbroken.

"Finally! I thought I was gonna have to sit out on the surfing competition today." Jeremiah smiled up at Belly as she entered the kitchen, grabbing a box of cereal and a bowl, taking the milk from the counter before Jeremiah could refill his glass.

"I'm not going." Belly said, stuffing a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. Jeremiah rolled his eyes.

"Of course you are, Steven's an unfair judge."

"No I am not!" Steven appeared in the doorway, a box balanced on one arm and a coffee cup in the other. Belly froze, she hadn't made it out in time.

"Yes you are, you give us all twos at best." Conrad followed after Steven with another box.

"That's not true." Steven argues, sliding Jeremiah's cup over to set down the box he carried.

"It so is. Just because we're better than you." Belly didn't look anywhere but her bowl of cereal, your voice was the last one she wanted to hear right now.

"Shut up, just because you went to a fancy camp-"

"No I did not!" You and Steven continued the banter as you set down the drink carriers balanced in your hands. Conrad opened the muffin boxes, mindlessly reaching for one as his eyes full of amusement never once left you and Steven you were now pushing each other.

"Hey! Watch the food, some people are actually hungry." Childishly, Steven stuck his tongue out at Jeremiah, who in turn rolled his eyes.

"Didn't your mom tell you we were bringing muffins?" Belly looked up for the first time since you got back. The boys had left the kitchen with their plates of muffins and drinks.

"Yeah, I didn't want to wait. I thought you'd be longer." Belly lied, putting her bowl in the sink and muttering that she'd come back later to clean it. She quickly left to go back to her room, getting right back into her bed.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at her door before it was gently pushed open. You walked in with a plate of muffins and two drinks balanced in your hands. Walking over to Belly, you held out one of the drinks, sitting next to her. Once Belly had taken the drink, you set the plate down in front of her on the bed.

"I know you're upset with me Belly." She looked at you, pretending not to know what you meant. "I would've talked to you about it last night, but I think it was best we both slept off a bit of emotion before talking." Belly looked away, she wasn't ready to have this conversation yet. Not last night, not now, probably not ever. Her heart couldn't take it. "Talk to me, and if you still hate me after we talk, I'll leave you be."

"Do you love him?" Belly's voice was hardly above a whisper, but you heard, and with a small sigh, you answered, knowing exactly who she was talking about.

"He's my best friend, Belly. He has been for years. There's a thing about a friend like that, that just becomes a part of you and your life. I do love him, very much. But I'm not in love with him and he's not in love with me." You explain gently, eyes never leaving the side of her face.

"So why'd you kiss him?" Belly looked at you, there was a certain sadness in them that broke your heart.

"Because some people don't listen to words like they do actions." That's when Belly remembered the man that had stormed away from you before Steven and Jeremiah showed up. She hadn't thought anything of it when it happened, too focused on her own heart breaking.

"Oh." Belly took a sip of her drink. Maybe she had misread the whole thing.

"You can talk to me Bells." You hadn't called her that before, she wished you would've. She wished you'd keep doing it.

"I like you." Belly blurted before she could talk herself out of it. You smiled at her.

"I know. I like you too." Belly's eyes scrunched in confusion. "I was just waiting for you to figure it out yourself."

"I hate you." Belly smiled then, her face relaxing as you both laughed.

"That's not what you just said."

"No." Belly thought back to all the summers she'd spent with you that led up to now, you laughing in her room. You liked her, not Conrad. "What was that thing you were saying about actions..." She laughed again as you rolled your eyes in fake annoyance.

"What do you want? My muffin? My drink?" This time Belly rolled her eyes and you'd laughed, but she still took the drink, setting both on the night stand beside her.

"I want you to kiss me."

"Okay." You took her face in your hands and kissed her. Belly hadn't realized before, but she lived for this moment. She could've done this all along, had your lips on hers, your hands in her hair, rings pressing lightly against her cheeks, your perfume drowning her in a scent that made everything but you disappear.

When you pulled away, she found herself wishing you hadn't. She didn't want you to stop, and then it hit her that she'd only ever have you in the summer. You lived hours from her, she couldn't go to you whenever she wanted. She had just finally gotten you, and not even three months later, she'd have to let you go.

"I'll come find you." Your voice broke her thoughts.

"What?"

"When summer's over." Belly thought you'd read her mind, you knew the look she had in her eyes. "I'll be there when you need me." She didn't say anything, she didn't want to think about it. Summer had just started anyway, and now she had you. She kissed you again, ignoring your complaint about the muffins that still hadn't been touched. How could she care about those muffins right now when she'd been waiting long enough to finally kiss you?

#belly conklin x you #belly conklin x reader #belly conklin #conrad fisher #jeremiah fisher #steven conklin #the summer i turned pretty x you #the summer i turned pretty x reader

[iwaasfairy]

┌─ “ ! „ TWO OF CUPS .04.

tw. incest, dubcon, coercion, size kink, belly bulge, praise, hair pulling, a lot of emotional bs, jealousy, angst, love triangle wordcount. 7k

part 01 part 02 part 03 fin.

a/n. it has come. the end has come, she's here, it's over and the witch is dead (i'm the witch, this killed me a little inside but i'm very glad to have it finished). as always i would love to hear your interpretations and thoughts about this chapter and story in general because i feel like there's a lot here thats,, up for interpretation and discussion and yea <33 and ty ty ty a million to @seijorhi and @darlingsanzu for beta-ing for me i am in your debt forever and ever

itoshi rin x fem!reader x itoshi sae

He imagines if it were anywhere else, the room would be covered in a thin layer of dust by now. But it isn’t, courtesy of a caring, fretful mother— the room remains in pristine, paled stasis. Instead every old textbook, every picture frame and the ancient soccer jerseys have been dutifully cleaned, and are splayed out in front of him like a near-perfect copy of his childhood. Sae runs his fingers along the length of the desk as he slowly drags himself around the room in a circle, before coming to a halt in front of the bookshelf.

His parents were as surprised as any to see him home, considering he should be ready to head back to Spain soon, with the upcoming season and all. And truthfully, he had been ready to call his bumbling excuse for a manager two days ago. Should’ve landed splayed out in yet another sterile hotel room in a place he doesn’t care to explore hours ago. So he blankly wishes he could play pretend at amazement too. It isn’t very surprising that in his time of uncertainty, he finds himself here- where he used to keep you locked in his arms under thick blankets. He hasn’t been back home in a while. And not unlike other times, there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head.

He picks apart the perfect little shrine of accomplishments of his childhood room by pulling the picture frame up to his face, can’t help but frown at the sight. There’s a younger him -years before he joined Real Madrid- sweaty, sore ankles and exhausted on a bench, and right beside the youthful reflection of his own maroon-haired head, sits a girl a couple years younger. Her cheeks chubby and raised as the beaming smile shines all the way though the flimsy picture paper- and your arms wrapped endlessly tight around his stomach as joyous tears glitter on your lashes.

He won that match, of course, but that uneventful match out of thousands before it wasn’t why the picture landed itself a spot in the middle of his most cherished valuables. You were. The memory of your heart beating into him like a drum, of how it felt to be adored by you. Adoration that had gotten stale years before you’d started giving your all to him— felt different when it came from someone with no deeper motives. When all he’d ever given you was an unending game of playing catch-up.

His hand twitches with the urge to toss the picture back down with the rest of his sentimental crap. He doesn’t bother to put it back in place, pushing it aside for the tiered trophy that looks much too big among his other old belongings. The gold layer gleams in the low light of his room as he takes it off of the shelf, and his frown digs deeper into his face.

But a soft clearing of a throat by the door makes him look up. His mother smiles as she appraises the room, and then him. “I’m making you a protein smoothie. I know you probably won’t stay the night but-”

“I’m driving up to the airport tonight,” he breathes out, trying his best to force the distaste off of his face. His mother nods again, and then steps inside almost cautiously, as if not to disturb the peace of the past. Ironic, Sae thinks, considering. He only came here to do exactly that. Nothing in the Itoshi house is sacred, hasn’t been for years. After a few seconds he plops the trophy onto the desk, and stares down at the woman before him with a deep sigh. “You came in here to say something, right? What’s up?”

You spend enough time with people over the years, you learn their tells. The reddish brunette starts picking at the pictures thumb-tacked above his desk before she speaks. “You stayed over at Rin’s for a few days… We haven't seen either of your siblings in a while.” A pointless starter, because they both know these facts. She’s stalling, tiptoeing around any point worth making.

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes. She could ask about his sudden visit. Or about Rin’s blatant dismissal of going anywhere that you won’t follow. Could ask about what Sae himself did to you. Maybe he’d finally be able to give a straight answer, if she dared. But she doesn’t, and Sae goes back to thumbing through the old photo album tucked away behind a mess of medals. His mother hums.

“You know we’ve tried to raise them to be respectful, and Rin’s shown promise. But your sister—”

Sae’s somewhat of a sadist, he thinks. To everyone around him, but also to himself. Coming here was a surefire way to land himself into shit, and yet... “They’re both in Tokyo and they get along well, mom. What’s the problem with living together?”

“Your father and I think your little sister should start letting you two live your own lives. I know she means well, but isn’t she a little too old to be so- well— you know how she is.” It once again is anything but a compliment. He knows how you are. Sure, folded in angles no brother should ever know his little sister, maybe. It makes a slight breath escape his nose like a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “How else will she ever accomplish—”

“She’s fine! I’m fine, Rin’s fine— and it’s not like you ever cared, anyways. As long as we all hold up your precious standards, you don’t really bother to care, right?” The ticking of his internal alarm reaches zero, as he turns around to stare her down with thinly veiled impatience. “Your constant shit-stirring is what started this whole mess.” No wonder you grew into a codependent ball of emotion. What else could you do than let him kiss your mouth in the peace of night when he begged you to stay. What else could you do than let Rin sink all his problems into the warmth of you.

Your parents don't have the slightest idea of who any of them are, not really. It could hit them in the face and still somehow miss them. It’s almost amusing. 

Her face goes red in the cheeks, sharp eyebrows starting to slant into the irritated grimace that he’s more used to. “What ‘whole mess’? What, what? I’m at fault for being concerned? I would expect you to know by now, Sae. Your little sister’s a needy, unstable girl with no further prospects like you two! And Rin-”

“She probably loves Rin more than you and dad combined ever could. She’s been to every match. Not you, her.” His voice is low and final as he meets the sea blue eyes aimed at him head-on. “And Lord knows no husband will ever look at her like Rin does. But of course you’re too enamored with your ‘perfect children’ bullshit to understand what goes on.” He breezes past the accosted breath of his mother clutching her collar, before walking with long steps towards the door, and letting out a sharp chuckle. “Don’t talk to me about my own little sister. I know who she is.”

+

The street is too bright and prim for his liking, as he walks up the porch toward the building— slowly dragging himself after you as you hesitate at the threshold. Even your absent-minded humming doesn’t make his nerves any less frayed, moving his jaw back and forth when you bury your face back into the papers as if you have any clue what you’re doing. Long enough for his foot to start tapping a rapid rhythm, before he finally nudges your chin up to look up his way. “Hey, we don’t have to do this. You don’t- I…” There’s a distance between you two that seems to grow with each passing second. “This is silly,” he ends on saying, unwilling to dampen the barely-there brightness in your eyes for the first time in days.

Your lower lip juts out as his hand brushes just briefly past your cheek to clear your face, and the wind ruffles the stapled stack of paper. “Daddy told me I should move out of your apartment.” There’s a guardedness that flicks over your face for a second, before you pull out of his reach to start gathering your hair up into a high bun and nod, “there’s two more on my list, you can go home if you don’t want to stay, nii nii.”

Rin’s blue eyes narrow, and he grabs your wrist to pull you back before you can walk away from this. “Hey, forget about what dad says. You don’t have to move out.” The mere idea of having you slip through his fingers presses on his chest, rattling his ribs a little with each breath. It gnaws and claws at the back of his brain hard enough to make him a little dizzy and— and he knows you don’t want this. You can’t possibly think that being alone would somehow be better than being with him. “I never asked you to move out.”

“Niichan,” your voice is small when you dare turn more his way, revealing the wobbly lip as you try to pull your arm out of his reach. He can’t be wrong about that.

“I’m not- I’m not asking, okay? Listen, we’re going home-”

You shake, shoulders and head both. “Why are you making this so difficult? I know I’ve already overstayed my welcome, and you’re too nice to tell me ‘no’. That’s what this is.” No. He isn’t wrong. He knows you- and you couldn’t fake the kindness you give him when he fails the most basic family rules. If anyone imposes… it’s him. With every kiss along your shoulders in the bathroom, or when you let him pull you onto his lap to wind down whenever he damn pleases. His selfishness is the thing that overstayed— for long enough that he can’t even imagine his life without you.

His thoughts might not come out as well in words, but even you must know this much. You aren’t this self deprecating. Before he can find it in himself to care that you two are technically out in the open, he grabs your cheeks on both sides, and lowers himself to press his forehead to yours. He loves you. He loves you so much he could die. He hears, more than sees, how you fumble with the papers in your hands as he keeps you so close to him— opening up that shield for once. There is no world in which he allows it to end with you even further away.

“I want you to stay.” The whisper clearly deals more damage than he intends, because your eyes go glossy as soon as he says it. “Don’t make me beg you.” He pulls back from you just enough to take a breath, but his thumbs stay on your soft skin. You suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, before pulling up your nose and leaning the weight of your head into his one palm. It’s soft, and too gentle -makes him scared to snap you in two with a single move- he thinks it wouldn’t be past him. Sae delivered a serious blow, he knows that. If he wasn’t so green with envy, he’d be able to relate.

After a few more seconds, you faithfully reach to press your mouth to his like you’ve been conditioned to do. And hesitate, staring at the path under your feet. “Okay.” You wrap your arms around his waist— and only leave him aching for more.

Always more, barely getting his gluttonous fill started. Still, it makes his skin tingle with heat, buzzing along his lips. Your fingers lace themselves in his, and he’s only very vaguely aware of the old couple passing you two by with a disgruntled sigh. It makes him pull you protectively close. And a soft, almost fearful chuckle falls past his lips. “You aren’t going anywhere without me, okay?”

+

Rin doesn’t mind having a temper when it doesn’t play him parts. It is what made him the man he is today. When you’re not involved, he even likes it. But though he tries his very best to control himself, his jealousy inevitably ends up catching up to him. Patiently built up through the years— it barely makes it a whole week after Sae leaves before it bloats inside him and starts to rupture. Leaving a sour, sour taste deep in the crevices of his skull.

The apartment is all you when he walks in. It strikes him as you face him with big eyes, that warm at his presence. You’re wearing an oversized shirt that just about covers your ass, and are turning the food around in the pan as your face lights up; and any sane brother would act accordingly, but his brain insists. This is the sight he wants to be greeted with for the rest of his life. Having the one person who can harm you closest, or something. He always was an opportunist, but he thought Sae the selfish one.

It’s almost pitiful that you play your role so graciously. The tongs rattle against the cutting board when you perk up to kiss him, and for a second longer than usual, he keeps you. Ever since Sae, his guilt hasn’t been enough to keep the longing down. It’s karmic punishment, probably. Always stuck treading in the redhead’s footprints. He keeps his mouth against yours until you start getting hot in the face, and start fidgeting with his fingers.

Not that Rin cares. He simply wraps himself around your back and links his arms under your breasts, and knows you won’t protest. The colors of Sae’s barrage on your throat have yet to fade, deep purples and blues that tint yellow at the edges— and asks him to resist the urge to make his own. He truly, truly doesn’t mean to be this way. You’d probably have a breakdown, and he has yet to even touch that can of worms. In your presence, he almost forgets. If he wasn’t so often fucking reminded, maybe he’d be able to rid himself of the shackles he knows are clinking at his ankles.

The brief brush of his lips along your jaw makes you shiver, then you look back at him over your shoulder. “That tickles, nii nii. Stop it.”

“I’m just looking.” The cockettish curl that your lips take on when he raises a single brow is devilishly distracting, hips suddenly pressing much too close to yours— so he averts his eyes, but can’t make himself pull away from you. Instead he talks, trying not to nuzzle into your cheek. When you try to slip out, his hands chase, and trail fingertips along your skin just below the shirt. A shirt he recognizes as Sae’s when trying to hide away in your smell, only to be painfully reminded. After a long breath, he brushes a finger along your throat, resting his chin. “What’s all this?”

He’s sure you’re not naïve enough to miss the question. But you only raise your shoulders the slightest bit, and jut out your lip. “Hmm… I- don’t know.” It’s hardly a lie, convincing exactly no one. You don’t miss a beat though, and focus on the food. “How was the meeting?”

Rin can’t help but frown at the blatant dismissal, but tonight, he’s too tired to care. He’s so fucking sick of letting Sae in, even when he’s not even around. So he strokes your thigh harder, in an attempt to feel more of your heat. “Training this year will be in Germany and France.”

“Oh.” You seem to let out a silent sigh of gratitude as he lets you run, before the situation catches up with you. “Oh. For how long?”

“Three months.” The tone of your voice is distinctly soft, and has his eyes on the tiny drop of your mouth corners. It’s a non-issue, though. Even if he could physically stand it -which he’s not so sure he could, supporting his weight against your smaller body- he wouldn’t want to go. You’re coming, whether you like it or not. “What kind of hotel room do you want?” His instinct is to press another kiss to your cheek, trailing his mouth ever so slowly down to your throat and shoulder — and trying his fucking hardest not to let the whisper send his thoughts down the wrong path.

“Nii nii-”

Too late. It’s much too easy to envision you in the plush covers of his bed, moaning out his name like you did… Like he knows you can, dressed in his shirt instead. Your hips are pressed close to his, and you smell so fucking good, you have his eyes fluttering shut as he repositions his hands to your thighs. He only swallows hard, lets out a deep breath against the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and forces himself to pull his mouth away.

There’s a low, rumbling sort of noise in his voice when he speaks next. “What? You’re coming along, right?” As he glances at the side of your face, he’s awfully aware of the jittery way you’re trying to continue dinner, blushy hot ears and cheeks, and lips puffy and glistening from biting them. It’s fucking unfair. His mind instinctively wanders, and heat pools in his cock and balls too quickly before he manages to take a few deep breaths. “I know you don’t wanna stay here all alone.”

“I don’t. If- If you want me to come, I will,” you nod, and also shiver when his hands softly squeeze in response. “You won’t mind sharing a room with me even in a hotel?”

God, he wants to bend you over and grab you by the collar for being so fucking dense. It’s cute though, too innocent to reason with- it stresses him out as much as it heats his entire body. How could he mind, after two years of sleeping in the same bed as you. “We’re used to it, ‘course I don’t.” You move out of his arms to turn off the stove, and smile, but it doesn’t really seem to reach your eyes. As your hands slide along your neck and shoulders, your posture stiffens, swaying softly on your feet— and Rin sucks his tongue. Those fucking blotchy marks come clear into view again, and they nag. They’re a sore sight, a few breaths away from nauseating.

He can’t help but think you wouldn’t ask the same question to the oldest.

To add insult to injury, you nuzzle into the soft edge of the shirt for comfort, in a way so awfully familiar it makes him feel ill. Why, why, why. His heart rate spikes as he stares at the floor instead. “You spent weeks in a hotel with Sae when he went to train.” It comes out a lot more accusatory than he had in mind, though he tries to hide the bitter tone in his voice. “Can’t be that different.”

“It is different.”

“-How is it any different? Because Sae will abuse your silence in a way that I don’t?” It’s so fucked. Rin knows full well that he isn’t innocent in this situation, not even close. But he hates the way you fist your hands into Sae’s shirt, how you cling to it like a lifeline— not even trying to cover the hickeys he seared into your neck the first second Rin wasn’t looking. Hates it so much that arguing rationally goes out the window. He wants you to love him as much as he loves you; because facing himself makes him sick. There’s nothing in the world more painful than knowing what he feels for you. So fully and deeply to his bone marrow, it squeezes his chest so tight the air barely reaches him.

“W- I just-” your eyes desperately dart around the kitchen for anything to say, “I love niichan, and he- he loves-”

“No, I love you, imouto! I’m the one who cares! He came here to use you and leave, and you’re asking me to pretend like I’m fucking stupid, or blind! I’m not here for you to feel better about being Sae nii’s play thing,” he snaps, having your eyes wide at the outburst, wringing his hands together in shame. Shame at needing to beg to want him, to care. Shame at longing for his own fucking blood in ways he shouldn’t. Shame at how fucking lesser than he feels. It builds and builds until his face feels hot, and Sae’s stupid fucking smug grin flashes in front of his eyes. He wants to tear his own hair out at it, but it wouldn’t even solve anything.

He can’t escape it, as long as he doesn’t have you as a guarantee. You, little, sweet you— stand there so disarmed, seeming so much younger than you are— tear-filled eyes and crossed arms. It’s the same look you’d get when Sae would goad you into stupid fights that you’d inevitably lose, or any time Rin would pretend to hate you as a kid. You almost seem to topple over with the force of the words, and Rin falls quiet. Your pitiful look is all that’s left in Pandora's box. “Don’t… don’t cry.”

Your bottom lip wobbles until your shoulders pathetically start to drop, like a kitten picked up by her neck, and you scrunch your face in a way he’s never had to see before— it shatters any composure he has left. “I can’t not…” your voice sinks to a whisper, a sad little whimper. “I don’t know- wh-how. I’m sorry, I don’t get you two. I don’t get it— I just can’t- have you leave me too. Don’t leave, nii nii.”

Silvery tracks run all over your cheeks, your chin, down your neck before you finally dare look at him again, and beg. “Please, I’ll do anything you want, I just- Can’t handle it if you leave- hck- Please, Rin. Anything you want, I just- don’t make me go without you too.”

Your hand hovers halfway between grabbing for him and falling short, as you cry- for him. For him to stay, and ask him to, for maybe the first time, give his feelings a chance. Selfishly, so fucking selfishly, it blossoms inside him with a prideful glow. It dismantles him and rebuilds him from the ground up all at once, has his heart beating out of control against the same rib cage that shouldered his guilt, before he manages to peel his tongue from the bottom of his mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere…” his voice manages, almost cracking along with the tremble in his hands as he places them on your sides, sliding to your waist.

The physical, emotional turmoil instantly ebbing away when you crash yourself into his chest, is almost sickening. It doesn’t matter though, not to him, not when he lifts you up into his embrace and your legs wrap around his waist, letting him rest his face against your throat and allowing you to burrow yourself into his arms. “I’m sorry. Your big brothers love you, I promise. I love you. I’m never leaving.” The way you cling to him gets tighter, as if forcefully anchoring you to his chest— and he takes it as space enough to nudge his face up into your view and brush noses in the process. He should feel more guilty. He knows Sae, and he knows you- and despite what the other man might think, Rin has no illusions of being a saint.

Rin knows that Sae told you whatever string of lies that stuck best, asked you to lay down under him and come undone, and you did so without a second thought. And though he hates that thought, it isn’t born out of the goodness of his heart. He wants you to be his, and only his. The brush of his face along yours makes you shiver, and softly shake your head- but he can’t help it. He can’t do you one better than Sae did. His lips hover yours, lashes fluttering under low lids as the salty taste of your tears gets between you. His hand raises to your neck, letting you arms and legs support yourself against him as he pulls you in, and whispers. “Kiss me back.”

+

The small, rounded window reflects back his own face against the dark sky, tipping the dark liquid around the glass in disinterest. First class feels awfully plain now, he almost laughs, sliding the glass along the bar. A pretty, blonde flight attendant passes by, swinging her hips as she tops up the other man’s glass with a smile and deposits another bottle by their sides. Sae doesn’t bother to look up as he fiddles with the fine chain in his pocket.

“Come on, prodigy boy… we’ve got two more hours to kill.” Michael’s small smirk grows when he tosses another few ice cubes into his glass, and tops himself up even further. “Don’t tell me you’re already tuckered out.” The chain slips between his fingers a little as he pulls it out— and lets out a long, pinched breath. Long lashes brush his cheeks as his eyes narrow, and the gold-plated necklace lands in his palm. He pops the small square open.

Even printed so small, your taste is mirrored back onto his tongue, and sets the hairs on his neck on end.

Michael barely gives him a momentary glance, before taking a sip, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t know you were religious.”

“I’m not.” His thumb brushes ever so briefly over the face in the picture, before he snaps it closed again. And the white blond raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask, for once. Maybe he knows the answer won’t satisfy any of his curiosity. Doesn’t matter to Sae. The whites and oranges of the airplane make light spots in the layer of fog outside— and he raises the glass to his lips after all. He wants to groan and yell until he drowns out the noise. Maybe punch something too.

His life has been a string of unfortunate sacrifices… so why. Why is this one any different? The slightly sweet tone under the bourbon hits the back of his throat, and he rests his forehead on the cool bar in hopes of getting a clearer head. Instead of clearing anything, his thoughts start crawling to the forefront again. He thinks of the flow of your hair between his fingers, and the way you say his name. He doesn’t miss home. Doesn’t miss Japan. He just misses the warmth in his chest when he’s able to return to you. God, he hates his pitiful, sentimental crap.

He wonders if Rin’s finally made a move.

+

Your mouth is completely occupied as Rin crawls over you and slides a leg aside to fit his hips against yours— your hands sliding into his hair when you roll back your head with a soft squeak to catch your breath. “Rin, Rin- I don’t think we should- do this.”

Your clothes are discarded by his feet and your pliable body laid out before him as your legs brush his. He shivers as your breath brushes over his cheek, and makes him want to clench his eyes shut to escape it- but he can’t. Never could before, and it’s no different now. He’s entranced by the rise and fall of your chest even under your hands that keep the slightest sliver of modesty. Not like he hasn’t seen all of you before, right?

He allows for a few breaths before he needs to be back to your mouth, opening your lips with his and connecting tongues— and almost knocks teeth with yours in his excitement to get closer. Your tongue on his tastes so good, melting every warm, desperate feeling and slipping it down his throat. Now your palms go to grasp his waist instead, brushing over the exposed skin to squeeze. “Rin.” He’s barely clear headed enough to pull back to cast a glance at you, and he grunts out your name. His face moves to your tits instead, grabbing and licking at every inch of skin that he can, and you whimper. “St-Listen to me. I think- we can’t.”

He can’t listen. His mouth slots over your nipple to bite at it, and you go to grab a handful of his hair with desperate, flexing and unflexing hands. Your chest raises into his touch and the licking and sucking, and it sets everything in his head up in flames. You’re no longer the little sister he wanted to protect. Not when you’re withering in his lap and grinding yourself against him like a slut, begging with fluttering lashes for his cock to drive home. Fuck. “Rin nii~” you whine, your lips are puffy and glistening. “Hmph, listen~” Fuck fuck fuck, he wants to have you crying out his name until it’s carved into his brain.

“What?” he finally manages to breathe back, skipping his hand along your naked thigh. His heart is about to beat out of his chest with you under him, rocking the couch when he raises himself above you. But can you blame him? He’s never been so fucking hard in his life, unable to think of anything but the softness of your body under him, and the taste of you. He slides up to tilt you back more and lets his eyes fall to your naked body again. Maybe he should be used to it by now. Used to you. But everything about you makes his body feel like a balloon that’s about to pop— and he sucks his tongue, fighting the urge to drool over all of you. “What?” he repeats again, eyebrows raising.

Rin realizes a split second before you speak that he doesn’t want to know, sees it in the pitiful look of your half-lidded eyes. But you’re too honest for your own good. “I never told you- that niichan touched me. I’m sorry. I said that we couldn’t- but- but niichan didn’t listen to me. And now he doesn’t like me anymore.” Too fucking honest for your own good. His stupid, pretty little sister splayed out in his fucking lap. How naïve are you? Instead of any solid thoughts crossing his mind, his mouth simply falls open a sliver, and he stares. If he didn’t already believe you… he would probably laugh. “I know I did a bad thing. I’m sorry.” Your lip wobbles, and you pull his hand to your chest to cling onto him. His temperature reaches a boiling point, flushing his brain with red.

“It is bad.” He nudges your face up to his with a soft sigh, and then presses several kisses along your lips. “If you’re gonna do this with anyone, shouldn’t it be me?” He could say that he will regret the way you look up at him with a thousand stars in your eyes. But that would be a lie. He’s out of guilt. His spine tingles with longing, face hot, his cock and balls thumping. It’s impossible to think of anything else. He kisses you again, letting your moans and whimpers drown out anything else, and moves to sit onto the couch. Then he pulls back only to pat his lap, and raises a brow at you as you search his face with your eyes. “Sit here, on your big brother’s lap. Hurry.”

You only hesitate for a few seconds, before he asks a little more sternly, and has you moving. “Do you have any clue how badly I’ve wanted you? Every time I look at you, you look so fucking good. So soft and sexy.”

“Don’t say that stuff,” you squeak, but you don’t fight him.

“I always want you,” Rin simply continues, as you lay your legs on his strong thighs with a pout, “you get my cock so fucking hard, see?” You do see, licking your lips as you take a deep breath and your hips roll against him instinctively. Your hands thread together behind his head, and Rin’s gotta focus so fucking hard not to start fucking the plush of your thighs. “Open your mouth.” He grunts when sliding his long fingers over your tongue, collecting enough spit to coat his fingers.

While his cock bops impatiently against your stomach, he’s transfixed on the embarrassed look in your eyes, and your whimpers as he pulls back. Truly, he’d like to spend hours exploring. And another couple hours giving you back the pure torture you put him through for the last two years. But he can’t, not when his cock is brushing its flushed head all along the belly and smearing pre-cum all over you. “Normally I’d ask you to put your mouth on it,” he grunts, free hand sliding along your cheek and taking a handful of hair, “but you’d have to keep a mouth full of cum.”

“Niichan, don’t-” you whine again, humming when the tug on your hair lingers between painful and pleasurable, “don’t say that~”

He can’t help but grin, licking a long stripe up your chest to your neck, and placing sloppy kisses on the skin. “You don’t like knowing that your big brothers want to fuck you? That you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger?” You mewl when he leaves a bite on your soft skin, before moving his hands to your ass and sliding one down between your legs. Your pussy’s already dripping despite your protest, has him slipping two fingertips inside and curling his hand up into you. He can’t fucking resist. It eats him up from the inside, mouth corners again twitching up. “I think you do like it. I think your pussy’s all-” His fingers fuck up into the soft walls of you, “-fucking-” again and again, leaving you panting, “-mine.” He probably shouldn’t find so much glee in it.

“Mhph,” your fingers dig into his shoulders, and your bottom lip is squeezed between your teeth, before you lean down to kiss him. Soft, almost sweet kisses, if not for the way your body grinds back into his palm and you whine softly like an animal in heat. It’s so fucking cute. It has his cock pulsing as he takes a breath, and looks at the sloppy way you leave his hand.

“Move up,” he quickly mumbles, kissing you back once before your thighs rise and he wipes his fingers on your slicked up mound, then slotting them into his mouth. He can’t even resist moaning out a rumbly, gravelly call of your name before he grabs two hands of your ass and helps you up. “Fuck, you’re so-” everything. If anyone had ever told him he’d be this weak over another person, he would’ve laughed. “Gonna fill you up, finally, f-finally gonna feel your little cunt squeeze around me.” His forehead rests on your chest for a second, placing a few lazy kisses on your tits, before he looks up. And though you look awfully flushed, embarrassed and heated- with teary eyes and puffy, bitten lips- you still run a hand through his hair and along his neck.

Then he lines up and moves you down onto him, and the first touch is all he needs to start feeling cotton fill up his brain. Your pussy takes him so well, sliding inch by excruciating inch onto his cock, and whimpering every second of it— you look spent well before he slides you down the last bit and your walls clench around him hard enough to knock the air out of him. He never thought you that small, but the way you struggle to take him, shaking on your legs and letting out every mewled thought, is so fucking hot. He loves you. Rin’s a sister fucker, and he’s never felt so fucking good in his life.

“Oh, fuck. You’re so tight- t-tiny little pussy… Holy-fuck, ugh—” You’re so warm, and soft, and he can’t help himself. He’s pushing you over onto your back before he can think of it, and places both hands besides you. Wide shoulders cover your view until you’re forced to hang on as he pulls back and fucks back in hard.

The slaps that fill the house as he pumps his thick, heavy cock into you are a melodic dream, making you whine and moan and dig your fingers and nails into his back. “Rin niichan, ah, ah, ahhh- I love you- I love you— ah, l-love you~” He fucks into you without abandon, letting his cock fuck right into the soft, spongey part of your walls and filling you right up. The rhythm he sets is hard and deep, and shakes the couch around enough to hear it groan. But he’s lost in the way your body curls, and you lift your chest to his, head thrown back— and almost choke on your teary whimpers. “F-feels- so gud- ah, I- I’m sorry. Mom, dad, I’m sorry. I love my— big brother!”

It’s like a beast that his balls clap against your ass and his one hand finds purchase between you two to toy with your nipples as he pants. His balls ache, with every wet gush of slick that collects between your two bodies it drives him further into you, fucking the head of his cock deeper and more precicely into you. He can see his cock slide in and out through your belly. It’s vile- in a way that makes everything feel blank, pleasurable and tingling down his spine. “Can you rub your clit for me,” he breathes, and kisses you, sucking on your tongue when you oblige with shaky hands. “Uhuh, such a good little sister. The best- b-best fucking hole, ugh-fuck.”

“Nii nii, I’m close.”

He’s burning through you, losing himself in the pleasure of filling you up all the way as your fingers flit over your puffy clit like he knows you like. He could do it for you if he wasn’t so desperately trying to keep himself from blowing his load, feeling the muscles in his legs, back and shoulders flex as he chases that peak. “Gonna cum? You gonna cum?” Your rapid nodding, paired with the grinding of your hips and your back curling off the couch is enough to have him kissing your pouty lips again, and keeping that same exact punishing rhythm even as your pussy squeezes him tight enough to keep him in you— grunting. You’d be able to kill him here and he’d go happy. “Oh, fuck— so good, so fucking good-”

He can feel you fall over the edge before he sees it, and despite the best of efforts, cums together with you as you cling so hard to his shoulders you’ll leave marks. You cum on his cock as hot ropes of white fill up your clenching pussy, dripping a mess out of your shared orgasms as he shudders on top of you and only stills completely when your moaning goes into a pitched little whine, and then a deep breath of his name. “Rin nii~” you pout, rubbing your palms along his sides a few times. It looks like you want to say something, but can’t find the words, and it warms him from the inside out. But he pulls back a little, cock still awfully hard inside you, and his hand cups your cheek.

“Can you go again? I wanna go again.” Then his lips land on yours, pressing loving kisses all over your face, cheeks, your nose, and you let out a little giggle. “And again, and again, and again.” For the first time in a while, Rin finds himself completely, utterly happy. And not a single thought is out of place.

+

Sae’s staring up at the ceiling of his fancy apartment as he starfishes the bed, and the slow rings have him rolling onto his side. The phone beeps, before going into voicemail again. And he frowns. Your name blinks back at him as he pulls back, and the soft tone of your message rings through the device.

“Hey, I- you don’t normally miss calls… Must be pretty busy over there, huh? This is the third voicemail I’m leaving within two days.” He rights himself to stare out the window of his pristine Barcelona apartment, and runs a hand through his bangs with a click of his tongue. “I uh- I shouldn’t have left without a word. I was- well, I don’t know. I miss- you, I guess.” His air gets a little stuck in his throat, and needs a cough to get going. “Anyways, call me back when you hear this. Niichan’s gonna be playing in the World cup. Tell Rin to get his ass into the lineup already.”

And then, after a long breath, “tell him he kinda owes me.”

FIN

Thank you so much for reading my series to the end, i have so much love for these three and i will miss it and them :'>>

All Rights Reserved © IWAASFAIRY 2023. Works are exclusive to this Tumblr.

#blue lock smut #blue lock x reader #blue lock rin #itoshi rin x reader #blue lock sae #itoshi sae x reader #bllk smut #tw.incest #tw.jealousy #🥧rin.chan #💫ch.rin #🥧sae.chan #💫ch.sae #🍯honey.pot

[queenie-avenue]

Hey! I saw your post about the requests and was wondering if you could write a story about Sebastian and a female MC, which contains a lot of angst ( with a happy ending ) maybe about a huge misunderstanding with jealousy on MC’s side and all is good in the end? :)

Thank you!! 💚

You're so pretty, it hurts.

—> he's so popular he can barely give you the time of day now.

⤻ reader is a female, reader's house is not specified, reader is insecure, reader is easily jealous/a bit clingy, angst with a happy ending but it's like more internal turmoil than straight up arguing, jealousy, all characters are in their sixth year, ominis is the best wingman, mentions of the events in hogwarts legacy, sebastian is on the quidditch team as a beater

note: i know that sebastian is canonically unfit, and i love him for it, but i think he would be good as a beater. thank you for the ask, btw anon! <33 keep them coming!

🦋 ⤻ archives.

Ever since the events of last year, you and Sebastian weren't that close anymore. He had promised things would be the same, but a part of you felt like Sebastian blamed you for the events that happened in your sixth year. You blamed yourself too, to be honest. If only you had been more persistent, if only you had been more persuasive, Sebastian wouldn't have lost his sister and uncle.

You still dream about the hollow eyes of Solomon Sallow, at times. Regretting how you did nothing to stop Sebastian from going down the path of evil.

Although you and Sebastian did not talk that much anymore, you still heard whispers about him. Well, technically they weren't whispers given how everyone was speaking about him to the point the whispers grew into a buzz that you could not fizz out from your brain. Your dearest slytherin boy had decided to try out for the quidditch team this year now that Professor Black finally allowed the darn sport to be played. Ominis told you — yes, Ominis and not Sebastian — that Sebastian wanted a way to let loose that anger inside him, he hoped that being a beater would help with his issues, get his mind off things.

That seemed to work, given how little he seemed to think of you nowadays.

Even now, as you sat in the library, you heard giggles from girls who thought that Sebastian looked rather dashing in the quidditch uniform or how some guys were jealous of the attention Sebastian was getting. Even some guys fancied the slytherin boy too.

You slammed your book shut and practically stormed out from the library. "A library is meant for studying, not gossiping." You muttered, overcome with jealousy, ignoring the fact that you had been gossiping with Poppy just weeks ago.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

You stood at the side of the quidditch field, staring up at the sky as the slytherin team flew overhead, practicing drills for next week's match with hufflepuff.

"You know, this would be much easier if you talked to him." Ominis said, interrupting the gawking session you were currently undergoing. You had invited Ominis over to the quidditch field in an attempt to make things less awkward when Sebastian would eventually descend from the sky back onto the green patches of grass.

You stood there alongside with Ominis, making small talk as you stared up into the sky — your eyes almost being burnt off by the afternoon sun — as you look at Sebastian flying up there.

His hair riding against the waves of the wind, the curls flapping like a bird's wings, the way all the worries in his chocolate eyes flutter away when he rides on the broom, going against the current of the wind. He looks happier, happier than he was throughout the remainder of fifth year and you can't help but feel jealous and left out. You wished you could make him that happy, so joyous that all his frustration seemed to melt away like snow when spring slowly came to reap.

Insecure thoughts plagued your mind as you played with your fingers, your head slowly dipping as it now paid more attention to the ground and dirt rather than the glorious sight that was Sebastian Sallow.

You didn't even notice when he landed and began speaking.

"[y/n]! [y/n]!" Ominis' voice brought you out of your daydream, and your eyes immediately snapped up to be met with those eyes.

"Hey." Sebastian's smirk was brighter than the sun.

Hey? Was that all he would say to you after avoiding you for the better part of the first two months of the year? "Hi." You replied dismissively, looking away. Ominis seemed to sense your apprehension as he nudged you. Poor Ominis, really.

"What are you guys doing here?" Asked Sebastian as he reached out to grab your shoulder but you simply moved away.

You would have paid to see that look on his face again.

"Just watching the show." You shrugged as you looked over at the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team that had landed. Imelda seemed to shoot a particularly dirty look at Sebastian for riding away from them. "You did well. I saw you." You commented rather stiffly.

"Yeah well, training will do that to you. I can finally walk up the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower without running out of breath!" He laughed and you responded with a polite chuckle.

Then you both just stared at one another.

"Confident about the game?" Ominis asked, attempting for what seemed like the millionth time to help with the relationship.

"Yeah." Sebastian said rather cockily, looking like the fifth year you first met. "We're going to pummel hufflepuff, just you wait." You smiled at that.

Just then, one of the other beaters, a rather tall girl practically ambushed Sebastian, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "Oh Ominis, and the new fifth year!" She said, but all you could focus on was how chummy she was with Sebastian.

"I'm a sixth year now, actually." You corrected, perhaps a bit too sharp.

"Hah, yeah, sorry. You just made an impression was all, the whole defeating Ranrok thing." The girl smiled and you could tell she was genuine in her awe of you but your eyes kept glancing over at where Sebastian and her made contact. You had no claim over the boy but you felt like your heart was shattering into glass pieces as he returned her side hug.

"We should probably head back to doing drills, before Imelda burns a hole in either of our heads." Sebastian commented, his eyes drifting towards you intently.

"You will be watching us during the match, right?" The boy confirmed, looking at you with anticipation.

You were almost tempted to make a snide remark about how he didn't need you anymore given the fact that he had a whole team and school of people who wanted to be near him.

All you did was give a simple nod before excusing yourself, not wanting to have your heart broken further.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

As he soared through the winds, your eyes still remained on him and only him. You didn't even know whether or not Slytherin was winning. You could hardly care for anything else other than the triumphant look on his face every time he blocked or parried a bludger. God, maybe a bludger to the head would help see sense and just speak to you properly about why he was acting so strangely.

You barely registered it when they announced that Slytherin had won the match, only realising it when Sebastian practically tumbled to the floor, thrown onto it by the same girl you had been so jealous of the other day.

Sebastian smiled at her and lifted her up into the air, his eyes brighter than ever.

Had he ever looked at you that way?

You wanted to puke, you wanted to scream, but you couldn't. Not here. Maybe because of your pride but the moment his eyes met yours, you dashed. Skirts fluttering in the wind as you ran and ran, practically sliding down towards the edge of the black lake. With no one there other than the mermaids at the bottom of the lake, you sank towards the ground.

Perhaps it was a bit dramatic but you were a teenage girl and you saw your crush embrace another girl like it was nothing. You think you had the right to be dramatic.

You sat down, not caring about whether or not the dirt or water would stain the fabric of your skirt. You didn't care much about anything except the way Sebastian looked so happy without you.

Had avoiding you really made him that more relaxed?

You curled up, holding your knees close to your chest as you fought back tears.

The sun had set by the time you finally regained enough sanity to wonder whether it was time to head back to the castle.

Before you could have any other rational thought, you heard the rustles behind you, your wand raised and pointed at the intruder only to see a boy with freckles dotted all over his face raising up his hands. His forehead was marred with sweat, cheeks red and mouth panting as he stared at you.

"Where the bloody hell were you!" He practically screamed, causing you to lower your wand.

"Well, I'm here, as you can tell." You didn't mean to make his worries seem like a joke but it just slipped out.

"I was-" he panted. Despite how fit his arms had gotten, Sebastian still couldn't run well, it seemed. "I was looking for you everywhere! I thought you went to go fight Ashwinders, or something! I was scouring the entire place for you." He said, approaching you and grabbing hold of your shoulders, shaking you like a mad man as he looked into your beautiful [e/c] eyes. "Don't- Don't scare me like that. Please." He begged.

"I- I didn't mean to." You replied, shocked at how emotional Sebastian suddenly was.

"Please don't do that again. You know I lost her, I can't lose you too." He said and you knew he was obviously referring to Anne and you felt pity for him, but you also felt annoyed. You wanted to push him away as he embraced you, his sweat smearing all over your dirt-stained clothes.

"If I'm so important to you," you started, "why have you been avoiding me?" You finally let your emotions spill out as you caressed the side of Sebastian's face, eyes leering over his prominent freckles. You had once joked they looked like constellations but really, Sebastian was as bright as a star. "You kept running away from me," your hands gently touched his skin, enjoying the texture of the slight stubble he had shaved. "You didn't talk to me, I thought I did something wrong."

"You did nothing wrong." Sebastian cut in.

"Then tell me why."

"It was- I couldn't help it. I was terrified. I know you promised to always be by my side. But I was so scared I'd disappoint you, I wanted to better myself. At the start of the year, throughout the holidays, I kept having the urges to use dark magic. I knew I might cave in and use it and I- I didn't want you to see me when I eventually failed." Like you, it seemed Sebastian was finally spilling out everything he ever wanted to say. "It was so stressful." He whispered, head buried in your chest.

Honestly, if it wasn't for the fact the mood was so emotional, you would have thought Sebastian was trying to cop a feel.

"It didn't look stressful earlier when she hugged you." You thought aloud.

"Is that what you're upset about?" Sebastian asked, looking up from your hug.

"Ngh.." you groaned, not wanting to admit your jealous tendencies but Sebastian simply smirked as he wrapped an arm around your waist knowingly.

"I just needed a way to vent out all that stress. Ominis suggested Quidditch so I gave it a try. I just wanted to be better for you." He whispered. "You like more athletic guys, don't you? The way you look at the Gryffindor boys when they fly tells me a lot." He said, expressing his own envy.

"I don't like other boys, I just like you." You left those words hanging in the air.

"I was scared I wouldn't be. That if I caved, you would leave, like Anne did." He said, his grip on your waist tighter now.

"Even if you fell back into dark magic, I'd be there to pull you out. I would never abandon you." You emphasised, holding Sebastian closer.

"But it wouldn't sit right with me. I wanted to let you go, that's why I didn't respond to your letters all that much during the holidays, I thought you deserved some better." He said, blurring the lines between your relationship. "But when I saw you on the first day... I just couldn't. I wanted to be selfish. But I knew I didn't deserve you, so I wanted to become someone who did."

"You were always enough." You told the slytherin boy, bending down to press a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm getting better. I don't- the urges for dark magic aren't there anymore. Whispers tempting me but when I look at you, they all disappear." He admitted, one of his hands reaching up to brush your lips, taking in the curve of your eyelashes, the blush on your cheeks and finally the way your lips were pursed. "All I think of when I see you," he breathed, inching closer, "is just how much I want to be with you." He admitted.

He was getting closer and closer until there was barely a centimetre between the both of you.

His lips were so soft.

Both of you tumbled to the ground in a passionate embrace as your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist. It felt like forever as he continued kissing you, giving you only a bit of space to breathe before he dived back into your lips, wrestling your tongue like if he didn't taste it, he may die. His hands travelled up, bunching around your hair as he tugged softly, causing noises of ecstasy to escape from your lips.

"Sebastian." You called.

"[y/n.]" He responded as he pushed his lips harsher into yours.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he pulled away. His eyes bore into yours, the reflection of you sparkling in his.

"Trust me, you are enough for me." You whispered as you pulled him into a chaste kiss, something sweeter than the desperate first kiss both of you had.

"You'll never leave my side?" He asked.

"Never." You smiled.

Sebastian's tense expression finally loosened as he kissed you again. "I suppose we can't exactly call each other friends anymore, can we?" He chuckled as he dived back into another kiss.

"Yeah, and that also means you can't let anyone else hold you like this. Even your quidditch team." Sebastian laughed at your words.

"With how jealous you are, I'm surprised this didn't happen sooner."

He kissed you again and it felt like heaven.

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow imagine #hogwarts legacy #harry potter #ominis gaunt #anon ask

[lovelykhaleesiii]

I love Egg/chubby Aegon. I feel that it is so attractive. 😭 But hey, this morning at university I came up with a TOTALLY DISTURBING AND GROSS idea. I would love for you to accept this request and write to my tough, horny, BIG DICK Aegon together with a young wife (Helaena lives happily in the country with a man who loves her) redhead and "fragile" high on Dornish herbs begging her husband totally horrified at the idea of ​​sharing a bed with her husband's brother in the face of his lord's infertility. ‼️I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE.

I'm so sorry for my English, it's horrible.

we are the same, chubby Egg is god-tier to me 😫🥵 getting flustered just thinking of him!!

apologies this took me forever to respond to, I appreciate you sending in the request (& your English is fine) 💖 hope you enjoy x

Splendid Husband, Obedient Wife.

PAIRING: chubby!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Reader x Aemond Targaryen.

WORDS: 3,864.

WARNINGS: mentions of infertility, oral (female) receiving, p in v sexual intercourse, swearing, hint of cheating (?), mentions of alcohol abuse, NSFW.

A/N - gosh I hope you really like this, I got sooo carried away in the fic so apologies it turned out long, but I found my way back!!! idk why but since having a mini hiatus, I feel a little nervous writing, but here we are!! enjoy lovely x

These past few, joyous months had been memorable yet fleeting. Betrothed to the Prince himself, Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, neither of you could've imagined how overly satisfied you would have been with each other upon meeting. Aegon was breath-taken by you the moment he caught you lonesomely wandering through the stony, ancient castle corridors, meeting you hours before the scheduled feast. You were taken aback by your husband to be, having heard viper-quick whispers, his notorious reputation preceding him, initially made you doubtful the union would survive prior to having met the man. Although, Aegon had quashed such vile allegations with much determination.

He was tender when it came matters relating to you, not wishing to cause unnecessary haste and spectacle, he was surprisingly quite grounded. If he could avoid conflict, he would, you both rarely got into arguments since he always listened to your opinions, always probing and advocating for your to speak and voice your concerns or judgements. His persona quite charming and meek with you, exterior wise, he did impose more of an oppposing effect, which also could've explained why you remained so guarded during the initial acquaintance stage. He seemed rather ruggard and rough, his Targaryen blonde hair remained short and unkempt, unlike his younger brothers. The Prince over the years had also developed a larger frame, despite having kept up with regular combat training, his gluttonous appetite to feast and drink was far more impressive, than any other young man in court. If you were being frank, it was actually appealing to you: it made him look brute, convincing you he was a force not to be reckoned with, and it seemed many shared this mutual belief, for no one dared to openly spare with Aegon in the training yard nor during council meetings.

He was rather a splendid husband, and an even more seasoned lover.

He did confess, during his youth and prior to meeting you, he did spend most of his lonely nights in the carnal company of whores and prostitutes. Hearing widespread rumours, even before your betrothal, of the Prince having sired bastards with these unknown women, you'd never come to see of any 'proof' for Aegon did not relish in speaking nor rekindling of such desolate memories.

"I was in a terrible place, my dearest. And I know, that is no valid excuse for how I acted nor carried myself, and yet I somehow ended up so lucky... With you."

He was not proud of such dark endeavours, upon thorough reflection and now being a married man devoted to his wife, Aegon was regretful of his youthful decisions. Although, during such a dark time in his life, he did not think it possible for someone to love him. To genuinely love him, without any political agenda nor catch to the arrangement. And despite, your betrothal being arranged between two highborn houses, undeniably, your love naturally blossomed like a lily in the spring.

However, unsurprisingly, people often spoke quietly, amongst themselves, yet harshly of your union. Always eager to stir the pot, and with time having passed since the exquisite marriage ceremony, the target was you.

"It has been three long months, Aegon, and your wife is still not yet with child." His discerning mother provoked: Alicent conditioned from a young age, believed this to be a serious concern that she'd often expressed amongst you three in private.

Since the viscous rumours began to spread like sprouts of weed amongst the court, Alicent had been even more persistent with her eldest son to conceive an heir with you. And although, the sex with Aegon was far from scarce, you had not yet fallen pregnant, which eventually made you anxious, as to whether your body was capable to breed. The question that poisoned your mind, was whether the culprit of infertility was Aegon, himself, or you…

“And how are we to figure this out, Aegon? For all I know, I may be the rotten spouse, useless in performing her wifely duties. They’ll have you marry another, more vibrant, more fertile lady, as you toss me aside out of sight and mind,” You tensely spat, carefully seating yourself down by the foot of the king-sized bed, your mind anxiously pondering over your dreaded future. You had an awful habit of picking and biting your nails, and Aegon had grown familiar with this, a blatant sign of distress.

Hastily he knelt before you, his large, rough hands gripped over yours, to stop you from picking at yourself, his touch halting your haste train of thought.

“We shall figure this out, my dearest. Trust… I will find a solution. You need not to worry of what others think, nor would I ever think to discard you in such a way. You are mine, as I am yours. I am bound to you till the end of time.”

A faint, half-hearted smile beams against your tender face, as you focus and cup Aegon’s portly, familiar face. To think of the possibility, that you might be the reason hindering Aegon from having children of his own, pains your heart achingly and yet, through the adversity, he remains still unfalteringly by your side. The fears settle for now, as a warm calm washes over your body, tears that had initially swelled in your eyes from sadness, now shed with the relief of joy, as you plant a soft kiss on Aegon’s forehead. You have faith in your husband, as he remains devoted to you. You trust that Aegon’s determined nature, he will find a way to give you a child, whether the Gods deemed it natural or not…

****

“Aegon, dearest, you cannot be serious? I truly hope you realise, what you are asking of me!” You frustratingly shout, as Aegon storms towards you in a haste, his hands gesturing for you to quieten down, as he takes a quick glance towards the main door, before focusing his attention solely on you.

“Y/N, you and I both know this is the only way we could ever really know if either I am the problem or there may be something hindering you from carrying. It’s either this or I sleep with another woman. And I swore even before our marriage, I would never even think to look at another... And besides, if you happen to fall with child, the resemblance would be uncanny! No one would ever know besides us three, and it shall remain that way, right brother?-”

Instinctively, both Aegon and yourself gradually turned to face Aemond, who remained silently and comfortably seated on the opposing end of the room, near the active fireplace. He seemed distracted in his own deep thoughts, as his gaze lingered across the dancing orange flames, the shadows and light perfectly outlining the sharp details and silhouette of his face. Aegon called for him again, managing to snap the younger back to reality facing your direction. A stoic look remained donned across his handsome face, although his eye remained fixated on you.

"Yes. Of course. Not a living should shall hear of such... Treason," Aemond teasingly uttered, a sly smirk appearing on his face, as he playfully fiddled with some sort of stone in his long fingers. His eye turned from Aegon, to you before resuming the direction of the flames once more. He seemed unphased and yet he did not disagree to such an unlawful scheme.

Why that was, you could not say with certainty. Perhaps this could be something he could hold over Aegon's head, which only infuriated you more. Potentially passing his bastard son as Aegon's rightful heir... It was dangerous, although the only viable option. The pressure of the realm, the tiresome burden of the expectations felt all too real these past few weeks, and this option was the only source of relief.

"And what if I do not fall pregnant, then what, Aegon? You would have no use of me, I would mean nothing to you. You have sired bastards before with unknown women, why not yet with me-"

"Don't say that-" One hand immediately stretched out reaching over towards yours that dangled hopelessly by your side, and his other reaching over towards your flustered cheek, his thumb grazing over your soft skin.

His height, although not as tall as his youngest, still towered over your polite frame. The distance now closed, you could examine the heartache struck across his face, as his glistening, lilac eyes lingered over you.

"Don't you ever speak those words again. You mean everything to me. With or without a child, Y/N, I shall love you always. You are mine. Mayhaps I have had a few children, although that was when I was young and futile, perhaps the drinking has rendered me impotent..."

You remain defeated in silence, engraining Aegon's sincere words into the core of your troubled mind, although feel another lingering gaze peering towards you. Hesitantly you turn ever so slightly towards Aemond direction, only to notice he'd been observing you both intently the entire time, his head slightly tilted in your direction, you'd caught him watching from his peripheral vision. You couldn't help but notice a sorrowful hint across his face, the smirk that had once eagerly occupied his lips, now disappeared, remaining pursed, before his eye dropped towards the view of the stony, cold floor.

"Y-You promise you'll stay with me," Your voice softly broke, as you choked against your words. Hot tears began to swell in your eyes, for you felt the guilt of betrayal fester in the pit of your stomach. Aegon would argue that this be a lesson for his past transgressions, and yet he did not disprove nor fight... He accepted what needed to be done.

"I promise, baby. It'll just be like how we always do it, okay?" His hand that cupped your face, now gently gripped your chin, as his thumb traced over your bottom lip. His sweet, upturned smile gleaming on his face, as he stroked away the few tears that managed to stream down.

"You may prepare yourself however you need to brother, I'll get her ready."

****

Aegon stayed true to his word, he mindfully eased you into the act. Wanting to warm your body up for the hopeful conception, undressing you, soothing you into the mindset to fuck.

"Such a good, good girl for me, so obedient."

He breathlessly whispered, in between each passionate kiss. His larger frame hovered atop of yours sprawled against the wide, soft bed. His trousers remained on, however his chest bare, his fleshy tummy pressed against your own, weighing you down as one hand glid gently across the sides of thigh, whilst the other supported your neck, shoving your face deeper into his as you kissed. Aegon being slightly heavier, he often succumbed to his weight, pinning himself down even more against your smaller body, and in this precise moment, you could feel his throbbing cock hardening against your exposed cunt.

"Hmm, Aegon-" You carelessly moan, the heat of your breath leaving a small, fade of moisture against his plump skin, as his lips escape yours.

He begins to leave a soft, wet trail of kisses down your neck line, making his way slowly towards the cleavage of your breasts, causing your body to eagerly shudder against his suckling motion. Hitting your sensitive spot, a small giggle escaped your lips, and moments after, you could feel Aegon's smile appearing against your skin in response.

"That's it baby, be the good girl that I know you are for me-"

As he repositioned his body further down, aligning his face towards the entrance of your now moist cunt, your gaze from the ceiling, as you opened your lustful eyes, down towards Aegon, you momentarily glimpsed as he gestured for his brother to join, tilting towards your direction.

Aemond now stripped naked, his body far more slimmer and lean than his older brother, you easily noticed the trace and outline of his prominent muscles. Although you greatly favoured Aegon's body and layer of fat that molded against his muscles, you could not deny that Aemond was a handsome figure also. It seemed the image of the Targaryens, regardless of shape nor size, were created authentically and yet so perfectly, by the favour of the Gods.

Laying himself cautiously down by your side, as though not to tease the risk of startling you, your unphased focus remained reciprocated towards each other, and yet there was no hesitation on Aemond's part, as his hand reaching over towards your face, as his long fingers gently seeped their way into the strands of your hair.

"Do not fret, Y/N. I am only here to perform my duty to the realm-"

And without a second to spare, Aemond's defined lips plummeted down against yours, where Aegon's once met. You felt that dreadful feeling beginning to entice in the depths of your stomach, an uneasy feeling churning as his tongue managed to peak its way through the gap of your mouth. Although, the sudden, reassuring squeeze of Aegon's hand in yours, as he looked up towards you, a small, warm smile reappearing on his face, your felt yourself beginning to give into the kiss.

"My sweet, sweet girl," Aegon's familiar, deep voice proclaimed, before his face began to comfortably nestle between your inner thighs. His mouth now agape at your entrance, his warm, wet tongue now began to lap at your wet folds, licking up the wetness that began to seep through, shoving himself deeper and deeper as he ate you out.

"Hmm", a low growl escaped your beloved husband's ravenous mouth, as Aegon's hands each snaked around your soft thighs, firmly pulling your legs further and further apart, in an attempt to widen the space to accomodate for his broad frame. Although he also felt the primal urge to widen your entrance more, as he delved his thick tongue deeper into your cunt, burying his face into the sensitive crevice of your wet entrance. He was known for his large appetite and that never stopped with feasts, he was always starving for your sweet, delicate taste.

As Aegon remained occupied below, Aemond found himself beginning to gain confidence and familiarity up top. Remaining by your side, slightly higher above you, his lean arms now snaked around your waist, in a poor and slight attempt to turn your body more towards him, as his lips remained encased against yours. Although, with Aegon's weight below, pinning you down from turning completely, your upper body remained slightly tilted towards him, one of his hands supporting your back from beneath as to not strain you, whilst the other began to firmly massage the swollen cup of your breast.

"A-Aemond-" You pleasantly whisper, uncertain of whether you wished for the moment to cease nor continue, you could not say. Aegon's tongue encircling your clit, whilst Aemond massaged the sweet spots of your tender breast, you lost the power of your own consciousness, helpless against the actions of the Targaryen brothers.

"Say it, Princess. Say my name, just like that-"

"Aemond" You moaned again, obedient to the younger brother's stern words, that he growled against your ear, it naturally sent a thrill of shivers coursing down your spine. Instinctively, a visceral reaction to the electrifying licking of Aegon's tongue between your inner folds, often grazing over your clit, your hips thrust forward, as your back arched, craving for more.

The oozing remnants of your cum that escaped Aegon's eager, ravenous mouth, would drip through the gaps and crevices down your inner thighs. Traces smothering against Aegon's plump cheeks form the jerky movements the sprung between you two.

"Okay brother, she's ready when you are-" And without a minute to spare, as though the brothers miraculously communicated telepathically, they jumped into action. Aegon breathless, stood himself up from the bed, leaving his younger brother to finish his mess. He attended to himself, hastily wiping his mouth clean with his hand, licking your sweet aftertaste from his fingers, as though he'd just devoured a succulent roast, savouring the moment, as he seated himself by the vacant seat near the dim fireplace. Aemond on the other hand, now positioned himself swiftly over you, his tip hovering over your entrance, before easing himself in. You'd closely noticed he was not as thick as his brother, as you easily took his mass between your folds, he did not stretch you out as his eldest brother would, however his cock was long and veiny, able to bury himself deeper into you.

"Are you okay?" He uttered, his eye fleeting over your tender, flustered face. You hadn't realised the precise moment he'd removed the notorious black, leather eye patch, as now a sapphire gem glistened back at you, in replacement of his lost eye.

"Y-Yes, I'm okay."

Slowly, ever so carefully, Aemond began to pace his thrusts, adjusting to your walls naturally clenching around his cock, you were unaware of whether Aemond had previously laid with a woman or not, although he seemed knowledgable enough to know what was required of him and how it needed to be done...

"Fuck-" He lowly moaned, as he shut his eyes instinctively, gradually beginning to fasten his pace. Aegon was often sloppy and slow when it came to fucking you, occasionally when he was close to his climax did he manage to gather some speed, although being a larger man, his endurance was easily exhausted, and he required periods of rest. Otherwise, he much preferred you working for it.

Aemond on the other hand, was eager to gain momentum himself, rather him putting in the effort. His body began to weight itself down against the forces of gravity, shoving and readjusting himself between your legs. Your arms had instinctively wrapped around Aemond's back, clinging to his muscular shoulders, for steadiness. You took his readjusting as a sign to bend them further up, bringing your knees up forward, as many woman had advised you in private councils, this to be an effective method to successfully take a man's seed.

You ashamedly couldn't bring yourself to turn to face Aegon, uncertain if he watched on closely as his younger brother fucked himself inside his own wife, or if he dared not burn the image into his memory. Regardless, it was happening, and if he wanted to he could've stopped it in a heartbeat, although no protest came from his end.

"Ugh, fuck-" Aemond repeatedly uttered, his breathing more shallow and fast, his head now resting against the side of your head, his grip on your hip and the other behind the crook of your sweaty neck tightened naturally. You mustered all the possible strength and will power you could, to not moan in response to Aemond's penetration, your lips pressed and pursed tightly, against the feeling of his cock throbbing intensely from within, occasionally managing to hit your sweet spot. His long, platinum hair had been he'd tied back into a low ponytail, as to keep it away from irritating your face, although your fingers found their way towards the back of his scalp, eagerly tugging at its roots.

"I'm so fucking close-" He panted, before groaning audibly, you were certain Aegon heard... Almost a bashful look struck across his chiseled, sweaty face, as he failed to maintain eye contact with you, turning to look up towards the head of the bed. It made you blush to think that you were causing such a visceral, feral reaction from the younger Prince.

The feeling of his warm load coating your insides, caused a much anticipated exhale of breath to escape your moist mouth, leaving your chest to heave in exhaustion, as your tits jiggled with each breath. Aemond's remained inside for a few minutes, making sure you took all of his seed well enough, he took the moment to compose his breathing too, as his hands stretched out on each side, cowering over you.

"The deed is done, brother-" Aemond breathlessly, uttered, as now he removed himself from within you, standing himself up off the bed, whilst Aegon returned to your side.

Hastily, he grabbed a set of fluffed pillows, from the head of the bed, positioning them just below your hips and bottom, causing your lower body to incline.

"Stay like this baby, it will help let the seed travel through you." He'd also managed to gather a blanket for you, as he covered your naked self, seating himself by your side, as he prepared a wet cloth to wipe over your forehead.

Still slightly breathless, you couldn't help though feel the hot tears begin to swell and fall from your eyes, as you examined what you had assumed was a dejected look on Aegon's face. You felt immensely guilty, and had wished he had not witnessed what he'd witnessed.

"I-I'm so sorry Aegon, how could you ever look at me the same."

His brows furrowed in haste, saddened once more by your words, he edged himself closer towards you, shushing you easily like a babe.

"Don't you ever think that, Y/N. This was my plan, my decision. I need to know if I am truly the problem, and if so what is to be done. This had to happen baby, do not think otherwise... Be thankful, Aemond was a willing candidate, he will not speak a word of this rest assured."

You stifle your cries, as Aegon parallel wipes away your fallen tears, and the strands of mottled hair. Aemond in the meantime, remains quiet and reserved, occupied with redressing himself, perhaps he too, feels ashamed.

"You promise to stop the drinking, no more ale, or wine or beer. And that you'll see the maester for some cure or remedy?" You persist, as you reach to grab Aegon's hand in yours.

"I promise I will," Aegon utters, leaning down towards you as he plants a soft kiss on your warm forehead, exchanging soft smiles with one another.

You turn to face Aemond with a thankful look, although he immediately cowers his gaze towards the floor.

"Perhaps I should leave-" Aemond awkwardly suggests, his focus fleeting from his brother to you, only to return back towards the ground, the faint sounds of his feet shuffling anxiously.

"Aemond-" You stretch out a hand over towards the mattress, and hesitantly Aemond returns the favour, holding your hand in his.

"I, well- We both do genuinely appreciate you for doing this. I understand it's an unimaginable thing to ask of someone, especially the secrecy that is to come with it, but rest assured... If the Gods do bless me with a child, I shall be honoured for you to remain present in the babe's life."

Aemond slowly nods his head in agreement to your words, a shy smile forming over his handsome, young face as your grip of him tightens reassuringly.

"The honour was mine, that you both entrusted me with this responsibility. I would wish for nothing more than that, thank you, Y/N. Although, I trust you both shall make dutiful, happy parents, by the efforts you both have gone to... The babe shall be blessed with a loving family, indeed."

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[imagines-to-quench-thirst]

Speak in Flowers

Flowers speak their own words and show their actions. And your man loves to speak it out loud.

Includes: Victor Creed (Sabertooth), Loki, Thor, Steve Rogers (Captian America), Bucky Barnes (Winter Solider), Bruce Wayne (Batman), Clark Kent (Superman), Arthur Curry (Aquaman), Orm Marius, Joker, Duncan Vizla (Polar)

All my knowledge about the flowers I found on this link

Enjoy this little fluff piece!

Victor Creed (SABERTOOTH)

PINK CAMELLIA: Longing for you

Victor lives his long life with little to no memories, as most are filled with shocking trauma and events. As years passed and you met him, he was emotionally stunned, fearing what to say and show. The relationship was blooming and bubbling into a fresh memory Victor did not want to miss, but his life did not build him that way. Books helped a lot to him, for him to communicate in ways he needed to express to you his love, his devotion, and his happiness.

You keep every single post-it note, notes in your books, phone, and bathroom mirror he has left. Victor wished to show more of himself in small ways. And therefore, he went for a long walk around the city trying to find a token he could present to you with pride. And then he stopped in front of a flower shop, not looking at all the roses it had on display but at the daintiest petals—pink Camellia. An older lady approaches him, saying.

"Their meanings are Longing For You."

Victor's mind clicks, "I'll buy it."

Returning home, he presents the flowers to you with a slightly spoken tone "I thought of you when I saw them."

Loki

HONEYSUCKLE: Bonds of Love

Ever since Loki decided to take the position as Thor's right hand in governing New Asgard, he inescapably made date nights a fantasy to have. Seeing him several times a month and a few weekly calls doesn't leave much to it. It was as heavy for Loki as for you. Two lovers from different realms trying to make it work. With that, the distance made Loki a nuisance to your delivery man. Every day at 11 am, at your door with a package in hand. At this point in time, you are on a first-name basis.

"Morning, Y/n. Back again."

"Morning, Stephen. Thanks again. Have a cookie."

Loki sent small things that could be delivered easier and faster so you could feel his presence somehow. Most of the packages held a few popular treats, accompanied by letters from him depicting how his day was and always, at the end, writing how much he misses you and cannot wait to have you in his arms. In a new package from today, this one was the most fascinating. Opening the brown box, Hologram butterflies exited the box flying around the room, glowing slightly green as they dispersed into thin air. Looking down, you see delicate branches colored with pink and orange petals, each branching out in their own direction, forming a halo-like shape. Opening your phone, you snap a picture and google search for its name

"Honeysuckles? Hmm...Thanks, Wikipedia. Now let us see the meaning."

Bonds of love.

"Oh, how I miss you, Loki."

Thor

MARJORAM: Joy and happiness

Thor was in a tight position. He was now leading New Asgard on Earth and managed to convince you to try and live in this new area so you could be with him. Not ready to fully move there, you decided to live there for the next 3 months, taking a well-deserved break from work. Living there was a new experience, and you were there to witness the city's first town meeting, first competitions, first restaurant openings, and, as of this moment, the first festival with Thor in hand. Even Loki was there looking somewhat happy but primarily absent.

"You good, Loki?"

"A bit. Seeing the Asgardian people happy makes me joyous, but I miss my lover."

"When are you seeing them?"

"In a few days. They do not know. It will be a surprise."

You looked at him, offering a comforting hug as the people walked around enjoying themself. The sky rumbled, announcing Thor's imminent arrival. Thor's step continued to rumble, and Loki stepped away from you, joining the crowd. Thor was now in front of you, smile beaming and hands full of... green leaves?

"MY DARLING!!" Thor shouted

"Thor...no need to shout. I am in front of you."

"Excuse me! Here you go!"

Thor offers the bouquet of green leaves to you. You accept, sniffing the faint smell of herbs.

"Are these used for... cooking?"

"Yes, I mean, no. Well, the nice lady in the flower shop told me they complement any meat, fish, or vegetable."

"Thanks, I guess..."

"That is not the point of those flowers. Their meanings are Joy and Happiness. Which I feel those feelings when I am with you."

Thor explained nervously, glancing at you with hearty eyes, hoping you would like them as much as he loves you.

"I love you... and the flowers." you replied

Bucky Barnes (Winter Solider)

BLUE AND RED SALVIA: I think of you/ Forever mine

Bucky loves love. Because of you. He cherished the moments he got to experience in this new modern life when he thought it would be a throw-away line. He adored each of those love-filled moments and loved making them even more. Bucky had a small notebook at all times with him where he wrote each moment he did with you, keeping an excellent timeline as well as future notes on what he should do next time. While looking at his notebook, he noticed the lack of gift-giving, especially flowers. Flowers for Bucky where a personalized and live-like message for your lover. And therefore, he decided to find flowers that were the definition of BUCKY. Walking to market place, Bucky walked among the fresh fruits and produce, looking and thinking until his gaze was filled with so many flowers. Stopping at the sight, Bucky hears a thoughtful voice inquiring

"Looking for a unique flower?"

"Yes, for my partner. Something that would depict me as a flower, if there is a flower like that." Bucky speaks self-doubt lacing his voice

"Of course there is; flowers speak many languages."

Bucky nodded, looking at the flowers stopping at two different versions of the same densely packed tubular flowers with velvety leaves. Red and blue.

"Those are Salvia. The red ones mean 'Forever Mine', and the blue ones mean 'I Think Of You'. Hummingbirds and butterflies love them."

"I do call Y/n hummingbird from time to time." Bucky whispered while taking out his wallet to pay, "I'll take them both."

Arriving in a better mood back home, Bucky found his love lounging on the couch. Walking to you with light ninja steps, he placed the flowers in front of you.

"Suprise!"

Steve Rogers (Captian America)

HOLLY: Defense, Domestic Happiness

Steve was on many missions, which were given with his work/lifestyle. So he relished in it when he was home with you. His housewife kink was really showing (if you know what I mean *wink wink*). He adored it when he was doing the laundry with you, doing the dishes, decorating the room the way you like, and planting new herbs and vegetables in your garden. Steve was sold on the whole fantasy he has with you. And he wanted you to show you that. Everyday. Every second.

With that, Steve went on a hunt to find flowers he knew would communicate that. Steve hopped onto a public train in his best 'don't look at me, I know I am famous' disguise, glimpsing at the passing city inching closer to the town center and hopping off his stop going towards a flower shop as he goes cautiously to the lady

"Good day, ma'am. The name is Frank Castle, and I am looking for a flower that would communicate that I love my home and my partner." Steve said, trying not to be suspicious of his 'real name.'

"That name rings a bell, but you don't seem familiar from the photos I have seen of 'Frank.'" The lady says with a hint of suspicion in her voice, looking at the tall blonde up and down. But he wasn't the only one who appeared in front of her with a fake name, and she was a pro at sniffing out a fake. Nonetheless, she wasn't going to put the man in a tight spot.

"Is there a flower you like? Any flower that speaks to you?" She asked. Steve, I mean Frank, looks at the flowers, seeing all kinds of colors and textures in an ecstasy of nature's artistic expression. Finding a dainty four-petal flower so tiny and minuscule an untrained eye would not catch its beauty.

"That is a Holly. They mean 'Defense' and 'Domestic Happiness'." Steve smiled at the flowers that were the size of a pin, smiling gleefully, "I'll take them."

Walking back home with a bouquet in hand, steve opens the door seeing Y/n making dinner. "Y/n? Turn around." Turning around, steve smiles at your surprised smile, appearing in a second when seeing the flowers.

"A little something so you know what I feel when I am with you."

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

IRIS: Faith, Trust, Wisdom, Hope, Valor

Bruce knew he had it good with you. Really good. You were so, so SO understanding of him, his actions, and his double life. Not even once doubting him but being there with him. Bruce wanted you to know how much he loves you for that, and there were so many ways he could show you that. Trips, gifts, new adventures in new parts of the world, you name it, he will give it to you in seconds. But Bruce remembered that the smallest things mean the most, something he learned from his father when he saw him give his mother flowers every single day when returning from work. As Bruce was in his 'day' office, he called up a number of the oldest flower shop in Gotham, knowing the owner quite well.

"Mr. Wayne. Good to hear from you." The lady said happily

"Mrs. Flowerbottom. Always good to hear from you as well. I would need your expertise. I have been with my lover for a few months now, and I would like some flowers that describe them."

"Of course. And how would you describe your lover, Mr. Wayne?" "They are smart, brave, trust me, and I trust them, and quite simply, they are my hope for a better future." The lady chuckles at the honey-covered words from the billionaire former playboy looking at flowers that describe y/n to the bone.

"I am looking at them right now. Would you like to add a note?" "Yes, it would be: "Thank you for being yourself. I love you with all my strength and heart. Yours always, Bruce.""

Hanging up and finishing up the day, Bruce entered his car smiling, knowing that in a few hours, his lover will a unique surprise back in their shared home. Arriving back at Wayne manor. Bruce looks at the enormous bouquet of Hydrangeas standing proudly in the middle of the living room, a small note with a definition of irises at the bottom of the bouquet

IRIS: Faith, Trust, Wisdom, Hope, Valor

The keys jingle again as you enter, seeing Bruce standing next to the bouquet, saying softly

"These are for you."

Clark Kent (Superman)

YARROW: Everlasting love

Clark was a Boy Scout. Everyone called him that; the man was a boy at heart personified. His smile never dropped, he was always ready to help others, and he was a lovesick puppy at heart. So lovesick. Clark breathed you. His demeanor changed completely when he was with you. He was and still is diving head-first into the relationship. Telling you about his plans with you having a house, having kids, and an all-around perfect life. He wanted it with you.

Clark made it his everlasting task to bring you home flowers every day after work. To show you that he loves you to the ends of the universe and back. One day when he was going to his usual flower shop he saw new flowers, flowers that weren't there yesterday. And those flowers beckoned him to come closer, sniff them, and be entranced in their intoxicating smell. "They are called Yarrow." the lady said, smiling at the glasses-wearing dork. "They mean Everlasting Love."

Clark smiles at the yellow droplet-like flowers taking them in hand and smelling the sweet and tangy fragrance. Waving the lady goodbye, promising to arrive again tomorrow as he heads home to his love. Hearing the door open, you walk towards Clark, ready to give him his welcome home kiss, but before you can do that, Clark shows you yellow flowers with the tangiest smell.

"For my everlasting love."

Arthur Curry (Aquaman)

ASTER: Symbol of Love and Daintiness

Arthur loved to scare and surprise you. He loved to go behind the couch to scare you and then present you with a small gift to make you not angry at him. Trinkets such as seashells, funny coffee mugs, or even t-shirts were out of context and confusing. It was funny, really. And sometimes Arthur can go overboard with the scares to the point where you get mad at him and make him sleep on the couch. Like today, Arthur woke up with a stiff neck and aching back while you were well-slept and making yourself your morning tea. Arthur messed up big time, and he was on a mission to make it better by the end of the day. Running like a headless chicken to town, Arthur zoomed past people startling them along the way. Halting to a stop, he sees his salvation, a flower shop. Walking inside, he is greeted by a lady seeing him disheveled and out of breath.

"Please, help me. I messed up with my dove, and I need your best flowers." He pleaded

"Look around the store and see what flower catches your attention." Looking around the room, Arthur spins a few times around, his mind starting to blur, dizziness taking over his decision process. Slowing down, his body turns to a corner of the room with purple-colored daisy flowers.

"The daisies!" Arthur exclaimed, pointing at them like a 3-year-old kid. The lady chuckles as she walks over to them, taking them out of the vase. "They are called Asters. They mean Symbol of Love and Daintiness."

"Well, my dove is dainty and my symbol of love. I'll take them." You watch from the window as Arthur walks back home with flowers in hand, a big smile on his face. The door unlocks, and you make yourself busy by staring blankly at your book as Arthur inches closer, extending his hand which held the flowers. Looking at him, uninterested, he says

"They are called Asters. They are symbols of Love and Daintiness. And to me, you are both. And I am sorry to scare you so much, and I love you."

"....fine. I accept your apologies.Dumbass."

Orm Marius

CALLA LILY : Beauty

Orm had a first relationship with a human. A surface dweller. Someone he held no positive emotions, and yet...he was smitten. So much so that he decided to live with them a few days a week as a start. Orm felt himself stumble into a new world, a world where some souls expressed themself with care, actions, words, or even presents, the most popular being flowers. As Orm walked around town with his chosen love, he saw a flower shop looking at the offers they had. Letting go of Y/n's hand, he walks over using the given time while Y/n's distracted by the fountain waterworks. Stepping closer, he stops at tubular shape flowers.

"They are Calla Lilly. They are extraordinary flowers." the lady working speaks to Orm. "Why are they special?" Orm asks, looking confused at the white flowers.

"They mean beauty. In their own language," she explained.

"The flowers have their own language?"

"Yes, in a way. The flowers you give to your loved ones can be interpreted in a special way beyond the aesthetic." Orm thought for a second before taking out 5 dollars." I have one paper on this currency. Is that enough to cover the whole store?"

The lady laughed at his bluntness as she took the bill and handed him 3 Lillies. "No, but it gives you 3 calla lilies."Orm grunts at his failure but nonetheless smiles as he walks back to Y/n, handing the Lillies.

"These are for you, my beauty."

Joker

YELLOW JASMINE: Grace and Elegance

J tried to keep his job away from you. he tried to divide his "job" away from your eyes, ears, and hands. But it was not something he had complete control over it. Most of the time, he arrived bruised and bloodied while you played nurse. And he wanted to show you in his own way what you mean to him. So he took you in his purple Lamborghini towards the end of the city, a place that would not be considered part of Gotham, a shrouded place, abandoned houses, people looking at you like with a predator-like gaze. Joker held your hand as you walked towards a tiny restaurant you would surely miss if you did not see the small sign at the bottom of the floor spelling out 'Eat in, not out'.

Entering the place, you and J sit next to each other, and you start to ask questions. This wasn't the place where you two would usually go. No glitz and glamour, expensive tiny dishes that would cost an arm and leg, views that would depict the whole Gotham feeling as if you were running the town. It was all swapped with a one-room-sized restaurant without photos, calendars showing the year 2012, and an elderly woman standing in front of you

"Good to see you, J." She spoke her voice gravely, but her perfume was flowery intoxicating

"And you as well, Mrs. Flowerbottom. For tonight I brought my special person here, and I would like your best dish combo."

Mrs. Flowerbottom smiled lovely at you moving back into the kitchen, and you felt just more question bubble in you.

"You come here often?" You asked, looking at him with more question marks in your eyes.

"I was living here at one point. When I had no money when I was younger, I slept on the floor where we are. This place means a lot to me."

While J spoke, Mrs. Flowerbottom brought out chicken soup on a tray, the bowls big enough for 3 people. And next to the food on J's side, she puts flowers with the same sweet perfume Mrs. Flowerbottom was shrouded in. The small clusters of starry, pure-white petals with rich green leaves. J takes them giving them to you.

"I know that I am not good with words, but I have learned that yellow jasmines mean grace and elegance. And I will give you that. By opening myself up and my history with you."

Kissing his lips, you reply, "I would love that."

Duncan Vizla (Polar)

LOTUS FLOWER: Purity, Enlightenment, Self-regeneration, and Rebirth

Duncan felt his way of life changed because of you. You two lived in his cabin next to the lake, shrouded in snow, away from people, enjoying nature's ambiance, feeling thankful for the experience you are sharing with your Donut. Duncan felt himself being happy. He enjoys chopping wood outside in the freezing cold, knowing that he is chopping them for a fire where he will sit behind you, telling his stories about when he was 'working' back in the day. But Duncan wasn't too much of a gift-giver. He was still finding himself in this relationship. And while Duncan was chopping wood, he saw you peaking outside the window, a blanket on your shoulder looking so cozy and inviting him in. Seeing you wave and then moving back in the room, Duncan stopped his actions and walked behind the house and behind a few trees into the woods, seeing the small Polly dom he made no bigger than a 1-meter squared cube. Removing the shrouded small man-made pond was holding his hard work. He managed to grow louts flowers in this weather and in this land. But thanks to the guidance of a sweet lady, he did a good job.

"Thank you, Mrs. Flowerbottom." He said into the cold wind. Taking his flowers and putting them in a basket, he walks into his home. The warm ambiance melted off his cold shake. And you see Duncan with a small grin, and you know he did something he shouldn't

"If you killed someone and buried them in the back, I do not want to know, Duncan." Duncan laughs as he hands you the cloth-covered basket.

"I didn't kill anyone, but I did something for you." With a puzzled look, you remove the cloth seeing pink lotus flowers, the fragrance filling your nose."

"When did you buy them?" You asked, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I didn't. I planted them a few months ago."

"Why louts? They are so hard to grow here."

Duncan sits down, looking at you with a warm smile as he holds your hands, rubbing small circles of comfort.

"Because I learned they mean Purity, Enlightenment, Self-regeneration, and Rebirth... which reminds me of you. And a bit of me as well. More so, the rebirth. I feel like a new man with you, with a new life."

Feeling eyes prickle in your eyes, you say with a soft chuckle, "You really know how to make me ugly cry, Donut."

Hope you liked it! Tell me what you think.-V

#victor creed imagine #loki imagine #thor x reader #steve rogers imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bruce wayne imagine #clark kent imagine #arthur curry imagine #orm marius x reader #joker x reader #duncan vizla imagine #sabertooth imagine #xmen imagine #loki x you #loki fluff #thor imagine #avengers imagine #marvel imagine #avengers headcanon #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #winter solider one shot #winter solider x reader #james bucky barnes #batman imagine #superman imagine #aquaman imagine #king orm x reader #suicide squad joker #captian america

[glassartpeasants]

Had a fic idea but decided it wasn't gonna be long enough for a full fic so here's the slice of idea my brain had. Also written on my phone at work so-

Eustass Kid x GN!Reader

Warnings: angst, cheating but literally one line mentioning it.

~~~

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you stare out to sea, wishing you were sitting on a ship instead of an old rickety dock. The salty breeze blowing against your face lightly. In your hands were open letters and letters waiting to be sent. Each one dripping with love and devotion. Words of encouragement scribed on the pages along with a red origami heart waiting to be discovered.

All that for the love of a man who you realize you'll never see again. Even though he promised he'd come back for you. That all you had to do was give him a year and he'd be back to take you with him. To bring you to sail the seas with him as he paved his way to becoming king of the Pirates.

All you had to do was wait a year. And wait you did.

Even though you couldn't tell him how much you loved him in person, you sent him letters every week. Each and everyone expressing you love for him, about your week, congratulating him on getting in the paper and giving him the little red origami heart. Or when you didn't have the red paper, you'd gently pick a red tulip from your garden and press it before sending it put in an envelope with the letter. Watching the carrier bird fly away made your heart jump as you couldn't wait for the letter that would come your way in return.

You remember how joyous you used to feel when a letter came only a few days later. Being handed a letter covered in oil and smelling of metal felt like tou were getting a present everytime. When you opened it after immediately running home and jumping on your bed to read it, you were always met with a piece of metal formed into a flower. Each one different then the last.

While some might not be able to read his brutish hand writing, you could understand it perfectly. Reading each one made you kick your legs and giggle. Excitement filling you as you waited for yhe day when he returned to the south blue to whisk you away and show you how life is meant to be lived. Each letter only made you impatiently wait for the day.

But one year turned two, then three. And still no sign of your live coming back. The weekly letters turned monthly before then turning once every few months. Each passing day was like torture. Waiting and praying a letter would arrive only to be broken hearted 99 percent ot the time. You heard about him in the paper more then you heard from yhe man himself.

The times a letter did come, there was no longer a crafted flower along with it, the writing sloppy and no longer had the words 'I love you' written at the bottom of the page. While the envelope was still stained in oil and had the intense smell of metal, your heart no longer jumped when you were handed it. What once you use to read immediately, you now wait till the end of the day to read it. Anything and everything before reading the letters.

Now, the letters have stopped coming. And you've stopped sending them. No point in continuing to shatter your already broken heart, crying for another only for it to never arrive.

The final straw your fragile heart could take was seeing a picture of him kissing an unknown person. Seeing it on the front page of the newspaper made your world crumble around you. The life you planned stolen from your fingertips right before your eyes. Dreams of going places out to sea and away from the south blue crushed. Bringing you back to the same dock you met him at, clutching all his and your letters close to your heart.

"Red headed bastard...you really are the worst of the worst generation."

#one piece x reader #eustass kid x reader #eustass captain kid x reader

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Knight of Lightning.

He vowed to have all bend the knee to his sovereign. That had been his wish, once upon a time. Not like this—he hadn’t wanted it to be like this.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Today is meant to be a joyous occasion.

Their friends, their Diasomnia family, gathered around for a grand party. Good food, good drink, and good company. A send-off for their seniors, a toast to their glorious futures.

This should be the happiest they've ever been.

So why?

Why has the chatter died and the celebration ceased? Why do their guests look positively disturbed? Why does Silver brandish his baton at the young master?

Why does he reject this happiness?

Why?

"What are you doing, Silver?!" Sebek angrily demands, punching a fist into a table. The cutlery laid upon it violently clatter. "I'd had enough of your crude jokes--lower your weapon at once! You're making a mockery out of the young master and Lilia-sama's celebration!"

"I'm sorry, Sebek. I'm afraid I can't do that." His aurora-colored gaze is serious and fierce.

"You cur! You DARE turn your sword against your master?!" Sebek takes a defensive step in front of Malleus, staring daggers at his friend. "You're breaking your oath of loyalty to your country, your prince--"

"Sebek..." For a moment, Silver hesitates. There is genuine hurt in his face, eyes wide and wet like those of a doe. But it is there no longer the next second, hardening into a steely shine. "Please stand down. I must do this."

"You've gone mad!!" Sebek's yell echoes in the decorated lounge. Mad, mad, mad... reverberated off the stony walls.

The first year tenses, putting a protective arm in front of Malleus. "Young master, get behind me! I will remove him from your sight."

"Do as you will, Sebek," Malleus replies coolly. His expression presents as almost disinterested, but there is no mistaking the slick of venom in his voice, the raging fire in his eyes.

"Boys!! I thought I taught you better than to brawl over trivial things like this," Lilia cries out to them--but Malleus lays a hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

Sebek produces his own wand--a baton of the same design as Silver's, green magestone embedded into its handle. He raises it to Silver, its end already crackling with an intense energy.

The impact comes, harsh and swift as a bolt of lightning.

"Rrgh...!" Silver braces against the strong blow, skidding several feet. His boots scuff the floor, marking how far he has flown.

Sebek is upon him in an instant, his baton pushing hard against Silver's. He meets the aggressive offense with a quick block and parry, pushing with shaking arms.

"I don't want to fight you!" Silver begs hoarsely.

"You think I want to?!" Sebek roars. His lungs sting, hurting with betrayal.

Silver grits his teeth and ducks--Sebek hurtles into a stone wall. The second year slides under his friend's legs and emerges on the other side, springing back onto his feet.

Sebek faces him, waving his baton in an arc.

"Listen to yourself, Silver!! Lilia-sama's magic is diminishing... Lilia-sama is leaving school and retiring?! The young master having an outburst... forcing us into a deep slumber?!"

With each declaration, he calls forth a new strike of lightning. CRASH, CRASH, CRASH!! They come down in a line, attempting to take Silver down.

He sprints, outrunning them by a hair. A curtain of smoke rises, the air smelling of ozone and destruction.

"They're the ravings of a lunatic!" Sebek shouts, summoning another wave of lightning. "Lilia-sama would never abandon us. The young master would never abuse his powers! They are..."

His everything.

Without them, what is he? What purpose does he serve? Sebek shudders at the thought.

Silver senses it--how his hand falters, his glare softens, his lower lip trembles. He calls out to him, an olive branch extended.

"I know you, Sebek. I know you're a kind person. That's why you want to put your faith in them. Believe me, I do too!" Silver pleads. "But this... This is wrong! It's twisted."

"You're dreaming!!"

"No." He shakes his head. It's you who's dreaming. I'll make you see for yourself...!!"

Silver charges, his baton clashing with Sebek's midair. They're even twin swords, crossing blades and trading blows in a deft, deadly dance.

Neither relenting.

"Open your eyes." Silver's whisper is a loud prayer. It's the moonlight in pitch black darkness, sunlight cutting through a murky swamp. "WAKE UP, SEBEK...!!"

"ACK...!"

Silver shoves with all his might, sending Sebek sprawling onto his back.

Memories spin, colliding in his head and calling forth thunder. Flashes go off. Light and sound gather, sparking a buried image and setting it into motion.

It's a tangle of ebony thorns knitting over Diasomnia. He sees himself standing among the bramble, his face crumpled with immense terror--and sadness. From somewhere in the memory comes a familiar drawl.

"Do not fear. You will no longer have to suffer. Rejoice!! This is my gift to you all: an eternal happily ever after."

Th-This is...!

Sebek bolts up, clutching his head with a groan.

He regards his dorm leader with newfound horror. "M-Malleus-sama... It can't be. Y-You...!!"

"Aaaah..." The prince draws out a sigh. He sounds like a child disappointed with a broken toy. "How unfortunate. It seems that you've been roused awake as well. Really, Silver. Not only do you defy me, but you actively recruit others to your rebellious cause."

Silver tenses, silently putting himself between Malleus and the still-dazed Sebek.

"Fufufu. No matter. Please, allow me to put you all back to rest. A sleep so deep... you have no chance of waking again!"

A black haze encases Malleus, and all Sebek can see are the bright, glimmering eyes from the darkness. Malleus dispels it with the wave of his hand and reemerges like a demon from an inky summoning circle.

Lattices of pointed vines wrap over his body, a tattered cape fluttering out behind him. His horns and tail glow with an eerie green light, skin greyed and zombie-like. But what frightens Sebek the most is the calmness in his smile.

it does not match the quiet fury in the rest of his face.

This cannot be.

"Y-Young master, wait!!" he stutters, trying to get onto his feet. "I-I beg for your forgiveness! We mean you no disrespect! If you could please just hear us out--"

"The time for talk is over." Malleus raises a hand--and with it, a wall of emerald flames erupts from the earth. "Sweet dreams, Sebek."

The ground at their feet caves into a jagged fault. Thorns creep out from below, seeking out their next victims. Sebek leaps away from them, but they do not stop advancing.

"Ready yourself!" Silver hollers. He lets loose a blast of fire magic, which whittles away at the closest thorns. "Malleus-sama won't listen to reason. We--you--have to fight!!"

"B-But...!"

He takes in the sad scene. The castle is crumbling, the party come to a sudden stop. Briar is quickly overtaking the area, covering furniture and swallowing up students.

And there is Silver and Malleus--light and darkness, mirror reflections of one another. On opposing sides. Enemies.

Sebek is trembling, finding it difficult to swallow the bitter truth.

But swallow he does.

This is a waking nightmare.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Sebek Zigvolt #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown #twst anni #twisted wonderland anni #twisted wonderland anniversary #twst anniversary #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #I've been dreaming... #book 7 spoilers #Silver #Lilia Vanrouge #Malleus Draconia #Diasomnia

[doumadono]

🆘 Emergency Request 🆘

Hey there, my love. New Year's Eve was decent - I cleaned up, had a quiet dinner alone, and caught the fireworks later. But, truth be told, I'm feeling kinda down. Celebrating solo hit differently, you know? Out on the street, surrounded by all those happy folks with their friends and loved ones, that pang of envy crept in.. Mind if I ask for a scenario where Dabi encounters a girl on New Year's Eve? He hears her quiet crying, initially scoffs, but ends up standing nearby, leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette, just watching her. Eventually, he approaches, and their conversation turns her mood around. All this courtesy of a seemingly scary stranger

New Year's Eve - Dabi x Reader

A/N: Ru! I'm sorry to hear that your New Year's Eve wasn't as uplifting as it could have been. It's completely understandable how celebrating alone amidst the joyous crowds can bring about a sense of longing. In those moments, the stark contrast can be tough to bear. If you feel like sharing more about it or just want to talk, I'm here. Wishing you a brighter and happier start to the new year ahead ♥

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST

The chilly night air hung heavy with a sense of loneliness as Dabi wandered through the dimly lit streets on New Year's Eve. He observed the distant bursts of fireworks, a stark reminder of the festivities he chose to distance himself from. A smirk played on his lips as he inhaled deeply from his cigarette, the ember casting an ominous glow on his scarred face.

As he rounded a corner, the soft sound of someone crying caught his attention. In the shadows, he spotted a girl, huddled against the cold, her silent tears betraying a deeper sadness. Leaning against a tree nearby, Dabi couldn't resist watching her, the smoke from his cigarette swirling lazily in the air.

A girl was standing almost in the middle of the street, watching the distant fireworks, her tears rolling down her cheeks glistening like dewdrops in the colorful lights of fireworks.

Dabi scoffed, a cynical smirk playing on his lips, dismissing the vulnerability he witnessed. "Really? Crying alone on New Year's?" he muttered to himself, taking a drag from his cigarette. His turquoise eyes observed her, initially with indifference.

Dabi's initial scoffs gave way to a more contemplative demeanor as he recognized a familiar ache in her despair, a reflection of the isolation he often embraced.

Finally, he crushed the cigarette beneath his heavy boot, taking a few steps closer. "Shouldn't you be off somewhere, celebrating with your friends or boyfriend?" he mocked, the edges of his voice tinged with bitterness.

The girl looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion. Her eyes met Dabi's, and for a moment, an uneasy tension lingered between them. "Who asked for your opinion?" she retorted, quickly wiping a tear away with a mixture of defiance and vulnerability in her gaze.

Dabi smirked, unfazed by her response. "No one. Guess I've got a soft spot for loners tonight. It's not every day you find someone as miserable as you on New Year's Eve."

She eyed him warily, unsure of his intentions. "What do you want?"

Dabi shrugged, the edges of his scars catching the dim light of a street lamp. "Nothing." He leaned back against the lamp.

The girl took a cautious step back as the dim light revealed the true extent of the scars that marred Dabi's face. Disgust flickered across her features, her breath catching at the sight of the grotesque combination of destroyed and healthy skin connected by thick metal staples. The shadows cast by the nearby buildings seemed to accentuate the eerie nature of his appearance. She had an uncanny feeling that she had seen him before, a nagging sense of recognition that danced on the periphery of her memory, just beyond her ability to pinpoint its origin. "What… what happened to your face?" the girl stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, a mixture of shock and terror in her eyes.

Dabi noticed her recoil and the apprehension etched on her face. His smirk faded into a solemn expression, acknowledging the impact of his appearance. "Life happened," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of years filled with pain and suffering. The metal staples glinted ominously as he tilted his head.

The young woman struggled to maintain eye contact, torn between the fear inspired by his appearance and the strange kindness he was offering her.

Despite the initial shock, Dabi's gaze softened as he met her eyes. "I ain't gonna bite. You can come closer, dollface."

The girl, still visibly shaken, nodded hesitantly.

"So, what's your story?" Dabi asked, his tone no longer laced with mockery but genuine curiosity.

The girl hesitated, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "Why do you care?"

Dabi shrugged, a nonchalant gesture masking the complexity within. "No reason. Just figured we're both stuck in this lousy night, might as well share the misery."

She let out a reluctant chuckle, wiping away lingering tears. "Misery loves company, huh?"

Dabi's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Something like that."

"You're not as scary as you look," the girl remarked, a playful glint in her eyes. "And I have this feeling I've seen you before..."

Dabi raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his gaze. "Looks can be deceiving. You're not as fragile as you seem either. And you probably did see me in the news a few weeks ago."

It was the moment of realization. The scars tracing his face, the distinctive white hair, and those piercing eyes — it couldn't be denied. It was Dabi, or more accurately, Todoroki Touya, the eldest son of Endeavor. A notorious and dangerous villain, a member of the League of Villains. The girl struggled to maintain her composure, uncertain about what to expect from him. "So... What are you doing here, all alone?"

Dabi's half-smile lingered, his piercing turquoise eyes holding a depth of mystery. "Just enjoying the night."

The girl, though still uneasy, found herself drawn to the enigmatic aura that surrounded him. "Well, it's not exactly the serene escape most people go for on New Year's Eve."

Dabi chuckled, the sound carrying a mix of cynicism and genuine amusement. "Guess I'm not most people."

As the conversation continued, a peculiar tension filled the air. The girl couldn't shake the knowledge of Dabi's infamous reputation, yet there was an unexpected comfort in his presence. She hesitated before voicing her thoughts, her tone a mix of curiosity and caution. "So, what's it like being a part of the League of Villains? To be a villain?" she asked, her eyes searching his for any hint of the truth.

Dabi's expression remained enigmatic, a mask that revealed little. "Sometimes you have to play the game to survive, even if the rules are twisted."

The girl nodded, absorbing his words. "Survival is a powerful motive, but it doesn't make everything right."

Dabi's gaze lingered on her, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Right and wrong are just labels people use to make sense of the world. In the end, everyone's got their own code, ya know, dollface." Dabi, as if sensing her internal struggle, spoke again, his voice softer this time. "You don't have to understand or approve of what I do. Just everyone's fighting their own battles, even if they wear a different kind of armor, yeah?"

The girl pondered his words. "A... Are you... I mean..." She hesitated. "Do you want to hurt me?" The young woman asked simply.

Dabi observed the genuine concern in the girl's eyes, and for a moment, the hardened exterior softened. He took a step back, allowing a subtle distance between them. "Hurt you?" he echoed, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. "No, sweetheart, that's not what I'm here for. Besides, it seems you're already hurt," he mused.

The girl released a sigh, her head nodding in reluctant acknowledgment. "Yeah, I don't know what's up with me, but I just feel this overwhelming emptiness, you know? Super lonely. No one to share the joy of this time of the year with. I realize it sounds silly, but it's like I'm stuck in this sea of celebration, and I'm just stranded. Tonight, seeing all those happy people with their loved ones, their friends… and then there's me, all on my own. It's just sad. Sorry. I can't believe I'm dumping my pathetic problems on a freaking villain. What a night," she chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of her neck.

Dabi's expression softened as he listened to her, a subtle understanding in his piercing eyes. "Loneliness isn't reserved for heroes or villains," he remarked, his voice carrying a surprising depth.

The girl looked at him, a mix of surprise and gratitude in her eyes. "I didn't expect a lecture on life from someone like you."

Dabi chuckled, the sound carrying a hint of self-awareness. "Life's full of surprises. You never know where you'll find a connection, even in the most unexpected places."

She chuckled loudly. "Guess you're right."

Dabi straightened and closed the gap between him and the girl. He gently caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head to get a better look at her. She was undeniably pretty. "Considering we both seem to be stranded, and you're not posing any threat to me," he remarked, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, "how about we make the most of this damn night together?"

The girl's eyes widened at Dabi's unexpected proposal. There was a mix of surprise and uncertainty on her face as she processed his words. She couldn't deny the allure of the idea — escaping the loneliness of the night with him, even if just for a little while.

Dabi's half-smile lingered as he awaited her response. His eyes held a hint of genuine interest, waiting to see if she would take the leap into the unknown with a man who, by all accounts, was a notorious villain.

She hesitated for a moment, the internal struggle evident in her eyes. With a deep breath, she nodded, a shy smile forming on her lips. "Sure, why not? It's not every day you get an offer like that from someone like you."

Dabi's smirk widened, releasing her chin. "That's the spirit."

Together, they ventured into the night, the echoes of celebration still resonating in the distance.

#emergency request #dabi boku no hero academia #bnha dabi #dabi fluff #dabi x reader fluff #dabi x y/n #dabi x reader #touya todoroki #dabi is touya #dabi my hero academia #mha fluff #bnha fluff #my hero academia dabi #mha dabi #mha x reader #mha x you #dabi x you #touya todoroki x reader

[doodle-pops]

Lords of Gondolin | Being In An Arranged Marriage With Them

Request: I’m excited to see what you have written :) if you think it would be fun maybe you could do it for the lords of Gondolin like Glorfindel or Ecthelion? – @hermaeuswhora

A/N: Following my arranged marriage AU, this one has been structured differently since a few characters did not originate in Valinor. Galdor, Ecthelion, Egalmoth and Glorfindel were all written having their arrangements in Valinor upon their return/rebirth, while Rog and Maeglin had theirs transpiring in Gondolin.

Warning: arranged marriage, resentment, negligence, angst, loneliness, mentions of Maeglin pinning after his cousin, sprinkle of fluff and comfort for some

꒷꒦꒷Galdor꒷꒦꒷

Galdor's demeanour is marked by silence, a weighty silence that those around him cannot ignore, especially in the wake of the news. However, despite his wordless protest, his parents press on with the explanation of his impending marriage.

Confronting this crisis proves to be a perplexing challenge for Galdor. Having traversed the treacherous Helcaraxё, faced numerous wars, and endured the Fall of Gondolin, the third kinslaying, and the War of Wrath, he finds himself at a loss. The complexities of this situation elude him.

Nodding along to the exchanged words, Galdor's mind is a whirlwind of thoughts as everyone joyfully anticipates the forthcoming wedding. Even during the meeting where he first encounters you, he seems neither present nor absent, caught in a state of detachment.

While greeting you with respect and learning about you with nonchalance, Galdor's distant gaze is unmistakable. It's not meant as disrespect, but the prospect of an enforced marriage weighs heavily on anyone's sanity.

As the entire arrangement unfolds, transitioning into shared living and wedded life feels surreal to Galdor. Despite your animated discussions about future plans, his aloofness persists, absorbing your words without full comprehension.

Playing the role of a perfect husband, Galdor fulfils his duties diligently—strolls, teatimes, meals, social gatherings, festivals, and even family dinners—all executed in quiet compliance. Eventually, a moment of realization dawns on Galdor, prompting him to address the lack of sincerity that has quietly persisted in the background.

“Forgive me if this seems all too sudden, Y/N, but…my behaviour. While you may not have noticed the way I treat and respond to you—without earnestness—I fear that you do not deserve the way that I am currently. Please allow me to explain—all this, the arrangement. I have yet to grasp the true nature and because of that, I have not been true to you as I have been with myself. And because of this, I wish to start over.”

Your innocence is the reason why you've struggled to reconcile with his apparent lack of seriousness. Yet, you graciously dismiss his explanation, assuring him that he exceeds your expectations. Galdor experiences a mix of relief and concern, sensing that you may be overlooking the depth of emotion behind his actions.

However, with his newfound awareness, his role as your husband remains unchanged, yet now, his gestures carry a heightened emotional resonance. Every 'good morning, evening, noon, and night' carries a weight of significance. His smiles and laughter become more genuine, and conversations take on a deeper sense of purpose.

Galdor gradually comes to terms with the marriage dynamics, understanding that you had no say in the arrangement. Despite any reservations, he chooses not to express dissatisfaction, focusing instead on building a foundation of trust and comfort for your shared life together.

꒷꒦꒷Ecthelion꒷꒦꒷

Upon his joyous return to the Blessed Realm, marking the end of his long sojourn in Mandos, Ecthelion is swiftly met with unexpected news: the proclamation of his intended marriage. In the backdrop of his years of carefree existence in Beleriand, this revelation catches him entirely off guard.

The nobleman is plunged into a state of incredulous uproar, vehemently opposing his parents' wishes. However, his return to Valinor signifies his subjugation to his father's authority as the true Lord of the House of the Fountain. Despite Ecthelion's resistance, he finds himself reluctantly compelled to meet you and your parents.

While you, elated at the prospect of uniting with the renowned Lord Ecthelion, bask in the glory of his Middle Earth victories, he languishes in the waiting room, brooding like a disgruntled child. The entire encounter is marred by Ecthelion's rebellion against the terms negotiated between his parents and yours.

Concern begins to gnaw at you, fearing that the esteemed Lord you heard tales of in Middle Earth might be a façade. Ecthelion, harbouring no ill will towards you, unfortunately channels his distrust of his parents and frustration with yours through piercing glares directed at you.

Despite Ecthelion's fervent protests, both sets of parents remain indifferent, leaving the two of you alone in the waiting room to familiarize yourselves, while they withdraw to deliberate wedding arrangements.

Ecthelion maintains a frosty demeanour throughout, unable to muster the warmth required to mask his displeasure. His attempts at melting the ice are restrained, and he refrains from taking the conversational lead, leaving you to navigate the uneasy exchange.

“I apologise if I have insulted you in some way, Milord. It was not my intention to make you feel discomfort through this arrangement, but if it pleases you, I will do my best to limit our interactions to reduce the ambience this arrangement brings you.”

As your words reach him, a subtle twinge forms in his heart, though all he offers in response is a nod in your direction, a silent acknowledgment of your compassion.

Living with Ecthelion demands a mutual respect for privacy, ensuring that both of you have your own space. Shared breakfasts and mealtimes are a rarity, occurring only if you manage to catch him at the opportune moment; otherwise, you'll find yourself dining alone. Much of your time will be spent in solitude, interrupted only by occasional check-ins to ensure your comfort is consistently met.

Despite his reserved nature, rest assured that Ecthelion strives to convey essential matters regarding the household or family. While he harbours resentment for the forced marriage, he recognizes his duty to fulfil the basic role of a husband in meeting your needs.

In the public eye, Ecthelion maintains a façade of unity, well aware that the whispers of Valinor surround your union. Whether at events or social gatherings, his pride compels him to wear a smile and engage in polite chatter with you on his arm, concealing the fact that the icy distance between you two remains intact.

꒷꒦꒷Glorfindel꒷꒦꒷

Upon his return to the Blessed Realm after years in Middle Earth, his parents warmly greet him, unveiling the surprising news of an ongoing arranged marriage. Glorfindel, caught off guard, contemplates whether to respond with a forced laugh or unleash a string of profanities at this unexpected revelation. Without hesitation, he turns to his father, demanding clarity in an instant.

Much to Glorfindel's chagrin, the reality of an arranged marriage for the esteemed young Lord becomes apparent upon his return. As the true Lord of his house, his father's authority leaves Glorfindel with limited options, compelling him to voice his protests and seek his mother's intervention, given the deep respect he holds for them.

This incarnation of Glorfindel is far from the merry and radiant being known during his time in Middle Earth. You who were acquainted with tales of Lord Glorfindel's past, witness a stark contrast. He avoids direct eye contact, concealing his anger and ensuring you are shielded from its full force.

His resentment is not directed at you, but rather at the arrangement orchestrated by both sets of parents. Despite his inner turmoil, Glorfindel endeavours to maintain composure in your presence, reserving his desire to flip tables and shatter glass for moments when you are not around. For now, he remains outwardly passive.

It's evident that he grapples with inner turmoil whenever you are nearby. Despite his sincere efforts, tension underscores his actions. The façade, crafted to sustain a smooth relationship given his dispute with both sets of parents, endures for a considerable duration before finally unravelling.

“I’m sorry! I truly believed that I could hold out while upkeeping this façade, but it has done more harm than good. Please do not believe that I hold something against you, it’s our parents. I know that you’re a lovely person to be around and do not deserve this lowly behaviour from me, so I wish to apologise and seek forgiveness while wishing to start anew. Perhaps with a friendship?”

While you may have hoped for a more immediate romantic connection, Glorfindel's desire to start as friends is a thoughtful approach, far preferable to the prospect of a sudden end, as you've heard in others' experiences. Throughout the relationship, Glorfindel consistently strives to be amiable and reliable, ensuring a solid foundation.

Glorfindel remains steadfast in controlling his temper, especially when his parents scrutinize your relationship. His commitment is not just to appear perfect but to genuinely be the best arranged husband possible.

As seasons turn, you witness the side of Lord Glorfindel that has captivated Middle Earth. Your days are infused with humour and comfort, and should you desire more of his company, it is readily available.

Throughout your marriage, Glorfindel is attuned to your needs, adjusting his actions to bring you comfort. Whether you seek space, a new garden, an expanded house, or simply wish to deepen your connection, he willingly embraces and supports your desires.

꒷꒦꒷Egalmoth꒷꒦꒷

Tables are being flipped and profanities are leaving his mouth in a swirl of furry. He can’t believe, despite how grown he is and all the things he has faced on his own in life, his parents still wish to dictate his love-life with an arrangement. He knew such acts were popular among the royal family, never suspecting that he would be subjected to the trend.

Egalmoth refuses to submit so lowly to allow someone to select a spouse for him to spend his eternal peace with. The power he once held as a Lord to Kings in Middle Earth is stripped away as he returned as the son of a Lord who he must abide to.

The room takes on an unprecedented chill, surpassing even the biting cold of winter. During the meeting, as your parents bask in their satisfaction, Egalmoth directs a piercing glare at the table, as if intent on searing holes into its surface.

Despite your attempts to bridge the gap and quell the fiery tension, Egalmoth remains steadfast in maintaining distance. His demeanour and actions are unyielding, operating on a frequency of self-satisfaction that defies your attempts to find common ground.

The living arrangement entails cohabiting with a virtual stranger; it's akin to sharing a dwelling with a spectre. Greetings are reduced to mere "good morning" and "good night," a routine destined to persist. Even the entreaties of fellow Lords fall on deaf ears as they endeavour to persuade him to give the relationship a chance.

Frustration mounts as Egalmoth actively avoids you, seemingly going to great lengths to dodge encounters that are not of your making. Despite your earnest efforts to cultivate some semblance of acquaintance, he prefers to exist as a ghost, perpetuating an unsettling distance between you.

“You seem to believe that I had something to do with this arrangement when I didn’t know who you were until your arrival. I hate it just as much as you do, so face it! We’re stuck like this unless you wish to separate which you can. I don’t know what’s holding you back, but I’m trying to make things bearable and you’re not helping. I’m tired, so please…just tell me you don’t want me around…”

Egalmoth was taken aback when he witnessed the tears welling up in your eyes in response to his distant demeanour. Though he never intended to inflict pain through his communication style, he found himself inadvertently doing so, leaving him feeling regretful and remorseful. His initial goal was to avoid forming deep emotional attachments, not to cause you distress.

Despite his reluctance to fully embrace the role of a husband to someone not of his choosing, Egalmoth recognizes the need to bridge the emotional gap between you two. While he maintains a certain level of distance in his affections and gestures, he is committed to projecting a more approachable and interactive persona whenever circumstances allow. One tangible step in this direction is sharing daily breakfasts and lunches with you.

Over time, Egalmoth acknowledges the importance of overcoming his reservations and investing more freely in your relationship. He endeavours to set aside his differences and foster an environment where a meaningful connection can thrive. Realizing that accepting the role of a husband may require an extended period, he opts to first establish a foundation as a supportive friend before gradually navigating the complexities of marital ties.

꒷꒦꒷Rog꒷꒦꒷

The giant craftsman is confused at the words spilling from the lips of his advisor since Gondolin was a place of freedom. Having come from a rough background and learning about the Noldor culture, he felt like this was a contradiction, but obliges after they informed him it was frequently practiced.

Rog patiently meets his future spouse and their parents, wanting to go along with the arrangement as he complies with the customs of the Noldor. It does not come as a surprise the first time you meet the giant blacksmith; he is as gentle as ever and makes you feel welcomed. It’s your parents who treats the union as automatic boost in society.

As much as Rog wasn’t interested in getting married, the choice he was offered made his idea on the situation flip. You didn’t appear snobbish or greedy for power which made him all the more open to accepting to court you and proceed with a wedding eventually.

This being his first relationship, he is cautious to not mess anything up and pray that this marriage would be successful. He listens to all your needs and wants, going out of his way to fulfil them as best as he could. At times, he would turn to the other Lords, as unwedded as they are, for guidance.

The only thing Rog doesn’t like is addressing you in conversations as his arranged spouse or his spouse he earned through an arrangement. It never dawned on him the stain it would leave on your title when he agreed to wed you. Now he makes sure to never allow the terms ‘arranged’ to be used when addressing you. It makes him wish you two could have met another way because it’s a constant reminder how you were both forced.

“It never occurred to me how much I would come to despise the term ‘arranged’ when referring to you. I’ve grown fonder of you day by day as this marriage progresses. But rest assured, you have nothing to fear when it comes to our love. That, to shall grow stronger for you as the days wield overhead.”

You truly have no issues or quarrels with Rog through your entire marriage. As the Lady/Lord of his house, you will be spoilt endlessly with riches from his crafts that others may be jealous at the lavish life you are living and how dearly your husband spoils you rotten.

Attending dinners the other Lords hosted will be extended to you and even they would warmly welcome you as their friend’s spouse. Gifts would be exchanged, along with praises and jokes that their gentle-giant friend married before them, and he needed to teach them his tricks.

You don’t have anything to fear when it comes to your future with Rog. Out of all the Lords, even Glorfindel, Rog is most open to the idea and content with progressing things to truly become a happy couple, forgoing the friendship stage.

꒷꒦꒷Maeglin꒷꒦꒷

Maeglin is confused and in a silent outrage because you were not the person he wanted to end up in a relationship with from the very start. His true desire was his cousin, and after being aware of this, his uncle chose to construct an arranged marriage to deter his focus on another person.

This isn’t going to be one of those ‘his heart turned from her to you to moment he saw you’ situation because his desire will continue to focus on his cousin, and it will be displayed through his protests when his uncle summons you all for a gathering to offer the arrangement.

Your parents are pleased since Maeglin is the King’s heir and by marrying him, it would make you a royal, so immediate status boost. You on the other hand have been aware of the Prince’s interest for another and already understood your position throughout this marriage whether you were for or against it. Your entire life would become nothing more than being his spouse with a title while he lusts after someone else.

Deep down, he has it somewhere that you are apart of this arrangement to sway his focus. Makes him distant and negligent all the more. You can try to reach out and pacify the situation for him to pardon your presence, but it doesn’t even make sense because Maeglin had never accepted you as his spouse.

To him, you’re like a guest living in his house after he was forced by his uncle to make your stay comfortable—which he does for the basic commodities. If you want to have a difference made, take it up with the King, but even he doesn’t have a say in the privacies of a married couple.

 However, Turgon does his best to ensure that you and Maeglin are allowed to spend more time together in hopes of building a relationship. You and Maeglin would be invited to dinners, balls and festivals as a couple in hopes of something blossoming. However, any conversations would have to be created by you, even when the other Lords congratulate you both or initiate conversations, it’s you doing most of the talking.

“My Prince, might we speak? I know that your focus lies elsewhere and I am not here to sway if you think so. All I wish is simply to live a peaceful life as your spouse until my presence is no longer required…I don’t know how long that would be. But perhaps during my time under your household, we can be well acquainted with one another a little more?”

It is an internal struggle in his mind to acknowledge your words because he doesn’t know if this is a trick where he would end up gaining interest or if you were being genuine. He was so focused on lusting after his cousin that your attempts at making your time with him bearable were shot down.

Maeglin truly doesn’t know at this point whether to shift focus onto you during your time with him or to let you go because he believes that you would continue to be hurt if you stayed at his side.

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#arranged marriage au #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion imagine #silmarillion headcanons #middle earth x reader #middle earth imagine #middle earth headcanon #galdor x reader #ecthelion x reader #glorfindel x reader #egalmoth x reader #rog x reader #maeglin x reader #galdor headcanons #ecthelion headcanons #glorfindel headcanons #egalmoth headcanons #rog headcanons #maeglin headcanons #lords of gondolin #x reader insert #silmarillion #doodlepops writings ✨