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ryukoishida · 5 years

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WangXian Week 2019 | Day 6: Reunions | In which after 13 years of imprisonment for a crime he didn’t really commit, WWX and LWJ reunited. [Android AU]

Written for WangXian Week 2019 @wangxianweek

Title: Viral [Part Two of Two] Day: 6 – Reunions Summary: After thirteen years of imprisonment, Wei Wuxian is finally reunited with Lan Wangji. Everything has changed, he thinks — this time, for good. [Android AU] Characters/Ships: WangXian; featuring android!Wen siblings, Jiang Cheng, Lan Xichen, android!Lan Sizhui, android!Lan Jingyi Rating: PG-13 A/N: Prequel to “For Man and Machine Alike”.

Read Part One.

“Wei Wuxian… Wei Wuxian! Get up!”

“… Wen Qing? What’s up?” Wei Wuxian rubbed his eyes, still gummed down from sleep. He’d once again fallen slumber at his desk — nothing unusual for the workaholic engineer these days — but his spine and neck ached in sharp, jabbing pain when he stood up, his back slightly hunched from the terrible posture and general exhaustion.

“T-there’s something wrong with Ah-Ning!” Wen Qing, who had been programmed to act composed to perform her tasks as efficiently as possible in all sorts of emergency and stressful scenarios, was pulling her creator’s sleeve in a desperate attempt to make him move faster. Only now did he notice the cuts and tears of her clothes, and her messy hair that fell limply over her forehead. “Please, you have to run a scan on him.”

Wei Wuxian glanced over at her, and saw that the hazel in her eyes was displaying genuine fear for her sibling unit. For whatever reason, Wen Qing had always “felt” a sense of affinity with Wen Ning ever since she “woke up” and started running, as if they were a real family. Wei Wuxian found it fascinating and so decided to leave that setting alone to observe how it would develop. Over the years, the strength of their kinship had only grown sturdier, which was as strange as it was enthralling.

Despite the uproar of the public of how AI and androids should never be mistakenly treated as actual human beings, Wei Wuxian wanted to argue that androids, to a certain extent, could feel and express authentic emotions that were as real to them as they were to humans’ experiences of them.

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“Downstairs, in the lab. I… I had to lock him up.” Wen Qing almost looked ashamed of herself.

Wei Wuxian didn’t understand the gravity of the situation until he set foot into his laboratory in the basement of his residence: expensive equipment had been shattered and strewn about, and bits and pieces of the projects he’d been working on for the past few months had been scattered into a mess that would take way too long to tidy up and put back together.

“…What the hell happened here?”

He gingerly picked up a fragmented limb of what was to be his next project in the WEN series, an android he’d tentatively named Wen Yuan for the moment. The rest of its body — head, torso, and one of its legs — was still sitting on a steel table in the corner, a tangle of cables thankfully still attached to the various parts of the android, its face oddly peaceful as if it were merely asleep and untouched by the violence around him.

“I-I don’t know!” Wen Qing replied as they approached the room that she’d locked her sibling unit earlier on. From the window, they could see Wen Ning prowling like a caged animal, his kind, green irises turned grey, and his arms transformed into numerous of gun barrels sticking out in odd, sickening angles. “One moment, we were just talking normally, and then the next, he was in complete combat mode.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Wei Wuxian muttered, palm pressing against the window so hard that his skin was turning white. As if he could detect his creator’s presence, Wen Ning slowly turned towards the window, his head twisted into an impossible angle — steel grey irises staring into troubled scarlet ones through the thin layer of glass — as the warfare android advanced towards them, the dark void of the barrels along Wen Ning’s arms aiming directly at his creator and sibling unit.

He opened fire, bullets raining against the window, cracking it but not enough to break through it entirely… yet.

“This makes no sense,” Wei Wuxian pulled Wen Qing back until they could stand as far away from the agitated android who finally broke through the glass and easily jumped over the ledge, bits of broken glass fell to the ground behind him, crisp and deadly. “Only my voice could activate his combat mode.”

He turned sharply to Wen Qing. “Where did he go yesterday? Who came in close contact with him?”

“We gave a presentation and held a demonstration session for newly-recruited cadets at the Lanling military base,” Wen Qing recalled, “that was it.”

“Lanling military base…” Wei Wuxian murmured under his breath, his frown deepening from the mentioning of the name. Just two months ago, he’d received an invitation from his stepsister Jiang Yanli, who’d wanted him to come and celebrate her marriage to Jin Zixuan, a respected lieutenant and grandson of the old general who had total military control of the Lanling province, with the rest of their family and friends.

Wei Wuxian made up an excuse to be absent from the ceremony, but due to this shift in the Jiang and Jin families’ relationship, he found no reason to deny the Lanling government’s request to have his prototype units gave a demonstration for their military’s cadets, especially since the government had invested a lot in Wei Wuxian’s WEN series as well.

“But some of the recruits had been very enthusiastic and curious about Ah-Ning’s composition, and you know how he gets with kids,” Wen Qing tightened her fists by her sides. For an android designed for utter destruction, when he was not in his combat mode, Wen Ning could be worryingly nice to strangers. “One of them must’ve planted something into his system — some sort of spyware or something.”

“We can’t run a scan on him right now,” Wei Wuxian uttered, “not when he’s in this state. But whatever’s been planted within Ah-Ning, it’s changing the codes of his learning algorithms that has overridden his decision-making system and completely superseded the voice-control function.”

Wen Ning was already half way across the room, and he showed no signs of stopping his actions or recognizing his sibling unit and the robotics engineer who built him.

“Unit WEN0411, cease your operations at once!” Wei Wuxian tried, his voice hoarse.

Another step forward. The metallic clinks of his bones and tendons and the blank stare of his unseeing eyes only meant a certain fate: one that ended with the death of his creator and a world of chaos.

“Wei Wuxian…” there was a tremble to her voice when Wen Qing spoke his name, “activate my combat mode.”

“…What?”

“This is the only way you’ll come out of this alive,” Wen Qing continued, her jaw tightening in resolution. Her programmed personality was surfacing again, her codes dictating her to perform the most important duty she was designed to do in the most efficient way possible: she must protect those who were in dire danger so that less damage could be done in total. “I don’t know how many other units have already been infected by Ah-Ning since yesterday, but the virus must be spreading through the city like a wildfire right now, and you’re the one who can put a stop to this.”

“Wen Qing, we don’t have to do this…”

“Yes, we do! You know we do!” Wen Qing shouted, though her sharp gaze remained trained on her sibling unit who she no longer recognized. “You’ve come this far. Don’t start being a coward now.”

So, was this how fragile the affinity between android units truly was? Torn apart by a foreign spyware. Completely erased from their memories due to the presence of a virus that only consumed and modified in frightening speed and fatal precision.

Wei Wuxian shivered as he allowed Wen Qing to shove him back and watched the medic android walking towards Wen Ning. For the first time in his life, he truly feared his own creations that he’d always took pride in.

“Unit WEN0812, activate combat mode.”

vi.

Imprisonment sapped the life and spirit out of most, but it was oddly kind to Wei Wuxian, who, other than looking a little slimmer and the shadows beneath his eyes a little more bruised, looked nothing like a man who’d been in prison for the past six months.

“Guess you were right about me all this time, huh, Lan Wangji?”

“I wish I had been wrong.”

‘I wish I had tried harder.’

“What’s happening out there?”

“The government has issued recalls. Not only of the units you designed, but others that were produced around the same time period.”

“And the LAN series?”

“We’re putting it on hold for now.”

The conversation briefly halted.

Wei Wuxian wanted to apologize; he knew how important the Linear Aegis Nurturer series was to the head engineer of Gusu Robotics, who’d spent the past few years perfecting the codes and blueprints, focusing on the nurturing and social welfare elements, of what he hoped would become an accommodating addition to the community.

He wanted to apologize, but the guilt in him wouldn’t allow it. It had swallowed and consumed everything that he cared about.

“I’ve overestimated my own abilities; I thought I could play God — I thought I was making the world better. I’m such a fucking fool.”

“It’s not your fault. Someone uses your androids to spread the virus and wants to watch the world burn. This isn’t you.”

“But I helped make it happen, even if I hadn’t meant to. I should’ve been able to spot the loophole and patch it, but I didn’t. The fault is all mine.”

“I will find the person who planted the virus.”

“What’s the point?”

Wei Wuxian smiled at him through the thick glass, and Lan Wangji wanted to smash the barrier between them with his bare hands.

“Lan Wangji, will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

vii.

Wei Wuxian told him about Wen Yuan. The second generation of the WEN series was going to be his attempt to combine elements of a companion android and that of a combatant; the unit was not designed to be used for military or police auxiliaries but for those who were in search for either platonic or romantic partner with some added traits of a protective guardian that had at least as much abilities as a proficient soldier unit.

“I’ve hidden him and some of his core parts in one of the warehouses that the Jiang family owns. Once this craze dies down, will you… will you retrieve him for me and reprogram him?”

“Reprogram him… in what way?”

“In whatever way that you find fitting,” Wei Wuxian smiled wistfully. “I trust your judgement. You’d make him a better android than I ever could.”

“That’s not true.”

Wei Wuxian chose not to argue this time.

Two years and four months had passed when the storm finally dissipated. The initial rage of mass recalls conducted by the government had urged thousands of humans, especially those who were weary of AI’s presence in the first place, to hunt down specific android models gradually dwindled down. Irrationality and terror at last burned itself out, enough that the government had started to restructure the robotics industry with stricter regulations and severe penalties for those who broke the rules.

While the sales and production rates of androids dropped significantly during the two years since Wei Wuxian’s arrest, the market only became more demanding once the restrictions and bans had been lifted.

In a warehouse far from the city center, Lan Wangji found the remains of Wen Yuan. He carefully packed the parts and brought them back to his own laboratory, where he proceeded to finish putting together the hardware of the android unit. The coding, however, proved to be the more challenging portion.

He remembered Wei Wuxian telling him to completely re-program Wen Yuan’s codes, but the foundation was already set, and Lan Wangji wanted to salvage whatever codes that regulated Wen Yuan’s original personality as Wei Wuxian had first intended: loyalty, compassion, and benevolence of a companion android; ferocity, selflessness, and courage of a soldier. It took him more than two years to perfect the codes and programming, and by the time he completed the project, Gusu Robotics had already released a few prototypes of the LAN series androids.

Standing next to the engineer now was one of the first models of the LAN series — unit LAN0168, also known as Lan Jingyi, a childcare assistant android. The initial release of this unit had stirred up two extreme reactions in the spectrum among the consumers and general public: on one hand, many parents, daycare centers, and schools truly appreciated the addition of such efficient assistance in the household and educational settings, but on the other, people who still remembered the slaughter and chaos stemmed from Wei Wuxian’s AI creations contended that these androids would only be a source of unnecessary risk and danger for their children.

Still, the demand for it continued to increase despite some outrage, and LAN0168 quickly became a successful and popular model since its launch.

“Master Lan, who’s this?” Lan Jingyi, who’d remained by his creator’s side since he first started operating several years ago, asked, his boyish curiosity making his eyes light up with a hint of gold. He circled around the unit, which was still “asleep” with its eyes closed, its lips frozen in a very subtle smile as if it were having a pleasant dream.

“LAN0112,” Lan Wangji replied in a quiet tone, and then with a softer, gentler voice, he corrected himself, “Lan Sizhui.”

“What sort of an android is he supposed to be?”

“A companion unit designed to fulfil emotional and sexual needs as necessary, with the user’s choice of having him as either a platonic or romantic companion.”

A perfect partner.

With the help of Lan Jingyi, Lan Wangji unplugged all the wires attached to the sleeping android’s body.

The very last step was to activate the unit, to breathe life into this android.

Using careful, probing fingers, Lan Wangji located the small knob behind the curve of the unit’s right ear. He slid the pad of his index finger across it, and heard a soft click inside the body, followed by quiet whirring hardly discernible even when he was standing this close.

“LAN0112, wake up,” Lan Wangji whispered the command.

One heartbeat. One long, slow exhale.

He opened his eyes gradually, irises honey-toned and gaze as warm as the late summer sun scattering through the green foliage. He focused on the first face he saw, and gave the human a small, timid smile.

“Hello, I am LAN0112, a companion unit of the Linear Aegis Nurturer series by Gusu Robotics. Thank you for choosing me to accompany you. Before we start, would you like to give me a new name?”

“Lan Sizhui,” Lan Wangji said, patting the android on his head gently, and the newly-awaken unit leaned against the tender touch with a quiet hum, like a cat happily and calmly appreciating its owner’s affection. “From now on, your name will be Lan Sizhui.”

viii.

“You know, Lan Wangji, you really don’t have to do this.”

A robotic arm, without any pretense or concealment of artificial skin covering the cold and angular metal, reached out to take the mug of coffee offered by one of the android assistants in Lan Wangji’s personal laboratory.

Thirteen years in prison hadn’t diminished his passion in robotics, but it did make him reconsider his priorities and purpose in his creations. Fellow prisoners did not take lightly to Wei Wuxian’s crimes, and more than once, he was attacked by a group of anti-AI protestors, who were prejudiced against all androids from the start, and targeted Wei Wuxian again and again.

In the hopes of destroying him, they crushed his arms — the essence of his genius artificial intelligence creations — but the pain was nothing compared to what he had put Jiang Yanli and her child through. He’d heard about the news from Jiang Cheng himself — it was the only time he’d visited him during the thirteen years he was in prison — that Jin Ling had become an orphan because Jiang Yanli grew too sick and never recovered after her husband’s death in the war against androids about a year ago.

Jiang Cheng lost his sister because of him.

Jin Ling lost both of his parents because of him.

Losing his arms seemed like nothing compared to the desolate emptiness when your loved ones left you for good.

Wei Wuxian stared at the swirling, milky-brown of his coffee held in his metallic hand The sensors on his fingers allowed him to feel the hard gleam and mild warmth of the ceramic, but he knew he would never be able to touch and feel in the same way as he used to anymore.

Some people would call that irony; others would call it karma; for Wei Wuxain, however, he saw it as rightful punishment for what he’d done.

He didn’t deserve the kindness that Lan Wangji was showing him. It was too much, and Wei Wuxian was unsure of how to act.

“I want to,” Lan Wangji said, tone firm and sincere.

“I mean, I’m honored that you’re offering me a position at Gusu Robotics, but what does your brother think about that? The RAC can’t be happy about it, either — the biggest and most influential robotics company harboring an ex-convict and giving him a job? You’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Brother only considers one’s talents and aspirations; your past does not dictate or define who you are.”

“And the RAC?” Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow.

“Not important right now,” Lan Wangji assured him.

After a second of stilted silence, Wei Wuxian broke into a wild, booming laugh, and Lan Wangji looked at him bemusedly.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day when you outright defy the RAC,” Wei Wuxian explained through lingering chuckles, and he took a sip of coffee in an attempt to calm himself down. “I’m proud of you, Lan Wangji, really, I am.”

“I’ve found out who planted the virus,” Lan Wangji suddenly said, and the other engineer froze.

“…It’s fine,” Wei Wuxian heaved a soft sigh a moment later after he’d digested the unexpected news, a small smile making the red in his eyes that much subtler, less domineering than they used to be. “I told you, didn’t I? It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t do anything about him,” Lan Wangji said, tone dipped in biting cold, “he’s apparently important enough that the government has made sure no one can compromise him.”

“I don’t want to instigate anything anymore,” Wei Wuxian said, leaning back against the office chair and cradling the warm mug in his lap. “I’ve wasted thirteen years in prison — well, I suppose it wasn’t really a waste since it gave me a lot of time to think, y’know. Too much time, sometimes.” He laughed again, but this time the sound was self-depreciating, bitter, and Lan Wangji wanted to rip that away from him.

“I don’t want to waste more time dwelling on things that I can no longer change.”

“…I understand.”

“Anyway, you said you wanted to show me something? I do love surprises. Well? What is it?” Wei Wuxian had always been good at changing subjects during times like this, and so Lan Wangji let him.

He nodded, and called for someone to come in.

At his creator’s beckoning, an android unit strolled into the lab.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes grew wide with instant recognition.

“Wait… wait a fucking minute… Is that…? Are you…?” Wei Wuxian stood up abruptly and walked towards the android, who was slightly shorter than him.

“Master Wei, I hope you can accept Master Lan’s proposal to stay in Gusu Robotics and work alongside with him,” the android with the face and body of a young man in his early 20’s greeted the engineer with a courteous smile.

“Wen… Yuan?” Wei Wuxian wasn’t sure. The anatomical and facial aspects of the android he designed and built himself thirteen years ago were similar to what he remembered, but the way the android spoke and carried himself — the natural elegance, the pleasant, amiable manner, and the soothing, serene voice — Wei Wuxian could see the shadow of his initial design, but under Lan Wangji’s crafting hands, this second generation of the WEN unit had grown into something else entirely.

“I am called Lan Sizhui now, but Master Lan had told me everything about you,” Lan Sizhui smiled gently at Wei Wuxian, the expression exuding nothing but earnestness and gratitude. “Master Wei, you are my first creator — the one who conceptualized and conceived me originally — but Master Lan took me in, fixed me up and finalized my programming after you requested him to do so, and since then I’ve been staying with Master Lan and helping him as one of his lab assistants.”

“So… what category of android do you belong in?” Wei Wuxian didn’t want to seem rude, so he reined in the awed staring as much as he could, but he could tell — from the color of Lan Sizhui’s eyes to the voice chosen to best fit his personality — that Lan Wangji had poured his heart and soul into this android’s design and programming.

This unexpected joint project of theirs stirred up another rivulet of inspiration inside Wei Wuxian, who’d thought that after thirteen years of being imprisoned, the flow of creativity that used to run in his veins so easily and naturally had been completely sapped dry.

“I’m a companion unit, but unlike previous models of similar units, I have two settings that allow the purchaser to choose from in accordance to their needs and wants,” Lan Sizhui lifted his arm so that his hand, palm facing upwards as if he was offering Wei Wuxian something precious, was at the level of his chest, and a holographic display window appeared above his palm with the words presented thus:

{For your best experience of this unit, please choose from the following settings: Platonic Companion or Romantic Partner.}

“After the user has picked a setting, more details regarding different aspects of my personality and applications can be edited and added according to the user’s tastes and preferences,” Lan Sizhui continued to explain with a pleasant smile.

“And what setting are you in right now?” Wei Wuxian was curious.

“Neither,” Lan Sizhui replied, gathering his fingers into a loose fist to turn off the display. “Master Lan only wishes me to be an assistant and disciple, and has told me that I can continue as thus until I encounter a human deemed important enough to me that I would be willing to let them pick a specific setting for me. Until that day comes, however, I shall happily remain by Master Lan’s side.”

“A human deemed important enough, huh?” Wei Wuxian repeated the phrase thoughtfully, chewing over the subtle meaning of the words as he glanced over at Lan Wangji, who had stayed on the sidelines quietly as he observed the human and the android interact before him.

As their eyes met, Wei Wuxian could see just a hint of a smile from the usually stoic man, the expression simultaneously hopeful, inviting, yet timid as if everything rested on Wei Wuxian’s response to Lan Wangji’s previous offer.

“Sizhui, would you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course, Master Wei,” Lan Sizhui nodded to both of his creators and left, shutting the door lightly behind him.

Wei Wuxian walked over to where Lan Wangji was sitting, but Lan Wangji made no movement to stand up so that Wei Wuxian seemed to have the advantage of gazing down at him from a significant height. So many years ago, back when he was still a high-spirited teenager — a fearless, over-confident youngster who thought he could defy the laws and conquer the world with ideals alone — he would have done anything to stand tall and tower over someone like Lan Wangji with all his accomplishments and triumphs.

But it took him thirteen years to realize that those kinds of accomplishments and triumphs were mere trifles, shallow and fleeting and eventually left forgotten; they had meant nothing because he had no one to share them with.

He had no one but his androids, and even then… Even then…

He thought about Wen Ning and Wen Qing, and how they were forced to destroy each other in the end. He thought about Wen Yuan — or rather Lan Sizhui — who was given another chance at “living” the way he chose for himself.

With a slightly trembling metallic arm, Wei Wuxian reached out and down towards Lan Wangji’s face, silver fingers delicately cradling the other man’s face. The smooth, icy surface of the steel chilled his skin, and he shivered a little at the gentle touch, his cheeks awash with a hint of rosy pink as he stared up at Wei Wuxian quietly with eyes ablaze with unbridled devotion.

“Sorry,” Wei Wuxian whispered an apology, voice hoarse and low, thinking that Lan Wangji disliked the cold, metallic touch, but just as he was about to retrieve his hand back, Lan Wangji wrapped his fingers tautly around his wrist and pulled him down.

And he thought he was falling, his mind reeling from the abrupt feeling of vertigo.

Wei Wuxian only registered the temperature of the other man’s skin against his own metallic coating with a half-second delay, but then it hit him too suddenly, too much, and they were breathing into each other, face to face, mouths almost colliding.

“Lan Wangji…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, lifting Wei Wuxian’s hand to place his palm against his own cheek once more, and Wei Wuxian smiled at him, soft and affectionate.

“Lan Wangji,” he called his name again, enjoying how the syllables rolled off his tongue and leaving a sweet aftertaste in his mouth.

“Mn?”

“Thank you for what you’ve done with Wen—with Sizhui. He seems like a good kid.”

“He is,” Lan Wangji assured him.

“And…”

“And?”

“I would love to stay, if your invitation still stands.”

“For you, always.”

#wangxianweek2019 #mdzs #gdc #wangxian #mo dao zu shi #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #bowie's crappy writing

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mandelene · 6 years

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The Lessons We Learn - Chapter 1

Warnings: Language, violence. Summary: Arthur remembers what those days were like — living with a single mother and three big brothers in their squalid north London home; he remembers the screaming, the fighting, and the pain. When the past collides with the present, it all comes rushing back. Everything starts to break—the family he has now, and the one he left behind. (FACE family and Kirkland brothers human AU.)

Word Count: 4,010 Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13079727/1/The-Lessons-We-Learn

In room 302, there is a seventy-seven-year-old man recovering from heart surgery—a coronary bypass, to be more specific. He has never smoked a day in his life and doesn't drink. He loves baseball—has been a Red Sox fan since he was a little boy—and goes to church every Sunday. He plays piano even though his hands are stiff with arthritis and is an avid reader of fantasy novels.

He lost his wife to lung cancer five years ago. He was diagnosed with Coronary Artery Disease after a bout of severe chest pain last year. He has a bubbly and charismatic thirty-six-year-old daughter with auburn hair and bright blue eyes who teaches second-grade math and science.

When Arthur comes in to examine him, the sun is still coming up and the winter sky is glowing with pinks and lavenders. The patient's daughter is sitting by his bedside, one hand on top of his, and all is well. They both seem to be in good spirits.

"The kids can't wait to see you, Dad. Emily can't stop talking about—" the daughter pauses as she notices Arthur's presence and quickly flashes him a welcoming smile. "Oh, good morning, Dr. Kirkland."

"Good morning," Arthur says back, consulting his patient's chart for a brief moment—BP was a little low last time it was checked, apparently—before returning his gaze to them. "How are we feeling today?"

"Weak," his patient complains, rubbing at his chest with his fist.

"Any chest pain?"

"A little. Not as bad as before."

"All right, let's have a listen," Arthur suggests, putting the buds of his stethoscope in his ears and placing the diaphragm over the man's heart.

"He was feeling better yesterday evening—started getting some of his strength back and even wanted to have something to eat," the daughter explains, worriedly looking on. "We watched the Red Sox game together on TV."

Arthur helps the man carefully sit up a bit so he can put his stethoscope on his back, but as he's supporting him by the shoulder, the man suddenly loses consciousness, body flopping over. His chest stills, his eyes roll back into his head, and there he is—totally rigid and cradled in Arthur's hold.

There's no way to explain how it feels to hold a dead man—to have had him in your arms as he took his final breath.

"Dad? Dad!" the daughter shouts, paralyzed with fear. "What's wrong with him?"

Code blue. Cardiac arrest. Arthur hits the code button on the wall and starts prepping everything for when backup arrives. He has several seconds before chaos really sets in.

Get the daughter out.

"I'm going to need you to step outside for a moment, darling," he says, impeccably calm, and, thankfully, she doesn't argue with him. She heads for the door in silent horror just as the rapid response team comes pouring in.

Chest compressions. Pushing epinephrine. The patient's frail ribs fracture and make an awful noise like splintering wood. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. But they keep trying. They try until a lung gets punctured, and Arthur has to put in a chest tube that is unlikely to revive him anyway. He makes a careful incision and does everything by the books, but still, they fail.

"Call it," the other doctor in the room murmurs to him softly twenty-two minutes later, and Arthur stares down at his bloodied gloves, still feeling the weight of the man's body in his arms. The heaviness of it all is so intense he can barely breathe.

He clears his throat and says, "Time of death, seven thirty-four A.M."

And that's it.

It's not the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last, but that doesn't make it hurt any less, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he's accustomed to the feeling.

He peels off his gloves, throws them away, and washes his hands thoroughly in a nearby sink. He has danced to this song before. The faces and names change, but really, they're all the same in the end, and that's the depressing part. Now, he must tell a woman that her father is dead. Just several minutes ago, everything was fine.

Sometimes, he very truly and deeply loathes his job.

He steps out into the waiting area outside of the double doors of the unit, finds the daughter, and immediately wishes he could turn back.

"I'm so sorry…"

He doesn't have to say anything else. She already knows.

She throws herself into his arms, making the weight even heavier.

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

Arthur remembers the first time he thought he would die.

It's 1979. He is seven-years-old.

His mother is in the living room, dusting the bookcases. Patrick, Alistair, and Dylan are all watching the football match on television—it's the FA Cup final, and Manchester United is playing Arsenal. All three of his brothers are Manchester fans, but Arthur prefers Arsenal. Arsenal is closer to home—their stadium is just a fifteen-minute walk away, entrenched in north London's working-class.

But there won't be any playful talk of football for him today. Unlike his siblings, Arthur isn't glued to the screen. Instead, he's standing in his father's study, right in front of his desk. He's in trouble for using profanity—he called Alistair a cunt for saying Pat Jennings is a bad goalkeeper. He's not sure what a cunt is, but he's heard his father use that term before after coming home from the pub, and he knows it's supposed to be offensive.

"Arthur's getting a strapping!" Alistair had cheered when Arthur first was caught uttering the forbidden word.

And now, here he is, hands clasped behind his back and heart thumping hard against his chest as he waits to see what his father will do. The man's breath smells of Irish whiskey, and it makes Arthur want to curl up his nose in disgust. He could run, but he wouldn't make it very far, and where would he go?

It doesn't take long for him to realize he's going to have to endure more than just a lecture. The moment he catches a glimpse of his father's belt, he starts to wail with remorse, hoping his tears will be enough to make the man reconsider. But James Kirkland does not pride himself in being a forgiving man. He believes in strict, swift discipline.

"What do you have to say?" he asks as Arthur numbly stands there with puffy cheeks and eyes.

"I'm s-sorry, sir. I won't say that word again."

What follows is a bit of a blur. James Kirkland is even less forgiving when he has a drink or two in his system, and there is nothing Arthur fears more than that look of detachment in his eyes—how he doesn't even seem to care that he is his son and a child. A child who used a word he inherited from the very same person whom he is now being punished by.

He screams when his brain registers the blazing pain. It goes on for what feels like an eternity. Dread fills his stomach when he thinks that maybe his father will never stop. Maybe he'll go on forever and ever until he collapses.

Fortunately, his mother comes in before that can happen.

"Enough. James, that's enough."

"You spoil him, Eileen."

In his father's view, this is discipline. If one does not suffer, then one does not learn their lesson.

And, for a very long time, Arthur believes this to be true. After all, his father is always right. For two weeks, welts the size two-pound coins near his tailbone pain him every time he sits or leans against something. He also gets sent to bed without dinner that night.

Arsenal wins the match.

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

It's raining–just a drizzle.

He doesn't open up his umbrella. In a way, he feels he deserves this. Tonight, he needs to be rained on. He wishes it would start pouring—wants the water to seep into his clothes and pool in his shoes. He wants to feel himself being dragged down. Down, down, down, until he forgets and is absolved of his guilt.

He doesn't want anyone to see him in this state, but he's already missed dinner and he can't walk any slower toward the house. He's in the driveway now. There's no turning back.

He steadies himself with a deep breath and lets the rain wash over his head and face. It doesn't rinse away how disgusting he feels beneath his skin, but it'll have to do.

He fits his key into the lock of the front door, hears the welcoming click invite him inside, and creeps into the foyer. He hears the sound of his own heavy breathing and it occurs to him that his hands are clammy and shaking.

Pull it together, he tells himself.

"Arthur? You're home."

He lifts his gaze and sees Francis at the base of the steps, one hand clutching the banister. He's frowning, and his brows are drawn down in what seems to be concern as he pulls his silky robe around himself more tightly–he must have been getting ready for bed.

What time is it anyway?

"Hi," Arthur manages to murmur, slipping out of his coat. He can feel Francis's intense eyes on his back as he tries to get settled in, and this only serves to make him feel even heavier and more tired. The weight of the world is bearing down on his shoulders, and he wants nothing more than to crumple to the ground.

"Long day?"

"Quite. Where are the girls?"

"Asleep," Francis says softly, still watching him very closely. "Did something happen?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"You're crying."

Arthur touches his damp cheek and draws his fingers back in surprise when they make contact with warm tears. He thought it was the rain that was making his face wet. "Oh."

"What happened, mon amour?"

Yes, what happened?

"Arthur?"

"It's nothing. I just—I lost a patient today. It was unfortunate," Arthur sighs, trying to brush it off quickly. This is the last thing he needed…After everything else that's been going on this was just…too much.

Francis wraps his arms around his shoulders and frowns. "I'm sorry."

He's not in the mood. Not tonight. He doesn't want to be touched.

He pulls away, takes a breath, and decides he needs a shower and some sleep. Then, he'll be able to approach everything with a clearer mind, hopefully.

Francis takes the hint that he wants to be left alone and doesn't continue smothering him. Instead, he murmurs, "There are some leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry."

"I'm not hungry, but thank you for the offer."

"You should eat—you're getting too thin. You don't eat enough at work, and you've stopped eating when you're at home, too."

"I'm fine. I know how much I should be eating," Arthur says a little gruffly. He's tired enough as is, and now he has to be interrogated about his dietary habits, too?

Francis stares at him for a long time in that inquisitive way of his, and it makes Arthur incredibly uncomfortable and slightly annoyed. He needs some space. Everything will be resolved in due time. He's working on it. Everything is fine. If everyone would just take a step back and let him handle what needs to be handled, everything would go swimmingly.

Time to change subjects.

"How is Madeline feeling?"

"She was fine today and said she felt okay at school. You were right—it was probably just allergies since she felt better after you gave her that antihistamine last night," Francis whispers, expression a little more sorrowful. "I worry though—she catches everything these days."

This is true. Arthur isn't sure what's been causing Madeline to become increasingly prone to colds and other viruses, but he suspects it's just a developmental phase, as there doesn't seem to be anything else medically wrong with her. Puberty has worsened her allergies and weakened her immune system, or maybe it's just the stress of being in high school. Either way, she has already had to miss a few days of school this year—not that this matters very much. Madeline still somehow manages to excel in her classes anyway. There's no need to worry about her grades slipping. In fact, Arthur and Francis suppose she can afford an occasional sick day—she worries about school far too much at times and has earned some days off every now and then.

Winter is just a few weeks away, and that's bound to bring a few more viruses into their household, so Arthur plans to start Madeline on a multivitamin and a probiotic to help boost her immunity. Short of embarrassing her by making her wear a medical mask to school (and while the idea is tempting, both Francis and Madeline herself wouldn't allow for that), there's not much else to do.

"I'm glad she's feeling better," he finally sighs. "I'm going to shower. You should go to sleep."

"I'll wait for you."

"You don't have to. As you can see, I'm not pleasant company tonight."

Francis smiles warmly. "Believe it or not, I've grown used to it."

Arthur's not sure whether he's supposed to feel insulted by that or not. He doesn't have the energy to care, so he goes into the bathroom, gets under the showerhead, and lets water pour over his skin again—just like the cold rain—and hopes that this time he'll feel a little cleaner—purer.

Anguished shouts of "Dad!" reverberate through his ears over and over again. He turns off the water, presses his face into a towel, and then leans over the toilet to be sick. He makes sure to turn start the water again—this time in the bathroom sink—so that his retching is muffled by the noise. This is the third time he's vomited this week.

It's getting worse.

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

1979, London

Being the youngest means always having to keep up with everyone else.

While Arthur is just beginning to learn how to multiply, Patrick is already fifteen and has sprouted up into a charming young man. He is, in many ways, the man of the house when their father is at work or out late at the pub. Tawny-haired, broad-shouldered, and green-eyed—he is the spitting image of their father. Everyone always points out the resemblance between them, but Patrick seems to become agitated whenever the similarities between them are brought up rather than being proud of carrying his father's traits.

In those days, Patrick is, in Arthur's eyes, a mean elder brother who bosses him around and tries to be a surrogate parent. Years later, Arthur will understand and come to appreciate the pressure on him to be an adult—to take charge and care for the rest of them.

But appreciation is the last thing he feels whenever Patrick forces him and Dylan into their pajamas and makes them go to bed at nine o'clock. Why does Alistair get to stay up until ten? Because he's older. You're too young, Arthur. You're too small. You don't understand. You never understand anything. Just grow up already and keep your nose out of trouble.

Trouble has a knack for coming to him, however.

He comes down with a fever during the first week of November. His mother keeps him home from school, and he spends most of the day reading A Bear Called Paddington and playing with Lego bricks. The silence in the house is odd. He shares his room with Dylan, and not having his brother lying above him in their bunkbed feels strange.

Around mid-afternoon, when he grows bored of the Legos and he's too tired to read, he sits near the window and watches people as they come and go. He leans his hot forehead on the cool glass and wonders if he'll be able to convince his mother to let him ride his bike in the park tomorrow if he's feeling better—they can't just let Saturday go to waste without doing anything.

He nearly falls asleep right then and there while daydreaming, but then, a familiar face catches his attention.

Is that Alistair with a girl?

Arthur sits up straighter and squints his eyes as much as he can. There's no mistaking it—that's his second eldest brother, and he's with Victoria Wright, a girl with jet black hair, blue eyes, and a nose piercing. She's the same age as Alistair—twelve. Her father served in the navy, and she has two brothers and two sisters. The Wrights are a big family, just like theirs. Mrs. Wright doesn't work, and Arthur has heard his mother complain about how she never cleans up after the dog.

And then, the moment finally comes…Alistair kisses Victoria.

Arthur gags and quickly screws his eyes shut. Gross! What should he do? He can't keep this a secret. He can't let Alistair get away with what has just transpired before his very eyes.

He watches the lovebirds separate and go in opposite directions…Alistair is coming up to the house now.

Arthur sprints out of his room and barrels down the stairs, adrenaline running up and down his arms. Finally, he has some valuable information that his other brothers don't have. For once, he is in the loop. He can't let this moment go to waste. He must tell everyone. The whole world has to know about Alistair Kirkland and Victoria Wright.

He races to the foyer and catches Alistair just as he's coming in through the front door.

"I saw you and Victoria snogging!" he proclaims proudly, elated when he sees his brother's cheeks flush scarlet and his face fill with shame. "ALISTAIR AND VICTORIA WERE—!"

"Shut up!" Alistair hisses, slamming his hand down on Arthur's mouth and holding it there firmly. "Yer such a brat. Ye didn't see anything, do ye understand me? Or else."

Arthur tries to break free, but Alistair pins him against the wall and is much, much stronger.

"Alistair and—mphhm—and—!"

"I said to shut up, or I'll tell everyone in yer class how ye pissed on yerself last year."

That was one time.

Alistair's usual threats don't scare him. This is too good. He can just imagine the look on Patrick's face when he finds out.

"Let—mphm—go!"

"I'll give ye five pounds to keep quiet."

Pft. He's going to have to do better than that.

"What's going on here? Arthur, why are you out of bed?" their mother suddenly asks, appearing from the living room. "Alistair, what are you doing? He's ill—this is no time to be wrestling."

Alistair releases him reluctantly, and Arthur lets out a string of coughs, a little worn out from the excitement.

"Back to bed," his mother orders, pressing a hand to his forehead and clicking her tongue at him when she feels that he's still much too warm for her liking.

"But Alistair—!"

"Bed, Arthur. Now. And Alistair, take those shoes off. I've just cleaned the floor."

That's okay. He can still use this as blackmail in the future. Not all hope is lost.

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

The fever worsens.

He wakes at one o'clock in the morning, burning up and unable to get comfortable. Dylan is in Alistair and Patrick's room for the night, and so, he is all alone in the darkness, miserable and shivering. He does what any child would do—he cries. Cries and cries until his mother rouses and ambles over to him. She brushes his hair back and tries to hush him, and he wants nothing more but to be held and told it will be all right—that this will pass, and he'll feel better soon. He wants his mother's kiss on his brow. Wants her attention. Wants to be rocked in her arms. Wants to be the center of her attention for just this moment.

"Shh, Arthur. Please…"

Her words do not bring him comfort. He is only made to feel as though he is being a burden. He is keeping her up. She is tired. He is a nuisance.

He hears the door downstairs creak open. His father is home. Probably drunk…Definitely drunk.

"Shh, shh. Go back to sleep, Arthur," she begs him, and then, she leaves his bedside to tend to his father, and for a good moment, Arthur is too disappointed and upset to shed any more tears. He just listens as his father clumsily comes up the stairs and makes a racket.

And then, when things become quiet again, he begins sobbing once more, feeling forgotten. He wants his mother to come back. Wants her to sit with him. Why isn't she here?

His weeping attracts the opposite kind of attention he craves.

"For fuck's sake…Shut him up, Eileen. I've told you you've made him soft. Kirklands don't cry," his father grunts, coming into his bedroom. "It's about time you learnt that, Arthur."

"He's unwell," his mother begins to explain, but none of this seems to placate his father.

"I had better give him something to cry about."

"Come back to the bedroom, James. Leave him. He'll tire himself out."

Arthur isn't sure how his lungs manage it, but he cries even louder, increasingly distraught. He closes his eyes and wishes he could be anywhere but here. If he thinks about it really hard, maybe it'll come true—like magic.

He feels a hand clamp down on his upper arm—hard enough to bruise.

He whimpers in pain, and out of the corner of his tear-filled eyes, he sees his mother grab his father by the shoulder and try to yank him away. James responds by spinning around and hitting her in the face.

It is a sharp, piercing slap. This is not the first time his father has laid a hand on his mother, but it is the first time Arthur has witnessed it.

She isn't shocked in the slightest. She just stands there and loses all of the emotion in her gaze—an empty woman.

"Stop!" a new voice shouts, and Arthur feels like he could go to sleep right now and never wake up.

Patrick comes storming in, shoots their father a venomous look, and guides their mother out of the room while saying hurriedly, "Go to your room, Mum."

It sounds strange to hear Patrick telling adults what to do. It makes Arthur's head spin even more.

"Go back downstairs, Dad."

"Who do you think you are?"

"I've called the police. Go downstairs…We can talk downstairs. Not in front of Arthur."

His father strikes at Patrick next, landing a hit to his jaw. "This is my house."

Patrick quickly recovers and pulls himself together, standing up straight and tall. "You've terrorized Mum long enough."

Sirens. They echo in Arthur's skull and make everything hurt more.

Patrick retreats from the room and down the hall, and their father follows after him, presumably to continue fighting. The front door groans again as it gets pushed open. Arthur hears the police officers come in but never sees them. He's much too weak and stunned to crawl out of bed. He just sniffles to himself and blinks fever-glazed eyes at the ceiling. None of this would have happened if he hadn't cried and upset his father. This is his fault.

He will spend the rest of the night alone. He will wake up in the late morning when the fever breaks, covered in his own drool and sweat.

His father will be arrested for forty-eight hours and then released. Their mother will not press charges. She will ask for things to go back to normal between them—will want to retain some semblance of family. He will pack his things and leave. She will plead with him to stay. Will fall to her knees by the door and sob. Don't leave me. What about the boys?

This is Arthur's first lesson in realizing that the only person he can count on is himself.

#hetalia #fanfiction #face family #aph england #aph france #aph ireland #aph scotland #aph wales #aph america #aph canada #angst #family #new fic #mandelene

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renaroo · 7 years

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Day 1 Magic: The Broken Wheel

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire series and related characters are the creative property of George R.R. Martin Warnings: Canon-typical violence & language, Past character deaths (canon and non-canon) Ships: DaenerysxSansa, past relationships mentioned including JonxDaenerys Rating: T Synopsis: [Hypothetical Ending AU] As warden of the North under Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of Westeros, Sansa finds herself host to the woman she once bent the knee to, and is concerned with the prospect of history repeating itself. Little does she know, Daenerys shares a similar concern. DanyxSansa. Sapphic September: Magic

A/N: So basically this is a perceived future where the united kingdoms stave off the Long Night and the Night King, Jon impregnated Dany, but then he died heroically in battle. This is years later, featuring Daenerys, Sansa, and the remains of both houses with the figurative and literal future for them embodied in the daughter of Dany and Jon. It got incredibly long incredibly fast

While the Long Night had seen its end in a merciless prevailing of fire and sword, and the living men and women of Westeros and Essos were salvaged only by the innumerable losses of Westerosi and, for her concerns, particularly Northerners’ lives, it truly had been a long Winter. The longest to her memory, which reminded her of what Old Nan had terrified her with as a chid.

Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides for years and children are born and live and die, all in darkness. That is the time for fear, when the white walkers move through the woods.

Reality, bitterly enough, had been both greater and lesser than the tells of a midwife.

Lady Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Sworn protector of the First Men and the Free Folk, stood at the top of the eighty foot wall overseeing the white lands of her people. On her order, men and women were out there, even in the light falling snow, using brooms and at times shovels to clear the path to their hold from the Southern roads. They might not have done so happily, but they assuredly did so faithfully, and Sansa felt her gratitude for them far more than she felt the chill of winter anymore.

After a few moments of silence, Sansa took a collective breath, looking to the skies, out of instinct more than anything else, and then began to walk down from the wall, her embroidered dire wolf on her chest and the fur trimmings of her cloak nipping at the heels of her boots.

Winterfell was in a state of chaos in a way. An organized disaster under her very direction. Butchers preparing a feast worthy of a hundred men, the maids throwing out hot water over the grounds from their windows both from scrubbing the castle inside and for wetting down the fresh hay laid out over the grounds to keep ice and mud from coating where carriages and horses would be drawn in.

With a polite smile she nodded to each Northerner and Free Folk who greeted her or called her name as she passed them. But her stomach felt unsettled, and her heart heavy with memory.

“Lady Sansa, Lady Sansa,” a mocking tone came from over her shoulder.

Despite herself, Sansa turned enough to see what she already knew, her eyes rolling away from her sister as she turned back to looking where they were walking. “I told you not to do that,” Sansa admonished her sister. “Sneaking up on me like that, Arya… It just isn’t as funny as you think it is.”

“Even if it weren’t as funny as I thought, it’d still be funny,” Arya answered, picking up her step so she could be in stride with Sansa. Her clothes were heavier than Arya’s, thick with leather like armor, dull browns and dark navies. None of which was cut to the fit of a dress or even a lady’s pants like many Free Folk women would wear. Arya was just Arya. “Besides, you’re nervous and humor is supposed to help that.”

“I am not nervous,” Sansa argued, turning with Arya in toward the castle.

“You’re nervous and it’s making everyone else nervous because Lady Sansa is the Steel Wolf, she can’t be unsettled, all of her previous husbands had their cocks eaten off by dire wolves,” Arya joked, quoting the North’s favorite rumors concerning their Warden. “If Lady Sansa’s scared, every man, woman, and child be they Northern or Free will absolutely lose their shit when a damned dragon lands inside the walls again.”

Sansa was already in the process of removing her gloves when Arya began laughing. She gave her sister a disdainful look and used one of the gloves to smack her shoulder. “Stop it,” she all but hissed at her younger sister. “And they don’t call me Lady Sansa, that’s you. Only you.”

“Well I can’t very well go around calling you Lady Stark when I’m a Stark or else I’d have to start going around calling Bran Lord Stark and seven hells if he deserves more brandishing of his incredible ego,” Arya mocked.

They continued up the tower, unspoken but fully aware of both of their destinations. Along the way people scurried about fulfilling all of Sansa’s commands from earlier that morning when she first received the raven from Dragonstone and learned that Queen Daenerys was coming to Winterfell with a full company of servants and soldiers consisting of her most loyal men and women. Not to mention her daughter and the two dragons.

Sansa couldn’t even force herself to think of the dragons.

“What do you think that she wants?” Arya asked as they made their way down the hall and toward Ban’s room.

“The Queen?” Sansa asked, as if the same question had not been racking her mind ever since the message first arrived.

“No, Brienne, she’s so indecisive about how many additional guards the hold will need,” Arya mocked. “Of course I mean the Queen. It’s not like she just arrives all the time. Like anyone goes North without reason. It’s colder here than in the South and the South still has at least two feet of snow last I visited.”

“There you go,” Sansa uttered distractedly. “Arya, the assassin, the worshipper of the Many Faced God, can travel around the world on a whim, but the moment someone else leaves their hold she has to assume the worst of everyone involved.”

“That’s because I travel all the time. It’s normal for me. It’s the rest of the world that lives, breeds, and dies in the same shit town that they were born in most of the time,” she replied candidly. “Did I tell you that the last time I saw Gendry he was in Flea Bottom? Flea Bottom. A hero of the Long Night and he was hanging around in Flea Bottom last I saw him. Who lives in fucking Flea Bottom?”

“I was born in Winterfell, I’m Lady of Winterfell, I live in Winterfell as we speak, I intend to eventually die here, too,” Sansa remarked. “What is your point, Arya? Just out of curiosity.”

“Can’t say I intended to have one outside of the fact that what you just told me was dishearteningly pathetic,” Arya replied. “I love Winterfell, it’s home. If I die here I would come back so the Many Faced God could fuck me over even more in the second life but at least in exchange I’d die somewhere other than Winterfell.”

Sansa glared at her sister before rolling her eyes and pushing open the door to Bran’s library. “Bran?” she called out, only to let out a long sigh as she saw him across the room, his eyes milked over and head tilted back in his chair as he sat by the window.

“Fucksake,” Arya muttered, marching over to their brother in irritation. “Brandon Stark!”

Sansa stood back. She did not pretend to understand the magic that supposedly ran through all of their veins, but strongest within Bran himself. It terrified her more than dragons or white walkers, the possibilities of the Old Gods having a hand on her and all of her family in a way few others had… That was information she didn’t know how to correctly process.

Arya stopped just in front of Bran and put her hands on his shoulders. “Whatever you’re watching in your head isn’t nearly as interesting as the mess Sansa’s made of Winterfell so come awake now. We don’t have time to play around like you’re dim, as funny as it is that most people in Winterfell whisper that that’s what this is.”

Bran took a deep breath, his eyes rolling back down with a blink and he looked expectantly at Arya. “You’re curious about Queen Daenerys and her intentions.”

“What, did you go and worg yourself into a mouse in the hall just to spy on what we were going to come up and tell you anyway? That’s completely useless,” Arya replied without missing a beat. “Sansa, tell him that if he’s going to go mental on us, he has to make it at least count.”

“I never waste my abilities on trivial matters. Everything the Three Eyed Raven does is for reason,” he assured Arya. “Good reason.”

With a dull look, Arya glanced at Sansa, as if she was supposed to be some sort of deciding factor in the tiff. Sansa felt a whole new wave of understanding for her mother she had never had before.

“I don’t understand any of this magic,” Sansa replied. “Bran can decide what he… worgs into and what he doesn’t. He’s a grown man.”

Bran nodded almost sagely.

“There you are, nervous again,” Arya replied, rounding Bran’s chair to grip onto its handles and push him. “Bran, what is the Queen coming to Winterfell for? Did you at least learn that instead of spying on us or whatever it is that you do.”

“Arya, the Queen is the mother to our niece,” Sansa reminded her. “Is it so outlandish to assume that Queen Daenerys would like for Princess Nathaleya to see the lands her father hailed from?”

“In all technicality, Jon was our cousin, son of Aunt Lyanna,” Bran reminded them, as if he had not told the story a hundred fold since the first days of the Long Night.

“He was our brother,” Sansa corrected. “Jon was and always shall be our brother, Bran. And even if you were very young when he left Winterfell for the Night’s Watch, I would hope you could remember him being our brother.”

“Besides, being reminded he’s not our brother makes me gag at who our cousin-in-law is to him,” Arya scoffed.

“Arya,” Sansa tried to correct.

“You both think it, too,” Arya insisted.

“I’m fairly certain that insulting the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is a doomed endeavor,” Sansa remarked. “Punishable by dragon.”

“Only if you don’t kill the dragon first,” Arya continued jokingly, She then patted Bran’s shoulder as she pushed him out into the hall. “Come on now, tell me what you know. It’s always something, isn’t it?”

Bran glanced up to Sansa for a moment. He always had that look of knowing more than he should, though for the life of her, Sansa couldn’t figure out what he was thinking then and there with that look.

“What?” Sansa asked, that time hearing the nervousness in her voice herself.

“Do you know why Queen Daenerys is arriving from Dragonstone?” he asked curiously.

“No, why would I?” Sansa asked almost defensively. “I don’t… worg or… change my faces, or… There is nothing unusual about me.”

Arya’s cackling laughter filled the hall. “Nothing is more convincing of a woman’s normalcy than her declaring it,” Arya almost howled.

“You are a living Stark,” Bran added. “There is nothing more unusual in these changing times than that.”

A depressing silence fell over the three of them for a few more strides. There was a humility to the comment that was deafening.

“Princess Nathaleya has the blood of a Stark running thick in her veins,” Sansa stated lowly. “No man nor woman lived and breathed the words of our father the way that Jon managed. No one else embodied the name of Stark as Jon did. For every silver hair on top of the princess’ blessed head there is a bone or nail or eye or heart that is Stark.” Sansa made a point of looking Arya’s way. “That must be why Queen Daenerys comes to the North. Because it is where the Stark in our Princess thrives.”

Arya raised her brows slightly before leaning in over Bran’s shoulder and whispering loudly, “Perhaps Sansa’s magic lives in her tongue and that’s what’s come to interest the Queen.”

That time, as even Bran grinned at the comment, Sansa took both her gloves and used them to hit both of her siblings over the head.

“Muñnykeā,” rolled from the silver haired child’s tongue, her head rested softly beneath her mother’s breasts, back leaned completely back against Daenerys’ stomach to resist the winds that thundered over Drogon’s scales. “Gaomagon issa lēkia zaldrīzoti mirre mazverdagon ēdrugi?”

Daenerys was curled over her daughter’s back, gripping onto the spines of Drogon’s shoulders as they rode, keeping her precious princess safe through their travels. For as much as Daenerys trusted her first borns with the life of her daughter, there was still a great danger in riding dragons.

Even for a Targaryen. Even for the Daughter of Snow.

“Nathaleya, dragons tire their wings as much as a man tires his arms or legs,” she answered her child, looking down until her chin brushed against the furry hood of her daughter’s coat. “But Drogon and Rhaegal are mostly riding the winds on this journey, so they will travel farther but slower. You will have to know the difference when you are old enough to ride a dragon on your own.”

There was a soft pout from beneath Daenerys and she leaned further back, as if trying to escape back into the mother which she came from. “Tyron iksos verdagon ao ȳzaldrīzes isse quptenka ēngos.”

“I speak in the language I choose to speak, Little One, and you shouldn’t forget it,” Daenerys replied, pressing her lips against the back of the child’s head. “We’re going a slower route so that we will arrive at the same time as the caravan. Missandei is with them and you may speak to her in any language you please. But you will speak to others in the language they know.”

For a moment, her daughter was quiet. Nathaleya bravely — far braver than Daenerys at her age — leaned across her mother’s protective arm and peered past the gliding wings of Drogon to see the snow covered valleys below as they crossed.

“Will they like me if I speak to them?” the little princess asked.

“Your family loves you, as does your kingdom, as does your mother,” Daenerys assured her.

In truth, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the North. It held so many terrible memories for everyone who had fought on her side during the Long Night, who fought for the right of all mankind to live through the very long winter they were still in. And the Starks were the key to that fight, as they were the key to the relative safety the kingdom had known for the last six years of winter.

And of course, Jon Snow, the Prince that was Promised just as Daenerys was, and the father of her child, had been every bit the living embodiment of the North itself that the only end to the Long Night was for him to deliver its end to the Night King himself. The fact that he was lost to them so soon — lost to Daenerys so soon — had made the North more bitter than cold.

But the Starks were Jon’s family, and were indispensable to Daenerys through the years. But even if the Lady of Winterfell had bent the knee years and years ago, Daenerys still doubted whether it was taken for security, taken for loyalty, or taken for Jon.

Still, Daenerys trusted a Stark word above anything else, and found that their house was not one to be concerned with compared to Southerners with their prides and far too much time to find things to complain about to their queen.

Suddenly, Nathaleya grew stiff, her body rigid against Daenerys’ before she suddenly rocked back and forth in place. Despite the number of times Daenerys had told her to not let go of Drogon’s spines, she did just that in order to reach over Daenerys’ arm and point toward the grounds.

“Muñnykeā! Konīr airy iksos! Nye kostagon ūndegon ziry!” the child declared loudly in Valyrian. “Winterfell!”

Sure enough, Daenerys could see for herself that the winter hold was fast upon them, a steady line of Unsullied and Dothraki screamers surrounding drawn carriages entering from the Southern road. Some relief finally came to Daenerys as she could see that everything seemed to be fine, that a trip North had not spelled doom for any of her trusted advisors, soldiers, or allies. Even if in the current timid peace it was difficult to imagine what might have happened to any of them, there was always the unseen threat.

Ruling, after all, was not the job gods assigned to lesser men or women.

Leaning with her body, Daenerys steered Drogon to begin a circling descent toward Winterfell. In the distance, Rhaegal saw and followed his brother’s lead. They dove together in a spectacular display, the blistering winds racing against Daenerys and Nathaleya, prompting the Queen to hold tighter to her children and also be grateful for the foresight of her Hand for putting a scarf up to the Princess’ eyes in order to keep her safe from such cold winds.

When at last they landed, it was to the calls of shock and surprise of the Northerners within the walls of Winterfell. Judging by the reactions, it was the first time many of them had seen the legendary dragons which had helped stay the white walkers six years before, even though most were certainly old enough to have fought the battle for themselves.

At the royal carriage, Tyrion was already standing beside Grey Worm and Missandei, in line from across the line of Starks greeting them likewise. Drogon lowered his neck and shoulders low enough that Daenerys could safely slide her leg over his back’s scales and stand firmly on his haunches before reaching up and taking her daughter, a hand beneath each arm, and lowering her to the ground.

Once Daenerys had stepped off from Drogon she turned and patted his scales. “Jikagon sōvegon,” she told him in High Valyrian.

Dragon wasted no time in looking upward, out of the walls of Winterfell and taking off with the same grace and tenaciousness with which he had landed. Where he went, Rhaegal followed.

Excitedly, Nathaleya pulled away her scarf and stomped through the freshly laid hay on the grounds, looking up after the dragons and waving with both arms. “Germs alas, lēkias! Nyke jorrāelagon ao!”

“Nathaleya,” Daenerys said, grabbing her daughter’s shoulders to turn her to their guests and remind her of her manners.

Immediately, Nathaleya straightened up and folded her hands against her thighs before hurriedly stepping over toward the faces she knew. Daenerys simply shook her head, a fond smile on her face.

When Daenerys’ eyes shifted toward Missandei, her oldest friend and confidant smiled and nodded back before looking to the gathered Starks and Northern nobles and Free Folk chieftains.

“Here hails Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First men, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Mereen,” Missandei began, pausing so that her smile of pride could only grow larger. “The Queen that was Chosen.”

When Nathaleya had scurried close enough to her tutor, Missandei smoothly held onto her shoulders and lightly pushed her further toward the Northern audience. The little girl’s brown eyes could not have grown wider had they tried.

“And introducing to the Northern Realms,” Missandei called out with the same fervor, “Nathaleya Winterborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Daughter of Snow.”

At that, almost immediately, the entire crowd erupted into a cheer, “Daughter of Snow! Daughter of Snow!”

Face flushed, Nathaleya pressed back against Missandei’s firm hands. “Nyke jaelagon naejot jikagon lenton sir,” she said loud enough that the Northerners knew she was speaking a tongue foreign to them, a fact that made those closer slowly stop their praises in discomfort.

Tyron’s face twisted and he looked toward Daenerys before seeing Nathaleya’s scarf. He walked over best he could with his thick winter clothes, reaching down and taking the scarf — snatching it up in one swoop before walking toward Daenerys again, leaning slightly. “If I have told you once I have told you a thousand times, most of this kingdom doesn’t have an interest in being ruled by people who are not one of them, let alone are native in another tongue.”

“High Valyrian is a Targaryen’s mother tongue,” Daenerys reminded her Hand. “Nathaleya is nervous.”

“Of course she’s nervous, she’s six and just got dropped into a den of dire wolves,” Tyrion said before glancing around the area cautiously. “Possibly literally. I’ve heard stories from Varys that there is an entire pack of dire wolves that are free roaming the Northern countryside now.”

“Varys isn’t here to be blamed for spreading rumors,” Daenerys reminded Tyrion playfully.

“And just why do you think that is?” he muttered.

Daenerys walked with Tyrion back toward their party and in return, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, stepped up to meet them.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys greeted with a curt bow.

“My Queen,” Sansa replied, bowing lower. “Thank you so much for honoring the North with your visit during this long winter. The people feel remembered and appreciated by their ruler as a result and have brought supplies for a great feast.”

“The only gratitude here, Lady Sansa, is mine,” Daenerys assured her. “I will always remember the debt the living world owes the North and its people.”

Another rumble of supportive noises broke out from among the Northerners.

“Well alright then,” Arya Stark said, leaning out from around Sansa’s back. “Let’s get on about this feast then.”

“Arya,” Sansa hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

“The suggestion is a splendid one,” Daenerys agreed. “Lady Sansa, after you.”

Sansa smiled politely and bowed more stiffly before leading their procession toward the castle. And in that time it didn’t take long for Tyrion to find Daenerys’ side once again.

“Are you certain about this trip?” Tyrion muttered. “If Yara Greyjoy gets wind—“

“Tyrion, the wheel is broken,” Daenerys reminded him. “It’s time for a better example in the world. Starting with us.”

The dwarf huffed and shook his head at her. “I truly have spent too much time as your hand. I do believe I’m rubbing off on you. Once not so long ago you were never this excited to have a verbal put down.”

“It’s true, it’s a world opened up to me by you, Hand of the Queen,” Daenerys joked in return as they entered Winterfell’s inner castle.

Arya’s ability to tell stories, mostly ones with no basis in reality, to convince every solitary person in a room who knew better was one of the more astounding joys of the evening. No matter how many times Sansa herself was witness to it, she still was captivated by the story all the way until Arya stopped her telling, straightened herself, standing on the middle of the table in the great hall and looked around with her arms folded behind her back.

Then she asked the titular question which was always asked at the end of her game.

“Was it truth?” she asked, glancing around the room, listening for how many of the audience screamed truth back at her. “Or was it lie?” Again she took pause and listened for all the ones who screamed lie back at her. A coy smile never left her face.

Sansa had long ago made an oath to herself to never participate out loud and was just watching with raised eyebrows, wondering how much longer Arya would keep up her favorite game in front of so many people she barely even knew.

And in that moment, she almost forgot that she was sitting to the right of her sworn queen. And indeed did forget until the silver haired Targaryen leaned closer to Sansa.

In reaction, Sansa leaned back as well, eyes wide as she looked to see if perhaps the queen had too much wine. But the lean in seemed purposeful as she turned and looked at Sansa with a smile. “You know your sister’s heart better than anyone here, is this one true or is it a lie?” she asked in good fun.

For a moment, Sansa was too stunned to reply, but she shook the shock out of herself soon enough and smiled pleasantly back at the queen. “Just because I know her heart best, doesn’t mean that I know much at all. Only more than most,” Sansa confessed. “In truth, Bran is far better at this game than I am. It would be best if you were to ask him. He is something of our maester here at Winterfell. Not to the delight of our actual maester of course.”

The queen hummed, a hand against her cheek. “Would how well he does have anything to do with his rumored visions?” Daenerys asked casually, as if the secret of Bran was something discussed as commonly as anything else in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Beg your pardon,” Sansa replied quickly, protectively.

“I have a man who works with me, claims himself a spymaster. He says he has little birds in every part of the kingdoms, both Westeros and in Essos,” Daenerys explained. “His information is usually very reliable.”

Sansa thought quietly to herself for a moment before looking back to Daenerys. “You mean Varys. The spymaster who worked for King Robert.”

“Also for my father,” Daenerys answered. “His loyalty is to the lands, not the crown. Which is why his word is trusted in my confidence. Even if sometimes there are rumors of things like wild dire wolves running across the Northern countryside.”

Instinctively, Sansa glanced Arya’s way, remembering how her sister had the occasional run in with Nymeria. But she quickly looked back to the queen. “Sometimes rumors hold grains of truth. Sometimes they have none.”

Arya had finally worked the crowd up enough and she looked around, arms out. “It was truth!” she called out, the jeers and cheers of the entire room. The people called upon her for another round while some of the lower houses and soldiers exchanged betted coins and entrees according to their betting from the previous round.

“So you’re telling your queen that Brandon Stark of Winterfell does not claim himself to be a legendary Three Eyed Raven and capable of seeing the future and past and all between?” Daenerys asked, eyebrow raised. “Furthermore, would you not share such information with the mother of your brother’s daughter?”

Looking back at Daenerys, Sansa played a little game where she tried to imagine the intent behind Daenerys’ questions.

She did not like the least nice option, in truth.

“It’s simply that it’s not something to be told by others but asked of Bran himself,” Sansa answered. “I could not tell you what is in Bran’s heart no more than I could Arya’s. And that’s even with being the one left in the world who would know him most.”

Daenerys smiled at that, almost looking impressed. Her eyes then looked to the embroidered wolf across Sansa’s chest.

“Winter suits a Stark,” Daenerys complimented. “You have grown into a woman to be envied, Lady Sansa.”

“You may call me Sansa, my Queen,” Sansa replied.

Daenerys smiled more, her purple eyes shining in the flickering candles’ light. “In confidence, Sansa, you may call me Daenerys.”

Sansa smiled back, something warm within her at receiving such an honest compliment from their beautiful queen. “Thank you, m’lady,” she replied aptly.

“I could be persuaded to drop more of my titles in public if you could arrange for me to meet Bran in private after this feast,” Daenerys continued. “I would like to ask him myself about my question. And then depending on the answer I have many other questions for him.”

Inside her own mind, Sansa played a little game, watching the pieces move across the board throughout their conversation. She was a long time player, something Jon never learned nor her father, and even if she felt satisfaction in the North, she knew the Game was still being played in the South.

The union of the North and the South was always the most frayed, and it was also only when they were united that the Realm was truly changed. Queen Daenerys was known for inciting worldwide change in ways that no normal person, no non-magical person would have ever managed in the same circumstances. She was a mother to dragons, the literal defender of the realm.

And the daughter who she held so close to her, with her silver Targaryen hair and lovely dark, brown Stark eyes, was the future of that very necessary union between North and South. The North clamored to take pride in a ruler, even a future ruler, being tied to the North. It was why they were there.

But Nathaleya Targaryen was not queen yet, her mother was. And Daenerys had spent most of her life not in Westeros but in Essos. She had moved the capital to Dragonstone instead of King’s Landing, but it still was not North. And haven Northern blood but not experience in the North herself was not going to be enough for some Northerners and Free Folk to follow Nathaleya even in the future, let alone Daenerys now.

Which meant, politically, Daenerys’ best political move was to strengthen her alliance with the North by marriage.

And Bran was the only male Stark, legitimate or bastard, left of their once great house.

“I see,” Sansa replied stiffly at last. She swallowed, an unusual feeling catching her throat. “It will be done immediately after the feast, my Queen. I will see to it myself.”

The Targaryen queen’s own brows furrowed as well. “I meant my word when I said you could call me Daenerys, Sansa. I would hope that you could come to see myself and Nathaleya as family. We both have so little of it left.”

“I understand,” Sansa replied, confused by her own internal burning, like frostbite in her lungs. “I truly do, my Queen, but reminding myself of your title out loud is most comfortable for me right now.”

Daenerys slowly nodded, unconvinced.

From the middle of the chamber, Arya laughed out and held up her hands over the calls of the crowd. “Lie!” she declared to the ruckus of her audience once again.

The burning continued within Sansa’s breast, making her sit uneasily in her own seat, so she slowly scooted her seat back, drawing Daenerys’ attention to her again. “My sincerest apologies, Queen Daenerys,” Sansa uttered as she began to stand, mindful to keep her head bowed. “I must take leave for a moment, it seems like my body has grown confused on me.”

“Are you alright?” Daenerys asked in concern.

“I always am,” Sansa lied as easily as Arya for once as she slipped out behind the crowd and moved to the halls.

Her heart was pounding, the heat of hundreds of burning candles and the stink of a hundred or more people crowded within the great hall was enough to make most ill. But Sansa was not most, and the burning was not candles or heat, but something inside her confused and twisted.

She needed the comfort of the snow and ice. Of the weirwood tree and old gods who she didn’t talk to even when she remembered how.

It was the only thing she could think of with her eyes weeping without cause and her tightly held control over her small world of the North breaking apart before her hands.

And even still, those things did little to help her understand why she felt so much pain with her queen’s plans.

Daenerys stepped outside of the room after Brandon Stark’s counsel and was not surprised in the least to see Tyrion waiting in the hall, standing by Nathaleya as she sat on the floor. She stood, brows high, hands held together over her stomach as she looked down at the two of them.

“And the words of House Stark…” Tyrion led her.

Nathaleya groaned, cheeks smothered by her hands as they rested in her palms, she was looking down to the floor in a pout. “Airy iksos door kirimves,” she muttered.

Tyrion held a finger to her face. “You do that because you think no one else knows Valyrian but your mother and Missandei. But I am a fast learner, my little princess, and I disagree with you entirely. It is fun to learn because it is fun to keep your wits over others. It’s how you get to where you are in life. And knowing the words and sigils of the most important houses in your kingdoms is all that and more.” When he could see that Nathaleya’s interests were far from his reach, he opened and closed his mouth a few times before leaning closer. “House Stark is simple. What’s the one bloody animal we’ve seen on every tapestry, shirt, breast plate, and banner since we got here?”

“Dire wolf,” she answered finally.

“And the words of the house of your father?” Tyrion pressed.

“Fire and blood,” Nathaleya answered with a smile that said far too much about how she knew exactly how wrong she was being.

“That is Targaryen and you are driving me to drink,” Tyrion answered with a sigh as he reached toward the nearest table where wine and glass were waiting for him.

Daenerys looked to her daughter. “Nathaleya Winterborn,” she said sternly, causing Nathaleya to immediately look up with wide eyes. “The Hand is asking you a question. If you wish to be a good queen someday, to be the queen your people will choose for themselves, then you must have a wise Hand by your side. To teach you and steer you.”

Tyrion held his glass to his lips but he did not drink yet, looking almost moved by Daenerys’ words. He then glanced toward Nathaleya again.

Getting to her feet, Nathaleya took a deep breath and looked at Tyrion. “The house words of House Stark are… Winter is coming,” she answered at last. Then she spun around on her heels to look at Daenerys with a pout. “But that doesn’t make any sense because winter has always been here.”

“Certainly feels like it,” Tyrion said, lowering his glass. “Now, I said to Missandei I would keep with you waiting in the hall until your mother was done speaking to the Stark boy. She’s done speaking with the Stark boy so you should be running back to your room and jump in bed before a dire wolf finds you.”

Nathaleya stiffened at the threat and then ran to Daenerys to hug her waist.

Daenerys looked exhaustedly at Tyrion as she petted her daughter’s head. “A dire wolf, Tyrion?”

“You can only do so much with a six year old who is not afraid of being eaten by dragons and speaks three languages around you to make your head spin,” Tyrion replied.

Smiling down at her daughter, Daenerys said softly, “Jikagon naejot ēdrugon, issa sōna zaldrīzes. Nyke jorrāelagon ao.”

Smiling, Nathaleya buried her head against Daenerys’ dress. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao.” She then took off down the hall to the guest chambers she shared with her mother and Missandei.

Tyrion joined Daenerys in watching after the little girl before concentrating on Daenerys. “Well then, that was quite a long discussion. I think spring broke while you were in there,” Tyrion said in jest. “Tell me, how far does a Three Eyed Raven see? And was there an ounce of it that was not cryptic beyond the understanding of mere mortal men?”

“It was very insightful,” Daenerys replied. “I got the answers I came for. And was advised where I should go to break the news to Lady Sansa.”

Tyrion stared at Daenerys in disbelief. “So you are actually to go through with this plan,” he said as if he had just realized it himself.

“Of course I am,” Daenerys replied. “The wheel is broken. Changes have been made. I want a content kingdom.”

“And you think this will—“ Tyrion cut himself off and took a deep drink of his glass of wine. “This is what you do to me, Daenerys.”

Daenerys looked at her Hand intently. “Tyrion,” she said softly. “I… You know your counsel is held in my utmost regards.”

“When you want it, yes,” Tyrion replied, lowering his wine.

“And you know you have earned my faith this day and one thousand days over by now,” she continued.

“I should hope as Hand of the Queen I have,” he agreed.

“Then you know that if I should fail at anything I decide to do, that should I make a mess of things that I personally cannot escape, you and Missandei are the only ones within my circle who have my faith to keep Nathaleya safe. To keep her good. To make her the queen I failed to be.”

Tyrion took a deep breath. “You know I love Nathaleya as if she were my own daughter. But you also know that you are unlike any ruler in any history of any land, and most of that was earned without my counsel.” He looked at her almost proudly. “Sometimes it becomes the job of the Hand to put faith in the decisions of his queen.”

“Thank you, Tyrion,” Daenerys replied. She then adjusted her cloak. “Now, I will be meeting Lady Sansa at this grandiose weirwood tree over on the north part of the wall.”

Tyrion looked at her before shaking his head. “Well, is she at least expecting you?” he asked.

“No,” Daenerys replied. “I expect this to be another long talk. Are you going to wait on me for this one, too?”

“If I have not passed out on this Northern spit they call wine,” Tyrion replied. “Having shipments from Essos truly has spoiled me, you know.”

Daenerys smiled at him and shook her head before pulling up the hood of her cloak and heading out of the Stark’s castle and down to the main floor.

With her signature features shrouded by her cloak, Daenerys walked past the various guests of Winterfell with nary a second look from the majority. She walked straight out the doors to the courtyard and walked toward the northern exit where a large, sturdy woman soldier stood in wait, hand on he sword. She was unmistakable. Especially when she stepped between Daenerys and the path toward the weirwood tree.

“I am sorry, m’lady, but Lady Stark is in prayer and asks not to be disturbed,” Brienne of Tarth said sternly.

“As much as I wish to respect such a wish, I am afraid I am in need of her time,” Daenerys replied, lifting up enough of her hood that the noble knight could see who she was.

Brienne took a deep breath, and lowered herself to one knee. “My apologies, Queen Daenerys. I was not aware it was you.”

“As would be the point of subterfuge,” Daenerys replied, putting her hood back on. “Would it be alright for me to speak with the Warden of the North?”

“I can only assume if it is what you want then it is what will happen,” the knight replied.

“Let us both hope,” Daenerys replied.

Walking past the knight, the path was hard to trace, so covered in snow. Most of it was freshly fallen, but the faintest outline of previous steps made it clear to Daenerys where she should go.

Soon, through the darkness of night and bright against the soft whites and blues of snow, the blood red, five pointed leaves of the weirwood tree was visible. An ancient face grown into its bark weeped with red sap, and it looked upon a small bench where the Warden of the North sat, staring over a frozen pond. Her bright red hair shown as brightly as the leaves themselves.

Once she was close enough, Daenerys lowered her own hood. “My apologies for interrupting any prayers or meditations,” Daenerys said as she neared Sansa, drawing the Lady’s attention. “I’m unfamiliar with the customs of the Old Gods and don’t know what they look like.”

“They look like any other religion’s prayers,” Sansa answered. “Bent knee, bowed head, speaking to air with a glimmer of hope that it’s being heard.”

Daenerys stopped approaching, raising a brow at the response.

Sansa seemed to gather her senses at seeing Daenerys’ reaction and then flushed, lowering to her knees from the bench. “My apologies, my Queen. I did not mean to offend by speaking out of turn. I know what a comfort religions are to a great many of the Realms.”

“But not to you,” Daenerys inferred.

“I’m…” Sansa thought on it before looking up. “No. I’m afraid not.”

“Starks, so truthful,” Daenerys said, a smile coming to her lips.

“Clearly you weren’t paying attention to Arya’s game,” Sansa laughed.

“Fair enough,” Daenerys replied, looking to the unique tree again. “Now it’s my turn to apologize for speaking out of turn but… if you are not out here for prayer… do you mind telling me why you are here?” she asked. “It is rather cold. And rather lonely.”

Sansa nodded to the comments. “That’s fair. It is both of those things but… my father would come here and reflect. He was very loved as Lord of Winterfell, and trusted by the kingdom until the Lannister’s deceit to be an honest and true man,” she said, swallowing. “When I wish to have a tenth of his strength or a tenth of his honor, I come out here and try to think of all the trials he must have felt as Warden of the North when he came out here.” She smiled a bit, shaking her head. “I feel like I relate to him as a completely different person now. I know so much more about him and what he did even before he was Hand of the King.”

Daenerys listened carefully and took a breath. “And do you reflect upon your father for wisdom as well?” she asked.

A laugh came from Sansa that she quickly choked off. “Sorry. No. My father was very wise in his ways. But they were not the ways that wisdom came to me or how I got to where I am now,” she explained. “I feel, as unfortunate as it may be, some of our greatest wisdom comes from our most formidable enemies.”

Nodding, Daenerys found an entirely new respect for the Lady Stark. “You truly are wise.” She walked forward more, coming closer to Sansa. “I expect you know that with as much land and as many people as there are in my domains, I am looking to strengthen my alliances where needed, and to make moves which will incite change across all the kingdoms,” Daenerys explained. “And change, like so many other accomplishments, is best demonstrated by example.”

“Of course,” Sansa answered. “Which is why you spoke to Bran.”

“I sought his counsel on many matters for our Realm. It…” she hesitated, searching for a correct description. “It was fascinating.”

Again, Sansa gave a small laugh, though she didn’t try hard to hide it. “Arya and I long ago settled on calling it bloody weird.”

“It is,” Daenerys laughed in return. “But he made me more confident in what I want to do next.”

Sansa lowered her head. She seemed to have an expectant but still worried look on her face, refusing to meet Daenerys’ eyes. “And what would that be, my Queen?”

Daenerys looked at Sansa for a long while. “I wish to propose a union between our houses. Strengthening the connection between our people and ensuring that my daughter learns the values of the North which made her father such a grand leader that he was capable of uniting all people of all creeds.”

“It is a well thought out move,” Sansa replied. “Truly. And you need my permission to go forward with it all.”

A little confused, Daenerys tilted her head slightly. “I … would hope so, yes. I would not do anything that would force you… without permission or anything.”

Taking a deep breath, Sansa turned and looked at Daeneys, eyes hardened and smile all but fallen from her pale lips. “Very well, Queen Daenerys. As head of the House Stark, I give you permission to ask for my brother’s hand in marriage.”

Completely taken aback, Daenerys looked at Sansa like she was grown an extra set of eyes. Which, in turn, made Sansa’s stony expression disappear in turn for a confused and alarmed one.

“Your brother?” Daenerys repeated, laughing at the shock of it. “I… With all due respect, Sansa, I did just spend a lot of time with your brother and…” Unable to find a better term she laughed and continued with, “It was bloody weird.”

Sansa let out a sigh of relief and laughed with the queen. “Yes. It would… Yes definitely. But… If that isn’t your request… What is?”

Daenerys suddenly realized that her request was, for Sansa at least, coming completely out of nowhere. Completely without precedent. And, in truth, she shouldn’t have expected otherwise.

“I…” Daenerys breathed deep into the cold air. “Tyrion and I have this phrase we have used since we met. Politics, the way the world works, how ruling has been done for generations since Aegon the Conquerer landed on Westerosi shores. We call it the wheel. And my desire, my only true desire, has been to fight so that I rule and do so in a way which breaks the wheel entirely.” She leveled her gaze into Sansa’s eyes. “I believe a magic runs in the veins of certain men and women, that makes their dreams a reality should they fight for them. And I have fought, and fought, and fought. The reason that Missandei introduces me with all of my titles is because I take pride in the battle represented by each and every one of those names. And none more so than my last earned title — the Queen that was Chosen. It is important to me that people choose to follow me. It is important to me that my example changes expectations for rulers, for women, for foreigners, for magic brought back into our world.”

“Then what is the change you propose now?” Sansa asked curiously.

Daenerys felt herself uncharacteristically hesitant to answer that exact question. She put a finger to her lip in thought and then looked back at Sansa. “We are both getting older, Lady Sansa,” she started.

“Well, if I must be truthful for a Stark’s word to still have meaning, I suppose I can admit to that,” Sansa joked.

“And neither of us have taken up husbands, despite what the world has demanded of us as women,” Daenerys explained.

Sansa took a breath and glanced off. “My luck in marriage is tumultuous at best, Daenerys. With no offense to your Hand.”

“I’m aware,” Daenerys replied. “You could say much the same of me… but I think it’s important to note that we both are referring to marriages to men.”

Looking at Daenerys immediately, Sansa tilted her head. “What? Of course we are.”

“I wish to break the wheel, Sansa,” Daenerys continued. “I wish to strengthen the faith of the people of the North, and I want to change what they believe is possible. Not through magic and dragons this time, but through people. I want to marry so that others may marry, so that history will see an example of a union that was not merely political but reformatory.”

Truly taken aback, Sansa held a hand to the Stark emblem on her chest. “Some women like pretty girls,” she said to herself.

“What is that?” Daenerys asked, slightly confused.

Sansa looked back at her, eyes still wide from shock. “It’s… it’s something someone dear to me once told me. She tried to explain to me that most women don’t get to know what they like until they’ve tried.”

Daenerys understood. “And some women like pretty girls,” she agreed. “And I want that to be something that truly is okay, that is looked up to rather than down on for all of my people.”

They stood together in the cold, silent and hesitant.

But Daenerys steeled herself and held out a hand. “Lady Sansa, Warden of the North, Lady of Wintefell, will you help me break the wheel? Will you raise my daughter with me as your own so that she will know the values your your house as well as mine, so that she sees kinship with wolves as much as dragons. Will you be my queen, and show all the lands that some women like pretty girls, and our love for them is not lessened for it? That, perhaps, it can be even greater?”

Sansa was silent for what felt like ages, but Daenerys did not drop her hand, leaving it extended toward the Lady Sark.

Then, finally, Sansa delicately laid her hand in Daenerys’.

“Queen Daenerys,” Sansa answered, a true smile growing on her face for the first time that Daenerys had seen. “I want to break the wheel.”

They stood, breathless beside each other, hands gripping each other, then intwining fingers. They didn’t know what to do next, but like everything else in her life, Daenerys trusted her instincts and went in for a kiss against Sansa’s lips.

Fortunately for Dany, by some innate magic, her instincts were so often right.

#SaphSep2017 #writing #got fic #Sansa Stark #Daenerys Targaryen #Daenerys x Sansa #Arya Stark #Bran Stark #Missandei #Tyrion Lannister

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thecrimsonmonster · 2 years

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Suspicious Sentence Starters | Accepting!

@nowflightlesswings sent: “I’m not suspicious. I’m just cautious.”

“I suppose, in these trying times, I cannot blame one for being cautious,” he chose to relent to her statement, nonetheless amicably, the cant of his head only slight in revealing any expression, “but be cautious that that caution does not prevent you from exploring what space must be explored.”

They were acquaintances, he would qualify them as, during his many travels---perhaps a few sloppy illustrations or quickly-snapped photographs could reveal a sign of their simultaneous existence next to one another across the myriad of centuries, though one or both of their visages would likely be blurred, from either the tarnish of time or the smudge of uncoordinated fingertips. Whatever the case, their intimacy had been maintained at a minimum---but that didn’t mean War wasn’t interested in strengthening his alliances out of pure intrigue.

“What has you in this fashion, though?” he found he had to prod, leaning further upon the glossy table, now resigning himself to a moderation of his visage with the raise of his brow. “Someone such as yourself? I shall admit, it’s difficult to imagine.”

#nowflightlesswings #rp #ask #suspicious starter meme #au: the united states of utter chaos

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sleepyfan-blog · 7 years

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If you're in the mood for prompts: #1 “I’m sorry I scared you, I didn’t mean to.” for ConHayth

@balsaminaceae

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Pairing: ConHayth

warnings: Father/Son incest, Modern AU, angst, attempted murder

word count: 2,935

summary: Once a month, Connor and his coworkers are required to attend meetings to discuss how the testing of the falcons they are training with are going, and what differences in behaviors that they have observed, if any. Towards the end of such meetings, if the CEO or another powerful leading employee of Abstergo is giving a press release, they are required to tune in. One of them doesn’t go well.

It’s been a year and a half since Connor’s been working for Abstergo, and he still found these check-in meetings to be boring at best, and vaguely insulting at worst. He had bonded with Corbin, one of the red-tailed hawks that they were training, and was able to see through his eyes, and influence the other’s movements, while he was seeing through the bird’s eyes. Once his fellow researchers had found this out, they had been absolutely delighted. They had asked him all sorts of questions, finding out that Connor was in possession of second sight - as well as his apparently enhanced senses and above-average strength, even for someone his size and age.

But the way that some of the other research teams spoke about him was... More than a little creepy, and caused the young man to feel as if they thought of him as little more than another piece of the experiment. The worst thing was that when he politely brought up the fact that he was a human being rather than an object to be studied under a microscope, everyone in the room stared at him, blinking a little before all claiming at once that they hadn’t meant to sound like that, and that he was being a little oversensitive in the matter. At first Connor had been unsure - as he knew that many of his colleagues tended to be rather blunt - and second sight was an incredibly rare gift... But the way a few of them spoke about him was chilling to say the least.

Connor had tried to describe what it was like to feel the wind beneath wings that weren’t entirely his - to see the ground from so far below, and to glide and coast in the enclosure that Corbin had been put into... But it was difficult to quantify, and the young man couldn’t explain how or why he had bonded with the relatively young red-tailed hawk. The meeting was winding down, thankfully, and Connor was sitting in a chair closer towards the door, as while some lingered to talk longer after the meeting was officially over, the young veterinarian always longed for fresh air and sky - raining or sunny or somewhere in between didn’t matter. Just the feeling of being out of that meeting room and a little bit of freedom was blissful.

Occasionally some of his coworkers would allude to something deeper to the reasons why they were researching falcon behavior, but they were always quickly quieted down. Connor was well aware of the fact that they were hiding several things, but as no one seemed to be the least bit interested in telling him - or the two other people who were out of that particular loop who worked in this building - it was a mystery that was likely to be gone unsolved for some time. Still, the birds were treated well, and no one had attempted to lock him in with the falcons overnight, so the young man was content not to try to pry further into the mystery surrounding this longer term project.

The head researcher - the one who was responsible for reporting all of their findings to the higher ups who worked in the main office where Haytham did - cleared her throat and stated once she had all of their attention “Since we have finished discussing everything of value and we have an hour left of the meeting, we will watch and listen to the live press conference that Haytham Kenway is currently giving.”

Many of his fellow researchers groaned a little, but none of them asked if they could leave early - as they had never been allowed to do so. Connor was curious as to what Haytham was going to talk about, and was always happy to see his beloved - even if the other was going to be on a screen. The head researcher quieted everyone down as she switched the large, wall mounted computer screens to a live streaming site, where Haytham was giving a speech.

“- and further more, the veterinary clinic program that has been running for six months will be expanded from the four clinics in New York, Boston and Cincinnati will be expanded by another eight clinics in cities across the united states. As with the first four, they will be providing excellent, at-cost pet care.” Haytham said, sounding confident, a touch of a smile on his face as he gestured, to underline his words.

A small, fond smile appeared on Connor’s face as his father continued to speak about where the clinics would be opening, and other such details. He could hear a quiet murmur among his fellow researchers - perhaps surprised by the increase in the program? The young man couldn’t imagine why - from what he could tell, the initial four clinics were a boost in profits and good PR of Abstergo, and having more of those clinics would only help, rather than hinder.

Haytham concluded “Do any of you have any questions?” looking over at what must be a sea of reporters.

Several cameras swiveled towards someone - including the camera that they had been watching Haytham through, and terror clutched at his stomach, as Chevalier stepped closer, saying “Yes, I have a question.” the Anarchist shifted his position a little, and raised a pistol, shooting Haytham squarely in the chest, the force of the bullet knocking the CEO off his feet. The Frenchman sneered as he was swarmed by security “How quickly do you think you’ll die, you miserable pig?”

The cameras went dead shortly after that, but there had been screaming and chaos captured on tape, and the entire table was in uproar. frenzied questions and horrified words were exchanged, but Connor was rooted to his seat, frozen and mute in utter horror at seeing his father fall backwards out of sight, shock and pain on the other’s face. Those moments were playing over and over again in his head, and a miserable sob wrenched it’s way out of Connor’s chest before he could stop himself from making a sound.

Strangely enough, a majority of the sound and movement died down at the sound that Connor made, and the young vet was paralyzed by the intense staring of everyone else in the room. He could feel his breathing become fast and shallow, and it was difficult to see anyone as his eyes were so blurry. He reached up to his eyes with one violently trembling hand, realizing that he was crying uncontrollably.

Someone was trying to touch him, and a face came into his hazy view - but their touch was static and their voice seemingly filled with false concern. Connor hissed acid; y “No, I am not okay! I just watched my father get shot!” with that, Connor jumped to his feet and fled the meeting, despite several hands reaching out for him - he knocked them away, growling at anyone who tried to stop him to let him go and to leave him alone!

Connor locked himself into a single-person bathroom and allowed himself to sob until he had no more tears. Then he drank as much water as he could force himself to drink through cupped hands before shakily calling Shay - who had to have either been at the press conference or watching. His phone rang and rang and rang.

Finally, Shay answered his phone, the other sounding tense “Good afternoon Connor - yes I saw what happened at the press release. Your father’s at the private hospital he was last time that something awful happened to him. He’s in stable condition and just went into surgery. Where are you? Haytham wants to know where you are, and for you to come to him as soon as you can.”

“I... I’m at work. Th-the research center, n-not the cl-clinic.” Connor hiccupped. Shay sounded as if he was barely holding himself together, and the young vet was doing his best to attempt to calm down. “I... We were... In a meeting and we finished and... I... Where should I go to get... to Get to him? back to the apartment or...?”

Shay cut him off, though the other’s voice was filled with grief and kindness “I’ll come get you at your work - it’s closer to the hospital than your apartment is. If your boss won’t let you leave early. I’ll talk to her.”

“Okay. T-thank you S-shay.” Connor managed out, getting back up to his feet “Do you want to talk to her over the phone or... Or once you arrive...?”

“I’ll talk to her once I show up - more credible that way. Stay inside the research building until I come to get you, alright?” The other responded, sounding stern and worried.

“I will...” Connor promised. His phone buzzed a little and the young man frowned unhappily “... My phone’s about to die on me...”

“I’ll let you go. I’ll text you when I’m about five minutes away.” Shay responded before ending the call.

It took Connor more courage than he wanted to admit to having to use, in order to leave the bathroom - and it took him some time to even make it over to the door. He cracked the door open, to find what appeared to be his entire research team - as well as the head researcher waiting for him outside of the bathroom. Connor closed the door and locked it, before leaning against it, startled by their presence and wholly unprepared for the questions that might be flung at him by inquisitive and possibly well-meaning coworkers and boss.

Someone knocked on the door, calling out “Connor... I’m not going to force you to come out of there, but... I would like to talk to you for a moment. It’d be easier if the door wasn't in the way, I wouldn’t have to half-shout to make myself heard.”

“I can hear you fine. If you’re about to ask if someone’s coming to pick me up to take me to father, the answer is yes. He’s going to text me when he’s getting close and I will be leaving, meeting be damned. The boss can fire me if she wants to. I hate being looked at and poked and prodded like a lab rat, anyways.” Connor grumbled, knowing that perhaps he was being a little unfair. “I can hear you fine through the door.”

“I... Wouldn’t dream of stopping anyone from visiting family who’d been badly injured so suddenly. And what do you mean by being poked and prodded?” His boss responded, sounding vaguely hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell us your real name, Connor? Didn’t you trust us?” One of his coworkers piped up, sounding as if he’d somehow betrayed them in some way.

“Connor Hill is my name, it’s just not my full name. I haven’t told any of you my first name either, mostly because I don’t want to hear any of you attempt to say my name, only to slaughter it and give up. I also didn’t want to be accused of getting this position because of who my father is.” The young vet hissed irritably. “Oh please. Don’t start with that. The tests that you people run on me while I'm working with Corbin - the endless questions. How would you like it if you were asked millions of questions that you either didn’t have the answer to, or when you tried to answer, were completely disregarded as utter nonsense because the person asking them didn’t have a proper frame of reference! It’s like trying to describe color to someone who can only see in black and white. In French, while they don’t understand a word of the language.”

There was a long stretch of silence from the other side of the door, but Connor wasn’t going to apologize for his words, or open the door. Not until Shay texted him, as he was fairly sure that he would say something that he was going to regret if he had to deal with false concern and pretty words that weren’t honestly meant from the people on the other side of the door. His boss spoke up after what felt like an eternity “I see. I wish that you’d come to me earlier with the information that such inquiries were upsetting and stressing you out, as that was something that none of us had intended. We’ll leave you be, if that’s what you’d like.”

“It is.” Connor growled, having realized that he might have been a little harsher than he should have been “... And I am sorry for being rude. I just... Don’t want... to lose both of... Of my parents because of... because of the violence and a-avarice of o-others.” He was going to start crying again and he hated that fact.

“Thank you for the apology, Connor.” The head researcher murmured before continuing “I’ll be sure that everyone else leaves you alone - if your ride does forget to text you, will you please tell me whose supposed to pick you up?”

“Yeah... Shay Cormac is.” The young vet responded quietly. He heard the sounds of footsteps leaving and breathed out a silent sigh of relief, pulling himself together somewhat.

Connor wasn’t sure what was longer, waiting for Shay to arrive, or the drive over to the private hospital and being checked over for weapons by two members of security - and that was after his ID had been checked three times against the list of people his father wanted to talk to after surgery. The both of them were let in and taken up to Haytham’s room.

The other looked pale and worn, and was laying down in bed, typing away on his work laptop, looking up as Connor came in, only one guest was allowed in at the time, and Shay had very graciously allowed the young man to come in first. “Connor, I’m glad that you’re here. I-”

The younger man threw himself at his father, holding the other tightly and burying his face into the other’s chest, being sure not to press against the other’s bandages, holding Haytham as tightly as he dared. Despite a stern promise to himself not to start blubbering all over his beloved, Connor could feel himself start to tear up again “I’m so... I’m so glad that you... That you s-survived. H-how are you doing? H-how long are you going to n-need to heal? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Haytham’s eyes softened a little, and the other pressed a gentle kiss to Connor’s forehead, murmuring an apologetic “I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to.” One of the other’s hands was gently petting his hair, the other lightly patting him on one of his shoulders in a soothing gesture.

“It wasn’t your f-fault you got s-shot.” Connor responded, giving the other a watery attempt at a smile, feeling part of himself relax a little.

“I should recover fully in a couple of weeks - however I will have to stay out of the public eye for several months, as it would be incredibly unusual for someone to recover so swiftly, even with the aid of the best medical services available to man.” Haytham responded quietly “The anarchist who shot me has been detained - and I will need to speak with a police officer, as I was shot in a very public event. Shay and Charles will be handling that aspect of it, although I am certain that the trial will not take very long - however there is a high likelihood that his fellow anarchists will try to meddle, or hope that the trial will allow them another chance at killing me. There are... A few things about them and why they are so determined to kill me, that I have not spoken to you about.”

“I know.” Connor murmured “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I love you and trust you and I always will. You said before that you didn’t want me to get further involved in this, and if not telling me about that helps to reassure you that I won’t, then you don’t have to talk more about it.”

His father nodded, seemingly surprised that he wasn’t pushing for more information. “Thank you, Connor.”

Before either of them could say anything else, Shay knocked on the door, opening it a crack and saying “The police officers are coming up to speak with you, ‘Aytham. Just thought that you’d like to know.”

His father heaved a sigh before responding “Thank you for telling me.” Connor was about to ask if Haytham wanted him to stay for that or not, when his stomach rumbled loudly in complaint. A dark blush appeared on his face and the young man covered his eyes with his hands, horrifically embarrassed. His father glanced at him, a small and amused smile appearing on his face as the other asked “I’m guessing that you missed lunch?”

“... Yeah... I was very busy today and then the meeting started and we’re not allowed to eat at the meetings. I was going to have some of my lunch after the meeting ended but... That didn’t happen. I wasn’t bothered by hunger until my stomach just decided to complain.”

Haytham chuckled lightly before gently pushing Connor away, saying “Go eat then, I’ll be here when you’re done.”

The young man nodded reluctantly and left, glancing back at Haytham as he did so.

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