#case in point: gwyn that old bastard | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

profiler-in-courage · 4 years

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I am humbled 16 people have read my Claes Bang detective bullshit lol. Here is Ch. 2 & 3. Long af as always.

(I have yet to think of a title. Someone send me suggestions plz)

Chapter 2.

The 7th Precinct was a media frenzy when Emerson pulled up. By 8 am, all the local news outlets had received some tip about the latest murders and it looked like all of them had sent a reporter.

Emerson scanned the outside of the building, trying to find an entrance that wasn’t guarded by media. He stuffed case files he had taken home into his messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder, ready to walk-sprint.

He lowered his gaze to the ground. Eye contact was what got you.

As he reached the sanctuary of a door, he mentally congratulated himself on avoiding the bombardment of questions he quite frankly, wasn’t prepared to answer.

He sat his bag on his desk and headed over to Burnham. His sarcastic best friend of seven years always made the morning after a murder less dark.

“Hey Emerson,” Burnham sipped through a mug of milk.

An unusual quirk about him was that Jacob Burnham simply drank plain milk. Never coffee.

Whole, 2 percent, 1 percent, nonfat, whatever was in the back office fridge was good enough for him.

Forty or seven-years-old? Nobody knew Burnham’s true age.

“Forensics came in,” he waved a file at Emerson. “No prints or DNA of any kind, same as always. Christ.”

Burnham shook his dirty blonde head and handed the papers over.

“Fuck Em, we are never going to catch this guy unless he leaves us something.”

Emerson flipped through the forensics report. Like Burnham had described there was nothing of significance.

“He will eventually slip up, they always do,” he said, trying to be the positive one.

“Did the families have anything to offer?”

His friend shook his head, “Just the usual. Victims never got into any trouble, well behaved, no enemies. Nothing out of the ordinary. Can’t imagine why anyone would want two 15-year-old girls dead.”

Emerson’s mind flashed to Abigail. He was afraid for her. She was smart, but he was sure Halley Reece and Melanie Myers had been smart too. Hell, they may have even known his niece. Same high school.

The image of Abigail lying in a ditch somewhere creeped across his mind. He shut his eyes.

The feeling of dread was slowly worming its way back into his stomach.

He went back to his desk, dropping the very thin report onto it.

It barely made a sound.

He pulled his phone out of his bag. It was the first time he was checking it this morning.

He was bad at that.

One text from his sister and one message from Gwyn.

He opened his sister’s first.

Emerson, the girls they found last night went to Abigail’s school….this just became a little too close for comfort. I almost made her stay home today.

He sighed, not knowing what to say to Eve. Obviously she couldn’t lock Abigail up in the house, the girl had to go to school and have a life.

You can’t stop living just because of horrors, he thought.

He sympathized with his sister though, he was just as worried for his niece as she was.

He scratched his eyebrow and opened up Gwyn’s message next.

G: 203-637-1366

Was that her phone number? He scrolled to see if she had said anything either before or after, but she had not. It was just her phone number. Or so he assumed.

Quite bold, he thought. But he oddly liked the cut to the chase showing.

“Any luck in that department?”

Burnham was standing over his shoulder looking down at the open Tinder app.

Emerson slipped the phone into his front pocket, “Not really.”

“I told you to go on that date with Kate’s sister. Who knows, you could be getting laid every night.” Burnham shrugged.

Emerson scoffed, “Your wife’s sister is 59 remember?”

A stupid smile flashed across Burnham’s face, “Hey but she’s single! And how do you know you don’t like older women?”

Emerson blinked, at a loss for words.

“All I’m saying is we could be brother in laws. Take one for the team Em!”

Emerson swiveled to his computer screen.

“I see you enough already,” he grumbled.

Burnham slapped him on the back, laughing softly.

Emerson poured over the photos on his desk. One of a woman with the soles of her feet skinned to the point where you could see the bone, another with such horrendous strangulation marks around the neck the purple coloration was almost black. Both were women who had been killed by the Creekmore Serial Killer.

He was deep in thought, trying to see some connection between all the victims, something he did routinely with no success for this case.

It was like looking at a math problem he didn’t have the formula for.

The pocket of his dark blue wool button-up buzzed. It was a text from Gwyn.

G: So what are you looking to get out of a dating app?

Emerson paused before answering, trying to find sufficient words to make “looking to date” sound less horrendous.

E: Looking to date. What about you?

He figured he may as well just tell the truth.

G: I’m looking to get absolutely wild in the bedroom. Nothing more, nothing less.

Emerson’s eyebrows sprung up. Maybe he had misjudged Gwyn. He wasn’t looking for just sex.

Burnham always joked that Emerson should be a priest.

He figured he would wait to respond if he responded at all. The excitement about his new match had been all but snuffed out after her proclamation.

He pushed his glasses up so they rested on the top of his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt the pang of loneliness he sometimes felt when thinking about his love life.

He missed his wife. He missed having someone to come home to, talk to, feel beside him as he slept. He missed how he was before.

Ever since Lyla had passed he had been different. Not as cheerful, not as funny, he actually used to be somewhat of a practical joker.

He had thought his old self would return after the grieving process was done, yet here he was years later and no relief.

Lack of female interaction certainly wasn’t helping either.

Emerson sighed. Maybe he should try the one-night-stand thing. Though the thought of it had always felt awkward.

Why have sex with someone you hardly know?

His phone vibrated, pulling him out of his thoughts.

G: Did I scare you off? I was joking btw.

He let out a small sigh of relief. Ashamed that he was so bad at the whole dating thing that this one match seemed to be the end all be all.

E: Sorry, was working. He fibbed. But I am glad to see you won’t objectify me for my body.

G: Well, that’s only because I haven’t seen your body.

Emerson chuckled. He liked her witty remarks.

How soon was too soon to ask someone on a date? Were there Tinder rules? Did he care?

Not really.

E: How would you like to see it? Fully clothed of course.

He felt his heart rate pick up. He hadn’t felt excited like this in a long time.

Of course, that’s when Burnham decided to interrupt.

“Those photos telling you anything yet?” he asked.

Emerson shook his head, “No unfortunately.”

His friend sat on the edge of the desk, “This fucking bastard leaves no trace. No DNA. Nothing.”

With the lack of info they had that was all Burnham really ever said about it.

Hard to do, thought Emerson.

He saw his phone vibrate on the desk.

Burnham’s eyes followed his friend’s.

“So…you sure Tinder isn’t working out for you?”

Emerson rolled his eyes, “Oh Christ.”

After enduring more teasing from Burnham than he would’ve liked, his fellow detective finally left to go bother someone else.

Despite the torture that had felt like he was being waterboarded, Emerson had not let anything slip about his potential date.

Not all things were meant to be shared among friends, not yet anyway. Besides, he had only started talking to her last night. Everyone needed to relax, him included.

He opened her message.

G: I would love to. Name a time and place and I’m there.

Chapter 3.

Coffee. That wasn’t too casual and not too formal right? Or so Emerson hoped.

So here he sat at some local place downtown. Waiting and a bit nervous.

He heard the door open and he saw her. His eyes followed hers as she looked around for her date.

He lifted his finger slightly.

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” she said as she sat down across from him.

Emerson tilted his head in confusion, “What do you mean?”

She smirked, “That you look exactly like your photos.”

“Oh,” he chuckled. “Have you been on many dates where that wasn’t the case?”

She ran a hand through her long hickory colored hair, “More than I’d like.”

Gwyn looked exactly as she had in her photos too. Emerson hadn’t even considered the possibility that she wouldn’t.

Which he probably should have considering he met her online.

He studied her. She was staring at him, looking him up and down. He smiled, amused.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“I would,” she said.

Emerson waited for her to say what she wanted. A few seconds went by.

This is awkward, he thought as his eyes darted from side to side.

He cleared his throat.

“What would you like?...” he asked.

Gwyn smiled mischievously, “You're a detective. Read me. What do you think my order is?”

Interesting, he thought.

He tilted his head slightly, finally drinking in everything about the woman who was across from him.

She was wearing a tight black turtleneck, dark blue jeans, and a silver chain-linked bracelet.

Her makeup was simple, she didn’t need much of it. She was naturally beautiful. Her hair had a shine to it and it curled into a slight wave.

She had with her a plain black satchel. Big enough to fit only a wallet and a phone and possibly a few other womanly essentials.

She was simple. But, sophisticated. At least that is what her appearance told him.

Emerson remembered that her bio had said she was an artist. Which must mean she was somewhat serious about coffee. Not the frappuccino type.

But, there was a softness to her. She didn’t appear to take herself too seriously, judging from her text messages.

So probably not black coffee.

Gwyn waited patiently for him to finish his assessment. A hint of a smile on her lips.

“I think I got it,” Emerson said as he turned to walk towards the counter.

“Hi, can I get one iced hazelnut latte and one hot Americano with cream please,” he told the barista.

Emerson turned to look back at Gwyn. She was far enough away so she wouldn't have heard the order.

He wanted to see her shock when she found out he was right. He was certain he was.

He smiled to himself.

He walked back to their table with the drinks. Gwyn was sitting looking bemused. Her legs crossed, her eyes following his every move.

“So, what did you decide for me?” she asked.

Her voice was soft. He liked it. It reminded him of the way a stream sounds in a quiet forest.

Emerson said nothing. Just simply handed her the drink.

Her eyes sparkled as she took it from his hand. Her gaze holding his.

For a moment, he thought he might have gotten her wrong.

Gwyn took a sip of the Americano and raised her eyebrows.

He could tell she was trying to hide her amazement. She didn’t want to give him complete satisfaction and he liked that. She was fun.

“Well Detective Woods, I suppose you are very good at your job then,” she smiled.

Emerson beamed.

“Only a little,” he said as he took a sip of his latte.

Gwyn let out a small laugh, shaking her head, “Is it too soon to say I already want to see you again and this date has been what, 10 minutes?”

He looked at her over his straw. He felt the same.

He felt something. For the first time since his wife.

“Now let me do you,” she said.

Emerson paused, “What…”

“Let me read you,” said Gwyn, sipping her coffee.

He sat back, trying to hide a smile, “Alright.”

Gwyn rubbed the bottom of her chin with her thumb as she studied the man across from her.

He was handsome, that much was obvious. Rugged around the edges but not sharp, which was good. It made him look kind.

He was wearing a grey quarter-zip pullover sweater, the beginnings of a burgundy collared shirt peeking out. His tortoise shell glasses made him look like he could be walking the halls of Oxford and be at home.

Faded dark green pants with...were those cowboy boots? Interesting.

So he wasn’t from Connecticut.

The eyes behind the glasses were dark yet welcoming. A few days old stubble coated his face.

His hair, thank god he had a full head of it, was dark. Perfectly styled in the ever popular comb over.

It was too long for him to be ex-military but short enough that she could tell he liked things neat. Gwyn couldn’t quite tell if it was black or just a very dark shade of brown.

Luckily they were seated by a window and he moved ever so slightly so that a ray of sunshine hit him.

Midnight brown, was that a color? It was now. Silver bits were beginning to show their glint throughout Emerson’s hair.

If she was being honest he didn’t look like a police detective. They usually were only this good looking in movies. He could have been a writer or a professor that female students day dreamed about.

The cowboy boots were throwing her off.

Was he Texan?

She didn’t remember hearing an accent, but then again they had only said a few sentences to each other.

And yet, she knew she wanted a second date. She needed to impress him. She didn’t know she already had.

“Judging from your boots you aren’t from here, I’ll be generic and guess Texas?”

He nodded, waiting for Gwyn to continue.

“You’re smart, otherwise you wouldn’t be a detective and you most certainly would not have gotten my order right. You're patient, you would have to be to be willing to sit here right now and listen to me.”

Emerson chuckled, taking another sip of his latte.

Gwyn continued, “Your eyes are hard but your face is gentle. You have seen and been through monstrous things but you don’t let it affect your character. You’re quiet, which leads me to believe you’re polite. Which is good because I can’t stand loud boisterous men.”

Emerson leaned forward. He hadn’t expected her to be this good.

“Between the way you look and my expectation that you are a good man, you must be single for a reason. So, I am guessing your ex either was unfaithful or died.”

Gwyn was blunt. Emerson didn’t know how he felt about that.

He scratched his cheek, “She passed away.”

Gwyn looked down at the table, confidence leaving her for only a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Emerson shrugged, “But you were right.”

Gwyn smiled softly.

He could tell she enjoyed being right. Though not with a haughty arrogance. He respected that.

“And how did you learn to read people so well? Are you an ex detective?” he asked, amused.

Gwyn twirled a strand of hair in her fingers, “It’s not hard to see what people project.”

Emerson smirked, nodding.

Oh she’s very smart, he thought.

They talked for hours after conducting their own way of breaking the ice. Gwyn could now hear the hint of an accent.

They discussed movies, music, food, books, especially books.

She liked nonfiction. He preferred fiction.

Emerson was entranced with the way Gwyn spoke. Her words were light but intelligent. And she held eye contact.

She had already assessed why he was single. So why was she?

He continued to study her.

Her posture was welcoming, her sentences were flirtatious, but her expressions were guarded.

Guarded meant she had been hurt before. Most likely multiple times.

Though with an open posture, not physically.

He couldn’t detect anything to signify she was nervous. She hadn’t been the entire date. She was confident. She could have anyone she wanted.

So why didn’t she?

“Figured me out yet?” she asked, pulling Emerson out of his thoughts.

He looked down, embarrassed.

“Not quite,” he smiled.

“Good. I need you at least intrigued enough for a second date,” she said.

“Possibly more,” said Emerson, playfully reaching.

“Possibly,” Gywn responded, her eyes dancing.

She leaned forward on the small circular table.

“Emerson Woods you are something.”

He winked. It made her laugh.

“As much as I would love to talk with you all day, I should be going,” she said.

Emerson nodded. He probably should too. They had spent nearly three hours in this coffee shop.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, wanting every second he could with her.

She turned to him, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder.

“Oh there is no need. I took an Uber, car’s in the shop after a very nasty old woman felt the need to rear end me.”

Emerson laughed. He could offer her a ride. Should he?

“Would you like me to track her down for you? I could probably find something to pin on her,” he said, glancing down at where her hand had just been.

She giggled, rolling her eyes, “Could you please? She’s costing me 400 dollars.”

They walked outside. It was overcast and there was a slight breeze. Emerson watched her hair lift in the wind.

Before she could take out her phone to call an Uber, Emerson walked over to the passenger side of his car that was parked along the curb. He opened it.

“I promise you’ll have a more enjoyable experience with me rather than someone you don’t know. If you’ll allow me.”

Gwyn bit her bottom lip, raising her eyebrows, “But I don’t know you. Not really.”

Emerson paused. She was right. Three hours of conversation didn’t exactly mean they knew each other. And with the Creekmore Serial Killer making headlines for months, she was probably wise to refuse him.

“I suppose that’s true,” he said. “Though I am a policeman,” he kept his hand on the door handle.

She bopped her head from side to side, feigning weighing her options.

“Can I rate you if you're a bad driver?” she joked, stepping over to the car.

Emerson chuckled, “I promise to be extra careful with you.”

#claes bang #tinder goals tbh #what do i call this shit?#i need a title

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was-gryff-whitehills-apologist · 6 years

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Woohoo, so I made it through the prologue - now there’s just the rest of the thing for us to suffer through. Shoutout to those, who gave me feedback - you are amazing & I won’t tire of repeating that <3

This part, well, it has some weird elements & things I wasn’t confident about, so I’m hoping the choices I decided to stick with will work. It picks up the loose ends part one left - but if it’s still confusing chronologically, I’ll be happy to clarify it (as well as anything else, really).

"So, you’re saying – you not only have a mother now, but an aunt too?”

“Winnie would be my second aunt though, after Gwyn.” Roslin corrected him. “You’d think it’d be nice to have an aunt only a couple years older – but Winnie is actually more like Gwyn… As in being so serious all the time.” She chuckled. “Or more like sulky, I would say. We still get along fine though, I think – she used to, well, not like me very much, at first, but it’s in the past. She and papa are a different story though…”

A kid, who didn’t get along well with Torrhen, and had the guts to be open about it? Gryff only heard about the mysterious Winnie Bole minutes ago, and she was already growing on him – also, because of how Roslin got herself a new friend in her. By the gods, his niece deserved more friends than she got due to leading this secluded life, but it didn’t seem to bother her much, at least, which Gryff was grateful for.

“I take it, Winnie isn’t here now?”

“She came to stay with us for some time once, but she’s back at her own home now. I write to her often – I got better at it than I was when you left, by the way!” His niece proudly announced. “Mariya used to teach me before that too – but it was just so boring, having to sit there, and listen to her, and write the same things all over, until letters started dancing before my eyes.”

Ros made an exaggeratedly disgusted face, causing Gryff to laugh. “Writing to Winnie and Kyra is a lot more fun. I could probably write to you too while you’re away, now that I know where you’ll be!” Her face lit up with excitement at the idea. “Do you think we have a raven, that can fly to that – black Castle you’ll be in?..”

“Aye, girl, we do.” A grunt came from behind Gryff’s back, second before he felt another twinge of pain, when the needle in Wyllard’s hand pierced his skin. The maester had been stitching his stab wound while they chatted, and talking to Roslin made Gryff forget about whatever pain he felt – until the healer’s voice reminded him of it. Not that he was complaining – he’s already endured worse shit that day, & was frankly growing accustomed to it.

The previous half an hour or so was something Gryff would very much like to forget. The pain from having his sore flesh cut open, the feeling of blood & puss being pushed out of it & streaming down his face in a disgustingly smelly & warm steam, the burning in the wound as it was flushed, cleaned out & stitched back together… He had no wish to even go back and reflect on that, simply grateful for the procedure being over, a clean bandage now wrapped tightly around his head & missing eye. Roslin’s hand in his was the only thing, that, throughout the ordeal, prevented him from screaming, or killing Wyllard, or passing out – even though he didn’t once allow himself to clench it tightly enough to cause her pain.

“T-there ya go.” Maester concluded in an unsteady voice, stepping back from him. “Woulda been over sooner, if only you didn’t squirm so bloody much.” In Gryff’s defense, Wyllard, by this point, had grown impatient as well, carelessly applying a few stitches just to get it over with faster. Long concentration was taking a toll on the hangover man, his eyes turning glassy, hands starting to shake & voice becoming more muffled. As swiftly as he could, he shuffled back to his workplace, carelessly tossing dirty tools in the drawer, his expression stating clearly, that the treatment was complete.

Ros turned her head to the window, only to notice, surprised, how dark it has gotten while they were in maester’s cabinet – and yawned widely, unexpected even to herself.

“Been a lllong day, has it not, m’lady?” Wyllard jumped at any chance to get the pair of his talkative patients to leave. “Must be the time for you to go to bed – yer uncle will get you to your chambers, won’t he?..” His eyes narrowed, shooting a glare at Gryff. “Just get yourself a clean shirt first.” he motioned towards one, hanging from a chair, presumably for cases like this. “Don’t even touch your own rags, unless you want the bandages to get dirty…”

It was damn great to finally pull a clean piece of clothing on. Gryff was feeling weirdly uplifted as whole – despite the pain, despite being so tired even standing up was a struggle, despite the fact, that he could get dragged out & forced on the road at any minute now. Being around Roslin did this to him – the happiness her presence caused created a funny, lightheaded feeling in his head. It was almost like he had been pulled away from all the crap that day had brought & was in some other reality. He had no energy to do so, but felt like smiling & laughing for no fucking reason.

“Hey, Wyllard.” His words made the maester tense up. “Thanks for stitchin’ me back together- and, y’know” Gryff’s speech was a little slurred at this point. “For everything else. Just to return the favor” The Whitehill’s smirk grew wider. “Remember that old ugly vase by the entrance to Upper Halls? Last time I checked, which was a couple hours ago, the bottle of hippocras I left there all the way back before war is still untouched inside. It’s no use to me anymore – how about you have it? Out of all men in this place, I’d rather you be the one to drink it to my health.”

The glassy gaze instantly turned sharp, focused. Wyllard briefly contemplated whether Gryff was telling him the truth or not, but the possibility of getting a drink was too appealing to pass – and, muttering some hasty ‘thanks yous’, the man stormed out of the room, with a speed neither of them have been expecting.

“What’s that hip-pro-car…” Ros struggled to repeat the unfamiliar word. “Is it like wine? I know he likes it. He becomes much friendlier after drinking it, and sillier too. Pa seems annoyed, but I prefer him more that way. He acts funny and never complains, like usual.”

“Let’s just say, I’ve made him a very happy man for tonight.” And Torrhen – a very annoyed man, Gryff added mentally. “He was right, little star – it’s getting late, and you’re barely keeping your eyes open.” He could tell Ros was suppressing more yawns. “So, how about…”

“How about I get you to your chambers, instead of other way around?” Roslin blurted out with a laugh before he could finish. “I think, papa will want me to sleep with him and mama tonight, so it’s best if you don’t go there with me. I’m going to walk with you though!” She stated in a cheerful tone, that left no room for ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’, and before Gryff could react, jumped off the low table & got hold of his hand.

He considered stopping her, before just saying ‘fuck it’ to everything in his head, and letting his niece lead the way, while he followed. The moment felt too damn good to let Torrhen’s shadow over him ruin it – and so what if he’d bash his brains in, were he to discover him & Roslin together?.. Bastard would at least have the decency to not do it in front of his daughter, hopefully, and that was all Gryff even cared about. Some things were simply worth dying for.

Though he forgot to, Roslin had grabbed his scarf from the table, and now was entertaining herself with the thing, tucking at loose blue threads & wrapping it around her own neck in different manners. As they passed through the portrait hall though, something had attracted her attention – the blue eyes stopped at the now empty spot, where his damaged portrait used to be.

“Um…” She appeared puzzled, whatever she was about to tell Gryff has slipped out of her mind. “Yours was here too just this morning, but it has been… Well…” She lifted her eyes to the man, a surprisingly understanding expression in them. “You must’ve already seen what happened to it, right?”

“I did.” Gryff felt a twinge of a weird, guilty feeling, looking Roslin in the eyes. “I… let’s just say, I took care of it.”

“I get it.” She let out a small sigh, rubbing the loose end of his scarf against her cheek. Her expression has changed – not exactly sad, but pensive, in a way, like she was lost in thought. “It… must not’ve been nice, to look at it like that. It’s just- I still liked it, even though it was spoiled. I would look at it when I missed you, sometimes – just so I wouldn’t forget how you look while you’ve been away.” She admitted in a calm, but quiet voice.

Hurriedly, Gryff knelt by her side, searching his niece’s face for any signs of disappointment or anger – only to find none. He could not help the urge to embrace her once more, and thank the gods, she did not mind, and snuggled close to him, resting her head in the crook of his neck.

“I’m sorry, little star…” He murmured in a trembling voice, hectically running his hands through the strands of her hair. “I didn’t know you liked it, I- I wouldn’t have-”

“It is fine, uncle.” Her voice was so unbelievably warm & reassuring – no one had spoken to him like that in years, from what it felt like. “I told you, I get it. It’s better to have you here, than a portrait…” A small sigh fell from her lips. “Make sure to be back as soon as you can. Maybe, I can ask father to send for you earlier than he did this time… But try to get home soon yourself too. Promise?”

Once again, he did not have the courage to answer truthfully.

Thankfully, she made no attempt to break the hug, so Gryff picked Roslin up in his arms instead & carried her for the rest of their way to his room. When he lowered the girl on his bed, the slight sadness was long gone from her expression. With a content sigh, she fell on her back, legs hanging from the bed's edge, as she continued to play with the loose end of his scarf.

"He was right about one thing — it's been a long day..." She hummed softly, before yawning once more. "Can I stay here a little longer, uncle? I know you must be tired too..."

"Of course you can." Gryff dropped himself on the bed next to her, pondering over how correct his niece was. He wasn't merely tired anymore — he felt utterly, completely exhausted, so much that his ears rung, everything sounded muffled & his movements grew hard to control. This was the kind of exhaustion, that made him doubt he'd be able to even fall asleep, if given the chance — his brain balancing on the edge of a complete sensory overload. Perhaps he'd wait until she would get back to her parents, and then get down to the courtyard, to look for whoever would be convoying him to the Wall.

"You shouldn't have put me on bed — I don't wanna get up now..." Ros laughed, moving to curl up on her side, one arm under her head, wincing when she accidentally touched the fresh scar. "Tell me something so I don't fall asleep, will you? About that castle you're going to... Or where you've been..."

Gryff wouldn't have minded if she did fall asleep here — there was something weirdly right about the idea her sleeping in his chambers. This place would then feel warmer, more alive for a little longer after he'd leave, before inevitably getting locked up and abandoned by all — like it was haunted by the memory of him. Torrhen would want all his memory gone from Highpoint for good. Not even another forgotten part of Whitehill history — just something, that never even existed in the first place.

Ros... Maybe she would remember, for some time, until her father, through gentle persuasion & keeping silent on the subject, would eventually make her forget. But Gryff did not need to think about it yet. It was still good for now, for another small, tiny while. She still smiled at him the same way as before, still called him 'uncle' in that special kind of way. The only thing he cared about was enjoying those bits of affection while they lasted — he would not have that anymore soon.

“Well… I don’t know much about that castle myself, actually.” He stifled a yawn of his own. “It is further North, so it must be… well… colder there.” Keeping his speech coherent was becoming a struggle. “It is one of the castles by the Wall… has your sept told you about it? It separates the realm from what is… well… on the other side…” This time Gryff couldn’t keep from yawning into the back of his hand.

“Other… side?” Ros mumbled sleepily from behind him. “But… What is there? On the other side, I mean… I’ve been told something, but I must’ve forgotten…”

“Um, well…” Gryff’s own knowledge of lands beyond the Wall was vague at best, not going further than the bare minimum. “Forests, an’ plains, and mountains – where the wildings live. Beyond that – the Land of Always Winter… so it’s called. No one’s really been there, so it’s hard to say what it is… Just miles and miles of land, that is too cold for man to be there.

I wouldn’t know, Ros.” He had to admit. “Who knows – maybe I will go there and find out one day. If so, then I’ll be sure to write you about how it is there… So you’ll be the first person ever to learn.”

There was no response, so Gryff had to look back – and of course, he should’ve been expecting that. Roslin has drifted off to sleep, and now smiled peacefully, end of his scarf clutched in her fist – a sight, that made him smile, even though there was no real reason to. How convenient. There was no better way for them to part – no tearful goodbyes, no risk of being spotted. He’d just leave quietly, and no one would even get to know they met. This was his best option.

Gryff watched his sleeping niece for a second more, before realizing, that he couldn’t.

Lifting the side of the covers, he gently pulled it over her body, making the girl move in her sleep a little before becoming still again. Apparently, that was exactly how much strength he had left, and not a drop more – the moment he moved to the opposite side of bed to her, lying down above the covers, Gryff knew that was it. He would not be able to move a limb if his life depended – so he just watched, as if trying to etch a picture of the sleeping girl in his mind.

Slightly disheveled golden hair. Relaxed expression. A hand, neatly tucked under her cheek. Every last bit of that picture reflecting nothing, but peace. It was like she lit up & warmed the place, brought back the times, when it was actually good to be in, for one last time. Something about her had this power, something that Gryff himself had trouble finding a name for.

Was this how it felt for Torrhen?.. Having her sleep by his side, knowing that she was close, safe, protected & happy?.. That no nightmare had the power to break that spell, and that when you’d wake, she would still be there?..

A minute more, Gryff decided, sealing the bargain with his exhausted brain. And then I will go, making a firm decision made him feel better at once. His only eye then closed, and seconds later he was already asleep too.

He chose to ignore Astor's invitation to the Great Hall — they've already been given a meal that day, after the sword training, & Gryff had forced several mouthfuls of food down his throat, barely even feeling the taste. It's been hours since then, but he had no appetite still, & just wished to crawl in some hole where no one would talk to or touch him. Dark-blue twilight fell, castle's courtyard was lit by a few small, ginger lights of torches, covered in freshly-fallen snow & blissfully quiet. Rare watchers scattered across it were either finishing their tasks or heading inside to rest. After how hectic it felt throughout the day, this was almost a pleasant sight.

On his way to Hardin's Tower, another familiar figure caught up to him — one of the other newcomers, Alen, as Gryff noted, displeased. He was carrying what looked like a metal chest, red flickers of coals visible through holes in it's side, almost like eyes of a small animal in the night.

"There you are." The other recruit had his usual annoying smirk on. "Mind if I join?" Noting how angrily Gryff glared at him, the man quickly explained. "Just for a minute. That Errold guy won't get off my back — I'm to get the bricks to everyone else's rooms. Every other newcomer's, I mean — I'd bloody die if I had to warm all the chambers of this place. I didn't know where you were staying, so I just thought I'd find you — hope that's not a bother."

"The fuck do you need bricks for?.." Their breath came out in thick white steam as they spoke — even having spent his life in the North, Gryff had never seen anything like that. The last winter he recalled, when he was still a boy, has been vicious — or so he used to think. It was dreadfully cold back then, but nothing he couldn't handle. Here, the very air clinked softly against the stone, & the touch of it on his skin was as real as touch of a blade. The ends of other watcher's hair have been turned white by hoarfrost, and Gryff wondered if his own looked the same way.

"I too did not get it initially. Those are to warm up beds. Crazy, I know, but you simply won't be able to sleep otherwise. The fireplace doesn't do shit. I didn't know about it on my first night — and it took hours for my sheets to get warm enough for me to rest, not toss and turn. Damn," Alen sighed deeply, clearly regretting being unable to hide hands in his armpits. "This ain't the Reach for you, that's for certain." Even having never visited the place, Gryff was inclined to agree.

Inside the tower, they went up the stairs, as Gryff was idly looking for a cell, where walls & door would be intact & no presence of other men could be sensed; such was found several staircases further. It had a bed, a fireplace & even a small table & chair beside it — all he required, and even more than that. Alen happily put his burden down & instantly got to starting a fire with the coals he brought & a pair of tongs. Gryff threw the letter he's been carrying this whole time on the table & stopped by the window, staring numbly in the darkness.

"Already got correspondence, huh?" Alen inquired, only to be met with silence. "Sorry, I know, I shouldn't have asked. You want me to bring you candle so you can read?.."

"What business do you have bringing me anything?" Gryff wondered in an indifferent tone. "Or starting my fire and warming my sheets, for that matter. Have you sworn your vows while I wasn't looking, and been made a steward already?"

"Pretty much what I'm aiming for." The other admitted with ease. "I mean, doesn't it sound good to keep this place all cozy and warm, while the likes of you are freezing your asses somewhere by the Frostfangs, risking to get killed by wildlings at any moment? I want to show everyone what I can do better. Hopefully, our commanders will have enough sense not to make me a ranger, or something."

"So, you think the likes of me will be made one?" Gryff scowled. "Did you not see how it was in the training yard today?"

"Accidents happen. Perhaps today just wasn't your day. Besides," Alen spoke more carefully, like he was approaching a delicate subject. "Aren't you, well — a lord? I imagine, they would give that honor to a noble. Your family must've put a word in for you, and all..."

Gryff simply turned away, leaning further on the windowsill. It was ridiculous just how clueless everybody here was, about literally everything. Realizing he must've said the wrong thing, the other recruit got back on his feet, rubbing his hands together with an embarrassed expression.

"Again... I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut. I'm sorry."

"You're fine." Gryff uttered through gritted teeth, wishing for nothing more than to be left alone as soon as possible. "You go now, I'll do the rest myself..." He wasn't actually going to — knowing almost for a fact, that he wouldn't be needing a bed that night. Thankfully, his comrade got the message & slipped out of the room behind his back, wishing him good night in passing. His steps receded for a short while, until they disappeared, and complete silence fell. Not even wind howled, & all Gryff could hear was cracking of fire & his own breathing.

Slowly, deliberately, he strode from the window to the table & glanced at the letter again. Piece of white parchment, orange & black shadows from the fireplace dancing all over it. The broken line of the sigil imprinted on blue wax grinned at him like a human's crooked mouth.

The last bit of Torrhen, that had found a way to follow him here.

He did not dare touch it, instead stepping back to his bed & lowering himself on it. His every muscle felt limp, worn out, ready for rest, but mind was so very far from sleep. Gryff stared in front of himself, the image of his cell etching itself in his brain, settling there comfortably, at it's own pace. There was no rush — the same sight, from now on, would greet him again, and again, and again, until one day it wouldn't.

Lord Whitehill — fire, the only living being here, could as well be cracking the words to him — welcome to your new home.

***

He had not been getting much night sleep for the past few weeks. The problem came back right after the siege, but reached it's peak with Talia Forrester's escape. Gryff had to stop with the large wine (and, occasionally, milk of the poppy) intake, that he'd resort to in order to pass out — he had to remain sharp. Since Grag was gone as well, not a single person he could trust remained at Ironrath. Even the sound of Harys's breath or steps behind the door where he stood, guarding, made him jump, alarmed. The Whitehill could spend hours watching the shadows in the dark corners of the room, wild-eyed. Nothing was safe anymore. Any of those men would not hesitate to slit his throat while he slept to earn a favor from Torrhen.

His last night at Highpoint was such a stark contrast to that. From the moment he laid down by Roslin's side & closed his eye just for a jiff, and until dawn, Gryff slept like dead, with no dreams or nightmares. Waking up greeted him with all kinds if unfamiliar feelings — warmth, absence of heaviness in his head, & even the pain was manageable. The first thing he heard was Roslin's soft, sleepy breathing, that, he realized, has probably been keeping him lulled & soundly asleep all night long.

He sat up on the bed by her side, slowly, deliberately, his body stiff from sleeping fully clothed. It was almost like night's rest had emptied his head, erasing all the emotional mess & grim thoughts of the day before — aside from the tiny, nagging sensation, that signaled it to him: something was wrong.

His eye slid down to Roslin's face, admiring the sleepy smile she had, and not a second later the realization hit Gryff with full force.

He's been expecting new flash of anger, new energy & strength to seek Torrhen out & do what had to be done; yet it didn't come. He felt weak still, not as sickeningly as before, but he would not be able to fight, or even speak, looking in the man's eyes. Instead of action, his brain was desperately searching for excuses. Perhaps one of his wounds had started bleeding overnight, so now he'd have to seek out Wyllard & buy himself a delay. Perhaps Torrhen had left, to attend some stupid lord's business, & he'd pull himself together by the time he'd arrive...

He had nothing. Head lowered in defeat, painful resignation settling inside. He knew he would never have the guts, the will, the courage, there was no point in lying to himself. He'd do what he's been told, crawl away, tail between his legs, like a damn dog he was, like so many times before.

Gryff looked at Roslin again & could not force himself to look away anymore. Nothing in the whole world could possibly compare to just sitting & looking at her this way. The girl turned a little, sighing sleepily, and it made his heart drop, afraid that she was waking up— false alarm.

His scarf was crumpled under her head, side of her face buried in the fabric. There was no way to take it back without waking her, and Gryff already knew he wouldn't. He wanted her to keep it, for as long as she'd care to — perhaps it would make the memory of him last a little longer. That, and he would not be able to speak to her now, tell that he was about to go away.

The deep feeling of shame & guilt made it too hard to even breathe, leave alone talk. He would break down, and Gryff knew it — but he could never let Roslin see him in that state. He had no right to shift his burden onto her. Let her keep a good last memory of him, of someone who held & hugged her & spoke to her gently. The fourthborn knew from his own experience — even if memory of the person would fade, their name & face & meaning, the feelings of warmth & care would stick for a lot longer.

The image before him became blurred in a second, and blinking did little to change that. Crying?.. It seemed almost impossible the day before, constantly edging on it, with a lump in his throat, but holding it in till his eye hurt from dryness. The tears, however, remained, and now spilled freely, so easily it was almost scary. Thank the gods he felt no urge to sob, expression unchanged — just the wetness. It didn't even matter anymore, with no one to see & be disgusted with him.

Angrily & shakily he wiped the burning eye with his sleeve, but more water was to come. He needed to get going, Gryff's mind chimed monotonously, before she can wake, before he finds you, so get a hold of yourself, and move along. He stood up swiftly, breaths hoarse, hectically wiping more & more tears, that just fucking refused to stop. Despite his worst fears, Roslin remained soundly asleep, hearing none of that. The only mercy, that he would be getting. At the very same moment, it struck Gryff how much he has been fooling himself. He had not accepted. He was not ready. He was so not fucking ready to part with her forever, that it hurt physically. He couldn't, he couldn't, he just fucking couldn—

Quietly, he knelt by the bed & reached out to hesitantly touch her hair & stroke it gently. The girl didn't move. Looking into her calm expression, in his mind, Gryff ordered himself to stop being a selfish little bitch, to fucking shut the whiny thoughts, the urge to wallow in self-pity. For her, this was the best outcome. How much more would it hurt her, had Torrhen just killed him, or if he'd stick around for another few months, allow her to get used to his presence again, before he'd be disposed of?..

Children moved on easily, they grew out of things, they forgot. She was still at the age when she could move on with barely any struggle. She had her whole life ahead, and that would be a good life, possibly even more so without him in it. If that would mean Ros would be happy, that her world would not be disturbed, then he had to accept. She was the last person in the world left to care about him at least a bit. He had to sacrifice it for her — there wasn't anyone else left for Gryff to sacrifice things for.

Carefully, trying with all his might not to sob out loud, he leaned forward, planting a light kiss on her forehead — before quickly retreating, almost like he had done something forbidden. Thankfully, he kept getting lucky, and the contact did not wake his niece. Walking towards the door, Gryff was unable to take his eye off the sleeping girl. This was the right thing to do. This was for her sake.

Perhaps she'd wake up & believe, that him coming to visit was just a dream. The scarf would be a giveaway though — Gryff didn't know whether that was supposed to upset or relieve him. Would she ask Torrhen, or her new mother, when he'd return — or did she actually understand that would be to no use, and just didn't show it?.. Selfish, selfish thoughts — Gryff knew he was supposed to want her to forget, to not be bothered by his memory, but at the same time wished to be remembered for little longer so, so badly.

He closed the door behind himself without making a sound. The hall in front of him was lit up by a ray of dawn light — that was it. His time was up. Before making his way down to the courtyard, automatically, unseeingly staring in front of himself, Gryff's hand found the small bundle he's been keeping in his pocket this entire time, and knowing, that it was still with him made his horrible mental state a tad better, suddenly. He'd be called a thief, if Gryff cared to ask anyone's opinion on the subject, but the fourthborn knew, that he was merely taking what was his by right. Delivering a last strike, small, insignificant, but still a strike. Spitting in Torrhen's face, even if he did it from behind the man's back.

The bastard took more from him, than Gryff used to believe he even had. His home. His dignity. The last person he loved. He spat at their father's memory by arranging a cowardly, humiliating truce with his murderer, & he had no doubts, that Torrhen would continue to spit at Ludd’s memory all throughout his reign. The only thing Gryff managed to take away from him as a retaliation was his mother, and he quietly prided himself on that one. No matter what Torrhen did, she was out of his reach now — nothing he'd do would bring her back. Not so almighty in the end, are you, lord Whitehill? He might've put their little war to an end with his sentence, yet nonetheless

it was Gryff, who had delivered him a one last blow.

Swiftly turning around, sword clutched in his hand, Gryff swung the metal bar door opened & stormed back in the Great Hall, with the full intent of plunging the blade through his brother & letting whatever would happen next happen. Looking around with wild eye, he realized Torrhen was not there anymore — curse his fucking brain, Gryff must've zoned out for longer, than he could afford. There were two ways the bastard had to choose from — the stairs to the balcony, or the main door, and after a brief moment, Gryff headed to the door, knocking a chair over in the process.

In the Hall, lord Whitehill was still nowhere to be seen — gone, gone, gone, the opportunity had slipped between his fingers. Gryff was a step away from rushing in the direction he had likely taken, from searching & turning the entire Highpoint upside down, if that's what he'd need to find the fucker & die trying to finish him off. The urge, however, was not to last — the one-eyed man halted, when the tapestry caught his eye, making the hand with the sword lower in a defeated gesture. The sight never failed to cause him pain & suck the very will to live right out of him.

He stood, staring at the people, who did not look back at him — when posing for the picture, they all had better place to put their eyes on, than a supposed onlooker. The only one looking more or less in front of himself was his father — a younger one, standing taller, than he did by the end of his life, but recognizable still. His image was the only one, that Gryff liked about the tapestry, at least remotely — a symbol of strength, authority, composure. When left alone, he'd sometimes try to replicate that expression & posture before the mirror, only to fail pathetically — he was nothing like Ludd, and could never even hope to compare.

He sure was. Would his father ever allow himself to be exiled, submit to his sworn enemy? Never. He'd never crouch & hide, fearing for his life. Gryff had been hiding away long enough to miss his funeral — something never to forgive himself for. Torrhen had his own fair share of blame in that, of course, for making it clear he was not to attend — as if the pisstain somehow had more right to decide how their lord-father was to be put to rest. As if he wasn't the least valuable son the late lord had, not deserving an ounce of his legacy. Following Karl's death, Gryff was the only one of Ludd's sons the man even acknowledged or actually trusted. It was him who was supposed to be there, he was the one who owned this bloody memory, and not the—

Yes, he did. He did own it, more so than anyone else.

Gryff raised his sword, and, after a second's hesitation, moved it forward, shuddering when it's tip tore the tapestry's surface. As a little brat, he once tried to burn the cursed thing, only managing to leave a small stain of soot before being stopped by Gwyn. Guess there was nobody to stop him now, so he moved the blade further, and the sound it made was the most satisfying thing he had heard in months.

Crudely, carelessly, he cut through it, butchering the painting, only using his left hand to hold & protect the part, that he wished to keep unharmed — his father & Gwyn's tiny figure at his feet. The woman his sister became might've given up on him, but the girl would always have a place in his heart. When reaching the spot, where woman's frame touched his father's, he gritted teeth in anger. She dared to fence some part of the man from him, and he hated her for it more than ever. The first urge would be to carefully carve Ludd's frame, so that not a shred of her remained, but then, suddenly, he got another idea.

Instead of cutting her off, he cut around her, so that when he was finished, the piece of canvas in his hands depicted all three people, making Gryff smirk grimly. Look where she was now. The image, so beloved by his brothers, their consolation, that they'd gawk at to no end — now his to claim, to tear away from them, like he tore away the actual person many years ago. The last reminder of her was now his to do with as he pleased, away from those, who valued the memory of a dead & buried woman over a living being.

The only revenge he'd ever get.

He wrapped the piece of ruined painting in a bundle with his shaky hands & observed the result of his work one last time, before swiftly edging back to the corridor he came from, behind the bars. Like back in his childhood, when he'd be stealing food from the kitchens to avoid attending meals, or sneaked out of Highpoint behind his brother's backs. A ticklish feeling of fear, mixed with weird excitement that disobeying them caused. The fury, that Torrhen would feel when he'd see what he had done, made him both terrified & overjoyed at the same time. Perhaps it'd happen before he'd get sent away, and then he wouldn't even get to live long enough to get to the Wall, but Gryff took pride in one thing — he had taken her away from Torrhen.

Twice now.

He became cold & realized he's been standing atop the Wall for too long, and his torch had gone out. It was supposed to last longer, but Gryff's been so lost in thought, he forgot to patrol the area assigned to him. It was time to go get some more fire, and then try actually walking, before he’d fall asleep standing.

Making his way back in the dark was easy, just walking a straight line towards where coals flickered in the brazier in the distance. As Gryff approached the post where he left Carn, his steps grew slower & slower. For no particular reason, he felt uneasy, limbs filling with heaviness & ears — with soft noise. Not that he wanted to talk to anyone, but just walking past the other should not've been a problem. This was something else.

Eventually he stopped, and so did the crunching of snow beneath his feet. Gryff put one hand on the solid, freezing surface of the Wall, hearing the blows of wind somewhere on the other side. A calm night; it was fairly quiet, with only occasional louder gusts. Wind's blowing was akin to soft howls of an animal — just as monotonously plaintive, interrupted by an occasional miserable whimper here & there – but that wasn’t it. Another whimpering sound, but of a different nature. Whines & sighs & sobs, that couldn’t be mistaken for the wind’s howling.

Only a human could be making those.

Gryff simply remained standing there, with his hand on the wall, listening. It wasn’t like he did not know the other watcher had issues – that was pretty damn obvious to any man with eyes, or even just one of those. That wretched expression, that never left Carn’s features, the fact, that he avoided people almost like he was afraid of them, barely forcing himself to speak when spoken to. Needless to say, Gryff gave little thought to that. If anything, he was glad to be in a company of someone, who dreaded communication as much as he did.

This, however… this was something entirely new, and he was not liking it one bit. Standing alone, in almost complete darkness, not a soul for many leagues of the Wall around, but a single watcher weeping his heart out steps away from him. Weeping… Gryff didn’t even know, that grown men could cry like this. Not a short, repressed sob, or a secretly wiped away tear, not even something like what he’s been through at the day of his departure. An unending, monotone pattern of whimpers & moans. He thought only children could be so absorbed by the act of crying. It didn’t grow louder or quieter, the tone never changed. Gryff had probably been standing there for a minute or so, but it felt like hours had passed, and he has been listening to the same crying all that time.

It awoke yearning in his own chest – a throbbing hole, that makes you want to howl to the high heavens, just so it gets heard. Gryff wanted him to fucking stop. It was cold, and dark, and felt like the two of them were completely alone in the entire world. This had to be the worst thing he had ever heard, the wrongest, the eeriest, the scariest. He didn’t even care how, he wanted it to be over. The image of shoving the man off the watching deck flashed before his mind eye, and nothing in Gryff’s soul protested to that. Make it stop. There had to be a way to make it stop.

He did nothing like that, didn’t even attempt to approach Carn – there was little he could do, beside create an awkward, embarrassing scene. Was it even possible to console another person, while envying their ability to cry so freely & deeply, Gryff wondered. Ever since the day he rode out of Highpoint’s gates on a cart, something seemed to have changed inside him. He still carried the pain with himself at all times, but it didn’t make itself known anymore. No wish to cry or complain, barely ever – to snap at people. He was hollow & detached & even though he walked among them, looked & worked & talked the same way as they did, there was something inside others, that, Gryff knew, he was missing himself.

He leaned with his back against the stony wall, closing his eye, quiet & unnoticed. The moment of fear had passed – now he listened to the wind howl & a crow cry his unknown woes to it in peace. Who knew what the fuck had happened to him? Gryff couldn’t guess, and still, this gave him some twisted sense of consolation. Not enjoying another’s misery, but rather sharing a part of it. The night wasn’t even close to being over, he was stuck with this, and out of all the paces at Castle Black, he would choose to be here, if given such choice.

The future was looking darn bright to him, all the way from high atop the world.

#ttgot s2 au #ttgot fanfic #gryff whitehill

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