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#hush ned
ladycatofwinterfell · 6 months
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All I have to say is Female Ned better have the same weird grip on people. Sure she is on the plain side when it comes to looks but all the women and men want her.
I would NEVER take that away, that’s a core part of Ned’s character. Plain introvert that everyone thirsts for without even understanding why
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nagumoan · 7 months
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Shouldn't you be writing instead of playing Solitaire?
...
Teehee ~
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archnostqlgia · 2 years
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this is ur daily dose of drama ,        bed stork wasn’t amazing
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ichorai · 10 months
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i’m not made by design ; jaime lannister.
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track seven of BROKEN MACHINE.  
pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)
synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.
words ; 47.8k
themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn
warnings / includes ; war/violence/murder/injury/blood, attempted sexual assault, this story covers the events from game of thrones s1-4, politicking, incest, talks of sex, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, reader is known as the bitter wolf and is ned’s youngest sibling, bittersweet ending
main masterlist. read on ao3!
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You first met Jaime Lannister during the Year of the False Spring, at the Great Tourney of Harrenhal—you had only been ten years of age, still starry-eyed and gentle-of-tongue. Knights, lords, and ladies hailing from all over Westeros were buzzing about the opening feast. Chalices of golden ale, platters of fruit and cheese, and sizzling trays of freshly-roasted meats were splayed out over several long tables.
To your right was your eldest brother, Brandon, biting into a large turkey leg and gingerly offering you a piece when he caught you ogling him. To your left was your sister Lyanna, popping voluminous grapes into her mouth and chattering to your two other brothers, Benjen and Ned, across the table. Her grey eyes were alight with glee, and she tipped her head back to laugh when Benjen made a snarky comment about Ned’s overgrown hair.
You were well into your second serving of glazed lemon cakes when the crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood up front. A hush descended upon the crowd when the handsome, silver-haired man brandished a large, golden harp.
He sang a song of sorrow, one of tragedy and death. His voice was soft and beautiful, saturated with honey and rich soil. It was a strange choice for such a joyous event, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it. Your sister, most of all, as she had tears warbling over her stormy irises upon his serenade.
When Rhaegar finally finished, Benjen noticed Lyanna’s tearful eyes and began cackling loudly with no restrain. Your sister scowled deeply and poured her entire glass of wine over Benjen’s head, Dornish red dripping down his shocked face. The younger man moaned with grief at his soiled tunic, but was still giggling nonetheless. You had watched the entire ordeal with a wide, toothy grin.
As the feast progressed, more and more people left to go dance. You and Brandon were exchanging knowing glances when the great beauty, Ashara Dayne, a woman of lengthy midnight locks and dark mauve eyes, began dancing with Ned Stark upon Brandon’s request. The two of you cheered him on from the sides, embarrassing your quietest and shyest brother beyond relief, his cheeks stained with a permanent dusting of rouge.
“Come, little sister,” said Brandon, only seven-and-ten at the time, holding out his hand with a kind smile. The soft grey of his eyes gleamed with earnest. “You shall be my last dance of the feast.”
You glanced around, apprehensive. “Would you rather not dance with any of the other ladies present?”
“I’ve had enough dances with girls I hardly know, much less any I’d ever see again. Come, let me have a dance with my youngest sister. It may be a long while until I see you again after this.”
Acquiescing to his wishes, you slid away from the table and took his hand, beaming up at your oldest brother. The two of you were no good at dancing—you trod on his feet more times than you could count, and he wasn’t quite used to having a dance partner less than half his height, resulting in a clumsy waltz of flailing limbs and awkward shuffling. Nonetheless, the both of you were laughing and smiling regardless of your quickly-numbing feet.
The joy was abruptly leeched away when the hall grew eerily quiet, orchestral music halting mid-note. You stopped in your dance with Brandon, letting go of his hand to turn and see what was going on.
King Aerys shuffled in, back slightly hunched, his glossed-over eyes surveying the crowd. His white hair was long and tangled beyond salvaging, the ends split and the strands near his scalp bunching together in matted clumps. There was a sickly, pallid color to his skin. His hands were twitching wildly by his sides, long, ochre-hued claws scratching the bare flesh of his irritated wrists. 
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. You felt yourself step back closer to your brother, suddenly feeling a wave of fear dance through you. This was the first time you’d seen the King in the flesh—and from what you’ve heard, he was far from a good one. 
The rumors did not fall upon deaf ears—you knew he was going mad. Now that you were looking at him, it seemed so obvious. He went from yelling at his squire at the top of his lungs, threatening to burn him alive, to laughing hysterically about a trivial matter that was lost to you, until he began wheezing and coughing and spluttering spittle every which way.
All of a sudden, the King’s wild gaze fell upon Jaime Lannister, a young blonde sitting on the table across the hall from you, beckoning the young man closer to kneel before him. You craned your neck to get a proper look at him. He was a sharply handsome young man, with soft tendrils of spun-gold, and gleaming viridescent eyes. There were many tall tales about him—of his unending skill in battle, of his excellent swordsmanship, of his bold fearlessness. 
The young knight was called to swear the oath of the Kingsguard in front of the entire hall. You watched with muted curiosity—he was barely older than Brandon, and yet he was already swearing away his entire life to the Mad King.
What a waste.
What you hadn’t picked up on, however, was that Jaime was none too happy about this ordeal, either. His expression was not set in stone, subtle flashes of anger bubbling through his stoic facade.
The crowd burst into raucous cheers when he got back onto his feet.
You did not clap.
The King had sent Jaime away later that night to guard the Queen and her children, and you did not see him for the rest of the tourney. 
Perhaps that was a good thing—the Tourney at Harrenhal led to many, many things shortly in the aftermath. The abduction of your older sister, Lyanna, by the crown prince. The death of your eldest brother, Brandon, along with your father, Rickard Stark, by the hands of the Mad King. An entire war broke out. Your brother, Eddard, marrying Catelyn Tully in Brandon’s stead, and siring a newborn son, Robb. Off he went to battle not too soon after—leaving only you and Benjen and tiny Robb as the remaining Starks in Winterfell.
Rhaegar Targaryen dying from a blow by Robert Baratheon, who’d been madly infatuated with your sister. Or, at least, he’d deluded himself into thinking he was. 
Jaime Lannister slitting the throat of the Mad King.
Everything had spun by so quickly—it all happened in a mere few moons. You were infamously named the Bitter Wolf, for not once have you smiled since the deaths of your dear family. It did not help that Benjen soon left to the Night’s Watch, leaving your only kin left to be Eddard and his young son.
“The Bitter Wolf,” the people of Winterfell always whispered as you passed by, foolishly thinking that you couldn’t hear them. “Take care not to get in her way… lest she ties you naked to a stake outside the castle walls to freeze overnight.”
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Thwack.
Little Bran stomped a small foot in frustration when his arrow flew wildly off course, splintering into the damp wood of a barrel beside his intended target.
Jon patted his half-brother on the shoulder comfortingly. “Go on,” he said, “father’s watching. Your mother, too.”
The second arrow whizzed straight over the target entirely, disappearing somewhere into the trees behind. Bran’s older brothers began to chuckle under their breath, an even younger Rickon joining in on their laughter.
“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” asked Ned from the platforms above the courtyard. You briefly thought back to when you were ten—right when the war started. When you’d lost Lyanna, Brandon, and your father…
The other two boys chimed in with their advice.
“Don’t think too much about it,” said Jon.
“Relax your bow arm,” piped Robb.
Having a certain soft spot for your young nephew, you decided to voice your own thoughts. “Keep practicing, Bran. It’s alright not to be perfect at first, despite what your foolish brothers may tell you. For years, I kept missing my targets just because I always gripped the bow wrong. There is a certain art to it,” you told the young boy with a steely tone whilst nocking your own longbow, lining your gaze up with the target. In the blink of an eye, you sent it arcing forward, impaling the center of the coal-lined circle perfectly. Robb whistled with an impressed expression coloring over his features. “Archery is something you build up to—you won’t magically learn to perfect it in half a day.”
From somewhere behind the lot of you, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing the target right beside the tip of your bolt. You rounded your gaze behind you to see your young niece, Arya, holding her own bow, and grinning widely, immensely proud of herself.
It was no secret that Arya admired you greatly, aspiring to be like you when she grew older. Ned would often lightheartedly blame you for his second daughter’s callous, wild, and unladylike nature, but you would always reply with a straight tone, “Arya is every bit Lyanna. I am not Lyanna.”
With a frustrated huff, Bran darted after his sister, angry that she had bested him in something she wasn’t even supposed to be good at. Arya scurried away with a cackle, mud and gravel flying up beneath her boots with her remarkable speed. Robb and Jon burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. 
The smiles fell away when you shoved a bow into each of their arms. “Alright, boys. You think you’re so much better than your brother? Show me. I want ten perfect hits—only grazing the circle does not count.” 
The two young men incredulously glanced up at their father, as if expecting Ned to save them from your stern wrath. Your older brother merely shrugged, half of a grin tilting his lips lopsided.
With a groan, the boys turned to do as they were bid, until Theon Greyjoy came bounding up to Ned with a message. A deserter from the Night’s Watch was captured not too far from Winterfell. An execution by Ned’s hand was in order for breaking a sworn oath.
Saved by the raven, you thought grimly, though you made a mental note to get them to practice again afterwards, even if it meant you had to drag them out by the ears. 
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The biting winds nipped at the small amounts of exposed bare skin that wasn’t covered by layers of thick furs, turning your face frigid. Outside the castle walls, the cold was more daunting and the gales were far stronger. You were well-acquainted with this sort of weather, however, and showed no sign of discomfort when Bran quietly asked you if you were as cold as he was.
They set the deserter upon a log, his neck resting upon the wood for Ned to chop it off. The poor fool was mumbling incoherently, too quiet for you to catch, but you could see the panic crystal clear in his far-away eyes. 
“Don’t look away,” said Jon to his younger brother. “Father will know if you do.”
Bran blinked, looking up at you for a brief moment. You dipped your head in agreement. It was something he needed to face eventually—death was inevitable.
“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” said Ned. “I, Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”
With that, your brother raised his longsword and swung it down cleanly onto the back of the deserter’s neck. His severed head fell to the frozen ground with a squelching thud.
“You did well,” you quietly told little Bran, who had a slightly disturbed expression upon his quickly-paling features, but did not flinch all the same. He didn’t look at you, feeling a certain sickness coiling in his stomach.
Both Jon and Robb gritted their teeth. The older of the two turned and led Bran away to the horses.
“Bran is an imaginative boy,” you told Ned once he lumbered over to you, sheathing his sword. “He dreams of fights and knighthood—the glory and praise of it all. He knows not of the blood and death that consequently comes with it. Prepare him for that, Ned. Or he will be left traumatized and shrouded with fear.”
No one had prepared me, you wanted to say, but bit down on your tongue.
Your older brother took a pause at your words, considering them seriously. With a grim nod, he strode off to speak to his second-youngest son.
The ride back to Winterfell was rocky and far colder than when you had left. On the way, the group came across a mauled carcass of a stag, its bloodied guts pooling out of its abdomen, flesh nearly clawed apart.
“What killed it?” asked Jon.
“Mountain lion?” offered Theon, eyes darting to the trees in search of such a beast.
You shook your head. “Mountain lions don’t venture up this far. Must be a Northern animal. Claw marks are too small to be a bear.”
With slow strides Ned walked around the dead animal and down a muddy hill, where a bubbling creek rushed by. You followed along, brows quirking upwards upon seeing the large body of a direwolf, fresh blood coating the entire front of its pelt. There was an antler sticking out of its throat—no doubt the poor wolf died in agony.
Your attention was brought down lower to small, yipping pups, suckling at the teats of their dead mother. 
“It’s a freak!” Theon said. 
You shot him an icy glare, making him whither beneath your eyes. “Show some respect. The direwolf died protecting her pups.”
“Tough old beast,” Ned gruffed, before pulling out the bloodied antler. 
“There are no direwolves south of the Wall,” Robb postulated, befuddled as to how this had happened.
“Now there are five,” said Jon, before picking one of the pups up by the scruff and moving it out to Bran. “You want to hold it?”
The pup whimpered as he was placed into Bran’s awaiting arms, wanting to go back to its mother. “Where will they go?” asked the boy. “Their mother’s dead.”
“They don’t belong down here—better a quick death,” said Ned, pulling out his sword once more. “They won’t last without their mother.”
Eager to please, Theon leapt forward, brandishing a knife and pulling the direwolf pup away from Bran. “Right, give it here.”
“No!” cried your nephew.
“Put away your blade,” you barked out, stepping closer to the ward. 
Theon gulped nervously, but was stubborn to a fault. “I take orders from your brother, not you.”
“Please, father!” begged Bran, ever the sweet boy. He had already witnessed one death today, and was not yet ready to see five more.
“Put it away,” you repeated menacingly at Theon, before looking to your brother. “Ned, there are five direwolf pups… one for each of your children. The direwolf is the sigil of our house—it would do us no good killing off our own symbols. ‘Tis a rare thing to find direwolves around these parts. This is a blessing, brother. Take it as one.”
With a sigh, Ned hung his head, before staring directly at Bran. “You will train them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves. If they die, you will bury them yourselves.”
Theon sheathed his knife at Ned’s words, thrusting the pup back into Bran’s grasp.
The group began to walk away, and you hauled up one of the pups into your arms, wondering whether it will go to Sansa, Arya, or Rickon, as Robb and Bran seemed to already have their pick.
“What about you?” Bran asked Jon.
The dark-haired man stiffly replied, “I’m not a Stark.”
The sound of another whimpering pup roped your attention away from the one in your arms. Jon knelt down by the stump of a tree, brandishing a pure-white direwolf, its eyes a hazy shade of crimson.
“Ah, the runt of the litter,” chuckled Theon. “That one’s yours, Snow.”
Jon still seemed disheartened, staring at the scrawny little thing with narrowed eyes as the rest of the group were already hitching their horses.
“Come on,” you nudged the younger man along with your elbow. “The runts always turn out to be the strongest. Perhaps not physically, but their wills are unmatched.”
It was not often that you were remotely affectionate to him, but when Jon turned to glance at you, your expression had hardened back to its usual state. “Now get on your horse, before I convince your father to abandon you out here.”
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The month passed by in a blur. The direwolves were growing at a rapid speed, reaching taller than the height of your knee when they sat up, ears perked. News of Jon Arryn’s death had come not too long ago, and King Robert Baratheon was due to arrive at Winterfell any minute by now, along with his family, and a plethora of other royal subjects.
“I want to see the Imp,” Arya babbled to you, scurrying along by your side as you swiftly crossed the courtyard to the stairs that led to your chambers, eager to change into something more appropriate for the arrival of the King. 
“Why? Because you want to meet someone shorter than you, for once?” you asked her dismissively, allowing her to slip through the door behind you as you changed out of your muddied garments into much cleaner ones. “Take no offense to this, Arya, but Tyrion Lannister prefers the company of much older women.”
Arya hopped onto your bed, eyebrows furrowing. She reminded you much of your late older sister, and it pained you to look at her for too long. Your comment about Tyrion’s tastes flew right over her head. “I’m not that short! Bran and Rickon are much shorter than me!”
A derisive snort fell from your lips as you did up your tunic, leaning close to the warped mirror to make sure you were decent enough for the public’s eye. “Not for long, girl. Not for long.”
Before Arya could reply, you were already making your way out of your chambers, just in time to see Bran clamber down the tall castle walls, yelling out, “The King is here! I saw him, he’s here!”
Not ten minutes later, nearly a hundred horses clopped through the gates, carrying fluttering Baratheon and Lannister flags. 
You stood beside Catelyn, head held up high. To her other side was Ned, then Robb, then Sansa, then Bran, and finally, little Rickon. Arya pushed forth between Sansa and Bran, shoving her younger brother aside. “Move!” she gruffed, earning her an angry glare from both parties. 
Behind you was Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy, the former looking like he’d really rather be doing anything else, and the latter looking excited to see Southern folk—the girls there are much prettier, he’d always thought.
The King certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He’d grown twice as wide since last you saw him, rounded belly straining the buttons of his stretched coat. His dark beard was thick and long, wild locks of black hair hastily combed back. A servant had to place down steps for him to clamber off his horse.
Ned knelt down before his old friend, and you followed suit. The King strode up to him, beckoning your older brother to rise, along with the rest of the people of Winterfell. You stood back up on your feet, hands clasped behind your back. Your eyes wandered further behind the King, wondering where the rest of the royal family were.
“Your Grace,” said Ned, bowing his head. 
Robert scanned his eyes over the Warden of the North, thick brows quirking down with disapproval. “You’ve got fat,” he quipped. Pot, meet kettle.
Your older brother tilted his head, using his chin to gesture to Robert’s own protruding stomach. The King then let out a loud, wheezing laugh, spreading out his arms to wrap Ned in a tight embrace.
He gave Catelyn a hug next, exclaiming her name warmly. 
His dark eyes then landed on you. “Ah, the infamous Bitter Wolf,” he boldly said. He dared not hug you, wondering if you’d bite off his hand, uncaring that he was the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms. There was a pregnant pause—his gaze rested a second longer than it should have, for he couldn’t help but notice how you’d grown well into your features, sharing a few traits with Lyanna—though she looked much like your father whilst your appearance favored your late mother. “Time has done you wonders. Last I saw, you were only but a wee thing.”
“If only I could say the same to you,” you replied, voice sharp and level. Robert only gave a grand chuckle at your words, before moving his gaze back to Ned.
“Nine years—why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?” 
A ghost of a smile graced Ned’s lips. “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace.”
“From what? Naked tree branches and piles of snow?” he said, amused at his own jests.
A little ways behind Robert, you could see Queen Cersei Lannister step out of a carriage, lifting her golden skirts just slightly so they wouldn’t drag along the mud. 
“Where’s the Imp?” you heard Arya ask her sister.
“Will you shut up?” Sansa shot back, rolling her deep blue eyes to the side. 
The King walked on to see the Stark children, a proud glint to his expression. “And who do we have here? Ah… you must be Robb,” he said, shaking the eldest boy’s hand firmly. Robert looked at Sansa, brows raised. “My, you’re a pretty one.”
He then leaned down closer to Arya, who looked much too preoccupied looking for the Imp, asking for her name. Arya absentmindedly responded, still searching for Tyrion, not even bothering to look the King in the eye. Robert seemed not to mind, only barking out a gruff chuckle.
“Ooh, show us your muscles!” Robert told Bran, who immediately raised a scrawny arm with a small grin. The King wheezed a chesty laugh. “You’ll be a soldier!”
The last of the horses rode into Winterfell, and you keenly noticed a golden-armored knight climbing off his steed, tugging his helmet off his head.
Jaime Lannister. 
The man who killed the King. The very same King that murdered your father and brother.
Nearly unchanged from all those years ago, he was. His golden hair stood out starkly against the grey walls of the castle, green eyes bright and cunning. 
You hadn’t even noticed that you were staring at him until your attention was ripped away by Cersei Lannister, her hand held out in front of Ned. 
“My Queen,” he said, lightly kissing her knuckles. Catelyn bowed, a polite smile to her lips. You watched her with narrowed eyes, and for a brief second, Cersei met your cold gaze, as if challenging you to back down.
Before she could say anything, Robert strode back in front of Ned. “Take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects.”
To Lyanna. He wanted to see Lyanna.
Cersei scowled. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”
The King ignored his wife. “Ned. Let’s go.”
Your brother glanced apologetically at the Queen, before leading Robert away, down to the crypts.
“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asked a third time, bouncing on her feet. 
Nobody spared her a response, but Cersei swiftly rotated around to Jaime, taking hold of his arm. “Where is our wretched brother? Go and find the little beast.”
You watched Jaime huff in amusement, before striding off in search of Tyrion. 
When Cersei turned back to the Stark family, you were nowhere to be seen.
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The feast was held at sundown. 
Your creamed potatoes were growing cold, but you hadn’t the stomach to eat anymore—not when Robert Baratheon was sticking his tongue down a servant’s throat only two tables away from you. So you opted to sipping on your drink instead, half-listening to whatever tall tale Robb was exaggerating to the lords around him.
It was only when half of the food was already scarfed down, did your brother Benjen arrive. He came clopping on horseback, striding through the crowded entrance and ducking between cheering men with overflowing chalices of ale. 
“Little sister,” he greeted, clapping a hand on your shoulder and drawing you into a tight hug. Surprised at the sudden embrace, it took you a moment to reciprocate his affection. Your nose buried into the thick furs of his coat. You did not smile, but there was a faint trace of fondness to your eyes. “You are looking as sour as ever. Not a wonder why people only ever call you the Bitter Wolf these days. ‘Tis a rare thing to see you at a social calling, much less one this crowded.”
“Aren’t you a charmer? I’m only here because the King ordered me to be. Why, I cannot possibly say,” you dryly replied, before shoving him away and handing him a goblet of wine. “Here. Must be better than what you’ve got up on the Wall.”
Benjen said something in reply, but it was muffled into the rim of the cup as he slurped it down with a greedy groan. “Ah, I missed this terribly. You can’t imagine how awful alcohol tastes up there. Where is our dear brother? Ned!”
The taller man strode away to the eldest Stark by the main table, cuffing his shoulder with a wide grin. Ned, however, was solemn-faced, pondering about the mad boy he had beheaded all those weeks ago.
You chanced a glance towards the King—he was far too occupied with two other ladies fawning over him to notice you slipping out of the Hall. With that, you began weaving through the packed throng, eager to take your leave.
To your dismay, you were stopped in your tracks by a taller figure, the dark lapels of his tunic brushing against your face with your sudden halt. You reared back a step, your narrowed eyes meeting his curious green ones.
Jaime Lannister.
“Excuse me,” you said, none too pleased about being stopped in your tracks. 
“Lady Stark,” he murmured, voice silken smooth. “Or, should I say, the Bitter Wolf?”
Annoyance growing, you only scowled at him. “Pardon me, Ser Jaime. Or, should I say, Kingslayer?”
Jaime frowned. The action twisted his sharp features in a manner that did not suit him at all, as if such an expression did not belong on such a face. The words stung like he’d just been slapped. Nonetheless, he pressed forth, determined to keep your conversation ongoing. 
“I hear your brother is to be Hand of the King.”
What was this? Amicable chatter? With the Queen’s brother, no less? You were bewildered as to how you got to such a predicament—you only wanted nothing more than to retire to your chambers.
“Yes, lovely to hear that I am the last of my siblings to remain at Winterfell,” you snarkily replied, deftly stepping around him and ushering out of the Hall. It was to no avail, for Jaime simply strode with you, ambling after you out into the cold snow. “Why are you following me?”
“Walking you to your chambers,” the blonde knight simply replied, as if it were common sense. “You were there, were you not? At the Tourney of Harrenhal? I saw you. Small thing, you were.”
A beat of silence. In the distance, a raven cawed. You could feel the tension in your shoulders only barely dissipate. 
“Yes,” you carefully replied. “I remember little of it… I was so young. Times were simpler then.”
Jaime huffed out a dry laugh and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for me, they weren’t.” It was clear to you that he was implying his time with the Mad King. You were given no chance to reply when he continued speaking. “You weren’t so bitter then. I saw you dancing with your brother… Brandon, was it?”
A lump formed in your throat. “Yes,” you quietly responded, voice suddenly hoarse.
“I’m sure a tournament will be held in honor of Lord Eddard’s new title, should he accept,” Jaime said, hands clasping behind his back. “I would hope to see you there, Lady Stark. Perhaps you can watch me best your brother in combat.”
Much to Jaime’s amazement, you scoffed, bordering on a near laugh. 
He had made the infamous Bitter Wolf nearly laugh! A strange sense of pride curled within the confines of his chest.
“Your arrogance will be your downfall, Ser Jaime. Besides—Ned doesn’t fight in tourneys. I wouldn’t, either.” You turned the corner to climb up the steps to your chambers, halting in your tracks to look down upon Jaime. “‘Tis a foolish thing, fighting for naught but gold and praise. When the enemies come striking, there is no gold waiting on the other side. Just the bittersweet relief of survival.”
Jaime tilted his head, considering your words. “It’s not always a relief.”
“Pardon?”
“Relief… not all are relieved to be alive,” he mused, hand resting upon the stone wall beside him. 
You observed the man before you. Perhaps you had severely misjudged him.
“Yes,” you murmured, casting your gaze up to the starry night sky. “I know what that’s like.”
The two of you stood in silence for a while longer. It was neither comfortable nor was it unbearable. It was simply just there.
“I’ll be retiring for the night, Ser Jaime. You’ve followed me this far—I could only hope you won’t follow me into my chambers,” you said in a warning tone, eyes locked intensely with his.
With a playful tone, Jaime pushed at the elasticity of your limits. There was a roguish grin to his mouth. “I would never. Not unless you invited me, of course.” 
And there it was again—your gruff scoff-laugh. Jaime stood up straighter, wishing to hear you laugh properly.
“Good night, Ser,” you curtly said.
“Good night, Lady Stark. Sleep well. Perhaps we’ll reconvene on the morrow,” he replied with a small bow of his head. With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back into the mess hall. You hummed in thought, thinking back to his earlier words as you slid into your dark chambers.
Not all are relieved to be alive.
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You were up early the next morning, sharpening one of your many throwing daggers by the foot of the staircase. 
It all happened in a blur. One moment, you heard a faint thud from the edges of the castle walls. You thought nothing of it at first—brushing it off as one of the saddle boys accidentally knocking a barrel over. But the morning was still young, and you doubted any of them would even be up at such an hour. It would do you no harm to go check. And so, you sheathed your dagger and strode across the yard and rounded the bend.
The next moment, you were happening upon Bran’s small, broken body, laid across the grass and gravel, clearly having just fallen from a great height. You had yelled for the maesters so loudly that the entirety of Winterfell seemed to awaken at the commotion. With frantic motions, you gathered Bran up in your arms and sprinted towards the infirmary, murmuring panicked prayers to the Old Gods beneath your breath.
The startled Maester Luwin swooped to take Bran from you, setting him down on a bed to check on him. The small boy was unresponsive, but still breathing.
Catelyn and Ned came running in soon after. You took to comforting an anguished Cat while answering Ned’s solemn questions as to what happened. 
For the days to come, you rarely ever left your nephew’s side, curled up in a chair by the head of his bed, only ever leaving to occasionally clean yourself up and grab food for yourself and Catelyn. The boy’s poor mother was in shambles, often crying into his blankets and pleading for him to wake up. She prayed to her Seven Gods, begging them to bestow mercy for her sweet boy. When she wasn’t sobbing, she would read to him in a low, croaking voice, or occupy her shaking hands with needlework.
Cersei Lannister had appeared by the doorway the morning after Bran’s fall, clutching her thick coat close to her form. 
“Oh, I would’ve dressed, had I known you were coming, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, standing up to bow slightly. You glanced up from your own book, dipping your head in acknowledgement to the Queen.
The woman hummed. “Please, this is your home. I’m your guest.” She looked upon Bran, green eyes dark and thoughtful. “Handsome one, he is. I lost my first boy—a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter, too… tried to beat the fever that took him.”
Her words made you set your book down, brows furrowing.
She seemed to sense both you and Catelyn’s agitation, clasping her hands in front of her. “Forgive me. That must be the last thing you need to hear right now.”
“I never knew, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her palm. She was exhausted, having forgone sleep for the entire night.
“It was a long time ago,” Cersei replied wistfully. “Robert was furious… beat his hands bloody on the wall. All the things men do to show you how much they care.”
“Without actually caring,” you murmured, thinking back to his crazed infatuation with your older sister. Cersei’s stare turned to you, and she nodded once. 
There was a long, pregnant silence. The Queen cleared her throat and continued on. A thin film of tears warbled over her viridescent irises. “The boy looked just like him. Such a small thing. A bird without feathers. When they came to take him away—Robert held me. I screamed and battled, but he held me. I never saw him again. Never visited the crypts.” She drew in a shaky breath and fixed her stare back on the motionless Bran. “I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she will return your child to you, Lady Catelyn.”
“I am grateful,” Cat sniffled.
“Perhaps this time she’ll listen,” said Cersei. She turned to take her leave, but not before glancing at you. “You were the one who found him, were you not?”
You set your jaw at the question. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Hm. It is a miracle you were there… he would have been dead if not for you,” she murmured, a strange edge to her tone. The skirts of her dress swished noisily as she strode out of the room. 
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The fresh air was doing you good. Your head felt much clearer as you made your way around the castle, the cold winds settling nicely over your skin, pleasantly tousling your hair. You made your way to the smithy, where you spotted Jon hovering over the wooden table where a blade was being carefully cleaned.
It seemed the young man was quite taken with the prospect of going up to the Wall with your brother, Benjen, and swearing the vows of the Night’s Watch. You weren’t too happy to hear of his plans on leaving Winterfell, but you supposed he’d feel much more at home further up North with people cut from the same cloth as him. Not only was Jon leaving to the Wall, but Ned, Sansa, and Arya were also going to the capital with the King quite soon.
“Jon,” you greeted, dipping your head at your nephew. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”
The grey-eyed man shook his head, curls flying. There was a small, wary smile touching the corner of his lips. “I was going to come visit you and Bran before you left. I have something to give to Arya first.”
You peered over his shoulder to take a closer look at the thin sword. “A sword for your sister? Be sure your father doesn’t see you giving her that.”
Surprised flashed across Jon’s face. You were never one to pass up the chance to nag him until his ears fell away. “Are you not going to tell me off?”
“No,” you grimly replied. “King’s Landing is a dangerous place. The girl’s going to need it someday.”
Jon nodded once, pleased that you weren’t going to stop him. 
It was then that you heard a familiar voice susurrate from behind you, making both you and Jon turn around at the same time.
“Lady Stark, my deepest condolences for your young nephew. Let us hope he makes a speedy recovery,” he said. He was grinning strangely, in a manner that you rather misliked.
“Yes,” you responded stoically. “I suppose this is a farewell for us, then.”
The blonde knight tossed his head back in a confident manner. “Only time will tell, Bitter Wolf. You never know—our paths may yet cross again.” 
You couldn’t quite tell if that was a promise or a threat. Perhaps both.
You spared him a distant hum, turning back to look upon the sword Jon was having specially crafted for Arya.
“A sword for the wall?” the Kingslayer asked, head tilting. 
“No. I already have one,” said Jon.
The older man’s brows lifted. “Good man. Have you swung it yet?”
The bastard scoffed. “Of course I have.”
“At someone, I mean,” the knight clarified. Jon remained silent. “It’s a strange thing… cutting a man open for the first time. You realize we’re nothing but sacks of meat and blood and bone to keep it all standing. Let me thank you ahead of time, Jon Snow, for guarding us all from the perils beyond the Wall. Wildlings and white walkers and whatnot.”
Jaime tightly clasped Jon’s hand, clearly mocking the man with a condescending lilt to his words. It took no genius to discern that Jaime was no fan of the Night’s Watch—to him, they were nothing but a group of lowly thieves, rapists, and murderers.
The younger boy tried to pull his hand away from Jaime’s grip, but the blonde man merely grasped harder. “We’re grateful to have such good, strong men like you protecting us.”
“I’d appreciate it if you let go of my nephew, Ser Jaime,” you cut in, voice icy and eyes ablaze. You were rather indifferent to the blonde knight, but he was starting to get on your nerves. 
Jaime took one glimpse at your hardened scowl, before relinquishing his hold on Jon and stepping back. You couldn’t quite read the expression on his handsome features. “Give my regards to the brothers at the Wall. I’m sure it will be thrilling to serve in such an… elite force. And if not, well… it’s just for your entire life, right? Small price.”
The Kingslayer left the both of you glaring at his back, making his way back into the castle to find his brother. You looked to Jon.
“His arrogance will be his downfall,” you whispered, parroting what you’d told him the night of the feast.
Jon only grunted in response, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.
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It was easy to say goodbye to Jon. You knew he was going to be safe with your brother watching over him, and he was going to be much happier at the Wall without feeling out of place, like he did in Winterfell. You gave him a one-armed hug, pulling away to pat his cheek twice. 
“Write to me, will you? I want to know how you’re faring,” you said, tone uncharacteristically soft. It’d been nearly a month since Bran fell out of the window, and you weren’t keen on losing another one of your nephews. 
Jon nodded, lips pursed grimly. “Of course. Will you let me know if Bran wakes up?” he asked.
“When he wakes up,” you corrected.
“Right. When he wakes up. You Starks are hard to kill.”
Though you didn’t smile, there was a clear glimmer of fondness to your irises, one that Jon only rarely caught when you were speaking to Ned or little Rickon. The fact that it was directed to him for the first time made his stomach roil—he was going to miss you. 
“You’re a Stark to me, Jon. You’re my nephew, my blood… never forget that. Now, get on—Robb’s waiting to speak to you.” 
You ushered the younger man off to say his farewells to his half-brother, but Jon paused in his steps and lowly asked, “Before I go, I wanted to ask you… do you know anything about my mother?”
There was a beat of silence. You certainly hadn’t expected Jon to ask you that. “Your father never spoke to me about her. All I know is that she must’ve been a good person if Ned took a liking to her. I’m sorry… I wish I could tell you more, but I know little of the matter myself.”
You didn't miss the glimmer of disappointment to the young lad's grey eyes. “Don’t be. Farewell, Aunt Y/N.”
You watched Jon turn on his heel and walk off to speak with Robb.
“You don’t look too happy to see me off,” said Benjen, magically appearing by your side and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. He ruffled your hair with a mild grin. “Then again… you never really look happy, do you?”
With a scowl, you ducked away from his hands. “Oh, stop it. I’ll be seeing you again sooner or later, no doubt.”
“I’m being serious, dear sister. I cannot remember the last time I’ve seen you genuinely smiling,” he said, evident concern flooding his winter-hewn features. “Give me a smile—just one before I leave. You used to smile all the time when we were little.”
Before the war. Before father and Brandon were murdered.
You shook your head, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. “That was a long while ago, Benjen. I am not the same person I was before.”
Barking out a laugh, Benjen crossed his arms over his chest. “Indeed you are not. I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll be keeping Bran in my prayers.”
“You don’t pray,” you dryly said.
“I would for him,” your older brother replied solemnly before mounting his horse. “Goodbye, Y/N.”
Your own goodbye was too quiet for him to hear, as he was already clopping away. 
The next farewells in order were for Ned, Sansa, and Arya. Your brother tugged you into a loose hug, face grim. 
“Winter is coming,” he had whispered into your hairline. “Take care, Y/N.”
As for the two girls, Sansa was rather intimidated by you, and squeaked out a stiff goodbye, whilst Arya hugged you tightly, her face buried into the fabric of your tunic. You had frozen at first, but loosened with time and gently patted her head. 
There was too much of Lyanna in her, you thought with a frown as she pulled away from you and scurried off to get into the carriage behind her older sister.
Hours later, you found yourself sitting by Bran’s bed once again, Catelyn on the other side weaving together a prayer wheel for her son. You were flicking through a voluminous tome on the history of dragons, muffling a yawn behind your fist. It was only when Maester Luwin strode into the room did you pull your attention away from the book.
“It’s time we reviewed the accounts, my Lady,” he hesitantly said to Catelyn, hands clasped together. The woman’s eyes watered, and she glared at the maester for even thinking that she was up for speaking of money when her son was still hurt. “You’ll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us.”
She hummed dismissively. “Talk to Poole about it.”
Sympathetic, Luwin lowered his voice. “Poole went south with Lord Stark, my Lady. We need a new steward, and there are several appointments that require our immediate attention—”
“I don’t care!” Catelyn bit out. “I don’t care about appointments! My son needs me.”
Another figure stepped through the doorway. “I’ll make the appointments,” said Robb. “We’ll talk about it first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be happy to help, if need be,” you offered, nodding to Robb.
“Very well, my Lord—my Lady,” said Maester Luwin to the both of you, before dipping his head and excusing himself out of the room.
You casted a worried glance to Catelyn, who’d taken to intensely staring at her prayer wheel once more.
“When was the last time you’ve left this room?” Robb asked his mother. Crossing the room in three long strides, he reached out to open up the windows. The noise of the howling direwolves flooded into the chambers.
There was a tremble in her voice when she said, “I have to take care of him.”
“He’s not going to die, mother. The maester says the most dangerous time has passed,” Robb tried to reason fruitlessly. 
“What if he’s wrong?” she retaliated, eyes wild. “Bran needs me!”
Her eldest son shook his head. “Rickon needs you. He’s six. He doesn’t know what’s happening—he follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying out for you, for Bran, for father—”
The direwolves howled some more.
“Close the windows!” Catelyn cried, abandoning her prayer wheel to curl her hands into fists and knock them against her knees in frustration. “I can’t stand it! Make them stop!”
The howling only grew louder. 
With furrowed brows, you stood up on your feet to stand beside Robb and glance out the window. 
Your heart leapt into your throat. 
Fire.
Red, greedy flames. Licking at the air, spitting embers at the gravel. 
With urgent movements, you dashed out of the door to help put the growing blaze out, catching Robb ordering his mother to stay in the room.
When you returned to the chambers not fifteen minutes later, you found Catelyn curled up on the cold floor, murmuring prayers beneath her breath, her hands soaked in dark ichor. An equally bloodied Summer was laying protectively over Bran’s unconscious form.
On the other side of the room was a man, throat nearly turned inside out, crimson so dark it nearly looked black, gushing out of his neck.
And on the ground between them was a dagger.
A dagger to change the fate of the entirety of Westeros.
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“This is where he must have fallen,” you whispered to Catelyn, gazing out from the opening in the tall tower. 
Your sister-in-law gritted her teeth. “Or where he was pushed.”
Anger bubbled within your throat. It made sense—Bran had never fallen before while climbing, and someone was sent to murder him not too long after the first failed attempt. 
“Who would do such a thing?” you asked in an icy voice, gaze scouring around the rest of the tower.
Catelyn knelt down on the ground, eyes widening. From the ground she picked up a long strand of blonde hair.
Fury turned your vision red.
Cersei Lannister.
Nearly an hour later, Catelyn had convened a small group she was sure to be loyal to her. Ned’s ward, the master-at-arms, the maester, you, and her eldest son.
“What I am about to tell you must remain between us,” she said, an urgent edge to her words. “I don’t think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was thrown.”
Maester Luwin bowed his head in thought. “The boy was always sure-footed before.”
“Someone tried to kill him twice. Why? Why murder an innocent child?” Catelyn whispered, blue eyes hardened. “Unless he saw something he shouldn’t have seen.”
Theon tilted his head. “Saw what, my Lady?”
“I don’t know… but I would stake my life the Lannisters are involved. We already have reason to suspect their loyalty to the crown.”
“Did you notice the dagger that the killer used? It’s too fine a weapon for such a man. The blade is Valyrian steel, and the handle is dragonbone. Someone gave it to him… someone with a lot of money,” said Rodrik, presenting the sharp dagger for everyone to see.
Enraged, Robb snarled, “They come into my home and try to murder my brother? If it’s war they want—”
“If it comes to that, you know that I’ll stand behind you,” Theon interrupted, ever desperate to please.
“Perhaps it is best you think first with your head before your fists,” you told the two bristling boys in a placating tone. “War is the last thing we need. We have to keep our emotions in tact… find out who did this. Justice will be served, but it mustn’t be rushed.”
Robb blew out a frustrated breath, but nodded. It was not wise to rush headfirst into war. Everybody had to be smart about this.
“Lord Stark must be informed,” said Maester Luwin. 
Shaking her head, Catelyn responded, “I don’t trust a raven to carry these words.” 
“I’ll ride to King’s Landing,” Robb offered. 
Immediately, Catelyn refused his proposal, not wanting to put another one of her sons in danger. “No. You are Winterfell’s heir—you should remain here. I will go myself.” 
“Mother, you can’t—” Robb began to protest.
“I must,” said Catelyn, heavy with finality. 
Rodrik pursed his lips before saying, “I’ll send Hal with a squad of guards to escort you, my Lady.”
Again, Catelyn denied the offer. “I don’t want the Lannisters to know I’m coming. Too large a party will attract attention.”
“Then let me accompany you,” said Rodrik. “The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone.”
Crestfallen at having to see his mother off, Robb whispered, “What about Bran?”
Catelyn’s lips trembled. “I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month. Bran’s life is in their hands now.”
By nightfall, Catelyn had packed a small rucksack to take with her, and Rodrik was awaiting her by Winterfell’s gates. 
“Watch my boys for me,” she murmured, taking your hands within hers and squeezing. Tears lined her eyes, threatening to fall, but none did. “There isn’t much you can do for Bran but Robb… Rickon… they need you.”
“I’ll be here, sister,” you said solemnly, squeezing her palms in a reassuring manner.
With that, you helped her mount her small horse, and watched as she rode off with Rodrik in tow. Robb came by your side, his jaw set.
“All my life, I’ve watched people go,” you said to him, wistful. “My father, my brothers, my sister, and now your mother. The waiting is the worst part.”
The younger man casted you a curious look—this was the first time he’s heard you speak of your past. He pulled a hand over his weary face. “I’m not good at waiting.”
“You’ll have no choice,” you told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, Robb. We have an entire castle to uphold. We must work together, you and I. You are a young man, with a heavy responsibility weighing over your head… but I will shoulder it with you. You hear me, boy?”
Conflict warred within the blue of his eyes. He looked so much like Catelyn, nothing like you or Ned. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
To his surprise, you pulled him into an embrace, and he couldn’t help but swallow down the lump in his throat, forcing away the sharp sting to the corner of his eyes. Never before had you openly shown him such affection, but these were changing times. You loved your nephew dearly, even if you weren’t one to show it.
“Come,” you said once you pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “Let us go have supper.”
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A week had gone by when Bran awoke.
He was tired and groggy, and felt nothing from the waist down. He’d never be able to walk again, the maester had said. Bran was angry at the news, spending his days looking glum and solemn.
When Robb had asked him if he remembered anything, Bran merely bit his bottom lip and shook his head. You wrote to both Jon and Ned of the bittersweet news, sending the raven off first thing in the morning.
Nearly a moon later, Lord Tyrion returned back to Winterfell after his little adventure to the Wall, with a brother of the Night’s Watch, Yoren, accompanying him.
“I must say I received a slightly warmer welcome on my last visit,” the Imp mused, standing before you and Robb and Maester Luwin.
A scowl flitted over your features. “Winter is coming, Lord Tyrion. Not much warmth going around the North these days.”
Robb tilted his head. “Any man of the Night’s Watch is always welcome in Winterfell.”
“Any man of the Night’s Watch but not I, eh, boy?” Tyrion asked. 
With a steely tone, your nephew gritted out, “I’m not your boy, Lannister. I’m the Lord of Winterfell while my father is away.”
“Then you might learn a Lord’s courtesy!”
It was then that the door to the hall swung open, and Hodor lumbered in, carrying Bran in his arms.
“So it’s true,” said Tyrion, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?”
Maester Luwin responded on the boy’s behalf. “He has no memory of that day.”
Frustrated, Robb asked, “Why are you here?”
Ignoring the question, the Lannister looked back to Bran. “Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt.”
With a straight face, Bran quietly said, “Kneel, Hodor.”
The large man did as Bran asked. 
“Do you like to ride, Bran?” queried Tyrion.
“Yes. Well… I used to.”
Luwin’s brows furrowed. “The boy has lost the use of his legs.”
Brandishing a paper scroll, Tyrion easily replied, “With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.”
The small boy frowned at the wording. “I’m not a cripple,” he said, clearly upset.
“Then I’m not a dwarf!” Tyrion exclaimed before handing Bran the scroll. “My father would be rejoiced to hear it. Here—this is for you. Give it to your saddler, and he’ll provide the rest.”
He unraveled it eagerly, a smile touching his lips upon seeing intricate designs for a special-made saddle to accommodate for his legs. 
“Will I really be able to ride?” asked Bran.
“You will,” said Tyrion. “On horseback, you’ll be as tall as any other man.”
Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “What game are you playing at, Lord Lannister? Why are you helping my nephew, if you even are?”
“No game,” the Imp replied. “I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”
Bran smiled at the blonde, and Robb seemed to soften a bit at this.
“You’ve done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” he said.
Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Spare me your courtesies, Lord Stark. There is a brothel outside your walls. There, I’ll find a bed and both of us can sleep easier.”
With that, Tyrion turned to leave. 
“I’ll be right back,” you told Robb, who watched you go with curious eyes. You said nothing more, getting up from your seat and hurrying out after the surprisingly quick man. “Lord Tyrion.”
“Ah, the Bitter Wolf—I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of speaking to each other alone before,” he hummed. “My brother seems to think you’re amusing… though you don’t quite look the kind to jape.”
You waved away his words, getting straight to the point. “Do you know where Cersei Lannister was the morning Bran fell?”
The Imp’s brows raised. “I can’t say I do… I was sunken into my whore and my cups… and Cersei avoids me like the plague. I scarcely know where she is even when I’m sober. Why? Do you believe my wretched sister played a hand in his crippling?”
“Indeed, I do,” you shot back, a sharp edge to your words. “These are dangerous times, Lord Tyrion. Sleep well.”
With no more to say to him, you turned on your heel and marched back into the hall, with the Imp’s gaze burning holes into the back of your head.
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The small scroll the raven brought to Winterfell bore nothing but bad news. Catelyn had taken Tyrion as hostage in belief that he was the one responsible for Bran’s fall, as the dagger apparently belonged to him. She planned on bringing him up to the Vale to contest his crimes with her sister, Lysa. 
It is not Tyrion, you wanted to scream at your law-sister, even though she was thousands of miles away. It is Cersei Lannister. I am sure of it.
Not too long after the news of the Imp’s imprisonment reached you, another raven came flying into Winterfell. This time, its contents were far graver.
Jory was dead. Ned was seriously maimed on behalf of Catelyn—a spear pierced cleanly into his thigh—and he was tossed into a jail cell by order of Jaime Lannister.
Fury had consumed you whole when you read the little parchment, nearly ripping the paper apart from your tight grip. You had half a mind to ride to King’s Landing and demand your brother be freed at once, but you steeled yourself with reason. There was little you could do—the Red Keep was swarming with golden lions and hungry cats of the same ilk. It was no place for a wolf of winter.
When you had told Robb of the news, he was surprisingly calm about it, drawing away from you to mull it over silently. He did not want to jump headfirst into violence—but what choice did he have now?
“My mother shouldn’t have done that,” murmured Robb, voice lowered so nobody would be able to overhear. “The Lannisters will go to war with us for this.”
You hummed, pensive. “No, she shouldn’t have. It is not Lord Tyrion that pushed Bran—he may be a drunkard, but he is not a fool. He wouldn’t equip an assassin with his own personal dagger. Only an arrogant idiot would do such a thing.”
“Then who do you think did it?” asked your nephew, blue eyes cold.
“Cersei Lannister. Your mother and I found a long strand of blonde hair in the tower Bran fell from. Who other than Cersei has long blonde hair? I don’t know why she would do such a thing—but I’d bet an arm and a leg that it was her. She loves nobody but her own children… and she is none too fond of your father, or the King, or any of you. Perhaps Bran saw her with someone. Someone she wasn’t supposed to be with,” you said, tone slow as you spelled it out for him.
Brows raised, Robb reared back at the realization. His breath seemed to crystallize within his throat. “If word were to get out about Cersei’s couplings, the King would have her head on a spike. It would make sense for her to eliminate any… threats.”
“Yes, boy. We must keep this to ourselves for now—we could lose our tongues at the very least if we have no proof.”
The younger man blew out a sigh. The heavy burden laying over his shoulders seemed to only grow weightier by the minute. “Should we not tell Bran? About any of this?”
Both of you looked at the sweet summer child, hollering out excitedly as he rode about on Dancer, strapped into the new horse saddle Tyrion had designed. 
“He seems happy. Perhaps it is best we let him remain in such a state for a little while longer.”
It was then that Theon made his way to the two of you, having heard the news of Jory and Ned from a grave Maester Luwin. 
“Are you not going to make the Lannisters pay?” he asked Robb, grey eyes ablaze. 
Setting his jaw, Robb firmly shook his head. “I will not go to war.”
“It’s not war—” Theon firmly replied, “it’s justice.”
A scoff lodged itself in your throat. “Queer definition of justice, ey, Greyjoy? Is revenge the only way you settle fights back on the Iron Islands? ‘Tis a wonder the lot of you haven’t already murdered each other, then.” 
The ward bristled at your nonchalant comments, but decided to ignore you, addressing Robb once more. “Jaime Lannister put a spear through your father’s leg. The Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock, where no one can touch him—”
“It was not him,” you sharply corrected Theon, scowling. 
“What?”
“It was not Ser Jaime who speared Ned,” you repeated yourself, slightly quieter. 
Mirroring your frown, Theon shook his head with frustration. “What does it matter? He was there. He fought Lord Stark in front of a whorehouse!”
“What would you have me do?” demanded Robb, lifting his head in a challenging manner. “March on Casterly Rock and order the Kingslayer to come out of hiding? Then you are more a fool than I thought, Theon.”
Raising his voice ever so slightly, Theon retaliated, “You’re not a boy anymore! They attacked your father. The war has already begun, whether you like it or not. It’s your duty to represent House Stark when your father can’t.”
“And what do you know of duty?” you spat, glaring angrily at Theon. “It is not your house—I’m afraid you’re confusing captivity with duty.”
With an angry yell, Theon pushed himself up to his feet, towering over you, but you merely rolled your eyes to the side. The both of you knew that if Theon were to lay one hand on you, he would be hanging from a noose by the end of the day. Uncaring of the bridling man, you glanced around to look for Bran.
Where the devil was he?
“Where’s Bran?” asked Robb, wildly looking around for his younger brother.
Still upset, Theon hissed out, “Don’t know. Not my house.” With that, he stalked away, shoulders slumped.
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You and Robb hurriedly scoured the forest in search of little Bran. A nocked bow was gripped in your hands, and a dagger was safely tucked beneath your cloak in case you ever needed it.
Finally, the two of you heard whispers and mutters coming from behind a bush, and you raised your bow with narrowed eyes. It was Bran on his horse, appearing frightened—and around him were four Wildlings, their furs muddied and their faces covered with soot. One of them had a blade against Bran’s paralyzed leg.
“Drop the knife,” Robb commanded, voice booming. He unsheathed his sword, the cold metal gleaming with the sparse rays of sun through the dark grey clouds. “Let him go, and I’ll let you live.”
The wildlings glanced at each other, snickering. One of them dove forward with a yell, arcing an axe down upon Robb. Your nephew was quick to parry and duck away, his sword slicing cleanly along the flesh of his throat.
You let your arrow loose straight through the eye of the wildling closest to Bran, and he fell back with an ear-splitting scream. With nimble movements, you ran to the horse, beginning to unbuckle the straps to the saddle keeping him in place. To your right, another wildling came charging at you, her dull axe swinging down to your arm. You jerked away before it could make a clean chop, but the blade carved a large gash into your forearm nonetheless, blood splattering all over your tunic. Pain blossomed over your hand and you rolled away before she could hit you once more. Robb came forward, slanting his longsword against the wildling woman’s jugular.
The last straggler grabbed your injured arm, making you cry out at the sudden pressure, the tip of his own dirty knife pressing into your jaw. A crimson bead leaked out from your skin, rolling down your neck.
Robb’s eyes widened. From his horse, Bran worriedly yelled your name.
“Drop the sword!” the wildling yelled, glaring at Robb holding his friend. “Do it!”
With slow, cautious movements, Robb reluctantly lowered his sword, but didn’t relinquish his grip on the woman. 
All of a sudden, an arrow flew through the air, piercing straight through the wildling that was holding you with a sickening squelch. More blood splattered over your face and you grimaced, shoving him away with a gasp. You rounded your gaze behind to see Theon Greyjoy, his face grim yet smug.
Robb was quick to rush to Bran, asking if he was alright. His blue eyes glanced at you with concern, noting how your entire arm was drenched with your dark blood. 
“I’ll be fine,” you whispered to him, wincing as you put pressure upon your gash. “Maester Luwin will stitch me up.”
“Do I not get a thank you?” Theon asked you, nocking another arrow to point at the wildling woman’s forehead. “In the Iron Islands, you’re not a man until you’ve killed your first enemy. Well done, Robb.”
A scowl crossed your features, but Robb replied in your stead. “Have you gone mad?” he growled out. “What if you’d missed? You could’ve gotten her killed!”
Indignant, Theon gruffed, “That wildling would’ve killed the three of you anyway, had I not been there.”
“You don’t have the right—!”
“To what? To save Lady Stark? It was the only thing to do so I did it! Would you rather her be dead?” 
You raised a hand to placate the two, tone calm and soft. “Alright, alright. Thank you, Theon. Happy? Can we get on with actual important matters now?” Your eyes darted to the last wildling alive.
Whimpering, she cowered beneath the tip of Theon’s arrow. “Please, m’lord, gimme mah life and ah’m yours,” she simpered, crawling closer to Robb.
Ever the tender boy, Robb bowed his head. “Keep her alive.”
She blew out a sigh of relief, kneeling down to press her head into the cold, damp soil with gratitude. You turned away, marching back to the castle, leaving a trail of blood dripping from the deep gash in your wake.
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Benjen had disappeared. The small raven’s scroll was read over and over nearly ten times altogether… desperate for some sort of misreading or that the words would magically change. But they did nothing of the sort—your older brother had vanished into thin air beyond the Wall.
Before you could even begin to process your grief, another message came to Winterfell, written by Sansa.
Ned had been arrested.
“Treason?” Robb whispered after he read the message. “Sansa wrote this?��
“Sansa’s hand… but a Lannister’s words were stuffed down her throat. No mention of Arya either,” you growled out, pacing back and forth in front of your nephew, Maester Luwin, and Theon.
The old man clasped his hands in front of him, appearing grim. “You are summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new King.”
Brows furrowed, Robb spat, “Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his ass kissed?”
“This is a royal command, my Lord,” said Luwin. “If you should refuse to obey—”
“I won’t refuse. I’ll go to King’s Landing… but not alone. Call the banners,” Robb told the Maester, grave and solemn.
Lowering his voice, Luwin asked, “All of them, my Lord?”
“They’ve all sworn to defend my father, have they not? Now we see what their words are worth.” 
There was a glint of pride in Luwin’s eyes. He’d been the one to pull Robb out of his mother’s womb, and now he was practically a man grown. With a bow of his head, he turned to amble away, off to send the ravens to the bannermen.
Robb’s hands were shaking violently. It didn’t go beyond your notice when he clasped them over one another in an effort to stave his nerves away. 
“I’m going with you,” you told him firmly, surprising both Robb and Theon.
A protest formed on the tip of your nephew’s tongue. “No, you should stay here with B—”
“Ned is my brother. The only one left, if Benjen is truly gone. I need to go, Robb. I need to.” Your voice cracked with desperation and you reached out to tightly clutch at his shoulder, eyes cold with muted fury. “When the King summoned my father and my brother, Brandon, to King’s Landing… they never returned to Winterfell. And now Joffrey is calling for you… I can’t let you go alone. I’m coming with you—end of story.”
There was a lengthy beat of silence.
Eventually, Theon was the one that caved, barking out a laugh. “There’s no stopping her, Robb.”
“For once, Greyjoy seems to be finding sense,” you snidely remarked. 
A small sigh fell from Robb’s lips. “Alright. Perhaps this is the best thing to do—I don’t know if I could lead a war all on my own.”
“You’re not alone, my boy,” you told him, patting his cheek twice. “You’d have to pry my cold, dead body away from you if it meant I was to be leaving you.”
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A grand feast was held for the bannermen’s arrival at Winterfell. Everybody drank and ate and chattered joyfully, exchanging tall tales of war and battle. Everybody save for Robb, who was still ridden with anxiety, prodding around pieces of chicken with the prongs of his fork, having no appetite to eat. You sat beside him, taking small bites of a berry cake. 
From across the table, Lord Umber was barking out, “For thirty years I’ve been leaving corpses in my wake! I’m the one you want leading the vanguard!” 
His efforts to convince Robb were fruitless. “Galbart Glover will lead the van,” he repeated himself, quite exhausted of the matter already.
“The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!” the old man yelled. “I will lead the van… or I will take my men and march them home!”
You paused mid-bite, placing the half-eaten cake down on your plate as you glared at the northman. Icy were your words as you threatened, “Do so, Lord Umber, and you would be hanging from the gallows in under a fortnight. Your house would be branded with the name of an oathbreaker.”
The man’s dark eyes hardened and he stood up from the table, slamming his fists against the top. Plates of food and cutlery clattered with the sudden motion. “Oathbreaker, is it, Bitter Wolf?” You stood up as well, which prompted Robb to get up onto his feet, along with the rest of the table—save for Bran, who glanced worriedly between you and his brother. “I’ll not sit here and swallow insults from a woman who doesn’t even know the first thing about war!”
“How dare you speak to Lady Stark in such a way?” Robb bellowed, making the older man’s heated gaze fall on him.
“And you! How could I be taking orders from a boy so green he pisses grass?”
With that, he drew his blade, the sound of steel singing across the table. In a blink of an eye, Grey Wind leapt onto the table and knocked Greatjon onto his back with a great thud. The direwolf’s sharp teeth sank into the Umber’s hand, tearing off two fingers completely. Blood splattered all over the floor, accompanied by his agonized shrieking.
With a frustrated growl, he pushed himself back up onto his feet, clutching his maimed palm close to his chest.
“My Lord father taught me it was death to bare steel against your liege Lord,” said Robb. After a considerable pause, he continued, much softer. “But doubtless… you only meant to cut my meat for me, no?”
Oh, Robb. Sweet summer boy… too kind for his own good, you thought with a mild scowl. It will be the death of him.
It appeared as if the Umber wanted to curse Robb out some more. He glanced down at the direwolf, its muzzle covered in his blood. A bolt of fear jolted down his spine.
“Well,” he reluctantly said, clearing his throat, “your meat is bloody tough!”
The rest of the hall slowly fell into laughter, chortling at the dissipation of what could’ve been a bloodbath. Robb laughed amicably, finally sitting back down to actually start eating his food. You didn’t laugh, nor did you touch the rest of your cake.
By the time the feast had waned away, you escorted Bran and Hodor out of the hall, following behind the large, gentle giant into Bran’s chambers. 
You sat by his bed once Hodor laid him down. With nimble, fleeting touches, you tugged the blanket up to Bran’s chin and brushed his hair away from his face. You were not the nurturing, motherly kind… you were not Catelyn, nor were you what Sansa wanted to be. You didn’t know how to care for Bran in the way he needed to be—Rickon even less so. But they were your family, and you needed to try for them… now more than ever before. 
“Have any of your memories come back?” you asked, tone soft. When he shook his head, you blew out a sigh. “That’s alright. You just rest for now. How have you been sleeping?”
Bran bit into his lip, as if contemplating whether he should lie or not. 
“I dream a lot,” he said, deciding to tell you the truth. “Every night. The same one.”
Cocking your head, you silently beckoned for him to go on.
“I see a raven… with three eyes,” he whispered. “Every time I get closer, it flies away.”
“Your mind knows no bounds, even in sleep,” you said, a hint of fondness to your gaze.
There was a long pause before Bran hesitantly queried, “Can I ask you a question, Aunt?”
“Go on, boy.”
“Does it ever… bother you? When people call you the Bitter Wolf?”
You leaned away from your nephew, humming in thought. “It did. It still does. It’s a constant reminder of my past.”
“Well, why don’t you order them to stop? You’re of higher rank than any of them!” squeaked Bran.
“The creatures of winter will always whisper, dear boy,” you murmured. “Only once the frost has taken them and iced their bodies into hard stone—only then would they fall silent.”
The young boy looked as if he wanted to ask you more, but the door creaked open, pulling both of your attentions to Robb, making his way into Bran’s chambers.
“What is it? Has something happened?” asked Bran, his deep blue eyes widening at Robb’s solemn features.
“It’s alright, nothing’s happened,” he replied, quiet. He met your gaze, and you nodded once in understanding. It was time to go.
It was then that Bran noticed Robb had donned his traveling furs. “Where are you going?”
“South,” Robb said. “For father.”
“But it’s the middle of the night!” he protested.
“The dark gives us cover for a few hours,” you spoke, voice only barely louder than a whisper. “The Lannisters have spies everywhere, no doubt.”
Bran reared back to face you. “Us? You’re leaving, as well?”
“Yes, Bran,” you told him simply, grim-faced.
“Can’t I come with you?” pleaded Bran. “I can ride now, you’ve seen me! And I won’t get in the way, I’ll—”
Before he could finish, Robb was already shaking his head firmly. “There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Until I return, that will be you. You are not to leave the castle walls while we’re gone. Do you understand?”
Crestfallen, Bran reluctantly nodded. 
“Listen to Maester Luwin. Look after your little brother,” you gently told him. “Be brave for us, Bran. Winterfell needs you.”
“Okay,” he mumbled. 
“Until we return,” Robb added, stepping forward to ruffle Bran’s hair affectionately. “We’ll ride together once I come back.”
A ghost of a watery smile traced the corner of Bran’s lips. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
With that, you pushed yourself onto your feet and both you and Robb made your way outside. Snowflakes danced with the cold wind. 
“Do you really think this is smart? Going to war with the Lannisters?” asked Robb. You glanced at your oldest nephew, lips pursed. He was so young… and already carried himself as if he were two decades older than he actually was. 
“No,” you quietly admitted. “War is never smart. But we don’t have a choice, do we?”
Robb hummed. “No. I suppose we don’t.”
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A fortnight breezed by in the blink of an eye.
The war was steadily waging on—with Jaime Lannister at the crux of the oppositional side. To think that you had once thought him a decent man… it made your stomach roil just thinking about it. With Tywin Lannister’s armies approaching as well, Robb seemed to be vastly outnumbered in battles.
Your good-sister, Lady Catelyn, joined you in the Neck, the marshy region of House Reed. She had embraced you tightly, before pulling away to query about her two youngest sons with tearful eyes. You assured her that they were safe in Winterfell, pointedly avoiding the encounter with the Wildlings, not wanting to worry her any further.
Many strategy meetings were held on whether to move ahead on Jaime Lannister’s army, or Tywin’s. You butted heads with Greatjon Umber far too often, as you bore no liking for him and he would rather think with his fists than his head. Either way, the group would have to cross the Twins, which meant you had to garner the support of the Freys. The Lord of the Freys, Walder, was no man easily swayed. He had a penchant for gold and young girls, often of his own kin, and thought very little of his sworn oaths.
It was all one big headache. 
You spent many sleepless nights practicing your archery, which was hard to do with your injured hand. It was steadily healing, but still throbbed when overworked. On days the pain would grow too overbearing, you would write letters for the ravens to take. To Maester Luwin, enquiring about the boys. To the Wall, wondering how Jon was doing after taking the black… and if Benjen had returned. You dared not write to Sansa or Arya, knowing full and well it would only be intercepted by the cunt of a Queen, Cersei Lannister.
By the next three days, Robb had reluctantly agreed to have his mother go into the Freys’ castle in hopes of bartering an agreement with the prickly old man, since she’d known him when she was a young girl. 
When she came back, her face was solemn.
“Well?” Robb asked. “What did he say?”
“Lord Walder has granted your crossing,” she replied. “His men are yours, as well—less the four hundred he will keep here to hold the Crossing against any who would pursue you.”
The damn Lannisters, you thought grimly.
There was a steely glint to Robb’s eyes. “What does he want in return?” 
“You will be taking on his son, Olyvar, as your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in good time.”
Nodding, Robb stroked the shadow of a stubble growing along his jaw. “Fine, fine. And?”
Catelyn blew out a shallow sigh. “And Arya… will marry his son, Waldron, when they both come of age.”
You gritted your teeth. “She’ll be none too happy about that.”
When Catelyn nodded at your words, she pursed her lips, as if she had more to say.
“There’s more?” said Robb. 
“And… When the fighting is done, you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer—he has a number he thinks will be suitable.” Reluctance weighed heavily in Catelyn’s tone.
If Robb was upset at the news, he did well to hide it. 
“I see,” he said. “Did you get to see them? His daughters?”
“I did. One was… nearer to your age,” she replied, slow and cautious. “Do you consent?”
The poor boy, you thought. Having to give up his choice in exchange for duty. 
“Can I refuse?” he asked. For a moment, he looked as if he were his age again, eyes wide and fists clenched.
“Not if you want to cross,” replied his mother.
There was a long beat of silence. In the distance, his direwolf barked at a stray mutt passing by. 
“Then I consent,” Robb said. With that, he quickly stepped out and away from the tent, in need of some time to digest his new betrothal.
As you watched him go, you heard Theon come up to stand beside you.
“A small price to pay,” he crooned, a slight smirk to his lips. “A marriage to win the war.”
“You only say that because you’re not the one paying,” you lightly responded, though there was a sharp edge to your tone, as if warning him not to toe your boundaries. “Robb carries a heavy burden. Do well not to add yourself to that, Theon.”
With a nod, you excused yourself, heading back to your tent, itching to write to Jon of the news.
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Two thousand men sacrificed to distract Tywin Lannister… whilst the other eighteen thousand took over Jaime’s armies.
And now Robb had the Kingslayer in his grasp. 
He was bound and kneeling before you and Cat, blonde hair caked with dried blood and face filthy with dirt and soot.
“By the time they knew what was happening, it had already happened,” said Robb, staring down at the Lannister with pure hatred roiling within the blue of his eyes. 
“You did well, Robb,” you said, keeping your narrowed gaze trained on Jaime. 
The knight looked to you, a lazy smirk curled at the corner of his bleeding lips. “Bitter Wolf. It is a pleasure to see you again. Terrible circumstances, but a pleasure indeed.”
You frowned. All you could see when you looked at him was his sister, who you suspected played a hand in Bran’s fall. His nephew, the cruel boy that had your brother imprisoned. He was a Lannister first and foremost… no amount of lives he took or saved would ever change that.
“I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Ser Jaime,” you replied in a stiff tone.
Jaime merely hummed, before turning his head to face your good-sister. “Lady Stark. I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have lost it.”
With stinging words, Catelyn sharply said, “It is not your sword I want. Give me my daughters back. Give me my husband!”
Jaime swallowed, his throat itchy and dry. “I’ve lost them as well, I’m afraid.”
“Kill him, Robb!” said Theon, eyes wild. “Send his head to his father! He cut down ten of our men—you saw him!”
Brows furrowing, you shook your head firmly. “What use would that be, you foolish boy? Killing him would bring us nothing but Tywin Lannister’s wrath. We keep him alive for leverage.”
“Is that all I am to you, Bitter Wolf? A bargaining chip? You wound me,” Jaime sardonically gruffed, though there was a twinge of gratitude to his voice.
“You are nothing to me, Kingslayer,” you spat, effectively wiping away the smug look on Jaime’s face. 
Robb bowed his head at your words. “Aunt Y/N is right. He is more useful to us alive than dead.”
Catelyn nodded in agreement. “Take him away and put him in chains.”
Just as two of the guards were ready to haul him away, Jaime barked out, “We could end this war right now, boy. Save thousands of lives. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters. Just you and me—swords, lances, teeth, nails… you take your pick. Let’s end this here and now.” 
Save thousands of lives, he had said. A tempting offer. But would that be worth the life of your nephew?
Robb squared his jaw. “If we do it your way, Kingslayer, you’d win. We’re not doing it your way.”
The guards laughed as they began tugging Jaime along, off to shackle him down. “Come on, pretty man,” one of them cackled, kicking at Jaime’s feet.
Turmoil danced clear as day over Robb’s features. “I sent two thousand men to their graves today.”
“The bards will sing songs of their sacrifice,” said Theon. 
Robb momentarily shut his eyes. It was all so incredibly loud. “Aye. But the dead won’t hear them.” With that, he stepped forward to address the rest of the army. “One victory does not make us conquerors! Did we free my father? Did we rescue my sisters from the Queen? Did we free the North from those who want us on our knees? This war is far from over.”
Stone-faced, Robb turned on his heel and marched off. 
You blew out a long, tired sigh. From the trees above you, you noticed a rotund pigeon staring straight at you from a high branch. It chirped lightly, before flying off, making its way North. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, before stalking away, retreating back to your tent.
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The sun had not yet risen when a ground-shaking scream tore through the camp. Guttural, visceral, rageful… 
Broken.
You had fallen to your hands and knees upon reading the raven’s message, wailing your sorrows to the ground. 
Ned Stark was dead. You were the only one of your siblings left. 
Dead. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. Killed by Joffrey’s command. Bitter wolf. Bitter, bitter, bitter wolf. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. 
Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and your eyes stung as if hot pokers were pressing against them. Thunder rumbled within your chest and you curled your hands into fists. Someone tugged you up and held you close. Your cheek was smushed into their neck and you cried even harder, sobbing hysterically.
Gods, give him back to me, you pleaded silently. Give him back. He was the only brother I had left. Give him back, give him back, give him back—
“Shh, shh, I know, I know,” Catelyn’s hoarse voice whispered into your hair. It took you a moment to realize that it was her cradling you.
Immeasurable guilt filled your lungs. She was the one who lost her husband. She had lost just the same as you, if not more so… and yet she was the one holding you, comforting you, mothering you. 
“I’m sorry,” you wailed against her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Cat, I’m sorry, I—” You dissolved into another fit of heart-wrenching cries, fruitlessly trying to pull away and wipe your tears. 
“It’s not you that should be sorry,” she patiently told you, cupping your damp cheek to gently stroke the hair away from your face. The blue of her eyes warbled with her own unshed tears. “Let it out, good-sister. Let it out.”
And so you did. For hours, you did nothing but cry until your voice mellowed into buzzing silence and your eyes could bear it no longer.
By the time the sun was beginning to sink down the horizon, you finally left your tent. 
Robb. You had to speak to him.
Your nephew was in the thick of the woods, far enough from the camp where nobody could hear him cry. Dried tear tracks on his cheeks reflected the waning light of the disappearing sun as he swung his sword against the tree over and over and over again.
He stopped when he heard you coming, hands slackening around the hilt.
When he turned to take you in, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that you were just as much a mess as he was.
“Robb,” you whispered.
“Aunt,” he whispered back.
“You poor boy,” you croaked, vision blurring over once more. In no less than three long strides, you made your way to him, tugging him into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Robb. I’m sorry.”
The young man only loosely reciprocated your hug at first, choking back his own tears. He had so much he wanted to say… but his thoughts came too quickly and too many at once, all lodged into the back of his throat. And so he fell quiet, soaking in your rarely-offered comfort. He had already cried out his promises of revenge with his mother, cursed his enemies with Theon, angrily strategized with his grieving bannermen.
All he needed now was some quiet support—a steady shoulder to lean on. And if that was all you had to offer him, he would gladly take it.
“You were right,” you whispered into his ear, expression hardening. “The war is far from over. Winter is coming, Robb. And lions do poorly in the frost.”
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The hall was dimly lit with blazing torches hanging on the walls, casting ominous shadows across the room. You were seated beside Robb, with Catelyn on his other side. The bitter, the young, and the stone-heart.
“The proper course is clear! We join our forces with his!” yelled one of the bannermen.
He was speaking of Renly Baratheon, the late King Robert’s youngest brother. 
Frowning, Robb firmly replied, “Renly is not the King.”
“You cannot mean to pledge allegiance to Joffrey, my Lord!” the older man responded, affronted by the notion. “He put your father to death!”
Evenly, Robb said, “That doesn’t make Renly King. He’s Robert’s youngest brother—if Bran can’t be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can’t be King before Stannis.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, Lords leaning their heads together to whisper and heckle. 
“You mean to declare us for Stannis?” asked one of the Lords.
“Renly is not right, either!” exclaimed another.
“If we put ourselves behind Stannis, he would surely send us all to our deaths!” yelled a voice from the back.
Pounding his now-empty chalice down onto the table, Greatjon Umber stood up to address the riled-up mass. “My Lords—here is what I say to the two Kings!” He bent at the knees and spat a mouthful of wine onto the ground. “Renly Baratheon is nothing to me! Nor Stannis, either! Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery fuckin’ seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are wrong! Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to… and now the dragons are dead.” 
The sharp sound of steel rang loud and true as Lord Umber unsheathed his sword to point at Robb.
“There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to. They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair, as well. The King in the North!” he proclaimed. “My sword is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day, until my last day!”
A beat of silence.
One after the other, the rest of the Lords pulled their swords out of their respective scabbards to pledge fealty to Robb, and bend the knee.
Robb stood up, casting his gaze over the kneeling crowd.
“The King in the North!” they all cheered. “The King in the North! The King in the North!”
You glanced at Catelyn, noticing the conflict warring across her weathered features. Briefly, Robb caught your eye, and you bowed your head in an encouraging manner.
“The King in the North!” you yelled along with the rest of the Lords. 
No longer would a lion be able to hold their paw over a wolf’s throat. 
Robb was King now.
The King in the North.
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It was colder tonight than it had been for the past decade. Your sigh misted into an opaque fog once you stepped out of your tent, small pinpricks of frost kissing your skin. Most of the knights and lords had retired to their own cotts, deep in slumber. Some of them were on the outskirts of camp, patrolling the perimeter in case Tywin was to come surging forth with his army to retrieve his prized son. 
And that was just who you were leaving to see. You needed to ask him the same thing you had asked Tyrion—if Jaime knew where his sister was when Bran fell.
The guards raised their eyebrows at you, as if asking what you were doing here at such a late hour, but you simply stared at them until they uncomfortably shifted to the side to allow you to pass by.
It was certainly quite a sight—seeing Jaime Lannister shackled. He was cold, you could see, the tip of his sharp nose was crimson and his fingers were quivering ever so slightly.
You had made no noise whilst stepping in front of him, silent as a wraith. Jaime only noticed you were there because of your shadow looming over him in a near menacing fashion.
“Lady Stark,” he greeted, strangely pleasant despite being bound, freezing, and starving. “You look lovely tonight. Had I known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned myself up a bit.”
“Ser Jaime,” you replied in a curt, level tone. 
The man before you tilted his head curiously. “To what do I owe such a pleasure? Is your bed lonely? Is that why you came? I’m not at my best, as you can see… but I think I could be of service for you. Slip out of those furs—let’s see if I’m up for it.”
His words were crude and unbecoming, but held no weight to them. Your expression remained unchanging.
“Celibacy is a part of the Kingsguard’s oaths,” you lightly said.
Jaime barked out a rogue laugh, leaning his head back against the stone wall. “Surely you know what everybody calls me. Oathbreaker.”
“For killing the King,” came your whisper. For a moment, Jaime could swear he caught a glimpse of gratitude within your stormy eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it came. “I can’t say I fault you for doing it. Aerys wasn’t fit to be King.”
The knight hummed, a ghost of a grin to the corner of his lips. “See… your brother seemed to disagree. He thought it wasn’t honorable. And look where his own honor got him—beheaded in front of his daughter, and placed on a spike by the walls of the Keep. Terrible shame, what happened to him. I wanted to have a clean duel with him before he kicked the can.”
Your fists clenched by your sides at the callous way Jaime spoke of Ned. 
The green of his irises gleamed when he looked up at you. “How does it feel? To watch your family die off slowly, one by one?”
“Your tongue likes to run, doesn’t it?” you murmured with a scowl. “You’ll understand what it’s like soon. The war is sure to leave a trail of lion’s blood in its wake.”
Jaime sucked in a humored breath. “Bitter Wolf, indeed. Tell me, how long have you had that long stick shoved up your arse?”
There was a long moment of tense silence. Your hand was hidden within your cloak, resting upon the hilt of a dagger. When you began to speak again, you ripped your eyes away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, training your stare upon an uninteresting stone on the ground.
“When I heard Aerys burned my father alive, I wept until I nearly blinded myself with my own tears. My father was a good, honorable man. My brother, too. I loved them dearly. The Mad King took them away from me and I hated him for it. I hated you, as well… the youngest of his Kingsguard just stood by and did nothing. But then, not too long after, I heard that you were the one who slit his throat. I still hated you���but I couldn't be more grateful. You were right to kill him.” 
Another beat of silence, this time longer. The atmosphere between the two of you seemed to shift. Jaime looked nearly stunned at your admission. “Do you still hate me?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft. It was as if he was eighteen all over again, having to ‘go away inside’ when he didn’t want to deal with what was going on anymore. Your gaze left the stone on the ground to meet his. “No, Ser Jaime. To hate is to care. I do not care—not for you, at least.”
Strange, Jaime thought. His chest seemed to ache uncomfortably at your cold words. 
Before he could say anything, your good-sister strode up by your side, her features stony and grim. For a moment, she met your gaze. If she was wondering what you were doing here, speaking to the Kingslayer, she didn’t ask. 
“Lady Catelyn!” said Jaime, grateful for the distraction from the uncomfort within his ribs. “Join the party—we were just exchanging war stories. Except… neither of you have been to war before, I’m afraid. Oh, well—I suppose I can just entertain you with—”
Before you could react, Cat bent down to grab the exact same rock you had been staring at, jerking forward to strike Jaime across the face with its sharp end. Pain rattled throughout his face, blood streaking down where she had struck him. He grunted at the impact, working his jaw gingerly once Catelyn pulled back.
“I would kill you tonight, Ser… pack your head in a box and send it to your sister!” growled Cat.
“Then do it,” Jaime replied, infuriatingly glib for someone who nearly had his skull bashed in. “Hit me again, over the ear. Again, and again, and again. You’re stronger than you look—it shouldn’t take too long.”
Frowning, Cat asked, “That is what you want the world to believe, isn’t it? That you don’t fear death.”
“But I don’t, my Lady,” said Jaime. “The dark is coming for all of us. Why cry about it?”
Lips curling with contempt, Catelyn spat out, “Because you are going to the deepest of the Seven Hells if the Gods are just!”
“What Gods? The trees the Bitter Wolf here prays to? Where were the trees when your husband’s head was getting chopped off?” he murmured. Fury coiled within your stomach, as black as tar. “If your Gods are real, and if they are just… why is the world so full of injustice?”
Cat’s fingers curled tighter around the rock. “Because of men like you.”
There it was again—his hoarse bark of laughter. “There are no men like me. Only me.”
More silence stretched thin between the three of you. You thought about your original purpose for coming here, pursing your lips. 
“Do you know where your sister was the morning Bran fell?” you asked him, voice hardened with steel. 
His eyes met yours—bright green to a frigid storm. 
“No,” he curtly responded, nose twitching as he sniffed lightly. A tell. 
A lie. 
“How did he come to fall from the tower?” Catelyn’s question was quiet, as if she were afraid of the answer.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaime said, “I pushed him out of the window.”
Shocked, you flinched back at his blunt confession, eyes widening. It was him. Him that put Bran in his coma, him that crippled your nephew. Was it him that sent the assassin, as well?
But… you’d found long blonde hair at the tower, undoubtedly Cersei’s. You had thought that Cersei was coupling with some nameless squire or stableboy, not her own brother. By the old Gods, that could only mean—
“Why?” whispered Catelyn, appearing like her heart had been trampled on and torn to shreds.
“I hoped the fall would kill him,” Jaime simply said.
“Why?” she pressed.
You were stunned and at a loss for words, lips parted and chest heaving. 
Jaime leaned his head back against the stone wall, inhaling sharply. “You should get some sleep, Lady Catelyn. It’s going to be a long war.”
The red-headed woman glared at him with the might of a thousand suns. She relinquished her hold on the rock, which had cut into her own palm, and stormed away.
Jaime and Cersei coupling… and her children were golden-haired with no trace of Robert Baratheon within any of their Lannister-esque features… 
The realization slammed against you like a tidal wave—Gods, the boy on the Iron Throne was a bastard. 
You would’ve laughed at the thought if not for the dire situation at hand.
It was no wonder Ned was imprisoned and later executed. He knew, just as you now. Only, he was foolish enough to get his honor in the way of his head. You had to be smart about this. A running tongue was a dangerous one—and you weren’t too keen on losing yours.
Jaime regarded you with a guarded look. He wasn’t aware that you knew of his vile doings with his sister. “Let me ask you again. Do you still hate me now?” 
Perhaps his father was right. Maybe he did care what others thought of him. 
Disgust ran thick through your veins at the sight of him. The man you had once begrudgingly respected, now a boy-killer. A sister-fucker.
With quick motions, you stepped forward, curling your hand around the front of his tunic, yanking him closer just as you drove your fist into the side of his face. Over and over again you struck him, rage shadowing over your wild expression, until your knuckles split and bled and ached with each punch. Jaime put up no fight. He groaned once you finally pulled away, shoving him back against the stone wall. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his lips.
Cold steel kissed his throat when you unsheathed your dagger, slanting it just below his Adam's apple. “One cut, Kingslayer. That’s all it’d take.”
“Do it,” he challenged, baring his teeth. “Do it.” 
If only you could. You still needed him… Cersei had Sansa in her wicked clutch.
“Never before have I changed my mind about a man so quickly. To hate is to care, Ser Jaime,” you bit out, words dripping with venom. “And I hate you, more than I’d ever care to.”
With that, you slipped your dagger back into its scabbard and turned on your heel to stride away, fury splayed clear as day over your features. You were going to tell Robb of your newfound knowledge as soon as morning broke.
Jaime watched you go with a soft exhale.
He found no sleep that night, but went away inside nonetheless.
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Battle after battle, Robb found himself victorious. 
Camp after camp, Jaime found himself stinking of his own piss and shit. 
When you had told Robb of Joffrey’s true parentage, he huffed out a hesitant laugh, unsure if you were jesting or not. Then again, you were never one to jest.
And now he stood before his captive with you by his side, gazing down at the Lannister were pure contempt. This was the first time you’d seen the Kingslayer since he told you he pushed Bran out the window. And time had done nothing to mellow your anger.
“I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safe-keeping,” surmised Jaime, tongue darting out to lick at his dry lips. “But you drag me along from camp to camp… have you taken a liking to me, Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.”
Unfazed by his insults, Robb said, “If I left you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within the fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with the message: Release my son. You’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem.”
Jaime shook his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you to battle?”
“I trust them with my life. Just not with yours,” Robb quietly replied. 
“Smart boy,” snorted Jaime. At the crinkle in Robb’s expression, Jaime piped up with a mocking frown, “Oh, what’s wrong? Don’t like being called a boy? Insulted?”
From behind you, Grey Wind stalked up to his master, a growl rumbling low within his chest. For the first time, you could see genuine fear dance across Jaime’s green irises.
“You insult yourself, Kingslayer,” said Robb. “You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy. Perhaps you’ll be killed by a boy.”
Grey Wind lithely moved closer and closer to Jaime, snarling and pawing at the dirt. 
“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros,” you said, jaw squared. “Ravens detailing that the boy King, Joffrey Baratheon, is neither a true king, nor is he a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”
Jaime scratched at the shackles over his wrists, growing restless. “If that’s true, then Stannis would be the rightful King. How convenient for him!”
“My father learned the truth,” Robb hissed out. “That’s why you had him executed.”
Frowning, Jaime pointed out, “I was your prisoner when your father lost his head.”
“Your son killed him so that the world wouldn’t know who fathered him. And you… you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen,” accused your nephew.
Swallowing, Jaime coughed out, “Where’s your proof? Or are we just trading gossip like a couple of fish wives?”
“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.”
Jaime scoffed at that. “You think my father’s going to negotiate with the likes of you? You don’t know him very well.”
Bowing his head, Robb hummed in acknowledgement. “No, I don’t. But he’s starting to know me.”
“Three victories don’t make you a conqueror,” said Jaime.
“Better than three defeats,” your nephew countered. With that, Robb rotated on his heel and marched away, trailing his fingers along Grey Wind’s pelt.
The direwolf snapped his jaw only a hair’s breadth away from Jaime’s face. His eyelids squeezed shut, bracing himself for the agonizing pain. When none came, he cracked one eye open. The wolf was gone, leaving only you standing before him.
“When you were in King’s Landing, did you see my niece?” you asked.
“Sansa?” he replied. “Yes… in court here and there with her betrothed.”
Her betrothed. The bastard boy. Jaime’s son.
“No, not Sansa,” you snippily replied. You worried for Sansa, yes, but at the very least you knew she was alive in the Keep. There hadn’t been a single word about your younger niece in any of the ravens you’d received. “Arya.”
The Kingslayer pursed his lips. “Which one was she again?” Whether he was genuinely miffed as to who Arya was, or he was just pushing your boundaries to purposely annoy you, you couldn’t tell.
“I have no taste for your games,” you gruffed, your patience wearing thin. “I’ll see to the guards forgoing your meals for the next two days. Good night, Ser Jaime.”
Not waiting to see his reaction, you promptly turned and followed after Robb.
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Theon had left for the Iron Islands in hope of garnering his father’s support, along with his large fleet of ships. Catelyn, on the other hand, was off to try and obtain Renly Baratheon’s allegiance.
You and Robb planned the next battles together. The cut on your arm from the wildling, Osha, was now fully healed, leaving only a dark mark in its wake. Whilst Robb and the Northern bannermen fought, you would watch from a distance, taking down Lannister-allied soldiers with your bow and arrow.
And once the battle was done, you made your way onto the field, side-stepping half-dead men and corpses alike, plenty with your arrows sticking out of their chests. Most of the casualties were part of the Lannister’s troup, and so you bore no sympathy for their pain.
You met up with Robb just as he was parting with a pretty girl—a medic, by the looks of it. She was leaving on a cart, hands bloodied and dark hair drenched with sweat. 
When you glanced at Robb, you could see the unmistakable glint of youthful curiosity and lust behind his blue eyes. With a sharp cuff to the back of his head, you growled out, “You are betrothed, boy. Do well to remember it.”
Robb scowled at you. “What are you on about? I was only talking to her.”
“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “And my name is the Smiling Wolf.” 
“I’m a King now, Aunt. You shouldn’t be disrespecting me in such a way,” warned Robb, though his words lacked any true bite. 
With a huff, you patted his cheek softly. “You’ve been King for only a few moons by now. But you’ve been my nephew for your entire life. One takes precedence over the other, I’m afraid.”
Robb smiled at that, but it disappeared as he glanced around at all the dead bodies littering the hills, decorated with your arrow shafts. “You took down nearly four dozen of these men…” he said, brows raised. “And all from far away, as well. Color me impressed and a little intimidated.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you replied, walking along with him back to the tents to clean up. “I do what I can to help.”
“I’m grateful you’re here with me. With Theon and mother gone… it made me think about how you’ve always shouldered the burden of ruling with me, without complaint. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Aunt.”
Not one to be very good with sentimentalities, you tugged him into a brief embrace and let him go the next second, gently shoving him off into the tent.
“Alright, alright, boy,” you said, tone rife with affection. “Go take a bath—you stink of war.”
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A week later, Catelyn returned to the camps. Accompanying her was a blonde soldier, a woman taller than any man amongst Robb’s army. 
“It’s good to see you, Cat,” you told her. “No battles have been lost just yet.”
The woman smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “King Renly… he’s—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Roose Bolton came running up to the two of you.
“Apologies, my Ladies,” he panted out, holding up a small raven’s scroll. “News from Winterfell.”
Initially, you were quite excited, because it’d been a while since you heard from Bran, Rickon, and Maester Luwin.
When you filed into the tent to listen to Robb read it aloud, however, your heart plummeted to your stomach upon hearing the news. Theon had taken Winterfell, holding Bran and Rickon hostage.
“I TOLD YOU, NEVER TRUST A GREYJOY!” yelled Catelyn to her son, face scarlet with fury and twisted with anguish. 
Teeth gritted, Robb announced, “I must go North at once.”
“There’s still a war to win, Your Grace,” Roose Bolton protested.
“How can I win a war, call myself King if I can’t even hold my own castle?” spat Robb. “How can I ask my men to follow me if I can’t—?”
With firm hands, you placed them on your nephew’s shoulders. “Robb. Stop—think about this. You have thousands of men at your disposal. You needn’t do this yourself. If you loosen your grip on the Lannisters now, they’ll go scurrying back home and rally more of their allies.”
The young man appeared conflicted. In his haze of rage, he hadn’t thought about the lives of all the rest in the war, only focused on his little brothers.
“Let me go talk to Theon,” Catelyn offered, worried to death for her two youngest boys.
“There will be no talk. He will die for this,” snarled Robb.
Stepping forward, Roose offered, “Let me send word to my bastard at the Dreadfort. He can raise a few hundred men and retake Winterfell before the new moon. My boy would be honored to bring you Prince Theon’s head.”
Bowing his head, Robb blew out a sigh. He glanced at you for a moment, before returning his gaze to Roose. “Tell your son Bran and Rickon’s safety is paramount. And Theon—I want him brought to me alive. I want to look him in the eye and ask why… and then I’ll take his head myself.”
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It was the dead of night when Jaime Lannister escaped. 
In the process, he’d become a kinslayer, as well. Just another name to add to the extensive list.
The golden lion. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. Now a kinslayer. 
He had bashed his cousin’s brains in with a stone, alerting the young guard on duty. Jaime then strangled the boy, a Karstark, and fled the camp. 
The taste of freedom had never been so sweet.
And, inevitably, the taste of defeat had never been so sour.
By the break of day, he was recaptured. You had emerged from your tent at the loud commotion, fingers wrapped around the wood of your longbow. Men were jeering, yelling, and throwing rotten food and small stones. They were pushing and shoving, some unsheathing their blades with manic, greedy expressions. In the middle of the crowd was Jaime, rebound and so bloody you could barely see a clean patch of exposed skin. Strangely, he was smiling and laughing, seeming to enjoy how riled up the Northmen were. 
“Die, Kingslayer!” they yelled.
“You’ll pay for your crimes!” they shouted.
“Gut him! Put his head on a spike!” they screamed.
You forcefully wove your way through the crowd, brows knitted and your bow and arrow knocked at the ready. The men had parted instantaneously upon seeing you, all of them expecting you to order Jaime’s execution on behalf of Robb, who had temporarily left to accept the Crag’s surrender. To their enraged shock, you stood between them and Jaime, the tip of your arrow pointed not at the Kingslayer himself, but at the men calling for his head.
“Back the fuck away from him,” you barked out, voice loud and commanding. “Have you all gone mad?”
“Get out of the way, Bitter Wolf!” Lord Karstark yelled, hell-bent on getting his revenge for his murdered son. “I deserve justice!”
“Or what, Lord Karstark?” you shouted back with an equivalent ferocity, teeth bared in a near snarl. “You’ll cut through me to get to him? Need I remind you that if you were to lay a hand on me, you’d be laying a hand on the King’s blood.” 
Reluctant, a few of the lords lowered their weapons, stepping back slightly. Some held guilty expressions, looking like children being scolded by their mother. Most stayed their ground, angry that you were stopping them. 
Your countenance hardened. “If Jaime Lannister is dead, we lose any leverage we have over Tywin’s army—over Cersei, who has hold of my nieces! What good do you think would come of this? We put his pretty head on a spike, hoo-fucking-ray! Has it not occurred to you that we keep prisoners for a reason? That they’re not toys to toss about as we see fit?”
“You’re right, Bitter Wolf,” growled Karstark. “He’s not a toy. This monster killed my son. He deserves worse than a slap on a wrist and a few measly chains. He deserves death. Slow and painful, just as he did to my boy!”
It was then that Catelyn came rushing through the crowd, her pale features gaunt and eyes widened with fear.
“I understand your pain, Lord Karstark,” she assured, exhaust lacing heavy with each of her words. “He crippled my boy. He will answer for his crimes, in due time, I promise. Just not here.”
“If you try and stop me—!”
“I am the mother of your King!” Catelyn yelled.
Rearing back with frustration, Karstark bit out, “And where is our King now? Gone to the Crag, sure, but not to negotiate. He brought that foreign bitch with him!”
Your brows raised in surprise. The medic girl. 
Steel sang out as Brienne unsheathed her sword. “Threatening my Lady is an act of treason!”
“Treason?” barked the Karstark. “How can it be an act of treason to kill Lannisters?”
“In the name of my nephew, the King in the North,” you lowly spoke, bringing his attention back to you. The tip of your arrow was pointed right at his chest. “Stand down.”
With a squared jaw, Lord Karstark bowed his head. “When the young wolf returns, I will demand for the murderer’s head.”
“Wise men do not make demands of Kings!” protested Cat.
“Fathers who love their sons do.” With that, Karstark turned to stomp away, back into his tent.
The crowd slowly began to disperse. Only then did you put down your weapon, relaxing the drawstring. 
“Thank you for fighting for me, Bitter Wolf,” snarked Jaime, an infuriating smile plastered over his filthy face. “I’m surprised you would have put down one of your own men just for me. Growing rather fond of me, eh? Tell me, you haven’t lost your maidenhood yet, have you? It would be an honor to be your f—”
Gnashing your teeth, you swiftly knelt down in front of the Kingslayer, grabbing his grimy cheeks with one hand, squeezing uncomfortably tight, nails digging into his skin.
“I said we’d have you alive, Kingslayer… not whole. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t carve your eyes out with a hot spoon,” you hissed, eyes cold as winter.
To your fury, Jaime merely laughed, a roguish grin dancing across his bloody lips.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take them. Take every part of me, until nothing is left. Let’s see what my father would think about having another crippled son.”
You released your hold on him, shoving his face back. 
“Gag him tight,” you told one of the guards. “Mix in shit with his food. Piss in his water. Make noise every time he falls asleep. It might very well be his last night amongst us—see that it’s spent in agony.”
With that, you stepped back, nodding at Catelyn, before retiring into your tent.
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The later the night grew, the more drunk the men became, and the angrier they got. 
“He won’t last the night,” commented Brienne, her hand resting comfortably and cautiously over the hilt of her sword. “Won’t be long until the Karstarks draw their swords. And when they do… who wants to die defending a Lannister?”
With pursed lips, Catelyn bowed her head. “If he dies, my girls die with him.”
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. 
“We need to release him,” your good-sister whispered. Her words made your eyes snap to her, lips parting. “We need to exchange him for Sansa and Arya.”
“Cat…” you began, about to protest, but the words lodged in your throat. She was right. The men were going to kill him if he wasn’t released—and Jaime Lannister was of no use to you dead.
A glassy film of tears layered over Catelyn’s blue irises. “I need my girls back, Y/N. I need them back, I need—” She covered her quivering mouth with a shaky hand. “If we give Jaime back to Cersei, we’ll make him swear to return the girls to us.”
You shook your head, frowning. “Jaime is a man with no honor—an oathbreaker. We cannot rely on his word. I’ll take him to King’s Landing to barter with Cersei. Threaten to put an arrow in Jaime’s head if Sansa and Arya aren’t handed over to me. I do not trust anyone else with the job but myself.”
A shiver danced down Catelyn’s spine and she tugged her furs closer to her. “You’ll need protection. At least bring Brienne with you. I trust her with my life. She can escort both you and the Kingslayer to the capital.”
Wistful, you blew out a long breath. “Robb won’t be happy about this, Cat. He’ll hate you for letting Jaime go. He’ll hate me for abandoning him. He’ll send a hundred men after us. We won’t be able to outrun them.”
“Not on foot, no,” said Brienne, stepping forward. “We take a boat down the river. We’ll put more distance between us and them that way—but only if we leave now.” 
Conflict warred within you. Was this really the smartest decision? Letting go of the Kingslayer?
And if you were to leave now… you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Robb. The dark thought of never seeing your nephew again crossed your mind, but you shoved it away. You’d see him again. He was a strong lad. 
“Alright… but Tywin will then have reason to march his army and slay Robb’s if they no longer hold his son,” you said, tentative.
Catelyn clutched your hands within her colder, quivering ones. “We are so close to winning this war already. This is a risk we must take for Sansa. For Arya. Please, Y/N. Please.”
With a determined nod of your head, you whispered, “I won’t let you down.”
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The Kingslayer smiled lazily when he saw you approaching, Catelyn and Brienne in tow. To his muted interest, the red-headed woman ordered the guards to leave with a sharp tongue and a hardened glint to her eyes.
“Come to say goodbye?” he crooned. “I believe it’s my last night in this world. I could think of no one better to spend it with. You sure are the life of the party.” His tone dripped with sardonic mockery, to which you supplied no reaction. If Jaime wanted to provoke you, he would find himself sorely disappointed.
You had a mission tonight—and there was no time for jesting.
“They want your head, Ser Jaime. Do not make me hand you over to them,” you quietly said, just loud enough for him to hear. It was an empty threat, one that you couldn’t follow through, but Jaime didn’t know that. You were completely serious, for all he knew.
With a huff, Jaime said, “No, no, Bitter Wolf. You like me too much to give me away. Lord Karstark, however… he doesn’t seem very fond of me, does he?”
Scowling, Catelyn hissed out, “You strangled his son with your chains!”
“Oh,” Jaime simply said. There was no remorse in his tone. None at all. “Was he the one on guard duty? He was in my way—any other knight would’ve done the same.”
“You are no knight!” spat Catelyn. “You have forsaken every vow you ever took.”
Rolling his bright green eyes to the side, Jaime snorted in contempt. “So many vows. They make you swear and swear! Defend the King, obey the King, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? Like Rickard Stark, eh, Bitter Wolf?” A part of you seized up at the mention of your father. Jaime lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s just too many rules. They make sense alone, sure… but together? It’s a load of shit. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking a vow for another.”
There was a long pause. Jaime grinned sharply, feeling as if he had won the argument—if it even was one to begin with.
“Is that a woman?” he asked, changing the topic, eyes drawn to Brienne. “Where in the seven kingdoms did you find such a beast?”
“She is a truer knight than you will ever be, Kingslayer,” Catelyn replied, tone as hot as ever. 
At the offensive name, Jaime narrowed his gaze. “Kingslayer. And what a King he was! Here’s to Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm… and to the sword I shoved into his back. What did you say about me before, Wolf? That you were grateful that I did it?” 
You could feel Catelyn’s eyes on you for a moment. You didn’t grace either of them with a response.
“You are a man without honor,” said Catelyn.
“Hm.” Jaime tilted his head. “You know… I’ve never been with any woman but Cersei. So in my own way, I have more honor than poor old dead Ned. What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”
Jon.
“Snow—a bastard from the North.” Jaime smirked in a rogue manner. “Now when good old Ned came home with some whore’s baby… did you pretend to love it? No, I don’t think you’re very good at pretending, Lady Catelyn. You’re an honest woman. You hated that boy, didn’t you? How could you not? The walking, talking reminder that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark fucked another woman.”
You were no stranger to Catelyn’s grievances with Jon, but it sounded all the worse coming from the Kingslayer’s tongue.
“That’s enough,” you said, heavy with finality. “Your sword, Brienne.”
This is it, thought Jaime. This is how I’m going to die. Covered in filth and looking up at a snarling she-wolf. It isn’t so bad. At least she’s pretty—even if she never smiles.
Instead of the steel striking his head, it struck at his chains. They gave way after the third lumbering hit. His green eyes snapped up to you when you reached out to grab his arms, hauling him onto his feet.
“Come, Kingslayer. We have a long way to go.”
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It was quite an amusing sight, Jaime Lannister falling off the horse with a sack on his head. He grunted through the fabric and you tore it off, shoving it into the pack slung over your shoulder. Brienne urged the horse to ride away, back to camp.
Jaime blinked up at you, vision still adjusting to the sudden brightness. “Ah, Lady Stark. You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.” He glanced at Brienne. “Oh, the big lady-knight came with us, as well? She is much uglier in daylight! Damn—and here I was hoping we’d spend more time alone together, Bitter Wolf.”
“Shut up,” you told him, stepping back to allow Brienne to haul him up to his feet and shove him towards the small boat. 
“Ooh, cranky today, are we? You want to turn around and go back home? I’m sure your little King nephew will welcome you back with open arms—or maybe not. Maybe he hates your guts now. Care to find out?” he goaded, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He sat down in the boat, Brienne following suit. 
You eased yourself in last, taking a seat behind her. 
He’s right, a voice snarked inside your head. Robb is probably furious with you. He’d never forgive you.
“And what might be your name?” Jaime asked the large blonde woman, tilting his head.
With a stony countenance, Brienne replied, “Brienne of Tarth.”
“Mmh, crescent moons and starbursts. Lord Selwyn Tarth is your father, no? You have any brothers and sisters?” 
Silence. Brienne began to row the small boat, taking the three of you downstream.
“Come on, it’s a long way to King’s Landing—we might as well get to know one another. Have you known many men? I suppose not—perhaps women? Horses?”
At the last question, Brienne purposefully struck the blunt end of the oar against Jaime’s knee, which made him grunt out in pain. 
“I didn’t mean to offend, my Lady,” he said, looking none too sorry. “How unlikely it is! It seems you’re not the only virgin amongst us.”
He fixed his stare on you, though your eyes were trained on the river banks, cautiously watching in case anyone had followed your trail yet. So far on your journey, you haven't come across a single soul. The Gods were on your side, for now. At his words, however, you curled your hands into fists.
“Tell me, Bitter Wolf, did any man in Winterfell ever dare to court you? Were they all intimidated by you? Or did you just bite off their heads as soon as one tried?” Jaime seemed genuinely curious, having known little of your childhood.
With a squared jaw, you replied in a steely tone, “They tried. The nice ones were politely declined. The more… pushy ones were stripped naked and thrown into cells of ice. The winter took their souls whilst their bodies froze.”
Jaime blinked, smiling in a fox-like manner. “Now that is a fine tale! Why did you turn away the nice ones? Are Northerners too ugly for you? They’re too solemn for my taste, I’d say… no offense.” 
You didn’t grace him with a response. 
For the next half an hour, Jaime chattered on and on about the most trivial topics. He’d ask the both of you questions, to which he was often met with dead silence.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re as boring as you are ugly?” Jaime asked Brienne.
With a roll of her eyes, Brienne rowed the boat harder. “You will not provoke me to anger.”
“I already have!” countered Jaime, excited that she was finally retaliating. “You look ready to slice my head off my shoulders. Do you think you could? Could you beat me in a fair fight?”
“I’ve never seen you fight,” Brienne replied in a leveled tone.
As if it were obvious, Jaime said, “The correct answer is no. There are only three men in the entire Seven Kingdoms that might have a chance against me—you’re not one of them.”
“All my life men like you have sneered at me,” the blonde woman stated. “And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust.”
“Unlock my chains, then,” said Jaime. “Let’s see who beats who.”
To his disappointment, Brienne spared him no more words.
His gaze landed on you once more, and to his surprise, you had dozed off to sleep, having gotten none the entire night while helping him escape. By the side of the boat, your hand was curled tightly around the longbow you had taken along with you.
Funny, he thought with a slight, huffy laugh. Even in slumber you were scowling.
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Brienne had pulled ashore for a short break, and you were grateful for the opportunity to stretch your legs. She helped you out of the boat and over the large, slippery rocks it was slanted against. 
“Five minutes,” she told you kindly. Then, she looked over her shoulder at Jaime. “Five minutes!” she parroted, much colder this time.
You were really beginning to like Brienne.
Rolling his eyes, Jaime hobbled out of the boat as well. “Childhood must’ve been awful to you,” he commented to Brienne. “Were you a foot taller than all the boys? They probably laughed at you, called you names. Some boys like a challenge—one or two must have tried to get inside big Brienne!”
Brienne frowned. 
“Ah, did you fight them off? You probably did. But maybe you wished one of them would overpower you… fling you down and tear off your clothes. None of them were strong enough, were they? I’d be strong enough.”
“Stop it,” you calmly told Jaime. “Or would you prefer I gag you?”
With a smile, Jaime cocked his head to the side. “Oh, are you jealous? Don’t worry—there’s enough of me to go around.”
But you weren’t paying attention to Jaime anymore. Instead, your eyes were trained up to the creaking branches, where three women were hanging. They were discolored and slightly bloated—the bodies must’ve been up for around a day by now. A sick feeling twisted within your gut.
Around the neck of the woman in the center was a sign that said—
“They lay with lions,” read Jaime. “Tavern girls, most likely. Probably served my father’s soldiers. Maybe one of them gave up a kiss and feel—that’s how they earned this.”
“They earned nothing,” you coldly replied, stepping back slightly. “These are victims of war.”
Jaime barked out a laugh. “How hypocritical of you. This was done by your men, Bitter Wolf. The glorious work of Northern freedom fighters. Must make the both of you proud to serve them.”
Before you could spare him a response, Brienne gruffed out, “I don’t serve the Starks. I serve Lady Catelyn.”
“Hm. You tell yourself that,” said Jaime, allowing himself to be pushed around when Brienne shoved him towards a tree, ordering him to stay put. You moved to stand beside him, making sure he wouldn’t flee as Brienne made towards the thick rope tied around the tree trunk keeping the women hung up. 
Confused, Jaime asked, “What are you doing?”
“Burying them,” she replied.
“We shouldn’t stay here, we should get back on the river!” said Jaime. 
Scoffing, you retorted, “Eager to get home? I’m sure your sister would be delighted to have her fuck-toy handed back to her.”
“In exchange for you darling niece, is it?” Jaime immediately snarked back. “Oh, turns out I’m of great value after all, Bitter Wolf. Admit it. I’m important to you—”
Just then, a few men’s voices echoed through the woods. You pressed yourself closer against the tree, pulling the hood of your cloak up over your head so your face would be obscured by shadows. 
“Untie me!” said Jaime. 
“Shut up,” you replied. “Keep your head down, and pray they won’t recognize you.”
The voices were growing louder.
“Woah!” one of them said, having spotted Brienne. “What’s your business here?” 
“Traveling prisoners,” she hastily responded. 
The three men burst out into raucous, incredulous laughter.
“You? But you’re a woman!” exclaimed another one with a pig-nose and blackened teeth. “Well, fuck me! They’ve really gotten desperate for soldiers, haven’t they?”
Clearing her throat, Brienne started to say, “If you’ve quite finished—”
They began cackling at her again. You frowned, fingers curling around your longbow, which you had stealthily covered within your cloak. If you were to play the part of a prisoner, you had to look like it, as well.
“We’ll be going,” Brienne curtly said, in no mood to deal with the oafish men.
The men immediately halted in their laughter. “Now, hold on there. Who do you fight for?”
“The Starks,” said the blonde woman. She briefly glanced at you, nearly hidden behind Jaime. Good.
One of the last men, a red-head, pointed at the two of you. “What did they do?”
After a momentary pause, Jaime spat out, “Apparently eating is now a crime. My friend and I were merely trying to get some food.”
Hm. A good actor.
“By stealing it—which, indeed, is a crime,” Brienne added on. 
“It’s not a crime to starve, that’s justice for you,” Jaime murmured. You dared not speak, worried they would recognize you by your voice alone.
The pig-nosed man stepped forward, narrowing his beady eyes at you. “Where are you taking them?”
“Riverrun,” said Brienne. 
“Why?”
“Steal from the Tullys, it's their dungeons you’d rot in,” she quickly responded.
“No. I mean why not just kill him?”
A thrill of adrenaline and a twinge of fear shot through you, nestling within your feet, as if preparing yourself to act.
“For stealing a pig?” scoffed Jaime.
One of the men lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve killed for much less. Alright—have it your way… m’lady.”
The red-head squinted at Jaime. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
You were grateful that Jaime’s usually lighter hair was dirtied with mud and soot and appeared far darker than it actually was. “Have you been to Ashemark?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then you don’t know me.”
Just as the three of you were about to stride off, pig-nose queried in a disgustingly prideful manner, “What do you think of these beauties?”
“I hope you gave them quick deaths,” Brienne reluctantly told him.
He smirked maliciously. “Two of them we did, yeah.”
White-hot anger coiled within your abdomen. 
“Wait!” exclaimed the red-head. “I do know you! That’s Jaime Lannister!” 
With a hoarse chuckle, Jaime said, “Well, I wish you’d have told me, I wouldn’t have had to steal that pig!”
“If this is the Kingslayer, I think I’d know about it,” said Brienne, urging you forward.
Noticing this, the red-head barked out, “And who’s the one in the cloak? Another Lannister?”
Couldn’t be more wrong.
“I was at Whispering Wood,” he vehemently said. “I saw him! They dragged him out of the woods and threw him down before the King!”
The King. Your boy, Robb.
“I have a question for both of you. And I want you to answer at the same time,” pig-nose snarled, hand on his sword’s hilt. “I count to three, you both answer. What’s his name?” He pointed accusingly right at Jaime’s chest.
“One.”
You discreetly lined an arrow up to your bow.
“Two.”
You pulled against the string.
“Three.”
You brandished the bow from out of your cloak and sent the arrow whistling through the air, straight into one of the men’s heads.
Unsheathing her sword, Brienne quickly slashed the throat of the red-head.
“Two quick deaths,” she hissed, before knocking pig-nose down onto the ground. Slow and painful, she drove the blade into his stomach and twisted, gutting him like a pig.
Jaime’s brows were raised, impressed at the both of you.
“Those were Stark men,” he said, surprised that you had willingly killed a man of your nephew’s army.
“There are always a few rotten apples in an orchard,” you easily replied, lowering your bow and knocking back the cowl of your cloak. “And rotten, they were.”
Brienne nodded, before heading off to bury the tavern girls.
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“Do you know how long it’s going to take us to get to King’s Landing by walking through fields and forests?” Jaime just about whined, growing tired of the journey.
Without sparing him a glance, you asked, “And what do you propose we do instead?”
“We could take horses.”
“Too noticeable.”
“Take a ship, then.”
“And how will you pay the ship-keepers? Will you pay them with your own gold? The gold you currently do not have?”
Jaime frowned. “Walking, it is. How ever will we pass the time?”
Both you and Brienne glanced at each other, exasperated. 
“By putting one foot in front of the other,” the large woman told him, shoving him along.
Stumbling from the impact, Jaime blew out a sigh. “It’ll be such a dull walk.”
“I’m here to escort Lady Stark to King’s Landing and exchange you for her nieces. Dull is fine,” Brienne snapped.
Lolling his head over to you, Jaime spoke, “Is dull fine for you, Bitter Wolf? I’m sure you have so many interesting stories hidden behind that scowling exterior of yours. Tell me one!”
Deciding to indulge him for only just a little bit, you said, “What would you want to know?”
Jaime smiled triumphantly. “Tell me about Winterfell. I overheard one of the guards speaking about it—that Greyjoy pup claimed it as his now, has he?”
Stiffening, you shot Jaime a glare. “I will not be discussing such matters with you.”
His shackles clacked against each other as he raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk about something else.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “Tell me about your sister.”
Anger flooded across your features. “Shut up.”
“Why? Have I struck a nerve—?”
“Shut up!” you barked again, which made Jaime fall silent, though there was still a slight smile to his grimy face.
Sensing that he wasn’t going to get anything of value from you, Jaime looked back to Brienne. “What about you? How did you come into Lady Catelyn’s service? That’s something we can talk about, no?”
The blonde remained as sour-faced as ever. “Not your concern, Kingslayer.”
“It had to be recently. You weren’t with her at Winterfell… I would’ve noticed your dour head smacking into the archways.”
The memory of Jaime’s visit to your home flashed across your mind. Things had been so much simpler then. Until he pushed your nephew out of a window with the intent to kill the boy, of course.
“If you don’t serve the Starks… did you pledge yourself to Stannis?” the knight asked.
“Gods, no,” Brienne quickly responded.
Brows raising, Jaime exclaimed, “Ah, Renly, then! Wasn’t expecting that from you. He wasn’t fit to rule over anything more important than a twelve-course meal.”
“Shut your mouth,” Brienne hissed. It seemed Jaime had a particular talent for irritating the life out of both of you.
“Why? I lived with him at court since he was a boy, don’t forget. Could hardly escape the little tulip… skipping down the corridors with his embroidered silks. I knew him far better than you,” Jaime bragged, taking pleasure in getting beneath her skin.
Frowning, Brienne spat, “I knew him just as much as anyone else. As a member of his Kingsguard, he trusted me with everything. He would’ve been a wonderful King.”
Would he? From what you could recall, he never really cared much for the wellbeing of the realm. Nonetheless, you remained silent.
Jaime, however, cackled gleefully. “Sounds like you quite fancied him.”
“I did not fancy him,” she gritted out, a tad too fast.
“Gods, you did! I can see it all over your brutish face! Did you ever tell him? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being a part of his Kingsguard and whatnot… well, I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t quite Renly’s type. He preferred curly-haired little girls like Loras Tyrell. You’re far too much man for him.” 
How ironic, you dryly thought. “I didn’t take you one to gossip,” you said, sensing Brienne’s uncomfort. “Neither of us have quite the appetite for your foul rumors.”
“Oh, but it’s not gossip, Wolf,” said Jaime. “It’s very much true. His proclivities were the worst-kept secret at court!”
“Who gives a shit about what he used to do with his free time? It’s not like he was hurting anybody,” you retaliated. Truthfully, you bore no love for Robert Baratheon’s youngest brother, but since Jaime made it his mission to antagonize him, you couldn’t help but want to defend the late Prince.
Jaime dryly chuckled. “Don’t tell me you fancied him, too. He wouldn’t quite like you much, I’m afraid. He liked his affairs brainless and sweet-faced—two traits you sorely lack, Bitter Wolf. Hm… it’s a shame the throne isn’t made of cocks. They’d have never gotten him off of it.”
Snapping, Brienne grabbed at Jaime’s hair and yanked him back, her sword against his throat in a blink of an eye. You calmly watched, not moving to stop her just yet. She was a loyal, honorable woman, and you were confident Brienne wouldn’t actually kill him if it came down to it.
“Shut your mouth!” she just about shouted, baring her teeth in a snarl.
Jaime winced at the pain of her hand yanking his hair. “I don’t blame him,” he said, tone considerably much softer. “And I don’t blame you, either. We don’t get to choose who we love.”
The insinuation behind his words was as clear as day.
You bitterly scoffed. “But we do get to choose who we have sex with, don’t we, sister-fucker?” Rolling your eyes to the side, you gestured for Brienne to unhand him. “The journey is still long—let’s save our energy by spending it in silence.”
Brienne reluctantly relinquished her hold on him, but before either of them could say anything, the clopping of hooves pulled your attention away.
It was a simple tradesman, tugging along his packhorse, who had bundles of wheat and hay strapped to its back. He waved at the three of you, a smile to his innocent face.
“Hullo. Where are you lot headed?”
“South,” said Jaime. “You?”
“Riverrun,” the man said. “Stayin’ off the Kingsroad, are you?”
The three of you nodded.
“They get you no matter where you go,” he advised. “You can’t run.”
Ominous were his words, but he could simply be speaking of the road tax they were imposing amongst the common folk. Nothing more than that. 
Right?
“Looks like you two are safe enough. Meaning no offense, of course… I wouldn’t want to tangle with you lot,” he said with a chesty chuckle. “Seven blessings to you.”
Off the tradesman went, his horse in tow. You briefly wondered if he had recognized you or Jaime. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t.
“He knows who I am,” Jaime muttered under his breath.
“He doesn’t,” said Brienne.
“Maybe you’re right. But what if you’re not? What if he tells someone? We have to kill him,” Jaime pressed.
Blowing out a breath, you turned to him. “We’re not killing him. Unlike you, Kingslayer, I wouldn’t take innocent lives for no reason.”
Your words seemed to strike him in the face and he reared back with a sneer.
“And you wouldn’t risk his innocent life for your innocent nieces?” Jaime countered. 
A beat of silence. You could feel a lump growing in your throat.
Wordless, you beckoned Brienne to push Jaime along your path. There would be no more bloodshed than necessary.
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The three of you had stopped for a break by the river. Brienne had told you to get some sleep, that she’d keep watch for a few hours. 
Body aching and weary with the long journey, you gratefully nodded, leaning against a tree trunk and pulling your cloak up over your head, slipping into a dreamless slumber.
It seemed that luck was not on your side, for you were startled awake by the clashing of steel not even two hours later. You scrambled onto your feet, blinking away your grogginess, and grabbed the bow you had kept by your side.
Jaime and Brienne were by the river, yelling at each other so quickly that you couldn’t make out anything they were saying. When you rushed closer, your eyes widened upon seeing one of Brienne’s longswords clutched between his grimy hands. 
Quiet as a shadow, you nocked an arrow to the drawstring, silently creeping up to the dueling two. Jaime was breathing in a haggard fashion, clearly exhausted by the fight. Brienne, on the other hand, had yet to break a sweat, but her movements were rough and lacked calculated grace.
“That’s enough,” you commanded, tone steely, raising your bow so the tip of the arrow pointed straight at Jaime. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, Kingslayer, we are doing you a favor by taking you back home.”
Before he could reply, a dozen clopping horses resounded from over the bridge, and you swiveled your gaze over to the group with baited breath as they drew closer.
They were carrying Bolton banners of flayed men. And riding on one of the horses was the tradesman you had let go. You squared your jaw. Mercy was to be your downfall.
“Looks like the Bitter Wolf has gotten the better of you, Kingslayer,” said Locke, the man leading the group crooned, thick brows raised. 
You exchanged a quick glance with Brienne, who still had her sword raised. 
“Let us go,” you said, raising your chin. “As your liege lord’s blood, I order you to let us go—!”
Locke barked out a laugh. “Let you go? If the King in the North hears I had the Kingslayer and his precious aunt and let you go, he’d be taking my head right off. I’d rather he takes his.” The man jutted his head towards Jaime, who began to slowly step back, your arrow grazing against the base of his neck.
There was no way you and Brienne could fight off all these soldiers.
With a scowl, you loosened your hold on your bow as Brienne simultaneously sheathed her longsword in surrender. 
One of the men grabbed your bow and arrows, breaking them over his knee with a cackle before he bound your wrists together with rope and roughly tossing you onto a horse. He moved to do the same with Jaime, who had tried to fight off with his sword, but easily batted to the ground in his already-fatigued state, shoved behind you. Brienne was forced onto another horse.
“Never thought I’d see you as a prisoner… for your own nephew, no less,” Jaime leaned forward to murmur into your ear. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it after a while.”
“It looked like Brienne had the upper hand on you,” you coolly said.
Jaime frowned. “She did not. I was in chains. Had I not been shackled, I would’ve easily beaten her.”
You gave him no reply, staring straight ahead with a cold, distant stare. The group began moving, and you swallowed down the urge to puke over the side of the horse.
“When we make camp tonight, there is a great chance those men will take you and Brienne and have their way with you.”
A moment of silence passed before you firmly replied, “They won’t. I am their King’s—”
“Their King believes you to be a traitor for helping me escape,” countered Jaime. “They’ll rape you, and they’ll call it justice. None of these men have ever been with a noblewoman, much less the Bitter Wolf herself.”
There was a thickness to your throat, as if you’d swallowed a mouthful of cold honey. 
“It’d be wise if you didn’t resist,” Jaime said, voice lowering. “They’ll hurt you more if you do.”
“You want me to just let them rape me?” you asked incredulously, loathing the way your voice tremored ever so slightly. You were afraid.
Jaime blew out a sigh. “I stood guard outside the Queen Rhaella’s chambers as the King raped her. Night after night, I could hear her screaming. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked Jonothor Darry once, ‘Are we not sworn to defend the Queen, as well?’ He didn’t even look at me when he replied, ‘We are… but not from him.’ And so I had no choice but to stand and listen. Listen to her pleading, crying, trying to fight him off—which only made the Mad King angrier. The maids said she looked as if she was mauled by a wild animal by the time he was done with her. Scratches, bruises, and bites littered her body.” There was a long stretch of silence before Jaime bowed his head. “It is better you let them get it over with. Let them have what they want, and they’d have no reason to hurt you anymore.”
“You said you had no choice,” you hoarsely said, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “You always have a choice, Jaime. Always.”
Though you couldn’t see his expression, you could imagine the way he would grimly chuckle. “I realized that right before I put my sword through his back.”
Your nose stung as you sucked in a chestful of air. “They’ll kill Brienne if she fights them. They can’t kill me, but they can and would kill her if she fights back—which she will.”
This time, Jaime was the one who didn’t grace you with a response, brows furrowed and his thoughts far, far away.
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The chains around your wrists were cold. There was an itch on your back, but with your hands tightly bound together, there was little you could do about it. And so you slumped against the tree, stomach cinched with hunger, and back itchy as you watched the Bolton men eat their roasted meats over the fire, drinking fresh river water that your throat ached for.
Jaime and Brienne were bound to other trees across the camp. From this far, you couldn’t quite see Brienne, but you could see Jaime as clear as day—and he was staring out into the distance, not a single thought behind those green eyes of his.
Once the men had had their suppers and were mildly drunk on the wine they brought along with them, they stumbled onto their feet.
“I’ll take the big bitch first,” you overheard one of them proclaim. “You lot… can tame the Bitter Wolf. We can switch after.”
They burst into raucous cheers. Fear coiled within the bottom of your chest.
Let them have what they want, you could hear Jaime’s voice say.
His green eyes were on you now, watching you with furrowed brows.
“My Lord, I am Brienne of Tarth. Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to King’s Landing—!” Brienne began to protest when four men began dragging her up onto her feet, but was quickly cut off.
Grinning maliciously, Locke interrupted, “Catelyn Stark is a treasonous cunt. Orders were to take the Kingslayer and the Bitter Wolf alive. Nobody said shit about you.”
You didn’t see it when it happened. Sickening thuds, cracking bones, and a resounding slap. Brienne’s screams as they began beating her. From what you could hear, she put up quite a fight. Tears filled your eyes, and you yanked on your chains, knowing it would do absolutely nothing.
“Take her over there where it’s dark. I’d like a little privacy,” said Locke. “The Wolf can go over there—behind the bushes.”
Two men seized you on each side. Though you didn’t fight as wildly Brienne did, you were more calculated in your retaliation, allowing them to think you weren’t going to resist. But after the first few steps, you jerked away, shoving one of the men down onto the ground and using the cold metal of your shackles to wind around the other’s throat. Gurgling chokes erupted from his purpling lips.
You pressed, and pressed, and pressed—
Until another man came and hauled you off, striking you twice across the face, both of your cheeks stinging with the impact. You were bleeding—you could feel it dripping down your jaw, but you didn’t quite feel the pain just yet. 
In the distance, you could hear Brienne’s yells echo through the trees.
You bared your teeth in a snarl when the man yanked your head back by your hair, eliciting a tear to fall from one of your eyes. “I’m going to have fun with you, Bitter Wolf. You’re a pretty little thing when you cry—maybe I’ll ask your nephew if I can keep you.”
“You think my nephew would want me to be raped?” you growled as he began dragging you away. 
“He doesn’t give a shit what happens to you… fucking traitor,” he snarled, brandishing a dull knife gleaming with the reflection of the fire. The blade tore through your tunic and smallclothes, and you struggled to keep yourself covered with the few remaining scraps clinging onto your skin.
Your breath caught in your throat when he began undoing his own pants, a scream tearing from your chest when he held you down with his free arm. 
“No!” you shouted, so loud it felt like the ground beneath you rumbled. “ROBB WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF ME!”
The man’s hand wrapped around your throat, his thumb digging into your airway. You were beginning to grow lightheaded
Without thinking, you garbled out a cry, “BRIENNE! JAIME! JAIME, PLEASE!”
Please what, you fool? you thought. Brienne can’t help you. Jaime can’t do anything. Nobody can save you.
You kicked out against the captor, landing a solid punch to his face as you tried to crawl away.
From the camp, Jaime’s jaw twitched upon hearing you cry out his name, heavy and broken with desperation. The Lannister glanced up at Locke.
“You know who she is, right?”
Locke smiled. “Some big, dumb bitch from who knows where? Hm… never been with a woman that big.”
“Brienne of Tarth. Her father is Lord Selwyn Tarth. Ever heard of Tarth? They call it the Sapphire Isle… every sapphire in Westeros was mined in Tarth. I’d bargain that Lord Selwyn would pay his daughter’s weight in sapphires if she’s returned to him,” said Jaime, trying to appear nonchalant. “Only if she’s alive, though. Don’t think he’d pay you much if you brought him his dead, defiled daughter.”
After a long moment of consideration, Locke turned and called out, “Bring the big one back here!”
From the distant dark, Jaime heard you scream out again. You were still fighting.
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to handle the Bitter Wolf in such a way. It’s better to leave her honor unbesmirched. See, if you’re going to sell her off to Robb Stark… he loves his aunt very much. I saw it myself, during the year I was their captive. He wouldn’t take kindly to his kin being tossed around and raped in such a fashion,” he said.
Narrowing his dark eyes, Locke stepped closer to Jaime. “Unbesmirched?”
“Not defiled,” Jaime clarified. 
Much more reluctant, Locke huffed out a sigh, before calling out to his men. “Bring the Bitter Wolf back here!” He fixed his gaze back on Jaime. “Fancy word for a fancy man.”
“I hated to read as a child. My father forced me to study the books every morning before I could practice with my sword or horse. Two hours, every day, holed up in the maester’s chambers,” replied the knight. He caught sight of you being dragged back to the camp, your face bloody, leaves and foliage clinging to your hair, and your tunic torn off of you. “For God's sake, get some clothes on her! She’ll catch a cold and freeze to death in such weather! Little Robb Stark wants her alive, doesn’t he?” Jaime urged, cocking one of his brows upward. 
With a haggard sigh, Locke undid his cloak and shoved it onto your shivering, horrified form, your arms crossed over your chest in an effort to salvage what little dignity you had left. Jaime’s loose, running tongue had saved you from being raped. You grabbed at the cloak and wrapped it over your shoulders, pulling it tight around you.
Brienne, on the other hand, was brought back fully clothed, still struggling. Blood dripped from her nose, but she seemed otherwise physically fine.
“Your father…” said Locke, “he’d pay your weight in gold to get you back?”
“You’ll be a rich man till the end of your days,” he responded. “And your sons will be rich men and their sons after them. Lands, titles… you’ll have them all. The North can’t win this war. You’re a smart man, you understand that, don’t you? We have the numbers, and we have the gold. Fighting bravely for a losing cause is admirable—but fighting for a winning cause is far more rewarding.”
Locke nodded once. “Hard to argue with that.”
Jaime momentarily glanced over at you, staring at him with wide eyes. 
He looked back at Locke. “Now that we’re speaking man to man… I wonder if you really need to keep me chained to this tree. I’m not asking to be freed from my constraints, but if I could sleep lying down, my back would thank you for it. I’m not as young and spritely as I once was.”
The man in front of him smiled. “None of us are. Unchain Ser Jaime from the tree. I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat.”
“Hm, I’m famished, actually,” said Jaime, his stomach giving a loud rumble at the enticing thought of hot food.
“Famished—another fancy word,” mused Locke. “We’ve got a spare partridge on the fire.”
“Splendid. I do like partridge.”
Now free to stand, Locke led the Lannister closer to the fire—closer to you. You watched with narrowed eyes, unsure of what was happening, still reeling from the fact that you were nearly raped.
“Bring the bird here, and a carving knife.” There was a dark glint to Locke’s eyes that you misliked. “Any other fancy words you want to tell me, Ser Jaime?”
Before the blonde could reply, Locke had kicked out at Jaime’s leg, shoving him against a wooden log, his cheek painfully pressing against the dry bark. Two other men came forward to hold him down, and a third brought the knife.
Locke took it from him, pressing the blade just below Jaime’s one of eyes, squeezed shut. “You think you’re the smartest man there is… that everyone alive has to bow and scrape and lick your boots.”
“My father—”
“And if you get in any trouble, all you have to do is say ‘my father!’ and that’s it. All your troubles are gone. Hm? You got something to say? Want to tell me more about your rich, fancy childhood of books and horses? Careful, Kingslayer. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You’re nothing without your daddy. But your daddy ain’t here! Never forget that.”
The blade Locke was holding came away from Jaime’s eye.
You blew out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.
And it came down onto his right hand, cleaving it right off his arm.
Jaime screamed so loud you flinched back against the tree in shock, eyes wider than saucers. Dark blood spurted from the amputated limb. You yelled out his name, chest rising and falling unevenly with rapid, panicked breaths. 
Locke turned his greedy eyes to you, slanting the crimson-slickened blade against your cheek, smearing Jaime’s blood all over your face.
“You keep silent, Wolf,” he snarled, grabbing at your face so you would be forced to stare at Jaime writhing in raw, undulated pain. “Listen to him… listen to his screaming. Music to my fucking ears.”
And so you did. 
For the rest of the night, you could do nothing but listen to Jaime’s agonized yells. 
In the next hour, he had passed out from the pain, clutching his severed hand to his chest.
“Jaime,” you whispered, trying to nudge his unmoving body with your foot, worried he was dead. “Jaime.”
He never replied.
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The hand thumped against his sternum with each step the horse took. It smelled rancid: of rotting flesh and dried blood, accompanied by the stench of shame.
Shame.
That was all Jaime could feel for himself.
He was ashamed.
He could feel your eyes on him. Those pretty eyes of winter, usually cold and hardened… now gaunt with trauma and exhaust. If he looked closely, he’d be able to see the concern behind your irises, as well.
But he didn’t look closely, because he was too ashamed to. His own gaze was rooted to the moving ground, watching the foliage pass by. He felt like he needed to puke, but his stomach bore nothing for him to retch. The woodsy dirt seemed to grow closer and closer with every blink…
“How many of those fingers do you think we could shove up his ass?” one of the Bolton men jeered.
Locke coughed out a laugh. “Depends on if he’s had any practice. Is that the kind of thing you and your sister go for, Kingslayer? Did she loosen you up for us?”
The knight teetered on his horse. Your gaze flickered from him to your captors, brows furrowing.
“He’s going to fall,” Brienne called out, her voice rattling through the trees. The men paid her no mind, going on with their sneers and their crude japes. Again, she exclaimed, “He’s going to fall off the horse, someone help him!”
They all watched as Jaime slid off the poor creature’s back, falling face first into a schlop of cold mud. He groaned at the impact, weakly squirming in a fruitless attempt to try to push himself back up.
“Water. Please, water,” he croaked just as the group came to a grueling halt. Locke swung himself off his horse to stand in front of Jaime.
In a cruel manner, he unstoppered his leather water pouch, only to pour its contents over the top of Jaime’s head. 
“Just give the bloody man some water,” you snarled. “It’s been days. He’ll keel over without it.”
Locke rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough.” With a smirk, he shoved another waterskin into Jaime’s single quivering hand.
Greedily, Jaime ripped it open with his teeth and tipped the pouch bag to chug down what was inside.
“Hm. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a man drink horse piss that fast,” Locke observed.
Jaime doubled over, gagging, puking out everything he had just gulped down into the filthy mud. Two cackling men seized him on each side, but Jaime was quick to react, elbowing one in the stomach and grabbing his sword.
It was one against a dozen… Jaime when he had two hands would’ve beat the lot of them in a blink of an eye. But he was no longer Jaime with two hands. Just the one. 
A man kicked out at the back of Jaime’s knee, sending him sprawling forward. 
“Stop!” Brienne yelled, jumping off her horse. More men surrounded her, beating her down to the ground, as she was tied and weaponless. They placed the tips of their blades to her throat, telling her she had gone far enough.
You wisely stayed up on your horse, watching as Locke landed several kicks into Jaime’s stomach and chest. A sickening crack sounded out through the woods. You weren’t really sure what broke, but it didn’t sound good.
“Stop! Stop hurting him,” you gruffed. “You’ve already taken his hand. He poses no more of a threat to you than I.”
“And what are you proposing, Bitter Wolf?” Locke asked, spreading his arms out. “That I beat you, instead?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, you spat out in a steely manner, “Yes. Go ahead. Beat me until my skin turns purple and blue. It won’t change the fact that you’d simply be wasting your time.”
Locke’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Fucking traitor.” He glared down at Jaime. “Be grateful the Bitter Wolf has decided to abandon her family for the side of the enemy. If I had it my way, I’d cut off your other hand and stuff it down your throat.”
A breath of relief slipped from your lips when Locke stepped away, leaving Jaime to lie in the mud for a few more seconds. The men eventually tossed him back onto his horse as if he were a sack of potatoes.
He wheezed every time he inhaled, still refusing to meet your gaze.
“Thank—” wheeze, “—you.”
“You did the same for me,” you quietly replied. 
Neither of you spoke after that, continuing the journey on in a mutual, respectable silence.
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Harrenhal was much larger than you’d remembered. Then again, you were only a small child last time you came, hyper-focused on all the food and fighting.
The Boltons hauled you off your horse, shoving you onto the ground, followed by Brienne and Jaime.
From in front of you stepped Roose Bolton. 
Locke kicked Jaime to the muddy ground. “I give you the Kingslayer, Lord Bolton.”
“Pick him up,” he said with a dour expression. “He’s lost a hand.”
Cackling, Locke shook his head. “No, my Lord. He has it here!” He pointed at the severed limb tied loosely around his neck.
Roose scowled, stepping forward to rip the hand off of Jaime. “Take this away.”
“What? And send it to his father?” asked Locke, slightly miffed.
A muscle jumped in Roose’s jaw. “You’ll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it. This is the King’s uncle.”
The realization of the Bolton’s betrayal to Robb dawned upon you like a sharp strike to your cheek. “You… you fucking traitor!” you snarled, chest heaving with anger. “Fucking traitor!”
Roose arched a sharp brow. “Look who’s talking, Bitter Wolf. We’re on the same side now, you and I.”
You wanted to snap back, tell him that you’d never be on the side of the Lannisters. But you held your tongue—perhaps if you could play the part of a traitor to the North, they would treat you less harshly. Maybe even allow you to integrate into their group after long enough. You’d be a spy of sorts. You’d have to be patient… and play the long game.
“Cut them free. Apologies, my Ladies. You’re both under my protection now,” Bolton ordered. Someone sliced through your ropes, and you struggled to push yourself onto your legs, weak with exhaustion. “Find suitable rooms for our guests. We’ll speak later.” 
Just as Roose was about to stride away, Jaime croaked out, “Lord Bolton. Has there been word from the capital?”
“You haven’t heard?” he said. “Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King’s Landing… sailed into Blackwater Bay. Stormed the gates with thousands of men. And your sister, how can I put this…?”
Fear danced clear as day across Jaime’s features.
“Your sister is alive and well. Your father’s forces prevailed,” Roose hummed. Overcome with a sudden barrage of overwhelming sensations, Jaime jerked forward, falling to his knees with a pained groan. “Ser Jaime isn’t well. Take him to Qyburn.”
You watched as they led Jaime away, somewhere inside the castle. Another man nudged you and Brienne forward, taking the both of you to the baths, where you were to clean yourself up.
When the hot, steaming water kissed your skin, you couldn’t help but moan out in relief. It’d been months since you bathed in anything but cold, frigid river water. Brienne sank into the waters across from you, blowing out a sigh and respectfully avoiding her gaze to give you a bit of privacy.
“I never had the chance to thank you for taking me so far. Or trying to, at least,” you quietly said as you began scrubbing the dirt away from your skin. “Thank you. You’re a good woman.”
An indiscernible look flickered over her expression. “I failed you. I failed Lady Catelyn. You shouldn’t be thankful for that.”
“You kept me alive. You saved my life several times. You helped me during a long, rough journey. If that doesn’t warrant my gratitude, I don’t know what does.”
The two of you were silent for a while longer. You leaned back to wash all the accumulated dirt and oil away from your hair, lathering your body with fresh soap by the stony bathtub’s edge.
“May I ask you a question, Lady Stark?”
“You may.”
“Why does everyone call you the Bitter Wolf?”
You let the question soak in for a few seconds as you rinsed away the soap. “I haven’t smiled since the Mad King killed my father and my brother. Not much to smile about, anyway. I suppose they also call me that because I’m none too friendly around people.”
There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”
“Sorry for what? Sorry for asking or sorry that it happened?” 
“Both.” 
“It’s alright.” Another long moment of quiet. Then, you asked, “Do you ever miss home, Brienne?”
The blonde tilted her head. “Sometimes. My father is a good man, and Tarth is beautiful. I often wonder what my life would be like if I never left. If I stayed and married a nobleman, like my father wanted.”
“But it’s not what you want,” you quietly said. 
“No, my Lady. It’s not.” Brienne scrubbed away the dried blood on her bare shoulders with a brush. How it had even managed to get there, she wasn't sure. “Do you miss home?”
The thought of home made your chest ache. The fluffy snow, the direwolves, your comfortable bed. “Yes. More than anything, I miss my family. I miss my brothers, all of whom are gone now. I miss my sister, dead long ago. I miss my nephews, two of them may very well be long gone by now. I miss Robb and Catelyn, and I can only hope he’s not giving her too hard of a time. I can only hope he doesn’t hate me, that he can find it within him to forgive me. And I miss my nieces. It seems our little quest to save them has come to an abrupt end.”
Brienne shifted uncomfortably. The idea of failure still hung heavy over her broad shoulders. 
After another ten minutes, Brienne had found that her fingers were beginning to prune, and so she slipped out of the tub, wrapping a thin linen towel about her tall, dripping figure. 
She bid you adieu, but not without first saying, “I’ll protect you, my Lady. I may have failed in bringing you to King’s Landing and escorting your nieces out, but I will protect you with my life.”
Though you didn’t smile, Brienne could catch the faint look of fondness behind your usually frigid irises. “Thank you, Brienne. Truly.”
The big blonde exited the bathroom, having a guard lead her to her chambers. 
You sank further into the tub, wishing to just stay there for a little while longer and forget. Besides, you didn’t know when the next time you’d be offered a bath would be, and you wanted to savor it for as long as you possibly could.
You grabbed a scrubbing brush, lathering it with soap before running it up and down your body, still feeling immensely dirty despite washing it all away. The bristles scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t stop, memories of men touching and shoving you flashing across your thoughts.
“Not so hard,” said a familiar voice. Your head snapped up, thinking Brienne had come back for a moment, before your eyes met Jaime. He was tired and weak, tugging his dirty clothes off. “You’ll scrub all your skin off.”
Brows furrowing, you sank lower beneath the water to make sure he wouldn’t see anything. You remained silent, simply watching as he made his way to the bath, nude as the day he was born.
It seemed Qyburn had done quite a number to his stump, which was cleanly bandaged and no longer bore the coloring of rotten flesh.
When he lowered himself into the tub, he let out a long groan of relief. The feeling of hot water kissing his body was a simple pleasure he missed dearly. Jaime noticed you shifting farther away, until you were pressed up against the opposite edge.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice gravelly. “I told you before, haven’t I? I would never… not unless you invited me, of course.”
Those were his very same words from all those moons ago, when he was standing in front of your chambers in Winterfell. You looked at him, expression softening. 
“Your hand. What did Qyburn do?” you quietly asked.
Jaime waved the bandaged stump just above the water’s surface. “Want to see?”
Apprehensive, you slowly crossed the tub until you were only half an arm’s length away from him. With gentle hands, you reached out to take his arm, inspecting the wrappings and the visible outline of the stitches beneath it. 
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes. More than when it was lopped off, actually,” Jaime admitted, surprised at himself for being so honest with you. 
“And does it hurt now?”
“I was given milk of the poppy,” said the knight. “Numbs the pain.”
A shadow of disappointment danced across the green of his irises when your hands fell away from him.
You were entirely aware that the both of you were naked, and he was so close you could feel his leg brushing yours. You’d never been this close to a man in the nude before. Clearing your throat, you stepped back just a bit. 
“If I faint, pull me out,” said Jaime. “I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.”
“I should let you drown,” you murmured.
The blonde man tilted his head to the side. “But you wouldn’t.”
“No, Ser Jaime. I wouldn’t.”
“And why is that? You’ve grown fond of me?”
The quiet that stretched between you felt heavy and tense, thick enough to cut through with a knife. 
“I don’t know,” was all you said. 
“I can see it in your eyes,” Jaime said, a mild grin to his cracked lips. “You’re fond of me. When we spoke at Winterfell, you had the same look. Then it was gone when I was your nephew’s prisoner. And now it’s back… not many look at me in such a way.”
You paused in your scrubbing for a moment to look at him. “What are you talking about? You’re the Golden Lion. Everyone loves you.”
“No. They all want me to think they love me, because they’re scared. I know how they really feel. I’ve seen their hatred for seventeen years, face after face. They all despise me. Judge me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. Your law-sister, Lady Catelyn, had that face. Brienne of Tarth, too. Hell, even Roose Bolton, who betrayed his King in the North… he still looks down upon me. Everyone but you.”
You blew out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. What were you supposed to say to that? 
Before you could think up a response, Jaime continued on, “Have you ever heard of wildfire? The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn. The way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. Each time he burned a victim, he’d drag his Queen to the chambers and rape her until she passed out, then do it again and again, until he’s had his fill. He burned lords he didn’t like… Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys Targaryen saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city… beneath the Sept of Baelor, and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, and taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. He burned your father during a trial by combat, claiming fire to be his house’s champion. Your brother was put in a Tyroshi strangling device… forced to watch as your father cooked in his armor, and choked himself to death trying to save him.”
The corners of your eyes stung with a warbling film of tears. You knew Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed by the Mad King, but not like this. Not in such a miserable, painful way. You ducked your head as you furiously swiped the stray water away from your cheeks. 
“Finally, the day of reckoning came—Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory on the Trident. But my father arrived first, with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my father better than that… he’s never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the King didn’t listen to me, nor did he listen to Varys, who tried to warn him. Hm, but he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle… that grey sunken cunt.”
A long pause. You took a step closer when you noticed Jaime slumping back with a haggard sigh, the rims of his eyes red as he recounted the story. He was tearing up, just as you were. This was equally as traumatizing for him as it was for you. You had reached out, but didn’t touch him, stopping yourself before you did.
“‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the King, begging him to surrender. The blood everywhere, the dead bodies… it was a massacre, Lady Y/N. In response, Aerys told me to… he told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said.” A tear fell down Jaime’s grimy cheek. “‘Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.’ If you were commanded to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”
Your lips parted. “No,” you hoarsely whispered.
Jaime blinked away the tears, inhaling sharply. “First, I killed the pyromancer. And then when the King turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. So I slit his throat. I don’t think he expected to die. He… he meant to burn with the rest of us, and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies into ash. That’s where your brother, Ned Stark, found me.”
“Why didn’t you tell him?” you whispered. “Ned would’ve listened—”
“You think the honorable Eddard Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me.” Jaime’s chest started to stagger with heavy, uneven breaths. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”
“No, Ned would have heard you out if you explained—”
Jaime’s face twisted into one of frustration. “Your love for your family blinds you, just as mine does for me. You were the only one, Lady Y/N… the only one…”
A wheeze and a puff. Jaime teetered forward, eyes slipping shut. 
Quickly, you darted forward just before he could fall into the water, holding him slightly upright within your arms. His face pressed against your shoulder and he groaned out something incoherent. 
“Guards!” you called. “Help!”
“The only one who called me Ser Jaime before calling me a Kingslayer,” he muttered against your skin, just before the guards rushed in to help him out. 
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The dress they had given you to wear was an ugly shade of yellow. It was not at all akin to the type of dresses you would wear up in the North, which were thick and voluminous with high collars. No, this one had a tight bodice with a flowing skirt, its neckline square and plunging. It was a dress Southern ladies would be quite comfortable with, you were sure, but you were no Southerner.
Jaime’s green eyes had shimmered with slight mirth upon seeing you uncomfortably amble into Harrenhal’s mess hall, two guards forcing you out of your chambers so you would speak with Roose Bolton. In front of the knight was a generous plate full of roasted meat, along with a heaping of creamed potatoes and glazed carrots. It was a most appetizing meal, especially to a man who hadn’t had proper, hot food in longer than a year, but it proved to be hard to cut into the meat with just one hand. 
“Lannister gold,” said the knight, glancing at your dress as you took a seat next to him, before fixing his stare on your sour expression. He then went back to trying to cut his meat with his one hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Not as bad as hers, anyway.”
To his other side sat Brienne, who was forced into a frumpy pink dress, the collar rimmed with brown fur. Somehow, she looked even more out of place than you did.
“I see my men have found you both appropriate attire,” said Lord Bolton, smirking at your clear uncomfort.
“Yes, most kind of them,” Brienne replied, though it lacked any true sincerity. “You’re a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Stark’s orders to accompany Lady Y/N and Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing.”
With a scoff, Roose rolled his eyes. “If Catelyn Stark wasn’t the Wolf-King’s mother, he would have hanged her for treason.”
Growing frustrated at Jaime’s obvious struggles, Brienne reached over for a fork and stabbed it through the meat, allowing for him to cut through it easily.
“I should send you back to Robb Stark, Kingslayer,” said Roose.
You narrowed your eyes. “And here I assumed you already betrayed my nephew?”
“Gold is a tempting wealth, one that the Lannisters have in abundance,” Roose said, words sharp. “But it is easier to offer it than to dole it out.”
With raised brows, Jaime popped a piece of tender meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “And here you sit, watching me fail at dinner rather than tossing me into the back of a carriage and dumping me in front of Robb Stark. I wonder why that is.”
“Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you,”  Roose told Jaime. Then, he looked at you. 
“And we both know who would pay the most. Or who would make you pay the most if he found out you captured me and sent me back up North for a summary execution.”
A set of cutlery was placed out in front of you, and you trained your stare onto a dull butter knife. Not as sharp as you would’ve liked, but it’d do.
“Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill all three of you and burn your bodies,” said Lord Bolton. 
You wrapped your fingers around the butter knife, but, to your surprise, Jaime’s hand let go of his fork to gently rest over yours, as if to stop you from doing anything rash. This didn’t go past Roose’s notice, and he narrowed his cold, pale grey eyes. 
“It would be, yes… if you truly believed my father would never find out about it.” 
His hand slipped off of yours.
“King Robb is keeping him quite busy. He doesn’t have time for anything else.”
Humming Jaime, bobbed his head. “He’d make time for you.”
It seemed that Roose Bolton was convinced. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I will allow you to go to King’s Landing… as restitution for the mistakes my soldiers made. And you will swear to tell your father the truth—that I played no part in your maiming.”
“Very well,” said Jaime, seeming satisfied. It dawned on you that he thought both you and Brienne were to go with him. “My Ladies, may our journey continue without further hindrance.”
You bit down on your tongue when the Bolton simply smiled cruelly. “Oh, they won’t be going with you. They’re charged with abetting treason.”
Incredulous, Jaime said, “I’m afraid I must insist.”
“You’re in no place to insist on anything,” Roose scathingly replied. “I would have hoped you’d learned your lesson about overplaying your position.”
“Then let me insist. Send me back to my nephew,” you barked, brows knitting. “He can deal with me as he sees fit. I’m not going to be your prisoner.” 
With a wide smile, Roose Bolton pushed away from the table to stand. “Oh, but your nephew doesn’t know you’re here, Bitter Wolf. And I intend to keep it that way. It seems like you don’t have a choice.”
Before you could ask him anything else, Lord Bolton was already striding away. You exchanged a worried glance with both Jaime and Brienne, fear clutching around your heart.
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They’d put you in chains, and tossed you into a dark room, Brienne in another far, far away from you to prevent an elaborate escape scheme from forming between the two of you. The one they put you in had little to light the space other than a single lonely torch hanging by the doorway, and a small, rectangular window that filtered pale moonlight through the glass. You sat on one of the cold, uncomfortable chairs, arms wrapped around yourself as you shivered. The dress they’d given you wasn’t one fit for the cold. You supposed they were probably aware of that. 
The door on the other end of the chambers creaked open. In strode Jaime, his arm in a sling, a guard following close behind.
You rose to your feet, face solemn.
“I thought you’d left already.”
“Tomorrow,” replied Jaime. He stepped closer. “I tried to bargain with Roose. He’s adamant on keeping you here. I’m sorry. I’ll convince my father to buy you out. No man can deny the gold when it’s presented right in front of him.”
You wrenched your gaze away, fixing them upon the torch’s warbling flames. “Why?”
The blonde knight tilted his head. “What do you mean, why? I’m going to get you out.”
“Yes, I got that,” you softly said. This time, your eyes met his inquisitive green ones. “But why would you want me to get out?” 
“Because I… I owe you a debt. You released me from my imprisonment,” he replied. 
Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you strode forward the rest of the way, until you stood only inches from Jaime. You lowered your voice as you said, “I did it for a reason, Ser Jaime. Please… when you get to King’s Landing, swear you’ll send my nieces back to Robb. Send the girls to him, and consider the debt repaid.”
Jaime nodded. “I swear it.”
You studied him for a moment longer, eyes watering and nose stinging. “I wish there’s more you could do than simply swear. But I trust you, Ser Jaime. I trust you.”
Something within his expression changed, as if crumbling apart, piece by piece. He could see the anguish written across your complexion, clear as day. “Lord Bolton is traveling tomorrow. He’s going to the Twins for Edmure Tully’s wedding.”
Your eyes widened. “Edmure Tully? So… Robb isn’t the one marrying the Frey girl? It’s Edmure?” 
“Your nephew married a foreign girl,” said Jaime with a hint of a smile. “Stirred up quite a scandal amongst your people.”
“Oh, Robb. Foolish, foolish boy. The Freys couldn’t have taken that kindly,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, remembering the medic he was making heart-shaped eyes at. “But if Roose isn’t loyal to Robb anymore… he must be scheming something. What it is, I’m not sure.”
After a second, Jaime cleared his throat. Guilt splayed over his striking features. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’ll be left alone in this castle with Locke and his men. Without Roose, and without me.”
“Not another rape speech, Jaime,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Suddenly, Jaime’s hand darted out to grasp one of yours. Your eyes snapped up to his again, lips parting at the unexpected touch.
“Offer them money. As much as they might want. Even if you don’t have it, offer it. These men are greedy, sniveling creatures. Offer it to them, and they might just leave you alone,” said Jaime, deadly serious. 
You looked away again, squaring your jaw and nodding. A second passed before Jaime let your hand go. 
“Jaime,” you whispered, fear suddenly shadowing over your chest. “If your father buys me out, I’ll simply be moving from captive to captive. I won’t be returning home, will I?”
The blonde man’s features softened ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t be your captor,” he said. “I could never find it within me to stand back and watch you suffer just the same as I did.”
“I wouldn’t be your captive. I’d be your father’s. All my options seem to be dead ends for me,” you responded. Utter hopelessness flooded your features. “Thank you for trying, nonetheless. Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”
It might have just been a trick of the quivering fire’s light, but you could’ve sworn there was a whisper of tears in the corner of Jaime’s eyes. “Goodbye, Lady Stark.”
He held his hand out for a handshake, and you took it firm and steady. With a dip of his head, he turned and left your chambers.
And then, you were alone.
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“Qyburn hopes your father will force the Citadel to give him back his chain,” said Roose, striding up behind Jaime as the knight mounted a horse, struggling with only his one hand to aid him.
Snorting, Jaime retorted, “My father will make him Grand Maester if he grows me a new hand.”
Roose hummed with thought. “You’ll give my regards to Lord Tywin, then, I trust?”
A nod, and a slight smile. “Tell Robb Stark I’m sorry I couldn’t make his uncle’s wedding. And that his aunt dearly misses him. The Lannisters send their regards.”
There was a malicious sort of glimmer to Roose’s pale eyes. He bowed his head.
And off Jaime went, his horse walking slowly out the gate, a few Bolton loyalists accompanying him. There were eyes on him from every point of the castle, burning into him. Locke awaited by the gate a sneer to his lips. “Safe journey, Kingslayer. Ooh, nothing to say? I liked you better before… I don’t remember chopping your balls off, too!”
Jaime remained wisely silent, jaw clenching. 
“Don’t you worry about your companions. We’ll take good care of them. I’ve never had Wolf before, you know?”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It settled heavy within Jaime’s stomach.
He rode out of the castle without looking back.
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They took a pause on their journey around half a day later. His legs were weary and numb, but his stub throbbed. Qyburn took care of that, placing a strange sort of white ointment over the stitches before rebandaging them. In no time, the pain seemed to ebb away. 
After a bit of smalltalk on Qyburn’s rather disturbing confession to performing experiments on diseased men, Jaime swallowed uneasily and said, “You were in charge of the ravens at Harrenhal, no? Did you get a bird off to Brienne’s father in Tarth?”
Even if there was nowhere for you to go, Jaime surmised that at least Brienne would be able to return home with a proper ransom, right? 
“A bird flew off and a bird flew back,” said Qyburn. “Lord Selwyn Tarth offered three hundred gold dragons for his daughter’s safe return.”
“A fair offer,” hummed Jaime as he stood up to his feet to head back to his horse.
“Yes. An offer Locke won’t take.” 
Jaime faltered in his steps. “Why not?”
Qyburn frowned in thought. “He’s convinced Lord Tarth owns all the sapphire mines in Westeros. He feels he’s been cheated.”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
Jaime blew out a long breath. “They’d be fools to kill her.”
“Hm. These men have been at war for a long time. Most of them will be dead by winter, and they’re well aware of this. Both she and the Bitter Wolf will be their entertainment for tonight. Beyond tonight, I don't think they'd care very much what happens to her. They’ll have to keep the Stark alive for Lord Bolton, however. Use her as they see fit until he returns.”
Brows knitting together, Jaime shook his head. There was no chance he’d be able to live with himself knowing he condemned Brienne to her death, knowing you’d be raped and tortured and beaten when he could’ve put a stop to it. 
He turned to one of the men accompanying him. “We have to return to Harrenhal,” he said.
“Why?” asked the soldier, upper lip curling with contempt.
“I’ve… left something behind.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve got orders from Lord Bolton to take you to your father in King’s Landing, and that’s what I intend to do.”
Cocking his face, Jaime narrowed his keen green eyes. “You think you’ll get a reward?” 
“I serve Lord Bolton. Any appreciation from your father—”
Cutting him off, Jaime hissed out, “Let me explain something to you. When my father sees me, the first thing he’s going to ask is what happened to my hand. And I’ll be telling him that you were the one that chopped it off.”
“I had nothing to do with—!” “Or,” Jaime interrupted once again, lifting a finger, “I could tell him this man saved my life, and he’ll reward you greatly. We’re returning to Harrenhal. Now.”
The man in front of Jaime considered his words for a moment, before reluctantly nodding, ordering the rest of the men to get ready to turn back.
He was going back to get you, one way or another.
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Jaime hurriedly leapt off his horse once he was within the dreary confines castle. From afar, he could hear drunken singing and chanting. With quick feet, he rushed up several creaking stairs, up and up and up he went, before he came up onto an elevated platform more than twice his height, where hundreds and hundreds of men were gathered. He could barely hear anything over their loud song about a bear and a maiden.
To his horror, as Jaime pushed through the crowd, he caught sight of a large arena. And within it… was a large brown bear. 
Brienne was down there as well, in her tattered pink dress, her hands wrapped around a rather useless wooden training sword. And behind her, she was shielding you. Your expression was wild with terror, eyes darting every which way in an effort to search for a way out. The golden dress you were wearing was soaked with mud, torn in several places, and hanging haggardly off of one shoulder. Brienne was no better, with deep claw marks running along her neck down to her clavicle, blood dribbling down from the wound and staining her dress’ neckline crimson.
“Don’t spare her!” one of the onlookers yelled.
“Let the Wolf fight! Fucking coward!”
“Get on with it already!”
The bear roared angrily. Jaime could hear Brienne yelling, “Stay behind me, my Lady! I’ll protect you!”
“Well, this is one shameful fucking performance. Stop running and fight!” exclaimed Locke. Jaime’s eyes snapped up to him. 
“You gave her a wooden sword?” he asked, nose wrinkling with disgust. 
Locke glanced at the Kingslayer, thick brows raising in surprise. “Thought you’d gone.”
“You gave her a wooden sword!” he gritted out.
“We’ve only got one bear,” scoffed Locke.
Shoving people out of the way, Jaime stormed closer to the rotten man. “I’ll pay their bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires, whatever you want. Just get her out of there!”
With a smirk, Locke shook his head. “All you Lords and Ladies still think that the only thing that matters is gold.” He grabbed Jaime’s bandaged stub. “Well, this makes me happier than all your gold ever could! And that makes me happier than any of her sapphires! I’m sure taking the Bitter Wolf’s cunt for myself is going to be more pleasurable than winning the fucking war myself. So go buy a golden hand and fuck yourself with it!”
Furious, Jaime shoved Locke away, turning back to watch the fighting pits. The bear had swiped out at Brienne, causing her to fall back with a yell as one of its claws snagged against her jaw. You had yanked her to the side, effectively saving her from a deathly blow from the bear.
And without another thought, Jaime clambered over the railings, and jumped down. He had no idea what he was doing. His heart was racing within his chest, thumping an irregularly quick pace. All he could think was to stand in front of you and Brienne.
“Get behind me!” he yelled.
“I will not!” Brienne spat out a wad of blood as she struggled back onto her feet.
Just as the bear was about to strike again, an arrow shot out from the stands. You looked up to see one of the men Jaime had left with, clutching a crossbow. 
“What the fuck are you doing to my bear!?” Locke yelled, incredulous.
“Lord Bolton charged me with bringing him back to King’s Landing alive, and that’s what I intend to do!” he gruffed in response, loading another arrow.
The next one missed its target, landing into the large bear’s shoulder. Jaime took its distraction to his advantage, grabbing your hand and shoving you towards one of the tall walls. 
“Pull her up!” he ordered the people above. “Climb on my back!”
You did as he told with little complaint, hurriedly taking one of the offered hands and rolling onto the platform, breathless. Wasting no time, you got onto your feet and stormed to Locke, shoving him aside. You blew out a breath of relief as Brienne was also hauled up, leaving just Jaime in the pit. 
Terror clawed within your ribcage. Another bolt went flying to the bear, but it missed completely, skirting off to the side. Frustrated, you grabbed the crossbow from the man, loading another arrow and aiming with narrowed eyes.
Before the bear could maul Jaime in one strike, you let the bolt flying loose, and the sharp arrowhead pierced the bear clean through the skull. It fell down with one large thud, mud flying every which way at its collapse. 
“Help him up!” you told Brienne, placing another arrow into the crossbow and aiming it straight at Locke. “Put your hands on me, and I’ll have your eyes shot through the back of your head.”
To your relief, Brienne had helped Jaime back up onto the platform.
The men all around you booed, upset their entertainment was ripped away from them.
“You’re staying here. The big bitch, too,” said Locke, infuriated.
“If I stay, you’ll be dead. If Brienne stays, you’ll be dead. Is that a deal, or are you going to let me go?” When Locke found himself at a standstill, you growled out, “I’ll put a bolt through Jaime Lannister’s fucking head right now if you don’t let Brienne and I go. Do you think Tywin Lannister is going to be happy with his son dying by a Bolton arrow?”
There was a tense moment of silence. Locke stepped back, defeated. 
Jaime and Brienne both made their way to you, escorting you out of the castle.
“Sorry about the sapphires,” remarked Jaime just before he went down the steps, his smile sharp.
He caught up to you, still gripping the crossbow tightly. 
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Fucking peachy,” you spat. You casted a worried look to Brienne, quietly asking if she was too hurt to travel. When she expressed that she was fine, you finally turned your eyes back on Jaime. Your expression softened as you studied him. “You came back.”
“I came back,” he echoed, tone equally gentle. “Though, did you just threaten to have me killed up there, or—?”
“You know I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“Hm.” Jaime smiled. “I guess I do.”
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The journey to King’s Landing was going by quicker than you expected. Perhaps it was because Jaime had become less of a thorn in your side, and more of a respectable companion. Most of the time, anyway. He was still quite an annoyance, pestering you for stories of your past and never failing to jest about your infamously stoic disposition.
The Kingslayer was not your friend, no… but he certainly seemed to be treating you as one. Were you treating him as a friend, as well? 
You were resting against a tree, arms crossed over your chest as you tried to find sleep. The crossbow you had taken with you was propped up against your leg. Brienne was on watch, sharpening her sword a few meters away from you. 
To none of your surprise, Jaime had come ambling past, dropping beside you with a mild grunt. You didn’t spare him a glance, simply humming in acknowledgement.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, lolling his head against his shoulder so he could look at you. The green of his eyes glinted with the pearly moonlight, sharp and curious. “You’re free to go if you’d like. I told you I wouldn’t be your captor.”
Freedom. Something you hadn’t tasted in a long while.
Slow, you turned your head to face him, startled to see how close he was. Nonetheless, you didn’t pull away.
“I need to find my nieces and bring them back to Cat. To Robb. This… all of this… it can’t have been for nothing,” you murmured. “I can’t give up now.”
The man nodded. “I’ll help you, then. I swore I would.”
“I know,” you whispered in return. Jaime studied your features. Tired and weathered, broken and determined. Your eyes, however, read nothing but gratitude. “I still can’t believe you jumped into a pit with a bear in it. It was a foolish thing to do.”
“Yes, well, it saved you from a gruesome death. Some would say it was brave rather than foolish.”
“Bravery and foolishness go hand in hand,” you mused, with a slight scoff. After a lengthier silence, you croaked, “Thank you, Jaime.”
The blonde smiled. You didn’t see, for you had already turned your head away from him to gaze upwards, to the hazy stars in the night’s sky. 
Not ten minutes of amicable silence later, Jaime felt a weight drop upon his shoulder. You had slipped into a peaceful rest, accidentally resting your head against the knight. For a moment, he considered moving, giving you more space to sleep for longer. Your hair tickled his cheek, and your chest rose and fell with unencumbered breaths. You looked so much younger when you were asleep, free of the waking world’s burdens and tribulations.
And so Jaime stayed still. Jaime couldn’t quite understand why he began grinning. He didn’t even notice that he was smiling like a damn fool, even after the sun had long risen and you had jerked awake when light rays danced across your irritated eyes, murmuring flustered apologies and stumbling onto your feet to hurry away with a lame excuse of checking on Brienne. No, the smile stayed for a long, long time. 
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King’s Landing was smaller than Jaime remembered. Much smaller.
When Jaime stepped foot into the Red Keep, the first thing he did was go to see his sister. His beloved sister. Her door creaked open. Her back was to him. Golden hair shimmered beneath the sun’s waning light.
“Cersei,” he said. 
She turned, startled at the sound of her twin brother’s voice. Those sharp eyes of hers caught sight of his filthy state. Of his handless arm. 
Disgust flickered over her expression.
Hot shame washed over him. You didn’t look at his stump with that kind of disgust. No, you had looked at it with a certain kind of soft curiosity. Cersei looked angry, almost. Affronted that he would show up in such a broken, weak state.
Why wasn’t Cersei happy to see him? After all this time?
A few hours later, you were tossed down in front of King Joffrey, still in that disgusting, ripped golden dress the Boltons had given you. In contrast, Jaime had already been bathed, donned in golden armor and a white cloak. He hadn’t been able to speak with you since the three of you had arrived at the Keep.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
“And what are we to do with you?” his nephew, his son, crooned, smiling wide as if he’d caught himself a prize. “Sister to a traitor. Aunt to a traitor. Bitter Wolf, indeed.”
You refused to meet Joffrey’s burning gaze. Instead, you were looking at Sansa, off to the side of the courtroom, her blue eyes wide and tearful. Youthful hope was plastered clear as day across her pale, beautiful features. Relief. 
“Maybe I should put your head on a spike,” Joffrey mused.
At his words, Jaime stepped forward. “Your Grace, Lady Stark saved my life several times. She was the one who helped me escape. She is the entire reason I’m here now.”
It looked as if Joffrey wanted to spit at his uncle for ruining his fun. Before he could say anything, however, Tywin Lannister interrupted, “As the Hand, Your Grace, I’d advise to exercise compassion for the Bitter Wolf. We should be grateful to her for returning one of your Kingsguard back to you.” He thought it wise to make allies with you—after all, you were now technically the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, with all the Starks dead except your nieces. The rest of the North would be keen on following after you, rather than Roose Bolton.
“What good is a Kingsguard with just one hand?” snarked Joffrey. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. “She helped you escape, then, Uncle? Did she play a part in the Red Wedding? She must have, if she was so willing to betray her nephew!”
Wedding…?
You finally tore your eyes away from Sansa, looking up at Joffrey. Confusion clouded your expression.
The blonde King raised his brows. He grinned so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split into two. “Oh, Gods, she doesn’t know!” He began laughing. It was a cruel and calloused sound. “Robb Stark is dead. The traitor wolf died at his uncle’s own wedding! His pregnant whore of a wife and his bitch mother, as well.”
At the news, your lips parted, and your hands came up to cover them. Tears were quick to sting the corner of your eyes, and burn the bridge of your nose. Roose fucking Bolton did this. You didn’t want to cry in front of the monster of a boy, you really didn’t. But you couldn’t help it—your nephew was dead. Your good-sister was dead. And you weren’t there for them. 
Did Robb die hating you?
A silent sob wracked your entire body and your knees buckled. Sansa took a step forward, but stopped when one of the Kingsguard snarled at her. 
The rest of the court had fallen into a hushed silence. It was only broken when Joffrey stepped down from the Iron Throne, smirking maliciously.
“Welcome to court, Lady Stark. We are… forever indebted to you,” he chuckled, taking great pleasure at the fact that he was the one to break the tragic news. Then, he walked straight past you, humming as he left the throne room. The rest of the whispering Lords and Ladies trickled out after him. 
Jaime watched, brows furrowed in concern, as Sansa finally was able to run forward and envelop you into a tight hug. You gripped your niece and cried harder against her. It shattered your heart in a million pieces when she began to quietly cry into your neck, as well.
Lips pursed in a tight line, Jaime spared you one last glance before he turned to head after the King. 
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They’d put you in a large chamber, with large, arched windows giving you a perfect view of the ocean. Warm air billowed through, the breeze tousling your just-washed hair and cascading a heated flush down your face. You weren’t fond of hot weather—you were a Stark through and through, made of ice and snow.
The handmaids laid out a dark grey Southern dress for you to wear. It was loose and lightweight, with a neckline that plunged far too low for your liking, wide enough to only barely hang off your shoulders. The sleeves were long and drooped far past your hands. You narrowed your eyes, shifting the fabric around your waist, frowning at how it cinched uncomfortably. Damn Southerners.
There was a knock on your door just as you had finished readjusting the dress to the best of your abilities, and you turned to see Sansa quietly slide in, her handmaiden following after her. 
“My dear girl,” you whispered, reaching out to her. When Sansa stepped closer, you gently cupped her heart-shaped face with one hand. Her red curls were twisted into an updo, blue eyes scared and wide. 
She looked so much like her mother… her mother who was now gone…
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you roped her into an embrace. She was crying again, pulling away to hastily wipe her tears away, sniffling.
“I missed you,” she whispered. 
Though you’d never been too close to Sansa back when you were in Winterfell, as she wasn’t a fan of your cold nature, you still loved her, nonetheless. Sansa had lost her entire family in such a short span of time, she was immensely grateful to see you alive and well. A naive part of her hoped that you would whisk her away. Away from Cersei, away from Joffrey, and away from King’s Landing.
“Where’s Arya?” you asked.
“I don’t know. She disappeared when… when father…”
You nodded. Disappointment danced over your irises. Hopelessness. “She must’ve run out of King’s Landing. No doubt tried to make her way back home on her own. She could be anywhere from here to Winterfell by now.” Biting your lip, you encompassed her hands within yours. “Sansa, tell me. What’s happened here? Have they been treating you well?”
She shifted uncomfortably at the question. She hesitated for a moment, but quietly spoke upon remembering that you were her aunt, and that she could trust you. You were family. “No. Joffrey’s a monster. He’s cruel, and he likes hurting people. He’s pursuing Lady Margaery Tyrell now… and I’m married to Tyrion.”
“What?” Horror flickered over your expression.
Quickly, she added, “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, though… he’s not like Joffrey.”
From the corner of your eye, you could see Sansa’s handmaiden shift from foot to foot.
“That’s a relief. Are you sure you’re alright?”
Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes once more. “Better, now that you’re here.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that all on your own,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You poor girl.”
“What happened to you? Why did you leave Robb?”
“I wanted to save you and your sister. I thought that if I traded Jaime for you and Arya, I could… I could bring you back. It’s a long story, but… it didn’t work out. Your sister is gone, and Robb is gone, as well. Winterfell is not ours anymore. There is nowhere safe for us to go.” 
Fear made her lips warble. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying… we must stay here for a while. It’s safest here. For now. But when we find an opportunity, we must take it.”
She looked like she wanted to protest for a minute, but she blew out a shaking breath. “Alright. I trust you.”
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The weeks passed by in a breeze. A warm breeze. Jaime had grown rather accustomed to the cold of the North during his year of imprisonment. The heat down here was sticky and uncomfortable—especially beneath his golden armor. 
He never would have thought that he’d miss the sight of snow.
He was rarely given the chance to speak to you or Brienne, busy with his duties as part of the Kingsguard. But he would see you in the distance, hovering protectively over your sweet-faced niece, walking the gardens, staring out at the oceans, as if planning out an escape. It was a strange thing seeing the two of you together. The little dove and the bitter wolf. 
Exactly four weeks after Jaime had returned to King’s Landing his father called for a meeting with him. Apparently, Tywin had something to give him.
“It’s magnificent,” Jaime said in awe, slowly swinging the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, testing its balance. “Fresh-forged?”
“Yes,” said Tywin, stoic-faced. 
Jaime turned to look at his father. “No one’s made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria,” the knight commented, brows raising.
With a nod, Tywin sank into his seat with seamless grace. “There are only three living smiths who know how to rework Valyrian steel. The finest of them was in Volantis. He came here to King’s Landing at my invitation.”
Jaime hummed. “You’ve wanted one of these in the family for a long, long time.”
“And now we have two.”
“Two?”
“The original weapon was absurdly large. Eddard Stark’s. It provided more than enough for two swords.”
There was a long pause before Jaime stepped forward. “Well, thank you. It’s glorious.” As Tywin nodded, whatever small glimmer of pride in his eyes waned away when Jaime struggled to sheath the sword, with his only one hand to aid him.
“You’ll have to train your left hand,” his father gruffed.
Frowning, Jaime replied, “Any decent swordsman knows how to use both hands.”
“You’ll never be as good.”
A pause. Even with both his hands, Jaime was never good enough for his father.
“As long as I’m better than everyone else, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Narrowing his keen eyes, Tywin sternly said, “You can’t serve in the Kingsguard with just one hand.”
“Where’s that written?” Jaime snapped back. “I can and I will. The Kingsguard oath is for life.”
“The war is over. The King is safe,” said Tywin.
Jaime scoffed. “The King is never safe! How many people in this city alone would love to see his head on a pike?”
You, for one. Jaime knew you would snap Joffrey’s neck if you were ever given the chance to. 
Damn it. There he went, thinking of you again. It was as if you were some sort of disease festering in his mind.
“The King was protected by other knights while you were a prisoner. They will continue to do so when you go home.”
Ah. So that’s what this was about. 
“Home?” Jaime echoed.
“You’ll return to Casterly Rock… and rule in my stead.”
Tywin wanted him to go back and abandon all his duties. Find a wife from a noble house, bear children—preferably sons, and secure heirs for the Lannister household. But that was not who Jaime was. No, Jaime wanted… he wanted…
“You are the Lord of Casterly Rock,” reminded Jaime, studying his father as if he’d gone daft. 
Face ever so stony, Tywin replied calmly, “I am the King’s Hand. My place is here. I don’t expect to see the Rock again before I die.”
“You know what they call me? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. And now you want me to break another sacred vow,” sighed Jaime, blowing out a long, exasperated breath.
Tywin’s green eyes, paler than Jaime’s were, bore holes into his head. “You won’t be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieving the Kingsguard of his duties. The King will exercise that prerogative.”
How could Jaime leave his brother and sister here for a life he didn’t even want? How could he leave you with his monster of a nephew? How could he leave Sansa when he swore to you that he would get her to safety?
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” parroted Jaime.
Tywin’s upper lip curled into a slight snarl. “I don’t believe I asked you a question.”
“But I’m giving you an answer,” said Jaime. 
“If you think your bloody honor comes before—”
“My bloody honor is beyond repair, but my answer is still no!” Jaime interrupted, his voice raising in volume. “I don’t want Casterly Rock. I don’t want to marry some woman I barely know. I don’t want to bear her children.”
“Then what do you want?”
For a moment, Jaime struggled for words. Cersei, he thought. But Cersei doesn’t seem to want me anymore. Not with my hand missing.
“Supper would be nice,” said Jaime.
The older of the two scowled heavily. “For forty years I’ve tried to teach you. If you haven’t learned now, you never will. Go. If serving as a glorified bodyguard is the sum of your ambition, then go serve.”
“I suppose you want the sword back.”
“Keep it. A one-handed man with no family needs all the help he can get,” spat Tywin.
No family. That stung Jaime much more than he’d care to admit.
With no more words to spare his father, Jaime strode away, sword in hand, his white cloak fluttering with his departure.
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A golden hand. Qyburn had brought him a golden hand.
“A work of art,” he declared.
Jaime wasn’t so impressed. The gold just brought more attention to the fact that he didn’t have a hand in the first place. Not to mention that it was heavy and clunky. He would’ve been much more satisfied with something dull and lightweight.
“If you like it so much, chop off your own hand and take it,” he dryly remarked.
Pouring herself a chalice of wine, Cersei rolled her eyes. “You’re such an ingrate. I spent days with the goldsmith getting the details just right.”
“Days?” Jaime asked, skeptical.
She shrugged. “The better part of an afternoon.”
Once it was properly fixed onto his stub, Qyburn asked how it felt.
“A hook would’ve been more practical,” said Jaime.
It was then that his sister dismissed the older man, thanking him for his services present and past. Jaime waved around the new hand, testing its lopsided weight. 
Finally, Cersei turned to him.
“Odd little man,” he quipped.
“I’ve grown rather fond of him. He’s quite talented, you know.”
Tilting his head, Jaime asked, “What past services? You were hurt?”
“None of your concern,” she calmly replied. 
Frustration licked its way up Jaime’s chest. It was as if Cersei was purposefully dangling her secrets in front of him, but kept him at a safe distance by not disclosing anything. He wanted to yell, throttle her, asking her to be plain and truthful with him. It was wishful thinking, of course.
“You let him touch you?” was all he could think of saying. 
There was a laugh to her tone. “Jealous?”
No. Bitter, more like—he’s spent too much time with you, perhaps. “Surprised. You never let Pycelle touch you,” he said.
“You think I’d let that old lecher put his hands on me?” She sipped on the wine. Then took another, and another, and another. “He smells like a dead cat.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a dead cat.” Narrowing his eyes, Jaime observed his sister finish what was in her chalice, reaching over to pour more. “You drink more than you used to.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The way her lip curled in disdain was eerily reminiscent of his father. Jaime felt the beginnings of a headache pound at the front of his temple. 
“Hm, let’s see. You started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the capital. My husband died in a tragic hunting accident.”
An accident you made sure to cause, Jaime thought. She is just as much of a Kingslayer as I am.
“Must have been traumatic,” Jaime sneered, dripping with irony.
“My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne.”
Our daughter.
“We suffered through a siege.”
Blowing out a sigh, Jaime barked out a humorless laugh. “A rather short siege.”
“One that I didn’t expect to survive,” she quickly snapped back. Wisely, she decided not to tell Jaime she was a hair’s breadth away from poisoning Tommen. “And now I’m marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden, while I’m supposed to marry her brother, a renowned pillow-biter.”
Without her noticing, Jaime had stood up and came to sit beside her. “Father disowned me today,” he said. 
“He can’t disown you. You’re all he’s got,” she said.
“You’re forgetting Tyrion.”
At the mention of her other brother, Cersei’s face twisted with repulsion.
“You don’t really plan on staying in the Kingsguard, do you?”
Jaime leaned forward, placing his golden hand behind her and his remaining one atop her knee. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was doing. Trying to kindle whatever there was between them again, perhaps. Desperately seeking what he used to have before he left King’s Landing. “Staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here, in the Red Keep with you.”
Just as he dipped his head forward, his nose brushing against her cheek, Cersei yanked herself away, standing up to stride back to the table and pour herself some more wine.
“Not now,” she said.
Frustrated, Jaime gritted out, “Not now? Then when? I’ve been back for weeks! What’s changed?”
“Everything!” she practically yelled. There was fire behind her irises. “Everything’s changed! You come back after all this time with no apologies and one hand and that bitch wolf and expect everything to be the same?”
Baffled, Jaime asked, “What do you want me to apologize for?”
“For leaving me,” she spat.
“You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?”
“I don’t know what you wanted. You weren’t here. You left me alone.”
It seemed that Cersei was so blinded by her rage, she refused to see anything from his perspective. They’d always considered each other to be their missing half. Now, Cersei felt more like a thorn in his side rather than something that’d make him whole.
“Every day, I was a prisoner. I plotted my escape, every day.”
Cersei shook her head. “But you didn’t, did you? Not until the Bitter Wolf set you free.”
“I murdered people so I could be here with you!”
“You took too long.”
“I… what? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you took too long,” she echoed.
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away!” yelled Jaime.
“Come in,” said Cersei.
The door swung open. Beyond his limit, Jaime stood up and shouldered past the handmaiden to storm out of the chambers.
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Brienne fidgeted beside you as you watched Sansa pray down by the stony shores. What she was praying for, you weren’t quite sure. It seemed that Brienne was restless, seeing that Sansa was right there, but she couldn’t quite do anything about it. There was nowhere to take the both of you. She felt like she’d failed you—again.
Jaime came to stand by the two of you, commenting on how strange it was to see a Wolf in Southern drab, but quickly shut his mouth when you spared him an unimpressed look. 
“You made a promise,” said Brienne.
“Mmh, yes, to return the Stark girls to their mother, who is now dead,” Jaime replied. 
It was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack beneath all your jaw-gritting.
“To keep them safe,” Brienne emphasized.
“Well, Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money’s on dead. There’s a certain safety in death, no?”
Your stomach lurched. With a scowl, you spat out, “She’s not dead. Arya’s a smart, nifty little thing. She’s probably off posing as a stableboy somewhere. People always mistook her as one back in Winterfell, anyway.”
With a huff, Jaime continued, “Alright, well, regardless, she’s not here for me to protect. And Sansa Stark… well, she’s Sansa Lannister now, yes? Bit of a complication.”
Brienne drew herself to her full height, staring Jaime down. “A complication does not release you from a vow!”
“And what would you have me do? Kidnap my sister-in-law? And take her where? Where would she be safer than here?”
“Look me in the eye and tell me she’ll be safe in King’s Landing,” hissed Brienne.
Jaime wasn’t able to do so. Instead, he crossed his arms and narrowed his green eyes. “Are you sure we’re not related? Ever since I’ve returned, every Lannister I’ve seen has been a miserable pain in my ass. Maybe you’re a Lannister, too. Got the hair for it.”
Trouble in paradise? you thought in mild amusement.
Though you were reluctant to admit it, you said, “She’s not safe here. But this is the safest place she can be for now. I was thinking of the Vale, but Lysa Arryn is not sound of mind… I doubt she’d welcome Sansa into her home with open arms. There’s the Night’s Watch, where Jon is. But there is no way we could pass through the North without a Bolton hound sniffing us out.”
The blonde knight hung his head. “It’s better if you just stay here. Things will be less messy that way.”
Before either of you could fit in a reply, Jaime was already striding away. Brienne glanced at you apologetically, before heading away, murmuring something about having to speak with Margaery Tyrell.
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Tyrion Lannister invited you to breakfast. You’d stared at the parchment with raised brows, chewing on your bottom lip in thought. From what you could recall, Tyrion was a sharp-tongued man, but Sansa was clear that he was kind. And so, you accepted the invitation.
Needless to say, you weren’t expecting to see Jaime there.
But of course he was there—they were brothers, after all.
The knight bowed his head in a silent greeting, looking overall weary but tried to offer you a small smile nonetheless. You nodded in return, taking a seat beside him. Tyrion watched the exchange keenly, sat down across from the two of you.
“How is the capital treating you, my Lady?” asked Tyrion, voice pleasant.
“Fine,” you replied hastily. “Hot. Dry. The air tastes like salt.”
With a chuckle, Tyrion began digging into his breakfast. “Yes, that would either be the piss on the streets or the ocean itself. You can never tell here.” 
You glanced down at the plate full of eggs and sausages and fried potatoes the cupbearer put down in front of you. Suddenly, you had no stomach to eat. It seemed Jaime was thinking along the same lines, because he had yet to touch his food.
Glancing down, you noticed his new golden hand. Following your gaze, Tyrion quipped, “That new hand is better than the old one.” He looked up at his cupbearer. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pod?”
With a quiet hum, you shook your head. “Heavy, immobile metal over real, living flesh? Your definition of better must align with expenses, then.”
Tyrion smiled a genuine smile. “It looks better.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Neither of you are eating. Why is no one eating? My wife wastes away, her aunt sulks around, and my brother starves himself.”
“I’m not hungry,” Jaime was quick to say.
“You lost a hand, not a stomach.”
Drawing in a breath, you gritted out, “You’d sulk if your entire family was killed, wouldn’t you?”
The comment made Tyrion wince slightly. “Apologies, my Lady. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just wanted to have a meal with my family. The tolerable ones, at least. I invited Sansa, but she politely declined. So please, try the boar. Cersei hasn’t gotten enough of it since one killed Robert for her.”
After a beat of intense silence, you sat up straight and began cutting through the food, eating slowly. It didn’t go past your notice when Jaime pushed his plate further away from him.
“A toast to us,” said Tyrion, lifting his goblet. “The dwarf, the cripple, and the Bitter Wolf.”
Both you and Jaime grimaced at the names. Jaime reached forward to grab his wine chalice, but clumsily forgot that his golden hand couldn’t bend to take it, effectively knocking it over. Purple-crimson spilled all over the table, dribbling down onto you and staining the dress you were wearing a darker shade of mauve. 
“I’ll clean it,” started Pod.
Jaime waved him away. “No. I’ll do it. Leave us.” He turned to you, frowning and handing you a dishtowel. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s alright,” you quickly reassured him, taking the rag and wiping away the excess. “It’s not my dress. Not my wine. It feels refreshing on my skin, actually.”
Jaime watched you for a moment, his eyes soft. 
Tyrion tilted his head. “Seems the wolf isn’t so bitter, after all. The journey softened you, I take it?”
At his words, your expression hardened, and Jaime sent him a sidelong glare. 
The younger of the two quickly backtracked. Gods, you were just not a very good conversationalist, were you? “My brother told me you shot down a bear to save him.”
“I did,” you curtly said.
“You and I are going to be good friends, I think,” Tyrion mused. He grinned wide, before taking another sip from his cup.
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Joffrey’s wedding ceremony was a grand event. It was all decorations and Lannister heraldry, candles and flowers and bells every which way you looked. You didn’t care at all for it, really. As long as the monster wasn’t marrying your niece. It was a shame—Margaery Tyrell seemed a nice enough woman. At least, you knew Sansa took a liking to her.
You hadn’t even realized that the ceremony was over until people began clapping, Joffrey pulling away from his kiss with Margaery. If she was upset about the ordeal at all, she didn’t show it. Either she was as deranged as her new husband, or she was a very good actor. Jolting out of your reverie, you lightly clapped thrice before letting your hands fall back to your sides. Gods, this dress itched. A pale shade of pink, laced with golden thread. How the Southerners wore this kind of garb every day, you never knew.
Before you knew it, the wedding feast was commencing. Somehow, it was even more of a large-scale event than the ceremony had been. Performers in every corner, some swallowing swords, others juggling flaming torches, and a few with seductive eyes, twisting themselves into knots and rotating their bones in ways you never knew the body could bend. There were a million and one dishes lining the gilded tables, platters upon platters of rich foods, sweet pastries, fruits with cheese, and savory meats. Chalices of golden ales and honeyed wines were passed around, filled to the brim. Frankly, you would’ve enjoyed the event, had it not been in honor of the most rancid boy you’ve had the displeasure of knowing. 
The lords and ladies attending avoided you like the plague—either spooked by the deep glower etched over your features, or by the fact that you were the infamous Bitter Wolf herself… It didn't make much of a difference. Two people who didn’t treat you as if you carried a disease were Oberyn Martell and his paramour, Ellaria Sand. Both of them regarded you with poorly-hidden lust, offering for you to join them in their chambers after the feast, to which you had no idea how to respond. You were flattered, truly, and there was no doubt that they were both very attractive people, but you were in no mood to fool around in the capital. After you bid them a hasty farewell, Tyrion came to say hello as well, and you dipped your head in greeting. He was quick to walk away, claiming he was in dire need of alcohol in his system.
After the short interactions, you made a beeline for the royal table, wishing to be by your niece’s side—no doubt she was feeling anxious at Joffrey’s wedding, even if she wasn’t the one to wed him. 
Just as you grazed a hand against Sansa’s shoulder, clad by a soft purple dress, Olenna Tyrell made her way to the two of you. 
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you before, Bitter Wolf,” said the old woman, smiling kindly at you. 
“We haven’t,” you curtly replied. “Congratulations on the wedding.”
She waved away your words. “Congratulations to you for making your way to King’s Landing alive, despite everybody’s expectations. You were surely a surprise for everyone at court.” Then, she darted her eyes to Sansa. She reached out to brush her hand along her braids and the necklace resting against her clavicle. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother, and your nephew. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding… it’s horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage!”
Roose Bolton. The name seared hot fury through your chest. According to Jaime, Tywin had given the North over to the Boltons to take over—but he would be met with all the stubbornness of the Northern houses, and they wouldn’t bend the knee to anyone but a Stark. It was a relief to also hear that Tywin wouldn’t be helping the Boltons any further. 
Olenna’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit! Now that peace has come and all's right with the world… it would do you good to see some of it,” she told Sansa, smiling kindly. Then she glanced over at you again. “You look wonderful, Lady Y/N. You’re much prettier than I thought you’d be… your name carries a certain weight to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I ate some of this food I paid for.”
She ambled away, and you rubbed your hand along Sansa’s back. From afar, you caught a glimpse of Jaime speaking with Loras Tyrell. The green of his eyes caught yours. “I’ll be back,” you whispered to your niece, before making your way to Jaime. You didn’t quite know what you were going to Jaime for. Perhaps it was because he was the only other person in the wedding than Brienne and Sansa you felt comfortable conversing with. What a long way the two of you had come.
“Y/N,” he greeted, straightening himself when you grew close. His heavy golden armor shone beneath the hot sun. “You look beautiful.”
There was a warm sincerity to his words, but you shook your head anyway. “In comparison to your months with me covered in mud and filth, of course.” After a pause, you asked, “What’s it like? Watching your nephew get married? I… I wasn’t there to see Robb marry the medic girl he seemed so smitten with.”
“It’s strange,” Jaime truthfully admitted. “Especially when I hardly know the Tyrell girl. My sister detests her, though. Calls her a whore more often than she drinks, and we both know how much she drinks.”
Though you didn’t smile, there was a glint of amusement in your eyes. “Be honest with me. I know he’s your nephew… your… your blood… but you can’t truly love him, do you?”
The knight bit the inside of his cheek. No, of course he didn’t. Jaime was well aware that he was a monster, beyond saving. “Family is family,” he eventually replied. 
The disappointment in your expression didn’t go beyond his notice. 
“I wanted to ask, Jaime,” you carefully began. “What would happen if I were to leave the capital with Sansa? Would you be ordered to bring me back? Or would we be able to walk away free?”
“Not this again. I told you, it’s safest for you to be here—”
“It’s a hypothetical. Would you turn me in if you were ordered to?” you quietly asked. “I need to know if… if I can trust you, Jaime.”
Jaime’s eyes searched yours. He stepped closer, hand lifting to grasp your forearm and tugged you to the side, where it was a bit less crowded. “No. Is that what you want to hear? That I’d betray my oaths for you? That I’d help you cross the world if you asked, honor be damned?”
Stricken by his words, you found yourself speechless. 
You cleared your throat after a long moment. “Well… even if that was true, it’s not like we’d have anywhere safe to go. My bannermen are scattered, and between them are the Boltons and the Freys. The seas are occupied by the Greyjoys and pirates alike.”
Jaime nodded. “Stay here. I can keep you safe from here.”
“Can you?” you challenged, eyes narrowed.
A bark of a laugh. Jaime spared you a roguish grin. “Don’t make me swear it. You know my habit of breaking my vows well by now.”
You blew out a breath. “Thank you, Jaime. Truly.”
“Yes, you chose a perfect time during my nephew’s wedding to discuss such matters.”
And then came a sound foreign to his ears—you laughed. You just laughed! It was awkward and barely counted as genuine, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Jaime’s mouth parted, gaping at you with amazement. 
“Did you just laugh?”
“What? Am I not allowed to?”
“No, no, it just… took me by surprise. It was nice.”
He smiled, wide and genuine. From the corner of his eye, he caught his sister glaring at the two of you with an intense, angry gaze. The smile fell away from his lips, and his entire body stiffened. You followed his gaze, raising your brows upon seeing Cersei. With a nudge and a grunt of a goodbye, you stepped away from Jaime, not wanting to antagonize the Lannister woman any further.
You moved to the tables to pluck at the sweet, fat grapes, popping them into your mouth with a pleased hum. Not too soon after, Brienne joined you, chattering about the food and how it reminded her of her own home. Just as you were about to ask her what her favorite dish was, glad to have someone you could call a friend, a certain blonde woman came forth to the two of you.
“Lady Brienne,” greeted Cersei. You turned to look at her. “Bitter Wolf. I owe you both my gratitude. You returned my brother safely to King’s Landing.”
The taller woman gave you a glance, unsure of what to say. You nodded. “Jaime did his fair share of saving. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him, either.”
The green of her eyes flashed dangerously. It didn’t go past her notice that you called him by his first name without his formal title of Ser. “Did he, now? Strange… I haven’t heard a thing about it from him.”
“Not such a fascinating story, I’m afraid,” said Brienne, grimly thinking back to the men trying to rape her.
“I’m sure you have many fascinating stories, Lady Brienne,” Cersei crooned in a condescending manner. “Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next, serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.”
Brows knitting together, Brienne protested, “I don’t serve your brother, Your Grace.”
“Hm.” Cersei lifted her chin pridefully. “I just find it funny how… a few moons ago, the Bitter Wolf was our sworn enemy, behind the mighty King in the North. And now here you are, safe in our capital, making seductive eyes at my brother. You betrayed your nephew, who’s to say you won’t betray my brother, as well?”
Seductive eyes?
Anger began clawing up your throat, smoldering hot. You swallowed painfully slow. “Is that all, Your Grace?” you asked in a level tone. She wanted a reaction out of you… to warn you to stay away from her brother. Her lover. You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of being upset. “Brienne and I want to go watch the performers, if you would excuse us.”
She looked infuriated at your dismissal, watching as you linked arms with Brienne and gently led her to the stage. 
“Are you alright, my Lady?” asked the large woman.
“I’m fine. She’ll have to do far worse than that if she truly wants to provoke me,” you replied. 
The two of you enjoyed each other’s company for a little longer, striding through the crowds and plucking food off of the mountain-high platters. Though she was younger than you, she carried herself with the weight of someone with several decades’ worth of experience. You appreciated that about Brienne.
Your conversations were cut short when Joffrey stood up from the royal table, screeching for silence. He was presenting a show—one depicting the so-called ‘history’ of the war. It was a crude rendition, riddled with falsities. 
You felt your heart drop to your stomach when several dwarves ran out in offensive costumes, depicting Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Joffrey himself, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark. One by one, they battled one another. Stannis killing off Renly, Robb taking out Balon, Joffrey eliminating Stannis with wildfire. 
Tears filled your eyes when Robb was the only one left standing, with only Joffrey left. You glanced at Sansa, who watched the show with a stony expression. Her time in King’s Landing taught her never to give anything away. Keep her emotions within herself, for her own safety.
And finally, you couldn’t take it anymore once they knocked his direwolf’s head off. The actor playing Joffrey grabbed the head and began to motion humping it, moaning as the crowd cheered. The real Joffrey—the one lounging at the royal table, only a few feet from your sweet niece—spat his wine all over as he laughed and snorted and chuckled. 
A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. For him to disrespect your family in such a way… it was sickening.
Once the disgusting performance was over, Joffrey clapped and hollered. He turned to his uncle Tyrion, offering him to go and prove his worth by fighting the actors. 
In response, Tyrion said, “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace. I think you should fight them, instead. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first hand witness. Climb down from the high table and show everyone how a true King wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust.” He gestured towards the imitator of Joffrey who had pretended to fuck Grey Wind. “It would be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”
A hesitant ripple of laughter echoed across the crowd. Joffrey was so furious it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure of his clenched jaw. With no further words, Joffrey grabbed his chalice of wine, stomping over to Tyrion and tipping the cup over so the sticky liquid spilled out to drip down his uncle’s head.
“A fine vintage,” said Tyrion. “A shame that it spilled.”
Acknowledge me! Joffrey wanted to scream. Fight me! Show me how angry you are!
“It did not spill,” he gritted out. 
“My love, come back to me,” said Margaery, reaching out for her husband, wishing to quell the tense atmosphere. “It’s time for my father’s toast!”
The young boy made a grand show of being void of wine, and demanded Tyrion be his cupbearer, seeing as he was too cowardly to fight. He dropped the empty chalice for him to pick up, cruelly kicking it away just as it was within Tyrion’s reach. 
“Bring me my goblet,” he said.
He relished watching his uncle get to his hands and knees, crawling beneath the tables in search of the goblet. Your niece, your sweet, darling niece, stood from her chair to bend down and pick it up, as it was closest to her. She handed the cup to her husband, pursing her lips. 
The next few moments passed by in a tense haze.
Tyrion filled the cup. Held it out for his nephew to take.
Joffrey ordered him to kneel.
Tyrion refused to do so, staring straight at him with defiant eyes.
The pigeon pie came out, large enough to feed the entire wedding three times over. 
You watched as Tyrion and Sansa were about to leave the wedding, and you had half the mind to follow them, wanting nothing more than to be alone in your chambers for the night. However, before they could leave, Joffrey called out for his uncle once more.
“Where are you going? You’re my cupbearer, remember?” 
“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace.”
“No, no, no. You’re perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.” 
Tyrion glanced back at Sansa. With a huff, he made his way back to the table, handing the goblet back to Joffrey, and turned to walk back to his awaiting wife. 
The King gulped down the contents of the cup greedily. Droplets of Dornish leaked from the corners of his mouth.
“If it please Your Grace, Sansa is very tired—”
“No!” yelled the boy-king. “No. You’ll wait here and—”
He dissolved into a fit of coughs. Drank more of that wine of his.
Both you and Brienne glanced at each other. 
Joffrey wheezed. Cersei sat forward in her chair. Margaery’s eyes widened.
“He’s choking!” she screamed once Joffrey began clutching at his chest.
“Someone help the poor boy!” yelled Olenna Tyrell.
Joffrey staggered forward, falling as he continued coughing, spluttering, and choking. Bits of pigeon pie fell from his mouth, flecked with wine and a far darker liquid: his blood. This was no mere obstruction of his windpipe—this was the work of poison.
Your lips parted open as you watched Jaime hurriedly push through the crowd to get to him, kneeling beside him, calling his name, unsure of what to do. Cersei screamed even louder, shoving Jaime to the side, cradling her oldest son to her chest as she weeped.
His face turned purple. His eyes bulged out of his skull. Foam frothed about his lips. 
He twitched, and twitched, and twitched again. One of his hands lifted to jerkily point at Tyrion, who was watching on in confused horror. 
Blood dribbled out of Joffrey’s nostrils. 
A second later, the twitching stopped. 
Joffrey Baratheon was dead.
And you were too busy relishing in the fact, you hadn’t even realized that Sansa was gone.
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It wasn’t often that Jaime visited the Sept. 
Now that Joffrey was dead… well, that was plenty of reason for him to go. Especially now that Cersei seemed to spend all her time there, hovering over her dead son like a vulture. When he came through the grand doors, he passed by his father and little Tommen, the former in the middle of telling the young boy about the duties of marriage, seeing as he was now King.
Tywin didn’t seem too upset that Joffrey was dead. To be fair, neither did Jaime.
“How are you?” Jaime asked, stopping in front of his youngest nephew. It wasn’t an easy thing—watching your older brother die in front of you at his own wedding.
“I’m alright,” he murmured.
Jaime nodded, patting his shoulder. “Good.”
Then, he made his way down the rest of the steps, Tywin leading Tommen out. Jaime dismissed the rest of the priests, wanting to be alone with Cersei.
Once only the two of them were left in the Sept—along with Joffrey’s corpse, of course—Cersei finally spoke. Her voice was croaky and hoarse with disuse. “It was Tyrion,” she said. “He killed him. He told me he would. ‘A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.’ That’s what he said to me. You saw it… you saw Joff point at him before he—”
Lowering his tone, Jaime whispered, “I don’t know what I saw.”
Cersei shut her eyes. “Avenge him,” she said, words warbling with emotion. “Avenge our son. Kill Tyrion.”
What she said seemed to strike Jaime across the face. He reared back, affronted. “Tyrion’s my brother. He’s our brother. There’ll be a trial. We’ll get to the truth of what happened.”
“I don’t want a trial!” she hissed. “He’ll squirm his way to freedom, given the chance. I want him dead.”
Tears slipped down both of her eyes. It was as if the dam inside her had finally broken under all the weight of her grief.
“Please, Jaime,” she sobbed. “You have to! He was our son! Our baby boy!”
He drew closer to her, tugging her into an embrace. Her fingers curled into the leather of his tunic. When she raised her tearful face to yank him into a desperate kiss, Jaime didn’t resist.
Then, as quickly as she had advanced upon him, she shoved him away yet again. Jaime was beginning to grow tired of her pushing him in such a way. It wasn’t fair. 
“Tyrion’s wretched wife, Sansa, has disappeared. No doubt she played a hand in Joff’s murder. I want you to find her. Kill her, too. And I want the Bitter Wolf locked up in her niece’s place.”
Jaime’s eyes widened as he regarded his sister with an incredulous stare. “What? But Y/N hasn’t done anything. She has nothing to do with this!”
“Oh, because you were watching her the entire time, when you should’ve been guarding my son? It’s not a wonder he was murdered right beneath our noses, then!” Cersei screeched, voice raising several octaves. “Tell me, do you love her? Do you love that fucking wolf traitor more than you love me, your own sister? More than you love your son?”
Jaime was at a loss for words. Did he love you?
When he didn’t reply, Cersei angrily turned away from him, drying her face with the fabric of her sleeves. “You’re a disgrace to us. To our family.”
She sounded exactly like father. Anger coiled within his stomach. Jaime narrowed his sharp eyes. 
“You are a hateful woman,” he seethed. “Y/N is anything but. Bitter Wolf, people call her, but she is not bitter. She is hurt. She is grieving. Just as you are. She saved my life, and I owe her nothing but my gratitude.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, Jaime strode away, off to go pay you a long overdue visit.
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A knock on your door. It was the dead of night, and you were only minutes away from falling asleep, having exhausted yourself with tears and stress. You weren’t at all dressed properly for visitors. Nonetheless, you dragged yourself out of your bed, your shift hanging wrinkled and lopsided over your body. 
Your door creaked open, and you were tiredly blinked upon seeing Jaime on the other side. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shifted away from the entrance, silently opening the door wider to make space for him to come in. Without hesitation, the knight slid in, dipping his head as greeting. You’d been crying—he could still see the dried tear tracks on your cheeks, only faintly illuminated by the sparse candles in the chambers.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” croaked Jaime, looking every bit as defeated as you. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Are you alright?”
You gingerly shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a weary sigh. “My entire family is gone. Lost or dead.”
“Right. Stupid question.” Jaime cleared his throat. “We’ve both lost our nephews now.”
“It’s not the same, Jaime,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You know it’s not. Joffrey was a monster, and the world is better off without him. And I… I loved Robb as if he was my own son. The younglings, Bran and Rickon, as well.”
For a second, Jaime looked like he wanted to say something. Wisely, he held his tongue. He took a small step forward, closer to you. He was keenly aware that he was alone in your room, not at all appropriate for an unmarried lord or lady, but he really couldn’t care. The two of you were above that. Besides, he’d seen you naked before, for heaven’s sake! 
So why was he suddenly so flustered now?
“Cersei wants me to find Sansa,” he began, carefully. “And she wants me to kill her.”
Noticeably, you stiffened. Your eyes were wide, he could see the panic begin to set within your wintry irises. 
In a placating tone, he quickly reassured, “I would never do such a thing. Frankly, I’m offended that you’d think I would. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it, even if Catelyn Stark is dead.”
After a second, your muscles loosened. You avoided his eyes, but murmured, “I believe you, Jaime.” There was a soft silence hanging between the two of you. Finally, it was shattered when you asked, “What of your brother, Tyrion? What is to happen to him?”
Jaime nodded, glad that you were on the same wavelength as him. “I was hoping… you’d come with me to speak with him.”
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The dungeons were much colder than above. You were well acquainted with the drops in temperature, but it seemed that Tyrion had yet to adjust. He was shivering, bundled up in a musty blanket that Podrick had brought him.
“To tell you the truth, this isn’t so bad,” said Jaime, glancing around the spacious cell. “Four walls. A pot to piss in… I wasn’t given such a luxury during my time as a prisoner. I was chained to a wooden post or a stone wall, covered in my own shit for months on end.”
The younger brother sent him a half-hearted glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Maybe a bit,” replied the knight. He glanced down at his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“Complicated, yes,” said Tyrion. “And you brought the Bitter Wolf with you. Hello, Lady Stark.”
His eyes, sunken and empty, darted over to you, shrouded in the shadows behind Jaime. 
“Hello, Tyrion.”
“Hm. How is our sister?” he asked Jaime. 
Defeat danced over his handsome features. “How do you think? Her son died in her arms.”
“Her son?”
Something foul coiled within Jaime’s stomach. “Don’t,” he warned.
Tyrion let the matter drop.
“Do you know what’s to come?” you spoke for the first time since you came.
“My trial for regicide. Yes, I know,” said Tyrion. “I know the whole bloody country thinks I’m guilty. I know one of the three judges has wished me dead more times than I can count—that judge being my father. As for Cersei… well, she’s probably working on a way to avoid the trial altogether by having me killed.”
Jaime kicked at a small pebble on the ground. “Now that you mention it, she did ask.”
“So should I turn around and close my eyes?”
“Depends,” said Jaime. “Did you do it?”
A small smile traced Tyrion’s lips. “The Kingslayer brothers. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?” After a short pause, he spoke again. “Are you really asking if I killed your son?”
Jaime narrowed his eyes. “And are you really asking if I’d kill my brother? How can I help you?”
“Well, you can set me free, for starters.”
“You know I can’t,” Jaime reluctantly said. “What do you want me to do? Kill the guards? Sneak you out of the city in the back of a cart? Have you forgotten that I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”
Frowning, Tyrion gruffed out, “Sorry, I’d forgotten, which is a miracle, considering how loud your golden armor is! I’d hate for you to do something inappropriate while I rot away in jail.”
Drawing in a sharp breath, Jaime snapped back, “You’re accused of killing the King. Freeing you would be treason.”
“And was it not treason to put a sword through the Mad King’s back?” you quietly asked. Both men went silent at your words. “Even if the trial goes in Tyrion’s favor, which I highly doubt, your sister would stop at nothing to have him dead. He needs to get away from King’s Landing.”
Tyrion nodded at your words. “If the killer threw himself down before the Iron Throne, confessed to his crimes, and gave irrefutable evidence of his guilt, it wouldn’t matter to Cersei. She won’t rest until my head’s on a spike.”
“Not just yours,” said Jaime. “She’s offering a knighthood to whomever finds Sansa, dead or alive.”
Brows furrowing, Tyrion protested, “Sansa didn’t do this.”
“She had more reason than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Do you think it’s a coincidence she disappeared the same night Joffrey died?”
“It’s not a coincidence,” you said. “Someone must have snuck her out, knowing the blame would be placed on her. Sansa’s not a killer. She spent an entire year around Joffrey—if she wanted to murder him, he would’ve been dead long before his marriage.”
Jaime pinched the space between his brows in frustration. “Regardless of who did it, Cersei won’t rest until all of you are dead. I won’t let that happen.”
“Then we have to do something,” you said, words coated with a layer of urgency. “We have to find Sansa. With Cersei practically keeping me as hostage here in Sansa’s stead… we need to send someone we trust after her.”
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Brienne drummed her fingers against the table. 
A sword of Valyrian steel was laid out in front of her. Both you and Jaime glanced at each other. 
“It’s yours,” said Jaime. 
“I can’t accept this—” she began to protest.
“It was reforged from my brother’s sword,” you said, voice soft. “And you’ll use it to defend my brother’s daughter.”
Brienne’s eyes widened. “No, my Lady, this should belong to you, not me.”
“I’m no good with a sword,” you admitted. “They’re clunky things, far too large and hard to maneuver if not trained properly. I’m much more comfortable with a bow and arrow. You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother. Now, Arya may be far, far away from us by now, perhaps even long gone… but there is still a great chance of finding Sansa and getting her somewhere safe. Wherever that may be.”
Nodding emphatically, the large woman solemnly said, “I won’t let you down.”
“I had something else made for you.” Jaime pulled at a tarp over a mannequin, holding fine platelets of armor, hewn from the strongest of metals. “I hope I got your measurements right. It’s hard to judge by the eye.”
“I’ll find her,” promised Brienne. “For Lady Catelyn. And for the both of you.”
“I almost forgot,” Jaime added. “One last gift.”
Turns out Brienne wasn’t too keen on her last gift, Podrick.
You couldn’t quite understand why—he was a very sweet, innocent boy, ever the loyal squire to Tyrion. No doubt he’d faithfully serve Brienne, as well.
“I don’t need a squire. He’ll slow me down!” she exclaimed.
“My brother owes him a debt. He’s not safe here,” Jaime argued.
The woman looked like she wanted to protest again, but you intervened, “You’ll be doing him a favor. Cersei wouldn’t hesitate to be rid of him.”
“I won’t slow you down, Ser!” chimed Pod. He winced upon realizing his mistake. “Uhm… m’lady. I promise I’ll serve you well.”
“See? He’s a good lad!” said Jaime. 
As Pod went away to ready Brienne’s horse, you were left standing in front of her, contemplating how to say goodbye. They were never your strong suit. Every time you’ve said goodbye to someone close to you, it’d never ended well before. They usually never returned. 
Oathkeeper, Brienne named her sword once Jaime claimed that all the best swords have their own respective titles. 
“Find her for me,” you said, voice warbling. You stepped closer, placing a hand on Brienne’s arm. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry our time was cut short.”
“I will,” Brienne replied. “Thank you for everything, my Lady.”
“I owe you my entire life,” you said, rife with rare fondness. “Safe journeys, Brienne.”
She held her gaze with you for a moment longer, before nodding and heading off to Pod and their horses. 
Both you and Jaime watched as they rode away from the Red Keep, their figures growing smaller and smaller before they disappeared into the heart of King’s Landing.
“My entire family is gone,” you murmured. “And I just sent away the closest thing I had to a friend.”
Jaime was tempted to thread his single hand through yours. It looked like it’d fit perfectly. Instead, he merely observed your pained features, laced with regret.
“Look on the bright side,” he said, nudging you in an affectionate manner. “At least now I’m the closest thing you’d have to a friend.”
To his delight, you didn’t refute his statement. All you did was spare him a sidelong stare, and a quirk of your lips—was that a smile?—before turning and making your way back into the castle.
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It was time for Tyrion’s trial. It was quite the dreary event—witness after witness called upon to spit accusations and twisted observations of Tyrion’s so-called monstrosity to the three judges. What piqued your interest, however, was when Grand Maester Pycelle claimed that the King’s fool was the last one to be seen with Sansa, spiriting her away after the feast. Residue of poison was found in her necklace. That was not a good look for neither Tyrion nor his wife, your niece. Though you didn’t believe she killed Joffrey, you would’ve been proud if she was the one who managed to do it and get away. 
Nearly five hours into the trial, Tywin finally called to adjourn for a break.
You were grateful for the pause in the trial, feeling the beginnings of a headache nursing at the front of your temple. As you left to go get yourself some water, Jaime quickly followed after his father into a separate room. 
Tywin poured himself a goblet of wine, swirling the rich liquid around before sipping. His green eyes fell upon his oldest son, stiff in his golden uniform.
“You’d condemn your own son to death?” Jaime hissed, disgust running rampant across his features. 
Unfazed, Tywin merely reached over to a platter of food to load fruits and cheese upon the prongs of his fork. “I’ve condemned nobody. The trial isn’t over.”
“Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it!” 
An uninterested hum. “I know nothing of the sort.”
Irritation bubbled within Jaime’s chest. “You’ve always hated Tyrion.”
“He killed his King!”
“As did I!” Jaime snapped. “You know the last order the Mad King gave me? He wanted me to bring him your head. And what was it for? I saved your life just so you could murder my brother? Your son?”
The worn features of Tywin Lannister hardened with his words. “It won’t be murder. It would be justice. I’m performing my sworn duty as the Hand of the King. If Tyrion is found guilty, he will be punished accordingly.”
“He’ll be executed!”
“No,” Tywin rebutted, voice raising loud enough to echo back against the stone walls. “He’ll be punished accordingly!”
Jaime drew in a sharp breath. “Once, you said family is what lives on. It’s all that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years. What happens to your precious dynasty when Tyrion dies? I’m a Kingsguard… forbidden by oath to carry on the family line.”
The father shoveled the forkful of fig and brie into his mouth. “I’m well aware,” he said after deliberately taking his sweet time to chew and swallow. 
“And what happens to your name? Who would carry the lion banner in future battles? Your nephews? Lancel Lannister? Others whose names I don’t remember?”
Sitting forward in his seat, Tywin shot back, “And what happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson’s killer?”
Finally, Jaime spat out, “It’ll survive… through me.”
A pause. Tywin reared back slightly, surprise flickering over his stony features.
“I’ll leave the Kingsguard,” said the reluctant knight. The words felt bitter and heavy on his tongue. “I’ll take my place as your son and heir… only if you let Tyrion live.”
Without hesitation, Tywin immediately said, “Done.”
Jaime certainly hadn’t been expecting that. His white cloak fluttered slightly.
“When the testimony is concluded and the guilty verdict is rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy. I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. In three days’ time, he’ll depart for Castle Black and live out his days at the wall.”
Relief flooded Jaime’s veins. His features softened. 
Tywin kept speaking, “You’ll remove your White Cloak immediately. You’ll leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You’ll marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. And you’ll never turn your back on your family ever again.”
“I have one more condition.”
Tywin narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”
“I’ll return to Casterly Rock and sire heirs for you… but only if the woman I marry is Y/N Stark.”
There was a lump in his throat. Letting go of his decades of servitude to the Kingsguard was much harder than he expected. If he married you, he’d be living up to his name, after all. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. 
This time, the surprise in his father’s expression was poorly concealed, clear as day. 
“Do you love her?” he asked, quick to return back to a neutral visage.
Did he? Did Jaime love you?
His lips pursed, and he trained his gaze on the ground. 
Tywin hummed whilst nodding. “Alright. The North may yet be given back to the Starks, should Roose Bolton and his bastard fail to take it for his own. You have my word that Tyrion will be spared.”
Jaime felt like he should’ve given his father his thanks. He didn’t. Instead, he stoutly nodded, speaking not another word, before turning and heading back to the trial room.
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The bells tolled, signifying that the trial was to resume. You strode in just as the last bell rang out, catching sight of Jaime speaking to his brother by his stand. The knight was explaining to Tyrion what he was supposed to do: plead guilty, and beg for mercy to be sent to the Night’s Watch. With one final reassuring goodbye, Jaime stepped away, his eyes meeting your curious ones.
To your interest, instead of taking his place by the edge of the court, he wove through the crowd to get to you. 
“Jaime,” you greeted, still miffed as to what he was doing, standing beside you. 
“Y/N,” he said. “I have to speak to you. After all this.”
Another second passed. You studied his features, pallid and clearly anxious. Before you could interrogate him some more, Tywin called for a start. Across court, Jaime could feel his sister’s angry stare burning through the both of you. His hand brushed against you. Swallowing his nerves, Jaime curled his fingers around yours. You didn’t pull away.
He was to marry you. It was still hard for him to wrap his head around the idea. How would you feel about that? 
Angry, probably, Jaime thought.
The trial droned on. It was only when the last witness was called up—Shae, the whore that Tyrion had fallen in love with—did Jaime’s throat begin to close up. Panic clawed at his chest when he noticed Tyrion’s resolve began to crumble away.
He was anguished. The longer Shae spoke, the more questions she answered, the more miserable Tyrion’s expression grew.
Tears filled the brother’s eyes when he growled out his speech—on how he was guilty, yes. Not of killing the King, but of being a dwarf. How watching Joffrey die in front of him had given him more pleasure than a thousand lying whores. How he wished he had enough poison to kill everyone in the courtroom.
The lords and ladies in the crowd burst into scandalous gasps and affronted murmurs. 
Finally, Tyrion demanded a trial by combat.
You shared a worried glance with Jaime, who looked practically shattered at the turn of events. Sympathetic, you shifted so your entire hand slotted into his.
The crowd began to thin away when the trial drew to a close. The combat was to be in a few day’s time.
Before you turned to take your own leave, you looked at Jaime one last time. “What did you want to tell me, Jaime?”
His heart fell to his stomach. Now that his father couldn’t uphold his end of the promise, Jaime couldn’t guarantee that he’d have to leave his post as Kingsguard for Casterly Rock. He wouldn’t have to marry you.
The green of his eyes shone with pain when he finally met your gaze. Hopelessly, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.
With that, he let go of your hand, shouldering through the crowd to make his way out of the throne room.
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Oberyn was named Tyrion’s champion. The Mountain was named Cersei’s.
To none of your surprise, the Mountain won. He’d crushed Oberyn’s head like a bloody watermelon with his bare hands. The memory was none too pleasant to relive, that was for sure.
The next day’s afternoon, Jaime heard the footsteps of his sister as she slipped into his chambers, uninvited.
She uttered his name, soft and sultry. Jaime only frowned.
“You won. You now have one fewer brother. Must be proud of yourself. There really is nothing you wouldn’t do, is there?” 
A cruel smile graced her lips. “For my family, no. Nothing. I would do things for my family you couldn’t imagine.”
“Tyrion is your family.”
“He’s not,” she denied.
“You don’t get to choose!”
Cersei snarled, “I do. And so do you. We choose each other.”
Do we?
On she continued, “You can choose the creature that chose to kill our mother whilst coming into this world—”
Brows furrowing, Jaime incredulously asked, “Are you really mad enough to blame him for that? He didn’t decide to kill her, he was an infant.”
“A disease doesn’t decide to kill you,” the blonde woman snapped back, “but you cut it out before it does, all the same. What do you decide? Who do you choose?”
She stepped closer. 
“The things I did to get back to you, to endure all that, only to find you actively trying to have our brother ki—!”
Before Jaime could finish his sentence, Cersei had propelled herself forward, yanking at his face with no abandon, pulling him close until his lips touched hers. 
“I choose you,” she whispered against him. Jaime felt sick.
“Those are just words,” he replied. With jerky movements, he gripped at her arm in a fruitless effort to keep her at bay, the golden hand she had forged for him hanging uselessly by his side. 
Cersei hummed an affirmative. “Yes. Just like the ones I said to father. I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“I told him about us.”
Dread filled his chest. “You told him?”
“I told him I wouldn’t marry Loras Tyrell. I told him I’m staying right here with Tommen, and with you.”
A foolish woman, Cersei was. She thought she was smarter than everyone, but this might’ve been the most idiotic thing Jaime could even fathom doing. Telling his father that he used to fuck his sister and fathered her bastards was a one-way ticket to being disowned. “You think he’ll just accept that?”
Cersei studied the dubiety in Jaime’s expression. “Go and ask him.” She kissed him again, and again, and again. Jaime was far too shocked to push her away. 
“What did you say?” he queried once he’d finally gathered his wits. 
“I don’t want to talk about Tywin Lannister,” she hissed, dragging her lips down to his jaw. 
Jaime didn’t want this anymore. He felt nothing when she touched him. He thought about how light his chest felt when you held his hand during the trial. No longer did he harbor such feelings for Cersei. Years ago, perhaps. Not anymore. Not now. 
“I don’t choose Tywin Lannister. I don’t love Tywin Lannister. I love my brother… my lover. People will whisper and make their jests. Let them. They’re all so small, I can’t even see them. I only see what matters.” She took his handless arm, lifting it so she could kiss the gold. To her, it was an act of love. To him, it was an act of pride.
 Having enough, Jaime pushed her away. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stagger back a few steps. 
“I can’t do this,” he said. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why?” demanded Cersei. She scrutinized him with a sharp glare. After a moment, she withdrew herself, upper lip curling in disgust. “You’re in love with her. With the Bitter Wolf. You love her.”
Horror sank its dark nails into Jaime’s shoulders.
“I’ll have her killed,” said Cersei, venomous hatred coloring her tone an ugly shade of green. “Have you watch as she gasps and chokes around the noose I’ll tie around her throat. She’s a traitor to the realm, don’t you know that, you imbecile? Aunt to a false King, and to the wife of the murderer of my son.”
Desperate, Jaime shuffled closer again, raising his hand as if he were taming a wild mare. “I don’t love the Bitter Wolf. I don’t. I swear it.”
I do, he thought. I love her.
And so, Jaime knew he had to keep Cersei away from you, at any cost necessary. Keep her occupied, for as long as he could. He pressed forth and kissed her. Her mouth was hard against his, but softened with each of his advances. 
“I love you,” he lied. “I love you.”
He repeated the sentiment over and over again, praying to any God that would listen that his sister would believe it. The hours passed by in a blur as Jaime kissed and licked and sucked every inch of her. She climaxed maybe once, or twice, or half a dozen times. Jaime didn’t know, and neither did he care. Most of the time he had disassociated back within his own mind, wanting nothing more than to just get it over and done with.
Eventually, Cersei blissfully passed out from exhaustion, fast asleep beneath his silken sheets. After making sure she was completely unconscious, Jaime slipped his clothes back on and snuck out of his chambers. 
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The torches lining the halls of the dungeons did very little to illuminate the space. Jaime could barely see half a foot in front of him. Nonetheless, he hurriedly made his way to Tyrion’s cell. 
“Oh, go away, you son of a whore!” Tyrion yelled once the grill to his cell rattled opened, thinking it was one of the guards coming in to torment him. 
Jaime strode in, tilting his head. “Is that any way to speak of our mother?”
Shocked, Tyrion immediately sat up at the sight of his brother. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Jaime retorted, ushering his brother out and through the narrow halls. “A galley is waiting in the bay bound for the Free Cities.”
“Who’s helping you?” Tyrion asked, bewildered.
“Varys. You have more friends than you thought, Tyrion.”
Deftly, the two of them hurried through one of the many secret passageways of the Red Keep. The ceilings hung so low that Jaime had to duck his head so as to not smack his skull against the uneven stone. 
“There’s a locked door at the top of the stairs,” said Jaime once they reached the end. “Knock on it twice, then twice again. Varys will open.”
Tyrion looked up at his brother. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.”
Breath hitching in his throat, Jaime could feel the beginnings of tears sting the corners of his eyes as he knelt down and drew his brother into a tight hug. He pressed a lingering kiss onto Tyrion’s cheek.
This was the last they were going to see of each other. 
Anguish wrote itself heavy into his tone when he whispered, “Farewell, little brother.”
It ached to pull away.
Just as Jaime was about to go, Tyrion called out his name.
“Thank you,” his brother said. “For my life.”
Jaime nodded. He blinked away the tears as he gestured for him to go. “Quickly, now. Before anyone notices you’re gone.”
With that, Jaime rushed to abscond, taking twisting turns, straight to where he knew your chambers were. Ensuring there was nobody around, Jaime stepped out into the hall, knocking twice on the door and slipping in.
You startled at the intruder, sitting up on the bed, the book you were reading snapping shut, but relaxed slightly upon seeing Jaime. 
“Jaime? What’s going on?”
“You have to leave. Come with me,” he said, urgently striding forward and taking your hand in his, pulling you off the mattress and to the door. It was a relief that you were already fully clothed, and had no personal belongings to take with you, because there was simply no time for anything at the moment.
Brows pulling together, you demanded, “Jaime, tell me what’s happening. Where are you taking me?”
“Out!” he impatiently replied, slipping down the secret passageways once more. “Away. Away from King’s Landing—from my sister. She wants you dead. I can’t have that happen. There’s a boat waiting for you. Varys is helping.”
Finally Jaime yanked you into a dingy little room, lined with dust and rusted-over weapons. Shrouded in the shadows of the corner, Varys stepped out, pushing the cowl back from his head.
“Bitter Wolf,” he said.
“Lord Varys,” you carefully replied. “Why are you helping me?”
“I was fond of your brother, Eddard, however foolish he was with his honor. And, though we haven’t spoken before, your death at the hands of the Queen Regent would reign nothing but war from the Northerners.” He glanced at Jaime suspiciously before lowering his voice and saying, “My little birds tell me Sansa Stark is in the Eyrie, posing as Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter.”
All the air in your chest seemed to slip away. Sansa was alive. She was alright.
For now, at least.
“I can help you get to the Vale to be with your niece,” said Varys, gesturing down another staircase, which led to the waters. “There’s a boat ready for you, with everything you need inside—a map, a cloak, rations. A bow and a quiver of arrows, included. The crew will be silent, I can assure you.”
“How can you be sure?” you queried, cautious. Varys offered you a thin smile. “I cut their tongues out when they were young children. Little birds don’t stay little for so long, but they’re loyal to me.”
Horror painted your insides black. You had no idea what to think of Varys. You glanced at Jaime, who looked none too pleased at the notion, but gave you an encouraging nod.
Besides, what other choice did you have?
After a hesitant, quiet murmur of your gratitude to the eunuch, you slipped down the stairs, Jaime hot on your heels. He wasn’t supposed to follow you out of the Keep, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see you leave for himself, ensure that you left the capital safely.
The boat was a small, rickety thing, but it’d do. You spotted half a dozen young men and women onboard, deathly silent. Their eyes seemed to glow unnaturally against the dark seas. Unease settled within the pits of your stomach. 
You turned to Jaime, lips parting as you struggled for words. What could you say to him, after everything the two of you had been through together?
He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, grappling for a proper farewell. The words were lodged in his throat.
“You’re a good man, Ser Jaime,” you finally told him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Beneath all of your sister… and all of your father… there is good in you. There’s so much of it.”
Taking a step closer, Jaime gently cupped your face with his remaining hand, the golden one on his left arm feeling heavier by the second. You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to be vulnerable for just a moment. For decades and decades, you refused to let your guard down. With Jaime, you finally felt safe enough to do so. 
But you were leaving. 
It was a bittersweet feeling, he realized. He was glad you were going to leave: you’d be safer out there, looking for your niece in the Vale than in the capital with his wretched sister. But then again, he wanted you here. He wanted to be by your side, more than anything. To think, he had thought he was going to marry you only yesterday.
He leaned in closer, slow and tentative. There was ample time for you to pull away, but you didn’t. When his lips finally grazed yours, you finally pressed forward, fisting the lapels of his tunic, and tugging him closer. 
The kiss was soft at first, one of uncertainty and turmoil. It was quick to grow more desperate, pouring all the unsaid words and months of pent-up yearning into the embrace. You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against the side of his. He chased after your lips, but you forced yourself to turn your head away. 
Jaime’s entire chest ached. It ached and longed and screamed for you.
You had to go. The longer Jaime stayed out here with you, the riskier it was.
“I owe you everything,” you whispered, nose pressed against his cheekbone. There was an uneven warble to your voice. “Everything, Jaime.”
“No, you don’t,” he responded, kissing the patch of skin beside your pained eyes. “You did the same for me. We’re even now.”
A part of him wanted to tell you that he had asked his father if he could marry you. But he held the words back, knowing it would bring nothing but either of you pain. To love each other, only to never be able to be together. Jaime didn’t want you to feel that pain. You deserved to be free, to love a kind and soft-hearted Lord… someone that wasn’t him. That wasn’t a Lannister. That wasn’t the enemy.
After all, wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.
A burning tear fell down his cheek. You offered him a watery smile. 
You smiled for him, after decades of never doing so.
Jaime loved you. He loved you more than anything. And he had to let you go.
Your hands slipped away from each other, and you turned to board the ship. The silent crew fluttered around you like ghosts, readying  to sail away in effortless coordination.
As the boat rocked into motion, edging away from King’s Landing, you heard alarm bells tolling in the distance, signifying Tyrion’s escape from prison. Jaime made his way back into the Red Keep, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the hazy fog.
The Bitter Wolf and the Golden Lion, Jaime thought. 
Now that was a tale certainly worth telling. 
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idk-bruh-20 · 9 months
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Irondad fic ideas #141
Fic where Peter gets outed as Tony's kid (bio, emotional, adopted, etc) but from Ned's perspective
What is that day at school like? Do classmates swarm him or mostly keep ignoring him? Does he get followed by paparazzi outside of school? What do his teachers say? What kinds of questions do people ask? What articles or social media crap does Ned read?
Also, how would it feel to witness the aftermath of Peter's inevitable breakdown ("why would The Tony Stark ever want me to be seen as his son" and/or "every father figure I have dies") and Tony's equally inevitable breakdown reassurance ("why would YOU Peter Parker ever want ME to be seen as YOUR dad" / "I'll be fine hush it's okay you're stuck with me now") -- from the outside? Like, what would those phone calls with Peter be like?
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gotham-ruaidh · 9 months
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thermodynamics - a 7x03 story
Ian had been gone from camp for some time – his departure had been rather sudden, following a brief but promising glimpse of pheasants in the treetops – but not too long to start worrying.
Had they pushed harder this morning, they would have made it out of the forest by nightfall. But tonight would be another night sleeping rough beneath the trees.
Claire didn’t mind.
That afternoon, as she unpacked the saddlebags and gathered wood for the campfire – Jamie within earshot, speaking in Gaelic to the horses as they drank from a nearby spring – she realized why.
For months – since the fire, the loss of her children and grandchildren, even the whole terrible night with the Browns and the even more terrible aftermath – a small, pinching weight had settled between her shoulderblades. A low, dull ache that no herb or gentle massage could cure.
Psychosomatic, to be sure – but that didn’t make the weight of it any less crushing.
But today, as she bent to gently set down an armful of branches for their fire and stood up, reaching to soothe the ache that she knew would be there…it wasn’t.
She puzzled it out as she continued about her chores. Finding the skillet and spices and knife for cooking; digging out hers and Jamie’s bedroll and setting it half behind a bush; worrying the pouch full of gold bullets sewn within her pocket.
It was the first time in years – since they’d come to the Ridge, really – that she hadn’t had some kind of schedule. Free to take an extra day to get to Wilmington. Free to wander, to explore glades and caves and stop to admire especially large trees.
Free to spend more time with Jamie. Not just in the evenings over dinner or before bed, but to share all moments of the day. Sharing space, and food, and sights, and smiles.
A warm hand settled on her shoulder – and she startled.
“Hush, a nighean,” Jamie soothed. “I’m sorry, I thought ye had heard me.”
Swallowing, she turned to face him. Touched his stubbly cheek with the back of a hand. Worrying the new fine lines at the creases of his eyes.
“It’s all right.” Her voice just above a whisper. “I missed you.”
A fleeting half smile, his hands enveloping her free hand, squeezing. “I told ye I wouldnae go far. I didn’t.”
He knew what she would do even before she did – and he was ready, lips soft and strong as she kissed him.
“I miss you.”
He drew her closer, arms locked around her waist. “We’ve time, before Ian returns…”
Her lips just lightly touched his, beath warm against his mouth. “You must feel it. The need. How strong it is.”
He swallowed, nodding. Touched a small spot in the middle of his chest. “Right here.” His hand settled on her stomach, above her navel. “And here.”
She nodded. “It’s always there, but…more now. Like when we were on the road.”
His hand glided up, tracing the buttons of her shirt, settling on the cool skin of her neck. Eyes locked on hers. Watching her lips part in a small gasp.
He smiled. “Gathering your wee herbs. We fooled nobody – no’ Dougal, or Ned, or Murtagh, or Rupert. Willie, maybe. But I didna care. I had to have you.” Leaned in for a quick kiss. “I wanted your body, but I craved your heart. I have it now, aye?”
Another quick kiss. “I didn’t think I could ever feel this again. Is it because we have lost everything else?”
Frowning, he pulled back a bit. “What are you saying? We haven’t, Claire.”
“We have.” Her hands skimmed his shoulders – worried a new tear in the back of his shirt that she’d need to mend later – eyes fixed on a tree behind him. “We’ve lost our home, our family, our responsibilities. Our routine. No more farming or whisky making for you. No more patients for me. No more waiting for Missus Bug’s dinner, or sitting with you in your study as you talk to the tenants. No more…” She cleared her throat. “No more reading with Bree and Jem by the fire.”
High above, a hawk cried out.
“Don’t hide from me. Look at me, please.”
She didn’t want to – but she did. Found his eyes shining with the same tears.
“Do you no’ remember what I said to you once? That nothing is lost, only changed, Claire.”
She did remember – a night in these same woods, not too long after enduring yet another loss.
“We haven’t lost our memories. Our family isnae wi’ us right now, but they’re alive and safe. Our tenants can bide wi’out us for a while, but we’re coming back. When we’re in Wilmington, and in Scotland, you’ll have patients again and I’ll find my way again. Changes, aye, but not losses.”
He brought his forehead against hers. “I haven’t lost you, Claire. You haven’t lost me.”
She closed her eyes, nodding.
“I can’t even bear to think about what’s to come. If I was to lose you on the crossing.”
“Dinna think of it.” He kissed her cheek.
She shifted slightly and found his mouth in another kiss.
Another kiss.
“We’ve time afore Ian returns wi’ supper, a nighean. That is, if you’re not too decrepit to lie wi’ me in the leaves.”
She smiled against his lips. “I’ll grab a blanket.”
When Ian returned with a pheasant, sometime later as dusk settled in the forest, he frowned that the fire had not yet been started. But he lit it, set to work plucking the bird, sorted the spices and knives. Knowing his auntie and uncle would be quite hungry.
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Hii!
Can I request an Aemond Targaryen x Reader fic where reader is from some other noble house(preferably a dark haired one, but anything is fine) and catches his eye? Like he thinks she is really pretty and attractive and Aegon kinda doesn't notice his brother's interest and flirts with her, and being a social butterfly, she flirts back, though it doesn't mean anything.
Aemond feels insecure but then he observes her and notices she is like that with everyone so he carefully approaches her, leaving her stunned, because she has never met someone that beautiful? He takes it in the wrong way, but then she shyly assures him that it is not what he thinks and tells him the truth?
lots of comfort for my war criminal poor little meow meow?
thank you!
(Sorry I am being to specific, feel free to modify the idea as you wish)
A Wolf Amongst Dragons
Hi! So this is my first time writing for Aemond, I hope it’s ok. I think I did maybe a little bit off the request you asked for, so if you want me to change things, or write a new request for you, I’m happy to do so. I think I could’ve upped the comfort and Aemond’s point of view of things.
Sorry, it’s a bit long, especially at the beginning, but I felt like it was important to add for clarity. Just for some context, I made it a Stark reader, the sister of Cregan Stark, to kinda help with the plot. The Starks, at least before Ned, weren’t as noble I’d say, so I’m kinda framing the reader as on the good side, but still with a bit of cunningness and antihero energy, which I think fits for Aemond, he’s also kinda in that in between area. 
I’m mentioning characters from the book, and then also ones briefly mentioned in the last episode of HOTD. You don’t need to know anything from the books, I’m just bullshitting all of this for this fic, so sorry if anything doesn’t make sense. I’m not basing this off any particular plotpoint, but it's based around the time Aegon is crowned King, and Rhaenyra is looking to the other Lords for support. Anyways, I hope you like it, let me know what you think!
(Warnings: swearing, insecurities, mentions of war, aegon being creepy, let me know if i missed anything)
You walked alongside with your brother, Cregan, speaking in hushed whispers as you navigated the halls. It was late into the night, and the castle slept soundly. He had barely given you any time to get dressed before he sent a collection of handmaidens into your room, who swiftly packed up your necessities and brought them to a carriage. In your confusion, you went to find him, only to be dragged by the wrist out into the cold, headed for the stables.
Cregan explained to you that the Maester brought him news of Lucerys Targaryen, who had been killed the evening before, seemingly by Vhagar, the younger Prince’s dragon. Lord Baratheon had immediately sent the news to their allies, still remaining neutral for the time being.
House Targaryen was now at war, dividing the kingdom. House Stark, never one to break an oath, was to receive Jacaerys Targaryen, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s first born son and heir. Winterfell was to play a key role in the following weeks, and Cregan had decided you were to leave, and head for King’s Landing. He had already sent a raven, alerting King Aegon of your impending arrival. He gave you no time to explain himself, tugging you along.
“Brother, I don’t understand! Why are you sending me away?”
Cregan didn’t slow his pace. “Because! Father would roll in his grave if he thought one of my first acts as Lord of Winterfell was to keep you directly in the path of harm's way.”
You caught his wrist, planting your feet and stopping his advance. Cregan turned to you, eyes sharp as he met yours. You, after all being your Father’s daughter, didn’t shrink under the pressure. Instead, you stood tall, demanding an answer.
“Explain, right now, or I am turning back. You can’t send me to the capital! The very people you’re saying killed Lucerys are there. You’ve heard the whispers about Aegon’s pervasive pleasures. Do you really think that usurper of a King would gladly welcome a member of a house pledged to the rightful Queen?”
“They don’t know our position–”
“Spare me, brother,” you interrupted. “I know you’re backing Rhaenyra, the whole realm knows it. Have you ever known a Stark to break an oath? We’re too noble to do the wrong thing. Gods only know why we’ve all collectively decided to put the men in charge, who can’t cast away their precious pride and honor. You’d think living up here in the cold would’ve hardened your resolve more, made you learn to chip away at the moral high ground you’re so content to stand on.”
Cregan’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward, catching you off guard. He looked you straight in the eye, finally pulling his wrist from your grip. 
“I would never risk your safety, sister. Don’t mistake my unusual choices for foolishness. I’d break every oath I’ve ever made if it meant keeping you and our house safe.”
You kept walking towards the stable, seeing that your efforts to stay were most likely futile, and you might as well accept your fate with a semblance of grace. 
“Then explain it to me,” you scoffed. “What’s your big plan?”
You couldn’t see Cregan’s face, as you were walking ahead of him, but you could feel him roll his eyes. 
“How kind of you to finally shut your mouth and give me the floor, sister.”
You groaned, waiting for him to continue. He let out a chuckle, before catching up with you to meet your stride, now walking alongside you. He continued explaining. 
“You have the right idea. Why send you if they think we’ll back Rhaenyra as Queen? Because they don’t know that, not for sure. However, if we keep you here, and all of the heirs here, it will certainly seem like it. Aegon will–”
“You mean Hightower? You know this must be his doing,” you interrupted. 
“Yes, that may be so, but he’ll deliver Aegon’s terms either way. The King will be expecting all the houses to be making a decision soon. He knows Rhaenyra will have sent word out to all the Lord’s who swore oaths to back her during her coronation while King Viserys was alive. I guarantee those gutless southern Lord’s have already declared for the King, but the North won’t be so easy to gain. Lord Baratheon said they sent Prince Aemond to deliver terms, along with a marriage pact, should they choose to back the King. That is a desperate act. Bold, but desperate. I expect something for us will be coming along soon as well. We’re going to beat them to it.”
You nodded, slowly understanding. “And what does this have to do with me? What is my purpose in all of this?” 
“We will receive Jacaerys, just as the King expects we would. But we’re sending you as an envoy of our house, to receive their terms in person. As much as I hate to admit it, you are a much more likable person than I.”
You laughed. “Yes, although I suppose that it is partially credited to me being a woman. A pretty face is the least the Gods could do for us in a world like this. We might as well learn to use it to our advantage.”
“So you do have some intellect rolling around in that brain of yours, glad to see you’ve finally caught up.”
Cregan dodged your attacks, narrowly missing a slap to the face, chuckling as he watched you nearly trip over the hem of your skirts. “Don’t do that in front of the King.”
“Oh, piss off. Get on with it, it’s freezing out here.”
“As I was saying before I was so rudely attacked,” Cregan continued, ignoring your glares.
“You’ll charm the court. As long as you are a guest of the Crown, especially with Queen Alicent likely still largely in control, you will not be harmed. They may be usupers, but they haven’t stooped so low as to betray and kill allies. So here’s what you do. You are to play the fool, as if you hardly understand what’s at stake. Don’t actually make a fool of yourself, but try to act passive. Uninterested in the fickle politics of war. You won’t be perceived as a threat, on the contrary, actually. The Crown may actually believe that you’re easily manipulated, and a good way to get to me and my backing for the war effort. You will be out of harm's way from here, and you won’t be harmed there, since you’re of some use to them. Additionally, you may be of some use to me. If you are able to, without risking exposure, write to me about what you see and hear, anything that will be helpful. I trust you’ll be discreet in the matter. Do you think you can do all of that?”
You finally reached the carriage, all packed with your belongings, along with two horses, and a squire acting as a driver. It was the best your brother could muster in the few hours he had to come up with a halfway decent plan. 
You turned to Cregan, grinning. 
“I must say, brother, I am quite impressed. One would think you almost have the mind of a woman, coming up with a plan like that. You didn’t even need my help.”
He playfully shoved you, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright, stop it. I may have taken a page or two from your book, and tried to think how I thought you would. Hate to admit it, but it actually was quite useful.” 
You grinned wider, pleased with his praise, and he groaned, before pulling you into his arms to shut you up. 
“We don’t have time for this, Y/N. This is serious. We cannot afford to mess this up. Please be careful, and please, for my own sanity, try your best to not get killed. Or worse, engaged.”
You let out a chuckle, but it was weak, you suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. You wrapped your arms around your brother’s waist, giving him a tight squeeze. You swallowed your emotion as he held you for a moment, before letting you go and helping you up into the carriage. 
“I believe in you, sister. You can do this. I’m sorry it came down to it, but it's for the best. We’ll see each other again soon enough. I love you.”
You nodded, letting him close the carriage door. You stuck your head out the window, waving and calling out. “I love you! Please be careful. Don’t make me come back here and kick your ass for getting yourself in trouble. Be smart, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You could hear his soft laughter, but the carriage had gone too far to warrant a response from him. He just nodded, blowing you a kiss, before turning around and heading back into the gates of Winterfell. 
You settled into your seat, biting back emotion. You willed yourself not to cry, determined to make this journey a success, not only for you, but for your brother, for your house, and for the realm. 
It was a grueling journey, not stopping more than a handful of times for provisions, and having the carriage run throughout the night, but you had made it from Winterfell to King’s Landing in just over a week. 
It took the better part of the first day to have an audience with the King. A guard that had been introduced to you as Ser Criston led you through the castle halls after you had settled in, bringing you to meet the King. He led you to the Great Hall, opening the doors and allowing you to step in first. 
“I present the Lady Y/N of House Stark, sister of Lord Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She is here on behalf of her house.”
You tried to keep your head held high, and your face stoic, while Ser Criston announced your arrival, but as you glanced around the room, you couldn’t fight the uneasiness settling in your stomach. 
The Iron Throne was empty. 
The King was nowhere to be found. Instead, to the left side of the throne, sat a woman in a green dress, who you could only assume to be Alicent Hightower, the Queen Mother. On the right side of the throne stood an older man, who you pieced together as Otto Hightower, father of Alicent, and Hand of the King. 
The rest of the Great Hall, except for a few Kingsguard, was empty. Neither the Prince or the King were in attendance, or the Princess who was now called Queen. Not that you expected to meet the entire family, especially on the first day, but you were told your audience was specifically to be with the King, which is what you spent the better part of a week alone in a carriage preparing for. The King’s Mother and Grandfather was not what you were expecting. 
“Come forth, Lady Y/N, don’t be shy. Ser Criston, assist her down the steps, if you will.”
Otto gave Ser Criston a command, and Ser Criston held out his arm for you, which you cautiously took. He guided you down the steps, all the way across the Throne Room, leaving you in front of the steps that led to the Iron Throne. 
You looked at the throne in wonder. You had heard stories of the chairs creation, how a thousand swords had been melted down and fashioned together to create a throne fit for a King. You had seen illustrations of it in books the Septa’s back home made you read as a child, but they paled in comparison to seeing them in person. 
“Would you like to take a closer look, My Lady? I see you’ve taken an interest in the throne,” an unfamiliar voice called out, dragging you from your thoughts. 
You turned to see the King himself, Aegon, entering the room from a back corridor. Your eyes widened as you took him in, and you suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to throw up. This was going to be harder than you anticipated.
“Your Grace,” you curtsied, trying to keep your composure. “It’s an honor. Thank you for agreeing to an audience with me on behalf of House Stark, it’s such a pleasure.”
You mentally cursed yourself for sucking up to such a pompous ass of a King, but as your brother said, you had to play the part. And if you were going to play the part, you were going to commit to the role. Your words seemed to be enough to charm him, making him smile as he approached you. 
“The pleasure is all mine, My Lady,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. You internally groaned, but kept a fake smile plastered on your face. You registered two more people entering from the corridor, but you didn’t dare take your eyes off the King’s.
“You must tell me, how are you liking the city? I confess, I’ve never seen Winterfell myself. I’m not fit for the cold, I’m afraid.” 
“I’m enjoying myself, thank you for asking. I am especially enjoying not having to wear a winter coat. They’re dreadfully heavy.”
Aegon looked you up and down, grinning. “Yes, I doubt that coat is doing you any favors. I can say with the utmost confidence that I prefer you without it.”
You felt sick to your stomach under his gaze, but you managed a giggle, feigning over his words. “You flatter me, Your Grace. You’re too kind.”
“Such a lovely Lady as yourself deserves some flattery. You’re welcome here, My Lady. Enjoy your stay. I expect you to come to me specifically if you need anything. Anything, just ask, and if it is within my power, it’s yours. I can be quite persuasive when it comes to getting things I want.”
You heard a scoff off to the side of the room, and you spared a glance to see the younger Targaryen, Prince Aemond. 
You had heard tales of him and his appearance. A ghastly scar, an eyepatch fit for a pirate, with a personality that mimicked that of his dragon. You only glanced briefly, but from what you saw, the accounts of him were entirely wrong. He was quite handsome, at least from the distance and quick glance you viewed of him. 
Aegon ignored his brother's antics, giving you another warm smile, before excusing himself. Half the Kingsguard followed him out, the rest hanging back for the remaining family. The now Queen, Helaena, walked up to you, looking at you quizzically. 
“A wolf amongst dragons,” she murmured. “A seer and a watcher. The waltz of frosts and flames.”
She spared a glance at her brother, Aemond, before turning back to you. 
You smiled at her words, glad to be around an inquizical mind. You got the feeling that the Queen’s intelligence was dismissed as an oddity, underappreciated and neglected.
“Your Grace, it’s a pleasure. You’re as beautiful as the tales tell.”
The Queen’s cheeks flushed. “Please, call me Helaena. I do prefer it.”
“As you wish, Helaena,” you nodded. “But I must say, ‘Queen’ has a nice ring to it when it’s referring to you. I do hope you come to see that.”
You snuck a glance at Otto and Alicent, who seemed to be exchanging amused glances. Whether you had peaked their interest, or you actually managed to impress them, it didn’t matter. What mattered is that you’d successfully somewhat charmed them, which would work to your advantage for the following days when you'd try to report back to your brother. 
You spent the following days mostly around Helaena, who was surprisingly delightful to be around. Her storytelling abilities fascinated you. She often murmured variations of what she had first said in the throne room to you, about a wolf amongst dragons. It didn’t take much for you to figure out she was referring to your presence in the castle. What did strike you as odd was her wording of “the waltz of frosts and flames,” but you found that questioning her hardly ever resulted in a clear answer.
You also spent a lot of time with Alicent, who seemed to follow wherever her children went. More often than not, though, she was with Aegon, who you tried to avoid like the plague. You did your duty of making small talk, trying to keep his interest in you positive, but his advances on you were getting harder and harder to ignore. 
In truth, the only member of the family you rarely saw was Aemond. Although, that was not entirely true. You actually saw a good deal of each other in passing, but words were hardly exchanged, rather than stolen glances. You didn’t know what it was about him, but you couldn’t get yourself to look at him full on for long. It appeared he was the same, as he’d turn his head away from you often when you looked his way. 
You spent one evening with Helaena, going on a walk around the courtyard. She took you to meet her dragon, Dreamfyre. On the way back, you saw Aemond, soaring through the sky on the back of Vhagar, before finally landing. You watched him from a distance as he dismounted, heading into the castle. 
Helaena cleared her throat, bringing you out of your thoughts. “You look at my brother quite a lot, you know.”
You quickly turned to her. “What? Aemond?”
“I suppose it’s normal. He does the same to you.”
She spoke like it was the most nonchalant thing in the world, not even bothering to turn to you as she talked.
“I don’t understand,” you shook your head.
“I’ve hardly seen the two of you speak, but I see the two of you stare. The day you arrived, I came in with Aemond. You were speaking to Aegon, so I assume you didn’t notice us come in. Aemond looked at you differently than I’ve ever seen him look at someone. You’ve certainly captured his attention. It’s clear he thinks you're beautiful.” 
“Is he not betrothed?” You asked, seeming to recall your brother mentioning a marriage pact with Lord Baratheon. 
“Not to my knowledge. Mother is very particular about him. I suspect she would want to personally approve a match for him. My brother isn’t suited for the average Lady. Mother will want someone who knows how to be with him.”
Your brows furrowed. “So, what did you notice? The day I arrived, I mean. How does he look at me differently than any other woman?”
Helaena pondered the thought for a moment. “You’re a wolf amongst dragons. That may have already been enough for him, but it’s not all. He’s a watcher. He prefers the corner of a room, rather than being the center of attention, unlike my husband. He watches people, like he’s analyzing them.” 
You nodded, slowly understanding. “What does that have to do with me?”
“You do the same. You’re a seer. You see people for who they are, not for who they want you to see. I know you saw through Aegon’s words the day you arrived. You see him for what he is. And I think you see Aemond for what he is. I think his fascination is in your ability to do that.”
“Truthfully, I don’t think I see the Prince for what he is. I haven’t been close to him for long enough to really know.”
Helaena offered a small smile, turning to head back for the castle. “I think you’ll see the waltz begin soon, Y/N. It’s already started for him.”
Helaena was right. You saw more and more of the Prince, seeming to collide paths with him frequently, if only for a fleeting moment. You found yourself stuck on him, and your thoughts often drifted to him. It puzzled you, what his fascination with you was, and you wondered what he was thinking about when he saw you. He was one of the few men you couldn’t immediately get an accurate reading on, and it troubled you. 
You began finding reasons to cross paths with Aemond, just so you’d have a few extra seconds to try and figure him out. You still rarely spoke to each other, only in passing, or in group settings with other members of the family. 
It was becoming a tedious process, for the both of you, although you were unaware of his own ambitions towards you. One of you was going to cave and approach the other, it was bound to happen. It turned out to be Aemond who pushed the boundary. 
One evening, after dinner, you took a walk to the courtyard. You sat, watching the stars, when you heard a voice you knew all too well. 
“Looking at the stars, My Lady?”
You quickly turned around, shocked to see that he actually approached you. You cleared your throat, nodding. 
“Yes. Are you familiar with any, My Prince?”
He nodded, moving to stand beside where you were sitting. 
“I’ve studied them quite a lot, actually. May I?”
You nodded, scooting over to make room, and he took his place beside you. You were tense, not used to being that close to him. He pointed up into the night sky at a cluster of stars. 
“That’s the constellation Aquila. It’s an eagle. See the V shape? That’s the head. Where it expands and the line of stars that goes down is its wings.”
You nodded, but you weren’t even looking at the sky. You were taking it as your chance to get a good look at him, for what felt like the first time. 
His features were sharp, those of a royal. His cheekbones were prominent, and he had a strong jaw. Despite the hardness of his face, he still had a soft elegance to him. His hair was shining under the moonlight, almost reflecting silver. The scar covering his eye was now a faded white line, with the faintest hints of pink in the cracks of it. It was one thing to possess one or two of those traits, as the Targaryens often did. But his features were striking, each complimenting the next. 
In this light under the stars, he was nearly ethereal.
He must’ve felt your gaze on him, because he turned to meet your eyes, catching you staring. 
“My Lady?”
You quickly shook your head, clearing your throat. “I’m so sorry, that was rude of me. I got distracted.” 
He looks unsure of himself, cocking his head to the side. “By what?”
“I don’t know,” you shrugged, unsure of what to say. “You? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like you before. Not very many people look like you.”
He turns his head at your words, like he’s trying to shield his face from your view. His shoulders slump, and he looks down at his lap, and you know you’ve said something wrong. 
“It’s the scar,” he finally says. “Isn’t it? The Gods must’ve found it amusing, adding it to the collection of some rather unappealing features. It’s not pretty, I know. Believe me, I know.”
Your breath hitched, and you're unsure of how he could’ve twisted your words into knots so tight. You wondered what kind of torment he could have possibly endured to consider the scar a punishment from the Gods, as if the rest of him wasn’t already punishment enough.
“You’ve misunderstood me, My Prince, that isn’t what I meant at all–”
“Savor your words,” he interrupts. “I don’t need you to spare my feelings.”
He stands up brushing himself off. “Goodnight, My Lady.”
“Wait,” you start, trying to get up before he dashes off somewhere. You can see him, looking for the best escape route, like a cornered animal. You’re muttering apologies, and he’s brushing them off, trying to find a way to leave you. He turns to go.
“Wait!” You catch his wrist, and you can feel his body go rigid. But he stops in his tracks, slowly turning back around. His full attention is on you, and you're afraid you’ll crumble under the pressure of trying to find the right words to say. 
“Please sit back down,” you ask, pleading with him. He looks unsure, like he’s seconds from saying no.
“Please, Aemond.”
That’s enough to get his resolve to soften, and he finally relents. He lets you lead him back over to the spot where you were sitting. You take a seat, and look up at him expectantly, until he finally relents. He takes his place beside you, quiet. 
“You misunderstood me, Aemond. I meant no offense, and I’m sorry if it came off that way.”
He’s quiet, not meeting your eyes, seemingly very interested in his lap. He doesn’t stop you, though, and you take it as your cue to proceed.
“You know, sometimes I find it hard to look at you.”
You can see the slightest hint of a flinch at your words, and you’re quick to recover.
“I find it hard, because when I look at you, I’m quite literally rendered speechless, and that’s a rare occurrence for me. You just…you have such striking features.”
You watch him as you speak, and it's almost as if you can see the gears turning in his head. 
“I know it comes with being a Targaryen. The silver hair, the sharp features, you all look like royalty without even trying. But you…you’re more. You’ve got this etherality about you, and I can’t quite place why that is.”
You’re scanning his face now, looking at all the little nooks and crannies that you’ve somehow just now noticed. 
“And your scar, it's a part of you. There’s no shame in it, Aemond. It’s proof you fought a battle, and won. Wear it with pride. I don’t know what people have said to you about it, or what you’ve been told over the years, but they’re wrong. Every single one of them. They’re wrong.”
You almost don’t do it, but you can’t stop yourself, reaching a hand up slowly to cup his cheek. He’s still, it being his turn to watch your face now. He’s scanning for disgust, or pity, or any other emotion that he thinks will make you think less of him. 
But then you’re running a thumb across his cheekbone. And you're ghosting a finger down his scar. You’re being so gentle and careful with him, and you have nothing but adoration and genuine awe on your face as you take in his appearance, like you’re really seeing him for the first time. You could look at him for hours, and not grow tired of it.
And he’s melting. 
You reach up to tuck a stray strand of silver hair behind his ear.
“You’re beautiful, Aemond. Don’t let anyone make you feel any different. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”
You can tell nobody has ever talked to him like this, or been this genuine with him, and he doesn’t know what to do or say. 
“What you said, about the constellation. It’s fascinating, that out of all the stars in the sky, you picked the eagle. The watcher. That’s what you are. Funny, how I’m just now seeing it for the first time. It feels like I'm really looking at you for the first time, too.”
“It seems the Gods have reconsidered,” he says, finally looking at you, with pink cheeks and a small smile on his face. “Or, rather, Helaena was right.”
“About what, My Prince?” You smile, unable to stop yourself when his smile is so pretty.
“The waltz, My Lady. It really has started. And it only took a couple stars.”
A/N - Hi! I hope this wasn’t shit, I feel like I started off strong and it got weaker, but I’m still figuring out how to write for Aemond, so bare with me. Let me know what you thought :)
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ironspiderfics · 8 months
Text
hush little spider
by @iron--spider for @whimsicalethnographies
~
Tony dreams of clouds.
 No, a bubble. A bubble that’s wispy and purple and green and he’s inside it and he’s floating and it’s hard to breathe. The world outside warps and they can’t hear him. He’s high above New York and he’s a spectacle but they still can’t hear him.
 He opens his eyes just the slightest bit and sees Pepper already dressed. He groans, and she laughs in that breathy way that she does and she leans over and kisses his cheek.
 “No,” he grunts, still half-asleep. “Nope. Canceled. It’s canceled, I’m canceling it.”
 “I’ll be back tonight,” she laughs, kissing the corner of his mouth this time. 
 “Pete’s still here, right?” Tony asks, struggling to keep one eye open. 
“Yeah,” Pepper says, stuffing a few things in her purse. “He and Ned—actually fell asleep in the lower lab, something I’ve never seen anybody else do—ever—how strange…”
 Tony snorts, closing his eye again. “Only the occasional…similarity…”
 He hears her zipping her purse, and she kisses his cheek again. “Sleep in—sleep in for once in your life.”
 He turns his face into the pillow. “We’ll see,” he says, not anticipating sleeping any later than seven or eight, because the only times he does that are when he’s nearly been killed or some shit. Maimed beyond repair. Worrying about Rhodey so much he passes out, recovering from watching Spider-Man nearly die, things like that—
 But sleep is already dragging him back down again, as if it wants him, as if it’ll let him stay a while.
 And he dreams again. Dreams about almost losing his left arm, and his dream morphs reality and his false worries together like bad patchwork—arm, no arm, iron arm, half an arm, iron man, no arm, arm—he sees himself in bed he sees himself hobbling around he sees the line of suitors outside his door, all the people he knew loved him, all the ones he thought didn’t, everyone ready to start over with no qualms no teams no past mistakes, and he can hear his own voice strung up like Christmas lights saying it wasn’t just me. It wasn’t. But they’re here for him. They’re here to thank him. Here to comfort him. 
 His dream is a flipbook of that time—things that happened twisted with things that didn’t, the kid saying he wasn’t going on that Europe trip and Tony’s secret relief, Pepper scaling the side of the newly acquired tower, which was re-acquired but definitely not scaled, at least not by her—Happy starting to date May, yes, and Tony sees an array of dates he never saw but some he heard about, and the twenty-two or so pizzas feels fake, too. 
 His dreams are wacky sometimes—most of the time—and this feels like a play, almost, and he’s the only audience member, and he feels like something shuts down—
 And there is a stage. Shakespeare in the Park, and he’s standing in the rows of hard chairs and Peter is on the stage alone. 
 “Pete?” Tony calls to him. “You okay?”
 “I’m playing Hamlet,” Peter says, and he’s wearing a top hat.
 “You’re not supposed to say that in a theater,” Tony says, even though they’re not really in a theater, because he can see the sky. The stars. There’s grass under his feet.
 Is that right? Hamlet? Not allowed? Is it him that’s not allowed? Dreams are wrong. Dreams are facts that aren’t facts.
 He hears something shutting down. The wind stops and all the trees go still. 
 “Did you hear that?” Tony asks, glancing up at Peter again. 
 Like a computer shutting down the wrong way. He heard it plenty of times in college, in his many impatient moments. 
 It sounds like it’s everywhere. In his ear canals.
 “Pete, did you hear that?” Tony asks, starting to walk down the middle aisle. 
 Peter looks at him, and shakes his head, and he’s standing under a spotlight now. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispers.
 ~
 Tony startles awake, and the air feels stale.
 He can tell the power’s off immediately.
 He says Friday.
 Except he doesn’t say it.
 He looks around, eyes narrowed. The room is dark, the blackout shades still enabled, and he says Friday again, except he doesn’t say it. 
 He sits up in bed, his heart hammering. He rubs his throat a little bit, and tries to clear it. He can hear that, and he does it a few more times, and then he says Friday, but still, he doesn’t say it, the word doesn’t come out, his mouth moves and he shakes his head and tries to enunciate but still, no word, just silence.
 He sucks in a couple frustrated breaths, and he pulls himself over to the bedside table and picks up his phone. 
 It’s dead. He tries to turn it on again and it’s dead and it’s fucking plugged in, and still, dead, and he unplugs it and tries to turn it back on, two, three, four times, and then he’s tossing it onto the bed and leaning back against the pillows. 
 He stares off. He feels insane. Maybe he’s still dreaming.
 He pinches his arm and puts that to bed, and his heart starts speeding up again. 
 He closes his eyes. Tries to calm down. 
 He says Friday. 
 But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say it.
 His voice is gone.
 He can’t fucking talk, the power is out and his phone is dead. 
 And he’s not sick—he wasn’t screaming, there’s no reason for it—
 This is an attack. It has to be. 
 He runs his hands over his face, heaving a sigh, trying to—catalog things in his head. 
 Why did this happen who did it is he still here what’s been compromised how did he do it is he more than one person and if so how many can they turn on backup power without their voices can they get out of the building easily or are they trapped who is inside right now who stays here overnight who was still working who could have—
 Shit. He says it, but he doesn’t say it, because…because. 
 How the fuck—
 Peter is here. Peter and Ned.
 Tony wants to curse and shout but he gets out of bed and moves for the closet.
 ~
 Peter wakes up to someone hitting him. He narrows his eyes and sits up from his very uncomfortable sleeping position on the workbench, and Ned is hitting him and hitting him and hitting him.
 It’s dark in here, he can barely see, what is going on—
 Peter says hey but the word doesn’t come out, and Ned hits him and hits him and hits him again. He’s not hitting him with any real force but he’s like a very panicked butterfly, and Peter tries to say his name but that word doesn’t come out either.
 He clears his throat but before he knows it, Ned is grabbing his chin.
 Ned’s mouth is moving very fast, but he’s not making any words either. He points to his own mouth and then Peter’s mouth and he shakes his head. He lets go of Peter and walks over to the desk and picks up both of their phones, holds them up and wiggles them around, and puts them down again. He points to the computers and the workstations and makes an X with his arms, and Peter stares at him. 
 Peter tries to say Ned but nothing comes out of his mouth but air. 
 Ned glares at him. He points up at the ceiling and he covers his eyes, and he does that three times. It feels like a really weird game of charades.
 No lights. No power. Phones off too…
 A little bit of fear creeps into Peter’s gut, and he sucks in a breath. He tries to say hello hello, but it doesn’t work, and Ned throws his arms up and they hit his legs. 
 Peter does it back at him.
 They stare at each other in the darkness.
 This is bad. Tony is here somewhere and Pepper could be too—and a bunch of other people probably—
 He needs Tony’s help, Tony can figure this out, they can figure it out together—whatever it is—
 Peter swallows hard and puts his fingers together to mime writing with a pencil. Ned just stares at him, and Peter widens his eyes and does it again, with more dramatic flair, and he starts searching through the desk. He doesn’t know the last time he’s seen Tony actually write anything down. 
 Ned is still just standing there and staring at him, so Peter huffs a sigh and slams his arms down on the desk and makes a very exaggerated scene of pretending to write, and Ned sort of goes oh without saying it, because—they can’t, for some reason—and he starts to help him look through the drawers. 
 Ned nudges Peter with his elbow. Peter nudges him back, and they’re sort of pushing back and forth for a second like they’re five years old at the watercolor table and not two adults in a situation. 
 Who the hell could do this? What is going on? How could someone steal their voices?
 They look for five minutes before they find a stash of paper and a few pencils in the desk by the wall. The dark is starting to hurt Peter’s eyes, and Ned snatches a piece of paper out of his hand, and Peter scoffs and throws the second pencil at him.
 They both hurriedly write out their messages. 
 Peter holds his up.
 WE NEED TO FIND TONY AND WE NEED TO SEE IF WE CAN GET OUT OF THE BUILDING AND WE NEED TO SEE IF THE TECHNOLOGY SITUATION IS AFFECTING MY SUIT THE ONLY ONE I HAVE HERE IS THE NEW SCARLET SPIDER ONE TONY AND I WERE WORKING ON AND IT’S IN THE LAB ON LEVEL 14 SO WE ALSO HAVE TO CHECK OUT THE ELEVATOR SITUATION AND SEE WHAT IS GOING ON FROM THERE AND THE LIVING QUARTERS ARE ON LEVEL 42 SO WE ARE REALLY IN A SITUATION AND WE HAVE TO BE CAREFUL WHEN WE LEAVE THIS ROOM BECAUSE ANYTHING COULD BE OUT THERE SO JUST STAY BEHIND ME
 Ned stands there and squints and reads the whole thing. He steps a little closer and finally finishes, nodding, and he swallows hard.
 He holds up his paper.
 so this could be aliens
 ~
 Tony doesn’t like not being able to use his voice. His voice is his greatest weapon, and one he uses often, in every situation, whether he’s quipping at a giant purple asshole trying to bring the world to its knees or bargaining with Pepper about the need for cookie dough ice cream. 
 And he keeps forgetting he can’t use it, and he keeps almost yelling out as he surveys the halls—empty, mostly, up here, because he guesses the kid stayed down in the lab all night with his buddy. Rhodey is supposed to show up tomorrow, and Happy might have been out of the tower already before whatever the hell happened…happened…and Natasha is in Chicago with Clint and his family and Thor is still off-world and Steve is in Brooklyn for that anniversary thing—Barnes and Wilson might be here, somewhere, maybe. They’re here sometimes. Tony really needs to get better at keeping up with who’s here and when. He knows Friday knows, but Friday is out of commission, and whatever the hell is going on with his voice is keeping him from resetting her and the system.
 Purposeful. Smart. Too smart. 
 He arrives at the main stairwell and sees—it’s caved the fuck in. Like a controlled explosion, and he can’t go down or up, and he peers over what’s left of the railing and sees a few of the other stairwells look the same.
 Who the hell is blowing shit up in here and he didn’t hear it? How would he not hear that? 
 He wants to say shit and he tries but he fucking can’t and he rushes over and hits the wall next to the elevator instead. Not even hard enough to make a dent, and he sighs and presses the button a bunch of times. He knows it won’t work, but he does it anyway. 
 And then the whole building groans, like the unmistakable sound of a wounded Titanic slowly sinking, and Tony stands still, eyes cutting around manically. 
 He has a horrible thought that they’re trying to bring the building down, whoever the hell ‘they’ are, but why all the theatrics? Why the shit with his voice? Is that happening to everyone? Is that happening to Peter?
 Tony sets his jaw, the thought of the kid bringing things back into focus, and the metallic moaning and groaning stops. 
 No matter what’s going on, there are innocent people in this building, and Peter is one of them. Tony has to start making his way down, and maybe he can find a suit he can activate manually. Maybe this tech crash didn’t affect his suits, but he won’t know until he finds one, and they’re down where Peter is. Slim chance, but it’s something to shoot for.
 He feels like he can hear footsteps. On this floor, on others, and it’s underlined in the silence, in the lack of screaming for help. 
 He’s gotta get to the back stairwell and see if that’s intact, and he swallows hard and heads that way. He weaves around, and he feels like he’s thinking more now that he can’t talk out loud—
 —gotta find the kid gotta see if we can get out cover the exits try to make contact with anybody else on the team might be here gotta find the manual overrides that don’t require voice activation and that’s probably zero considering my paranoia and there has to be backdoors for that to get around it and what if we’re stuck in the building because we probably are because who would go to all this trouble just to let us walk right out and thank God Pepper isn’t here that’s one less thing to worry about and if only Rhodey was a day early even though I don’t want him trapped in here either and Jesus who else is in here, it’s a weekend, who’d be staying, Jesus, gotta get to Peter, and Ned, Ned’s here too, can’t talk, can’t talk, it must be everyone—
 —and this atrium is filled with sunshine from the long line of windows, and Tony jogs over there to see if—to see if—
 He tries to say that’s not a cloud out loud but, of course, he can’t, just tiny newborn kitten mouth movements, and he huffs at himself and rolls his eyes and he’s seconds from a tantrum that he hope they’ll watch and laugh at on the cameras three days from now oh wait the cameras are fucking off—
 —but either goddamn way the tower is surrounded by something greenish purplish nebulous…like they’re inside someone’s chemistry experiment—
 This time, when he tries to say shit he tries to say it with such force that he gets out the rush of breath that would start the ‘s’, if not anything else. 
 So he races towards the back stairwell hissing and shushing over and over to himself like an angry librarian or an oncoming train.
 ~
 Ned runs out of paper. 
 And Peter doesn’t know how the hell he did that—well he sort of does, because he’s been wasting the paper on dumb stuff, like worrying about aliens, and sure, that’s a completely normal worry, but how many times is he gonna write it? And then waste the paper? He’s gone back to pick up paper he’s dramatically thrown to the ground like eight times. As if they’re walking around in some post-apocalyptic wasteland and not Stark Tower.
 Ned is tugging on Peter’s arm for more paper, and Peter turns around and holds up one finger at him. Ned shrugs at him and Peter feels like they’re not making any progress at all—they saw the screwed up staircases, and they could maybe get around those, maybe, and they saw the weird shit outside the windows which makes him think this is some magic spell or something—well, obviously, you can’t just steal people’s voices with a special remote—but he’s gotta see—he’s gotta see if he can get outside.
 And he’s having crazy ideas about how to—do that.
 If they just would have figured out how to teleport like in Star Trek then they wouldn’t be having this problem at all. 
 Peter sighs and then he sees one of the classrooms Tony carved out for team meetings, once he re-acquired the tower, and he has an idea. He points at the classroom to Ned, ignores his immediate defensiveness, and he heads over there. 
 Ned grabs onto his shoulder, and maybe Ned is missing the sound of his voice. Peter has to remember that Ned isn’t exactly used to situations like this, and he pats his hand, but then he turns around and indicates that he’s gonna knock down the door.
 It only takes one hit, and the door slams to the ground, and Peter sees the whiteboard on the wall that he remembers Tony writing on, and Sam snickering at. 
 And within a minute or two, he’s ripped off two relatively equal squares of it, and found two dry erase markers. And when Ned catches on, they make two paperclip necklaces and hang the boards around their necks. 
 Ned immediately writes on his.
 SO SMART PETER
 Peter draws a big smiley face with a bunch of teeth. And then he writes.
 THANKS. OKAY NOW I GOTTA TRY TO JUMP OUT THE WINDOW.
 Ned’s face falls.
 ~
 The building makes more noises, and Tony tries to determine if he thinks it’s actually moving. He hears banging, more footsteps, and he chalks that up to other people trying to get around, and he can’t count how many times he tries to yell out like a moron only to be met with more silence. He’s running down the stairs as fast as he can, his thoughts almost painting themselves outside of his head, in big bold read letters hanging in the air—
 And he’s breathing hard and he feels like he’s hearing things by floor 35 and is he hearing—laughter? Who’s laughing? He can’t laugh, so he’s assuming—who would be laughing in this scenario except the person who caused it?
 Here somewhere, in the shadows, lying in wait—
 And the laughter seems to echo, and it sounds like it’s getting closer, and more intense, like this person laughing is everywhere and right next to him all at once—
 And normally Tony would be shouting obscenities and trying to pump himself up with long soliloquies but he can’t do that, he can only breathe, and panic, and he thinks about the kid somewhere in this building, voiceless and in danger—
 And he nearly trips on the landing to floor 34 and someone catches him—
 And he pushes this person away and his heart is in his throat, beating and beating and choking him, and he doesn’t have a suit and he immediately drops into a defensive stance, one fist cocked by his face and the other outstretched, and Rhodey smacks his hand down and huffs at him.
 Tony stares. So many words are on the tip of his tongue, held back by brick walls, and Rhodey huffs again and gives him a little smile and Tony grabs onto his arms. Rhodey grabs Tony’s too, and for a second they’re—jumping? Up and down? And they realize they’re doing it immediately and they stop and then Tony pulls him into a hug.
 He rolls his eyes at himself, his face burning, but hey, Rhodey was doing it too. 
 They pull back, and Tony pats Rhodey’s shoulders. He points at him, throws his hands up, as if asking when the hell did you get here. Rhodey narrows his eyes at him, waves his hands through the air, backwards, as if trying to convey—who the fuck knows.
 Tony still can’t believe he’s in front of him, and they need to get somewhere with more light. He points down, tries to tug him forward, but Rhodey shakes his head. He gets close to Tony’s face, and mouths words. If it was anybody else, Tony wouldn’t be able to interpret it, but it’s him, so he can.
 CANNOT GET OUT OF BUILDING. TRAPPED.
 Tony nods—he figured as much—but he tugs on Rhodey’s wrist anyway. He mimes shooting a web, does an exaggerated version of Peter’s swinging, and points down again. Realization dawns on Rhodey’s face, and he points down with raised eyebrows, and Tony points down too. Rhodey nods at him, and he starts down the stairs, linking his arm through Tony’s.
 The silence doesn’t feel as heavy, with him here.
 And they try to pass little messages back and forth, through hand gestures and lip reading, and Tony finds out that Rhodey put a couple people from payroll in a safe room on the 20th floor, barring the door that Friday would normally seal. The front and back exits are completely blocked, and one guy from marketing tried to get through and was unceremoniously bounced back inside by some unknown force. Rhodey’s been hearing the laughter too, and the building groaning, and he’s seen the shit outside the window. He thinks someone is here, waiting to pounce, or maybe more than one someone—
 And they walk down to the 18th floor landing and Peter’s body is splayed out against the door in a mess of blood.
 ~
 Ned underlines his NO. He makes it bolder. He shoves it in Peter’s face.
 Peter sighs. He holds up his message again. 
 IF I CAN GET OUT I CAN CRAWL UP THE BUILDING—
 Ned rubs away Peter’s message with his hand. Peter sighs, and Ned writes underneath his NO.
 YOU KNOW THERE’S PURPLEGREEN JELLY OUT THERE OR WHATEVER THAT IS AND IT CAN EAT YOU AND ABSORB YOU MAYBE. AND IF YOU DO GET OUT UR LEAVING ME HERE.
 Peter sighs again. He misses his voice, he misses both of their voices. He takes a few steps away from Ned, braces his board on the wall, and writes what he hopes is the kicker.
 If I get out, I can climb down, and I will probably get my voice back, and I can connect to Friday from one of the remote facilities down the street, and I can turn her back on in the building, and then Tony will take over and save everybody and everything and find the bad guy inside. And I’ll come back and help!!!!!!
 Ned reads it. He squints at it, and he does that every time, and it makes Peter think he needs glasses. He hasn’t ever watched him read this much.
 Ned sighs.
 Ned sighs pointedly.
 Peter nods at him and hopes that’s the end of it, and they already discussed where he would go if this worked the way it’s supposed to, and it probably will, so he sighs again and hangs Peter’s board around his neck too, and grips both markers in his hands.
 Peter hugs him, fast and tight, trying to soothe him and give himself some sort of confidence too, and he knows he can’t waffle around for too long—so he doesn’t make eye contact with Ned again, and he rushes towards the window, heading for it with his right shoulder.
 And he bursts through—and he’s blasted through plenty of windows in his life so he’s not exactly surprised he’s able to do it—and there’s glass everywhere and he shields his face and maybe he should have thought this through a little more but the tower is hard to traverse right now to find shit, and he barely has any time to even breathe the outside air or perceive the weird gelatinous cloud before some otherworldly force is launching him back inside.
 It’s like he’s in the palm of someone’s giant hand, and he can feel his voice on the other side of that purplegreen cloud, he can feel it, and it dies away as soon as he collapses back onto the floor at Ned’s feet.
 Ned’s forgotten he can’t talk. His mouth is moving rapid fire, and he bends down in front of Peter and keeps not talking and Peter just stares at him, flabbergasted. Peter has cuts from the glass all over him, and the wind is whipping around through the newly created hole, and he feels like he can hear the purplegreen cloud. Wobbling and squishing. 
 He covers Ned’s mouth with his hand, still staring out the window, and it seems to jolt Ned back into their current situation. He quickly takes off Peter’s board, puts it back around Peter’s neck, and he shoves the marker into Peter’s hand. Then he takes off his own and starts writing on it.
 OKAY it says, in shaky hand NOW I’M FOR SURE ABOUT ALIENS
 ~
 Tony feels like he’s doused in ice, frozen in his tracks, unable to breathe. And he can’t talk and if he could talk he doesn’t know if he would be screaming and shouting or just like this—aghast, horrified, and he nearly trips down the stairs trying to get to him—
 Even in the darkness Peter doesn’t look like he’s breathing—
 And Tony drops to his knees beside him and—
 He’s gone.
 Peter disappears.
 Tony stares at the empty spot, and the silence is so loud that he can hear his heart stuttering and speeding up, and he runs his hands over the spot where he was the spot the empty spot what the fuck what the fuck—
 He hears Rhodey coming down behind him, and he hauls him to his feet. Tony’s heart is still beating a mile a minute and his eyes are starry but not in the good way, and he wants to say something he wants to say something, and that’s when he hears the laughter.
 OH TONY a voice says, a fucking voice, and it’s everywhere and nowhere all at once, and Tony has a hard time not falling back against Rhodey completely. HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED? WELL THAT’S WHAT I’M HERE FOR, TONY. MAYBE IT WILL. MAYBE I’LL TAKE RHODEY TOO. AND ALL YOUR LITTLE FRIENDS IN THE BUILDING. AND YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO HELP AND YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO SCREAM OR CRY OR ANYTHING. AND THEN I’LL KILL YOU, TONY. YOU’LL BE LAST.
 He recognizes the voice, and it laughs and laughs and the laughter fades and seems to dissipate in the air. 
 It sounds familiar—
 But he feels like he can’t fucking breathe anymore. And they haven’t found Peter yet, and Tony keeps imagining him dead, and it feels more dire than it did—
 And he shoves forward, doesn’t look at the place where Peter’s body was, or whatever the hell—
 And Rhodey follows him out of the stairwell. Tony stumbles into the main atrium of whatever the hell floor they’re on now—and it looks like Stark offices from the brief look he gets before he bends over and braces his hands on his knees. 
 He tries to breathe. Rhodey rubs his back and sighs a couple times and this is feeling more and more sadistic. Who the hell is this guy? How did he do this? Tony can still hear the laughter, even though it’s silent again.
 Silent, until he hears a banging.
 It’s not the typical bad noises he’s been hearing since this shit started, and he straightens up and looks at Rhodey. Rhodey nods, and he hears it too, and he motions towards—the railing, where they can look down and see the other floors. It’s like that, from the 38th floor down to the main lobby, and he rushes over, Rhodey on his heels.
 He tries to hold himself back, because it could be this asshole tricking him—but the banging keeps on and gets more manic.
 They very slowly peer over the edge of the railing.
 Peter and Ned leap into the air when they see them.
 And they’re wearing tinfoil hats on their heads.
 ~
 Peter can’t believe it. He can’t believe it’s him. He just so happened to be looking up right at the right time to see Tony run out and he thought he might be going crazy but then he saw Rhodey and it’s them it’s actually them, and he and Ned jump and clap and Tony looks at him like he’s never seen him before. Peter’s hands hurt from banging on the wall to get their attention, but it’s worth it. 
 The building starts to make those noises again, moaning and groaning like it’s structurally unsound, but Peter doesn’t trust it, because if it was actually collapsing, or moving somewhere at its base, he’d be able to feel it. 
 Peter points at Tony. Left stairwell? They were going up the right one. That’s so crazy. He forgets he’s got a board around his neck.
 Tony holds up both hands as if to say STOP STAY THERE and then he’s out of sight before Peter can respond. With…whatever response he would have had. Rhodey races after him, and Peter blows out a breath and turns around and looks at Ned.
 He grimaces. He saw Tony and instantly forgot about the hats they made a couple minutes ago when they found the tin foil. Ned is so concerned with aliens and now they look stupid.
 Peter snatches it off of Ned’s head, and then his own, and Ned’s mouth falls open in betrayal. Peter puts them on the ground and quickly writes out a message on his board.
 LISTEN I’VE DEALT WITH ALIENS BEFORE AND THOSE WEREN’T GONNA WORK ANYWAY.
 Ned stares at him, and then calmly claws away part of his message.
 Peter sighs, and then the stairwell door slams open.
 He turns around and Tony is striding towards him. 
 And Peter always wants to feel capable and he’s pretty confident he is, but he always feels safer when Tony’s around. Like he can…really figure things out. Like he won’t get hurt, because Tony won’t let him.
 And Tony wraps him up in a hug that Peter melts into, closing his eyes. Tony holds him tight, squeezing his shoulder, and Peter just lives in it for a second. Tony pulls back but keeps a hold of him, and Peter sees Rhodey and Ned sharing a little moment behind him. 
 Tony pats the board around Peter’s neck, nodding. Peter nods too, and he takes out the marker to write something, but Tony gently takes it out of his hand. He writes on the board, and turns it around for Peter to see. His letters are blocky and messy, and so very him.
 You alright?
 Peter nods at him. He points at him, raises his eyebrows, and Tony nods too. Tony immediately clocks the few cuts Peter sustained in the window incident, and he thumbs over one on Peter’s forehead.
 Peter shrugs.
 IT’S FINE he writes. I TRIED TO JUMP OUT THE WINDOW BUT IT BLEW ME BACK.
 Tony narrows his eyes. He keeps one hand on Peter’s shoulder and knocks Rhodey on the arm, and they have a couple seconds of silent facial communication the likes of which Peter has never seen. Ned knocks Peter on the arm, and looks at him like he wants to replicate it, but he just wags his eyebrows at Peter and Peter has no clue what he wants to say.
 Peter looks across the atrium at the weird cloud through the window. He wonders how far it goes up in the sky—it can’t be too far, it’s probably just…a little taller than the building. Maybe.
 Would it cover it completely, like a bubble? Or is there an opening at the top, the roof exposed to open air because nobody’s up there? Is it worth checking out?
 Anything is. Anything that might end this.
 Now he’s thinking…
 Ned sighs at Peter, and Peter pats Tony’s shoulder. Tony turns towards him again, and somehow he feels even more fatherly in this moment, dipping his head down to give Peter his undivided attention, stepping a little closer and gripping his shoulder. He was clearly worried, and Peter never really wants to worry him, but it feels…nice. Something crazy and insane is happening and Tony Stark is worried about him. He should be used to it by now, after all these years and everything they’ve been through, but he’s not. He doesn’t know if he ever will be. 
 Peter tries to focus, starts to write.
 Is it even worth it to try and get our suits? I know yours wouldn’t work, because they’re all tech, but would mine? Probably not, right? We need to get Ned to a safe place because I have an idea
 And the tail of his ‘a’ is drawn out when the four of them are swept into the air.
 ~
 And Tony doesn’t realize it’s a fucking mini tornado inside the tower until he’s inside it, and it’s huge and big and picking up everything all around them too—chairs and computers and long tables, and one of the tables knocks Rhodey and Ned completely away from them. They’re spinning and being thrown around and Tony can barely see—like there’s suddenly Saharan dust in here—and he grabs onto Peter’s ankle before he can be tossed away from him too.
 And for a minute it’s loud rushing, flying through the air, and what feels like a fucking phone hits him in the head and he sees stars, and he lets go of Peter—
 And he wants to yell out but he can’t, he’s still silent, and he has no idea what the fuck is going on here or who is doing this or how, and he can see other people and faces and bodies and they’re all contorted in the same silent scream, and before he knows it Peter is flying at him and they’re both hitting a pillar—
 And Peter is smashed against him and Tony can tell he’s sticking to the wall, making it so they don’t get thrown around anymore—
 And he’s gritting his teeth and the forces of the fucking tornado are so strong that he can barely lift his arm, but he does, trying to shield the kid’s head—
 And then it all falls, abruptly, everything drops everywhere in loud crashes and bangs, and he can hear windows breaking and other shit breaking but still no voices.
 And then there’s the laughter.
 Tony grabs onto Peter and Peter grabs him, hauling him to his feet. Tony feels dizzy and off-kilter from how many blows he took, and the laughter is moving in and out like a warped Led Zeppelin song, and it almost hurts his ears.
 TONY TONY TONY the same voice as earlier says, as Peter grabs onto Tony’s arm and hauls him over to the railing. I’M COMING FOR YOU TONY AND EVERYONE YOU LOVE—YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY LITTLE WIFEY ISN’T HERE, BUT WE’VE GOT THE BEST FRIEND AND THE LOVE CHILD, HUH? WHICH ONE FIRST? OR SHOULD IT BE YOU? THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU STEAL SOMEONE’S WORK, TONY…SOMEONE LIKE ME, I’M NOT GOING TO BE…RATIONAL…
 Peter is breathing hard, panicking, looking all around. They’re a lot higher up now, and Tony can see other people on the lower levels—he looks up, and it seems like there’s only one level above them, so they should be on the 37th floor now. Jesus. 
 The laughter starts again, and it gets so loud that it’s almost ear-piercing, and Tony holds one of his ears and one of Peter’s, out of instinct, he doesn’t know—
 And then he sees Ned, a few floors down, at the edge of the railing. He pats Peter’s arm, and points, and Peter nearly wilts in relief. And before Tony can start worrying about Rhodey, he sees him rush over to the edge, two floors above Ned.
 They all see each other at the same time.
 And it takes a few minutes of rabid communication, wincing, and hand gestures, because neither Ned or Peter have their boards anymore, but they’re able to get Rhodey to start heading to where Ned is. And Tony is able to convey—something, to the other people who see him. Everyone is panicking, but they’re somehow soothed by his presence—something he’ll never understand, but something he takes very seriously. 
 Jesus, he has to help them—
 The laughter eventually tapers off and dies out, and the sinking ship sounds resume. Tony and Peter back up from the ledge, holding onto each other, and Peter pats Tony’s shoulder to get his attention. Tony is distracted by the new cuts, and the blood in the kid’s hair, and he hates himself for getting Peter into situations like this. If he didn’t know him, he wouldn’t be here right now, he wouldn’t have to deal with this. 
 But a world in which he doesn’t know him…well, Tony doesn’t want that either.
 Peter points up. He raises his arm, and keeps pointing, as if to indicate all the way up. 
 Tony mouths roof and Peter nods at him. He obviously has an idea, they were starting to discuss it before the bullshit, and he knows the suits they have here are way below them, and most likely out of the picture now. Probably wouldn’t have activated, anyway. No voices, no tech. Tony nods at him again, trying to imagine what he might be thinking, and they start to head up there. 
 And Tony thinks about that voice. That laugh. The things he said. 
 ~
 Peter worries.
 He worries that his plan is stupid, and it’s barely even a plan, it’s barely even an idea, and it might not even pan out if the purplegreen cloud is covering the whole building. They’re too far away from where their suits are now, and they could try to go down there but the suits probably wouldn’t work anyways. Tony’s is entirely tech, and Peter’s is voice activated. Everything is voice activated. 
 They grab a couple things from the living quarters when they get there—Peter asks for a Friday com, for his haphazard plan, and he nearly jumps for joy when they find a pair of webshooters in his bedroom that he’d forgotten were there. He practices, and they work, because they’re tech but they aren’t tech tech. But they don’t have a lot of webs loaded in, and he can’t find more and isn’t in the right place to make them, so he has to be careful. But the webshooters will make it a lot easier than trying to climb up the antenna and jump over the cloud without anything to help him. 
 And they get some more paper and pens.
 I think this guy is this jerk I fired a couple years back Tony writes, after they get some water and grapes from the fridge. He was insane then and he’s clearly insane now. But more insane. End of the world stealing voices and trying to murder people insane. Earlier he showed me a projection of your dead body and he could do shit like that back then, the tornado, the voice throwing…I’m not even sure if the main stairwell is actually destroyed, he could be faking that with projection too. Everything but the magical aspects feel like him. But we’ve got a lot of magical assholes on our tails and he could be hooking up with them to get at me.
 Peter reads it, drinking his water, and he nods, sighing once he’s drained the bottle. He leans over and writes underneath it, his letters small and close together so he has lots of space.
 MY PLAN IS TO GO UP TO THE ROOF AND HOPEFULLY THE CLOUD DOESN’T COMPLETELY COVER THE BUILDING AND I CAN LAUNCH MYSELF OUTSIDE IT AND THEN SPEAK AGAIN AND CONNECT TO FRIDAY WITH THE COM AND RESET THE BUILDING AND SET OFF SAFEGUARDS TO START FIGHTING BACK. AND IF THE CLOUD COVERS THE BUILDING THEN I HAVE NO PLAN BUT I HAVE A FEELING IT DOESN’T BECAUSE HE CLEARLY THINKS HE’S GOTTEN RID OF EVERYTHING THAT COULD GET US UP THAT HIGH YOU KNOW?
 He’s a little worried, watching Tony read, and worry feels where he lives right now. And Tony does straighten up when he’s done, giving Peter a look. There’s layers behind it—fear, uncertainty, worry, wanting to help, but he nods anyway, even though he looks like he doesn’t want to.
 Peter smiles, softly, trying to be reassuring, but probably coming off as childish and stupid, and he sighs and leans over and writes again.
 HE USED MY DEAD BODY TO UPSET YOU?
 Tony reads, and makes a face at him, widening his eyes and grimacing. He nods, holding that expression. Peter mimes saying awww, and Tony scoffs, gently pushing his face away from him. Peter laughs, and draws a heart on the paper, and Tony snatches the pen and crosses the heart out with an X. But Peter is grinning anyway. 
 It feels good, not to…feel bad. If only for a moment.
 And they head back up after that, with pens and paper and water bottles, Peter’s webshooters on his wrists. They have to keep changing stairwells, because of obstacles and shit this guy’s put in their way, and a few of them are solid and real, and a few of them are illusions, projected to confuse and reroute them. Peter decides to web up the elevator shaft for a while, holding a very irritated Tony along with him.
 They climb out at floor 90, Peter peeling the doors open. He helps Tony to his feet, and the doors slam closed behind them once they’re all the way out. 
 Tony blows out a breath, and he claps Peter on the shoulder and bends his head down a bit to look at him. That look is asking if he’s alright, and Peter nods, and Tony nods back at him, already knowing he wants to ask too. 
 Peter gestures backwards, angrily, at everything, and he puts his hands together as if he’s choking someone and shaking them back and forth. 
 Tony points at his own chest, raising his eyebrows.
 Peter brushes him off, mouths no, and he points behind them, meaning THAT GUY, and he gestures all over and throws punches and pretends to knee someone in the stomach and pretends like he’s choking and he rolls his eyes back.
 Tony stares at him for a second, and then he grins, shaking his head. He throws up his middle finger, shakes his fist in the air, and they keep silently threatening as they walk.
 They head for the stairs and Peter worries. He worries about Ned, about his half-baked plan, about his non-existent back-up plan, about May and MJ hearing about this and seeing what’s going on, and he’s worrying as they step into the stairwell to climb the final three flights for roof access. 
 He’s worrying when he gets shot in the shoulder.
 ~
 And Tony drags Peter to his feet and they’re running, they’re running up the stairs, and he doesn’t feel like he’s moved this much outside of the suit since the fucking Mandarin situation—and the sound of whatever invisible force it is following them and shooting at them is undeniably a fucking drone. Probably two, from the buzzing. 
 Very clearly a Beck production—
 And Tony holds onto Peter, and they keep running, and they zig-zag as much as they can in the narrow stairwell, and Tony hears ricochets and blasts inches from his head and he gets one in the back of the leg that takes him down—
 And Peter pulls him up again, and Tony sees him turn around and fire a bunch of webs, and one of the drones, still invisible, slams against the wall, trapped.
 They keep running, and there’s one left, and they can’t fucking see it, and they keep running and Tony is fucking hopping, and before he knows it Peter is hauling him behind a pillar.
 And the shooting stops.
 And Tony can still hear the drone, can hear it buzzing and ticking and searching for them, and Peter has his eyes closed.
 And before Tony knows it, Peter is leaping out from behind the pillar, and Tony sees him grasp his hands together and slam down into open air. But it isn’t open air, and the drone becomes visible and crashes down to the ground, spitting out sparks.
 Tony breathes hard through his mouth, and Peter stumbles back towards him, and grabs his arm again. Tony nods at him, trying to convey a good job, and Peter blows out a breath and shakes his head.
 And they stagger up one more set of stairs and bust out onto the roof. 
 And—
 The kid was right.
 They can see it right away.
 The purplegreen cloud is surrounding the building, and it goes up to just under the antenna. And that’s where it stops. Clear blue sky. 
 An opening.
 It looks easy. He’s seen Peter do harder things. But Tony stands there, frozen, staring up at where the cloud ends while Peter drags over one of the random cement blocks up here and braces it against the door.
 Tony tries to say his name, but he can’t. He still can’t, despite how close they are to the edge of the thing. 
 And Peter puts the com in his ear, ready to connect to Friday when he can. 
 And why the hell didn’t they take their phones with them maybe Tony could have hacked into them if he put his mind to it and why wasn’t he thinking properly and forming his own plans and why didn’t he just go back down and get a suit and make it like he made it in Afghanistan they could have withstood more of Beck’s bullshit if he just put his goddamn mind to it and—
 Peter blows out a breath, and takes a step forward, shaking his arms like he’s trying to get loose. Then he aims one webshooter—
 Tony grabs Peter’s arm, his heart in his throat. He feels insane, was the kid about to just go, just do it—
 Peter turns around and looks at him. And they can’t say anything, even though there’s a million things to say, and Tony can never stand letting him go if he can’t go with him, because what if it goes wrong, what if he doesn’t come back—
 And they’ve been trying to convey a million things without words since this started, and he just looks at Peter and tries to say it all with his face—I restarted the world because I couldn’t live in it without you so you better come back—and he cocks his head a little bit and really looks at him and his eyes hurt—
 And Peter rushes into a hug, a big one, and Tony clings to him and cradles the back of his head and hates this whole goddamn thing. Then Peter pulls back, nodding at him, tears shining in his eyes—
 And he steps forward, away from him, and shoots a web before Tony can say anything else—
 “Well, look at him go,” a voice says. 
 That voice.
 Tony spins around, and the man he knew was behind this is standing there. Right fucking behind him, Quentin Beck, in some goddamn jumpsuit, grinning from ear to ear.
 He punches Tony square in the face, a move that Tony would have parried or dodged if he hadn’t been so fucking shocked to see the guy standing there when nobody was there a moment before, and Beck hits him again off the shock of the first hit—
 And the pain bursts—
 “God, you were always slow, Tony,” Beck says, and Tony is able to dodge the next one he throws, which makes the asshole laugh. “Oh, there he is! There he is! A little fight left in him—”
 ~
 And Peter swings, latching onto the antenna and launching himself over the tippy top of the cloud, and the heel of his foot bumps it and that buoys him further up into the air, and he shoots another web and swings around outside of the spell, away from the building—
 And he can feel his voice in his throat, building up, ready to be used again—
 “FRIDAY!” he screams, shrill and childlike, but he doesn’t care. “FRIDAY, RESET YOURSELF IN THE TOWER ON ALL LEVELS! REBOOT THE TOWER. CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
 And he swings around, in a curved arc, and he can see—
 There’s a man, a man there with Tony on the roof, and they’re fighting, hand to hand—
 And suddenly there’s so many of him, everywhere, the same man, all over the roof, and they’re all attacking Tony, and Tony falls to the ground—
 And Peter can’t—Friday hasn’t yet—he can’t breathe he can’t think it feels like time is slowing to a halt—
 “Resetting,” Friday says, in Peter’s ear, “and responding to an attack, Peter, do you need assistance?”
 “Tony needs assistance on the roof!” Peter screams, and he shoots three more webs and swings around, and the cloud is still up but the tower comes to life inside of it, an energy blasting up and creating ripples, but the cloud doesn’t go away yet, not completely—
 And all the multiples of the man disappear until there’s just one—
 —and Peter sees him stab Tony in the stomach.
 “No!” Peter screams, his heart in his throat, and he starts swinging back that way, dipping and weaving in the air, and he can hardly see through his tears. “Tony, Tony! No!”
 And he reaches out to shoot another web, but nothing comes out—
 He’s out—
 No more webs—
 “Shit!” Peter yells, plummeting, and he swings his arms and tries to get closer to the building so he can stick and the cloud is still rippling and breaking in pieces and if he hits it just right he won’t be bounced back—
 Tony Tony Tony—
 And before he knows it something is crashing into him, and closing him up inside it—
 An Iron Man suit—
 And it comes to life quickly, the heads up display bright and shining, connecting to two other suits currently on the grid—and he’s not falling anymore—
 “Tony?” Peter yells. He tries to get acclimated, quickly changing his trajectory and heading back up to the roof. He’s only been in an Iron Man suit like, twice, and the first time was an accident. “Tony? Tony? Friday is he—Friday, where’s—”
 And just as Peter takes off, the purplegreen cloud explodes, and it knocks Peter backwards, catapulting him back onto the roof of a building a couple blocks over. He hits the wall so hard—
 And Peter dreams of clouds.
 Dreams? Dreams? Is he dreaming?
 Purplegreen—black—stars—voices—
 ~
 “Peter?”
 Beeping. Wind.
 “Peter. I am flying you back to the tower.”
 His eyes are shut. Flying?
 “Peter. The spell has been broken. Doctor Stephen Strange was locked in the lowest level of the tower by the perpetrator, former Stark Employee Quentin Beck. As soon as you reactivated me countermeasures were taken, and Doctor Strange was able to find—”
 “He took—down the spell?” Peter asks. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet. He’s flying. He doesn’t wanna see, his brain isn’t working. 
 “Yes, and—”
 “No specifics,” Peter says, and he finally opens his eyes. He’s heading for the roof—the roof, the roof— “Brain hurts—Friday, Tony, is Tony—is Tony—”
 “Mr. Stark is alright, save for a concussion and a blast wound on his leg,” Friday says, and Peter doesn’t understand, he saw—he saw that guy stab him—
 And he’s heading for a landing, and he sees—Tony, and Rhodey, and Happy, and Ned is there too, and they’ve got this guy on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. Rhodey is suited up, and Tony’s nanosuit trickles away, forming a watch on his wrist.
 Peter lands, and the suit opens to let him out, and he tumbles like Han Solo out of carbonite in Return of the Jedi. 
 Tony catches him. “Whoa whoa whoa,” he says, trying to gather him up. “There he is, took long enough—buddy, bud, hey, you okay?”
 His voice his voice—
 “He stabbed you,” Peter breathes, trying to get his feet solidly under him. “He stabbed, I saw—I saw it—”
 “See, he fell for it,” Beck says, laughing from his spot on the ground. “I knew he would. I knew it, didn’t I say? Tony!”
 “We need to gag him,” Tony says, pointing over in his direction. “He took my voice, I’ll take his, it’s only fair—Pete, I’m fine, hey—” Tony helps him stand up straighter, and geeze, he must have hit the wall really hard, even in the suit—he feels like jelly. “It was another one of his shitty tricks—when you turned Friday back on she started launching our countermeasures, we’ve got plans for magic too, she’s just gotta be on—Beck kidnapped Strange, took this shit out of one of his spell books or whatever the hell—well, Strange just—Friday helped Strange get out of the building without getting bounced back and he just—said his little spiel—”
 “Okay,” Peter breathes, nodding. “I get it. I get it.” He holds onto Tony’s arm with one hand, and points over at Beck with the other. “You’re a dickhead.”
 “You’re a dickhead,” Beck says, “and now I know who you are, Spidey Widey. Know your whole little identity and everything, what are you gonna do about that?”
 “Rhodey, Hap, get him the hell out of here,” Tony says, waving them away. 
 “Yeah!” Ned says, as the two of them haul Beck to his feet and start him towards the roof door. “Yeah, what are you—I mean, you’re getting out of here, idiot, you’re—you don’t even know what’s coming—”
 And Peter watches as Ned actually follows them out, letting the door close behind them, still in the middle of his tirade. 
 “I’m fine Ned!” Peter yells. “Thanks for asking!”
 “He’s just trying to play coy,” Tony says. “He’s been worried as hell—took you about ten minutes to get back, he was asking where you were every minute or so—”
 Peter nods. “Yeah—but what are we gonna do about Beck, you know, uh—knowing—knowing me?” he asks, looking at Tony, already worrying about May and MJ—and Ned, who Beck clearly knows personally…
 “It’s fine,” Tony says, shaking his head. “He’s done. He’s a terrorist now, like, by definition—he’s lucky nobody died, but attempted murder is on there, and there were absolutely…multiple attempts—”
 Peter nods again, trying to focus. He remembers the stabbing clear as anything, and he’s never felt so far away and so close at the same time. Too far to help, swinging through the air like a moron, but close enough to see the look on Tony’s face. 
 It was too real.
 Peter sighs, and feels dizzy again remembering it, and he straightens up and pulls Tony into a hug. Tony sounds surprised, laughing a little bit, and then he starts rubbing Peter’s back.
 “Are you okay?” Peter asks, closing his eyes.
 “I’m okay, buddy, he didn’t stab me. All good, stab-less. What about you, huh? You okay? Savior of the tower, the one voice that rose up when the others were silenced—”
 Peter snorts, squeezing him for a long moment before he pulls back. “I’m okay,” he says, tentatively. 
 “We gotta get Helen to look at you—she’s coming, she’s on her way. May too, and MJ, they were at the coffee shop across the street—they noticed the cloud before the news did. And they knew something was wrong when they didn’t get their morning Peter texts.”
 Peter shakes his head, glancing back, just to…make sure the cloud is still gone.
 And it is. Clear skies. 
 He looks at Tony. “Maybe we’re a little bit too reliant on technology.”
 Tony wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “You think? I don’t know, I don’t think it’s…unhealthy—”
 “Our entire world was just completely upended because everything needs voice commands,” Peter says, as they gingerly, half-limp to the roof access door. 
 “Listen, Strange’s ancient text also needed a voice command to break the spell,” Tony says, holding the door open and following Peter inside. “What’s that mean, huh? That’s caveman shit, and yet—”
 “Well, he should—keep his spell books, uh—more protected, I guess—”
 “That too,” Tony says. “Though I guess the kidnapping and being left in the basement is his punishment. Come on, Pete, we gotta go—get taken care of, gotta talk to the goddamn reporters, call Pep, start the cleanup, take inventory, make sure everyone’s alright—you’re alright, right? You’re alright?”
 “I’m alright,” Peter says, the last couple hours’ events feeling very strange and fake, even though they were very very real. He needs to decompress badly. But how do you decompress from someone stealing your voice and locking you in a tower with a magical spell and trying to kill you?
 Just another day for Spider-Man and Iron Man, Peter guesses.
 That’s a sentence that would have blown his eight year old self’s mind.
 “Careful on the stairs here,” Tony says, trying to help guide him down, “feel like both of us probably have stair trauma for the rest of our lives—”
 “Oh, I’m either swinging or using the elevator in the tower for at least a couple weeks,” Peter says, smiling back at him.
 Tony snorts. “Noted. Okay, tell me a story, tell me your thought process throughout this whole ordeal, tell me your…next steps, ideas…just wanna hear you talk, buddy, that was way too long of a Peter Parker silence.”
 And Peter’s face goes red, because that feels like one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to him, really, especially since his bad guys tell him so often how annoying his voice is. 
 Well, Tony Stark doesn’t think so, how about that?
 And his main thought, when he realized what was going on, was that he had to find Tony, because they could figure it out together. Tony can do anything, no matter what, and he makes Peter feel like…he can do anything too. 
 “Okay, well,” Peter says, clearing his throat as they keep heading for the 90th floor, where the elevator is. “I don’t even know where to start.”
 “Start at the beginning,” Tony says. “When you woke up in the lab like a young Tony Stark might have…or an old one, couple days ago, either or—”
 Peter smiles to himself. It is so nice to be able to talk again. He doesn’t think he’s ever gonna stop talking. It’s just nice that Tony actually wants to hear it. 
 So he keeps talking. “Okay, well, right away I wake up to Ned hitting me. And he’s immediately concerned about aliens…” 
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knightsickness · 5 months
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Calling the greens prudish for not liking incest is weird because the whole of westeros thinks that. They have just learned to put up with it cause the targaryens rule. Of course the people coming from outside of this little bubble think its weird in opposite to the targaryens who grow up learning its right, think of dany believing her whole life she would at some point marry viserys. Alicent says the targaryens have queer customs and id be totally willing to believe everyone talks in hushed tones about that away from the targaryens. And even then they still put up with it somewhat like they do not stop aegon and helaena marrying, if the greens were as prudish as black fans say wouldnt that be a priority.
the your family do have queer customs implied religious horror of incest is something i wish the show actually did with the greens and especially alicent. it’s normal to rhaenyra and daemon and her kids who the show is mainly from the perspective of but not to literally anybody else the faith puts up with it because the targs would wipe them out if they tried to oppose it but it’s still doctrinally considered an abomination. psychological horror aspect of alicent having to marry her own children together in line with the customs of the family, the suggestion from otto when aegon was 2 to marry him to rhae etc. the greens seem prudish bc the sympathetic viewpoint characters are completely submersed in the family incest mythology it’d be like if agot was entirely jaimecersei pov and ned was a frigid jealous unromantic asshole who didn’t understand anythinggg
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starksvinyls · 6 months
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Title: Career Day Rating: Gen Pairing: Peter Parker & Tony Stark Tags/Warnings:  Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Adopted Peter Parker, Dead May Parker (sorry not sorry it's for the irondad fluff), Irondad and Spiderson, Fluff, Family Fluff, Identity Reveal Summary: Midtown is hosting a Career Day, and Tony comes to speak as Peter's dad, revealing Peter's identity as his son to Peter's class. Notes:  fills square B5 'identity reveal' on my @pparkerbingo card!
AO3 Link
Peter didn’t think anything of it, when he left the papers from school on the kitchen island. It was part of his new routine with Tony and Pepper, they liked to keep up with the goings on at Midtown, and if Peter didn’t immediately leave the papers for them when he got home, he’d forget them in his backpack. He wasn’t sure why the school didn’t just email all the parents and guardians with the latest news and reminders about parent teacher conferences, sciences fairs and band performances, it wasn’t like this was the really old days of dial up and checking your email once a week.
Midtown School of Science and Technology was hosting a career day for the juniors, as collage application deadlines would be upon them sooner than they realized, and had asked for parental volunteers in several different vocations to come and speak. That flier had been in the stack, however Peter didn’t think Tony or Pepper would have the time, but well…
There, in a line of other parents and guardians, sat Tony Stark in all his bespoke suited glory. He had one leg crossed over the other and his hands in his lap, fingers laced. The HUD glasses were perched on his nose, and he was smiling out at the group of awestruck teenagers staring up at him on the auditorium stage. There was a cacophony of excited whispers, too muddled for Peter to catch anything specific. 
Next to him, Ned was hitting his arm. “Dude, your da-“
“Ned!” Peter hissed. “You know he’s not-“
“He technically is,” MJ rolled her eyes from the other side of Peter. “Those adoption papers aren’t just for show, loser.” 
Peter could feel himself flush and he snapped his mouth closed, slouching down in his seat. It wasn’t that Peter didn’t think of Tony as his dad, but he had only recently gone from calling him ‘Mister Stark’ to ‘Tony’. It wasn’t even until May’s funeral that the man had hugged Peter fully. They weren’t there yet. 
They hadn’t made any announcements (nor had Peter really said anything at school, it wasn’t like he went around talking about his family before. Plus, who would he tell?), though they weren’t hiding Peter away. Most everyone at the tower knew, the school knew, of course, as did the Avengers and Peter’s friends. Pepper had also planned a lovely little debut, of sorts, for Peter as their son and heir to Stark Industries at the next Maria Stark Foundation fundraising dinner. Huh, she had said “their son”…Peter smiled to himself. Maybe they were there. 
Peter remembered the flier, then, it had asked for volunteers to come speak at “their child’s” school for a career day. That was definitely something parents did. 
Principal Morita stepped up to the podium and cleared his throat. “Hello, students,” He waited for the room to hush before continuing. “We have some very accomplished and knowledgeable parents here today to talk to you about different college and career paths in STEM. I expect you to give each of them your full, undivided attention, as what they can tell you will be very valuable for your own futures.” 
It was obvious the principal was implying that they needed to pay attention to all the parents and not ignore them because of Tony Stark, and Peter was kind of embarrassed. His classmates were definitely the type to fan-geek out instead of paying attention. 
“Without further ado, let’s have our first speaker,” Principal Morita clapped, prompting some applause from the students, as he stepped back to his chair. 
The first parent, a woman with dark skin and round glasses, adjusted the height of the mic. “Hello, I’m Rochelle Brown, Abe’s mother,” She was cut off by an excited whoop from a few rows in front of Peter, and laughed. “Hey, son…I’m a doctor specializing in cardiovascular health.” 
Peter listened to her talk about med school and the skills and knowledge from non-STEM areas that were important as well. It was overall pretty informative. The next few parents followed the same formula; introduce themselves, as well as whose parent they were, and then talk about their work and college experience. 
They went down the line, and the 5th chair held Tony. When it was his turn, he stood and made his way to the podium. “Well, you know who I am,” He flashed them a smile. 
Peter noticed it wasn’t his media smile, it was genuine. A warmth spread through his belly at the realization that Tony was there as his dad, not as Tony Stark. 
After a small smattering of chuckles from the audience, it went silent, clearly all waiting with baited breath to hear who his kid was. 
“And I’m Peter Parker’s dad.” 
The warmth in Peter’s belly exploded into a million butterflies and he could feel his cheeks pulled up into a wide smile. That was the first time he had said that. Sure, he called Peter “his kid” all the time, but he said…
Peter couldn’t stop smiling, even as everyone was suddenly turned, looking at him. The whispers were loud, and teachers around the room were trying to hush everyone and get them focused again. Flash could be heard loudly protesting as he was escorted out the doors into the hallway after a rather rude outburst. Peter snorted. 
“Yes, yes, new gossip, I know it’s exciting.” Tony drawled, amused. “But I’m here to talk to you about engineering and MIT, the greatest in higher education for a budding young scientist, and I promise I’m only a little biased,” He winked. 
Peter watched at Tony captivated a room full of teenagers and adults alike, with tales about building DUM-E at fifteen, and the non-proprietary aspects of engineering the arc reactor. He grinned and laughed at an anecdote about the one armed bot, and then reached into his pocket for his phone. He typed out a text and hit send, knowing Friday would display it on the screen in Tony’s glasses. A second later, his dad looked directly at him and smiled.   
thanks for coming to speak, dad
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daftpunk-delorean · 4 months
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Two hours later, he was straddling Bruce’s lap on the couch in Tony’s office, while Bruce pushed Tony’s shirt over his head and they kissed frantically, hands everywhere, humid lips following in their wake. 
“Shh,” Bruce hushed when Tony moaned, and Tony buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder, grinding their hips together. 
“Can’t help it, you feel so good-“ he panted, hissing when Bruce eagerly licked a nipple. “Fuck…”
“Tony, I want-“
Knock knock
The two of them froze at the sound of a knock on Tony’s office door, and they bolted apart faster than lightning, scrambling for clothes and straightening pillows and scattered books. Soon Tony was behind his desk, shirt on backwards, lips reddened, and Bruce was on his couch, leg crossed away from the door, an open book on his lap. 
“Come in,” Tony called, recognizing that it had taken a suspiciously long time for him to say that. 
“Hi Tony! M.J. and Ned and I just had a question about- oh, hi Dr. Banner,” Peter said in surprise, looking between Tony and Bruce far too perceptively. Ned and M.J. were whispering behind him, naturally. 
“Question about?” Tony said, and Peter cleared his throat. 
“Uh, Dr. Banner, your book is upside down,” he said, and Bruce quickly righted the book.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Parker,” Bruce said, not making eye contact. 
“Your question?” Tony said again, and Ned tugged Peter’s backpack.
“Sorry Tony, Dr. Banner, we got it figured out!” Ned said, pulling a protesting Peter from the room and shutting the door. Tony suspected Peter really did have a question about homework, but…
“Welp, the cat is out of the bag,” Tony groaned, laying his head on his arms on his desk with a sigh. Bruce’s sigh echoed his. 
“With those three? The whole department will know before the hour is up,” he said, then grinned at Tony. “Your shirt’s on backwards.”
Tony scowled and straightened his tshirt.
“Okay, Dr. Upside Down Book.”
Bruce snorted, then came to Tony’s desk and gave him a soft, lingering kiss. 
“Can’t wait for dinner tomorrow, Tony,” he murmured, then backed away slowly, looking at Tony with intense want in his hazel eyes, and closed the office door behind him. 
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Knight in Blue and Red
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Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Tully!Reader, Catelyn Stark x Ned Stark
Warnings: none really
Words: 1694
Summary: You wanted to be in charge of Riverrun when your father died, but because you were the third and youngest daughter of Hoster Tully that was highly impossible. You would show him. Show him that you would be a better successor than your brother Edmure.
No one could believe it. Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince of the Seven Kingdoms, had just been defeated in a joust. His opponent staring down at him from atop of his horse. A knight that paraded themselves in armor of blue and red.
The crowd around them was hushed as Rhaegar’s vassals scurried to help him up. Rhaegar didn’t need any assistance though. He waved away the helpful hands and dusted himself off. In a tourney like this it was bound to happen. Rhaegar had been winning for several days now as the Tourney of Harrenhal was in full swing.
Shooting a charming grin despite the dirt on his face, Rhaegar takes a bow. “Well done! You have bested me, good ser.”
Swiftly dismounting their horse, the knight takes off their helm. . .
To reveal a mass of auburn hair, bright and beautiful which complimented the feminine face of its owner. Vivacious blue eyes crinkle as the she-knight grins.
There’s cries of outrage in the stands at this revelation and Rhaegar himself can only gawk. He still held his smile though. How odd, how amazing that this armored lady easily bested him.
“It was an honor, Your Grace.” She grins and offers her hand to him.
**
“A disgrace. Do you know what you just did?” Hoster Tully turns on you. Normally your father was so docile, but you knew you had taken a great risk in stealing Edmure’s mount and participating in the tourney. “You’ve embarrassed the future king! I can’t imagine what he’ll do to us.”
You shrug while undoing your braid. “He didn’t look too upset.”
“(y/n).”
His serious tone made you stop and let your hair fall down onto your shoulders. “Father. . . it’s okay. I didn’t do anything wrong. I beat him fair and square.”
Old and withered, your father sighs and collapses in his seat. The sound of the tourney was still going on outside of your tent. “Why do you do these things. . .”
Shame started to seep into you. You loved your father. The only reason you did what you did was to show him that you would be a better head of House Tully than your brother Edmure. Even though he was older than you, you knew he was weak. You saw it when he would practice his blade skills; always landing on his butt pathetically. At a young age he had shown you a few moves and within a couple of months you were able to disarm him quite easily.
“I’m sorry father. . . I didn’t mean to upset you.” Hanging your head, you hold your hands in your lap. “I just wanted to prove myself to you.”
“Well that was not the right way. If you wanted to show your worthiness you should take note on your older sisters.”
At that a fire lit inside of your chest. You hated when he lumped you in with Catelyn and Lysa. You loved your sisters but you didn’t want to shape your life based on finding a lord husband. That wasn’t the life you wanted.
“Lord Tully?” A bannerman hesitantly peeks his head through the tent flap.
Your father straightens in his chair. “What is it?”
The bannerman licked his lips, glancing at you. “His Grace, Prince Rhaegar wishes to speak with you.”
Oh no.
The reality of what you had just done settled in. Panicked, you stare at your father to gauge his reaction. His eyes are serious and grave as he nods. “Go. I have nothing more to say to you.”
Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you obey Lord Tully and stand to leave. When you open the tent though you immediately lock eyes with Rhaegar Targaryen who still bore dirt on his face.
With a smile, he steps aside. “My lady.”
Averting your gaze you give him a small curtsy before rushing away.
“You’ve certainly gotten yourself in quite an ordeal now.” Cat folds her arms once she finds you alone in your tent that you shared with your sisters. Lysa was thankfully off trying to flirt with the many bannermen in the hopes of finding a worthy husband. “Embarrassing father and Prince Rhaegar-”
“Yes, yes. I know. I heard enough of it from father.” Back turned to face your older sister, you continue to viciously stab your sewing needle through your torn sleeve.
There’s a pause before Catelyn’s voice softens. “Let me have that. You’re going to ruin it.”
Still refusing to look at her you merely hand over your work sullenly. Another failure as a lady. No matter how hard you tried, sewing just wasn’t your thing. It’s like your hands would suddenly get stupid once presented with a needle and thread.
Cat’s gentle fingers brush against the back of your hand. “You were great out there, by the way. We all thought it was Edmure until. . .”
“Edmure could never fight that well.”
“No. . .” She nods and sits in front of you on your makeshift bed. “No he couldn’t.”
Finally you look up. “That’s what I was trying to show father!”
Now it’s Cat’s turn to look down as she mended your sleeve. “Why do you want to be Lord of Riverrun anyway? It’s more suited for a man, don’t you think.”
“Edmure isn’t a man, Cat. Father gets older and older each year while Edmure seems to get. . . well, dumber. He’s my brother and I love him, but he would not make a good lord. He has the temperament of a child still and you know it. And Uncle Brynden doesn’t want the title. I just want Riverrun to prosper after father dies.”
Her own blue eyes flick up to you. She knew. She acknowledged all that you said was the truth. There was no good argument she could present to you so Catelyn remained silent.
Pursing your lips, you concede. “It’s not like I’m opposed to being married. . . Of course I’ll marry once I’m the Lady of Riverrun. I’ll find a fine man to be my husband. Someone who will care for Riverrun by my side. Not above me. I want an equal.”
“Only the finest man for my sister.” Catelyn nods with a gentle smile as she glances up at you. It wasn’t often you got along with your sisters because of your polar personalities. In that moment though, you and Catelyn developed a bond. You were her high strung, wild, little sister. One that would rather play with the boys then participate in sewing. You had defeated Petyr Baelish when you were but 10 years old and claimed aloud that he wasn’t worthy of Catelyn’s hand until he was able to best you.
Abruptly, Edmure enters panting and a little disheveled. “(y/n), father wants to see you.”
You frown. “But he just told me to leave.”
There was a shine in his eyes though. “Things have changed.”
Sharing a confused expression with Cat, the two of you follow Edmure back to your father’s tent where you found him with an equally shocked face.
“What’s wrong, father?” Catelyn immediately asks.
He appeared at a loss for words, his brain trying to compile a complete sentence. The lines on his face were even more exaggerated. “Prince Rhaegar has asked for your hand in marriage, (y/n)...”
**
“Aunt (y/n)!!” Arya shrieked with delight and ran for her aunt. Many times, Catelyn had to remind her youngest daughter that she needed to address her aunt as ‘Your Grace’. The girl who had once been her spirited little sister was now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Trident while Edmure was waiting to become Lord of Riverrun as Hoster Tully still proved to be hanging on. Once she became the young bride of Rhaegar Targaryen, (y/n) prospered greatly. Rhaegar had fallen in love with her at first sight. Well that is once she had taken off her helmet. Through the years he continued to support (y/n) and her sword fighting, calling upon many infamous swordsmen and knights to train and teach her. She had fought by his side when the time came to depose the former King Aerys.
Catelyn had found herself Lady Stark, but not from marrying Brandon. He had died during the siege of King’s Landing as he helped Rhaegar overthrow his father Aerys.. Her husband had become Ned Stark. And with him she had five beautiful children. Arya, reminding her every day of her sister (y/n). She had the wild spirit of both (y/n) and Lyanna Stark.
The King and Queen were a lovely pair with their own heir, young Jaehaerys who possessed his mother’s auburn hair and his father’s striking violet eyes.
(y/n) gathers Arya in her arms, giggling and twirling her niece around. “How big you’ve gotten! Have you been practicing your sword fighting?”
Eagerly she nods. “Jon and Robb have been helping me!”
Rhaegar smiles over at his son who right away sought company with his cousins. “Perhaps you could help Jaehaerys.”
Arya beams up at him. “No problem! He’ll be an expert swordsman in no time!”
Catelyn shakes her head while Ned tries to suppress his groan. Arya had definitely taken after her two aunts more than anyone else. The looks of her departed Lyanna and the temperament of her royal (y/n).
"The both of you must be tired from your journey. Come inside and warm yourselves." Ned gestures toward the castle of Winterfell. Evident on the king and queen's face that they would much appreciate it.
"I'll lead the way!" Arya announces and hurries through the snow. (y/n) could only move so quickly though as Rhaegar held her hand to help her walk. She was pregnant with their second child.
Siddling to the other side of her sister, Catelyn takes her other hand. "You shouldn't have traveled in your condition."
(y/n) snorts and rolls her eyes. "Oh hush. I'm fine. This child isn't coming for quite some time. You're as worse as Rhaegar."
"Our fault for underestimating our sturdy queen." Rhaegar chuckles. He looks to his wife, complete adoration and love overflowing. Catelyn smiles to herself. Yes. Only the finest man for her sister.
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sadslay · 1 year
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- INVISIBLE ⋆☆ 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐨𝐜 ⋆☆ PART ONE
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↳ agent profile
↳ enhanced agents
↳ veiled soldier
full name: y/n l/n
date of birth: may 2000
abilities: invisibility
enhanced physical combat
enhanced intelligence
kills: 97
notes: no trace of biological parents
reassigned to the care of natasha romanoff in
2014
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"y/n?" a muffled voice call.
sliding my headphones down to the base of my neck, i slammed my locker shut before turning around to inspect where the voice was coming from. as i turned around there were several students walking up and down the hall but one face caught my attention. a few meters away stood peter parker with his back to a locker as he stared at me in disbelief.
"peter?" i smiled as i began to walk in his direction.
"what uh- what are you doing here?" he asked as his friends head popped put from behind his locker door.
"i uh- i'm studying here until nat gets back."
"wha- whe, sorry." he breathed as he was still trying to process my changed appearance. "who are you staying with?"
"one of tonys apartments a few blocks away." i smiled weakly. “got the whole place to myself.” i muttered sarcastically.
“mr. stark?” peter whispered.
"tony?" peters friend asked. "as in tony stark?"
"you must be ned." i smiled. "i'm y-"
"y/n, yeah i know." he cut me off as he began to smile. "you're the veiled solider right?" he asked quietly.
"yeah." i smiled weakly.
“cool.” he grinned. “do you know peter from the internship?”
“internship?” i frowned, looking at peter who’s eyes had widened as he looked at me before turning to ned.
“yeah, uh we were in the same devision.” he spoke in a shaky voice. “hey, uhm could i talk to you for a minute?”
peter bite down on his lip nervously as he waited for a response from me. i shrugged before nodding my head causing peter to hold onto my hand as he pulled me down the hall until he found a quieter corridor.
“what internship is ned asking about?” i smiled trying not to laugh at peters flustered state.
“he doesn’t know, no one does.” he whispered loudly.
“about you being-“
“yes!” he snapped is a hushed whisper cutting me off.
“wow.” i huffed. “i’m surprised you can keep a secret, especially one like this.” i smirked.
“please don’t tell him.” he pleaded as he began to fidget with the bottom of his shirt.
“relax parker, i’m not going to tell anyone.” i smiled a little more warmly, trying not to scare him off.
“thank you.” he breathed, finally relaxing a little. “a-and i’m sorry about ned, bringing up the whole-“
“it’s fine.“ i cut him off. “hey, uhm did you wanna come over tomorrow?” i asked.
peters mouth gaped open causing me to panic a little. as he tried to speak, nothing came out but sounds of him half stuttering a word.
“y-you uh, you could bring ned and maybe we could watch a movie.” i suggested, not wanting to be rejected.
i was not only desperate to befriend peter but to not spend another weekend alone. after natasha went into hiding, tony took me under his wing. he had brought me an apartment near the school and he would visit me every week or so to check in. peters eyes widened at my question. it took him a second or two to stutter out a response.
“ye-yeah sure.” he stuttered.
i looked down at the bag slung over my shoulder and hanging up the bottom of my waist. i searched through the bag and eventually found a pen.
with peter watching every move, i took peters hand and began to write my address and number on his palm. the tip of the pen tickled peters palm and he tried his hardest not to squirm.
“i’ll see you tomorrow.” i smiled, gently letting go of his hand.
before peter could say anything, i used both of my hands to slide my headphone back onto my head, the music softly playing as i began to walk towards my next class.
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after getting a few quiet knocks at my door, i got up from my bed and jogged over to the door. brushing my hair out of my face i swung the door open to find peter standing a few feet away from the door.
he was wearing a t-shirt with a math joke printed on the front with a blue unzipped jumper and a khaki green jacket over the top. a soft smile crept onto his lips as he waited for something to happen.
“no ned?” i asked.
“n-no uh, he uh had some stuff come up.” peter managed to stutter. “i-is that okay?”
“yeah, totally.” i smirked as i stepped back to allow peter to walk through.
“so, uh what movies were you thinking?” peter asked as he wandered into the main living space of my apartment.
“well, i’ve got a bunch of the old star wars movies we could watch or-“
“star wars is good.” he smiled, turning back around to see me in the kitchen. “i d-didn’t know you liked star wars.”
“theres a lot of things you don’t know about me parker.” i smiled as i began to walk over to my couch as i carried two glasses of water. “should we start with episode one?”
“yeah.” peter nodded as he followed me to the couch.
as i sat down on one side of the couch, peter sat in the middle, only a few inches away from me. after a minute or two, the movie began to play causing them both to relax a little.
“f.r.i.d.a.y, lights down.” i spoke clearly.
slowly the apartment lights began to dim, the only light coming from the near by bedroom window. as the theme song began to play, i got a little more comfortable, slouching into the couch. peter sat mostly up right with his hands by his side.
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peters body tensed when my hand brushed up against his.
“are you okay?” i asked as i had noticed peters breathing becoming heavy.
“ye-yeah.” he managed to stutter as his eyes darted all over the room. “th-this is j-just my favourite part.”
i turned to look at the screen to see padme amidala being attacked by a stout brute, half of her shirt being ripped off in the process.
“really?” i questioned as i turned to look back at peter.
“uh yes.” he frowned quickly looking at the screen. “o-one of my favourites.” he corrected.
“sure.” i laughed quietly. “your favourite also when jabba the hutt has leia as his little pet?” i smirked, watching peter grow even more flustered.
“wh- ah no, no.”
“i’m just teasing parker.” i began to giggle.
“ri-right.” he smiled weakly, finally looking at blair who was closely watching peter. “sorry.”
“stop apologising.” she smiled.
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while i was watching the movie i could feel peters eyes watching me.
“you’re missing the movie.” i smirked.
as i turned to look at peter, he quickly snapped his head back to the screen.
“ri-right sorry.” he mumbled, trying to stay focused on the screen.
after a second or two i noticed herself watching peter as his eyes desperately tried to stay focused on the screen. slowly peter began to turn head back to me. i could hear peters breath become unsteady. my lips lingered inches away from peters. my eyes kept wandering between peters eyes and lips, too nervous to do anything, peter stayed completely still.
i moved her hand to peters cheek before gently kissing him. when peter didn’t pull away, i couldn’t help but smile. as our lips began to move in perfect harmony the kiss grew more passionate.
i felt truly euphoric. peters hands moved from the couch to the sides of my hips. i pulled herself closer to peter as my fingers began to run through peters hair, sending him into a spiral.
“wh-wait.” peter mumbled as he pulled away from my lips. “i-is this okay?”
i happily agreed, biting down on my bottom lip. after a second or two, i pulled peter back into my embrace allowing our lips to reconnect. i could tell peter was growing desperate for my touch as his kisses became hungrier. i could feel him weakly tugging at my waist, peters fingers gently digging into my skin.
slowly, with the help of peter, i slide over onto his waist. while i re-positioned myself over peters lap, i felt his tongue glid against my bottom lip. as i tugged on the back of peters hair a weak moan came from peters lips. almost instantly, peter pulled away more then embarrassed.
"i-i'm sorry. i don't know where that ca-"
"it's okay." i smiled, causing peter to take in a shallow breath.
both of our heavy breathes filled the room for just a moment before our breaths began to slow. after a moment i had noticed how peters eyes were fixated on my lips. his hands hadn’t moved from my hips causing a weak smile to appear on my lips. in fact peter hadn’t moved an inch since he pulled away.
“did you want me to stop?” i asked, with a small smirk.
peters breath hitched for just a moment before he slowly began to shake his head. i leant in, taking a slower approach and not wanting to rush peter. as our lips reconnected peters urges grew as his kiss grew more heated with every passing moment. small, soft moans managed to escape my lips as my body squirmed in peters lap.
within minutes, i felt something harden beneath me, causing me to smile into the kiss. before peter could do or say anything there was a loud firm knock at my apartment door.
“oh come on!” i muttered as i stood up, beginning to march towards the front door.
“open up l/n!” a voice shouted from the other side.
i quickly turned around and ran back towards peter, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards my bathroom.
“lock yourself inside.” i whispered, pushing peter into the bathroom.
“what- who is that?” peter asked in a hushed voice as he tried to cover himself.
“peter, lock the door.” i snapped before pulling the bathroom door closed.
“l/n!” the voice yelled, banging on the door again.
quickly erasing any trace of peter, i walked up to my door before looking through the glass hole to find nick fury standing on the other side of the door.
“fury?” i frowned as i swung the door open. “i thought you were-”
“we need you to find yelena and the other widows.” nick cut her off.
“wha-what no. how do you know about yelena?” i frowned. “wait, i’m not helping you!” i spat.
“i’m not working with ross.” nick spoke quietly.
“i don’t care, now please leave before i have to call tony.” i sighed.
“okay.” he mumbled. “i’ll see you around soldier.”
nick gave me one last nod before leaving my apartment, closing the door behind him. as i let out a deep sigh before remembering peter was locked in my bathroom.
“shit.” i mumbled, running over to my bathroom before tapping on the door. “peter?” i called.
i got no response causing me to knock on the door again. no response. grabbing into the silver door knob, i pushed the door open slowly not wanting to startle peter.
“peter?” i called again, pushing the door back against the wall to find the bathroom completely empty. “shit.” i mumbled, quickly walking back to the living room to grab her phone off the coffee table.
p. parker
sounded important
p.parker
see you monday?
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master list
part two
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Legacy of Fire
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Prologue: Secrets of Dorne
Warnings: Cursing, death by sword, death by fire, death by hanging, war, humiliation, betrayal, violence, use of the word bastard, incest, angst, fluff, burning, threatening, future smut, P in V, fingering, cunnilingus, scissoring, blowjob, handjob, anal sex, girl x girl, boy x girl, boy x boy, dragons
Word Count: 427
The scorching sun beat down upon the deserts of Dorne, casting shimmering mirages across the arid landscape. In the shadow of Sunspear, the great palace of House Martell, a hidden truth lay buried beneath layers of deception and silence.
Amidst the grandeur of Sunspear’s lavish halls, the young woman known as Rhaenys Targaryen stood at a crossroads in her life. Her hair flowed like molten silver-gold, and her eyes, as violet as the wildest amethysts, gazed upon her reflection in a cracked mirror. The name “Rhaenys” had been etched into her identity since infancy, a name whispered in hushed tones and secret corridors. Raised as a ward of House Martell, she had believed herself to be the last surviving member of House Targaryen, rescued from the fangs of death by her noble “uncle,” Doran Martell.
Yet, whispers of a different truth had reached her ears. Whispers carried by a loyal servant who had watched over her since infancy, a servant who had witnessed the darkest secrets of House Stark. A servant who, with trembling hands and a heavy heart, had finally revealed the truth.
“My lady,” the servant had said, tears glistening in her eyes, “you are not who you think you are.”
The revelation had shattered the young woman’s world. She was not Rhaenys Targaryen, but rather a child hidden away by Ned Stark, a child who shared blood with another, a child who had been told that her twin brother was Jon Snow.
The servant’s tale had been woven with threads of deceit and sacrifice. Eddard Stark, a man of honour, had kept this secret to protect her from the deadly grasp of those who sought the extinction of House Targaryen. Her true identity had been veiled under the guise of Rhaenys, a girl whose appearance bore a striking resemblance to her father, Rhaegar Targaryen.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the chamber, the young woman donned a cloak of shadows herself. Her journey would be perilous, her secrets dangerous, and her destiny uncertain. But one thing was clear: her quest to reunite with Jon Snow, her twin, to find the remnants of her family, and to seek out the last living heir of House Targaryen, Daenerys, whose vision for the world she believed in with unwavering conviction, had only just begun.
The road ahead was fraught with challenges, and she was resolved to face them all. As she left Sunspear behind, a single thought burned in her mind: “The Dragon must rise again, and I shall be its flame.”
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duchess-of-oldtown · 1 year
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I have to talk about Jaime and Brienne a minute. I don't see it as only romantic on Jamie's part. So Jaime is raised on tales of chivalry and knighthood, he's raised to be the ideal Westerosi man. And by fifteen, he is the ideal Westerosi knight - he's handsome and he's skilled.
Then his dream becomes an utter nightmare. He's thrust into a power play between his father and Aerys, used as a pawn and a glorified reminder of an old argument. His role as Kingsguard is to not to combat evil, its to stand by his King as he commits terrible acts. Arthur Dayne and the White Bull, epitomes of the ideal Jaime has so desperately arrived to protect this monster. Jaime even speaks up when he gears Aerys assaulting Rhaella, an act that he knows could get him punished only to be hushed. Then he gets his chance to do a good act, to kill Aerys and save the city.
Only for Ned Stark to amble in and label him the monster. Then for the rest of his life, Jaime isn't a hero or a knight or anything. He's the Kingslayer, a byword for everything wrong with knighthood. He turns into that alter-ego, becomes more jaded, more apathetic. And then Brienne comes bulling into his life, the living image of every ideal he held so dear and no matter what their journey throws at her, she never wavers. She doesn't turn into a nightmare. She's a constant, she can be relied upon. He trusts her with Sansa Stark, his last chance at honour and the sword he's so long dreamed for. Because she's his last hope that perhaps his ideals aren't just pipe dreams
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midnight-fairee · 1 year
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Theon Greyjoy x Mermaid! Reader thoughts...
He'd heard of your family, or rather, of your father. Many knew of House Endless, forever enshrouded by mysteries and dark tales. It was a wealthy and powerful house, farther into the sea then his own home was, the waves around constantly wild and a fog hanging over the dark isle. The lords that ruled over it were to be feared, more pirate then lord really, and your father was no different.
Lord Eckhardt was a formidable sight to behold, more mountain then man. Covered in battle scars, trinkets had been braided into his long beard, bits sea glass and silver. At once, Theon remembered the stories of his wildness and thought them all true. There was no question that Eckhardt was terrifying, no, the only thing to be questioned was...what was he doing here?
They'd been travelling home from a long journey, close to White Harbor now, and it was there they had seen it. Three black ships flying your father's flag, a wild wave of black water surrounded by a braid onto a field of silver.
"Father, isn't that Eckhardt?" Robb had asked.
"Yes," Ned replied cautiously. "The Lord Endless has come quite far..."
He was confused, of course, knowing that you were a private people, you did not often leave the isle. But he had heard that your father was making visits to Lords, looking yo find a husband for his daughter. Not much was known about you or your mother, only that Lady Zala was shockingly beautiful and, allegedly, the daughter of some unknown yet mighty lord. Eckhardt had simply arrived home after being missing for three years, taking the throne from his usurper and announcing Zala as his bride. But why was he here and why was he coming so quickly?
The ships moved across the waves frantically, the shouting of sailors becoming louder.
"Something is wrong," Ned said softly.
He was by no means friends with Lord Eckhardt, the man was known to be rough and unlikable. But Eckhardt had saved his life more then once and Ned respected him, leading the party to meet the ships. And they'd already docked by the time they arrived (no one had ships like the Endless Lord), Eckhardt standing ashore with his wife. She was, Theon realized, more beautiful then it had been said. Though older, age had not diminished her beauty, long white hair loose and tumbling to the beach. She stood beside her husband, hand clasped with his as they waited.
The men were frantic, shouting to one another and readying life boats (to search the water? But for what?). But husband and wife stood silently, watching the water.
"What's the meaning of this?" Ned had snapped to a sailor. "What has happened?"
"It's Y/N, sir, Lord Eckhardt's daughter. She's gone overboard."
The rest of the story was told by Eckhardt himself, calmly. His voice was so deep that it was almost like a growl. A sailor, it had seemed, had become infatuated with you. And when you had turned down his advances, the man had gone mad and jumped off ship, pulling you with him.
"Eckhardt, I...I am so sorry," Ned said softly.
Theon understood why. There was no way you could have survived the water, not with this kind of cold and not with a storm. And yet Eckhardt's wife only laughed, her stormy eyes flashing from silver to the brightest blue.
"All will be well, Lord Stark. She is only a little lost, you know."
The woman must be mad, Theon thought, most likely from grief. But if she noticed the strange looks the others gave her, Lady Zala did not care. Humming a haunting lullaby, Theon watches on as something begins to happen. The men are quietly terrified but he in entranced, watching the storm clouds disperse into a pale sky. The sun is a pearl beneath wispy clouds, pale and shining, and the sea begins to calm. A quiet hush comes over the men but Lord Eckhardt notices nothing, calming speaking over his wife's lullaby. No one hears it, Theon realizes. No one else knows that this is her doing...but he is certain of it.
It was Theon who saw you first. Ned had been distracted by your father, talking about making a visit to Winterfell, no one else noticed some the sea began to move. But he did, walking further down the beach. And there he watched in wonder as a figure rose from the sea.
Clad in only a thin nightgown, the white material was see-through with salt water, clinging to your body like foam. Long hair tumbled down your back, and your eyes, so much like your mother's, seemed to change hue...Black like the deepest depths to blue, to green before settling down in a steady hue.
You smiled at him as you rose from the water, Theon reaching out to you as you nearly stumbled on the rocks. Taking his hand, you looked at one another, the world so quiet and far away...
"Y/N!"
No one could make sense of it, how you had survived.
But your parents were too delighted to care, Eckhardt wrapping his thick cloak around you protectively. Everyone fussed and worried but your eyes never seemed to leave him, not once. Theon himself could not tear himself away from you. It broke his heart a little as your father prepared to take you away. But hope was reborn when he promised to visit Winterfell, him and his family. As you walked away, looking back once more, you hummed the same song your mother had sang. And Theon watched until he could no longer see you, the clouds parting and revealing a golden, shining sun.
Something caught his eye.
Glittering in the sand, Theon picked up a necklace. It was yours, he realized, a pearl with silver swirls all around it like waves, dancing from a long and delicate chain.
He'd give it back when he found you again.
Until then, Theon wore it beneath his shirt and dreamed strange dreams, storms and wild waves and a beautiful woman floating above him, still singing that lullaby...
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