#in sorrow and in joy masterlist

[buuggerz]

While putting together a master list of completed fics & one shots for jasico

I have read many fics this past week - all very different and they all have given me many emotions yall-

BUT THIS ONESHOT

joy and sorrow by codesandhearts

•LET ME TELL YOU-

THE THINGS

THE FEELINGS IVE FELT

The way this fic completely brought me undone and stitched me back together- i could cry about how it was written so beautifully and then cry again

THE PARALLELS

they had me squeaking and tearing up-

Please someone ask me to talk about this fic i’ll give you a play by play on how it’s makes me feel and beautiful it was written - YOUR HONOR ILL WAX POETIC ABOUT JASICO

id give anything to read it again a and again for the first time- GODS-

#jasico #Masterlist adventures #bug babbles #I WILL TALK ABOUT THEM #GODS THEYRE AA- #in this essay i will talk about jasico absolute deep affections for eachother- #Your honor the verdict is they’re in love #nico di angelo #jason grace #joy and sorrow codesandhearts #masterdoc adventures #my post #my posts #fic rec

[marycorcaroli]

one piece boys as boyfriends.

luffy, zoro, usopp, sanji, buggy.

req ♡: Can I request the one piece boys as boyfriends/ dating them headcanons?

mary ♡: thanks for the request and hope you like it ! english is not my first language, i apologize for any mistakes.

rules ; masterlist.

luffy.

— luffy is the sweetest guy ever ! i'm sure he will live up to all your expectations and be the best of the best.

— he's a little awkward around you :( but he's also very loud ! ! he wants the whole world to hear that you're his girlfriend ! !

— he is not the jealous type at all. luffy trusts you with his whole heart and soul, he knows that you will never cheat or betray him and neither will he ever hurt you. you have guy friends and luffy trusts them! he hangs out with them and is not afraid that they will take you away from him. he is fine as long as your friends don't harass you or make cruel jokes about you.

— luffy loves hugs more than anything else! the way you give him your warmth and share that intimate moment with him is all luffy needs. he loves to hug at all hours of the day and night, his arms will always be around you!

— he loves kissing you just as much! he kisses you on the tip of your nose when he goes out and on your forehead so you know he's there for you and won't leave you. he kisses behind your ear when you dance together. he kisses your moles or freckles because they're your specialty and he loves them ♡ !

— ! he's a terrible cook ! he'd rather burn down your kitchen and all the equipment and then make puppy dog eyes: "i'm sorry, please, i wanted to please you, but it didn't work out..." don't yell at him 👊

— sleeps like a baby and holds you close to him so you don't run away.

— goes to the bathroom with you because he thinks a monster will take you (he can't watch horror movies).

— gives you presents at the most unexpected times !

— his love languages are touch and words ! he can't take his hands off you and stop saying words of everlasting love.

— luffy is crazy about your smile :( the way your eyes shine and the dimples on your cheeks don't go away makes his heart flutter like it's your first date.

— doesn't like to fight with you ;( even if you have an argument he will try to settle it right away so you go to bed calm, but if it doesn't work out and you go somewhere else.... his heart breaks into little pieces, the fact that it's so bad that you left 😐 will apologize to you a few million times and will do anything to make you forgive him!

zoro.

— the most needy boy :( he needs you to hug him and hold him several times in a second while he inhales the smell of your hair and draws constellations on your back with his hands.

— that's why his love language is always touching.

— he arranges the most incredible dates for you! he chooses the places himself and afterwards invites you on this little journey where he will propose marriage to you.

— for some people marriage is just a stamp in the passport and rings, but for zoro it's a whole life, so he bound your hearts and souls into one, made tearful vows to you, promising to always be there for you in sorrow and in joy.

— hugs are part of his routine. he hugs you every chance he gets. his favorite is the back hug when you're cooking something and zoro dances a little and sings your favorite song.

— kisses you on the lips in the most tender way to convey his feelings. on the eyelids to give you support and on the cheeks to show you how cute you are.

— he snores like a baby but will wake up as soon as you try to get up, he's used to sleeping with you and snuggling up to you that he won't sleep without you.

— he's a little spoon ! !

— loves to go shopping with you and buy something interesting for your home.

— during arguments, when he can't hear you and makes you talk even louder, and the situation in your house gets heated - he just walks away, leaving you alone. later, of course, he will beg for forgiveness and kiss you, and promise that it won't happen again, it's true. he doesn't want your beautiful and clean place to turn into a dumping ground for quarrels and humiliation.

— jealous often, but he doesn't make scandals, but just stands by you like a guard until your admirer runs away.

usopp.

— he's so cute ! you want to kiss his cheeks forever and look into those eyes that show endless love for you.

— he climbs into your room through the window, like in the most romantic movies, without fail ! with flowers in his teeth, "did you miss me?"

— his love language is giving you presents and jumping in puddles while it's raining ! ! !

— he loves to lay on you and squeeze you so hard ! he just wants to show you how much he loves you. for usopp, hugging is something normal, he is tactile himself, but with you, it's magnified several times ! ! he is not afraid to be real with you and he shows everything he has.

— we're not done talking about hugs yet ! another one of usopp's favorite hugs is after a hard day of hardly seeing each other and now you're trying to support each other, for him these moments are the saddest, he'll even cry a little because he couldn't give you a minute all day long ;( my boy.

— kisses too hot! his lips are on yours in seconds and his palms on your neck are clenched while your brain is trying to understand what's going on.

— but he also loves sweet kisses, where you kiss him on the cheek and tell him how cute he is.

— sleeping on you ! you can't get up, so you have to literally throw him off you, "wtf? usopp? i can't breathe, get off 😐."

— he likes to watch comedies and ask every minute about what's gonna happen next.

— there is no room for arguments in your relationship, he will quickly put things into a happy environment and give you his beautiful smiles, but if you do have a problem he will listen to you and do everything in his power to make sure you're okay and not worry about anything.

— he's not jealous at all! why would he be? you're together and you love each other, you know he would never cheat on you and usopp knows you would never do the same, that's why you're fine.

sanji.

— he is such a gentleman ! he opens doors for you all the time, gives you things and does everything to make you feel at ease !

— his love languages are helping each other, supporting you in hard times and spending time together ! all these things are important to sanji as a man who wants to cherish your every moment.

— he loves just holding you close to you and kissing your neck while goosebumps run through your body. sanji also likes hugs where he pats your back and soothes you, hugs where sanji tosses you up and hears your most beautiful laugh.

— he likes to embarrass you so much! to see you blush and cover your face with your hands while sanji mocks and comes over to you ready to destroy you with a tickle.

— he cooks for you all the time, and it's delicious, he loves to surprise you with his new recipes, he doesn't mind if you help him with the cooking, which then turns into a game of survival.

— sanji is crazy about the unexpected kisses from you, he's just sitting there reading a magazine as you come up and give him the most sensual kiss in the world, but he doesn't mind the air kisses where he puts all his desire to kiss you.

— will watch your favorite shows with you, he doesn't care what it is, as long as you like it, he likes it.

— he's a little spoon! he loves it when your nose is against his back and your palms are stroking his chest, sanji gets so calm and he sleeps the most beautiful sleep ;(

— sanji is sometimes unbearable and it hinders your relationship, he likes it when you get angry and show your temper, but he won't let it go too far, you are his favorite, so sanji doesn't really want you to lose your nerve cells completely.

— he can only be jealous sometimes, but then he remembers that you're still his and he doesn't have to worry.

buggy.

— the most charismatic guy in the world ! flirts with you 24/7 and he is not ashamed. he will make you as red as a tomato and then kiss you on the corner of your mouth.

— loves the hottest kisses when you run out of air but you don't want to let go of each other. will lose his head if you kiss his shoulder or earlobe, BUgGY DoN'T BreAthe ! ! your lips are so airy but leave the wettest kisses.

— jealous quite a lot :( he trusts you completely, but doesn't trust the other people who want to take you away from him. even if you have been in a relationship for a long time, buggy is still afraid that you will find a better person than him.

— big spoon ! loves to hold you tight and smell you ! wakes up several times during the night to make sure you are near, even if he still has a dead grip on you.

— likes to take long walks with you and give you the most delicious drinks.

— he's not the best cook, but he'll learn to cook and get a michelin star for you.

— he doesn't think what he says, and when he realizes it, it's too late. he may accidentally tell you everything he thinks, and then he will kneel down and beg you to take him back. you are the most precious thing in his life and if he loses you, buggy will lose his air and the meaning of life.

— he likes to watch soap operas! absolutely any kind, there is no difference, because he likes everything and later he can discuss it all with you.

#one piece live action #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x you #luffy #monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader #zoro roronoa #zoro x reader #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #usopp x reader #one piece usopp #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #taz skylar #inaki godoy #mackenyu #jeff ward #jacob gibson #mary ♡

[biteofcherry]

Echo that thunders

Bucky Barnes x female reader

summary: The life you and Bucky built has crumbled. Or so you think. But maybe some ruins can be reconstructed, if true love is given a chance?

warnings: angst; lots of feels; hurt/comfort; divorced couple; mention of past infidelity; marital problems; both Reader and Bucky are self-blaming and self-punishing idiots; and obviously are still deeply in love; they need therapy and I encourage that; reconciling intimacy (yes, I mean sex with feelings and tears); Alpine is almost squeezed to death with love (truly affectionately);

word count: 6k

Author's Note: This is my entry for Eight Types of Love challenge from @the-slumberparty. I took a twist on pragma: exes with feelings.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Every week the hollow in your chest would ache and you’d try to cram it with sweetness of fleeting moments: catching the pure joy and love on your little boy’s face, mulling your sorrow with pastries that you’d eat alone, then quiet your longing with laughter and shouts of your friends. 

You made it look like it was easy, like you didn’t die a little every damn Friday when you drove your son to his father’s place. 

Maybe you’d feel better if it was the mother missing her baby boy for the weekend, but the wounds opened not for the few days of empty nest, but because seeing Bucky ripped you to pieces. 

You wouldn’t avoid it, though. He loved your son so much, was so happy to spend every possible day with him and you would never take that away from either of them. 

Even if it hurt. 

Truth be told, you wouldn’t let anyone take that away from you, either. Because the pain of seeing Bucky was also sprinkled with that fluttering, bittersweet feeling. Love that you still harbored. 

You didn’t think it was possible to ever stop loving Bucky. 

As you proved, it was possible to divorce him, but it didn’t sever the hold he had on your heart and soul. 

So you welcomed the ache in your chest as an invisible iron fist clenched its cold claws around your heart, when Bucky smiled and waved at you from the sidewalk in front of his building. You knew he waved at your little boy, who was already bouncing in his seat, but you couldn’t help the smile spreading on your lips in return.

“Hi, rascals!” Bucky greeted you, the same way he’s been greeting the both of you ever since your son was born. 

He waited for you to round the car after you parked it, loosely wrapping an arm around your middle and giving you that awkward half-hug. 

You assumed it was as awkward for him as it was for you, though for different reasons.

Bucky was simply nice, trying his hardest to maintain a good rapport with you for the sake of your son, while he had to be repulsed by you inwardly. For you, the hug was difficult, because you always craved to bury yourself within his arms and feel that protective, loving hold. 

“Hi,” you smiled and ducked under his arm, before he noticed that pathetic longing shining in your eyes. 

You went to retrieve a small bag and backpack with Stevie’s clothes and belongings, while Bucky unbuckled your son from the car seat and scooped the boy up in his arms. Joyous squeal “Daddy!” melted you all over again, reminding you how ecstatic the boy was every time Bucky returned home - no matter if he’s been gone a few days on a mission, or just an hour running errands. 

When you turned to them, the sight of them grinning at each other froze you on the spot. You were aware that Stevie shared some of Bucky’s mimics, but it was that moment when your boy pressed his cheek to Bucky’s and they both looked your way with lopsided grins that shattered your heart into pieces. 

You squashed the flare of sorrow inside, saving it for later when you’re alone with a pint of ice cream. 

Bucky had suggested a couple of times that he could come pick Stevie up from your place, but you were too scared of seeing Bucky back in the apartment where you all used to live together. Where the love and happiness were supposed to be forever. 

You were scared he’d come inside and see that you still had a few photographs of him on the shelves. 

You reasoned that it was for the sake of your son, so that he felt his dad’s presence at all times, but you couldn’t fully let go of Bucky yourself. 

“Hey,” Bucky took the bag from your hands, but left you holding Stevie’s backpack. “Can you come upstairs for a second? I wanted to talk something over.”

He always invited you under the pretext of talking over some details regarding Stevie, but ended up dealing with it in two sentences and then coaxing you into a neutral small talk that left you all the more missing him. 

Yet you couldn’t force yourself to say no. 

“Sure.” You nodded, squeezing the strap of the small, red backpack in your trembling fingers. 

Bucky’s apartment, which he got after you filed for divorce, was small, but clean and spacious enough for a four year old and a cat.   

Alpine stuck her head from behind a wall when you entered. She made a tiny meowing sound and walked forward, but the second Bucky put your son on his feet the cat bolted away. Stevie of course followed, running after the furball with glee.

“So I know there’s still plenty of time to plan summer vacation-” Bucky started, leading you toward the counter separating the kitchen from the living room- “but Sam invited us to Louisiana, to spend a few weeks at his sister’s place.”

“Oh.” It was instinctive, that very first thought about your baby boy being away for weeks. In a different state, nonetheless. 

However, you promised yourself to not be an overprotective, controlling mother. And you trusted Bucky with your son at all times. 

“That sounds fun.” You relaxed your shoulders and smiled. “I’m sure Stevie will love it. Especially if you take him on a boat.”

He was in a marine fascination phase. At least once every few weeks you had to go to the aquarium and turn on Discovery channel instead of morning cartoons. 

“Maybe I’ll manage to re-do his bedroom, while he’s away with you,” cogs in your brain started turning. “It’d be a fun surprise when he gets back.” 

“Won’t you need help with that?” Bucky asked, perking up. “We could do that on the weekend when he’s with your parents? You know I’d be happy to help. We can rope Sam into it, too.”

He sounded so eager. For a fleeting moment you enjoyed the warmth at the thought of the two of you doing something for your son together, but you quickly reminded yourself that Bucky would do absolutely anything for Stevie, including dealing with your presence.    

“Umm, sure,” you swallowed nervously, “if you’re not on a mission.”

You regretted saying it, seeing a flash of guilt on Bucky’s face. 

It was a sore subject and bringing it up hurt you both. 

You always admired Bucky for what he did, how much he risked to save others. It didn’t change the fact, however, that saving the world meant neglecting you at times. He tried his best, you knew he did. Still, it hurt when you spent some nights and celebrations alone. 

“We’ve made some changes on the rooster.” Bucky didn’t look at you as he talked, instead focusing on taking out ingredients from the fridge. “It’s doable to book some dates as non-active.”

“That’s good!” You tried to sound genuinely happy for him, while inside you felt a wave of rage that the accommodation wasn’t made when you needed it in the past. “All of you deserve rest and to, you know, live your private lives, too.” 

“Yeah.” Bucky’s shoulders drove up in tension even as he nodded. 

You stayed quiet for a long moment, the sound of your son’s giggles coming from the bedroom where he chased Alpine filled the space, but didn’t ease the sudden heaviness. 

“I better-” you started at the same time that Bucky began:

“Do you want to-”

Both of you paused, but before either motioned at the other to finish, you were interrupted by a pitiful meow and soft paddle of your four year old’s feet.

You both turned and watched your son wobble as he carried Alpine. Though carried was a bit of a stretch to describe two tiny arms tightly wrapped around the upper half of the cat’s body, with its head barely sticking out and two front legs sticking upwards while the rest of the furry body dangled down. 

You quickly covered your mouth to stifle the burst of laughter, but Bucky behind you couldn’t help the snort. 

“Buddy.” He moved around the counter and crouched in front of Stevie. “Alpine knows you love her lots and want to play with her, but this is a bit uncomfortable for her.”

You thought the cat is an actual saint for not having yet scratched Stevie for all the love she was getting from him. 

“Hey!” You chimed in, reaching for the small backpack. “You forgot about the present you have for Alpine.”

“Mousey!” Stevie dropped the cat almost instantly and ran towards you. 

“A present, huh?” Bucky placated Alpine, scratching her behind the ear while she rubbed against his leg. 

“Made it with mommy!” Your son beamed proudly after you fished out the small toy from his backpack. “For artses-” which was his version of saying art classes. “But mommy said it’s perfect for Apine.”

It was a bright blue, slightly askew, crocheted mouse. With a very, very long tail. You thought it would be perfect for Stevie to hold the end of the tail and slide the mouse across the floor, so Alpine could chase it.

“It really is,” Bucky nodded, noticing that the soft toy had caught Alpine’s attention. “Why don’t you run around with it, play nicely with Alpine, while I make us spaghetti?”

Stevie didn’t have to be told twice. Alpine seemed eager for this kind of play, as well. Chasing a new toy surely was more preferable than being squeezed to death. 

Bucky straightened. His tall, broad figure filled your vision. He was much closer now, with no counter separating you. He looked after your son fondly, then his soft gaze switched to you. Not for a second did the affection fade in his eyes as he looked at you. 

“Thank you,” he almost whispered, touching your shoulder gently.

You wanted to blurt out that there was nothing to thank for, but you understood what he meant. The same way you were grateful for his concern whenever you had a cold and he took Stevie so you could rest (bringing you some chicken broth on his way), or that he picked you up when your car died. The small gestures each of you displayed, that betrayed care neither of you seemed to be able to lose. 

Bucky’s hand slowly slid down your arm and because you were so lost in the blue of his eyes and the tenderness of the moment, you forgot to brace yourself for the small sting that his touch brought when he passed your forearm.

You winced. 

Unfortunately, Bucky noticed.

Instantly, he stilled. His hand remained on your forearm, but his touch eased. His gaze flicked from your face to the spot covered by your sleeve and up to your face again. 

“What is it?” Worry pinched his features. “Are you injured?”

He moved even closer, angling his head so he could maintain eye contact with you, even though he towered over you. He gently took your wrist into his metal hand and carefully rolled your sleeve up. 

“It’s nothing. It’s-” 

Words died on your tongue when Bucky’s gaze hardened, a muscle in his jaw twitching, as his gaze landed on the injured spot. 

There were no visible bruises. Not to you, anyway. You mostly felt the tenderness of that area than saw any marks. But Bucky’s senses were enhanced and he definitely could see the difference in the smallest changes of your skin, the barest hint of different pigmentation. 

And, much to your dismay, you could never lie to him. 

“Who did that?” Bucky kept calm, but you sensed the concern bursting into protective rage inside of him. 

“Someone, who is no longer in the picture.” You replied, tilting your chin up. “I may have not expected it happening, but once it did, I wouldn’t chance it repeating.”

The whole attempt at dating was so uncomfortable for you, but seeing some pap pictures of Bucky with an unknown female had made you impulsively agree to the fifth invite from a guy from accountants. 

It was irrational and irresponsible - as some of your past mistakes. There was nothing that suggested Bucky and that woman were connected in any way beside the work area. They weren’t even alone in that place. It’s just that he had his hand on her back and she was giving him a flirtatious smile. 

Well, your jealous brain told you it’s flirtatious. The same brain that forgot to remind you that it was no longer your business if and whom Bucky was dating.

So you went on the stupid date yourself, feeling all kinds of wrong during it. Then got a glimpse of what shit you almost got yourself into, when you wanted to end your date short and the guy called you a tease. His hold on your forearm when you tried to leave was forceful enough to leave a painful reminder. 

“I’d still like to know the name.” Bucky’s gaze shone a dark glint; plates in his metal arm moved in a reflection of muscles tensing. 

“No need.” Placing your free hand on his chest to soothe him was a habit, you didn’t even realize you were doing it. “I promise you, he won’t ever find himself near Stevie.”      

Bucky frowned at that. Suddenly, he was letting go of your arm and cupping the side of your face instead.

“Baby,” it slipped out of his mouth as mindlessly and naturally as you touched him. 

“I know you’d never let anyone hurt our son. But no harm should come your way, either. The guy deserves having his fingers dislocated.”

Bucky wasn’t a violent person. His past, which was beyond his control, painted a certain picture that some people still believed in. But you knew how soft-hearted and kind he really was. He used force and combat in missions, but his teammates knew he would be the first one to show mercy and pull back his punches. 

However, he was protective. And when he entered that mode, he could be very scary. 

Your fingers on his chest clenched slightly, gripping the fabric of his soft, blue henley; as if you were trying to stop him from marching away and finding whoever posed as a threat.

You felt the steady thud of Bucky’s heartbeat beneath your palm, the rhythm of his breath. You sensed the moment his muscles slightly relaxed.

“How about-” hands cupping your face slowly slid down and away, but Bucky didn’t put any distance between you- “you stay for dinner and we’ll talk more about it later?” 

There was nothing to talk about, really. Or maybe there was, but it shouldn’t be Bucky giving you the talk. His concern only messed with your head and your heart, leaving you with incomparable longing and aching solitude when you went back home. 

You opened your mouth to refuse his proposal, but your son suddenly found himself nearby and torpedoed your resilience.

“You gonna stay mommy?” He looked up at you with big, hopeful eyes. 

Bucky and you made sure to be together for important events like Stevie’s birthday, or kindergarten recitals, or even for the 4th of July. But day to day everything happened separately. You didn’t share meals, or walks, or trips the way you used to when you were married. 

You were aware of the impact it had on your son, but one can’t be divorced and still spend every day with each other. 

However, you couldn’t find the strength at the moment to crush your son’s unexpected spark of joy at the prospect of something so simple like spending the afternoon with both of his parents. 

You couldn’t deny your deep, wallowing desire to spend some more time in Bucky’s presence, either. As self-harming as it could be. 

“Um-” you swallowed nervously as you looked down at your little boy. “Yeah- yes, I’ll stay. You know I always liked your daddy’s cooking.” 

Your heart nearly burst when Stevie launched himself forward, wrapping his small arms around yours and Bucky’s legs. Then he was running away, with even more bounce to his skip than before. 

To your relief, Bucky easily switched the topic to casual conversation as you joined him in the kitchen to help prepare dinner. He told you a few latest, funny stories; gushed about a new book series he started reading; asked about your dad’s knee surgery. 

Falling into this comfortable pattern of domesticity with him was too easy. Like you haven’t been living separately for the past year, nursing deeply hidden resentment (which you expected from Bucky) and heartbreak. You knew it would hit you harder when you got back home, step into that silent, empty bedroom, which once upon a time was your nest of safety, laughter and love. 

All of which you blew up. 

You didn’t protest too strongly when Bucky fed your son an extra portion of ice cream after dinner, you were too distracted with your own ache that was spreading its nasty vines over you. 

You played with the melting scoops in your own bowl as Bucky picked up a half-asleep Stevie and carried him to the bedroom. Alpine trotter right after them. From the occasional pictures that Bucky sent you when Stevie was staying at his place, you knew that the cat would jump onto the bed next to your boy and fall asleep with him. 

When Bucky returned and sat beside you on the couch, his presence almost toppled you into a sobbing fit. 

Once upon a time, you’d cuddle on the sofa in your living room and talk for hours, or watch shows, or make out. Even sitting in silence, while Bucky read a book and you browsed social media, was comforting and easy. 

There was nothing easy about it now. Because that desperate need to crawl into his arms and have him chase the sorrows away couldn’t be sated.  

“I’m sorry about earlier.” Bucky’s quiet voice surprised you.

You blinked as you looked at him, slightly confused with what he was talking about.

“I know you’re responsible and very strong. You’re more than capable of looking after yourself and don’t need my meddling in your intimate life.” He said, staring down at some spot and not meeting your eyes. 

The words intimate life sounded as if he almost choked on them.

“I know it’s too late to mend what I fucked up.” He sighed, bowing his head even lower.

Your heart ached, seeing him so resigned.

“James Buchanan Barnes, what the hell are you talking about?!” Instinct to rush to his aid kicked you from your stupor. 

The anger at yourself heightened as once again you saw first hand how much you hurt him. Bucky wasn’t flawless, but he didn’t deserve what you’ve put him through. To know that your actions added to his tendency to self-blame, only made you hate yourself more.

“It was me who fucked everything up.” You countered, setting the bowl on the coffee table with a loud thud. You shifted on the couch, turning your body so that you could face Bucky directly. 

“I broke what we had. I- I broke your heart and you never deserved such awful treatment!”

Neither of you deserved all that pain, but it was on you to take the responsibility for it.  

“I’m not gonna lie, the divorce hurt more than falling off that damn train…” Bucky’s voice quivered with emotion; his fingers shook slightly as he wiped his palms on his thighs.

“Divorce?” You paused, slightly stunned. “I mean, I know it was hard. For both of us. But I knew I needed to set you free after what I’ve done.” 

It was Bucky’s turn to frown, his muscles pinching in a quizzical look as if he didn't understand what you were aiming at, at all. 

“Bucky, I cheated on you!” You hissed loudly, but minding your voice enough to not wake your son.

There it was. The heaviest of truths which triggered the whole domino effect and which both of you avoided naming directly.

But Bucky deserved it - you admitting your faults. There was enough on his shoulders and you couldn’t stand the thought of him taking this burden onto him as well, when it was yours to pay for.

Bucky’s face cleared of confusion, however his frown deepened. 

“What I know is that you were hurt, alone and inebriated. A state some douchebag took advantage of.” There was an undertone of anger in his tone, but not directed at you.

You shook your head in exasperation. 

Leave it to Bucky Barnes to be an understanding, chivalrous knight. It was a wonderful trait, but shouldn’t apply on all occasions, to all people. It definitely should be directed at you. As much as you’d love to follow that reasoning, you had enough self-awareness and responsibility to not go easy on yourself.  

“Being drunk doesn’t excuse what I did.” You stated.

“It wouldn’t, if that was your aim.” Bucky argued. “But tell me, did you go to that bar because you were looking for a hookup? To get back at me?” He rushed with his counter arguments. 

When you tried to turn your head slightly to avoid his gaze, he squeezed your chin between his fingers and gently guided you to look back at him. 

It was hard. To face him when the memories of that awful evening replayed in your head, bringing back a wave of shame and regret. You vomited three days in a row after that night; and only the first half of the first day was due to the alcohol. All the rest was stress and guilt. 

“No, you didn’t.” Bucky continued when you remained silent. 

“You went there, because it was our anniversary and I wasn’t home. I was on a mission. Again,” he sighed regretfully, aware of how his absence weighed down on you. “You went to the bar which we often went to on our dates, before we got married. Probably cursing my ass for absence on another important day and drinking the pain away.”

That was true. Your parents took Stevie for the whole weekend, starting Friday. It was supposed to be a carefree, romantic time for you and Bucky. Even if he would need to just be lazy in bed for an entire day, to recharge after a mission, you still would be together. 

While Bucky returned from one mission, he jumped onto another one right away. He called you to say that he’d be later than he first anticipated, but in the craze of it forgot what date exactly was it. 

You were understanding. Or, well, you tried to be. There was a whole monologue you gave yourself as you paced the floor of your apartment, convincing yourself that your husband was saving someone. So that someone else could return to their family. 

But you still felt bitter and angry that your husband didn’t return to you for something that was supposed to be important to the both of you.

When you went out to that bar, which wasn’t that far from your place, your plan was to have a drink or two and wallow in self-pity. Perhaps to be passive-aggressive, take a picture of yourself all dolled up and send it to Bucky with happy anniversary wishes.

That was it.

Then that man joined you. For a conversation, at first. Two drinks turned into four. Then five. To be honest, at some point his face got a little blurry. He had dark hair, like Bucky. Had his arm wrapped around your middle the way Bucky often did. 

At some point your drunk brain was certain it was Bucky fucking you, not some stranger you just met at the bar.

“I could’ve chosen to stay at home.” You argued, clenching your fingers into fists so hard that your fingernails needled your skin. 

“I could have drunk a bottle or two of wine alone in the safety of our home and sent you angry, slurred messages. Or wait for your return and throw something heavy at your head.” There were so many choices to be made that night. 

“Instead, I made a mess of our lives…” the words fell out of your lips in a broken whisper, your eyes filling with tears.

“And I forgave you.” Bucky said softly as he released your chin. 

“Hell, I don’t even think I was angry with you.” He huffed, running a hand through his hair in a nervous manner. “Oh, I was pissed and hurt!” He gave you a pointed look when you opened your mouth to protest. “I even tracked that man and… well, let’s not talk about things that thankfully didn’t happen once I saw him.” 

“Most of all, I was angry with myself,” Bucky suddenly deflated.

“Why?” You frowned, barely stopping yourself from reaching out to caress his cheek.

“Because I let it happen.” Bucky sighed and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs. “It was my constant absence that started those clouds over our heads. I was so focused on redeeming myself that I took on more missions than I should.”

A part of you wanted to contradict him, to convince him that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. But there was also a part of you that was still resenting him for doing that, for constantly choosing others over you.

“I think I also wanted to feel needed, which is why I joined teams even though they could’ve handled things without my presence.” He shifted again, sitting across the couch with one leg bent, so he could face you fully. 

He was more hesitant as he reached out for you again. Though you didn’t flinch away, he still dropped his hand as he revealed his own guilt:

“I forgot that you needed me, too.”

You still did. But you wouldn’t dare to tell him that.

“What you do is important. You save lives.” You said quietly, but there wasn’t as much heat to it as you’d like to present.

“I didn’t save us.” Bucky’s words opened the gate to the feelings you tried to stifle for many months.

You almost lifted your fist to angrily rub away the tears threatening to spill, but Bucky reached for you faster. His warm palms rested on your fists; he squeezed them gently.

“Baby, I remember when you mentioned therapy.” He admitted, wincing at the memory of signals which he ignored. “You tried to say it so casually, I know you were afraid of telling me directly that you needed me to save our marriage. I dismissed it.” 

“You hate therapy. I didn’t want to force you into it.” There wouldn’t be any point in attending any sessions, if Bucky would stay guarded.

You understood his hesitance, too. The mandatory therapy he went to a few years back was hard for him, not only because of the topics he had to deal with, but he didn’t feel emotionally safe or comfortable with the appointed professional.

“I disliked my assigned therapist.” Bucky pointed out, with a slight eye roll. “There are hundreds of therapists in this city. I’m sure there’s at least one that I could connect with.” Suddenly, he shook his head. “Or hell with how much I like a therapist, it should be about me connecting with you!”  

He let go of your hands and cupped your face instead.

“I wonder-” he leaned forward, closing the distance between you. “I’ve been wondering, if I didn’t fuck up by signing those divorce papers so easily.”

He did it without much questioning. Which only strengthened your notion that he was repulsed by you and couldn’t wait to be as far from you as possible. You didn’t blame him.

“I understood that. After what I’ve done.” You whispered. 

A single tear rolled down your cheek, stopping on Bucky’s thumb. 

“I couldn’t look you in the eye, because I was so ashamed. I wanted to give you a chance to find someone worthy of you.” More tears flowed.

Bucky tenderly wiped them away.

“I don’t think I’m worth a single hair on your pretty head.” He said, resting his forehead against yours. “I signed those papers, because I thought you were going to find happiness with someone else. That you wanted to build a life with someone else.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” You would shake your head, if Bucky wasn’t holding you in place.

If his hold didn’t feel so overwhelmingly wonderful.

“Why not?” Bucky asked, incredulously. “You’re the most amazing, kind, smart, beautiful-” 

“Because I’m in love with you.” You blurted out.

Your eyes widened when you realized what you said. Scorching shame mixed with a sudden wave of cold fear as Bucky slowly pulled away and stared at you in shock. 

He was still cupping your face, though.

“Say that again, baby?” Bucky’s tone was a whisper, like he was afraid he’d burst some magical bubble if he moved or spoke louder. “Please,” he squeezed your cheeks slightly.

Maybe the best choice would be to take those words back. Or to start listing all the arguments to why it didn’t matter. But you couldn’t lie to Bucky. You never could. Especially not when he was looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes, filled with hope.

“I love you, Bucky,” you confessed. “I never stopped loving you.”

Tears streaming down your face were warm, but they felt much colder when compared to the warmth of Bucky’s lips on yours. 

He kissed you with reverence and despair, like the first gulp of breath after drowning in murky waters for much too long. There was nothing but his closeness, beckoning you like a flare in the darkness. You followed the coaxing of his lips, the unspoken vows he sealed with his mouth. 

You weren’t even fully aware of your body moving, yielding to Bucky’s smooth maneuvers. Until the full weight of him rested on top of you. 

He provided both that shield of safety and heavy temptation that had your legs spreading to accommodate him.

“I never stopped, either.” Bucky croaked out as he broke the kiss; his lips still brushed against yours as he spoke.

“I love you so much. So much, baby.” It crushed your heart to see his own cheeks glistening with tears. “Please, can we try again? Let me mend it. Please.” He begged.

Bucky sounded so helpless and so hopeful at the same time. If your heart was set in cold stone, it would still shatter for him like a fragile glass. 

“I should be the one mending it,” you pressed your fingertips to his cheek.

“Us. We’re going to do this together,” he briefly closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. 

“Always together,” you agreed and tipped your lips upwards, tempting Bucky into another kiss. 

Months of distance surely added fuel to the fire of need, but Bucky’s touch always had the power to ignite your desire. Him being on top of you, the kiss deepening, his hand traveling down your side - your body responded instantly. 

You wrapped your arms around him; one hand combing through his hair, the other mapping his broad back. Your legs were already spread to accommodate his hips between yours, but as Bucky continued to kiss and touch you, your knees drew up higher and your hips rolled against him.

Bucky’s responding grinding was most welcome, but he suddenly froze. 

“Baby,” he groaned, almost in pain. “I don’t want to ruin the moment, but if you keep doing that I’m going to lose it.”

“Need you,” you whined. 

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and slipped your other hand beneath his blue henley. You bit your bottom lip as you looked at him and rocked your hips into his once again.

“Need to feel you!” 

For months you were deprived of any intimate touch, somehow not in the mood to even give yourself a release with your pitiful toys. To even think of anyone beside Bucky ever touching you like that made you nauseous. And you missed it so much!

Missed the way Bucky played your body. The way he felt inside of you. 

“Bucky, please!” There was urgency in your tone that made Bucky snap to attention.

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, as if assessing that you were as sure as you sounded. A glint brightened his steel blue eyes and he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip in the most sensual way. That had your clit pulsing wildly. 

“You always beg so prettily,” he murmured against your skin as began chaining kisses along your jawline. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Bucky braced his weight on his metal arm as he used his other hand to pull up the layers of your tulle skirt. You shivered, nipples pebbling, as his touch shifted to the inside of your thigh and wandered upwards. 

He pressed the pads of his fingers against your throbbing clit, finding your panties already damp. It wasn’t a novelty how quickly your body responded to Bucky’s ministrations, but it seemed that longing for him sped up the process. 

Bucky swallowed your moan in a messy kiss as he pressed harder on your nub. While you loved the way he sometimes drew this pleasure out, how long he could spend just fingering and licking you, it wasn’t what you needed at the moment. 

You dropped both of your hands to his hips then slid them between your bodies to fumble with Bucky’s zipper.

“Fuck!” He cursed, dropping more of his weight onto you when you freed his cock out and wrapped your fingers around him. 

“I’m afraid I won’t last long this time,” he groaned, tugging the fabric of your panties aside. “I’ll make it up to you, baby, I promise. But, fuck, it’s been so long since I felt you-”

“Uh-huh,” you nodded fervently, not really listening to him. 

All your focus was on that throbbing need that spiked even higher as you guided the tip of Bucky’s cock inside you. 

It was everything - the stretch of his girth spearing through your neglected pussy, his scent and warmth, his mouth sucking on your neck, his moan at the feel of your tight walls gripping him - that had your body seizing in the most rushed climax. Already, while he was barely halfway in. 

You dug your fingernails into Bucky’s hips as your legs shook; your upper half curling up, face buried in the crook of Bucky’s neck to muffle your cries of pleasure. Your walls clenched so hard it was almost painful, then fluttered in a crescendo of aftershocks. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you babbled, falling onto your back and squirming as the orgasm continued to tingle in every part of your body.

“Sorry?” Bucky choked on breath. “My girl cumming for me so fast is an ego boost beyond any other,” he chuckled. 

He always had the ability to make you fall apart rather quickly, but that was a new record. Provided by suppressed sexual tension and emotional connection you were deprived of for so long. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” Bucky cooed as he continued to slide into your fluttering cunt, “I’ll give you more.” 

He shifted his hand, so that his thumb brushed over your swollen clit. He moved with no rush, but each of his thrusts was deep, nearly painfully so. As if Bucky sought more of that connection; needed it as fiercely as you. 

As promised, he made you cum again. Then shuddered within your embrace as he followed you over the edge. And though your heart was thundering in your chest from the exertion, it was the first time you felt complete and at peace since a very long time. 

You welcomed Bucky’s full weight as you laid spent, your hands drawing soothing patterns on his back. His cock was still nestled inside of you; neither of you wanted to lose that intimate connection too soon. You rested, listening to each other’s breathing and soaking in the comfort of being together. 

When Bucky fucked you again a while later, it was more languid and sensual. He made breathless vows of love, curling his metal fingers around your throat and squeezing just enough to spill more of your warm tears. He confessed his need for you in his life as he increased his pace, tilting your ass with his other hand, so he could spill deeper inside of you. 

In the morning, as he woke up early with the intention of going to the bakery and getting fresh treats for your family breakfast, there was so much brightness in Bucky’s eyes. So much love and happiness, like on the day your son was born.

As you looked at your own reflection in the mirror in his bathroom, you saw the same spark in your own eyes. 

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #eight types of love challenge #the-slumberparty #navy and roo's slumber party #echo that thunders #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine

[peachesofteal]

Mermaids

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/mermaid!reader 8.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Dark themes. Magical beings eating human hearts. Magic. Blood, Violence. Explicit sex. Blood kink. Breeding kink. Creampie. Dubious consent. Possessive Simon Riley. "And with your mermaid hair and your teeth so sharp, you crawled from the sea to break that sailor's heart" - F+TM

It begins early this year.

Earlier than usual, when your hunting ground in the mortal world was just starting to turn green, shaking its frosted and frozen branches free to make room for bright blooms and emerald leaves. Just as the steps of Brighton Pier changed from ice slick ledges to waterlogged, weeping wooden planks, and human clothing shifted from long coverings that protected their fragile membranes from the bitter wind to soft and flowing fabrics that allowed their bodies to breathe.

This time of the year the mortal world was alive. Full of rebirth and growth, strong and vibrant.

Vibrant, like the song that began early this year, the frequency echoing deep below the water’s surface to where you waited for its pull. The siren song of a true treasure, far beyond any other, the melody of your chosen, the ebb and flow of the rhythm that is not unlike the sea. The siren song of a mortal’s heart, the cacophony able to reach you and your sisters far below the swell and crash of the ocean, far beyond where the light ceases, the melody possessing the ability to pull you to the surface once a year.

Once a year, to hunt.

One a year, to dance and drink and fall in love, if only for a night.

Once a year, to sacrifice a human heart.

Your eldest sister holds you tight to her body in an embrace as the sun rises. Elegant fingers fuss with your hair, smoothing and tugging and pulling, a vain attempt at taming something wilder than her own heart. Her face is grim, a black void that reflects no joy or excitement, just dread. It is a mirror of yourself. It is a pain that you know too well.

“What bothers you?”

You are the last two left on the beach. The others have all gone, eager to stretch their legs and seek their own songs, the trill of the blood bubbling up in their veins, their bodies pulled like magnets to the source. One heart, one song, one human male for each sister, poor mortals who have no idea what awaits them today, their ignorance bliss on the last night of their lives. Your sisters, as well as you, all live for this night. The joy of the love, the thrill of the hunt, the taste of the ichor that sustains you. The anticipation of this night fills your dreams with swirls of violent songbird chords and sweet melodies of affection. It is all you talk about for cycles, leading up to the day when you leave the water at sunrise and your tail shifts and shatters to reveal two very human looking legs.

“I am weary.” She tells you plainly, an announcement that does not come as a surprise. You have watched how she fades. Watched her linger in the darkness of the caves, watched her float lifelessly on slow currents, gaze hollow, vigor lost. “My song is faint.” She pushes further, holding your hand tightly as she releases you from her embrace. “I think I may not take a heart this year.” But we must. Must we? It was a question unanswered, but one that plagued you both. How else could you live, if not for these sacrifices?

“You would choose to die.” You surmise and she gives you a curt nod, as if it is obvious. As if her admission does not rattle you down to your very bones. Perhaps you too, one day, would make this choice. Would choose not to hunt. Choose not to love and lose. The notion pains you, fills you with sorrow as it has for many, many years. This was not an unknown feeling, even though you still experienced the joy, the bliss of your hunting, of the harvesting, you still felt the pang of loss every time, stronger and stronger as the years ticked by.

“It aches now, knowing I will fall in love this night, just for it to end as the sun rises.” The sea crashes onto the beach behind the two of you, and her lips part with a smile before she leans in to graze a kiss along your cheek. “Happy hunting, my sister.”

The song encourages you onward, leading you through a maze of streets and buildings while the sun rises and lingers in the sky. You comb the city for your male, following the electric hum of the song through alleys and neighborhoods, stopping to enjoy the day, your one day on land, as often as you can. You relish in the things that are rare for you, the taste of coffee and human food, the smell of flowers in the park, the feel of grass on the bare pads of your feet. The dress you’ve chosen flutters in the breeze, allowing the cool air to caress your skin softly, and the sun beams down on your exposed limbs, warming you under its light as you indulge in mortal world. It is nice, you decide while you bask in its rays, to feel the sun as humans do. Such spoiled creatures, being so close to something that gives so much life.

That same sun begins to sink lower behind the skyline and you’re still mindlessly gazing at small insects and diving birds when your heart trills, the force of the song slamming between your ribs, a smattering of warning bells going off within you. He’s close, your blood croons, so, so close. The incessant rattle, the insistent pull is enough to bring you to your feet and anxiously smooth the wrinkles of your clothing, eyes darting wildly around while you hunt for the source, feet flying beneath you. So close, so close. 

You come to a stop in front of a pub where a black door is propped open, music and revelry echoing from inside. Here. He’s here. The supersonic vibrato that hums in your own blood draws you into the dimly lit bar, and you hear the song in his veins grow even stronger when you step through across the threshold. He is not hard to find, this close, and your magic strings out before you, weaving and seeking past the bodies that dance closely on the floor, each as desperate for one another as you have grown for your mortal and his song.

 He stands in the back, half covered by shadow, the dark pitch of the room matching his clothes and the mask he wears over most of his face. Everything about him is bigger than the males that have called to you in the past, his height, his arms, the width of his shoulders, even the feeling of him in this place. Everywhere you venture, every spot you position yourself in, you feel his eyes on you. He is unusual, and watches, from his vantage point, his companions, other humans, the bartender.

You perch atop a barstool on the opposite side of the room to study him. His eyes carry a ferocity, a heaviness of emotion that stirs the blood running through your own veins until it is pounding in your ears. The severity of him nearly intimidates you, the level of his awareness, the pools of his amber rich brown eyes occasionally flicking over to where your fingers wrap around a glass of beer, the heat of his gaze searing away at your skin underneath the dress. The mask confuses but does not caution you, and your own heart now beats in time with his due to your proximity. Handsome. You muse to yourself, caught up in tracing the outline of his cheekbones. Beautiful, in a dark way. 

There is something about him. Something ruinous, something different. Something you cannot name.

It is of no consequence. You are the huntress. You will have your prize, your immortality, the taste of his heart on your tongue. His death becomes your life. His love, his heart, becomes yours, for eternity.

But how nice, might it be, to keep this one? It is an impossible thought, a dreamless idea, but one that still crosses your mind. The fantasy of falling in love for eternity, of having more than one night, more than the blood and violence that follows, more than the loss that would sustain you. If it were to be one, you know you’d choose this one. Your thoughts stray to your sister for a moment, imagining her alone beneath the surface, mourning the centuries of life she has lived, the centuries of love she has lost. Did she know this feeling? This hopelessness, this despair. Your lips tug downward as you consider her words. It aches. It aches, knowing I will fall in love this night, only for it to end as the sun rises. Gloom washes through you, your own yearning itching inside your soul, your desperation for your human itching at your skin. It aches. It aches, it ach-

“Hello.” Someone says from behind you, a deep, distinct voice, and you snap upwards, straightening your posture to turn into the body that crowds you. You jerk backwards on the stool when you realize how close he is, the action unsettling you from your seat, and you slip forward, nearly falling free from your wooden perch. Balance on land is difficult, and yours is perpetually off, a skill you've never mastered. A massive hand wraps around your elbow to right you, gently steadying you, and your jaw goes slack when you finally look up.

It's him. 

“Hi.” You smile, trying to recover from your less than graceful impression. Your heart thunders in your chest, and the melody inside him screams for you.

“I’m Ghost.” He motions to your mostly empty beer and raises his completely barren one in return. “Buy you another?”

The indulgent smile that scrawls across your face is practically involuntary as you give your answer.

“Sure.”

His name isn’t Ghost, but he keeps his true name close and won’t give it to you. You give him a nickname, one you usually use on land, and he doesn’t bat an eye, even when you tell him it’s a pet name and not your real one with a wink. The name Ghost doesn’t strike you as odd, after learning what he does, why he keeps it tucked away, and you marvel at him while he tells gives you bits and piece of himself, occasionally peeling his mask up to drink. He’s a solider, a Lieutenant in a special task force, some of which he happens to be out with tonight. He likes bourbon, specifically from a certain region in America, and he smells like the forest. You lean closer, completely unable to stop yourself, inhaling as deeply as you can, breathing in the mossy, earthy, green scent that hovers in the air around him. It was heady, and endless, and wrapped you in a dizzying cocoon of memories that you couldn’t place, but clearly envisioned. Forests, teeming with life and glowing chartreuse from top to bottom, oceans with aquamarine waters, shallow pools for you to bathe in under the sun, the water crisp and cold, your skin eagerly soaking it up its potent brine. Sapphire skies, the beaches stretching on and on, their seas fathomless, their bounties endless. You push closer, nosing as near as you can to his skin and take a lungful of the air. Strange. You knew humans wore things to mask or change their scents, but had never encountered one so… affecting.

“Alright, love?” He brushes the lightest contact of his fingers against yours, and you straighten, eyes ducking down in embarrassment.

“Yes, sorry. I- I was… distracted.”

Unusual indeed. 

One drink turns to many, and you carefully note how Ghost’s posture becomes more relaxed, shoulders less tense as the two of you indulge. He continues to surveil the room, observing and cataloguing, and you find it dangerously appealing, how in tune he is to his surroundings. How vigilant. Your hand lays gently on his thigh when you can no longer hold off the desire for physical touch, and he inclines his head to speak above your ear, the warmth of his cheek behind the fabric pressed casually to your head.

“D’ya want to go somewhere else?” Yes. You nod, and he motions to his group before excusing himself, his large body cutting a path through the packed room like he’s parting the sea.

You note the couplings around the bar as Ghost approaches his companions, leaning down to speak to one who is seated, legs spread wide on a faux velvet chair. He has a mohawk, and cerulean blue eyes that trace you from head to toe after Ghost begins to walk back towards where you're seated. You break the eye contact hastily, observing the others, pity pulling on your heart strings over a distraught female who sits in a corner, watching another with longing. The state of her broken heart is written all over face, her body rife with grief. The object of her affection, another stunningly beautiful female, dances with a different mortal, her artfully woven hair spiraling from her shoulders in tune to the way she moves her body. They have it so hard, you think. The song does all the work for us. You never have to woo your mortals, just provide them with the opportunity to find you. The song pushes them to seek you out, drives them to near madness unless they are in your company. They don’t always love you back, as you love them, certainly. But you never have to vie for their attention, never have to posture for their affection.

A large hand takes yours, warm and beating with the pulse of his heart, the rhythm of the song.

“Ready?” You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out, and the feeling of dread, the ache swamps you for a passing second. I think I may not take a heart this year. All you can do is nod.

As he leads you through the crowd, you cannot help but reach forward with your free hand and clasp onto the dancing woman. She pauses, eyes lighting wantonly when she sees you, but you push a sprinkle of magic through her, sparking desire in the base of her consciousness for the mournful dove in the chair.

You don’t look back at either of them as you leave, and silently pray to no one that they find happiness in love, that they relish it and keep one another, if only for you.

You bring him to the beach, as is your custom. It was where you felt safest, closest to the ocean, it’s where your power felt most pure should you need it, should something go wrong. You shiver at the thought, shoving down the memories that threaten your balance, and you clutch Ghost’s hand.

“Come down here often?” He inquires and you shrug, a response you know mortals are fond of.

“I like it here.” You offer, and he hums in acknowledgement. You tug him towards the overhang of the pier, where the shadows will shield you, where no one dares to venture. The only light comes from the moon, it’s silver glow glittering dimly through worn wooden pier slats, and you watch it catch his eye, his pupil expanding and contracting as you step closer and closer. “I want to kiss you.” you implore. “Will you remove your mask?” The song. You’re depending on the song to help you with this, depending on his desire, the power of the melody in his veins to urge him to comply with your request, and when he tilts his head like he’s considering you, you hold your breath.

It happens quickly. He removes the mask in a fluid motion, and then his lips are upon yours, hot and seeking, tongue exploring your mouth while yours opens for him, your body clenching with dizzying desire at the feel of his touch against your skin. 

“I knew it.” You gasp when you pull away and trace the fine point of a fingernail down his jaw. “I knew you were breathtaking under there.” He chuckles.

“Happy you think so.”

Your mouths melt together as he holds you around the waist, your bodies getting closer and closer until you can feel the hardness of his cock in his jeans, feel the scorching heat of him through his clothes. You are desperate for this mortal, your desire to feel him moving inside of you nearly as strong as the lust you feel to taste his heart. You sink to the sand together, a dance of limbs and movements that have you panting astride him when he settles, propped up on his elbows.

“Simon.” He says mid breath. “That’s my name. Want ya to have it.” Simon. 

“Simon.” You whisper it, and he nods before pulling you back to him, two large palms cradling your face like you’re a delicate creature. It makes you feel special, makes you feel cherished, like you’re something gentle to be treasured, and not a monster out for his life. You kiss him tenderly, one more time, as softly as you can manage, your heart trembling inside your chest, before your teeth bite into his lip, the ferocious intensity of the act returned by him, his mouth meeting yours full force. You bite again, and this time his flesh gives way, bright, mineral rich blood bubbling from the tiny cut and you eagerly lap at it, the ichor coating your tongue and exploding across your senses. He laughs, the echo of it rumbling deep in his chest, and you place your hand against his heart greedily, the vigor of its beating nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. The length of his cock throbs between your legs, where only the fabric of his jeans separates you, and you rut against him helplessly. Sparks ignite between you, your body shuddering when his hands hook into your hip, strong grip guiding your movements against him. Your magic swells inside of you, and your head spins.

Take him, take him. Take his heart, take his song. Have him, his love, his heart, for eternity, forever. 

You push him onto his back, dress rucked up around your hips, fabric pooling around the two of you.

“I want you.” you tell him, fingers fussing with his clothes, encouraging him to strip his shirt free and then unbutton his jeans. It’s messy, uncoordinated, and sloppy but you can’t find a care. You’re too filled with want, overflowing with desire for your mortal, your desperation mounting as he stills you, tracing a finger over your ribs and then down your pubic bone to where your slick, silken folds wait to be touched.

“Simon.” you whisper his name again, the word close to begging, and he shushes you, swirling a finger down where you’re leaking, circling the swollen bud of your clit with agonizing strokes that fill your senses with electricity.

“Shhh. I know what you need.” He soothes, and deftly pushes a finger inside of you, stroking along your walls. You shiver, face dropping into the crook his neck, and he turns his head so that the soft puff of his breath wafts over your skin as you whimper. “Does that feel good?” He asks, pressing another inside, his thumb flicking over your clit in lackadaisical patterns. You moan, body welcoming his touch, and you nip at the skin of his shoulder, eager to tear it apart, to taste his blood again. His other hand pushes at the back of your head, until your teeth are flush with his skin. “Go on.” He urges, and your eyes slip closed with bliss while you break the thin membrane, blood pooling to the surface as he lets out a small grunt. Your tongue swirls in it, painting his skin ruby, and you drag your lips downward, over where his heart pounds wildly in his chest. For you. It pounds for you. It sings for you. 

“I need you inside me.” He pulls at the straps of the dress, divesting you of the top, exposing your breasts to the cool air and silver light of the moon. His thumb rolls one of your nipples and you feel for him, already free from his under garment, the things humans wear under their outside clothes, and you swallow when you feel the size in your fingers.

You sink down onto him with a hiss, body stretching for the intrusion, cunt spasming around the width and length as it fights to make room. He pets your hip soothingly, and you sit straight up, letting out a cry when you feel the true length of his cock inside you, the absolute fullness of it nearly seated in your belly. When you look back down, your eyes trace the smear of blood from his lips and shoulder, and your tongue darts out against your own skin, seeking the flavor of ichor that waits on the corner of your mouth.

Something glitters in his eyes, something shifting as if he finally recognizes the danger he’s in. Even here, with you astride him, split open his cock, hips stuttering in slow circles, wariness flexes across his face as if he knows, finally, that he is the prey and you the predator.

“It’s okay, do not be afraid.” You reassure him, stroking a fingernail over his breastbone, to where his heart flutters beneath your touch. He blinks, eyes blissfully blank, the firm grip of his hand on your hip relaxing before he says:

“Will you not tell me your name?” A long sigh slips between your teeth. Mortals. So hung up on familiarity. But how could you refuse a dying man his last request? Your lips kiss the shell of his ear as you give it to him, the point of your fingernail pressing into his delicate flesh, desperate to seek the strong muscle beneath, the song in his blood echoing through your own bones with supersonic vibration. The sounds and colors of the mortal realm all increase, too bright, too loud, everything shaking like the earth is suddenly trembling and then-

Something snaps inside of you. Magic, raw and powerful, a force unlike anything you’ve ever felt spills into you, your body being washed over with the rush of floodwaters, your heart and blood now singing for him, yearning for him, desperate to be consumed by him. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

The claim burns beneath your skin, your magic twisting away into something completely new, something more powerful as your mind grapples with the changing reality.

In the next moment, you’re spinning, tumbling through the air until you’re on your back, splayed beneath him, hands trapped at your sides. Your legs are folded underneath the width of his torso, your body opened for him just so, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, stretching the slick walls of your cunt with each punishing thrust.

“I-“ the words are cut off sharply when he seals his mouth to yours, teeth gnashing and gnawing down from your lips to your jaw and then up to you ear.

“You,” He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust, and you gasp. “are mine, little huntress.” It is a vow, snarled through clenched teeth, and your own body betrays you by tightening around him, eager and willing to be claimed. The air is hot, humid and electric with magic, the burning effects of your error travelling through your every vein, every cell of skin. The utterance of your name, the act of your own foolishness strings heavily between you, while your body tenses underneath him.

“Simon.” You breathe and he only nods, holding your cheek in a gentle palm, stroking a loving touch across your face.

“Sweet little Nereid...” He names your kind with a growl, and your heart slams in your chest, his cock thrusting into your cunt wildly, desperately. “More beautiful than the sea herself.” The laugh is crooned, like the satisfying scratch of a needle against a record, and his fingers stroke your clit while he presses himself to you, your hips pinned beneath his weight, your body immobile. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” He smiles darkly, lips curling with sinister satisfaction, and you feel the cold hand of fate reaching into your own chest cavity, rooting around in your soul until magic is searing across your skin, a bending and scraping feeling digging underneath your ribs, your own magic twisting and clawing until it burns away into something new, something changed, something imbued with him.

No. It’s not possible. 

“You… you’re-“

“Yes.” 

Simon cares little for the mortal realm. It’s pace and its noise and its scents are all cloying to him, obnoxious and foreign, the general rush of its inhabitants and their lack of care for their world offensive to him and his kind. They do not care for their realm, and do not take care of it ether, instead choosing to let it rot and fester beneath their feet, their drive and determination to outdo one another single handedly responsible for the destruction of most of their world. They call it something here, 'capitalism', like naming it will excuse it, while Simon just calls it murder, and greed.

Mortals and their extreme indifference do allow him certain things, however. Their love of violence and obsession with wealth put even the most well-off of his kind to shame at times. His kind loved things that shone, certainly. But mortals? They loved things that bled. It was this lust for power, this ravenous streak of greed that gave him the opportunity to position himself as he has.

As a hunter. A killer. A ghost.

Simon had been hunting for the thing he loved for a very, very long time.

And tonight, he was finally going to bring you home.

The first time Simon saw you; over a century ago, it was beneath Brighton Pier. You had a human male panting after you as you walked beneath the wooden overhang, your hand cupping his cheek softly, eyes full of tenderness and love. Simon, and the man, were both entranced by your beauty, the way your body moved under the night sky, how your skin seemed to glitter against the sand. Simon watched as you led him to where the moon couldn’t reach, beneath the shield of the slats, the dark of the evening hiding you from all prying, curious eyes, except for his.

He watched you take the male inside your body, watched you lavish your tongue across his neck and chest, watched your lips form sweet words of reassurance and honey while you tasted his blood. He watched the nails of your fingers gleam in the low light, watched them sharpen and then dig, scratching and clawing beneath the threads of the male’s skin, until you held an ichor rich organ in your palm, a complex system of vessels and ventricles, it’s sinew glowing red beneath your touch. He stood in awe as you devoured it, your feeding turning into a frenzy as you consumed it piece by piece, the male bleeding out and dying slowly, all while still buried inside your cunt.

After your feast, you dragged the male’s lifeless body down the sand to the water with you, where you pulled it beneath the waves, never to be seen again. Surprised, and intrigued, he stood at the water’s edge, watching the tide that was tinged red lap calmly at the shore. He knew humans had a taste for blood, but this was another desire onto itself. What were you? 

The following year, Simon couldn’t help but return to the same area in hopes of spotting you again, the creature unknown to him, a mystery begging to be unraveled. You appeared at dawn on the same day, with a horde of others, who then dispersed into the city and surrounding areas, following the sound of a song he could not hear. He became a creature obsessed, tracking your every movement, watching your every hunt and sacrifice. He stood in the dark while you made love to the mortals whose lives you would take, watched you hunt with wild abandon, watched you enjoy the small, tiny things in your eternal life that others often overlook. He began to know you, began to learn what you liked and didn't, began to learn what made you smile. 

You became the brightest spot in his own too long existence, the yearly reminder of love, of vitality, of life. He loved you, desperately, recklessly so. His dreams were filled with soft, sweet visions of you, bloody moments of passion and adoring, lingering kisses that he swore he could still feel when he woke.

It took time, too long of a time, before he discovered who, or what, you were. He spent a century trying to learn how to lure you to the surface. Simon tore apart libraries, bargained favors across dimensions, granted wishes and wove powerful spells just to trade for information on you and your sisters, the Nereids, the lasting remnant of a forgotten power, reclusive magic lurking inside the deepest depths, a realm inside a realm, never to be discovered unless you wished it so. And even then, the additional answers he sought were scarce.

Every year, he returned to the human realm to see you, tucking himself away in cloaks of magic and darkness so that he could creep as close as possible to you. Every year, he watched you hunt, watched you capture your prey effortlessly and consume their heart. He watched you shed a tear for them. Watched your drag their corpses down the beach to the sea, where you carried them into the water with you before disappearing all together.

Eventually, time began to change you. He watched you regard your lovers, your mortals with callousness, and cruelty. He watched you treat them with tenderness, and adoration, caring for them, making their ends sweet and soothing their fears. He watched you stand on the beach for hours at dawn and try to fight the urge to hunt. He burned to take you away from this world, to sever you from your ocean, bring you home to him, but your kind did not live in his realm. He was unsure how to sustain your life, and the search for answers was slow. Years went by, and the soft dreams that he had always welcomed turned to nightmares, fueled by the fear he’d lose you before he even had the chance to try to bring you home. 

A decade ago, he watched you falter. Your body trembled as you took your sacrifice, your cries so hysterical he was certain you’d draw the entire block to where you hid in the shadow of someone’s gaff. His own body was rigid with tense, untethered magic that sought to lash out, and he was rife with worry that you’d give yourself away, you’d be caught by some mortal force and unable to return to the sea when the sun rose. The fear he felt was unreasonable, uncontainable. He'd level the city to protect you, to keep you safe, and he nearly did. He almost took you, that night. Was quite close, so close that he was crossing the street in front of vehicles and preparing to pull you into his realm when you composed yourself and completed your harvest, the glowing organ in your hands proof of your will to live, to love.

He rarely left the mortal realm after that. Only to seek his final answer and solidify his plan, his masquerade as the masked Ghost allowing him to exist in the realm indefinitely, giving him the availability to be close for when the time was right, for when you would be ready.  

A year ago, you were the last to return to the water, your steps slow and clumsy, your eyes tired and weepy. You appeared satisfied, but as you looked back on the city from the shoreline, he saw the hint of desolation in your eyes, the shadow of dejection haunting your face.

It was more than enough, to spring him into action. More than enough, to find your promised mortal for next year and steal his song, bringing it into himself by a small piece of blood magic, something so simple and obvious Simon cursed himself for not realizing sooner.  

This morning, as he observed you and your sister on the beach, he knew he had been right. He could see it in your face. The pain of sadness, of loss twisting your elegance into an ache, those feelings compounded by the admission of your eldest sibling. This could be your last hunt.

It was time to bring you home. Forever. 

“That her then?” Johnny nods, indicating he’s looking the same direction as Simon, watching you walk down the curb, paper coffee cup clutched in your hands, face smiling at the sun.

“Yes.” Simon answers, shifting uncomfortably. The bloody song has been heating his flesh for weeks, boiling in his veins and driving him practically mad. Nymph magic. Its incessant hum has been battling his own power, jockeying for position as it worked to pull you to the surface. Combined with his own, he wasn’t surprised it possessed the ability to bring you up earlier than normal, encouraging you and your sisters through the depths and to the shore. If his blood was singing, then so was every other poor sod’s in this city. 

You cross the street into the park, dress swaying around your hips, and he indulgently stares at the form of your body, the set of your shoulders, the texture of your hair. He closes his eyes to breathe, reaching into himself to get a handle on the battle of will going on in his blood, the warring magic factions pushing and pulling beneath his skin, begging to be let out, trying to lash out. Soon. He reassures himself. She will be with him soon. 

He can smell you from here. You’re ripe. Overflowing, your scent is like a flickering ocean breeze, briny and cold but full of life, of promise. You’re ready, ready to be taken from this awful realm, ready to be bent underneath his body, ready to be crying on his cock as you come while he floods your womb with himself and his power, tying you to him for all eternity.

That is, if he can get you to relinquish your name.

It is a key piece of his plan, and the one that worries him the most. 

He knows you do not give it freely; knows you keep it guarded. It’s like you’re already aware that he waits in the shadows for you, watching, keeping track of every step you take, every year, from sunup to the next, until you slink beneath the water where he cannot follow.

The pressure inside his body is nearly unbearable by the time you step into the pub. Dozens of heads turn towards you, mortals’ eyes roving all over your body like you’re a treat for them, like you’re something delicious they’ll have an opportunity to taste. Foolish, greedy mortals, too busy staring dreamily at you to recognize the predator that you are, or the predator he is, oblivious to the two hunters in the room with them right now. He wonders, if you'd bathe in their blood, given an opportunity. The image makes him smile. 

Johnny clears his throat expectantly, and Simon nods, casting a glance over to where Gaz sits with a pretty female on his lap, her attentions focused solely on him, her eyes heavily lidded with lust. Johnny gives him a nod.

“Good luck.” He offers and Simon waves him off. He’s no need for luck. His blood sings your song.

“Ready?” He nearly loses control when he watches your face fill with despair for a moment after his question, his aching need to soothe and comfort you almost forcing his hands out to touch you. I'm here, little huntress. You are not alone anymore. He cannot tell you this, not yet. So instead, he applies pressure to your hand gently and waits. When you nod, he breathes just a tiny bit easier. 

He cannot stay in this place any longer. The eyes, the mortals, their inane thirst for alcohol and violence starting to scratch underneath his skin. He needed you, needed your name, needed to take you home to his realm, and all this noise and smoke and foul-smelling liquor stood in his way. The feeling of your hand in his soothes him, calms the anxious explosion that’s building in his chest, but it’s not enough. Nothing will be enough, until he has what he wants.

On the way out, he does not miss your little spell. He is, and has been, the most powerful creature in this room. He has felt every ounce of magic used, by you, by Johnny, by Kyle, all night long. It makes his heart swell when he feels your effort to push the dancing female into the arms of her scorned lover, makes his heart soar when he realizes perhaps, you have not given up on love, on life. Perhaps, you just need something else, something other than the hunt, to live for.

He allows you to take your time beneath the Pier. He cannot rush you, cannot allow you the feeling of anything being amiss, being off. You are so close to the sea, so close to the edge of the water that if he spooks you, it will be too easy for you to slip away. Too easy for you to be lost beneath the surface, again, just as you have been for hundreds of years.

When your teeth tear into his flesh he nearly moans, almost loses control again, but tamps down the urge to spring forward and toss you into the sand beneath him. He needs your name, needs your name so bloody badly it has his head spinning, his entire being desperately urging him to act, to claim, to take you. Your cunt is searing hot around his cock, your body shivering in his arms as you rock your hips delicately, eyes watching him half addled, crazed with the lust for his blood, for his heart.

“Will you not tell me your name?” He thrusts slowly up into you, and pity flashes across your features as you bend forward to brush your mouth against your ear. He feels your lips part, hears the intake of your breath and then-

You’re his. The magic begins immediately, bonding you to him, searing you into his soul and vice versa, the song in his blood slipping away until all he feels is the combined force of your power and his, the melding of souls and magic that will guarantee your existence in his realm, by his side, guaranteeing your survival, your ability to thrive. He takes advantage of your confusion, of the chaos that rises in your heart and flips you on your back, spreading your thighs wide beneath him and plunging his cock as deep as he can. So close. So, so close, and then you will be truly his, for as long as you both shall live. 

“I-“

“You,” he thrusts harder, desperate to claim you. “are mine, little huntress.” He hisses it, pushing the words forward with the brunt of his power, and you gasp before whispering his name.

“Sweet little Nereid…more beautiful than the sea herself.” He kisses your throat, stroking your clit at a torturous pace while your confused gaze tracks his every movement. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” The magic pushes through your blood and bones, continuing to stitch and sear you to him, and he can’t help the feelings of possession that come over him.

His. His. His. 

His magic cuts and gnaws at your own, ripping and shredding it to bits until it’s infected with him, the strength of your name, your free admission to him, turning you inside out, changing the very chemistry of your body. He watches with dark satisfactions as your face shifts, your lips parting with understanding, eyes widening with your knowledge of the truth.

“You… You’re-“ Clever little huntress.

“Yes.” He purrs, and punches his cock back up inside of you, pressing close to your cervix, your body wet and needy, just for him. You shudder and blink hazily, confusion flickering across your features while his magic roots around inside of you and binds you to him, cell by cell. He can still smell you, smell the cool salt air of the sea that comes from your skin, smell the ripeness of your body, your willingness spilling forward in the air, the scent of sweet honeysuckle and sea holly. Your thighs tighten around his hips, your body rocking swiftly in time with him while your brow furrows, like you’re not sure what you should be doing. He licks at the stain of his blood on your lips, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you let out a sharp whine, small hands flexing against his chest.

“No.” you admonish, face stricken. “No. No, you t-tricked me.”

“I did.” He agrees, reaching between the two of you to rub your clit in a swift circle, your breath hitching. Your face twists into something sour, but your cunt clenches around him, and his lips curl into a crescent moon smirk. “Are you going to come on my cock, sweet one?”

“Unnf.” You moan nonsense, turning your face away from him but he does not stop, hips snapping against yours, his body working to bring yours closer and closer to its climax.

“I think you are.” He hisses and grips your jaw to turn your eyes back to him. They’re wet with tears, but he doesn’t see fear in them, doesn’t see the despair. Only flares of rage, and the heat of desire, the electricity of the magic that is now shared between the two of you. He smiles triumphantly. “I think,” he relaxes his pace, dragging his cock out of you painstakingly slowly, gaze never leaving your lovely face. “you’re going to come for me, and then I’m going to breed you, little huntress.” You tense around him, squeezing his cock, the words pulling a delicious, physical reaction from you that shakes his focus for a moment. His palm lays flat over your lower belly, low enough that his thumb can feel the hardness of your clit, can stroke around it’s hood while you gasp and convulse in his arms. You shake your head stubbornly, chest heaving for breath, and he slams himself back into you, your spine curling forward into his chest.

“Gods.” You cry out, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto, finding his shoulders and sinking deep, deep enough that he knows you're drawing blood. It oozes from the tiny wounds, tracing down his skin and when you pull away, your fingers have been darkened with it.

He watches with small wonder as you slip them into your mouth, face going slack with bliss, cunt spasming around him while he strokes deep. His skin prickles, mouth finding yours again, and you moan into him, uninhibited, full of abandon.

“I have watched you for over a century, my sweet Nereid. Watched you hunt, watched you love, watched you lose.” He slows to look down at you, caressing your face with a gentle touch. “I have watched the light fade from your eyes, watched despair take over your existence.” Your gaze widens, mouth dropping open in surprise, and then closing abruptly, eyes softening around the corners.

“Simon.” You murmur, pressing your finger to the weeping wound from your teeth.

“My huntress. You will never be alone again.” He noses your jaw, licking and sucking against your skin, cold brine exploding against his tongue. Your scent crests, peaking with the honey flower and salt, your body yearning beneath him, cunt milking his cock. “Come for me.” He encourages when he knows it’s time, when he sees the glossy want all over your face. It doesn’t take much urging, another stroke of your clit and you’re coming, body locking up around him, muscles straining as you cry out, face full of bliss and legs tense around his hips. You clamp down around him, holding him deep inside your body like a vice but he works you through it, thrusting slowly inside your scorching cunt, your walls desperately trying to keep him inside. “There you go.” He soothes, fucking you through the aftershocks, your face still twisted up. “That’s just what I needed.” The orgasm makes your more pliable, more soft and less angry, and he sees in your eyes what he knows to be true. You want this. Perhaps this is not what you would have chosen at first, perhaps the magic was too strong in your veins in the beginning, but your body knows what your mind works to accept. You are choosing this, choosing him, over the hunt. Over the sacrifice. Over the immortal life of loss.

So, so close.

He folds your legs towards your chest, opening you deeper and you mewl, lips parted in dazed, post orgasm glow. He can’t help but kiss you again and again, his painfully slow thrusts forcing irritated breaths to puff from your nose.

“Something you want?” He teases, and you nod, pressing your face into his shoulder and groaning into his skin.

“Simon. Please.” You voice breaks, and he feels your cunt pool around him, liquid heat forcing him to grit his teeth in an effort to stave off his own orgasm.

Ask me for it, little huntress. 

“Please, what?” He mocks, thumb pressing down on your clit hard, causing you to keen. He doesn’t move, just stays steady inside of you, your cunt working pull him deeper.

“Please, please. I want-“ you gasp when he bites the skin of your neck, and he smiles wickedly. Your cunt practically strangles him now, body working to drag his orgasm from him, magic singing in both of your hearts.

His. His. His. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

Your scent overpowers him, the swell of the ocean behind him combined with the salt of your essence pulling him harder into your gravity.

“What do you want?”

“I want your come.” You beg and he snarls, finally losing control, fucking into your eager body with abandon, hard and punishing while you moan and cry beneath him. He takes your earlobe in his teeth before whispering a vow:

“Then you shall have it.” He plays with your clit, the intensity of his strokes matching the pace of his thrusts and you pant eagerly. “You shall have it every day until you are full of me, full with my child.”

“Yes.” You moan, and he feels you moving towards another climax, your muscles spasming and eyes slipping shut.

“I’m going to breed you, give you my baby, sweetling. Make you mine, forever.” Your back arches and you wail, your cunt clamping down on him again, and he thrusts as deep as he can, chasing his release, fueling his burning desire to empty himself inside of you. He lets go completely, untethers his magic, lets it fully fuse with yours as he spills inside of you, the pressure of his orgasm working against your aftershocks, and your own magic that wraps itself wildly around him, clawing at the seat of his power, desperate to attach itself.

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

His. His. His. 

You fall asleep on his chest, body relaxed and sated, mouth open in a small o. He needs to get you up, needs to get you ready to travel to his realm but in this moment, he’s content to sit here, against the old wooden pier, timing the rise and fall of your breathing and planning for the future, for eternity.

“Will you care for her?” A musical voice asks from a short distance, and his head snaps up to see your sister, the one you stood with on the beach this morning, inclining her head towards your peaceful, sated body that sits snugly in his arms.

“Always.” He promises, and she nods, eyes looking down the shoreline.

“I am happy for her.” She looks sad, forlorn, not unlike how you appeared hours ago.

“It is not too late, for you to hunt. There is still plenty of time before the sunrise.” He tries to encourage, and she nods.

“Perhaps.” Simon briefly wonders if Kyle or Johnny are still in town, a sinister idea forming in his mind, taking shape before his very eyes. He pushes, just the gentlest bit of magic, the piece that’s mixed with yours, towards her. A long moment passes, and then, “I think I’ll walk.” She motions up the pier and gives a goodbye nod, as he strokes a hand down your spine when you shiver in his arms.

You do not stir until she is a speck on the horizon, and when you do, you lift your head wearily, like you’ve slept for a thousand years.

“What’s going on?” you murmur, shifting your dress so it covers your thighs. He presses a light kiss to your forehead before giving an answer.

“We’re going home now, little huntress.”

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #mw2 #ghost call of duty #mermaids #mermaids au #magic au #ghost x reader #cod fanfic

[oofthwoods]

CHAPTER ONE! ── ˙ ̟ bring home the glory !!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: "what is a legacy? it's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. i wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me". | a victorious journey always begins with a death and an offer.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: funerals, grief and death. if you don't feel comfortable with these themes, go straight to the part after 2023. you won't lose much, i promise! the second part is somehow based on right hand man from hamilton, don't ask about it. this is pretty much a prologue number two tbh, but i still hope you enjoy it.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: 3.2k

⭠ previous masterlist next ‭→

2021

In the solemn setting of the cemetery, the sun hung in the sky, seemingly unaware of the grief below. Its golden rays contrasted sharply with the darkness consuming your soul, each beam of light piercing through the heavy clouds of sorrow. As tears streaked your face, the warmth of the sun felt out of place, a painful reminder of the world's indifference to your shattered heart.

Standing beside the graveside, you looked up to the sky, seeking solace in its vastness. But the heavens offered no comfort, no relief from the ache within. You wondered why the sky remained clear, why it didn't reflect the storm of emotions raging inside you. Its serene blue expanse seemed to mock your devastation, its unwavering indifference amplifying your pain.

Your mother and her siblings stood ahead, their shoulders bowed under the weight of grief, their sobs a haunting melody that echoed through the air. But you stood alone, isolated in your sorrow, drowning in memories that threatened to consume you whole.

Memories of your grandfather flooded your mind like a deluge, each one a bittersweet reminder of the love you had lost. His laughter, once a source of joy and comfort, now felt distant and painful, a cruel reminder of all that had been taken from you. His stories, his wisdom, his gentle touch — they all seemed like distant echoes of a life that was slipping further and further away with each passing moment.

You recalled his final moments, the frailty of his form, the sadness in his eyes as he whispered his last words to you. "Be proud of who you are," he had said, his voice barely a whisper, his breath brushing against your cheek. "And never forget where you come from. Your roots are your strength, my dear." His words had been a lifeline in the storm of your grief, a reminder of the legacy he had left behind, of the love that would endure long after he was gone.

As you stood beside his grave, the words offered little solace. They felt empty, a faint reminder of the warmth once found in his embrace. You longed to reach out to him, to feel the warmth of his touch one last time, to beg for just a moment more in his comforting presence. But he was gone, lost to you forever in a world that seemed infinitely colder and darker without him.

You closed your eyes, allowing the tears to fall freely as you whispered your silent goodbyes to him, each word a prayer for his eternal peace. But even as you spoke, you knew that no amount of tears could ever hope to fill the void he had left behind, that no words could ever hope to capture the depth of your loss.

As you stood there, lost in your grief, the soft sound of footsteps approached from behind. You turned to see your mother returning, her eyes red and swollen from tears, her expression etched with the same pain that weighed heavily on your own heart. For a moment, you simply stood there, sharing a silent understanding born from the depths of your shared sadness.

Without a word, she wrapped you in a gentle hug, her arms providing solace amidst the whirlwind of emotions swirling around you. "I'm not sure I can go on without him, Mom," you murmured, your voice barely audible as you buried your face against her shoulder.

Her embrace tightened, her fingers gently combing through your hair. "I feel the same way, sweetheart. But we have to find strength, for his sake," she whispered softly, her words tinged with a mixture of sadness and determination.

As you leaned into her embrace, the weight of your grief seemed to press down upon you, threatening to crush you beneath its relentless force. Your mother's presence briefly brought comfort, like a delicate lifeline amidst the stormy sea of emotions swirling inside you.

"I miss him so much already," you confessed with your voice trembling. "It feels like a part of me is missing, like I'll never be whole again."

Her arms tightened around you, a silent reassurance that you were not alone. "I know, my love. I do too," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "He was the heart of our family, the glue that held us together."

A bittersweet silence fell between you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. Memories of your grandfather danced through your mind like flickering candle flames, casting shadows of laughter and love against the walls of your grief-stricken heart.

"Do you think he's watching over us?" you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the evening.

Her hand stilled against your hair. "I'd like to think so," she replied, her voice wavering with uncertainty. "I'd like to believe that he's found peace, that he's somewhere out there, looking down on us with love in his heart."

Tears welled in your eyes as you imagined him, a silent guardian in the heavens above, watching over you with a warmth that transcended the boundaries of life and death. "I hope he knows how much we love him," you whispered, your words a fervent prayer whispered into the vast expanse of the sky.

"I'm sure he does, my dear," she murmured, her voice soft with tenderness. "And I know that wherever he is, he'll always be with us, guiding us through the darkness, lighting our way with the love that he left behind."

As your mother's words gently washed over you, a sudden movement caught your eye. In the corner of your vision, a flash of royal blue fluttered amidst the solemn surroundings. You blinked, momentarily startled, before fixing your gaze on the delicate creature that alighted on a nearby branch.

A small gasp escaped your lips as you beheld the bird, its feathers shimmering like fragments of the sky woven into living form. With a heart full of wonder, you watched as it stretched its wings, basking in the fading light of the evening sun.

"We can leave now, if you're ready, sweetheart." her mother murmured, delicately turning her daughter's face to meet her own. 

As your mother looked into your eyes, you could see the sadness reflecting in them, speaking volumes on its own. Although she softly hinted that you could go if you wished, it was evident that she longed for some respite from the weight of your mutual grief. Beneath her calm demeanor, you sensed her vulnerability, a silent plea to escape the overpowering sorrow surrounding you both. With a simple nod, you silently agreed.

With a mix of sadness and resolve, you followed your mother's lead, letting her guide you away from the graveside and back into the world. While you walked together, a quick look back caught your attention, drawing your eyes to the scene you were departing. And there, on top of the gravestone, sat the blue bird, its colorful feathers standing out against the solemn surroundings.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as you watched the bird, a silent sentinel overlooking the final resting place of your beloved grandfather. He seemed to look at you, and, if birds could smile, you would swear he did.

2023

You find yourself standing outside a closed door, your hand hesitantly reaching out to lightly tap against the wood. The muffled voices from within only add to your uncertainty, but the urgency of speaking with the team principal before the Abu Dhabi sprint pushes you to take action. Whatever discussion awaits behind that door must be significant enough to pull you away from your pre-race meeting with the mechanics.

In the stillness of the hallway, time seems to stretch endlessly as you wait for a response that never comes. With a mixture of nerves and anticipation coursing through your veins, you finally muster the courage to grasp the doorknob. Its cool metal provides a fleeting sense of reassurance as you turn it slowly, the hinges creaking softly in protest as the door swings open to reveal the dimly lit room beyond.

Inside, seated at a table, is Mr. Vowles, engrossed in conversation. Your presence at the threshold goes unnoticed for a moment until you gather your resolve and speak up, your voice barely above a whisper as you address him.

"Mr. Vowles, did you need to see me?" you venture, your words hanging in the air with a hint of uncertainty.

At the sound of your voice, James looks up, his expression softening into a welcoming smile.

"Williams, come in," he says, his warm tone instantly easing your nerves as he gestures for you to enter. "Have you met Sargeant?" he continues, motioning towards a figure standing nearby, their presence previously hidden in the shadows of the room.

As James mentions Logan, it's like a floodgate of memories bursting open, whisking you back to the time when you and Logan shared an unbreakable bond. You were inseparable, navigating the twists and turns of life at the academy with laughter, support, and a shared vision of the future.

But as the competition for a spot in Formula One heated up, your friendship began to strain. What started as friendly competition slowly morphed into something more complicated. The pressure mounted, and with it came a subtle shift in your relationship. Each race seemed to drive a wedge between you, rather than bringing you closer.

It was at the peak of your rivalry that things started to unravel. Every little disagreement or perceived slight seemed to fester, poisoning the once vibrant atmosphere between you. Despite your efforts to keep up appearances, there was an underlying tension that threatened to fracture your bond.

When Logan secured a seat at Williams while you remained in F2, a whirlwind of emotions swept over you. Of course, you were genuinely happy for him, but there was also a pang of envy and disappointment gnawing at your heart. It felt like a piece of your own dream slipping away, leaving you grappling with a sense of loss you couldn't quite shake.

And then, just when you thought things couldn't get any more complicated, James hinted at the possibility of you stepping into Logan's shoes. The idea of replacing your friend-turned-competitor added another layer of complexity to an already tangled web of emotions. It was a constant battle between your ambition and the fear of losing the one person who had been by your side through it all.

"Yes, sir," you respond, choosing a simple response. Logan's gaze meets yours, seeming to ignite with intensity. "We keep on meeting"

In a deliberate choice of silence, Logan sidestepped any engagement with you, his eyes fixed on the team leader instead. "As I was just saying," he began, his voice brimming with confidence, "I truly believe that with these adjustments, I can improve my control over the car."

James reciprocated Logan's smile, though his gaze hinted at a wandering mind. "Sargeant?" he interrupted, signaling a shift in focus to another pressing matter.

"Yes, sir?" Sergeant replied promptly, ready for further instructions.

"We'll talk about this later. Close the door on your way out," James commanded, his tone decisive, drawing their exchange to a close.

As Logan's footsteps faltered on his way out, a pang of unease settled in your chest. You couldn't shake the guilt that crept in, knowing your success might come at the cost of his dreams.

In the relentless world of Formula One, sentimentality was a luxury few could afford. You grappled with the harsh reality that success often meant sacrificing the dreams of others. It was a something you had grappled with since the beginning of your journey, one that forced you to confront the truth that in this fiercely competitive arena, there would always be someone waiting in the wings to take your place if you faltered.

As you redirected your focus towards James, the man who now held the reins of your family's team, you couldn't help but reflect on the rarity of such a moment. Conversations with him had been few and far between, a testament to the typical hierarchy within Formula One teams where direct interaction between a team leader and a junior driver, especially mere hours before a pivotal race, was uncommon.

“Have I done something wrong, sir?” You ventured, a tinge of uncertainty coloring your tone.

"Not at all, quite the opposite actually," James responded, rising from his seat and leaning casually against the table, his arms folded. "Your stats this season are impressive—seven wins, numerous podium finishes. You've got a bright future ahead of you. But here's the thing, every day I see offers come across my desk to buy out your contract, and frankly, I find it amusing."

"Uh, sorry, I'm not following," you admitted, furrowing your brow in confusion.

"Williams, why is it that no team seems to be able to snag you?" James clarified, a hint of curiosity lacing his words. "You're undeniably talented, but turning down offers from big names like Alpine and Alpha Tauri might not be the smartest move."

"To drive their tractor, or worse, become a reserve driver? I don't think so." you remarked with a disbelieving smirk.

"Think about it, a spot at Alpha Tauri could open doors at Red Bull down the line," James suggested, attempting to sway your perspective.

"Everyone knows they have their sights set on Daniel Ricciardo, or Liam Lawson at best" you countered, a note of frustration creeping into your voice. "I'm a bit lost here. Why are you laying all this out for me?" you questioned, a perplexed furrow creasing your brow. You knew full well the offers on the table and why you were declining them. James likely wasn't in the dark about your reasons either.

"I'm just being honest with you," He replied, his tone carrying a hint of earnestness. His hand reached up to rub his forehead, fingers tracing over the lines etched there as if seeking solace in the familiar. "We're on a tight budget," he explained, a touch of resignation in his voice. "We're short on engineers and mechanics compared to almost everyone else, except maybe Haas and Sauber. While we've made progress since last year, I can't promise our car will match up to the competition next season."

James lifted his gaze, fixing it upon you with a mixture of earnestness and concern. "I'm not one to squander talent. I know you've got your reasons for sticking with us, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to have you on board. But I can't move forward without ensuring you understand exactly what you're signing up for."

"I'm just asking for a shot, James. Just one chance to prove that we've still got what it takes," you implored, your words tinged with determination. Images of past triumphs flickered through your mind, a reminder of the team's glory days.

With a weary smile, James let out a soft sigh. "Seems like sheer tenacity runs in the family, huh?"

"They used to say I took after my grandmother," you remarked casually, a wistful grin playing on your lips.

Turning to the desk, the man retrieved a piece of paper from a drawer, his movements deliberate and measured. "What are the odds?"

You knew precisely what he was referring to. "Iwasa's already out of the running. If I take the sprint, I'll have enough points to clinch the championship."

Extending the contract towards you, James presented it as if unveiling a glimpse of what lay ahead. "Win this championship, and the seat is yours."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the anticipation that crackled between you. With the contract poised like a tantalizing promise, the room seemed to hold its breath.

You reached out tentatively, fingers hovering over the document that held the potential to shape your future. The paper felt crisp beneath your touch.

"I know it's a risk, trading one rookie for another" James conceded, his voice tinged with a hint of apprehension. "But I believe in you, and I need someone who believes in this team."

A surge of determination coursed through your veins, bolstered by James's unwavering faith. "I won't let you down," you vowed, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

"TO TOP OFF AN INCREDIBLE SEASON, Y/N WILLIAMS WINS THE ABU DHABI SPRINT AND HAS ENOUGH POINTS TO CROWN HERSELF A CHAMPION." The narrator's voice reverberated through the sprawling circuit, amplifying the momentous declaration that crowned your achievement.

The roar of victory surged through the airwaves as your race engineer's voice erupted over the radio, a symphony of celebration. "You did it, Williams! Formula 2 champion, with one race to spare!"

Amidst the cacophony of cheers echoing from Rodin Carlin's garage, you felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins, the weight of your accomplishment settling upon your shoulders like a mantle of triumph. Your mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions, a torrent of exclamations, gratitude, and tears that threatened to overwhelm your senses.

As you gradually eased the car to a decelerating pace, you couldn't help but feel the swell of pride and disbelief wash over you. With trembling hands, you lifted them skyward in a gesture of reverence, a silent tribute to the one who had inspired you journey.

"This one's for you, grandpa," you murmured, your voice a whisper against the backdrop of roaring engines and jubilant cheers. "I hope you're proud up there."

Amidst the jubilant chaos enveloping the pit lane, your thoughts swirled like a tempestuous storm, each emotion vying for dominance in the tumult of your mind. As you joined in the exultant cheers of your team, a sense of disbelief mingled with elation, the reality of your victory sinking in with each heartbeat.

In the midst of the celebration, you couldn't help but steal a moment to glance towards the podium, where your destiny awaited. The anticipation pulsed within you, a heady mixture of excitement and nervous energy propelling youforward.

As you ascended to the highest step, each stride felt like a triumph, a testament to the countless hours of dedication and sacrifice that have led you to this pinnacle moment. Your mind hummed with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, a kaleidoscope of memories and aspirations swirling in the depths of your consciousness.

The thunderous roar of the crowd enveloped you like a tidal wave, the sound of applause echoing in your ears as you stand upon the podium, bathed in the radiant glow of the spotlight. Your chest swells with pride, your heart beating in time with the pulsating energy of the spectators.

Locking eyes with James amidst the sea of faces, you feel a surge of excitement washing over you. There's a silent understanding that passes between you, a shared recognition of the journey you will embark upon together. In that fleeting moment, as your gazes meet, you know with a certainty that transcends words— you'll be signing that contract.

With a triumphant smile, you raise the championship trophy high above your head, the weight of your accomplishment buoyed by the unwavering support of your team and your unyielding belief in yourself.

And in the middle of the bustling paddock, a blue bird chirped happily, swooping towards the girl as she lifted the trophy high. It appeared as though he'd be sticking around a while longer.

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed <3 | italic means i couldn't tag you) :: @formulanni @clownrrari @leilanixx @notyouraveragemochii @alliwantisadonut @oooom4rie @watermelon-sugars-things @glitterquadricorn @minkyungseokie @formulaal @itsjustkhaos @thebearchives @hiireadstuff @laura-naruto-fan1998 @cptg00s3 @welovediaaxx @eugene-emt-roe @cha-hot

#⋆⠀᰷ ֹ 🍙 ˓ bring home the glory﹗ #f1 imagine #f1 imagines #f1 scenarios #f1 x reader #fem!driver reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 scenarios #lewis hamilton x reader #fernando alonso x reader #formula 1 x reader #x reader #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #oscar piastri x reader #george russell x reader #logan sargeant x reader #lando norris x reader #formula one imagines #formula one imagine #formula 1 imagines #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #driver reader #f1 x fem!driver #fem!driver #hate that last part but oh well

[ichorai]

i’m not made by design ; jaime lannister.

track seven of BROKEN MACHINE.  

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

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

words ; 47.8k

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

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

main masterlist. read on ao3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a waste.

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

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

You did not clap.

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

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

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

Jaime Lannister slitting the throat of the Mad King.

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

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

Thwack.

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

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

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

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

The other two boys chimed in with their advice.

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

“Relax your bow arm,” piped Robb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What killed it?” asked Jon.

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

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

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

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

“It’s a freak!” Theon said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!” cried your nephew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about you?” Bran asked Jon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime Lannister. 

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

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

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

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

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

To Lyanna. He wanted to see Lyanna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The feast was held at sundown. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime Lannister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good night, Ser,” you curtly said.

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

Not all are relieved to be alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am grateful,” Cat sniffled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I already have one,” said Jon.

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

The bastard scoffed. “Of course I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When he wakes up,” you corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before the war. Before father and Brandon were murdered.

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

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

“You don’t pray,” you dryly said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The direwolves howled some more.

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

The howling only grew louder. 

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

Your heart leapt into your throat. 

Fire.

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

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

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

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

And on the ground between them was a dagger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fury turned your vision red.

Cersei Lannister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A week had gone by when Bran awoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The large man did as Bran asked. 

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

“Yes. Well… I used to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that, Tyrion turned to leave. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the devil was he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have the right—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ned had been arrested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a lengthy beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on, boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“South,” Robb said. “For father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crestfallen, Bran reluctantly nodded. 

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

“Okay,” he mumbled. 

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

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

“Promise.”

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

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

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

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

A fortnight breezed by in the blink of an eye.

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

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

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

It was all one big headache. 

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

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

When she came back, her face was solemn.

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

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

The damn Lannisters, you thought grimly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s more?” said Robb. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now Robb had the Kingslayer in his grasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb. You had to speak to him.

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

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

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

“Robb,” you whispered.

“Aunt,” he whispered back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb was King now.

The King in the North.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lie. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” she pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime watched you go with a soft exhale.

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

Battle after battle, Robb found himself victorious. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the dead of night when Jaime Lannister escaped. 

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

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

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

The taste of freedom had never been so sweet.

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

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

“Die, Kingslayer!” they yelled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you try and stop me—!”

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

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

Your brows raised in surprise. The medic girl. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t grace him with a response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To his disappointment, Brienne spared him no more words.

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

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

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

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

You were really beginning to like Brienne.

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

Brienne frowned. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Burying them,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

“Untie me!” said Jaime. 

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

The voices were growing louder.

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

“Traveling prisoners,” she hastily responded. 

The three men burst out into raucous, incredulous laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hm. A good actor.

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

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

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

“Riverrun,” said Brienne. 

“Why?”

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

“No. I mean why not just kill him?”

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

“For stealing a pig?” scoffed Jaime.

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then you don’t know me.”

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

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

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

White-hot anger coiled within your abdomen. 

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

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

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

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

Couldn’t be more wrong.

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

The King. Your boy, Robb.

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

“One.”

You discreetly lined an arrow up to your bow.

“Two.”

You pulled against the string.

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We could take horses.”

“Too noticeable.”

“Take a ship, then.”

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

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

Both you and Brienne glanced at each other, exasperated. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anger flooded across your features. “Shut up.”

“Why? Have I struck a nerve—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gods, no,” Brienne quickly responded.

Brows raising, Jaime exclaimed, “Ah, Renly, then! Wasn’t expecting that from you. He wasn’t fit to rule over anything more important than a twelve-course meal.”

“Shut your mouth,” Brienne hissed. It seemed Jaime had a particular talent for irritating the life out of both of you.

“Why? I lived with him at court since he was a boy, don’t forget. Could hardly escape the little tulip… skipping down the corridors with his embroidered silks. I knew him far better than you,” Jaime bragged, taking pleasure in getting beneath her skin.

Frowning, Brienne spat, “I knew him just as much as anyone else. As a member of his Kingsguard, he trusted me with everything. He would’ve been a wonderful King.”

Would he? From what you could recall, he never really cared much for the wellbeing of the realm. Nonetheless, you remained silent.

Jaime, however, cackled gleefully. “Sounds like you quite fancied him.”

“I did not fancy him,” she gritted out, a tad too fast.

“Gods, you did! I can see it all over your brutish face! Did you ever tell him? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being a part of his Kingsguard and whatnot… well, I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t quite Renly’s type. He preferred curly-haired little girls like Loras Tyrell. You’re far too much man for him.” 

How ironic, you dryly thought. “I didn’t take you one to gossip,” you said, sensing Brienne’s uncomfort. “Neither of us have quite the appetite for your foul rumors.”

“Oh, but it’s not gossip, Wolf,” said Jaime. “It’s very much true. His proclivities were the worst-kept secret at court!”

“Who gives a shit about what he used to do with his free time? It’s not like he was hurting anybody,” you retaliated. Truthfully, you bore no love for Robert Baratheon’s youngest brother, but since Jaime made it his mission to antagonize him, you couldn’t help but want to defend the late Prince.

Jaime dryly chuckled. “Don’t tell me you fancied him, too. He wouldn’t quite like you much, I’m afraid. He liked his affairs brainless and sweet-faced—two traits you sorely lack, Bitter Wolf. Hm… it’s a shame the throne isn’t made of cocks. They’d have never gotten him off of it.”

Snapping, Brienne grabbed at Jaime’s hair and yanked him back, her sword against his throat in a blink of an eye. You calmly watched, not moving to stop her just yet. She was a loyal, honorable woman, and you were confident Brienne wouldn’t actually kill him if it came down to it.

“Shut your mouth!” she just about shouted, baring her teeth in a snarl.

Jaime winced at the pain of her hand yanking his hair. “I don’t blame him,” he said, tone considerably much softer. “And I don’t blame you, either. We don’t get to choose who we love.”

The insinuation behind his words was as clear as day.

You bitterly scoffed. “But we do get to choose who we have sex with, don’t we, sister-fucker?” Rolling your eyes to the side, you gestured for Brienne to unhand him. “The journey is still long—let’s save our energy by spending it in silence.”

Brienne reluctantly relinquished her hold on him, but before either of them could say anything, the clopping of hooves pulled your attention away.

It was a simple tradesman, tugging along his packhorse, who had bundles of wheat and hay strapped to its back. He waved at the three of you, a smile to his innocent face.

“Hullo. Where are you lot headed?”

“South,” said Jaime. “You?”

“Riverrun,” the man said. “Stayin’ off the Kingsroad, are you?”

The three of you nodded.

“They get you no matter where you go,” he advised. “You can’t run.”

Ominous were his words, but he could simply be speaking of the road tax they were imposing amongst the common folk. Nothing more than that. 

Right?

“Looks like you two are safe enough. Meaning no offense, of course… I wouldn’t want to tangle with you lot,” he said with a chesty chuckle. “Seven blessings to you.”

Off the tradesman went, his horse in tow. You briefly wondered if he had recognized you or Jaime. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t.

“He knows who I am,” Jaime muttered under his breath.

“He doesn’t,” said Brienne.

“Maybe you’re right. But what if you’re not? What if he tells someone? We have to kill him,” Jaime pressed.

Blowing out a breath, you turned to him. “We’re not killing him. Unlike you, Kingslayer, I wouldn’t take innocent lives for no reason.”

Your words seemed to strike him in the face and he reared back with a sneer.

“And you wouldn’t risk his innocent life for your innocent nieces?” Jaime countered. 

A beat of silence. You could feel a lump growing in your throat.

Wordless, you beckoned Brienne to push Jaime along your path. There would be no more bloodshed than necessary.

The three of you had stopped for a break by the river. Brienne had told you to get some sleep, that she’d keep watch for a few hours. 

Body aching and weary with the long journey, you gratefully nodded, leaning against a tree trunk and pulling your cloak up over your head, slipping into a dreamless slumber.

It seemed that luck was not on your side, for you were startled awake by the clashing of steel not even two hours later. You scrambled onto your feet, blinking away your grogginess, and grabbed the bow you had kept by your side.

Jaime and Brienne were by the river, yelling at each other so quickly that you couldn’t make out anything they were saying. When you rushed closer, your eyes widened upon seeing one of Brienne’s longswords clutched between his grimy hands. 

Quiet as a shadow, you nocked an arrow to the drawstring, silently creeping up to the dueling two. Jaime was breathing in a haggard fashion, clearly exhausted by the fight. Brienne, on the other hand, had yet to break a sweat, but her movements were rough and lacked calculated grace.

“That’s enough,” you commanded, tone steely, raising your bow so the tip of the arrow pointed straight at Jaime. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, Kingslayer, we are doing you a favor by taking you back home.”

Before he could reply, a dozen clopping horses resounded from over the bridge, and you swiveled your gaze over to the group with baited breath as they drew closer.

They were carrying Bolton banners of flayed men. And riding on one of the horses was the tradesman you had let go. You squared your jaw. Mercy was to be your downfall.

“Looks like the Bitter Wolf has gotten the better of you, Kingslayer,” said Locke, the man leading the group crooned, thick brows raised. 

You exchanged a quick glance with Brienne, who still had her sword raised. 

“Let us go,” you said, raising your chin. “As your liege lord’s blood, I order you to let us go—!”

Locke barked out a laugh. “Let you go? If the King in the North hears I had the Kingslayer and his precious aunt and let you go, he’d be taking my head right off. I’d rather he takes his.” The man jutted his head towards Jaime, who began to slowly step back, your arrow grazing against the base of his neck.

There was no way you and Brienne could fight off all these soldiers.

With a scowl, you loosened your hold on your bow as Brienne simultaneously sheathed her longsword in surrender. 

One of the men grabbed your bow and arrows, breaking them over his knee with a cackle before he bound your wrists together with rope and roughly tossing you onto a horse. He moved to do the same with Jaime, who had tried to fight off with his sword, but easily batted to the ground in his already-fatigued state, shoved behind you. Brienne was forced onto another horse.

“Never thought I’d see you as a prisoner… for your own nephew, no less,” Jaime leaned forward to murmur into your ear. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it after a while.”

“It looked like Brienne had the upper hand on you,” you coolly said.

Jaime frowned. “She did not. I was in chains. Had I not been shackled, I would’ve easily beaten her.”

You gave him no reply, staring straight ahead with a cold, distant stare. The group began moving, and you swallowed down the urge to puke over the side of the horse.

“When we make camp tonight, there is a great chance those men will take you and Brienne and have their way with you.”

A moment of silence passed before you firmly replied, “They won’t. I am their King’s—”

“Their King believes you to be a traitor for helping me escape,” countered Jaime. “They’ll rape you, and they’ll call it justice. None of these men have ever been with a noblewoman, much less the Bitter Wolf herself.”

There was a thickness to your throat, as if you’d swallowed a mouthful of cold honey. 

“It’d be wise if you didn’t resist,” Jaime said, voice lowering. “They’ll hurt you more if you do.”

“You want me to just let them rape me?” you asked incredulously, loathing the way your voice tremored ever so slightly. You were afraid.

Jaime blew out a sigh. “I stood guard outside the Queen Rhaella’s chambers as the King raped her. Night after night, I could hear her screaming. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked Jonothor Darry once, ‘Are we not sworn to defend the Queen, as well?’ He didn’t even look at me when he replied, ‘We are… but not from him.’ And so I had no choice but to stand and listen. Listen to her pleading, crying, trying to fight him off—which only made the Mad King angrier. The maids said she looked as if she was mauled by a wild animal by the time he was done with her. Scratches, bruises, and bites littered her body.” There was a long stretch of silence before Jaime bowed his head. “It is better you let them get it over with. Let them have what they want, and they’d have no reason to hurt you anymore.”

“You said you had no choice,” you hoarsely said, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “You always have a choice, Jaime. Always.”

Though you couldn’t see his expression, you could imagine the way he would grimly chuckle. “I realized that right before I put my sword through his back.”

Your nose stung as you sucked in a chestful of air. “They’ll kill Brienne if she fights them. They can’t kill me, but they can and would kill her if she fights back—which she will.”

This time, Jaime was the one who didn’t grace you with a response, brows furrowed and his thoughts far, far away.

The chains around your wrists were cold. There was an itch on your back, but with your hands tightly bound together, there was little you could do about it. And so you slumped against the tree, stomach cinched with hunger, and back itchy as you watched the Bolton men eat their roasted meats over the fire, drinking fresh river water that your throat ached for.

Jaime and Brienne were bound to other trees across the camp. From this far, you couldn’t quite see Brienne, but you could see Jaime as clear as day—and he was staring out into the distance, not a single thought behind those green eyes of his.

Once the men had had their suppers and were mildly drunk on the wine they brought along with them, they stumbled onto their feet.

“I’ll take the big bitch first,” you overheard one of them proclaim. “You lot… can tame the Bitter Wolf. We can switch after.”

They burst into raucous cheers. Fear coiled within the bottom of your chest.

Let them have what they want, you could hear Jaime’s voice say.

His green eyes were on you now, watching you with furrowed brows.

“My Lord, I am Brienne of Tarth. Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to King’s Landing—!” Brienne began to protest when four men began dragging her up onto her feet, but was quickly cut off.

Grinning maliciously, Locke interrupted, “Catelyn Stark is a treasonous cunt. Orders were to take the Kingslayer and the Bitter Wolf alive. Nobody said shit about you.”

You didn’t see it when it happened. Sickening thuds, cracking bones, and a resounding slap. Brienne’s screams as they began beating her. From what you could hear, she put up quite a fight. Tears filled your eyes, and you yanked on your chains, knowing it would do absolutely nothing.

“Take her over there where it’s dark. I’d like a little privacy,” said Locke. “The Wolf can go over there—behind the bushes.”

Two men seized you on each side. Though you didn’t fight as wildly Brienne did, you were more calculated in your retaliation, allowing them to think you weren’t going to resist. But after the first few steps, you jerked away, shoving one of the men down onto the ground and using the cold metal of your shackles to wind around the other’s throat. Gurgling chokes erupted from his purpling lips.

You pressed, and pressed, and pressed—

Until another man came and hauled you off, striking you twice across the face, both of your cheeks stinging with the impact. You were bleeding—you could feel it dripping down your jaw, but you didn’t quite feel the pain just yet. 

In the distance, you could hear Brienne’s yells echo through the trees.

You bared your teeth in a snarl when the man yanked your head back by your hair, eliciting a tear to fall from one of your eyes. “I’m going to have fun with you, Bitter Wolf. You’re a pretty little thing when you cry—maybe I’ll ask your nephew if I can keep you.”

“You think my nephew would want me to be raped?” you growled as he began dragging you away. 

“He doesn’t give a shit what happens to you… fucking traitor,” he snarled, brandishing a dull knife gleaming with the reflection of the fire. The blade tore through your tunic and smallclothes, and you struggled to keep yourself covered with the few remaining scraps clinging onto your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat when he began undoing his own pants, a scream tearing from your chest when he held you down with his free arm. 

“No!” you shouted, so loud it felt like the ground beneath you rumbled. “ROBB WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF ME!”

The man’s hand wrapped around your throat, his thumb digging into your airway. You were beginning to grow lightheaded

Without thinking, you garbled out a cry, “BRIENNE! JAIME! JAIME, PLEASE!”

Please what, you fool? you thought. Brienne can’t help you. Jaime can’t do anything. Nobody can save you.

You kicked out against the captor, landing a solid punch to his face as you tried to crawl away.

From the camp, Jaime’s jaw twitched upon hearing you cry out his name, heavy and broken with desperation. The Lannister glanced up at Locke.

“You know who she is, right?”

Locke smiled. “Some big, dumb bitch from who knows where? Hm… never been with a woman that big.”

“Brienne of Tarth. Her father is Lord Selwyn Tarth. Ever heard of Tarth? They call it the Sapphire Isle… every sapphire in Westeros was mined in Tarth. I’d bargain that Lord Selwyn would pay his daughter’s weight in sapphires if she’s returned to him,” said Jaime, trying to appear nonchalant. “Only if she’s alive, though. Don’t think he’d pay you much if you brought him his dead, defiled daughter.”

After a long moment of consideration, Locke turned and called out, “Bring the big one back here!”

From the distant dark, Jaime heard you scream out again. You were still fighting.

“I don’t think it’s wise for you to handle the Bitter Wolf in such a way. It’s better to leave her honor unbesmirched. See, if you’re going to sell her off to Robb Stark… he loves his aunt very much. I saw it myself, during the year I was their captive. He wouldn’t take kindly to his kin being tossed around and raped in such a fashion,” he said.

Narrowing his dark eyes, Locke stepped closer to Jaime. “Unbesmirched?”

“Not defiled,” Jaime clarified. 

Much more reluctant, Locke huffed out a sigh, before calling out to his men. “Bring the Bitter Wolf back here!” He fixed his gaze back on Jaime. “Fancy word for a fancy man.”

“I hated to read as a child. My father forced me to study the books every morning before I could practice with my sword or horse. Two hours, every day, holed up in the maester’s chambers,” replied the knight. He caught sight of you being dragged back to the camp, your face bloody, leaves and foliage clinging to your hair, and your tunic torn off of you. “For God's sake, get some clothes on her! She’ll catch a cold and freeze to death in such weather! Little Robb Stark wants her alive, doesn’t he?” Jaime urged, cocking one of his brows upward. 

With a haggard sigh, Locke undid his cloak and shoved it onto your shivering, horrified form, your arms crossed over your chest in an effort to salvage what little dignity you had left. Jaime’s loose, running tongue had saved you from being raped. You grabbed at the cloak and wrapped it over your shoulders, pulling it tight around you.

Brienne, on the other hand, was brought back fully clothed, still struggling. Blood dripped from her nose, but she seemed otherwise physically fine.

“Your father…” said Locke, “he’d pay your weight in gold to get you back?”

“You’ll be a rich man till the end of your days,” he responded. “And your sons will be rich men and their sons after them. Lands, titles… you’ll have them all. The North can’t win this war. You’re a smart man, you understand that, don’t you? We have the numbers, and we have the gold. Fighting bravely for a losing cause is admirable—but fighting for a winning cause is far more rewarding.”

Locke nodded once. “Hard to argue with that.”

Jaime momentarily glanced over at you, staring at him with wide eyes. 

He looked back at Locke. “Now that we’re speaking man to man… I wonder if you really need to keep me chained to this tree. I’m not asking to be freed from my constraints, but if I could sleep lying down, my back would thank you for it. I’m not as young and spritely as I once was.”

The man in front of him smiled. “None of us are. Unchain Ser Jaime from the tree. I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat.”

“Hm, I’m famished, actually,” said Jaime, his stomach giving a loud rumble at the enticing thought of hot food.

“Famished—another fancy word,” mused Locke. “We’ve got a spare partridge on the fire.”

“Splendid. I do like partridge.”

Now free to stand, Locke led the Lannister closer to the fire—closer to you. You watched with narrowed eyes, unsure of what was happening, still reeling from the fact that you were nearly raped.

“Bring the bird here, and a carving knife.” There was a dark glint to Locke’s eyes that you misliked. “Any other fancy words you want to tell me, Ser Jaime?”

Before the blonde could reply, Locke had kicked out at Jaime’s leg, shoving him against a wooden log, his cheek painfully pressing against the dry bark. Two other men came forward to hold him down, and a third brought the knife.

Locke took it from him, pressing the blade just below Jaime’s one of eyes, squeezed shut. “You think you’re the smartest man there is… that everyone alive has to bow and scrape and lick your boots.”

“My father—”

“And if you get in any trouble, all you have to do is say ‘my father!’ and that’s it. All your troubles are gone. Hm? You got something to say? Want to tell me more about your rich, fancy childhood of books and horses? Careful, Kingslayer. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You’re nothing without your daddy. But your daddy ain’t here! Never forget that.”

The blade Locke was holding came away from Jaime’s eye.

You blew out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

And it came down onto his right hand, cleaving it right off his arm.

Jaime screamed so loud you flinched back against the tree in shock, eyes wider than saucers. Dark blood spurted from the amputated limb. You yelled out his name, chest rising and falling unevenly with rapid, panicked breaths. 

Locke turned his greedy eyes to you, slanting the crimson-slickened blade against your cheek, smearing Jaime’s blood all over your face.

“You keep silent, Wolf,” he snarled, grabbing at your face so you would be forced to stare at Jaime writhing in raw, undulated pain. “Listen to him… listen to his screaming. Music to my fucking ears.”

And so you did. 

For the rest of the night, you could do nothing but listen to Jaime’s agonized yells. 

In the next hour, he had passed out from the pain, clutching his severed hand to his chest.

“Jaime,” you whispered, trying to nudge his unmoving body with your foot, worried he was dead. “Jaime.”

He never replied.

The hand thumped against his sternum with each step the horse took. It smelled rancid: of rotting flesh and dried blood, accompanied by the stench of shame.

Shame.

That was all Jaime could feel for himself.

He was ashamed.

He could feel your eyes on him. Those pretty eyes of winter, usually cold and hardened… now gaunt with trauma and exhaust. If he looked closely, he’d be able to see the concern behind your irises, as well.

But he didn’t look closely, because he was too ashamed to. His own gaze was rooted to the moving ground, watching the foliage pass by. He felt like he needed to puke, but his stomach bore nothing for him to retch. The woodsy dirt seemed to grow closer and closer with every blink…

“How many of those fingers do you think we could shove up his ass?” one of the Bolton men jeered.

Locke coughed out a laugh. “Depends on if he’s had any practice. Is that the kind of thing you and your sister go for, Kingslayer? Did she loosen you up for us?”

The knight teetered on his horse. Your gaze flickered from him to your captors, brows furrowing.

“He’s going to fall,” Brienne called out, her voice rattling through the trees. The men paid her no mind, going on with their sneers and their crude japes. Again, she exclaimed, “He’s going to fall off the horse, someone help him!”

They all watched as Jaime slid off the poor creature’s back, falling face first into a schlop of cold mud. He groaned at the impact, weakly squirming in a fruitless attempt to try to push himself back up.

“Water. Please, water,” he croaked just as the group came to a grueling halt. Locke swung himself off his horse to stand in front of Jaime.

In a cruel manner, he unstoppered his leather water pouch, only to pour its contents over the top of Jaime’s head. 

“Just give the bloody man some water,” you snarled. “It’s been days. He’ll keel over without it.”

Locke rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough.” With a smirk, he shoved another waterskin into Jaime’s single quivering hand.

Greedily, Jaime ripped it open with his teeth and tipped the pouch bag to chug down what was inside.

“Hm. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a man drink horse piss that fast,” Locke observed.

Jaime doubled over, gagging, puking out everything he had just gulped down into the filthy mud. Two cackling men seized him on each side, but Jaime was quick to react, elbowing one in the stomach and grabbing his sword.

It was one against a dozen… Jaime when he had two hands would’ve beat the lot of them in a blink of an eye. But he was no longer Jaime with two hands. Just the one. 

A man kicked out at the back of Jaime’s knee, sending him sprawling forward. 

“Stop!” Brienne yelled, jumping off her horse. More men surrounded her, beating her down to the ground, as she was tied and weaponless. They placed the tips of their blades to her throat, telling her she had gone far enough.

You wisely stayed up on your horse, watching as Locke landed several kicks into Jaime’s stomach and chest. A sickening crack sounded out through the woods. You weren’t really sure what broke, but it didn’t sound good.

“Stop! Stop hurting him,” you gruffed. “You’ve already taken his hand. He poses no more of a threat to you than I.”

“And what are you proposing, Bitter Wolf?” Locke asked, spreading his arms out. “That I beat you, instead?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you spat out in a steely manner, “Yes. Go ahead. Beat me until my skin turns purple and blue. It won’t change the fact that you’d simply be wasting your time.”

Locke’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Fucking traitor.” He glared down at Jaime. “Be grateful the Bitter Wolf has decided to abandon her family for the side of the enemy. If I had it my way, I’d cut off your other hand and stuff it down your throat.”

A breath of relief slipped from your lips when Locke stepped away, leaving Jaime to lie in the mud for a few more seconds. The men eventually tossed him back onto his horse as if he were a sack of potatoes.

He wheezed every time he inhaled, still refusing to meet your gaze.

“Thank—” wheeze, “—you.”

“You did the same for me,” you quietly replied. 

Neither of you spoke after that, continuing the journey on in a mutual, respectable silence.

Harrenhal was much larger than you’d remembered. Then again, you were only a small child last time you came, hyper-focused on all the food and fighting.

The Boltons hauled you off your horse, shoving you onto the ground, followed by Brienne and Jaime.

From in front of you stepped Roose Bolton. 

Locke kicked Jaime to the muddy ground. “I give you the Kingslayer, Lord Bolton.”

“Pick him up,” he said with a dour expression. “He’s lost a hand.”

Cackling, Locke shook his head. “No, my Lord. He has it here!” He pointed at the severed limb tied loosely around his neck.

Roose scowled, stepping forward to rip the hand off of Jaime. “Take this away.”

“What? And send it to his father?” asked Locke, slightly miffed.

A muscle jumped in Roose’s jaw. “You’ll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it. This is the King’s uncle.”

The realization of the Bolton’s betrayal to Robb dawned upon you like a sharp strike to your cheek. “You… you fucking traitor!” you snarled, chest heaving with anger. “Fucking traitor!”

Roose arched a sharp brow. “Look who’s talking, Bitter Wolf. We’re on the same side now, you and I.”

You wanted to snap back, tell him that you’d never be on the side of the Lannisters. But you held your tongue—perhaps if you could play the part of a traitor to the North, they would treat you less harshly. Maybe even allow you to integrate into their group after long enough. You’d be a spy of sorts. You’d have to be patient… and play the long game.

“Cut them free. Apologies, my Ladies. You’re both under my protection now,” Bolton ordered. Someone sliced through your ropes, and you struggled to push yourself onto your legs, weak with exhaustion. “Find suitable rooms for our guests. We’ll speak later.” 

Just as Roose was about to stride away, Jaime croaked out, “Lord Bolton. Has there been word from the capital?”

“You haven’t heard?” he said. “Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King’s Landing… sailed into Blackwater Bay. Stormed the gates with thousands of men. And your sister, how can I put this…?”

Fear danced clear as day across Jaime’s features.

“Your sister is alive and well. Your father’s forces prevailed,” Roose hummed. Overcome with a sudden barrage of overwhelming sensations, Jaime jerked forward, falling to his knees with a pained groan. “Ser Jaime isn’t well. Take him to Qyburn.”

You watched as they led Jaime away, somewhere inside the castle. Another man nudged you and Brienne forward, taking the both of you to the baths, where you were to clean yourself up.

When the hot, steaming water kissed your skin, you couldn’t help but moan out in relief. It’d been months since you bathed in anything but cold, frigid river water. Brienne sank into the waters across from you, blowing out a sigh and respectfully avoiding her gaze to give you a bit of privacy.

“I never had the chance to thank you for taking me so far. Or trying to, at least,” you quietly said as you began scrubbing the dirt away from your skin. “Thank you. You’re a good woman.”

An indiscernible look flickered over her expression. “I failed you. I failed Lady Catelyn. You shouldn’t be thankful for that.”

“You kept me alive. You saved my life several times. You helped me during a long, rough journey. If that doesn’t warrant my gratitude, I don’t know what does.”

The two of you were silent for a while longer. You leaned back to wash all the accumulated dirt and oil away from your hair, lathering your body with fresh soap by the stony bathtub’s edge.

“May I ask you a question, Lady Stark?”

“You may.”

“Why does everyone call you the Bitter Wolf?”

You let the question soak in for a few seconds as you rinsed away the soap. “I haven’t smiled since the Mad King killed my father and my brother. Not much to smile about, anyway. I suppose they also call me that because I’m none too friendly around people.”

There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”

“Sorry for what? Sorry for asking or sorry that it happened?” 

“Both.” 

“It’s alright.” Another long moment of quiet. Then, you asked, “Do you ever miss home, Brienne?”

The blonde tilted her head. “Sometimes. My father is a good man, and Tarth is beautiful. I often wonder what my life would be like if I never left. If I stayed and married a nobleman, like my father wanted.”

“But it’s not what you want,” you quietly said. 

“No, my Lady. It’s not.” Brienne scrubbed away the dried blood on her bare shoulders with a brush. How it had even managed to get there, she wasn't sure. “Do you miss home?”

The thought of home made your chest ache. The fluffy snow, the direwolves, your comfortable bed. “Yes. More than anything, I miss my family. I miss my brothers, all of whom are gone now. I miss my sister, dead long ago. I miss my nephews, two of them may very well be long gone by now. I miss Robb and Catelyn, and I can only hope he’s not giving her too hard of a time. I can only hope he doesn’t hate me, that he can find it within him to forgive me. And I miss my nieces. It seems our little quest to save them has come to an abrupt end.”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably. The idea of failure still hung heavy over her broad shoulders. 

After another ten minutes, Brienne had found that her fingers were beginning to prune, and so she slipped out of the tub, wrapping a thin linen towel about her tall, dripping figure. 

She bid you adieu, but not without first saying, “I’ll protect you, my Lady. I may have failed in bringing you to King’s Landing and escorting your nieces out, but I will protect you with my life.”

Though you didn’t smile, Brienne could catch the faint look of fondness behind your usually frigid irises. “Thank you, Brienne. Truly.”

The big blonde exited the bathroom, having a guard lead her to her chambers. 

You sank further into the tub, wishing to just stay there for a little while longer and forget. Besides, you didn’t know when the next time you’d be offered a bath would be, and you wanted to savor it for as long as you possibly could.

You grabbed a scrubbing brush, lathering it with soap before running it up and down your body, still feeling immensely dirty despite washing it all away. The bristles scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t stop, memories of men touching and shoving you flashing across your thoughts.

“Not so hard,” said a familiar voice. Your head snapped up, thinking Brienne had come back for a moment, before your eyes met Jaime. He was tired and weak, tugging his dirty clothes off. “You’ll scrub all your skin off.”

Brows furrowing, you sank lower beneath the water to make sure he wouldn’t see anything. You remained silent, simply watching as he made his way to the bath, nude as the day he was born.

It seemed Qyburn had done quite a number to his stump, which was cleanly bandaged and no longer bore the coloring of rotten flesh.

When he lowered himself into the tub, he let out a long groan of relief. The feeling of hot water kissing his body was a simple pleasure he missed dearly. Jaime noticed you shifting farther away, until you were pressed up against the opposite edge.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice gravelly. “I told you before, haven’t I? I would never… not unless you invited me, of course.”

Those were his very same words from all those moons ago, when he was standing in front of your chambers in Winterfell. You looked at him, expression softening. 

“Your hand. What did Qyburn do?” you quietly asked.

Jaime waved the bandaged stump just above the water’s surface. “Want to see?”

Apprehensive, you slowly crossed the tub until you were only half an arm’s length away from him. With gentle hands, you reached out to take his arm, inspecting the wrappings and the visible outline of the stitches beneath it. 

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes. More than when it was lopped off, actually,” Jaime admitted, surprised at himself for being so honest with you. 

“And does it hurt now?”

“I was given milk of the poppy,” said the knight. “Numbs the pain.”

A shadow of disappointment danced across the green of his irises when your hands fell away from him.

You were entirely aware that the both of you were naked, and he was so close you could feel his leg brushing yours. You’d never been this close to a man in the nude before. Clearing your throat, you stepped back just a bit. 

“If I faint, pull me out,” said Jaime. “I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.”

“I should let you drown,” you murmured.

The blonde man tilted his head to the side. “But you wouldn’t.”

“No, Ser Jaime. I wouldn’t.”

“And why is that? You’ve grown fond of me?”

The quiet that stretched between you felt heavy and tense, thick enough to cut through with a knife. 

“I don’t know,” was all you said. 

“I can see it in your eyes,” Jaime said, a mild grin to his cracked lips. “You’re fond of me. When we spoke at Winterfell, you had the same look. Then it was gone when I was your nephew’s prisoner. And now it’s back… not many look at me in such a way.”

You paused in your scrubbing for a moment to look at him. “What are you talking about? You’re the Golden Lion. Everyone loves you.”

“No. They all want me to think they love me, because they’re scared. I know how they really feel. I’ve seen their hatred for seventeen years, face after face. They all despise me. Judge me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. Your law-sister, Lady Catelyn, had that face. Brienne of Tarth, too. Hell, even Roose Bolton, who betrayed his King in the North… he still looks down upon me. Everyone but you.”

You blew out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. What were you supposed to say to that? 

Before you could think up a response, Jaime continued on, “Have you ever heard of wildfire? The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn. The way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. Each time he burned a victim, he’d drag his Queen to the chambers and rape her until she passed out, then do it again and again, until he’s had his fill. He burned lords he didn’t like… Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys Targaryen saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city… beneath the Sept of Baelor, and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, and taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. He burned your father during a trial by combat, claiming fire to be his house’s champion. Your brother was put in a Tyroshi strangling device… forced to watch as your father cooked in his armor, and choked himself to death trying to save him.”

The corners of your eyes stung with a warbling film of tears. You knew Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed by the Mad King, but not like this. Not in such a miserable, painful way. You ducked your head as you furiously swiped the stray water away from your cheeks. 

“Finally, the day of reckoning came—Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory on the Trident. But my father arrived first, with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my father better than that… he’s never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the King didn’t listen to me, nor did he listen to Varys, who tried to warn him. Hm, but he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle… that grey sunken cunt.”

A long pause. You took a step closer when you noticed Jaime slumping back with a haggard sigh, the rims of his eyes red as he recounted the story. He was tearing up, just as you were. This was equally as traumatizing for him as it was for you. You had reached out, but didn’t touch him, stopping yourself before you did.

“‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the King, begging him to surrender. The blood everywhere, the dead bodies… it was a massacre, Lady Y/N. In response, Aerys told me to… he told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said.” A tear fell down Jaime’s grimy cheek. “‘Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.’ If you were commanded to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”

Your lips parted. “No,” you hoarsely whispered.

Jaime blinked away the tears, inhaling sharply. “First, I killed the pyromancer. And then when the King turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. So I slit his throat. I don’t think he expected to die. He… he meant to burn with the rest of us, and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies into ash. That’s where your brother, Ned Stark, found me.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” you whispered. “Ned would’ve listened—”

“You think the honorable Eddard Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me.” Jaime’s chest started to stagger with heavy, uneven breaths. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”

“No, Ned would have heard you out if you explained—”

Jaime’s face twisted into one of frustration. “Your love for your family blinds you, just as mine does for me. You were the only one, Lady Y/N… the only one…”

A wheeze and a puff. Jaime teetered forward, eyes slipping shut. 

Quickly, you darted forward just before he could fall into the water, holding him slightly upright within your arms. His face pressed against your shoulder and he groaned out something incoherent. 

“Guards!” you called. “Help!”

“The only one who called me Ser Jaime before calling me a Kingslayer,” he muttered against your skin, just before the guards rushed in to help him out. 

The dress they had given you to wear was an ugly shade of yellow. It was not at all akin to the type of dresses you would wear up in the North, which were thick and voluminous with high collars. No, this one had a tight bodice with a flowing skirt, its neckline square and plunging. It was a dress Southern ladies would be quite comfortable with, you were sure, but you were no Southerner.

Jaime’s green eyes had shimmered with slight mirth upon seeing you uncomfortably amble into Harrenhal’s mess hall, two guards forcing you out of your chambers so you would speak with Roose Bolton. In front of the knight was a generous plate full of roasted meat, along with a heaping of creamed potatoes and glazed carrots. It was a most appetizing meal, especially to a man who hadn’t had proper, hot food in longer than a year, but it proved to be hard to cut into the meat with just one hand. 

“Lannister gold,” said the knight, glancing at your dress as you took a seat next to him, before fixing his stare on your sour expression. He then went back to trying to cut his meat with his one hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Not as bad as hers, anyway.”

To his other side sat Brienne, who was forced into a frumpy pink dress, the collar rimmed with brown fur. Somehow, she looked even more out of place than you did.

“I see my men have found you both appropriate attire,” said Lord Bolton, smirking at your clear uncomfort.

“Yes, most kind of them,” Brienne replied, though it lacked any true sincerity. “You’re a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Stark’s orders to accompany Lady Y/N and Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing.”

With a scoff, Roose rolled his eyes. “If Catelyn Stark wasn’t the Wolf-King’s mother, he would have hanged her for treason.”

Growing frustrated at Jaime’s obvious struggles, Brienne reached over for a fork and stabbed it through the meat, allowing for him to cut through it easily.

“I should send you back to Robb Stark, Kingslayer,” said Roose.

You narrowed your eyes. “And here I assumed you already betrayed my nephew?”

“Gold is a tempting wealth, one that the Lannisters have in abundance,” Roose said, words sharp. “But it is easier to offer it than to dole it out.”

With raised brows, Jaime popped a piece of tender meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “And here you sit, watching me fail at dinner rather than tossing me into the back of a carriage and dumping me in front of Robb Stark. I wonder why that is.”

“Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you,”  Roose told Jaime. Then, he looked at you. 

“And we both know who would pay the most. Or who would make you pay the most if he found out you captured me and sent me back up North for a summary execution.”

A set of cutlery was placed out in front of you, and you trained your stare onto a dull butter knife. Not as sharp as you would’ve liked, but it’d do.

“Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill all three of you and burn your bodies,” said Lord Bolton. 

You wrapped your fingers around the butter knife, but, to your surprise, Jaime’s hand let go of his fork to gently rest over yours, as if to stop you from doing anything rash. This didn’t go past Roose’s notice, and he narrowed his cold, pale grey eyes. 

“It would be, yes… if you truly believed my father would never find out about it.” 

His hand slipped off of yours.

“King Robb is keeping him quite busy. He doesn’t have time for anything else.”

Humming Jaime, bobbed his head. “He’d make time for you.”

It seemed that Roose Bolton was convinced. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I will allow you to go to King’s Landing… as restitution for the mistakes my soldiers made. And you will swear to tell your father the truth—that I played no part in your maiming.”

“Very well,” said Jaime, seeming satisfied. It dawned on you that he thought both you and Brienne were to go with him. “My Ladies, may our journey continue without further hindrance.”

You bit down on your tongue when the Bolton simply smiled cruelly. “Oh, they won’t be going with you. They’re charged with abetting treason.”

Incredulous, Jaime said, “I’m afraid I must insist.”

“You’re in no place to insist on anything,” Roose scathingly replied. “I would have hoped you’d learned your lesson about overplaying your position.”

“Then let me insist. Send me back to my nephew,” you barked, brows knitting. “He can deal with me as he sees fit. I’m not going to be your prisoner.” 

With a wide smile, Roose Bolton pushed away from the table to stand. “Oh, but your nephew doesn’t know you’re here, Bitter Wolf. And I intend to keep it that way. It seems like you don’t have a choice.”

Before you could ask him anything else, Lord Bolton was already striding away. You exchanged a worried glance with both Jaime and Brienne, fear clutching around your heart.

They’d put you in chains, and tossed you into a dark room, Brienne in another far, far away from you to prevent an elaborate escape scheme from forming between the two of you. The one they put you in had little to light the space other than a single lonely torch hanging by the doorway, and a small, rectangular window that filtered pale moonlight through the glass. You sat on one of the cold, uncomfortable chairs, arms wrapped around yourself as you shivered. The dress they’d given you wasn’t one fit for the cold. You supposed they were probably aware of that. 

The door on the other end of the chambers creaked open. In strode Jaime, his arm in a sling, a guard following close behind.

You rose to your feet, face solemn.

“I thought you’d left already.”

“Tomorrow,” replied Jaime. He stepped closer. “I tried to bargain with Roose. He’s adamant on keeping you here. I’m sorry. I’ll convince my father to buy you out. No man can deny the gold when it’s presented right in front of him.”

You wrenched your gaze away, fixing them upon the torch’s warbling flames. “Why?”

The blonde knight tilted his head. “What do you mean, why? I’m going to get you out.”

“Yes, I got that,” you softly said. This time, your eyes met his inquisitive green ones. “But why would you want me to get out?” 

“Because I… I owe you a debt. You released me from my imprisonment,” he replied. 

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you strode forward the rest of the way, until you stood only inches from Jaime. You lowered your voice as you said, “I did it for a reason, Ser Jaime. Please… when you get to King’s Landing, swear you’ll send my nieces back to Robb. Send the girls to him, and consider the debt repaid.”

Jaime nodded. “I swear it.”

You studied him for a moment longer, eyes watering and nose stinging. “I wish there’s more you could do than simply swear. But I trust you, Ser Jaime. I trust you.”

Something within his expression changed, as if crumbling apart, piece by piece. He could see the anguish written across your complexion, clear as day. “Lord Bolton is traveling tomorrow. He’s going to the Twins for Edmure Tully’s wedding.”

Your eyes widened. “Edmure Tully? So… Robb isn’t the one marrying the Frey girl? It’s Edmure?” 

“Your nephew married a foreign girl,” said Jaime with a hint of a smile. “Stirred up quite a scandal amongst your people.”

“Oh, Robb. Foolish, foolish boy. The Freys couldn’t have taken that kindly,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, remembering the medic he was making heart-shaped eyes at. “But if Roose isn’t loyal to Robb anymore… he must be scheming something. What it is, I’m not sure.”

After a second, Jaime cleared his throat. Guilt splayed over his striking features. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’ll be left alone in this castle with Locke and his men. Without Roose, and without me.”

“Not another rape speech, Jaime,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Suddenly, Jaime’s hand darted out to grasp one of yours. Your eyes snapped up to his again, lips parting at the unexpected touch.

“Offer them money. As much as they might want. Even if you don’t have it, offer it. These men are greedy, sniveling creatures. Offer it to them, and they might just leave you alone,” said Jaime, deadly serious. 

You looked away again, squaring your jaw and nodding. A second passed before Jaime let your hand go. 

“Jaime,” you whispered, fear suddenly shadowing over your chest. “If your father buys me out, I’ll simply be moving from captive to captive. I won’t be returning home, will I?”

The blonde man’s features softened ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t be your captor,” he said. “I could never find it within me to stand back and watch you suffer just the same as I did.”

“I wouldn’t be your captive. I’d be your father’s. All my options seem to be dead ends for me,” you responded. Utter hopelessness flooded your features. “Thank you for trying, nonetheless. Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

It might have just been a trick of the quivering fire’s light, but you could’ve sworn there was a whisper of tears in the corner of Jaime’s eyes. “Goodbye, Lady Stark.”

He held his hand out for a handshake, and you took it firm and steady. With a dip of his head, he turned and left your chambers.

And then, you were alone.

“Qyburn hopes your father will force the Citadel to give him back his chain,” said Roose, striding up behind Jaime as the knight mounted a horse, struggling with only his one hand to aid him.

Snorting, Jaime retorted, “My father will make him Grand Maester if he grows me a new hand.”

Roose hummed with thought. “You’ll give my regards to Lord Tywin, then, I trust?”

A nod, and a slight smile. “Tell Robb Stark I’m sorry I couldn’t make his uncle’s wedding. And that his aunt dearly misses him. The Lannisters send their regards.”

There was a malicious sort of glimmer to Roose’s pale eyes. He bowed his head.

And off Jaime went, his horse walking slowly out the gate, a few Bolton loyalists accompanying him. There were eyes on him from every point of the castle, burning into him. Locke awaited by the gate a sneer to his lips. “Safe journey, Kingslayer. Ooh, nothing to say? I liked you better before… I don’t remember chopping your balls off, too!”

Jaime remained wisely silent, jaw clenching. 

“Don’t you worry about your companions. We’ll take good care of them. I’ve never had Wolf before, you know?”

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It settled heavy within Jaime’s stomach.

He rode out of the castle without looking back.

They took a pause on their journey around half a day later. His legs were weary and numb, but his stub throbbed. Qyburn took care of that, placing a strange sort of white ointment over the stitches before rebandaging them. In no time, the pain seemed to ebb away. 

After a bit of smalltalk on Qyburn’s rather disturbing confession to performing experiments on diseased men, Jaime swallowed uneasily and said, “You were in charge of the ravens at Harrenhal, no? Did you get a bird off to Brienne’s father in Tarth?”

Even if there was nowhere for you to go, Jaime surmised that at least Brienne would be able to return home with a proper ransom, right? 

“A bird flew off and a bird flew back,” said Qyburn. “Lord Selwyn Tarth offered three hundred gold dragons for his daughter’s safe return.”

“A fair offer,” hummed Jaime as he stood up to his feet to head back to his horse.

“Yes. An offer Locke won’t take.” 

Jaime faltered in his steps. “Why not?”

Qyburn frowned in thought. “He’s convinced Lord Tarth owns all the sapphire mines in Westeros. He feels he’s been cheated.”

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Jaime blew out a long breath. “They’d be fools to kill her.”

“Hm. These men have been at war for a long time. Most of them will be dead by winter, and they’re well aware of this. Both she and the Bitter Wolf will be their entertainment for tonight. Beyond tonight, I don't think they'd care very much what happens to her. They’ll have to keep the Stark alive for Lord Bolton, however. Use her as they see fit until he returns.”

Brows knitting together, Jaime shook his head. There was no chance he’d be able to live with himself knowing he condemned Brienne to her death, knowing you’d be raped and tortured and beaten when he could’ve put a stop to it. 

He turned to one of the men accompanying him. “We have to return to Harrenhal,” he said.

“Why?” asked the soldier, upper lip curling with contempt.

“I’ve… left something behind.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got orders from Lord Bolton to take you to your father in King’s Landing, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Cocking his face, Jaime narrowed his keen green eyes. “You think you’ll get a reward?” 

“I serve Lord Bolton. Any appreciation from your father—”

Cutting him off, Jaime hissed out, “Let me explain something to you. When my father sees me, the first thing he’s going to ask is what happened to my hand. And I’ll be telling him that you were the one that chopped it off.”

“I had nothing to do with—!” “Or,” Jaime interrupted once again, lifting a finger, “I could tell him this man saved my life, and he’ll reward you greatly. We’re returning to Harrenhal. Now.”

The man in front of Jaime considered his words for a moment, before reluctantly nodding, ordering the rest of the men to get ready to turn back.

He was going back to get you, one way or another.

Jaime hurriedly leapt off his horse once he was within the dreary confines castle. From afar, he could hear drunken singing and chanting. With quick feet, he rushed up several creaking stairs, up and up and up he went, before he came up onto an elevated platform more than twice his height, where hundreds and hundreds of men were gathered. He could barely hear anything over their loud song about a bear and a maiden.

To his horror, as Jaime pushed through the crowd, he caught sight of a large arena. And within it… was a large brown bear. 

Brienne was down there as well, in her tattered pink dress, her hands wrapped around a rather useless wooden training sword. And behind her, she was shielding you. Your expression was wild with terror, eyes darting every which way in an effort to search for a way out. The golden dress you were wearing was soaked with mud, torn in several places, and hanging haggardly off of one shoulder. Brienne was no better, with deep claw marks running along her neck down to her clavicle, blood dribbling down from the wound and staining her dress’ neckline crimson.

“Don’t spare her!” one of the onlookers yelled.

“Let the Wolf fight! Fucking coward!”

“Get on with it already!”

The bear roared angrily. Jaime could hear Brienne yelling, “Stay behind me, my Lady! I’ll protect you!”

“Well, this is one shameful fucking performance. Stop running and fight!” exclaimed Locke. Jaime’s eyes snapped up to him. 

“You gave her a wooden sword?” he asked, nose wrinkling with disgust. 

Locke glanced at the Kingslayer, thick brows raising in surprise. “Thought you’d gone.”

“You gave her a wooden sword!” he gritted out.

“We’ve only got one bear,” scoffed Locke.

Shoving people out of the way, Jaime stormed closer to the rotten man. “I’ll pay their bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires, whatever you want. Just get her out of there!”

With a smirk, Locke shook his head. “All you Lords and Ladies still think that the only thing that matters is gold.” He grabbed Jaime’s bandaged stub. “Well, this makes me happier than all your gold ever could! And that makes me happier than any of her sapphires! I’m sure taking the Bitter Wolf’s cunt for myself is going to be more pleasurable than winning the fucking war myself. So go buy a golden hand and fuck yourself with it!”

Furious, Jaime shoved Locke away, turning back to watch the fighting pits. The bear had swiped out at Brienne, causing her to fall back with a yell as one of its claws snagged against her jaw. You had yanked her to the side, effectively saving her from a deathly blow from the bear.

And without another thought, Jaime clambered over the railings, and jumped down. He had no idea what he was doing. His heart was racing within his chest, thumping an irregularly quick pace. All he could think was to stand in front of you and Brienne.

“Get behind me!” he yelled.

“I will not!” Brienne spat out a wad of blood as she struggled back onto her feet.

Just as the bear was about to strike again, an arrow shot out from the stands. You looked up to see one of the men Jaime had left with, clutching a crossbow. 

“What the fuck are you doing to my bear!?” Locke yelled, incredulous.

“Lord Bolton charged me with bringing him back to King’s Landing alive, and that’s what I intend to do!” he gruffed in response, loading another arrow.

The next one missed its target, landing into the large bear’s shoulder. Jaime took its distraction to his advantage, grabbing your hand and shoving you towards one of the tall walls. 

“Pull her up!” he ordered the people above. “Climb on my back!”

You did as he told with little complaint, hurriedly taking one of the offered hands and rolling onto the platform, breathless. Wasting no time, you got onto your feet and stormed to Locke, shoving him aside. You blew out a breath of relief as Brienne was also hauled up, leaving just Jaime in the pit. 

Terror clawed within your ribcage. Another bolt went flying to the bear, but it missed completely, skirting off to the side. Frustrated, you grabbed the crossbow from the man, loading another arrow and aiming with narrowed eyes.

Before the bear could maul Jaime in one strike, you let the bolt flying loose, and the sharp arrowhead pierced the bear clean through the skull. It fell down with one large thud, mud flying every which way at its collapse. 

“Help him up!” you told Brienne, placing another arrow into the crossbow and aiming it straight at Locke. “Put your hands on me, and I’ll have your eyes shot through the back of your head.”

To your relief, Brienne had helped Jaime back up onto the platform.

The men all around you booed, upset their entertainment was ripped away from them.

“You’re staying here. The big bitch, too,” said Locke, infuriated.

“If I stay, you’ll be dead. If Brienne stays, you’ll be dead. Is that a deal, or are you going to let me go?” When Locke found himself at a standstill, you growled out, “I’ll put a bolt through Jaime Lannister’s fucking head right now if you don’t let Brienne and I go. Do you think Tywin Lannister is going to be happy with his son dying by a Bolton arrow?”

There was a tense moment of silence. Locke stepped back, defeated. 

Jaime and Brienne both made their way to you, escorting you out of the castle.

“Sorry about the sapphires,” remarked Jaime just before he went down the steps, his smile sharp.

He caught up to you, still gripping the crossbow tightly. 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fucking peachy,” you spat. You casted a worried look to Brienne, quietly asking if she was too hurt to travel. When she expressed that she was fine, you finally turned your eyes back on Jaime. Your expression softened as you studied him. “You came back.”

“I came back,” he echoed, tone equally gentle. “Though, did you just threaten to have me killed up there, or—?”

“You know I wouldn’t kill you.”

“Do I?”

“You do.”

“Hm.” Jaime smiled. “I guess I do.”

The journey to King’s Landing was going by quicker than you expected. Perhaps it was because Jaime had become less of a thorn in your side, and more of a respectable companion. Most of the time, anyway. He was still quite an annoyance, pestering you for stories of your past and never failing to jest about your infamously stoic disposition.

The Kingslayer was not your friend, no… but he certainly seemed to be treating you as one. Were you treating him as a friend, as well? 

You were resting against a tree, arms crossed over your chest as you tried to find sleep. The crossbow you had taken with you was propped up against your leg. Brienne was on watch, sharpening her sword a few meters away from you. 

To none of your surprise, Jaime had come ambling past, dropping beside you with a mild grunt. You didn’t spare him a glance, simply humming in acknowledgement.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, lolling his head against his shoulder so he could look at you. The green of his eyes glinted with the pearly moonlight, sharp and curious. “You’re free to go if you’d like. I told you I wouldn’t be your captor.”

Freedom. Something you hadn’t tasted in a long while.

Slow, you turned your head to face him, startled to see how close he was. Nonetheless, you didn’t pull away.

“I need to find my nieces and bring them back to Cat. To Robb. This… all of this… it can’t have been for nothing,” you murmured. “I can’t give up now.”

The man nodded. “I’ll help you, then. I swore I would.”

“I know,” you whispered in return. Jaime studied your features. Tired and weathered, broken and determined. Your eyes, however, read nothing but gratitude. “I still can’t believe you jumped into a pit with a bear in it. It was a foolish thing to do.”

“Yes, well, it saved you from a gruesome death. Some would say it was brave rather than foolish.”

“Bravery and foolishness go hand in hand,” you mused, with a slight scoff. After a lengthier silence, you croaked, “Thank you, Jaime.”

The blonde smiled. You didn’t see, for you had already turned your head away from him to gaze upwards, to the hazy stars in the night’s sky. 

Not ten minutes of amicable silence later, Jaime felt a weight drop upon his shoulder. You had slipped into a peaceful rest, accidentally resting your head against the knight. For a moment, he considered moving, giving you more space to sleep for longer. Your hair tickled his cheek, and your chest rose and fell with unencumbered breaths. You looked so much younger when you were asleep, free of the waking world’s burdens and tribulations.

And so Jaime stayed still. Jaime couldn’t quite understand why he began grinning. He didn’t even notice that he was smiling like a damn fool, even after the sun had long risen and you had jerked awake when light rays danced across your irritated eyes, murmuring flustered apologies and stumbling onto your feet to hurry away with a lame excuse of checking on Brienne. No, the smile stayed for a long, long time. 

King’s Landing was smaller than Jaime remembered. Much smaller.

When Jaime stepped foot into the Red Keep, the first thing he did was go to see his sister. His beloved sister. Her door creaked open. Her back was to him. Golden hair shimmered beneath the sun’s waning light.

“Cersei,” he said. 

She turned, startled at the sound of her twin brother’s voice. Those sharp eyes of hers caught sight of his filthy state. Of his handless arm. 

Disgust flickered over her expression.

Hot shame washed over him. You didn’t look at his stump with that kind of disgust. No, you had looked at it with a certain kind of soft curiosity. Cersei looked angry, almost. Affronted that he would show up in such a broken, weak state.

Why wasn’t Cersei happy to see him? After all this time?

A few hours later, you were tossed down in front of King Joffrey, still in that disgusting, ripped golden dress the Boltons had given you. In contrast, Jaime had already been bathed, donned in golden armor and a white cloak. He hadn’t been able to speak with you since the three of you had arrived at the Keep.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“And what are we to do with you?” his nephew, his son, crooned, smiling wide as if he’d caught himself a prize. “Sister to a traitor. Aunt to a traitor. Bitter Wolf, indeed.”

You refused to meet Joffrey’s burning gaze. Instead, you were looking at Sansa, off to the side of the courtroom, her blue eyes wide and tearful. Youthful hope was plastered clear as day across her pale, beautiful features. Relief. 

“Maybe I should put your head on a spike,” Joffrey mused.

At his words, Jaime stepped forward. “Your Grace, Lady Stark saved my life several times. She was the one who helped me escape. She is the entire reason I’m here now.”

It looked as if Joffrey wanted to spit at his uncle for ruining his fun. Before he could say anything, however, Tywin Lannister interrupted, “As the Hand, Your Grace, I’d advise to exercise compassion for the Bitter Wolf. We should be grateful to her for returning one of your Kingsguard back to you.” He thought it wise to make allies with you—after all, you were now technically the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, with all the Starks dead except your nieces. The rest of the North would be keen on following after you, rather than Roose Bolton.

“What good is a Kingsguard with just one hand?” snarked Joffrey. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. “She helped you escape, then, Uncle? Did she play a part in the Red Wedding? She must have, if she was so willing to betray her nephew!”

Wedding…?

You finally tore your eyes away from Sansa, looking up at Joffrey. Confusion clouded your expression.

The blonde King raised his brows. He grinned so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split into two. “Oh, Gods, she doesn’t know!” He began laughing. It was a cruel and calloused sound. “Robb Stark is dead. The traitor wolf died at his uncle’s own wedding! His pregnant whore of a wife and his bitch mother, as well.”

At the news, your lips parted, and your hands came up to cover them. Tears were quick to sting the corner of your eyes, and burn the bridge of your nose. Roose fucking Bolton did this. You didn’t want to cry in front of the monster of a boy, you really didn’t. But you couldn’t help it—your nephew was dead. Your good-sister was dead. And you weren’t there for them. 

Did Robb die hating you?

A silent sob wracked your entire body and your knees buckled. Sansa took a step forward, but stopped when one of the Kingsguard snarled at her. 

The rest of the court had fallen into a hushed silence. It was only broken when Joffrey stepped down from the Iron Throne, smirking maliciously.

“Welcome to court, Lady Stark. We are… forever indebted to you,” he chuckled, taking great pleasure at the fact that he was the one to break the tragic news. Then, he walked straight past you, humming as he left the throne room. The rest of the whispering Lords and Ladies trickled out after him. 

Jaime watched, brows furrowed in concern, as Sansa finally was able to run forward and envelop you into a tight hug. You gripped your niece and cried harder against her. It shattered your heart in a million pieces when she began to quietly cry into your neck, as well.

Lips pursed in a tight line, Jaime spared you one last glance before he turned to head after the King. 

They’d put you in a large chamber, with large, arched windows giving you a perfect view of the ocean. Warm air billowed through, the breeze tousling your just-washed hair and cascading a heated flush down your face. You weren’t fond of hot weather—you were a Stark through and through, made of ice and snow.

The handmaids laid out a dark grey Southern dress for you to wear. It was loose and lightweight, with a neckline that plunged far too low for your liking, wide enough to only barely hang off your shoulders. The sleeves were long and drooped far past your hands. You narrowed your eyes, shifting the fabric around your waist, frowning at how it cinched uncomfortably. Damn Southerners.

There was a knock on your door just as you had finished readjusting the dress to the best of your abilities, and you turned to see Sansa quietly slide in, her handmaiden following after her. 

“My dear girl,” you whispered, reaching out to her. When Sansa stepped closer, you gently cupped her heart-shaped face with one hand. Her red curls were twisted into an updo, blue eyes scared and wide. 

She looked so much like her mother… her mother who was now gone…

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you roped her into an embrace. She was crying again, pulling away to hastily wipe her tears away, sniffling.

“I missed you,” she whispered. 

Though you’d never been too close to Sansa back when you were in Winterfell, as she wasn’t a fan of your cold nature, you still loved her, nonetheless. Sansa had lost her entire family in such a short span of time, she was immensely grateful to see you alive and well. A naive part of her hoped that you would whisk her away. Away from Cersei, away from Joffrey, and away from King’s Landing.

“Where’s Arya?” you asked.

“I don’t know. She disappeared when… when father…”

You nodded. Disappointment danced over your irises. Hopelessness. “She must’ve run out of King’s Landing. No doubt tried to make her way back home on her own. She could be anywhere from here to Winterfell by now.” Biting your lip, you encompassed her hands within yours. “Sansa, tell me. What’s happened here? Have they been treating you well?”

She shifted uncomfortably at the question. She hesitated for a moment, but quietly spoke upon remembering that you were her aunt, and that she could trust you. You were family. “No. Joffrey’s a monster. He’s cruel, and he likes hurting people. He’s pursuing Lady Margaery Tyrell now… and I’m married to Tyrion.”

“What?” Horror flickered over your expression.

Quickly, she added, “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, though… he’s not like Joffrey.”

From the corner of your eye, you could see Sansa’s handmaiden shift from foot to foot.

“That’s a relief. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes once more. “Better, now that you’re here.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that all on your own,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You poor girl.”

“What happened to you? Why did you leave Robb?”

“I wanted to save you and your sister. I thought that if I traded Jaime for you and Arya, I could… I could bring you back. It’s a long story, but… it didn’t work out. Your sister is gone, and Robb is gone, as well. Winterfell is not ours anymore. There is nowhere safe for us to go.” 

Fear made her lips warble. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… we must stay here for a while. It’s safest here. For now. But when we find an opportunity, we must take it.”

She looked like she wanted to protest for a minute, but she blew out a shaking breath. “Alright. I trust you.”

The weeks passed by in a breeze. A warm breeze. Jaime had grown rather accustomed to the cold of the North during his year of imprisonment. The heat down here was sticky and uncomfortable—especially beneath his golden armor. 

He never would have thought that he’d miss the sight of snow.

He was rarely given the chance to speak to you or Brienne, busy with his duties as part of the Kingsguard. But he would see you in the distance, hovering protectively over your sweet-faced niece, walking the gardens, staring out at the oceans, as if planning out an escape. It was a strange thing seeing the two of you together. The little dove and the bitter wolf. 

Exactly four weeks after Jaime had returned to King’s Landing his father called for a meeting with him. Apparently, Tywin had something to give him.

“It’s magnificent,” Jaime said in awe, slowly swinging the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, testing its balance. “Fresh-forged?”

“Yes,” said Tywin, stoic-faced. 

Jaime turned to look at his father. “No one’s made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria,” the knight commented, brows raising.

With a nod, Tywin sank into his seat with seamless grace. “There are only three living smiths who know how to rework Valyrian steel. The finest of them was in Volantis. He came here to King’s Landing at my invitation.”

Jaime hummed. “You’ve wanted one of these in the family for a long, long time.”

“And now we have two.”

“Two?”

“The original weapon was absurdly large. Eddard Stark’s. It provided more than enough for two swords.”

There was a long pause before Jaime stepped forward. “Well, thank you. It’s glorious.” As Tywin nodded, whatever small glimmer of pride in his eyes waned away when Jaime struggled to sheath the sword, with his only one hand to aid him.

“You’ll have to train your left hand,” his father gruffed.

Frowning, Jaime replied, “Any decent swordsman knows how to use both hands.”

“You’ll never be as good.”

A pause. Even with both his hands, Jaime was never good enough for his father.

“As long as I’m better than everyone else, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Narrowing his keen eyes, Tywin sternly said, “You can’t serve in the Kingsguard with just one hand.”

“Where’s that written?” Jaime snapped back. “I can and I will. The Kingsguard oath is for life.”

“The war is over. The King is safe,” said Tywin.

Jaime scoffed. “The King is never safe! How many people in this city alone would love to see his head on a pike?”

You, for one. Jaime knew you would snap Joffrey’s neck if you were ever given the chance to. 

Damn it. There he went, thinking of you again. It was as if you were some sort of disease festering in his mind.

“The King was protected by other knights while you were a prisoner. They will continue to do so when you go home.”

Ah. So that’s what this was about. 

“Home?” Jaime echoed.

“You’ll return to Casterly Rock… and rule in my stead.”

Tywin wanted him to go back and abandon all his duties. Find a wife from a noble house, bear children—preferably sons, and secure heirs for the Lannister household. But that was not who Jaime was. No, Jaime wanted… he wanted…

“You are the Lord of Casterly Rock,” reminded Jaime, studying his father as if he’d gone daft. 

Face ever so stony, Tywin replied calmly, “I am the King’s Hand. My place is here. I don’t expect to see the Rock again before I die.”

“You know what they call me? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. And now you want me to break another sacred vow,” sighed Jaime, blowing out a long, exasperated breath.

Tywin’s green eyes, paler than Jaime’s were, bore holes into his head. “You won’t be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieving the Kingsguard of his duties. The King will exercise that prerogative.”

How could Jaime leave his brother and sister here for a life he didn’t even want? How could he leave you with his monster of a nephew? How could he leave Sansa when he swore to you that he would get her to safety?

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” parroted Jaime.

Tywin’s upper lip curled into a slight snarl. “I don’t believe I asked you a question.”

“But I’m giving you an answer,” said Jaime. 

“If you think your bloody honor comes before—”

“My bloody honor is beyond repair, but my answer is still no!” Jaime interrupted, his voice raising in volume. “I don’t want Casterly Rock. I don’t want to marry some woman I barely know. I don’t want to bear her children.”

“Then what do you want?”

For a moment, Jaime struggled for words. Cersei, he thought. But Cersei doesn’t seem to want me anymore. Not with my hand missing.

“Supper would be nice,” said Jaime.

The older of the two scowled heavily. “For forty years I’ve tried to teach you. If you haven’t learned now, you never will. Go. If serving as a glorified bodyguard is the sum of your ambition, then go serve.”

“I suppose you want the sword back.”

“Keep it. A one-handed man with no family needs all the help he can get,” spat Tywin.

No family. That stung Jaime much more than he’d care to admit.

With no more words to spare his father, Jaime strode away, sword in hand, his white cloak fluttering with his departure.

A golden hand. Qyburn had brought him a golden hand.

“A work of art,” he declared.

Jaime wasn’t so impressed. The gold just brought more attention to the fact that he didn’t have a hand in the first place. Not to mention that it was heavy and clunky. He would’ve been much more satisfied with something dull and lightweight.

“If you like it so much, chop off your own hand and take it,” he dryly remarked.

Pouring herself a chalice of wine, Cersei rolled her eyes. “You’re such an ingrate. I spent days with the goldsmith getting the details just right.”

“Days?” Jaime asked, skeptical.

She shrugged. “The better part of an afternoon.”

Once it was properly fixed onto his stub, Qyburn asked how it felt.

“A hook would’ve been more practical,” said Jaime.

It was then that his sister dismissed the older man, thanking him for his services present and past. Jaime waved around the new hand, testing its lopsided weight. 

Finally, Cersei turned to him.

“Odd little man,” he quipped.

“I’ve grown rather fond of him. He’s quite talented, you know.”

Tilting his head, Jaime asked, “What past services? You were hurt?”

“None of your concern,” she calmly replied. 

Frustration licked its way up Jaime’s chest. It was as if Cersei was purposefully dangling her secrets in front of him, but kept him at a safe distance by not disclosing anything. He wanted to yell, throttle her, asking her to be plain and truthful with him. It was wishful thinking, of course.

“You let him touch you?” was all he could think of saying. 

There was a laugh to her tone. “Jealous?”

No. Bitter, more like—he’s spent too much time with you, perhaps. “Surprised. You never let Pycelle touch you,” he said.

“You think I’d let that old lecher put his hands on me?” She sipped on the wine. Then took another, and another, and another. “He smells like a dead cat.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a dead cat.” Narrowing his eyes, Jaime observed his sister finish what was in her chalice, reaching over to pour more. “You drink more than you used to.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The way her lip curled in disdain was eerily reminiscent of his father. Jaime felt the beginnings of a headache pound at the front of his temple. 

“Hm, let’s see. You started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the capital. My husband died in a tragic hunting accident.”

An accident you made sure to cause, Jaime thought. She is just as much of a Kingslayer as I am.

“Must have been traumatic,” Jaime sneered, dripping with irony.

“My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne.”

Our daughter.

“We suffered through a siege.”

Blowing out a sigh, Jaime barked out a humorless laugh. “A rather short siege.”

“One that I didn’t expect to survive,” she quickly snapped back. Wisely, she decided not to tell Jaime she was a hair’s breadth away from poisoning Tommen. “And now I’m marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden, while I’m supposed to marry her brother, a renowned pillow-biter.”

Without her noticing, Jaime had stood up and came to sit beside her. “Father disowned me today,” he said. 

“He can’t disown you. You’re all he’s got,” she said.

“You’re forgetting Tyrion.”

At the mention of her other brother, Cersei’s face twisted with repulsion.

“You don’t really plan on staying in the Kingsguard, do you?”

Jaime leaned forward, placing his golden hand behind her and his remaining one atop her knee. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was doing. Trying to kindle whatever there was between them again, perhaps. Desperately seeking what he used to have before he left King’s Landing. “Staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here, in the Red Keep with you.”

Just as he dipped his head forward, his nose brushing against her cheek, Cersei yanked herself away, standing up to stride back to the table and pour herself some more wine.

“Not now,” she said.

Frustrated, Jaime gritted out, “Not now? Then when? I’ve been back for weeks! What’s changed?”

“Everything!” she practically yelled. There was fire behind her irises. “Everything’s changed! You come back after all this time with no apologies and one hand and that bitch wolf and expect everything to be the same?”

Baffled, Jaime asked, “What do you want me to apologize for?”

“For leaving me,” she spat.

“You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?”

“I don’t know what you wanted. You weren’t here. You left me alone.”

It seemed that Cersei was so blinded by her rage, she refused to see anything from his perspective. They’d always considered each other to be their missing half. Now, Cersei felt more like a thorn in his side rather than something that’d make him whole.

“Every day, I was a prisoner. I plotted my escape, every day.”

Cersei shook her head. “But you didn’t, did you? Not until the Bitter Wolf set you free.”

“I murdered people so I could be here with you!”

“You took too long.”

“I… what? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you took too long,” she echoed.

There was a knock at the door.

“Go away!” yelled Jaime.

“Come in,” said Cersei.

The door swung open. Beyond his limit, Jaime stood up and shouldered past the handmaiden to storm out of the chambers.

Brienne fidgeted beside you as you watched Sansa pray down by the stony shores. What she was praying for, you weren’t quite sure. It seemed that Brienne was restless, seeing that Sansa was right there, but she couldn’t quite do anything about it. There was nowhere to take the both of you. She felt like she’d failed you—again.

Jaime came to stand by the two of you, commenting on how strange it was to see a Wolf in Southern drab, but quickly shut his mouth when you spared him an unimpressed look. 

“You made a promise,” said Brienne.

“Mmh, yes, to return the Stark girls to their mother, who is now dead,” Jaime replied. 

It was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack beneath all your jaw-gritting.

“To keep them safe,” Brienne emphasized.

“Well, Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money’s on dead. There’s a certain safety in death, no?”

Your stomach lurched. With a scowl, you spat out, “She’s not dead. Arya’s a smart, nifty little thing. She’s probably off posing as a stableboy somewhere. People always mistook her as one back in Winterfell, anyway.”

With a huff, Jaime continued, “Alright, well, regardless, she’s not here for me to protect. And Sansa Stark… well, she’s Sansa Lannister now, yes? Bit of a complication.”

Brienne drew herself to her full height, staring Jaime down. “A complication does not release you from a vow!”

“And what would you have me do? Kidnap my sister-in-law? And take her where? Where would she be safer than here?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me she’ll be safe in King’s Landing,” hissed Brienne.

Jaime wasn’t able to do so. Instead, he crossed his arms and narrowed his green eyes. “Are you sure we’re not related? Ever since I’ve returned, every Lannister I’ve seen has been a miserable pain in my ass. Maybe you’re a Lannister, too. Got the hair for it.”

Trouble in paradise? you thought in mild amusement.

Though you were reluctant to admit it, you said, “She’s not safe here. But this is the safest place she can be for now. I was thinking of the Vale, but Lysa Arryn is not sound of mind… I doubt she’d welcome Sansa into her home with open arms. There’s the Night’s Watch, where Jon is. But there is no way we could pass through the North without a Bolton hound sniffing us out.”

The blonde knight hung his head. “It’s better if you just stay here. Things will be less messy that way.”

Before either of you could fit in a reply, Jaime was already striding away. Brienne glanced at you apologetically, before heading away, murmuring something about having to speak with Margaery Tyrell.

Tyrion Lannister invited you to breakfast. You’d stared at the parchment with raised brows, chewing on your bottom lip in thought. From what you could recall, Tyrion was a sharp-tongued man, but Sansa was clear that he was kind. And so, you accepted the invitation.

Needless to say, you weren’t expecting to see Jaime there.

But of course he was there—they were brothers, after all.

The knight bowed his head in a silent greeting, looking overall weary but tried to offer you a small smile nonetheless. You nodded in return, taking a seat beside him. Tyrion watched the exchange keenly, sat down across from the two of you.

“How is the capital treating you, my Lady?” asked Tyrion, voice pleasant.

“Fine,” you replied hastily. “Hot. Dry. The air tastes like salt.”

With a chuckle, Tyrion began digging into his breakfast. “Yes, that would either be the piss on the streets or the ocean itself. You can never tell here.” 

You glanced down at the plate full of eggs and sausages and fried potatoes the cupbearer put down in front of you. Suddenly, you had no stomach to eat. It seemed Jaime was thinking along the same lines, because he had yet to touch his food.

Glancing down, you noticed his new golden hand. Following your gaze, Tyrion quipped, “That new hand is better than the old one.” He looked up at his cupbearer. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pod?”

With a quiet hum, you shook your head. “Heavy, immobile metal over real, living flesh? Your definition of better must align with expenses, then.”

Tyrion smiled a genuine smile. “It looks better.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Neither of you are eating. Why is no one eating? My wife wastes away, her aunt sulks around, and my brother starves himself.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jaime was quick to say.

“You lost a hand, not a stomach.”

Drawing in a breath, you gritted out, “You’d sulk if your entire family was killed, wouldn’t you?”

The comment made Tyrion wince slightly. “Apologies, my Lady. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just wanted to have a meal with my family. The tolerable ones, at least. I invited Sansa, but she politely declined. So please, try the boar. Cersei hasn’t gotten enough of it since one killed Robert for her.”

After a beat of intense silence, you sat up straight and began cutting through the food, eating slowly. It didn’t go past your notice when Jaime pushed his plate further away from him.

“A toast to us,” said Tyrion, lifting his goblet. “The dwarf, the cripple, and the Bitter Wolf.”

Both you and Jaime grimaced at the names. Jaime reached forward to grab his wine chalice, but clumsily forgot that his golden hand couldn’t bend to take it, effectively knocking it over. Purple-crimson spilled all over the table, dribbling down onto you and staining the dress you were wearing a darker shade of mauve. 

“I’ll clean it,” started Pod.

Jaime waved him away. “No. I’ll do it. Leave us.” He turned to you, frowning and handing you a dishtowel. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright,” you quickly reassured him, taking the rag and wiping away the excess. “It’s not my dress. Not my wine. It feels refreshing on my skin, actually.”

Jaime watched you for a moment, his eyes soft. 

Tyrion tilted his head. “Seems the wolf isn’t so bitter, after all. The journey softened you, I take it?”

At his words, your expression hardened, and Jaime sent him a sidelong glare. 

The younger of the two quickly backtracked. Gods, you were just not a very good conversationalist, were you? “My brother told me you shot down a bear to save him.”

“I did,” you curtly said.

“You and I are going to be good friends, I think,” Tyrion mused. He grinned wide, before taking another sip from his cup.

Joffrey’s wedding ceremony was a grand event. It was all decorations and Lannister heraldry, candles and flowers and bells every which way you looked. You didn’t care at all for it, really. As long as the monster wasn’t marrying your niece. It was a shame—Margaery Tyrell seemed a nice enough woman. At least, you knew Sansa took a liking to her.

You hadn’t even realized that the ceremony was over until people began clapping, Joffrey pulling away from his kiss with Margaery. If she was upset about the ordeal at all, she didn’t show it. Either she was as deranged as her new husband, or she was a very good actor. Jolting out of your reverie, you lightly clapped thrice before letting your hands fall back to your sides. Gods, this dress itched. A pale shade of pink, laced with golden thread. How the Southerners wore this kind of garb every day, you never knew.

Before you knew it, the wedding feast was commencing. Somehow, it was even more of a large-scale event than the ceremony had been. Performers in every corner, some swallowing swords, others juggling flaming torches, and a few with seductive eyes, twisting themselves into knots and rotating their bones in ways you never knew the body could bend. There were a million and one dishes lining the gilded tables, platters upon platters of rich foods, sweet pastries, fruits with cheese, and savory meats. Chalices of golden ales and honeyed wines were passed around, filled to the brim. Frankly, you would’ve enjoyed the event, had it not been in honor of the most rancid boy you’ve had the displeasure of knowing. 

The lords and ladies attending avoided you like the plague—either spooked by the deep glower etched over your features, or by the fact that you were the infamous Bitter Wolf herself… It didn't make much of a difference. Two people who didn’t treat you as if you carried a disease were Oberyn Martell and his paramour, Ellaria Sand. Both of them regarded you with poorly-hidden lust, offering for you to join them in their chambers after the feast, to which you had no idea how to respond. You were flattered, truly, and there was no doubt that they were both very attractive people, but you were in no mood to fool around in the capital. After you bid them a hasty farewell, Tyrion came to say hello as well, and you dipped your head in greeting. He was quick to walk away, claiming he was in dire need of alcohol in his system.

After the short interactions, you made a beeline for the royal table, wishing to be by your niece’s side—no doubt she was feeling anxious at Joffrey’s wedding, even if she wasn’t the one to wed him. 

Just as you grazed a hand against Sansa’s shoulder, clad by a soft purple dress, Olenna Tyrell made her way to the two of you. 

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you before, Bitter Wolf,” said the old woman, smiling kindly at you. 

“We haven’t,” you curtly replied. “Congratulations on the wedding.”

She waved away your words. “Congratulations to you for making your way to King’s Landing alive, despite everybody’s expectations. You were surely a surprise for everyone at court.” Then, she darted her eyes to Sansa. She reached out to brush her hand along her braids and the necklace resting against her clavicle. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother, and your nephew. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding… it’s horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage!”

Roose Bolton. The name seared hot fury through your chest. According to Jaime, Tywin had given the North over to the Boltons to take over—but he would be met with all the stubbornness of the Northern houses, and they wouldn’t bend the knee to anyone but a Stark. It was a relief to also hear that Tywin wouldn’t be helping the Boltons any further. 

Olenna’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit! Now that peace has come and all's right with the world… it would do you good to see some of it,” she told Sansa, smiling kindly. Then she glanced over at you again. “You look wonderful, Lady Y/N. You’re much prettier than I thought you’d be… your name carries a certain weight to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

She ambled away, and you rubbed your hand along Sansa’s back. From afar, you caught a glimpse of Jaime speaking with Loras Tyrell. The green of his eyes caught yours. “I’ll be back,” you whispered to your niece, before making your way to Jaime. You didn’t quite know what you were going to Jaime for. Perhaps it was because he was the only other person in the wedding than Brienne and Sansa you felt comfortable conversing with. What a long way the two of you had come.

“Y/N,” he greeted, straightening himself when you grew close. His heavy golden armor shone beneath the hot sun. “You look beautiful.”

There was a warm sincerity to his words, but you shook your head anyway. “In comparison to your months with me covered in mud and filth, of course.” After a pause, you asked, “What’s it like? Watching your nephew get married? I… I wasn’t there to see Robb marry the medic girl he seemed so smitten with.”

“It’s strange,” Jaime truthfully admitted. “Especially when I hardly know the Tyrell girl. My sister detests her, though. Calls her a whore more often than she drinks, and we both know how much she drinks.”

Though you didn’t smile, there was a glint of amusement in your eyes. “Be honest with me. I know he’s your nephew… your… your blood… but you can’t truly love him, do you?”

The knight bit the inside of his cheek. No, of course he didn’t. Jaime was well aware that he was a monster, beyond saving. “Family is family,” he eventually replied. 

The disappointment in your expression didn’t go beyond his notice. 

“I wanted to ask, Jaime,” you carefully began. “What would happen if I were to leave the capital with Sansa? Would you be ordered to bring me back? Or would we be able to walk away free?”

“Not this again. I told you, it’s safest for you to be here—”

“It’s a hypothetical. Would you turn me in if you were ordered to?” you quietly asked. “I need to know if… if I can trust you, Jaime.”

Jaime’s eyes searched yours. He stepped closer, hand lifting to grasp your forearm and tugged you to the side, where it was a bit less crowded. “No. Is that what you want to hear? That I’d betray my oaths for you? That I’d help you cross the world if you asked, honor be damned?”

Stricken by his words, you found yourself speechless. 

You cleared your throat after a long moment. “Well… even if that was true, it’s not like we’d have anywhere safe to go. My bannermen are scattered, and between them are the Boltons and the Freys. The seas are occupied by the Greyjoys and pirates alike.”

Jaime nodded. “Stay here. I can keep you safe from here.”

“Can you?” you challenged, eyes narrowed.

A bark of a laugh. Jaime spared you a roguish grin. “Don’t make me swear it. You know my habit of breaking my vows well by now.”

You blew out a breath. “Thank you, Jaime. Truly.”

“Yes, you chose a perfect time during my nephew’s wedding to discuss such matters.”

And then came a sound foreign to his ears—you laughed. You just laughed! It was awkward and barely counted as genuine, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Jaime’s mouth parted, gaping at you with amazement. 

“Did you just laugh?”

“What? Am I not allowed to?”

“No, no, it just… took me by surprise. It was nice.”

He smiled, wide and genuine. From the corner of his eye, he caught his sister glaring at the two of you with an intense, angry gaze. The smile fell away from his lips, and his entire body stiffened. You followed his gaze, raising your brows upon seeing Cersei. With a nudge and a grunt of a goodbye, you stepped away from Jaime, not wanting to antagonize the Lannister woman any further.

You moved to the tables to pluck at the sweet, fat grapes, popping them into your mouth with a pleased hum. Not too soon after, Brienne joined you, chattering about the food and how it reminded her of her own home. Just as you were about to ask her what her favorite dish was, glad to have someone you could call a friend, a certain blonde woman came forth to the two of you.

“Lady Brienne,” greeted Cersei. You turned to look at her. “Bitter Wolf. I owe you both my gratitude. You returned my brother safely to King’s Landing.”

The taller woman gave you a glance, unsure of what to say. You nodded. “Jaime did his fair share of saving. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him, either.”

The green of her eyes flashed dangerously. It didn’t go past her notice that you called him by his first name without his formal title of Ser. “Did he, now? Strange… I haven’t heard a thing about it from him.”

“Not such a fascinating story, I’m afraid,” said Brienne, grimly thinking back to the men trying to rape her.

“I’m sure you have many fascinating stories, Lady Brienne,” Cersei crooned in a condescending manner. “Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next, serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.”

Brows knitting together, Brienne protested, “I don’t serve your brother, Your Grace.”

“Hm.” Cersei lifted her chin pridefully. “I just find it funny how… a few moons ago, the Bitter Wolf was our sworn enemy, behind the mighty King in the North. And now here you are, safe in our capital, making seductive eyes at my brother. You betrayed your nephew, who’s to say you won’t betray my brother, as well?”

Seductive eyes?

Anger began clawing up your throat, smoldering hot. You swallowed painfully slow. “Is that all, Your Grace?” you asked in a level tone. She wanted a reaction out of you… to warn you to stay away from her brother. Her lover. You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of being upset. “Brienne and I want to go watch the performers, if you would excuse us.”

She looked infuriated at your dismissal, watching as you linked arms with Brienne and gently led her to the stage. 

“Are you alright, my Lady?” asked the large woman.

“I’m fine. She’ll have to do far worse than that if she truly wants to provoke me,” you replied. 

The two of you enjoyed each other’s company for a little longer, striding through the crowds and plucking food off of the mountain-high platters. Though she was younger than you, she carried herself with the weight of someone with several decades’ worth of experience. You appreciated that about Brienne.

Your conversations were cut short when Joffrey stood up from the royal table, screeching for silence. He was presenting a show—one depicting the so-called ‘history’ of the war. It was a crude rendition, riddled with falsities. 

You felt your heart drop to your stomach when several dwarves ran out in offensive costumes, depicting Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Joffrey himself, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark. One by one, they battled one another. Stannis killing off Renly, Robb taking out Balon, Joffrey eliminating Stannis with wildfire. 

Tears filled your eyes when Robb was the only one left standing, with only Joffrey left. You glanced at Sansa, who watched the show with a stony expression. Her time in King’s Landing taught her never to give anything away. Keep her emotions within herself, for her own safety.

And finally, you couldn’t take it anymore once they knocked his direwolf’s head off. The actor playing Joffrey grabbed the head and began to motion humping it, moaning as the crowd cheered. The real Joffrey—the one lounging at the royal table, only a few feet from your sweet niece—spat his wine all over as he laughed and snorted and chuckled. 

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. For him to disrespect your family in such a way… it was sickening.

Once the disgusting performance was over, Joffrey clapped and hollered. He turned to his uncle Tyrion, offering him to go and prove his worth by fighting the actors. 

In response, Tyrion said, “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace. I think you should fight them, instead. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first hand witness. Climb down from the high table and show everyone how a true King wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust.” He gestured towards the imitator of Joffrey who had pretended to fuck Grey Wind. “It would be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”

A hesitant ripple of laughter echoed across the crowd. Joffrey was so furious it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure of his clenched jaw. With no further words, Joffrey grabbed his chalice of wine, stomping over to Tyrion and tipping the cup over so the sticky liquid spilled out to drip down his uncle’s head.

“A fine vintage,” said Tyrion. “A shame that it spilled.”

Acknowledge me! Joffrey wanted to scream. Fight me! Show me how angry you are!

“It did not spill,” he gritted out. 

“My love, come back to me,” said Margaery, reaching out for her husband, wishing to quell the tense atmosphere. “It’s time for my father’s toast!”

The young boy made a grand show of being void of wine, and demanded Tyrion be his cupbearer, seeing as he was too cowardly to fight. He dropped the empty chalice for him to pick up, cruelly kicking it away just as it was within Tyrion’s reach. 

“Bring me my goblet,” he said.

He relished watching his uncle get to his hands and knees, crawling beneath the tables in search of the goblet. Your niece, your sweet, darling niece, stood from her chair to bend down and pick it up, as it was closest to her. She handed the cup to her husband, pursing her lips. 

The next few moments passed by in a tense haze.

Tyrion filled the cup. Held it out for his nephew to take.

Joffrey ordered him to kneel.

Tyrion refused to do so, staring straight at him with defiant eyes.

The pigeon pie came out, large enough to feed the entire wedding three times over. 

You watched as Tyrion and Sansa were about to leave the wedding, and you had half the mind to follow them, wanting nothing more than to be alone in your chambers for the night. However, before they could leave, Joffrey called out for his uncle once more.

“Where are you going? You’re my cupbearer, remember?” 

“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace.”

“No, no, no. You’re perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.” 

Tyrion glanced back at Sansa. With a huff, he made his way back to the table, handing the goblet back to Joffrey, and turned to walk back to his awaiting wife. 

The King gulped down the contents of the cup greedily. Droplets of Dornish leaked from the corners of his mouth.

“If it please Your Grace, Sansa is very tired—”

“No!” yelled the boy-king. “No. You’ll wait here and—”

He dissolved into a fit of coughs. Drank more of that wine of his.

Both you and Brienne glanced at each other. 

Joffrey wheezed. Cersei sat forward in her chair. Margaery’s eyes widened.

“He’s choking!” she screamed once Joffrey began clutching at his chest.

“Someone help the poor boy!” yelled Olenna Tyrell.

Joffrey staggered forward, falling as he continued coughing, spluttering, and choking. Bits of pigeon pie fell from his mouth, flecked with wine and a far darker liquid: his blood. This was no mere obstruction of his windpipe—this was the work of poison.

Your lips parted open as you watched Jaime hurriedly push through the crowd to get to him, kneeling beside him, calling his name, unsure of what to do. Cersei screamed even louder, shoving Jaime to the side, cradling her oldest son to her chest as she weeped.

His face turned purple. His eyes bulged out of his skull. Foam frothed about his lips. 

He twitched, and twitched, and twitched again. One of his hands lifted to jerkily point at Tyrion, who was watching on in confused horror. 

Blood dribbled out of Joffrey’s nostrils. 

A second later, the twitching stopped. 

Joffrey Baratheon was dead.

And you were too busy relishing in the fact, you hadn’t even realized that Sansa was gone.

It wasn’t often that Jaime visited the Sept. 

Now that Joffrey was dead… well, that was plenty of reason for him to go. Especially now that Cersei seemed to spend all her time there, hovering over her dead son like a vulture. When he came through the grand doors, he passed by his father and little Tommen, the former in the middle of telling the young boy about the duties of marriage, seeing as he was now King.

Tywin didn’t seem too upset that Joffrey was dead. To be fair, neither did Jaime.

“How are you?” Jaime asked, stopping in front of his youngest nephew. It wasn’t an easy thing—watching your older brother die in front of you at his own wedding.

“I’m alright,” he murmured.

Jaime nodded, patting his shoulder. “Good.”

Then, he made his way down the rest of the steps, Tywin leading Tommen out. Jaime dismissed the rest of the priests, wanting to be alone with Cersei.

Once only the two of them were left in the Sept—along with Joffrey’s corpse, of course—Cersei finally spoke. Her voice was croaky and hoarse with disuse. “It was Tyrion,” she said. “He killed him. He told me he would. ‘A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.’ That’s what he said to me. You saw it… you saw Joff point at him before he—”

Lowering his tone, Jaime whispered, “I don’t know what I saw.”

Cersei shut her eyes. “Avenge him,” she said, words warbling with emotion. “Avenge our son. Kill Tyrion.”

What she said seemed to strike Jaime across the face. He reared back, affronted. “Tyrion’s my brother. He’s our brother. There’ll be a trial. We’ll get to the truth of what happened.”

“I don’t want a trial!” she hissed. “He’ll squirm his way to freedom, given the chance. I want him dead.”

Tears slipped down both of her eyes. It was as if the dam inside her had finally broken under all the weight of her grief.

“Please, Jaime,” she sobbed. “You have to! He was our son! Our baby boy!”

He drew closer to her, tugging her into an embrace. Her fingers curled into the leather of his tunic. When she raised her tearful face to yank him into a desperate kiss, Jaime didn’t resist.

Then, as quickly as she had advanced upon him, she shoved him away yet again. Jaime was beginning to grow tired of her pushing him in such a way. It wasn’t fair. 

“Tyrion’s wretched wife, Sansa, has disappeared. No doubt she played a hand in Joff’s murder. I want you to find her. Kill her, too. And I want the Bitter Wolf locked up in her niece’s place.”

Jaime’s eyes widened as he regarded his sister with an incredulous stare. “What? But Y/N hasn’t done anything. She has nothing to do with this!”

“Oh, because you were watching her the entire time, when you should’ve been guarding my son? It’s not a wonder he was murdered right beneath our noses, then!” Cersei screeched, voice raising several octaves. “Tell me, do you love her? Do you love that fucking wolf traitor more than you love me, your own sister? More than you love your son?”

Jaime was at a loss for words. Did he love you?

When he didn’t reply, Cersei angrily turned away from him, drying her face with the fabric of her sleeves. “You’re a disgrace to us. To our family.”

She sounded exactly like father. Anger coiled within his stomach. Jaime narrowed his sharp eyes. 

“You are a hateful woman,” he seethed. “Y/N is anything but. Bitter Wolf, people call her, but she is not bitter. She is hurt. She is grieving. Just as you are. She saved my life, and I owe her nothing but my gratitude.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, Jaime strode away, off to go pay you a long overdue visit.

A knock on your door. It was the dead of night, and you were only minutes away from falling asleep, having exhausted yourself with tears and stress. You weren’t at all dressed properly for visitors. Nonetheless, you dragged yourself out of your bed, your shift hanging wrinkled and lopsided over your body. 

Your door creaked open, and you were tiredly blinked upon seeing Jaime on the other side. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shifted away from the entrance, silently opening the door wider to make space for him to come in. Without hesitation, the knight slid in, dipping his head as greeting. You’d been crying—he could still see the dried tear tracks on your cheeks, only faintly illuminated by the sparse candles in the chambers.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” croaked Jaime, looking every bit as defeated as you. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Are you alright?”

You gingerly shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a weary sigh. “My entire family is gone. Lost or dead.”

“Right. Stupid question.” Jaime cleared his throat. “We’ve both lost our nephews now.”

“It’s not the same, Jaime,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You know it’s not. Joffrey was a monster, and the world is better off without him. And I… I loved Robb as if he was my own son. The younglings, Bran and Rickon, as well.”

For a second, Jaime looked like he wanted to say something. Wisely, he held his tongue. He took a small step forward, closer to you. He was keenly aware that he was alone in your room, not at all appropriate for an unmarried lord or lady, but he really couldn’t care. The two of you were above that. Besides, he’d seen you naked before, for heaven’s sake! 

So why was he suddenly so flustered now?

“Cersei wants me to find Sansa,” he began, carefully. “And she wants me to kill her.”

Noticeably, you stiffened. Your eyes were wide, he could see the panic begin to set within your wintry irises. 

In a placating tone, he quickly reassured, “I would never do such a thing. Frankly, I’m offended that you’d think I would. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it, even if Catelyn Stark is dead.”

After a second, your muscles loosened. You avoided his eyes, but murmured, “I believe you, Jaime.” There was a soft silence hanging between the two of you. Finally, it was shattered when you asked, “What of your brother, Tyrion? What is to happen to him?”

Jaime nodded, glad that you were on the same wavelength as him. “I was hoping… you’d come with me to speak with him.”

The dungeons were much colder than above. You were well acquainted with the drops in temperature, but it seemed that Tyrion had yet to adjust. He was shivering, bundled up in a musty blanket that Podrick had brought him.

“To tell you the truth, this isn’t so bad,” said Jaime, glancing around the spacious cell. “Four walls. A pot to piss in… I wasn’t given such a luxury during my time as a prisoner. I was chained to a wooden post or a stone wall, covered in my own shit for months on end.”

The younger brother sent him a half-hearted glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Maybe a bit,” replied the knight. He glanced down at his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Complicated, yes,” said Tyrion. “And you brought the Bitter Wolf with you. Hello, Lady Stark.”

His eyes, sunken and empty, darted over to you, shrouded in the shadows behind Jaime. 

“Hello, Tyrion.”

“Hm. How is our sister?” he asked Jaime. 

Defeat danced over his handsome features. “How do you think? Her son died in her arms.”

“Her son?”

Something foul coiled within Jaime’s stomach. “Don’t,” he warned.

Tyrion let the matter drop.

“Do you know what’s to come?” you spoke for the first time since you came.

“My trial for regicide. Yes, I know,” said Tyrion. “I know the whole bloody country thinks I’m guilty. I know one of the three judges has wished me dead more times than I can count—that judge being my father. As for Cersei… well, she’s probably working on a way to avoid the trial altogether by having me killed.”

Jaime kicked at a small pebble on the ground. “Now that you mention it, she did ask.”

“So should I turn around and close my eyes?”

“Depends,” said Jaime. “Did you do it?”

A small smile traced Tyrion’s lips. “The Kingslayer brothers. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?” After a short pause, he spoke again. “Are you really asking if I killed your son?”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “And are you really asking if I’d kill my brother? How can I help you?”

“Well, you can set me free, for starters.”

“You know I can’t,” Jaime reluctantly said. “What do you want me to do? Kill the guards? Sneak you out of the city in the back of a cart? Have you forgotten that I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”

Frowning, Tyrion gruffed out, “Sorry, I’d forgotten, which is a miracle, considering how loud your golden armor is! I’d hate for you to do something inappropriate while I rot away in jail.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Jaime snapped back, “You’re accused of killing the King. Freeing you would be treason.”

“And was it not treason to put a sword through the Mad King’s back?” you quietly asked. Both men went silent at your words. “Even if the trial goes in Tyrion’s favor, which I highly doubt, your sister would stop at nothing to have him dead. He needs to get away from King’s Landing.”

Tyrion nodded at your words. “If the killer threw himself down before the Iron Throne, confessed to his crimes, and gave irrefutable evidence of his guilt, it wouldn’t matter to Cersei. She won’t rest until my head’s on a spike.”

“Not just yours,” said Jaime. “She’s offering a knighthood to whomever finds Sansa, dead or alive.”

Brows furrowing, Tyrion protested, “Sansa didn’t do this.”

“She had more reason than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Do you think it’s a coincidence she disappeared the same night Joffrey died?”

“It’s not a coincidence,” you said. “Someone must have snuck her out, knowing the blame would be placed on her. Sansa’s not a killer. She spent an entire year around Joffrey—if she wanted to murder him, he would’ve been dead long before his marriage.”

Jaime pinched the space between his brows in frustration. “Regardless of who did it, Cersei won’t rest until all of you are dead. I won’t let that happen.”

“Then we have to do something,” you said, words coated with a layer of urgency. “We have to find Sansa. With Cersei practically keeping me as hostage here in Sansa’s stead… we need to send someone we trust after her.”

Brienne drummed her fingers against the table. 

A sword of Valyrian steel was laid out in front of her. Both you and Jaime glanced at each other. 

“It’s yours,” said Jaime. 

“I can’t accept this—” she began to protest.

“It was reforged from my brother’s sword,” you said, voice soft. “And you’ll use it to defend my brother’s daughter.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “No, my Lady, this should belong to you, not me.”

“I’m no good with a sword,” you admitted. “They’re clunky things, far too large and hard to maneuver if not trained properly. I’m much more comfortable with a bow and arrow. You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother. Now, Arya may be far, far away from us by now, perhaps even long gone… but there is still a great chance of finding Sansa and getting her somewhere safe. Wherever that may be.”

Nodding emphatically, the large woman solemnly said, “I won’t let you down.”

“I had something else made for you.” Jaime pulled at a tarp over a mannequin, holding fine platelets of armor, hewn from the strongest of metals. “I hope I got your measurements right. It’s hard to judge by the eye.”

“I’ll find her,” promised Brienne. “For Lady Catelyn. And for the both of you.”

“I almost forgot,” Jaime added. “One last gift.”

Turns out Brienne wasn’t too keen on her last gift, Podrick.

You couldn’t quite understand why—he was a very sweet, innocent boy, ever the loyal squire to Tyrion. No doubt he’d faithfully serve Brienne, as well.

“I don’t need a squire. He’ll slow me down!” she exclaimed.

“My brother owes him a debt. He’s not safe here,” Jaime argued.

The woman looked like she wanted to protest again, but you intervened, “You’ll be doing him a favor. Cersei wouldn’t hesitate to be rid of him.”

“I won’t slow you down, Ser!” chimed Pod. He winced upon realizing his mistake. “Uhm… m’lady. I promise I’ll serve you well.”

“See? He’s a good lad!” said Jaime. 

As Pod went away to ready Brienne’s horse, you were left standing in front of her, contemplating how to say goodbye. They were never your strong suit. Every time you’ve said goodbye to someone close to you, it’d never ended well before. They usually never returned. 

Oathkeeper, Brienne named her sword once Jaime claimed that all the best swords have their own respective titles. 

“Find her for me,” you said, voice warbling. You stepped closer, placing a hand on Brienne’s arm. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry our time was cut short.”

“I will,” Brienne replied. “Thank you for everything, my Lady.”

“I owe you my entire life,” you said, rife with rare fondness. “Safe journeys, Brienne.”

She held her gaze with you for a moment longer, before nodding and heading off to Pod and their horses. 

Both you and Jaime watched as they rode away from the Red Keep, their figures growing smaller and smaller before they disappeared into the heart of King’s Landing.

“My entire family is gone,” you murmured. “And I just sent away the closest thing I had to a friend.”

Jaime was tempted to thread his single hand through yours. It looked like it’d fit perfectly. Instead, he merely observed your pained features, laced with regret.

“Look on the bright side,” he said, nudging you in an affectionate manner. “At least now I’m the closest thing you’d have to a friend.”

To his delight, you didn’t refute his statement. All you did was spare him a sidelong stare, and a quirk of your lips—was that a smile?—before turning and making your way back into the castle.

It was time for Tyrion’s trial. It was quite the dreary event—witness after witness called upon to spit accusations and twisted observations of Tyrion’s so-called monstrosity to the three judges. What piqued your interest, however, was when Grand Maester Pycelle claimed that the King’s fool was the last one to be seen with Sansa, spiriting her away after the feast. Residue of poison was found in her necklace. That was not a good look for neither Tyrion nor his wife, your niece. Though you didn’t believe she killed Joffrey, you would’ve been proud if she was the one who managed to do it and get away. 

Nearly five hours into the trial, Tywin finally called to adjourn for a break.

You were grateful for the pause in the trial, feeling the beginnings of a headache nursing at the front of your temple. As you left to go get yourself some water, Jaime quickly followed after his father into a separate room. 

Tywin poured himself a goblet of wine, swirling the rich liquid around before sipping. His green eyes fell upon his oldest son, stiff in his golden uniform.

“You’d condemn your own son to death?” Jaime hissed, disgust running rampant across his features. 

Unfazed, Tywin merely reached over to a platter of food to load fruits and cheese upon the prongs of his fork. “I’ve condemned nobody. The trial isn’t over.”

“Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it!” 

An uninterested hum. “I know nothing of the sort.”

Irritation bubbled within Jaime’s chest. “You’ve always hated Tyrion.”

“He killed his King!”

“As did I!” Jaime snapped. “You know the last order the Mad King gave me? He wanted me to bring him your head. And what was it for? I saved your life just so you could murder my brother? Your son?”

The worn features of Tywin Lannister hardened with his words. “It won’t be murder. It would be justice. I’m performing my sworn duty as the Hand of the King. If Tyrion is found guilty, he will be punished accordingly.”

“He’ll be executed!”

“No,” Tywin rebutted, voice raising loud enough to echo back against the stone walls. “He’ll be punished accordingly!”

Jaime drew in a sharp breath. “Once, you said family is what lives on. It’s all that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years. What happens to your precious dynasty when Tyrion dies? I’m a Kingsguard… forbidden by oath to carry on the family line.”

The father shoveled the forkful of fig and brie into his mouth. “I’m well aware,” he said after deliberately taking his sweet time to chew and swallow. 

“And what happens to your name? Who would carry the lion banner in future battles? Your nephews? Lancel Lannister? Others whose names I don’t remember?”

Sitting forward in his seat, Tywin shot back, “And what happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson’s killer?”

Finally, Jaime spat out, “It’ll survive… through me.”

A pause. Tywin reared back slightly, surprise flickering over his stony features.

“I’ll leave the Kingsguard,” said the reluctant knight. The words felt bitter and heavy on his tongue. “I’ll take my place as your son and heir… only if you let Tyrion live.”

Without hesitation, Tywin immediately said, “Done.”

Jaime certainly hadn’t been expecting that. His white cloak fluttered slightly.

“When the testimony is concluded and the guilty verdict is rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy. I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. In three days’ time, he’ll depart for Castle Black and live out his days at the wall.”

Relief flooded Jaime’s veins. His features softened. 

Tywin kept speaking, “You’ll remove your White Cloak immediately. You’ll leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You’ll marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. And you’ll never turn your back on your family ever again.”

“I have one more condition.”

Tywin narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”

“I’ll return to Casterly Rock and sire heirs for you… but only if the woman I marry is Y/N Stark.”

There was a lump in his throat. Letting go of his decades of servitude to the Kingsguard was much harder than he expected. If he married you, he’d be living up to his name, after all. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. 

This time, the surprise in his father’s expression was poorly concealed, clear as day. 

“Do you love her?” he asked, quick to return back to a neutral visage.

Did he? Did Jaime love you?

His lips pursed, and he trained his gaze on the ground. 

Tywin hummed whilst nodding. “Alright. The North may yet be given back to the Starks, should Roose Bolton and his bastard fail to take it for his own. You have my word that Tyrion will be spared.”

Jaime felt like he should’ve given his father his thanks. He didn’t. Instead, he stoutly nodded, speaking not another word, before turning and heading back to the trial room.

The bells tolled, signifying that the trial was to resume. You strode in just as the last bell rang out, catching sight of Jaime speaking to his brother by his stand. The knight was explaining to Tyrion what he was supposed to do: plead guilty, and beg for mercy to be sent to the Night’s Watch. With one final reassuring goodbye, Jaime stepped away, his eyes meeting your curious ones.

To your interest, instead of taking his place by the edge of the court, he wove through the crowd to get to you. 

“Jaime,” you greeted, still miffed as to what he was doing, standing beside you. 

“Y/N,” he said. “I have to speak to you. After all this.”

Another second passed. You studied his features, pallid and clearly anxious. Before you could interrogate him some more, Tywin called for a start. Across court, Jaime could feel his sister’s angry stare burning through the both of you. His hand brushed against you. Swallowing his nerves, Jaime curled his fingers around yours. You didn’t pull away.

He was to marry you. It was still hard for him to wrap his head around the idea. How would you feel about that? 

Angry, probably, Jaime thought.

The trial droned on. It was only when the last witness was called up—Shae, the whore that Tyrion had fallen in love with—did Jaime’s throat begin to close up. Panic clawed at his chest when he noticed Tyrion’s resolve began to crumble away.

He was anguished. The longer Shae spoke, the more questions she answered, the more miserable Tyrion’s expression grew.

Tears filled the brother’s eyes when he growled out his speech—on how he was guilty, yes. Not of killing the King, but of being a dwarf. How watching Joffrey die in front of him had given him more pleasure than a thousand lying whores. How he wished he had enough poison to kill everyone in the courtroom.

The lords and ladies in the crowd burst into scandalous gasps and affronted murmurs. 

Finally, Tyrion demanded a trial by combat.

You shared a worried glance with Jaime, who looked practically shattered at the turn of events. Sympathetic, you shifted so your entire hand slotted into his.

The crowd began to thin away when the trial drew to a close. The combat was to be in a few day’s time.

Before you turned to take your own leave, you looked at Jaime one last time. “What did you want to tell me, Jaime?”

His heart fell to his stomach. Now that his father couldn’t uphold his end of the promise, Jaime couldn’t guarantee that he’d have to leave his post as Kingsguard for Casterly Rock. He wouldn’t have to marry you.

The green of his eyes shone with pain when he finally met your gaze. Hopelessly, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.

With that, he let go of your hand, shouldering through the crowd to make his way out of the throne room.

Oberyn was named Tyrion’s champion. The Mountain was named Cersei’s.

To none of your surprise, the Mountain won. He’d crushed Oberyn’s head like a bloody watermelon with his bare hands. The memory was none too pleasant to relive, that was for sure.

The next day’s afternoon, Jaime heard the footsteps of his sister as she slipped into his chambers, uninvited.

She uttered his name, soft and sultry. Jaime only frowned.

“You won. You now have one fewer brother. Must be proud of yourself. There really is nothing you wouldn’t do, is there?” 

A cruel smile graced her lips. “For my family, no. Nothing. I would do things for my family you couldn’t imagine.”

“Tyrion is your family.”

“He’s not,” she denied.

“You don’t get to choose!”

Cersei snarled, “I do. And so do you. We choose each other.”

Do we?

On she continued, “You can choose the creature that chose to kill our mother whilst coming into this world—”

Brows furrowing, Jaime incredulously asked, “Are you really mad enough to blame him for that? He didn’t decide to kill her, he was an infant.”

“A disease doesn’t decide to kill you,” the blonde woman snapped back, “but you cut it out before it does, all the same. What do you decide? Who do you choose?”

She stepped closer. 

“The things I did to get back to you, to endure all that, only to find you actively trying to have our brother ki—!”

Before Jaime could finish his sentence, Cersei had propelled herself forward, yanking at his face with no abandon, pulling him close until his lips touched hers. 

“I choose you,” she whispered against him. Jaime felt sick.

“Those are just words,” he replied. With jerky movements, he gripped at her arm in a fruitless effort to keep her at bay, the golden hand she had forged for him hanging uselessly by his side. 

Cersei hummed an affirmative. “Yes. Just like the ones I said to father. I told him.”

“Told him what?”

“I told him about us.”

Dread filled his chest. “You told him?”

“I told him I wouldn’t marry Loras Tyrell. I told him I’m staying right here with Tommen, and with you.”

A foolish woman, Cersei was. She thought she was smarter than everyone, but this might’ve been the most idiotic thing Jaime could even fathom doing. Telling his father that he used to fuck his sister and fathered her bastards was a one-way ticket to being disowned. “You think he’ll just accept that?”

Cersei studied the dubiety in Jaime’s expression. “Go and ask him.” She kissed him again, and again, and again. Jaime was far too shocked to push her away. 

“What did you say?” he queried once he’d finally gathered his wits. 

“I don’t want to talk about Tywin Lannister,” she hissed, dragging her lips down to his jaw. 

Jaime didn’t want this anymore. He felt nothing when she touched him. He thought about how light his chest felt when you held his hand during the trial. No longer did he harbor such feelings for Cersei. Years ago, perhaps. Not anymore. Not now. 

“I don’t choose Tywin Lannister. I don’t love Tywin Lannister. I love my brother… my lover. People will whisper and make their jests. Let them. They’re all so small, I can’t even see them. I only see what matters.” She took his handless arm, lifting it so she could kiss the gold. To her, it was an act of love. To him, it was an act of pride.

 Having enough, Jaime pushed her away. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stagger back a few steps. 

“I can’t do this,” he said. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why?” demanded Cersei. She scrutinized him with a sharp glare. After a moment, she withdrew herself, upper lip curling in disgust. “You’re in love with her. With the Bitter Wolf. You love her.”

Horror sank its dark nails into Jaime’s shoulders.

“I’ll have her killed,” said Cersei, venomous hatred coloring her tone an ugly shade of green. “Have you watch as she gasps and chokes around the noose I’ll tie around her throat. She’s a traitor to the realm, don’t you know that, you imbecile? Aunt to a false King, and to the wife of the murderer of my son.”

Desperate, Jaime shuffled closer again, raising his hand as if he were taming a wild mare. “I don’t love the Bitter Wolf. I don’t. I swear it.”

I do, he thought. I love her.

And so, Jaime knew he had to keep Cersei away from you, at any cost necessary. Keep her occupied, for as long as he could. He pressed forth and kissed her. Her mouth was hard against his, but softened with each of his advances. 

“I love you,” he lied. “I love you.”

He repeated the sentiment over and over again, praying to any God that would listen that his sister would believe it. The hours passed by in a blur as Jaime kissed and licked and sucked every inch of her. She climaxed maybe once, or twice, or half a dozen times. Jaime didn’t know, and neither did he care. Most of the time he had disassociated back within his own mind, wanting nothing more than to just get it over and done with.

Eventually, Cersei blissfully passed out from exhaustion, fast asleep beneath his silken sheets. After making sure she was completely unconscious, Jaime slipped his clothes back on and snuck out of his chambers. 

The torches lining the halls of the dungeons did very little to illuminate the space. Jaime could barely see half a foot in front of him. Nonetheless, he hurriedly made his way to Tyrion’s cell. 

“Oh, go away, you son of a whore!” Tyrion yelled once the grill to his cell rattled opened, thinking it was one of the guards coming in to torment him. 

Jaime strode in, tilting his head. “Is that any way to speak of our mother?”

Shocked, Tyrion immediately sat up at the sight of his brother. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Jaime retorted, ushering his brother out and through the narrow halls. “A galley is waiting in the bay bound for the Free Cities.”

“Who’s helping you?” Tyrion asked, bewildered.

“Varys. You have more friends than you thought, Tyrion.”

Deftly, the two of them hurried through one of the many secret passageways of the Red Keep. The ceilings hung so low that Jaime had to duck his head so as to not smack his skull against the uneven stone. 

“There’s a locked door at the top of the stairs,” said Jaime once they reached the end. “Knock on it twice, then twice again. Varys will open.”

Tyrion looked up at his brother. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.”

Breath hitching in his throat, Jaime could feel the beginnings of tears sting the corners of his eyes as he knelt down and drew his brother into a tight hug. He pressed a lingering kiss onto Tyrion’s cheek.

This was the last they were going to see of each other. 

Anguish wrote itself heavy into his tone when he whispered, “Farewell, little brother.”

It ached to pull away.

Just as Jaime was about to go, Tyrion called out his name.

“Thank you,” his brother said. “For my life.”

Jaime nodded. He blinked away the tears as he gestured for him to go. “Quickly, now. Before anyone notices you’re gone.”

With that, Jaime rushed to abscond, taking twisting turns, straight to where he knew your chambers were. Ensuring there was nobody around, Jaime stepped out into the hall, knocking twice on the door and slipping in.

You startled at the intruder, sitting up on the bed, the book you were reading snapping shut, but relaxed slightly upon seeing Jaime. 

“Jaime? What’s going on?”

“You have to leave. Come with me,” he said, urgently striding forward and taking your hand in his, pulling you off the mattress and to the door. It was a relief that you were already fully clothed, and had no personal belongings to take with you, because there was simply no time for anything at the moment.

Brows pulling together, you demanded, “Jaime, tell me what’s happening. Where are you taking me?”

“Out!” he impatiently replied, slipping down the secret passageways once more. “Away. Away from King’s Landing—from my sister. She wants you dead. I can’t have that happen. There’s a boat waiting for you. Varys is helping.”

Finally Jaime yanked you into a dingy little room, lined with dust and rusted-over weapons. Shrouded in the shadows of the corner, Varys stepped out, pushing the cowl back from his head.

“Bitter Wolf,” he said.

“Lord Varys,” you carefully replied. “Why are you helping me?”

“I was fond of your brother, Eddard, however foolish he was with his honor. And, though we haven’t spoken before, your death at the hands of the Queen Regent would reign nothing but war from the Northerners.” He glanced at Jaime suspiciously before lowering his voice and saying, “My little birds tell me Sansa Stark is in the Eyrie, posing as Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter.”

All the air in your chest seemed to slip away. Sansa was alive. She was alright.

For now, at least.

“I can help you get to the Vale to be with your niece,” said Varys, gesturing down another staircase, which led to the waters. “There’s a boat ready for you, with everything you need inside—a map, a cloak, rations. A bow and a quiver of arrows, included. The crew will be silent, I can assure you.”

“How can you be sure?” you queried, cautious. Varys offered you a thin smile. “I cut their tongues out when they were young children. Little birds don’t stay little for so long, but they’re loyal to me.”

Horror painted your insides black. You had no idea what to think of Varys. You glanced at Jaime, who looked none too pleased at the notion, but gave you an encouraging nod.

Besides, what other choice did you have?

After a hesitant, quiet murmur of your gratitude to the eunuch, you slipped down the stairs, Jaime hot on your heels. He wasn’t supposed to follow you out of the Keep, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see you leave for himself, ensure that you left the capital safely.

The boat was a small, rickety thing, but it’d do. You spotted half a dozen young men and women onboard, deathly silent. Their eyes seemed to glow unnaturally against the dark seas. Unease settled within the pits of your stomach. 

You turned to Jaime, lips parting as you struggled for words. What could you say to him, after everything the two of you had been through together?

He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, grappling for a proper farewell. The words were lodged in his throat.

“You’re a good man, Ser Jaime,” you finally told him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Beneath all of your sister… and all of your father… there is good in you. There’s so much of it.”

Taking a step closer, Jaime gently cupped your face with his remaining hand, the golden one on his left arm feeling heavier by the second. You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to be vulnerable for just a moment. For decades and decades, you refused to let your guard down. With Jaime, you finally felt safe enough to do so. 

But you were leaving. 

It was a bittersweet feeling, he realized. He was glad you were going to leave: you’d be safer out there, looking for your niece in the Vale than in the capital with his wretched sister. But then again, he wanted you here. He wanted to be by your side, more than anything. To think, he had thought he was going to marry you only yesterday.

He leaned in closer, slow and tentative. There was ample time for you to pull away, but you didn’t. When his lips finally grazed yours, you finally pressed forward, fisting the lapels of his tunic, and tugging him closer. 

The kiss was soft at first, one of uncertainty and turmoil. It was quick to grow more desperate, pouring all the unsaid words and months of pent-up yearning into the embrace. You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against the side of his. He chased after your lips, but you forced yourself to turn your head away. 

Jaime’s entire chest ached. It ached and longed and screamed for you.

You had to go. The longer Jaime stayed out here with you, the riskier it was.

“I owe you everything,” you whispered, nose pressed against his cheekbone. There was an uneven warble to your voice. “Everything, Jaime.”

“No, you don’t,” he responded, kissing the patch of skin beside your pained eyes. “You did the same for me. We’re even now.”

A part of him wanted to tell you that he had asked his father if he could marry you. But he held the words back, knowing it would bring nothing but either of you pain. To love each other, only to never be able to be together. Jaime didn’t want you to feel that pain. You deserved to be free, to love a kind and soft-hearted Lord… someone that wasn’t him. That wasn’t a Lannister. That wasn’t the enemy.

After all, wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

A burning tear fell down his cheek. You offered him a watery smile. 

You smiled for him, after decades of never doing so.

Jaime loved you. He loved you more than anything. And he had to let you go.

Your hands slipped away from each other, and you turned to board the ship. The silent crew fluttered around you like ghosts, readying  to sail away in effortless coordination.

As the boat rocked into motion, edging away from King’s Landing, you heard alarm bells tolling in the distance, signifying Tyrion’s escape from prison. Jaime made his way back into the Red Keep, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the hazy fog.

The Bitter Wolf and the Golden Lion, Jaime thought. 

Now that was a tale certainly worth telling. 

#jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister fanfiction #jaime lannister fluff #jaime lannister angst #jaime lannister fic #jaime lannister x you #jaime lannister x stark!reader #asoiaf fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #jaime lannister

[hisui-dreamer]

YOOOOO CONGRATS ON 2K FOLLOWERS!!!

For the flower event, may I request a Leona x gn!reader with flowers that mean something like 'i love you' or 'you mean the world to me' but with flowers that is from a Chinese culture?

if its not possible, then regular ol' flowers are fine too

lotus bonds

Pairing: Leona Kingscholar x gn!reader

Synopsis: gifting leona a cool flower you found, but he seems to appreciate it more than you thought he would

Tags: fluff, reader is a bit oblivious?, domestic fluff

Word count: 420

Notes: i couldn't find a flower with the exact same meaning so i hope you're okay with this one!!

Masterlist

flower of choice: conjoined lotus

its unique characteristic of having conjoined flowers on one stem symbolizes unity and interconnectedness in love, mirroring the connection between lovers. if a lotus root is cut, there are "threads" that still connect them, meaning it is not easy to force them apart. if one flower is damaged, the other is affected as well, signifying the concept of growing old together and sharing life's joys and sorrows.

"Leona, Leona, look what I found!"

The slumbering beastman stirred from his nap at the sound of your voice, his heavy eyelids fluttering open. With a low grumble, he rubbed his eyes, attempting to adjust his eyes to the sunlit room. "What's all the noise about?" he muttered, his voice thick with drowsiness.

"I found these flowers at the lake today," you said softly, a hint of colour dusting your cheeks. "These two are conjoined together, isn't that amazing?"

With his curiosity aroused, he reached out, his fingers gently grasping the delicate petals of the flower, his touch careful and deliberate. As he examined each bloom, the concept of conjoined lotuses stirred a distant memory. He recalled reading about them some time ago, their significance in the Far East, a message they symbolized…

Conjoined flowers, a metaphor for the intertwining bonds of mutual love and affection found within marriages… with lotuses being the purest loves of all…

A flush of warmth crept up his cheeks as the realization washed over him. Glancing at you to study your expression, you seemed to be oblivious to the hidden meaning behind the flowers.

He chuckled softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. You were far too daring for your own good. He brushed his hand through his hair in an attempt to cool the heat rising within him. You really have no idea of the effect you have on him, huh?

Setting the flowers delicately on his bedside table, he made a mental note to cast a preserving spell on them later.

"C'mere," he murmured, tugging gently at your hand, drawing you into his embrace. Resting his head against your shoulder, he savours the comforting press of your warmth against his chest. He delights in the way you nestled into his embrace, a contented sigh escaping your lips as you leaned your weight against him.

...Maybe marriage with you wouldn't be so bad.

"Thank you for the flowers," he whispered against your ear, his arms enveloping you in a gentle squeeze.

"So, what other stuff did ya do today?"

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

fun fact: lotuses are most famous in ancient china for being a metaphor as a good king, with a poet saying "though lotuses grow from mud, they remain untainted". so you can interpret reader giving the coolest looking lotuses to leona as "you're the coolest bestest king in my eyes" :)

#✧2k! blossoming bouquets✦ #twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland leona #disney twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingsholar #twst leona kingscholar x reader #twst leona x reader #twst leona kingscholar #twst leona

[vivmaek]

POETRY FOR YOUR MOON SIGN

✰ my masterlist poems written by someone who has the same moon sign as you <3

☾PISCES☽

Edgar Allen Poe, A Dream Within a Dream

“Take this kiss upon the brow! / And, in parting from you now, / Thus much let me avow – / You are not wrong, who deem / That my days have been a dream; / Yet if hope has flown away / In a night, or in a day, / In a vision, or in none, / Is it therefore the less gone? / All that we see or seem / Is but a dream within a dream.”

June Jordan, You Came with Shells

“You came with shells. And left them: / shells. / They lay beautiful on the table. / Now they lie on my desk / peculiar / extraordinary under 60 watts.”

Toni Morrison, It Comes Unadorned

“it comes / Unadorned / Like a phrase / Strong enough to cast a spell; / It comes / Unbidden, / Like the turn of sun through hills / Or stars in wheels of song. / The jeweled feet of women dance the earth. / Arousing it to spring. / Shoulders broad as a road bend to share the weight of years. / Profiles breach the distance and lean / Toward an ordinary kiss. / Bliss. / it comes naked into the world like a charm.”

☾AQUARIUS☽

W.B Yeats, A Coat

“I made my song a coat / Covered with embroideries / Out of old mythologies / From heel to throat; / But the fools caught it, / Wore it in the world’s eyes / As though they’d wrought it. / Song, let them take it / For there’s more enterprise / In walking naked.”

W.B Yeats, The Lover Tells of the Roses in His Heart

“All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, / The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, / The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould, / Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart. / The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart, / With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold / For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.”

Louisa May Alcott, The Lay of a Golden Goose

“Oh! Be not rash,” her father said, / A mild Socratic bird; / Her mother begged her not to stray / With many a warning word. / But little goosey was perverse / And eagerly did cry, / “I’ve got a lovely pair of wings, / Of course I Ought to fly.”

☾CAPRICORN☽

John Milton, Sonnet 19

“When I consider how my light is spent, / Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, / And that one talent which is death to hide / Lodged with me useless, through my soul more bent / To serve therewith my Maker,”

Jala al-Din Rumi, The Guest House

“This being human is a guest house. / Every morning a new arrival. / A joy, a depression, a meanness, / some momentary awareness comes / As an unexpected visitor. / Welcome and entertain them all! / Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, / who violently sweep your house / empty of its furniture, / still treat each guest honorably. / He may be clearing you out / for some new delight. / The dark thought, the shame, the malice, / meet them at the door laughing, / and invite them in. / Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent / as a guide from beyond.”

Gwendolyn Brooks, a song in the front yard

“I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life. / I want a peek at the back / Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed / grows. / A girl gets sick of a rose.”

☾SAGITTARIUS☽

Lewis Carroll, A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky

“In a Wonderland they lie, / Dreaming as the days go by, / Dreaming as the summers die: / Ever drifting down the stream – / Lingering in the golden gleam – / Life, what it is but a dream?”

Dante Alighieri, From “Inferno”

“It’s the pain / of the people down there that empties my / face. / It’s pity / that you’ve mistaken for fear. / And it’s the long way / that pushes us now. / Let’s go.”

Victor Hugo, Tomorrow, At Dawn

“Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside whitens, / I will set out. You see, I know that you wait for me. / I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain. / I can no longer remain far from you. / I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, / Seeing nothing of outdoors, hearing no noise / Alone, unknown, my back curved, my hands crossed, / Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as night.”

☾SCORPIO☽

Sarojini Naid, Autumn Song

“Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow, / The sunset hangs on a cloud; / A golden storm of glittering sheaves, / Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, / The wild wind blows in a cloud. / Hark to a voice that is calling / To my heart in the voice of the wind: / My heart is weary and sad and alone, / For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, / And why should I stay behind?”

Shel Silverstein, Dreadful

“Someone ate the baby. / It’s absolutely clear / Someone ate the baby / ‘Cause the baby isn’t here. / We’ll give away her toys and clothes. / We’ll never have to wipe her nose. / Dad says, “That’s the way it goes.” / Someone ate the baby.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Aftermath

“When the summer fields are mown, / When the birds are fledged and flown, / And the dry leaves strew the path; / With the falling of the snow, / With the cawing of the crow, / Once again the fields we mow / And gather in the aftermath.”

☾LIBRA☽

Maya Angelou, Caged Bird

“A free bird leaps / on the back of the wind / and floats downstream / till the current ends / and dips his wing / in the orange sun rays / and dares to claim the sky.”

Emily Dickinson, Good Morning – Midnight

“Good Morning – Midnight – / I’m coming Home – / Day – got tired of Me – / How could I – of Him? / Sunshine was a sweet place – / I liked to stay – / But Morn – didn’t want me – now – / So – Goodnight – Day!”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, My Heart and I

“You see we’re tired, my heart and I. / We dealt with books, we trusted men, / And in our own blood drenched the pen, / As is such colours could not fly. / We walked too straight for fortune’s end, / We loved too true to keep a friend ; / At last we’re tired, my heart and I.”

☾VIRGO☽

Robert Hayden, Those Winter Sundays

“Sundays too my father got up early / and put his clothes on in the blueback cold, / then with cracked hands that ached / from labor in the weekday weather made / banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. / I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking / When the rooms were warm, he’d call, / and slowly I would rise and dress, / fearing the chronic angers of that house, / Speaking indifferently to him , / who had driven out the cold / and polished my good shoes well. / What did I know, what did I know / of love's austere and lonely offices?”

Jack Kerouac, How to Meditate

“Thinking’s just like not thinking- / So I don't have to think / any / more”

William Faulkner, Study

“Muted dreams for them / for me / Bitter science. Exams are near / And my thoughts uncontrollably / Wander, and I cannot hear / The voice telling me that work I must, / For everything will be the same when I’m dead / A thousand years. I wish I were a bust / All head.”

☾LEO☽

Walt Whitman, I sing the Body Electric

“I sing the body electric, / The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,”

Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves, / By each let this be heard, / Some do it with a bitter look, / Some with a flattering word, / The coward does it with a kiss, / The brave men with a sword!”

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Friendship

“A ruddy drop of manly blood / The surging sea outweighs, / The world uncertain comes and goes; / The lover rooted stays. / I fancied he was fled, – / And, after many a year, / Glowed unexhausted kindliness, / Like daily sunrise there. / My careful heart was free again, / O friend, my bosom said, / Through thee alone the sky is arched, / Through thee the rose is red; / All things through thee take nobler form, / And look beyond the earth, / The mill-round of our fate appears / A sun-path in thy worth. / Me too thy nobleness had taught / To master my despair; / The fountains of my hidden life / Are through thy friendship fair.”

☾CANCER☽

Shakespear, Sonnet 147

“My love is as a fever, longing still / For that which longer nurseth the disease, / Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,”

Robert Frost, Acquainted with the Night

“I have been one acquainted with the night. / I have walked out in rain – and back in rain. / I have outwalked the furthest city light. / I have looked down the saddest city lane. / I have passed by the watchman on his beat / And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. / I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet / When far away an interrupted cry / Came over houses from another street, / But not to call me back or say good-bye; / And further still at an unearthly height, / One luminary clock against the sky / Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. / I have been one acquainted with the night.”

William Blake, Auguries of innocence

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a wild flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And eternity in an hour”

☾GEMINI☽

Rudyard Kipling, Blue Roses

“Half the world I wandered through, / Seeking where such flowers grew. / Half the world unto my quest / Answered me with laugh and jest. / Home I came at wintertide, / But my silly love had died / Seeking with her latest breath / Roses from the arms of Death.”

John Keats, To Sleep

“Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords / Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; / Turn the key deftly into the oiled wards, / And seal the hushed Casket of my soul.”

Lord Tennyson, The Eagle

“He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, / Ring’d with the azure world, he stands. / The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; / He watches from his mountain walls, / And like thunderbolt he falls.”

☾TAURUS☽

John Donne, Air and Angels

“Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee, / Before I knew thy face or name; / So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame / Angels affects us oft, and worshipp’d be;”

Audre Lorde, Recreation

“my body / writes into your flesh / the poem / you make of me. / Touching you I catch midnight / as moon fires set in my throat / I love you flesh into blossom / I made you / and take you made / into me.”

Margaret Walker, Lineage

“My grandmothers were strong. / They followed plows and bent to toil. / They moved through fields sowing seed. / They touched earth and grain grew. / They were full of sturdiness and singing. / My grandmothers were strong. / My grandmothers are full of memories / Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay / With veins rolling roughly over quick hands / They have many clean words to say. / My grandmothers were strong. / Why am I not as they?”

☾ARIES☽

E.E Cummings, Love is more thicker than forget

“love is more thicker than forget / more thinner than recall / more seldom than a wave is wet / more frequent than to fail”

Mark Twain, Genius

“But above all things, / to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse / and then rush off and get booming drunk, / is the surest of all the different signs / of genius.”

Paul Laurence Dunbar, Ships that Pass in the Night

“Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; / I look far out into the pregnant night, / Where I can hear a solemn booming gun / And I catch the gleaming of a random light, / That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.”

#astrology #astro community #astrology placements #birth chart #astrology tumblr #natal astrology #natal chart #aries #aries moon #taurus #taurus moon #gemini #gemini moon #cancer #cancer moon #leo #Leo moon #virgo #virgo moon #libra #libra moon #scorpio moon #scorpio #sagittarius #sagittarius moon #capricorn #capricorn moon #Aquarius #Aquarius moon #Pisces

[mooshywrites]

Echoes of Love and Loss ~ Part 5 ~ End

Fem!Reader x Halsin

Masterlist

Art commission

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─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

A/N - This is the last part!!! Writing this has landed a special place in my heart. Thank you so much for everyone who interacted with this series, ive genuinely loved seeing people frothing at the bit in the comments :,) Fr tho, reading those makes my day <3. One last huge thank you to @thoughts-of-bear for this story prompt, this series wouldn’t be here without it! <3 <3 <3

Word count - 3K

Warnings - Happy ending!!!!

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“You’re alive?”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Part 3

Part 4

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For a moment, the air itself seemed to still as Halsin's gaze lingered on your belly, his eyes widening in a mix of shock and realization. You could see the emotions play out on his face - disbelief, wonder, and a hint of joy flickering in his eyes. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders, replaced by a newfound sense of purpose and connection.

You took a hesitant step towards him, unsure of what this sight before you really was. The silence that had enveloped the cabin was almost suffocating, broken only by the sound of your own nervous breathing.

“Halsin?” you whispered again, the word barely more than a breath as you searched his face for any sign of what he was thinking. His gaze slowly rose from your stomach to meet yours once more, and in that instant, you saw a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes.

Your thoughts spun as you tried to come to grips with the man standing in front of you. You were still so sure that it was a figment of your imagination.

He couldn’t really be alive in front of you. Could he?

Without a word spoken between you, Halsin crossed the remaining distance and reached out a trembling hand towards your stomach. His touch was gentle, reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe what his senses were telling him. You felt a surge of warmth at his touch, a feeling of connection that you had thought lost forever. The pressure of his calloused fingertips against you was the confirmation you needed.

He was here. He was alive.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked into his face, searching for some answers in the depths of his gaze.

Halsin's hand lingered on your stomach for a moment longer before he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought... I thought I had lost everything. But here you are.” His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning,

“Carrying a piece of me.” He finished, his voice cracking

You reached out to clasp his hand against your belly, a sob catching in your throat as the weight of his words settled over you both. The tears streamed freely down your cheeks, a mixture of joy, relief, and sorrow mingling together in a tumultuous storm of emotions. Halsin's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he gazed at you, his thumb gently caressing the curve of your stomach.

In that moment, the months of pain and longing seemed to melt away, leaving only the present - a fragile yet infinitely precious gift. You could feel the warmth of his touch seeping into your very soul, knitting together the shattered pieces of your heart.

“I never thought I would see you again,” you whispered, your voice raw with emotion. Halsin's grip tightened around yours, as if anchoring him self to this newfound reality.

“And yet here we are.” He murmured, his voice filled with wonder and gratitude.

“Here you are.” You choked out happily, throwing yourself in the Druid’s arms.

He caught you with an teary chuckle, holding you tight though his arms shook with emotion.

You clung to Halsin, the reality of his presence sinking in as you buried your face in his chest. The scent of pine and earth enveloped you, grounding you in the moment. It was a whirlwind of emotions - relief, joy, disbelief all crashing into you at once. Halsin held you close, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your ear.

“I've missed you so much,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

His arms tightened around you, a silent reassurance that he was there, that he wasn't going anywhere. The baby stirred within you, as if sensing the shift in the energy of the room.

Halsin stilled before setting you gently back onto the ground. His hand came back to your bump, resting atop where the baby had just kicked. His eyes were wide with intrigue, as if he couldn't quite believe the life burgeoning within you. You watched as a tender smile spread across his face, a mixture of awe and adoration illuminating his features. It was a sight you had dreamed about seeing, your Druid feeling your baby kick.

“When is the babe due to come, my heart?” Halsin murmured, his voice filled with wonder as he looked at you with newfound clarity. “It hasn’t been too hard of a pregnancy, I hope.”

You reached out to cup his cheek, your touch feather-light against his weathered skin. You couldn’t help but giggle at the casualness of the question. It was something a lover would ask the other without much thought, definitely not something to expect in a reunion between two who thought each other dead.

“Soon,” you whispered, the words still wet with tears. “And it’s been absolutely hellish, I’ll have you know.” You smiled.

Halsin's laughter filled the room, a sound that warmed your heart and eased the lingering tension between you. It was a sound you had feared you would never hear again, a piece of him that had been missing for far too long. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he gazed down at you, a lightness to his expression that you had almost forgotten.

“Well, I suppose I'll have to make it up to you then,” he said, his voice tinged with affection. “I'm here now, aren't I? And I don't plan on going anywhere.”

You felt a surge of gratitude wash over you, grateful for this second chance that fate had given you. The past seemed like a distant memory. The loneliness and heartache that you had felt so strongly seemed as if they had never existed in the first place

As the evening sun cast long shadows across the cabin floor, you found yourself enveloped in a sense of peace that you thought was lost. The flames crackled in the wood burning stove, casting dancing shadows across the walls of the hut as you and Halsin sat together, basking in the warmth of each other's presence. The weight of the years apart seemed to fade with each passing moment, hushed whispers and laughs as the two of you caught up.

Halsin couldn’t believe you had fixed the little shack up all on your own, seeming to be thankful of your resourcefulness. The Druid’s hand remained protectively on your belly, his touch a constant reassurance of the life growing within you. You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder as you listened to the comforting sound of his steady heartbeat. The world outside seemed to blur into insignificance, leaving only the two of you cocooned in a bubble of affection and contentment.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

One day later ~

The morning light filtered through the cabin's windows, painting patterns of warmth on the wooden floor. You woke to find Halsin already up, tending to the stove with a focused expression. Absentmindedly, you wondered if he had slept at all. The bed you had fitted to the side wasn’t all that big and you tented to be a bit of a blanket hog. In truth, you almost jumped out of your skin when waking to the sight of the large elf in your home,not remembering the emotional reunion you’d had while still shaking off the morning’s drowsiness.

You watched Halsin for a moment, taking in the sight of the man who had come back to you against all odds. The events of the previous day felt like a dream, but the solid reality of Halsin's presence beside you grounded you in this newfound truth.

As if sensing your gaze on him, Halsin turned towards you with a soft smile. “Good morning, my heart,” He greeted, his voice warm and filled with affection. “Did you sleep well?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “As well as can be expected,” You replied, pushing yourself up into a sitting position. The baby kicked within you, reminding you of why your sleep left much to be desired. A grimace fell across your face as a dull ache shot through your hips. You must have slept worse than you thought.

Halsin approached you, his eyes soft with concern as he knelt beside you, one hand instinctively going to your belly. “Is everything alright?” He asked, his voice laced with worry. You could see the fear flicker in his eyes, a reflection of your own anxieties about the life growing inside you.

You placed your hand over his, offering a reassuring squeeze. “I think the little one is just a little antsy this morning. A bit eager to meet their father after yesterday.” You said with a chuckle, trying to ignore the soreness.

“I can't wait to meet them too,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. The gesture was so tender, so full of love and promise that it brought tears to your eyes once again.

As Halsin helped you to your feet, you froze suddenly, feeling your body react in a way that could only mean one thing. Halsin looked on, growing concerned as the blood drained from your face.

“My heart?” He prodded. “What’s the matter?”

You looked up at him, giving the Druid a pained smile. “I don’t think you’re going to have to wait that long.”

Halsin’s eyebrows furrowed, his expression oozing confusion.

“Halsin.” You sighed, gripping his arm as another wave of pain hit you. “My water broke. I’m going into labor.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

One week later

You couldn't help but let out a soft giggle as you watched Halsin gently rock the newest addition to the Grove in his arms. The baby, only a handful of days old, had already captured the hearts of your friends who had visited earlier in the day. You, on the other hand, were mostly excited to have someone other than you and Halsin there to hold the very loud little tyke. And thankful. Thankful that Shadowheart had explained the situation to your companions and you didn’t have to answer millions of questions.

The group cooed and fawned over the tiny bundle, their faces filled with joy and wonder at the miracle of new life. Shadowheart, in particular, seemed to take a surprising shine to the infant.

The baby, however, was not thrilled with meeting so many new faces. The sweet baby girl seemed overwhelmed by the multiple voices, very quickly throwing a fit as soon as she was passed outside of Halsin’s arms.

Halsin chuckled softly, a look of adoration in his eyes as he cradled the fussing infant, rescuing her from her captors after a few piercing minutes. “It seems she's inherited her mother's spirited nature,” he remarked with a smile, trying to soothe the baby in his arms. The others slowly filtered out, leaving the cabin to you and Halsin once more. The little one, however, continued to cry, her face scrunched up in distress.

You reached out, taking the baby into your own arms and began to rock her gently. The sound of your voice seemed to have a calming effect, and soon the infant quieted, gazing up at you with big, curious eyes. Halsin watched the tender moment between mother and daughter, a softness in his expression that spoke volumes.

“She has your eyes,” Halsin observed quietly, his voice filled with emotion. You looked up at him, seeing a hint of tears shimmering in his eyes.

“She has your tears.” You giggled, reaching up to brush the droplets from his eyes.

He laughed along with you, cupping your hand against his cheek.

“I can't help it,” Halsin admitted, his voice tinged with wonder. “It's just...overwhelming, seeing her. Seeing you.”

You nodded in understanding, feeling the weight of his emotions mirrored in your own heart. The tiny bundle in your arms squirmed slightly, letting out a soft coo that made both you and Halsin smile.

As you settled into the new rhythm of parenthood, with all its challenges and joys, a sense of peace settled over both your new little family and the Grove. The trees whispered their secrets in the wind, the animals went about their daily routines and most wonderfully,

your little girl continued to grow.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

One year later.

The past year had been a whirlwind of joy and discovery. Your baby girl, now a rambunctious toddler, brought endless energy and laughter into your lives. She toddled around the Grove with determination, her chubby little legs propelling her forward as she explored every nook and cranny with wide-eyed wonder.

The more time you spent in the grove, the more you were comfortable being apart from your cabin. You knew it was always a walk away in the evening and being around the Druid’s was good for your soul. A soul that was no longer so content with loneliness.

You and Halsin watched in amazement as your daughter discovered the world around her, her curiosity seemingly boundless. The animals of the Grove had taken a liking to her, following her around like loyal companions as she babbled happily to them in her own toddler language.

Sometimes, you even thought they might understand her blubbering speech better than her own parents.

One sunny morning, you sat under the shade of a towering oak tree, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves above. Your daughter was playing nearby, her giggles filling the air as she chased after a butterfly that fluttered just out of reach.

Halsin joined you, a soft smile on his face as he watched your daughter's antics. “She's grown so much in such a short time.”

“Mhm.” You sighed, letting your eyes flutter shut. “She’s taken years off my life, that’s for sure.”

Halsin chuckled at your remark, the sound blending harmoniously with the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. He reached out a hand to intertwine his fingers with yours, a silent reminder of affection.

“She is a handful, that's for certain. But that’s not at all a bad thing.” He said softly, his eyes reflecting the depth of his love for both you and your daughter.

As you sat beneath the ancient oak tree, a sense of contentment washed over you like a warm embrace.

Your daughter toddled over, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement as she plopped down on the grass next to you. She held out a tiny flower she had picked, her eyes shining with delight.

“Mama, dada, fower!” she presented the flower with a proud grin, her little fingers clutching it tightly as if it were the most precious treasure in the world. You and Halsin exchanged a knowing glance, both hearts swelling with love for this tiny bundle of joy that had brought so much happiness into your lives.

Halsin leaned forward, his voice filled with mock seriousness as he examined the flower with exaggerated scrutiny. “Ah, I see,” he began in a grave tone, “A rare specimen indeed. A gift from Silvanus himself, presented to us by the most beautiful little flower Druid in all the land.”

You couldn't help but laugh at his theatrics, your daughter joining in with her infectious giggles. Halsin then turned to you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Perhaps she takes after her mother, always bringing beauty and magic wherever she goes.” He grinned

You playfully swatted his arm, a smile tugging at your lips. “Flattery will get you nowhere Halsin.”

“It seemed to get me quite close to you once upon a time.” He teased under his breath.

“Halsin!” You chided, your cheeks going red. Thankfully, your daughter had already waddled off, taking a new interest in a new critter in the distance.

Halsin couldn't help but chuckle at your embarrassment, finding immense joy in teasing you. He leaned back against the tree, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, don't be so ashamed of those o’ so passionate nights, my heart. You know I speak only the truth," he said with a grin, his tone lighthearted.

You rolled your eyes before giving him a coy smile.

“What is that look for?” Halsin threw you a weary glance.

You couldn't contain the excitement bubbling within you any longer. As Halsin glanced at you with mild confusion, a mischievous twinkle lit up your eyes.

“Speaking of passionate nights, my dear Halsin," You began, unable to keep the playful tone out of your voice, “I have news that might just topple the trees of this Grove with its enormity.”

Halsin raised an eyebrow, a curious smile playing on his lips. “Pray tell, my heart, what grand revelation do you bring to me on this serene day?”

You leaned in closer, the grin on your face widening as you whispered dramatically, “I'm pregnant again.”

The words lingered in the air, and for a moment, silence enveloped the space between you two. Then, Halsin's eyes widened in astonishment before a joyful laugh erupted from his chest.

“Pregnant again?” hHe exclaimed, disbelief and elation mixing in his voice.

You nodded in confirmation, a radiant smile lighting up your face as you watched the realization sink in on Halsin's features. His laughter filled the air like music, blending with the sounds of nature and birdsong of the Grove in a symphony of joy.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you protectively as if you would disappear if he let go. “Another child,” He murmured against your hair, his voice filled with wonder and happiness.

“Anodder what?” Your daughter trilled, appearing in front of you like a mischievous imp, her eyes wide with curiosity at the joyous commotion.

Halsin released you from his embrace and scooped up your daughter, swinging her around in a circle as he laughed heartily. “Another sibling for you, little duck! Can you believe it?” He exclaimed, his eyes crinkling at the corners with pure delight.

Your daughter squealed with glee, her laughter blending with Halsin's like a melody of pure happiness. You giggled at her excitement, knowing she probably had no idea what was going on. All she knew was that the two of you were excited and she couldn’t help but be a part of it.

In the midst of laughter and joy, the world around you seemed to shimmer with newfound magic. The Grove itself hummed with a vibrancy that seemed to echo your own emotion. Your daughter clapped her hands with excitement, her tiny face aglow with happiness, as Halsin twirled her around in a playful dance.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting an ethereal golden light over the clearing, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude for the beauty of this moment. The warmth of Halsin's presense, the sound of your daughter's laughter, and the promise of new life blossoming within you created a tapestry of love that enveloped you entirely.

And so, as the day faded into twilight and the stars began to peek out from behind their velvet curtain, you knew that the next day would bring nothing more than peace and happiness.

“What’s a ‘sih-bwing’?” A tiny voice cut through the serenity.

You giggled, watching as Halsin tried to explain the idea to your very confused toddler. Perhaps ‘peace’ was a little too much to ask for.

But in the end,

You couldn’t want for more.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

#halsin #halsin silverbough #halsin x you #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #halsin fanfiction #halsin smut #halsin series #halsin romance #bg3 halsin #baldurs gate 3 halsin #halsin fic #daddy halsin #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #halsin angst #bg3 angst #bg3 fluff #baldurs gate 3 fluff #baldurs gate 3 x reader #bg3 x reader #baldurs gate 3 romance #bg3 romance

[hrefna-the-raven]

I want to thank you

Masterlist - BG3 masterlist

Words: 2302

Warnings: drunkenness, smut (18+)

Summary: Driders shouldn't get drunk unless they stumble upon intoxicated prey...what happens in the woods, stays in the woods 😏

Your group had finally made it out of the shadow-cursed lands. Despite the protests of your companions, you decided to let the drider Kar'niss tag along your merry group of misfits. They hadn't glimpsed into his mind, seen what you've seen, so naturally they wouldn't understand your reasoning but you simply couldn't leave him to his death at Moonrise Towers, especially not after he'd decided to defy his queen and help you defeat Ketheric. And, as you journeyed together, engaged in peculiar conversations along the way, you unexpectedly grew fond of the drider's company. Approaching the first bigger village, you decided to set up camp. While your companions sought solace in the comforts of a local tavern, longing for a soft bed, you chose to remain on the outskirts of the forest, keeping Kar'niss company as he dared not reveal himself within the village. Setting up a modest tent, you kindled a small fire and couldn't help but smile as Kar'niss skillfully spun his web between the trees.

"I'll quickly head to the tavern, have a few drinks, but I'll be back quickly", you said to Kar'niss.

"Yes, yes", he mumbled somewhat distractedly, "we need to hunt, we need food, go, we'll be busy."

"Remember to not kill any villagers", you warned him sternly, receiving only a nod in response.

With sorrowful eyes, he watched as you made your way towards the village.

Two drunkards staggered towards the forest, belting out an odd melody at the top of their lungs, swinging their tankards and occasionally taking a sip. The commotion caught Kar'niss' attention, prompting him to approach them cautiously while remaining hidden in the shadows. A smile tugged at his lips as he observed them walking straight towards his web. Easy prey, he thought, licking his lips hungrily, his arachnid instincts awakening. He made his move, his eight legs carrying him silently towards the trapped men. With a swift motion, he pierced their drunken flesh, letting the crimson elixir flow into his insatiable mouth. Kar'niss moaned with delight as their blood touched his taste buds, savouring its distinct flavour that was both sweeter and more tantalizing than anything he had ever experienced. The more he drank, the hazier his mind became, intoxicated by the unfamiliar warmth that coursed through his body. Relinquishing his hold on the men, he ran his tongue across his lips, relishing every last drop of blood that clung to his face.

As Kar'niss attempted to navigate his way back to his tent, he was taken aback by the surprising turn of events. His own body seemed to betray him, causing him to stumble and sway, his numerous legs becoming tangled in a rather clumsy display. Amidst the chaos, he found himself overcome by a mixture of laughter and tears, as these emotions washed over him like a powerful wave crashing against his fragile psyche. He almost felt like being thrown back to his earliest days as a drider, when he struggled to control his unfamiliar form. However, this time, along with the sensation of warmth, there was an overwhelming sense of joy that spread throughout his chest.

You rushed towards the woods, feeling guilty for lingering at the tavern longer than planned. Your footsteps abruptly halted as you caught sight of your little camp. Next to the fire you saw Kar'niss lying on his back, which immediately felt wrong, he'd be too weary to let his guard down like this. Concern gripped you as you heard him sobbing, prompting you to sprint towards him.

"Kar'niss, are you alright? Are you injured?", you called out, but all you received in response was a playful giggle.

A peculiar scene unfolded before your eyes. He lay on his back, his eight legs lazily sprawled to the side, occasionally twitching as he sniffed one of your tunics. He clutched it tightly to his chest as though it were the most precious treasure in the world.

"Kar'niss?", you cautiously inquired as you knelt beside him.

His gaze shot upward, quickly shifting towards you as a grin spread across his face. Attempting to raise himself, he gave up halfway and slumped back onto the ground, emitting an amused sigh.

"Our beloved queen has returned," he slurred, his words drowned out by a heartfelt sob. "We've missed yoooouuuuu."

"What happened to you? Have you eaten? Are you feeling unwell?" you inquired.

The drider inhaled the scent of your tunic once more before carelessly discarding it to the side, causing it to land directly in the fire. Great there goes my last clean untorn tunic, you thought to yourself. Distracted by your last precious piece of garment catching fire, you didn't notice that the drider finally managed to turn around. He lifted himself up, only to lose his balance once again. His upper body came crashing down upon yours, burying you beneath him. You gasped for breath, realizing how close the two of you had suddenly become. His torso pressed against yours, his hair cascading down on either side of your face and the tip of his nose nearly touching yours. Seven eyes were fixated on your blushing face as Kar'niss suppressed a groan that rumbled deep within his chest.

"We've grown fond of you, new queen, you saved us", he whispered, "we-I want to thank you."

Leaning in, he clumsily pressed his lips against yours. Surprisingly, you found yourself moaning into the kiss, which he interpreted as an invitation to deepen it with his tongue. It never occurred to you that Kar'niss would know how to kiss, but it made sense considering his previous life and the charm that still radiated from his face, probably being popular among female drow back then. Squirming beneath him, your hands gently pushed his face away, breaking the kiss as you gasped for air, still trying to process what was happening in this moment.

"She doesn't desire us, we are not deserving, we apologize," he muttered, attempting to retreat, but you refused to release him. Instead, you delved into his thoughts, seeking the memories of this evening. You witnessed the presence of two men from the tavern, observing how Kar'niss consumed their blood before stumbling towards your tent. It finally dawned on you: he was drunk, completely and utterly inebriated, without any restrictions, fear or doubt holding his true self back, baring his vulnerability to you.

The irony of the situation amused you; amidst all the trials you had faced, being trapped beneath an intoxicated drider who held affection for you was definitely an unexpected turn of events. With the connection severed, Kar'niss playfully nudged your cheek with his nose, demanding your undivided attention once more.

"We saw your memories too", he whispered, "secret glances, racing pulse, concealed thoughts."

Your eyes widened in shock and fear, realising that he had rummaged through your mind as well, finding feelings you'd planned to keep hidden.

"You desire us-me, you desire me", his voice sounded so fragile in this moment, "despite this curse, shattered, undeserving, ugly, you desire me."

His lips quivered as he tried to grasp onto your feelings for him, his heart aching as it experienced the love and desire it believed it would never feel again. You pulled him closer to you, your lips meeting his in a more intense kiss this time. Kar'niss moaned, feeling your hips pressing against his, your connection reigniting, both of your desires intertwining in a flawless symphony of lust. His hands delicately caressed your body, as if afraid that his sharp claws might accidentally tear your skin. Moans of pleasure escaped from your mouth, occasionally muffled by his passionate kisses, as you felt something firm pressing against your clothed arousal. Your curiosity led your eyes to glance downwards, where you noticed a long hard skin coloured member nestled between two plates, just above the point where his drow and spider forms merged. A question formed in your mind, but before you could ask, he released you from his embrace and moved away. 

"We were her ultimate failure, condemned to this existence, never to experience love, yet burdened with desires and the potential for intimacy", tears streamed down his face as he revealed the truth. You focused on flooding his mind with your love for him, the deep affection you held, and the burning cravings to be with him in his current form. Looking into his eyes, you severed the connection with one final statement: she was mistaken, I desire every part of you.

Perhaps it was the lingering influence of the alcohol or the consequence of the emotional barrier finally shattering completely, but it awakened a primal desire within Kar'niss. A wild instinct overtook his entire being as he pounced on you, violently tearing your garments apart with his razor-sharp claws. Before you could even process a fleeting moment of sadness for yet another piece of clothing shuffled off this mortal coil, his hardened length pressed against your wet folds. Your gaze shot upward, witnessing Kar'niss losing himself in the throes of pleasure. His many eyes shut tight, his mouth agape, and his tongue flicking over his lips as a deep growl reverberated from deep within his chest. The scene before you was captivating, etching itself into the depths of your being. A resounding moan escaped your lips as your hips involuntarily bucked, causing him to slide effortlessly inside you.

More moans escaped your lips, blending with the passionate cries of his name as he stretched and filled you entirely. Both of you gasped for breath and remained motionless for a brief moment, relishing in the sensation of being so perfectly intertwined with both your minds and bodies. Kar'niss slurred unintelligible words, his eight legs struggling to support him as one arm wrapped around you, pulling you close against his body. With great effort, he managed to stand up, still burried deep inside you, but the intoxication was still taking a toll on his coordination and he stumbled forward. Barely avoiding the nearby tent, his other hand slammed against a tree trunk for stability, causing your back to collide with the rough bark. The sudden movement caused Kar'niss to slide even deeper inside you, evoking a shared groan of pleasure. Your inner walls tightened around him, on the brink of orgasm from the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body. Desiring more of him, your fingers curled around his neck, drawing him in for a passionate kiss. Your tongue eagerly explored his mouth, intensifying the connection between you. Kar'niss's body moved with a swiftness that surpassed his thoughts, struggling to grasp the euphoric situation he found himself in. His hips immediately began thrusting into you at a brutal pace. His heart threatened to burst from his chest as exhaustion spread through his body, yet every fiber of his being was determined to persist. Eventually, his legs trembled and gave way, causing both of you to collapse onto the tent, tearing it down in the process. In a desperate attempt to maintain balance, Kar'niss's claws slid off and left deep marks in the tree bark. However, neither of you cared about the chaos surrounding you as he continued to ravish you relentlessly while you moaned loud enough for all of Faerûn to hear you. In between panting breaths, Kar'niss uttered your name as his length twitched inside you as he filled you with his seed. With two final thrusts, he pulled out just before your own orgasm consumed you.

You were about to huff in protest when he forcefully pinned you to the ground, growling fiercely before he settled between your legs and his tongue eagerly began to flick at your clit. Your mind spun as you felt him suck on you, his tongue delving deep into your entrance to lick up the mingling of your fluids with his own.

"Gooooood....moooore", he mumbled against your wetness before sucking at your clit once more.

You could feel your climax approaching rapidly again and just as you were about to reach it, he thrust two of fingers inside you, pushing you right over the edge of pleasure. You cried out his name, your hands grasping onto his hair as your legs twitched and trembled. Kar'niss chuckled softly, gently lifting you up and stumbling unsteadily towards his web in the trees. He settled down, cradling you in his arms, ensuring your safety so you wouldn't fall.

You couldn't recall the exact moment you drifted off to sleep, but as you awakened to the animated discussions of two awfully familiar voices, it dawned on you that you were not inside your tent and the sun had already risen. Startled, you bolted upright, oblivious to the fact that you were entangled in a spider's web among the branches. Without warning, you tumbled forward, nearly letting out a scream until an arm swiftly caught you, pulling you back against a comforting form. When you turned your head, you discovered Kar'niss nestled in the web, still sound asleep while holding you tightly with a contented smile on his face. As you glanced down, you noticed Gale and Astarion standing by your tent. Gale appeared visibly agitated, gesticulating wildly, until the pale elf's eyes met yours, his face adorned with a self-satisfied grin.

"Oh I know exactly what kind of animal went on a rampage here last night", the vampire chuckled, "but rest assured, she is not present. It is likely that she slept elsewhere and will join us shortly at the tavern."

"How can you be so certain?", Gale huffed, crossing his arms.

"Gale, darling, I simply know", Astarion smirked, taking Gale's arm and leading him back to the village.

As they walked away, Astarion turned his head one last time to wink at you. It was clear that this day was going to be a tedious one, filled with questions you had no desire to answer.

Tags:

@orionspaperwork

#baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 smut #bg3 x reader #bg3 x you #kar'niss x reader #kar'niss x you #bg3 kar'niss #kar'niss #karniss #drunk Kar'niss #smut #bg3 gale #astarion

[ukiyowi]

Channelled Messages II 💌

Channelling messages from your: Future Spouse's guides, your shadow self, your parents.

Note: Have fun!! And please reblog and send feedback (if you want) it helps a ton, have a lovely day everyone. Reblogging and paid readings help a lot! Pls DM me if you want one!

Masterlist! || Book a reading! || Tip 🫙!

Future Spouse's Guides

Your Shadow Self

Your Parents

- ✪✪✪ -

💌 Pile 1

My Dearest,

As the spirit guide of your future spouse, I am honored to offer you guidance and wisdom that transcends the boundaries of time and space. Though my role is to support your beloved from the spiritual realm, I am deeply invested in your happiness and well-being, for your future union is a testament to the profound love and connection you share. In this letter, I aim to provide you with advice that is both general yet specific, touching upon various aspects of life, not solely confined to matters of love.

First and foremost, let us discuss the significance of self-discovery. Throughout your life's journey, you will encounter a myriad of experiences, challenges, and joys. It is crucial to embrace these moments as opportunities for growth and self-understanding. As you become more attuned to your own needs, desires, and values, you will naturally radiate a sense of authenticity and confidence that will enrich your relationship.

Never forget the importance of compromise. In every relationship, there will be differences in opinions, preferences, and priorities. Approach these disagreements with a willingness to find common ground, and remember that sometimes, the act of yielding can be a powerful testament to your love.

Remember to nurture the small moments of joy and spontaneity. Life often unfolds in the ordinary, and it is within these seemingly simple moments that the deepest connections are forged. Cherish the laughter, the shared meals, and the quiet evenings together.

The universe is conspiring to bring you together with your beloved, and your spirit guides, myself included, watch over you with love and care. Embrace the lessons and blessings that come your way, and may your love story be a timeless testament to the power of love.

They are waiting for you, your souls are meant to meld and they will very soon, till then please take care of yourself <3.

With love 🩵

💌 Pile 2

Hello love,

Beginning with, let me assure you that your path is illuminated by the radiant light of potential and destiny. The future holds both challenges and triumphs, and it is essential to approach them with an open heart and a resilient spirit. Remember, life is a beautiful tapestry woven from both joy and sorrow, and every thread contributes to your unique and intricate story.

One of the most important pieces of advice I can offer is to embrace the ever-changing nature of existence. Life is a series of cycles, and like the seasons, it brings moments of both abundance and scarcity. In times of abundance, cherish the blessings bestowed upon you, but do not become complacent. Use your good fortune to uplift others and to grow as an individual. And in times of scarcity, hold steadfast to your inner strength, for they are the crucibles in which your character is forged.

In the pursuit of your dreams and aspirations, I urge you to cultivate patience and perseverance. Life's most significant accomplishments often require time and effort. Do not be discouraged by setbacks, for they are the stepping stones to your ultimate success. Your journey may be arduous at times, but your future spouse's spirit guide assures you that every challenge you face is an opportunity for growth. As you journey through life, you will encounter love in its many forms.

Some loves will be fleeting, like shooting stars in the night sky, while others will be enduring and steadfast like the North Star. It is important to discern between the two, for not all who enter your life are meant to stay, and not all who depart are lost.

Your relationship with yourself is the foundation upon which all other connections are built. Treat yourself with kindness and compassion, and remember that self-love is not a selfish act, but a necessary one. When you love and respect yourself, you radiate positivity, attracting love and respect from others.

Waiting for you~

💌 Pile 3

Hi sweetheart!

In the years to come, you will encounter crossroads and diverging paths. The choices you make at these junctures will shape your professional destiny. Remember, dear one, that it is not always about the most lucrative or prestigious option, but rather the one that aligns with your passions and values. Seek out work that resonates with your soul, for a fulfilling career is one that brings joy and a sense of purpose.

Let me reassure you that the path you're on is destined for greatness. While life can be a rollercoaster, remember that even the steepest drops can lead to thrilling highs. So, don't be afraid to embrace the twists and turns that come your way. They're all part of the grand adventure. Now, let's talk about your career.

Picture it like a delicious buffet (and who doesn't love a good buffet, right?). You've got a wide array of options laid out before you. Some might look tempting, while others might leave you scratching your head. My advice? Try a bit of everything! Just like at the buffet, you won't know what your absolute favorite is until you've sampled a little bit of everything.

Don't feel pressured to settle for the first dish that comes your way. Explore different career opportunities, experiment with various roles, and indulge in your passions. If you're passionate about something, even if it seems unconventional, go for it

Remember, your future is a canvas, and your career is the vibrant palette you use to paint your masterpiece. Oh, and remember to strike a balance between work and play. Life isn't all about the hustle and grind.

Take time to savor the sweet moments, laugh with friends, and cherish the love of your future spouse. They'll be your biggest cheerleader on this journey, and together, you'll conquer any challenge that comes your way.

Take care love!

- ✪✪✪ -

💌 Pile 1

I see you often doubting your abilities and second-guessing your decisions. When you're faced with challenges or new opportunities, you tend to retreat into your comfort zone to avoid the discomfort of failure or rejection.

My advice to you is this: Embrace the discomfort. Step outside of your comfort zone intentionally, even when it scares you. It's in those moments of vulnerability that you can truly learn and grow. Remember, making mistakes is not a sign of weakness; it's a sign of courage and the path to improvement.

When faced with challenges, don't shy away. Confront them head-on, for it is through adversity that you discover your true strength. Embrace your flaws and imperfections, for they are what make you uniquely you. They hold the seeds of your growth and evolution.

Do not suppress your emotions; they are your compass. Feel them deeply, both the joy and the pain. They offer valuable insights into your desires, fears, and aspirations. Learn from them and allow them to guide your decisions.

Embrace your darkness, for it holds the potential for profound transformation. It is not something to be feared, but a wellspring of untapped creativity and power.

Remember, you are a mosaic of light and shadow, embrace both.

💌 Pile 2

When you hear that inner voice saying, "I can't do it" or "I'm not good enough," that's me. My advice is to confront those thoughts head-on.

First and foremost, remember that your thoughts are not necessarily facts. They are products of your perception and past experiences. Start by analyzing the evidence for and against these self-doubts. Ask yourself, "What proof do I have that I can't do it?" You might be surprised to find that many of your fears are based on assumptions rather than concrete evidence.

Furthermore, consider reframing your self-talk. Instead of saying, "I can't," try saying, "I can, but it might be challenging," or "I can, with effort and practice." This shift in perspective can empower you to approach tasks with a growth mindset, recognizing that even failures and setbacks are opportunities for learning and improvement.

Embrace challenges as opportunities to prove me wrong. Remember that growth often occurs outside your comfort zone. Taking calculated risks, setting ambitious goals, and pushing your boundaries are all ways to demonstrate your capabilities. Each small victory, each obstacle overcome, is a testament to your potential.

Seeking support and encouragement from others is not wrong or bad. Share your aspirations and fears with trusted friends, mentors, or therapists. They can provide valuable perspectives, guidance, and motivation during your journey of self-discovery and personal growth.

Analyse your doubts, reframe your self-talk, embrace challenges, and seek support. By doing so, you can prove your shadow self wrong and unlock your full potential.

💌 Pile 3

When haunting memories of past mistakes and regrets resurface, don't let them consume you. Rather than dwelling on the pain of the past, reflect on what each experience has taught you. Every misstep and error holds within its valuable lessons. Reflect on what you've learned from these experiences, for they have shaped you into the person you are today.

Forgiveness, both of yourself and others, can be liberating. It allows you to release the emotional burdens that may be holding you back and opens the door to personal growth and healing.

Finally, those impulses and desires that occasionally surge within you are not to be ignored or suppressed. Instead, explore their origins and motivations. Sometimes, these desires reveal untapped passions and dreams that are yearning for your attention. By embracing and understanding them, you can find ways to channel them positively, enriching your life in unexpected ways.

I am here to challenge you to become a more authentic and whole version of yourself. They are not reckless impulses but signposts pointing to unfulfilled potential.

By acknowledging and channeling these desires constructively, you can embark on a transformative journey toward a more fulfilling and authentic life.

- ✪✪✪ -

💌 Pile 1

You've been positively shining lately, and we couldn't be prouder.

It's like watching a shooting star streak across the sky – you're constantly surprising us with your brilliance and leaving us in awe. From acing your exams to that recent project you tackled with gusto, you're proving to the world that you're a force to be reckoned with.

But you know what we love even more than your accomplishments? It's your zest for life and the twinkle in your eye as you chase your dreams. Remember, life is not just about reaching destinations; it's about enjoying every twist and turn of the journey.

So, keep reaching for the stars, our little superstar! We have no doubt that you'll continue to amaze us and everyone around you. Just promise us one thing – never lose that playful spirit and infectious enthusiasm that makes you who you are.

We love you more than words can express, and we can't wait to see where your next adventure takes you. Congratulations, and keep on. You're not just making us proud; you're making the whole family proud!

💌 Pile 2

We hope this letter finds you well and wrapped in the warmth of our love, even if from afar. There are words we've been carrying in our hearts, words that need to find their way to you.

We want to tell you how very sorry we are for any moments of pain, frustration, or disappointment we may have caused you in the course of your life. As parents, we've made mistakes, stumbled along the way, and at times, failed to truly understand your perspective.

We want you to know that our love for you is immeasurable, and it is in the shadow of that love that we can identify and acknowledge our shortcomings. We recognize that there were moments when we should have listened more, when we should have supported your dreams more enthusiastically, and when we should have been a more constant presence in your life.

Please understand that our actions were never intended to cause you harm. We were navigating the complexities of parenthood the best we knew how, often learning as we went along. Sometimes, our fears and insecurities clouded our judgment, and for that, we are deeply sorry.

Our love for you, though, has always been unwavering, a beacon of hope and pride. Watching you grow, accomplish, and become the remarkable person you are today fills us with indescribable joy. Your kindness, intelligence, and strength are a testament to your character, and we couldn't be prouder.

We hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us for any past missteps. Our wish is that we can move forward with a renewed sense of understanding, compassion, and love between us.

We're here to support you in all your endeavors, to listen when you need an ear, and to be the parents you truly deserve. With a love that will never die,

🩷

💌 Pile 3

You are a cherished part of our lives, and nothing will ever change that. We wanted to share some feelings with you because we believe in open and honest communication. Recently, there have been moments when we felt a slight sense of disappointment in some of your choices and actions.

Please understand that this disappointment does not diminish our love for you, nor does it define our overall view of you as a person. We apologize for feeling this way, as we recognize that no one is perfect, and everyone makes mistakes. Our expectations might have been too high, and we realize that it's important for us to accept you as you are, with your unique strengths and flaws.

Our intention in sharing this is not to make you feel guilty or burdened but to foster understanding and growth within our family. We believe that through open conversations and support, we can work through these feelings together. We hope that you can forgive us for any undue pressure we may have unintentionally placed on you.

Remember, our love for you is boundless and unconditional, and we are here to help and support you as you navigate life's challenges. Let's move forward together, learning from our experiences, and growing as individuals and as a family.

- ✪✪✪ -

#pick a card reading #pac #daily tarot #tarot reading #tarot readings #tarotcommunity #tarot cards #tarotblr #tarot #intuitive #intuition #intuitive readings #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot witch #tarot deck #psychic

[punkpandapatrixk]

🪷Sacred Lotus Within You ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

‘If you only do what you can do, you will never be more than what you are now.’

‘I don’t wanna be more! I like who I am.’

‘You don’t even know who you are.’

‘What do you— Of course I do; I’m the Dragon Warrior!’

‘And what exactly does that mean—Dragon Warrior?’

—  Po and Shifu’s conversation from Kung Fu Panda 3

SONG: Pure Imagination by Gene Wilder

MOVIE: Kung Fu Panda 3 (2016)

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

A hard Life is not always a divine punishment of sort⛈More often than not, the Universe’s most advanced Souls choose to be born—as Humans—into much sorrow and a perceived sense of limitation just for the joy of experiencing a personal breakthrough out of a cycle of—both—good and bad Karma🍄

Seen from a Soul’s perspective, all events in this mortal world are just drama. drama. drama~🎭It’s so exciting to co-Create massive stories with other Souls in this theatre of the Universe🎪This Play in itself, a spiritual evolution of sort for all beings of Love and Light🩰

This world is at best the dream of a Butterfly🦋Have fun; and have faith that in time all things bloom magnificently like a Sacred Lotus emerging from the mud🪷Ultimately, all of us, we bring with us only memories of our lifetimes when we are done playing our roles in this Grand Experiment of a Cosmic Drama💫

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – Peace Maker

VIBE: Master Shifu asking Po to teach him inner peace

seeds of beauty in you – 10 of Pentacles Rx

Encoded in your DNA is the very gift of healing itself. You were born into this world of stupid carrying seeds of peace-making. Yup, you were the kid who was always able to tell when a grownup was lying. Like, OMG, so disrespectful…they think I can’t see through such obvious lies? In fact, too many things were obvious to you because you are gifted with a keen ability of observation. We’re talking superhuman-level observation, baby~

With that, the world around you was often terribly dull. You’re definitely the type that wants to travel and see the world for yourself. Wanting to see what other people of different nations and races, customs and cultures, even religions, have to share about what this Life is all about~ You had A LOT of questions!

Alas… You soon realised that most people’s perceptions, priorities, and overall ways of life are low-quality at best. Your interactions with people, your observations of them, gave you almost nothing but disdain. People…are not intelligent enough. But more disturbing still…people are not noble enough in their pursuits of a good Life.

In your eye, most of the time, people don’t have enough integrity, character, or personality🤷🏻‍♀️

blooming in spite of muddy water – 7 of Pentacles Rx

If you’re often distressed by the state of Humanity, it is because you possess this divine ability to pierce through bullshit and reveal the true essence of all things. You’re a deep diver. You truly are a scholar. You’re the type that seeks to bridge between differences and clashes, so that people find a common ground upon which they could build a harmonious society. You most likely have a significant placement in the 7th House or blessed with a strong Libra/Venus aenergy~⚖️

Essentially, you’ve come into this world with an almost specific purpose of bridging differences between generations. All because your Oversoul was sick of watching Humans being fools amongst themselves. So you plunged into this world of illusions in the hopes of elevating people’s spiritual intelligence. Your unique gift of observation is piercing and high-vibrational and the reason it can bridge generations is that the wisdom you will develop as a person is both universal and timeless💎

You are an Ascended Master, you know. Like Po returning to the mortal world after defeating Kai. Like Gandalf the Grey returning as Gandalf the White after defeating the Balrog. All because you’ve got shit to do in this world of stupid—your wisdom is gravely needed! I’m not teaching you to be conceited or anything, but by means of technicality, you’re not here to learn anymore; you’re here to…teach🤣

tulips of happiness – Knight of Cups

No matter your age or their age, you’re here to teach the infantile Humans about inner peace and true, everlasting, sustainable, manageable, actually reasonable sense of Harmony🌷You do that by setting an example; by first bridging confusions and calming down chaos within yourself; then you talk about the walk to anybody interested enough to listen to you🌾

In this lifetime, as an Ascended Master playing Human, there’s probably a lot of heartache you’ve needed to learn to forgive. If you’re in your early or mid-20s when reading this, you’re most likely just beginning to learn it. You don’t have to act perfectly though. Healing and forgiveness are not about being or doing perfect. It’s perfectly OK, too, not to forgive—certain cruelties in this world are simply beyond absolution, ya know?🤬

What does truly matter is that you forgive yourself. Just yourself. You can forgive the situation. You can forgive the fact you fucked your way into this or that mess. Where applicable, you can give thanks to the experience and then move on to the next thing. Be glad about the fact that you’re still alive after all of the fuckery, and that you’ve enough self-awareness, and how that self-awareness has grown you as a person. It is such a beautiful thing to have grown up in the mental and spiritual~🦉

ESSENCE OF BEING HUMAN🔻💜

the script you chose – Silver Alchemist (Ramon Llull)

path of self-transcendence – Priestess of Healing

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – Pink Radiance

VIBE: Master Oogway sending universe mail to Li Shan

seeds of beauty in you – III The Empress Rx

Oooh~ You’re pretty~ That much I can tell🙊You probably are blessed with some significant Aries, Aquarius, or any Cardinal aenergy in your birth chart; could also have Venus/Moon in the 1st or 11th House~ And do you know why you’re bestowed with an outer appearance that’s easily considered attractive in this realm? Because you’re meant to have an audience🎙

You’re meant to be heard; to have a platform and be some sort of a leader. And since being pretty in this world brings a lot of privileges, your Soul chose to be born with this specific setting in your birth chart wHoA~ A pretty face gets attention more effortlessly and that’s just how it is with this world~🙈

So, you see that there’s meaning in having some forms of privilege whether it’s your face or your family/economic background, or even heritage or some special lineage thing going on in your Life🎰And yet, it seems you could’ve been blind to all this ‘upper hand’ and not see much value in your existence.

None of this has felt all that special…well, because you were born with it. It’s not special; it’s normal to you; and you definitely want to feel special…not really grasping others would kill to have what you were born with…🐞

blooming in spite of muddy water – XVI The Tower

In spite of all of the privileges that seem obvious and enviable to others, you yourself have not felt all that blessed most of your Life. There is this thing that people don’t understand about you: EXPECTAFUCKINTION. Expectation could kill, depending on situation, and depending on where you are in Life. In many ways, you haven’t really ever felt FREE in your beingness. You don’t really know how FREE truly would feel like. You can imagine it, but you don’t really know if that’s even real🤷🏻‍♀️

Whether it’s status, prestige, or simply beauty, sometimes you’ve felt victimised by the very things other people wish they had. They literally don’t know how suffocating it is to be wearing your crown~ You often feel like you don’t have autonomy over your own Life. In some instances, you may even have experienced your autonomy getting violated. And it’s so heartbreaking.

At some point in Life, you will suddenly and gradually lose access to all of these beauties and privileges, maybe even some of your talents, babe. All these things that came ever so naturally to you, once you’ve lost ‘em, you will die in spirit, and be reborn with a renewed sense of appreciation for the fact you have always, ALWAYS, been extraordinary👿

tulips of happiness – King of Swords

Whether you are a girl or a boy or straight or gay or whatever, you are an ally of the world’s Divine Feminine aenergy. Do not worry about losing your glory; it will aaalll come back stronger and sparklier once you’ve graduated the University of Hell a.k.a Saturn Return🪐

It is part of your Soul’s Blueprint to experience losing privileges, perhaps money, talents, friends, freedom, hair, weight, and everything else, momentarily. This period of your Life—whether it’s your first or second Saturn Return—can be likened to a pregnant woman who’s now restricted from drinking, eating, doing, or even being near certain things. She’s not so free, but for all the right reasons; she’s protecting her foetus.

This Saturn Return period of your Life where you’re experiencing losing yourself is like a pregnancy where you’re gestating a newer, stronger, clearer, more confident version of yourself. The restrictions put around you are meant to suffocate you further, enough for you to want a breakthrough. All so you can become a pure Pink Radiance of a miracle this miserable world needs, for that is your purpose for being born🌷

Shine on, Pink Diamond~

ESSENCE OF BEING HUMAN🔻💗

the script you chose – Green Historian (Herodotus)

path of self-transcendence – Priestess of Prosperity

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – Magic Worker

VIBE: Po teaching the tribe to be THEMSELVES

seeds of beauty in you – 9 of Cups Rx

Within you are seeds of a luxurious lifestyle that you ought to nurture slowly throughout the course of your Life. You may have come from a background of lack just to make this whole scenario more exciting (to us as Souls contrasts are exceedingly attractive when thinking of a spiritual breakthrough). With that, you could’ve grown up with lots of daydreaming about feeling fulfilled—emotionally fulfilled.

Though you may have daydreamed about luxurious environments and things and situations, at the core of everything, all you yearn for is a feeling of safety; stability; of having just enough…of being enough, in fact…all because you weren’t emotionally nurtured as a child. You were the kid who were neglected by everybody, both the adults and your peers.

You felt unseen most of your Life. But even those who acted like they saw you, somehow the view was inaccurate. You felt this way because you didn’t understand yourself either. Children learn about themselves through the feedback of their environment; so the ones who were mostly neglected…how could such children even begin to learn to comprehend their identity?

Because you didn’t really understand yourself, it was difficult to manifest properly. In your psyche, there are way too many threads of wishes that are tangled up, causing you to manifest clashing Realities…and then disappoint you…

blooming in spite of muddy water – XXI The World

The reason for this difficulty is that you needed to learn and discover for yourself the true Essence of being alive. You are essentially God’s messenger to help Humans overcome their addiction to material possessions. Omaigosh if you know how TikTok shopping culture is making people poorer and more miserable in the emotional, I’m sure this will ring a bell in your Soul Memory.

People who grew up poor are the main target of evil marketing because they crave that feeling of ‘having’. Sometimes, it’s a feeling of having things—trendy things; some other times, it’s a feeling of having friends—cool friends; and some tragical times, of having someone to love—which usually only translates to ONS or casual hookups without any real emotional connection.

Anyway, back to talking about material possessions though, there’s this:

‘Trying to be happy by accumulating possessions is like trying to satisfy hunger by taping sandwiches all over your body.’ – George Carlin

This, is a concept, a Reality, you’ve needed to learn and fully comprehend, and then unravel by means of your personal spiritual transformation. That way you can be an example and a guide to others. Reminiscent of Uncle George himself, you’re somebody who holds an Elder Archetype aenergy about you. You’re ‘worldly’ in the sense that you’re based, well-thinking, and most of all, you can embrace perspectives that are UNIQUE. You’re able to hold a knowledge that encompasses the whole of the Universe itself.

tulips of happiness – 4 of Pentacles

In a sense, know that you are a born leader. Though I sense, you may be more interested in being a thought leader🧠You don’t seem that interested in leading an envoy or a movement of any sort hahaha You’re a loner; you like being in your own company. After all, people are stupid and it’s exhausting to have to interact with them. And that’s all fine~

In the future, when everything’s said and done, you’ll meet your Soul Tribe—people who are just as weird, misunderstood, deep, sombre (probably), wholesome, complex, and loyal such as yourself🫀Your Spirit Guides are really saying: it’s perfectly fine for you not to extend too much compassion for those who aren’t worth your while; hoping you’d calm down some clashing ideas about your personality.

It sounds cruel? No, really; not everybody is worth paying attention to or share affection with. If you do that you’re only going to be sucked dry of Life Force. It’s a similar principal with money spending. Just because you see a lot of items being displayed with attractive, persuasive DISCOUNT signs, doesn’t mean you have to give your attention, or money least of all, to ALL of that. Got it?🤪

‘Even if something is on discount, if you don’t need it, it’s too expensive.’ – Love Marie Escudero’s husband, Govt. Chiz

ESSENCE OF BEING HUMAN🔻🧡

the script you chose – Green Physician (Paracelsus)

path of self-transcendence – Priestess of Intuition

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

#Punk Panda Pick A Pic #sacred lotus #pick a card #pick a card reading #tarot pick a card #pac #pac reading #tarot pac #future spouse #astroblr #tarotblr #writblr #witchblr #witchythings #spirituality #spiritualhealing #divine feminine #divine masculine #lightworker #starseed

[tinycozycomfort]

moon, a hole of light

pairing: qz!joel miller x f!reader

day one of @pascalisbaby and i's joeltober: dacryphilia -> read her day one here

summary: It makes you feel like a toy, like some misused stuffed animal with loose seams and fur that’s been rubbed to the weft. Your use brings him comfort, his comfort brings you hurt.

warnings/tags: dacryphilia, unprotected piv, substance abuse (joel), age gap (joel is 46 [~10 yrs post outbreak]), reader is not), yearning, dom/sub dynamics, smidge of underwear play, pet names (honey, sweetheart, etc), joel is mean

word count: 2.4k

rating: explicit! 18+ only, mdni

a/n: i'm trying so hard to shorten things so forgive me as i navigate this learning curve.

main masterlist

A lot of life is weeping. 

In joy. In sorrow. In fury so poignant it makes you wilt. Your body furls in the collapse—u-shaped shoulders that guard your insides, the lock of hard elbows into thigh. 

It stings to feel so little, so vulnerable—to let anyone see how ugly emotion’s face can be—yet you let it happen, knowing that this is the only thing that separates you from the rest of them; they’ve spilled out all they had, hollow in the center after nearly a decade of ‘justified action’. 

So you cry, and you sob, and you don’t care for their uncomfortable shifting and curled lips. Tess gives her best in the way of comfort, not letting a scoff slip as much when she can help it. Tommy will at least leave the room. 

But Joel—Joel will watch. Joel will encourage.

He’s taken the liberty of cycling himself through every shape your hurt takes, the tears pouring over for all of his near-misses and his inability to care for you how he’s meant to. You see the way he grins to find that you cry when you’re happy to see him the same way you do when he insists he should leave. 

Part of you thinks he likes it—pushing you to react and then having something to show for it. You think he especially likes when it causes you pain. You cry longer in those moments, working though fits of frustration while he kneels at your feet and watches your face sprout tears like light rain. 

He pets you through it—even when he’d been the one to kick you down in the first place—to tell you you were good for sticking around, for being brave enough to have faith in him. 

He enjoys having something to come back to, and wounding you is no obstacle in the pursuit of feeling needed. 

It makes you feel like a toy, like some mis-used stuffed animal with loose seams and fur that’s been rubbed to the weft. Your use brings him comfort, his comfort brings you hurt.

You know he’s gearing up for another slip-away with the swift shift to kindness; Friday night he caresses you, soothes the ache of something not yet felt, to ease his exit. All pretty words and the affection he so desperately wants to hide, whispered promises of how much better he can be, how he can give you everything you deserve.

Come Saturday morning, you’re discarded. 

He’s gone again on another outing, one he persuaded Tommy into joining—if the silence is any indication—even though he needs nothing; that in itself makes you even more sure it has everything to do with wanting. The burn, the desire, is something you see so clearly in the glaze he gets on later nights, the crinkle of soft plastic that trickles out through the open bathroom door. He swears it’s nothing—even to Tess, when she’s around—that he’s not on anything. He throws any excuse he can muster; it’s the wounds and the healing and the aging that make him stumble even in the lit apartment.

Everyone knows what’s actually going on, why the trips outside the QZ are becoming more frequent. It doesn’t get lost on you all the times Tommy complains of Joel disappearing to meet more than one mysterious, unarranged contact who asked for privacy—who wanted Joel alone. 

Whatever it is he’s buying keeps him numb, so Tommy lets it slide, and Tess is apathetic towards Joel for reasons you aren’t too willing to know about. You’ve only tagged along so recently, so maybe they pity you, or they feel better about throwing Joel onto someone else—to ruin another thing if only to feel better about having been ruined. 

You cry through the weekend in long streams, worried for him, until the hot tears pool and curl the cotton of your t-shirt—forever wet. You stay laid out on the bumpy sofa cushions for hours before your back feels just as knotted and you have to relocate to the bed, only rising again to shower and half-eat and sulk, until you’re too weak to keep track of the seconds.

When he swings in on Monday night, boots knocking as he raises them up on the rack by the door, you’re at the tail-end of another bout, cheeks damp and chest catching where it’s pinned by your shirt against the bed. 

Joel walks into the room like he’s done nothing wrong. He walks in alone. 

“Where’s Tommy?” you ask, but he ignores you.

Instead, he comes to you with tattered hands, fresh bruises and torn skin, and tugs you up by the creases under your shoulders so you’re seated, kneeling by the bed to level himself with the picture he’s come to love. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he coos, words slow, “What are all those tears for? Me?” 

You huff out a few shaky breaths to steady yourself, “Where’s Tommy?”

He sighs, long and hard and uneven, “He left. Why the fuck does it matter?” 

He peers up so you’re forced to face him and you can see it now, the film of wet that clouds his eyes, sticky lashes and deep creases of exhaustion purpling the skin where they brush. 

“Why did he leave? Because you’re high? It’s too late for him to be out there.”

You already know he didn’t hear anything past the accusation, brought to a boil at the mention of another one of his failures. He gathers up the soft flesh of your cheek in his hand, the blunt curve of his nails digging in to find teeth through the skin. He grips tight to let you know of his anger—that he could easily wring the life out of you like water. 

“You’re getting real brave for someone who sits and waits for me like a dog.” 

Fire prickles in the tips of your fingers, stretches across the top of your chest in humiliation. You can hear the weight of his words even through his gentle slur, like he means it, twisting away as best you can to speak, “Is that really what you think this is?”

He’s laughing before you even get it all out, the corner of his lips perked up on one side, “No one forced you to, and I certainly don’t remember asking.”

You shove at him then, with force, your hands bending back enough to pinch when he doesn’t budge. He leans into you instead, a challenge. 

There’s barely time to choose before he does for you, gathering up your wrists in one hand, the one around your jaw tightening. 

So close now, you get a better look at him—his hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed red but with paler lips. His eyes are round, pupils cartoonish and wide. He’s still so pretty, even when dulled by the sheen of his high. 

He heaves onto you, shy of livid, and you start to feel like you’re suffocating under his stifling heat, billowing out from where he’s damp with sweat under his denim shirt. The pills work fast, and for longer than they should, so you can tell he’d spent the peak of his high elsewhere, but he’s on a jagged edge of almost coherent.

You slide your thighs together at the whole of him, so strong and honest and invested in you—negative or not—something you usually find him being incapable of. He sees it.  

“Oh, but you do it because you like it, don’t you? Couldn’t wait ‘til I came back. Little thing just needs some attention, hm?”

“Joel, I’m serious. Are you high right now? Where’s your brother?”

Joel wedges a thigh up under the crease of your knee, uses the grip he has on your body as leverage to move you further up the bed, climbing up with you pushing himself into the cradle of your body on the way.

“Please. You don’t give a fuck about Tommy,” he snaps, releasing and depositing you so he can make work of your shorts and the buckle holding himself back, “He’s not going to bother us, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

You whine as he releases himself, can’t help how you grow wet between your legs, heart throbbing in your throat. He’s not wrong, as mean as he is how he puts it—-you’d die for him if it meant he’d look at you. If you could have him to yourself.

His cock swings free as he shoves his jeans down only enough to be out of the way, not bothering to remove your thin strip of underwear once your bottoms are tugged off. He’s hard for you, another flattery that sends shivers down your spine, the feeling of arousal flashing along your whole body—fingers folding and ankle rolling. You’re excited for him, and this display of joy doesn’t please him as much. 

“I didn’t say it was a good thing. You’re pathetic,” he sucks his teeth, hooking a finger in the cotton across your seam, peeling it away from where it's slicked down, knuckle dipping in the place you’re pooling, “But it’s cute. You’re still young enough to have hope.”

He strings the gusset up and away, presses his length against your cunt before replacing it, trapping himself.

“It’s okay that you love me, sweetheart. Don’t be embarrassed. Hang onto that. It might work out for you some day.” 

“But not with you,” you whisper, half an offense and half an admission of awareness—he doesn’t love you, hasn’t and can’t and won’t, but you’re willing to take what you can get.

“Cry about it.” 

Joel grinds his cock against the wet slip of your cunt in short, tight motions to better catch against you, soaking himself. He presses three fingers against the base of it like a vacuum, holding himself between the two of you, the scalloped edge of your underwear twisting when they roll over his skin. The hard of him on your clit makes you gasp, and his mouth hangs open in a soundless laugh. 

And you are crying, sooner than you thought, barely registering it until you feel it falling into the cup of your collarbone, a steady stream that barely burns brighter than the flare in your core. 

“You really should be more careful with that little heart of yours. Gonna hurt yourself.” He slides his hand further up his cock to the tip, releasing the pressure and guiding himself to your center. Joel slides himself in to the hilt, leaning down on one forearm to hold himself up. 

With his unoccupied hand, he brushes the flesh of your cheek, following its path with kisses—the warning is a genuine one, followed by no punchline or remark, the first time tonight where he’s actually tried to resonate with the predicament he’s put you both in. Earnest. 

The give and take of him, flowing freely between unrelenting harshness and the soft comfort of his reassurance should be nauseating, but it shines a beam of light behind your eyes when you close them, white-hot and blinding. You’re sobbing enough to wonder how you haven’t stopped; you can feel your own wetness when he rubs down your chest with his mouth, gathered up from his mapping of your face. 

Joel’s knee digs into your side as he hikes you up on his hip, eliminating even the air between your bodies, sweat-soaked and glued together. He’s pushing himself into a place you’ve often found unconsidered, that spongy spot at the back that marks the beginning of your womb. The very center of you, he’s reached, and you start to move in an act of self-preservation, unsure whether you want him to continue forward or exit. You’re mumbling something about Joel, yes-too much-don’t stop-wait-please don’t stop and when he leans back he’s beaming at you, the point of his canines shining in the dim light of the room. 

He looks dangerous, like the man you’ve seen hobbling and flighty and inebriated—only ever close to anger—was just the very surface. This is the man that hunted men—that sought conquest and destroyed lives. He’s done the same to you, you realize, and now your being is nestled within the palm of his hand, pliable and willing and fully at his disposal. 

You keen for him, thin and high in the channel of your throat, and he pinches your face, sealing his mouth over yours to swallow it. He’s breathing hard into you, the movement of his hips growing shaky, rhythm breaking down a half-step so that you're just swaying against the bed under his weight in little jolts. 

“Joel, please. I want to make you come.”

“Keep crying for me just like that and I will. Can you do that?” 

You’re so close, the anticipation feeling like warm sand sliding under your fingertips. Joel wrestles a hand into the side of your hip where it’s tightly pressed to his, finding your clit with the pad of his thumb. Your babbling continues, Yes, I promise, I promise, and Joel nods, relenting. 

He presses hard against the nub, and shoves himself in that much further, and you start to come undone beneath him, the waves of pleasure coursing through to the ends of your limbs.

He’s still moving above you, talking over you—good girl, good girl—removing his hand so as to not overstimulate you before bringing it up to brush his knuckles over the hinge of your jaw, so careful even as he hammers into you, “So sad, honey. Poor thing.” 

You’re still caught up in your own rambling, but you tip your head yes and he picks up his pace again, chasing his own end, “Say it for me. Can’t do it unless you say.” His voice is a little warbled, and you can tell he’s crumbling. 

“Please. Come inside me, Joel.”

Joel grunts, the noise catching in his mouth like a hiccup, overtaken with the pleasure of your permission. The heat of him spreading inside your body has your legs shaking and cunt pulsing in response.

You fight to catch your breath, running a hand over your face to snap back into focus.

He falls over to lay on his side, still connected to you, dragging you over with him. He hides his face in the fold of your neck, knocking his forehead into your throat. 

“Really sweet of you to wait, honey,” he breathes, sliding out of you with a long drag, a thread of wet spooling out in his wake, “Now get the fuck out.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #pedro pascal characters #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller/reader #joel miller fic #kinktober 2023 #kinktober

[voxmortuus]

✧*̥˚ PAIRING: *̥˚✧ Yandere!Count Vronsky x F!Reader!Wife ✧*̥˚ UNIVERSE: *̥˚✧ Anna Karenina ✧*̥˚ WORD COUNT: *̥˚✧ 3.6k ✧*̥˚ PROMPT: *̥˚✧ This was given to me by the lovely @bettytaylorversion || Okay, okay I'm lately obsessed with yandere Count Vronsky, so how about yan Vronsky suspecting that his wife is seeing someone or like in love with someone and it doesn't help when his mother keeps feeding his suspicions so he ends up locking the wife/reader up in their house in countryside/ another country house where no one can reach them and where he makes sure his beloved wife knows exactly how much he loves her. ✧*̥˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS: *̥˚✧ Dead Dove Do Not Eat | Yandere Count | Possessive Count | Aggressive Count | Stalker Count | Demanding Count | Accusations of Cheating | Toxic Mother | False ideas | False Suspicions from mother | Toxic Marriage? | Isolation of Reader | Slapping | Pushing or Shoving | Yelling | Slamming doors | Gripping readers throat | Passionate making out | Throwing reader on bed | Stripping reader | Unprotected PiV | Aggressive sex | Reader fights a bit but stops fighting | Dub-Con? | insinuated Cream Pie | Crying Reader | Fluff | Reader questions if she loves him at the end | Relationship conflictions | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this… ✧*̥˚ NOTES: *̥˚✧ I've been wanting to write for him for a long while! Thank you love for this request! I hope this is along the lines of what you were hoping for... Sorry if it doesn't hit exactly what you're looking for but I tried!!! Anywho.... I hope this brings you some joy. ✧*̥˚ DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @nyxvuxoa ✧*̥˚ TIME PASSER DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @voxmortuus ✧*̥˚ IMAGE CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @peachyspaceslvt ✧*̥˚ ATJ TAGLIST: *̥˚✧ @earth-elemental18 @nyxvuxoa-writes ✧*̥˚ My Master Masterlist | Aaron Taylor-Johnson Masterlist *̥˚✧

It was this gnawing feeling, this feeling of dread, sorrow, a pain in his gut he couldn't shake. Watching you go as he leaned against the window frame, he knew where you were going. He knew, he just had this gut feeling that he couldn't quite shake. It ate at his heart, it ate at his brain, it was like these cogs and wheels working, but not in a way of rationality. His thoughts were completely irrational. Looking out that window as your carriage vanished into the thick fog of the dawn, he felt so lost, so angry. He wasn't happy, and not happy may be quite an understatement.

Placing a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips he grabbed a match from the fireplace and lit it. The smoke bellowed above, tossing the match into the fire he turned to see his mother sitting at the table.

"She does not have love for you anymore, Alexei." She stated. Her tone appeared caring, honest, maybe even having pity, but it was just because she didn't like you.

"She must love me. That is my wife, she must." He stated he didn't seem demanding about it, he seemed sad, heartbroken even.

"But she does not. She will never love you as she loves him. What married woman is happy with her husband? She has grown bored of you. Had she not she would not go to him as she does." She points out.

His heart, if it was a glass a cat had pushed off the counter it would have shattered. He only hoped that you were as enraptured by him as he was about you. He looked up at the wall, the painting of you seemed to be watching. He closed his stormy blue eyes and looked back at his mother.

"She does love me. I know it to be true. You speak lies, like a snake in the garden." He snapped and walked to the table and had taken a sip from the slightly sweetened tea he had poured only moments before your leaving. Sitting there he tapped his smoke against a small crystal ashtray and his mind became overrun, thinking of everything his mother had stated. Thinking of those possibilities. What were you doing? Were you spreading your legs for him? Was he satisfying you? Were you unhappy with him? Did you not love him? Did you grow bored of him? He rubbed his lip a moment as he took another drag before looking at his mother.

"When she comes home, I will settle this." He stated. Taking the cup and his almost-gone smoke and had vanished to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed after putting the cup on the bedside table and looks over your side of the bed. It was too much, these feelings he had, it was like they were just bubbling up, ready to overflow and put out the fire that kept the pot lit. Feeling the stinging in his nose from the slight anger he ran his hand through his curly blonde locks and his jaw clenched as he put his smoke out in the ashtray and grabbed his clothes for getting dressed before he slammed the bedroom door.

His mother had heard the slam and had made her way to the room. Letting herself in she looked over him and sighed. "I just want what is best for you."

"I said I would take care of it. I do not need your help. She is my wife, not yours." He sort of snapped.

"You are right, she is your wife. And your wife is off with another man, spreading her legs and enjoying her time away from you. So how are you going to handle that Alexei?" She asked.

"I will take her away from here. I will take her far away from everyone. Including you." He snapped. "Now if you do not mind, I am getting dressed. Go find something else to bother." He snarled slightly as he escorted her out of the doorway and closed and locked the bedroom door.

Looking out the bedroom window and looking over the garden, he watched the flowers bob from the heaviness of the heads that were filled with the morning dew. It was something so simple, and yet even looking at their beauty, he saw you, he saw your smile, your smooth skin, your curves, he saw how your hair fell, that glow in your eyes when you were happy. You had to love him, why was he questioning it? Why was he standing there, looking out on those flowers questioning if you loved him?! With a clenched jaw and a knitted brow, he threw open the closet door and grabbed his attire for the day.

After fastening the last button on his coat, he makes his way back to the kitchen- it's like he doesn't want to acknowledge the other parts of the home without you here. Feeling lost, and one track minded. He didn't like that you were gone, it loomed over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain looms over the dirt countryside roads. He needed to know where you were going. He needed to know what you were doing. He needed to know what you were saying. Were you tired of him? Were you unhappy? It just gnawed at him like a beaver gnawing on a log.

Why was this even a feather of a thought? It's not that he didn't want you to have friends, it's just, why did they have to be male friends? And even then, it wasn't the idea of male friends that bothered him, it was the embedded, plated thoughts from the snake in the garden that made him believe that you were unhappy, that you were not in love with him any longer, that you were looking for a way out of this relationship. Well, that was going to be nipped in the bud right away. There was going to be no second-guessing it, not after this.

He decided to gather himself a little more and decided to head out to find you. He had these questions that needed answers. He turned to look at his mother who was still there. "Watch the house while I am away. We will be gone for a while." He states. His mother went to speak but before she could retort with a comment he was out the door and off to the stables.

After a few hours of looking and getting a general idea of where you were he stopped, getting off the carriage he approached, standing a good distance behind as you stood there, talking to another man. Oh, this did not sit well with him, but he watched and observed. With a lick of his lips and a look of heartache, as you touched the other man's face, he couldn't help but feel that slithering snake of a mother of his was right.

The more he watched, the more you laughed, the closer this man seemed to be getting to you, and the more it climbed up him like ivy claiming lattice fencing. This green envious monster coils around his every nerve, his nostrils flair as he walks toward you and clears his throat, but you don't pay much attention until he grabs your arm and pulls you to him.

You gasp and look over his face. "My Love, what are you doing here?" You ask him.

"I could ask you the very same." He states. His stare was cold, his stare pained, and his stare… it bore into you like a hot glue gun into plastic.

"I am just out with a friend, we do this every week. It means nothing." You state honestly.

"Does it? Does it really mean nothing? You were touching his face, and laughing with him like you do with me. Do I not make you happy anymore? Have you grown bored and weary of me?" He asks you with a small shake in his voice almost as if holding back tears.

"Of course you make me happy, why would you ask such a thing?" you respond back looking into his stormy blue hues.

His jaw clenches and he looks at your friend and back to you. "We are leaving." He states as if dismissing you from your date with your male friend.

"What? No. Alexei, no." you stated.

"I do not know him, nor do I like how you were touching him, we are going somewhere. You'll like it. Get in." he states and gestures to the carriage.

"Alexei, no." You state firmly.

He clenches his jaw and looks over you. "Do not make me put you in there myself. Now. Be a good wife, and get in the carriage." He snarls lowly.

Licking your lips you look over his face and let out a slight breath before getting into the carriage. Feeling the shake of the carriage from the door closing. Placing your hands in your lap you look down, studying them a moment before you close your eyes almost in defeat, and wonder where he is taking you. It was clear he wasn't taking you home. Why was he suddenly acting this way? What was it that made him feel like you were unhappy? You began to study yourself, you even began to question yourself. But why? His actions alone.

His actions just then made you question if this was really where you needed to be. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized that maybe he was seeing something you were not seeing. Were you really happier with your friend than you were with him? Was he not seeing how much you loved him? Were you really doing something bad? You turn back and look at him as he stops the carriage and climbs into the back of it with you as someone else takes over. Someone he had paid to drop you both off and take the carriage back to the house.

You sit there, in silence, and you study him, you study his face, his eyes, how his jaw twitches, how his brow knits, how his eyes seem to be full of sorrow, and maybe is that hate? You look down, and you think about all you've done, but you can't help but shake your head. You love this man, and he was blind to false things. Was there a way to fix it? Was there a way to get him to see that you love him just as much as he loves you?

"Where are we going? There is nothing for miles." You point out looking out the little window of the carriage door.

"We're going someplace secluded." He states.

"Secluded? Whatever for?" You ask with a slight bit of worry in your tone.

"Enough with the questions, you will see when we get there." He states, short in his tone.

You lick your lips and hike a brow before looking back down at your lap and letting out a slight sigh. You feel this could get problematic.

By the time you get to where you were going, the sun had already set and come back up. You look over his face as he offers to help you off the carriage. Your jaw clenches and you shake your head.

"Are you serious? Why are we here? We are days away from home at this rate Alexie." You point out.

HE shakes his head and looks at you and looks over the country home before looking back at you. "You will survive. This is for a reason."

"THIS IS ABSURD!" You scream. The only thing you cause to stir is birds out in the field. Your jaw clenches and you look over him shoving past him and heading toward the inside.

He sighs slightly and shakes his head, he isn't expecting you to understand. Rubbing his brow a moment he looks up at the gray skies and then over on the vast rolling fields of nothing. A small smile creeps across his face as he listens to the front door being slammed. Another soft sigh escapes his lips as he heads toward the house.

Upon walking in he looks around and spots you standing there in the living room. As he walks toward you to join you, you turn and look at him.

"What is all of this about?" You ask.

"You need to see how much love I have for you. I cannot do that back there." He stated honestly.

"So you isolate me?!" You raise your tone.

"Yes! It keeps you away from another man touching you!" He snaps.

"NO ONE ELSE IS TOUCHING ME!" You snap back.

"HOW DO I KNOW?!" He steps closer to you.

"No. You don't get to ask me that question! How do you not see that I love you!? I have always loved you!" You snarl as you step forward challenging him.

"Well, I suppose now you can show me just how much you love me as I show you how much I love you." He stated coldly.

"Don't be so pigeon-livered." You growl to yourself. "You're being a floozer Alexei. What has ever gotten into you?" You ask him.

"Are you really going to throw insults at me? Pigeon-livered? Floozer? Do not." He grips your arm and pulls you close. "Do not cross me."

You shove him and look over his face. "Or what?" You ask with a tightly knitted brow. "What are you going to do?"

Stretching his neck from left to right he licks his lips and his jaw clenched.

"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!" You snapped.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!" He snapped back. He began to pace. "All I ever do is shower you with love and attention, I do nothing but prove to you how much you mean to me. I make sure you always put your best forward. And you do this. Run off with another man doing god knows what." He states.

Crossing your arms over your chest you stare at him a moment and blink a few times. "Are you blinded by your own selfishness right now? Can you not see past your own nose? I am not laying with another man Alexei! I have never laid with another man!" you snap.

"HOW DO I KNOW THAT?!" He snaps. "How do I know that?" He asked you. A complete and utter look of defeat sprawled across his features.

Walking to him you slap him across the face. Not once, but twice. Reaching forward he grips your throat and moves you through the house. Kicking open a door he shoves you into the bedroom and starts to unbutton his jacket. Looking over you his eyes hungry. His snarl was fierce, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear the bones grinding and you could feel the flex of his jaw. You try to shove past him but that wasn't happening.

"What are you going to do rape me Alexei?" You ask.

He scoffed and looked over at you. "Do you think that little of me? Strip." He demands.

"No." You cross your arms. At this point, you were fighting him to fight, how far could you push?

"I said strip!" He demands again. Walking to you he spins you around and starts to untie your skirt.

Layer by layer you fight, until you are both stripped down to mere thin layers. Tears staining your face, you look over him and shake your head, a small thumping sound of your heart feeling like it was echoing in the room.

"All I have ever wanted was for you to love me. You have to love me, you must love me." He states. He steps closer to you, looking over you he grips your face and pulls you near. "You will love me. You will." He states firmly.

Scared at this point you cannot find your words. He presses his lips to yours and at first, you give in, you cave, you wrap your arms around him and kiss him deeply, lovingly, longing for that affection he wanted to give you, but then you start to push away, saddened by the fact that he couldn't believe you, that he had no trust in you.

"No…" You start to push away, but you didn't want him to at the same time, it was this conflicting feeling.

"Do not tell me no, you want this…" he points out as he listens to your breathing.

You have no means of responding.

"I'm not taking that as a no." he states.

You give him a cold stare, looking over his face, his lips press against yours and you shove him back, and he throws you to the bed. You bounce once before he climbs on top of you and looks you over. He tilts his head and looks over your face and takes your wrists and places them above your head and looks over your face intently.

You attempt to wiggle free but he hovers over you, his body pressed against yours. In one hand he has your hands gripped together, in the other hand hikes up your skirt, he looks over you, and he leans in and nips at your lips. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you close your eyes. Shaking your head you begin to breathe heavier. It felt good, his hands on you, it always felt good, but there was this sense of fight that also washed over you.

As his lips found your neck he kissed up your neck to your jaw, finding your lips. While you loved his affection, you were terrified. Literally scared of him.

"Get off of me." you demand.

"Let me show you. See how much I love you." He takes your hand and places it on his hard cock. "This is how much I love you." He states.

You pull your hand away and turn your head in another direction. His senses overwhelm him, and unable to control himself he groans softly as he presses himself against you. You turn your head away from him, maybe checking out, but at the same time ever so present in this moment. As he thrusts himself into you you take in a deep breath. A whimper leaves your lips as a groan leaves his.

Looking over you he observes your features as he turns your face to look at him, leaning in he kisses you again. And it was then you cave, just a little. Your lips pressed against his, your hand moved up his arms to his hair and you pull him closer. Your hips roll against his thrusts and you begin to whimper against his lips. The feeling of him against you was something you always loved. Truthfully you never questioned this man's love for you. But you were conflicted because of how he was coming at you. You didn't know if you should fight him, or cave to him a little more.

The more he thrusts the harder he becomes in his motions, the more you fight. But the more you fight, the more he growls, it was a conflicting feeling all over again and you aren't sure what to do, it was overwhelming. You push him away, shoving him but he pulls you closer.

Feeling your body flush against his you let out another soft whimper. You move your hands to his shoulders as you feel him thrust deeper into you, your moans escaping you were almost pained but yet pleasure-filled. Your hips rolled against his as he continued to thrust with a fever. He pulls you even closer to him, pulling you into his lap as he guides you along his stiffened cock, nuzzling into you, nipping and biting at you.

The moans fill the bedroom, bouncing off the windows and the walls, and while you might be fighting him because of his choice of actions, this man was your life. You kiss him deeply as you both moan in pure pleasure. Your bodies collide in such a raw motion. Thrust after thrust, grunt, and groan after grunt and groan, screams of pure euphoria leaving you both. It all came to a halt with a trembling body-shaking finish, feeling as his cock twitched inside of you as hot ribbons of seed coat your velvet walls. He snarled against your skin, and you bring a hand across his face, and you begin to cry.

Holding you close, he looks down at you, smoothing your hair he presses his face against you.

"Shh… now now, everything is alright. I love you, so much." He whispers. "You have to love me back, you just have to." he says softly.

"I… I do love you, Alexei. I do. I wish you would see that." you say between sniffles.

He holds you close, nuzzling against you. "Shall we draw you a bath?" He asks.

Nodding your head he looks over your face and nods. "I shall draw you a bath. Think about what I said." He states.

"Are you isolating me? From everyone?" you ask as he gets up and slips his pants back on.

With a firm stare, he looks over you. "I am, and it's for our own good. You won't be seeing him, we will stay here as long as it takes." He states truthfully.

And like that, your heart becomes conflicted, you love this man, but you feel scared of this man… but then you look at him, and you don't feel afraid anymore. You just want him to see that you do love him. It's conflicting, and it's terrifying, you love him, but is it true? Staying here, you're only choice is to grow to love him. But that's been his goal all along, for you to love him, and for him to show you in so many ways how he loves you.

#dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #Count vronsky x reader #count vronsky x female reader #count vronsky #count vronsky smut #count vronsky angst #alexei vronsky #alexei x reader #alexei smut #anna karenina #anna karenia smut #anna karenina fanfic #tangerine smut #tangerine x reader #tangerine x fem!reader #aaron taylor johnson smut #aaron taylor johnson x reader #aaron taylor johnson fanfic #bullet train x reader #tangerine x you #VoxMortuus

[srvbryn]

Luke Castellan. A shot of espresso

Not set in riordanverse & FLUFF — MASTERLIST

Luke Castellan X immortal!reader

Summary: he wants to be immortal with her, she wants to relinquish her immortal to be normal with him

Warning: a decade timeskip, literally a bed time story, this one is so boring and long + a lot of dialogues A LOT

"I want to be with you, forever. I can't bear the thought of a life without you."

Your gaze met his, sorrow reflecting in your eyes. "But, Luke, you don't understand. Immortality comes with a price. I've seen civilizations rise and fall, loved and lost countless times. I don't want you to endure the pain that eternity brings."

He grabbed your hands, desperation etched on his face. "I don't care about the pain. I want to be with you, face everything together. I want to be by your side for all of eternity."

A bitter smile played on your lips. "Eternity is a heavy burden, Luke. Mortals live vibrant lives, but immortals watch those lives fade away. I don't want you to sacrifice your fleeting existence for me."

Anger flashed across his features. "My existence means nothing without you. I want more than just a short life. I want a forever with you."

A heavy silence fell, and the weight of an impossible decision hung between you.

Finally, you spoke, your voice strained. "Luke, I love you too much to let you make such a sacrifice. Mortality brings beauty in its brevity."

His eyes filled with frustration and anger. "I don't want a short-lived beauty. I want a timeless love with you. I'll find a way to make it work, to be with you."

Tears welled in your eyes as you pulled away. "You can't comprehend the weight of eternity, Luke. It's not a fairy tale. It's an endless journey, filled with pain and loneliness."

His voice grew desperate, "I don't care. I want to be with you."

"You're not thinking clearly," you whispered, your voice strained. "I've seen the consequences of immortality. It's not a gift — it's a curse."

Luke's frustration boiled over, and he snapped, "I don't care about the curse. I care about you. I can't imagine a life without you by my side."

A tear trickled down your cheek as you admitted, "I want to give up my immortality. I want to live a normal life with you, experience the short joys and pains of mortality."

He shook his head, refusing to accept your choice. "No, we can find another way. There has to be a solution that allows us to be together."

Your voice softened, a mix of love and sadness. "Luke, sometimes love means making the most painful choices. I want to live a mortal life with you, not bound by the weight of eternity."

He slumped, defeated, realizing the depth of your decision. "I love you, but I can't bear the thought of losing you."

You pulled him into an embrace, whispering words of comfort. "I love you too, Luke. Let's savor the time we have together, even if it's not forever."

— love sometimes requires letting go, even if it means relinquishing immortality or embracing mortality.

A decade had passed since you chose to give up your immortality to live a normal life with him.

The small town you both called home now echoed with a child's laughter, a testament to your blossoming love.

The modest house you shared held the warmth of a home filled with memories.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of orange and pink across the sky, you sat on the porch, watching your child play in the yard.

Luke joined you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. "Our life might not be eternal, but it's certainly full of love."

You smiled, leaning into his embrace. "I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Your child ran over, a vibrant bundle of energy. "Mom! Dad! Look what I found!"

You both turned your attention to the little one, who proudly displayed a handful of wildflowers.

Luke ruffled their hair, a proud smile on his face. "Those are beautiful, just like you."

As evening settled in, you gathered around the dinner table — a treasure you wouldn't trade for the world.

Later, as you tucked your child into bed, they looked up at you with wide eyes. "Will you tell me a story, mom?"

You chuckled, sitting on the edge of their bed. “Once, in a small town nestled between rolling hills and whispering forests, there lived a family unlike any other. Mom, Dad, and their child lived in a warm, loving home.

You see, a long time ago, Mom was an immortal being, someone who had seen centuries unfold like the pages of a story.

But one day, she met Dad, a brave and kind-hearted mortal. Their love was so strong that Mom decided to give up her immortality to share a mortal life with Dad.

From that choice blossomed a life filled with laughter, joy, and love. The house echoed with the patter of little feet, and the yard was always alive with the sound of playful giggles.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Mom, Dad, and the little one would gather on the porch.

The sky would paint itself with colors, and the world would hush into the magic of the evening. Dad would wrap his arm around Mom, and they would share stories of adventures and love.

In the yard, wildflowers grew, each petal holding a piece of the family's happiness.

The little one, a ball of energy and curiosity, would find treasures in the grass, such as the time they proudly returned with a handful of wildflowers as beautiful as the love that surrounded them.

At bedtime, when the stars sparkled like diamonds in the night sky, Mom would sit by the little one's bed. "Once upon a time," she would begin, "there was an immortal who chose to embrace mortality for the love of a mortal. And in that choice, they found a lifetime of joy, love, and the beauty of fleeting moments."

The little one's eyes would grow heavy with the magic of the story, drifting into dreams filled with love, warmth, and the gentle whispers of a life well-lived.

And so, in that little town, under the watchful gaze of a starlit sky, this extraordinary family created their own enchanting bedtime stories—a tale of love that transcended the boundaries of time, and a reminder that the most magical moments are often found in the simplest joys of life.

Goodnight, little one. Sweet dreams in the embrace of a love that lasts a lifetime.”

Your child's eyes drooped with sleep, a contented smile on their face. As you left the room, you found Luke waiting in the hallway, his gaze filled with gratitude.

"We created something beautiful, didn't we?" Luke whispered.

You nodded, intertwining your fingers with his. "Our own little eternity within the finite."

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #i love him #charlie bushnell #luke castellan angst #luke castellan fluff #luke castellan x you

[cho-aaacho]

—Ray of Sunshine

Masterlist

Imagine pt.3

Gojo develops a feeling for you, and everyone knows it. Like, how could he smile brightly every time you walk past him, his eyes sparkling beautifully, or his cheeks blushing into a red hue of sunset whenever you call his name.

It's just too obvious.

But... the irony lies in his obliviousness, as he didn't notice his own feelings. Every time Geto mentions it, Gojo dismisses it with casual denials, claiming, "No... It's nothing; it's just a little thing." 

or "I just love teasing them, nothing else."

and "Shut up, Suguru! You didn't know about my feelings."

But how could Gojo casually shower you with endearing words like, "Hey, my cutiepie. Wanna talk to me?" 

When you meet him, he greets you with a mischievous giggle, adding a humorous tone. "You're here to see my face, right? Cute~"

Or sometimes he deliberately appears in front of your class, saying, "Hey, how about we grab lunch together? I know you'd be all in for that, sweetie." 

All of this time, the only thing he did was tease. At times, it left you feeling frustrated, prompting Nanami to voice his protest as he had grown bored with Gojo's nonsense, which had become Gojo's trademark.

He let everyone know that you're someone special to Gojo and allowed everyone to have that perception.

You didn't know much about Gojo Satoru; you knew him because you were in the same club as Geto.

On your graduation day, Yaga informed you that Gakuganji had selected you to deliver the graduation speech. Despite your hatred of that idea, you couldn't turn down his request.

Now, you find yourself on the stage, preparing to give a speech. Glancing across the audience, you spot Geto seated next to Gojo, curling a sweet smile. Something Geto always does whenever he meets you.

While Gojo appears disinterested and somewhat sleepy, the moment his azure eyes fall on you, a gentle smile blooms on his face. It was the first time you found Gojo Satoru to be cute and attractive.

Three minutes into your speech, you finally reached the most favorite segment—the part you had longed to express after spending three years enduring Gojo's teasing. Well, you have to do this, and Gojo should taste your sweet revenge.

Taking a brief pause, your eyes gazed at Gojo, who was frozen in curiosity. 

Inhaling deeply, you say,

"I want to express my love to someone very special. Someone who consistently encouraged me through my toughest days, someone who unwaveringly supported me through both sorrow and joy. I love you. I love you so much. I hope you are always showered with happiness, surrounded by a rainbow above your head. I hope your smile is always warm to me, much like the radiant sunshine—my boyfriend, Gojo Satoru."

Following the speech, a smirk curled your lips, and yells and cheers erupted from your classmates. You notice Yaga is irritated, while Gakuganji maintains his usual poker face.

Meanwhile, Gojo, seated there with blushing cheeks, discreetly hid himself from the enthusiastic crowd.

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