#that line has me by the throat when it comes to Gregor

[jeynearrynofthevale]

Sansa Stark is a lesbian and here’s why:

So, in honor of sapphicsansafest, I’m making a meta master post about why I believe Sansa is a lesbian. This will include a few quotes and I’m going to separate it into a few sections.

Sansa’s descriptions of other women:

“The queen was drinking heavily, but the wine only seemed to make her more beautiful; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a bright, feverish heat to them as she looked down over the hall. Eyes of wildfire, Sansa thought.”

Even when Sansa hates Cersei, her descriptions of her are always focused around her beauty. The way she describes her eyes and cheeks is also similar to the way the men that are attracted to Cersei describe her.

“Twenty mules awaited them within the waycastle, along with two mule-walkers and the Lady Myranda Royce. Lord Nestor’s daughter proved to be a short, fleshy woman, of an age with Mya Stone, but where Mya was slim and sinewy, Myranda was soft-bodied and sweet-smelling, broad of hip, thick of waist, and extremely buxom. Her thick chestnut curls framed round red cheeks, a small mouth, and a pair of lively brown eyes.”

Similarly, her description of Myranda is very focused around her looks and specific details like her being “sweet smelling” and “extremely buxom” seem to point towards Sansa being attracted to Margaery. Once again Sansa’s descriptions of women mimic the way straight men describe them. Sansa’s interactions with Myranda are something I'll comment on later.

“Sansa had never been this close to the Dornishwoman before. She is not truly beautiful, she thought, but something about her draws the eye.”

Her description of Ellaria is also interesting as it helps show that the way Sansa thinks about women isn’t solely an aesthetic appreciation. She also enjoys the way unconventionally attractive women look.

“Slim and sinewy, Mya looked as tough as the old riding leathers she wore beneath her silvery ringmail shirt. Her hair was black as a raven's wing, so short and shaggy that Alayne suspected that she cut it with a dagger. Mya's eyes were her best feature, big and blue. She could be pretty, if she would dress up like a girl. Alayne found herself wondering whether Ser Lothor liked her best in her iron and leather, or dreamed of her gowned in lace and silk.”

This might be the best example of Sansa’s attraction to women. She once again thinks about the beauty of a woman who isn’t conventionally attractive and she even comments on her eyes. She then contextualizes her attraction by convincing herself that she’s thinking from a man’s perspective. In reality though she’s thinking about how Mya looks her best to her and is unable to really think of that because it's not considered proper.

“When Margaery Tyrell smiled, she looked very like her brother Loras.”

This one is pretty self explanatory. She thinks of how lovely Margaery looks repeatedly and when Margaery is admirable and happy, she once again contextualizes her attraction by bringing a man into the picture.

My thoughts on her “crushes” on men:

Now, her 3 real crushes in the books are Joffrey Baratheon, Loras Tyrell, and Waymar Royce. They all follow a very similar template. Men straight out of the songs and stories that Sansa loves.

“Sansa did not really know Joffrey yet, but she was already in love with him. He was all she ever dreamt her prince should be, tall and handsome and strong, with hair like gold.”

And

“Joffrey smiled and kissed her hand, handsome and gallant as any prince in the songs.”

Joffrey is someone Sansa likes because he’s the prince out of songs, the idealized prince in the stories. And Sansa loves songs and stories so she thinks she loves Joffrey. When she comments on Joffrey’s beauty, it’s almost always in the context of songs or stories. He’s also the easiest crush, her betrothed who she has to learn to love.

“Ser Gregor was the monster and Ser Loras the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so slim and beautiful, with golden roses around his slender waist and his rich brown hair tumbling down into his eyes.”

And

“Wed to Ser Loras, oh . . . Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She remembered Ser Loras in his sparkling sapphire armor, tossing her a rose. Ser Loras in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful.”

Loras is also an ideal out of the songs. Sansa says it herself. He’s the hero she wants. She always thinks of him in that context. It makes sense that she crushes on him. He’s a safe easy crush. It’s like the asoiaf equivalent of crushing on some guy in a boyband.

Sansa’s interactions with Margaery

“You will love Highgarden as I do, I know it.” Margaery brushed back a loose strand of Sansa’s hair. “Once you see it, you’ll never want to leave. And perhaps you won’t have to.”

The way Margaery tries to appeal to Sansa and talk to her almost echoes a flirtation. Pushing a strand of hair behind someone’s ear is a textbook romantic move. And the persuasion relies on Sansa liking Margaery and is all about finding love.

“”Margaery’s kindness had been unfailing, and her presence changed everything.”

The way Sansa thinks of Margaery is quite striking and loving. It is as though Margaery was this big important force in Sansa’s life.

“Margaery was different, though. Sweet and gentle, yet there was a little of her grandmother in her, too. The day before last she’d taken Sansa hawking.”

Sansa also goes on what pretty much amounts to dates with Margaery. And the sentiment of Margaery being different is very similar to Arya’s thoughts on Gendry: “Only Gendry was different” and their relationship is often considered to have romantic undertones. It’s also interesting that gentle is used to describe Margaery when that is one of the words Ned used to describe Sansa’s future romance.

“She is so brave, Sansa thought, galloping after her.”

Sansa clearly admires Margaery immensely and her thoughts are always complimentary. She clearly crushes on her.

Sansa’s interactions with Myranda:

And you must be the Lord Protector’s daughter,” she added, as the bucket went rattling back up to the Eyrie. “I had heard that you were beautiful. I see that it is true.”

Alayne curtsied. “My lady is kind to say so.”

“Kind?” The older girl gave a laugh. “How boring that would be. I aspire to be wicked. You must tell me all your secrets on the ride down. May I call you Alayne?”

The complimenting of Sansa’s beauty is another common trope in flirtation. And the way she interacts is very sexual and ostentatious. It’s flirty. And asking to call someone by their first name is also a romantic trope.

“Randa. It seems a hundred years since I was four-and-ten. How innocent I was. Are you still innocent, Alayne?”

She blushed. “You should not ... yes, of course.”

Sansa is nervous around Myranda in a way she’s not around men. She even blushes. Myranda is also directly questioning Sansa about her sexual experience.

“Despite herself, Alayne found herself warming to the older girl.”

She starts developing a crush.

“She is trying to make me blush again.

Lady Myranda must have heard her thoughts. “You do turn such a pretty shade of pink. When I blush I look quite like an apple. I have not blushed for years, though.” She leaned closer.”

Once again, this is super flirty and seductive. She’s complimenting Sansa on her blush and implying her own experience. This whole conversation is ripe with that stuff.

“She ate with Mya and Myranda. “So you’re brave as well as beautiful,” Myranda said to her.

“No.” The compliment made her blush. “I’m not. I was so scared. I don’t think I could have crossed without Lord Robert.”

Once again Sansa blushes at Myranda’s comments.

“By the time they finally reached her father’s castle, Lady Myranda was drowsing too, and Alayne was dreaming of her bed.”

This is some interesting word play. It might not be intentional but ships like Braime have similar lines.

And a few miscellaneous/bonus things:

“Septa Mordane said all men are beautiful, find his beauty, try.”

This is how Sansa thinks about Tyrion. She’s a child forcibly married to him so she’d probably judge him harshly regardless but this phrasing struck me. It’s very similar to the way lgbtq people are often told to try to love another gender even if they cannot. And the way Septa Mordane taught Sansa about attraction and gender obviously has a huge influence on her perception of her own sexuality.

“When a serving girl brought her supper, she almost kissed her.”

And this is Sansa thinking about kissing a girl.

“I am coming for you, Lady Sansa, she thought as she rode into the darkness. Be not afraid. I shall not rest until I've found you.”

The fact that the true knight Sansa wishes for, the hero out of the stories, the romantic trope is Brienne, a woman, has some awesome queer implications. Even if her relationship with Brienne isn’t really a romantic one, it certainly fits the idea of courtly love.

#asoiaf #sansa stark #lesbian Sansa Stark #sapphicsansafest #sansasource #sansaery #Sansa x Myranda #Sansa x Mya #asoiaf meta #my meta

[butterflies-dragons]

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." This is the very first line of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy and GRRM is very aware of these words; so far he has mentioned it in reference of Sansa Stark and Jon Snow:

Arya was one of the first characters created. Sansa came about as a total opposite b/c too many of the Stark family members were getting along and families aren’t like that. Thus, Sansa was created; he ended by saying they have deep issues to work out. [Source]

An interesting question was “Why are there so many sons who are unloved by their fathers, like Sam, Jon, Tyrion and Theon?” I watched George’s reaction carefully (I was sitting close to him) and he did not take issue with the assumption that Jon Snow is part of the “unloved sons” (obviously the dynamic talked about is Jon/Eddard, not Rhaegar). He nodded at the question and said that he does not have the full quote with him, but the great Russian writer Tolstoy once said that happy families are boring  - this was followed by a big round of applause cause every Russian knows this quote very well (the quote by Tolstoy is: All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. [Source]

And recently I found another similarity with Tolstoy's work and Sansa.

In spite of the obvious differences, Sansa Stark, the betrothed of the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon, showing her evident crush and concern about Ser Loras Tyrell's safety during the Hand's Tourney, reminds me of Anna Karenina making evident her illicit affair with Count Vronsky in front of everyone, her husband Alexey Alexandrovitch Karenin included, during the races:

She flew over the ditch as though not noticing it. She flew over it like a bird; but at the same instant Vronsky, to his horror, felt that he had failed to keep up with the mare’s pace, that he had, he did not know how, made a fearful, unpardonable mistake, in recovering his seat in the saddle. All at once his position had shifted and he knew that something awful had happened. He could not yet make out what had happened, when the white legs of a chestnut horse flashed by close to him, and Mahotin passed at a swift gallop. Vronsky was touching the ground with one foot, and his mare was sinking on that foot. He just had time to free his leg when she fell on one side, gasping painfully, and, making vain efforts to rise with her delicate, soaking neck, she fluttered on the ground at his feet like a shot bird. The clumsy movement made by Vronsky had broken her back. But that he only knew much later. At that moment he knew only that Mahotin had flown swiftly by, while he stood staggering alone on the muddy, motionless ground, and Frou-Frou lay gasping before him, bending her head back and gazing at him with her exquisite eyes. Still unable to realize what had happened, Vronsky tugged at his mare’s reins. Again she struggled all over like a fish, and her shoulders setting the saddle heaving, she rose on her front legs but unable to lift her back, she quivered all over and again fell on her side. With a face hideous with passion, his lower jaw trembling, and his cheeks white, Vronsky kicked her with his heel in the stomach and again fell to tugging at the rein. She did not stir, but thrusting her nose into the ground, she simply gazed at her master with her speaking eyes.

“A—a—a!” groaned Vronsky, clutching at his head. “Ah! what have I done!” he cried. “The race lost! And my fault! shameful, unpardonable! And the poor darling, ruined mare! Ah! what have I done!”

—Anna Karenina, Part Two, Chapter 25 - Leo Tolstoy

Everyone was loudly expressing disapprobation, everyone was repeating a phrase someone had uttered—“The lions and gladiators will be the next thing,” and everyone was feeling horrified; so that when Vronsky fell to the ground, and Anna moaned aloud, there was nothing very out of the way in it. But afterwards a change came over Anna’s face which really was beyond decorum. She utterly lost her head. She began fluttering like a caged bird, at one moment would have got up and moved away, at the next turned to Betsy.

“Let us go, let us go!” she said.

But Betsy did not hear her. She was bending down, talking to a general who had come up to her.

Alexey Alexandrovitch went up to Anna and courteously offered her his arm.

“Let us go, if you like,” he said in French, but Anna was listening to the general and did not notice her husband.

“He’s broken his leg too, so they say,” the general was saying. “This is beyond everything.”

Without answering her husband, Anna lifted her opera-glass and gazed towards the place where Vronsky had fallen; but it was so far off, and there was such a crowd of people about it, that she could make out nothing. She laid down the opera-glass, and would have moved away, but at that moment an officer galloped up and made some announcement to the Tsar. Anna craned forward, listening.

“Stiva! Stiva!” she cried to her brother.

But her brother did not hear her. Again she would have moved away.

“Once more I offer you my arm if you want to be going,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, reaching towards her hand.

She drew back from him with aversion, and without looking in his face answered:

“No, no, let me be, I’ll stay.”

She saw now that from the place of Vronsky’s accident an officer was running across the course towards the pavilion. Betsy waved her handkerchief to him. The officer brought the news that the rider was not killed, but the horse had broken its back.

On hearing this Anna sat down hurriedly, and hid her face in her fan. Alexey Alexandrovitch saw that she was weeping, and could not control her tears, nor even the sobs that were shaking her bosom. Alexey Alexandrovitch stood so as to screen her, giving her time to recover herself.

“For the third time I offer you my arm,” he said to her after a little time, turning to her. Anna gazed at him and did not know what to say. Princess Betsy came to her rescue.

“No, Alexey Alexandrovitch; I brought Anna and I promised to take her home,” put in Betsy.

“Excuse me, princess,” he said, smiling courteously but looking her very firmly in the face, “but I see that Anna’s not very well, and I wish her to come home with me.”

Anna looked about her in a frightened way, got up submissively, and laid her hand on her husband’s arm.

“I’ll send to him and find out, and let you know,” Betsy whispered to her.

—Anna Karenina, Part Two, Chapter 29 - Leo Tolstoy

* * *

When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, and he heard Sansa’s fervent whisper, “Oh, he’s so beautiful.” Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armor polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized in the same instant as Ned that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires; a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across the boy’s shoulders his cloak hung heavy. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to a heavy woolen cape.

“His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregor’s huge stallion trumpeted as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. Sansa clutched at his arm. “Father, don’t let Ser Gregor hurt him,” she said. Ned saw she was wearing the rose that Ser Loras had given her yesterday. Jory had told him about that as well.

“These are tourney lances,” he told his daughter. “They make them to splinter on impact, so no one is hurt.” Yet he remembered the dead boy in the cart with his cloak of crescent moons, and the words were raw in his throat.

(...) Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal’s neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. “Stop him!” Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

This similarity could be nothing of course, but I can't help myself finding Sansa in everything I read, like it happened with Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac.

Also Count Vronsky's mare Frou-Frou, somehow reminds me of Lady.

#sansa stark #grrm #anna karenina #leo tolstoy

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) you’ve got to run far from all you’ve ever known  STAR WARS

Febuwhump no.3 - Imprisonment

A03

As he’s carried through the oppressive halls of the Star Destroyer, Rex’s entire body aches and his stomach rolls. His head is fuzzy, the result of the stunner that had taken him down, and his chest aches where the Purge Trooper had tackled him.

He had been on Felucia, following a potential lead on Bly’s location, when he’d run into the trooper in black. He’s only heard rumours of Purge Troopers, of Stormtroopers so elite that they’d earned their own classification and higher quality weapons. Made to specifically hunt Jedi survivors, Purge Troopers were well known for never leaving survivors, and for fighting until they couldn’t fight anymore. They were rarely ever seen among the rank and file, only given the most dangerous of missions, and they were rumoured to be among the best of the clones.

Rex had been tracking any leads he could, to rescue any vode possible, but even after five years, it seemed like an impossible task. He’d gotten both Gregor and Wolffe out, but neither had had an activated chip, too damaged by the head trauma they’d received during the Clone Wars, but neither were in a good place to run missions. He had gone to Cut, had helped him remove his own and take his family deeper into hiding so that the Empire couldn’t find them. He knows that Clone Force 99 is free, he exchanges encrypted comms with Echo on a regular basis, but they never meet up, unwilling to lead possible tails to each other. Rex’s strength had been his anonymity; the Empire thought him dead, that he’d died with the rest of his men when the ship went down, and his face was simply that of another clone if he kept his hair disguised. It allowed him to sneak behind lines and collect intelligence to pass on to the fledgling Rebellion, because no one was looking for him. He had heard a passing rumour of Bly possibly being on Felucia, being on the planet where his Jedi had been killed, and Rex had acted as quickly as he could; he’d known what was going on between Bly and his General during the War, knew that the Commander didn’t just think of her as a General, and he knew that if he didn’t find him fast enough, there likely wouldn’t be anything  to save.

He had been right. He’d found Bly, found him where he knew Bly would have wanted to be, and he’d kneeled in front of those two graves and begged for forgiveness. For not being fast enough, for not listening to Fives, for not being there. The rumours had been right; Bly had been on Felucia, but he was already gone.

Someone had gone through the trouble of burying both the Jedi and the Commander, had known Bly well enough to know that he’d want to be buried with his Jedi, and Rex had wondered how long it could have possibly been - how the rumours could have been sparked.

Then he’d picked up Bly’s bucket, intent on giving his  ori’vod   one final  kov’nyn while he said his Remembrances, and he’d seen the blinking light of an activated signal.

Someone had staged it. Someone had known that a free clone would come looking if a signal was picked up, and had planted a trap at the same time as they buried Rex’s brother.

He hadn’t even had time to pull out his blasters before the Purge Trooper had been bearing down on him.

Rex doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious since the trooper stunned him, he doesn’t know  why he was taken alive, all he knows is that there are stun cuffs humming around his wrists and the Purge Trooper has him slung effortlessly over his shoulder like he were nothing more than a sack of tubers. Rex is almost a little offended; he knows he’s lost weight since starting his hunt, knows that he hasn’t had the chance to eat the way that his metabolism demands when he’s not on Seelos where Gregor can fuss over him and shove food that tastes like ash down his throat - he has no doubt that his brother can cook, and cook well, but Rex just doesn’t have the energy to taste what he makes, just goes through the motions of chewing and swallowing to make Gregor happy and reduce Wolffe’s stress - but he hadn’t thought he’d lost enough mass to make it easy on the clone carrying him. He’s slung over a surprisingly soft pauldron, staring foggily down at the Purge Trooper’s swaying kama, and he wonders if he knows this trooper, wonders if he could knock the bucket off and place their face.

Maybe he could sway them away from the chip’s programming.

“Commander.” A voice Rex doesn’t recognize, can’t see, says, and the Purge Trooper pauses, gait skipping slightly. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve captured a traitor to the Empire, Sir.” The Purge Trooper says drolly, like they were annoyed at the interruption. “I’m taking the clone to the brig, so that it can be transferred to Kamino for repairs and reconditioning.”

Rex’s stomach drops, heart fluttering in fear. If he was taken back to Kamino, the Longnecks would put the chip back in his head, and everything that made him  Rex  would be gone again. Panic flares in his mind like a heavy fog, threatening to drown him with the memories of staring down his blaster at Ahsoka’s scared face and not recognizing her as his  vod’ika and Commander. He hadn’t seen her as anything but a target, someone to execute - a traitor, not even a person, and if he hadn’t warned her before being dragged under in that split second of horrified realization that Fives had been right, then she’d likely be dead.

“Trooper,” The Purge Trooper’s superior sounds annoyed, like they were dealing with a child that kept bringing feral animals into their bed. It’s almost the exact tone of voice Rex had to use when Tup had tried to slip a  ‘therapy animal’  onto the  Resolute. “You know your orders. Any rogue clone is to be  executed, not detained. If you continue to ignore regulations, I’ll have no choice but to have you returned for retraining.” The Imperial sighs, sounding tired. “I’ve already been far too lenient with your…  defectiveness … because of your skills.”

“CT-7567 is an exemplary soldier, sir, and can be put to use once repairs are complete.” The Purge Trooper argues, and Rex lets out a punchy little breath of shock where he’s still playing dead on the trooper’s shoulder. “He’s one of the best, General.”

  They know who he is.

“And  that’s  what you claimed the last time.” The Imp growls, “Right before CT-9021 destroyed itself  and  the transport it was on. That wasn’t even the first time either. Execute the clone and dispose of it, it’s  my position on the line if I allow your defect to cause any more damage to the Empire.”

The Purge Trooper’s entire body shudders at the order, and Rex’s hands clench against the other clone’s thigh. There’s a stun baton hanging off of the trooper’s hip, if he could reach it, Rex could possibly try to fight his way out of the situation he’s found himself in. But there’s an entire cruiser between him and escape, a cruiser he doesn’t know how to navigate with an unknown amount of Stormtrooper, of which is an unknown percentage of chipped vode, and there’s active stuff cuffs around his wrists.

“Sir, the Empire would lose a powerful asset-”

“CC-2224,  execute the traitor.”

Rex jolts, and it’s not just because he’s been dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. His head is ringing, his chest aches from the harsh landing so soon after taking on a fully armoured Purge Trooper, but all he can think is that it’s  Cody .

Codycodycody  - he’s here, he was just holding Rex. He had Cody within his grasp, after five years of desperately searching for him, looking for any sign that his  ori’vod had survived Order 66. Cody had been collecting unchipped clones, bringing them back to the Empire despite his orders to kill them. The big brother that had found Rex hidden away from the eyes of the Kaminoans all those years ago is still there, still thinking underneath the thrall of the chip, still trying to protect any  vod he could, just like how he had once promised to protect Rex from decommissioning.

Cody is staring down at him from behind the glowing red visor of a Purge Trooper, Rex can see the reflection of his wide eyes in the glossy black of his armour. He barely notices the blaster being leveled at him, too caught up with desperately trying to see his brother underneath the unfamiliar helmet.

“Cody.” His voice breaks -  gods, it must have been Cody who buried Bly, Cody who was probably one of the few people who truly understood the position Bly had found himself in when he’d fallen in love with someone he could never have. Clad in armour so different from those that Cody had chosen, had so lovingly painted to represent a part of him that the Longnecks would have never allowed, Cody just stares back. “Cody - it’s  you.” He’s almost too relieved to see him to feel the fear of his imminent execution. “You’re  alive.” Rex’s voice is bordering on reverent, but he can’t bring himself to care. It had been five years since he had last seen his brother. “Force - I’ve been looking everywhere for you -” he lets out a faint laugh, “- of course  you would be the one to find me instead.” His eyes flicker down momentarily, to look at the blaster aimed for his chest, shaking faintly, and a bitterly sad smile lifts his lips. “Well. I doubt this is the meeting either of us had in mind.” Rex raises his gaze once more to the expressionless helmet his brother was wearing, face illuminated in crimson.

If he were going to die, he’d rather it be looking into Cody’s eyes.

“It’s okay, Cody.” He soothes, “It’s okay. It’s not you - I don’t blame you.” Cody’s body shivers, “I love you,  ori’vod.”

Cody’s entire body jerks, twists, and Rex’s acceptance falls away to shock as his brother swings around to face the Imperial in white. The blaster fires, and the General drops, a smoking hole in their chest, their expression a dying mask of stunned confusion.

“Cody?”

“-execute the traitor.” Cody’s mumble is barely audible through his bucket, as his shaking hands fumble to throw his blaster as far away as possible. “Execute the traitor to the Empire. CT-7567 is an asset the Empire can’t lose.” He jerks again, movement punchy, as he moves towards Rex now and wordlessly lifts him to his feet. “How many - how many - how many are traitors?”

“Cody?” Rex repeats, stunned, as his brother hauls him through the halls, “What the kriff was  that?”

“General Medenhall was a traitor to the Empire.” Cody mutters, voice frantic. “Putting his own needs above those of the Empire. CT-7567 is an asset the Empire can’t lose. He had too much control on the ship. The others are traitors too.” Rex doesn’t even think that Cody is talking to him, wonders if Cody had ever been talking to him. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of his words - or trying to convince the chip.

“Cody you mad genius.” Rex says in numb shock, joy blooming in his chest.

Cody was fighting the chip.

“Good soldiers follow orders.” Cody hisses, grip tightening on Rex’s elbow to the point that it was almost painful, giving him a faint shake, and Rex gets the message to shut up and let his brother concentrate on the chip in his head. He shuts his mouth and lets his older brother drag him through the halls. “My orders were to execute the traitor. General Medenhall was the traitor. The asset needs to be secured.”

No Stormtrooper they pass looks twice at them, none of them seem to pick up that their General had just been killed and that the Purge Trooper that they all carefully don’t look at is muttering to himself. None of them seem to notice that he’s imprisoned in his own mind, fighting desperately against the chains. None of them seem to care that he’s dragging a prisoner behind him to Force knows where.

None of them stop them from reaching the shuttle bay, none of them stop them as Cody leads him onto a ship and closes the ramp behind them.

“Holy kriff Cody.” Rex whispers in awe, “You always were too competent for anyone’s good.”

Cody shakes his head, releasing his arm, but he doesn’t step away. Quivering hands grip at a black helmet, and Cody sways momentarily before he’s ripping off the Purge Trooper bucket and throwing it against the floor with enough force to make it bounce away from them with the sound of cracking plastoid.

For the first time in five years, Rex gets to see his brother’s face.

He looks younger than Rex now, his face is less lined by age, somehow, like he had actually aged  only the five years a natborn would have, but his temples have started to gray. It’s still his brother’s face, still the face that had haunted Rex’s nightmares for the last five years, when he hadn’t known if his brother was alive or dead. His scar is even more faded than it had been the last time he had seen him, had been given the chance to heal, the stress lines still etched into his forehead from scowling at datapads too often.

It really is Cody.

Dark wetness drips from his brother’s nose, tracing across the pained scowl twisting his lips, and his eyes look bloodshot, and Rex wonders how much pain his  ori’vod is in from fighting against his chip and its programming.

Fuck, he doesn’t know if Cody can fly in this state.

His gaze slides to the shock baton at his brother’s waist once more.

Slowly, making sure not to alert him, Rex reaches, curls his fingers around the hilt, and before Cody can react, he’s sliding it free. He activates it quickly, and, with an apologetic wince, the former Captain presses the sparking weapon against the unprotected patch of his brother’s side. Cody is seizing up immediately. He instinctively tries to pull away, but Rex follows. He blocks out the garbled noises of agony his brother releases, ignores the tears tracing through the grime on both of their faces, and he holds it there until Cody slumps, twitching, but blissfully unconscious.

“Sorry, brother.” Rex whispers, fumbling through his brother’s belt until he finds the key to his cuffs, and he’s barely aware of swapping them onto Cody’s wrists instead, as a last resort if he woke up while they were flying. “Sorry.”

Dead to the world, but no longer under the fist of the Empire, Cody doesn’t answer.

Taglist: @a-mediocre-succulent @yellowisharo @spoofymcgee @roseofalderaan @everything-or-anything @bellablue42 @tumceteri-fratres

#cole writes #febuwhump2021 #febuwhumpday3 #captain rex #commander cody #imprisonment #purge trooper cody #Post Order 66 #alternate universe #where's cody filoni? #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #minor character death

[greaterawarness]

Moving On Ch. 12 The Palace

(Set around 6 months after order 66. AU on how Rex finds Wolffe and Gregor and ends up on Seelos.)

Wolffe

Focus. He needed to focus. When the ringing in his ears finally disappears and the sounds of past battles fade away Wolffe is finally able to see his screen more clearly. He shakes his head and checks the time. An hour this time. His blackouts were lasting much longer. He lets out an aggravated sigh and tries to finish his report. A knock at his office door pulls his attention away.

“Still at it?” Boost asks. The clone crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. Wolffe shakes his head.

“Just finishing up.” Wolffe breathes. His brother smirks before leaning over his desk.

“Come on,” He says with the toss of his chin. “Let’s get some chow.”

Not appearing to make any process with the report, Wolffe decides to follow his brother’s lead. They walk through what used to be the Jedi temple. Now it acts as Emperor Palpatine’s Palace. Wolffe still wasn’t used to all the changes. Before this place housed such warmth and safety. Now? It feels like he’s always being watched. Like everyone’s just waiting for him to mess up. He swallows while balling his hands into fists. They walk into the galley filled with white stormtrooper uniforms. While waiting in line Wolffe became uncomfortably aware of all the nonclones blending in. It gave him a sour taste in his mouth. Didn’t sit right with him. Boost has to elbow him for him to realize they had got to the front. Wolffe gets the same thing Boost gets and follows him to a table filled with familiar clones. Before he would eat with the other Commanders. And Rex. Pain shot across his head like remembering the good old days with his friend was physically painful. So, he shook his head and focused on the people in front of him. Neyo stabs at his food the same way he always did. Bacara judges Neyo silently from across the table and Boost pushes his food around mixing the things together before shoveling it into his mouth. He guessed some things never changed.

“You hear Bly’s back?” Neyo asks. Wolffe pokes at his food.

“Was he… successful?” Wolffe asks cautiously. Bacara grins with a hmph.

“It’s what I hear. Gave those traitors what’s coming to them.” Neyo chuckles while continuing to stab at his plate. Boost arches a brow at him.

“And you all say I’m childish.” He mumbles. Neyo stares at Boost while reaching over and stabbing at his bread roll before taking a bite out of it. Boost lets out a tired sigh and lets it go. It was Neyo after all. Was never right in the head. Wolffe stared down at his plate. He tries lifting a bite to his mouth when his hand begins to shake.

“Commander Wolffe.”

Wolffe squeezes his eyes shut.

“I want you to watch my back in our next mission.” He had said. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

“Of course, General. I’ll always be there to watch your back.”

Wolffe slaps his hand over his mouth dropping his fork. Everyone looks up from the table at Wolffe. He gags before leaping from the table and running for the refresher.

After vomiting essentially nothing but stomach acid, Wolffe rests with his back against the refresher stall wall. He rubs his face while waiting for his nausea to die down. The door to the refresher opens.

“Wolffe?” Boost calls out. Wolffe groans and looks to the side when his brother stands over him. “You’re throwing up again.”

“Yeah, it’s just something I ate. Don’t worry about it.” Wolffe says with a little wave like it was nothing. Boost crosses his arms and leans against the stall door.

“The thing is, Commander, I know for a fact you haven’t eaten in two days so… I know its not that.” Boost says staring down at him. Wolffe frowns deeper before trying to get to his feet. Boost helps him up so he can walk to the sink to rinse his mouth out. Wolffe stares at his reflection. He’s lost a lot of weight over the past six months. His cheeks were hollow and eyes sunken in. Wolffe used to pride himself on his health and made it a priority to stay in top physical shape. Now he was nothing more then a ghost of his former self.

“I’ll be fine, Boost.” Wolffe says once he can stand up straight. Boost doesn’t look convinced.

“Have you thought about going to the medbay?” Boost asks slowly. Wolffe shakes his head.

“I’m fine. No need.” He says. He places a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back.”

Knowing there was nothing he could say to change Wolffe’s mind, Boost follows his Commander back to their table. Boost watches Wolffe in the corner of his eye. Wolffe is only able to stomach a nibble here and there but mostly spends his time moving his food around. When they’re done eating, they both decide to retreat to their barracks. Wolffe sits on Boost’s bunk while watching him clean his blaster. He was uncomfortably aware of the empty bunk above Boost’s bed. Wolffe looks down at his hands.

“I’m glad he’s gone.” Boost says from his seat on a crate. Wolffe frowns at him.

“What?”

“Sinker. I’m glad he’s gone.” Boost goes on. Wolffe stiffens ready to chew him out when Boost gives a sad smile. “Do you really think Sinker would be okay with all these… changes?”

“I… I suppose not.” Wolffe sighs at last.

“He wouldn’t be happy if he is here. I like to think he’s cracking terrible jokes somewhere with all the other fallen brothers.” Boost says while setting his blaster aside. “And one day we’ll be able to see each other again. And you know, hear those awful jokes of his.”

“I like that.” Wolffe says softly. Wolffe looks up at Boost. “Are you happy?”

Boost doesn’t answer at first. He crosses his arms and stares at the ground thinking.

“You know me Commander,” Boost says after a while. “I can roll with the punches. I’m more worried about you. I mean, someone has to mother hen you since…”

Boost trails off. Wolffe stares at the floor feeling his stomach churn.

“Well, you know.” Boost sighs while rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Wolffe whispers while squeezing his hands into tight fists. “I know.”

“Commander Wolffe.” A voice cuts through Wolffe’s thoughts. Wolffe stiffens at the sight of the clone in white and blue armor. Wolffe stands.

“Commander Appo, how can I help you?” Wolffe asks. Appo gives a half smile. It was hard to believe little Appo has become the man he is today. Not many know that he and Appo trained under Alpha. Along with Rex, Cody, Gree, and many others. Most of them became commanders and captains but Appo was happy falling behind. Now look at him. He’s become one of the most feared commanders in the Empire. Boost frowns at him narrowing his eyes.

“You are being summoned.” He says plainly. All the color drains from Wolffe’s face. Boost jumps to his feet.

“But why?” Boost asks angrily. Appo frowns at him.

“When he summons you, you do not ask questions.” Appo hisses. He turns to leave before turning back. “And I wouldn’t take my time if I were you. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Wolffe watches Appo disappear out of the 104th barracks. Wolffe swallows the vomit in his throat and grabs his helmet. Boost grabs his arm.

“Why does he want you?” he asks with eyes full of concern.

“I don’t know.” Wolffe answers honestly. Boost reluctantly let’s go of his arm. Wolffe walks quickly out of the barracks and down the hall. His mind races with why he’s being summoned. He’s failed to capture Rex and that shaper girl. He tries to swallow his fear. It wouldn’t help him where he’s going. He stops in front of his door. He takes a moment to compose himself before stepping inside.

The temperature drops once inside. Wolffe stands inside the room between two others. He was not expecting to see Gregor or an inquisitor standing at the end of the long table. Gregor glances over him looking as lost as he was. Wolffe pops to attention.

“You summoned me,” Wolffe says as confidently as he could. “Lord Vader.”

Lord Vader’s breathing was the only sound in the room. The tall dark figure slowly turns to face them. Appo stands at his side looking calm and composed. Almost comfortable next to one of the most frightening beings Wolffe has ever seen.

“Commander,” Lord Vader starts. “You have been tasked with hunting down and capturing Captain Rex and the Shaper woman.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Wolffe says managing to stay calm and firm.

“So far all your attempts have ended with failure.”

“Yes… My Lord.” He says feeling his voice almost crack. Lord Vader turns to look out the window out on Courscant.

“And clone force 99?” He asks.

“Still at large, my Lord.” Wolffe says not sure if his throat was tightening or if it was just getting harder to swallow.

“I am sending you along with Commander Gregor and one of my inquisitors to apprehend these fugitives.” He goes on. “I want them back alive.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Wolffe says uneasily. He gives them the signal that they are dismissed but as Wolffe turns to leave.

“And Commander,” Lord Vader says stopping him in his tracks. “Do not fail me again.”

“Yes, Lord Vader.” Wolffe says with the last bit of composure he had left. When the doors close behind him, he lets out a shaky breath. Gregor does the same.

“He’s a bit scary, right?” Gregor grins at him. Wolffe stares at him for a moment before walking on. The inquisitor gives a laugh while walking beside him.

“I could feel your fear.” She purrs next to him.

“Get away from me.” He snarls. She only grins wider.

“I look forward to commanding you, Commander.” She says. He frowns at her before turning down a hallway. He walks back to his barracks like Vader might come after him. When Boost spots him he runs to his side.

“What happened?” He asks urgently. Wolffe takes a moment to regain himself.

“We have one last chance to find Rex.” He says while putting his hands on his hips. Boost frowns.

“Rex was one of the best soldiers in the army. How are we going to catch him?” Boost asks. Wolffe shakes his head.

“He’s still only a man, Boost.” Wolffe says. But even as he says it, he’s unsure himself. As if Rex being one of the best was bad enough, now he has that fire throwing girl at his side. He always did attract the strangest of people. Wolffe hoped with everything he had that he would be able to capture Rex. And deep down as much as he tried to hide it, he hoped that he wouldn’t.

Read the full story here at AO3

#Wolffe #commander wolffe #commander gregor #clone trooper boost #boost #commander neyo #neyo #commander bacara #bacara #darth vader #inquisitor #captain rex #au star wars #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #writers on tumblr #star wars #star wars prequals #the clone wars #tcw

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 16

Yes, hello, it’s me again. Boo Boo the Fool. Clearly, I’ve underestimated my capacity to word vomit, thus the chapter count has been updated. It’s for real this time, though, I promise, guys. I’m not fucking crying wolf again, I swear.  Only one more to go after this.  Crazy, huh?

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Sixteen: Splinter

“Perhaps he really is a Targaryen – to the bone. But he’s finished with apologizing about it. If this is what they’ve made him, then this is what he’ll be.

If treason is what they expect, then by the gods, he will give it to them.” - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"Here." Jon tips the cup toward Bran's lips, wiping up the spill of water at his chin when he pulls it back, and Bran nods appreciatively, his hand still at Jon's wrist.

"I'm alright," he says, urging Jon to set the cup back down.

Jon settles into his seat at Bran's bedside, the cup forgotten along the side table.

Bran settles more comfortably into his furs. "Thank you," he says, wincing slightly at the tug on his bandaged leg when he adjusts.

Jon only nods, swallowing tightly, his eyes glancing over to Sansa's prone form along the bed beside Bran's, tucked securely beneath the furs. It's been nearly a day and a half she's been unconscious. Jon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face in exhaustion. "She should be here – helping you with this. She should be here," he gets out tightly.

Bran sighs. "And she will, when she wakes."

Jon clenches his jaw, shaking his head. His eyes bead with wetness instantly. He drops his head into his hands, elbows resting along his knees and he lets out a ragged breath, a worn exhale. "Gods, she nearly – I nearly – " He doesn't have the heart to finish such a sentence.

Nearly lost her.

He hasn't the heart to even imagine it.

He remembers rushing to Measter Gregor's before the man could even make it to their chambers, Sansa's unconscious body terrifyingly light in his arms, the bloodied seat of her dress soaking through to his sleeve, and how he sobbed, how he tore through the halls screaming for the maester, chest aching, throat raw, muscles quaking as he ran with her in his arms. How lifeless she'd been when he dropped her, as gently as he could, onto the cot in Gregor's clinic, backing away to let the old man and his acolytes do their work, watching, always watching, and gasping, crumbling – begging her to just open her eyes please gods just open your eyes open your eyes Sansa please please OPEN YOUR EYES –

Jon closes his eyes at the memory, keeps his head in his hands, tries to focus on the faint sound of her breathing, the slow intake, the shallow exhale. Over and over. In and out. Over and over. This becomes his constant, his world.

He doesn't know what he'll do if it should ever stop.

"Jon."

He takes a deep breath, lets it rattle against his palms. He pulls his head up just slightly, fingers stilled splayed over his cheeks, eyes meeting Bran reluctantly.

Bran keeps his gaze resolute. "She will be here. When she wakes," he repeats. And he sounds so sure.

Jon lets out a rueful chuckle at the tone, his hands slipping from his face, hanging limp between his knees now. "I don't..." The words crack, shutter away.

"She's stronger than you think."

"Stronger than poison?" The question sounds harsher than he intends, but it's not her brother he intends his ire at. His gaze softens at the reminder. "A person can be strong, sure, they can be willful and passionate and all these things and still – poison does not discriminate. It does not care about character. It kills. That's all it does. It just... it just kills." His words hollow out at the end, a bitter sigh, his hands returning to his face.

A heavy silence pervades the air.

(Over and over. In and out. He listens for it, always.)

"Poison," Bran says, seeming to mull the word over as he says it. "And you're certain?"

He scoffs then, rearing back, hands leaving his face once more. "This wasn't simply an accident. This wasn't simply a miscar – " He stops then, the vehemence lodged in his throat. He glares at Bran, eyes still wet. His jaw ticks, teeth aching where they clench. He tears his gaze away finally. "No, this was poison. That amount of blood? That sudden and that violent? No. Someone did this to her," he snarls, head shaking.

Bran curls his hands along the edge of blanket at his waist, looking down at it a moment. He purses his lips, takes a breath. He looks back up at Jon. "Was she with child?" he asks softly.

Jon blinks at him, breath stilling in his chest.

'Was'. Not 'is'.

Jon's face crumbles instantly, breath hitching on a cry, shoulders slumping in on him with the weight of it. His hand goes over his face, as though to hold it in, as though to slow the tide, but it washes from him instantly, without reprieve, without end. "Oh gods," he croaks out, shaking with it. "Oh gods, how am I supposed to tell her?" he cries. He buries his face in his hands, tries to bite back his sobs, his head shaking back and forth. Disbelieving. "How am I supposed to tell her we lost it?" he wails.

In a way, he'd known. Before Maester Gregor pulled him aside, with Sansa slumbering in the next room, dosed with more than a few of the maester's herbs – he'd known.

"I think she'll make it, if she can pull through these next few hours. But my Lord, I must tell you. The babe... there was no saving the babe. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

Jon had stared at the man with unseeing eyes. Just listening. Standing there. Wavering. Taking it all in. His eyes had shifted toward the bed where she laid, her brow sweat-lined, her body limp. And he'd nodded. Just nodded. "I understand," he'd said.

He'd sat down at her side then, took a wet towel to her chin, cleaned the blood from her as though it had never been. He did his best to feed her the tonic Maester Gregor gave him, slipping it between her chapped, parted lips by the spoonful, wiping the drizzle that escaped down the side of her mouth. And then he smoothed the hair back from her face, tucked the furs around her, sat there watching her for an immeasurable amount of time, before he drew in a sharp, long breath, his lungs quaking with it, and everything seemed to come down at once. He'd reached for her hand, crying, crying for her, holding her hand to his face, nuzzling into it, pleading, and crying, crying, crying.

But there will never be enough tears for such grief.

"How do I tell her?" he manages on a shaky exhale, fingers curling over his brow.

"Jon," Bran tries to comfort, his hand rising, and falling on nothing. "I'm so sorry."

It repeats. Over and over.

I'm sorry.

In and out. Over and over.

I'm sorry.

It repeats.

(But Jon only wants it to stop – just...stop.)

Just then, something does stop.

Jon stiffens at the realization, going still. His ears strain for the familiar sound of her steady breathing. It doesn't come. He glances up when a hoarse sigh breaks along the air instead, ragged and disused. His eyes land on Sansa as she stirs.

Jon nearly vaults over Bran's bed in his haste to return to Sansa's side, stumbling into the seat at her bedside, hands grasping at her own, eyes wide and wonderous on her face as she blinks once, twice, moans lowly beneath some hidden pain. And then she opens her eyes.

Jon meets her gaze ardently, brows cinching together in a painful hope, the tears still hot on his lids. "Sansa?" he asks, hardly daring to breathe the word.

She moans again, shifting slightly, blinking back the haze. Blinking again. Eyes focusing in the late afternoon light. She stares up at him. He stares down at her. Her mouth begins to tremble.

"Sansa," he tries again, barely more than a whisper, the name caught in his throat like the edge of dusk, like water-logged wood. It splinters away – sodden and heavy. "Sansa," he cries, and something joyful slips in just then – unintended. He gasps beneath the force of it, a disbelieving laugh breaking from him.

She furrows her brows, blinking furiously. And then she smacks her dry lips, tries for words, swallows back that uneven breath, that quake in her lungs. "Jon," she manages, a fierce, brilliant smile catching at the ends of her lips, tugging further, further, until it spreads wide, before it cracks at the edges, weighted and tear-stained, her face falling with the remembrance, her arms going wide, ignoring the heavy ache of them and the exhausted lull of her body and the still vibrant rack of pain through her limbs, simply reaching, for him – for him, for him, for him.

Jon reaches back, winding his arms around her, tugging her up into his chest, letting her sigh into his throat, hands firm at her back, along her neck, bracing her to him, cradling her.

"Jon," she cries.

"I'm here," he says into her hair, swaying with the weight of her.

She starts to shake, her fingers curling into the tunic at his back. "Jon," she says again.

"I'm here," he hushes. "I'm not going anywhere."

How does he tell her? he had wondered.

But when she grips at him tighter, when she sobs into his chest, when she quakes beneath him, when her wail breaks through the air like something wounded and raging – he thinks maybe she knows.

But Jon can only hold her.

In and out. Over and over.

(His constant.)

"I'm not going anywhere," he croaks again, hand trembling in her hair.

He thinks surely she knows.

* * *

"Do you need anything?" Jon asks, his fingers tracing the length of her jaw.

Sansa burrows further into the sheets, eyes slipping shut. "I'm alright."

Jon lays beside her, hesitant at first to encroach on her space, but when she had tugged him onto the cot in a needful fervency, hands curled tight in the tunic at his chest, curling into him when he stretched out alongside her, her forehead falling to his chest, his arms winding round her, well –

He's fairly certain he couldn't deny her anything at this point.

Sansa sighs, lashes fluttering. A heavy scoff leaves her, fingers curling tighter along his tunic. "No, I'm not alright," she corrects.

Jon's hand retreats from her jaw, reaching around her back instead, cradling her to him. "I'm here."

"Yes, but here is exactly the problem."

Jon clenches his jaw, his hand smoothing down her back. She's so pale. So utterly pale. Her lips are chapped, dry. Dark rings settle beneath her eyes like half-healed bruises. He barely manages not to tremble at the sight of her.

"I'm scared, Jon," she manages through a quake. "I'm scared, and I can't stay here. Not anymore. In this keep, in this family. I can't do it." She buries her face in his chest, heaving a tear-laced sigh against his collar bone. "I'm sorry, Jon, I can't... I can't do it anymore."

"I know," he gets out roughly, holding her tighter. "I know."

"What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to get us out," he says.

She stills in her shaking, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, brows furrowed sharply. "Jon... how can you...?"

"I'll get us out. I swear to you. Aegon will have to let us go," he says, a measure of surety seeping into him that hadn't been there before.

Sansa's eyes darken, her mouth tipping into a frown. "I don't trust him. I don't trust any of them," she bites out.

"Do you trust me?" His hand slips up to her hair, cradles the back of her head. His eyes are imploring on hers.

She shifts her eyes back and forth between his, her mouth parting. "You know I do," she whispers.

Jon swallows tightly, taking courage at the reminder. "Then trust that I will get us out."

She stares up at him, red wisps of hair matted to her forehead with sweat, a permanent etch of pain along her features.

Her body is still fighting. Still weak.

It lights a fury in him that is unspeakable. And yet, the hand he holds to the back of her head is gentle beyond measure.

Sansa stares up at him for long moments, her lip pulled between her teeth. She looks down to his chest, keeps her gaze fixed there, takes a long and slow breath.

His hand slips back down to the small of her back, curling there. His voice is rough and uneven when he finally speaks. "Sansa, the babe..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Jon swallows tightly, looking down at her. Her gaze is harsh on his chest, unblinking. Her hand stays curled in his tunic.

"Sansa..."

"I don't... want to talk about it." She releases a shallow breath. "Not now, at least."

Another bout of silence eases between them. Jon sighs into her hair. "Okay." His hand slides smoothly up and down the length of her back. "Okay."

Some of her stiffness eases out at his answer. "Thank you."

Her voice is so small. So tired and worn. Jon keeps his grief tucked securely behind clenched teeth. "You should rest."

She has very little left in her to say otherwise, and so she only nods, her hand uncurling from his tunic to bunch in the sheets beneath her.

"Rest," he says, starting to pull from her.

Her hand snaps back to his tunic, holding him there, her eyes blinking widely up at him. "Will you stay?"

He hates the tremor of fear in her voice. "Aye, I'll stay," he gets out gruffly, easing back down.

She sighs in relief, eyes slipping shut once more, shoulders easing out their tension.

Jon brushes the hair from her sweat-lined temple. "I'll stay," he promises lowly, watching her.

And he does stay – until she is asleep once more. And then he stays a while longer, just watching her, fingers trailing from her brow to her cheek, down the line of her jaw, clenched in her worried sleep, then down the length of her arm, and back up, tracing the lines of her, committing it to memory.

When he is sure she won't be disturbed, he disentangles from her, easing himself off the cot beside her. He releases her hand reluctantly, tucking it back beneath the furs. He takes a breath, lets it to air. And then he stalks toward the door.

Bran glances up from his lean along his propped-up pillows, hand stilling over the parchment he'd been writing on. "Jon?"

Jon ignores him, a singular focus coming over him. He pulls the door back, dark gaze meeting the startled guard that greets him outside the threshold.

"M'lord?"

"Has Maester Gregor sent any word of his findings?" The question is low and terse, nearly a bite.

The guard shakes his head. "No, m'lord. He's still convening with the other maesters."

Jon nods, brow furrowing. "Summon Theon Greyjoy." he says, eyes flicking to the guard opposite him. "And no one else, aside from him and Maester Gregor, gets through this door, do you understand me?" The words are even and low, a quiet ferocity to them that keeps the guards muted, only fervent nods sent Jon's way. Jon releases the door and stalks back through the clinic to the threshold on the opposite side of the room leading to Measter Gregor's adjoining solar. He passes Bran and Sansa's beds swiftly.

"Jon, what are you going to do?" Bran asks urgently.

"What I have to," he snaps, making his way into the solar and settling at the vacant desk. He finds Maester Gregor's parchment easily enough, dips his quill into ink, and sets to writing. He's nearly finished when he hears a knock on the door, peering up to find Theon lingering in the threshold, eyes falling to the missive beneath Jon's hand.

But Jon returns to his work, scribbling out the last of his message, leaning back to look at it. "Greyjoy," he greets, gaze never leaving the desk.

"I am summoned," Theon gets out testily, a sneer to his voice.

Jon lets the ink set a while longer, his silence a practiced, terse thing. He glances up finally, fingers folding around the ends of the thin parchment. "Yes. I have a task for you."

Theon laughs, a dark, rueful sound, clipped at the end. "Forgive me, my lord, but I'm not particularly inclined to serve you at the moment."

Jon settles his dark stare on him. "Your inclinations are inconsequential at the moment. And regardless," he grinds out, folding the ends of the parchment over, and taking the spoon of hot wax from its stand to pool over the closed edges, "This serves the Lady Sansa, not myself."

Theon pushes off the threshold and walks further into the room. "Oh, serving the Lady Sansa now, are we? Last I checked, you weren't doing too grand a job of that."

Jon shoots a swift glare his way, returning his attention to the letter, pressing his seal into the hot wax. "Your concern for my wife is touching, improper as it is."

"Well, at least one of us is concerned."

"You overstep your bounds, Greyjoy," he says lowly, rising from his seat.

Theon sneers at him, stalking closer. "If you recall, my lord, it wasn't you that saved her life in Stannis' attack."

Jon grinds his teeth, fingers curling into fists at his side. "I'm well aware." And it takes everything of him to say it.

"Then perhaps you can tell me how she ended up here, hmm? Perhaps you can tell me where you were when she was nearly killed? Again! Tell me how you were serving her?" he barks, arms stretching wide. "Because I've yet to see it, my lord!"

Jon storms around the edge of the desk, closing in on him. "You have no idea what I've - "

"She trusted you!" Theon yells, a finger raised toward him. "She trusted you to protect her and she nearly died for it."

"Don't you think I know that?" Jon bellows.

Theon stops, staring at him, his chest heaving.

Jon barely manages not to shake in his fury, his fists still held tight to his sides. His nostrils flare under his deep breaths, eyes narrowed on Theon. "Don't you think I fucking know that?" It comes out clipped and ragged at the end and he must tear his gaze away from Theon's before the break can overtake him.

Theon rears back slightly, brows furrowed over his sharp eyes.

Jon moves his heavy stare to the far wall, stepping off to the side, trying to rein in his labored breaths. "She's out there in that bed – alone and in pain, because of me. Because of me," he gets out on a croak, mouth clamping over the words. And oh, how they sting. To say them to a Greyjoy of all people. To admit to it before a Greyjoy.

Jon didn't think he could sink any lower. And yet here he is.

"What are you going to do?"

"What I have to."

Jon's eyes slip shut. It's a sour slice of shame that lights his tongue. But he will swallow it. He will swallow it back for her. And he will do what he must.

"Do you think me so unfeeling?" Jon asks him, a coarse whisper.

Silence greets him. A long stretch of it. Jon opens his eyes to glance at Theon at his peripheral.

The man is glaring down at the floor, hands bunched into fists at his side. "No, I do not, my lord," he gets out roughly, at length, as though the words were a pain to utter.

And perhaps they are. As much as Jon's.

He turns fully to Theon then, stepping before him. "I will never be comfortable with the feelings you clearly harbor for my wife. I will never be comfortable knowing she still cares for you in some regard."

Theon looks back up at him then, gaze narrowed.

"But I am not ungrateful." It's like gravel in his throat. Jon swallows thickly, trying to get the words to air. "When you saved her, when you..." He stops, dips his head down, eases some of the tension from his trembling fists. "I will never forget it," he vows softly. He looks back up, meets Theon's gaze. "Which is why you are the only person in this city I trust to save her now."

Theon blinks at that, mouth parting. Hesitation wars across his features, his eyes flicking between Jon's.

Jon lifts his chin. "So," he begins, lips pursed tight, "Will you help me?"

He thinks about that day in the courtyard, looking across the field of bodies to where Theon stood, bow in hand, arm still pulled back in release, his own chest heaving, eyes wide.

He thinks about the relief that flooded his chest at the sight, at the weight of Sansa in his arms, at knowing there were those in her life that would not see her fall. No matter the cost.

And he thinks he can live with Theon Greyjoy being in love with his wife, if that's what it means. Perhaps it's selfish of him. Perhaps it's just another way he's learned to manipulate, to use one's emotions against them. Perhaps he really is a Targaryen – to the bone.

But he's finished with apologizing about it. If this is what they've made him, then this is what he'll be.

If treason is what they expect, then by the gods, he will give it to them.

"Will you help me?" he asks again, more a demand than anything.

Theon continues staring at him silently, shoulders pulling back. He lets out a shallow scoff, hand wiping over his mouth, eyes lifting to the ceiling, and then drifting back down to meet Jon's. His mouth is a harsh frown. "What is it you want me to do?" he grinds out.

Jon doesn't give him a chance to rethink it, turning swiftly back toward the desk, grabbing the sealed letter. He turns back and hands it to Theon. "Ride to Winterfell. Ride now, as fast your horse can carry you."

Theon looks down at the letter, taking it with tentative fingers. His brows bunch in confusion. "And this is...?"

"My treason."

Theon's gaze snaps up to Jon's. "What?"

"Every two days, you will receive a raven from me. If ever you do not receive that raven, then you are to hand this to Lord Stark to read," he says, motioning toward the letter in Theon's hand.

Theon cocks a brow at him. "What does it mean if you do not send a raven?"

"It means I am dead."

Theon lets out a disbelieving laugh, stalking away from him, and then stalking back. "My lord, this is..." He shakes the letter in his hand. "What are you planning?"

Jon winds his hands behind his back, head tilting as he looks at Theon, an even stare to his dark eyes, unblinking. "You will receive a raven every two days while Sansa and I make our way North. So, until we are safely at Winterfell, you will guard that missive with your life."

Theon swallows thickly, eyes drifting back to the ominous letter.

Jon sighs. "Pray to the gods Lord Stark will never have need to open it."

Theon shifts his gaze back to Jon, appraising him. And then he stuffs the letter into a pocket, nodding once, swiftly and decidedly. "I will do this," he says simply.

Jon doesn't let the flutter of relief he feels between his ribs rattle him any further. Instead, he reaches out for Theon's shoulder, urging him toward the door and back through the clinic. "Good. Now, you must – "

"My lord, I've returned."

Jon glances up at Maester Gregor's announcement, finding him in the doorway as the guards shut the door behind him. Jon nods his greeting, turning swiftly back to Theon. "You must go – now. And you must go unseen. Lady Sansa's life depends on your urgency and your secrecy, do you understand?"

Theon nods once more. "I do." He glances over to Bran, who's looking between the two with a plaintive expression.

"What is going on?" the boy asks, exasperated, as he drops his quill and parchment back to his lap.

Theon clenches his jaw, looking back to Jon. "She asked me to protect him."

"If you succeed in this task, then it will save them both," he assures him.

Theon blows a shaky breath from his lips, steeling himself. "This treason of yours better be worth it," he gets out on a sly laugh, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips.

"All successful treason is," he swears, low enough that only the two of them might hear.

Theon keeps his gaze a moment longer, seeming to search for something, and then he's turning away, back toward the door with a polite farewell for Gregor and Bran, eyes lingering only a moment longer on the boy in the cot.

Jon gives Gregor an uneasy smile then, ushering him toward the solar. "Maester, what have you discovered?"

"Am I not to be included?" Bran asks sharply from his place in his bed.

Both men glance back at him. Jon humors him with a tender smile. "Bran..."

"She's my sister, you know. As much as she is your wife. And I deserve to know who did this to her just as well as you," he says, eyes demanding on Jon's.

Jon can't help the chuckle that leaves him, even when there is no mirth behind it. Because yes, the boy is right. How simple of him to think otherwise?

Gregor looks to Jon, a reluctant expression crossing his face. "My lord, this is a delicate matter."

Jon nods, turning them toward Bran's bed instead now. "All the more reason her family should hear it." They stop just on the side of Bran's bed, and Jon helps the older man into a seat before taking his own.

The maester sighs, shaking his head. "My lord, after examining her blood, and her symptoms, I must tell you that the lady has most certainly been poisoned."

"Yes," Jon scoffs, "I figured as much when she started coughing blood." At the Maester's grave look, Jon shakes his head, grinding his teeth. "Apologies, Maester. Please, do go on."

Gregor sighs, winding his hands before him. "We've been able to ascertain the poison as Red Ausmothis. It's a plant some maesters use, in small doses mind you, to help clear the bloodstream. But in large amounts, it can cause a patient to bleed excessively, as it also thins the blood, see."

Bran peers up at him from the bed, brows sharpening down over his intent eyes. "Yes, but how was it administered to my sister?"

The maester gives a slight shrug of the shoulder. "Ingested, I assume. Through food or drink."

Jon's mouth purses into a tight line, his gaze shifting away. "And how quickly does it act?"

"Rather quickly, my lord. I would wager she'd been dosed that very morning."

Jon keeps a tight clamp on his fury, curling and uncurling his fists. "I see." He blows a shallow breath through his teeth, eyes flicking over to Sansa's sleeping form. A pain ricochets through him, his chest constricting at the sight.

"But my lord," the maester begins, his hands wringing themselves as he glances between the two of them. "There is something more troubling."

Jon's gaze whips sharply to his. "What is it?"

He sucks a breath in, face twisting into uncertainty. "I've said that some maesters use this plant, yes, and well – you see, I myself have used it."

Bran leans forward just a touch, eyes riveted to the maester. "What are you saying?"

"My stores are emptied of it, my lord."

Jon blinks at him, head rearing back. His ire flares hotter, sparks an unease in his chest. He shifts his weight in his seat, gaze hard on the man. "You think..."

Maester Gregor swallows. "I think whoever did this stole from my stores, yes. And recently. Very recently."

Jon takes a long, slow breath in, mind reeling. He stands from his seat, paces away. He braces his hands to his hips, a heavy exhale leaving him. He wipes a hand down his face, paces back toward the two of them. "What are you trying to say, Maester Gregor?" The words come out strangled.

Because no.

No, he will not think it.

The maester's eyes drift down to his hands as they wind around his chain in thought. A worried sigh leaves him. "The peculiar thing is, my lord, only two people have been under my care here, aside from the Lady Sansa, of course. Only two people, as were Prince Aegon's – apologies, His Grace's – orders."

"Yes, of course," Jon spits, a hand raked through his hair. "Only members of the royal family."

Can't be seen by outsiders, of course. Can't make their weakness known. Shut them up. Lock them away. Everything is safe behind closed doors, right?

Right?

Jon seethes where he stands, a quiet, thundering rage seeping between his ribs.

The old man looks up at him with concern. "Yes, exactly. Only Lord Bran here," he says, motioning to the nearly immobilized boy, "And..."

"Rhaenys," Jon hisses.

His fury is a silent, bone-gripping beast.

Bran is shaking his head, eyes frantic. "Wait. Wait, I think..."

"Rhaenys," Jon says again, a shaky hand wiping over his mouth.

No. No, he cannot think it.

"But my lord," Gregor begins, twisting in his seat to look up at Jon, face drawn in concern and perplexity, "What reason could the Princess Rhaenys ever have to harm Lady Sansa? Or your unborn child?"

A red haze overtakes Jon. A quiet stillness. His jaw aches where he clenches his teeth, nearly rattling in his skull. Nearly frothing at the mouth with it. This thundering rage. This rancid hate. "Yes," he seethes, already stalking toward the door, overcome – and undone. "What reason shall she give, I wonder," he snarls, a violence coursing through his veins, rioting in his blood.

It's shockingly welcomed – how his hands itch for her throat. How he yearns to smother that vengeful, resentful pulse beneath his own palm.

"Jon, wait!"

But Bran's voice is already distant in his mind, already drowned out by the rushing in his ears.

Because this is what they've made him.

So, this is what he'll be.

Fire and blood, it is, then.

* * *

When Sansa wakes, it's with eyes peeled swiftly and widely toward the ceiling. She blinks. Blinks again. Lets the breath shudder through her.

And all at once she remembers. Bloodied sheets. A crippling pain. The desolate cry falling from her lips. The inexplicable hollowness that follows.

Her mouth parts, a soundless gasp breaking from her, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her in trembling fists.

All at once she remembers.

Before she can let the cry overtake her, she narrows her gaze on the high, grey ceiling, finds a spot where the arches meet, focuses on it. Glares and glares and glares at it. Breathes in. Breathes out. Keeps her eyes fixed to that far, grey spot.

Lets the grief bleed from her bones.

She reminds herself that she isn't safe here. She will never be safe here.

Later, she tells herself, nearly biting through her lip to keep the pain at bay.

Cry later, she swears, even as the tears bead at the corners of her eyes.

(Cry when you are safe. Until then...)

Sansa sucks a sobering breath through her lips, stirring beneath the furs, her body aching from its recent fight. Her vision swims when she tries to sit up.

"Sansa!"

She flicks her gaze to the bed across from hers, meeting Bran's worried eyes instantly.

"Bran," she croaks, throat dry from disuse. A hand goes to her pounding head.

"Thank the gods. I've been calling to you," he says urgently, still bedridden.

Sansa blinks at him in confusion, drawing her hand away from her forehead when the pain dulls into a vague ache. She draws further up, braces her weight on her elbow as she looks at him. "Calling me?"

Bran nods. "Sansa, I think... I think Jon is in danger."

She narrows her eyes on him, pushes up from her elbow, body heavy, until she can swing her legs over the side of the bed, hands braced along the edge to hold her. "What do you mean?"

A worried look crosses Bran's features. "I don't want you to over-exert yourself," he mutters.

"Bran," she says, taking a smooth, even breath to steady herself, "You wouldn't have tried to wake me if it wasn't important."

He gives her a sigh, face drawn tight.

She offers an encouraging nod, straightening somewhat. "So, what do you mean?"

"You were poisoned."

"Yes," she says through chapped, pursed lips. "Yes, that wasn't exactly hard to deduce."

"But Sansa, Maester Gregor is sure it was the Red Ausmothis from his own stores, recently stolen. Very recently."

She can only nod, teeth clenching. "As in..."

Bran hesitates a moment, turning more fully toward her, as much as he can. "Jon thinks it was the Princess Rhaenys."

Sansa glances away, wipes a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, a short, shallow breath leaving her. "When she was here, after...after the attack."

"Yes."

Her eyes slip shut. She'd considered it after all. How could she not? The way Rhaenys had looked at her as she wiped the blood from her hands in this very room, the cold, detached way she'd glanced to her stomach, the dark, unblinking stare she'd sent her away with.

"To kill a living thing – it's not so hard, after all."

The words lodge in her chest, the terrifying remembrance shaking her. But then –

"She was right."

Sansa stops, breath hitching in her throat. Her eyes snap open along the far wall, slipping slowly back toward her brother. "Bran," she gets out tremulously.

"But I saw her," he says, head shaking.

Sansa stares wide-eyed at him, barely breathing. "What?"

His words are fervent, feverish, rattling off his tongue like an avalanche, like a mountain coming down on her. "I thought it was a dream. Some drug-induced dream in the night, still drunk off that milk of the poppy, but I woke after dark at some point, saw a figure across the room, for just a moment, just a moment before sleep overtook me again, but I saw her, I know it, I wasn't mistaken. That white hair – "

"Bran," she chokes out, the breath stealing from her.

He meets her gaze. "I saw Daenerys."

Sansa feels sick. Her head swims. She braces a hand to her forehead, palm settling over one eye. She bends over, eyes squeezing fiercely shut. "Bran, I..." There's bile at the back of her tongue.

"You see, Lady Sansa, I was a Targaryen before I was ever a wife, before I was ever a princess or a mother. I will always be a Targaryen, a dragon. But you will never understand this."

The bile rises high in her throat, choking her. "Oh gods," she moans out, pushing herself to her feet shakily, wavering at the sudden vertigo.

"Sansa!" Bran warns, hand out-reaching. "Sansa, sit down. You're still not well."

"I have to go to him," she mutters lowly, almost to herself, a hand reaching for the cot to steady herself.

"Dammit, Sansa, I didn't tell you this so you could hurt yourself trying to do something foolish," he admonishes, trying – and failing – to reach for her from his position in the bed.

"Don't you see, Bran?" she hisses, whirling toward him, stumbling slightly. "He thinks it's Rhaenys."

"I know," Bran grinds out. "I know but – "

"If he hurts her," she says, head shaking, hand falling from her face as she straightens, vision easing back into focus, "If he hurts his sister, Bran, he will never forgive himself for it. Never," she swears, already gathering her skirts in her hands.

"Sansa, please, wait," he pleads, face overtaken in worry.

"I have to go to him," she whispers, turning for the door, gait slow and measured, taking her strength where she can. She braces a hand to the threshold.

"They will always be the stepping stones to my glory."

Sansa snarls beneath her breath, swinging the door wide.

She will never be but a blight beneath another's shadow, this she swears.

* * *

"Tell me you did not do this," Jon urges brokenly as he lets the door to Rhaenys' solar settle closed behind him.

His sister rises from her seat at the window in an unearthly calm, watching him.

He stares at her, long and hard, chest already heaving, fury already staining his lungs. "Tell me it wasn't you," he seethes.

Rhaenys cocks her head at him, lips pursed tight. "Is Lady Sansa... unwell?"

He thunders toward her suddenly, upending the side table he passes in his fury, the crash resounding in the room, and she blinks sharply at the sudden motion, spine straightening, chin lifting when he stops just before her, half-reeling, the anger of his heaving breath painting her cheeks. "Don't you even say her name," he snarls, eyes wild on her.

Rhaenys lets out a breath, looking up into his face, and something flickers over her features, faltering. But she swallows it back quickly, squares her jaw.

"I didn't think you could sink so low," he gets out, disgusted.

She glares up at him. "Oh, 'low' am I? Low?"

"Yes," he seethes, eyeing her.

She shakes her head, glare never diminishing. "That's rich, coming from you. You have all you've wanted now, don't you?" she throws at him, arms branching out, encompassing. "A place in this family. Acknowledgement. A pretty little wife. A babe." And then she scoffs, features screwing into something ugly, arms dropping back to her sides. "Except not a babe any longer, huh?"

"Don't you fucking – "

"And yet I still have nothing!" she screeches suddenly, stepping into him, eyes wide and dark and smoke-lit. Her hot breath pants from her, her own fury taking root.

Jon's fists shake at his side, his whole body a tight, rigid line, a quaking fury, boiling just beneath his skin. "Sansa was never a threat to you – never a threat to the love I held for you," he spits at her, the words rancid on his tongue, and he watches her blink fiercely at him, her jaw quaking at the ring of his words. He curls his lip in distaste, his chest constricting. "You killed that love all on your own," he chokes out.

She swallows tightly, chin still lifted, but she cannot stop the tremor from lighting across her skin, or the way her brows dip together in pain, or the instant sheen of wetness over her eyes.

(Perhaps moons ago, such an image might have stricken him.)

An ache burrows into his chest – an ache of years and years and endless, relentless years. The ever-long ache of loneliness.

(All of them, just grasping blindly in the dark, missing each other by miles.)

He wishes now, that he remembered what it was like to hold affection for this woman. He wishes he remembered what it meant to need his sister.

"Had you any love for me at all, even in the slightest," he grinds out, throat constricting at the words, eyes already tearing, "You would not have done this."

Rhaenys rears back, face still pinched tight. "I have done nothing unwarranted."

Jon snarls in her face, chest heaving. "My child is dead because of you. My wife – "

"I have done nothing," she hisses, voice cracking at the end, a hand pressed to her head, a shuddering breath leaving her. "Nothing," she whispers.

Jon scoffs – harsh and jagged and ugly. "You're a vile woman, Rhaenys."

Her head snaps up at his words, face blanking out.

And it's just so sharp in his chest, so cutting and bitter and inescapable. It claws its way up through his throat, hooks its claws at his ribs, anchors there like a foul thing – ready to bleed him from the inside out, from heart to tongue, from lungs to mouth – so that he can barely bring the words to air. "And I regret ever having loved you." he manages through grit teeth, ignoring the instant, painful remorse that lances through him at the words.

Rhaenys stares at him, still as stone. She licks her lips, takes a breath, tries to smother the quake of it with a laugh. A dark, mirthless laugh. She squares her jaw, tears hot on her lids.

(It is the shift – the rupture. Years from now, they will look back on this moment and they will know.

They will know.)

"Yes," she says, low and even and breathless. "Yes, paint me your villain. Your tormentor. That's what I am, aren't I? The source of all your struggles. The cause of all your grief. So then strike me down, brother," she says, arms stretching wide, voice a quiet hiss of air. "Take your revenge," she urges, eyes narrowing intently on him. "I imagine it hurts, doesn't it? To have watched it bleed out of her?"

Jon blinks back the hot wetness at his eyes. "Stop," he growls out, teeth clenching.

But she only advances, closing the already narrow distance between them. "It's not easy to watch what you love being torn away from you, is it?"

"I said stop," he warns lowly, chest heaving.

She glares up at him, lip curling. "You're a damn fool, Jon. You should have always known how this would end."

The rage is smarting along his tongue. "I swear I will – "

"I hope it hurt."

"Rhaenys - "

"And I'm glad it's dead," she spits.

(The rupture.)

His hand snaps toward her throat before he even realizes it, and then he's rushing her back with a roar until she collides with the wall, gasping, eyes blowing wide, hands grasping at his wrist.

"Shut your mouth!" he snarls in her face, fingers clenching at her throat as he leans in. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

Rhaenys arches against the wall as she tries to pull back from his grasp, a choked cough breaking from her lips, nails digging at his wrist. "Get off me!"

But it's a white-hot rage that rushes through him, keeping her pinned there against the stone, unrelenting, unforgiving. He bares his teeth in an ugly snarl, hot breath splashing over her cheeks. "You nearly killed her!" he bellows, pressing her into the stone, voice rattling with the force of his fury.

"I didn't," she grits out, a hiss of air, eyes glaring hot and accusatory at him.

"I said to shut your fucking mouth," he bites out, eyes shifting wildly between hers, and his fingers flex over her throat – just barely. Just enough for him to feel the warm rush of blood beneath his grip, to feel the thrum of her strangled words beneath his hold. Enough to wonder what just a little more pressure would do – if maybe he could crush her windpipe beneath his palm.

His eyes flick down to his hand over her throat, breath still raking violently from him, snarl still tugging at his lips. And then he glances back toward her face, panting, quaking – consumed.

Her eyes flick between his, widening just a touch, a flash of fear crossing her features, a wet croak leaving her, and then she's shaking, clawing at his wrist, mouth parting in silent alarm.

(Just a little more pressure, and – )

"Jon," she whispers, eyes tearing. "Jon – "

"Jon!"

The door slams open behind him. He whips his head back to find Sansa braced against it, panting, sweat dotting her brow.

Her eyes blow wide at the scene before her, and she stills instantly, mouth parting.

Jon nearly releases Rhaenys entirely in his surprise, straightening as his eyes take in Sansa's weakened lean against the threshold. "Sansa," he chokes out.

Her eyes shift frantically between them, and then her face draws into hardness, pushing off the door to stalk toward them. "Jon, don't do this, please."

A quiver of regret ricochets through him, his hand loosening around Rhaenys' throat. He swallows back the shame on an uneasy inhale. "You should be resting," he gets out in a dark whisper, turning back to face Rhaenys. His rage isn't quieted so easily.

His sister glares back at him, fingers still locked around his wrist.

"Jon, please, you're scaring me," Sansa urges, finally making her way to him, hands wrapping around his arm, tugging him away from Rhaenys and toward her. "Jon, please."

His tears gather in earnest now, lip trembling as the breath catches along his tongue. "What she did..." He cannot even manage the words, his throat constricting, his vision blurring from the tears.

"I didn't!" Rhaenys snaps, huffing and impatient.

And all his rage, all his years-long heartache comes tunneling down into a pinprick focus. "I'm tired of your lies. Your manipulations," he bites out, voice rough.

Sansa's hands grip more forcefully around his arm, one of them gliding up his chest and then to his cheek, urging him to look at her. "She didn't," Sansa gasps, head shaking, her own tears hot at the corners of her eyes. "She didn't, Jon, please, just – just listen to me."

Jon tears his gaze back to his wife. He blinks at her, his hand slowly opening at Rhaenys' throat, releasing her completely. He staggers back from the motion, and Rhaenys slides down the wall instantly, hands going to her throat. She drops to the floor unceremoniously, coughing through her curses. "Gods, Jon," she spits through clenched teeth, indignant to the end.

But Jon is staring at Sansa now, body trembling, taking in the sight of her, struck suddenly at how small and weak and pale she looks. His hands go instinctively to her arms, cupping around her elbows as he tries to hold her up. "Sansa, what..."

"Listen to me, Jon, she – she's your sister, and... and you don't want to do this, trust me, you – "

"She is nothing to me if she hurt you," he swears vehemently, hands going for her face now, cradling her jaw in his hands, thumbs brushing at her cheeks.

She nearly crumples into him at the motion, eyes wet instantly, mouth parting.

The fierceness of his admission scares him and yet anchors him in equal measure. Because it's the truth, after all. It's the most unquestionable truth he knows.

Rhaenys goes quiet on the floor beside them.

Jon peers at Sansa with imploring eyes, the rage dulled in him suddenly, only a vague heaviness keeping him rooted there before her. Just the sight of her. Just the sureness of her, there in his arms, at the edge of his fingertips. Just the knowledge that she's here – here, with him. Alive.

Just breathing her air –

The fury that had displaced him only moments ago settles into a low hum at the back of his mind, an uneasy but needed calm wrapping itself around his bones, thawing him out.

Sansa's hands wrap around his wrists, holding him tenderly. "I'm alright," she gets out on a whisper, voice clogged with tears. "I'm right here. I'm alright."

Jon's face crumbles at the words, at the fissure of pain he still recognizes crossing her features. And he knows she's still hurting. Knows her body's still fighting. "But you're not," he croaks out, thumb grazing against a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. His eyes rove her face. "You're not," he says brokenly.

Sansa swallows thickly, jaw clenching. She nods at him, taking a single, solid breath in. "I am, Jon. I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

His own words from earlier, reflected back. He curls in on her at the thought.

Jon's eyes drift down to her stomach instantly, a drop in his gut, the breath catching along his throat. He chokes out a sob. "But the babe..."

Her hands go for his face instantly, dragging his gaze back to hers, and then she's pressing into him, peering up into his face – fierce and fervent and yet still tear-lined. "We can try again," she promises him, brushing the curls back from his face with a tender touch. She offers a trembling smile. "We can – we can try again, Jon, because I'm okay. I'm okay and I'm right here, do you understand me? I'm right here. I'm not leaving you." She nods at him again, eyes shifting between his, sniffing back the tears. "I'm not leaving you, okay?"

A ragged breath leaves him, the force of it nearly winding him, and he drops his hands from her face to wind around her back, tugging her into his chest, sighing as he buries his face in her shoulder. Her arms link intrinsically around his neck, one hand buried in his hair, holding him to her.

"Sansa," he chokes out, and then there's an instant wave of revulsion rushing through him, pulling him from her, his eyes snapping to his sister. Realization at what he'd done, at what he'd let his anger do to him, branches through him like the slow pooling of ink in water. His tongue is heavy with the sickness, eyes widening. "Rhaenys, I...," he gets out hesitantly, arms slipping from around Sansa's waist.

She's staring up at him from her place on the floor, mouth a tight line, eyes wet. It's a face he's never seen before.

"Rhaenys - "

"What is all this ruckus?" Aegon demands suddenly, throwing the doors to Rhaenys' solar wide and stalking into the room. Daenerys strides in just behind him, silk skirts in her hands, an expression of annoyance flitting across her features.

"Your Grace," Jon begins, but never gets to finish.

Sansa slips from him like a ghost. She's all the way across the room before he realizes what's happening. And then her hand goes flying, smacking Daenerys across the cheek so hard her head whips from it, the loud crack resounding in the still room.

The following silence is deafening.

Jon stares wide-eyed at his wife, at her trembling shoulders, her barred teeth, her furious gaze. Aegon stands in a similar stupor beside his own wife.

"Sansa," Jon croaks out, hands reaching emptily at air.

Daenerys' head lolls back to glare dangerously at Sansa, not even bothering to reach for her cheek, to hold the smarting, reddened flesh beneath her soft palm. She just glares at Sansa.

Jon feels his breath break into a million jagged pieces in his throat. "Sansa," he gets out hoarsely, stepping toward her.

And then Sansa's swinging again, a bone-splitting shriek escaping her as she launches herself at Daenerys, eyes red-rimmed and glinting. "You monster," she screeches.

Everything snaps back into motion at once – Jon rushing toward them, Daenerys howling her indignation, Aegon grabbing frantically for Sansa's wildly swinging fists, Rhaenys pushing herself up off the wall, blinking disbelievingly at the scene before her.

"Lady Sansa, restrain yourself," Aegon bellows, a hand closing vice-like around her wrist, dragging her off Daenerys as the other woman tries to pull from her reach, spitting her distaste.

"Your Grace, please!" Jon yells, trying to step between their fumbling forms when he finally makes it to them, one of his arms wrapping tight around Sansa's waist and dragging her back with him.

But she's raging hard now – raging and raging and wailing. "I should kill you!" she screams, grasping at Jon's back as he tries to haul her away, her eyes only for Daenerys. "I should rip that shriveled excuse of a heart from your chest, you wretched woman!"

"Sansa! Sansa!" Jon screams, fighting her fury.

"You are dangerously close to treason, do you understand me, Lady Sansa?" Aegon snaps, chest heaving. "To strike the queen..."

Sansa cries out in Jon's arms, her sudden strength waning, her body shaking uncontrollably. He tries to gather her in his arms, hushing her, reaching frantically for her face. "Sansa, Sansa, please, talk to me."

"She took my child from me!" she wails, eyes finally meeting Jon's - blown wide. Salt-tinged.

"What?" Jon asks, breath winded from him.

Aegon straightens in surprise, his jaw snapping shut.

Sansa slumps into Jon's arms, mouth quivering. She snaps heated eyes toward Daenerys once more. "The Red Ausmothis. It was her. It was her doing, my lord," she mutters darkly, fingers curling in Jon's sleeves as she fights to remain upright, sweat lining her brow again, body clearly weakened from her fit.

Rhaenys stumbles toward them, edging along Jon's periphery. "What did you say?" she whispers.

Aegon folds his hands behind his back, shoulders pulling taut. A crease of worry dips along his brow. "Lady Sansa, let me warn you that slandering the queen will not be tolerated."

Sansa heaves a steadying breath, eyes slipping to Aegon smoothly. "It cannot be slander if it's the truth. Your wife poisoned me, Your Grace."

"She's gone mad from her ordeal," Daenerys mutters at her husband's elbow, shaking her head. And then her face pinches tight, a visage of pity crossing her features. "I know such grief intimately."

"You - " Sansa starts, seething, catching herself on a heated breath, swallowing the rage back down. Her fist quakes along Jon's sleeve.

Jon brushes a loose strand of copper from Sansa's sweat-pebbled temple, his hand trembling. A new kind of rage begins to curl beneath his skin – quiet and cautious.

Daenerys breathes heavily just behind Aegon, her eyes never leaving Sansa.

Aegon swallows tightly, chin lifting. "Explain yourself, before I call the guards in to restrain you."

Sansa straightens against Jon, half-braced against him for support. "Maester Gregor said his stores of Red Ausmothis – the poison they found in my blood – went missing recently. But access to his clinic and his quarters had been strictly forbidden to all but a few, thanks to Your Grace," Sansa explains, gaze shifting to Aegon's for a brief moment.

Aegon narrows his gaze on her.

"It's why you suspected Rhaenys," Sansa continues softly, eyes flicking over Jon's face in concern.

He turns his head slightly, catching Rhaenys' form in the corner of his eye, never looking upon her fully. He curls his arm tighter around Sansa's waist in his hold of her.

Something jagged and shameful starts to coil in his gut.

Aegon glances to Jon, and then swiftly to Rhaenys, violet eyes sharp and narrowed. "Is this true?"

Jon nods mutely. Rhaenys stays stock still beside him, hands hanging limp at her sides.

Sansa lets out a rueful laugh, blinking back the tears. "But Rhaenys wasn't the only one to visit Maester Gregor's clinic at that time."

Daenerys scoffs, stepping forward finally. "Yes, I was there. You all saw me," she says, motioning toward the three of them. "I came to collect Rhaenys. It is hardly secret."

"And how convenient," Sansa says through clenched teeth. "That you put in an appearance that could clear yourself of suspicion – with Rhaenys to vouch for you."

Rhaenys steps closer, peering at Daenerys with a watchful expression. Her lips purse almost imperceptibly.

"But that wasn't the only time you were seen in the clinic," Sansa says.

"What other time could I possibly – "

"That same night, my brother saw you."

Daenerys' mouth clamps shut, her eyes narrowing so swiftly Jon almost misses it.

An eerie calm seems to overtake Sansa then, her trembling ceasing, her eyes intent and watchful. "You stole into the stores that night, took the Red Ausmothis, and poisoned me the following morning at breakfast. Perhaps you hadn't planned it to happen so soon. It was rather reckless of you, after, all. But what other opportunity would you have to so easily cast suspicion on Rhaenys? What other chance would you have to so cleanly get rid of a loose end?"

"What are you talking about?" Daenerys snaps, her chest heaving.

"It was the easiest way to silence Rhaenys. Whether the poison was just meant to induce a miscarriage, or whether you truly intended to kill me..." She trails off, her head shaking. "But you knew Jon would never forgive her if he thought she'd tried to kill me. You knew what would happen if Rhaenys was deemed the culprit," Sansa continues.

Jon tries desperately to ignore the sour shame curdling in his gut at the slow realization.

Daenerys scoffs. "This is ridiculous." Her breath comes uneasily though, her head shaking just a touch too forcefully. "Why in seven hells would I need to 'silence' Rhaenys?"

"Because you're the one who convinced her to kill Stannis," Sansa gets out on a dark exhale, swallowing thickly.

Jon glances to Rhaenys then instantly, but his sister is already staring at Daenerys, jaw tight, brows furrowed. It's a painfully hopeful expression.

"Daenerys," Rhaenys whispers.

It sounds almost like a plead. And he knows that voice. Has known it for years. It's a needful voice – lonely and desperate and grasping.

And suddenly everything slips into place – nauseatingly so.

Jon wipes a hand over his mouth, the breath raking from him.

"Whispering your putrid words of vengeance," Sansa mutters, disgusted, "Preying on her fear, manipulating it into a weapon for you, a finely honed blade. It was easy to convince her to kill him, wasn't it? When you saw how distraught she was?" Sansa glares at Daenerys, lip curling.

Rhaenys takes a hesitant step toward them, her hand reaching for Daenerys' silk sleeve, fingers curling unsurely along the smooth folds. "You... you told me I'd have no peace until he was dead."

Jon feels a wave of sickness rushing over him.

Daenerys whips her sharp-hewn gaze toward Rhaenys. "I said no such thing."

Rhaenys stiffens, her hand falling from Daenerys' sleeve, mouth tipped open.

Daenerys clears her throat, seeming to shake the trembling princess' distress off with a hard look. "You were hysterical. I highly doubt you could rightly recount anything said that day." Daenerys turns sharply back to Sansa. "And the same goes for your brother. He was half-unconscious from milk of the poppy, if I recall. How can you trust any account from him? And why would any of this benefit me, hmm? Stannis could have named his conspirator if Rhaenys hadn't taken matters into her own hands. Why would I want him killed, when we could have uncovered the plot against us with that information? You're weaving quite the tale here, Lady Sansa, but I'm afraid it makes very little sense."

Sansa takes in a heated breath at Jon's side, face setting to near stone as she determinedly wipes away a stray tear. She stares at Daenerys for only a moment, only a brief, stilted moment, and then she bares her teeth, nails curling along Jon's arm, chin jutted like a ravenous thing. "You wanted to kill him because you were his conspirator."

Aegon steps forward then, a hand on Daenerys' arm, tugging her back. "That's enough, Lady Sansa," he grinds out, eyes dark on hers. "You're throwing around accusations now with hardly a shred of proof, and I'll not stand for it."

"Oh, you'll stand for it, Your Grace," Sansa bites out, pushing from Jon fully, standing straight-backed and unwavering.

"Sansa!" Jon hisses, reaching for her, trying to tug her back, but she shakes him off, stares the newly anointed king down.

Aegon's brows nearly hit his hairline, a disbelieving scoff escaping him. "You're braver than I thought," he says. And then his eyes narrow. "Or simpler," he scoffs.

But then Sansa's eyes shift quickly back to Daenerys, closing in on her and ignoring the king. "What did you promise Viserys, hmm? What did you guarantee him when you told him to hold his ships back at Stannis' approach? Was it a chance at the crown? Once your brother and husband and bastard nephew were dead, was that it? Or maybe you promised to annul his marriage to Cersei Lannister?"

"You should stop while you can, Lady Sansa," Daenerys mutters darkly.

"Lady Sansa," Aegon warns again, voice low, though it wavers now, just the slightest.

But Sansa can't stop, it seems. Could never stop. She only pushes forward, glare intent on Daenerys, mouth a cutting line. "Perhaps you should have stopped. Before you ever betrayed your own ambitions."

"And what ambitions are those?" she asks haughtily. "What more could I want, but what I already have? I was already deigned the next queen when I was betrothed to His Grace," she says, motioning to Aegon. "Why would I ever plot treason against my own self?" she laughs, head shaking with it.

"Because Father planned to wed Aegon and Rhaenys," Jon says suddenly, the breath winded from him, a kaleidoscope of thoughts assaulting him. "Because you were about to be set aside."

Aegon turns swiftly to Daenerys, eyes wide, shoulders stiff.

Rhaenys opens her mouth, but no words follow.

Daenerys squares her jaw, a hateful gaze lighting her features, a shadow of flame haunting the edges of her expression. And then she smirks, a dark laugh falling from her lips. "Rhaegar would never shame me like that."

"But he did," Rhaenys says suddenly, voice clogged with tears. "He told me. He told me our union would bear fruit. That we would be able to continue the Targaryen line."

"I am the Targaryen line," Daenerys hisses violently, face screwing into an ugly visage, snarl breaking free, a finger jutted into her chest with her adamancy. "Me. And I will not be set aside so easily."

Aegon swallows thickly, eyes flitting between the three women in unease. His jaw quakes, his breath coming unsteady. "I've heard enough," he says on a shaky breath. He turns to his wife. "Daenerys - "

"Rhaenys told me it was easy to kill a living thing," Sansa says quietly, interrupting the king.

Everyone turns silently toward her.

Sansa keeps her gaze on Daenerys, steady and sure. "She told me 'she' said it was an easy thing."

Daenerys' nostrils flare, her fists curling at her sides.

Rhaenys shakes her head, eyes drifting to the floor. "No..." she says in disbelief, voice cracking.

Jon turns to his sister, reaching on instinct, and then letting his hand fall away. It takes all of him to stay still, to stay steady and immovable. To let Sansa speak her piece. It's an unmanageable mess of remorse and resentment and exhaustion that tangles instead him. And somewhere else, somewhere only he knows, a bit of understanding wedges itself into the light.

Daenerys scoffs again, harsh and jaded. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snaps.

But this time it's Rhaenys who speaks, voice wavering and scared. "You told me I would never be safe until he was dead," she whispers.

Daenerys snaps dangerous eyes her way.

Sansa breathes deeply beside Jon, watching the two women keenly.

Rhaenys straightens, hands curling along her silken skirts – like some measure of comfort, some anchorage. "You made me think there was no other way. That there was no other way," she says shrilly, hands shaking now. "You told me it would just happen all over again, if we were to let him live. You told me I would only ever be safe when Stannis was dead!" she shrieks, crumpling in on herself, tears springing along her eyes again.

"Shut your mouth," Daenerys hisses at Rhaenys, sneer brimming along her lips. "You're only embarrassing yourself."

"You used me," Rhaenys gasps, mouth trembling.

A part of Jon aches at the words, at the realization.

"You used me," she cries, closing in on Daenerys, tears already trailing their tracks down her cheeks.

But Daenerys stands spine-straight, chin jutted, undaunted. "You were a blubbering fool," she admonishes, sneer curling along her lips, and Rhaenys stops abruptly. "What would you have done without me all these years, hmm? What could you possibly have accomplished on your own? You think seducing your desperate bastard brother is some grand feat?" she scoffs.

And the acid bites. It bites hard and unforgiving and loud. Jon feels the burn even as he repels from the words, meeting Rhaenys' wide eyes, and then Sansa's.

But Daenerys doesn't stop there. She steps toward Rhaenys, pushing her back merely with her vehemence. "You're a means to an end, dear niece. A means to a rightful, bloody end, but a means, all the same. You've never been more than that, I can assure you," she sneers at her.

And then Jon's rage is vibrant once more, an overwhelming ache coursing through him. A remembrance. A longing. The sister he once loved. The brother he once needed.

He looks at Daenerys and sees nothing but ugliness. Nothing but vile, unkempt selfishness. Not a House, but a Name. Not a home, but a grave.

A place he never wishes to return to.

Rhaenys stumbles back at Daenerys' visceral attack, a hand going to her mouth.

"You said it was easy to kill," Sansa says, as though in reminder. A blunted whisper that edges itself into their awareness. A quiet splinter of recollection.

Daenerys shifts her gaze to Sansa – abrupt and heated.

"I wonder how you came upon such understanding," Sansa says succinctly.

Jon tastes bile at the back of his tongue, an unexplainable queasiness overtaking him then.

"Who exactly did you kill, to know such a thing so intimately?" Sansa asks, voice like a sheet of ice. A deadly calm.

The room settles into another stilted silence.

And then, "Daenerys," Aegon chokes out.

Jon looks at his brother finally, finds him with his face drawn, his gaze on the floor, a sharp furrow to his brow. The sight throws him.

"Daenerys, you didn't..." he manages through an unsteady exhale, eyes drifting up to meet hers finally.

But she has only her glares left, only her spiteful scowls and cold detachment. "Yes, Your Grace?" It is said almost like a challenge.

Aegon stumbles back a step, head shaking, eyes widening in a dreadful realization. "That morning when – that morning Father died. When I woke and you were by his bed and you said – you said he passed in the night..." he mutters disbelievingly, voice trailing off.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath at the thought.

Even Sansa takes in a shuddering inhale beside him, seeming to not have expected quite such a revelation.

Rhaenys moans low and tear-laced, her face pressed into her palms.

Aegon licks his lips, reaching for Daenerys' arm. "Tell me it's not what I'm thinking."

Daenerys lifts her chin, eyes sharp and gleaming. She glances to each of them in turn, gauging, her breath coming quick and shallow now. "Your Grace, this is... this is absurd."

"Tell me you did not kill my father," he urges darkly, fingers curling tightly along her wrist now.

She tries to yank back, but he holds her tight, peers into her face with something desperate and needful.

"Let go of me," she bites out.

"Tell me!" he demands, shaking her.

"I will not be treated thus," she swears, sneering into his face.

"How could you..." He nearly sobs with it.

"Aegon – "

"He was your brother!"

"He was weak!" she shouts, chest heaving with it.

It comes like the first gasp of drowning – the fear and realization bright and sudden.

Aegon releases Daenerys as though burned, recoiling from her, his face screwing into a wounded disbelief, his breaths coming halted and heavy. "You..."

"He was no dragon," she says in answer, voice deadly calm again. And then she glances out over the rest of them, eyes lingering over Sansa, before her gaze shifts back to Aegon. She blinks. Seems to slip into something dark and unnamable, the barely perceptible curl of her lip like the promise of a hook to a fish's maw. And then she smiles.

It takes the sun from the room.

"So yes," Daenerys begins, slow and even. "I took a pillow to his face and smothered him in his sleep. What life would be left for him, anyway, wounded as he was? I saved him."

"You killed him," Jon corrects vehemently. "Your own brother, you killed him!"

"Oh gods," Rhaenys moans, a hand going to her stomach as though sick, slumping against the desk to keep herself upright.

Sansa lets out a tremulous exhale at Jon's side, and he glances to her, sees the paleness of her cheeks, the tremble to her limbs, and he reaches for her, helps her to a chair not far from them.

Daenerys laughs. It halts Jon as he leans over Sansa in concern, the sound sending a chill lancing up is spine. He glances back at her, his vision already blurred with sudden tears. He wipes at them furiously, hardly able to fathom more at this very moment, only trying to shove it all away, to focus, to keep himself from dropping to his knees from the weight of it.

It takes all of him not to barrel into Daenerys with every ounce of rage still left in him.

"Why are you all so surprised?" she asks shrilly, a touch of delirium to her voice now, her smile stretching wide and sharp-toothed as she raises her hands to encompass the room. "Is this not what we do? Is this not what it means to be Targaryen? We take what is ours, with fire and blood. We take it," she says breathlessly.

Jon glances at her over his shoulder, his teeth clenching as he tries to rein in his anger.

She only barrels on though, heedless of their growing horror, drunk off her own righteousness. "But Rhaegar didn't understand that. He'd grown soft – same as you all. He'd rather kowtow to every lowly kingdom, offering marriage and alliances – compromising – rather than show them the strength of our rule, to put them in their rightful places – beneath us." She barks another laugh, mirthless and cutting. "In fact, the only thing my brother knew how to take was women who were never his in the first place."

Jon's shoulders bunch in his vile anger, a hand curling slowly into a fist at his side, his other stiff along Sansa's shoulder. She reaches for his hand in concern, lays her trembling fingers over his. He takes a breath, glancing down to her in reassurance.

"But I will not be so weak. I am the blood of Old Valyria. And I will take what is mine," Daenerys seethes, her delirium sharpening down into a fine focus, a rush of dark ambition – blossoming out like blood in snow. She glares at Rhaenys, who only stares back at her, tearful and exhausted. "I will not let loose tongues set my plans astray. Nor will I allow failure to go unpunished. Stannis has learned that lesson well enough." Daenerys' gaze shifts to Jon and Sansa, her lip curling in distaste. "And I will not allow for bastard blood to ever supersede my own claim. I am more than my womb. I am no less a queen simply because that bitch can whelp."

Jon nearly breaks from Sansa then, stepping toward Daenerys with a dangerous expression, but his wife's hand at his wrist stops him, tugs him back to her in her need, her body trembling from the exertion, and he breathes deep, tries to keep his vision from flooding red, standing stock still beside her chair.

Daenerys smirks in satisfaction, gaze finally drifting toward Aegon. And then her smile slips, eyes hardening, mouth a thin line. She lifts her chin. "And I will not be set aside by any man. Not even my brother." Her eyes narrow, an eerie, sure calm settling over her. "Not even my king."

Aegon stays staring at her, a quiver of pain flashing over his features. Silence reigns in the room once more, and then Rhaenys slumps back against the desk fully, head shaking as she winds her hands into her hair.

"Guards!" Jon barks.

Four men enter the room at the call, with two of Aegon's Kingsguard.

"Jon," Aegon says weakly, shaking his head, but he's still reeling, a hand bunched in the chest of his tunic, words failing him.

Jon gives him only a single, momentary glance of hesitation, a brother's last, lingering concern, and then his face is steeling into determination, his decision long since made. "Take Her Grace," he commands, the title a sneer on his lips. "For the crimes of kin and king slaying."

Daenerys huffs her indignation. "You would dare!" she shrieks.

"Oh, I would dare a lot worse," Jon promises threateningly. His eyes narrow on hers. "You've no idea what I'd dare to do to you."

"Jon," Aegon manages, clearing his throat. "I won't... I won't allow..."

"She killed King Rhaegar," he cuts in, making sure his voice is loud and even – unequivocally clear for all to hear.

The guards shift hesitantly on their feet at the exclamation, eyes shifting between them.

Jon steps toward Aegon, his hand still linked with Sansa's behind him. "She killed a royal babe," he grinds out, just barely managing to keep his voice from quaking. He registers Sansa's soft sob just behind him, and squeezes her hand in his. "She's admitted to these crimes herself. It is the highest treason one can commit."

Aegon glances to his wife, who glares hotly at him, daring a soul to touch her.

"I am a queen," she grits out, nostrils flaring. "You cannot – "

"You will try her, Your Grace, or I will kill her where she stands," Jon promises vehemently, chest heaving. "Make no mistake."

Aegon's eyes widen at the low threat, and he swallows tightly.

Jon thinks he should be surprised at the surety with which he says it, at the fierceness of his rage. But he can't find it within himself to question it.

Because he would, he knows. He would kill her without hesitation, right here. Right now. For what she's done to them. For what she's done to Sansa.

He glances to his sister, still crumpled in on herself, weeping quietly, a hand over her face.

For the inescapable self-disgust he feels when he remembers the frail pulse of Rhaenys' throat beneath his palm.

Jon tears his gaze away from his sister, settling on his brother instead, dark and unblinking. "Your guards have heard her crimes now. It won't be long before the rest of the Keep knows. Or do you plan to silence them as well? To cover up, once again? Just like our father did. You see how well that served us."

Aegon opens his mouth, closes it, squeezes his eyes shut as he shakes his head. "I..."

"I doubt Viserys would keep his silence concerning her part in this," Jon continues, motioning toward a fuming Daenerys, "Not when he could lose his head for it." His gaze sweeps smoothly toward his aunt. "I suppose it was a convenient failsafe for you, to pin the Lannisters with the crime of his turning, when you eventually killed him, too. Just another loose end, I imagine."

Daenerys steps toward them, scoffing. "You baseborn cur," she spits. And then she swings her fierce gaze on Aegon but he shrinks back, a hand going over his face as a ragged breath leaves him.

"Take her," Jon demands once more, ignoring Daenerys.

She shrieks and rushes toward him, but the guards grab her before she can land a fist. She howls as they drag her back.

Aegon croaks her name, hand falling from his face as he watches her struggle.

"You can't do this to me!" she shouts, shoving at the guards, digging her heels in. "I am the dragon, do you hear me? I am the blood of Old Valyria! The only rightful Targaryen! You can't - you can't – "

"Put the traitor in chains," Jon commands, voice booming over Daenerys' threats.

As she's dragged from the room, Jon feels a tug on his hand, and he glances down to Sansa, finds her leaning over the cushioned arm of the chair, her head in her free hand. He kneels down beside her immediately. "Sansa," he urges, a hand going to her cheek.

She smiles dimly at him. "Will you... will you take me away?" she mutters through her pain.

Jon nods, releasing her hand to slip his arms under her knees and around her back, scooping her up into his arms. She winds her arms around his neck, her head falling to his shoulder with a sigh.

Jon turns to look at his siblings, still rocking from the revelations, faces drawn, mouths tipped open. Rhaenys stares at him with a surrendering sadness he has not seen in years. He gulps back his unease, focuses on the weight of Sansa in his arms. "This isn't finished," he says, eyes flitting toward Aegon.

But his brother – his king – can only shake his head numbly, his eyes to the floor, a hand back over his mouth. And at the sight, Jon realizes how small and lowly he is – has always been.

It's not a welcomed realization, he finds. It smarts keenly, in fact. Like a splinter finally torn free.

(It still aches where it was buried, though, and Jon wonders if it always will.)

The last thing he sees before he turns for the door is Rhaenys's tired weight pushing from the desk, walking to Aegon with hands raised, reaching for him, a tear-laced sob escaping her lips, and then her hands slipping round his shoulders as she tugs her younger brother into her arms.

He does not stay to witness more.

He turns for the door, Sansa secure in his arms.

He does not look back.

* * *

"You said you would not be the king that let House Targaryen splinter to pieces. This is how you do it," Jon says lowly, standing before Aegon's desk, hands cupped together behind him. An even, single-minded calm blankets over him as he stares down at his brother.

After making sure Sansa was settled back at Maestor Gregor's, he'd stopped only to ensure Daenerys was still secured in the cells, before making his way to Aegon's solar.

He will not wait another moment. He will not keep Sansa in this dragon pit another second.

Aegon looks up at him, head lifting from where it rested in his palms, his elbows braced to the desk beneath him.

"Execute Daenerys."

Aegon stands swiftly, swaying with the motion. "You don't understand what you're asking."

"I'm not asking," Jon says evenly.

Aegon narrows his eyes on him. And then he shakes his head, rakes a hand through his fine, silver hair, stalks away from the desk. "It's not that simple."

"It is. It is that simple. She's a kinslayer. And a kingslayer. It's as simple as that."

"She's the queen," Aegon protests, voice rising shakily. "She's... She's the queen, Jon, my wife, and – "

"And a murderer." He stays with his hands secured behind him, shoulders pulled taut. He does not give an inch.

Aegon glances over his shoulder at him, a frown marring his features. "She was threatened, you know that."

"By what? An unborn babe?" he sneers, his ire rising. "Or perhaps a dying man?"

Aegon paces back toward the desk. "Do not ask me to execute her," he bites out, a wet sheen over his eyes, a fist jutted into the desk. His shoulders rack with his heavy breath.

Jon blinks at him, the revelation sweeping through him. His mouth parts, a disbelieving breath leaving him. And then the sneer is back, lips tipping down in a foul frown. "Gods, but you love her, don't you? You actually love her?"

Aegon licks his lips, braces his hands along the desk. He shifts his gaze back and forth along the length of it, as though searching. "She is... she is my wife, and I – "

"She murdered my child!" Jon bellows, his hands coming from round his back, a thunderous step taken toward his brother.

Aegon clenches his jaw, gaze still set to his desk. His shoulders are a thin, trembling line. They cannot carry more.

Jon is shaken by the frailty of him then. He swallows back his ire, reaches for that cold-cut calm, that steady severity, lets it wash over him. "You think she has any affection for you?" he asks derisively. And he would be lying if the sudden stricken look on his brother's face hadn't hurt. But he is well past sympathy. So, he continues. "You think she knows love? Understands it?" He scoffs. "She killed our father, her own brother. What do you think she will do to you, when you've ceased to be anything more than an obstacle to her?"

Aegon slumps back into his chair.

"You cannot pardon her."

Aegon looks up at him, breath heaving from him, brows drawn down.

Jon squares his jaw. "You will take her head, or I swear on all you find holy, brother, I will take it for you," he seethes out, glaring down at him. "And I shall not be clean about it," he promises darkly.

His brother closes his eyes, swallows thickly. His face blanks out, features smoothing into stillness, and then he's blinking his eyes open once more, violet gaze fixed to Jon. He brings his hands to the desk, winds them together slowly and meticulously, steepling his fingers together over the wooden table top. "You've grown bold," he says stiffly – alarmingly quiet.

Jon says nothing, continuing to watch him.

Aegon cocks his head. "Where has all this confidence come from, that you can so easily make such demands of your king?" he asks coldly.

Jon barely manages to keep his smirk at bay. "This very moment, Theon Greyjoy rides to Winterfell with my hand-written missive to Lord Stark detailing your part in Stannis' rebellion against the crown, and how his daughter was nearly killed in the process, only to be poisoned by Stannis' conspirators barely a sennight later."

Aegon's fingers press together tightly, a deep frown marring his features. "My part?" he asks incredulously.

"Your part. Or your wife's," Jon says, moving to lean over the desk, hands planted on either side of it, almost a mirror of his brother. "I suppose my little woven tale wasn't very far off the mark. It matters little though. Whether Ned Stark knows it was you or Daenerys who plotted against his own daughter, who killed the reigning king, who treated with rebels and threatened the peace of the realm – in the end, it doesn't matter which of you takes the blame. Because either way, he will raise his armies and march on the capital. Either way, he will avenge his kin. You and I both know he won't stand by again and watch another lady of the North bleed out in the South," he says meaningfully.

Aegon clenches his jaw, his anger clearly visible in the lines of his face, his flashing violet eyes, but Jon is not deterred. Instead, he relishes in the sight, an unfamiliar sort of freedom playing at the edges of his mind, a new kind of thrill, wholly independent and his. Untethered.

"You would bring war upon us?" Aegon hisses.

"Aye. I would bring war upon you. Upon this whole House. Upon every Targaryen that ever threatened me or my wife," he grits out, nails curling along the wood of the desk beneath his splayed hands. "I would bring a war like you've never seen upon all your heads."

Something flashes in Aegon's eyes, and he purses his lips, stares up at Jon. "You can't possibly think I'd let either of you live, then."

Jon keeps his gaze, his glare never relenting. "No," he says evenly. And it's the truth. But here's another truth: "Which is why you have a choice."

His brother cocks his head, lips a thin line, watching him. It's a bare motion to continue.

Jon takes it as the encouragement he'd been looking for. "Execute Daenerys for her crimes against the crown and against the realm. Illuminate her dealings with Stannis, and her manipulation of Viserys. If you're lucky, and if he was smart enough for it, our uncle would have kept evidence of their correspondence. Leverage that for his life. It will solidify the accusation against her – that she tried to eliminate those with claims to the crown, even against you. Let her take the fall for Stannis' attack, for Rhaegar's death, and then let Sansa and I go North, to Winterfell."

Aegon sucks a slow, heavy breath through his lungs, standing stiffly to face Jon. "And why would I ever let you North, hmm? Where you can plan such treason yourself with Lord Stark?"

"Theon Greyjoy has been instructed to expect a raven from me every two days. Should he ever not receive a raven at such time, he is to deliver my missive directly to Lord Stark. But," he says, licking his lips, staring his brother down, "If you should let us North, let me continue my ravens, then my missive will never land in the hands of Ned Stark. And he will never know of the babe she lost, of the poison your wife fed her. He will never have reason to raise his armies against you, to break from the crown."

Aegon's nostrils flare, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "You expect me to trust you? To trust that once I let you North, you will not do exactly that? Once you are safe and out of my reach?"

"I don't expect you to trust anything," Jon says, "Except your own fear."

Aegon's eyes narrow sharply. "What?" he gets out on a sharp breath.

"You can silence us now, kill us, detain us, whatever it is you're thinking of, and you are guaranteed war with the North. And considering our family's fragile hold on the other kingdoms, I'd wager the Riverlands and the Vale won't be far behind the North. Come to think of it, even the Reach has ties with the North now. Do you think they'd bet on your dwindling power? Or that of the House their precious Rose of Highgarden has now tied herself to?"

Aegon's frown harshens into a thin line, his ire clearly building.

But Jon forges on. "Or you can let us go. Take me for my word. I have never broken it. When I tell you we will go North quietly, I mean it. I will live out the rest of my life in Winterfell with my wife and her family. I will not pursue any courtly station or high appointment. I will not stir rebellion or thoughts of independence. I will stay your loyal vassal, and you make keep whatever precarious hold you still have over the kingdoms. Give us your leave, and I will give you peace."

Aegon curls his hands atop the desk, staring him down, a war waging within him.

"But should you threaten my wife or her family, ever – then I will raise such a rebellion as you've never seen before. I will lay our House to waste, once and for all. I will strike you down from that precious Iron Throne with my own hand, do you understand me? I will bring all the continent down on your head and watch as fire and blood takes you," he seethes out, chest heaving. "Test me, and I will demolish you and yours. Test me, and it will be the last thing you do."

Aegon pulls his hands from the desk slowly, watching Jon with keen eyes, straightening as he watches him. And then he looks off to the far wall, takes a deep, soldiering breath, winds his hands behind him in some semblance of grace – what grace he has left, at least. And then he sighs, and it seems to take all of him.

Jon barely allows himself to hope at the sound, staying stock still.

Aegon's frown eases out, a solemn, blank look overtaking his features instead. He flits a resigned gaze to Jon, turned slightly from him. "You wish to go safely North, and have Daenerys executed for her crimes," he says softly, a quiver of regret lining the words.

Jon only nods, never relinquishing his hard gaze.

Aegon's eyes drift down, another heavy sigh leaving him. "Have you any other conditions?" he asks reluctantly.

Jon doesn't let his breath of relief escape him, instead, drawing back from the desk, straightening slowly, evenly. He clears his throat, nods at Aegon. "Let Rhaenys go."

His brother glances up at that.

Jon sighs, shaking his head. "Let her choose her own path," he says.

Aegon says nothing, only shifts his gaze back to the far wall.

Jon wonders if he's remembering that day. That day seven years ago. A half-dead horse. Seventeen arrows. Rhaenys breathing slow and shallowly, slumped in Aegon's arms, Jon's hand gliding over her hair, his other hand fisted in his lap.

It had been a grey afternoon, the hills rolling past them, King's Landing just a hazy shroud over the horizon. Their men, few and trusted, had stood back an appropriate distance, their gazes turned respectfully.

Jon remembers suddenly, as though from a dream, that Aegon had been the first to cry.

The recollection jars him – sudden and unexpected. He hadn't recalled that detail until just now.

Hadn't wanted to, perhaps.

"Rhaenys..." Jon begins, his voice faltering. He clears his throat, tries again.

(A grey afternoon. Her innocence – gone.)

"Rhaenys never had a choice before. Never had the chance to heal," he says, voice clogged with tears. "When Father covered it up, when he silenced those guards to 'protect her honor'," he grits out, teeth clenching, "He'd done her more harm than good."

"She'd have lost any possible marriage prospects, if word got out," Aegon argues softly, almost as though he weren't truly trying. "You know that."

Jon scoffs. "And what marriage prospects has she now, hmm? You?"

Aegon cuts a heated glance Jon's way and it silences him abruptly – the pain in his eyes vibrant and unpracticed. It's not a look Jon's ever seen on him before.

"I would never – " Aegon cuts himself off, swallowing tightly, gaze drifting down to the desk as he shakes his head. "Whether you believe me or not, I just... I don't want to see our sister hurt anymore."

Jon's mouth parts at the quiet admission.

Aegon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But what can be done for her?" he says brokenly, and it lights a pain in Jon he'd thought long forgotten.

"Let her decide," he says.

Aegon's hand falls from his face, his gaze drifting up to meet Jon's.

Jon swallows thickly, nodding. "Whatever it is – whether that's to marry, to leave this place, to... I don't know. Whatever it is – let it be her choice. Give her back the power to chart her own course, to control her own fate. Stop caging her." Jon swallows back the quake in his voice, his eyes tearing at the words. "This is what we can do for her," he urges.

Aegon looks at him, and suddenly, they are young boys again, each looking to the other for acknowledgement, each hanging on the other's words. He's back in that stable, all those years ago, before he ever loosed his father's horse. Aegon is right on his heels, giddy and reckless as they lead the mare out. And Jon...

Jon has his eyes fixed to the sky – wide and dark and littered with stars.

"I've always wanted to ride Father's horse," Aegon says behind him, his hand trailing the mare's flank, eyes wonderous on the beast.

Jon looks back at him, catching the awe in his features, and his hands loosen around the reins instinctively, suddenly struck with a harsh realization.

For he was never meant to ride his father's horse.

And maybe there's a bit of allegory to the realization, but he's too young to know it just then, too young and earnest and free.

He watches Aegon's hand glide up the side of the horse, a sense of possession to the motion, and Jon thinks he understands then, finally, though it takes him many, many years to acknowledge it.

(A bastard craves and craves, after all. He'd been taught thus, and hadn't thought to ever question it.

Even when he found he wasn't the only one craving.)

"We all have our parts to play," his brother had said, and he had been right.

So, he will be the traitor. He will play the part.

(But the curtain closes here.)

And perhaps this is their tragedy, in two acts. In fire and blood.

(There is no Act Three.)

"Let her go," Jon says again, breathless and winded – exhausted from this struggle, this plight. "Just let her go," he pleads on a hoarse whisper.

Craving has done nothing for any of them. Only reminded them of their loneliness.

(He wants to be a brother, just one last time.)

Aegon watches him with clear eyes, nothing accusatory in them, nothing searching. And maybe he does remember – rolling hills and his sister's breathless, hollow voice –

"Ride."

Aegon clenches his jaw, his gaze swinging away from Jon's. A sigh leaves him, heavy and laden with the past. "I understand," he says, voice soft.

Jon can only nod. They stand like this for many moments, with neither of them willing to break the silence. And then Jon dips his head in a respectful farewell, backing away slowly. He makes it nearly to the door when Aegon's rough exhale stops him, his hand halted mid-reach for the handle.

"How did this happen?" his brother asks brokenly, sinking down into his chair, his head in his hand, and Jon nearly turns back fully then, halting just at the half-turn, still braced for the door and yet – inexplicably tethered to the man hunched behind the desk.

A man he used to know, as a boy. A man who used to be a boy.

(And maybe this is what softens Jon, in the end.)

Aegon brings his other hand to his face, burying his sob in his weathered palms. "How did this happen?" he asks again, voice quaking.

This, Jon thinks. Everything.

This chasm between them, this resentment inside them, this choice before them.

Everything.

How did this happen?

But Jon knows it very well. Has known it from the start, even if they didn't.

He turns fully to his brother, hand falling back to his side. It's alright that he never meets his eyes, his face still buried in his hands. It's alright because, in the end -

"We did this to ourselves," Jon says, a measure of surety to the words – a finality.

Aegon stiffens, his sob choked off on a sharp inhale.

Jon doesn't wait for a reply. He doesn't wait for his brother to tear his face from his hands, to look at him desperately – suddenly boyish and lost. He doesn't wait for anything.

He simply leaves.

That sudden-ripped splinter, that searing hole left in its wake – Jon finds it doesn't sting so much anymore. Because in the end, it is a clean ache.

It is the harrowing ache of freedom – when all the blood has let at last.

#from instep to heel #jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #my writing #jon x sansa #jon and sansa #got fanfic

[shiftynightshade]

[Chat: The Jedi Orders Problem Children: Has Been Opened!]

 Thing 2: holy shit I forgot this thing existed

Trigger Happy: pff aah yes ye ol good days of tormenting adults

Thing 1: And ignoring our trauma! Quite the experience if I do say so myself.

Quinlan, Use Psychic Touch!: force obi u using grammer in a chat like that gives me a headache

Thing 1: And your lack of brain cells gives me a headache, but we don’t talk about that, do we Quinlan?

Quinlan, Use Psychic Touch!: i- WOW U DIDN’T HAVE TO COME FOR ME LIKE THAT OBES

Fuck Adults: wejdhjk theres nothing like waking up to obi wan just throwing shade like that

Sick of Your Shit: Well I mean… Quinaln was asking for it

Queen: Oh goodness, Garen why did you have to re open the Sith cursed chat?

Trigger Happy: :o

Best Raisin: The Queen has arrived!!

Thing 1: Hi Lumi, honestly should we even question what goes on in Garen’s head these days?

Queen: I guess not, much like Quinlan Garen sacrificed all of his braincells to you and Bant

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: what is this? Bullying garen and quinlan hours??

Queen: Of Course

Best Raisin: When isin’t it bullying quinlan and Garen hours?

Trigger Happy: should it be anthing else

Fuck Adults: obviously

Sick of You Shit: Yes

WHEAT: Yup

Acid Puddle: You two are the only ones in this chat without any braincells, so of course we’re gonna bully you

Thing 2: DID YOU TWO SERIOUSL COME ONLINE JUST TO ROAST ME AND QUIN?!?!?!

Wheat: Certainly

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: OBI YOUR BROTHERS ARE BULLIES

Thing 1: y’all hear something?

Trigger Happy: wow cant believe obi just murdered quinlan

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: quit tellin’ everyone im dead!

Fuck Adults: Its almost like you can still hear his voice

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: wow guess ill go and make out with fox now

Thing 1: You do that, Cody’s just pinged me and added all of our new shinies into the 212th chat.

Best Raisin: I’m surprised obi hasn’t adopted them all yet.

Sick of Your Shit: bold of you to assume he hasn’t already emotionally adopted them.

WHEAT: okay that’s fair

[Chat: 212th Comms: has Been Opened!]

[Feeling Glorious has added Firework, Spinner, Comet and Feather to the Chat! ]

Feeling Glorious: Welcome to the unofficial 212 comm lines shines, you’re one of us now. Ranks and regs don’t mean shit here so feel free to refer to us by or names.

Sunshine Brother: Welcome!

The Favourite: Hi!

Grumpy Brother: Oh force theres two of them

Feather: Thanks sirs, but who is who???

Feeling Glorious: Right. Roll Call! @Everyone State your name, pronouns and a fact about yourself.

Feeling Glorious: I’m Kote, or better known as Cody, I go by he/him pronouns and I have used a lightsaber before.

Spinner: :O Really!?

Sunshine Brother: YEAH It was awesome to watch! I’m Waxer, he/him and Boil and I accidentally adopted a young twi’lek girl named Numa as a little sister back on Ryloth

Grumpy Brother: Im Boil, he/him and I got my name because I spilt boiling water over my arm and hand when I was still a cadet n Kamino.

Barley: Barlex, he/they and I once sucker punched General Kenobi in the throat

Comet: !!!

Firework: HOW DI YOU NOT GET DE COMISSIONED!?

Barley: kenobi’s just pretty chill like that

Curlicue: Names Helix, he/him, medic  and Ihave dragged our general to medbay more times than I can count

Comet: that’s kinda concerning

Shifter Of Gears: Gearshift, they/them, and I once hid in the actual engine of the Negotiator during a game of hide and seek

CRYStal Clear: Crys, he/him and I dyed my hair blond but it now looks like it’s a goldish yellow

Spinner: nice vod

OverShot: Longshot, he/him I shot the clanker bitch himself in the face

Snaptrap: Trapper he/him and I got my name from how quickly I could both make and detect traps compared the the rest of my batchmates.

Feeling Glorious: We love and appreciate you Trapper

Snaptrap: UvU

Grumpy Brother: don’t appreciate THAT THOUGH

I’m Like An Onion, I have Layers: Peel, they/them and I once peeled and ate an entire onion like an apple without a single reaction.

Snaptrap: it was terrifying

Grog: Gregor, he/him and I’m the 212ths main source of moonshine.

The Favourite: I’m Wooley! I go by he/him pronouns and the general’s teaching me how to knit and crochet!

Feather: holy fuck your precious

Comet: I guess we introduce ourselves now????

Comet: well, im Comet, I prefer she/her pronouns and I own a sniper with comet decals all over it

Feather: I’m Feather, he/they and I got my name from having and I quote ‘feather light steps’ during stealth training

Firework: Right, I’m Firework, she/they and I love to paint!

The Favourite: ! Another artist? YES

Spinner: hye im Spinner he/him  and no matter how much I spin I cant get diy for some weird reason.

Feeling Glorious: right, Waxer, you know what to do!

Sunshine Brother: Yessir!

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Feather’s name to: Dreamcatcher!:]

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Comet’s name to: Knock-off Shooting Star!:]

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Spinner’s name to: You Spin Me Right 'Round!:]

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Firework’s name to :Bang Bang!:]

Feeling Glorious: Oh yeah, one more thing

Bang Bang: ?

The Favourite: @Stewed Ginger General!

You Spin Me Right ‘Round: the generals in the chat!?!?!?

Stewed Ginger: Indeed I am Spinner!

You Spin Me Right ‘Round: :HE USES OUR NAMES?!?!? @ Feeling Glorious:

Feeling Glorious: :Yup, he gets sad when we refer to ourselves as numbers:

Stewed Ginger: Right, well I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi, I go go by he/him pronouns and I know over five different languages :)

The Favourite: Hi General!

Snaptrap: Hi general!

Stewed Ginger: Hi boys!

Bang Bang: Uh General, what’s the meaning behind your user, if yo don’t mind me asking?

Stewed Ginger: I don’t mind at all Firework, but its not really creative. My user is just the beginning f my home planet Stewjon and my Hair colour.

Bang Bang: ah thank you sir!

Stewed Ginger: well how about we all meet in one of the rec rooms and get to know each other? I’m sure it will be beneficial for all of us!

Feeling Glorious: Meet you all in rec room 2 shinies!

[User :Feeling Glorious: has closed the chat for :0700: hours!]

#star wars #clone wars #xanatos #feemor #obi-wan

[dogmascutie]

Ooh I love the ask game you reblogged! 15 and 18 perhaps 👀👀

me too i found it so interesting!!! the questions are so unique i love it, and i absolutely love the questions you chose

15. A Hollywood producer tells you that they want to film just one of your fics. Which fic would you want it to be?

this one made me laugh out loud because it would have to be like HBO or some shit lmfao but god how cool would this be? i know it’s my most recent fic, but i think i’d choose come home to me, my gregor x reader fic. i wrote it with a very specific cinematic genre in mind (the cowboy mythos) and also gregor absolutely deserves his own movie. plus i have a playlist for it and not to toot my own horn, but that movie would have the most killer soundtrack lmfao

18. What is a line/scene you’re really proud of? Give us the DVD commentary for that scene.

okay so the first fic that came to mind (i bet i’ll think of, like, 10 better scenes later but this is all i can think of right now) is this scene in be quiet, babygirl:

"Be. Quiet. Baby. Girl." Every word is punctuated by another thrust, sharper and more precise than the last. You could fucking kill him. You try to, accidentally, throwing your head back and knocking it against his. Dogma lets out a hiss of pain, and suddenly you're both giggling far too loudly. Panicked, he shoves his fist further into your mouth, fingers dangling at the top of your throat. The feel of him, filling you almost everywhere, has your pussy clenching.

there are a couple of reasons i chose this. it has the title of the fic, and i always love discovering what line is going to be my title (for the dogma’s babygirl series). it’s got dominant dogma, and more importantly, really fucking hot dogma. the idea of him fucking into you slowly, fiercely, one word at a time has me 🥴🥴🥴

then there’s the headbutt and giggling, which results, naturally and accidentally, in something sexier for the reader (being gagged). the reason i like this is twofold: something as simple as laughing during sex can be really intimate, and it speaks to dogma and babygirl’s comfort with each other. then, the fact that this leads into something kinky, rather than dogma getting mad or annoyed with the reader for laughing, is kind of personal for me. my ex didn’t really like it when i would laugh during sex, and, as someone who giggles when they’re nervous or excited or just anytime, this made me feel embarrassed and immature. it’s important to me that dogma would never let the reader feel this way, and you get the feeling that (or at least i hope you do), were they at home and not trying to stay silent in the barracks, they both would’ve just laughed their asses off.

how’s that for commentary lmfao, i wrote a whole essay. anyway thank you for the ask my beloved divs!!!

fanfic ask game

#seriously i could go on and on about my fics maybe this was a bad idea 😅 #rexsjaigeyes #ask dee

[hiscyarika]

Hello, may I request a one shot with Oberyn where the reader has a really bad nightmare, and he comforts her!

Word Count: ~800

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Reader

Prompt: See Above

Warning(s): Nightmares, Violence 

A/N: I hope you enjoy this! It went a little differently than the scenario that I originally had in my head, but I really wanted to address the aftermath of the duel against the Mountain. Thank you for sending this in! 💙

Masterlist

Tag Lists

---

Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch the deadly dance in the arena. It’s a sick game, and it makes you hate the Lannisters even more when you see the grins that turn their lips upward. They’re enjoying this, the way that your husband is demanding to hear the Mountain confess to his crimes against House Martell.

You hear the crowd gasp, and your attention returns to the fight. Your heart swells in your chest when you see the broken off spear sticking out of Gregor Clegane’s chest. “Just do it, Oberyn. End this,” you plead in a whisper. You understand what it means to your husband to hear the man say the words, but it’s not worth his life. Not to you.

Oberyn stands over the Mountain, taunting him still, and you allow yourself just a moment of satisfaction in seeing the horror on Cersei and Tywin Lannister’s faces. They deserve this loss. They deserve to rot in all seven hells for what they’ve done. You’d send them there yourself if only you could.

But then that moment ends.

You watch Gregor Clegane wrap his hand around Oberyn’s throat, lifting him into the air before throwing him to the stone ground. The Mountain stands over your husband, blocking your view. The screaming starts. You can’t tell if it’s yours. There’s someone gripping your upper arms, holding you back as you try to keep your worst nightmare from coming true.

You bolt upright in bed.

Your eyes are unseeing as you look around the room. Your chest heaves with quick, panicked breaths. Nausea makes your stomach twist. And then there’s a gentle weight on your shoulders, warm and reassuring. It brings you back to reality. You’re not in King’s Landing. You’re in your own bedroom in Dorne.

“My love,” he whispers, brushing your hair over your shoulder and pressing his lips lightly to the back of your neck. You close your eyes at his touch, trying to school your breathing. You can’t bring yourself to speak yet. To bring those horrors to life with your words brings you too close to the fact that they almost came to pass.

When Oberyn snakes his arms around your waist, you lean back against his chest, letting out a breath as the warmth of his body transfers to yours. He rests his chin on your shoulder, leaving a line of kisses across your shoulder and up the side of your throat. “You are safe,” he murmurs in your ear. “No harm will come to you in Dorne.”

“It’s not me I worry for, Oberyn,” you breathe, feeling tears burn at your eyes.

He sits up, taking your shoulders and gently turning you to face him. With your vision adjusted to the dark, you can see the way his brows knit together in confusion. “I don’t understand,” he admits, cradling your cheek in his hand.

“You could have died in King’s Landing… You would have if you had taunted the Mountain any longer,” you tell him, your tone much harsher than you wanted it to be, but you couldn’t help it. You won’t have him risk his life like that again.

“The Mountain is dead, my love,” Oberyn retorts, but then he pauses, taking a moment to choose his next words carefully. He knows better than to start an argument now. That’s not what you need from him. He lets out a long exhale and his features soften again.

Oberyn looks into your eyes, past the frustration to find the fear. He knows he’s the only one who could ever see it, but he has seen your soul. He knows the things you hide from the rest of the world. You can’t hide from him.

Guilt eats at him as he accepts the fact that he is at fault for it all.

“I will not apologize for avenging my sister and her children,” he says gently, aware that you would never ask him to but he feels the need to say the words regardless. “But I am sorry for what you’ve endured at my hand. It pains me that these terrors steal your rest,” he tells you.

“I love you, Oberyn,” you whisper, turning fully to him and wrapping your arms around him. He responds in kind, leaning back against the pillows with you secured against his chest.

“As I love you, my darling wife,” he replies, lips against the crown of your head. You close your eyes again, taking a deep breath to inhale his familiar scent. It grounds you, driving away the last dregs of your panic. You listen to his heart, beating strong and firm beneath your cheek.

Oberyn holds you that way for the rest of the night, not allowing himself to sleep until he knows that your nightmares will not return to you. His eyes slip closed as the sun rises over Dorne, painting the sky gold and amber, a reminder that the night and its terrors do not last forever.

---

Permanent Tags:  @theforceofdarkandlight @hail-doodles @aerynwrites@murdermewithbooks @themandjalorian @longitud-de-onda @readsalot73 @lovingtheway @talesfromtheguild @mystical-934  @lavenderl3mons @tiffdawg @lokiaddicted @adikaofmandalore @blue-tidal-wave @forever-rogue @flower-petal-blooming@fleurdemiel145  @cable-kenobi @opheliaelysia @pynch-bug

#oberyn martell #oberyn #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn x reader #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire

[alayne-stonecoldfox]

Sansa and Songs

Sansa’s love of songs is shown early on in the books, and is a an important part of her character as well as her narrative.

Once, when she was just a little girl, a wandering singer had stayed with them at Winterfell for half a year. An old man he was, with white hair and windburnt cheeks, but he sang of knights and quests and ladies fair, and Sansa had cried bitter tears when he left them, and begged her father not to let him go. "The man has played us every song he knows thrice over," Lord Eddard told her gently. "I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come."They hadn't, though, not for a year or more. Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree, asking them to bring the old man back, or better still to send another singer, young and handsome. But the gods never answered, and the halls of Winterfell stayed silent.

Many different characters comment on it

Lady Catelyn had said that Sansa was a gentle soul who loved lemon cakes, silken gowns, and songs of chivalry - Brienne

So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly.- Arya

Sansa Stark, he mused. Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces.- Tyrion

Her love of songs is at first tied to the way she wishes to see the world, her innocence, her dreams and her naivety. She has lived a happy and sheltered life, she is the beautiful daughter of a noble house, and has no reason to think her life would not be like the heroines of the songs she loves. This is her romanticised view of the world.

All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs.

Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, like a lady in a song.

"It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling.

Sansa insisted. "I don't want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We'll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you'll see. I'll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he'll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion."

This quote below is one of the first times Sansa instead associates songs with a negative connotation, but in an interesting way.

The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad.

She has just witnessed a young Vale knight die in the joust. It is described as :

“the most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated.”

Sansa’s reaction is recorded alongside her friend Jeyne’s

Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come.

I love this part of the book. It’s Sansa’s first, very blunt, encounter with death, though it takes place in such a wonderful colourful atmosphere, a court joust, where she’s been having the time of her life and has always dreamed of being part of. It is even quoted by her as being ‘a song come to life’. The way it’s written seems like she can’t quite process what she’s just seen. The reality of the death. The only thing that registers with her truly in that moment is that he won’t be the one the songs are sung for, and that’s what she finds most tragic. It is a shallow take on it. She is still a young girl caught up in songs and not reality.

This passage happens in Sansa’s third chapter, when Ned has decided Ser Gregor is to be brought before the Kings Justice, and Loras volunteers to bring him in but Ned refuses to send him. Sansa doesn’t understand why, and says this to her Septa, and Petyr Baelish overhears

Her father's decision still bewildered her. When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she'd been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan's stories come to life. Ser Gregor was the monster and Ser Loras the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so slim and beautiful, with golden roses around his slender waist and his rich brown hair tumbling down into his eyes. 

Lord Baelish stroked his little pointed beard and said, "Nothing? Tell me, child, why would you have sent Ser Loras?"Sansa had no choice but to explain about heroes and monsters. The king's councillor smiled. "Well, those are not the reasons I'd have given, but …" He had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow."

Again, a moment highlighted Sansa’s naivety and how she truly believes life would be like the songs, Ser Loras defeating Gregor because he is the handsome young knight and Gregor the monster. It is also the first introduction of the line “life is not a song sweetling” which will be echoed throughout Sansa’s chapters from this point on, as her innocent world view is shattered and her naivety chipped away. The line is impactful coming from Petyr Baelish of all people, as he was once also a young boy who’s world vision was crafted from songs. 

"There's a song," he remembered. "'Jenny of Oldstones, with the flowers in her hair.'""We're all just songs in the end. If we are lucky." She had played at being Jenny that day, had even wound flowers in her hair. And Petyr had pretended to be her Prince of Dragonflies. Catelyn could not have been more than twelve, Petyr just a boy.

Did you come with Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood, the time they visited to lay their feud before my father? Lord Bracken’s singer played for us, and Catelyn danced six dances with Petyr that night, six, I counted.

He believed Catelyn Stark was being married against her will in an arranged marriage to Brandon Stark, falsely believing Cat loved him and he had taken her maiden head (he hadn’t, he was drunk and it was Lysa) and they were going to be together despite his lower birth, and he could fight for her hand, because that was how it happened in the songs where the gallant young hero’s always won. But that’s not what happened, and Petyr lost everything in that duel, his home at Riverrun, his ties with House Tully and what he thought was his true love, and from that point onwards he descended into bitterness, becoming a man of ruthless practicality. He recognises the same innocence in Sansa with a knowingness that it will not last.

Another key figure in Sansa’s narrative relating to songs is The Hound. From the beginning of her chapters he derisively refers to Sansa as a little bird who sings songs.

Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."

Tell me, little bird, what kind of god makes a monster like the Imp, or a halfwit like Lady Tanda's daughter? If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with."

A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face." He cupped her under the jaw, raising her chin, his fingers pinching her painfully. "And that's more than little birds can do, isn't it? I never got my song.""I . . . I know a song about Florian and Jonquil.”"Florian and Jonquil? A fool and his cunt. Spare me. But one day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no."

The Hound seems to resent Sansa’s innocence. He is a character that certainly knows how harsh the world is, and he see’s Sansa’s world views as foolish, and every chance he gets he seems to want to wake her up to the real world, whilst also acting as a protector. She brings out a lot of conflicting feelings within him, as he does in Sansa, as he does not fit her idea at all of what a knight was meant to be. His harsh demeanour is very confronting to her throughout her early chapters, culminating in a scene in her room where he seemingly planned on raping her, but could bring himself to do it, because as much as he hated her innocence, it touches him as well. He settles on wanting a song.

"Think I'm so drunk that I'd believe that?" He let go his grip on her arm, swaying slightly as he stood, stripes of light and darkness falling across his terrible burnt face. "You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you're taller too, almost . . . ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you . . . sing me a song, why don't you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights, don't you?"He was scaring her. "T-true knights, my lord."

I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. "Still can't bear to look, can you?" she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears.

This scene, as well as the entirety of the chapters that come after Ned’s death and covering the battle of the blackwater, references songs in a new dark way in Sansa’s chapters.

Perhaps I will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. If she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief.

She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard. Women swarmed over her like weasels, pinching her legs and kicking her in the belly, and someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons.

She heard it as she had never heard it before, and there were other sounds as well, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men. In the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy.

The deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.It was another sort of song, a terrible song.

They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They've never seen a battle, they've never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her father's head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.

Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn't, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there's such a dearth of good sacking songs.""True knights would never harm women and children." The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother's queen, of Nymeria's ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist."Very good, dear." The queen leaned close. "You want to practice those tears. You'll need them for King Stannis."

But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow." 

Sansa’s world view has begun to change as she is no longer naive and has suffered tragedy, and nothing is happening as she thought it would. She still seems to love songs, but now there’s a lot of melancholy attached to them.

The third key figure in Sansa’s narrative associated with songs, after Petyr Baelish and the hound, is Marillion. Her Aunt Lysa’s favourite singer who she encounters first at the Fingers during Petyr and Lysa’s marriage, where he attempts to sing to her and rape her.

"Marillion?" she said, uncertain. "You are . . . kind to think of me, but . . . pray forgive me. I am very tired.""And very beautiful. All night I have been making songs for you in my head. A lay for your eyes, a ballad for your lips, a duet to your breasts. I will not sing them, though. They were poor things, unworthy of such beauty." He sat on her bed and put his hand on her leg. "Let me sing to you with my body instead." She caught a whiff of his breath. "You're drunk.""I never get drunk. Mead only makes me merry. I am on fire." His hand slipped up to her thigh. "And you as well."

Luckily, he is scared off by Lothor Brune, who is asked by Petyr Baelish to watch over her that night. But Marillion and his singing factor again into one of the biggest moments of Sansa and Baelish’s story so far, as he plays his harp and sings to cover the sounds of Lysa’s attempt at killing Sansa by throwing her through the moon door.

“No." Sansa planted her feet and tried to squirm backward, but her aunt did not budge. "Not this way. Please . . ." She put a hand up, her fingers scrabbling at the doorframe, but she could not get a grip, and her feet were sliding on the wet marble floor. Lady Lysa pressed her forward inexorably. Her aunt outweighed her by three stone. "The lady lay a-kissing, upon a mound of hay," Marillion was singing. Sansa twisted sideways, hysterical with fear, and one foot slipped out over the void. She screamed. "Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey." The wind flapped her skirts up and bit at her bare legs with cold teeth. She could feel snowflakes melting on her cheeks. Sansa flailed, found Lysa's thick auburn braid, and clutched it tight. "My hair!" her aunt shrieked. "Let go of my hair!" She was shaking, sobbing. They teetered on the edge. Far off, she heard the guards pounding on the door with their spears, demanding to be let in. Marillion broke off his song."Lysa! What's the meaning of this?" The shout cut through the sobs and heavy breathing. Footsteps echoed down the High Hall. "Get back from there! Lysa, what are you doing?" The guards were still beating at the door; Littlefinger had come in the back way, through the lords' entrance behind the dais.

Petyr comes in time to stop it. Of course, we know this is when he kills Lysa himself. Marillion is witness to all of this. Petyr decides to keep him alive for his own ends, sending him to the dungeons to be tortured into now defending their innocence.

"We have come to an agreement, Marillion and I. Mord can be most persuasive. And if our singer disappoints us and sings a song we do not care to hear, why, you and I need only say he lies. Whom do you imagine Lord Nestor will believe?""Us?" Sansa wished she could be certain.

"Lord Petyr has been kind enough to let me keep my harp," the blind singer said. "My harp and . . . my tongue . . . so I may sing my songs. Lady Lysa dearly loved my singing . . ."

Sansa most traumatic moment, the moment she almost died, was serenaded with a song. Now she and Petyr use that singer to cover the crime of Lysa’s death with Sansa being able to hear him from down in the dungeons where he sings at night.

The singer's voice was strong and sweet. Sansa thought he sounded better than he ever had before, his voice richer somehow, full of pain and fear and longing. She did not understand why the gods would have given such a voice to such a wicked man.

He would have taken me by force on the Fingers if Petyr had not set Ser Lothor to watch over me, she had to remind herself. And he played to drown out my cries when Aunt Lysa tried to kill me.That did not make the songs any easier to hear.

 "Please," she begged Lord Petyr, "can't you make him stop?""I gave the man my word, sweetling." Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, looked up from the letter he was writing. He had written a hundred letters since Lady Lysa's fall. Sansa had seen the ravens coming and going from the rookery. "I'd sooner suffer his singing than listen to his sobbing."

That night the dead man sang "The Day They Hanged Black Robin," "The Mother's Tears," and "The Rains of Castamere." Then he stopped for a while, but just as Sansa began to drift off he started to play again. He sang "Six Sorrows," "Fallen Leaves," and "Alysanne." Such sad songs, she thought. When she closed her eyes she could see him in his sky cell, huddled in a corner away from the cold black sky, crouched beneath a fur with his woodharp cradled against his chest. I must not pity him, she told herself. He was vain and cruel, and soon he will be dead. She could not save him. And why should she want to? Marillion tried to rape her, and Petyr had saved her life not once but twice. Some lies you have to tell. Lies had been all that kept her alive in King's Landing.

Marillion in his entirety really opens up a more troubling world view for Sansa to start to digest. He was beautiful and young and a singer, but he tried to rape her. He tried to aid in her murder. He was tortured into defending her and Baelish. She knows he will be killed. Sansa is conflicted by all of this, feeling haunted by his sad songs as she tried to sleep but can’t. He has given her a lot to think about regarding her survival but also her morality.

"My lady was too trusting for this world." Petyr spoke so tenderly that Sansa would have believed he'd loved his wife. "Lysa could not see the evil in men, only the good. Marillion sang sweet songs, and she mistook that for his nature."

Songs have been weaved throughout Sansa’s narrative consistently, alongside three men who enforce these links even more. The Hound who wanted a song, Lord Baelish who was once a lover of songs himself, and Marillion, the singer. I believe that songs will continue to play a thematic role in Sansa’s chapters, but i would say the dreams and innocence once associated with them in her mind is long gone.

The moment came back to her vividly. "You told me that life was not a song. That I would learn that one day, to my sorrow." She felt tears in her eyes, but whether she wept for Ser Dontos Hollard, for Joff, for Tyrion, or for herself, Sansa could not say. 

As the boy's lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.It made no matter. That day was done, and so was Sansa.

That day was done, and so was Sansa.

That day was done, and so was Sansa.

That day was done, and so was Sansa.

#sansa stark #petyr baelish #sandor clegane #asoiaf #got #long post #SORRY IT'S SO LONG #i just...LOVE. BOOK. QUOTES

[gaze-into-whump]

Fandom: Original Work (Project Oracle: Fantasy AU)

Prompt: Wound that Won’t Heal Red X: Filled. White Circle: Requested

@badthingshappenbingo, requested by @butchzambo

It started a day like any other. Or any other these days. After. After Attakius, after the fey wild, after losing everything Daisy thought made her her. Who was she if she wasn’t an adventurer? Who was she if she couldn’t lift a sword to defend herself, push a boulder up a never-ending hill, dig a hole that she refused to be buried in? She had used every part of herself to keep going, to spite Attakius.

And now she was used up. A shell of the person she used to be. She’d never had to think about what a damsel felt like before, she’d never been one. Now? Well, things had been getting better.

Every step feels like she’s slogging through mud wearing stones on her feet but she’d finally gotten to the point where she could help with the errands. Nothing that required her to carry anything, and nothing she could do on her own, which seemed to defeat the purpose of running an errand, but she won’t complain if it means she gets to feel the wind in her hair. And the market is nice too, even if she needs to sit down while Kyle browses the spices and herbs.

He gets enough to fill just a single bag, something he can carry easily by himself. She’s less annoyed about how little she’s helping on the way back. Sitting down has reminded her how tired she is, and Kyle got into an argument with one of the vendors about a mislabeled plant. Daisy didn’t know there were so many ways to describe leaves.

Kyle finishes the discussion (he was wrong but he still got a few coppers knocked off the price) and collects Daisy. The market isn’t too far from Gregor’s tower, and she has a walking stick now, so Daisy is confident they’ll be able to get back without too much difficulty. And then she can listen to Kyle and Gregor talking about magic, or maybe cooking, while she reads at the table. It’s a nice thought. Even sitting down is a nice thought as they push on through the slightly uneven path.

Kyle starts up a conversation as they walk. His training with Attakius didn’t leave him a lot of room to practice with material components for spells, so he’s learning everything like a beginner. Daisy can actually rival him in knowledge of the subject. She reads so much that her theoretical knowledge is impressive and near encyclopedic, though there’s not a magic bone in her body. She corrects him when he mistakes the uses for ragwort, it’s best for poisoning horses but he mistakenly said it affected centaurs. “You’re thinking of bat’s ear” she says. “But it’s hard to collect because the leaves secret the poisonous oil.” It hurts a little to breathe as she she walks and talks, but she leans more heavily on the walking stick and manages to balance the whole thing out. Twenty minutes, one flight of stairs and then she can rest. She’s dealt with worse.

Kyle’s mouth twists in that way it does when he’s trying to decide if he’s going to ask her if they need to stop or not. They don’t, and they don’t need to slow down. They’re already moving at a crawl and Daisy wants to be home more than she wants to rest her aching legs. She sets the pace. She can see the tiny steps Kyle takes to make sure he doesn’t overtake her. She appreciates the effort. She’s watching his feet, timing each of her steps with his, when his stutter.

Daisy almost stumbles herself, she was so attuned to him, but years of adventuring instincts make her look up. Just in time to jump back as something- someone drops from above her. She drops the walking stick, instinctively reaching for the dagger at her belt.

It feels like swords shoot through her legs as she stumbles back, but she keeps her balance and brandishes the dagger. She snarls, which should have been enough to scare away a common bandit (well, her somewhat imposing traveling companion helps). The someone barely pauses. Heedless of the dagger pointed at their tattooed neck, the would be bandit doesn’t pause. They slam forward so her dagger slams into their shoulder. Daisy keeps her grip and pushes, shoving the blade in as deep as she can manage. Her assailant doesn’t seem to notice. They push past her, forcing her arm to bend or else lose the dagger completely. She holds on until they step behind her. She gasps as she realizes that no, her arm can’t bend that way and doesn’t have enough air to scream as their hand closes around her throat.

They smell sickly sweet and if she couldn’t feel the pinpricks of claws at her neck, daisy might have gagged. Instead, she stands stock still. Another set of claws, no doubt similarly poisoned, press at her stomach. She’s caught. Her legs scream at her to readjust, to sit down, but there’s so much tension in her assailant that she’s afraid the slightest movement with spook them into stabbing her. So she stays still. She’s not sure which is worse, the fire creeping up her legs or the terrified look on Kyle’s face. It’s fine, she’s been in worse situations.

Kyle feels sick. The creature’s nails press divots into Daisy’s throat and he tries to focus on something other than her strained expression. He looks at the creature’s hands, stained black at the fingers, and their bare neck, where runes curl around the throat like a collar. The creature itself looks more or less human, with more tracing the curve of their cheeks to end under their silver eyes, but Kyle isn’t fooled. It’s Blake’s work, and nothing that came out of her dungeon was human anymore.

It smiles and opens its mouth wide, like a snake about to swallow prey. The runes on its skin light up green and Blake’s voice comes out of its gaping mouth.

“Hello dear.”

Daisy flinches, causing a small rivulet of blood to run down her neck.

“Since Attakius rejected my gift, it’s time for you to return to me.”

Kyle’s hands move almost without conscious thought, weaving a spell with the shadows around his feet. A black circle pulses in front of him, but before he can finish the spell, the creature’s hand closes around Daisy’s throat. It lifts her off the ground so her feet kick uselessly as she writhes and struggles to get out of its grip.

“Stop!”

The expression on Blake’s minion’s face doesn’t change, but the voice sounds amused. “Will you return to me?”

Daisy’s still struggling in its grip and Kyle wants to say yes, of course. Please just don’t hurt her. But he can’t force the words out. The thought of going back to that place makes his body seize, at least Attakius had liked him.

He shakes his head, tears falling down his face. I’m sorry Daisy. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

“Disappointing,” Blakes’ voice tells him. He tenses, ready for the outburst of violence, spectral claws ripping down his back, white hot energy crackling through him, or the worst, Blake’s creature twisting it’s hands just so…

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not sure if he’s telling Blake or Daisy. Daisy’s barely struggling now. As he watches, her eyes roll back into her head.

“DAISY!” He screams, running forward, heedless of what Blake’s creature will do to him.

Now it smiles. It releases its hand from Daisy’s throat. As she falls, it shoves its hand into her stomach, spearing her with the claws. Her eyes fly open and her mouth opens in a wordless gasp. The creature pulls its hand away and flicks the blood off its fingers. Daisy falls to the ground.

“You’ll realize you need me,” Blake’s voice says. The creature is still examining its hand. “And then you’ll come crawling back.” It tilts its head, staring at Kyle until he bares his teeth and snarls, then it leaves as quickly as it came.

He runs to Daisy.

“Daisy?” He kneels by her body and tries to will his hands to stop shaking so he can check if she’s alive.

She gasps and rolls onto her side, coughing violently. Blood drips down her stomach.

He puts his hand on her forehead and her eyes close for a moment before she starts another coughing fit.

“I’ve got you,” he tells her. “I’ll get you help.”

Why the fuck didn’t Attakius teach him healing magic? He knows why, but why didn’t he demand to learn it?

“Kyle,” she says, raw and painful and alive. “Can’t…” her breathe wheezes in and out of her bruised throat. “Can’t move”. Her eyes close again.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll get you home. I’ll get you home and we’ll figure things out.”

He picks her up like he has so many times since she brought him back to the material plane. Blood trickles from her neck and stomach. Luckily, Daisy is light, and a little maneuvering means that Kyle can press a hand to the wound on her stomach while still carrying her. It’s an inelegant and timed solution, but it will have to do. He walks at a brisk pace, secure in the knowledge that Daisy has passed out and can’t feel any of his jostling.

When he reaches Gregor’s tower, he focuses on the shadows that he knows are in the doorway and pushes his magic toward them, enough to form a shade with arms, so it can get Gregor’s attention and make him open the door. Kyle half concentrates on that as he ascends the stairs to Gregor’s tower. The door opens as soon as he steps onto the landing.

“What happened?” Gregor demands, like it’s his fault.

It is. Still, Kyle glares at him. “We were attacked.” Gregor doesn’t need more details than that. “She’s bleeding, and-” Daisy crumpling to the ground plays again in his mind’s eye, “-and was choked.”

Gregor frowns as he examines Daisy’s neck. “With magic?”

Kyle frowns. “Not the choking.”

He looks down to see why Gregor could possibly think that and he almost forgets to breathe. The trickle of blood hasn’t dried yet and more than that, the vein on her neck is turning green. Kyle slowly pulls his hand away from her stomach. The blood hasn’t clotted and all, and there are green lines extending from the wound on her stomach.

“No… No!” He looks at Gregor. “Fix this! There has to be something in your books that will fix this!”

Gregor doesn’t rise to his bait. Doesn’t scream at him or tell him to shut up and or blame him. He just tells Kyle to bring Daisy inside and he clears off one of the tables. Kyle carefully lays Daisy on the table and smooths her hair out of her face. Her skin is cold but she’s still breathing. She’s still breathing, Kyle tells himself.

At least Gregor is hurrying. He runs to a shelf and grabs two crimson potions.

“You have two tasks as I do this,” he says, meeting Kyle’s eyes. “You need to make her drink the health potion and you’ll need to hold her down.”

“What?”

“Would you rather she fall off the table?”

Kyle frowns and after a second gets on the table. He lifts Daisy up so she’s more or less sitting up and reaches for the potion. Pinching her nose makes her open her mouth. He pours the potion into her mouth bit by bit, massaging her throat to help get it down before giving her the next sip. Eventually the whole bottle is down. Kyle frowns at Daisy’s limp body, then wraps one arm around her waist, just over the mess of a stomach wound, and leans forward to hold one of her legs down. He can’t reach the other leg from this position- Gregor will have to risk getting kicked by that one.

“You’re going to be okay,” he tells Daisy. “Gregor’ll fix you.” All that answers him is the quiet rasp of Daisy’s continued breathing. “I’m holding her,” he tells Gregor.

Gregor nods, then begins chanting and moving his hands.

When practicing together, Kyle and Gregor use subsets of elemental magic. The shadow magic that Kyle learned at Attakius’ feet was a subset of elemental magic rather than illusion. That was what allowed him to make it move like a living thing and made his performances so impressive. And Gregor, most comfortable with water, was able to pick it up fairly quickly, albeit with less finesse.

So Kyle knows what elemental magic looks like. It doesn’t pair with chanting, and as far as he was aware, it really didn’t pair with healing. Still, Gregor was the one with the whole library at his disposal, and he was also willing to do this for free, two good reasons for Kyle to sit down and be quiet.

So he holds Daisy and he watches. Gregor’s movements are familiar, even if the language isn’t. He looks like he’s manipulating water, though Kyle couldn’t say why until Daisy starts to shake. Then green liquid starts to rise off her skin. Well, green and red, for each drop of poison Gregor is able to remove, it looks like he’s taking as much blood.

Daisy screams and thrashes and it’s all Kyle can do to hold her still. “Hang on, hang on your going to be okay. It’ll be over soon.” He looks at Gregor. It will be over soon?

Gregor is still chanting, focused on the poison and the blood. The liquid flows from her stomach and neck into and around his hand. Daisy’s struggles get weaker and weaker as the Gregor works.

Soon she’s just shivering.

“Gregor!”

“I’m almost done,” he mutters. Green and red swirl in his hands. He makes a complicated gesture and the stream ends, finally detaching from Daisy’s body. She whimpers as the blood and poison truly leave her.

“Give her the second potion.”

Kyle hurries to do what he says, massaging the potion down her throat. Kyle didn’t know what he was expecting. Her skin to knit back together? Her to open her eyes? None of that happens, but a flush does return to her cheeks.

“The potion fixes the worst damage first,” Gregor explains “so it will start to replace her blood, but it’s not strong enough to bind her wounds. I have to do that by hand.”

Kyle holds her through the process, and when Daisy’s wounds are clean and bandaged, he carries her up to bed. She doesn’t wake for a few days, and it’s a full week before she’s strong enough to leave the bed. Who knows how long it will take before she can make it to the market again.

#whump #writing #project oracle #fantasy au #wound that won't heal #ambush #here's the monster i've been working on!!! #it's finally done i'm very proud #please send me more requests #or questions! #there's a lot of history referenced here

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Three {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Twenty → in which Lilac leads a jailbreak

Lilac launched herself forwards, throwing her arms around Nick and hugging him close. “We’re getting out! I promise! We’re getting out before they can hurt you again!” 

Nick didn’t say anything; he opened his mouth to try and speak, but all that came out were strangled sobs and screams. He gripped tight onto his eldest sister, burying his face in her shirt and shaking uncontrollably. 

“Nick, Nick, look at me. Look at me!” Lilac said, trying to pull away. “Nick, look at me! We’re getting out!”

Her younger brother finally pulled away, but only to run off to the corner of the small brig, where he leaned over and vomited onto the floor, barely keeping his own balance. Lilac jumped to her feet and dragged him towards the wall, as he shook more and clung to her arm. 

“We need to get out of here.” Fiona said, kneeling in front of the knob. “Lilac, what kind of lock is this?” 

“I…” Lilac slid onto a hard bench, where Nick sat beside her and refused to stop clinging to her side. “I glanced at the locks on our way in. They’re ordinary enough pin-tumbler locks, so- hold on a moment. Nick, Nick, please-” 

Nick shuddered beside her, and he finally choked out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” 

“No! No, don’t be-” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” he didn’t seem able to say anything else, and after a minute or so of just saying that while Lilac hugged him tight, he burst into sobs again. 

“Nick, it’ll be okay. We’ll be out before they can get to us. Promise.” Lilac said. 

Carefully, Fiona crept forwards, also putting an arm around Nick to try and provide some form of comfort. Lilac pulled them both closer, and then she said, “Fi, they’re pin-tumbler locks. But I don’t have a hairpin…” 

Fiona opened her mouth to admit she didn’t have one, either, but then she paused, and slowly reached into her pocket. She pulled out the item the recruit had given her, and held it out. 

A hairpin. 

“One of those kids slipped it to me.” Fiona said. “She must’ve known how to break out of the locks, or guessed.” 

“Good to know we have someone on our side.” Lilac said, relief in her voice. “Do you know how to pick a lock?” 

Fiona smiled slightly. “Do you know how to fix a lamp?” 

Lilac smirked a little. “I’ll help Nick if you get the door.” 

“Absolutely. Then we’ll all bust out.” 

Fiona ran to the door, kneeling down to work the lock, and Lilac said, “See, Nick? We’re getting out. We’re-” 

“No. No, no, no…” Nick muttered, hugging her tight. “No, no, no, no…” 

“We’re getting out!” 

“We can’t get out, we can’t get out, we can’t get out, we… he’s going to kill us, he’s… Lilac, I… I don’t want to…” 

Lilac shut her eyes and started to rock back-and-forth, keeping her arms very tight around her brother. “Shh. Shh.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he repeated this until he couldn’t speak any more, his throat too choked up and the tears coming too fast. 

And then Lilac quietly sang, “Pretty when the window blows, I love my tree in autumn… Like I love my tree in summer, like I love my tree in winter… They put me in a room, and I thought of you in autumn…” 

She shut her eyes, humming the next line, and then she picked up again. Fiona kept working on the lock, and Nick kept clinging to Lilac, terrified to let go, and she kept singing. 

“Pretty when you sing me a new song in autumn, or a new song in winter, or a new song in summer…” 

“Let us go!” Violet pounded on the door, shouting at the top of her lungs. “Let us out, you son of a fuck!” 

Klaus was sitting on the bench, with both Soli and Sunny curled up in his lap. Soli was leaning against his arm, coughing, while Sunny kept looking around the cell for anything that might bust them out. 

“We need to get out of here!” Klaus said desperately. “Violet, what can we use to open the door?” 

“Sunny,” Violet spun around on her heels, running to the bench and tying her hair back as fast as she could, “Bite the chains binding his bench to the wall until they fall off. We can use it as a battering ram.” 

“I mean,” Klaus said, as Sunny gave Solitude a pat on the hand and then slid off towards the chains, “I meant, is there a lockpick-” 

“I’m not Lilac, buddy, we’re breaking down the door.” Violet considered, glancing around. “Think we could make a flamethrower instead? What’ve we got?” 

At that moment, though, the door swung open, and in walked the Hook-Handed Man. 

Violet leapt in front of her siblings, and Klaus reached out to grab Sunny, who honestly didn’t look too worried. 

“Alright, orphans,” he said, “I’m not gonna sugarcoat this, I’m here to torture you.” 

“You can torture us all you want-” Violet began. 

“I am gonna torture you all I want.” 

“We don’t know where the Sugar Bowl is,” Violet finished, “And we don’t care!” 

Solitude started coughing again, as the Hook-Handed Man said, “Shut up! Now, the boss has questions, and so do I. Why were you on the Queequeg? What are you playing at?” 

“What?” Klaus asked. 

The Hook-Handed Man glanced towards him, narrowing his eyes. “Why’s that baby got a diving suit still on?” 

“She’s sick!” Klaus said. “If we don’t get her back to the submarine, she’ll die!” 

“I don’t have time for tricks!” the Hook-Handed Man moved forwards, reaching out for Solitude, but then he froze, staring inside her helmet. 

“Please?” Sunny crawled over, putting her hands on one of his hooks and tilting her head. 

But the Hook-Handed Man didn’t look at her; he stared at the mushrooms, poking out of the helmet as Soli coughed. “She’s infected with the Medusoid Mycelium.” he said, astonished. He turned towards the other Baudelaires, saying, “Do you know how dangerous that fungus is?” 

“Of course we do!” Violet said, glancing at the door; the Hook-Handed Man had left it unlocked behind them, slightly ajar, but she couldn’t run while he was right next to her siblings. “That’s why we have to get her back!” 

“You have to help us, please!” Klaus begged. 

Sunny clutched harder onto his hooks, until the man looked down at her. She stared up at him, pleading with her eyes. Then, she said, in a very small voice, “She’s our sister.” The Hook-Handed Man stared, and then she added, “Please.” 

He opened and closed his mouth multiple times, before finally saying, “I- where are your other siblings?” 

Violet peered over at him. Did this mean he would help? “They’re in the other brig-” 

They heard a door slam open. 

“And they just escaped.” she said, nodding. 

“Well, that’s just great.” the Hook-Handed Man sighed, pulling away from Sunny and Klaus and crossing his hooks. “The boss is gonna hate this.” 

“Why do you care? He’s a fucking bastard.” Klaus said. 

“Hey-” the Hook-Handed Man began. 

The door swung open, and the siblings looked to see that Lilac had seemingly kicked it open; she and Fiona both had their arms around Nick to support him, as he was still shaking like a leaf and had his eyes shut tight, though it thankfully seemed that he’d recently stopped crying. 

“Jailbreak! Everyone out!” Lilac shouted. Her eyes fell on the Hook-Handed Man, and she said, “Violet, you have full permission to-” 

“No, no, we’ve solved this, but thank you, I will hold onto that permission.” Violet said. 

“He’s going to help us, I think.” Klaus said, running over with Solitude still in his arms. “Is Nick okay?” 

“No, we have-” Lilac paused. “Fiona?” 

Fiona had frozen, her eyes locked with the Hook-Handed Man. They stared at each other for a very long time, and then Fiona shouted, “Fernald?” 

“Fiona?” 

Fiona let go of Nick, rushing forwards, and Klaus managed to grab his brother’s other arm before she threw her arms around the henchperson, shouting, “Fernald! Fernald, you’re alive!” 

“Fiona? What are you doing here?” 

“They captured the Queequeg!” 

“Yes, but the Count said Widdershins wasn’t on it.” 

“I was!” 

“Well, he didn’t say that!” 

The Baudelaires looked to each other in shock, and then Violet said, “Hi! Hello! What the fuck?” 

Fiona and the Hook-Handed Man jumped, as if suddenly realizing that the others were in the room. The mycologist turned and said, “It’s my brother! Fernald!” 

Lilac gaped at her, and then said, “Your brother is working for Count Olaf!” 

Fiona paused. “Oh, yeah. Fernald, what the fuck?” 

“Long story.” he said. 

“Why did you leave?” she let go of him a second, staring up at him. “What happened to your hands?” 

“What? Did Widdershins never tell you?” 

“He said you disappeared after Mother died.” 

“Son of a bitch, of course he did. He never could admit-” Fernald sighed. 

“Admit what?” Lilac snapped, straightening up. When she realized that Nick seemed to be alright supporting himself, she let go of him and walked forwards, pulling the newspaper scrap from the cave out of her pocket. “We found this in Anwhistle Aquatics! Do you know what it says?” 

Fernald gave the scrap a dark look. “I definitely do.” 

“It says that you burned Anwhistle Aquatics!” Lilac said. “It’s called ‘Verifying Fernald’s Defection’ for heaven’s sake! You set the place on fire and murdered Gregor Anwhistle!” 

Fiona looked to her brother in shock, while Sunny slid off the bench and ran over to Violet, holding up her arms so her sister could lift her. 

Fernald simply looked at Lilac carefully, and then said, “You should know by now, Baudelaires, that newspapers are not always reliable. I won’t say I didn’t participate in that fire, but you should know it’s not as black-and-white as you’re making it.” 

“Someone died!” Lilac said. “And you burned a research facility!” 

“A facility that created the Medusoid Mycelium that poisoned your sister.” Fernald gestured to Soli, who was still coughing. “They were going to send it all over the world. Do you know how many people that would have killed?” 

“They wouldn’t have done that.” Klaus said. “The Aquatics was on the right side of the schism.” 

Nick shivered, and Fernald said, “There is no right side of the schism.” 

“So you set a building on fire and murdered someone.” Lilac said. 

“You should have seen the fire.” he said quietly. “From a distance, it looked like an enormous black plume of smoke, rising straight out of the water. It was like the entire sea was burning down.” 

“You must have been proud of your handiwork.” Fiona said bitterly. 

“Proud?” Fernald said. “It was the worst day of my life. That plume of smoke was the saddest thing I ever saw.” He sighed, and said, “Something you children should understand is that the world isn’t divided into good and evil. Just as the poison of a deadly fungus can be the source of some wonderful medicines, someone like Jacques Snicket, who wrote that blasted article, can do something villainous, and someone like Count Olaf can do something noble. Even your parents-” 

“Fernald, please.” Fiona said, staring at him. “Answer directly. Did you kill Gregor Anwhistle?” 

Fernald gave her a look, and then said, “The last time you saw me, Fiona, I had two hands instead of hooks. Our stepfather probably didn’t tell you what happened to me- he always said there were secrets in the world too terrible for young people to know. What a fool!” 

“He’s…” Fiona glanced at the ground. “He’s a noble man.” 

“People aren’t either wicked or noble.” Fernald said. “They’re like chef’s salads, with good things and bad things chopped and mixed together in a vinaigrette of confusion and conflict.” 

They were silent for a moment, and then Solitude coughed again, and Lilac straightened up. “Prove it.” 

“What?” 

“Prove it, and get us back to the goddamn submarine.” she said. “Help us save Solitude, and prove you’re not a wicked person.” 

Fernald met her gaze, and then looked to the coughing toddler, and then to Fiona. 

“I will go,” he said, “If you take me with you.” 

They all shared looks; they weren’t sure they could trust him, but it was a better option than just waiting for Soli to die in the brig. 

“Aye!” Sunny shouted, smiling over at him. 

“Of course.” Fiona said. “Of course you can come.” 

“Okay.” Violet said. “But we have to hurry.” 

“That’ll be tricky.” Fernald said. “The only way out is through the rowing room, which Esme will have returned to by now. We’ll have to figure out a way to sneak past.” 

He moved past them, gesturing for them to follow. Klaus still held tightly onto Nick, who looked shell-shocked, and Violet ran to Fiona, saying, “Fiona, are we really taking him with us?” 

“Aye.” Fiona nodded. “He’s my brother. You wouldn’t abandon your siblings, would you?” 

Violet bit her lip, and then looked to Soil and shook her head. 

“For my third dance, I will twirl around and around while all of you clap as hard as you can! It is a dance of celebration, in honor of the most adorable tap-dancing ballerina fairy princess veterinarian in the world!” 

The Baudelaires glanced at each other as they heard the recruits groan and Esme slap her noodle whip. 

“Okay,” Fernald said, “You see those stone pillars in the room? If we walk and hide behind those while Camelita sings, everyone will be focused on her and not on us, and we should be able to sneak by.” 

“That sounds risky.” Lilac said, glancing towards Nick and Klaus. 

“Do you have a better plan?” 

“We could pretend the Great Unknown showed up and is about to eat everyone.” Violet said. 

“I’m sorry, do you have a small black statue that can imitate its call?” Fernald said. 

“Why would I-” 

“Then we need to hurry. Come on.” 

The Baudelaires sighed, and Lilac said, “Soli, please try to keep quiet.” In Klaus’s arms, Soli coughed much more quietly. 

The group started to run, ducking behind pillars and occasionally glancing out to make sure everyone was focused on Carmelita, who was twirling and singing at the top of her lungs. 

“C is for cute, A is for adorablle! R is for ravishing! M is for gorgeous!” 

“I want to strangle her so bad.” Klaus whispered to Nick, hoping that would cheer him up, but Nick still had his eyes shut and was clinging to Klaus and Solitude as if they were his only lifeline. Violet and Lilac stuck close to him, with Sunny leaning on Violet’s shoulder, while Fernald and Fiona raced up ahead. 

“E is for excellent! L is for lovable! I is for I’m the Best! T is for talented! And A is for a tap-dancing ballerina fairy prin- hey! Cakesniffers!” 

The Baudelaires froze, but then saw that Carmelita was not pointing at them, but at Fiona and Fernald, who were standing awkwardly between two oars. 

“How dare you, Hooky?” Esme shouted. “You’re interrupting a very In recital by an unspeakably darling little girl!” 

“I’m very sorry, your Esmeness.” the Hook-Handed Man said quickly. “I would sooner lose both hands all over again than interrupt Carmelita when she’s dancing.” 

“Now I have to recite the entire recital all over again!” Carmelita pouted. 

The rowers groaned, and the Baudelaires took the opportunity to move down a pillar, though Lilac was very worriedly watching Fiona. 

“Your Esmeness, I…” Fernald said nervously. “I just was wondering if I could borrow your giant noode to torture the Baudelaires with.” 

“But I need it to make these recruits behave.” Esme said. “Besides, I don’t like to lend things.” 

Fiona quickly stood up straight, and said, “But we’re so close to learning the location of the Sugar Bowl.” 

Esme glanced at her. “Weren’t you with the orphans?” 

“Um, no.” Fernald said, putting a hook around her shoulder. “This is my sister, Fiona, and she’s joining the crew of the Carmelita.” 

“Fiona isn’t a very In name.” Esme said. “I think I’ll call her Triangle Eyes. Triangle Eyes, are you willing to join us?” 

“Aye.” Fiona said. 

“Then take my noodle and scram while Carmelita starts her In recital again.” Esme said. 

Just as Fernald and Fiona stepped in front of Esme, the Baudelaires took the opportunity to run as fast as they could. 

“When is Fiona going to join us?” Lilac glanced behind them as she pushed her siblings ahead of her. 

“I don’t know. Who knows how long they’ll have to stall?” Klaus said. 

“We’ll just need to find the antidote on our own.” Violet said. “Come on! Go!” 

They ran down the halls and back to the Queequeg, hurrying through the hatch and sliding down the ladder. As soon as they reached the inside, Violet said, “I have a plan. Everyone hurry to the study to find Fiona’s mycology books, while I get Nick’s sweater to chill him out. Will that help, Nick?” 

Nick shrugged, leaning onto Klaus, who said, “We don’t need all her books. She left the one we need in the main hall.” 

“Then go there!” Violet said, her voice breaking. “We don’t have much time!” 

As soon as they reached the main hall, Klaus put Solitude onto the table to rest while he ran for Mushroom Minutiae. Lilac helped Nick sink into a chair, while Sunny ran towards the sagging VFD balloons and bit into the strings, in case they needed some kind of rope. It wasn’t very helpful, but Sunny wasn’t sure what else to do. 

At that moment, Babbitt hopped in from the kitchen, chirping indignantly, as if pissed that they’d left them out of an adventure. 

“Babbitt, we don’t have time for whatever it is!” Lilac said. “Solitude’s sick, and we need to find the antidote!” 

Babbitt stared at her blankly for a moment, and then let out an incredibly loud squeal and made a running leap onto the table. They ran up to Soli, jumping on her shoulder and making a lot of noises very fast, as if trying to get her to tell them it wasn’t true. Then they let out what sounded like a cry and pressed themselves against her helmet as she kept coughing. 

“Here we go. Chapter Forty, The Gorgonian Grotto.” Klaus flipped to the page, skimming. 

Violet ran in, carrying Nick’s blue sweater in her hands. She handed it to him, and he immediately threw it on over his uniform, hugging himself and rocking back-and-forth. 

“A single spore has such grim power / That you may die within the hour.” Klaus read. “Is dilution simple? But of course! / Just one small dose of root of horse.” 

“Horses don’t have roots!” Lilac said, reaching forwards to hug Solitude very tight. 

“I know that!” Klaus snapped. “Usually antidotes are- are certain botanical extractions, like flower pollen or plant stems.” 

“Wait a minute.” Lilac looked up again. “That letter! That letter-” 

“What letter?” Violet asked. 

“The letter in the grotto!” Lilac said. “The writer, Kit something, she said that there was a factory making dilution-” 

“Yes!” Klaus pulled his commonplace book out, moving back to the table and sitting down to flip through it. “Here! It says that a factory at Lousy Lane-” 

“We traveled along Lousy Lane.” Violet said. 

“Smelled like horseradish.” Sunny nodded. 

They froze. 

“Horseradish!” Lilac leapt to her feet, grabbing Solitude. “Come on, we have to run!” 

They raced to the kitchen, where Lilac placed Soli onto a table again, and Nick sat beside her, clutching her very tight and quietly crying. Babbitt leapt from Soli’s shoulder to his, once again making a lot of very fast noises. 

Each of the other siblings ran to a cupboard; even Sunny, who clambered up onto a counter, managed to dig through. 

“Gum!” Lilac shouted. “There’s nothing in here but boxes of gum!” 

“I found two cans of water chestnuts and a bag of sesame seeds!” Klaus started to cry behind his glasses. 

“Here, I’ll check the fridge!” Viole said. “Maybe-” 

She threw open the door, and then froze. 

“Violet? What is it?” Lilac ran over, and Klaus followed quickly. Nick even peered up to look between them and see inside. 

Violet slowly reached onto the bottom shelf, and pulled out a plate, placing it onto the table. On the plate was a coconut cream cake, heavily frosted and with sprinkles spelling out, on the top, Violet’s Fifteenth Date. 

“That’s what the balloons were for.” Violet whispered, tears running down her face. 

“Oh my God.” Lilac put a hand over her mouth. 

“We forgot.” Klaus’s voice broke. 

“I turned fifteen last night, while you were all in the grotto, and Nick and I…” Violet whispered. “We all forgot.” 

Then quietly, Sunny said, “Soli didn’t.” They turned to the toddler on the counter, and she said, “Yad,” which meant, “She remembered the date and told me, and we were planning a party when everyone returned from the grotto, so we could all celebrate.” 

Violet blinked back tears, and then backed up as fast as she could, sliding against the wall, to the ground. “Wh-what are we going to do?” she cried. “We can’t lose Soli. We can’t lose her!” 

“Sunny!” Lilac turned to the toddler, panic in her eyes. “You know about cooking. What could be used as a substitute for horseradish?” 

Sunny considered, looking very panicked as she slid from the counter and ran to the table, trying to hoist herself up to be with her sister. “Wormwood? Um… Wasabi?” 

Klaus gaped. “Did you say wasabi?” 

Sunny nodded quickly, and Klaus opened up his pocket, and pulled out the can of wasabi. “She got this for you in the grotto. I almost forgot.” 

Sunny grabbed the can from him, opening it and cheering when she saw some inside. 

“Get her out!” Lilac said, rushing forwards and grabbing a spoon from the drawer. 

Violet ran to the toddler, and said, “Nick, you have to let her go, just for a moment, I promise.” 

Hesitantly, Nick placed Babbitt onto a spot beside him and then placed the girl onto the table, before wiping his eyes with his sleeves and helping Violet remove Solitude’s helmet. They all held their breath as the helmet came off, and then Violet slammed it onto a metal plate beside them to prevent the spores from spreading through the air. Nick helped Solitude sit up, and then held back a sob. 

Her skin was pale and had a greenish tinge, and her hair was limply hanging around her face, and her eyes were bloodshot and watery. As she opened her mouth to cough, they all let out cries as they saw gray stalks sprouting from her throat. 

She looked an inch from death. 

Lilac put the spoon into the jar of wasabi, taking as much of it as she could, and then she held it out. Solitude leaned forwards, eating it as fast as she dared, flinching at how hot it felt, her eyes watering even more. She shook and slid back so she was against Nick, who put his arms around her and pressed his face onto the top of her head. 

For a moment, it seemed like nothing would happen, and everything was lost. And then Solitude opened her mouth, as if to cough again, but they could see that instead, the mushrooms inside her throat were shrinking back, as if terrified of the wasabi. Her skin started to brighten before their eyes, and she blinked back the last of her tears, running a hand through her hair. Then she held out her tiny palm, and Babbitt leapt onto her, chirping with delight. The frog ran up her arm and onto her shoulder, pressing against her in their version of a hug. 

“W-water.” Solitude muttered, and Violet quickly ran to the sink, making her a glass of water. By the time she returned, Nick was hugging her to his chest as if he never intended to let go; he did, however, loosen a little when Violet held out the glass, and Solitude chugged the drink. 

“Th-thank you.” she stumbled, turning first to Sunny, and then the rest of her siblings in turn. “You saved me.” 

“You saved yourself.” Lilac said, kneeling in front of her. “We wouldn’t have had that wasabi if you hadn’t been thinking of Sunny.” 

“Sunny knew.” Solitude said, as Sunny gave her a hug. “You broke out of the submarine. You all saved me.” 

“But you helped yourself, too.” Klaus said. “We all saved each other.” 

Nick embraced Solitude and Sunny, and then Violet ran forwards and hugged them, too. Klaus and Lilac joined in, then, and soon they were all hugging and sobbing in the middle of the kitchen. 

#asoue #asoue netflix #asoue movie #a series of unfortunate events #six baudelaires au #six baudelaires official fic #my fanfic #mine

[sailorshadzter]

lets pretend this isnt riddled with mistakes (i REALLY forgot that the mountain was raised back from the dead??? can he still talk??? idk. he does here lmao and then never comes back because yeah, zombie guy stuff came up) 

basically this is a oneshot full of things i think will happen in season 8. i think a kidnapping plot is very plausible and i think the best time it will happen would be when the north sets out to fight against the night king.  but, as you read, you’ll see how i think cersei’s fate will play out by the end of the series. 

im not convinced daenerys would stand by and let jon live, considering his birthright, but i didnt want this story to be even longer by including a fight between them for the iron throne.  i read a theory about her dying in the fight against the night king & honestly that sounds right to me- but id already written the first half of this and was not about to go back and rewrite lmao. eventually i AM going to write that out though so be on the look out for that!

anyways hi 

here it is

im sorry if it sucks lol

You have to stay here.

He'd said those words over and over to her as he nearly dragged her down to the crypts beneath Winterfell, Ghost trotting after them, you'll be safest down here, he'd gone on, his dark eyes never leaving hers. Promise me you'll come back, she'd gripped the front of his cloak, unable to stop herself from pleading with him. Promise me, Jon. He'd taken her into his arms then, crushing her against him and Sansa could do nothing but commit to memory the way it felt to have him hold her. He'd kissed her forehead and smiled, but he made no promises. How could he, after all?

And then she watched him go, a cold sense of dread settled into the pit of her stomach.

By now, hours had passed, or so she supposed they had; she'd lost track of the time down there, surrounded by ghosts. She had passed the time praying to the Old Gods and the New, though she'd once sworn off praying, for what God had listened to her before? She had asked for guidance from her mother, her father, and even from her Aunt Lyanna. Sansa could only hope someone out there heard her. Reaching out a hand, she ran it along Ghost's back, watching with curiosity as the wolf suddenly sat upright. "What is it?" She spoke, her voice soft, her eyes following the wolf's line of sight. He'd settled his red-eyed gaze upon the door down the hall, the one which Jon had disappeared through some hours ago.

That was when she noticed it, the movement of the door as someone began to push it open. Her heart lept into her throat, her stomach churning as she rose up from where she sat on the ground. At her feet, Ghost had risen up as well, a low growl escaping his jaws as he took a few steps forward. Had they won already? Was the battle with the Night King truly over? Was this Jon returning to her? Or worse... Was it someone else come to fetch her, to take her to Jon's mangled body brought back to Winterfell? The door swung open then and Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat as a mountain of a man appeared in the doorway. "No..." She whispered as the man stepped into the corridor, his face hidden by a helmet, his white cloak a sign of who had sent him. Ghost was openly growling now, snapping his jaws in a warning to the man coming towards them. "Down, Ghost." Sansa spoke quietly, reaching down to tenderly rub the wolf's head, calming him. She'd never forgive herself if the Mountain killed Ghost and so she stepped in front of the wolf, holding her head high as the man approached her, no ounce of fear in her piercing blue eyes. "She's sent you then?"

Gregor Clegane did not recognize this young woman, this Lady of Winterfell. She was quite unlike the little girl that had once lived in King's Landing so long ago. But those eyes of hers... Those he remembered. Those he would never forget. "Aye," he replied in his gruff voice, reaching for her, her arm so small beneath his grip surely he would break her. Little bird, was that not what his brother had called her? The wolf at her feet snapped his jaws but she hushed him and the wolf sat back, though it continued to growl. Surprisingly, she did not fight against him as he drug her back towards the door, perhaps because she felt the strength of his grip on her arm and knew she was no match. Perhaps she valued her life more than she had back in King's Landing. And so he took her back up into Winterfell, down the main corridor and out the double doors into the courtyard where a huge, black stallion waited for its master.

Things were beginning to make sense now. Sansa could see no trace of servants or the guards left behind by Jon for her own protection. Either they were dead or frightened into hiding. It was snowing like mad and she had no cloak, but the Mountain didn't seem to care if she froze to death before they reached King's Landing. "Up you go," he lifted her onto the horse, the tight grip of his hands on her waist surely bruising her soft skin beneath her layers of clothes. Climbing up onto the horse himself, he snapped the horse into a trot and then they were gone, out the open gates of Winterfell and down the long road towards King's Landing. Looking back over her shoulder, Sansa felt a chill race down her spine that wasn't from the cold. It was Jon she thought of then, of his deep set, dark brown eyes, wishing with all of her might that he was there then. Please Jon, she thought as she was swiftly taken from her home, please be safe.

If nothing else, even if she got to King's Landing and Cersei took her head, she just wanted him to be alive.

[ x x x ]

All he could think of was her.

He rushed from the battlefield back towards Winterfell, back to where she was. Jon still could barely believe they'd won- he hadn't anticipated it, truthfully- but they had and now he had to see her. He had to hold her. He had to tell her just how he felt. But as he and a few of the survivors approached the gates, he felt it... A cold sense of dread that filled him whole, nearly snatching the breath from his lungs. "Jon?" It was Arya coming up beside him, her dark eyes meeting his, her features taut with worry. Could she feel it too? "Where are the guards?" Jon snapped his gaze from her face to the guard towers on either side of the open gate, realizing only then that there was no one within them. Sansa! He broke off at a run then, leaving Arya and the others behind, uncaring of the pain his battered body felt with every step that he took.

Down to the crypts he rushed, his mind whirling with hundreds of thoughts, but every one of them had to do with her. "Sansa!" He shouted as he nearly broke down the door to get into the passage, stumbling over the crumbling rock that once were a solid set of stairs. To his horror, she did not reply, but rather he heard the soft whining of Ghost. His wolf was pacing back and forth before the statue of Ned Stark, as if this was where Sansa has once been standing. "Sansa..." He came to stand before Ghost, who as soon as he'd noticed him, rushed towards Jon's side, his whining increasing. "It's okay boy," he murmured as he knelt down to put a hand to his ears, rubbing the soft head. "Where is she, Ghost? Where's Sansa?"

"Jon?"

He turned to look over his shoulder at the sound of Arya's voice, noticing only then that her face was bruised and pale. "There's a note." He stood up, his head swimming, and he reached out a hand to touch the wall, steadying himself. Arya approached, her worry evident as she extended out a rolled up parchment, already unsealed. He didn't have to ask her who it was from, for something told Jon he already knew. Unrolling it, Jon felt his heart skip a beat, felt his stomach sink as the unfamiliar handwriting began to blur. Damn her, he thought as he began to fall, damn that Cersei Lannister.

And then... Everything went black.

[ x x x ]

As the peaks of King's Landing came into view, Sansa knew she was in trouble.

Though she knew Cersei would not kill her outright, how could she after all? But coming back to this place... Here in King's Landing she had suffered so very much. Cersei would not make it easy on her. It would not be as it had once been. And worse yet, for all she knew Cersei would still yet blame her for the death of Joffrey, that alone could be her undoing. Sansa felt a chill race down her spine and she shivered from it, though the Mountain must have thought it was from the cold for he reminded her that they were almost there. Sansa could not help but to laugh-the cold had not bothered her for a long time now. She wished she could still yet feel the biting cold sting against her flesh, but that feeling had disappeared a long time ago.

Riding down the main road towards the Red Keep, Sansa noticed the city was quiet. It was early morning, so very early the sun had not yet even begun to rise. "Cover yourself girl," the Mountain suddenly spoke, draping what must have been his cloak over her hair, hiding her identity from prying eyes. No one could know Ned Stark's daughter, the now Lady of Winterfell, no, the Queen in the North, had been brought back to King's Landing. Drawing the cloak closer to herself, Sansa kept her eyes ahead, knowing everything was about to change.

Again, Jon came to her thoughts and so fiercely did she miss him that it brought tears to her eyes. Was he alright? What of Arya, of Brienne? Even Ser Davos whom she'd begun to establish a close relationship with. Those left in this world that she loved... Were they safe? Had the battle yet been won? And even Daenerys, what of her and her precious dragons? Had they made it through the battle unscathed? Or had they all fallen beneath the Night King's sword... Would there be no one to come and save her? No, she reminded herself, she would have to get herself out of this mess. Somehow.

It was then that they rode through the main gate and as the Mountain came to a stop, it was then that Sansa saw her standing there. Her blonde hair was cropped short, but her gown was as fashionable as ever, with long sleeves and a overlay of silk that draped across her front. Sansa felt her breath catch, but she made no movement even as the man behind her dismounted from his horse. "Get moving girl," the tight grip of his hands on her waist brought her back to the present, and Sansa staggered as her feet hit the ground for the first time in hours. He pushed her towards where Cersei stood in the doorway, paying no mind to how she stumbled over her own feet, clearly exhausted from the hours upon hours of riding. "My queen," he greeted as they approached, tugging the cloak he'd given her away, revealing her face to the woman. "I've brought you Sansa Stark."

Cersei's rosy lips curled with a haunted smile before she tilted her head, inspecting the young, beautiful woman before her. Even after hours of riding, of no sleep and no food, she was lovely. She had grown from a frightened young girl into a beautiful woman. Cersei could not stop the twinge of jealousy, could not help but to recall the old woman's prophecy of the younger, more beautiful queen who would take her place. She had once thought it would be this Daernerys Targaryen who had sailed across the Narrow Sea to reach Westeros, but now... Could it be the girl standing before her? "Hello, little dove." The use of her old pet name did not offer Sansa any comfort, but rather a cold dread settled into the pit of her stomach. But she held her head high and returned the smile that was offered to her.

She had survived Cersei Lannister and King's Landing once before and so she would do it again.

[ x x x ]

When he woke, his first thought was of her.

Forcing himself up from the bed, Jon grimaced, his wounds from the battle painful as they began to heal. "Jon." It was Daenerys seated beside his bed, to his shock, and he could not help but to feel disappointed. It should have been her... It should have been Sansa. "You shouldn't move yet." She went on, reaching out with her soft, gentle hands to push him back onto his pillow. "You'll only do more harm to yourself." He shrugged off her hands then, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, rising up without a single word. Daenerys sat back in the chair, looking at him with those violet eyes of hers, not a single strand of silver hair out of place on her head. "Jon..." She watched him as he pulled on the nearest shirt, one that Sansa herself had sewn for him before his departure for Dragonstone. Seeing her precise little stitches nearly broke him and he sank back onto his bed, hands covering his face as he fought to regain himself.

"I have to go to King's Landing." He finally said without preamble, lowering his hands to look across at Daenerys. For a moment her typically passive face faltered, disappointment skirting across her features. But then she regained herself, simply nodding as she watched him get back onto his feet. "How long have I been out?" He asked as he reached for the rest of his clothing, the fur trimmed cloak Sansa had made for him now draped over his arm. Daenerys had stood up as well, her violet eyes dark as they met his. Two days, her words haunted him as he shook his head, tugging his cloak on and making to push past her. "Move, your grace," he spoke with a venom he'd not felt before, his only thoughts of the girl he'd let down. Once again, Sansa was in the hands of the enemy, once again he'd failed to protect her.

Daenerys could not stop the jealousy that lept into her thoughts, darkening her heart. She had thought Jon was her's... Had thought that after all they'd been through already, he would stand beside her no matter what. It was true, his father had been her own brother, but did that truly matter in the end? "You intend to go after her? Cersei Lannister will have you murdered before you can reach her. You would give your life for her so easily?" Jon's face twisted with anger and at once she regretted her words, but there was no taking them back now.  Jon stepped close to her then, his brown eyes never once straying from hers, a look in them she had never seen before.

"I would give my life for hers without hesitation." His hands curled into fists at his sides before he shook his head, the anger fleeing, knowing this woman could never understand how he felt about Sansa. No one could. "You want the Iron Throne, it is yours. I have no mind to take it." He finally said the words he'd been meaning to say since the day of his true heritage had been revealed. "I just want her." And then, without waiting for dismissal from the dragon queen, he was gone, nearly sprinting from the room in his haste to gather all he would need to get to King's Landing.

He would save Sansa if it was the last thing he did.

[ x x x ]

It was not the dungeons for her, as she'd expected.

In truth, the rooms Cersei had housed her in were rooms far beyond her station. Sansa noted the silk sheets and chiffon canopy, the gilded furnitature, and the spacious chambers. These had once been Myrcella's chambers. It was as if Cersei had refused to make a single change to the rooms her daughter had once occupied. Sansa had heard the news of her death, brought along to the North by word of mouth and she had felt remorse for the princess. Had they not once been something like friends? In truth, Sansa felt remorse for any innocent life claimed in this game, in this war for the Iron Throne. She wondered if Cersei thought it worth it... The life of her children for this clunky, ugly chair.

A knock on the door and then it opened, a handmaiden coming in with a fresh gown, another following after with water for her to wash. It was her second morning in King's Landing and she'd still yet to see Cersei and that... That was troublesome. But by the looks of the gown brought to her, the queen intended to take an audience with her this very day. And so Sansa allowed herself to be dressed by the maidens, though she did not wash with the water given to her- she would not risk it being tainted with poison.

It was a little later that the summons came- she was seated in the window, looking out across the courtyard of the Red Keep when there came another knock upon her chamber door. It was two of the queen's guard there at her door, their white cloaks a stark contrast to the dark looks upon their faces. "The queen wishes to speak to you, my lady." One guard spoke and Sansa could not help but to smirk; this was not a request, it was a command. But she rose to her feet all the same, allowing the two guards to lead her down the still familiar corridors, not to the Great Hall but to Cersei's own chambers.

She found her seated behind her desk as always, her eyes finding her own the moment she entered the room. "Sit, little dove," Cersei spoke, gesturing for Sansa to take the seat before the desk. "It has been a long time." Sansa did not reply as she took to the seat, her blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she took in the sight of the woman before her. Was that... The  curve of a belly she saw? Sansa knew it was true then, the rumors she had heard, that Cersei carried yet another child by her own twin. It won't live, the thought crossed her mind without warning, like a premonition of what was to come. Blinking, she forced a smile and held Cersei's gaze, though she still did not speak. Cersei leaned forward over the desk, hands spread across its surface, those green eyes of hers unwavering in their stare. "I should have had you murdered for what you did to my son." Her voice was dangerous and Sansa felt her stomach drop, her own hands clenching into fists on her lap. "But..." She trailed off then, leaning back in her chair, hands now pressed against the swell of her stomach. Within her she carried the solution to all of her problems- within her, she carried the heir that would follow her. There would be no Targaryen to rule after her. The child would be a girl, she was certain, the woman of prophecy that would take her place on the throne. It would not be Daenerys Targaryen nor would it be this Sansa Stark before her. "Perhaps an exchange of life can be arranged. Yours for the Targaryen queen's."

Sansa did not believe her, not for an instant. There would be no exchanging her life for the dragon queen's that much Sansa was certain of. If Cersei still yet blamed her for Joffrey's death, then she would die before anyone would come for her- if they even did. She still knew not the fate of the beloved family against the army of the dead. And she knew that if Jon and the others were dead... Then what was the use in life? Without Jon, without Arya... It just would never be the same. Jon... She thought of him as she always did, of his smile, of the gentle touch of his hand against hers... Just please be alright. "Perhaps, your grace," Sansa finally spoke, her smile slight as she tilted her head, red hair a waterfall. It made no sense to argue her case over Joffrey's death, she would never believe her. "Unless of course Daenerys Targaryen comes for you first." Without waiting for a response, without being bid to rise, Sansa got to her feet and turned her back to this queen, knowing she would never again pretend to serve her. Gone was the young girl this queen had commanded with fright and manipulation and in her place was this new woman, Sansa Stark of Winterfell. The likes of Cersei Lannister could not frighten her anymore.

[ x x x ]

He had been riding for hours.

Hours and hours and yet he felt as if he were no closer to Sansa than when he'd first set out. His body ached and his wounds were bleeding, but he could not yet stop. How could he stop when Sansa was within the enemy's hands? The others tried to get him to stop, Arya and Brienne, Davos and even Tormund, but stopping was not an option. Jon thought of nothing but her... It fueled him to keep on riding, to never stop pushing forward.

"Jon... Look." It was Arya's voice, pulling him from the depth of his own mind, and he glanced beside him to where she rode, hand extended out. Following her pointed finger, he swiveled his gaze and that was when he caught sight of it... The first glimpse of King's Landing. They were still yet far, but that single sight of the tallest peak was enough to give him the energy he needed to continue. "We'll get there in time, Jon." Arya spoke again, once again claiming his attention. Jon stiffened but then nodded, a small smile twitching on his lips. She was right, they would get there in plenty of time to save Sansa.

"It can't be more than a day of riding away," Brienne spoke up, her pale features marred by cuts and a deep set bruise to her left temple. She still yet could not forgive herself for straying from Sansa's side. Yet again, her lady was trapped with the enemy, perhaps suffering in ways she did not deserve. In Cersei's clutches... No, Brienne would not think of such a thing. They would get to her and save her without any harm coming to her. That was all she had to keep her going and so she would believe it until the very end.

"Aye." Jon spoke, glancing to his left at Tormund, who gave a single nod. "Let's make it less than that." He kicked his horse into a gallop and took off, the others taking off after him. Wait for me, Sansa... Jon thought of her smile then, the sweet way it tugged at her rosy lips when she probably didn't even realize it. He would never allow anyone to take that smile away from her, not when she only so recently gained it back. Jon had fought with everything in him to protect her and take back Winterfell, he had sold himself out to the dragon queen and lost the respect of nearly every Northern lord... But he would not lose Sansa.

[ x x x ]

Something was not right.

Sansa could feel it in her bones, that cold sense of dread that only came to her when something truly awful was about to happen. She recalled the first time she had felt it... When Lady had been sentenced to die. And then the next... When her father had so unjustly lost his head. The ripple of anxiety sent chills down her spine, goosebumps rising across the backs of her arms. It had been hours since she had walked free from Cersei's chamber and she was quite surprised that the queen had not sent for her once again. In fact, no one had come to her in quite some time.

Rising up from where she sat at the table, she tiptoed across the room to open her chamber door, even more surprised to find the guards once posted there were gone. Sticking her head out into the hall, she caught sight of a maid rushing by, looking worred. "What's happening?" Sansa spoke loudly, catching the girl's attention. The maid slowed to a stop, glancing left and then right as if she knew she wasn't supposed to be speaking to her. But Sansa stepped fully out of the room then, allowing the chamber door to close behind her. "Tell me what's happening!" If the guards had left their posts outside her door, then that meant something truly awful must have been going on somewhere else in the castle. "Are we under attack?"

The maid again glanced left and then right, swallowing against whatever fears were deep within her. And then... She spoke. "The queen is in labor, my lady." She spoke quietly, the words ones Sansa had not at all anticipated on hearing. "It is much before her time and she is struggling. Many of the guards and staff... They've abandoned their posts. Those who are loyal... They are doing what they can for her grace." And then the maid was gone, racing off towards where she had been heading all along: the main set of doors that would lead her out of the Red Keep and into the streets.

For a moment she could not breathe but then she steadied herself, knowing this could be her one and only chance at escaping. And yet... It was not towards those same doors that her feet carried her, but down the halls towards the queen's chambers. They were a buzz of activity, with maids going in and out, two unfamiliar men pacing outside the chamber door. Sansa went past them without effort, she supposed they had not even noticed her slip on by. Into the antechamber first, she became aware of how dire the situation had to be within the queen's bed chamber. Maids were on their knees, praying to the Old or New Gods, some to save their queen... Others... Perhaps not. For a moment, she thought she might back out, that she would leave without taking another step inside that room. No, she told herself, you must see this for yourself. She swept by them, pushing open the door to Cersei's chamber. No one noticed her entry, the two maester's at the foot of the bed conversed in soft, somber tones, their expressions dark. Maids gathered around the bed on either side, their clothing stained with blood, their faces tracked with tears. And then, there she was, the once golden queen laying there in her grand bed, face pale as death itself.

Sansa quietly approached the side of the bed, only then drawing notice from anyone in the room. Cersei's green eyes opened as her head swiveled to face her, lips moving in a silent plea, words that Sansa could not hear. The swollen bump of her abdomen was hidden beneath the draping silk, but even those were stained with blood. It was as she'd thought only a day earlier, the child would not live. And now it was clear to her, neither would the mother. Then she spotted it, a cot on the far side of the bed, where a small bundle was neatly wrapped. Surely within a child lay, a child that never even drew a single breath, a child born far too soon.  She made to step back from the bed but she felt a touch to her hand; looking down, it was Cersei grasping for her, lips again moving with words that she could not hear. Leaning down, Sansa placed her ear as close as she dared to the dying woman, to hear what very well could be her final words. Me? She's going to speak to me? Sansa thought, but pushed the thoughts away as she listened to what it was Cersei was trying to say. "A... Girl... Was it... A girl?" Cersei's words cut her like a knife and Sansa drew back, looking up towards the maester's that had heard their queen's whisper. One of them shook his head and then Sansa turned back to look into those fading green eyes. No, Sansa heard herself say, drawing back up to her full height as Cersei smiled, a laugh dying on her dry, chapped lips. And so I was wrong... So very wrong. Cersei closed her eyes then and drew a final breath, every ounce of fight leaving her body in that very moment.

And that was when Sansa left.

She backed away from the room as the maids began to cry in earnest, more than one falling to her knees at the queen's bloody bedside. The moment she was in the corridor, Sansa began to run, faster than she had ever run in all of her life. Down the halls and towards the main double doors, uncertain where she would go, but knowing anywhere would be better than here. Pushing past the doors, she stumbled out into the afternoon sunshine, the warmth of it unable to bring her any sense of comfort at all. She slowed to a walk and to a hault as she came upon the five men, all with their stark white cloaks, all with swords strapped to their hips. It was the men that remained of the queen's guard, men that would harm her without a second thought. Breath catching in her throat, Sansa took a step back, wondering if perhaps she'd been safer inside the Red Keep... But now it was too late.

The first man was approaching her, a hungry look in his eyes that Sansa had seen hundred's of times in a man. Fear clutched at her and she turned to make a run for it, but he grabbed hold of her arm before she could go, pulling her hard towards him. A fist connected with her abdomen seconds later and the very breath was knocked from her lungs as she collapsed upon the dirt. She had been here before, hadn't she? Too many times to count. Another hit came, this one in her side, sending her sprawling across the ground. "The queen bid us not to harm you, but now there's no queen." It was a second man that spoke, this one coming closer to reach out and take hold of a fistful of her hair, yanking her back up onto her feet. "But rumor is that you're as good as the Queen in the North... I ain't never been with a queen before, have you men?" The three other men laughed as they all crept closer, agreeing that no, they had never before. Sansa felt her heart skip a beat. This couldn't happen to her.. Not again... Not again! She fought back against the man holding her, his grip now on her arm, but no matter how hard she pulled she could not get free. A second man approached and his hand gripped the shoulder of her gown, tearing it away from her body. The third man was there too, closing in on her as Sansa began to shout, kicking and flailing with all of her might, blue eyes a frenzy as the last of the men circled her. A fist caught her in the mouth, another in the side, all the while the other two tore at her borrowed gown, making every attempt to tear it from her very body.

And then, they all heard it. The sound of galloping horses, the sound of someone come to save her.

Jon could see her up ahead, there in the courtyard of the Red Keep with five men around her. She was struggling against the one holding her and Jon could see her gown was torn, a sign that one of them had put his hands upon her in such a way that enraged him more than he thought possible. With the others thundering along beside him, they swept across the courtyard, breaking apart the five men that had suddenly abandoned Sansa, leaving her there to tumble into the dirt. Leaping from his horse, Jon unsheathed his sword and at once lunged at the nearest of men, the one that had been holding fast to her when they'd rode up.  And just like that, a battle had erupted in the courtyard, for even Davos had taken up his sword against a man in honor to fight for the girl that was hunched over on the ground, doing her best to catch her breath and calm her racing heart.

It took him only  three more slices before the man was cut down, slumping onto the ground as he gagged on his own blood, clutching at his wounded throat. Jon turned then, his eyes finding Sansa's as she looked out at him from where she sat, the gown she wore in pieces. "Sansa," he whispered her name before he began to run, racing towards her and throwing himself down before her. "Sansa!" He felt her a moment later, his arms winding around her as she threw herself into them, her body quivering as she buried her face into his shoulder. He held onto her as tightly as he dared, breathing in her sweet, familiar scent, the sounds of steel against steel the only other noise in the background as one by one, the queen's guards fell beneath his comrades blades. And then... It went silent.

Only then did he pull back from her, holding her at arm's length; he could already see the bruise upon her face, the blood on her lip. "I can't believe you're here," she whispered, her blue eyes shining as they filled with tears. Jon reached out a hand, thumb catching a tear as it slipped free, his lips curving with the smallest of smiles. How was it that he was always there when she needed him most? And not just Jon, she could see all of the others too, the ones that had come to save her from King's Landing. Arya stood just a short distance away, a strange look on her face, but Davos was smiling faintly, as if he'd always known the truth.

"I made you a promise, didn't I?" Jon's voice brought her back and Sansa looked back to him, only to see he was still yet smiling. "I will always protect you, Sansa." He had meant it back then, that vow of protection he'd offered her. Not just against Ramsay, but against anyone who might do her harm. At his words, Sansa was smiling too, before she plunged back into his arms, burying herself as close to him as she possibly could. It was only a few minutes later that he bid her to rise, drawing her up with him. Ser Davos was there then, draping her in his own cloak before offering her his arm, slowly taking her towards Jon's own horse that stood several yards away. Brienne and Arya met them there, Sansa embracing first her younger sister, holding onto the smaller girl for a long moment. And then she was forcing Brienne back onto her feet, for the tall swordswoman had knelt onto the ground at her feet, clearly shamed by Sansa's kidnapping.

Jon watched as she walked away from him, as she met with the others that she loved, knowing he had done as he'd promised. But it wasn't over yet. This was his life. She was his life. He followed the path he'd been born for- no, that he'd been reborn for, and it all led right back to her. And so he walked towards her again, to where Ser Davos was helping her up onto the horse's back and he climbed up behind her. "Lean on me," he whispered against the shell of her ear and he felt her body a moment later, her back against his chest as she settled into place against him. "Let's go home." He said to the others, all of whom had climbed back onto their own horses, all ready to make the journey back home.

Back to Winterfell.

[ x x x ]

It was days later and Jon found himself to finally feel like normal again. After fighting the army of the dead, traveling to and from King's Landing, as well as fighting again, he had found himself to be beyond exhausted. The only thing that had kept him going on the return to Winterfell was Sansa, who rode without complaint even as the bruises began to darken, even when she could not sleep from the nightmares that plagued her yet again.

The moment they had rode through the gates of Winterfell, it was to cheers and joy. The Northern lords and peasants alike had gathered within the gates, cheering the arrival of their Lady of Winterfell and all the others they owed their lives to. Jon had caught sight of Daenerys even, high in the tower that overlooked it all, her pale face peering down from a single window. But even that was days ago and he'd not yet even seen the Dragon queen, he could not even say if she still yet remained in Winterfell. It was as he had told her- he cared not who sat upon the Iron Throne.

Rising from his bed for the first time, Jon dressed in the clean clothes that had been laid out for him and left his chamber, his feet taking him the familiar path to Sansa's. But, it took only a quick glance inside to see that she was not there and at once his heart was fluttering fast. He made his way down the halls but still could not find her. At least... Not at first.

He found her on the upper walkway with Ghost, looking out over all of Winterfell. She was dressed warmly, her fur cloak draped across her shoulders, the gown beneath it a deep and somber shade of blue he'd never before seen her wear, but recalled it being a color Catelyn Stark had often worn. She looked so beautiful standing there he could not help but to stand and stare a moment longer than he meant to. "Sansa," finally he spoke her name as he approached, the sound of his voice catching her attention. Her smile was radiant as she reached out a gloved hand to touch Ghost's head a moment before the direwolf came towards him, rubbing his head against Jon's knees. He ran his own hand along the wolf's neck and spine, thankful he still yet had his companion, though he'd seen little of the direwolf since his return. Ghost had committed himself to Sansa in the same sort of way Jon had it seemed. "How are you?"

Sansa regarded him for a moment longer before she turned back to face the vast expanse of space that was Winterfell, her gloved hands falling into place upon the stone before her. "I'm home," she said simply, her lips curving with a smile. "We're home." She clarified then, turning back to face him, the wind catching her long red hair. Jon could not help himself from reaching out, tucking a strand behind her ear, his fingertips trailing the length of her jaw as he drew his hand back. She caught his hand then, giving it the softest of squeezes as she stepped a little closer, the gap between them minimal at best. She heard him say her name, so softly that she thought she might have imagined it, but he was smiling as she leaned in, almost hesitantly, catching his mouth with her own.

Jon took her into his arms the moment he felt her lips find his and suddenly there was no gap between them at all. He returned her kiss with every ounce of passion he could muster, wondering just how long he'd truly been waiting to do this. As he drew back a few moments later, it was to cup her cheek with his palm, her blue eyes finding his as her hand slid into place over his. And then he said the only words that seemed to make sense.

"We're home."

And now, all would be well.

#jonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #game of thrones #jonsa fic #my writing #i wrote this #got fanfic #cersei lannister

[lyannas]

I'm asking because you're the certified expert on Elia: is there a precise estimate on who died first between her and Aerys in the Sack and by how much time? Could/would Jaime have protected her if he knew she was in danger once Aerys was taken out?

Well, let’s see. The Sack of King’s Landing occurred before Ned’s army arrived; it was performed, of course, by Tywin Lannister’s men. During the Sack, Aerys had sent Rossart to set off the wildfire caches in the city; Jaime realized this, and killed Rossart before he could leave the Red Keep. He returned to the throne room, told Aerys what he had done, and while Aerys was trying to run away from him, Jaime killed him. This coincided with some of Tywin’s knights entering the throne room to witness Aerys’s death. Jaime told these knights to spread the news the king was dead; they asked who would be declared king in his place, and Jaime considered two names: Viserys Targaryen and Aegon Targaryen. He said they could declare whoever they liked, then sat down in the Iron Throne. He remained there until Ned arrived.

Now with that structure in place, we have to consider the Elia and the children were in Maegor’s Holdfast, a “castle within the castle”. It is in the middle of the castle and therefore you must cut through the castle to reach it. Assuming that Amory Loch and Gregor Clegane were at the head of group that first entered the Red Keep, one can also assume that they bypassed the throne room, and headed through the castle straight to Maegor’s Holdfast, where they scaled the walls and killed Elia and her children inside. Seeing as Jaime still believed Aegon to be alive by the time he killed Aerys, it is most likely that they died around the same time as Aerys or shortly after. This had to have been done before Ned’s army arrived that same day, while the Lannister forces were still fighting people outside the Red Keep. We are talking about very little time here– I’d argue that Ned’s forces were entering King’s Landing at the same time that the Lannister forces breached the Red Keep. So, maybe like half an hour.

Now, we are provided some hints from Jaime’s POV in regards to Gregor’s position and what he was thinking at the time. There’s is this, where is looking back in hindsight:

“The castle is ours, ser, and the city,” Roland Crakehall told him, which was half true. Targaryen loyalists were still dying on the serpentine steps and in the armory, Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch were scaling the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and Ned Stark was leading his northmen through the King’s Gate even then, but Crakehall could not have known that. He had not seemed surprised to find Aerys slain; Jaime had been Lord Tywin’s son long before he had been named to the Kingsguard.

The hindsight is important here, because there is no way that Jaime would have known that Ned was that close, or that Targaryen loyalists were still being killed– so we can also assume he did not know that Gregor and Amory were scaling the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast. But even in this recollection, he makes it clear that he still believed Aegon to be a candidate for the throne:

“Shall I proclaim a new king as well?” Crakehall asked, and Jaime read the question plain: Shall it be your father, or Robert Baratheon, or do you mean to try to make a new dragonking? He thought for a moment of the boy Viserys, fled to Dragonstone, and of Rhaegar’s infant son Aegon, still in Maegor’s with his mother. A new Targaryen king, and my father as Hand. How the wolves will howl, and the storm lord choke with rage. For a moment he was tempted, until he glanced down again at the body on the floor, in its spreading pool of blood. His blood is in both of them, he thought. “Proclaim who you bloody well like,” he told Crakehall. Then he climbed the Iron Throne and seated himself with his sword across his knees, to see who would come to claim the kingdom. As it happened, it had been Eddard Stark.

So even if we did away with the assumption that Jaime didn’t know that Gregor and Amory were breaching Maegor’s Holdfast, it would still seem as if Jaime didn’t know why they were doing so, and didn’t think to inquire. Then, there’s his fever dream:

Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now dark. “I left my wife and children in your hands.” 

“I never thought he’d hurt them.” Jaime’s sword was burning less brightly now. “I was with the king… 

“Killing the king,” said Ser Arthur. 

“Cutting his throat,” said Prince Lewyn. 

“The king you had sworn to die for,” said the White Bull. 

Of course, fever dreams are meant to be taken with a grain of salt, but this does seem to corroborate that Aerys’s murder and Elia’s murder happened very, very close together, and that Jaime had no clue that they the latter was going to be killed.

Now, to address your final question: could Jaime have saved them? In absence of exact times, it’s hard to say whether Jaime could have realistically and logistically saved them. The bottom line is that Jaime didn’t save them because he didn’t know that they needed to be saved. He assumed they would be treated as prisoners of war, not raped and murdered in cold blood. Those murders served a single purpose, after all: to make a statement about Tywin’s loyalty to Robert Baratheon. Jaime did not see that coming.

There is also something to be said about Jaime’s mental state after killing Aerys. He was only 17 years old, he’d been left alone to protect the king, and after months of being told to shut up and let the king do what he wants, just protect the king, Jaime chose his own morals over his oath. He killed the man he was sworn to protect, was caught in the act, and literally had nowhere to hide. Instead, he sat down in the Iron Throne, his bloodied sword across his knees, and waited to see who would claim the throne from under him. Imagine Jaime just sitting in that chair doing nothing for ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes… then Ned arrives, and Jaime gets up. 

Jaime was addled. He was traumatized. He broke bad and didn’t know what to do with himself after. I think Jaime was sitting on that throne, waiting for someone to chastise him for sitting there, or for doing what he had done. He broke a sacred oath, after all. But no one around him calls him out or even cares. Then Mr. Justice himself walked into the room, and that’s when Jaime feels like it’s time for him to get up.

“I was still mounted. I rode the length of the hall in silence, between the long rows of dragon skulls. It felt as though they were watching me, somehow. I stopped in front of the throne, looking up at him. His golden sword was across his legs, its edge red with a king’s blood. My men were filling the room behind me. Lannister’s men drew back. I never said a word. I looked at him seated there on the throne, and I waited. At last Jaime laughed and got up. He took off his helm, and he said to me, ‘Have no fear, Stark. I was only keeping it warm for our friend Robert. It’s not a very comfortable seat, I’m afraid.’”

This scene says a lot about Jaime. He stares Ned down as he rode the hall in complete silence. His sword was still bloody. Ned waited. Jaime was still wearing his helm. Then, Jaime laughed– because that’s what Jaime does, because he’s emotionally maladjusted and dark humor is how he deals with anything approaching emotional. 

So, could Jaime have saved Elia and the children? No. I really don’t think he could have, for reasons beyond time, and for reasons firmly planted in the idea that Jaime simply didn’t know what else to do with himself after he broke an oath that he had equated with his worth as a knight. That Jaime is haunted by his former brothers in the Kingsguard years after the fact is proof enough that Jaime has made no peace with being an oathbreaker. Jaime sat there to turn himself in, so to speak, but no one would arrest him– not even Ned Stark. And if Ned wouldn’t do it, then who would?

#bulletofeducation #asks #meta #my meta

[iturbide]

As Robin drew a breath to speak, the familiar sound of clanking armor sounded too close by -- and a sudden surge of ire burned in the pit of his stomach as he turned to find Chrom’s warden no more than a pace behind, his hands folded behind his back as he stared at the Plegian beside the Shepherds’ captain.

“Good evening,” Robin said, praying his voice did not sound as clipped as he feared.

Judging by the way Frederick’s eyes narrowed, it might have been worse than he’d thought.  “Good evening,” the man replied.  “Out for a stroll?”

“Scouting,” Robin agreed.  “It was my turn on duty, and Chrom offe--”

“His Majesty, Prince Chrom.”

Robin snapped his mouth shut to keep a sharp reply from escaping.  The great knight held his gaze, clearly waiting for the young man to correct himself...but this time, Robin held firm, his hands curling at his sides as the Ylissean prince stepped between them.  “Calm down,” he implored the both of them.  “I told Robin to just call me Chrom.  The titles feel...uncomfortable.  Under the circumstances.  I promise, everything’s okay, we’re just patrolling the perimeter--”

“A task others could handle just as well,” Frederick interrupted.

“I hate sitting around and doing nothing,” Chrom groaned.  “I needed to get up and stretch my legs, and I just happened to find Robin, and he invited me to join him and talk--”

“If he’s engaged in idle conversation he is doing a poor job of keeping watch.”

It took every ounce of willpower Robin had not to snap at the man.  “Or perhaps you’re simply incapable of speaking civilly while keeping watch because you’re too focused on the non-existent blade I so obviously want to draw across Chrom’s throat,” he said pleasantly.

It took him far too long to realize that the words he’d spoken were not the ones he’d intended.

And by then, it was too late.  They were pouring from him now, his hands moving in light, sharp gestures to accentuate his words.  “From the moment we arrived, you have treated us with nothing but suspicion.  We have honored every line you drew in the sand, and so you draw them closer in the hopes that we will slip and prove you right, prove that we are untrustworthy, prove that our intentions for coming were only ever selfish and born of hate.  You shadow our steps and haunt our every attempt at conversation -- I hope you don’t imagine we didn’t notice you lurking as we tried to speak with the other Shepherds, you’re hardly subtle in that clanking plate -- but even when we do nothing wrong, say nothing wrong, still you treat us as criminals.”

“How dare you!” the great knight balked.  “It is my duty to protect the royal family from potential threats, I do only what I have been appointed to--”

“You don’t show Gregor this scrutiny, and you met him within Plegia’s deserts -- but he is Feroxi, so of course he is worthy of more trust--”

Frederick narrowed his eyes, his expression twisting into a snarl at the accusation.  “He risked his life to save that manakete girl--”

“And we risked ours to save your princess!”

A heavy, choking silence fell across them as Robin’s hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.  “Henry, Tharja, and I -- we risked everything to infiltrate the hierophant’s ranks, to prepare and stage that rescue.  We would have been tortured and likely killed if we’d been caught, but we believed that Emmeryn had done no wrong and should not die.  And yet you refuse to view us as anything more than Plegian heathens, unworthy of trust, undeserving of respect -- no wonder you were appointed to this position.  You and the Exalt are clearly of the same mind.”

The great knight’s face had gone white with fury, and yet Robin continued to hold his gaze.  “Milady Emmeryn was kidnapped by Plegians,” Frederick grated out.  “She was dragged across their borders and threatened with execution.  And for all your attempted aid, she was still grievously injured.  I think my suspicions are well-founded, given that Plegians have been responsible for every atrocity committed against her.”

A cold smile sliced across Robin’s face.  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have saved her, then,” he murmured.  “Perhaps it would have been better if we had simply let the hierophant make a sacrifice of her -- after all, she must be just like the Exalt and his soldiers who want nothing more than to see Plegia as a charred waste.”

“Don’t dare speak of her that way!” Frederick roared, grabbing Robin by the front of his robes.  “Milady Emmeryn is the kindest, gentlest woman in all the halidom -- it is she who has advocated against the Exalt’s war, fought against him at every opportunity, offered aid to any and all who seek it…”

“...well in that case,” Robin murmured, calmly meeting the great knight’s glare, “it sounds as though the Exalt and his men are the worst that the halidom has to offer, while Emmeryn and her siblings are some of the best.  Would you agree?”  Frederick’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a shallow nod of assent.  “So why is it that you and yours can have good and bad among you, but my friends and I can only be as good as the worst our nation has to offer?”

Slipping effortlessly free of Frederick’s grip, Robin straightened his robes, paying no further mind to the great knight and instead offering a polite bow to the prince standing awestruck just to the side.  “I do apologize for my outburst.  If you’ll excuse me, I should finish my patrol and prepare for the watch.  Rest well, Chrom.”

He left the heavy silence behind, his nerves still strained and his ire not yet settled.  But, if nothing else, he did feel better having spoken the words he’d been bottling up for so long.

#nyr #fire emblem: awakening #fanfiction #frederick #m!robin #chrom #dealing with frederick in the early part of the story is going to be #a challenge #for robin and henry and tharja #henry doesn't care so much but tharja is uncomfortable and robin is irate #for all that he tries to stay calm and pleasant the cracks get deeper and deeper #and there finally comes this point where it just breaks #but let's face it frederick definitely has some issues to work out #he's very much a product of the exalt's propaganda campaign against plegia #he's extremely prejudiced against them #and while he does have valid reasons to be wary at the outset #he takes it to absolute extremes and believes evidence proving him wrong is fake #he has a lot of growing to do but this is where he gets the kick he needs #assassin's creed: awakening #snippets

[mathiaskillmaster]

My GOT Ending: The Battle of King’s Landing (Episode 5 Season 8) Part 3

On the back of Drogon, Daenerys, Bran and Samwell finally arrive in sight of the capital, to see the full extent of the disaster. A naval battle is raging in the bay, while the streets of the city are submerged by the troops of the army of the dead, who are constantly advancing overwhelming towards the fortifications of the red dungeon. In addition, Viserion flies over the city with its terrible rider and continues its ravages. Daenerys makes Drogon lands in Dragonpit, where she leaves Samwell and Bran, well away from the city and the battle. Daenerys knows she has no choice but to face the undead dragon again, once her beloved child. Although she knows that the necromantic magic that animates Viserion offers a certain advantage to the latter against the attacks of Drogon, the young queen does not hesitate and flies, under the eyes of two young men. The Night King immediately notices the form of Drogon in the air and rushing straight at him. He also notices Daenerys. The look of the young queen against him makes it a challenge. Taking his sword of ice, the king of the walkers launch Viserion to the attack, and the two dragons, roaring loudly, clash violently against each other for a new dance of dragons. At first inflicting violent bites and claws while spinning in the sky, Drogon and Viserion come to try to spit flames on each other, but the breaths don't touch. Streets and entire squares of the city are swept by the fire breaths of the two flying reptiles. Viserion manages to make his way to Drogon's back and tries to snap Daenerys between his jaws, which she narrowly avoids. Drogon replies by biting deeply Viserion at the throat. While holding firm, Daenerys can see the Night King, harpooning her with his blue and icy gaze, and visibly trying to find stability to throw an ice javelin directly at her. ******** From a window in the throne room, Cersei attends the apocalypse that falls on her city. The naval battle, the streets devastated by the white walkers and the duel of dragons in the air .... But madness prevails over her reason. _ "Kill them, now!" she orders to the Mountain, pointing to Jaime and Bronn. The Mountain executes the order and assaults a violent lateral blow which would have cut Jaime in two if he had not dodged. Jaime and Bronn agree to attack the colossus on both sides, but Gregor manages to parry their attacks, or seems to feel no pain inflicted by their blades. Bronn uses his talents to pass Gregor's defense and inflicts several injuries on his ribs and right shoulder. Gregor reacts and pushes Bronn back with a powerful punch. Bronn falls to the ground, gasping. Jaime in turn dodges or blocks the massive attacks of the golem of flesh, undergoing several cuts on the shoulders. But ignoring the pain, Jaime uses his reflex knight and great swordsman to counter a blow that would have been fatal, and beyond the defense of his opponent, manages to place him a stab in the ribs, but surprisingly, Gregor remains insensitive to this important injury and in turn pierces Jaime at the ribs. Jaime lets out a groan of great pain, before receiving a violent setback that projects him several meters back. Having seen this, Bronn tries to save Jaime by attacking the Mountain again, but after several blows blocked, is again repelled and sounded by another reverse of the Golem. Remained behind, Cersei observes the fight with interest and satisfaction to see her invincible guard take over. Jaime is stunned, heavily wounded, and can not get back on his feet, seeing Gregor's tall figure coming towards him to finish him off. Sandor and Brienne, still pursued by some guards, burst into the throne room. While Brienne finishes the last remaining guards, Sandor lays eyes on his big brother. ********* Varys led Davos, Melisandre and Tyrion through the city's numerous subterranean networks to reach a very special place: the underground warehouse used to store the wildfire. The master spy absolutely wants to prevent the city and its population from disappearing in a titanic explosion of flames, thus showing once again his devotion to want to serve and protect the people first. Davos does not want to see the horror of the Battle of the Nera again, but on a much worse scale. Eventually, the small group finally reaches the wildfire cache, where are standing in line in dusty shelves the hundreds and hundreds of jars containing the terrible alchemical mixture. With astonishment, they discover that nothing has finally been prepared and that the pyromancers have deserted the place leaving behind their equipment. But for Melisandre, nothing seems to change in her mind and she turns to Varys. _ "It is time for you to fulfill your destiny .... Varys Blackfyre." The master spy remains marble at the mention of this name so special, guessing without a problem that the priestess knew from the beginning. Tyrion and Davos exchange a more than bewildered look at this. _ "What ... how did you call him?" Davos asks the priestess. _"I don't need to hide it any longer, because indeed, my name is Varys from house Blackfyre." Tyrion and Davos remain speechless, believing that the Blackfyres, that bastard branch of Targaryen House, had long since disappeared. _ "But ... what destiny are you talking about?" Tyrion continues in the interrogation. Varys and Melisandre exchange a look. _"No need to deny it more, Lord Varys ..." said Melisandre, coming in front of him and touching his cheek with her hand "... remember that night, this ritual where your cock and balls were thrown into the flames. ... and that voice that emerged, addressing you .... You know just like me who it was, is not it?" Varys is divided between fear and the belief that she says true. He had never been able to forget this ritual, the pain of castration and the supernatural voice that had come from the brazier .... He knew it from now on. R'hllor had addressed him, entrusting him with a very special mission that he would accomplish only years later. _ "The blood flowing in your veins, Varys Blackfyre, is a bearer of great power, such was the decision of the lord of the light when he addressed you that night .... and it is today that this power will be used for the benefit of all." For Melisandre, it is out of the question to prevent the explosion of the wildfire. On the contrary, only an explosion of this magnitude could be enough to completely eradicate the army of the dead and the white walkers in one fell swoop. Davos draws his sword and threatens the priestess. _ "Burning a little living girl was not enough for you? You want to see the capital disappear in the flames, you witch?" Varys, however, retains the hand of Ser Davos. _"Lady Melisandre is right. You and Lord Tyrion had to warn as many people as possible, and evacuate by sea. Take the ships by force if necessary, but leave the city as soon as possible!" Melisandre observes without saying anything but thanks Varys for the support. Tyrion and Davos then understand that a destiny beyond them is at work before their eyes. Although hesitant to abandon a valuable friend like Varys, Tyrion vigorously shakes his hand in a last goodbye. _ "For an eunuch, you have the biggest of all." said the dwarf in a failed attempt at humor, which nevertheless makes the spy master smile. _"I think I'll miss your jokes about eunuchs, sir ... good luck." he answers. After this farewell, almost tearing Tyrion away, he and Davos run off to save as many people as possible, while Melisandre and Varys stay by the wildfire. ************ In the bay, the naval battle continues fiercely, and Yara's army seems to take more and more advantage, many of Euron's ships having fallen into their hands after violent clashes. On the flagship littered with many corpses and the bridge impregnated with blood, Yara, whose face soiled by dirt and blood, is facing her uncle, also bearing the traces of the fight on his enraged face. _"Well, my dear niece, can I know where Little Theon is? Is he hiding like the little coward he is? Unless he is already buried six feet underground? as you will be soon too!" Remembering that she had learned with great sadness about Theon's death by Sansa's letter, and enraged by Euron's words, Yara is left dominated by anger and it is in a scream that she launches herself into attack, assaulting a first blow that Euron blocked easily. The duel between the two Greyjoys begins in the midst of the brutal battles between the crewmen. Dominated by a new rage, Yara leaves no respite to her uncle, making him back off while he dodges or blocks with more or less difficulty the many blows of ax she tries to give. But Yara does not pay enough attention to her defense and her leg is slightly slashed by a well-placed attack from Euron. Clenching her teeth against the pain, Yara pursues the duel without flinching. _"Not bad, you have at least more balls than your stupid brother!" continues Euron in deliberate and cruel provocation. _"SHUT UP!!" yells Yara while continuing her frontal attack. A well-placed blow slashes Euron's right shoulder, which lets out a growl of pain, a trickle of blood flowing over his fabric, redoubling his effort to defeat his tenacious niece. This time, Yara must retreat under the repeated assaults of her uncle, and a kick in the bump makes her fall to the ground, and lose her ax that slips further. A ironborn soldier who saw his captain in danger, rushed at Euron, but he killed him with a violent blow of an ax in the neck. Yara takes advantage of this moment of diversion to grab a piece of broken wood and plants it with all her strength in Euron's neck, through his throat. Uncle Greyjoy freezes, drowning in his own blood and falls to the ground, at Yara's feet, panting, wounded and victorious. It is without regret that Yara, with the tip of her foot, pushes the lifeless body of her uncle, letting him to fall into the water, and disappear into the opacity of the depths of the bay as a treat for fish and crabs. ********* In the throne room, Sandor rushes without hesitation on his brother Gregor in a roar like a wild beast. The swords of the two Clegane brothers collide in a screech of steel. Brienne having seen Jaime seriously wounded on the ground, must struggle to repel a new group of guards, but she is finally assisted by Bronn who managed to recover. The swords clash between the Clegane brothers is continuing with a force and brutality out of the ordinary, Sandor inflicts heavy injuries on his brother but still ineffective against the latter. Provided with his strength and his superhuman resistance, Gregor quickly takes the advantage and a stinging response, made knee to the ground to his little brother. But Sandor, galvanized by the thirst for revenge, throws all his weight against his brother, causing him to fall to the ground. A violent wrestling starts between the two Cleganes. Disarmed, they come to the hand ... punches, kicks fuse, but again, Gregor takes the advantage, succeeding in stunning Sandor by giving him several headbutts .... The Hound founds himself in four paws, dizzy and spitting a trickle of blood from his mouth. Gregor stands up, dominating his brother and picks up his sword to decapitate him. Seeing that, Bronn manages to bring down the last guards with his fighting skills, while Brienne decides to run to the aid of Sandor, and blocks at the last moment a side blow of the Mountain that would have been fatal for Sandor. Gregor then attacks Brienne, but after a few parries and with her knightly skills, she manages to slice the armed hand of Gregor. Despite his severed hand, Gregor grabs Brienne with the other and begins to strangle her with force. Sandor remembers the words that Melisandre had whispered to him. The famous gift of Beric. It's now or never. Concentrating to his fullest, Sandor mumbled the words in his beard, and to the amazement of all, the sword of the Hound suddenly shines with a glowing flame. At first scared by this fire appeared suddenly, Sandor manages, for the first time in his life and taking on him, to resist his fear of fire and keeps the sword burning in hand, like Beric Dondarrion before him. Sandor then took the opportunity to start and with a quick gesture, decapitates Gregor, whose imposing body staggers a few seconds before falling on the ground. _"We'll see each other again in hell, brother..." Sandor said, spitting on Gregor's corpse, as the flames on his sword disappeared. The Hound can not refrain from giving sincere thought to Beric, whose gift will have been very useful to him at last. Having witness the fall of her protective golem, Cersei sinks a little more into madness and still refuses to admit defeat. _ "If I die, everyone will gone with me!!" she spits unceremoniously before starting to walk a step closer to the back of the room. It is then that Jaime, having managed to use his last strength to get up, arrives behind her, turns her towards him by seizing her on the shoulder, and the eyes in tears, pierces her heart with his sword. Huddled against her brother, Cersei remains paralyzed by the intense pain, while Jaime and she look into each other's eyes one last time. _ "You didn't give me a choice ..... forgive me ...." Jaime told her in tears. Blood escaping from her mouth, Cersei pronounces nothing, coming to put on the lips of Jaime a last bloody kiss, before succumbing in the arms of her brother. Jaime, at the edge of his life, falls on his knees before the iron throne, hugging the lifeless body of her sister in his arms. But despite the tremendous sorrow that gnaws at him, Jaime also feels the effects of the terrible wound in his ribs and contemplates the blood flowing. Feeling life leaving him little by little, he tries to straighten up, but stumbling, he is caught in-extremis by Brienne. Knowing that he is doomed, the knight Lannister gives Brienne a sorry look, herself trying to comfort him in his last moments. _"I ... I would never have imagined things to end like this ..." he said in a weaker voice. _"You fought bravely, Ser Jaime... your honor is safe." Brienne reassures him. Jaime manages to smile and delicately, takes the hand of the knight lady in his. _ "Promise me not to forget me and to remain an example of chivalry for the kingdoms .... promise me ..." The voice of the man being weaker and weaker, Brienne is very touched and puts her hand on her chest, as an oath. _"I swear on my life and my honor, and I will make all of us in the seven kingdoms know you as a hero." Jaime smiled again, and after having heard the oath of Brienne, closed his eyes gently, and in a last breath, succumbed to his wounds in the arms of Brienne. The latter can no longer contain her sadness and shed tears while holding Jaime's lifeless body against her. _ "Rest in peace ..... Ser Jaime Lannister." ********* In the sky of King's Landing, the fight between the dragons also continues, but Drogon begins to feel the wounds inflicted by his brother. Viserion shows him no sign of fatigue. But after avoiding a powerful breath of his brother, Drogon loses altitude after a clumsy movement and violently hits a house. Daenerys is shaked after the shock and falls into the void. ********* Ser Davos and Tyrion have managed to reach the surface and now find themselves running through the streets of the city in the grip of hordes of wights. They manage to avoid a legion of dead who pour into a small commercial place and begin to massacre the soldiers there. _ "Follow us! Come on!" Intimate Tyrion to all the inhabitants that he and Davos meet, the latter in total panic. In the mess, a dead person jumps on Davos and blocks him on the ground, but Tyrion intervenes and slays the zombie with a dragonglass dagger in the back of the skull. It was then that Ser Jorah and Podrick, also bearing the many traces of combat on their faces and armors, joined them. Davos quickly explains the situation and what will happen if they do not emerge from there. However, Drogon's view in the sky indicates to Jorah the presence of Daenerys, but he does not see her on him. More than worried, Jorah asks Podrick to stay and help Tyrion and Davos to evacuate the inhabitants, while he rushes in search of the khaleesi. Tyrion, Davos and Podrick flee, taking with them more and more inhabitants, and avoiding as much as possible the most invaded streets. Everywhere, the screams of fear echo, as well as the monstrous grunts of the dead-living creatures. But suddenly, the small group finds itself facing a white walker alone, who finishes killing a Lannister soldier. The monster then focuses on them and advances with a confident step. He targets Tyrion closer, but Podrick throws himself with his weight at the creature, pushing him back. _ "PODRICK!!" exclaims Tyrion with horror, retained by Davos. _ "Save yourself, sir!!" the young squire exclaims as he is caught to the throat by the white walker and thrown violently against the wall of a house. Tyrion refuses to give him up, but Davos heavily insists and drives him away with him and the locals, time is running out more than anything. Tyrion then sees Podrick cast a last sure look at him, the squire not regretting in any way his gesture. Podrick breathes his last breath as the blade of the white walker pierces his body, nailing him to the wall of the house. Forcibly taken by Davos, Tyrion lets out a scream of despair, as the squire's lifeless body falls to the feet of the white walker.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #fanfiction #deviation #arya stark #Night's King #white walkers #dragons

[kittykatknits]

Do you think Sansa and Sandor can possibly end up together?

No, not really. I do believe they will reunite and the moment will be personally significant for both of them, but their relationship will not be physical nor will they be married, end-game, or some other variant.

This turned out longer than intended, sorry! 

I’ve always been pretty skeptical of the possibility but Sansa’s gift chapter squashed whatever lingering doubts I had. It’s pretty obvious there will be a (probably failed) Mad Mousenapping. The gift chapter also happens to be the lone Sansa POV in the entire series where Sandor Clegane does not appear either physically or in her thoughts. It’s not a huge surprise, she’s pretty solidly enmeshed in her Alayne persona. After that chapter, I’m thinking we will see the tourney next and then maybe a chapter or two after that, Sansa will be outed. For years, I was staunchly against the possibility of her marrying Harry (my nickname for him  is Harry the Red Herring) but I’m slowly coming around to it even though I absolutely abhor the idea. Frankly, this potential story line is one of many reasons why I’m annoyed with Martin and the story right now, but that’s a whole ‘nother discussion.

Back to the two of them. Their reunion requires him to leave the QI and my best guess is that it will happen in a similar manner to what we saw in the show. I don’t support the crack theory that the Elder Brother is already in the Vale doing investigative work or some such. The QI sounds like an idyllic place, almost to good to be true, so it’s pretty Martin-like to destroy it in preparation for the upcoming apocalypse. The only other way I can foresee him leaving is if he somehow hears news that Sansa Stark has been found and he decides to go serve her and I’m not willing to rule that out as a possibility.

So, as to what will happen between them? We need to go back and revisit the story.

This exchange occurs shortly before Blackwater:

“True knights protect the weak.”

He snorted. “There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”

Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”

- Sansa IV, aCoK

This is the philosophy that has guided Sandor Clegane since the day his brother stuck his face in the fire and much of his life has only reinforced that position. He went to CR to work for the Lannisters, killed his first man at 12, probably in the sack of KL which would only have reinforced that view. It’s this belief that reconciled his killing of Mycah, a boy who couldn’t protect himself. Remember - he ran, but not very fast.  

Along comes Sansa, an innocent girl who has no sword or army, no protectors, no sworn shield. According to Sandor Clegane, she’s one of the very people who should die and get out of the way. But, Sansa doesn’t. Instead, she challenges his world view:

“The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “He was no true knight,” she whispered to him.”

-Sansa II, Got

…again…

“The king stood. “A cask from the cellars! I’ll see him drowned in it.”

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”

-Sansa, I, aCoK

…and again…

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

-Sansa I, aCoK

..and again…

Prince Tommen sobbed. “You mew like a suckling babe,” his brother hissed at him. “Princes aren’t supposed to cry.”

“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon,” Sansa Stark said, “and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound.”

“Be quiet, or I’ll have Ser Meryn give you a mortal wound,” Joffrey told his betrothed.

–Tyrion IX, aCoK

…and again…

“Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag.”

-Tyrion IX, aCoK

Remember, Sandor Clegane is Joffrey’s Sworn Shield, he was right next to both of them for those last two exchanges and would have heard every word Sansa said.  I’d argue that in all of the above incidents, Sansa was acting the part of a true knight, doing what she could to protect the innocents in the face of her own abuser.

What does Sandor Clegane do?

Dog, hit her.“

"Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering.

-Sansa III, aCok

Nothing. Nothing at all. Later, during the night of the Blackwater, he comes to her room to try and save her once more, and I do believe he was sincere in that, but, he completely botches it, putting a knife to her throat. That’s twice when Sandor had the chance to do the right thing, be a true knight just as Sansa showed him he could be, and he didn’t. He failed her and he knows it:

“I killed your butcher’s boy. I cut him near in half, and laughed about it after.” He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. “And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf.”

-Arya XIII, SoS

In case there is any doubt, Martin tells us his whole philosophy is wrong:

“Seven, Brienne thought again, despairing. She had no chance against seven, she knew. No chance, and no choice.”

-Brienne VII, aFfC

The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing. “If Joffrey should die … what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”

“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

-Davos V, SoS

“If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.”

-Bran I, GoT

So,,,hmmm, maybe it isn’t sharp steel that rules the world. Maybe, ultimately, it’s something else. So, let’s talk about Sansa some more.

“ In the sept they sing for the Mother’s mercy but on the walls it’s the Warrior they pray to, and all in silence. She remembered how Septa Mordane used to tell them that the Warrior and the Mother were only two faces of the same great god. But if there is only one, whose prayers will be heard?”

-Sansa V, aCoK

Later, Sansa sings the Mother’s Hymn to the Hound when he is in her room. So, who is it the gods listened to? Was it Sansa’s call for mercy or the Hound’s belief in sharp steel? Well, considering that he is, in fact, on the QI, finding a better way, I’d say Martin pretty explicitly answers that question for us. The Hound is dead and when the character next appears, it’s gonna be Sandor Clegane.

To get to the point, since this is ridiculously long, I believe their next meeting and impact on each other will be related to the above. Twice, the Hound failed at being a true knight and I think the third time, he will be and will do it under circumstances where he has no hope and no choice.

I’ve gone back and forth on the Clegane Bowl theory and argued against it quite a bit but it’s another one I’m slowly resigning myself too. Sandor’s older brother is the monster he cannot slay, the demon that set him on the path we see in the books. Now, Gregor has come back, a literal undead monster this time, a product of necromancy. The Hound was motivated by hate and vengeance. I can foresee Martin setting it up so the two brothers come together at last, only now, it will be Sandor Clegane fighting an actual monster, going to battle as a true knight to protect the innocent. I really don’t like the idea of Clegane Bowl though but I’m running out of arguments as to why it won’t happen…..

Them crossing paths and him finally having the chance to be a true knight, yep, that’ll happen. Heck, it was a toy knight that started all of it in the first place. It’s what he always wanted to be. Sansa’s mercy and ability to show him a different way is what will make it possible.

Other than the above, it’s anyone’s guess really. 

#Sansa Stark #Sandor Clegane #The Hound #ASoIaF #asoiaf meta #sansa stark meta #anon asks #feel free to ask #feel free to ignore