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thewickedspinster · 6 months ago

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The Protector & the Prince (Aedion Ashryver x Reader)

a/n: this character and plotline has been in my head ever since i read throne of glass, so i'm lowkey thinking of making this a series? to explore the character and also her relationship with aedion? because there is a criminally low amount of aedion love out here (i'm happy to provide). lmk your thoughts in the comments!

content: aedion x fem!reader, aelin x reader platonic, rowan whitethorn ofc, spoilers for empire of storms & kingdom of ash, slight au where reader is taken by maeve instead of aelin

requested by anon

The Protector & the Prince

The dawn was chill and damp against your cheeks. Dew rose from the meadow below, kissing your hair and skin. Welcoming you home.

In the rocky hollow behind you, the Bane packed up camp. They were battle-weary, exhausted to the bone after years of fighting in the mountains. Last night at dusk, when the company had stopped, you had just been able to make out the spires of Orynth across the next hill. It had been a trial in will to halt, to take stock, to rest before making the final push across the Staghorns.

Today, you would return to the home you had been forced to abandon, to the people you called your own. To your queen. To your friends. The war had been won, they said. Word had come over the mountains in the form of a white-tailed hawk; the king himself had come to find you and call you home. He had said his queen commanded it.

Against your will and better judgement, the memories of the past decade flowed freely as you and your company hiked down into the vale, then up the other side, crossing the last line of mountains. The loss of Aelin, the fall of Orynth, the Assassin's Guild, the land of Erilea, the return of magic, and the nightmares of war. Yet by midday, Terrasen unfolded before you, green and golden as ever. Your heart strained against its cage, and the Bane's pace hastened to the city's gates.

When you had last seen this city, it had been white and glistening, a kingdom in its prime. You were but nine years old, a nameless child with no family, no wealth, who had been taken in by King Orlon, of all people, to guard his young niece and heir, Aelin Galathynius. Since, your fae lineage had been revealed, and his choice in you had become clearer; only you could have followed Aelin to the ends of the earth as you did. Only you could have kept her safe.

Now, Orynth was rebuilding. The people had begun to return, but their wariness was palpable as they turned from their work to observe the Bane walking down the main thoroughfare. Some bowed, but there was no fanfare. There was little room for celebration as the dust of war settled, and the work began.

Your mind was a muted whirlwind of thoughts. You had little idea what to expect upon seeing Aelin. You hadn't seen her since the day on the beach, when you had been taken by Maeve in her place. The war done, you no longer knew your place.

Besides all this, your heart pounded for entirely different, unwelcome reasons.

Aedion would be here.

Aedion, Aelin's cousin, the Wolf of the North, fearsome general and protector of a fallen kingdom, had always been your best friend. Your first friend in Orynth, the lifeline you held onto while training with Arobynn. Your closest confidant. The only person you needed. And gods, did you need him now, with the uncertainties rising and the past creeping in... As you approached the towering doors to the castle, you actually considered whether you could do this.

The walk up the sweeping marble steps took a millennium. Untouched, no one had been able to steal their grandeur, though the great doors were still missing. One step over the mighty threshold, two steps, and you had yet to collapse. Three steps, and you were blindsided, barreled into with such force you stumbled.

"Y/N," came Aelin's shaky breath in your ear. She clutched you close, her fingers digging into your leathers. You clung to her in turn, holding her as tightly as you could, breathing in the smell of her, free of blood and iron. "You made it."

"Hi," you laughed breathlessly. "Gods, Aelin. Hi."

And suddenly, everything was entirely right in the world. You were home. You were with your best friend. You had made it.

Reluctantly, Aelin let you go and addressed your company. The Bane, ever having been Aedion's to command, had been given to you in the wake of your return to the continent. You had earned their respect, earned your place as their general. But they were, of course, Aelin's to command. Her arm still around you, she thanked them and dismissed them.

Before you knew it, you'd been swept up to a grand chamber, Aelin with you, to wash and eat. Your head swirled with the welcome, with the shock of being back in this place you'd once called home. She spoke softly, bringing news of Rowan, Chaol, Dorian, Elide, and Manon. She skirted talk of fighting, of that day on the beach, and for that, you were grateful.

"How is Lysandra?" You asked, pulling a comb through your wet hair. The sun was setting, but you would luxuriate in this time with Aelin for as long as she'd allow. "I heard she became a sea dragon."

"She did. That, and more." Aelin laid out a tunic on the bed for you, and it all felt too much like evenings at the Guild, preparing for grand soirées (and murders). "Her and Aedion have finally made up. Thank the gods for that - the tension was borderline unbearable."

Your eyes flicked to hers in the mirror, but only just. You blamed the exhaustion for the way your heart stuttered. "I'm glad to hear it. One big happy family, right?"

She snorted. "Yeah, a right happy home we've got."

A knock came on the door, and a servant entered, summoning Aelin to her council chamber. The young queen groaned, but you saw how she straightened - how the mantle settled on her shoulders in a way that no longer looked entirely unbearable. She turned to you, saying, "You should rest, Y/N. Eat up here, and we'll talk more tomorrow."

You turned to look at her in full, smiling faintly, strained. "Tomorrow."

Your queen disappeared. In the sudden dimness of twilight, you were alone.

But, you supposed, there was a tomorrow. That alone was enough to help you breathe.

~~~

Dawn came too early. Despite your fatigue, you'd hardly slept. First, it was the dreams. Then, it was the contemplation. Would Aelin send you away? What would she have you do in service of her court? Would you even have a place? As a demi-fae of no noble birth and little standing, all you had was your training. Your violence.

You supposed that was worth something.

It was what drove you down to the training yard in the gray light before the sun, moving through the familiar dance of swordwork. Before long, sweat poured down your spine. As the sun rose over the yard, more soldiers came to train, though they hardly had a swordmaster to tutor them. Quietly, you placed your weapons back on the racks and slipped away, unnoticed.

It was down the second stone corridor you turned, then, that you first heard the soft laughter, the hushed tones.

"Isn't it too early for this?" A gasp, a giggle. "Surely there's a better place."

"No one will come down here. Besides, it's never too early for this."

You stopped dead. You knew that voice. You'd know that voice anywhere. You'd heard it in your dreams. You'd followed it in your darkest moments, guiding you home.

You turned on your heel and stalked in the opposite direction, chest aching, as the sounds of Aedion and Lysandra's tryst faded behind you.

~~~

Aelin had called a meeting for midmorning, and you were notified last moment. You were still straightening your fancy new attire - silver, threaded with dark vines - as you entered the privy chamber. It was nearly exactly as you remembered. Eerily exact, as it was. You kept thinking you'd see King Orlon leap out from behind the curtains to say it had all been a cruel jest.

Luckily, you'd had plenty of time to right yourself, as Aedion was embarrassingly late. Though you knew the likely reason why, you kept your mouth firmly shut, instead braiding your hair and reporting to Rowan Whitethorn on the state of the Bane. When that was through, and only then, did the doors open once more, and Prince Aedion swept in, not a hair out of place.

"Forgive the delay, Aelin," he said softly when his cousin gave him an arch look. "There were... urgent matters to attend to in the yard."

Rowan grunted, "Those soldiers need a proper swordmaster."

"Which is why we're all here," Aelin said, as if it were obvious. She was clearly bored with the court business, but she looked between you and Aedion as though she were expecting something... more. After an awfully long pause, she continued. "Now that we're all together again, I figured some rearranging of duties is in order. Aedion, the Bane are yours, should you want them. And Y/N, my Queensguard is yours."

Aedion looked satisfied, but you were rooted to the spot with shock. "Aelin, your Queensguard? Why not have Chaol do it, or something?"

"Because Chaol has his own wife, child, and parcel to handle."

"You're more capable," Rowan chimed. "Wouldn't have anyone else protecting my wife."

"I'd also like you to be my envoy to Rifthold, for the time being." You actually had to take a seat. The closest one was a large armchair adjacent to Orlon's massive, ancient desk. "You know the city - and the affairs of Adarlan - better than any of us. And Dorian asked for you. You're a far better diplomat than I ever was."

"You were simply never a diplomat," Aedion said flatly, but his attention was fixed on you. Had been since he entered the room.

"Thanks, I know." Aelin flipped her hair over her shoulder, perching on the edge of her uncle's desk. "Much more of a decisive type, don't you think? Anyways, Y/N, would you accept both positions?"

You truly had to think a moment. You were reeling, your breath coming shortly. You had feared that Aelin wouldn't have work for you, and now, you were to captain her Queensguard and act as envoy to Adarlan? The responsibility almost seemed too much to take on.

Without thought, you glanced over to Aedion, who was still watching you. You caught his scent as you did so, and the desire to launch yourself into his arms after so long apart, after such hardship, after thinking you'd both die, took your breath away. But he was steady as he watched you, and as he nodded once.

You returned it. Rose, squared your shoulders, and bowed to your queen. "I'd be honored to accept both charges."

Aelin and Rowan shared a glance this time, before Aelin said, "Don't answer right now, Y/N, but there was something else I wanted to ask." You quirked a brow. "If you'd join me, I'd have you as one of my bloodsworn. You've followed me through everything, given up everything for me, and there is no one I can count more loyal than you. I would have you by my side, in all things."

The blood drained from your head, but you felt uncommonly steady. You couldn't give her an answer, but you could reassure her that you weren't going anywhere.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her, and she returned the embrace fiercely, burying her face in your shoulder. "My path has always been beside yours. Past and future. Not going anywhere."

Aelin lifted her head, eyes teary and brilliant. "Never again."

Flashes of the smell of iron, the taste of iron, the smothering of iron. Of a cell, of shattered realities, of a white wolf. They haunted your sleeping and waking moments. Had consumed you for so long.

The meeting was, for all intents and purposes, over. After parting, you gave barely a fleeting glance at Aedion, unable to deal with that emotional disaster at present, and strode from the room, already calling for all soldiers to report immediately to the yard.

You had work to do.

~~~

A month had passed, and your life was consumed with dust, sweat, the grunting of fighters, and the clash of steel on steel. You had selected a Queensguard from the soldiers who'd been in the city, but training them was something else entirely. They'd all seen combat in the war, of course, but that didn't mean they even knew how to swing a sword without tearing a muscle. It had been nigh on ten years since Orynth had had an organized militia of any kind. You were starting from scratch.

The men and women you'd selected were, of course, learning quickly. You wouldn't have chosen them if you didn't think them trainable. But they were reaching a plateau, and their progress was slowing. You were spending long hours training under the blistering sun, and even longer hours planning rotations and the coverage of major events in the castle. Aelin needed two guards with her at all times, and given the state of the Queensguard at present, you hardly trusted any of the new additions to protect her without you present.

Aelin's queendom was in its infancy, making it particularly fragile. Anyone could come for her - or the king - in an effort to change the political balance. It was something you couldn't chance, even if both king and queen could protect themselves admirably on their own.

All that being said, it was well into the evening, and you couldn't recall the last time you'd slept more than three hours. Or eaten a meal, actually. You sat back and threw down your quill, rubbing at your eyes. They'd grown weak and scratchy as you wrote by candlelight. The moon hardly helped, casting a silvery glow across the floor of your chambers.

A knock came at the door, and you didn't bother to sit up before calling, "Come!"

"Prince Aedion, Commander Y/L/N," the servant said. A second later, Aedion stepped in, shutting the door behind him in the servant's face.

You were still, watching him from under your brows as he approached your desk.

He stopped before you. "You look like hell."

"Thanks."

"That's a compliment."

"An absolute charmer, you are."

"I only mean to say you've been working hard. Aelin appreciates it."

"I know she does."

He suddenly looked like he was at a loss for words, something he hadn't been around you for... ever.

"Have you slept?" He finally managed.

"Do I look like it?" You gestured to your desk. "Lots to do. And I'm due in Rifthold next week."

"Are you going to take the blood oath?"

You sighed. "Don't you have something more useful to do than interrogate me?"

"I don't, actually," he snapped back, anger sparking. "Nothing more important than making sure you're alright."

"Funny, I thought you had a kingdom to defend. My mistake."

"The Bane are getting well-deserved rest. And thank to you, they're in top shape." He crossed his arms. "You led them well."

"I'd assume you'd know that, considering it was you who wanted me to lead them."

"Only because you needed something to do that would keep you safe."

Silence swallowed you whole as you stared at him. Fury turned your chest cold, your fingers numb. "Keep me safe?"

"You had no business being near the final battle for Terrasen," he snapped back. "Considering what you went through at Maeve's hands, you couldn't have been ready."

"So you sent me to babysit your troops?" You hissed, rising to your feet abruptly. "Are you serious, Aedion?"

Aedion sighed, exasperated. He held out placating hands. "This is going all wrong, Y/N. I'm not trying to upset you. I'm trying to make sure you're okay."

"What, because I was tortured? I can assure you, I'm a big girl. I can handle a few nightmares."

"Because I can hardly believe that you've healed," he nearly shouted. You leaned back. He said, quieter, "Because I know you haven't. You're throwing yourself into work to distract yourself. But it won't work forever."

He couldn't know just how right he was. It hurt, like a raw blister, the way he saw right through you. The way you wished you could bare your soul to him, let him comfort you, let him take care of you. You'd never had that, but you'd only ever wanted it from him. Your jaw was tight with hurt, and with fury.

"I gave you command of the Bane because I needed someone I could trust in the Staghorns. No one else could have earned their respect as you did." Aedion's gaze softened. "And selfishly, I wanted to keep you safe."

"I can take care of myself," you said, rather childishly.

"I know that."

"I don't need you to look after me. Not when you have other people to worry about."

The last had slipped out, unbidden, and you immediately cursed yourself for even saying it. Straight away, Aedion knew. His eyes sharpened, and you were glad to have the desk between you as his eyebrows rose.

"Lysandra," he said simply.

You stared back at him. "It's only natural."

"What? That I... frolicked with her, or that you're jealous of it?"

You scoffed. "'Frolicked?'" Seriously, Aedion? Are we twelve again?"

"We may as well be, for how well I feel I know you right now."

"You've known how I've felt about you for ages, Aedion. I know you have. You're blind, but you're not that stupid."

"Well thank you for that," he said, anger entirely abated. The snark of his remark missed its target. "Honestly, I only knew because Aelin told me."

"She told you back in Rifthold. I know. Before Arobynn was dead. Before I was free of him. Right in the midst of a shadow war." You gave a one-shouldered shrug. "But you always knew me best, Aedion. You had to have known before. But whether you did simply doesn't matter."

"How could it not?"

You straightened under his piercing stare, under the question in his eyes. "Because I have a job to do, and so do you. Aelin will always come before me, and I would never let anything, even you, come before her."

Aedion's mouth curved into a sad smile. "I know that."

Put off by the starkness of his honesty, you added, "And to be clear, I wouldn't be jealous of Lysandra. Her and I have been through enough. She's beautiful, and more than that, she's good. You deserve her."

"Lysandra has gone to Wendlyn."

"What?"

"We... I thought we'd gotten over the deception leading up to you being taken by Maeve, but we hadn't. She requested to leave, and Aelin gave her a job across the sea."

You were dumbfounded. So much so that you had to sit down. Lysandra, Aelin, and yourself had been the only ones to know of your plan to glamour yourself before arriving on the beach that day to greet Maeve's forces. As demi-fae, you had few powers, but one of the strongest was casting glamours. It was part of why you'd been so successful as an assassin at the Guild. Glamoured as Aelin, you'd been the one to be taken that day to Doranelle.

Anything for Aelin. Anything. Always.

Your voice shook as you said, "I will not be your second choice, Aedion."

"I'm not asking you to be," he murmured. "I'm asking you if you're alright."

Nearly. You nearly bent and broke, straight into him. Your mouth wobbled, but you managed to stand straight as you whispered, "I don't know who I am, now the bloodshed has stopped." When he said nothing, you drew a deep breath and continued. "Which means I'll keep fighting until I can sleep through the night."

"That's not how this works," he said evenly, and finally, he reached out, stopping himself just as his fingers grazed your sleeve. "You don't get to do this on your own, Y/N. We've always done this together - let me help you."

"You couldn't understand, Aedion."

And it was true. The things you'd gone through at Maeve's hands, at Arobynn's before her, no one could understand, least of all this prince. But as he touched you, for the first time in years, you felt your will against him falter.

You could have him, you thought. He's right there.

"Let me try," he breathed. His gold-rimmed eyes were desperate, soulful. Full of something you'd hardly dared admit to seeing before. Before Lysandra, when it was just you and him against the world. Desire. Admiration. Love? "Let me take care of you, Y/N. You've spent your whole life caring for us. Let me shoulder the burden, just for a little while."

The space stretched between you and Aedion, infinite. A breath. There was the truth, you realized. And you whispered:

"I'm scared, Aedion."

"I know, sweetheart."

He sensed it before it happened, and was around the desk in an instant, even as you fell back into your chair. Your breath came shortly, your chest crushed beneath the iron vice of memory. You'd failed to realize what it was to be rid of the constant routine of fight or flight, and now, that freedom came crashing down upon you as a wave, crushing your breath into teary gasps of air. Into sobs.

But Aedion was there, perched next to you, drawing you as close to him as he could. He pressed his mouth to your hair, your temple, your cheek, murmuring that he had you. That he was sorry. That Lysandra was only ever a distraction. That he'd loved you since you were children. That he had you. That he wouldn't let you go.

That you were safe now.

When the sobs subsided, you managed to lift your head, to look up at him through bloodshot eyes. He gazed on you fondly, his own eyes limned in silver. His hand smoothed over your hair, a gentle caress.

"You are the strongest female I have ever known," he murmured. "You may feel lost now, but we'll take this on together. Alright?"

"You have some explaining to do," you replied with half-hearted severity. "Frolicking with Lysandra isn't entirely forgiven, I'll have you know."

"Figured it wouldn't be."

"But... Together?"

"As it's always been, Y/N." He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "I swear."

"I'll hold you to it."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from my most fearless warrior."

You smiled, and leaned up just enough to take him by surprise, kissing him softly. With the tenderness of ten years of longing, of ten years of sacrifice and love.

He tasted of beginnings.

#aedion ashryver x reader #aedion ashryver #aedion x reader #throne of glass #tog #aelin x reader platonic #aedion x lysandra #aelin ashryver galathynius #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius

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thetriboulet · 26 days ago

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AMERICAN OSEMANVERSE FAN'S GUIDE TO BRITISHISMS AND THE SCHOOL SYSTEM

HELLO - so I've been seeing a few posts about like. american Osemanverse/other-british-ip fans not understanding the uk school system or just general britishisms, especially when writing fanfiction, SO. I've created a little guide below to help with some pretty common mistakes i see a lot in fics, but also just general misunderstandings and confusion.

(NOTE THAT THIS IS SPECIFIC TO ENGLAND AS ALL OSEMANVERSE PROPERTIES ARE SET THERE. AS THIS IS LARGELY TO DO WITH EDUCATION AND COLLOQUIALISMS PEOPLE FROM DIFFERENT AGE GROUPS AND PARTS OF THE UK MAY HAVE EXPERIENCES WITH THESE TERMS/SYSTEMS THAT DIFFER FROM WHAT I HAVE LAID OUT.)

Language and slang:

(the four words I see misused, used out of place, or used in excess a lot in fics.)

1. 'Mate' - alright so. 'Mate', in my experience, tends to be used in three main ways:

i) just a general address that people (usually guys) use on their friends. I'd like to point out that it's used more as an address than a noun. So, for example, its a lot more common to hear someone be like 'Mate, are you alright' than it is to hear 'Yeah we're good mates', although the latter is still a thing. Worth noting however that when used as a noun the word comes off as very casual and sometimes a bit dismissive, so it's unlikely that characters such as Frances and Aled would refer to each other as 'mates'. The only Osemanverse characters I can think of rn that I think have or would call someone their mate are Harry or Mac, probably.

ii) again a general address except with a hint of irony. think when Angel tells Juliet 'Mate, I am living.' It's basically the same as i) except a little sillier. a little more chutzpah. i could see Rooney, Angel, Tao, and Bliss using it this way.

iii) aggressively. think when harry says 'mate, are you in a mood' in the heartsopper netflix show or when Nick calls Charlie mate in Nick & Charlie. In an aggressive context its pretty much exclusively used as an address. If you're writing angst about your chosen characters arguing then this can be a pretty good way of indicating a tonal shift.

2. 'Bruv' - absolutely not. Never use this one unironically I'm begging you I promise that the general bruv population over here are NOT in the Osemanverse fandom.

3. 'Bloke' - not the worst. Used solely as a noun (unless you're counting 'blokish'), usually by and with reference to men aged 30+. This one is a bit more common up north so if you're writing fanfiction for Loveless set in Durham then having older characters use this is fitting. It isn't unheard of for younger people to use it, but the only Osemanverse characters I can think of off the top of my head who would are probably Harry, Lister, (maybe) Rowan, and the taxi driver from iwbft, or Rooney or Becky ironically.

4. 'Lad' - same as 'Bloke' except used with reference to young boys/men. This one is more likely to be used by younger people than 'Bloke', specifically as a noun or mode of address (i.e I think at one point in IWBFT Lister addresses Rowan and Jimmy as 'lads'.)

School stuff!:

NOTE: We refer to stages of school in two main ways-

No 1 is Years, going from 1-6 (primary), 7-11 (secondary), and 12-13 (sixth form/college).

No 2 is Key Stages (KS). This basically lumps together year groups. Years 12-13 are KS5, years 10-11 are KS4, years 7-9 are KS3, years 3-6 are KS2, and anything below that is KS1.

YEARS TO GRADES TRANSLATOR: Add one to a grade and you'll get the equivalent year. For example: Grade 9 = Year 10, Grade 4 = Year 5. I know this may seem innocuous but trust me it makes SUCH a difference.

SUBJECT NAMING CONVENTIONS: Some of our school subject names are different. Common ones that people get wrong (as in, using american names to describe british classes) include:

- Maths/Mathematics (=MATH, obviously) - This doesn't seem like a big deal but trust me if you put 'math' or 'math class' in your writing it can stick out. (Also worth mentioning that in the UK we don't normally seperate maths into different classes, i.e Calculus or Geometry. These will all be taught by the same teacher(s) in the same allocated class time.)

- PE/Physical Education (=GYM) - not much to say about this. 'Gym' is fine when referring to the physical space, but most people don't call the subject 'Gym class'.

- History - not a big deal but we usually don't have different kinds of History class, i.e 'World History' or 'U.S History' (obviously not the latter.)

A RUNDOWN OF THE SCHOOLING TIMELINE:

PRE SCHOOL- (equivalent to KINDERGARTEN) - most people start school around age three by going to 'nursery', though some people dont.

PRIMARY SCHOOL (equivalent to ELEMENTARY SCHOOL)- You then move up to Reception, which is basically Baby's Induction Into the School System. Following that, you go from years 1-6 (some primary schools only go up to year 5 and some go all the way up to year 7 but this is uncommon).

SECONDARY SCHOOL (YEARS 7-9) - (equivalent to MIDDLE SCHOOL) - this is where the translation to americansim gets a bit messy im afraid. Secondary school spans 5 years total, from the ages of 11-16, which means that the first two years of what americans call high school are part of our secondary school system in addition to american middle school years. But yeah, years 7-9 are basically middle school. During year 9 students will choose subjects (although some are compulsory, like maths and english) to study at GCSE (General Certificate of Secondary Education).

SECONDARY SCHOOL (years 10-11) - (equivalent to FRESHMAN and SOPHMORE years of highschool) - years 10-11 is generally when people start studying for their GCSEs. In summary, this is when school gets a bit serious. Year 11s sit for their exams at the end of the year and leave school early once theyre finished. As i said before these year groups are usually a part of the same school as year 7-9.

SIXTH FORM/COLLEGE (years 12-13) - (equivalent to JUNIOR and SENIOR years of highschool) - when shit hits the fan. Students in this year bracket will usually study 3 or 4 A-Levels depending on the school. We also have International Baccalaureate and Level 3 Diploma courses but as far as I'm aware no Osemanverse characters take/have taken these. 'Sixth form' and 'college' both refer to this age group (college does not mean university in this case) and facilitate mostly the same types of study, however, Sixth forms are more similar to Secondary schools than colleges as they usually have uniforms and are generally stricter. I don't think any characters attend college though so this shouldn't be an issue.

FINAL NOTE: Don't take any of this too seriously. Writing fanfiction is supposed to be fun, and stressing over transcontinental slang differences isn't worth it if it takes any enjoyment away from your writing process. I just wanted to put all these things into one text post so people who want clarity on them can have an easy point of reference. While sometimes reading 'grade' instead of 'year', or 'mate' in a place it shouldn't be can sometimes very briefly take me out of a fic, it is not a big deal at all and doesn't stop me (or anyone) from enjoying that piece of writing. I can confidently say I have never read a bad Osemanverse fic, and the IWBFT and Radio Silence fandoms in particular produce some amazing work IMO. These aren't rules, just tips.

Except for the bruv thing.

Never put bruv in your fic I beg.

Y'all are amazing, have a nice day :^)

#osemanverse #alice oseman #iwbft #i was born for this #booklr #oseman tag #the osemanverse #radio silence #solitaire #loveless alice oseman #heartstopper

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kingmagnificoofrosas · 2 months ago

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𝐑𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐧

Finally, after almost a year, I finally introduce him to you! And man am I happy about that!

Some of you might have heard his name once or twice in a post. Some of you might remember me mentioning that he's Amaya's soulmate and husband. And some might be completely new to him. So ... here he is!

Backstory

Rowan lopez was born in the coastal town Lavaria in north spain. As the son of the chief guard of the earl of Lavaraia (Amaya's father) he grew up with Amaya and became her guardian early on.

How he first met Amaya ❤️

One day - Amaya age 5 - got lost in the rose-bush maze that was in the gardens of her mansion. Rowan found her, comforted her and guided her out. From that day on they were inseperatable. He knew he loved her even back then. Over the years, his and Amaya's relationship became very much complicated, but I will dive deeper into it in another post.

How he met Magnifico

Rowan met Magnifico the same day Amaya did. They eventually developed a strong friendship, which could be considered a brotherly-bond. He accompanied him to found Rosas and was then made chief guard.

About his character

Rowan has always shared a smiliar humor to Magnifico, sometimes even a bit more sarcastic. He's fiercly loyal and always tries to please everyone he loves, which obviously not always works. He has a temper that flares especially when he gets nervous, impatient or emotionally worked up. Yet, he'd much rather be calm. When it comes to sword fighting and combat, you'll hardly find anyone as skilled as Rowan. He's trained most of his life to be as good and it shows.

Facts

Actually, Rowan used to be the same age as Magnifico - 35 - but since the "cursed cage" had Magnifico frozen in time, he is now 10 years ahead.

He's 1.85 m tall or 6.6 ft. - which make's him only slightly shorter than the king.

His current status is Earl. After Magnifico returned and went back to his rightful place as king, Rowan became earl through marrying Amaya, who is a born lady.

Yes, you can officially ask him questions as well now 💫

#wish oc #wish 2023 #wish fanart #Amaya x Rowan #People of the royal court

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profound-imagination · 2 years ago

Text

Broken Promises - Fenrys Moonbeam

A/N: I thought I'd try something different and write for the TOG characters! There's not enough fics on here about them and Fenrys is my favourite lil wolf boy ❤️ This could definitely have a part 2 if people want it! I hope you like it!❤️

W/C: 2.8K

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The last place you thought you'd be was chasing ghosts with three fae males and another human girl, but here you were. All for that insufferable wolf. The one you couldn't shake from the moment you'd met him in Skull's Bay. Not to mention the young Queen of Terrasen who Rowan Whitethorn would hunt to the ends of the earth for, the four of you in tow.

It had been the most exhausting two months of your life, how Elide coped you didn't know, Gavriel's kindness in using his magic to brace her ankle was only a small part of it you were sure. How Rowan endured the empty mating bond was again a mystery. The other mystery that haunted you was why you so desperately needed to go with them, why you needed the wolf to be safe. He'd made his choices, he'd sworn himself to Maeve, he'd done this to himself and he'd broken his promises to you and he'd broken you in the process, but still you went.

Sea air caressed your face as you sat on deck watching the sun disappear in the horizon. You sensed him seconds before he sat next to you and drawled, "Mind if I join you?" You met his onyx eyes, "It appears you already have, Lord Fenrys." He snorted at that. "Just Fenrys, I'm no Lord." You smiled at him slightly and looked back out to the water, "How did you come to be such a close companion of the King?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at Dorian.

"Our mothers are friends, we are close in age so growing up, Dorian would be running around causing chaos, Chaol running behind him trying to fix whatever Dorian broke and I'd be behind both of them, just wanting to be involved." Fenrys chuckled, "I can picture that, the three of you being nightmares." You smiled as a memory hit, "Once, when we were 7, a boy from a visiting noble family pushed me over in the courtyard and poured his juice all over me because I wanted to play with them. He told me I was to be a Lady not a Knight and therefore I couldn't play Knights with them, when I refused he pushed me as hard as he could then poured his juice all over my new dress, I still have the scar on my knee. Dorian punched him so hard his nose broke and demanded he apologise and replace my dress. We were both screaming so loud our mothers thought we were being attacked, when they found us Chaol and Dorian were holding me and telling me I could be anything I wanted to be, if I wanted to be a knight, Chaol would train me himself and Dorian would name me the Kings Knight." Fenrys laughed then, a proper laugh, loud enough that Dorian, Aelin and Rowan all peered over at the two of you from the conversation they'd been having. "And are you? The King's Knight?" He asked, you smiled again and shook your head, "No, that job was always Chaol's, I took a more subtle job, as a lady of the court, I always had information and I was always listening." He raised an eyebrow, "So she's a spy." You grinned, "Something like that."

A friendship had formed between the two of you after that, it wasn't exactly a secret that Gavriel and Fenrys were trusted very little by everyone on the ship but you, the two warriors had given you no reason not to trust them so you made them be your friends instead, Gavriel was full of kindness and sorrow, sorrow for the son that couldn't yet look at him let alone speak to him, instead he'd ask you questions about him so you told him what you knew of Aedion Ashryver, the Wolf of the North. Fenrys was full of mischief and witty comments, often using that strange place jumping power of his to scare the life out of you, but you couldn't deny you had started to grow a soft spot for both of them.

"Have you been to war?" You asked them one evening, watching the Wyvern who had landed on deck not long ago in wonder. "Many times." Gavriel confirmed. "Do we stand a chance at this one?" His eyes met yours. "Are you worried that you don't?" He asked gently. "I'm worried that I won't live long enough to find out. I've had some training, but it was mainly self defense, I don't know how to wield a sword or a bow." His eyebrows bunched but it was Fenrys who spoke, "You'll see the new world, Y/N, I'll train you the best I can, so will Gavriel and I won't leave your side when the time comes, nothing will happen to you." You met his eyes, staring at him as if you could see into his soul, "You promise?" Your voice sounding weaker than you intended it to. "I swear it." Deciding not to pull on that thread of a promise you asked, "Do you think he'll let me pet him?" Gavriel snorted a laugh but Fenrys had gone pale, "Do not touch the Wyvern, Y/N!" You grinned at him, "I'm not going to but I am going to ride a Wyvern before this war is over."

You'd known deep in your soul that it was an oath he couldn't keep, the blood oath he'd sworn would pull him away from you sooner or later. He'd tried his best though, to train you, to keep you safe.

The Stone Marshes was a despicable place, one that should've never been entered, yet here you were, panting on your back and gritting your teeth as Aedion prepared gods knew what for everyone to eat on your first night in them. "Again." Fenrys commanded as you pulled yourself from the ground, "If you can disarm me, you can disarm anyone." You gritted your teeth and stood your ground, preparing to strike again when Rowan called him away to start his watch, you'd take him his meal later you decided.

Dorian sidled up beside you, he'd been unusually quiet these past few days. "So…the wolf?" He questioned with a smirk and you felt your cheeks heat, "So…the witch?" You questioned back. His smirk turned feline. "Fair enough." You laughed at him. "There's nothing between us, he's training me, we're going to war, Dorian and Chaol isn't here to teach me." His face fell. "Why did you stay? In the castle with me?" He asked quietly, so you were doing this now then, the conversation that had yet to happen about why you'd stayed while he was enslaved by the collar. "Because Chaol couldn't." Dorian's eyes turned stormy, "Y/N-" You cut him off, "I didn't want you to be alone, Dorian. I didn't know if you were still in there, but if you were, I didn't want you to be alone." He smiled gently and took your hand, his movements tracked, you noticed, by the white haired witch across the fire and the White Wolf on the rocks above.

"I don't deserve the loyalty you and Chaol give me." You squeezed his hand and smiled at him gently, "We don't give it to you blindly, Dorian, we give it to you because we believe in you and the world you'll help create. I give it to you for the little boy who got in heaps of trouble for breaking a bullies nose for me when we were seven, I give it to you for rejecting any and all proposed marriage matches for me, for always making sure I have a choice, in every aspect of my life." He sighed, pulling you into his side, his movements still being tracked, "I feel like I haven't given you one in this. You're being dragged into a war, I should've found you somewhere safe." Pressing closer into his side you said, "I had a choice, I could've gone with Chaol and Nesryn, but they have eachother and you'd have been alone, I chose to stay with you." He kissed the top of your head then, and Manon tensed ever so slightly across the fire and the White Wolf above loped away.

You were sure you did not want to know what Aedion had served you for dinner, you'd agreed with Aelin when she asked to never be told what she was eating. Balancing a bowl of whatever Aedion had cooked up in one hand and a skin of water in the other you trugged up the slope to find Fenrys. Your right foot caught in a root and your left began to slide backwards when you felt a weight behind you, pushing you back upright. You turned and smiled at the wolf. "I bought you dinner, I don't know what it is, I thought best not to ask, but I don't know if you hunt and eat as a wolf but I didn't want you to be hungry if you didn't and I just assumed that you did," You were well aware you were rambling and you cringed at yourself. With a flash the wolf was a man again and he took the bowl from your hands. "Thank you, Y/N." You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as he studied you, "Show me your footwork and the moves we went through yesterday while I eat?" He asked as he handed you the dagger from its sheath at his hip. So you did.

Halfway through the steps he asked, "So you and Dorian?" You stopped, "What about me and Dorian?" His eyes hardened, "You seemed very close earlier?" Was he jealous? "He asked me why I stayed in the castle after Chaol fled." He nodded once, "Why did you?" He asked, so you told him, "I don't think he remembers, I told him the scars on my face were from the castle shattering, but it was that thing inside him, trying to break him, he shouldn't have to live with that when it wasn't him that did it, not really" Fenrys clenched his jaw, "There's nothing like that between Dorian and I, not now." His eyebrows rose, "Not now?" Your cheeks heated again, "Well, there never really was, just this this one time when we were 16, we decided to have our first time together after too much wine, we thought it was a good idea to get it over and done with, to take the pressure away from it being with someone we were interested in romantically." He nodded again, "I don't regret it." You weren't sure why you felt the need to add that on but you did. "It was awful." You confessed and finally Fenrys laughed, "That's often the way with first times." You smiled at him, "I don't see him like that, nor does he see me like that." He took a breath and made another oath, "No one will touch you again." The conversation was left there, "Show me the steps once more then go and get some rest." That night and every other night spent in the Marshes, you woke to a White Wolf curled around you, one of its Onyx eyes open, always watching. It was never spoken about. Nor was it spoken about how Fenrys had thrown himself off of the rocks he was shooting arrows at the Ilken from when Aelin's power exploded and threw himself over you like a shield.

It hurt to think about what happened on the beach, you'd spotted Lorcan jump in a long boat heading to shore where he'd left Elide, Gavriel and Fenrys long gone, the blood oath calling them to their master you were sure. Elide had become your friend and you were teaching her how to read and write, so you jumped and swam. You couldn't imagine how much it hurt Rowan, to have arrived too late, you knew he'd have let himself be killed to get Aelin to safety. It gutted you to see the warriors powerless and it made you sick to your stomach as you watched Aelin be whipped over and over again, refusing to count.

Fenrys knew he was helpless from the moment he and Gavriel appeared right where Maeve had summoned them, he'd fought it for as long as he could, they both had. Before they'd used his power to jump from the boat he'd looked at her one last time, to find her already watching him, both betrayal and understanding shone in her eyes and he couldn't take it, so, like a coward, he'd grabbed Gavriel and they were gone.

The young Queen, his young Queen wasn't going to last, each whip sounded like the earth was shattering, Gavriel was still trying to right himself from the blood oath being ripped from him, Lorcan was doing the same, Elide was hissing at him like an angry cat, to fight it, to help Aelin, to do something, she pleaded with the witch as well. He wouldn't be so lucky, he knew that. Maeve wouldn't take the oath from him knowing how much he openly despised it. He didn't think he could despise it more until her scent hit him, she was coming and he couldn't stop her, she breezed past him, throwing herself at Maeve, his dagger in hand, the same one he'd handed her this morning, with another promise that he would be close by, the dark queen simply laughed at her and flicked her wrist as darkness slammed into Y/N and sent her flying backwards, he wasn't quick enough to stop the warning growl that left his throat and Maeve's smile turned snakelike.

"Fenrys," She crooned, "Keep your new pet controlled and on the ground." He gritted his teeth, he would not do it, he would not obey. He would not- "Would you rather I ask Cairn to give her the same treatment as my dear niece?" He was moving instantly, he pulled her up as gently as he could. "Please." She begged him quietly, "Don't do this, help her." Silver lined her eyes and Fenrys couldn't look at her. "Such a pretty face." Maeve purred as she dragged the tip of her dagger from Y/N's forehead to her jaw, not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to be a warning to Fenrys. Instead Maeve struck her with her other hand. He swore he could hear Y/N's teeth rattle as her lip split, she struggled against him, absolute betrayal was all he saw in her face now. "Down, in the sand." Maeve commanded and so he pushed her down so she was lying face down in the sand, she had to hate him, he had to make sure she wouldn't follow, "You promised." She whimpered. Maeve laughed again, Aelin contained in her coffin, she commanded him to leave, his eyes met Gavriel's. Don't let her move, he willed his friend as he stood. Gavriel was there, pulling her up and into his chest as she shouted down the beach after him. "You swore!" Each word like a hot poker to his heart. "You swore you'd be here, that you wouldn't leave!" So Fenrys did the worst thing he could think of, he stopped next to Maeve who was watching him carefully, "I lied, pathetic human. You really thought I'd stay, for you?" He raised an eyebrow at her and saw his words hit their mark, saw her shrink into Gavriel's chest, then, to seal it, to truly break any trust or hope she had in him or for him, he turned to the dark queen and kissed her. "I missed you Majesty."

Fenrys woke with a jolt, Aelin watching him from the stone slab, a dream, it was a dream. She blinked at him. I am here, I am with you. It was either dreams of her, or his brother, which is why he tried his best not to sleep until his body gave out from the exhustion.

You and Gavriel had never spoken of those minutes on the beach where you'd clung to him like he was a teather to the earth, he healed your lip silently as you cried, as Elide pushed away from Lorcan and crawled towards Manon. Aedion pulled you away from his father with a growl, "What happened?" He demanded and through your tears all you could do was shake your head, he asked again and again until Dorian had pushed him away, folding you into his chest. Rowan holding a knife to Lorcan, he was saved by Elide who retold the story.

So a plan was made, Rowan would go with Gavriel, Lorcan and Elide to find her. Dorian was reluctant to let you go with them but he knew you'd go regardless so he agreed and went with the witches. Aedion and Lysandra disguised as Aelin would head back up North.

You were walking arm in arm with Elide when it happened, Gavriel and Lorcan in front of you stopped dead, Rowan taking up the rear was frozen on the hill. "What's happening?" Elide asked Gavriel as he and Lorcan rushed towards Rowan. The two of you caught the tail end of the conversation. "It came from the North, from Doranelle." Rowan looked lighter than he had in weeks, "She's alive." He breathed.

#fenrys x reader #fenrys moonbeam #throne of glass #crown of midnight #heir of fire #assassin's blade #queen of shadows #tower of dawn #kingdom of ash #dorian havilliard

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ninehouses-if · 2 years ago

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Nine Houses

Demo (09/15/24)

Nine Houses represent the nine bloodlines that help keep the magic in order. Over time two houses seem to have been lost: making the remaining seven houses diligent in their duties. You are the scion to the Sixth House…or at least you were.

Your eldest sibling has been declared the scion. This was never supposed to have happened since their curse had always made them unsuitable for ruling the Sixth House. As far as you can tell that hasn’t changed yet now your life is adrift. People around you are acting differently and new people are showing up. Is everything related or are you just hoping to make some sense of what has happened?

There are different directions your life can take but do any of them appeal to you?

The story will focus on relationships, romantic or platonic, with a mystery element. Nine Houses is set in a world similar to our own but with magic.

Customize the main character in appearance and personality. How do they handle the change in their position? Do they help or hurt their sibling’s chances? Do they dive head first into a new mystery or do they want to hang back a bit?

Build Relationships. Befriend everyone, be a loner, or somewhere in between.

Romance one of five characters; Your (old) betrothed, the rival bloodline, the new boy/girl(s) in town, or the university researcher.

Choose which areas of life skills you focused on.

Shinji/Shiori Kubo

The match was made with the understanding they would one day rule with the future Vicerex of the Sixth House. Now the question is if they want to stay with you or go with your elder sibling.

Marica/Matteo Milan

Your so-called cousin, even though the two of you aren’t related. They are from the next family in the line to rule the bloodline. They have spent many years in the north to gain traction and allies.

Rowan Cosra

A visitor from the main island who's here along with their twin. They seem to be the relaxed one of the two. They seem to be taking everything in stride and going along for the fun of it.

Aster Cosra

A visitor from the main island who's here along with their twin. They are the more stoic of the two. They seem to be going along with everything out of duty.

Nora/Niko Stavig

A university student who is studying the changes in magic. They are being hosted by different House Families. They have already spent the allocated time being hosted by your family, but they keep coming back.

_ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _-_ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _-_ - _ - _ - _ - _ -

The Demo includes the full prologue and was updated on 01/24/24

Extra Stories: added 06/03/24

#interactive fiction #interactive novel #info post #if #nine houses if

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heathersgameoftag · 8 months ago

Note

hey can i ask what unkempt garden is and how it relates to tag?

hello!!!

unkempt garden is essentially what will be the remake of tag. i've had it in the works for a while (but put it to the side to finish another book off first) but basically its just tag but with characters i can call my own. this means i wont have the limitations of fanfiction with the story itself. actually, writing this now makes me realise a lot of people might not know the main changes i've made to unkempt garden so have a little treat!!!

-unkempt garden is set in wales, UK. they live in a fictional rural town in north wales, surrounded by farms, woodland and really tall hills!!!

-due to the way school works here, this means the dynamics and backstories are slightly different. for those unaware, there's no middle school here, just primary school and secondary school! sometimes sixth form (junior and senior year) is split off into sixth form colleges, but in this case the sixth form campus is still connected to the same secondary school they all grew up in.

-its modern day! so phones exist, as do different perceptions on lgbt+ people. i'm still figuring out how to adapt the lgbt+ conflicts of tag into modern day.

-i changed rose (heather chandler's updated self) a lot. she'll still be the same lovable toxic girl-liker but i have switched up bits about her that im no longer happy with.

-same with rowan (jd). he's still basically the same but i have added more to him.

-none of the main cast other than rose is cis and i think thats really funny.

#tag asks

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superconductivebean · 2 months ago

Note

Hello there! I wanted to ask 5, 16 and 20 from the MC asks ☺️

hihi!!! I wanted to do the whole @rypnami's MC questions list ^ ^ But I think I'll do in the form of this ask, to have it answered.

I'm also putting it out in the tags, so here's how Julia looked in 1890:

1) if your mc was an animagus, what would their form be? if they are, what is their form?

Julia isn't an animagus.

If she would become an one, she's definitely a hare. They're fast, bloody smart, and their punch can break a rib or two.

2) if they could choose what animagus form they would take, would it be the same? or would they want to have a different animal form?

She'd preferred to turn a magpie, to play along the in-House joke about her personality and, well. Flying.

3) does your mc have a favourite colour? why is it their favourite?

I think Julia would like earthy tones? I imagine the designs of both of her study and cottage to be accounting for a lot of light but the walls and furniture are of dark colours. I'd call it Sharp's influence, but Julia has always been surrounded by shadows, darkness, clouds; let alone she's from the North.

As I am also a northerner, sleeping through That Bloody Sunnight is impossible with lightly-coloured walls. That's why, probably.

4) in a modern au, would your mc use social media? what would their preferred platform be? why is if their preferred one?

She'd totally have tumblr and a youtube channel + a reddit account, possibly. Julia has a bunch of obscure hobbies in the modern aus, so I'd also throw -exchange websites in here.

My trash child would be into fanfiction, too.

5) did you consult wand lore when choosing their wand? if so, why did you pick what you did? if not, would you ever change wand details to match your mc?

Back when I was messing around with the linking accounts and all that, I let the game to parse my wand details. It's of Rowan wood, 10", the core is the unicorn hair; Julia uses it, I never changed its details.

6) what is your mc’s diet? are they vegan, vegetarian, do they eat whatever? why?

Julia will eat everything if it isn't sweet, Firewhiskey, or boom berries. Her childhood was rather challenging food-wise, if not scarce on it; she doesn't mind other foods, but she also prefers to have a great variety on her table.

7) what is your mc’s backstory as to why they didn’t join hogwarts until 5th year? or did you retcon that part of the story when creating them?

*ugly crying* it's too big i will not tell it here just know that there was a some kind of divine intervention, demiurgic comedy, ceridwen's brew of awen mention, and a parental wish for a child to be talented

8) what house is your mc in? why are they in that house?

RAVENCLAW. SHE'S A MAGPIE FOR MORE REASONS THAN A JOKE. A KNOWLEDGE HOARDER. A BOOK COLLECTOR. A FUTURE failed SCHOLAR. THE STARKY'S INSPIRATIONAL FIGURE. grey lady's nightmare and the hat's hmmmmmmmmmmmm

9) were you inspired by characters from other media when making your mc? if so, which characters? and how did they influence your mc?

Meh this is old.

Сiri: Julia is gifted with a special magical talent that put a target on her back, too (Ashwinders would benefit from having her around either way but her ability would've become the WE'RE RICH moment). On her journey, she's brought to an old castle and met the future father figures here (Eleazar and Aesop <- -> Vеsemir and Gеralt). 8th book does not happen ihateitihat but Kaer Morchen siege's tragic end does; I couldn't forget about the Old Druid Technique, neither about the anniversary video where Сiri hugs Geralt at Corvo Bianco 🥺Сiri was the main inspiration for Julia & Aesop's mentorship plotline;

Lоhse: terrible but witty humour, Lоhse Invented Lesbianiasm, and I got a feeling HL was at least somewhere tinely inspired by DОS2? By default, Lоhse uses elemental magic, water-based spells; AM closely resembles water, if not to assume directly associated with it, but it's a sidenote because as I said, Terrible Jokes Came First;

Emily: I'm still uncertain if I should've chosen Cоrvo but either way, if HL had what Dishоnored had, it would've been an amazing game all throughout; so far, it only manages to look like it graphically, on the low settings. But I digress. Both Julia and Emily had to make tough, if not terrible, choices guided by forces they couldn't quite understand or fully comprehend;

Moist: my trash man believed in an angel once and lived a better life, so did my trash child Julia;

KATZENJАMMER: Julia's family theme songs;

Tilda Swintоn.

10) does your mc have any special abilities? (legilimens, parsletongue, metamorphagus, etc) how do they choose to use these powers? did you give them powers for fun, or does it relate to their backstory/plot?

No, Julia doesn't have any other things going on about her.

11) what is your mc’s blood status? how does it affect their time at hogwarts? how does it affect their home life?

Half-blood. Accepted at home back in the Netherlands and her Faroese/Danish side of the family doesn't really mind (they're happy she's alive and could bring closure to the wound caused by her father's death), but ohboi she caused fire to families like the Malfoys or the Gaunts. They're her biggest haters; they couldn't believe a witch of her talents could be of muggle decent.

At some point, she changed her official last name to her Faroese one just to spite some people.

12) did your mc open the repository? why or why not?

After Ranrok destroyed it, she didn't bother restoring it nor opening it. Julia is very wary of that particular thing Isidora did and didn't want to absorb powers she wouldn't be able to control.

13) if your mc opened the repository, how did absorbing all that power affect them, if it did at all?

Julia would had committed a suicide short after, unable to handle the flood of unlocked memories. Her rage would've been the end of her.

14) what does your mc think of the keepers? do they trust them? why or why not?

Percival: Thought he was an insight she needed, turned out a man who had an agenda that severely misaligned with the end goal of protecting the school.

Charles: The homely man. The kind who will hide critical intelligence in order to keep or to save their good standing. Can't be trusted. Good at transfiguration though.

Niahm: The gentle maternal figure—the one Julia would deliberately seek sometimes to have what little of guidance on AM she could get.

San: The stall, but the voice and act of reason.

15) how does your mc’s story continue after 5th year? how do they cope with everything that happened with ranrok, sebastian, etc?

To trash with Sebastian, she had her uncle to deal with and Ranrok to debate with in her dreams. And then, The Bureaucracy.

16) did your mc learn the unforgivables? why or why not?

Julia doesn't approve of the simplicity these curses imply.

She only realised the meaning of her own words when she got older.

17) did your mc turn in sebastian? why or why not?

Julia's reasoning was quite different from the one from the in-game.

Certain the Ministry would only ruin everything for everyone after the officer Singer told her and Natty off of their investigation, she didn't want to give Sebastian's secrets away to them—and for them to establish she was up to something this questionable didn't sound all right. Even though she didn't do anything and was actively against Sebastian's schemes, she didn't know the laws very well to know whether or not her and Ominis' bystanding would get them into trouble as well.

The Ministry ended up learning about The Event, but as Julia had predicted, it didn't care and it didn't do anything about it, busy with the full-fledged international scandal the Rookwood gang caused.

18) what is your mc’s family like? do they have siblings? do they still have parents?

Her dad is a lovely man. Her mum is a wicked but funny bitch. Her uncle is a huggable guy but he will scorch everyone disagreeing with him. The rest are rather vast crowd of people but of regular people, some are cool, others aren't; her auntie married a dragon caretaker and caused Family Drama over sheep but that's a whole another story.

19) does your mc have a love interest? who is it? why did your mc fall for that character, if they do have a love interest?

Imelda and Poppy. I had a post about them somewhere…

Here. It's still a WIP but 80% of it is settled.

20) does your mc have a favourite spell? if so, what is it and why do they like it the most?

She likes elemental magic. It looks magic. ^ ^

21) if you could change anything that the mc does in the game, what would it be? why would you change it? how would you change it? (ie; a line they say, an event of a quest, things of that nature)

I've gotten plethora of opinions/perspectives on how to redo, remake, what to add and all that; it's scattered across my blog in 2 languages.

It all will be very tedious to dig up so I found a reblog chain that covers the basics. Here.

22) does your mc have any pets? if so, why do they have the pets they have? and for fun, what are their pets’ names?

A little story.

My very first catch after a stray hippogriff (I thought you need to catch an one to ride an one lmao) was a kneazle rescue from a poacher camp. He was a sable black large kitty, I named him Samuel, and Realised only months later while talking to @thriftstorebabayaga. Sammy stayed as Julia's pet kneazle and he became the plot reason for Julia to wear the scar.

She rescued Sammy from poachers on her first week of school and got injured in the process.

23) when designing your mc, why did you choose the appearance you did? has it changed at all since you first made them? would you change anything now?

No, Julia's design came together last February, first try. The only detail that changed was the amount of freckles. I keep adding more.

24) where is your mc from? where is their family from?

Technically, Julia is from the Netherlands. But she grew up 1) on the ship, the trading vessel belonging to her father, 2) on Faroe islands, 3) and visited her grannies in Holland sometimes.

25) what is your mc’s favourite season? why is it their favourite?

She enjoys winter albeit she's hurt by the cold. No particular reason for liking it, except for it's the no gnat season.

26) how about your mc’s favourite holiday? what makes it special to them?

Christmas: days off, no gnat, food!

27) if your mc wasn’t in their current house, where would they have been sorted? why do you think they’d be there?

Hatstall between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. She's reckless enough to be considered Gryffindor but her sense for bird fountain community would push her to the Hufflepuffs. She'd enjoy either option.

28) does your mc have a favourite childhood toy? if so, what was it? do they still have it with them?

That stuffed kneazle that she keeps away because it reminds her of the happier life.

29) what kind of music would your mc like? is there a reason?

ATEMLOS DURCH DIE NACHT— German pop, Italian pop, and she stole Sharp's collection of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and The Doors.

30) last but not least, just tell us something you love about your mc!

the main tragedy of her life is bureaucracy and that fact amuses me greatly. that she defeated it is The Fantasy of her fantasy genre story

#днявочка #eng tag #ask aways #damn wright #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy mc

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motherodysseus · 2 years ago

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Ptolemaea - Chapter 1

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Original Stark Female Character (Alysanne Stark)

Warnings: Violence, language, sexual innuendo, length of text (lol)

Summary: Lady Alys remains behind as her brother rallies support from the lords of the North. On her nameday, a tourney for her hand ensues, one she intends to win. But danger is around every corner. Will she survive long enough to unite with her Velaryon cousins?

Author's note: Sorry this took so long. Turns out, editing your own work is liable to engender insanity!!! This one is a bit of doozy in length (I swear, I cut plenty), but hey, there was a lot to set up! Could I have split it into two chapters? Maybe. But where's the fun in that!? Besides, we have a Rogue Prince to meet. I hope you enjoy, and, as always, your comments, thoughts and feedback are most welcome!

“My lady, we must hurry. Your Uncle will be cross if he finds you’ve been away too long. We were only supposed to take a ride, after all.”

Alys rolls her eyes. Mikken Reed is a kind boy, if not a bit irksome. House Stark’s newest ward, the future heir of Greywater Watch is young, only having nine summers on him, and tiny yet; he does not even clear her chest. This has not deterred the boy from latching onto her skirts, thinking himself her gallant knight and protector. Alys is quite capable of protecting herself, but she is happy to indulge him. Usually. Here in her meadow, however, the real world and all its accompanying burdens have no place. This makes his reminder most unwelcome.

Found in the heart of the Wolfswood, the glade is dotted with wildflowers and the occasional oak and rowan tree. A brook cuts through like a vein, water trickling over the stones and strewn branches from trees long since fallen and rotted away. The sweet perfume of honeysuckles and primroses, and the dew that coats them each morn, are Alys’s favorite scent, second only to the winter rose.

Alys was but eight summers when she discovered this place, after running away from her lessons with Muña. At the time, she had no interest in learning to sew, or to dance, or to play the harp, or to manage a household. She’d much prefer to be in the training yard with her brother – a place she was barred from, on the unfortunate account of her being a girl.

Alys was never one to care for rules, especially ones that made little sense. While the boys would practice at swordplay with Vayon Cassel, master-at-arms, she would sneak into the armory to fetch a bow, and teach herself how to shoot. Each time she was caught, she would be brought before her father. She’d beg and plead with him, but the yard was no place for a lady, he said, sending her from his solar back along to her mother, with red knuckles and a sore heart.

Indignant and embittered, Alys decided to prove herself. She stole a bow and quiver full of arrows, had Nan the cook make her a picnic, saddled her pony Wynafryd – a beautiful black courser gifted to her by her Uncle Corlys – and galloped straight out of the safety of the Keep’s walls.

Once she found this place, she built a shelter from fallen branches she found along the forest line, weaved a crown of wildflowers and named herself Queen of the Wolfswood. She held a coronation feast for one, gorging herself on the treats Nan provided.

It took her parents a night and day to find her. When the Lord and Lady Stark finally laid eyes upon their wayward daughter, they were shocked to find the little kingdom she had created.

“There is no denying it, my lord husband,” Valaena said, dropping down from her horse and scooping Alys into her arms, hugging her close as she brushed brambles from her dress. “Your daughter has the wolf’s blood in her. Or perhaps this is not our daughter at all; rather, some little fae creature we have on her hands. Tell me, riñitsos, are you a changeling or mine own daughter?”

“I’m no changeling, Muña. I am your daughter, the Queen of the Wolfswood! See?” Alys asked, pointing to her crown, slightly wilted and askew, tangled in her mass of dark curls from a night spent abed the soft grass. Valaena laughed again, peppering her face with kisses.

Rickon dismounted so that he could join his wife and daughter in a much-needed embrace; the search having frayed his nerves. “Aye, that you are, Your Grace. But a Queen cannot simply disappear without informing her loyal subjects.” Alys scrunched her face, turning from her father to hide in the crook of her mother’s neck.

Rickon brushed the back of her head softly, reaching in between mother and daughter to cup her cheeks and bring her eyes back to his. “You had your mother and I worried sick, Alysanne. You must swear to me never to run off like this again.”

Alys’s lips quivered, but she did not back down. “I will swear it, but only if you swear you will allow me to train, Papa. Else, I shall be forced to make my home out here, and you shan’t look upon me again.”

Rickon locked eyes with Valaena over Alys’s head. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You drive a hard bargain, little wolf. After you serve your punishment, I’ll see what I can do.”

Alys, true to her word, served her punishment without complaint. She swore a full commitment to her lessons with both mother and Maester, and suffered through two moon turns without riding or sweets, nor playing with Holly, her closest companion. Not that Holly was interested, for she was quite cross that Alys would dare to run off without bringing her along. Nothing could mend the rift until Alys agreed to make a blood oath, swearing to never again adventure without her. The scar is still visible on her palm, and it is one she cherishes. By sharing blood, they were made sisters. Alys, though she loved her brothers dearly, had always wanted a sister.

Her father, true to his own word, allowed her to train – though she never was welcome in the training yard. He would make time each week to take Alys and Holly out to the meadow. He taught them how to carve their own bows and string them, and trained the two how to shoot himself. When their skills surpassed his own knowledge, he sent for an archery instructor from across the Narrow Sea, swearing him to secrecy so the girls could continue to learn.

Shaking herself from her reveries, she looks back to the boy. “Oh, a pox on my uncle, Mikken! And what have I told you? You need not call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Alys’ outside the Keep. Here, I am simply Alys.” She turns to face her fiery-haired friend. “Now, Holly, what say you? One more round of roving marks?”

“I say the little lord makes a point. No time left for all that – let’s aim once more for the target and then make our way back to the Keep.”

“Fine,” Alys huffs. “First one to hit the center gets their pick of dessert from the kitchens?”

“Challenge accepted, your Ladyship,” she says, leaning in with an exaggerated bow.

Holly herself never much cared for the pageantry of lords and titles, preferring to poke fun whenever she could. They are not her way, for she was born North-of-the-Wall to a wildling mother. When Holly’s mother was put to the sword, the Lady Valaena protected the girl, insisting she join her daughter’s household. Holly never forgot the kindness, even if she often forgot herself in the face of nobility and their “silly Southern customs.”

Bennard thought Holly a bad influence, attempting to separate them when he took over the regency of Winterfell. But the Lady Valaena stood firm. “Woe be to any man who would tear apart sisters,” she said, “whether they be borne or made.”

Bastard, thinks Alys, Should he ever try to take her from me, I’ll show him what a Lady is truly made of.

The girls nock their arrows, aiming for the mounds. “Mikken, count us down,” Alys insists.

“But, my lady, we will get in trouble if– ”

“‘Tis not an invitation to argue, Mikken! And what did I say about titles? Now, if you would please count us down.”

“Yes, my lady – I mean, Lady Alys. I mean, Alys!” Mikken squeaks, as his hands twist the reins of their horses. Poor lad. I am too harsh. It is not fair to unleash my nerves upon him.

“Loose your arrows on one! Three, two…”

Alys takes a breath, and eye falling shut as she narrows on the target.

“One!” Mikken shouts. Alys has already released her quiver, as has Holly; neither girl is above a bit of treachery when they compete against the other. Their arrows whistle through the air. Alys squints, holding a hand over her brow to shield herself from the sun’s glare, attempting to follow their trajectory. She loses sight for but a moment, until she hears the telltale thwap-thwap.

“I cannot tell from here, it’s too far to see clear, and the arrows too close to call a winner,” Holly says. “Should we send your little squire to check?”

Alys considers it, but the sun is nearing its midpoint; they are cutting it close. “Nay, I think he has suffered enough this morn. Let us make our way back. You may choose the dessert; I care not.”

“You care not because you know Nan is already preparing all your favorite sweets,” Holly says, bumping her shoulder. “Oh to be a Stark girl on her name day!” She declares, twirling about in some mockery of a dance, pulling Alys along with her.

“Almost name day!” Alys says, giggling as she joins in. She turns and twirls with head upturned to the sun, following the tune of the brook behind her and the magpies overhead. There is a bite in the air, despite the fact that it is the twentieth day of the sixth moon of the year. Under the warmth of the sun, however, she can close her eyes and pretend that summer will last forever. Or, for a little while longer, at least.

As she steadies, reality finally forces itself upon this once inviolable space. Her stomach twists, mood blackening instantly. If all does not go to plan, this could be my final name day as the ‘Stark girl.’ Steeling herself, Alys puts on a smile, giving Holly a little shove as she makes her way back to the tree line.

She approaches Mikken. Up close, she can mark the strain her words put upon him in his creased brow and his slim shoulders that now rest firmly next to his ears.

She bends down to meet him. “Mikken, I owe you an apology for the way I spoke. It was unbecoming and cruel; I’m sorry for it. I know that you were only trying to look out for me.”

His bottom lip juts out, eyes fixed firmly on his boots. Alys places a hand to his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “You know, it takes a brave man to stand up to those in power when he knows they are in the wrong. You will make a fine knight one day, and an even better Lord. It is an honor I do not take lightly, to watch you grow into both.”

“Do you truly mean it?” he whispers.

“I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean, Mikken,” Alys whispers back conspiratorially. At this, he cracks a smile. “There he is,” Alys says, knocking his chin so that she can see his eyes. “Now, what say you to a little race back to Hunter’s Gate? Whoever makes it through first, can have the first bite of sweets. I heard a rumor that there will be apple tarts and stewed plums.”

Mikken brightens at this, and rushes to untie the horses.

“You are good with him, Alys. Your mother would be proud,” says Holly, who has snuck up to her side. Gods, she’s silent as a wraith when she wants to be.

“Thank you for saying so. Though, I wonder if she would be proud of the spectacle I shall be forced to make of myself tomorrow,” she muses, turning back toward the clearing.

Holly grabs her hand, the scars upon their palms brought together. It is a gesture of comfort, and she relishes in it. She knows me better than I know myself, as all sisters do. “Aye Alys, she would be proud, and you know it. These are nerves talking, not reason.”

“Perhaps,” is all Alys could muster.

Holly studies her closely, but decides not to push. A first. She takes Alys’s bow from her, and goes to hide it in the brush alongside her own. Task complete, she turns back to her friend. “Come, if you think I shall let you win this race because you’ve decided to mope, you’re sorely mistaken.”

This jab is enough to make Alys smile. “Pray tell, Holly – when have you ever let me win?”

Holly ponders for a moment. “I’m certain there was a time or two, but I can’t recall them just now. Now, will you mount or will you give me a head start?” she asks, as she takes her palfrey’s reins from Mikken.

“Take it, Holly, for you shall need it anyhow!” Alys crows. Holly laughs as she mounts her horse, whom she named – Gods, of all things – Squirrel. Alys did attempt to reason with her, pointing out the absurdity of such a name, but Holly would not be moved. “'Tis is a funny name for him, but it fits. Squirrels are quick and agile. Is he not those things, too?”

Alys takes one last look upon her meadow. She cannot help but feel that today is an ending of sorts. She sighs, turning to Mikken. He hands her riding gloves over. Newly made for her, they are black as night, as is the rest of her new wardrobe. It may be her name day tomorrow, but she is still deep in mourning.

Mikken is bursting with energy. He bounces on the balls of his feet, anxious to join the race. It is his eagerness that deals a final blow to Alys’s melancholy. “Come, I’ll help you mount.”

She approaches Wynafryd, now as tall as any Lord’s war horse. Folding her hands together, she bends down to give him a boost. He scrambles into the saddle as Alys places a foot in the stirrup, launching herself behind him. She bundles Mikken tightly to her front, reaching around him for the reins.

“Are you settled, Mikken? We have ground to make up, it seems.”

“Aye, Lady Alys! Make haste!”

She chuckles. My, is he not an imperious little lordling when competition is afoot. She gives Wynafryd a gentle kick, and clucks at her. “Onward, girl!” They race through the wood, Mikken whooping all the way.

As soon as Hunter’s Gate comes into view, Alys spots Holly. That hair could be seen miles away, kissed by fire as it is. She leans in, forcing Mikken to do the same. “Come on, girl!” she shouts as she nudges the horse into a gallop, pushing her full tilt towards the gate.

It is not long before they overtake her, barreling through the gate a few yards before she does. Really, it is not fair, even with the extra weight. Squirrel may be quick but he is no match for Wynafryd, in size or speed. Mikken’s cheer is contagious. Alys’s cheeks hurt from grinning, flushed as they are from activity. She slows Wynafryd to a trot, making her way past the kennels and kitchen, around the Library Tower, and toward the stables.

She leads her horse into the paddock, as the stable boys rush in to aid her dismount. She passes Mikken down first, before swinging her leg over and leaping to the ground. Holly and Squirrel enter the paddock soon after.

“It was a close race, Alys. One of these days, Squirrel will overtake Wynafryd, I’m certain of it.”

“Aye, and the pigs will sprout wings and take off in flight,” Alys snorts.

Mikken interrupts them. “May we go to the kitchens now, Lady Alys?”

Alys rolls her eyes, but her smile does not abate. “Aye, Mikken, we may. Run along ahead, and tell Nan I’ve sent you. You were first through the gate, which means the first sweet is yours.” The boy does not need to be told twice; quick as a rabbit, he runs back toward the kitchens.

“It seems you’ve had an eventful morning, my lady.” Alys turns to see Maester Lymon leaning against the paddock fence, green eyes twinkling. A genial old man, Lymon is like another father to her. He is a grounding presence in her life, always encouraging her learning and supporting her throughout any trial. The Citadel may not allow women into their ranks, but her Maester does not share their qualms about the fairer sex.

“That I have, Maester. How did you know I was gone?”

His tone is firm, but his eyes remain warm. “I didn’t, that is until I saw you flying through the gate from my solar; like a bat from the seven hells, no less.”

Alys pulls her gloves from her hands, and makes her way to him. “I had no choice – Mikken would have been aggrieved if we had not won the race. Apple tarts were on the line, so he cannot be blamed for it.”

Lymon laughs. “No, I suppose he can’t. You, however, can. We still have much to discuss ahead of our guests’ arrival. I’ve come to escort you to the Library so that we may talk logistics. Perhaps the boy will be kind enough to save you some sweets for when we are finished?”

“I think it unlikely,” she grumbles. My respite is at its end, it seems. “Holly, go on ahead to the kitchens without me. And do try to ensure Mikken does not take advantage of Nan’s good nature to eat his weight in sweets – Vayon will be cross with me if I’ve slowed down his newest recruit.”

“Aye, I can try, but I’ll make no promise of it,” Holly says, handing Squirrel’s reins to the stable boy and making a quick escape. She doesn't mind the Maester, but she was never one for lessons. “I’ll learn by doing, not by reading,” she said once, never returning to be taught thereafter.

Alys and Lymon walk in an amiable silence as she takes in the din of the grounds. Nearing noon, Winterfell is alive with activity, its inhabitants bustling about in preparation for their incoming guests. The stable boys are bucking hay, and burly men roll barrels of ale toward the Great Hall. Maids flitter about, bringing fresh linens and candles to the Guest House, gossiping all the way.

It is Lymon who breaks their silence. “I’ll not ask where you were, my lady, but may I make the rather safe assumption that you were preparing for tomorrow’s contest?”

“Aye, you may,” she concedes.

“And did you consider the risks, should you have been caught?”

“Aye, I did.” She pauses, before continuing in a hushed tone. “I found the necessity outweighed the risks. Besides, Bennard has been quite occupied these last few days, preparing to welcome my future husband, ‘whomever he may be,” she scoffs. “As if we are all unaware of his preference.”

Lymon hums in agreement. “We shall speak more on it in the Library.” Alys nods– it would not do to have one of Bennard’s lickspittles overhear. He banned her several summers ago from training, after all. If he were to be made aware of my rebellion, especially before the contest; well, it simply would not do.

The pair climb the steps outside the tower. She allows Lymon to go first so that she may keep an eye on him. Now reaching an age where stairs become a struggle, he takes them slowly, grumbling as his bones creak. I worry for him. If I manage to succeed tomorrow, it would be best to take our lessons in the Maester’s Turret, or mayhaps the Glass Gardens; the warmth would be better on his joints.

They arrive at the top, entering into the cavernous space which holds a thousand and one tomes, covering every inch of the rounded walls. She runs her fingers over the weathered spines, inhaling deep. The smell of leather, old parchment and dust soothes her.

The Maester also shares her love of this place, if not for the sheer delight in the library’s collection, then for the privacy it provides. No one enters this tower but the two of them. Bennard and his degenerate sons are far from learned, having preferred the training yard as most Northern second sons – and sons of second sons – seem to. It is one of the only places within Winterfell in which they may speak freely.

Lymon does not beat around the brush. “‘Tis a dangerous game you play, my lady. I worry for you. With your brother not yet returned from Last Hearth, there is no one here who may protect you, should you fail.”

“Come now, Maester – have you such little faith in your favorite pupil?” she asks, attempting a jape. It falls flat. Lymon grunts as he sits at the table, chains clinking. He motions her to join him before unfurling a parchment that holds a map of the North. He reaches into the wide sleeves of his robe, pulling out game pieces. Nay, not game pieces – they are direwolves.

“Let us review again, Lady Alys. We’ve secured allegiances for your brother’s cause from Houses Reed, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont, the Flint’s of Widow’s Watch, Hornwood, Cerwyn and Forrester,” he states, positioning a direwolf piece over each of the respective holdfasts. “I think we can assume he will succeed with House Umber, for they have always answered the call.” He places a direwolf over Last Hearth before moving back to his sleeve, this time pulling from them not direwolves, but sheep.

“But that leaves several houses in Bennard’s camp,” he says as he scatters the sheep across the map, “the strongest and most dangerous being House Bolton. Should Lord Bolton’s son Mervyn succeed in the tournament tomorrow, it would not be a shock if your Uncle were to force you to marry him that very night, to ensure their allegiance to his cause.”

Alys huffs. “First – it is simply inconceivable that I would marry a man named Mervyn. Besides, Mervyn will not succeed. I am sure he is fine with a bow, but I am better. Second – the other houses attending who are sworn to us would not stand for it.” Her voice is confident, but the direction of this conversation is beginning to unnerve her.

“‘The houses will not have a choice in the matter,” Lymon hisses. “Your brother took his most loyal men with him to ‘settle disputes amongst the great houses.’ Bennard is not stupid, he knows that Cregan is rallying support. Without the men, or your brother to lead them, they will not interfere. You also risk insulting those who have sworn fealty, should you beat their sons in this contest. The lords are loyal, but they are also prideful. If they take offense, Bennard will fan the flames.”

Alys rubs her hands down her face, groaning. “That is unfair! It is not as if I asked for any of this!” She regrets the childish words, for they incense the Maester instantly.

“You did ask for this, Alys! You did!” His palm slams against the table, several pieces tumbling.

“Maester –”

“No, do not deny it! I know your hand was forced, Alys. To attempt to announce an unagreed-upon betrothal at your lady mother’s funeral was, is, a travesty. But you stood up in front of Gods and men at that feast, and offered your hand to whichever lord could best you on the archery field. Rather than practice logic, as I have taught, or patience, as your lady mother taught, you reacted with your emotions. You asked for this.”

Tears prick her eyes. How is it that a proper scolding can make me feel as if I am not but a tall child? Lymon is not one to raise his voice, and it pains her to have aggrieved him so. It also pains her that he is right.

“I apologize, my lady,” he mutters. “I did not mean to shout.”

Alys waves him off. “‘Twas not undeserved.”

She twists her mother’s signet ring, staring at the carving of her entwined sigils. I cannot tell if this grounds me, or if it upsets me. I wish she were here with me, she would know what to do. “So what you are telling me is in either scenario – win or lose – we still lose. Do I have that correct?”

“Yes, that’s the long and short of it,” Lymon sighs.

Alys swallows. “Well, fuck.”

The curse shocks them both, for Alys seldom uses profanity. Lymon snorts, and the sound alone is enough to send her into a fit of giggles. They tumble together headlong into hysterics. As soon as one wrests control back over their senses, they make eye contact and the fit begins anew. It only ends when they are firmly out of breath, sides pinching and tears streaming.

“Is there not a chance that they might be impressed by me?” Alys asks, wiping her eyes and righting herself. “For winning back mine own hand, which was already supposed to be mine by rights?” In truth, she knows the answer, but is desperate enough to ask.

“I suppose a small one,” Lymon considers. “Several houses have, or have had, ladies lead them. And most still recognize your father’s word as, if not law, then bond. But – whether we agree with them or not – most still see a lady’s place as in the home. Wedded, producing heirs, keeping house; not besting boys in the art of war. Or, one of the arts, at least. We will have to count ourselves lucky if they perceive it as a rebellion against your uncle –”

“Which it is,” she counters.

“Yes, but it is as likely, if not more so, that they will take offense. We can’t presume that they will see it for what it truly is: a disavowal of Bennard’s unlawful hold on Winterfell,” he concludes.

Frustrated, Alys drops her head into her hands, fingers tugging at her hair. She wishes to growl, to scream, to rip at her hair or slam her fists on the table. To do anything to act upon her feelings. Instead, she takes a deep breath, then another, working to calm the tumult of her emotions. Perhaps one more breath would do.

She sets her hands back on the table, folding them together to keep from fidgeting. “Is there any other option?” she asks. “Any possibility of getting through this unscathed?” And unwed?

“There is one. You will not like it,” says the Maester, lips drawn thin.

“Tell me.”

“You run. No, do not interrupt,” he insists before Alys can speak. “I know you have been in near constant contact with the Lady Laena and your Aunt, the Princess Rhaenys, since your mother’s passing. I am the one who sends your letters, after all. I took it upon myself to send my own raven to your Uncle, Lord Corlys, making him aware of your plight – something you neglected to share with him, or any of them, it would seem.”

Aye, because until this moment, I assumed that I had this in hand. Arrogant, mayhaps, but it is the truth. Lymon must find her silence encouraging, for he pushes on.

“He and the Princess Rhaenys have agreed to take you in as their ward. It is not customary, I know, but they are one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms; soon to be made more so with the wedding of Laenor to the Princess of Dragonstone. They will have the security of the Crown behind them, and they can protect you until Cregan secures his seat. You would also be in a position to advocate for aid, if not from the Crown, then from your uncles. Docking the Velaryon fleet at White Harbor would be a show of force, and discourage the lords that back Bennard against a coup.”

Alys takes in Lymon’s counsel. My Maester has been hard at work, it seems. It is a clever, nay, brilliant plan. But it is an unacceptable one.

Alys sighs. “If I abandon my house, and my brother, what message does that send? And, should I run, what is to stop Bennard from closing the gates to us? A few hundred men can hold Winterfell, even if ten thousand set upon its gates. Winter is Coming; all he’ll need to do is wait us out.”

She looks upon the signet once more, brushing a finger over the seahorse. “As tempting as it is to call upon the Velaryons, to ask for interference from a Southern house – kin or no – feels tantamount to admitting Creg cannot hold the North. This would bolster Bennard’s claim that he is unfit, unready. My brother would not allow it, nor can I.”

“All fair rebuttals, my lady,” Lymon shifts forward in his seat, looking Alys straight on. “But, so caught up in his efforts to seize power, Bennard has not properly prepared this Keep for Winter – no stocking of grain, nor movement made to repair Winter Town for the inevitable influx of smallfolk. And the Night’s Watch continues to send disturbing reports that your Uncle has all but ignored. Wildlings are attempting to cross The Wall in droves. Those that succeed have been raiding villages in their push southward. They’re desperate, enough so to claim to have seen the Others, not that those wives' tales stop them from losing their heads.”

A chill courses down Alys’s spine. The Others are ghost stories meant to scare little children; a mere allegory for the coming of Winter itself. In any event, they have been gone for thousands of years, if they existed at all. ‘Tis a monstrous excuse to use to rape and pillage defenseless villages. But what if there is more to it? There may be no White Walkers, but it is possible the wildlings are running from, not toward, something. I shall have to ask Holly.

Lymon’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. “There is a chance, a high one I should think, that the vassals and smallfolk would turn on him. But to allow yourself to remain here is to risk not only your future, but your very life. If Bennard grows reckless, he will use you as a weapon against your brother. He has always seen you as a tool. And what is a weapon but a tool used to maim; to kill?”

Alys sucks in a breath – this cannot be happening. This is my home. This is my family’s home. And am I to leave as it is torn asunder? Am I to abandon my brother, my kin, my people when they need me most? Her mind is made up.

“And what if I am a weapon, Maester? After all, a knife cuts both ways.”

“Alys, I beseech you–”

Alys holds her hand up, halting his speech. “Maester, I am grateful for your counsel; even more so for the care you have shown me. But I will not leave my home and people to be picked over by carrions who call themselves wolves. I have made my bed, and I mean to lie in it. I will write to my Aunt and Uncle to thank them for their hospitality, but to inform them that it is unnecessary. For I am a Stark; I belong to the North.”

Lymon slumps in his seat. “As you say. But I urge you, do not hasten to send that raven. Wait until the tourney ends, at least.”

Alys nods as she rises from her seat. “I should go. I must prepare for the welcome feast, and Bennard expects me to greet my suitors.”

“Tread carefully, my lady,” says Lymon as she reaches the door. The double meaning is not lost on Alys. She quickly exits, turning the conversation over in her mind as she picks her way down the stone steps. Unsettled and disquieted as she is, she allows herself to be led by instinct. Rather than turn toward the Great Keep as she ought, her feet move forward, straight into the Godswood.

Alys sighs; it is as if a stone has been shed from her shoulders. In the forest, she is as free as a snow shrike, alive and unfettered; but it is here in the Godswood where she finds true peace.

The three acre grove is as old as the land itself. It smells of damp earth and pine, with only the sound of crunching needles underfoot and the caw of ravens for company. She walks deeper, trees rising and tangling around her as she makes her way through.

Her feet stop as they alight upon their chosen destination – the Heart Tree. The world quietens here, for this is where the Old Gods keep house. Its weeping eyes are ever watchful. Carved into the snow white bark by the Children of the Forest eons ago, many have sworn to feel them follow. This never unsettled Alys – those eyes make her feel seen, held, safe.

Alys keeps the Old Gods, just as every Stark has. Nameless and faceless, they are found in the twisting of roots, the bends of streams and sturdiness of stones; in the eyes of the Heart Tree, too.

Still in her riding leathers, the chill of the afternoon cuts through easily, but she scarcely feels it. Dropping to the grove’s floor, she makes her home where she always does — curling in between the roots of the tree, hand gripping the root. She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the tree as she listens to the wind moving through its branches, blood-red leaves rustling as they reach for the heavens.

Time suspends itself as she begins to pray. She prays for her brother’s swift and safe journey home. For Holly and Mikken, for her Maester. For her Mother, Father, and brother since passed. For the health and safety of the Northern folk. For an easy Winter. For herself.

Once her prayers are complete, her mind drifts. She is so tired – tired of fighting, tired of fearing, tired of feeling too big to be small and too small to be big. She is simply tired. Her body seems to agree, for her eyes droop, and consciousness slips away.

She dreams, though it feels as real as breathing. In her dreams, she is a wolf. She runs through the forest on unsteady legs, as if she were but a pup. She dashes about, sniffing and climbing and bounding through to a clearing. It is her meadow; she recognizes it instantly. She turns just as another pup tackles her, nipping and wrestling and rolling in the grass. They frolic and play until a howl cuts through the Wolfswood.

Alys awakens with a jolt, disoriented. Something has hit her shin. No, not something, someone. Her cousin Benjen stares down upon her, eyes beady and black. His hair is greased back with animal fat, and he is dressed in such finery, it is as if he were a Lord’s heir himself. I suppose he and Bennard like to think so.

He knocks her shin with his boot once more. “Get up. You’re late. Again.”

She rolls her eyes. “How can I be late to mine own feast, Benjen?” He curses at this. Alys should know better than to bait him, but cannot help herself. “Now cousin, is this how you speak to a lady?”

He kicks her again, harder this time. “I see no lady, just an insolent brat. One who is finally getting what is coming to her. It’ll be a relief to be rid of you,” he sneers.

“So sure of yourself. Fortunately, so am I,” she fibs. He doesn’t need to know I’m out of my wits with nerves. “I’ll succeed, my brother will return, and you will be back to doing whatever it is the first son of a second son does. Shoveling horse dung, I assume.”

Alys moves to stand — too slowly, for Benjen grabs her by the elbow, squeezing tight as he lifts her. She knows immediately it will bruise, and stifles a whimper. Her cousin has always been a cruel, violent sort. As a child, he would bludgeon animals for sport; kicking cats, strangulating squirrels, beating dogs. Nothing was beneath him. The maester would often chase him from the rookery, for he would try to break a raven’s wings for no discernible reason other than to relish in their agony. Now a man grown, he’s moved from animals to men. And women, it seems. Creg’s absence emboldens him.

“You think so, cousin? You know, Father doesn’t pay close enough attention to you. ‘What time do I have for some halfbreed girl?,’ he says, ‘She is pretty, and she has our name. 'Tis all that matters.’”

This particular revelation does not surprise Alys. Bennard has never been above othering her or her mother for their Valyrian heritage.

“Father thinks you dotty, yes, but dutiful,” Benjen continues. “A silly little girl whose own father gave her too much freedom. He thinks he curbed that, and that you will go quietly to your marriage bed, even with the stunt you pulled. But I know better, Alys. I watch you running off with your little wildling to the woods, and whispering in corners with your Maester. You are dangerous, as are all girls who do not know their place. But soon, your husband will teach you. ’Tis a shame I am not part Valyrian; perhaps I’d have the honor of breaking you.”

Alys’s stomach drops. She attempts to extricate herself from his grasp, but his grip tightens as he pulls her in. Her nose crinkles as his hot, rancid breath covers her face.

“You know, I’ve spoken to Mervyn of your proclivity for impertinence. He assures me that the Boltons have a particular method for dealing with untamed wives.” He leans closer, whispering into her ear. “Considering the rumors of their continued predilection for flaying men alive, I can imagine it’s quite painful. Do you think he’d let me watch?”

Alys cannot seem to speak, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. How dare he speak like this in front of the Gods. She remembers the Maester’s scolding. Logic, patience – I must practice them.

“You and Mervyn seem quite confident in his ability with the bow,” she says, forcing her tone into one of casual indifference. “But I hear Lord Manderly’s sons are truly gifted. If the ravens are to be believed, I could be the next Lady of White Castle.” Alys does not know if this is true; it likely isn’t. She doesn’t even know the boys’ names, let alone if they have any skill with the bow. But it’s enough to get what she needs from Benjen.

“Aye, but Mervyn has the distinct advantage of training with the best archery master in the North. You may recall him; he was sent from Winterfell some years ago now, for conspiring to train you in secret.”

Benjen must see her blanch, for he begins to cackle. “Come along, cousin. You must make yourself pretty for your husband.” He shoves her forward as they make their way to the Great Keep.

Alys remains in a daze as she prepares for the feast. At once, she is bathed and dressed in a gown of black. It is made of velvet and soft as sin, with trumpet sleeves and a square neck trimmed with ermine and silver brocade. A direwolf belt is swung low around her hip. When she looks upon herself, all she can see is Muña’s lilac eyes boring into her. It is a haunting sight. I look as if I am attending another funeral rite; in a way, I may be.

Holly attempts to engage her in idle conversation while she plaits her hair, but it is no use. Alys twists her signet and stares off. She thinks more on her dream, wishing it were as real as it felt; how she longs to be as free as that pup.

So overcome, she does not notice Holly’s look of concern. “You do look lovely, Alys.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles. The girls lock eyes in the mirror, and Holly turns her from the vanity, taking her hands in hers.

“I wish you would tell me what is troubling you so. Is it the Maester? I’ve told you, too much thinking addles the mind.” Alys lets out a huff, and Holly smiles. “Tell me, what has you all worked up?”

She tells Holly everything — from the Maester’s concern and push to send her to her cousins in the south, to Benjen’s cruel behavior and the information he let slip. Holly listens intently as she unburdens herself.

“Aye, I can see now why you’re so troubled. This is quite the dung pile we’ve found ourselves in.”

“That I’ve found myself in, Holly.”

She holds up her scarred palm. “Thought you’d learn by now that we’re a package, you and I. Now, let’s talk it through, shall we?” Holly moves to the bed, patting beside her, encouraging Alys to join. “I think the Velaryons are a good fallback. If your mother could sail herself away from the south to Winterfell to marry your father, can we not go the other way? If it comes to that tomorrow, we'll leave.”

“I don’t know if we can, Holly. I’m needed here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell; certain, Bennard does not count. I just – I don’t see how we can leave our home.” Alys’s lip quivers.

“If Bennard, his shite-for-brains sons — I’ll kill Benjen, by the way, and use his bones to pick my teeth — and his shite-for-brains Bolton cronies have their way, Winterfell won’t be home any longer,” Holly says, grabbing her hand. “You don’t belong at the Dreadfort, Alys. You have to think of yourself for once; what use are you dead or hidden away in some rotten Keep? And speaking on the Boltons, so what if he’s been training? So what if he’s good? You’ll be better.” Holly rubs her thumb over Alys’s knuckle to soothe her, just as Muña used to. It serves its purpose— Alys lets out a watery sign and hugs her friend close.

“Thank you,” she breathes as Holly rubs her back.

“Don’t thank me. I’m only telling you what you already know; you just got caught in your nerves again. Now, we should get to the feast,” Holly rises, and Alys moves to join her.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “ I forgot — Cregan left you a gift for your name day. He told me not to let you open it until the day of, but he’s not here, is he? It’s under your bed. Do with that information what you will.” Holly smiles beatifically, as she always does when causing trouble.

“Will you give me a moment then? I have a present to unwrap,” Alys grins. Holly nods, and closes the door behind her.

She drops flat to the carpet, with no thought or care for her dress, rummaging under her bed. Not once does she think to wait, for she hates surprises. Creg should never have trusted Holly to keep a secret from me, anyhow.

Her hand alights upon a box, and she slowly pulls it from its hiding place. It's large, and carved from rowan wood, with her House’s sigil burnt into the grain.

Alys gets up and places the box upon her bed. There is a note attached; one she is tempted to bypass entirely in her eagerness to open her present. Patience is a virtue, I suppose. She sighs, plucking the note from its ribbon. She cracks her brother’s seal to see his scrawl, short and sweet.

Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Shoot straight.

Your brother,

Creg

She sucks in a breath. Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Hands quaking, she opens the box.

Inside is the most wonderful sight she’s ever seen – a beautiful bow and quiver set, made to size. The bow itself is bone white, carved from weirwood; Alys would recognize it anywhere. The arrows are carved from the same, with its feathers a startling crimson, akin to the leaves of the Heart Tree. But it is the arrowheads that truly dazzle, for they are not of any metal she has encountered. In truth, she only recognizes it from her lessons, for they are dragonbone. So sharp, they would draw blood at just a touch. She picks up the bow, testing the string's tension, the weight of it, how it feels in her hand. It’s perfect, it's perfect, it’s perfect.

She does not know how her father came into possession of such a treasure. Dragonbone is not an easy material to come by, nor an inexpensive one. And to have a perfectly carved weirwood bow – it is an honor he’d entrusted her with it. He believed in her, as did her brother; her mother, too. They may not be with her, but they are behind her, as they always have been. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time in an age, she feels hope; not just hope, but a sense of surety. Holding the faith of her family in her hands, Alys knows now what she must do, and how she can win.

She attends the feast, light as air. Nothing can spoil her good humor – not Benjen’s leer, nor her uncle’s very presence, which often serves to put her off her appetite. In truth, she is ravenous, nearly inhaling her roast pheasant and potatoes.

Soon, the minstrels begin to play. Alys takes care to dance with each Lord’s son. Lord Manderly’s boys, Jonnel and Joseth, prove exceptional dancers, even if they’re impossible to tell apart. She takes Mikken for a spin on the floor, much to the delight of everyone present. She even allows Mervyn a dance; when his hand moves too low to be proper, she steps on his feet with particular verve. Here’s hoping it cripples him, but I would settle for a lost nail.

When she retakes her seat at the head table, dessert is being served. There are apple tarts and stewed plums as promised; even the rare lemon cakes make the rounds. Once full, she sits back and watches the hall. Many of these men are allies and competitors in one; some are outright enemies. It matters not to Alys. She smiles at them all – for she is a wolf, and she does not fear sheep.

“It seems you have made some peace with your lot, niece,” Bennard slurs. A drunkard and a fool, may the Others take him.

“I was always at peace with my lot, Uncle,” Alys sniffs. “It was ensuring that I marry a man worthy of me that put me on edge over the prospect.”

“Well, you have a peculiar way of choosing that man. Not that you should be choosing at all, but your father will get his way, as he always does,” Bennard glowers as he sinks deeper into his cups. “Archery, pah! I know you think yourself a savant because Rickon indulged you as a child, but you will learn the truth of it tomorrow. The Boltons are a powerful family, and you will be lucky to join their house when Mervyn proves himself.”

Alys bites her tongue, once again remembering Lymon’s counsel. “As you say, Uncle.”

“As you say, Uncle,” Bennard mocks. “Do not be impertinent, especially in the face of my generosity. This feast and tourney cost me a pretty copper, as will your dowry. You ought to be grateful.”

Her blood boils, but she tamps it. Best to let it fester so that I may use it on the field tomorrow.

“Of course, Uncle. I am ever so grateful,” she says through her teeth.

Bennard hums again, too drunk to notice her ire. “Good. Now, to bed. You must look fresh-faced for your husband tomorrow. Men like their women pretty, after all. They also like them demure. I suppose I shall leave it to your husband to teach you the latter, if it’s not a lost cause already,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Begone from my sight, Alysanne.”

Alys squeezes her fists, nails cutting into her palms. Yet, she arises gracefully as her mother taught. She bids her Uncle and cousins a good night, though she does not mean it. Benjen runs his tongue over his teeth, like a bloodhound who caught the scent. Ignoring him, she beckons to Holly, and they leave the Great Hall.

She helps her undress in silence, untying her stays while Alys works at her plaits. With mere hours left until dawn, she knows she will sleep little. Holly offers to stay with her, but, as it might be her last night abed alone, she declines. I should enjoy the space while I am able. They bid one another good night, and Alys buries herself under the covers.

She tosses and turns for what feels like an age, until sleep finally claims her. Again, she dreams she is the wolf. She is warm, safe, cuddled against fur. She turns her head, to see the same grey pup that had tackled her, now fast asleep. Perhaps the mother is on the hunt. She gets up, stretching her tiny limbs, and makes her way from the den, dirt soft under her paws. She looks up at the moon, and howls.

As dawn breaks, Alys arises from her bed. Despite the chill, the rooms remain warm. Not for the first time is she thankful for the ingenuity of Bran the Builder. Piping water from the hot springs into the stones for certain has saved me a toe or two.

She dresses slowly in her leathers, somehow managing the stays herself. She then places her mother’s signet upon her smallest finger, and her archer’s ring upon her thumb. Once finished, she sits at her window, watching the sun rise.

Holly and the maids enter not long after, bringing tea and food to break fast. Alys forces down some bacon and bread, despite her scant appetite. She watches in the mirror as Holly tames her hair into an intricate five strand plait.

“Do you like it?” Holly asks.

“More than like it,” Alys says, marveling at her handiwork. “It almost looks as if it is a chain.”

“Aye, that was the aim. For you will not break this day, I know it in my heart.” Alys warms at her steadfastness and faith, sending a prayer of thanks to the Gods for bringing Holly into her life.

They sit in silence for a time, and she lets Holly inspect her new bow. “It is impossible to fail with a bow as nice as this. You can feel the love that was poured into its making, and yet there is something deadly in it. It will protect you, I think.”

“I think the same,” Alys says. Too soon, there is a knock upon the door, and she begins to shake. “You may enter.”

It is Mikken, and for this kindness she is thankful. Better than my cousin, that is for certain. “Lady Alys, it is time,” he says.

Alys takes a deep breath, and tries to calm her trembling hands. “So it is. Mikken, will you stay with Holly and me? I could use a lad like you to keep an eye on my back.”

Mikken sputters. “I would be honored, Lady Alys, but perhaps someone bigger would be best?”

“No, sweet boy, you misunderstand. I want someone whom I trust to stand with me, and that’s you. Consider it part of your training if you must, but in truth, I would just appreciate you there as my friend.”

She watches the blush creep up his cheeks. “I’d be honored, my lady!”

“Good, now, let us make haste. I would not put it past Bennard to start without me in an attempt to void my participation.” She takes her bow from Holly and straps the quiver to her back. Stealing one last look in the mirror, she’s pleased to find she cuts an unearthly and imposing figure. Let these men shiver when they see me.

Flanked by Holly, Mikken and several guards – sent by Bennard no doubt, to ensure I do not run – they march from the First Keep and through to the North Gate, outside which an archery field is constructed. At least a dozen mounds are set in a line. Alys breaks into a grin. Mere target practice. Not roving marks, nor splitting the wand. Bennard underestimated me. Good.

The archers check their names upon the roster, and Alys does the same. The Maester was right, many of the most noble houses of the North have sent a son to participate. She sends up another prayer before making her way to her designated marker. Mervyn is to her left, and a Manderly – Jonnel? Or is it Joseth? – to her right. And the line goes down, faces blending.

She walks the paces, gauging the distance between marker and target. She crouches down, and picks up grass and leaves, crumbling them to see which direction the wind blows. She heads back to her marker as she stretches her arms, ignoring the eyes upon her. Finally, the trumpets sound.

“Esteemed lords, ladies and guests! Thank you for your attendance on this day; the day my beloved niece turns seven and ten!” Bennard shouts from his spot on the dais. He has made himself and his sons little thrones to sit upon, above all the other lords and vassals. Alys rolls her eyes. They look foolish.

“The Lady Alysanne is now a woman grown, and it is time for her to choose her bridegroom. And so she has; the one who succeeds her in this tourney shall be the lucky man! Not too hard of a task for such strapping Northern men, I should think.” A cheer rises from the crowd, and she can feel the eyes of all the archer’s boring into her. Let them think they have me. “Now, at the crier’s call, let our tourney begin!”

Alys nocks her arrow, breathing deep as she closes her left eye to aim at the target’s eye. The first arrows loose at the crier’s call. She hits near dead center. It must be the nerves. She sneaks a peek at her competitors – only a few have come as close as she has.

One by one, round after round, the men are eliminated. The crowd, who had once cheered for her future husband, now turn their love to their Lady, becoming more raucous as each arrow is loosed. Alys does not dare to look upon her Uncle. She can feel his ire well enough, and does not need the distraction.

Finally, the last Manderly boy – Jonnel, if the crier is to be believed – is eliminated. “You are a worthy opponent, my lady. I am undeserving of the honor of your hand,” he says, placing a kiss upon her knuckle. She smiles and thanks the man before he makes his way back to his brother.

Only her and Mervyn remain at the butts.

“He may be undeserving of your hand, Lady Alys, but I certainly am more than up to the task,” he scoffs. “I shall even give you my sword as well, as many times as you ask for it and more.” Her rage is set aflame by his words, hotter than dragonfire – so hot, it burns cold. I am going to enjoy this.

The crier calls for them to nock once more. Inhale as you pull, exhale as you release, easy as breathing. She hears him shout loose, so she does. The arrows whistle through the air, and she knows before it lands it will be dead center. She looks over at Mervyn’s target, and his is centered. But not like mine. They send a judge – Lord Mormont, by the looks of it – out to check. Another – Lord Ryswell – joins him. The crowd hushes as they deliberate. Coming to an accord, they summon the crier.

“The Lady Alysanne Stark is our winner!” the crier shouts, and the crowd is insensate. They stomp and cheer and cry for Alys, so loud she can scarce hear herself think. She turns to Mervyn, whose mouth is agape.

“It seems your sword is unworthy of my sheath, Bolton,” she quips over the din. “I wish you and your future lady wife luck; Gods know she’ll need it!” She laughs as Holly and Mikken barrel into her, bundling her in an embrace as they jump up and down.

She looks over their heads – the lords and their sons are shocked, but do not seem angered by the result. Relief begins to set in, until she hears a commotion coming from the dais.

“No, no, no! This is not how this was supposed to go!” Bennard yells as he stomps toward her, mouth foaming. He rips her from Holly and Mikken’s grasp. “You little ingrate! Worthless fucking trollop!”

Before she can react, she hears a crack as her head whips violently. Blood pools on her tongue, tainting her mouth with the taste of copper. He’s hit me. Gods, he’s truly hit me.

The crowd is silent as he grabs her plait, twisting painfully. “You disgust me, you halfbreed whore. Your flagrant disrespect is at an end. I command you to marry the Bolton boy this very night. I don’t care if I have to hold you at sword point to see it done!” His spittle flies in her face.

“Everyone knows that marriage will not be valid in the eyes of Gods and men, as no marriage under threat of the sword is,” she says, voice projecting loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I’ve won, Uncle, fair and true; this contest is at its end. A Lord would take it gracefully, but you are no lord. The real lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North rides from Last Hearth, to take his rightful place on the Winter Throne. I’m certain he will be fair when he metes out the King’s justice.” She smiles menacingly as blood coats her teeth.

He shrieks as he throws her to the ground, kicking her once, twice, thrice in the gut. She coughs, curling into herself in agony. The crowd, regaining its senses, hisses and jeers. The hair-raising sound is enough to pull Bennard from his rage. He turns back to find the Lords in the North looking upon him with disgust, and a crowd so enraged they are near riot.

“Guards! Take the Lady Alysanne to her rooms and bar the door. If she is to act a child, she will be treated like one.” The guards hesitate. “Now!” Bennard shouts. The crowd grows restless as the guards grab her under her arms and drag her back to the keep. She’s begun to grow faint, so she does not hear what Bennard says to try to appease them. Whatever it is, she hopes he fails.

Once she is unceremoniously thrown into her rooms, she begins to laugh. It hurts, terribly, but she cannot help it. Her wretch of an uncle proved as foolish as she always thought. Perhaps the Lords would have been upset at her winning, if they had not been made indignant at her ill treatment. Their beloved Lord Rickon's only daughter, beaten by her uncle in front of Gods and men. And the crowd, filled with small folk and all manners of vassals, loathe him. Now, they all see him for what he truly is. A usurper cunt.

She forces herself up, and gingerly makes her way to her bed. She does not bother with the door, knowing that it will be locked, with guards posted outside it. She does not know what has happened to her bow, and can only pray that Holly or Mikken managed to save it from her Uncle’s wrath.

Consciousness begins to ebb and flow – like the tide. I should have taken the Maester at his word and fled to High Tide. She swears she hears Lymon attempt to gain access to her, but cannot tell if she is dreaming. If it happened in truth, he is clearly denied. Perhaps Bennard means to starve me, or hopes I bleed out internally. She goes back under, and comes to when it is long since dark.

She winces as she attempts to rise. Her ribs and stomach are especially sore, so movement must be made carefully. Once standing, she creeps to her window to look out at the moon. By its placement, she guesses it's the hour of the owl.

Suddenly, she hears a quiet scuffle at her door. She panics, searching for anything in her room that can be used as a weapon. She pockets a letter opener and grabs an iron candlestick for good measure.

Alys braces herself as she hears the lock click. The door opens; all she discerns are shadows and black cloaks. She raises the candlestick, preparing to fight to the death. Then, a hood drops, revealing long, fire kissed hair. She crumbles in relief, and Holly catches her before she hits the floor.

“By the gods, Alys! What did you mean to do with this thing, and in your state?” Holly asks, pointing to the candlestick.

“Hit you with it,” she wheezes, “though I’ll admit, I am not in the best fighting shape. Had hoped I’d get a second wind, but alas.”

Holly shakes her head, busying herself with cataloging all her injuries. Alys looks over her sister’s shoulder, trying to decipher just how she took down the guards. It seems she did not succeed by herself. Mikken holds open the door as the two Manderly brothers pull the unconscious guards inside. Nan the cook steps gingerly over them, basket in hand, with Vayon Cassel and his son Rodwell taking position at the door, which Mikken quietly closes behind him.

“What is this? I don’t understand,” she says. “Where is Maester Lymon?”

“They locked him in his turret, but not before he gave us marching orders,” Holly says. “We’re getting you out, tonight. First to White Harbor, then on a ship to High Tide. Your Aunt and Uncle have been informed of your arrival. Seems the Maester had a contingency plan.”

“He tends to have several,” she quips, wincing. Holly rolls her eyes, before turning back to the Manderlys. “Ribs bruised, not broken. Severe bruising on the abdomen, but doesn’t seem fatal. It’ll be painful, but we’ve got to go by horseback.”

“Aye, I’ll go prepare them now,” says – Joseth? – before making a quick exit.

“Holly, how do we know we can trust them?” she asks.

The remaining Manderly brother kneels before her on the floor. “My lady, my house is loyal to the one true Lord of Winterfell, your brother Cregan. We owe everything we are, our lives and our very home, to House Stark. Beyond house ties, I am here of my own accord. I would pledge my life and loyalty to you, my lady, if you will have me. Allow me, as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, to swear fealty to you, so you know me to be loyal and true.”

Alys is overwhelmed by the gesture. “Your kindness and loyalty are noted, Ser, but I cannot accept. Your father would be most aggrieved to lose a son and heir in service to a Lady.”

“I am but the second son, my lady. My brother Joseth is the heir, with another brother who can play spare until he takes a wife and begets a son.”

Flabbergasted, all Alys can think is: Oh, so this is Jonnel. “Are you certain, Ser?”

“More than anything. Will you permit me?” he asks, reaching for her hand. She acquiesces.

“I, Jonnel of House Manderly, offer my services to the Lady Alysanne of House Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Alys swallows, overcome by the earnest show of devotion. I shall cherish his loyalty always. For he is my sworn shield, and I protect what’s mine.

“I, the Lady Alysanne of House Stark, vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Jonnnel.” He beams at her for but a moment, before acting upon his vows.

“We must move quickly, my lady,” Jonnel says. “Your cousins have been locked in their rooms, and your Uncle drugged with milk of the poppy. Enough to put him to sleep for a few hours, but no more.”

“And the lords of the North? What of them?” she asks, watching as Holly quickly packs the necessities.

“The lords have seen all they needed to this day; enough to look the other way at your leaving,” says Jonnel. “The vassals, too, are in an uproar. Your brother can expect their support. Aye, your Uncle will not have an easy time of it once he awakes.”

Alys attempts a smile, bruised cheek smarting. “Good. That’s good. What of the guards?”

“Since tonight’s feast was canceled, the Maester thought it smart to have me send the remaining barrels to them directly," says Nan, speaking up from her place in the corner. "I happened to agree – good autumn ale like that shouldn’t be wasted. Outside of these lads, most are too drunk to stand. Though I suppose they’re not standing, neither.”

Alys, with help from Jonnel, walks to her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “Thank you, sweet Nan. I will not forget this kindness.”

“You are our Lady. No matter where you go, Winterfell is always with you,” the cook says, wiping a tear from Alys’s eye. “Now, I’ve packed provisions. Should be enough for the journey there. But you all need to move now, there’s not much darkness left.”

Mikken steps in front of the door, distraught. “I’m coming, too, for I promised to protect you first! I know I failed, but I won’t again, I swear it!”

Alys's eyes water. “You did not fail me, Mikken. You could never,” she says, gentling the boy. “But I have a new task for you. I need you to protect Nan and the Maester until Cregan or I return. They’ll need you more than I will, and I can trust no one else but you.”

The boy begins to cry, and rushes to hug her. She tries not to flinch, not wanting to hurt the boy further. “I don’t want you to leave,” he hiccoughs.

Alys stiffens her lip, hugging him back. “I do not want to leave you either, sweetling, but I must. We’ll be reunited soon, you’ll see. Can you be brave for me until then?” She feels him nod. “Good lad.”

He wipes his eyes, and moves to Nan’s side. Alys turns to them one last time, offering a parting wave before Holly bundles her in a black cloak and Jonnel hurries them from her rooms. Vayon and Rodwell fall into step behind them. Quiet as ghosts in the crypt, they move through the Keep. They reach the stables with no interference, where Joseth and a stable boy have their mounts prepared.

Jonnel lifts Alys into Wynafryd’s saddle. Holly grabs a bow and quiver, one set of two, from the saddle bag – my bow, Gods be praised. She passes the bow to her before strapping the set she nicked from the armory to her back. The rest of the group races to mount their horses. If anyone spots them from Brandon’s Tower, they raise no alarms.

Alys looks up at the Maester’s Turret. It is dark, so she is unable to discern any movement through the window. She gives a wave anyway, hoping that Lymon can see. She pours her gratitude, and her grief, into the gesture. He knows, he must.

In a flash, they are out the East Gate and barreling into the hills outside. Avoiding the Kingsroad and camping will make the journey safe, but long. With her injuries, it will be many days until they reach the White Knife, and more yet before entering the safety of White Harbor.

Alys ignores her pain as best she can, making it a few hours before it becomes unbearable. As dawn starts to crest, they stop to set up camp. They share some bread and mead amongst them before Alys must rest her eyes. Jonnel offers to take first watch, and the others are happy to oblige.

In a trice, Alys is jostled awake. “Quietly, my lady,” Jonnel whispers. “There is something in the tree line. Prepare yourself.” She moves stand. As Jonnel unsheathes his steel, she moves to grab her bow. Body laid low, she does not even know if she has the strength to nock an arrow, but the weight is a comfort in her hand.

The leaves rustle further, putting everyone on high alert. Finally, they break, out of which come two of the largest wolf pups she has ever seen.They are fighting; no, they are wrestling. One grey, one black, they playful pair are clearly siblings. Alys sucks in a breath.

“They are direwolf pups,” Vayon whispers under his breath. “The sigil of your house, my lady.”

“Impossible,” Rodwell says. “Direwolves haven’t been seen south of the wall in at least a century.”

Until now. Alys quietly moves forward, so as not to startle them. She hears a chorus of “Be careful, my lady,” and “Alys, stop.” Shushing them, she squats low, holding open her palm. The wolf pups stop, and cock their heads. The grey one is more leery, preferring to watch, but the black comes right up to her hand, nudging it before rolling over to expose her belly.

“Hello, my girl. Have you been waiting for me?” Alys coos. The wolf pup’s orange eyes cut through her. I dreamt you. You’re mine, and I’m yours. She rubs her pup’s belly, watching her tongue lob as she smiles.

Alys turns back toward her companions, ignoring their shock. “Joseth, Vayon, search the wood for any sign of the mother. Based on the feel of this one, it has been some time since she ate. I assume the mother is dead, but we must be sure.” Joseth and Vayon nod, and make their way into the tree line. “Holly, check to see if Nan packed some milk for the first night’s journey. If she hasn’t, we’ll stop at the next town. They look nearly weaned, but it's best to be safe.”

“Alys, you can’t mean to keep them!” she hisses.

“Holly is right, my lady,” says Jonnel. "A direwolf is no pet. Even a pup can tear a man’s arm clean from his shoulder.”

“I do not mean to keep them, Ser. I only mean to keep the one. Rodwell,” Alys says, turning toward the lad, “come closer so that you make the grey pup more familiar with your scent. When your father returns, you both will take it toward Last Hearth. You should meet my brother along the way. Present it to him, for it is his by right.”

“Alys!” Holly exclaims.

“I dreamt them, Holly,” Alys says firmly, tone brokering no argument. “They are the sigil of our house. They are meant to be ours; mine and Creg’s.”

“You dreamt them?” she whispers. Alys nods. Though perturbed, Holly complies.

Alys picks up her pup, who burrows into the embrace. She grabs some meat from the provisions, and gives her a bite before gently laying down to rest. She trusts Jonnel and Holly to ensure her orders are followed.

Her pup curls up against her on her mat. She smiles, petting her back. “You’ll be called Frenya,” she whispers as the direwolf snuggles in closer. “We will always protect each other, you and I. Always.”

Alys shuts her eyes. When she dreams, this time it is not of wolves, but of the sea.

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branwendaughterofllyr · 15 days ago

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Thanks for the response! Oldgon and Alyssa are some of the most believable OCs I’ve seen. Sorry to George, but they feel more real than some actual characters lol.

(Why on earth did Elmo Tully just stand by watching Aemond and then jump in the Dance at the weirdest moment? What did Jeyne Arryn actually do throughout the war, even though she was supposedly a Black? And Cregan Stark? Tully-Rowan, what exactly happened in the Reach? I CAN'T understand these "actual characters")

Well, in fairness to George, F&B is inherently a confining format in terms of character work. I get to dance along and add whatever I want from Oldgon and Alyssa’s povs.

I am literally vibrating the urge to explain my whole fic by explaining my reasoning and fixes for the way factions broke down during the Dance. I’ve tried to stick to canon where I can, and provide backstory for why who picked one side. (There are some key butterfly effects due to Oldgon, that I am dying to spoil, but I will refrain.)

For the Tullys, it seemed like they decided to stay out until their hand was forced by a dragon landing on their front yard (Seasmoke) and then once they committed to a side, they committed. After Elmo died, his sons were actually pretty interested in peace, until Cregan browbeat them into continuing the war. I’ll also point out that Aemond’s campaign was….. not very effective lol. He targeted very few actual strategic locations, and the list of the places he burnt includes septs and unimportant villages. So I can see the Tullys writing most of those off as they don’t have the means to combat Vhagar on their own. (I do plan to have the Tullys appear in Poison before the Dance, Kermit is criminally slept on!!!!!)

I honestly don’t think Jeyne Arryn actually really wanted to engage in the civil war that much, and that’s why she mainly kept out of it. It’s actually funny that the tagline for the show this season was “all must choose” bc a fair few houses didn’t, like the Tyrells, or did “choose” but didn’t really send in any armies and mostly just twiddled their thumbs until the last minute. I’ve got a North fic where I will delve into whatever’s going on with Cregan, and I’m literally shaking with excitement bc the Tyrell-Rowan drama is one of the first things I planned out for the fic and I don’t want to spoil it and yet I do. We will be seeing the Reach before the Dance starts, and I’m sooooo excited for it. (Yay, Daeron!)

#branwen answers #a poison tree

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anya-snow · 1 month ago

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MASTERLIST OF WANTED CONNECTIONS

OOC Note: Below you’ll find a list of connections I’d love to have for my characters. These connections can be filled by existing characters within the rp, or new ones! Please don’t hesitate to reach out if anything interests you. Nothing here is set in stone, all is open for discussion and fun plotting.

For LADY YUAN ANYA ( Read more about her )

YUAN FAMILY: One or two relatives from the YiTish region of Wan, or potentially, people who grew up in Westeros like Anya did. If they’re cousins, Anya only has male cousins back in Wan. The WC could be other members of the extended family. Any FC filling this connection must have Chinese heritage. You’re encouraged to contact me to chat more about this.

Helpful links: Yi Ti lore | WC for YiTish people in the North

For LADY SEFFORA MERRYWEATHER ( Read more about her )

ALLIES: Longtable suffered because of the civil war within the Reach that was started by Seffora's late sister, Sienna. Since becoming a ruling lady, Seffora focused on rebuilding and aiding the widows and orphans of Longtable. Her focus now is to gain more allies and build strategic relationships that can help her address the needs of her people and her land. One particular concern is the decreased male population after the civil war. Seffora needs to build alliances that can bring in workers, soldiers and men that can become people of Longtable.

Helpful link: Merryweather background

COUSIN/LORD MERRYWEATHER: Seffora didn't grow up close to her cousin, since she spent a good portion of her life in Goldengrove as Tirius Rowan's ward. An important event in this lord's life is that he got into some trouble not long ago as he attempted to run away and elope with Harlon Tarly's sister, Talia (who is now Lord Gael Hightower's wife). I'm very open to the kind of dynamic these two have, if they have gotten closer since Seffora returned to Longtable and became ruling lady, or if they remain somewhat distant to this day.

Helpful link: Longtable history

For QUEEN IONA TULLY ( Read more about her )

COUNCIL MEMBERS: Positions for the small council need to be filled: Lord Commander of the Queensguard (Potential Houses can be Erenford, Paege, Mudd, Vypern, Ryger of Willow Wood. Open to other house options), Master/Mistress of Laws (Potential houses can be Fisher of Misty Isle, House Hawick of Saltpans, House Justman), Master of Ships (From House Mallister) and Master/Mistress of Coin (Preferably from House Frey, but open to other house options). Some houses mentioned above are vassals to other larger houses. If you select a vassal house, you can choose to keep your muse a vassal or let them have one of the open locations that don't have a canon noble house: Bechester, Briarwhite, Fieldstone, Ramsford, Riverbend, Sweetwillow, Swynford.

YOUNGER BROTHER/PRINCE: He was away from Westeros and was presumed dead for a time, and that's why the crown went to Iona and not him. Now that he's back, we can have fun familial and political drama.

YOUNGER SISTER/PRINCESS: One of the two youngest Tully siblings, the twin sister of Mellara. I would love to include this sister in the Tully family dynamic.

For LORD DEIMOS VELARYON ( Read more about him )

YOUNGER BROTHER: This is Deimos' only remaining brother after the death of Aerion. This brother would be a Lord of Driftmark, and also the Ruling Lord of Sharp Point (approximate age would be 30 - 34). It would be great to add this brother to the Velaryon sibling dynamic, see where he stands on Valyrian exceptionalism or the politics about the Crownlands and Stormlands, the view he had of their parents, etc.

For LORD PERCIVAL TEMPLETON ( Read more about him )

PAST LOVES/BETROTHALS: Percival has had a long list of failed relationships and betrothals that never led to marriage in the end for a variety of circumstances. I'm interested in two past relationships: 1) one that took place around 134ac, 2) the other one around 139ac - 140ac. We can plot why they got together (arranged, romance, etc), why it ended, and what their dynamic looks like today.

For LUCIUS RIVERS ( Read more about him )

PLATONIC/ROMANTIC CONNECTION: Chemistry-based, if Lucius and her vibe well it can turn romantic, we'll see. And I want to emphasize that this is very unlikely to be endgame due to status differences and potential religious differences too. This woman would be someone Lucius has met recently, and he's become quite soft for her. I really want to explore a vulnerable side of him with someone, and I think this would be the person with whom he shows this side of him.

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silkekruse · 2 months ago

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#my stuff #fictional crushes #ghostbusters 2016 #ghostbusters rowan #ghostbusters 1984 #ghostbusters afterlife #headless horseman #krampus #ghost rider #robbie reyes #tgaobam #grim reaper #darksiders death #darksiders #silkekruse

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istumpysk · 2 years ago

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: A Ghost in Winterfell (Theon VI) [Chapter 46]

It's a Christmas murder mystery! 🎄🎅🏼🎁

Thank you for allowing me the break. I needed it before tackling this chapter.

It wasn't Harren, Arya wanted to say, it was me. She had killed Chiswyck with a whisper, and she would kill two more before she was through. I'm the ghost in Harrenhal, she thought. And that night, there was one less name to hate. - Arya VII, ACOK

Before we get started, I have to point out something that may or may not be important.

It's a rare Arya -> Theon chapter transition. We all know sometimes the character transitions are significant, sometimes they're not.

In ACOK, mysterious deaths start happening at Harrenhal, which is paralleled in this chapter.

While it was Jaqen killing the men, it was Arya who was responsible for the deaths. She was the ghost in Harrenhal. She called herself the ghost in Harrenhal.

Is that relevant right now? I don't know.

On we go.

+.+.+

The dead man was found at the base of the inner wall, with his neck broken and only his left leg showing above the snow that had buried him during the night.

If Ramsay's bitches had not dug him up, he might have stayed buried till spring. By the time Ben Bones pulled them off, Grey Jeyne had eaten so much of the dead man's face that half the day was gone before they knew for certain who he'd been: a man-at-arms of four-and-forty years who had marched north with Roger Ryswell. "A drunk," Ryswell declared. "Pissing off the wall, I'll wager. He slipped and fell." No one disagreed. But Theon Greyjoy found himself wondering why any man would climb the snow-slick steps to the battlements in the black of night just to take a piss.

Right away let's get it all out there.

The murders that happen in this chapter aren't considered much of a mystery. It is all but confirmed by the text that the wildling spearwives are responsible for the killings.

It's foreshadowed in ACOK.

The killings stopped after Farlen's death, but even so his men continued sullen and anxious. "They fear no foe in open battle," Black Lorren told him, "but it is another thing to dwell among enemies, never knowing if the washerwoman means to kiss you or kill you, or whether the serving boy is filling your cup with ale or bale. We would do well to leave this place." - Theon V, ACOK

Osha seduces and kills one of Theon's men.

Theon flung the cup into the hearth. "I'd say Drennan was pulling down his breeches to stick it in the woman when she stuck it in him. His own cheese knife, by the look of it. Someone find a pike and fish the other fool out of the moat." - Theon IV, ACOK

We're shown a Ryswell privately canoodling with a spearwife in the previous Theon chapter.

Beneath the Burned Tower, he passed Rickard Ryswell nuzzling at the neck of another one of Abel's washerwomen, the plump one with the apple cheeks and pug nose. The girl was barefoot in the snow, bundled up in a fur cloak. He thought she might be naked underneath. - The Turncloak, ADWD

And Theon outright accuses them.

"Touch me," he said. "Kill me." There was more despair than defiance in his voice. "Go on. Do me, the way you did the others. Yellow Dick and the rest. It was you."

Holly laughed. "How could it be us? We're women. Teats and cunnies. Here to be fucked, not feared." - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

Little Walder, thought Theon. The big one. He glanced at Rowan. There are six of them, he remembered. Any of them could have done this. But the washerwoman felt his eyes. "This was no work of ours," she said. - Theon I, ADWD

"Words are wind." They are no better than me. We're just the same. "You killed the others, why not him? Yellow Dick—"

"—stank as bad as you. A pig of a man."

"And Little Walder was a piglet. Killing him brought the Freys and Manderlys to dagger points, that was cunning, you—"

"Not us." Rowan grabbed him by the throat and shoved him back against the barracks wall, her face an inch from his. "Say it again and I will rip your lying tongue out, kinslayer." - Theon I, ADWD

With no denial.

In the following Theon chapter Rowan is adamant they didn't kill Little Walder (they didn't), but isn't bothered by the accusation that they killed the rest. Putting all of that together we can safely assume they're the killers.

However, I'm not happy unless I'm throwing widely accepted theories into the garbage.

Therefore, we're going to remain open-minded, and examine the possibility Theon's the ghost in Winterfell who is killing these men.

Yes, I realize that sounds ridiculous.

Moving on.

The first murder is a Ryswell man-at-arms thrown from the battlements.

Theon - the potential murderer - doesn't believe the man was drunk and fell. Theon doesn't buy any of the causes of death throughout the chapter. On its own that's not remotely suspicious, but it's something to keep in mind as the evidence builds.

Of course you're asking yourself how come Theon's internal monologue is never incriminating. If he's killing these men, surely that's going to be reflected in his thoughts, yes?

We'll cover that as we go, but I'll quickly say Theon has demonstrated a bit of detachment from reality, potentially has an alter ego, and probably isn't consciously aware he's killed these men.

I know this is insane, please keep reading the post.

Back to the kill. A man is thrown from the battlements. Theon and the battlements. It's less clear here, but it becomes more obvious the locations and causes of death are all relevant to Theon.

Above, he could see some squires building snowmen along the battlements. They were arming them with spears and shields, putting iron halfhelms on their heads, and arraying them along the inner wall, a rank of snowy sentinels. "Lord Winter has joined us with his levies," one of the sentries outside the Great Hall japed … until he saw Theon's face and realized who he was talking to. Then he turned his head and spat. - The Turncloak, ADWD

+.+.+

As the garrison broke its fast that morning on stale bread fried in bacon grease (the lords and knights ate the bacon), the talk along the benches was of little but the corpse.

"Stannis has friends inside the castle," Theon heard one serjeant mutter. He was an old Tallhart man, three trees sewn on his ragged surcoat. The watch had just changed. Men were coming in from the cold, stomping their feet to knock the snow off their boots and breeches as the midday meal was served—blood sausage, leeks, and brown bread still warm from the ovens.

A potential red flag.

Blink and you would have thought that was a continuous scene. We've jumped from breakfast to a midday meal in the span of seconds. There's no indication hours have passed in the middle of this thought.

Is this horrific writing or is Theon's mind a little jumbled?

+.+.+

Endless, ceaseless, merciless, the snow had fallen day and night. Drifts climbed the walls and filled the crenels along the battlements, white blankets covered every roof, tents sagged beneath the weight. Ropes were strung from hall to hall to help men keep from getting lost as they crossed the yards. Sentries crowded into the guard turrets to warm half-frozen hands over glowing braziers, leaving the wallwalks to the snowy sentinels the squires had thrown up, who grew larger and stranger every night as wind and weather worked their will upon them. Ragged beards of ice grew down the spears clasped in their snowy fists. No less a man than Hosteen Frey, who had been heard growling that he did not fear a little snow, lost an ear to frostbite.

The snowmen are growing larger and stranger. Whatever that means.

Ser Stupid Frey is about to be in over his head. Literally.

He's gonna fall in a lake.

Water will be over his head.

His men will be well nourished, ours go into battle with empty bellies. It makes no matter. Ser Stupid, Lord Too-Fat, the Bastard, let them come. We hold the ground, and that I mean to turn to our advantage. - Theon I, ADWD

+.+.+

The horses in the yards suffered most. The blankets thrown over them to keep them warm soaked through and froze if not changed regularly. When fires were lit to keep the cold at bay, they did more harm then good. The warhorses feared the flames and fought to get away, injuring themselves and other horses as they twisted at their lines. Only the horses in the stables were safe and warm, but the stables were already overcrowded.

On the real, how are those Dothraki warhorses going to cope with dragon flames going off around them?

+.+.+

"The gods have turned against us," old Lord Locke was heard to say in the Great Hall. "This is their wroth. A wind as cold as hell itself and snows that never end. We are cursed."

"Stannis is cursed," a Dreadfort man insisted. "He is the one out there in the storm."

"Lord Stannis might be warmer than we know," one foolish freerider argued. "His sorceress can summon fire. Might be her red god can melt these snows."

That was unwise, Theon knew at once. The man spoke too loudly, and in the hearing of Yellow Dick and Sour Alyn and Ben Bones. When the tale reached Lord Ramsay, he sent his Bastard's Boys to seize the man and drag him out into the snow. "As you seem so fond of Stannis, we will send you to him," he said.

Theon might be a little mad, but he's still one of the more astute POVs in the story (ADWD only). Most of the time you can trust his assessment of a person or situation. I say this with Barbrey Dustin in mind.

Yes, Stannis will temporarily melt the snows. Bad news for Shireen, great news for Sansa who has to get to the Wall.

+.+.+

Then, whilst Skinner and Yellow Dick made wagers on how fast his blood would freeze, Ramsay had the man dragged up to the Battlements Gate.

[...]

The bleeding freerider was carried across the bridge and up the steps, still protesting. Then Skinner and Sour Alyn seized his arms and legs and tossed him from the wall to the ground eighty feet below. The drifts had climbed so high that they swallowed the man bodily … but bowmen on the battlements claimed they glimpsed him sometime later, dragging a broken leg through the snow. One feathered his rump with an arrow as he wriggled away. "He will be dead within the hour," Lord Ramsay promised.

"Or he'll be sucking Lord Stannis's cock before the sun goes down," Whoresbane Umber threw back.

"He best take care it don't break off," laughed Rickard Ryswell. "Any man out there in this, his cock is frozen hard."

ha HA, get it?? In weather like this, you're better to not have a cock if you're going to fall from the battlements and survive.

+.+.+

Winterfell's great main gates were closed and barred, and so choked with ice and snow that the portcullis would need to be chipped free before it could be raised. Much the same was true of the Hunter's Gate, though there at least ice was not a problem, since the gate had seen recent use. The Kingsroad Gate had not, and ice had frozen those drawbridge chains rock hard. Which left the Battlements Gate, a small arched postern in the inner wall. Only half a gate, in truth, it had a drawbridge that spanned the frozen moat but no corresponding gateway through the outer wall, offering access to the outer ramparts but not the world beyond.

The author would like everyone to know it's impossible to leave through a gate.

+.+.+

"Lord Stannis is lost in the storm," said Lady Dustin. "He's leagues away, dead or dying. Let winter do its worst. A few more days and the snows will bury him and his army both."

And us as well, thought Theon, marveling at her folly. Lady Barbrey was of the north and should have known better. The old gods might be listening.

It's up to you to decide whether she's as foolish as she seems.

My stance remains the same. She is.

+.+.+

"Never touch me," he said, twisting down to snatch the fallen utensil off the floor before one of Ramsay's girls could get hold of it. "Never touch me."

She sat down next to him, too close, another of Abel's washerwomen. This one was young, fifteen or maybe sixteen, with shaggy blond hair in need of a good wash and a pair of pouty lips in need of a good kiss. "Some girls like to touch," she said, with a little half-smile. "If it please m'lord, I'm Holly."

Holly the whore, he thought, but she was pretty enough. Once he might have laughed and pulled her into his lap, but that day was done. "What do you want?"

"To see these crypts. Where are they, m'lord? Would you show me?" Holly toyed with a strand of her hair, coiling it around her little finger. "Deep and dark, they say. A good place for touching. All the dead kings watching."

"Did Abel send you to me?"

"Might be. Might be I sent myself. But if it's Abel you're wanting, I could bring him. He'll sing m'lord a sweet song."

Every word she said persuaded Theon that this was all some ploy. But whose, and to what end? What could Abel want of him? The man was just a singer, a pander with a lute and a false smile. He wants to know how I took the castle, but not to make a song of it. The answer came to him. He wants to know how we got in so he can get out. Lord Bolton had Winterfell sewn up tight as a babe's swaddling clothes. No one could come or go without his leave. He wants to flee, him and his washerwoman.

Theon correctly deduces Mance and his washerwomen are looking for a way out.

That's fantastic, but we also have every reason to believe Mance went to Winterfell with more than one goal.

Does she never sleep? What game are you playing, priestess? Did you have some other task for Mance? - Jon IX, ADWD

Mance Rayder and his spearwives had not returned, and Jon could not help but wonder whether the red woman had lied of a purpose. Is she playing her own game? - Jon X, ADWD

He wondered where Mance was now. Did he ever find you, little sister? Or were you just a ploy he used so I would set him free? - Jon XI, ADWD

Why is the wildling interested in the crypts?

"The steps go farther down," observed Lady Dustin.

"There are lower levels. Older. The lowest level is partly collapsed, I hear. I have never been down there." - The Turncloak, ADWD

What is on the lower levels?

+.+.+

Theon groped his way to the wall, then followed it to the Battlements Gate. He might have taken the guards for a pair of Little Walder's snowmen if he had not seen the white plumes of their breath. "I want to walk the walls," he told them, his own breath frosting in the air.

"Bloody cold up there," one warned.

"Bloody cold down here," the other said, "but you do as you like, turncloak." He waved Theon through the gate.

The steps were snow-packed and slippery, treacherous in the dark. Once he reached the wallwalk, it did not take him long to find the place where they'd thrown down the freerider. He knocked aside the wall of fresh-fallen snow filling up the crenel and leaned out between the merlons. I could jump, he thought. He lived, why shouldn't I? He could jump, and … And what? Break a leg and die beneath the snow? Creep away to freeze to death?

✨ foreshadowing ✨

Want to know how stupid the fandom is?

Euron turned to face him, his bruised blue lips curled in a half smile. "Perhaps we can fly. All of us. How will we ever know unless we leap from some tall tower?" The wind came gusting through the window and stirred his sable cloak. There was something obscene and disturbing about his nakedness. "No man ever truly knows what he can do unless he dares to leap." - The Reaver, AFFC

Looking back that's such obvious Theon foreshadowing, yet everyone in the world thinks it means Euron is somehow tied to Bloodraven.

We're going to ignore the fact that I also didn't make the connection to Theon at the time.

+.+.+

The next morning Ser Aenys Frey's grizzled squire was found naked and dead of exposure in the old castle lichyard, his face so obscured by hoarfrost that he appeared to be wearing a mask. Ser Aenys put it forth that the man had drunk too much and gotten lost in the storm, though no one could explain why he had taken off his clothes to go outside. Another drunkard, Theon thought. Wine could drown a host of suspicions.

Then, before the day was done, a crossbowman sworn to the Flints turned up in the stables with a broken skull. Kicked by a horse, Lord Ramsay declared. A club, more like, Theon decided.

The second murder is a naked Frey squire found in the lichyard.

Makes perfect sense it was a washerwoman seducing the squire. They were spotted in the area in a previous Theon chapter.

Even here in this half-frozen lichyard of a castle, surrounded by snow and ice and death, there were women. Washerwomen. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

However, Theon also frequently visits the lichyard at night, and is petrified of being naked.

"No." He could not let them take the clothes Lord Ramsay gave him. He could not let them see him. - Reek III, ADWD

Theon peeled his gloves off and held his hands up for them to see. It is not as if I stand before them naked. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

The third murder is a Flint crossbowman found in the stables.

Nothing connecting the spearwives to the stables.

Quite the opposite for Theon, who has had several traumatic memories about the stables leading up to this.

The memory came back in a rush. Smiler's screams had sounded almost human. His mane afire, he had reared up on his hind legs, blind with pain, lashing out with his hooves. No, no. Not mine, he was not mine, Reek never had a horse. - Reek II, ADWD

He set my horse afire. That was the last sight he had seen the day the castle fell: Smiler burning, the flames leaping from his mane as he reared up, kicking, screaming, his eyes white with terror. Here in this very yard. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

Beyond the tents the big destriers of the knights from White Harbor and the Twins were shivering in their horse lines. Ramsay had burned the stables when he sacked Winterfell, so his father had thrown up new ones twice as large as the old, to accommodate the warhorses and palfreys of his lords' bannermen and knights. - The Turncloak, ADWD

So far we have dead men sworn to the Ryswells, Freys, and Flints.

Do the spearwives know the internal politics of the north? I'll let you decide.

+.+.+

It all seemed so familiar, like a mummer show that he had seen before. Only the mummers had changed. Roose Bolton was playing the part that Theon had played the last time round, and the dead men were playing the parts of Aggar, Gynir Rednose, and Gelmarr the Grim. Reek was there too, he remembered, but he was a different Reek, a Reek with bloody hands and lies dripping from his lips, sweet as honey. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with sneak.

And which part are you playing, Theon?

Theon is correct, we've done this before. Not just Arya. In ACOK, there was another ghost in Winterfell causing mysterious deaths. We know it was Reek (Ramsay) who was responsible.

Theon pointing out the similarities seems to suggest this Reek (Theon) might be committing the murders again.

+.+.+

"How long must we sit here waiting for this king who never comes?" Ser Hosteen Frey demanded. "We should take the fight to Stannis and make an end to him."

[...]

Lord Wyman Manderly slapped his massive belly. "White Harbor does not fear to ride with you, Ser Hosteen. Lead us out, and my knights will ride behind you."

Ser Hosteen turned on the fat man. "Close enough to drive a lance through my back, aye. Where are my kin, Manderly? Tell me that. Your guests, who brought your son back to you."

Wyman Manderly is so funny. A treasure.

That is exactly what will happen.

Lord Bolton unrolled the parchment. "His host lies not three days' ride from here, snowbound and starving, and I for one am tired of waiting on his pleasure. Ser Hosteen, assemble your knights and men-at-arms by the main gates. As you are so eager for battle, you shall strike our first blow. Lord Wyman, gather your White Harbor men by the east gate. They shall go forth as well." - Theon I, ADWD

The Freys will fall in a lake, will the Manderlys be more lucky?

Unfortunately Stannis doesn't know Wyman Manderly conspires against the Boltons.

"Wyman Manderly." The king's mouth twisted in contempt. "Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse. Too fat to come to me, yet he comes to Winterfell. Too fat to bend the knee and swear me his sword, yet now he wields that sword for Bolton. I sent my Onion Lord to treat with him, and Lord Too-Fat butchered him and mounted his head and hands on the walls of White Harbor for the Freys to gloat over. And the Freys... has the Red Wedding been forgotten?" - Theon I, TWOW

There's a lot of room for an oopsie here.

+.+.+

"His bones, you mean." Manderly speared a chunk of ham with his dagger. "I recall them well. Rhaegar of the round shoulders, with his glib tongue. Bold Ser Jared, so swift to draw his steel. Symond the spymaster, always clinking coins. They brought home Wendel's bones. It was Tywin Lannister who returned Wylis to me, safe and whole, as he had promised. A man of his word, Lord Tywin, Seven save his soul." Lord Wyman popped the meat into his mouth, chewed it noisily, smacked his lips, and said, "The road has many dangers, ser. I gave your brothers guest gifts when we took our leave of White Harbor. We swore we would meet again at the wedding. Many and more bore witness to our parting."

Lol.

+.+.+

"Step out into the yard, you sack of suet, and I'll serve you all the bloody bits that you can stomach," Ser Hosteen said.

He might like that.

+.+.+

Wyman Manderly laughed, but half a dozen of his knights were on their feet at once. It fell to Roger Ryswell and Barbrey Dustin to calm them with quiet words. Roose Bolton said nothing at all. But Theon Greyjoy saw a look in his pale eyes that he had never seen before—an uneasiness, even a hint of fear.

Bwahahahahaha.

+.+.+

That night the new stable collapsed beneath the weight of the snow that had buried it. Twenty-six horses and two grooms died, crushed beneath the falling roof or smothered under the snows. It took the best part of the morning to dig out the bodies.

Dear lord (@aegor-bamfsteel),

Please forgive me for laughing at all the imaginary dead horses. This does not represent who I am as a person.

Anyway, what kind of northerner doesn't know you have to remove heavy snow from an unstable roof? Please, George.

+.+.+

And no sooner had the men finished digging out the dead men and butchering the horses than another corpse was found.

This one could not be waved away as some drunken tumble or the kick of a horse. The dead man was one of Ramsay's favorites, the squat, scrofulous, ill-favored man-at-arms called Yellow Dick. Whether his dick had actually been yellow was hard to determine, as someone had sliced it off and stuffed it into his mouth so forcefully they had broken three of his teeth. When the cooks found him outside the kitchens, buried up to his neck in a snowdrift, both dick and man were blue from cold.

The fourth murder is Yellow Dick, one of Ramsay's favourites.

His teeth are broken (!), and his penis is cut off (!!!).

He rubbed his mouth to hide his broken teeth, and said, "I need to speak with your commander." - Reek II, ADWD

"Reek, get over here. Get her ready for me."

For a moment he did not understand. "I … do you mean … m'lord, I have no … I …" - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

A penis shoved in the mouth of one of Ramsay's favourites feels a little personal to me. What about you?

+.+.+

"Burn the body," Roose Bolton ordered, "and see that you do not speak of this. I'll not have this tale spread."

The tale spread nonetheless. By midday most of Winterfell had heard, many from the lips of Ramsay Bolton, whose "boy" Yellow Dick had been.

I bet Roose is thrilled Ramsay can't keep his mouth shut.

+.+.+

The horsemeat was too tough for the ruins of Theon's teeth. His attempts to chew gave him excruciating pain. So he mashed the neeps and onions up together with the flat of his dagger and made a meal of that, then cut the horse up very small, sucked on each piece, and spat it out.

Quick reminder of the state of Theon's mouth.

Dagger! Highlighting for later.

+.+.+

Lord Bolton commanded Abel to play for them as they ate. The bard sang "Iron Lances," then "The Winter Maid." When Barbrey Dustin asked for something more cheerful, he gave them "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown," and "The Bear and the Maiden Fair." The Freys joined the singing, and even a few northmen slammed their fists on the table to the chorus, bellowing, "A bear! A bear!" But the noise frightened the horses, so the singers soon let off and the music died away.

[...]

He fled quickly, before they changed their minds. His tormentors would not follow him outside. Not so long as there was food and drink within, willing women and warm fires. As he left the hall, Abel was singing "The Maids That Bloom in Spring."

I'll let you guys read into the songs.

I'm mostly including this so everyone knows Mance is accounted for, and can't be the Hooded Man.

Seriously, the amount of people I saw speculating it was Mance would blow your mind. When I say people can't read I mean they can't read.

+.+.+

Outside the snow was coming down so heavily that Theon could not see more than three feet ahead of him. He found himself alone in a white wilderness, walls of snow looming up to either side of him chest high. When he raised his head, the snowflakes brushed his cheeks like cold soft kisses. He could hear the sound of music from the hall behind him. A soft song now, and sad. For a moment he felt almost at peace.

Did you know people use this to dismiss the jonsa in Sansa's drifting snowflakes? Lol.

Poor bastards don't know about the prologue.

+.+.+

Farther on, he came upon a man striding in the opposite direction, a hooded cloak flapping behind him. When they found themselves face-to-face their eyes met briefly. The man put a hand on his dagger. "Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer."

"I'm not. I never … I was ironborn."

"False is all you were. How is it you still breathe?"

"The gods are not done with me," Theon answered, wondering if this could be the killer, the night walker who had stuffed Yellow Dick's cock into his mouth and pushed Roger Ryswell's groom off the battlements. Oddly, he was not afraid. He pulled the glove from his left hand. "Lord Ramsay is not done with me."

The man looked, and laughed. "I leave you to him, then."

Theon trudged through the storm until his arms and legs were caked with snow and his hands and feet had gone numb from cold, then climbed to the battlements of the inner wall again.

Oh goodie, is it time for another meta?

Who is the Hooded Man? Wait until you see how many candidates we have to cover. I'm truly blessed.

I'll leave Theon for last, but to start off I'll let everyone know the general consensus is the Theon Durden theory.

In the movie Fight Club, Tyler Durden is a figment of the The Narrator's imagination. Many theorize the Hooded Man is a manifestation of Theon's own psyche. Theon Durden.

Okay, let's get to it.

THE CANDIDATES

A Banefort

Who? Yeah, exactly. House Banefort of the Westerlands has a black hooded man on a grey field as their sigil.

Um, Black Hood is a comic book reference.

Benjen Stark

One of the more popular theories.

Why Benjen? Benjen is a missing Stark, there's a bizarre belief within the fandom that a Stark literally needs to be at Winterfell at all times or the world will collapse, and there's an exchange between him and Bran that people have read far too much into.

At the feast in honor of King Robert's visit to Winterfell, Bran had recited the names for his uncle Benjen, east to west and then west to east. Benjen Stark had laughed and said, "You know them better than I do, Bran. Perhaps you should be First Ranger. I'll stay here in your place." - Bran III, ASOS

Anyone who believes Benjen Stark could walk around Winterfell unnoticed is crazy.

Brynden "Blackfish" Tully

Missing, major character, and another Stark loyalist.

Same as Benjen, you don't think someone would have recognized Blackfish by now?

Besides, the former Knight of the Gate is going to the Vale, the ellipsis of truth told me so.

And if Ser Brynden should survive this siege, he might be inclined to claim Riverrun in his own name . . . or in the name of young Robert Arryn. - Jaime V, AFFC

Faceless Man

The Faceless Men are known for infiltrating castles and causing mischief, but there's zero evidence supporting this.

Galbart Glover

Master of Deepwood Motte, last seen in ASOS where he was sent to the Neck with Maege Mormont.

Personally I think he's sitting on a far bigger developing storyline.

Hallis Mollen

The second most popular theory ... yeah, you read that right.

Do you remember Hallis Mollen? Probably not. Member of Eddard Stark's household guard, tends to state the obvious, and was tasked with bringing Ned Stark's bones back to Winterfell in ACOK.

Hallis has been missing for quite awhile, and we're one Theon chapter removed from being reminded of Ned Stark's bones by Barbrey Dustin. Not only that, but Hallis Mollen = Hooded Man. Suspicious, right?

Wrong.

Are we seriously doing this? Hallis Mollen magically got to Winterfell with Ned's bones, and now he wanders around with a knife? Okay, and now what? He dismantles the Bolton empire from the inside?

Leave it to the fandom to take a nothing character and give him one of the most important roles in the north.

Now that I think about it, maybe Val is the Hooded Man.

Harwin

Another popular theory. Wow.

Current member of the brotherhood without banners, former member of the Stark household guard, and horse whisperer. Knows Arya is alive, and might have been motivated to come save her. The brotherhood without banners have infiltrated Riverrun, why not Winterfell?

Because it's stupid.

This is not Harwin. Have people forgotten how many clues there were that pointed to Tom Sevenstrings being the singer?

Hother "Whoresbane" Umber

It's implied all the high lords are in the Great Hall eating.

Umber is big picture betrayal, not petty murder betrayal.

Howland Reed

Stark loyalist, and eagerly awaiting his debut. Not to mention Howland Reed is actually every character in the story. Hooded Man? Howland Reed. The Knight of the Laughing Tree? Howland Reed. The High Sparrow? Howland Reed. Ser Shadrich? Howland Reed. Septa Lemore? Howland Reed.

If it was Howland, guaranteed Theon would have commented on the height of the man.

Mance Rayder

I'm speechless. We just saw him, he's in the Great Hall singing.

I swear to god introducing glamor to the story broke so many brains.

Mors "Crowfood" Umber

Stark loyalist, commits to Stannis, shows up right outside the castle by the end of this chapter, and calls Theon a kinslayer in the next book.

Uh, how is he getting in and out? Theon never connects Mors to the Hooded Man in the sample chapter. He's also a huge man, and that would have been mentioned.

Mountain Clansman

What? They're with Stannis.

Random Unnamed Northman Loyal to the Starks

Surprisingly popular theory.

I mean, maybe? Kind of hard to refute this. I don't mind when unnamed smallfolk are elevated within the story, but it's unlikely.

Robett Glover

Last seen conspiring against the Boltons with Manderly and Davos at White Harbor.

We don't know his current whereabouts, but he's not worth serious consideration. What is the point of Robett Glover being the Hooded Man? Wyman Manderly is already inside the castle, and could execute the same plot.

Rodrik Cassel

Oh my god.

I'm not lying, I came across this idea several times.

The Miller

As in the miller's wife's miller.

Jesus Christ. No.

___

All of these theories suck hard.

Which brings us to our final candidate.

Theon "Durden" Greyjoy

How very George R. R. Martin.

Farther on, he came upon a man striding in the opposite direction

Sounds symbolic. In Fight Club, Tyler Durden is everything The Narrator wishes he could be. Worth pointing out, after this encounter Theon's name will return as the header for his chapters.

One thing I think people miss is that if they're walking in opposite directions, the Hooded Man is walking towards the Great Hall. Why in the world would Benjen or Blackfish walk towards the Great Hall?

a hooded cloak flapping behind him.

Theon wears hooded cloaks.

Ice crunched beneath his boots, and a sudden gust pushed back his hood, as if a ghost had plucked at him with frozen fingers, hungry to gaze upon his face. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

Babe, why are you hiding your face?

To be fair, many characters are described wearing hooded cloaks.

When they found themselves face-to-face their eyes met briefly.

Not explicitly stated, but it's implied they're similar height. Sorry to Howland and the Umber brothers.

Theon doesn't name the Hooded Man. Theon should be familiar with almost every notable figure from the north. He grew up in Winterfell, and was right by Robb's side throughout the war.

The man put a hand on his dagger.

Dagger!

A lot of attention is paid to the dagger Theon carries on his hip.

He could feel his missing fingers cramping: two on his left hand, one on his right. And on his hip his dagger rested, sleeping in its leather sheath, but heavy, oh so heavy. It is only my pinky gone on my right hand, Theon reminded himself. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

To be fair, many people in Winterfell are described carrying daggers.

No longswords had been allowed within the hall, but every man there wore a dagger, even Theon Greyjoy. How else to cut his meat? - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

"Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer."

The Hooded Man recognizes Theon despite Theon's altered appearance. Is that bad news for the Harwin and Hallis crowd?

More important, this is the first person to ever call Theon a kinslayer.

Theon will refer to himself as a brother to Ned's children in this same chapter.

The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

To be fair, Rowan the spearwife and Mors Umber will also call him a kinslayer.

"False is all you were. How is it you still breathe?" "The gods are not done with me," Theon answered

Where did you get that idea from?

If you've been following along you know Theon has been doing a whole lot of not killing himself despite claiming he wants to die.

Theon answered, wondering if this could be the killer, the night walker who had stuffed Yellow Dick's cock into his mouth and pushed Roger Ryswell's groom off the battlements.

If Theon is the Hooded Man he just questioned whether he's the murderer.

Oddly, he was not afraid. He pulled the glove from his left hand. "Lord Ramsay is not done with me."

Oddly, indeed. Theon isn't frightened of the Hooded Man, and volunteers his hand. Theon hates showing people his hands.

Later in this chapter he'll be approached by washerwomen, and won't come off quite as confident.

"I told you. I want to touch you, turncloak." Holly smiled. In her hand a blade appeared.

The man looked, and laughed. "I leave you to him, then."

Theon never laughs in ADWD. Not once.

If he had dared, he would have laughed. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

Once he might have laughed and pulled her into his lap, but that day was done. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

Theon would have laughed aloud if he'd remembered how. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

Theon would have laughed if he had dared. - Theon I, ADWD

Does this mean the Hooded Man isn't Theon?

No. Tyler Durden is everything The Narrator wishes he could be. Theon Durden would laugh. He might also do a few murders that Reek isn't capable of.

We'll cover this again a little later.

___

ADDITIONAL ARGUMENTS

If Theon is the Hooded Man, it makes complete sense that Theon is also the ghost in Winterfell. If Theon is the ghost in Winterfell, it makes complete sense that Theon is also the Hooded Man. They work better in tandem.

If the Hooded Man isn't Theon, what the hell is he doing? It's Theon or the washerwomen killing all the men. If the Hooded Man isn't Theon he's just some dude walking around with a dagger he apparently doesn't know how to use.

Theon calls himself a ghost in Winterfell. The Hooded Man is a perfect embodiment of a ghost in Winterfell.

I made reference to it before but it bears repeating. If the Hooded Man is Theon Grejoy, it's so George R. R. Martin it hurts. Remember, it's Cersei who is the YMBQ. It's Daenerys who is the focus of almost every vision she's shown from The House of the Undying.

"Murdered by whose hand?" Cersei demanded.

"Have you ever considered that too many answers are the same as no answer at all? - Tyrion VIII, ADWD

___

THEON DURDEN COUNTER-ARGUMENTS

Theon is shown to be recovering mentally with each passing chapter, why has he suddenly developed schizophrenia?

Let me combine this with the next point.

Why is this not happening in a dream? George always writes characters having self-confrontations through dreams. Theon has an extensive history of this.

The reason it's not happening in a dream, and the reason he could be having sudden delusions, is because Theon suffers from insomnia. He can't sleep.

Though his arms and legs were thin as reeds, his belly was swollen and hollow, and ached so much that he found he could not sleep. - Reek I

Last night, unable to sleep, Theon had found himself brooding on escape, of slipping away unseen whilst Ramsay and his lord father had their attention elsewhere. - The Turncloak, ADWD

"I cannot sleep, m'lord. I walk." - A Ghost in Winterfell

In Fight Club, The Narrator very famously has insomnia. It's the reason he hallucinates an alter ego.

Regardless, I would argue the encounter feels like a dream anyway. The Hooded Man exists for precisely this one moment, and is never thought of again.

Why doesn't he recognize himself?

Why doesn't The Narrator recognize Tyler Durden as his alternate self?

Putting aside the fact that Theon is having one hell of an identity crisis throughout this book, if you read it again, I'm not even sure that's an accurate takeaway.

Why does he call himself a kinslayer?

Yeah, that's a head-scratcher.

Theon didn't kill Bran and Rickon. He knows he's not a kinslayer.

Many have suggested Theon might know the miller's boys were his. Listen, I hate Theon, but even I don't think he's capable of killing kids he suspects are his own.

My only explanation for this is that he blames himself for his brother Robb dying.

I got nothing else. I did my best.

+.+.+

He was trapped here, with the ghosts. The old ghosts from the crypts and the younger ones that he had made himself, Mikken and Farlen, Gynir Rednose, Aggar, Gelmarr the Grim, the miller's wife from Acorn Water and her two young sons, and all the rest. My work. My ghosts. They are all here, and they are angry. He thought of the crypts and those missing swords.

Ghosts he had made himself. His work. His ghosts. Mmkay.

Shoutout to @agentrouka-blog for reminding me of this killer Tyrion quote.

There are worse ways to die than drowning. And if truth be told, he had perished long ago, back in King's Landing. It was only his revenant who remained, the small vengeful ghost who throttled Shae and put a crossbow bolt through the great Lord Tywin's bowels. No man would mourn the thing that he'd become. I'll haunt the Seven Kingdoms, he thought, sinking deeper. They would not love me living, so let them dread me dead. - Tyrion V, ADWD

There are ghosts in Winterfell, he thought, and I am one of them. - The Turncloak, ADWD

+.+.+

Steelshanks led him back to the Great Keep and the solar that had once been Eddard Stark's. Lord Bolton was not alone. Lady Dustin sat with him, pale-faced and severe; an iron horsehead brooch clasped Roger Ryswell's cloak; Aenys Frey stood near the fire, pinched cheeks flushed with cold.

Notice how Roose didn't invite Ramsay, the lord of this castle and his supposed heir, to the meeting of Very Important People?

The rift between father and son is subtle, but it's there.

+.+.+

"I am told you have been wandering the castle," Lord Bolton began. "Men have reported seeing you in the stables, in the kitchens, in the barracks, on the battlements. You have been observed near the ruins of collapsed keeps, outside Lady Catelyn's old sept, coming and going from the godswood. Do you deny it?"

The author officially indicates the killer might be Theon.

+.+.+

"No, m'lord." Theon made sure to muddy up the word. He knew that pleased Lord Bolton. "I cannot sleep, m'lord. I walk." He kept his head down, fixed upon the old stale rushes scattered on the floor. It was not wise to look his lordship in the face.

Roose preferring Theon speak like a peasant is deranged.

+.+.+

"I was a boy here before the war. A ward of Eddard Stark."

"You were a hostage," Bolton said.

"Yes, m'lord. A hostage." It was my home, though. Not a true home, but the best I ever knew.

Is there a sadder character?

+.+.+

"Someone has been killing my men."

"Yes, m'lord."

"Not you, I trust?" Bolton's voice grew even softer. "You would not repay all my kindnesses with such treachery."

"No, m'lord, not me. I wouldn't. I … only walk, is all."

Normally I would jump out of my seat at that ellipsis of (un)truth, but Theon's dialogue is always written in this manner, so I don't know.

Damn, I want to believe in the ellipsis of (un)truth so bad.

+.+.+

Lady Dustin spoke up. "Take off your gloves."

Theon glanced up sharply. "Please, no. I … I …"

"Do as she says," Ser Aenys said. "Show us your hands."

Theon peeled his gloves off and held his hands up for them to see. It is not as if I stand before them naked. It is not so bad as that.

. . .

(Look who doesn't want to take off their gloves.)

+.+.+

Theon peeled his gloves off and held his hands up for them to see. It is not as if I stand before them naked. It is not so bad as that. His left hand had three fingers, his right four. Ramsay had taken only the pinky off the one, the ring finger and forefingers from the other.

"The Bastard did this to you," Lady Dustin said.

She's comfortable calling Ramsay a bastard in front of Roose because Roose doesn't care.

+.+.+

"Four is enough." Ser Aenys Frey fingered the wispy brown beard that sprouted from his weak chin like a rat's tail. "Four on his right hand. He could still hold a sword. A dagger."

Lady Dustin laughed. "Are all Freys such fools? Look at him. Hold a dagger? He hardly has the strength to hold a spoon. Do you truly think he could have overcome the Bastard's disgusting creature and shoved his manhood down his throat?"

"These dead were all strong men," said Roger Ryswell, "and none of them were stabbed. The turncloak's not our killer."

Roose Bolton's pale eyes were fixed on Theon, as sharp as Skinner's flaying knife. "I am inclined to agree. Strength aside, he does not have it in him to betray my son."

Are you not all side-eyeing this exchange?

They're LAUGHING at the prospect of it being Theon. It's simply impossible! Look at this pathetic weak man! Too broken to ever plot betrayal!

Is that not making your brain itch? This is the exact same dismissal Wyman Manderly receives from these people.

Are we sure it's the spearwives? Are we?

Strength aside, he does not have it in him to betray my son.

He does. :D

What about strength? Admittedly, that's the biggest issue with the theory. These men weren't stabbed. Is Theon capable of overpowering all the men he potentially killed?

I can't answer that question, but I think Theon gives himself more credit than Barbrey Dustin does.

Fear went through him like a knife. They are only children, he thought. Two boys of eight. He could overcome two boys of eight, surely. Even as weak as he was, he could take the torch, take the keys, take the dagger sheathed on Little Walder's hip, escape. - Reek I, ADWD

It is only my pinky gone on my right hand, Theon reminded himself. I can still grip a knife. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

Side note, have to throw it in for fun:

Victarion is like some great grey bullock, strong and tireless and dutiful, but not like to win any races. No doubt, he'll serve me as loyally as he has served my lord father. He has neither the wits nor the ambition to plot betrayal.

He does. :D

+.+.+

Roger Ryswell grunted. "If not him, who? Stannis has some man inside the castle, that's plain."

Reek is no man. Not Reek. Not me. He wondered if Lady Dustin had told them about the crypts, the missing swords.

This has such guilty dog energy.

Not Reek. Not me. Theon Durden!

He thought of the crypts and those missing swords.

He wondered if Lady Dustin had told them about the crypts, the missing swords.

Kind of hilarious he's consumed with the missing swords, but not a hooded man with a dagger prowling around Winterfell.

+.+.+

"We must look at Manderly," muttered Ser Aenys Frey. "Lord Wyman loves us not."

Ryswell was not convinced. "He loves his steaks and chops and meat pies, though. Prowling the castle by dark would require him to leave the table. The only time he does that is when he seeks the privy for one of his hourlong squats."

Or to plot treason with Davos Seaworth.

+.+.+

"I do not claim Lord Wyman does the deeds himself. He brought three hundred men with him. A hundred knights. Any of them might have—"

"Night work is not knight's work," Lady Dustin said. "And Lord Wyman is not the only man who lost kin at your Red Wedding, Frey. Do you imagine Whoresbane loves you any better? If you did not hold the Greatjon, he would pull out your entrails and make you eat them, as Lady Hornwood ate her fingers. Flints, Cerwyns, Tallharts, Slates … they all had men with the Young Wolf."

"House Ryswell too," said Roger Ryswell.

"Even Dustins out of Barrowton." Lady Dustin parted her lips in a thin, feral smile. "The north remembers, Frey."

Barbrey's big moment that has the fandom convinced she's Team Stark.

All I see is a woman too chicken shit to acknowledge the Boltons are as culpable as the Freys.

+.+.+

"You are free to go. Take care where you wander. Else it might be you we find upon the morrow, smiling a red smile."

Roose should maybe ask himself why Theon, the most hated man in the castle, hasn't already been killed.

+.+.+

The hour of the wolf found him still awake, wrapped in layers of heavy wool and greasy fur, walking yet another circuit of the inner walls, hoping to exhaust himself enough to sleep. His legs were caked with snow to the knee, his head and shoulders shrouded in white. On this stretch of the wall the wind was in his face, and melting snow ran down his cheeks like icy tears.

Kind of sounds like a ghost.

+.+.+

Then he heard the horn.

A long low moan, it seemed to hang above the battlements, lingering in the black air, soaking deep into the bones of every man who heard it. All along the castle walls, sentries turned toward the sound, their hands tightening around the shafts of their spears. In the ruined halls and keeps of Winterfell, lords hushed other lords, horses nickered, and sleepers stirred in their dark corners. No sooner had the sound of the warhorn died away than a drum began to beat: BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom. And a name passed from the lips of each man to the next, written in small white puffs of breath. Stannis, they whispered, Stannis is here, Stannis is come, Stannis, Stannis, Stannis.

Mors Umber, not Stannis.

"We had expected to find the king at Winterfell. This same blizzard has engulfed the castle, alas. Beneath its walls we found Mors Umber with a troop of raw green boys, waiting for the king's coming. He gave us this." - The Sacrifice, ADWD

With Stannis stuck in the village, Mors is a sitting duck outside the castle.

+.+.+

Theon shivered. Baratheon or Bolton, it made no matter to him. Stannis had made common cause with Jon Snow at the Wall, and Jon would take his head off in a heartbeat. Plucked from the clutches of one bastard to die at the hands of another, what a jape. Theon would have laughed aloud if he'd remembered how.

Covered in Hooded Man, but I want to expand on it.

Theon gets his name back, and can't stop laughing in TWOW.

"None. No men." He grinned at his own wit. - Theon I, TWOW

"Their spears and axes were older than the hands that clutched them. It was Whoresbane Umber who had the men, inside the castle. I saw them too. Old men, every one." Theon tittered. - Theon I, TWOW

Theon Greyjoy kicked his feet feebly, and laughed under his breath. Caught! - Theon I, TWOW

Theon's laugh was half a titter, half a whimper. - Theon I, TWOW

Not so hard to believe Theon Durden would laugh.

+.+.+

"Do they mean to try and blow our walls down?" japed a Flint when the warhorn sounded once again. "Mayhaps he thinks he's found the Horn of Joramun."

That is such a bizarre addition to the chapter it makes you stop reading.

What's at the bottom of the crypts, George?

+.+.+

"We should take the fight to him," declared a Frey.

Do that, Theon thought. Ride out into the snow and die.

They will. :D

+.+.+

Leave Winterfell to me and the ghosts. Roose Bolton would welcome such a fight, he sensed. He needs an end to this. The castle was too crowded to withstand a long siege, and too many of the lords here were of uncertain loyalty. Fat Wyman Manderly, Whoresbane Umber, the men of House Hornwood and House Tallhart, the Lockes and Flints and Ryswells, all of them were northmen, sworn to House Stark for generations beyond count. It was the girl who held them here, Lord Eddard's blood, but the girl was just a mummer's ploy, a lamb in a direwolf's skin. So why not send the northmen forth to battle Stannis before the farce unraveled? Slaughter in the snow. And every man who falls is one less foe for the Dreadfort.

Theon recognizing it all falls apart without the girl.

Because of the inclusion of the Ryswells, I'm not automatically assigning all these houses Team Stark.

the girl was just a mummer's ploy, a lamb in a direwolf's skin

Not to be mistaken with that other mummer's ploy: a direwolf in dragon's scales.

+.+.+

Theon wondered if he might be allowed to fight. Then at least he might die a man's death, sword in hand. That was a gift Ramsay would never give him, but Lord Roose might. If I beg him. I did all he asked of me, I played my part, I gave the girl away.

Death was the sweetest deliverance he could hope for.

I'm not sure it will be a sword.

How many fingers do you need for a bow?

As the maester knelt to examine the wound, Bran turned his head. Theon Greyjoy stood beside a sentinel tree, his bow in hand. He was smiling. Ever smiling. A half-dozen arrows were thrust into the soft ground at his feet, but it had taken only one. "A dead enemy is a thing of beauty," he announced. - Bran V, AGOT

+.+.+

And in the heart of the wood the weirwood waited with its knowing red eyes. Theon stopped by the edge of the pool and bowed his head before its carved red face. Even here he could hear the drumming, boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM. Like distant thunder, the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once.

The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling his name. "Theon," they seemed to whisper, "Theon."

The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. "Please." He fell to his knees. "A sword, that's all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek." Tears trickled down his cheeks, impossibly warm. "I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands."

Begging Bran to give his life purpose.

Is the boom DOOM supposed to feel like the Red Wedding?

+.+.+

A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. "… Bran," the tree murmured.

They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran's face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran's ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller's sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. "I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me … laughed at me … they …"

Not sure what to make of that bloody leafy hand. Is the pool important?

Bran's ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm.

I try to tolerate Theon. I really do.

+.+.+

A voice said, "Who are you talking to?"

Theon spun, terrified that Ramsay had found him, but it was just the washerwomen—Holly, Rowan, and one whose name he did not know. "The ghosts," he blurted. "They whisper to me. They … they know my name."

"Theon Turncloak." Rowan grabbed his ear, twisting. "You had to have two heads, did you?"

"Elsewise men would have laughed at him," said Holly.

They do not understand. Theon wrenched free. "What do you want?" he asked.

I'm not sure I'll ever understand how these wildlings became the biggest Stark loyalists in the story, or why they're prepared to die for Arya Stark, but whatever.

+.+.+

"I told you. I want to touch you, turncloak." Holly smiled. In her hand a blade appeared.

I could scream, Theon thought. Someone will hear. The castle is full of armed men. He would be dead before help reached him, to be sure, his blood soaking into the ground to feed the heart tree. And what would be so wrong with that? "Touch me," he said. "Kill me." There was more despair than defiance in his voice. "Go on. Do me, the way you did the others. Yellow Dick and the rest. It was you."

Holly laughed. "How could it be us? We're women. Teats and cunnies. Here to be fucked, not feared."

"Did the Bastard hurt you?" Rowan asked. "Chopped off your fingers, did he? Skinned your widdle toes? Knocked your teeth out? Poor lad." She patted his cheek. "There will be no more o' that, I promise. You prayed, and the gods sent us. You want to die as Theon? We'll give you that. A nice quick death, 'twill hardly hurt at all." She smiled. "But not till you've sung for Abel. He's waiting for you."

She laughs! She jokes. So obvious. Of course the washerwomen killed everyone ...

or did they.

Final thoughts:

I can't keep doing this. I'll be a puddle by the time we get to locusts.

One final thing I want to mention. The title of the chapter is A Ghost in Winterfell.

George abandoned his typical method of naming chapters.

The Prince of Winterfell, The Turncloak, The Dragontamer, The Griffin Reborn, The Discarded Knight, The Watcher, The Iron Captain, The Drowned Man, The Princess in the Tower, etc.

Unless it's a new name (Alayne, Reek, Cat, Mercy), George exclusively uses the instead of a.

Why does it change for this one chapter?

I don't know, but I can't help but feel that if it was 'The Ghost in Winterfell' the title reveals Theon as the murderer, whereas 'A Ghost in Winterfell' leaves it a mystery.

Okay, I'm crazy. I'll shut up now. It was the spearwives ...

or was it.

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#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #a ghost in winterfell #theon vi

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