#(side quest meaning maybe i get to actually para something out with someone

[tellingscarystories]

no. 102

three dead hearts // 48/500

[[ A/N: I usually slap readmores on these things because they get long, and this one got long, but it’s entirely under a readmore because it needs a few content warnings tacked on, too. (My nightmare themed drabbles always seem to need these.) As always, I’ll add the cws to the tags, but for reference: the following involves some semi-graphic depictions of violence, and allusions to death, both animal and person. If it’s not your cuppa tea, that’s cool, just don’t click the readmore ^^ ]]

Every inhale was accompanied by a metallic tang. The inside of his mouth felt slick, and hot. His arms stung, and the floor beneath his feet (his bare feet) was slippery, cold stone warming under the dark liquid oozing across the floor.

No shirt (where was his shirt) but the soft pajama pants he wore to bed

The pup before him was stained red--streaked across his flank, staining his muzzle, his paws, the undersides of his legs, like he’d laid down in it

His arm stung. And stinging grew to throbbing grew until he was struggling to hold in a sound that caught in his chest like panic and pain and something animalistic. Looking down  big mistake   brought the whitehot pain acutely into focus, and 

fuck. Fuck, what had he done, gotten in the way of one of the pups (dogs? they were so much bigger ) attacking an intruder?

He spat blood (his blood?) out of his mouth, looked around a too-empty living room for something to use to wrap around his arm, try to apply pressure and minimize the bleeding

“Danny!” There was too much for him to try to focus on. Call an ambulance--or would it be faster to drive himself? Call the office about the intruder, have this mess sorted out. Try not to bleed out

“Danny!”

The longer he took trying to collect himself, plan out next steps, the more the adrenaline wore off (he hadn’t felt like this since the last time Vasily had asked him to make an example of a traitor) and the more he ached. The more it hurt.

“Doriano-” One of the dogs stood in his path when he turned back toward Danny’s room--close enough that Nikolai nearly slipped trying to plant his feet--ears folded back against his head, teeth bared in a snarl. “Orso-”

He resisted the instinctive urge to take a step back in response to the aggressive bark that erupted from the dog. But they hadn’t gotten this far in the pups’ training yet. There was no command to send them after someone looking to do them harm, and nothing to call them back to a heel once the job was sufficiently done.

      And suddenly he was past the pup

one of the panes of the balcony windows was shattered, curtains fluttering in the wind

In the entryway there was a shadowed mound of something (white? a blanket, maybe? something that had dragged through the blood, if he was seeing the stained edges of it right -- he couldn’t tell, it was so dark, and he still hadn’t found where the rest of the blood had come from--too much for just him, but the floor was level, made it hard to tell where the first pools had formed ) an d

he nearly stepped on a pair of glasses--instead sent them skidding across the floor as his foot knocked against them. The lenses were cracked, blood (it couldn’t be anything else, they didn’t have anything at home that could smear like that) smudged across them. Danny’s glasses.

“Danny!”

He stumbled--bloodloss starting to catch up with him--trying not to slip on his way to Danny’s door   had it been ajar like that the whole time? a smeared partial handprint along one side?

 And there he was

 Nikolai jerked away, stomach roiling like he was going to be sick, but nothing coming up, and he hated what that meant, that he was so used to this shit

   when had he grabbed his switchbl ad e no. no nonono

holy - !!

He was flat on his ass without being sure of when he fell, panicked and sick and sitting in Danny’s blood and

Why was he remembering Zitto’s panicked yipping? there’d

there’d been someone breaking in, and he remembered his shoulder slamming into the window so hard (knife? something to aid it?) that the glass broke with the force of it, and hearing the balcony railing ring  denting it and scared shouting from inside, and losing his grip on something heavy and

a nd

.

contact. the back of his hand making contact with something the crunched with the force and sent a sharp, stabbing pain radiating out from the point of impact

and dimly, he’d still heard Danny, but the sound of his blood roaring in his ears had still been so loud and something latched onto his arm, and he’d gone f for his kni

no. no.

“Exterminator Avlov! Open the door!”

oh god-

“Nikolai!”

The world dropped out from under him with a sharp twist, and from the edge of his shoulder across his back a sharp, stabbing pain shot through him as his weight slammed him heavily into something that thunked dully with the contact and grated across the floor. And stars briefly blossomed behind his eyes, the air rushing from his lungs as he hit the floor.

“Nikolai, open the door!” The heavy pounding came again, his door rattling in its frame, and one of the pups (both of the pups?) whined and cried loudly enough for the sound to carry. “Nikolai!”

Slowly--still disoriented, gaze briefly fixing on the switchblade on the shelf of his nightstand before he was even sure why--he rolled off of his back and pushed himself to his feet, body protesting each movement like he’d been hit by a car.

When he finally opened his door, it was to Danny’s wide, panicked eyes, the pups falling at their feet. Danny was pressed against him before he’d even gotten his head on right enough to find his words, hands trembling until his palms pressed flat against Nikolai’s bare back.

“You’re bleeding,” Danny said suddenly, jerking back and taking careful hold of Nikolai’s arm.

Surely enough, there were angry red lines scored down the length of his forearm (from his own nails?), and some had gotten deep enough to draw blood, trickling down from the deepest points to his wrist, down along his fingers--and down Danny’s, now that there was a point of connection between them. A confused look (he felt like he was swimming through gelatin, like there was cotton in his ears, in his mouth) back to his bed showed the white sheets stained red everywhere his arm must have touched -- most of the bedding, luckily, seemed to have been spared, twisted up at the foot of his mattress, like he’d been tossing and turning.

“What happened?” Danny’s voice was so quiet, so delicate, his touch so light as his other hand took Nikolai’s free hand in his, turned it over to note the blood under his nails, staining the pads of his fingers, and streaked up to his palm.

When Nikolai didn’t respond -- couldn’t respond -- he gently pulled Nikolai toward the master bathroom, got him seated on the edge of the tub before letting go to rummage through his cabinets.

Danny patched him up. Cleaned the wounds carefully and methodically, and then bandaged what needed to be bandaged. He used a wet washcloth to wipe the little streaks of blood from them both, and dropped it in the tub when he was done to take Nikolai’s hands in his. “Come sleep in my bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

He didn’t much want to talk about it at all, but he’d take the postponement, for now. Anything to keep him from trying to force words out now, when he could still taste blood and bile in his mouth. When he could feel a tremor to him that he wasn’t sure would stay out of his voice, even if he couldn’t see it in his hands.

He let Danny guide him back to his feet, obediently followed across their living space to Danny’s room, and carefully settled into the space offered to him on Danny’s bed. He slowly curled around Danny once the Italian was pressed comfortably against him, tucked his knees behind the bend of Danny’s and draped an arm over Danny’s hip, his knuckles ghosting across the bare skin of Danny’s belly where his shirt had ridden up.

Orso clambered onto the bed soon enough and laid himself down on the empty side of the bed, and Zitto settled near the foot of the bed on the same side, both quietly huffing until they settled down properly to sleep.

A shuddered breath rattled out of Nikolai, and he felt Danny press back into him, a warm hand covering his own. “I’m right here, caro,” the Italian whispered. His voice only just carried, even in the silence. “Just sleep.”

[mandalorianbrainweasel]

Older Boba/That One Cadet?? I like that very much!! How about a first kiss? :3c

Thank you for prompting this because it made me look up his name. Jax! His name is Jax. I love him. I'm sorry for what I put him through in this.

They're like fifteen and this didn't go how I expected, they took over. As you'll see by the word count.

a taste of wasting time

T. Boba/Jax. 1580 words. Inspired by every summer camp I've been to, but the kids have actually been taught weapon etiquette which unfortunately includes the Bullying. Dumb teenagers, mean kids, Boba's potty mouth, survival training but fun, mushrooms, first kiss.

Boba likes the nights on Concord Dawn.

Staying back on Mandalore, in Sundari, is fine. That’s where most of his family is. Para and their riduure, Paz, Kix and Fox, Sati’bu, Ba’tat Arla, the Babas.

He loves his family and he doesn’t really feel a desire to be spending all his time in the Slave I for another couple years straight and he doesn’t really ever feel like spending more than a couple weeks up here with the Mereel side of the family.

And he’s not even here with them, right now. Out of all of the family members he’s stuck with right now, it’s Omega. Sure, a few of the counsellors for the training camp are clones, and more than a few of the other verd’ike are clones, but that doesn’t mean a lot. Most of the other clones that Boba even knew before Para’s quest were Alpha class or Commandos. A few others he’d seen, yeah, but no one is really family-family instead of clan-family.

He’s in a squad with two other clones and three kids from other clans. Omega is off with her squad, well away from Boba, and it’s funny how a training camp that they were both at is the only time in the last two years that he’s gotten space from his sister.

He pokes at the fire in front of him, mostly occupied with staring at the sky while his squadmates are off setting up camp. He got teased for being the spoiled one and how this was probably all he could do.

Omega would probably have tried to take their faces off with her teeth.

He’ll show them, later. This is their first night in the wilds and he’s a damn good shot and Be’baba has been running him through training almost every day since Ursa Wren dragged him to Mandalore. And that didn’t stop after he got his first beskar, like he knows some of the other clans do, leaving training to the Academy clubs and these training camps.

He doesn’t know about what the other clones will have been used to since leaving Kamino, but he knows he’s been shooting and camping long before they ever got to.

“Oh, hey, you got the fire going,” one of the other clones in his squad says, dropping down beside him. It’s the one with the red tint to his hair—Jax—instead of the one who has her dark hair buzzed low—Vril, he thinks.

“What, think I couldn’t even manage this?” he asks, glancing at him derisively.

Jax shifts uncomfortably.

“You didn’t,” he realizes, furious.

“You like in a palace,” Jax points out.

“And you either live in a really nice apartment or on a clan compound,” he points out. “I learned how to start a survival fire when I was four. And I learned how to cook on a fire a couple years later when Buir decided I wasn’t going to fall into a soup pot.”

Jax snorts and covers his mouth before he breaks into giggles.

“Seriously, my squad last year wasn’t nearly as” mean “shitty.”

Jax at least ducks his head, ashamed.

“You do realize I live with my ori’vod, right? The Mand’alor? Do you really think they’d leave me defenceless and unable to take care of myself? We may be a family, but shit happens to everyone.”

“Hey,” Vril shouts, “Stop yelling at Jax.”

Boba and Jax both swivel their heads to her and Boba.

Well, Omega is preferable right now. Even if she might insight a feud over this. And she’s still a last ditch place to go. This area of Concord Dawn is pretty safe for someone wandering on their own.

He tosses the stick into the fire and heads out into the trees, strolling until he’s far enough they won’t hear him break into a run, angry tears prickling at his eyes. He wants the Lieutenants, and Para and Mij and Fordo and Ven’ti, and the Babas. He wants people who don’t want to see the worst in him. He remembers Korkie talking about this kind of thing, when Boba first started going to the Academy. Hell, he remembers stuff like this himself from his first months there.

He makes himself another fire when he comes to another clearing and has made sure none of the animal tracks around it are the kind of things that would bother him or be bothered by him. No tent, but he’s slept without a tent or a sleeping bag plenty of times.

Maybe an hour has passed when he hears more human-like footsteps, and he unholsters the blaster he brought—not one of Buir’s blasters, not for a few more years—and fires a warning shot.

The bolt of plasma sends a tree branch cracking down, and a clone yelps.

He doubts it’s Vril.

He sighs and reholsters the blaster. “I’m this way,” he calls, making another skewer of friendly-familiar mushrooms he’d found around here and setting it at the edge of the fire while he grabbed his own from where it had been roasting.

Jax steps through, rubbing his head. There’s a little scratch on his cheek that looks like it might bruise. “Hey. You...really got far out here. I don’t think I’d have gone this far.”

He shrugs. “I’ve always had to be kind of alone.” He peeks a mushroom off of the top of the skewer and pops it in his mouth.

Jax stares.

“There’s more,” he points out, motioning to the pile he’s made and the roasting skewer. “Wait for it to get brown, though.”

“Oh, uh. Okay.”

Again, Jax sits next to him.

“Sorry about, uh. All of that. I set her to rights about what we’d been talking about. The others, you know, they didn’t believe you?” Jax laughs hollowly. “They told me to come get you back because they’d get in trouble if you died out here, and Vril was too stubborn to come apologize.”

“I’m not going back until in the morning, then,” Boba decides, smiling as he eats another mushroom. “Let them sweat. I have my comm and I was going to ping our counsellor soon. Probably my ori’vod, too. Need to tell some member of the family, but if I tell my sister she’s liable to commit homicide. If not get her squad to join her.”

Jax laughs and finally it sounds like something that he’s letting himself be fully amused by.

Boba averts his eyes and goes back to munching, but he picks the skewer he set for Jax up as soon as it’s hitting the perfect shade and passes it to him.

Eventually, Jax eggs him into an actual conversation, and they chat about education modules—though Boba doesn’t mention his are for university classes. They give a report to the counsellor who agrees with Boba’s decision to let them get anxious with a kind of vicious smile that makes Boba wonder what happened last year. When the counsellor commends Jax for avoiding getting drawn in by bad influences, he really wonders.

But he doesn’t ask, not when Jax looks so beat up about it.

The next morning, after a night where they’d doze until an alarm warned them to check the fire, then doze some more again, they head back to their squad’s initial camp, after bagging up the rest of the mushrooms that they don’t eat for firstmeal.

When they get to the camp, they watch from the woods as the counsellors are scolding the rest of the squad about losing two members and how they’re going to have to send out a search party! Now why would those two have run off, hmm? Did this have anything in common with last year, hmm?

Jax finally has enough and Boba shrugs and starts whistling as they head into camp, the bag of mushrooms over his shoulder.

“Hey, Ordo, I got some of those mushrooms you like,” he tells the counsellor who had been in charge of his squad last year.

She grins, pushing the other young teens out of the way and going for them. “I don’t get how you always find these, Fett’ika! Seriously. I should never have told you they were my favorite, now you have bribery available.”

He sticks his tongue out at her.

“Anyways,” she adds, “We’re adding you two to Squad Beta. It’ll be fine.”

Boba raises an eyebrow. That squad is one from the above year. “If you say so.”

“Saxon’s in charge of them,” Ordo adds with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh, yes, then it will be fine,” he agrees.

Jax looks between the two of them. “Really?”

“Yeah, Aden’tra likes me best,” Boba says.

The rest of the camp goes fine, though Boba doesn’t find out what happened to the rest of his first squad of the year. They’re all packing up to leave when Jax takes him aside, then knocks him back into a tree and kisses him.

“I, uh, sorry. I hadn’t really said that. About the first night,” Jax says, looking down as Boba stares, shocked at him. “I, uh. Really like you. I’m sorry, if that was, uh!”

Boba kisses him this time, then grabs his comm and types in his code. “That’s me. You can ping me whenever.”

“Boba!” Aden’tra hollers. “Come on, Korkie promised to make the fritters if we get back before nightfall!”

He snorts. “I gotta go. Send me a message, okay?”

“Yeah,” Jax says, “Okay.”

[vieuxnoyesrp]

Sarah. Colour us impressed! Your choice to apply for Isaac came as a wonderful surprise to us, considering how different he is from your current character, Elijah Mikaelson. We absolutely love it when members challenge themselves by applying for secondary roles that are so, so different from their primary characters - whether or not the end result is an acceptance. In your case, the fact that these characters are so fundamentally different from one another did not stop from you understanding the complexities of our fearful and perpetually fretful Isaac Lahey. You offered us a clear look into his psyche and explored the differences between what life made him - and what he’d prefer to be. Your willingness to explore Isaac’s fears and vulnerabilities and not just gloss over the challenges he faces was also very important to us. Shy as he might be, we can’t wait to meet him on our dash!

Sarah, thank you very much for applying. As for Isaac…

                        ⚜ ~ WELCOME TO VIEUX NOYÉS!!! ~ ⚜

Wondering what to do next? Click here and let the good times roll!

⚜ Roleplay: 

⤜ Name/alias: Sarah ⤜ Pronouns: She/Her ⤜ Age: 22 ⤜ Timezone: EST ⤜ Activity: 7, I have work and school but that’s wrapping up in the next couple of weeks and I have a summer wide open. ⤜ Best form of contact: Here is great, I usually have it open on my phone. ⤜ Any Triggers? No triggers ⤜ How did you find Vieux Noyés? Through the Tags. ⤜ What drew you to the RP? I love how well developed everything seemed, it seemed like everything was completely thought out something I enjoy in roleplays. Not to mention how this rp has so many factors in play it really allows I feel for a ton of character development, and seeing as how this seems to be one of the main focus’s it really did draw me to apply. ⤜ What is one subplot/element from the Plot page that you are particularly looking forward to seeing in this roleplay? There are so many that I’d love to see, but I suppose one of them is the new coven is a bit renewed with wanting to try out Isaac and all, maybe even what goes on with the wolves.

⚜ Desired Character: Isaac Lahey

⤜ Why do you want this character? 

Isaac is this bundle of energy, he is lost with how to tap into that. But there are so many layers that make him up, the difference from how he was on Teen Wolf to how he’s been integrated into this rp is something interesting to be explored as well. I just see a lot of raw potential plot wise and many different ways that Isaac could be taken. This broken soul who wraps himself up in the warmth of chunky sweaters, and attempts to run from his past and the pain despite how he knows he can’t ever out run it. To a guy who puts a smile on his face when he interacts with people, and can come off as cross with his short replies, or his inability to get used to helping other people because it’s not something he’s used too but wants to do. There’s a timid nature to him that I find, but yet a guy that craves strength, a way to feel like he can fight back. All these layers that make up Isaac are what draws me to his character. There is just so much to explore, and more sides of him probably to even discover as time goes on.

⤜ What are your future plans for this character?

I would love to see Isaac figure out what being a wolf means, to find some sort of confidence for once so he can stand on his own two feet past just existing and drifting through life like he has been on a daily basis. As well as I’d love to see him get mixed up in it all again, despite his need to keep himself out of all of it to protect himself.

⤜ Put yourself in your character’s shoes. Give us a few lines to describe a day in the life of your character… Where do they live? Where and how do they spend their time? 

Isaac is a floater, he doesn’t tend to stick in one spot for very long. The bayou has become some sort of refuge for him however. Anything that keeps him far away from the witches of the quarter. He has very little that he keeps with him, a bag of clothes and his brother’s motorbike that he does enjoy to tinker with, attempting to get it to work again. But the general day he spends wandering, he doesn’t want for much. Maybe working an odd job or two to get a couple of bucks to eat. But his days are spent with one eye constant looking over his shoulder, there’s a paranoia in him that the witches will find him and make him pay for what he did. Without his magic anymore as well, he can’t use it to see what’s coming, so in a way he’s constantly running from the things that he knows are after him.

Despite that and the risks he does like to frequent the Café du Monde, more so to people watch. Even if he hopes to never run into the witches, or have someone spot him and give way that he tries for some semblance of a normal life. That and for a good beignet, something he had discovered when the witches first took him in. It’s a guilty little pleasure that he finds himself not being able to give up. There is something about the Café as well, that when he curls up with a coffee in one of his big sweaters and watches everyone else live their life, that he settles with a moment of peace amidst all of the chaos that is around his own life.

Isaac spends his days searching for what his sense of purpose is, he’s had it ripped from him multiple times. He doesn’t trust easily, and he yet craves not to feel so lonely even if he isn’t searching for a family or some place, he just wants to know where he belongs. His days kind of take him in that quest even if he isn’t actively doing a whole lot.

⤜ Give us three headcanons regarding your character of choice. 

Isaac often wonders why him, who his family really was. He found out that his mother was a witch, and he was, then to be turned a werewolf after his first kill. The times he does think about his family it’s about all the unanswered questions he does have. Then his mind turns to his brother time to time, and he wonders if the other boy is okay. If Camden is like him, a wolf as well. There are times at night where these thoughts keep him wide awake.

With the taste of blood in his mouth still, he fears the full moon. He doesn’t want to admit what is happening to him, yet at the same time, he knows he has to figure what it all means. After Bonnie found him the first night, he keeps himself chained up every full moon. He’d rather suffer the pain alone than to actually hurt another person. His confusion over what he is, leaves him fearing what he could become.

Isaac is slow to warm up to people, with so many breaking his trust over the years he gets anxious around whoever attempts to get close to him. There is a level of mistrust that he masks with snarky replies, and to cover up all the pain he has faced because he doesn’t want anyone else to see what he’s been through.  Sometimes though he does allow himself to trust people and see the horror that is his life.

⤜ What are some plots you’d like to explore with your characater?

There are a ton with Isaac, exploring what he is and having someone help him figure out how to control it to control the rage he can feel. Possibly getting mixed up with the witches again accidently and what that could mean for his life and what is to come. Having Isaac find some friends that he can trust and build upon. To him just finding his sense of being and who he is, because he’s been thrown around a lot. From his abusive father to witches who lied to him and held this non-acceptance. To what he is now, there’s a lot that makes up the layers of Isaac that would be awesome to explore.

⤜ Para sample:

(Retained for privacy.)

⤜ Would you like to be considered for another character if not accepted as your primary choice? 

I have Elijah at the moment so if not, I am still very content. I just figured I’d give it a shot for Isaac since his bio drew me in.  

⤜ Have you read the rules? I have.

⤜ Anything else? Like the last time if you guys want to see me write something else please do just let me know, I tried to keep this sample current with the prompt and to the rp, but I am willing to show something else if need be.

[seasonsofreckoningrp-blog]

Congratulations, Bru! You’ve been accepted for the role of Leon Valiente-Gardner. Please make sure to check our checklist, and you have twenty-four hours to send us your character’s blog. We’re really happy to have you in our family!

You had us with the family feels, seeing as both of us will be playing Leon’s siblings. You’ve brought him to life as the selfless and whole-hearted warlock that he is. Family obviously is a big and important factor to him and you’ve touched on his relationship with all three of them, especially with your headcanons about Spencer. It's beautiful how much you understood Leon and found every blank space in his past and filled it up with headcanons.

Introduction

Bru. 27, she/her.

Activity level:

Honestly, I can log on every day for at least one hour or so. My hours are flexible… sometimes my schedule gets crazy, but for the most part, I can log on every day.

Further contact:

[Removed]

How did you find the roleplay?

Magic ~~~. I’m jk. You guys told me about it <3

Roleplay experience:

I’ve been roleplaying for a few years now. I’ve done city roleplays, bio roleplays, oc roleplays, crossovers… I’ve met you both on SoR 1.0 and it’s been a crazy ride ever since. Most of the RPs I’ve been in, have been with Ev so she knows I’m a decent player.

Triggers:

[Removed]

Anything else?

[Removed]

IC INFORMATION

Desired character:

Leon Valiente-Gardner.

Faceclaim:

-

Why did you choose this character?

From day one, I’ve been in love with the idea of Leon and when I finally read his bio, it only made me want to play him even more. First and foremost let me talk about the family connections, which to me, is a huge part of Leon and one of the main reasons why I’m choosing to apply for him. Family is everything to him. It’s the people who’ve made him who he is, it’s the ones the love him the most, unapologetically and unconditionally. There’s nothing that he wouldn’t do if that meant protecting his family. And then we get to Eirene, which is basically like a second family to him. He’s more than happy to help the little ones understand their power and he’s always so eager to learn from the older members of the coven.

To me, he sort of breaks that trope where every popular guy has to be a jerk or a bully. I can see him as the class’ president, fighting for everyone’s place in the school, always trying to do better and to be better. He’s so filled with life and knowledge that it’s impossible not to feel drawn to him. I feel like people are drawn to both twins, but since Leon is the one who’s more in sync with people while Lena is in sync with herself and the nature around them, they tend to flock to him more often. The fact that he’s an empath also, is something that I’d love to explore because someone who can feel other people’s emotions and be able to ease the hard ones or to increase the good ones, but doesn’t really know how to handle their own emotions is definitely something interesting.

Leon is very diplomatic. He loves being around people and he loves hearing what they have to say, even if sometimes he might end up not agreeing with them. Besides, I think that being around people helps him escape his own mind and how much of a dangerous place it can be. The way he’s always putting others in front of himself is also another way of escaping his own thoughts, because the more he cares and worries about others, the less time he gets to spend alone with his own insecurities and the duality living in him. He always has a smile on his face to match his upbeat attitude, because if people don’t see the cracks beneath the surface, they won’t give up on their cause, which is peace no matter what. If he manages to stay strong for everyone’s sake, then he’ll have done his job.

There are two sides of Leon: one that he lets people see… the popular, friendly guy. The man who’s always there, offering you either a shoulder to cry on or some advice. The boy  with the childish grin who’s grown into a leader of his own people without overstepping Cassidy’s boundaries, the one who doesn’t want this war to get any worse. For the most part, he’s this light-hearted young man, who lights up the room with his attitude and his kindness; but every up has its down and then there’s the part no one ever sees… the ambitious, reserved and quiet man who’s struggling to put his pieces back together and who would love more than anything than to see his brother’s killers not getting away with what they’ve done. His soul, he feels has broken ever since Spencer’s death, and while he’s been trying to mend himself up, sometimes tempting thoughts end up creeping their way up to the back of his mind, leaving Leon to fight his demons by himself. I personally love those shades of grey in him. The struggle to keep himself together, because others need him, even though he’s falling apart.

Para sample:

Run.

It was like he couldn’t breathe. His mind was playing tricks again, giving him images of happy times with Spencer, only to have them taken away from him in a blink of an eye. His nightmares were usually bad whenever he felt like his energy had been drained, but this time it had happened after spending some time with Pari and even in his dream, Leon was confused. The darkness was closing in, making his heart race and making it harder for him to breathe. With a jolt, he was awake. His chest was heaving, the air coming in cold into his lungs as he pulled it with some strength. Leon blinked a couple of times, removing the pillow from its position behind him and pressing it to his face, screaming into it, as if it would help him get rid of the dark energy that still clung to his body just like his sweaty t-shirt that he had slept in, did.

As he lowered the pillow, he could’ve sworn he had seen a figure by the window, which prompted him to turn his bedside lamp on, but there was nothing there. Was he going crazy? No… not yet. With a quick jerk of his head, Leon climbed out of bed and hopped into the shower, hoping the jets would relax his muscles and empty out his mind so he could go back to sleep. After changing his sheets, watching as some droplets of water had marked his bed with wet dots, Leon still wasn’t tired enough, so he paid a quick visit to the kitchen, where, surprisingly, he found Cassidy munching on some fruit while reading on a book. As unexplainable as it was, Leon was immediately invaded with this sense of comfort just by the mere sight of his sister.

“Can’t sleep?” He offered them a smile as he pressed a kiss on their rosy cheek. His gaze was still on them, waiting for a reply as he moved through the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of juice, then joining them at the table. “Anything I can do?” His questions had two meanings: one, it meant to help Cassidy as a member of their coven, as a brother; and the other, it meant helping them as an empath. When Cassidy shook their head, thanking for the offer but denying it, claiming they had gotten distracted reading a book, Leon knew better than to push it. People didn’t like being forced to speak when they didn’t feel like doing so, besides, their expressions and manners didn’t read as a lie.

He offered them a smile, warm and comforting, before motioning his head towards the living room. “Since we’re both here and we both can’t sleep, how about we watch some TV? It’s not like I have an early class tomorrow.” And he also didn’t feel like meditating either. Deep down, deeply rooted inside him, resided some kind of fear of poking this darkness that sometimes haunted his dreams. This eagerness for power, the craving for more than it had been gifted him… he feared that by trying to understand it, Leon would open the door to something so crude and ugly, that would make him see himself as a completely different person, and you know—he liked who he was. He actually did.

An offer had been made and an offer had been accepted, which made him move to the living room, getting comfortable as Cassidy joined him on the couch. The house felt so silent this evening. If Spencer was still alive and awake, he would’ve wanted for them to watch some old cartoon, like Johnny Quest or Thundercats. Something colorful and lively. Something that would make everyone’s auras just a shade warmer. Remembering Spencer had always felt bittersweet to him. Out of everyone, Leon had always had this notion that he had felt Spencer’s loss the most, although it wasn’t like him to undermine or to think less of other people’s pain. Everyone in the family felt the blow. Everyone was still trying to make through the days.

Steps coming from behind the couch brought him back to the present as he felt his twin’s presence in the room. Was it possible that everyone had had trouble sleeping that night? “We’re about to watch that Nicole Kidman movie where she’s witch.” His childish grin was plastered on his face as Leon followed Lena with his gaze. “Do you want to join us? It always makes us laugh.”

Maybe this was exactly what he wanted to recharge his energies, some quality time with his family, watching some silly movie about witches, picking apart all the differences between what they were watching and what was actually real. He had hope that the next day would be better… for him, for his soul, for everyone in that island. That was all he could do, right? Hope.

EXTRA

Personality traits:

+ SELFLESS

+ DIPLOMATIC

+ CHARISMATIC

- COMPLEX

- PASSIVE

- SELF-SACRIFICING

Headcanons:

I. SPENCER: He visits Spencer’s grave every week. When his younger sibling was still alive, they were often found together, sharing stories and laughing about most things. Leon enjoyed teaching Spencer little fun facts about historical figures and watch as his brother would always come back, eager to learn more, so ever since his death, every week Leon picks a day out of random, usually when he’s feeling drained out and goes to the cemetery and has a quick chat with his brother’s grave, often sharing something new that he’s learned about this or that person. It’s a way to keep him grounded and sane, to make him feel like he’s still there.

II. LANGUAGES: Ever since he was young, Leon’s been walking around with his head stuffed in books. He’s taught himself Latin as a young teenager, which made it a lot easier for him to understand the ancient spells written in those old grimoires. During high school, fascinated by the myths, he’s learned Greek, just for the sake of learning something new. His eternal seek for knowledge also led him to learn how to speak French and Spanish during his time at Yale, and recently, he’s picked up on learning German, too.

III. NIGHTMARES: As an empath, you’re bound to let people’s emotions influence your aura somehow and it isn’t different with Leon. Sometimes, when he’s overwhelmed, he can feel his body physically tired, but unable to have a peaceful sleep. Emotions are tricky things and in Moon Island, they tend to be fickle and all over the place. The mix of his gift with his inner struggles often result in him suffering with vivid nightmares that wake him up in the middle of the night struggling for air. They don’t happen often and they definitely don’t pose a problem in his life… yet.

IV. RELATIONSHIPS AND SEXUALITY: Leon considers himself demisexual. While he has no preference towards genders, he cares little about sex itself. He’d rather connect with people first, to get to know them before they even begins feeling sexually attracted to them. He loves the nightlife in Moon Island as much as the next person and connecting with people is one of the best feelings for him, so whenever he finds someone who connects with him in that level, he wants to commit to them. So Leon’s had a few relationships in the past, some more meaningful than others, but all have taught him something. I’m not sure if people feel intimidated by the fact that he’s a Valiente-Gardner and that could be some kind of obstacle when it comes to being in a relationship with him. Lots of people don’t want the kind of responsibility that entails dating someone like him, so that could be a problem. I know that Leon’s last names weight a lot on his shoulders, he’s got huge shoes to fill, but I also think he tries his best to make people see him as more than just someone with important parents.

V. EXERCISING: Since his powers are abstract, Leon’s type of training consist mostly on keeping his body healthy and ready to defend him in case he needs to. Besides going to the gym, he does boxing classes and swims in his spare time, but also, doesn’t mind joining Helena in a yoga or meditation session whenever he feels like his mind’s getting too heavy.

I had a tag for him but I just realized that the hyphen isn’t letting the other posts show and now I’m sad. But I made a mockblog even though is not as pretty as I’d like it to be. HERE.

[wokethesleepers]

the north remembers | self-para

The night skies were peppered with dusts of stars that glistened gently, small droplets in the black blanket flooded by pale moonlight. Out there, in the minimal environment of the Free Folk’s settlement, it seemed so much more obvious. The sky had been dominated by the height of the Wall for a very long time. Maybe it was this or maybe it was the fact Jon simultaneously found new small enjoyments and new tokens of sorrow and disappointment in this second life of his. Since he’d ridden away from Castle Black, two whole nights had passed, nights completely wasted away. Although his deep rue had been the driving force to set him on a quest, once that pyre that died out, there was nothing left but a fallacious serenity that he knew was, in fact, only a haunting hollowness. He’d forgotten all about missions and goals, preferring to fill his time idly staring at the sky or in Ghost’s silent company. At some point, he’d pondered slipping in his skin, but he found it wasn’t as easy to will himself into doing so as he’d remembered. Perhaps it was his general lack of motivation and detachment from reality that hindered with this opportunity. Tormund, Davos, and Melisandre hadn’t said nothing on his choices regarding his leisure time, but he was still aware enough to notice they were whispering and likely setting up plans in his stead. He couldn’t tell whether this was an offense or a sign of care. Whichever it was, it was likely a result of finding him too frail to handle at the moment. And they weren’t wrong. When Grenn and Edd suddenly rode to the Gift one night, claiming to have brought Jon back some of the belongings he had left behind when his grief’s blindness had urged him out through those gates, Grenn sat him down and spoke of that night when he’d perished. How Tim Tangletongue had sought them out because of guilt, how Davos had found him first, and Daenerys’ seemingly last moments. Aside from Thorne, Grenn claimed to have been the last to see her, sharing with him, albeit with clear difficulty in remembering, the words that had spilled from her lips. All this information did was rain more salt into his wounds. It should comfort him that she had seemed so fiercely set on cleansing his name, but all it did was make him consider how guilty and lost she must have felt and how he could have avoided leaving her alone in this empty world if only he had controlled his stupid urges better.

Ultimately, this led to a fill of the void in his heart, but it wasn’t with anything good. There was only bitterness and disappointment in there, a cutting hatred for the world, for the fights he had lost, and for how wasted they had been on people that did not deserve them. Because of that, Davos’ decision to approach him one day had definitely been ill timed.

“Forgive me, but what are you planning to do, exactly?” Davos asked with a hesitant tilt of his chin.

“Rescue my sister,” Jon deadpanned.

“Are there any ideas that could actually lead to a success in play?”

“We have the Free Folk. No one else.”

“Maybe there is someone else.”

Truth be told, Jon cared less about the success of this quest and more about simply trying to do something about it. He hadn’t found a single solace since the Lord of Light had summoned him from the lands of shadow and the more days passed, the more he felt himself succumb to a sense of alienation, of helplessness, of despair, a voice pleading at the back of his head to simply lie down and beg the Great Other to reel him back in. There had been nothingness on the other side, but nothingness was still better than this. For a while, he’d completely turned down any attempt Davos had made at trying to reason for a solid strategy, for anything that would invoke a fighting spirit that had clearly left his bones. But all it took was for a reminder that he could die all he wanted, but that would not help Arya out of the torments of Ramsay Bolton. He had to keep repeating her name in his head, visualizing her face, remembering the feeling of her rough, muddied hair as he muzzled it when they were children. He could not let her down too, he could not. Finally, he relented. Davos had pointed out the loyalty of the northerners, something he’d noticed during his travels with Stannis. Many had turned down their offers, hence the small army the Stag King had marched with, something that Davos blamed himself for in lack of a better motivation.

“Arya is the last known surviving Stark, is she not?” the Onion Knight pressed. “And she is in the hands of the family that murdered their king, a king they are undoubtedly still loyal too. As it happens, you are also Ned Stark’s last living son.”

“Rickon could be alive still,” Jon protested.

“He could. But he is not here. And ‘could’ will not win us armies.”

“I believe they would much rather focus on how I am also a deserter, Ser Davos.”

“Perhaps,” Davos’ confidence did not falter. “But out of a Stark deserter and a Bolton murderer, who would they prefer to rally against?” Davos truly had a way with convincing people, Jon realized. Ultimately, he stopped circling the drain and unveiled his entire plan. Parading around the blood in his veins and Arya’s desperate situation, they would get the northern houses to join them to fight against the Boltons and retake Winterfell. Needless to say, Jon had very little faith in this mission. After all, Stannis had attempted the same thing, as he enjoyed reminding Davos and Melisandre. Sadly, they both also enjoyed reinforcing that Stannis had not been a northerner, much less one with Ned Stark’s blood running through his veins. In a matter of a few days, preparations to depart were being made. Jon had slipped out of the black garments that he’d been trapped in for so many years of his youth and even in this darkness, he found thankless comfort in clipping the Stark clothing he’d brought with him to the Wall around him. When setting the black attire of the Crows to the sight, he noticed the silver dragon pin slip from a pocket and crash onto the floor. Having forgotten about it completely, it took him a bit by surprise to see it there. But he definitely did not stall too long before reaching down to pick it up, deciding to pin it to the inside of his sword belt where no one could see it. Stepping out of the tent, he amassed a fistful of his hair and secured it in place at the back of his head. If he was going to go around using his father’s name for their cause, he may as well make sure to look the part, after all.

----------

Whole weeks passed, weeks Jon had lost count of. They traveled everywhere they could travel. To Last Hearth, to White Harbor, to Bear Island, to Karhold, to Torrhen’s Square… They even went to Greywater Watch, as far as they could go in their pleads. At first, the doors had been slammed in their faces, but a turn of tides happened once they’d reached Bear Island, where they had been welcomed by Maege Mormont. She agreed to the cause almost immediately, although she would not disclose why, something that Davos deemed as not worth questioning given their situation. Jon wasn’t really planning on it either. Strangely enough, Maege had insisted for their stay to be longer and by the time they had left, she had assured them the North remembers, that they would not meet any refusals from then onward. And they didn’t. They even returned to the castles that had shunned them away, noticing the change of heart, all the lords and ladies that wholeheartedly proclaimed the North would never forget. The most difficult had been the travels to Karhold and Last Hearth. The Karstarks and the Umbers had sworn themselves to House Bolton. Or, specifically, to Ramsay Bolton, seeing how his father had mysteriously perished somewhere during their travels. Jon was hesitant about approaching them at all, but the other northern lords had encouraged them to. After the visit to Karhold, Jon had been haunted by the parting words Harrion Karstark had left him after his refusal: do not seek my sword, Jon Snow. It was pointless to ponder on it too long, though, as it was clear that the meaning of those words were not his to decipher.

At last, they had an army. All the northern houses save for Bolton, Karstark, and Umber and thousands of Wildlings. The armies of the former three were considerably larger than anyone else’s, but put together, the numbers were evened out, offering a fair balance of odds to both sides. As the nights leading up to the confrontation drained by, Jon started to feel more absorbed by the anxiety of warfare, suddenly feeling the responsibility of the called banners on his shoulders. It was too late now to pretend that this was all a suicidal attempt at rescuing his sister. This was a conflict that tore apart the whole North, that had divided it, that would decide its fate in all wars to come, particularly the Great War. Jon had set down his sword for that particular war. The Others were no longer something in his power, something to concern himself with. The defenses of the Wall had fallen into Edd’s hands and, bless his heart, but he would never be able to withstand it. What was he now? A deserter, a bastard, a traitor, an anomaly of nature. None of these things were of help, none of these things offered him any means of fighting. So he stopped fighting altogether, worn out by his attempts to save a realm that did not wish to be saved. But this – this, at least, he had to try for. Winterfell had been his home once. It still was. Arya could become Lady of Winterfell and she would listen to him. They would work together, find a glimmer of hope in this pit of absolute desolation.

----------

A couple of sunrises later, the armies clashed on the battlefield, unleashing chaos in its rawest form all around him. During those moments, clutching Longclaw, hacking at anyone in his path, tasting the dirt and blood splattered on his lips, he’d forgotten all about the hollowness that had plagued him. He’d found an opportunity in this massacre to unleash some of his anger and hatred that had darkened his mind, undoubtedly cutting down some of his own men in the process, too blinded to tell friend from foe apart. When a mass of whimpering and frightened soldiers had knocked him into the ground, trampling him in their despair, he knew that this was the chance he had been given, the choice he had to make. The screams were deaf to his ears, the rushing silhouettes blinded out by the speckles of sunlight that slithered through. For a moment, he’d rested his arms by his sides, his body falling molten and numb, his eyelids seeking to soothe it all by shielding his deserted eyes. If he had been to go right then, it would have been without shame. Fallen on the battlefield, fighting for his home, for his family. At the very least, it wasn’t stabbed by his own men, men he’d been stupid enough to consider above such deranged missteps from morality. He could have slipped back into nothing again with ease.

But he didn’t.

Everything happened too fast for a mind to process. All he had was the jolt through his bones, the spasms of his muscles as he clawed his way through the people that unknowingly were suffocating him, clawed his way away from the allure of numbness. And it hurt, oh, it hurt. It speckled his skin with sweat, the wounds of other swords rippling and breaking, a stubborn fractured rib whining at the strain of his body as it attempted to escape. Sweat and blood mixed with tears, tears of sheer effort, of intensity, of desire, of a muted scream torn from the lungs of a side of him that had been too weighed down by regrets and sorrow. Now, now it was crawling on its knees toward the light, reminding him of what had happened, of where he was. He had died. He had been brought back. The nothingness was not where he belonged. He belonged in Winterfell, with Arya, with Ghost, with the family he could still see again, with a family he could one day start of his own. He rode those images that kept urging him on and, at last, the sunlight bathed him again and air flooded his lungs sharply, as elbows continued to fight to keep him to the surface of the crowd of people he had emerged from. And using this newfound blend of determination, he lit the candle to his anger. Not anger toward the world, but toward the man at the other side at the battlefield, against the enemy of now, the man who fed in to a flame that was no longer dark and lonely, but burning with the ardor of a flaming heart beating in the chest of a warrior with something still left to lose and to fight for.

They called it the Battle of the Bastards.

----------

By the time the grey and white banners of House Stark fluttered over the walls of Winterfell again, Jon had felt the taste of both a great victory and a great loss. Blinded by his fit of rage following Ramsay’s ruthless arrow that had put down Wun Wun, he’d knocked Ramsay into the ground, straddled him, and unleashed all of the fury that he’d harbored until his relentless fists had left nothing but an undecipherable face, bloodied, and squashed, and torn. It was much to his horror when he realized that his bruised knuckles had left Ramsay without a breathing and, for a long time, he’d simply sat on the frozen ground, rattled by shock and the aftermaths of the animalistic drive that had coiled around him. It was only when someone had returned to inform him Ramsay had only passed out and was still alive that he’d managed to break out of this trance led by a fear of the unknown – a fear of the unknown nested inside his own mind. Regardless, that still counted as the victory. He asked to see Arya and he felt beyond awful for the poor Jeyne Poole when his face had dropped in vivid disappointment, as if she had been the worst sight he had ever rested his eyes upon. Once again, he was left with nothing but a desire to retreat to his chambers and waste hours away in solitude. And so he did, bathing away the blood dried in thick, muddy patches on his skin and then eventually crashing on the bed of his old chambers, though his weariness had kept him from truly appreciating the significance of this small action. He drifted off to sleep in a single blink of his eyes and when he woke up, he was glad to find out that this episode of desolation had been temporary. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he spent solid, breathless minutes simply basking in the sight of the chamber, running his fingers over the furs adorning the bed. Ghost, who Jon had left with Melisandre in a tent during the battle, was let into the chamber and Jon lowered himself on his knees as fingers frantically ruffled at the white fur. When his gaze clashed with the glistens in the direwolf’s red eyes, Jon Snow smiled for the first time in moons. And this simple raise of his lips had drained out of his bones the last traces of dishearten, and destruction, and hatred, and everything dark that had numbed him for so long. He gripped Ghost’s cheeks and leaned his forehead into the animal’s, sighing in contentedness, sighing because he’d somehow found his way back home despite all odds that would have pointed toward anything else.

That day and the days that followed, Jon spent his time doing plenty of things he should have done earlier. He found Davos and Melisandre, thanking the former for his patience and devotion despite the fact that it did admittedly confuse him slightly. When Jon questioned the Onion Knight why he seemed to have fought so ardently for his life and survival, Davos’ answer was a lot more straightforward and concise than expected. “Stannis believed in you,” he spoke, somewhat sadly. “And Stannis did not believe in many.” Although short, it was ultimately the answer he needed. In a sense, he was continuing Stannis’ fight in Davos’ eyes, but Davos wanted to clarify that this was in the beginning and that now he had committed himself to his cause independently. He also, albeit slightly reluctantly, thanked Melisandre for delivering him from the darkness. The part of him that only wished he would have stayed dead was still a small nagging voice at the back of his head, but between the walls of Winterfell, he found out that the positives outweighed the negatives. None of this would have been possible with him still stuck in the Night’s Watch. Just like with Davos, he couldn’t help but question Melisandre’s motives as well, especially since she was arguably a lot more fickle in her allegiances. “I know what you must think of me, my Lord,” she began, her eyes shining with honesty, something he hadn’t exactly seen in her before. “Believe it or not, I do deeply regret what I have caused between you and Lady Daenerys.” The memory of the name lodged a lump in his throat, but he fought back the reminiscences that threatened to flood him. “I regret plenty of things. Yet all I was doing was serve the God and King that I thought I was meant to serve. I am a servant of the light seeking to banish the darkness coming for us all. Just like you. Just like Ser Davos. But I no longer believe in what I am told to believe in. I only believe in what I can see. And I saw you breathe again when no one should have been able to, Jon Snow. This is what I saw and this is what I am putting my faith in right now.” Ultimately, Jon agreed to have Melisandre in his service, convinced that their dynamic would drastically differ from the one with the Stag King. The Red Woman was no longer interested in whispering words of deceit and manipulation in his ears, though a part of him still remained wary of her intentions. He was also very adamant about her steering clear of the power of the flames, seeing how more harm had been done than good.

He also went to speak with Jeyne, learning of the horrors she had gone through. When he went to share his deep sympathy through an apology, she reassured him that none of it mattered now. Her only request had been to be allowed to remain at Winterfell, which Jon accepted with no second thoughts, reminding her that, legally, she was Lady of Winterfell now anyway. All of these technicalities needed to be sorted out, so a great gathering was summoned in the great hall, a place Jon had last seen under wildly different circumstances. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born. In the emptiness of this wide chamber, his fingers stroked over the backrest of the seat his father had been seated in so many times, a pang of melancholy striking his heart. Everything felt so new that he may have actually heeded Maester Aemon’s advice, after all. Somewhere between his first breath on that table and this moment there, he had truly killed the boy, the identity too busy wallowing in his own misery to truly seek out the right priorities. He wasn’t fully restored, but he was starting to heal. He was given a rare second chance, something he no longer wanted to pass on. And rather than be haunted by Daenerys’ memory like a ghost of sorrow, he chose to embrace it. He could not liberate her dragons in her name, but he could definitely not destroy his own name, a name she had fiercely wished to seen preserved even in her darkest moments of grief and loss. Taking in a deep breath, he nodded toward Davos to open the doors and welcome the northern lords in. Discussions and arguments, mostly, carried out for a very long time. The most heated topics were the presence of the Wildlings, his desertion, and the legal status of Winterfell. The first was glossed over rather quickly, as all it took was a reminder that the Free Folk had fought in a war that was not even theirs out of pure loyalty. At the very least, the northern lords were a lot more flexible than the Night’s Watch, though Jon owed this to the fact that they had proven themselves. Secondly, plenty of the lords were understandably bothered by Jon’s status as a deserter, but just as he was about to let out some defenses, Maege Mormont rose to her feet, suddenly speaking to the gathering, sharing words that sounded so foreign to Jon. Words of loyalty, of the North remembering, once again. And just as he was about to ask for a clarification, he had a rolled up parchment laid on the table in front of him. Hesitantly, he unrolled it and started reading it, visibly paling the longer he went on.

“Your brother chose you as his heir, my Lord,” Maege spoke just as Jon’s eyes swiped over the signing of Robb’s name, a blend of confusion and fondness overtaking his frame. “In there, you also have your pardons as signed by the King in the North.”

“While it is true that there is a pardon in play, this does not change the fact that he became a deserter before being made aware of it,” Wyman Manderly interfered. Jon was still stunned, unable to process words and piece any defenses. He did not wish to fight for this heirloom and he did not wish to defend his desertion. There was no way around it that could make it right.

“It does not,” Garbart Glover chimed in, also sitting up. “But to hell with it, I say.” A bold statement that caused an immediate buzz. “No one else helped us. It took a bastard who decided to stop rotting away at that damn Wall for us to get where we are. He did not leave to sunbathe in Dorne, he left to march toward a near certain death and to fight for our Lady Stark, even though here she may not be.” This statement led to another, and another, and another. Soon, the room was falling in an agreement, deciding that they could not keep pretending traditions mattered over survival and unity, a refreshing change of pace compared to the Night’s Watch. Still, before things could get too far, Jon decided to speak up, finally finding words to share again.

“I appreciate your forgiveness, my lords,” he sighed, rolling back up the will and handing it over to Davos. “And it is true that I left to fight for Winterfell. If you believe that my brother’s pardon can absolve me of the shames of desertion, I shall accept it. But I cannot accept this crown. The North has lost its independence at the Red Wedding.”

“Which you have avenged,” Alys spoke up suddenly, Sigorn of the newly-founded House Thenn at her side.

“Our independence was stolen by those who have orchestrated the Red Wedding,” Jonelle Cerwyn said. “We have never given it up. It was stolen from us. And all this time, we have waited for the right moment to take it back.” Jon felt a rush of confusion once more.

“Greatjon and Harrion never betrayed the North,” Maege interfered again. “They fought for the North until the very end. They pledged loyalty to bring Ramsay’s forces out from hiding, right into the hands of slaughter, and died carrying the North in their hearts.” Her eyes then moved toward Jeyne, filled with kindness and understanding. “But it is true that Lady Jeyne should have the last say. What is your stance, my Lady?”

After a moment’s fidget, Jeyne slowly rose to her feet, reminding herself to hold her chin high. “Winterfell has belonged to House Stark for thousands of years. I may be Jeyne Bolton by name, but I will always be Jeyne Poole by heart. And my heart acknowledges there is only one person with Stark blood in his veins among us.” Jon’s eyes snapped toward the young woman, filled with innocent bewilderment. And, slowly, her lips curled into a smile. In a single voice merged by the unity of the blood of the North, the lords and ladies of the room pierced the silence with the sounds of drawn swords and proclaimed him King in the North, their chants quaking the walls of the hold in its foundation.

----------

“Your Grace,” Davos spoke – a hint of amusement in his voice – as he entered the study.

Jon was crooked over the desk and physically winced as he turned around, lips pressed in a tight line. “Are you mocking your king, Ser?” Davos had also been one of those to pledge their sword to him back in the great hall.

“I am not. The king is mocking himself by wincing every time he is addressed by his proper title.” Jon couldn’t bite back the small smile that swept over his lips. Frankly, he did have trouble embracing this newfound reality. Last time he had been thrown into leadership, it had ended with six daggers in his chest and abdomen. But throughout the days since then, he’d come to realize this was different. He hadn’t won an election by a mere margin. All the people in that room had proudly chanted their wishes. They were people that rallied against their lawful liege lord out of loyalty for the Stark name, people famous for their fierce loyalty which they had ended up proving tenfold. A part of him still believed it was improper for a bastard to hold such a title, but it would have been even more insulting to dishonor Robb’s memory by neglecting his last recorded wish and the wishes of the North. They wanted to be led by a Stark, even if not one by name, and he wasn’t going to ignore that. Should Arya, or Bran, or Rickon, or Sansa find their ways back home, he would beg them to reconsider. But until then, he was on his own, thrust into another chair of leadership. This time, however, he did not mind it. He was at home, surrounded by people he knew, some whom he’d known since he was a child. He’d fallen into deep thoughts, he realized upon hearing Davos’ clear of his throat, “What next?”

A pertinent question. Jon bowed his head, tracing some circles with his fingers against the wooden table. “Next, we will hold another gathering.” His head rose again. “Every lord and lady will start training anyone old enough to fight, man or woman. We will start filling our supply stores with food, polishing blades, forging more armor, fortifying the castle.” There was a pause borne from his realization that this was a point of no return, but strangely, he didn’t seem to find it. He had spent so much time mulling that perhaps he was beyond eager to move past that right now. “Winter is coming,” he finally said. “We know what comes with it. And we need to be ready to defeat it.”