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searchingwardrobes · 5 years ago

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The Convenient Groom: 2/12

@spartanguard, here we have chapter two of your gift - the wedding! Some of you asked what sort of advice Emma would give as a relationship counselor, and this chapter gets into a little bit of that. More about it will be revealed as the story develops.I also realize there are a lot of logistical questions involved in the whole "switching grooms" thing, and while I get into some of it here, the rest will be explained in chapter three. I'm just trying to avoid long exposition or info dumps, so hang with me!

Summary: (Is one even necessary? Haha!) Killian Jones just happens to be there when Emma Swan gets the phone call that changes everything: her fiance is leaving her at the altar. The thing is, it also could mean the end of her career. Convenient that Killian has nothing better to do that day. Convenient that he’s secretly in love with her. Not that Emma has to know that.

Rating: M

Words: 4,000 and some change in this chapter

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Not all brides handle the stress of their big day the same way. Some get emotional, some get stressed, some freeze. However, most brides don’t stomp around the room in their bare feet fuming. Of course, Emma Swan isn’t most brides, and this isn’t most weddings.

“Emma, seriously, you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

“The carpet is the least of my worries, Rubes.”

At least Emma’s dress was simple. No voluminous skirt or long train to trip over. Nor was it one of those mermaid styles that forced the bride to shuffle around like a Barbie doll. The simple chiffon skirt swirled around her ankles, and the long slit up her left leg allowed her to move freely. The top of the dress was off the shoulder with a plunging neckline. Emma realized how sexy it was, but that hadn’t seemed to matter when it was going to be Walsh waiting for her at the end of the aisle. Now it was going to be Killian Jones waiting for her. Killian Jones. Her carpenter. Surely this was all a bad dream. That had to be it. Surely she’d wake up any minute now and laugh at the ridiculous scenarios conjured up by her nervous brain.

“This can’t be happening,” she muttered as she continued to stomp around the room.

“You mean Walsh cheating, Walsh jilting you at the altar, or you marrying a random acquaintance?”

Emma wanted to snap at her assistant, but instead she collapsed onto a nearby chair and put her head in her hands. “All of the above,” she groaned.

Ruby sank to her knees in front of Emma and took both of her hands. Ruby hadn’t made the move to Storybrooke with Emma; she’d been too much of a city girl. She normally handled Emma’s schedule from New York - the wonders of the internet - but she had made the trip for the wedding. Emma was relieved to have her here. She wasn’t only Emma’s assistant, she was also her closest friend. Those were admittedly rare in Emma’s life.

“Walsh is an absolute jerk,” Ruby fumed. “I’d like to rip his throat out!”

The door to the bridal suite flew open and Regina, Emma’s agent, came striding in, her heels beating out a staccato rhythm. She stopped right in front of Emma and propped her hands on her hips.

“What is this? You’re falling apart over that bastard? That’s not the Emma Swan I know. The one who tells thousands of women every day to push back and refuse to let a man tell you who you ought to be.”

Emma scowled. “Well excuse me for being heartbroken when I get dumped on my fucking wedding day!” Regina’s no-nonsense approach to . . . well, everything, made her a great agent. It didn’t, however, make her a very good shoulder to cry on.

“I get that, and I’m sorry, really I am.”

Really, Regina? I’m not so sure about that.

“But we’ve got media here, Emma, and I can’t have you a sobbing mess on what’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life.” She let out a huff, then shoved a stack of papers at Emma. “He signed everything with no argument.”

“Seriously?” Emma took the stack from Regina and flipped through it, though the legal jargon made her already aching head spin.

“It’s a standard gag agreement. I also had a friend of mine write up a quick pre-nup. There’s literally nothing in this for him. It’s strange, honestly.”

“Maybe he’s in love with you,” Ruby teased, giving Emma a little shove and a grin.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Hardly. We bicker like . . . like . . . “

“An old married couple?” Ruby supplied with an arched brow.

“Ruby!” she groaned. “This isn’t the time -”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ruby quickly apologized as she rose to her feet.

“And the wedding license?” Emma asked.

“Taken care of,” Regina assured her. She turned to Ruby. “I need you to run over to the groom’s suite and get Mr. Jones set up with a cordless mic.”

Ruby nodded. “Sure thing.”

Emma rose from the chair as her assistant scurried from the room. She wandered aimlessly to the window that overlooked the strip of beach where the ceremony would take place. She sensed Regina coming up behind her, but the woman didn’t attempt to touch her. That just wasn’t Regina’s way.

“Look, Emma,” she told her sincerely, “I know this isn’t the day you’d dreamed of. But your career is hot right now, and this second book might make even more money than your first. You’d be set for life.”

Emma felt a sudden chill and hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to dispel the goosebumps. Being set for life sounded nice, especially after all the years of hunger and homelessness in her past. Like it so often did, her mind also sped back in time to when she was sixteen, abandoned and alone with a baby on the way. She shuddered. What did she even know about this man, Killian Jones? Was Regina right? Would it be simply putting up with a roommate for six months to a year in exchange for the career she’d worked so hard for?

“I know that in my head, Regina. Just give my heart a minute to catch up, okay?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have a minute,” Regina briskly replied as she glanced at her watch. “Speaking of which, let’s freshen up that hair and makeup.”

Emma let out a long sigh as she sat at the vanity. Regina rushed out of the room to get Ruby, since fussing over a friend’s hair and makeup wasn’t really her thing. Emma watched Ruby’s reflection in the mirror when she came back in and fake-swooned against the door.

“If you ask me, Emma, you traded up. That man is some serious man-candy, especially in a tux.”

Emma bit her lip to keep from smiling in response, though she felt the traitorous blush stain her cheeks. Killian’s good looks weren’t lost on her - she wasn’t blind.

“Help me with these smudges, will you?” she deflected, leaning forward and frowning at where she had smeared her mascara.

Ruby rushed up to join her, swiveling Emma’s stool so she was facing her. She went to work on Emma’s eye makeup with confident precision.

“If you do decide to go through with this annulment thing, I’ll gladly take him off your hands.”

Ruby winked at her, and Emma laughed. “If?”

Ruby shrugged as she turned Emma back to face the mirror. “You could find worse to grow old with, that’s all I’m saying.”

Emma’s hair, which she was wearing loose and flowing around her shoulders, didn’t need much help from Ruby, thank goodness. No surprise, considering the entire can of hairspray Ruby had shellacked it with. Even so, Emma frowned at her reflection as the title of the very first chapter of her book flashed before her mind.

Seriously Ladies, I Don’t Care How Hot He Is!

*****************************************

Truth be told, Emma Swan’s staff had planned the wedding, not her. Stressing over calla lilies versus roses, satin versus silk, band versus DJ wasn’t really her thing. The only thing she’d gotten personally invested in besides her dress was that damn arbor. She’d seen the rocking chair Killian had done for the Nolan’s with its intricate carvings and beautiful, smooth stain, and for some reason she wanted that for her wedding. Something uniquely her - something real.

Something real - what a joke that was now.

A string quartet played the opening strands of Canon in D, and Emma stepped out onto the satin runner that led from the back of the mansion to the beach below. It felt like the longest walk of her life with all of the guests standing and staring at her - she didn’t even recognize half of them. Cameras clicked all around her, reminding her once again that this was all on display for public consumption.

Emma saw Killian up ahead, beneath the awning, but only through a haze. In a way it felt like an out of body experience. She didn’t really get a good look at his face until she was right in front of him. To her surprise, his smile was wide and bright, his eyes crinkling at the corners - as if he was actually thrilled to be pledging his life to her. She caught a glance at Regina over his shoulder, and the woman tipped her head surreptitiously, her eyes glaring at Emma. The message was clear - at least pretend you want to be here, for God’s sake! Emma bit her lower lip, then looked into Killian’s eyes and forced a smile upon her face. It wasn’t as if gazing into his eyes was a chore - far from it. She’d never seen eyes so blue. She had noticed it that very first day they met, despite her irritation over his loud music. But here beside the sea, his eyes were even more striking.

Like the sea after a storm. Emma bit the inside of her cheek as the line from The Princess Bride came to her suddenly. On its heels came the title of chapter three of her book.

Seriously Ladies, This Life’s No Fairy Tale!

The vows were over before Emma even knew she’d spoken them. Once, Killian even had to squeeze her hands and nod to prompt her. The guests merely chuckled good-naturedly, obviously chalking it up to normal wedding jitters.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the officiant announced. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Kiss the bride! Oh shit, Emma hadn’t even considered this part. They should have discussed it, or . . . practiced maybe? Yet Killian didn’t hesitate, nor did he seem the least bit flustered. He cupped her face in his hands and tenderly bent to press his lips to hers. It was soft, yet deep, his tongue swiping gently against her lips. Emma found herself opening for him and melting into the kiss. Another movie quote flitted through her brain: church tongue. When he pulled away, her eyes stayed closed in bliss for a moment.

Damn, Killian Jones could kiss.

Emma bit the inside of her cheek again as they faced the cheering guests. Now she was thinking of the title of chapter five.

Seriously Ladies, When it Comes to Kissing, Make Sure He’s the One Who Can’t Handle It

*****************************************************

If the wedding was a blur, the reception was even more so. Emma had heard stories of the crazy things people do when they’re suffering from shock. Walking miles on a broken leg, yanking things out of a gaping wound, dashing through fire, and yet not feeling a thing. She could relate, it was how she made it through her wedding day.

Regina was doing facial gymnastics to get her to go through the motions. She hoped she smiled and faked a laugh enough to sell it. Killian certainly did. Honestly, the way he looked at her sometimes was enough to make her swoon like Ruby. Regina must have given him a hell of an acting lesson.

Chapter Two: Seriously Ladies, All Men are Actors

Killian’s most Oscar-worthy performance came during their first dance. She wasn’t quite able to hide her reaction when the first bars of Extreme’s “More Than Words” played. Killian frowned down at her, his hand at her waist tightening slightly.

“Are you okay, love?”

Emma sighed, “It’s nothing, it’s just . . . this was our song.”

Killian’s eyes widened at that. “Oh, I see. I’m sorry, love. None of this can be easy for you.”

“It’s seems easy for you,” she muttered.

He chuckled at that and pulled her closer so he could whisper in her ear. “Well, I’ve got an incredibly beautiful woman in my arms. What’s so difficult about that?”

A shiver ran down her spine and an embarrassing giggle escaped her lips. She heard cameras clicking, and saw Regina give her a satisfied smile and a nod. Killian leaned back and arched a brow at her before spinning her out. When he pulled her back against his chest, he began to sing.

“More than words is all you have to do to make it real. Then you wouldn’t have to say you love me cause I’d already know.”

His voice was . . . amazing, actually, but he accompanied the words with ridiculous facial expressions and wild spins across the dance floor, and it all made Emma throw her head back with genuine laughter. He ended the entire performance by dipping her, followed by a chaste kiss. The crowd cheered and the cameras clicked. When he righted her, he pressed his forehead to hers and lowered his voice so only she could hear.

“No offense to your ex, but this song is basically a guy asking for sex as proof of love.”

Emma’s eyes widened. She should have been pissed at the observation, but . . . well, Walsh obviously hadn’t kept it in his pants, so . . .

“Seriously Ladies, Sex Doesn’t Equal Love.”

Killian blinked. “Pardon?”

Emma laughed again. Cameras clicked. They probably assumed they were having some tender moment. “Chapter eight. Of my book. That’s chapter eight of my book.”

Killian laughed and lifted his right hand to scratch behind his ear. “I, um, must confess . . . I haven’t read it.”

“Well, I’m glad of that,” she teased, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“You are?”

“If you were reading books on how to have a relationship with a man, then this marriage would really be doomed.”

He laughed again, and his eyes did that crinkling thing, and she noticed for the first time that he had dimples. The cameras clicked again. The media loved him already.

Too bad the bride barely knew him.

*****************************************

Emma’s agent had told Killian he needed to act like a man in love, had lectured him on it for about ten minutes, actually. As if he needed it. Truth be told, he was having a hard time reining himself in. The wedding kiss, for example, was probably pushing it. But bloody hell, when he’d seen her walking down the aisle towards him, his heart had almost flown from his chest. She was so beautiful, she took his breath away, with her hair in those soft curls and that dress . . . God, that dress! The way her shapely legs peeked out of the slit as she walked, that plunging neckline that not only hinted at the swell of her breasts but also showed off her creamy skin - it was enough to make a man lose his mind.

Emma hadn’t seemed to be bothered by the kiss though, and had actually kissed him back. Then again, she had to keep up the charade. It would certainly arouse suspicion if she seemed uncomfortable with his lips on hers.

And his tongue tangling with hers. Shit, he probably shouldn’t have gone that far. He couldn’t stop touching her either, finding excuses throughout the reception to press his hand to the small of her back, take her hand, or tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He was in heaven.

He was a cad. Because this also had to be one of the worst days of Emma Swan’s life.

Or was it Emma Jones now? They had never discussed that small detail, though he assumed with her career, she would keep Swan. Not that it bothered him either way. Even in a world of his most wonderful, wildest dreams where Emma Swan decided to stay when the year was up, he wouldn’t care what name she chose.

He had made her laugh during their first dance, and he counted that a huge victory. He loved that he could make her smile after all she had been through with her horrible ex. Why the man would cheat on her, much less leave her high and dry on their wedding day was something Killian couldn’t comprehend.

“Killian!”

His back stiffened at the familiar voice. He had seen David at the ceremony, but he’d managed to avoid him so far. Killian’s arm tightened around Emma’s waist as he turned to face his friend. His wife Mary Margaret was at his side, and she was practically beaming.

“Oh, I am so happy for you two!” she gushed. “How in the world did you manage to keep this from us?”

“Yeah,” David agreed, his eyes cutting from Emma to Killian and back again, “how long has this been going on?”

“Oh David,” Mary Margaret admonished with a playful slap to her husband’s chest, “obviously he’s why Emma moved here.”

“Well, it does explain all those appointments to design that wedding arbor,” David laughed.

Killian scratched behind his ear and forced a laugh. “You caught us!”

“So how did you meet?” Mary Margaret, ever the romantic, asked in a sing-song voice.

“Um, well, I DM-ed her on Instagram.”

David narrowed his eyes. “You’re on Instagram?”

“Of course he is, sweetie,” Mary Margaret laughed, as if her husband was way behind the times, “I follow him. Gorgeous pictures of all his work . . . anyways, so Emma, you broke chapter twelve of your book?”

Killian felt like his bow tie was choking him. “Chapter Twelve?”

“You know sweetie,” Emma said, elbowing him a little too sharply, “the chapter warning women against internet dating.”

“Oh . . . that, well,” his face turned red as she shot daggers at him from his eyes.

“What Killian means,” Emma said smoothly, turning to Mary Margaret, “is that he DM-ed me for relationship advice, not trying to flirt with me. A friendship grew from there, and then love.”

“Relationship advice?” David was crossing his arms over his chest now - not a good sign.

“Aye, mate. Being a widower is no picnic you know.”

David’s posture deflated, and he gave Killian a friendly slap on the back. “It’s good to see you happy again.”

Killian put his arm around Emma, pulled her close, and brushed a kiss to her temple. “Never been happier, truly.”

“I didn’t see your family here, Killian,” Mary Margaret said, concern creasing her brow.

Emma jumped in before Killian could even get his thoughts in order. “We’ll be doing a small, private ceremony for them. We just couldn’t risk the media figuring out Killian’s identity.”

Killian blinked as he looked down at her. She smiled at him in an adoring way and squeezed his bicep gently. She was quite the actress - impressive.

“So they don’t even know you got married?” Mary Margaret asked incredulously.

This was getting more and more complicated by the minute. “I didn’t want to ask them to keep such a huge secret,” Killian explained, “but don’t worry, I’ll be calling them soon.”

“Good,” Mary Margaret said on a sigh. She reached out to pat his hand. “I know they will be thrilled after all the pain they’ve watched you go through.”

Mercifully, the DJ announced that the bride and groom would be leaving for their honeymoon. Mary Margaret and David hugged them both and said their goodbyes, then Emma and Killian were whisked outside by Ruby and the wedding planner to a waiting limo.

Once inside, Emma collapsed against the seat, and her face fell. It was obvious now that her smiles, her gentle touches, all of it, had been a facade. She turned away from him as the limo drove away, taking them to Cape Cod. Uncomfortable silence fell between them, and the inches separating them on the bench seat felt like miles.

“Are you okay?” Killian finally ventured.

If she had snapped at him, he would have understood, but instead she looked at him wearily. “I woke up this morning planning to marry my fiance, and now I’m married to someone I barely know instead. How do you think I feel?”

He winced. “Fair enough. I just want you to know I’m here if you want to talk.”

She ignored him, slumping further and resting her head against the window. He couldn’t help watching her, his heart aching that he could do nothing to ease her pain.

He was surprised when she spoke again, though she didn’t look at him. “I didn’t know you were married before.”

“I’m sorry, Swan, I should have mentioned that.”

“No,” she said, turning her gaze on him once again, “it isn’t that. I’m just . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

They fell silent once again, and the stress of the day started to get to Killian. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but finally lost the battle and succumbed to sleep. It felt like only moments later when the limo driver tapped on the window. Killian’s eyes blinked open, and he was surprised to find Emma’s head against his shoulder. He shook her gently to wake her.

“We’re here, love.”

“Oh,” Emma said, voice still thick with sleep as she sat up, blinking. When she met his gaze, a blush stained her cheeks. “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize, I feel asleep too.”

She nodded, weary, and climbed out of the limo. The resort was a throwback to the heydey of Cape Cod with quaint shutters and bright red awnings. The staff fussed over them, which wasn’t surprising since they were both still dressed like figures on the top of a wedding cake. The bellboy got their bags and led them to the honeymoon suite. There was a small sitting room that led out to a balcony with an ocean view. Off the sitting room was a large master bedroom with a king size bed and an ensuite bath. Housekeeping had strewn rose petals across the bed, and a bottle of champagne on ice sat on the nightstand.

“Enjoy,” the bellboy said with a wiggle of his eyebrows as he slipped out the door.

The silence after he left was palpable. Emma shivered as she stared through the open door into the bedroom, but then she quickly squared her shoulders and spun on him.

“Look, I hope you didn’t get any ideas because we’re technically married.”

Killian’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, and he lifted both hands in defense. “I would never in a million years expect anything of the sort from you, Emma. Clearly, I’ll be taking the couch.”

Emma cocked her head at him, her eyes narrow slits. “Oh, so you’re a gentleman?’

He couldn’t help winking at her. “Of course. I’m always a gentleman.”

Emma snorted and rolled her eyes. “We’ll see.”

It was late, and it had been a long and emotional day, so Killian wasn’t surprised when Emma grumbled that she was going to bed, shut the bedroom door behind her rather forcefully, and snapped at him not to bother her. He let out a long sigh as he toed off his shoes and started to remove his tie. He thought about calling Liam, but he just wasn’t emotionally ready for that conversation. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for he and Emma to get the details of their story straight before that happened.

There was a TV in front of the couch, and he flicked it on as he stripped down to his boxer briefs. He found blankets and a pillow on the top shelf of a closet and settled down with remote in hand. He flipped through the channels, but there wasn’t anything that captured his interest, so he shut it off and turned off the light. He lay there, his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He was exhausted, but sleep was elusive.

Then a sound caught his ear. Killian tilted his head and listened closely. It was Emma, and she was crying.

#cs ff #captain swan ff #cs modern au #marriage of convenience #slow burn #some angst #humor

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wickedbabesblog · 6 years ago

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Release Blast for Advice From A Jilted Bride (The Baileys #2) by Piper Rayne

Release Blast for Advice From A Jilted Bride (The Baileys #2) by Piper Rayne Amazon US ~ https://amzn.to/2BYgB0l Amazon UK ~ https://amzn.to/2ApRvYg Amazon CA ~ https://amzn.to/2ApRxPS Amazon AU ~ https://amzn.to/2CN9UQl

What’s a girl to do after being ditched at the altar by text message? That’s right. Text. Message.

How does she pick up the pieces and move on? I’m no Dear Abby but here’s a little free advice…

Advice #1 – First, purge your apartment of all things him—by tossing his belongings off the balcony.

Advice #2 – Do not, I repeat do not, throw anything out into the hallway because you’ll…

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#Advice From A Jilted Bride #Advice From A Jilted Bride (The Baileys 2)#review #The Baileys Series

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scotianostra · 6 years ago

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On April 14th 1578 James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell , Earl of Orkney and third husband of Mary Queen of Scots died, aged 44, tied to a post in a dungeon at Dragsholm Castle, Denmark.

Quite a long post this one so will split it into two halves as I have a few other things to sort out.

James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell was a ladies’ man, powerfully attractive to women; he had a string of mistresses, and was noted as an able and swash-buckling soldier. He was well-educated at Spynie under his promiscuous kinsman, Patrick Hepburn, Bishop of Moray, but later attended university in Paris, where he became fluent in French. He studied Latin and Greek, but his principal interests were mathematics, military strategy and chivalry. Unlike his father, he was a Reformer, perhaps because Knox’s family had been Hepburn dependents.

As I said in the post about him on Friday, even though he was a protestant, he supported the catholic regent Mary de Guise, Mother of the absent Mary Queen of Scots, this made him enemies, particularly after he hijacked a delivery of £3,000 sent to John Knox and his Lords of the congregation as aid by the English. To avoid their wrath To avoid the Lords of the Congregation, he nowhe travelled between Scotland and France and, as Lord High Admiral, came to Calais to transport Mary’s baggage back to Scotland but ti would be later that he became involved with the Queen.

Hepburn was no stranger to making in enemies and in 1560 he visited Copenhagen, and met Anna Trond Rustung, the daughter of the Admiral of the Danish Navy. The two became engaged and left for Scotland, together with the huge dowry presented by her father. Bothwell abandoned his bride to be, but not the dowry, while en route home in Holland, this would later be his undoing.

After Mary's return from France in 1561, she selected a number of Protestant to be her principal advisers. Bothwell was amongst them and became a member of the Privy Council. In 1562, Bothwell was accused of plotting to kidnap Mary by an old enemy of his, James Hamilton, The Earl of Arran. Bothwell spent some time imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle before escaping, or being released, depending on the historian and travelling overland for France, a journey that led to his being imprisoned by the English for a year en route., for his earlier demeanour. Mary is said to have interceded on his behalf and he eventually made it to the continent.

Mary recalled Bothwell from France to Scotland in 1565, to assist her suppress a revolt by her half brother, the Earl of Moray. By this time she was married to Darnley, and James, on the Querens advice married the sister of the earl of Huntly Jean Gordon although they were never happy together. In May 1566, while on a visit to Haddington, he had a liaison with his wife's serving maid, Mary was not immune to his charms and a supporter of the Queen, John Maxwell later wrote,

".... He was high in his own conceit, proud, vicious and vainglorious above measure, who would attempt anything out of ambition. His reckless daring appealed to her romantic sentiments, while his strong character and resolute purpose contrasted forcibly with the weakness of her husband Darnley, and his inability to control or protect her."

By this time Rizzio had been murdered and Mary's marriage to Darnley was on the rocks, it is thought that just after the birth of King James in June 1566 that an affair started between Mary and Hepburn, although there is no definitive proof of this.

Darnley was murdered at Kirk O Field in March 1567 and Darnley's family pointed the finger at Bothwell, which brings us up to the point of his trial that I sort of covered on Friday. He was acquitted which left the way clear for him to propose to Mary, she refused him, but history is said to tell us that he later kidnapped the Queen taking her to Dunbar Castle, where he raped her. This is a murky dirty period and how I wish I could have a portal to find out what exactly happened during the months between and including Darnley's murder, and the apparent rape, for we are to believe that Mary then agreed to be his wife, the minor detail that Bothwell was still married was tidied up on 3 May 1567 when he was divorced by Jean Gordon on grounds of adultery.

Bothwell and Mary hastily married on 15 May 1567, then fled the popular revulsion this provoked to Dunbar Castle, this was the beginning of the end for Mary, she was confronted by dissident Scottish nobles and their army at the "Battle" of Carberry Hill on 15 June 1567, Mary traded that Bothwell would be allowed to go free for her own freedom, she was taken to Loch Leven Castle and he was meant to garner support for her, but instead or perhaps he could find none, he fled to Orkney where he was denied the protection he sought by Gilbert Balfour, he then travelled to Norway where his past would catch up with him and was imprisoned pending his repayment of the dowry of Anna Trond Rustung who he had jilted in Holland seven years earlier.

#Scotland #Scottish #History

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reesourire · 6 years ago

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Cover Reveals: Advice from A Jilted Bride & Birth of A Baby Daddy by Piper Rayne

#CoverReveals: Advice from A Jilted Bride & Birth of A Baby Daddy by @PiperRayneRocks #ComingSoon! #TheBaileys #series @InkSlingerPR

What’s a girl to do after being ditched at the altar by text message? That’s right. Text. Message.

How does she pick up the pieces and move on? I’m no Dear Abby but here’s a little free advice…

Advice #1 – First, purge your apartment of all things him—by tossing his belongings off the balcony.

Advice #2 – Do not, I repeat do not, throw anything out into the hallway because you’ll injure…

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#Coming Soon #Piper Rayne #romantic comedy #series #The Baileys

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stacyalesi · 3 years ago

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ADVICE FROM A JILTED BRIDE by Piper Rayne

New #bookreview: ADVICE FROM A JILTED BRIDE by Piper Rayne, #TheBaileys - book 2. Loved it! @PiperRayneRocks #piperrayne #sneakingaroundwith34 #AdultRomance #RomanticComedy #romcom #Enemiestolovers #fakedating #romance #Alaska #smalltownromance

CLICK TO PURCHASE The Baileys, Book 2 From the publisher: What’s a girl to do after being ditched at the altar by text message? That’s right. Text. Message. How does she pick up the pieces and move on? I’m no Dear Abby but here’s a little free advice…Advice #1 – First, purge your apartment of all things him—by tossing his belongings off the balcony.Advice #2 – Do not, I repeat do not, throw…

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#Contemporary #romcom

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mymelodyheart · 4 years ago

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Starting Over Chapter 15 ~The Retribution~

Jamie dragged a hand through his hair and stared viciously at Inspector Campbell. "I told ye already ... Frank ...I mean Dr Randall was attacking Claire when I arrived at her house and ..."

The gum-chewing Inspector stopped him midsentence. "So ye admit to assaulting Dr Randall with intent to cause bodily harm?"

"I stopped him from hurting her!"

"By throwing him across the room?"

"Where the bloody hell are we? In the courtroom or what?" an officious voice interrupted. "My client has the right not to answer any more of yer questions!"

Campbell and Jamie glanced towards the door and watched a small middle-aged man in an over-sized grey suit march into the interrogation room, followed by a bumbling young police officer trying to stop him. Ned Gowan, his family and personal lawyer, stopped by his side and peered down at him through his spectacle. "Ye alright, son?"

Jamie grinned and nodded, happy to see a familiar face. He hadn't expected him to come this soon. When he'd called earlier, he was informed by Ned's secretary that he was unavailable. Nevertheless, Jamie had filled her in with what had occurred to save time.

"Mr Gowan, ye cannot simply barge in here during an interrogation," Campbell fumed. "Ye ken the rules."

Ned smiled at the Inspector. "Aye, that is true, but my client requested my presence. So, under my advice, Mr Fraser here will not answer any more of yer questions. So as far as I'm concerned, this interrogation is over. What are the charges?"

"No formal charges have been made yet," Campbell grumbled. "But Mr Fraser has violated a restraining order by visiting Dr Randall's fiancée."

"Ex-fiancée," Jamie butted in. "She left Dr Randall at the altar. Remember?"

Ned gave Jamie a stern look before proceeding. "Inspector Campbell, if you've checked the terms of the restraining order, you will come to the same conclusion as me, that no violation has been made. Now if you don't mind, I would like to speak to my client. Alone."

Begrudgingly, Cambell stood up, his chair scraping the floor noisily. "Fine. But we will still retain Mr Fraser for twenty-four hours until ..."

"We will see about that," Ned said firmly, placing his briefcase on the table and opening it to retrieve some papers and an Ipad. Once they were alone, he took the vacated seat and smiled. "Weel, Jamie lad, what trouble are we in today?"

Jamie leaned forward. "I need to get out of here as soon as possible. Claire could be in serious trouble. She was attacked by Frank, and that man cannae be trusted. He is unscrupulous, and he is playing his good-doctor-card to get away with everything. He brazenly lied to the police in front of me and made me look like the bad guy. "

"Aah, aye, the runaway bride. I've been briefed by my secretary on the way here. Yer friend Joe called Willie, and I've been informed by yer brother that Miss Beauchamp is safe and that Miss Duncan is with her." He paused for a few seconds, allowing Jamie to absorb his words. "First things first, though. There is something foul and rank about that restraining order filed against ye." He sifted through the papers and pulled one out. "There are no police reports, nor any official complaints recorded leading to the application —no prior evidence of misconduct on yer part. Looks like Mr Randall pulled a few strings here and there." His brows furrowed deeper. "How long have ye known Dr Randall?"

Jamie told him of his first encounter with the doctor at uncle Lamb's apartment and how he and Quentin received the restraining order the day after. He also spoke of everything that transpired during the meeting as well as pointing out it was Quentin's first visitation from Frank.

"Very strange indeed," Ned murmured more to himself. "From what I see, the restraining order was filed the day before ye met Dr Randall and Mr Beauchamp. Now I would understand why Mr Beauchamp would receive one but for Dr Randall to apply for one against ye and before meeting ye at that, is very peculiar. Ye haven't had any form of communication with him either via phone or any other form of an electronic device prior to meeting him?"

"No, not at all."

Ned scribbled some notes. "And what is Miss Beauchamp to ye?"

"A friend."

The older man stopped what he was doing and arched an eyebrow at him. "A friend? Is that right?"

Jamie beat down the urge to curse. The older man was way too perceptive. "A very special friend."

"Is there anything else I ought to know about Ms Beauchamp?"

"Ummm, she's a doctor ...and Frank has been making life difficult for her since she ran away from her own wedding."

"Aye, aye, I ken that. The jilted groom and the runaway bride, so on and so forth." Ned waved a hand. "What I meant is, anything about her that might be detrimental to yer case."

"Ned! Claire is the victim here, not me!" he pointed out irritatedly.

"Fine, fine, just making sure I have everything covered," he said, raising both hands in defence. "I should be able to get ye out in an hour. But I'm quite sure there will be conditions set already as the police will be anticipating yer release. Ye cannot leave Scotland until this is all resolved and make sure ye are accessible via phone anytime. Any further conditions, I will let ye know."

Jamie relaxed a bit. "Thank ye."

"Ye're welcome."

Observing the older man gather his things, Ned hardly resembled a lawyer at all. In fact, if anything, he looked like a car salesman or a bank clerk despite him being the best in his profession around Edinburgh. Maybe it had something to do with his clothes not fitting him properly or his carriage or perhaps, he looked too fatherly. For as long as Jamie could remember, Ned had always been his family's lawyer, confidant and adviser. And for someone who frequented their dinner table, Jamie had never seen him out of his work suit. "Ned?"

"Aye, son?"

"Why didn't ye marry? I ken it's a personal question, but I've often wondered."

Ned stopped, pondered for a bit and then sighed. "There used to be a lass, but that was a long time ago."

Curiosity got the better of him. "What happened?"

He smiled wistfully. "What happened? Weel, I let the greatest love of my life go, that's what happened. I thought my career would be enough." He took off his specs and started to polish it with a handkerchief. "I realised too late, my achievement meant nought when I have naebody to share it with." He paused and then cleared his throat. "Ye see Jamie, the worse decision ye can make in life are the ones ye make out of too much logic and too little heart."

"That's the thing isn't it, ye dinna ken until it's too late," Jamie said thoughtfully.

"Aye, it's always easier to take the familiar route, ye ken - without the risks and surprises slinking around the corner." Ned grabbed his briefcase. "But just in case ye're seeking for some sort of answer, remember this - great love is, for the most part, an inconvenient sort. It's messy, and there's no guarantee. It'd take a massive leap of faith and courage to go down that road. No one could really predict what would be in store for ye - it could be the best thing ye will ever do in your life, or it could be yer biggest downfall. I, for one, will never know, and that's my biggest regret. So choose wisely, lad."

And then Ned left.

A mental image of his bachelor pad made Jamie suddenly feel cold. Something was nudging him. A necessity he'd never felt before to put down roots, without the fear of his decadent past catching up on him and telling him he wasn't made for this. Why now? Why was he suddenly anxious to shed this final piece of his past so he could start creating something new? Did seeing Claire in danger earlier propagated the thought?

Claire's smile played and teased in his head, but he laughed it off with a shrug. No, a lasting commitment wasn't in his gene. It was sufficient for now that he was doing something to get his life back on track and concentrating on getting the job at the network. An odd lump suddenly formed in his throat as he continued to think of Claire, how she'd felt in his arms and how natural it felt to start the day with her. And it was useless to pretend he made the conditions for the status of their relationship for no other reason than to be with her longer. To be there for her in case she needed him. To what end, though, he didn't know yet. But with the announcement at the network fast approaching, the idea of letting her go threatened his sanity. Would she take the risk of coming to London with him? But what risk was he taking in return?

..........

"Ach, there ye are!"

Claire looked up just as she was haphazardly signing her hospital discharge forms. "Oh, Geillis, thank God." She scribbled her signature on the last of the papers and handed the pen back to the head nurse. Shifting her attention to her friend, she noticed the worried look. "I'm fine. It's just a bit of swelling," she reassured her, a hand automatically touching the sore bump at the back of her head.

"She has a concussion," the nurse interfered with a humph, clearly not convinced about her early release.

"A mild concussion," Claire corrected firmly.

"Mild or no', concussions are not something to be trifled with, Dr Beauchamp and ye should know better." The nurse gathered all the papers and looked at her sternly. "Plenty of rest and don't do anything too exciting."

Ignoring the exchange, Geillis zeroed-in to the point. "What the hell happened, Claire? Joe was very vague over the phone and didn't get into details."

Claire waited for the nurse to leave and recounted the whole story, sparing nothing. After she'd regained consciousness earlier, she'd immediately called Joe so he could notify Jamie's family of the situation and her uncle. Joe had wanted to see her in the hospital, but Claire had insisted Jamie was in much bigger trouble. Conceding, he'd sent Geillis to her in his place instead.

"That wanker has gone too far," Geillis seethed after hearing what happened. "Ye can't let him get away with this, Claire."

"No, definitely not! I need to go to the police as soon as possible to clear things up for Jamie. Did Joe tell you to bring me some clothes and shoes? They brought me in, in my bathrobe."

"Oh, yes, of course. Here." Geillis handed her the paper bag. "I'll take ye to the station once ye're ready. Last I heard, Jamie was taken in for questioning but hasn't been formally charged, and Joe said, Jamie's lawyer is doing everything to get him out of there."

Claire let out a sigh of relief and then stopped. "How about Frank? Have you heard anything about him?"

"No," Geillis replied. "I'd been half expecting him to be lurking outside the ward. Good thing he wasn't. I would have ended throttling his sorry neck and sharing the jail cell with Jamie."

Despite being worried, Claire managed a smile, glad to have Geillis on her side. Her friend's bark could be as bad as her bite if anyone got on the wrong side of her. "If you throttle him, I will look the other way," she joked.

Geillis laughed before her expression turned pensive. "By the way, has anyone from the police taken your statement?"

"No. Strange, isn't it? Frank probably made himself look like the victim and me a mere casualty." Her hands began to shake as she changed into her clothes. Deep down inside, she was deliriously mad. It was one thing Frank being manipulative and controlling but to try and force himself on her and get Jamie arrested was wicked and conniving. And that was putting it very mildly.

How on earth had Frank kept that side of him hidden from the rest of the world? It wasn't only her he'd fooled but also friends, colleagues and the community who'd known and admired him for years. Even though it wasn't in her nature to be vengeful and vindictive, she knew it was time to step things up a bit, especially when Frank's actions were starting to affect the people in her life.

Claire was just putting on her shoes when there was a knock on the door. Geillis immediately got up and opened it. "Yes?"

"Good evening, sorry for intruding. May we please speak to Miss Beauchamp?"

Geillis pulled the door a little wider and stepped aside.

"And you are?" Claire asked, assessing the two men dressed in jeans and plain t-shirts. Although one of them looked familiar, they didn't look like they were from the police nor member of the medical staff.

The two men shuffled apprehensively on their feet, eyeing each other as if prodding who should speak first.

Geillis rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air. "Oh for crying out loud, the suspense is killing me! Speak up, lads!"

The taller of the men with a ponytail spoke up first. "Eh, my name is Rupert, Rupert MacKenzie. And this is my colleague, Angus Mhor," he began. "We are freelance investigative reporters, and we have been following ye ever since ye made headlines as a runaway bride..."

"And now what?" Geillis interrupted angrily. "Ye want a freaking interview? Ye think this is some circus show to entertain the mass?"

Angus looked nervously out in the hallway and licked his lips. "Oh, no nothing like that at all. We have something that will be of interest to ye."

Claire couldn't get a word edgeways as Geillis took over again. "Ah, I see. Ye have some uncompromising photos of Claire, and now ye want to bribe her, is that it? Ye cheeky gits! Get out of here, ye morons before I castrate the both of ye!"

This time Rupert stepped forward and put up his hands "Please listen to us. We are not here to bribe ye nor to ask for an interview."

"Why are you here, then?" Claire gave Geillis a warning look and nodded to the reporters to continue.

Rupert gave her a grateful smile before speaking. "Earlier, when we saw Dr Randall parking his car into yer driveway, we snuck up to yer window to take some photos. And then when we realised that he was hurting ye, I told my pal here, Angus to call the police."

Angus nodded. "Aye, I was the one who called the police. They werenae far and were there in a matter of minutes."

"And we have some incriminating photos here of Dr Randall that will prove Mr James Fraser's innocence of the whole incident," Rupert added.

"Wot?" Claire's jaw dropped, and her body shook. "You mean to tell me you were outside the whole time I was struggling? I was screaming my lungs out, and I was scared out of my wits. Why in God's green earth, didn't you come in to help me?"

Angus cleared his throat. "We saw Mr Fraser arriving and decided to continue taking photos. We knew the police were on their way. Ye see, Miss Beauchamp, my sister is a victim of Dr Randall's bullying too, and like ye, she no longer works here at the hospital. I've been issued a restraining order in the past when she threatened Dr Randall to tell her story to the news. Somehow he found out I'm a reporter, I dinna ken how. But he warned her, if she did that, he would make sure she never work again in any hospital in Edinburgh. I was determined to take as many photos so we could have enough evidence to show the world what Dr Randall is really like. I am truly sorry ye ended up hurt. But the pieces of evidence we have will mean justice for ye too."

She let out a huge breath she was holding trying to assimilate Angus' words into her brains. Frank hurting other people too? How could she have missed it?

"Sassenach!"

"Claire, thank God!"

She glanced up and saw Jamie and Joe at the door. "Joe! Jamie, you're out!"

Ignoring the reporters and not caring who was watching, Jamie strode towards her and pulled her against him. "Thank Christ, ye're alright," he whispered, kissing her temple. "How are ye? Are ye hurt?"

"I'm fine, just a slight bump," she whispered against his chest.

"Erm, Jamie, there are reporters in the room," Geillis warned, patting him on the shoulder.

"Ach, we're not taking photos," Rupert reassured them.

"Nope, nae photos," Angus said, nodding his head.

Joe looked at the reporters warily. "You better not be; otherwise, you'll both regret the day you were born."

Everyone started to talk at once, but Jamie was oblivious to his surrounding as he continued to stroke her hair. His warm lips were pressed against her forehead while he whispered soothing Gaelic endearments. She wanted to melt into his embrace and forget the ugliness, but the unpleasant events of the night unfurled and caused a new wave of anger surging through her. Not even Jamie's familiar warmth can tamp the fury that was mounting by the second. After sustaining a concussion, she knew she ought to calm herself down, but the thought of Frank causing pain and trouble to innocent people made her sick to the core and her blood boil.

As if her ill thoughts had conjured Frank, he walked in as casually as a doctor on his routine rounds, causing everyone to still in stupefaction. "What the hell is going on here?" his voice boomed.

And that's when Claire saw red. She didn't know if it was adrenaline or her own physical strength, but somehow she managed to twist away from Jamie's hold and grab a flower vase from a table.

"Sassenach, no!"

Hands scrambled to get hold of her, and Jamie's arms went around her waist, her feet almost dangling off the floor. She stopped hearing their plea to calm down, everything becoming a blur, her focus centred solely on Frank's face that was now looking back at her in horror. Years of sadness, frustration, humiliation and resentment she'd endured turned into a ball of rage screaming to be unleashed. She twisted once more from Jamie's grasp and tested the weight of the vase in her hand. "YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" she hollered, tears streaming down her face.

She flung the vase at Frank's head. He tried to duck to avoid the impact, but it hit him directly on the middle of the face. He collapsed on the floor with a bloodied nose and his body in a heap, no one from the room coming to his aid.

"Sassenach, what have ye done?" Jamie's voice sounded like it came from afar.

"What I should have done ages ago," she replied, before numbly walking over Frank and leaving the room.

#melodyheart #startingover #Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser #outlanderfanfic

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thomcoldman-blog · 7 years ago

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A Wild Rebellion: Breath of the Wild, Majora’s Mask and the Value of a Sad, Mad World

The Legend of Zelda has a knack for memorable beginnings. Be it a old man in a cave passing you a much-needed sword, or the patter of rain on your window as a princess' desperate plea for help pulls you from your dreaming, the series has often excelled at setting the stage for the scale and urgency of the quest to come. Despite this, the 2000 Nintendo 64 title The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask has a sharp opening salvo that sticks out amongst its series fellows, even 17 years and 12 games later. Far from the call to adventure and heroism most Zelda games open with, it features a Link on the brink of puberty robbed of his horse, his magical ocarina and - as punishment for pursuing his attacker - his human form. The game later reveals that the moon is falling, and Link must relive the same 3 days until he is prepared to stop an otherwise certain apocalypse, but even this level of dire circumstance feels natural following such an abruptly violent start. At the time, and even to this day, Majora's Mask's opening moments are Zelda's rude awakening.

Fast-forward to 2017, and the release of The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. Every Zelda title in the space between Majora and BotW more or less begins the same way. Link wakes up in his home, usually living in relative harmony in Hyrule or some other idyllic retreat, and finds his peace eventually disturbed by an invasive danger – emphasis on “eventually”. Even in the self-proclaimed “darker” entry Twilight Princess, the notion of terror and death is not the norm, with the encroaching Twilight Realm presenting a vicious challenge rather than a certain fate. Breath of the Wild breaks from this de-facto tradition in its own way, with Link waking up yet again – but this time, in a watery grave, in an alien room with pulsing neon lights and no friendly faces to greet or berate him. He has no memories to his name, almost as many clothes on his body. It's not just a clean break from recent tradition, but an aggressively stark subversion of the same. (Even series producer Eiji Aonuma noted how the game still began with a waking Link.)

The opening moments of “Majora's Mask” and “Breath of the Wild” have little in common in literal terms, but they share a rebellious heart in throwing off the shackles of Zelda's norms. What makes these openings important is how their respective tones of violent tragedy and hazy mystery seep through the rest of the game – and how they keep upsetting the usual Zelda order at every turn. It is this attitude to Zelda's norms that makes these games so special – and it is through rebellion, not adherence, that they fulfil the true promise of Zelda more thoroughly than any other so far.

The biggest decision Nintendo made with both of these games that sets them apart from the rest is their tone. Zelda games are traditionally steeped in valiant heroism, which sees Link making his way over Hyrule, thwarting evil and solving problems everywhere he goes. Peace is the norm, and the people of Hyrule live idyllic lives, albeit usually disturbed by whatever that adventure's antagonist may be. As established by their openings, and quickly expanded upon once Link encounters true allies to explain just what kind of hell he's in, “Majora” and “Breath” share ambitions of a much greyer tone.

Both are a far cry from Zelda's usual black-and-white Good Vs Evil fare; Evil's devastation is a looming certainity up until the very last impossible minute in the former, whilst Good's defeat is a centennial truth in the latter. These contexts linger throughout what feels like every moment of the game, with Majora's Termina feeling like an eternal tumble through the five stages of grief, while Hyrule in Breath has a sombre air, a world violated putting on a brave face.

What these grimmer backdrops afford Nintendo's designer is significant. Characters burst with purpose – previously, all an NPC needed to do was stand around, offer idle chit-chat and functional advice, possibly hint at the location of a secret Heart Piece. Now, they need to react to the malformed world they've been placed into, and in a variety of ways to boot. Characters in “Majora” look up at the moon some in fear, some in bemusement. The ones that have cottoned on to their impending doom squabble on what to do; on what can they do. The spectre of apocalypse inspires a different mix of emotion and reaction in each person and creature in Termina; to make this all the more believable, almost every character – certainly every human character - has a well-drawn backstory, a purpose in the world.

The carpenter refuses to leave Clock Town, his dyed-in-the-wool masculinity hardened through years of manual labour making him unable to even give the apocalypse quarter. The guards of Clock Town act as an artificial barrier to keep the shrunken floral Link confined within the game's prologue chapter, yet they too eventually stare at the moon in acknowledgement of their damned role in this town. Even the shopkeepers eventually shut up shop, fleeing Termina likely all too late to save themselves. These characters aren't just multi-faceted and sympathetic – they're relatable, as you too must contend with the impending apocalypse, more than anyone else in Termina will ever have to.

Breath of the Wild takes the idea of Hyrule's people as, well, people, and runs with it. Stripped of Majora's repeating three-day countdown to calamity, it's understandable that NPCs in BotW can't run around with unique routines and schedules, but nonetheless their more rigid nature is balanced out by leaning in hard to their purpose and personality. Stables dotted across Hyrule are the most common place to run into other people, where a warm bed, a place to cook and a friendly chat are always available. Breath's quietest subversion of what it means to run into an NPC in Zelda is the levelling of the playing field; the people you run into at these stables, and occasionally on Hyrule's well-trodden trails are explorers much like Link. They may lack his heroic purpose, instead adventuring in search of treasure, food or commerce, but when you see someone running from monsters or talking about a particular ingredient or meal they love, it's hard not to relate. You'll see travellers gathered around the cooking pot and know they're here for the same reasons you are: it's rough out there, man.

Whilst Breath doesn't give every single character a personal tragedy to overcome, their simpler lives still have the unmistakable mark of the post-apocalyptic Hyrule on them. The vibe of loss, detailed in intimate dread on an individual level in Majora, is extrapolated here to a blanket grief covering the world. It lets there exist areas of ruined buildings with no greater use than a tucked-away treasure chest or Korok seed puzzle, yet a powerful echo of the Great Calamity nonetheless. It lets the amphibious Zora treat Link's return with anxiety, his survival while their beloved princess remains murdered adding insult to their injury – a call to prove oneself that feels natural where it would normally feel arbitrary. It even feeds back into the gameplay; Link's weapons smashing to pieces, the abolition of health pickups in long grass or the extremely minimal waypointing would feel perhaps harsh against the heroic backdrop of Ocarina of Time, but this is the game where Link went toe-to-toe with Ganon once already... and he blew it.

Majora's Mask tries the same trick 17 years earlier, but it's not as solid. The apocalyptic tone of Majora feeds into all the writing, and even beyond the fear of the moon characters are dealing with a host of personal tragedies. Rescuing the Zora eggs in Great Bay from the Gerudo Pirates is necessary to access the temple, but the game doesn't even need to explicitly tell you that – instead it uses their mother's reclusive behaviour to paint it as the region's utmost concern, egging you on to track them down (sorry). This is one example within the main quest; meanwhile, you'll investigate characters such as the jilted bride, the bad-tempered circus leader or the mugged bomb shop owner out of a sense of curiosity for their troubles. These quests reward you with either a Piece of Heart or one of the many masks Link acquires, and they can include some of the most touching scenes in the game.

Well-written and cohesive as they are, outside of these stories is just typical Zelda fare. The world is navigated in similar fashion to Ocarina of Time, and Link acquires new weapons and health upgrades from progressing through the story. The dungeons can be difficult, and the time pressure does create a different sensation from usual when getting stuck, but ultimately Majora's Mask does little to stray from the Zelda model of continously empowering and rewarding Link. The game is rich in atmosphere, with the audio design putting in a lot of work setting the mood of each environment, but Link is in full hero mode here. The last quarter focuses on a canyon area home to a ruined kingdom and its undead inhabitants that refuse to move on. It's a fantastically eerie, vicious setting, reeking of regret and woe, but it's telling that the game shifts towards those Link is far too late to help; at this point, there isn't many in Termina that Link can't get back on their feet.

Breath avoids the issue of diminishing returns on its tone by further embracing the spirit of rebellion against Zelda's norms. On the surface, to compare the two you would consider “Breath” the less rebellious title, as it keeps to a “beat Ganon” plot and features many returning locations, but this is just a smart way of occasionally prodding the player and reminding them that, yes, this is Zelda. The core of Zelda is empowerment, and putting keys into locks to achieve this empowerment – in Ocarina this is overcoming dungeons and gaining new items within, in Majora this is helping people for masks with new powers (and also overcoming dungeons).

BotW handles empowerment, and the notion of “locks” and “keys” differently. Firstly it gives the player four unique skills up front to use both in the overworld and in the underground puzzle shrines. Even at the end of the game, these skills function identically to how they did at the beginning – empowerment comes from the player getting used to how they might best be used to overcome problems. The skills are keys, but even if it's clear which one the lock needs, there's still the matter of execution. Then there's the matter of weapons – they degrade, so you can't keep hold of them for long, even if they're carving through most enemies in your path. Exploring for the game's only permanent forms of empowerment, such as new clothing gear, or Korok seeds to expand your inventory, or shrines to improve your health and stamina – this choice comes with the caveat that you may lose your favourite bow or sword in the process.

The shelf date on every combat tool Link has keeps “empowerment” feeling relegated to the player's own self-confidence and knowledge of the world – even health becomes less of a safety net when stronger enemies appear more frequently the sturdier Link gets. Even the Master Sword will disintegrate for a while should you rely on it too much. Each part of Breath of the Wild is 100% invested in the notion that this is a “do it yourself” adventure, where Link has to truly prove himself through actions rather than handouts. The scenario, writing and mechanics all draw from the tone of defeat, and it reinforces their effectiveness, creating an incredibly cohesive experience – and a highly believable, intimidating world.

Breath of the Wild inherits Majora's Mask’s rebellious spirit and rejects even more of Zelda's norms, using a tonal break to introduce and contextualise deeper change than redefines what it can mean to be a Zelda game. What this means for the series going forward is hard to tell. It could be argued BotW’s tone is a result from intentionally exploring open-ended gameplay, and then finding an atmosphere for the world that felt right for the systems Nintendo wanted to introduce, but the end result is the same. If Nintendo treats BotW as a template going forward, it could run into the same problems Wind Waker and Twilight Princess had: there, tonal shifts existed in and of themselves, with the tried-and-true gameplay of previous successful Zeldas being retained and the games feeling somewhat lacking in comparison.

Consider a new emotion for Zelda. If most Zelda games are “heroic”, then Majora is tragic and Breath is melancholic – or perhaps simply wild. What would Zelda look like if the feeling they struck was fear? How about rage, or passion, or nostalgia? Take that feeling and bleed it into every element of the game design, and only then could it feel as distinct as Breath. The spirit of Zelda cannot be forgotten, but overcoming challenges and empowering the player will naturally shift dramatically under new lights. If Zelda is to keep growing, it needs to remember the lessons of Majora's Mask - ultimately, nothing can last forever.

#zelda #breath of the wild #botw #majora's mask #legend of zelda

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wendynerdwrites · 7 years ago

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Sapphires and Salt --- A Salty Teens Fic

Sansa:

A sudden rush of light and fresh air jolts her from her troubled sleep. She tries to bury her face in her pillows, only to have her bedclothes ripped off of her violently.

“Up,” Aunt Lyanna says, sitting atop Sansa’s bedside and brushing a curtain of greasy red hair from her face, “You’ve been in bed a week, and court convenes in three hours.”

“So?” Sansa asks, scoffing, “Why should that matter to me? It’s not as if I have a place there anymore.”

“Don’t be absurd,” the queen replies, “Remember who you are. You’re Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the Lord of the North, Granddaughter of the Lord of the Riverlands, Niece to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lord of the Vale--”

“-The jilted cast-offs of the prince of Dragonstone-”

The queen looks as if she’s about to say something, but appears to think better of it.

“Niece, I am ordering you, as your queen, to get out of bed. You are going to get up, bathe, dress, and walk into the throne room with the pride of a Stark, understand? Show that brat Aegon every inch of what he’s missed out on.”

Sansa feels bile rush to her throat. “Aegon? Aegon is going to be there?”

“Aye,” Lyanna says, getting to her feet and striding to Sansa’s dressing table, “We dragged that spoiled shit and that common slut back to court. And I can assure you, the king is none too pleased with either.”

Two of the five maids Lyanna brought with her help Sansa out of bed and into a tub of steaming water scented with the aroma of almonds and roses. Lady pads over to the side of the tub and nuzzles the hand Sansa hangs over the edge. Sansa strokes her wolf’s ears affectionately. Lady has barely moved from her bedside all week.

Sansa watches her aunt suspiciously as Lyanna goes through her jewel-chest. Her aunt has always been a bit of a mystery to her. To everyone, really. To this day, no one aside from the king and his wife seem to be sure what occurred between them that led to the Rebellion and their marriage. Some claimed Lyanna was abducted and raped, others insisted she ran off with the king in a swirl of rebellion and romance. After four years at court observing the royal couple, Sansa’s been inclined to think it was somewhere in the middle. The two seemed to love one another, but her aunt always seemed rather unsatisfied and melancholy.

Aunt Lyanna was never unkind to Sansa, but their relationship has always been a bit strained. Lyanna had more in common with Sansa’s wild younger sister, Arya, and it was clear before long that the queen would have preferred a girl of Arya’s inclinations to join her at court than Sansa. Queen Lyanna is a wild woman herself, a voracious huntress and rider who adored besting men with a blade. Far, far more than she enjoyed holding court, that was certain. Queen Lyanna had no patience for pomp, pageantry, or the feminine arts, often eschewing gowns for breeches and leaving her ladies to ride out to the kingswood with her two eldest daughters, Visenya and Lyarra, who had similar dispositions.

When Sansa came to court, it was clear that Lyanna expected her to be similar: to look and act like a Northern girl in full. Indeed, apparently she’d gotten the descriptions of her two nieces from her brother’s letters mixed up, and had expected the scabby-kneed tom-boy, not the perfect lady.

Upon discovering the mistake, the queen encouraged Sansa to be more like her ideal: to ride, learn to fight, to hunt like mad. She pushed her niece to pursue every activity designated as more “masculine”, to unexpected results. Aside from taking up the bow and falconry as regular hobbies, Sansa ended up resisting all of her aunt’s martial inclinations. Instead she took the opportunity of the “freedom” her aunt offered her to read everything her Septa back in Winterfell deemed “unfit” for a lady, and became even more engrossed in reading than she’d been prior. She took up statecraft, trade, astronomy, art, and music over swords and lances. And even when hawking, she had a habit of releasing her game that drove her aunt mad.

Ironically, Sansa ended up becoming closer to the king than the Stark queen, something Sansa sensed bothered her aunt as well.

“If you’re going to be a queen and survive a marriage to my spoiled step-son,” Lyanna had told her, “You have to be strong.”

Another thing Lyanna couldn’t stand: the fact that her niece worshipped the ground Aegon walked.

It was no secret that the relationship between the Crown Prince and his Stark step-mother was strained. That was partly why the betrothal was crafted in the first place. Princess Elia, Aegon’s mother and Rhaegar’s first wife, died during Robert’s Rebellion. Rhaegar had left Elia (and their two children) to run off with Aunt Lyanna, sparking the war. Rhaegar won the war, of course, making Lyanna his queen, something that infuriated Houses Martell and Stark. But a betrothal between Prince Viserys and Princess Arianne, the heir to Dorne, and the fact that Elia’s son remained heir to the Iron Throne managed to placate the Martells. House Stark, however, was another story. They feared for Aunt Lyanna’s safety, and that only got worse as Prince Aegon grew up resenting his step-mother, viewing her as a whore who humiliated, killed, and supplanted his mother. The fact that King Rhaegar had sent his son with Lyanna, Prince Jon, off to foster in the Reach at a young age as well didn’t help.

So, to try and bridge the gap and promote a reconciliation between the half-Martell Crown Prince and the House Stark, the betrothal was arranged.

Sansa left her home in the North at age eleven to come to King’s Landing to get to know her future husband. And she thought she had. Aegon, despite his resentment towards her Aunt Lyanna, was always kind, gallant, and lovely to her. He was everything a prince should be: tall, strong, handsome, well-mannered. And Sansa thought he’d come to love her. Despite the fact that their betrothal was set in stone before they’d even met, he’d courted her upon her arrival to the Red Keep, writing her poems and songs, giving her gifts, escorting her to events, and calling her his lady love. As she grew older, he began stealing kisses and even touched her a few times in a way that gave her shivers and even… Well, he did some wicked things to her that often left her dizzy and boneless. Wicked, wicked things he assured her weren’t worth confessing or atoning for, as they were his sins. And not once did he ever let her reciprocate.

Her prince, with his amethyst eyes and mischievous smile, made her life seem like a dream. How many favors had she made him, ones he’s pressed to his lips and proudly worn? How many times had she sworn her love to him, only to have him swear it right back?

She did everything she could to be his ideal bride-to-be. She worshipped him.

Sansa still remembers the last time she saw him. He’d taken off for Dragonstone to prepare it for their use. On their wedding day, Aegon would formally be granted the ancestral seat of the heir to the Iron Throne, and their wedding wasn’t too far off. Before stepping onto the ship, he’d donned the new cloak she’d made him and kissed her fingertips formally. Then as if he couldn’t contain his passion, he grabbed her before all the court and all of Blackwater Bay and kissed her lips deep. Highly improper, but oh-so-thrilling. And then he’d sprinted toward the ship, grinning.

It had left her so dazed that it wasn’t until later that she thought to blush over so many lords and ladies witnessing that kiss.

Aegon wrote to her to say he felt that Dragonstone would require far more modifications than expected for it to be worthy of her. And so he’d requested more funds from the treasury, and sated her with daily letters assuring her of his love. He told her of the things he was building for her, things based on what she missed from Winterfell: a lemon tree orchard, glass gardens, a fancy bathing chamber with a tub that would be as big as the Hot Spring baths from back home, but twice as fine.

And then…

Lyanna’s warnings, always taken with a grain of salt, turned true. Word came from Dragonstone. Aegon had eloped with Daena Valeryon, daughter of the Lord of Driftmark, a “dragonseed”, and declared her his princess.

His letter to his father (he didn’t write to Sansa), declared his bride to be of “proper and worthy Valyrian blood, a descendent of our own royal bloodline, with the silver-gold hair and amethyst eyes to prove it. A proper vessel to purify our bloodline and preserve the traits of Old Valyria.”

That wasn’t enough, however. Despite not sending Sansa an explanation, it was clear he intended to send her a message. The date Aegon gave for his clandestine wedding was the same date as Sansa’s fifteenth Name Day, and he’d sent her letters--- lying letters--- assuring her of his love following that date.

Lyanna was right. Lyanna was right all along.

Not that Sansa felt particularly inclined to turn to her aunt now. Lyanna hadn’t exactly offered Sansa a shoulder to cry on when the news came, preferring instead to devote her time to arguing with her husband and his council. When she did come to visit Sansa before, her manner was patronizing and cloying.

For years, Lyanna warned Sansa not to trust anyone in King’s Landing. Sansa’s all too ready to take that advice now.

Brokenhearted she may be, but Sansa isn’t stupid. There have been rumors for years about how Queen Lyanna desires to see her own son, Prince Jon, supplant his elder half-brother, and that it was partly why King Rhaegar sent Jon to foster in the Reach when he was eight. Sansa’s only ever exchanged light correspondence with her cousin, and though he’s always been kind and courteous in his letters, she always got the odd feeling that she was being condescended to.

Everyone knows the story of Duncan, the Prince of the Dragonflies, who gave up his crown to marry Jenny of the Oldstones. But that was different. Jenny was a common girl with no name or title behind her. Lady Daena is of one of the chief Houses of the Crownlands, a family that has married into House Targaryen multiple times, who shared Valyrian ancestry with the royal family.

If not for the betrothal, she’d probably be considered a fine match for Prince Aegon. And he wouldn’t be the first king of Westeros to have broken a betrothal in his youth--- just look at Jaehaerys II.

Not to mention, there’s the precedent set by Rhaegar himself. How could the king justify disinheriting his son for defying his designated match to wed another when… Well...

Everyone in King’s Landing plays a game, Sansa knows that. Even before Aegon jilted her, she knew that. But she’d always thought his game was to raise up his Martell cousins when he took the throne. She never imagined this.

Lyanna is no different.

As Sansa is helped out of the tub, the doors open, and Visenya, her looks as Targaryen as her name, marches in carrying a velvet-wrapped parcel. “It’s ready,” she tells her mother.

Lyanna rises from Sansa’s dressing table, leaving an array of carefully-arranged pieces laying out on the surface. Sansa takes her aunt’s place, watching her royal aunt and cousin unwrap the parcel through the mirror as the maids dry and comb her hair.

Yards of shimmering, silvery-white damask and myrish lace spill out of the velvet, and Sansa’s heart stops. It’s her wedding gown, completed, with a chain of pearls studding the trim.

Lyanna and Visenya smirk at her.

“You’re going to dazzle the room,” Lyanna says, “You’ll look every inch a queen.”

Sansa gazes longingly at the exquisite brocade, then glances back at the surface of the dressing table. Sapphires Aegon gifted her gleam up at her.

She clenches her teeth, furious, and shoves the gems off the table. She stands and turns, glaring at Lyanna and Visenya.

“I will not…” She snaps. Her aunt groans.

“Sansa, you’re a direwolf. You’re a Stark. You must be fierce and strong. I will not let you hide yourself away like--”

“---No!” Sansa shouts again. The whole chamber falls silent. Never once has she raised her voice to anyone, let alone the queen. “I am a wolf! But I am not some doll for you to dress up and parade out. I will not wear the gown of a wedding that shall not be, I will not wear his sapphires. Send my regular maids in and get out.”

Lyanna stares at her, alarmed. “Niece…”

“---I assure you, Aunt Lyanna, you will see me at court, and I will appear every inch a Stark. Now leave.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

She has the gown, the sapphires, and every other bauble Aegon ever gifted her sent to his new bride. When she enters the throne room, she does not need to glitter. She wears an ivory silk with grey velvet trim, with a posey of blue winter roses pinned to her bodice. They match the crown of blossoms atop her head. Yet more of the flowers are pinned to Lady’s collar. She dons no jewels. What need does she have for them when she is literally leading a wolf the size of a horse? The gown is simple, but it shows off her figure better than anything else in her wardrobe, and she never fails to make heads turn when she wears it.

Sansa meets every pitying eye with a smile, and she climbs the dais to take her usual place with her cousins, Visenya and Lyarra. She is still the queen’s niece and lady-in-waiting. The place is still hers.

The king, however, has other plans. He gazes at her appraisingly, and gestures for her to come over to him. Sansa stands before the Iron Throne and curtseys. King Rhaegar surprises her by taking her hands in his. Their eyes meet. His are kind.

“My Sweet Niece, you are very brave. My most profound apologies.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” Sansa replies modestly.

Before he can say another word, however, one of the heralds announces the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, and Sansa hurries to her place.

Aegon and his new bride are escorted by guards. Princess Daena wears the very costume Lyanna intended for Sansa: the gown, the sapphires. Both of them look thoroughly pleased with themselves.

Sansa doesn’t hesitate to meet Aegon’s violet eyes. She does not flinch, though she wishes to. Just seeing him is painful. Seeing the obvious glee with which he presents his new bride is worse. What had Sansa done to make him want to hurt her so?

The two of them kneel before the throne, and for once, King Rhaegar doesn’t immediately gesture for them to rise. Instead, he looks down at his son and new good-daughter with a sad resignation.

“Aegon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Lady Daena Valeryon of Driftmark, you are found guilty of entering into an unlawful union, of a violation of sacred vows made before Gods and Men, and endangering the succession, security, and stability of the Iron Throne. Your elopement has not only violated the orders of your king, but done grievous insult to our allies and dishonored a good lady of high birth and morals. In so doing, you have endangered the very peace that the Seven Kingdoms have worked so hard to achieve and severely undermined our most holy relationship with our good vassals. You’ve dishonored your position, you’ve dishonored our people, you’ve dishonored your suitors, you’ve dishonored your Houses, and you’ve dishonored yourselves. Tell me, what do you have to say for yourself, my son?”

Aegon looks up at his father and smiles. “I only followed precedent, Your Grace.”

King Rhaegar rises, incensed. “A precedent of reigniting a war that nearly destroyed our dynasty? A precedent of dishonor?”

“If that is how you see it, Father. I bow to your judgment.”

The throne room erupts in whispers. This is dangerous. Aegon has only managed to place his father’s hypocrisy front and center. He’s trapped the king.

Rhaegar looks at his eldest son sadly and walks down from the dais. He stands over his kneeling son and raises him up. “You’re right, my son. For too long, I have placed the burden of my mistakes on you. I did everything I accuse you of to your mother and her House, and more. And in my efforts to rectify my mistakes, I forced you into my atonement. You don’t deserve that. I violated custom and honor to do as I wished, and the consequences should be mine to shoulder alone. Though I maintain that my queen is blameless in all of this, Elia’s memory deserves better than to have the same injustice done her be rewarded and to have her son forced to bear the responsibility for it. You deserve the same freedom she did, my son. And even though you’ve chosen to emulate the crime I did your mother, you still don’t deserve to endure the consequences of them. I’m sorry, Aegon. All I ask, however, is that you show remorse to the one you did harm.”

Aegon smiles, nods, and turns toward the dais, looking right at Sansa. “My dear Lady of House Stark, I cannot begin to rectify the harm I’ve done you. If there was any way I might spare your heart, I would. You are a lady of the finest qualities, as gracious as you are beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have you. Please know, it was not any failing of yours that prompted my actions, but my own weakness and the fact that I lost my heart to another. I am unworthy of you, My Lady. I know it. I dare not assume your forgiveness, but I humbly beg for it nonetheless.”

He smirks throughout this little speech. Every smug word is yet another blow, another confirmation that he never loved her, that he’d fooled her.

But what does it truly matter? The king has forgiven him. And she’ll never truly escape this humiliation. She will spend the rest of her life the jilted, unwanted woman, expected to serve Prince Aegon and Princess Daena, and later King Aegon and Queen Daena. This will follow her forever.

She’ll still make an excellent match, of course. Her family will have to be appeased, and part of that will be ensuring she have a bright future. But she’ll still always be the subject of the man who purposely broke her heart. But she’s not going to wilt away. She’s not going to give Aegon the reaction he’s clearly looking for.

Sansa forces a smile to her face, eliciting gasps from the court. “Prince Aegon, I wish you and your new princess every happiness.”

She alights from the dais, moving towards the newlywed, leading Lady to walk beside her. Aegon’s smile falls from his lips, and both he and his new bride look frightened. The throne room rumbles with shock and speculation.

Daena does indeed have purple eyes and silver-gold hair, but her looks end there. She’s got a plain, spotted face. Sansa can’t tell if that makes this better or worse.

Sansa moves before them, stops, and curtseys. She even kisses Princess Daena’s new sapphire ring, and smiles up at her replacement.

“You’ll have to get your royal husband to replace the stones with amethysts to better match your eyes, My Princess,” Sansa says sweetly, “And hopefully you’ll be able to alter the gown to better suit your own origins.”

Both Aegon and Daena go stony-faced. The jewels are sapphires, a precious stone, to match Sansa’s eyes. And the gown Daena wears is basically a giant Stark tapestry. They’d presented themselves to the court draped in a giant tribute to the House Aegon meant to insult, and brought attention to the fact that his new princess would have to downgrade to semi-precious stones in order to free herself of Sansa’s cast-offs and achieve the same personal touch the gift originally had.

King Rhaegar shocks Sansa by taking her hand. “It seems Lyanna’s niece takes after the best parts of Elia more than her own son. Now, Aegon, as I promised, you’ve made amends. And thus, I free you to live the life you want.”

The wildly speculating hall comes to a sudden silence. Sansa’s heart freezes.

“F-Father?”

“Aegon of House Targaryen,” Rhaegar announces, “I hereby release you from the seat of Dragonstone, the inheritance of the Iron Throne, and all other burdens of leadership and rule of our family name. You are freed from the line of succession and all pertaining duties and responsibilities, as are your future heirs, and you shall henceforth be known as Lord Aegon, Prince of the Blood, with an honored place at court and a fair income to accompany your new rank. You are free to do as you wish with your life.”

The color drains from Aegon’s handsome face. “You… You can’t do this… House Martell…”

“House Martell are still our kin,” Rhaegar replies, “Bonds which are compounded by the union between our brother Viserys and their Princess Arianne. Meanwhile, the Houses Stark, Tully, and Arryn require appeasement. Your brother fills the Stark role, but the ties to the Tullys and Arryns are not guaranteed. At least, not until the proper blood ties are secured.”

“You… You can’t….”

“Yes, Aegon, I can. Don’t worry, you will always have a place at court, if you wish. You and your new bride are of course expected to remain here until Jon arrives and you’ve sworn the proper vows to him. And I will expect you to attend the wedding, as well, and show Lady Sansa the same honor she’s shown you. But after that… Whatever you wish… The world is your oyster. You’re a free man.”

Sansa absorbs the full impact of these words, and everything they mean. She tries not to shake.

Aegon and his new wife begin to howl and curse, but Sansa takes no satisfaction in their fury. Rhaegar orders court done with, and has his son and new good-daughter escorted out. The lords and ladies file out, and Rhaegar turns to Sansa with a sad smile. Aunt Lyanna, grinning from ear to ear, joins them at once.

“You’re to be our daughter after all, Lady Sansa,” King Rhaegar says with a strained, affected warmth. He grips her hand tightly.

Sansa swallows. “Please, Your Graces, I am flattered, but there’s no need for you to do such things on my account.”

“Come now, my lady,” Rhaegar tells her, “I thought you always wanted to be queen.”

The combination of Aegon’s betrayal and observing her aunt for nearly half a decade have made her reconsider. “It isn’t about that, I---”

She just wants to be free of this place, the halls in which Aegon kissed her lips, made her a thousand promises, and broke her heart. The walls built on deceit. She wants to go home, to people who truly loved her.

“---You’ll make a wonderful queen. Probably a far better one than myself,” Lyanna says, letting out a bark of laughter, “You’re made to be one. The perfect lady since age three, as your parents always said.”

“And after all these years, I can hardly let you go, can I? Who will I play duets with?” Rhaegar asks.

“My son isn’t like Aegon, Sansa,” Lyanna tells her, “He’s honest, honorable, and dutiful. He’s like your father. He even looks a bit like Ned.”

Sansa doesn’t want someone like her father, she wants her father.

“Jonny’s a sweetheart!”

Sansa nearly jumps at the sound of Lyarra’s voice. She looks behind her. Both princesses stand there, smiling eagerly. When did they get there?

She feels sick, oh so sick. She hasn’t seen Jon face to face since she was three.

But that’s never mattered, has it? She’s allowed her feelings for Aegon to keep her oblivious all this time. Sansa was never here as family. She’s a hostage. She’s always been a hostage. She was sent here to marry Rhaegar’s heir and secure the loyalties of all of her kin. And she’s going to do that, whether she wants to or not. The political capital she comes with is more important than anything to them. It’s what keeps them in power. And Rhaegar is willing to disown his own son for it.

“I… I suppose I could meet my cousin.”

Her aunt and uncle lean back, pleased.

“We’ve already summoned Jon back to court. He’s due to arrive in three short weeks,” Lyanna says, “In the meantime, though, why don’t we order you a new trousseau?”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

“She’s very beautiful,” Sam remarks.

Jon looks at his foster brother, incredulous. He and the ill-favored Tarly son recline in the sumptuous chambers Lord Varner gave the prince. When they arrived at the Roseroad Keep that afternoon, the lord presented Jon with a package from the Red Keep along with the accommodations. It turned out to be a miniature of his new bride-to-be, his cousin, Sansa Stark.

Jon can’t help but wonder, looking down at painted ivory, if this bauble belonged to Aegon a few weeks ago. How many more of his hand-me-downs should he expect? Jon’s already been granted his title, his inheritance, his bride…

The portrait does indeed depict a stunning young woman, with flowing auburn hair, big, blue eyes, creamy skin, high cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips. But Jon has rarely come across a portrait of a highborn maiden that doesn’t possess these same attributes, even if the supposed subject had spots and a lazy eye. That Lady Sansa is pretty, Jon doesn’t doubt, his mother has been saying as much in her letters for years. But he doubts his cousin in the porcelain-doll-goddess this miniature promises.

Not that he cares too much about that. Mother also said Lady Sansa is frivolous, a “perfect lady”, who didn’t care to take advantage of the freedoms offered to her and learn to fight. Mother complained often that Lady Sansa was content to adhere to the rigid, dull lifestyle of a highborn maid, more interested in fashion than adventure. That she fell madly in love with Aegon, and ignored all of his mother’s warnings about him. That she loved silk dresses, handsome knights, songs of romance, and shiny baubles, and that she loathed the sight of blood.

Of course, the moment Aegon threw his birthright aside like a bag of dung, the queen’s descriptions of Lady Sansa became more favorable. Her beauty and virtue were stressed, and Mother assured Jon that the lady “learned her lesson” after being jilted. That she enjoys hawking and has a lovely voice, that she’s “an ideal queen.”

Jon, the unwanted prince, has never desired an “ideal queen” and he’s not sure he wants one now. He’s always preferred girls like his mother and sisters: athletic, unconventional, ready to ride and joust and spar with him.

His cousin is a sweet, if spoiled girl, and he knows she’s blameless in all of this, but not only is she by all accounts a ninny, but even in their scant correspondence over the years he’s detected a certain reticence from her.

Of course, that hardly makes her any different from almost everyone else. Until a few weeks ago, Jon was the family embarrassment, the prince that the king would rather everyone forget. The product of the king’s insults to House Martell, the ashes of Robert’s Rebellion. Too male to be as unthreatening as his sisters, too questionable to be a valuable bargaining chip. Even his legitimacy was questioned. Father had shipped him off to Horn Hill when he was eight, and mostly ignored him since.

Jon is hardly pleased to suddenly find himself the favored son and heir. Sam has always been more a brother to him than Aegon ever was, and Jon made peace with his status a while back. He’d learned not to pin his self-worth on a father and kingdom that didn’t want him and embrace the freedom that being the second son afforded him. Besides, court was a cesspool of deceit and corruption. Why should Jon want any part of that when he could gain his knighthood and use his name and income to forge his own path?

Until, of course, Aegon went and ruined everything.

Now Aegon has the freedom (not that the spoiled tit probably appreciated it), and Jon is saddled with all the responsibility, dragged back to the court of the father that never wanted him, to marry a stranger who will spend the rest of her life comparing him to his fancy, handsome half-brother.

Sure, his mother might be thrilled with this development, but for Jon, it means a life of being the second choice.

Jon holds the miniature down to the eye-level of Ghost, his direwolf. “What do you think, Old Friend?” He asks, “Do we like her?”

The direwolf wags his massive tail in reply.

“Is that for her, or your littermate?” The image depicted Lady Sansa sitting beside her own direwolf, from the same litter Ghost came from. At least that will be interesting. Though the fact that Sansa named her wolf “Lady” is worthy of an eyeroll.

Ghost cocks his head, which could mean anything.

“You should send her something,” Sam suggests.

“There’s no time to have my portrait done,” Jon responds, taking a sip from his tankard of ale.

“Obviously. But you said she like pretty things, right? Send her a piece of jewelry. A necklace or bracelet or something. Maybe something with sapphires, to match her eyes.”

“How am I supposed to get sapphires?” Jon asks.

“You were saving up your pocket money for a new set of blades, remember? But your parents already sent you all the new things you could want. So why don’t you use the money?”

Jon frowns. A good point. Jon had worked hard to earn and save up that gold, only for all of his new princely trappings to arrive just as he was about to reach his goal, rendering the two-year-effort more or less pointless. Something must be done with the gold, he supposes.

“Sapphires?” Jon asks. Sam nods.

“Like her eyes. In all the best romantic stories and poems, a lady’s eyes are mentioned. You can have it sent ahead. It may break the ice. And she did send you something…”

“Fine. We’ll head down to the market tomorrow before we leave.”

Sam helps him select two sapphire cuffs the next morning. “You should write a note.”

Jon isn’t much of a writer. And he’s not sure what to say. But he does it.

These sapphires are the exact color of your eyes.

Jon can barely remember the layout of the Red Keep, it’s been so long. Ten years, more than half his life. His mother’s letters tell him what to expect. Aegon will be there, probably plotting to poison him, because Father insists that the old crown prince pay homage to the new one. To make sure the whole thing is as awkward as possible, Aegon’s new wife will be there as well.

The Dornish courtiers are none too pleased, but Mother says that they blame Aegon as much as they do the Starks, and that many lords and ladies from the Northern Alliance Kingdoms--- the North, Vale, and Riverlands-- will be there to support them. He’ll be allowed to keep Ghost close by most of the time, since Sansa was permitted to keep Lady. As long as he made sure the wolf behaved, he’d be fine.

He’ll be watched and judged constantly, even by the Stark faction, who will want to make sure their lady is happy following her humiliation. Thousands of eyes will look to find fault with him and declare him an unfit prince.

No pressure, really. With every step closer to King’s Landing, Jon feels the apprehension grow heavier. He doesn’t want this. They don’t want him. So why, why is this happening?

I’ll be keeping Mother safe, he reminds himself. Lyanna Stark was never going to flourish under Aegon VI. But with her son as king, her future is assured. So there’s that.

When they’re at the City Border, his retinue is stopped, and servants swarm around him, pushing him into a tent and the bathtub within said tent, coming at him with scissors and razors and perfumes and silks. Before Jon is fully aware of what has occurred, he’s sitting atop his horse again in black and scarlet brocade, his beard trimmed and perfumed, his normally-unruly curls cut and slicked back, a ruby-studded chain dangling across his chest, and shod in boots shiny enough to render his reflection from the stirrups. Even Ghost has acquired a new collar and a very confused expression.

He looks down at Madrick, his Master of the Guard. “I suppose I’m finally fit to be seen?”

“Indeed,” Madrick confirms before calling for the gates to be opened. He hands Jon a sack of coins.

“What are these for?”

“The beggars.”

Jon isn’t prepared for the roar that erupts from the crowded streets when he rides in. He’s not prepared to hear his name being called, or for anyone to appear happy to see him. He’s not prepared for the children on their father’s shoulders, reaching their chubby arms out to him. He’s not prepared for the thin, hungry-looking men, women, and urchins to run into his path. Sam has to elbow him in the stomach for him to remember to throw the coins. He’s not prepared to see grey and white direwolf banners amidst the Targaryen flags, or for children to point to Ghost in delight rather than terror. He’s not prepared for the pretty maidens who blush when he looks their way.

The tidal wave of adulation follows him the closer he gets to the Red Keep. By the time those gates open, he’s almost forgotten a lifetime of being the unwanted prince.

The court is assembled on a marble dais, his family at the very front. His sisters and Aunt Daenerys wave at the sight of him, delighted. But it’s his mother’s eyes he finds first: the Stark-grey irises. She grins at him, and he can see the pride there. It warms his heart even more than the crowds.

But then, of course, there’s the King.

My father, Jon reminds himself. He has to do that sometimes. Rhaegar Targaryen has always seemed more his mother’s husband and his king than his father. Even when Jon lived with his family, the king had little time for him. The only remotely father-like warmth Jon ever received was from Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Jon looks for the old knight among the crowd, and both men smile upon catching one another’s eyes.

Then, of course, there’s Aegon. Jon feels his older brother’s eyes on him well before he meets that purple gaze. Jon’s hands ball into fists when he beholds his brother. You did this, Jon wants to shout at him, You did this, so don’t you dare hate me for it.

Jon glances at the silver-haired young woman at Aegon’s side. She wears a matching look of loathing, but it’s easily the most remarkable thing about her face. He scans the lines for a sign of his new betrothed, but finds nothing.

Jon dismounts and approaches his family carefully. He has to get this just right.

He walks up the steps, and drops into a kneel seven steps down from his father’s feet.

“My King,” he recites, “It is my honor to come before you.”

All of a sudden, there is a gloved hand under his chin, pushing his gaze upward into a pair of affectionate violet eyes.

“My son!” Rhaegar cries in a tone that makes Jon wonder who he’s speaking to. “My Jon!”

Now he’s being embraced, pulled to his father’s broad, silk-clad chest. Thoroughly confused, the young prince looks into the king’s eyes, half expecting the man to shed tears.

Rhaegar releases him and scans his from head to toe. “You’ve become a fine man, my son,” the king declares, “I couldn’t be prouder.”

“Neither can I. Now, may I please also embrace our son?” Lyanna Stark snipes, though with a smiles on her face and tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. Her hug is warmer and tighter than Rhaegar’s, and Jon returns it gratefully.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers to her.

“I’ve missed you,” she replies.

Jon embraces his sisters and aunt affectionately, truly thrilled to see them. His Aunt Daenerys is more beautiful than ever, Visenya looks like she could take on an army, and Lyarra is his mother in miniature.

When Aegon comes to shake his hand, the two brothers end up battling for control, trying desperately to make the other give in. It’s not until Lady Daena clears her throat that Aegon lets go and introduces his new wife. Jon kisses her cheek and greets her as ‘Sister.’

She has no chance to reply when the king steps forward and clears his throat. There’s suddenly a cloaked, hooded figure on his arm.

“And now, my son, the person that perhaps, you’ve been most eager to meet,” Rhaegar declares pompously as he reaches for the hood, “Allow me to present the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

The hood falls and Jon finds himself speechless.

She’s not as pretty as the miniature. She’s prettier. She’s utterly stunning. Up until now, the most beautiful woman Jon has ever seen is Margaery Tyrell, the doe-eyed daughter of the Lord of Highgarden. But even Lady Margaery pales in comparison to the woman before him.

The deep blue of her eyes are like an ocean, and Jon almost feels like he’s drowning in them. Her creamy skin makes his fingers shake with the urge to stroke it. Her hair is a river of silken fire. Strawberry-colored lips frame a dazzling smile.

She drifts into a curtsey dainty and graceful enough to set his teeth on edge. He expects a high-pitched, girlish voice. But when she greets him, it’s with a low, husky, velvet-like tone.

Jon swallows heavily. He can’t tell which is worse: the lump in his throat, or the one stirring in his pants.

She’s for him?

He looks her up and down, amazed, absolutely undone---

---Until his eyes find her wrists.

Her bare wrists. Elegant, slender, and uncovered by the cuffs he spent two years of pocket money on.

Indignation takes over. This is the first time they’ve met. He’d sent her the product of two years of squiring for Randyll fucking Tarly, and she couldn’t even be bothered to wear them?

He observes her perfect smile again. It’s too perfect. It’s fixed. And he realizes that those blue eyes of hers don’t sparkle with a matching joy. She’s not happy to meet him, she’s playing a part.

If anything, now that he observes her more carefully, she looks like she’s been frozen in place, and is in pain, almost.

Jon tries to calm himself. Perhaps the package simply didn’t arrive. He’s jumping to conclusions. He takes a deep breath and presses her knuckles to his lips.

“Sweet Cousin, it is my honor to meet you. I’d been told to expect a beauty, but nothing could have prepared me for this.”

“You are much too kind, My Prince,” she says quietly, “You’re even more handsome than I’d been told.”

There’s something to her tone, and undercurrent, that sets Jon on edge. If he didn’t know any better, he’d guess she was mocking him somehow.

“But not as handsome as some, I suppose,” he replies, watching her carefully.

“As handsome as I could have hoped.”

That was definitely a charged remark. And Jon sees it, clear as day. I didn’t want you.

I didn’t want you, either, he thinks, And neither did he. Everyone files into the palace, and Jon takes the opportunity to quietly inquire to his betrothed if she received his gift.

“I did,” she replies, “Thank you. It was very kind.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he stresses as they follow his parents through the entry hall, “When I saw your wrists, I feared their delivery had been delayed. It would be a great shame, as I had very much hoped to see the sapphires, considering the expense.”

Her nose actually wrinkles. “Perhaps you’d rather see me wearing a necklace made of coins, if expense is so important to you.”

“Not everyone can drop a pound of gold to buy a lady jewels,” Jon says, “I know things are different at court, but generally, people have to work for their money.”

“Hardly something you’ll have to worry about, I think,” Sansa responds, “You’re clearly happy to try and buy your way into anything that isn’t handed to you.”

Randyll Tarly is a hard-nosed, thin-lipped, cruel, miserly son of a bitch. Ever since Jon set foot at Horn Hill, Lord Tarly made it clear how much of a burden it was to take in “the half-bastard”. Nothing Jon did was ever good enough for the man, especially after Jon dared to befriend and defend Lord Tarly loathed older son, Sam. Jon’s adolescence had been characterized by his guardian’s determination to teach him “humility” and to be a “real soldier.” The man hadn’t even granted Jon his knighthood, despite the years of service and skill Jon had displayed. No, that came from Garlan Tyrell. And even after that, the man had Jon, an anointed knight, mucking the stables and polishing his boots like a lowly squire, all to be paid an absolute pittance.

It took two years for Jon to save up his “wages” (which, given they came from the royal treasury anyways, were more rightfully his now that he’d reached manhood than they were Lord Randyll’s) to acquire gold that most squires were paid in a year. He’d spent that two years all to buy her those bracelets, as it turned out, rather than the blade set he’d wanted. Two years of serving a man who only seemed to find joy in flogging his servants for sneezing in his presence.

He’d practically had to pry every copper penny out of Tarly’s fists.

“Handed to him”, indeed.

“I’m sorry for thinking of you,” he retorts, furious, “I had hoped you’d like them. Perhaps you prefer diamonds. But I thought sapphires might---”

“---Match my eyes?” She interrupts, “Next time, save your gold. I have an entire lockbox of sapphires, courtesy of my last intended. Sure, none of them resemble literal shackles, but it’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Jon gapes at her, utterly floored by this pronouncement of spoiled entitlement. “May I remind you,” he hisses, “That I am to be your husband and your king.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of that, I assure you. I know my place.”

“Do you?” He asks, baffled. Mother always said that despite everything, Sansa was sweet. This girl is a monster.

“Oh, yes. My place is wherever I’m put. I’m a good little pawn. I’m just not half as stupid as you all hoped.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t even worry about it,” she replies, pausing to greet a courtier and smile her courtly smile, “I’ll spread my legs, give you sons, manage your court, and charm your vassals. I won’t trouble you or get in the way of your dalliances as long as you show some discretion. I’ll be the perfect queen. I believe in doing my duty. It’s what’s best for Westeros. I’d just prefer it if you don’t assume that I don’t know what this is. I’m to be your queen, not your fool.”

Seven Hells. “No wonder---”

But he stops himself before he says the rest. Not that it matters, he can tell by the look in her eyes that she knows exactly what he almost said.

She says nothing, merely greets and charms the lords and ladies around them until at long last, they’re free to settle in. Before she departs, however, she hisses through clenched teeth. “I’ll never forget.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

His first morning in the Red Keep, he is woken by a delivery. Two guards carry a steel-bound lockbox into his solar and open it before him. Jon is nearly blinded by the cerulean glare of its contents.

There’s a note is curly, angelic script.

This should prove more than enough to compensate for the expense of my new shackles. To ensure that you receive a fair price, I’ve enclosed certificates of appraisal for each piece and a list of merchants who will not cheat you. This should be enough to swell your coffers admirably.

Well- “Earned”,

Lady Sansa Stark.

It’s an absurd amount of sapphires. Apparently, Aegon isn’t too imaginative.

Jon instructs his men to pawn them at once, finding it uncomfortable to look upon the small fortune his betrothed sent a moment longer. He ends up using portions of the revenue to send her gifts. She returns them.

He soon learns that his bride hosts sewing circles and small banquets in the Maidenvault. She avoids him, and show little concern as to whether or not he notices. He does.

So does his mother, who is none too pleased.

“If you don’t make her happy, you’re going to spend the entirety of your reign with half the Lords Paramount breathing down your neck,” his mother informs him, “And I can only buy you so much confidence from the Northern faction. The Tullys and Arryns aren’t going to be happy if their lady is miserable. The last time a royal bride was miserable, there was a rebellion. House Targaryen was nearly toppled. And trust me, the Martells are desperate for means to undermine you. You want to sit the Iron Throne with the Seven Kingdoms united behind you, or you’ll end up like your father, basing every decision on pleasing his unruly vassals.”

“How can I make her happy when nothing pleases her?” Jon asks. “I’ve sent her flowers, jewelry, fabric, all the things you said she likes.”

“Jon,” his mother cups his cheek, “Aegon showered her with gifts, too. You’re a good man, give her that instead of things.”

He invites her to take lunch with him. She reschedules four times until finally giving in. He makes sure all her favorites await her on his balcony, and tries to look handsome for her.

She arrives wearing green silk and that fixed smile of hers. Jon sends the servants away and serves her himself.

The direwolves, at least, get along, tails wagging madly as they rush to greet each other.

Jon swallows. “I hear you’ve practically founded your own little court within the Maidenvault.”

“I felt it kind to offer a place for the ladies of the court who prefer silk and songs to sweat and saddle-sores,” she replies, playing with her food, “I hesitated to organize things before, as I didn’t want to presume or step on Her Grace’s toes, so to speak.”

“But now…?”

She actually snorts. “Now? What does it matter, now? I’m not going anywhere, and your mother is going to have everything she wants, so I may as well.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. The tone with which she speaks of his mother irritates him, but something holds him back to full-blown fury. There’s a resignation to the way she speaks that is so, so sad.

“I know Her Grace and you have your differences.”

“She thinks I’m a useless, frivolous fool, and always has. She wishes I were my sister, Arya. A proper Northern lass. I’ve been a disappointment to her ever since I arrived,” Sansa interrupts, “I’m sure she’s recounted what a weak, love-struck ninny I am several times. I ignored the warnings of my own blood to fall for a duplicitous prat because he was supposed to be the prince from my dreams. I’ve learned my lesson, better than she expected. But it doesn’t matter now. Her son will be king, her position is secure, and she doesn’t have to worry. I’m still here to secure your family’s position, and I’ll cover all the duties she’s always hated as well. Despite her frustrations with me, Jon, she’s better off with me than with Arya, I assure you.”

Jon stares, eyes wide. He had no idea. “She’s… She’s a good woman.”

“In her own way, yes. She was just a girl when your father stole her heart and won a war for her. She loves him and you madly. But she’s not a girl anymore. And as much as she loves your father, she hates being queen. She’s stuck. And for the last eighteen years she’s carried the guilt of the war, of Elia and Brandon and our grandfather. And she’ll do anything to make sure she’s not the undoing of the man she loves. All the while, being terrified of the man she helped raise, the living reminder of all her youthful impulses wrought. But now her son will be king, and the Seven Kingdoms will stay intact. I’m here, silly, stupid, and weak, maybe, but with all the right connections to bind the rupture her love story caused. Here I am, the daughter of enough fallen enemies, to be married off and save her from all the consequences, heartbroken or not, I’m here. I always will be.”

Jon feels bile rise from his stomach. It terrifies him. Sansa isn’t stupid. Sansa isn’t stupid at all.

He wants to defend his mother, but he has no argument. “I’m sure she cares for you---”

“---I don’t think she’s heartless. I’m sure she pities me. And it’s not her fault that I let Aegon break my heart. She tried to warn me. But I’m still a worthy sacrifice. And your mother has at least been more honest with me than the rest. Everyone, even my parents, were happy to let me believe the lie. I told you, Jon. I know my place. Your family taught it to me. I came here thinking I was the heroine of a song. But I’m a hostage. I’m a literal peace offering.”

“So am I,” Jon replies bitterly.

There’s an awkward pause.

“It’s not the same,” she states, finally.

“No,” he admits, “It isn’t.”

He feels unclean, as if he’s just committed some sort of crime, and he’s staring into the eyes of his victim. But he’s not sure how to apologize or fix it, because he can’t identify exactly what crime he’s committed. He just knows he’s party to this, whether he wishes to be or not.

“You’re going to treat me well, Jon. Because I’m the key to half of Westeros. I know my place. Every bit of it. You need me to keep my family in check. It’ll only become more important with each passing year. So you’re going to give me a place at the table. You’ll be discreet with any infidelities. You won’t keep my children from me. You won’t hurt me, or force yourself on me, or be cruel. You will show me every inch of honor, respect, and credit I am due. I will have a say in every major decision made. I will do my duty and show you respect, honor, and give you my full support. I will bear your children. I will not bear any other man’s bastards. I will charm your vassals and placate my kin. I will reach out to the Martells. I will mend your clothes and your wounds. I will aid you in matters of state. After I’ve born you an heir and a suitable amount of spares, I will be discreet in any liaisons and keep myself from conceiving another man’s child. I will devote myself to the success of your reign and the preservation of our family. And we will both be honest with one another. Is that fair?”

He doesn’t like the bit about the other men. Not one bit.

“No,” he says, fists clenched, “That isn’t fair at all. It’s not fair to you, or to me. It’s not fair to anyone. Why should I have to go looking to other women to find happiness? Why should you have to sacrifice your body to a man you barely know, then restrict yourself? Why should either of us have to build our life together through leverage and threats? Use our families, who, let’s face it, don’t care a wit about us, or at least not as much as they should, to control each other?”

“Because there isn’t an alternative. These are the roles we were born into. And the people of this country need us to fill those roles.”

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “They don’t need that. Jaehaerys the Wise and Good Queen Alysanne loved each other…”

“You can run off and marry for love if you like, Jon. But they’ll just pass the crown to Viserys, and the realm will suffer for it. Your uncle is an utter shit, but at least his marriage secures Dorne.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jon snaps, rising to his feet and beginning to pace. “I’m marrying you, that’s set in stone. But why should we go into this merely tolerating each other?”

“Because your brother left me broken, Jon. I don’t have a proper heart to give anymore.”

He stops short. “No, I don’t accept that. Aegon is a dog turd. He’s not capable of such a thing. He hurt you, but he couldn’t possibly ruin you. You’re a… You’re you, and he’s just something you stepped in.”

She actually giggles at that. “You think that, maybe, but he… I loved him, Jon.”

“You loved what you thought he was. Because everyone wanted you to feel that way. You were a child when you met him, like my mother was. But you’re not a child anymore. You see so much else, Sansa. Surely you see that.” He walks over to her and kneels by her side, looking into her eyes. “See me. I’m not Aegon. I don’t want to use you, or hurt you, or lie to you. I don’t give a shit about the Iron Throne, or your family. I’d happily see that stupid metal chair melted down and run away to the East. I’d run away with you, if you like. They are trying to force us into things we don’t want. But one thing I think I want is you, if you’ll have me. I’ll take you, and leave everything else.”

“Why, though?” She asks. “Why do you want me?”

“Because you’re beautiful, clever, and just as angry as I am. And you care, Sansa. You are ready to resign yourself to bondage because you want to help others. That’s… That’s incredible.”

“I’m not clever, I’m frivolous and weak. Your mother--”

“You’re just as defiant in your frivolity as my mother is in her armor. If she can’t see that, it’s her loss,” he grins, “If you were really as weak as she claims, you’d have dropped everything and done whatever you can to please her. Instead, you started your own court. That’s inspiring. I didn’t want to be king, but if you wish, I’d like to be king to a queen like that.”

His stomach sinks a bit. He feels like an idiot, and he isn’t even sure what he’s saying, though he means every word. But Sansa’s given no indication that she wants him.

He supposes that’s not too surprising. She’s beautiful. He’s the second choice.

Jon pulls away, embarrassed. He’s made a fool of himself. She’ll never respect him. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll pity him.

“You’re sweet,” she says, “A good man.”

Jon cringes. Sweet. That’s something women say about puppies and babies.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “About the bracelets. I just felt so trapped and I was so angry with myself for letting him charm me. And I felt like everyone thought I was stupid enough to fall for it all again… I didn’t want to be bought or tricked. I didn’t want them to be right about me. I was scared.”

“I did it because a friend suggested it,” Jon confesses, “I just looked for whatever had the biggest stones. It didn’t occur to me that they looked like shackles. But I didn’t care. I sent them because I thought you’d be charmed by something shiny. So you weren’t entirely wrong. I got so angry because I’d been saving up before… well… Father sent for me. And I spent the savings on them. But it’s stupid, because as much as I cared, I didn’t care to spend it on something I cared about. It’s… It’s strange, really. I worked so hard, and cared so much about the work I did, then dropped all that work on something I didn’t care to even think about.”

She sighs. “I know what you mean. I spent months working on my wedding dress. But when it was finished, I sent it off to Daena. Can you believe that?”

Sansa utters a bitter laugh. She closes her eyes and leans back in her chair. “I’m not going to run away with you, Jon. There are a lot of people who would suffer if Westeros falls apart, people who are blameless in all this. Our families think we belong to them, but we don’t. We belong to the people that depend on their lords to do their duty. And honestly… I’ve spent my whole life preparing to be queen. It’s all I know. And frankly, I barely know you.”

He turns away, stomach sinking. She’s right, of course. They’re stuck.

“...But I’m willing to stay with you…”

He turns around, heart rising. She smiles at him.

“I know this isn’t the life you expected,” she says gently, “But I’m willing to help you through it. I’m willing to try. Maybe we could fall in love. I’d like to.”

#Jonsa #Jon x Sansa #Salty Teens #rhaegar wins au

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