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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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Gig apps trap reverse centaurs in Skinner boxes

Enshittification is the process by which digital platforms devour themselves: first they dangle goodies in front of end users. Once users are locked in, the goodies are taken away and dangled before business customers who supply goods to the users. Once those business customers are stuck on the platform, the goodies are clawed away and showered on the platform’s shareholders:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Enshittification isn’t just another way of saying “fraud” or “price gouging” or “wage theft.” Enshittification is intrinsically digital, because moving all those goodies around requires the flexibility that only comes with a digital businesses. Jeff Bezos, grocer, can’t rapidly change the price of eggs at Whole Foods without an army of kids with pricing guns on roller-skates. Jeff Bezos, grocer, can change the price of eggs on Amazon Fresh just by twiddling a knob on the service’s back-end.

Twiddling is the key to enshittification: rapidly adjusting prices, conditions and offers. As with any shell game, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. Tech monopolists aren’t smarter than the Gilded Age sociopaths who monopolized rail or coal — they use the same tricks as those monsters of history, but they do them faster and with computers:

https://doctorow.medium.com/twiddler-1b5c9690cce6

If Rockefeller wanted to crush a freight company, he couldn’t just click a mouse and lay down a pipeline that ran on the same route, and then click another mouse to make it go away when he was done. When Bezos wants to bankrupt Diapers.com — a company that refused to sell itself to Amazon — he just moved a slider so that diapers on Amazon were being sold below cost. Amazon lost $100m over three months, diapers.com went bankrupt, and every investor learned that competing with Amazon was a losing bet:

https://slate.com/technology/2013/10/amazon-book-how-jeff-bezos-went-thermonuclear-on-diapers-com.html

That’s the power of twiddling — but twiddling cuts both ways. The same flexibility that digital businesses enjoy is hypothetically available to workers and users. The airlines pioneered twiddling ticket prices, and that naturally gave rise to countertwiddling, in the form of comparison shopping sites that scraped the airlines’ sites to predict when tickets would be cheapest:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/27/knob-jockeys/#bros-be-twiddlin

The airlines — like all abusive businesses — refused to tolerate this. They were allowed to touch their knobs as much as they wanted — indeed, they couldn’t stop touching those knobs — but when we tried to twiddle back, that was “felony contempt of business model,” and the airlines sued:

https://www.cnbc.com/2014/12/30/airline-sues-man-for-founding-a-cheap-flights-website.html

And sued:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/06/business/southwest-airlines-lawsuit-prices.html

Platforms don’t just hate it when end-users twiddle back — if anything they are even more aggressive when their business-users dare to twiddle. Take Para, an app that Doordash drivers used to get a peek at the wages offered for jobs before they accepted them — something that Doordash hid from its workers. Doordash ruthlessly attacked Para, saying that by letting drivers know how much they’d earn before they did the work, Para was violating the law:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/tech-rights-are-workers-rights-doordash-edition

Which law? Well, take your pick. The modern meaning of “IP” is “any law that lets me use the law to control my competitors, competition or customers.” Platforms use a mix of anticircumvention law, patent, copyright, contract, cybersecurity and other legal systems to weave together a thicket of rules that allow them to shut down rivals for their Felony Contempt of Business Model:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

Enshittification relies on unlimited twiddling (by platforms), and a general prohibition on countertwiddling (by platform users). Enshittification is a form of fishing, in which bait is dangled before different groups of users and then nimbly withdrawn when they lunge for it. Twiddling puts the suppleness into the enshittifier’s fishing-rod, and a ban on countertwiddling weighs down platform users so they’re always a bit too slow to catch the bait.

Nowhere do we see twiddling’s impact more than in the “gig economy,” where workers are misclassified as independent contractors and put to work for an app that scripts their every move to the finest degree. When an app is your boss, you work for an employer who docks your pay for violating rules that you aren’t allowed to know — and where your attempts to learn those rules are constantly frustrated by the endless back-end twiddling that changes the rules faster than you can learn them.

As with every question of technology, the issue isn’t twiddling per se — it’s who does the twiddling and who gets twiddled. A worker armed with digital tools can play gig work employers off each other and force them to bid up the price of their labor; they can form co-ops with other workers that auto-refuse jobs that don’t pay enough, and use digital tools to organize to shift power from bosses to workers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/02/not-what-it-does/#who-it-does-it-to

Take “reverse centaurs.” In AI research, a “centaur” is a human assisted by a machine that does more than either could do on their own. For example, a chess master and a chess program can play a better game together than either could play separately. A reverse centaur is a machine assisted by a human, where the machine is in charge and the human is a meat-puppet.

Think of Amazon warehouse workers wearing haptic location-aware wristbands that buzz at them continuously dictating where their hands must be; or Amazon drivers whose eye-movements are continuously tracked in order to penalize drivers who look in the “wrong” direction:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/17/reverse-centaur/#reverse-centaur

The difference between a centaur and a reverse centaur is the difference between a machine that makes your life better and a machine that makes your life worse so that your boss gets richer. Reverse centaurism is the 21st Century’s answer to Taylorism, the pseudoscience that saw white-coated “experts” subject workers to humiliating choreography down to the smallest movement of your fingertip:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

While reverse centaurism was born in warehouses and other company-owned facilities, gig work let it make the leap into workers’ homes and cars. The 21st century has seen a return to the cottage industry — a form of production that once saw workers labor far from their bosses and thus beyond their control — but shriven of the autonomy and dignity that working from home once afforded:

https://doctorow.medium.com/gig-work-is-the-opposite-of-steampunk-463e2730ef0d

The rise and rise of bossware — which allows for remote surveillance of workers in their homes and cars — has turned “work from home” into “live at work.” Reverse centaurs can now be chickenized — a term from labor economics that describes how poultry farmers, who sell their birds to one of three vast poultry processors who have divided up the country like the Pope dividing up the “New World,” are uniquely exploited:

https://onezero.medium.com/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs-b2e8d5cda826

A chickenized reverse centaur has it rough: they must pay for the machines they use to make money for their bosses, they must obey the orders of the app that controls their work, and they are denied any of the protections that a traditional worker might enjoy, even as they are prohibited from deploying digital self-help measures that let them twiddle back to bargain for a better wage.

All of this sets the stage for a phenomenon called algorithmic wage discrimination, in which two workers doing the same job under the same conditions will see radically different payouts for that work. These payouts are continuously tweaked in the background by an algorithm that tries to predict the minimum sum a worker will accept to remain available without payment, to ensure sufficient workers to pick up jobs as they arise.

This phenomenon — and proposed policy and labor solutions to it — is expertly analyzed in “On Algorithmic Wage Discrimination,” a superb paper by UC Law San Franciscos Veena Dubal:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4331080

Dubal uses empirical data and enthnographic accounts from Uber drivers and other gig workers to explain how endless, self-directed twiddling allows gig companies pay workers less and pay themselves more. As @[email protected] explains in his LA Times article on Dubal’s research, the goal of the payment algorithm is to guess how often a given driver needs to receive fair compensation in order to keep them driving when the payments are unfair:

https://www.latimes.com/business/technology/story/2023-04-11/algorithmic-wage-discrimination

The algorithm combines nonconsensual dossiers compiled on individual drivers with population-scale data to seek an equilibrium between keeping drivers waiting, unpaid, for a job; and how much a driver needs to be paid for an individual job, in order to keep that driver from clocking out and doing something else. @ Here’s how that works. Sergio Avedian, a writer for The Rideshare Guy, ran an experiment with two brothers who both drove for Uber; one drove a Tesla and drove intermittently, the other brother rented a hybrid sedan and drove frequently. Sitting side-by-side with the brothers, Avedian showed how the brother with the Tesla was offered more for every trip:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UADTiL3S67I

Uber wants to lure intermittent drivers into becoming frequent drivers. Uber doesn’t pay for an oversupply of drivers, because it only pays drivers when they have a passenger in the car. Having drivers on call — but idle — is a way for Uber to shift the cost of maintaining a capacity cushion to its workers.

What’s more, what Uber charges customers is not based on how much it pays its workers. As Uber’s head of product explained: Uber uses “machine-learning techniques to estimate how much groups of customers are willing to shell out for a ride. Uber calculates riders’ propensity for paying a higher price for a particular route at a certain time of day. For instance, someone traveling from a wealthy neighborhood to another tony spot might be asked to pay more than another person heading to a poorer part of town, even if demand, traffic and distance are the same.”

https://qz.com/990131/uber-is-practicing-price-discrimination-economists-say-that-might-not-be-a-bad-thing/

Uber has historically described its business a pure supply-and-demand matching system, where a rush of demand for rides triggers surge pricing, which lures out drivers, which takes care of the demand. That’s not how it works today, and it’s unclear if it ever worked that way. Today, a driver who consults the rider version of the Uber app before accepting a job — to compare how much the rider is paying to how much they stand to earn — is booted off the app and denied further journeys.

Surging, instead, has become just another way to twiddle drivers. One of Dubal’s subjects, Derrick, describes how Uber uses fake surges to lure drivers to airports: “You go to the airport, once the lot get kind of full, then the surge go away.” Other drivers describe how they use groupchats to call out fake surges: “I’m in the Marina. It’s dead. Fake surge.”

That’s pure twiddling. Twiddling turns gamification into gamblification, where your labor buys you a spin on a roulette wheel in a rigged casino. As a driver called Melissa, who had doubled down on her availability to earn a $100 bonus awarded for clocking a certain number of rides, told Dubal, “When you get close to the bonus, the rides start trickling in more slowly…. And it makes sense. It’s really the type of shit that they can do when it’s okay to have a surplus labor force that is just sitting there that they don’t have to pay for.”

Wherever you find reverse-centaurs, you get this kind of gamblification, where the rules are twiddled continuously to make sure that the house always wins. As a contract driver Amazon reverse centaur told Lauren Gurley for Motherboard, “Amazon uses these cameras allegedly to make sure they have a safer driving workforce, but they’re actually using them not to pay delivery companies”:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/88npjv/amazons-ai-cameras-are-punishing-drivers-for-mistakes-they-didnt-make

Algorithmic wage discrimination is the robot overlord of our nightmares: its job is to relentlessly quest for vulnerabilities and exploit them. Drivers divide themselves into “ants” (drivers who take every job) and “pickers” (drivers who cherry-pick high-paying jobs). The algorithm’s job is ensuring that pickers get the plum assignments, not the ants, in the hopes of converting those pickers to app-dependent ants.

In my work on enshittification, I call this the “giant teddy bear” gambit. At every county fair, you’ll always spot some poor jerk carrying around a giant teddy-bear they “won” on the midway. But they didn’t win it — not by getting three balls in the peach-basket. Rather, the carny running the rigged game either chose not to operate the “scissor” that kicks balls out of the basket. Or, if the game is “honest” (that is, merely impossible to win, rather than gimmicked), the operator will make a too-good-to-refuse offer: “Get one ball in and I’ll give you this keychain. Win two keychains and I’ll let you trade them for this giant teddy bear.”

Carnies aren’t in the business of giving away giant teddy bears — rather, the gambit is an investment. Giving a mark a giant teddy bear to carry around the midway all day acts as a convincer, luring other marks to try to land three balls in the basket and win their own teddy bear.

In the same way, platforms like Uber distribute giant teddy bears to pickers, as a way of keeping the ants scurrying from job to job, and as a way of convincing the pickers to give up whatever work allows them to discriminate among Uber’s offers and hold out for the plum deals, whereupon then can be transmogrified into ants themselves.

Dubal describes the experience of Adil, a Syrian refugee who drives for Uber in the Bay Area. His colleagues are pickers, and showed him screenshots of how much they earned. Determined to get a share of that money, Adil became a model ant, driving two hours to San Francisco, driving three days straight, napping in his car, spending only one day per week with his family. The algorithm noticed that Adil needed the work, so it paid him less.

Adil responded the way the system predicted he would, by driving even more: “My friends they make it, so I keep going, maybe I can figure it out. It’s unsecure, and I don’t know how people they do it. I don’t know how I am doing it, but I have to. I mean, I don’t find another option. In a minute, if I find something else, oh man, I will be out immediately. I am a very patient person, that’s why I can continue.”

Another driver, Diego, told Dubal about how the winners of the giant teddy bears fell into the trap of thinking that they were “good at the app”: “Any time there’s some big shot getting high pay outs, they always shame everyone else and say you don’t know how to use the app. I think there’s secret PR campaigns going on that gives targeted payouts to select workers, and they just think it’s all them.”

That’s the power of twiddling: by hoarding all the flexibility offered by digital tools, the management at platforms can become centaurs, able to string along thousands of workers, while the workers are reverse-centaurs, puppeteered by the apps.

As the example of Adil shows, the algorithm doesn’t need to be very sophisticated in order to figure out which workers it can underpay. The system automates the kind of racial and gender discrimination that is formally illegal, but which is masked by the smokescreen of digitization. An employer who systematically paid women less than men, or Black people less than white people, would be liable to criminal and civil sanctions. But if an algorithm simply notices that people who have fewer job prospects drive more and will thus accept lower wages, that’s just “optimization,” not racism or sexism.

This is the key to understanding the AI hype bubble: when ghouls from multinational banks predict 13 trillion dollar markets for “AI,” what they mean is that digital tools will speed up the twiddling and other wage-suppression techniques to transfer $13T in value from workers and consumers to shareholders.

The American business lobby is relentlessly focused on the goal of reducing wages. That’s the force behind “free trade,” “right to work,” and other codewords for “paying workers less,” including “gig work.” Tech workers long saw themselves as above this fray, immune to labor exploitation because they worked for a noble profession that took care of its own.

But the epidemic of mass tech-worker layoffs, following on the heels of massive stock buybacks, has demonstrated that tech bosses are just like any other boss: willing to pay as little as they can get away with, and no more. Tech bosses are so comfortable with their market dominance and the lock-in of their customers that they are happy to turn out hundreds of thousands of skilled workers, convinced that the twiddling systems they’ve built are the kinds of self-licking ice-cream cones that are so simple even a manager can use them — no morlocks required.

The tech worker layoffs are best understood as an all-out war on tech worker morale, because that morale is the source of tech workers’ confidence and thus their demands for a larger share of the value generated by their labor. The current tech layoff template is very different from previous tech layoffs: today’s layoffs are taking place over a period of months, long after they are announced, and laid off tech worker is likely to be offered a months of paid post-layoff work, rather than severance. This means that tech workplaces are now haunted by the walking dead, workers who have been laid off but need to come into the office for months, even as the threat of layoffs looms over the heads of the workers who remain. As an old friend, recently laid off from Microsoft after decades of service, wrote to me, this is “a new arrow in the quiver of bringing tech workers to heel and ensuring that we’re properly thankful for the jobs we have (had?).”

Dubal is interested in more than analysis, she’s interested in action. She looks at the tactics already deployed by gig workers, who have not taken all this abuse lying down. Workers in the UK and EU organized through Worker Info Exchange and the App Drivers and Couriers Union have used the GDPR (the EU’s privacy law) to demand “algorithmic transparency,” as well as access to their data. In California, drivers hope to use similar provisions in the CCPA (a state privacy law) to do the same.

These efforts have borne fruit. When Cornell economists, led by Louis Hyman, published research (paid for by Uber) claiming that Uber drivers earned an average of $23/hour, it was data from these efforts that revealed the true average Uber driver’s wage was $9.74. Subsequent research in California found that Uber drivers’ wage fell to $6.22/hour after the passage of Prop 22, a worker misclassification law that gig companies spent $225m to pass, only to have the law struck down because of a careless drafting error:

https://www.latimes.com/california/newsletter/2021-08-23/proposition-22-lyft-uber-decision-essential-california

But Dubal is skeptical that data-coops and transparency will achieve transformative change and build real worker power. Knowing how the algorithm works is useful, but it doesn’t mean you can do anything about it, not least because the platform owners can keep touching their knobs, twiddling the payout schedule on their rigged slot-machines.

Data co-ops start from the proposition that “data extraction is an inevitable form of labor for which workers should be remunerated.” It makes on-the-job surveillance acceptable, provided that workers are compensated for the spying. But co-ops aren’t unions, and they don’t have the power to bargain for a fair price for that data, and coops themselves lack the vast resources — “to store, clean, and understand” — data.

Co-ops are also badly situated to understand the true value of the data that is extracted from their members: “Workers cannot know whether the data collected will, at the population level, violate the civil rights of others or amplifies their own social oppression.”

Instead, Dubal wants an outright, nonwaivable prohibition on algorithmic wage discrimination. Just make it illegal. If firms cannot use gambling mechanisms to control worker behavior through variable pay systems, they will have to find ways to maintain flexible workforces while paying their workforce predictable wages under an employment model. If a firm cannot manage wages through digitally-determined variable pay systems, then the firm is less likely to employ algorithmic management.”

In other words, rather than using market mechanisms too constrain platform twiddling, Dubal just wants to make certain kinds of twiddling illegal. This is a growing trend in legal scholarship. For example, the economist Ramsi Woodcock has proposed a ban on surge pricing as a per se violation of Section 1 of the Sherman Act:

https://ilr.law.uiowa.edu/print/volume-105-issue-4/the-efficient-queue-and-the-case-against-dynamic-pricing

Similarly, Dubal proposes that algorithmic wage discrimination violates another antitrust law: the Robinson-Patman Act, which “bans sellers from charging competing buyers different prices for the same commodity. Robinson-Patman enforcement was effectively halted under Reagan, kicking off a host of pathologies, like the rise of Walmart:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/27/walmarts-jackals/#cheater-sizes

I really liked Dubal’s legal reasoning and argument, and to it I would add a call to reinvigorate countertwiddling: reforming laws that get in the way of workers who want to reverse-engineer, spoof, and control the apps that currently control them. Adversarial interoperability (AKA competitive compatibility or comcom) is key tool for building worker power in an era of digital Taylorism:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

To see how that works, look to other jursidictions where workers have leapfrogged their European and American cousins, such as Indonesia, where gig workers and toolsmiths collaborate to make a whole suite of “tuyul apps,” which let them override the apps that gig companies expect them to use.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#gojek

For example, ride-hailing companies won’t assign a train-station pickup to a driver unless they’re circling the station — which is incredibly dangerous during the congested moments after a train arrives. A tuyul app lets a driver park nearby and then spoof their phone’s GPS fix to the ridehailing company so that they appear to be right out front of the station.

In an ideal world, those workers would have a union, and be able to dictate the app’s functionality to their bosses. But workers shouldn’t have to wait for an ideal world: they don’t just need jam tomorrow — they need jam today. Tuyul apps, and apps like Para, which allow workers to extract more money under better working conditions, are a prelude to unionization and employer regulation, not a substitute for it.

Employers will not give workers one iota more power than they have to. Just look at the asymmetry between the regulation of union employees versus union busters. Under US law, employees of a union need to account for every single hour they work, every mile they drive, every location they visit, in public filings. Meanwhile, the union-busting industry — far larger and richer than unions — operate under a cloak of total secrecy, Workers aren’t even told which union busters their employers have hired — let alone get an accounting of how those union busters spend money, or how many of them are working undercover, pretending to be workers in order to sabotage the union.

Twiddling will only get an employer so far. Twiddling — like all “AI” — is based on analyzing the past to predict the future. The heuristics an algorithm creates to lure workers into their cars can’t account for rapid changes in the wider world, which is why companies who relied on “AI” scheduling apps (for example, to prevent their employees from logging enough hours to be entitled to benefits) were caught flatfooted by the Great Resignation.

Workers suddenly found themselves with bargaining power thanks to the departure of millions of workers — a mix of early retirees and workers who were killed or permanently disabled by covid — and they used that shortage to demand a larger share of the fruits of their labor. The outraged howls of the capital class at this development were telling: these companies are operated by the kinds of “capitalists” that MLK once identified, who want “socialism for the rich and rugged individualism for the poor.”

https://twitter.com/KaseyKlimes/status/821836823022354432/

There's only 5 days left in the Kickstarter campaign for the audiobook of my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller about Silicon Valley scams called Red Team Blues. Amazon's Audible refuses to carry my audiobooks because they're DRM free, but crowdfunding makes them possible.

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 15 days ago

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slightly different from the book rec asks but you mentioned Jamie loftus so… any non-fiction podcast recs?

wow the great news is that I am pretty much constantly listening to a nonfiction podcast of one kind or another so this is huge for me. here are some of my faves!

Betwixt the Sheets: The History of Sex, Scandal, and Society - joined by a rotating cast of guest experts, sex historian Kate Lister goes on a romp through history to learn all about the sexual norms and revolutions of yesteryear.

Black People Love Paramore - in episodes that follow the formate of "Black People Love X," host Sequoia Holmes interviews her guests about their passions for pop cultural niches where Black people are often underrepresented, overlooked, or excluded altogether. heavy focus on music, as the title suggests, but topics also include Tony Hawk, pet ownership, and a memorable episode about being a slut featuring Ify Nwadiwe.

Maintenance Phase - truly like the #1 pod I get hype for when new episodes go up. hosted by fat activist Aubrey Gordon and methodology queen Michael Hobbes, focused on investigating and debunking various health and wellness fads as well as fatphobic misconceptions.

Oh No, Ross and Carrie - ONRAC just ended after thirteen and a half years of investigating all kinds of claims about wellness, spirituality, and the paranormal, ranging from self-proclaimed faith healers to exorcists to alien sightings to pet psychics to the creationist Ark-themed theme park in Kentucky. they have a HUGE backlog, great for browsing.

The Sporkful - a short and sweet podcast hosted by pasta enthusiast Dan Pashman, with each episode focusing on a different question, trend, or event from the world of food. despite being a pretty lighthearted show Pashman is admirably unafraid to tackle the less savory side of food culture; I first became aware of the podcast when he scored a searing interview with Sohla El-Wahlly after the revelation of massive workplace discrimination at YouTube's former darling, BA Test Kitchen.

The Stacks - the only book podcast I can currently tolerate. host Traci Thomas chats with authors about their new fiction and nonfiction releases and hosts a monthly book club. very chill listening, but dangerous for your to-read list.

There Are No Girls on the Internet - host Bridget Todd dives deep into tech trends, online outrages, and misinformation moments across the web. for my money, TANGOTI's coverage of the fatalities at Travis Scott's 2021 Astroworld event and the ensuing satanic panic conspiracy theories were some of the absolute best reporting around the event. currently on hiatus, so you have plenty of time to raid the archives!

Vibe Check - poet Saeed Jones and journalists Zach Stafford and Sam Sanders discuss pop culture and politics, answer listener requests for advice, and generally queen out together. you want nuance? the girlies have Nuance. genuinely one of the warmest and kindest podcasts in my rotation.

#podcasts

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platinumshawnn · 1 month ago

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A Union of Ice and Stone | Cregan Stark — pt i

prologue (prev) | pt ii (next)

Synopsis: “I hope to be able to establish a union between our houses, one between the East and North. Our fathers were friends in their youth, even closer in their later years…they would have wanted for us to be friends, too.”

Content Warning(s): adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content.

A/N: it’s here and I don’t even know what to tell yall 🤺

Word count: 8.3k

inspiration playlist

She had never met him.

She had heard the stories, of course, the whispers and telltale's of Stark men and their fierceness and prowess in battle. She had heard stories as a girl of the young Cregan Stark, who had ascended to lordship at the tender age of ten-and-three and though his reign had been slow to come into effect after a lengthy power struggle against his uncle, he had risen fully to power just a few years later -- she had heard of his reputation as a stoic, stern man who was the very embodiment of Northernmen.

Her father had spoken of him on several occasions in front of her to her brother, fascinated by him and the stories that followed his reign in the north. She recalled the roll of eyes her brother gave every time his name came up at the dinner table, eager to change the topic and deflect to something more worthy of his attention; anything that did not include the boy he had complained he was certain their father would have preferred as a son. Arrnold was never quite as gifted in swordsmanship and had never had a way with the horses -- he managed to just get by with a dagger, but not much else -- nor was he great with people and did not do well in positions of power as he was easily tipped into an internal battle between his pride and ego. It was not as though their father was disappointed in him, but Lysara assumed that just as any father would have preferred, he would have liked for him to share more similarities to that of the young Stark.

She had sank into the scalding hot water of her bath as soon as it was poured despite the outcry from her handmaiden who insisted she wait until it had cooled enough to her liking, wincing as she stepped into it and brushed her off; her skin reddening upon submerging into the water that reflected the flames of the fire that was carefully tended to by house staff to ensure the room was kept to a tolerable temperature. Every nerve stung and screamed for mercy as she had sunk in until the water lapped at her shoulders, her hair sticking to her spine as she had sat upright and scrubbed at her skin until she no longer could and cried out at how sensitive and raw every inch had become -- her face scrunched up and tossing the cloth out of the tub to the floor with a wet splosh. It was only once the water had grown cold did she remove herself, seeking her robes and allowing her handmaiden, Ophelia, to comb out her hair and braid it down her back; the long ends of her hair resting at the base of her spine.

“My lady,” Ophelia gasped, her fingers gently touching her shoulder that peaked out from beneath the fabric of her robe as she sat in the stool in front of her, “What have you done to yourself?” She asked, her voice laced with concern.

She did not reply, rather she frowned and brought a hand up quickly, touching to the same spot and wincing, “I…I suppose I was a bit heavy-handed.” She confessed, her voice quiet.

She heard a soft ‘tsk’ of her tongue, grateful that despite her confinement, Jeyne had at least spared Ophelia's presence -- the only thing she had that tied her to the outside world two days later, “Shall I have the Maester bring firemilk to soothe them?” Ophelia asked, her voice soft and sweet.

“You needn’t worry, Ophelia,” She assured, gently pushing her hand away when the girl attempted to scan the back of her neck by moving the smooth silk away, “It is only a little scratch…it will be fine in the morning.”

“It is more than a scratch,” She stated, releasing the fabric, “here, disrobe— I can take a look, Ser Alfred can summon the maester…” “Please do not fret, Ophelia, it is fine,” She quickly said, pulling away from her abruptly and standing; her hand covering the back of her neck, “We mustn't give Lady Jeyne any more reason to worry than she already does.”

Her hand slid from her nape, resisting the urge to wince at how sensitive the skin had become and reaching for Ophelia’s hand with a tight smile, “I promise you I will be fine,” She quietly lied, “She has enough to deal with as is, yes?”

Ophelia’s light eyes reflected her scepticism, narrowing and visibly still wary as she slowly nodded after a moment — she could see through her after several years of working one-on-one with Lysara; Ophelia knew her better than most. She knew when she was being sincere, and she knew when she was lying, not that she was any good at it — she knew how to pick up on the tone and the way she chewed the inside of her cheek, clenched her fists behind her back, and grit her teeth until it physically pained her whenever she was stressed; there was no hiding anything from her, Lysara knew that. However, Ophelia knew her limits and did not push.

“Tell me, is Lord Stark still here?” Lysara asked, stepping closer and lowering her voice to a whisper. Her eyes darted towards the door while her chin lowered, where she knew one of Ser Herrold’s men was posted at all times — there seemed to be no hour where there wasn’t someone hovering over her these days, someone’s gaze on her. It was suffocating and slowly, with each passing day that she was confined to these walls, she found her sanity ticking away bit by bit, leaving only a thread remaining.

Ophelia stuttered for a moment, her frown deepening, “I…I don’t think I am supposed to speak to you about that, my lady.”

“By whose order?”

Her eyes lowered, “Lady Jeyne…she worries it will only further distress you and add to your condition,” She explained, eyeing their conjoined hands.

Her words resembled a rehearsed script, as though she had been specifically instructed on the matter in the event that she asked. She had to suppress the twitch of her eyebrow, feeling the little muscle beneath it beginning to give way to her annoyance as she brought her hand to gently massage it with a fingertip, “And what condition might that be?” She asked, drawing out the word for emphasis.

Again, she stammered, evidently confused as it seemed to dawn on her that the gap had not been filled during her conversation with her Lady cousin, “I…I’m not sure, I suppose.”

She forced another tight smile, “Ophelia, I appreciate your worry but you needn’t fret over me. I am not some delicate flower that needs protecting,” She reassured, her hand giving hers a gentle squeeze. The two women were quiet, the silence between them only filled by the faint sound of orders from men being barked across the court and the restless whinny of horses that trotted in with supply. Her eyes drifted towards the windows that had been left open to let some air in, a cool, spring breeze wafting through the room; a commodity she was grateful for as she drew in a deep breath and exhaled it, her shoulders rising and falling with that very breath. Her eyes closed briefly, releasing Ophelia’s hand to draw back toward herself.

“Is there any truth to them?” She asked suddenly, her eyes lowering again and avoiding hers as though she feared she had overstepped as Lysara looked at her, “Were you with Gareth Royce?”

She blinked rapidly twice, hesitating, “He is merely a childhood friend,” She answered.

Again, there was a look in her eye that suggested she knew the truth -- she knew she was lying, but was not bold enough to say anything more on the subject. Ophelia sighed, her shoulders slouching with the action and looking towards the door for a moment, “He is still here,” She admitted.

“Your cousin has him set up in the west wing of the keep,” She quietly muttered, looking up at her, “He left yesterday before dawn with some men, I'm not sure for what…but he is due to return today. There have been meetings for the past two days regarding his presence.”

She frowned, “Is there any word yet of his reason for coming?”

She shook her head quickly, “Not yet, but I heard the young squire boy, Tommen, speaking…there has been word of Criston Cole’s men heading west, slaughtering lords and their men,” She explained, words rushed with anxiety, “I suppose he assumes if he threatens violence, it will turn support in favour of Aegon II. His men have been spotted near Rook’s Rest…”

“Open the gates!”

Her head whipped towards the window, the two women exchanging a look of wide eyes and a confused curiosity as they rushed towards the overlook — the gates creaked, echoing throughout the yard as they were slowly pulled open by the guards who stood post, the two women leaning over the ledge to watch from the balcony that overlooked. A few men stumbled in first on their horses, a series of shouts following them as they ordered their horses in thick accents that Lysara struggled to understand — she had heard the northernmen speak once before as a young girl but it had been several years since. She strained to catch a glimpse, bent at the waist and gripping the railing with a tight grip, scanning the men that poured through the gates. It felt as though there was more than ‘some’ men, but then again, her companion had not specific to the number — she watched the two dozen men come hurling through the gates, followed by the massive slab of a man who was enveloped in furs, his mouth moving in a low order that she was begging to hear.

Her eyes narrowed, shielding her eyes from the sun that blurred her vision as she scanned the yards. She assumed as much that this was the man she’d heard whispers of throughout her childhood — that this was the imposing Warden of Winterfell, hardly a man grown but already possessing such power and influence it surprised her.

He appeared much younger than she had envisioned.

His horse moved forward a few more paces toward the front steps before halting, his hands raising in a sharp jerk on the reins to pull back as she suddenly noticed that he was greeted by the imposing presence of her cousin. Jeyne waited patiently, allowing him an opportunity to dismount before descending the stairs and approaching him. Her eyes had turned to focus on the large blade that was strapped to his back, swinging with each movement as he sauntered towards her, his hand coming up to steady it by the strap and coming to a halt in front of her cousin. The interaction was brief and tense despite his civilities to lower his head in a curt bow before exchanging what she assumed were short pleasantries of his journey and welcoming him back — it stunned her that despite the striking appearance that was hard to miss, Lysara did not understand how she had missed him the first time he arrived.

She watched as they spoke, turning to sweep their gaze across the gardens that made up the front yards, Jeyne gesturing for him to follow her lead down the path and away from the doors — she leaned into the railing with her hip, turning to face them fully and lifting her chin, “We shouldn’t be here,” Ophelia suddenly said in a harsh whisper.

“Just…one more moment,” she said, her head turning slightly to glance at the girl beside her. She looked down again, eyes following the path they took.

He appeared as distant as ever, his expression blank and unreadable as he looked at her cousin briefly before turning to look ahead with disinterest; he did not look as though he wanted to be there, and under ideal circumstances, Lysara assumed he wouldn’t have been. His presence this far south perplexed her — the vale and the north had long shared similar values and beliefs, loyal to their oaths and how they served their people; but she saw little reason and could not conjure up any rational explanation that would bring him to their door — though the war had left the entire realm in stuck in a place of fear and uncertainty, forcing everyone’s hand into unusual positions that they normally would not have found themselves in. She could only imagine how warm he was underneath the thick layers of pelt this far south.

His head nodded in response to something Jeyne said, stopping then and facing her — his mouth moved again and if she strained enough, she could hear the low mutter, but his words still did not reach her, “I believe he has a son,” Ophelia quietly confessed, “a young tot.”

“He’s married?” She asked, looking back at her.

She hesitated, mouth pursing, “His wife died in childbirth, my lady.”

She withdrew a sharp breath, lips parting and lifting her chin, “Oh…that’s rather unfortunate,” she muttered.

She paused, an uncomfortable feeling settling over her at the news that she reeled from, her head turning reluctantly to look down again. His head moved to look right as they spoke, circling the garden and absentmindedly taking in the view and turning it into a one-sided conversation, while his attention focused on watching his men round up their horses, his gaze briefly glazing over some house staff that offered assistance. He looked out of place among the green of the vale.

She could vaguely make out the purse of his mouth, a grimace-like smile as he nodded to a young maid who stepped out of their way, a basket in her hands filled to the brim with herbs. The girl’s head lowered as they passed, only lifting again to resume her brisk walk through the yard once they were a foot away and even then, her head turned to look back over her shoulder to give them a final glance. Lysara found it fascinating how easily he could draw attention to himself without even trying, muchless without being aware of it. She couldn’t blame them — the servants, the councilmen, who ogled him like he was some fascinating, yet terrifying creature — he truly was a sight to behold; the embodiment of Northerners, adorned in furs and self-assured as he carried himself with confidence. He seemed to exist in his own world, paying little mind to the one that surrounded him as his head turned to look ahead.

She rocked back on her heels, pushing away from the window finally and retreating towards the step that approached the balcony a few feet behind them. Ophelia stood over her as she slowly sat on the floor, watching as she folded her hands into her lap and restlessly fidgeted with her fingers, picking at her nails — her hands clasped together, her eyes resting on a freckle between the knuckle of her forefinger and middle.

Ophelia watched her cautiously before stepping closer, her voice gentle but firm, “My lady, you shouldn’t dwell on this,” She glanced between Lysara’s fidgeting hands and her downcast gaze, worry etching into her expression.

Lysara’s lips thinned, her thoughts in turmoil. Her mind should have been fixed on Gareth, on the risk she’d taken, sneaking off to meet him and defying her cousin's orders. But now, her attention drifted to the presence of Cregan Stark—the cold, stoic Warden of the North—whose sudden arrival cast a shadow over everything. His disinterest in the south was obvious, yet here he was. His mere existence raised questions that begged answers, and it gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.

She looked back at Ophelia, her voice steady but tight, “I know, but I want to understand why he is here,” Her gaze flickered toward the doors again that opened to the balcony, catching the glimpse of his broad shoulders as he moved out of view, his figure towering over Jeyne’s slight frame, “Does it not frighten you?”

Ophelia shifted uneasily, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirts, "Perhaps it's for a matter of alliances," she ventured, lowering her voice, "The war has changed everything... people are seeking security where they can find it."

Lysara nodded slowly, her eyebrows arching with a dismissive flick, though the pit in her stomach told her there was more to it than just alliances. Her cousin was ambitious, calculating—and the way Jeyne had prevented her involvement in matters was something that left her both wary and furious. Lysara’s gut told her that whatever had brought Cregan Stark to the Eyrie was bigger than just a simple visit, a thought alone that made her nauseous with anxiety as she stood up; her hands brushing over her thighs and smoothing out the robe that fell to her ankles.

“That does not answer my question,” She said, turning her head to look at her, “are you not frightened by this war? With your own brother already put to death in battle…”

Ophelia’s mouth had opened, ready to reply but hesitating, a pained look crossing her features. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes casting downwards as she seemed to weigh the question — she did not want to rehash old wounds, but rather, prove a point. His presence was not one to be taken lightly — however, her expression caused a wave of guilt to wash over her as she sighed, stepping toward her and dropping her hands to her sides, “I’m sorry, I do not mean to remind you of what has been lost and use your grief as a pawn of my own use,” she quietly said.

Ophelia stilled, stiff as she forced a tight smile in her direction with glossy eyes, blinking rapidly to suppress the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes, “I know.”

She did not know how to further express her apologies in a way that would mean something. She felt she had already stepped too far, in the direction of reopening a wound that had yet to heal, unintentionally inflicting her pain. Instead, she moved forward, taking a step to close the space between them and bringing her hands to her cheeks, a bold gesture as she held her face between her palms; her thumbs brushing her cheeks. Ophelia forced a pained smile, her gaze lowering as she leaned forward and pressed a light, comforting kiss to her right temple.

She lingered there for a moment, only withdrawing as their silence was disturbed by the harsh, unwelcomed sound of her door slamming open suddenly. Her hands pulled back, still hung in the space that Ophelia created between them as she stepped back quickly, their heads both turning to find as Ser Herrold emerged from the doorway — his expression a look of confused wariness, his eyes landing on her outstretched hands. It was then that his expression morphed into something of disgust, a second young knight at his side, “By gods, what are you up to now?” He asked, walking forward and further into her room, his left hand at his sword on his waist, “Must you stain this Houses’ reputation further by fraternising with not one, but two traitorous commoners?”

Ophelia stumbled back, Lysara’s head turning to watch as she steadied herself against the bench that knocked the back of her knees with a clatter. She tugged the robe around her to fix it as Ophelia quickly shuffled forward to use her body to shield hers, her back to her front as she moved in between them, “You really shouldn’t barge in on a lady as she dresses,” She snapped, dismissing his comment, “It’s rude and improper.”

A second quiet handmaiden entered the room with her head down as she approached the two women, beginning to gather her dress and hold it up in front of her as an effort to providing her modesty despite the circumstances, “Hardly anything you haven’t already flaunted for all of the realm,” He spat.

“You would do well to remember your place, Ser Herrold,” She shot back, hands tugging the robes off her shoulders and smoothing out her shift. The two women quickly worked to slide the dress over her head and on, anxiously glancing back towards the knight who had yet to remove himself from the confines of her room, “What do you want?” She snapped suddenly, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his presence.

“Your cousin requested your presence for supper,” He finally said, his words stiff as though he was physically pained by the suggestion.

“How kind,” She quipped, scoffing a bitter laugh.

Ophelia worked to pull the dress down her legs, straightening the skirts and doing up the lace behind her neck as Lysara turned around and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, “It is, considering the council would rather you be locked away for the rest of your life like your traitorous brother,” he explained, fist clenching at his side, “I among them.”

The final comment had been a mutter — as though he meant to show some degree of restraint and quiet himself; as though he had remembered himself suddenly but it did not stop the improper gaze that bore into her shoulders, silent as she fumbled to fix the bust of her dress and adjust her hair down her spine, the two women at her feet fixing the dress around her feet. Her head turned to look at him from the corner of her eye.

“Must you hover and watch everything I do?”

“If you could be trusted, we would not be here,” He readily snapped, “I will be escorting you down to the hall to meet Lady Jeyne and Lord Stark.”

She could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise at the idea, rigid as she hesitated in her movements as she gave one last tug on her neckline, “I’m sure one of your men could handle a single woman just fine,” She huffed, withdrawing from the coverage her women provided. She fixed her sleeves as she approached him, ready to brush past and out the door, but his hand found her upper arm and yanked her back towards his side, “I can walk just fine.”

Ophelia had attempted to follow at her heels but was stopped by his sharp stare, holding up his free hand at her, “Ah-ah, not you— you are to stay here.”

They shared a brief look, Lysara’s head slowly turning to look up at him, “Do you think I would have you bolt off and lie to my men again?” He asked, his head lowering to speak so closely she flinched at the feeling of his breath on her neck, “I will not have you making false promises, seducing my men like the witch you are.”

Of all the knights in the Eyrie, Lysara had found his presence to be the most unsettling — ever since she had been a child, she could recall memories of the utter terror he had instilled in her; terrified and cowering behind her father’s back whenever he had entered a room. She recalled a brief moment in her youth when she had felt comfortable with him, enough that as a child, she had almost considered him to be a friend — but in her adolescence, she had noticed a sudden shift. A new hostility that had appeared overnight, and suddenly he was no longer a sense of comfort, but rather something she tried her absolute best to avoid — she felt as though it was the opposite for him, however, seeking her out instead to look down upon her and belittle her at every turn or opportunity he could find the excuse of. And yet again, she found herself being manhandled by him, dragging her like a spoiled child on display through the halls as she was pulled out of the room quickly before she could even process the movement; her eyes anxiously glancing around her to watch as the house staff lowered their eyes as they passed. Her face burned in embarrassment as she grabbed her skirt to lift it out of her path, barely avoiding tripping over her own feet in attempt to keep up with his pace — despite her obvious struggle to match his pace, he jerked her forward when she fell behind a few steps too many, stumbling onto the first step of the stairs that descended towards the front entrance.

She’d yet to see anyone of importance, neither her cousin nor the Lord Stark himself despite her prayers that one would appear before them in that moment and intervene like some saviour sent by the gods, her eyes briefly lifting from her feet to scan the entrance, lit by the midday sun that streamed in through the front doors. It would have been a beautiful day, with the soft breeze, and the gentle chirp of birds that filled the fields. Lysara would have spent her day in the yard, reading, and basking in the day until the early signs of dusk began to blanket the Eyrie — she would remain out of the way of the council and guards who hovered, away from trouble and otherwise distracted from the worrying thoughts about Gareth that had haunted her for two nights. But instead, she was forced towards the grand hall where the only noise was the soft hum of chatter between her cousin and the stranger she had only heard of through stories, their voices slipping under the doors as she caught her breath.

The doors were soon opened upon her arrival, her head turning to look back towards the room that stood, towering before her, “My Lady,” Ser Herrold announced in greeting, releasing her arm with a subtle shove forward, “Lady Lysara, as you requested.”

Jeyne remained seated, staring at her with a slow blink, her expression blank. To her right, Cregan stood to greet her, hands planted against the table as they all fell silent.

Lysara froze under her cousin’s gaze, heaving for air as her head quickly dipped with the curtsy she offered, her eyes pinned to the floor at the edge of her shoes, “Thank you, Ser Herrold,” Jeyne said after a beat, “Come, join us.”

She turned to look behind her where the second knight who had been quiet stood, his eyes catching hers for a moment. His head lowered in a single subtle nod, averting his gaze.

Her eyes timidly lifted back in front of her, standing upright and blinking rapidly. She could feel his eyes on her even without turning to face him, bearing into her as he sat back in his chair — Ser Herrold’s feet shuffled from behind her, following closely behind as she reluctantly entered and approached the seat closest to her cousin; the hair on the back of her neck prickling with anxiety as she let out a quiet sigh, each of his steps masking the sound of hers with the heavy clank of his armour, “Tell me, Lady Jeyne,” Cregan suddenly said, his voice a smooth, low rumble that was thick with accent, “Do your men make a habit of manhandling women like children do toys?” He asked, his index finger tapping against his chalice as his gaze had darted towards her.

Her gaze had followed their movements as Lysara approached, hearing as the knight came to an abrupt stop, “No,” She stiffly replied. Her hand lifted in a subtle wave to dismiss the knight who scowled, begrudgingly backing towards the furthest corner he could hide himself in, “Ser Herrold is just an overly cautious man.”

She noted the evident edge to her tone, her eyes fixed on him with a narrowing of her eyes -- she wanted for her to see his behaviour and acknowledge it for what it was. See him for the bully he was and say something; offer some sort of punishment or scolding, but she was silent. Her mouth twitched, like words were on the tip of her tongue and threatening to breach the surface as her chin lifted, glancing between him and Lysara once -- somewhere, she knew she could have pieced it together. She could see something. But instead, she was silent and lowered her chin.

Lysara looked over her shoulder as she leaned into her chair by her hands, sliding it out enough to slip into it and sit, her eyes finding the annoyed expression of the knight. Her attention only shifted at the sound of his chalice being set down from across the table after a slow sip, “He’s a funny way of showing it,” Cregan muttered.

Her hands smoothed over the lap of her dress, allowing a servant to bring forward a flagon of wine and offering it to the cup in front of her — she nodded encouragingly as her nerves seem to ramp up, rearing its ugly head in her face as her stomach churned, the room silent aside from the sound of the drink being poured, “Thank you,” Lysara quietly said, dismissing the girl who had come forth.

“Lady Lysara has a history of sneaking off and getting herself into trouble, My Lord,” Ser Herrold said aloud.

Her eyes lifted, her hands stuck to her lap as she met his gaze; a shade that resembled the stormy grey skies that hung over the Eyrie in the spring, his expression plain of any trace of emotion — utterly still as he stared across at her, unflinching and unwavering as his eyes flickered in the direction of the man who spoke.

“I was not speaking to you,” He said, his head turning just enough to crane his attention towards him with his sharp tone, looking at him from the corner of his eye.

She felt a swell of self-satisfaction for once as his mouth snapped shut, stunned and humiliated as his face flushed, “My sincere apologies, my lord, I only meant…”

“And yet you continue,” Cregan interrupted.

Lysara reached for her cup, bringing it to her mouth to conceal the smile that threatened to make its appearance, smug as the guard cleared his throat and nodded with his head lowered, “She is a woman, not a war criminal, Ser Herrold.”

She noted the subtle irritation in his voice as he reached towards his plate, picking a grape that had been placed there and plucking it from the dish — he eyed it for a moment, “Do you care for more wine, Lord Stark?” Jeyne asked, her right hand rising to wave forward the girl who hovered with the flagon, watching as she hurried forward readily to refill his cup.

He dropped the grape back on the plate and covered his cup to stop her, his mouth pursing into something that could have resembled a stiff smile in the direction of the girl who meekly nodded and withdrew again. The silence that befell them again was one of tension that could have been cut through with a knife, her gaze darting to her cousin. She swallowed.

“Lord Stark here was just telling me about his journey here,” Her cousin suddenly said, reaching for her knife and fork, beginning to cut into the duck on her plate. Her cousin shared a look with her, looking between her and the Lord who was quiet, her head slightly turning as a young servant boy brought forward a plate of duck for Lysara.

“Might I too ask, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?” She softly asked, her voice hoarse as she absentmindedly picked at her nails in her lap. The thought of food was nauseating, her left hand lifting to cover her mouth for a moment, suppressing the shudder that fought to rip through her.

“He marches towards the West I believe,” Jeyne answered.

“Oh?”

His gaze had flickered towards her cousin, mouth pressed into a thin line that was a telltale of his annoyance — irritated by the trend of speaking above or for him, “On behalf of the heir to the iron throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen— I have two thousand men who will soon go to battle under her command along the Lakeshore. I only mean to lead them there in three days' time,” he quietly explained, looking at her, “there they will meet the Kingmaker and his men, at which time I plan to return to Winterfell, where my duties are.”

Lysara’s breath caught in her throat as she met Cregan's gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. The room seemed to shrink, the tension building like the thick storm clouds gathering outside. Jeyne, ever composed, set down her utensils, a calculating look crossing her face.

“The Kingmaker,” Lysara repeated slowly, the name spoken with a mix of reverence and disdain, “You speak of Criston Cole, yes?”

Cregan nodded, his eyes still locked on hers, “Yes, my lady.”

Jeyne leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes observing the subtle exchange between them. “And so you come to the Eyrie for what, Lord Stark? To gather more men? To seek counsel?”

Cregan’s gaze finally broke away from Lysara, shifting to Jeyne, “I come to ensure that the Vale remains loyal to its oaths. To remind House Arryn of its duty to the realm and to secure safe passage through your lands.”

Jeyne's lips curled into a faint smile, her tone measured, “The Vale is loyal, Lord Stark. You need not worry about that.”

Lysara dropped her hand to her lap, feeling the undercurrents of power play between them. She could sense Jeyne’s mind working, considering the implications of Cregan’s words. The Vale’s loyalty was unwavering, but it was not without its own interests.

“I trust that it is,” Cregan replied, his voice steady, though his eyes flicked back to Lysara, as if searching for something in her expression, “But it is not only loyalty that concerns me.”

Jeyne raised an eyebrow, “Oh? And what else?”

Her gaze lowered to the dish in front of her, the scent of its content wafting towards her nose as she let out a slow, steady breath through parted lips. In the edge of her vision, she watched as his hand clenched into a fist, relaxing after a moment, “You and I share commonalities — both in our loyalty to our houses’ and duties, the way we lead,” he said, words short and clipped, “I hope to be able to establish a union between our houses, one between the East and North, one that could benefit us both.”

She reached out to collect her fork and knife as she listened, one ear attentive to his every word and slowly cutting into the meal in front of her. The pause in his statement prompted her to glance towards her cousin who had taken a break from her task, seemingly weighing his words.

“Despite the circumstances of my visit, I hope that my presence is the first step in that very direction,” He added.

Her gaze lingered, trying to gauge her reaction as she took a piece of the duck between her teeth, watching as the corner of her mouth twitched. She let out a short hum, forcing a thin smile in his direction and lifting her chin, a breath being exhaled through her nose as Jeyne gave him a nod, “We would be greatly honoured to be allied alongside your house, Lord Stark.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She had dreaded the moment supper was done — as soon as it was over, she knew she would be back within the walls of her room for however long, until things blew over and Jeyne had forgiven her, and finally allowed her to return to being a contributing member of society. She would go insane, memorising every crack in the wall, every chip in the floor, and only come out for the necessities.

Dinner came and went quickly, silent enough that she could hear every drag of Jeyne’s utensils against the plate as she ate, setting her nerves on edge. Every so often, she caught a pair of eyes on her, grey and bored as he occasionally picked at the fruit on his plate — she assumed the only reason he stayed as long as he had was for the sake of respect and decency, only excusing himself once Jeyne was finished.

She walked behind them, close on their heels as they departed the hall, her hands folded in front of her and flicking her attention between them. There was a low hum of discussion that passed between them, polite pleasantries regarding dinner and ensuring Cregan was comfortable with his accommodations; despite her cool demeanour, Jeyne never failed to play the hospitable host. She had taken after her father that way. Gracious enough to treat her guests with warmth and open arms, but cautious and calculated enough to always be a step ahead.

“I do hope House Arryn is as much home to you as Winterfell while you are with us,” Jeyne said with a finality to her words, ceasing her walk as they neared the hall that split between the stairs to their wing and the west hall. Her hands clasped in front of her, “Should there be anything you require, please…I would like to see to it that you have everything you need.”

His head turned to look down the hallway, giving her a slow nod in reply. Jeyne’s shoulder nudged hers as she let out a breath, turning to look at her and raising her eyebrows, “We will let you get settled then, Lord Stark. Lysara?”

Her eyes flickered between him and her cousin once, watching as she was dismissed with a subtle tilt of her cousin’s head, Ser Herrold’s hand readily prepared to pull her back to her chambers — his fingers wrapped around her elbow as she gave a curt nod to her cousin.

Cregan turned his head back, “Actually…” He said, his eyes falling to Herrold’s hand, “I was hoping Lady Lysara and I might go for a walk.”

As his eyes lifted to meet hers, she noted the lack of room for objection as he spoke, his tone lacking something of suggestion and rather, an order that she felt no reason to argue against. She saw the look of confusion in her cousin’s eyes as she stepped away from Herrold’s grasp with a slow, drawn out breath, “Of course,” She replied. It was then that the thought crossed her mind to look at her cousin again, gathering her skirts and imploring her approval, “unless you require my presence, cousin…” Her words were slow and cautious, her voice soft as Cregan extended an elbow to her.

Jeyne hesitated, her left eye twitching, “No, I do not.”

She accepted his elbow, her hand sliding around it as she stepped toward him; the heat of Ser Herrold’s presence still radiating from behind her. She heard him step forward as Jeyne turned and began to ascend the stairs, while he instead followed her steps, Cregan’s head turning just enough to eye him from the corner of his eye, “We do not require a chaperone.”

His mouth opened, prepared to argue, but silenced as Jeyne spoke from the stairs, “Ser Herrold,” She firmly called to him, “I think we shall see Lady Lysara and Lord Stark first thing in the morrow, yes?”

She could see his annoyance, clear as ever in his face as he let out a huff, staring at the pair of them; though even she looked closely, in his eyes, she could see a twinkle of fear when he found Cregan’s cool gaze, wavering for a moment. Her male companion, in contrast, was calm and collected, unfazed as he held his stare for a moment before Ser Herrrold broke it by turning away. His feet carried him up the stairs ahead of Jeyne, her own softer ones following his after one last glance to Lysara, her stare sharp with an unspoken warning.

A silence befell the hall as she retreated, her men at her side and following her up the stairs, giving them not one last look before they disappeared from view, leaving her alone in his presence. It was then that she finally exhaled a breath, a sigh of relief and relaxed, her head lowering to look down at her feet, “We do not have to go anywhere, if you do not wish it,” Cregan quietly stated.

She looked up at him, startled by the softness of his voice, “If you would rather be abed, I will not force you to keep me company.”

His eyes darted to look over her head and up the stairs where her cousin had retreated only moments earlier, before looking down at her again. She frowned in obvious confusion, “Do you not wish to walk?”

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile at the left corner as his lips parted, a low breathy sound that resembled a laugh leaving him. His eyes lowered, “Only if you wish,” He said, lifting his gaze.

“If you did not wish to walk, then what…” She asked, her voice drifting off, “what did you want?”

“To be rid of Ser Herrold,” Cregan plainly admitted.

Lysara blinked, digesting Cregan’s words. For a moment, her confusion melted into something warmer—an unexpected sense of freedom. Her hand remained loosely tucked around his arm as they stood there, the hall’s silence pressing down on them.

“You wanted to be rid of him?” she repeated, half in disbelief.

Cregan’s lips twitched again, a flicker of amusement, “Aye. His hovering becomes tiresome. I’d hoped for a moment without his shadow looming over us.”

Lysara’s gaze flicked toward the stairs where her cousin had disappeared. The subtle pulse of power in his voice caught her off guard, reminding her that Cregan Stark wasn’t just any northern lord.

“I see,” she finally said, her voice steady, “Well, you’ve succeeded. Ser Herrold won’t trouble us tonight.”

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Lysara found herself searching Cregan’s expression, but his face remained impassive, save for the glint in his eyes. She felt the cool air settle around them, and the moment stretched longer than either expected.

“Shall we walk, then?” she asked, feeling the weight of his gaze on her.

Cregan inclined his head slightly, “Only if you wish, my lady.”

Lysara hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, gently tugging at his arm. Together, they turned and began to walk, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. The tension lingered in the air, but there was something else too—a quiet understanding, forged in the absence of prying eyes. The court was silent beyond the soft rustle of her skirts and the echo of his boots as they paced the halls, lit by the sinking sun that was slowly retreating behind the horizon, her eyes turned out over the fields that seemed to stretch on forever -- her mind had wandered in the silence, reflecting on the past few days, her fingers pressing into his forearm.

She was grateful he did not force conversation, or feel the need to fill the space between them with meaningless conversation. For the first time in days, she was comforted by the silence that allowed her to sort through her thoughts without any unnecessary interruptions.

Her thoughts wandered to Gareth, the image of his face burned into her memory as she forced him into the bush. His look of despair, helpless as he crouched and waited -- she wondered how long he was trapped in the bush before it was safe. Had he followed them? Or had he turned and sprinted back to his house as soon as it was clear? Had he tried to write to her since? Her injured ankle throbbed at the thought.

She hoped that he was safe at the very least.

“I apologise if my visit has caused some tension between you and your lady cousin,” He stated.

A cool breeze blew through the windows of the corridor, her mouth turning up in a melancholic smile as she turned her head away from him. Her right hand swung beside her side, brushing along the skirt of her dress as she let out a deep sigh, “It is not your presence, you need not apologise.”

There was a pause in their conversation, his eyes following hers to the still yards, “I only mean to establish a union between our houses,” he continued, “our fathers were friends in their youth, even closer in their later years…they would have wanted for us to be friends, too.”

“Did you know my father well?”

She turned to look up at him, watching as he gave a stiff nod, “I knew him enough to respect the man he was,” Cregan said, his voice low and thoughtful. “We met during a few councils, exchanged words on occasion… He spoke of you often.”

He paused, his eyes searching hers as if gauging how much to share, “But no, I did not know him well enough to claim a close bond. I only wish I had,” His tone softened.

She let out a laugh, a huff of air through her nose as she withdrew her hand from his elbow and planted her palms against the windowsill, leaning into it by her waist. Her chin lifted, breathing in the fresh air, any remaining tension that had settled into her bones melting away with the familiar sounds of the vale. Her head lowered after a moment, recalling the memories of her father and their many conversions— a lifetime of discussions and jokes they had shared. She tried to pick through the conversations over supper in which he spoke of the Lord Stark and his young son, “Were you close with my brother?” She suddenly asked.

She heard a low chuckle, short and resembling a choked snort as he briefly looked away, his attention turning down the hall they had come from, “We…met briefly,” He replied, his voice quiet; turning to face the window she had placed herself in, mirroring her position to look outwards, “I would not say we were close, however.”

She craned her head to look at him, trying to make sense of his reply and his tone— there was an edge to it she could not quite put her finger on, but it was clear to her nonetheless that he was not keen on the subject of her brother that piqued her curiosity. Her mouth opened, wanting to press further, but she settled on stopping herself before she overstepped.

Cregan’s eyes shifted to scan the court they looked over, House Arryn’s high walls obstructing the view she knew was beyond the high walls that fenced them in — luscious fields of soft grass and beautiful flowers she’d loved picking as a girl on the other side of it. It was as though he sensed her eyes still on him, turning to look at her and raising his eyebrows, a moment passing between them that was filled by a comfortable quiet; filled only by the sounds of the bugs that chirped with life from the yards.

There was a subtle shift in the air around them, suddenly aware of the little space that existed between them as her gaze reflexively lowered to his chest where her attention landed on the familiar sigil of his house. The outline of a wolf, proud and powerful. Cregan moved, a small and subtle action, as his right hand planted against the windowsill beside hers; the heat he naturally radiated felt against her skin, even through his gloves. Her breath hitched, clearing her throat as the air caught there, nearly choking her.

“You know, he spoke very highly of you,” Lysara admitted, redirecting their attention as she withdrew her left hand from alongside his to rest against her ribs, cradling her side.

“Your father?”

She looked up again, offering him a polite smile, “I think he always hoped my brother would share your likeness,” She said, pausing before speaking again, “Arrnold didn’t take to swordsmanship.”

There was a hint of a smile, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he gave another small nod, “I do recall.”

Again, she noticed, there was a hint of his knowing of her brother. She blinked, “How…”

“My lady,” A young voice interrupted, greeting them. She turned away from the window, stepping away from his side and finding the guard who she quickly recognised from earlier. The young guard who stood a few feet back, bowing his head as he then seemed to notice Cregan’s presence, “My lord…I apologise for my intrusion.”

He had been present with Ser Herrold in his task to drag her to supper. She stiffened, awaiting his next words, “A letter has arrived by raven,” he explained, Lysara’s confusion evident as he stepped forward and presented her with a neatly rolled scroll, struggling to recognise the gold seal that closed it.

“Who is it from?” She asked, eyeing it.

The guard looked behind her, looking at Cregan who idly stood by, hesitating to answer. His words were slow and quiet, low enough that even she could hardly hear him, “I…do not know, my lady.”

She let out an annoyed sigh, breaking the seal and beginning to seek out any identifying details. Her gaze darted up one last time as the guard began to retreat, his stare lowering from hers as she narrowed her eyes at him; she looked over her shoulder at Cregan who had turned to face her, witnessing the interaction with a shared look of scepticism. She moved slowly, unravelling the parchment to reveal the letter inside, allowing the guard to leave with no interference, her head inclined to the side as her eyes scanned the messily scrawled writing.

Lysara,

My love.

I am safe, hidden beyond reach. Meet me in two days' time at midnight, where the trees meet the stream. I must see you.

TAGLIST: @beebeechaos

#cregan stark #cregan stark fanfic #cregan x oc #cregan stark x oc #hotd cregan #hotd #house of the dragon #tom taylor #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfiction #auois

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fatkish · 4 months ago

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Aisles and Class 1A x Fem Quirkless reader platonic hcs who’s cold, reserved, but still polite and nice to others. She’s a strict badass who’s also street smart and masters a bunch of weapons like throwing knives, guns, pole arms, etc, to replace her lack of a Quirk. One of the top students as well as the scariest girl in class as she gives it her all in class, sending anyone who challenges her to the infirmary anytime they fought her. Unlike Izuku, who at least grew up with a parent’s love, she had nobody and had to survive on the streets and illegal underground rings, earning many nasty scars that she hides behind her bandages and clothing which she always covers up with stuff like scarfs, gloves, even if it’s super hot out. She craves any love but backs down due to heavy discrimination, bullying, etc. hcs?

(So I’m gonna assume that Aisles is Aizawa because I don’t recall a character with that name. Also I’m gonna make the reader similar to Illumi Zoldyck from HxH)

Aizawa & Class 1A x Quirkless Reader

Growing up in the underground was harsh and brutal. In order to survive you had to be willing to do whatever it took

Whether it was stealing food, or fighting, you did anything that could increase the chances of your survival

Living on the streets, you grew up facing villains and thugs in the alleys, they would see you as an easy target so you had to learn to protect yourself

After years of fighting and being subjected to multiple quirks, you’ve built up a high resistance to physical pain. Not that you can’t feel pain, you just tolerate more of it better than others

You’ve learned various techniques and skills when it comes to fighting but you’re not just skilled with combat

Having no parents, you had to learn to cook for yourself and became somewhat skilled in the culinary arts

In order to make up for not having a quirk, you learned to wield every possible weapon and mastered the use of each

And in order to have money, you fought in illegal and legal underground fighting rings. These fights landed you plenty of scars to the point that you’re covered in them

You wear bandages and long clothing to hide the scars, however your choice of style can make you look suspicious

Due to growing up the way you did, you developed a rather cold and reserved personality but you maintained your manners and are very polite

You don’t really show a lot of emotion which can make people uncomfortable being around you, but you don’t really care

Originally, you weren’t going to go to highschool but you came across Aizawa one night when you were cornered by some thugs. He was about to step in when you seemingly appeared behind the thugs, then they all fell down unconscious. Aizawa thought you used a teleportation quirk. He understood that you were essentially homeless and had no family so he offered for you to stay with him for the night

As he began to understand your predicament, he was amazed at how quickly you picked up on things. You were incredibly smart and observant but that’s probably due to having lived on the streets

When Aizawa learned that you didn’t have a quirk he originally didn’t believe you. But after testing his quirk on you, he realized you were telling the truth

Aizawa actually gave you a recommendation to UA since he deeply believes that you would make a good hero

When you took the recommendation exam, you met Inasa who surprisingly quickly managed to worm his way past your walls and became your friend during the exam

After having passed the exam with flying colors you were given Inasa’s phone number since he learned you didn’t have a phone

Aizawa had later that day, bought you a phone for you to connect with the friends you would hopefully make

When school came around, Inasa had been coaching you on how to make friends, despite your cold personality you managed to befriend Izuku on the first day (more like he just didn’t have the balls to tell you you were scary)

You saw how Bakugou treated Izuku and you didn’t like how scared Izuku was so you decided to make an example out of Bakugou

During All Mights hero class, you were paired with Izuku and Uraraka. You followed Izuku and protected him from Bakugou. When Bakugou ignored All Might and used his stored up sweat, you decided that you had enough. You quickly went behind Bakugou and started to let loose on him, in the end, you accidentally sent him to recovery girl’s office since you didn’t know how to hold back

When Izuku saw this, he realized you weren’t that scary and you’re just not that good with social situations, he then took it upon himself to make you apart of the Dekusquad and you decided to keep hanging around him

Shoto and Momo have become some of your closer friends. Momo takes you shopping and loves to dress you up

Mineta, Koda and Aoyama are terrified of you. The girls all love that Mineta is too afraid to perv on you, so they use you as a shield to ward off Mineta

Kirishima and Ojiro are constantly asking you to spar with them as well as Bakugou. They don’t care that you can’t hold back most of your strength, the don’t care that sparring with you is a one way ticket to Recovery Girl, they admire your strength and they want to get stronger

When you’re relaxing, Shoto likes to hang around you since you both have the same cluelessness in the sense of social interactions

Although you have a hard time initiating affection, Aizawa makes sure you receive plenty of it whether it’s just a simple head pat or a small hug. Aizawa and Midoriya help you with learning how to express yourself since you’ve closed yourself off as a means to protect yourself

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa sensei #platonic class 1a #class 1a x reader #midoriya izuku #izuku midoria x reader

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hadesrise · 2 years ago

Text

𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.

summary ➳ you unexpectedly defend barty from your friends.

pairings ➳ bartemius “barty” crouch jr. x hufflepuff!male reader

warnings ➳ sfw content, foul language, sunshine and sunshine protector trope, discrimination, asshole friends, friends to lovers, badassery lol, people are a lot prejudiced in this

author’s note ➳ i headcanon him as ravenclaw, sorry. also i think hufflepuffs are scary as fuck when they’re mad. I DO NOT HATE LILY OR JAMES AND SIRIUS. please don't misunderstand that 🥲

Unpleasant whispers filled the Great Hall particularly from Gryffindor’s table as everyone watched the little-to-no-good trio take a seat on the Hufflepuff’s table and settle themselves there uncaring of the whispers, Barty sitting down right beside you while Evan and Regulus sat on the opposite side. Despite noticing the unpleasant looks being thrown at your company, you smiled at Barty after seeing how comfortable and relaxed he seemed.

“Hey, B.” You softly greeted, eyes twinkling in admiration and cheerfulness. “Nice to see you guys too, Evan and Regulus.” Greeting politely, Evan and Regulus each sent you a small smile before falling into a calm conversation with one another, which made you wonder why they’re here in the first place, but you figured it’s because Barty’s here.

“Well, (Y/n). How’s your potions class?” Barty questioned, starting off with casual conversation while beginning to eat.

The Marauders watched as you respond to Barty with a kind smile on your face and not an ounce of hatred nor distaste for being surrounded by the three most infamous persons in Hogwarts, aside from Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy, and Bellatrix Black. The softness of your expression didn’t even change. No one understands how a golden boy like you could hang out with people like... them, considering you’re the most kindest, softest, brightest person Hogwarts has ever had. You’re easily approachable and has the heart of gold that is almost impossible to be tainted, treating everyone equally while plastering on that pleasant smile of yours.

You’re practically a walking safe space for everyone. Reliable, trustworthy, loyal, patient, generous, kind, humorous, ambitious, all of them combined is what you are — a perfect person.

Or at least, that’s how others perceive you. Though, it’s not their fault for seeing you like that, you figured.

The way you’ve presented yourself in public is probably why they think of you as this perfect and divine person that is always good and never evil. You’re kind of flattered by them, but it also makes you feel as if expectations are squeezing down your throat hard.

“How the fuck does he tolerate him?” Sirius Black exclaimed in genuine confusion, referring to you engaging in conversations with a guy who clearly meant bad news.

“Language,” Remus Lupin, without looking up from his book, scolded gently. “I’m sure it’s because (Y/n) has more patience than you. He also doesn’t seem to care what other people say about him.”

“But it’s not good for him to be hanging out with him, don’t you think?” Lily Evans worriedly spoke from beside Remus as Marlene Mckinnon, who sat by her side, nodded in agreement. They knew how nice you are, so seeing you carelessly talk to Barty without hesitation makes them worried, especially when Barty’s practically apart of the Slytherins that are far from pleasant from how much time he spends with them instead of his own house. They knew him, and he definitely cannot be called a good person.

“Uhm... We don’t know for sure.” Peter shrugs, “I mean, it’s really not for us to decide who he should hang out with.”

“Peter’s right,” Remus immediately agreed, “There’s not much we can do if he’s hanging out with them. It’s not our business, and even though (Y/n)’s kind, I don’t think he would appreciate anyone butting their heads into his business. After all, he has his own thoughts.”

Even then, Lily was worried while Sirius did not understand. They returned their attention to you and Barty after hearing your laughter erupt in the Great Hall amongst murmurs and talkings of other students, seeing you playfully punching Barty’s arm and him having an overly amused and proud look on his face for making you laugh. You seem to be fairly enjoying yourself in Remus’ and Peter’s perspective, but of course, those who have a childish disdain towards Slytherin and their associates would rather be blind to it than face the reality.

You’re clearly happy with having Barty as a friend and certainly doesn’t mind who he hangs out with; endlessly friendly and nice to his two best friends, even greeting them with a warm smile. As a matter of fact, it made you seem more matured than anyone else, how you never discriminate, judge, accuse and hate anyone based on their house, rumors, or impressions. You see everyone for who they are, not what people think of them as.

Resting his elbow on the table and chin on his palm, Barty simply admire you as you talk about your day while putting some meals on his plate, making sure none of the meals contained his least favorite food. “Defense against the Dark Arts is such an entertaining lesson, B. It certainly levels up my defensive spells. I’ve been practicing them where no one will get harmed and proudly, I’ve improved a lot.” You told with utter excitement as you finished putting meals on his plate, moving to put some on your plate next. “I could show you later if you want? And perhaps, you can give me feedbacks on what I should work on.”

Barty was almost too busy admiring you, though he was quick to respond. “That’s a brilliant idea, (Y/n). Maybe we could even duel once you’ve mastered it."

You winced, “Can you not go hard on me? I’m still not confident with my duelling, you know.”

“Oh well, confidence is the key!” Barty says with excitement, genuinely wanting to duel with you. “You should try being full of yourself and think, “I can fucking do this” ‘cause it works. That’s how I got pass that bloody awful Divination class.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if it was the worst ever experience of his life.

A giggle erupted from your throat, which made Barty’s lips twitch up to form a smile. It may be unexpected to others, but to you, Barty always smiled and you witnessed every single one of those moments.

“Professor McGonagall will hex you if she hears that,” You joked while still laughing, leaning on him.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you on his side, grinning. “That’s just an if, you know.” Wiggling his brows, you giggled at his silliness and also wrapped an arm around his waist naturally, gaining a few raised brows and looks from other houses.

Evan and Regulus merely smiled at your interaction before scowling and exchanging eye contact, people’s reactions catching their attention despite being mild. It’s absolutely unpleasant, how they look at you and Barty as if you’re doing something criminal. They look at you with such disapproval that couldn’t help but cause Evan and Regulus to furrow their brows and narrow their eyes — it’s almost unbelievable how everyone loves you when you’re with your own house, Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw, but when you hang out with Slytherin or anyone close to them, you’re suddenly unlikable. As if you were the Public’s property, like you’re supposed to do what they tell you to do. It feels almost as if they want to control who you hang out with.

It’s more than unpleasant, the two Slytherin thought. It’s awful, how everyone seemingly wants you to act the way they expect you to.

Do you even realize the way those people who you consider friends look at you whenever you hang out with Barty? Have you ever looked around to see their eyes screaming disappointment? What would you think once you notice?

Barty seemed to be putting all his trust in you, nearly taking his heart out for you to carry it around; they don’t want their best friend to lose someone who’s literally the safe place and comfort zone. They were worried about Barty, but also worried for you.

Unfortunatelly, worrying made them miss the way you piercingly stared at someone who looked at Barty with disgust when he wasn’t looking, before plastering on an angelic smile to your best friend as soon as the bastard flinched and looked away.

I hope no one attempts to cut my patience off today, you thought with a smile while listening to him talk enthusiastically about the fun time he messed with Lucius’ potion so bad that it exploded on Snape, not knowing you’ll be in for a surprise later on.

“What are you up to later?” Evan questioned as the three of them strolled through the hallway and ignored the obnoxious pranksters with red and gold tie, trying to find a place where peace actually exists and no judgmental look from anyone.

“Studying with (Y/n).” Barty grins, holding up a pile of books. There seems to be little unnoticeable bounces in his steps as excitement bubbles within him.

Regulus gives him a weird look, “Are you pretending to be stupid so you could study with him?”

“What’s the matter with it? It’s not like he’ll know.”

“You are literally a Ravenclaw.”

“Don’t stereotype me, Reg. It’s getting old, you’re old.”

“You’re making it seem as if he’s that stupid enough not to know you’re just pretending.”

An offended gasp was heard.

“No, I am not!”

Evan chuckled at their playful banter.

Despite Regulus seemingly making fun of Barty’s tactics to spend more time with you, Evan knew he was internally happy for their best friend. The heavy expectations from his father has been taking a toll on Barty a lot, which caused some inner doubts to appear that almost always led to mental breakdowns that lasted longer than an hour. He never had been comfortable with anyone besides them and Pandora, and they were truly happy when you accepted Barty warmly without caring about the rumors or how people viewed him. It feels quite relieving to see Barty radiate happiness now.

However, the three of them comes to a halt in the hallway when a voice filled with dislike erupts from the courtyard, asking a particular question to a person no other than you.

“How can you even hang out with people like them?”

Barty, Evan, and Regulus glanced at one another before walking silently closer and peeking at the courtyard, seeing you sat on the cemented bench while playing Wizard’s Chess with Marlene, surrounded by your friends who were mostly Gryffindors. There’s only one Ravenclaw, the same house as Barty, yet he’s the one who questioned it.

You got distracted to his question as you tilt your head, “What are you talking about?”

The trio quickly ducks when the Marauders come running out of other hallways to the courtyard with loud laughters, definitely disturbing other students, and join you by the bench. Quickly noticing the strange silence, Remus tilted his head. “Why is everyone so quiet?”

“Because Leo asked how (Y/n) can even hang out with people like them.” Marlene explains shortly with emphasis, which let everyone know exactly who they were talking about.

The werewolf sighs, covering his face and shaking his head. “We’re talking about this again?”

Barty wondered how much had he and his friends been the subject of your conversation, guts twisting negatively.

“I still don’t know who you’re referring to,” You chimed in with visible confusion, now forgetting about the chess. Silence fills all of them, the Marauders and Lily glancing at each other as Marlene also can’t help but forget the chess, while your other Gryffindor friends look at you as if it’s strange that you don’t know what they’re talking about.

The Ravenclaw — Leo gives you a look, “Are you dense? I’m talking about Barty Crouch Jr. and his little goons.” He rolled his eyes.

You frowned, “They have a name, you know. Regulus Black and Evan Rosier.”

Barty recognized the discomfort and disapproval in your tone, how you seemingly understood quickly that Leo intends to talk ill about them. He didn’t miss the way your shoulders tensed and body language displaying a defensive gesture, which rarely ever happens. You’re always accepting and welcoming of other people with that big smile plastered on your face; when your body language changes, that just means someone had overstepped your boundaries. No one else seem to realize it.

One of the Gryffindors, Beth, rolls her eyes and gives you a disgusted look. “I don’t know how you can be nice to those Death Eater freaks. Slytherins are literally evil, look at their ancestors!”

“Yeah, they also pick on almost everyone.” Karen agreed, crossing her arms. “I mean, can’t you see how much bad influence they are? Barty’s supposed to be hanging out with members from his own house yet here he is, and look how he turned out.”

“I bet his father’s really disappointed and disgusted." Leo snickered, earning laughter from the two Gryffindor girls.

Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas pulsed their lips into a thin line as Remus and Peter frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the insults and comments that crosses the line, while James and Sirius fell silent since even though they had personal dislike for Slytherin, they wouldn’t go as far as your friends were going. Regulus is also Sirius’ brother, and he doesn’t like hearing anyone talk about his little brother like that.

When Sirius opened his mouth to defend his brother, the words end up being stuck in his throat after witnessing how your warm look morphed into an emotionless and expressionless face that made his blood run cold.

“You guys are fucking pathetic,” You snarled with a low and cold yet loud tone that had made the entire courtyard fall into utter silence as everyone — including others who were just around — look at you with wide shocked eyes. Your friends visibly flinched at the piercing harsh glare you were shooting them, calm storms of rage swarming in your eyes that usually displayed warmness and light. They could easily see the way your jaw was clenching, which was definitely a sign that they dug their own graves for strong lightning to strike them until they’re nothing but bones and flesh.

Barty also stops in track, finding himself surprisingly intimidated and a bit afraid. Regulus completely went still as Evan slapped a hand over his mouth in shock. It’s already surprising that a Hufflepuff cursed at someone, but to see you, someone who’s always smiling and accepting and kind and unbelievably patient, someone who’s the Golden Boy and practically a gift from divine beings who seemed as if you don’t even know how to get mad, so enraged? It is beyond jawdropping.

“What—” Karen speaks, but you interrupt.

“Have you ever realized how annoying you all sound when you mind my business rather than your own?” You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. “It sounds like pathetic cunts who pretend they’re righteous when all they’ve ever been are prejudiced hypocrites who judge others solely on the houses they’re in. You’re much more horrible than the Death Eater freaks you talk about.”

“What the bloody hell is your problem!?” Beth shrieked.

“You and your goons, duh.” You retorted while shooting her a look, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Mistreating Slytherins for what their ancestors did is completely childish and immature, especially when it was out of their control. If their ancestors joined the Death Eaters, then the one to be blamed is not them but the ancestors themselves.” You shifted your cold gaze to Leo and Karen, “Yes, I’ve seen the three of them pick on others and told Bartemius to stop, which he did. James and Sirius pick on Snape and other Slytherins a lot, so why haven’t you barked about that yet? Is this that thing where it’s alright when you or other Gryffindors do it, but it’s suddenly evil and horrible when it comes to Slytherin?”

Karen swallows thickly, trying to hold her head high. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?” Your mocking tone implied you believed nothing as you stand up from the bench, leaning closer to her. She avoided eye contact, fearful. “What the fuck did you mean then?” The slow tone made you even more intimidating.

“Why are you mad at us?” Leo asked, intimidated. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

You shot him a side-eye, raising your brows. “Think with your brain, Ravenclaw. Why am I mad exactly and are you certain you haven’t done anything wrong?” You plastered on a fake smile, “Honestly, I’m not actually mad, Leo. I’m enraged. My blood’s boiling within my body. I’m certain you know what enraged means as you’re a clever Ravenclaw, don’t you?”

He bit his lip and looked down in shame.

Barty’s mouth fell agape; what the fuck, he didn’t know you can be so sarcastic like this.

Sighing deeply, you stared at him from head to toe and tilted your head, the corner of your lips twisted up. “Bartemius is clearly wiser and smarter, though.” You shrugged, “At least he knows not to befriend a loser like you.”

Lily steps closer to stop you, “(Y/n)... I think that’s enough.”

“Not precisely, Evans. And don’t think I don’t know about how you think of Bartemius as well.” You look at her, unimpressed.

“We were just worried about you...” She whispered.

“What’s there to be worried of?” You snapped. “You are all treating Bartemius as if he and his friends are cold-blooded murderers. You see someone hanging out with people in green and silver tie and your first thought is they’re horrible. The reason they become evil and horrible is because of people like you. Because you can’t and refuse to believe there’s good in them, because you would rather believe they can be anything but good than actually see who they are. You can’t handle being non-judgmental.”

Remus and Peter couldn’t help but smile at the truth in your words. The others still can’t react to your unusual change.

You sneered at your former friends, “And I hope you know you’re fucking pathetic and disgusting.” Utter disdain filled your expression, “Find someone else to cling onto. I’d rather be with Bartemius than you cunts.” Barty smiles happily at that as he subconsciously slips out of the shadow and into the courtyard. Regulus and Evan follows, standing a couple of steps behind. The Marauders noticed them immediately, eyes widening.

Ignoring the tears blimming in the Gryffindors’ eyes, you turn around only to face them back again, stepping closer with a death glare. “By the way, Leo. You ever insult Bartemius like that again with that filthy mouth of yours and I’ll fucking hex you.” You threatened before stepping back and waving goodbye with a seemingly friendly smile.

Everyone watch you turn around and jump slightly after bumping into Barty, who instantly beamed with happiness and joy radiating off of him, another thing that flabbergasted everyone.

“Oh Merlin! Hey, B!” You greet with the welcoming look now back on your expression, smiling warmly. “How long have you been standing there? And Regulus and Evan too.”

“Since the beginning, although we were hiding before you defended us.” Barty chuckled, his friends smiling behind him. He was trying to seem casual, but everyone noticed how he failed to hide the smile that’s been threatening to spread fully across his face.

“Don’t mind them, B. They’re just bitter ‘cause you rejected Leo three months ago.” You giggle, feeling better and calm now that Barty’s around, shoulders relaxed and body language displaying peaceful comfortable gesture.

Barty felt his heart swell at the realization that you truly trusted him and would never change your treatment of him no matter what anyone says, finally having the confirmation that he, in fact, do like you. Who wouldn’t when you’re this amazing? He was already feeling it, but to actually realize it was the right thing to happen? He can’t fucking contain it.

He can’t help but to shake his head with the biggest smile anyone has ever seen him have, “Bloody hell, (Y/n). I really do like you a lot.”

You froze at that.

Barty widened his eyes, about to take back, when you pulled him by his nape with one hand and kissed him gently. Evan whistled as Regulus let out a chuckle and high fived each other. Barely able to kiss you back, disappointment appears in his face after you pulled away too soon.

A smirk spreads across your lips, “You’ll get more later. You’re a good boy, after all.” You lightly tugged the hair on his nape before walking away and winking at Regulus and Evan.

“What— Wait— (Y/n), come on!” Barty stutters at the praise, flustered, as he immediately rushes off to follow you. His friends both turn around to follow him with their eyes, amusement written on their faces.

Regulus smirks, “Walk him like a dog.”

Evan instantly bursts into laughter. Well, at least he now has someone who will defend him in his name.

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