#I’m choosing to be pleased with that rather than harping on how i desperately need to edit 🙃

[chdarling]

feeling pretty emotional this morning about how there are only 2 chapters of TLE2 left. Holy shit.

[evalinashryver]

A Mysterious Stranger: thoughts on Gwyn’s unknown father

Gwyneth Berdara: our lovely cinnammon roll who could actually kill you who was introduced in ACOSF and who took the fandom by storm. She’s strong, brave, good and optimistic despite a dark past, a great friend that Nesta desperately needed. Her potential as a character is extraordinary, both because of the development and healing she needs to undergo, her connection with the Valkyries and Nesta and a very mysterious — and interesting! — family tree.

@yazthebookish​ did a great meta elaborating on Gwyn's maternal bloodline, connecting her with the Autumn Court and, more specifically, to Eris, which you can find and read (here). As you can guess by the title, we’ll not be diving into that side of the family, but rather about the mysterious stranger who so happens to be her father. 

Firstly, I want to clarify that we actually have almost no information on Gwyn's father except for this one line in ACOSF: I, we—my sister and I, I mean—were the result of that sacred union with a male stranger. If we apply Occam's Razor to try and figure out his identity, the solution that covers all available data and makes the fewest leaps of logic is that this mysterious male is just that: a mysterious male, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. 

But let's be honest— we all know how unlikely that is in a fantasy and ficiton setting. How many books out there do we have where a character’s unknown father (because yes, it’s hardly ever the mothers) turns out to be of relevance? And SJM does love to give her character something extra, something more, that makes them stand out from those surrouding them.

 Look at ToG: how many of them either came from important bloodlines or were blessed by some kind of God? Aelin and Dorian are royals and a descendant of Mala herself; Yrene, introduced a novella and expanded upon Tower of Dawn, comes from an ancient line of healers dating centuries back; the key players are nearly all tied to some deity. 

 In ACoTaR itself, both Azriel and Cassian don't really come from special bloodlines (that we know of), but are extremely powerful to make up for it. The Archeron sisters? Their father was the Prince of Merchants, and there may be something else to their bloodline that we don’t yet know like, say, being descendants of the Fae who imprisoned Koschei. Feyre ended the curse and a silver of the High Lord’s magic, Nesta took from the Cauldron when she went down, and it loved Elain so much it voluntarily gave her more. 

So let's put in our tinfoil hats and ask: what if Gwyn's paternal side is more than what it appears to be?

We all know Sarah loves Mythology and folklore and is constantly lifting things directly from it, be it names or concepts. Sometimes she picks and chooses and blends them together to create her own thing, other times she doesn’t even bother as much. Nyx's own name, for instance, or the High King Fionn, from the Irish legend of Fionn mac Cumhaill. 

It’s fairly common in mythology and folklore for deities and supernatural beings to take different guises and seduce different women, then disappear and leaving them behind with a child, unbeknownst to them. Some already know from the start, but other times, the child grows up and only learns of their parentage when fate comes calling. 

There's one god I'd like to call attention to, though. One norse God who is known to wander through the nine worlds, with a nearly insatiable thirst for knowledge: Odin. Wait, Ella, why Odin, of all of them? Because the Valkyries are his daughters. It's true that ACoTaR's Valkyries more closely mirror the Amazons than the Norse Valkyries themselves, but the connection is still there. And who brought the Valkyries up first, questioned why they didn't use Valkyrie technics (even though Nesta suggested mixing it with th Illyrians), and perhaps most symbolic, she was the first to cut the ribbon.

Gwyn, first of the new Valkyries.

We know from Sarah's multiverse that there are ways to travel between worlds; in ACoTaR, the harp itself allows one to open any door; in ToG, we have the wyrdkeys and the gates. So what if Gwyn's father was one such worldwaker, who just so happened to be passing by then? This could potentially tie her in with the greater forces at work, the otherworldly beings which Koschei and the Bone Carver are a part of. A child of secret knowledge.

That's the first assumption/idea. The second one is the other reason why I selected Odin: in the Norse versions of the story, he's the leader of Wild Hunt. ACoSF introduces us to the concept in the verse, this is what we know of it: "The Wild Hunt was a way to keep all of us in line. They’d gather a host of their fiercest, most merciless warriors and grant them free rein to kill as they pleased."

What's even funnier is that Odin, despite our current image of him, was far more related to the more berserker warriors and the frenzy of the combat. The Valkyries, the choosers of the slain, picked the most valiant and fiercest of warriors, half of whom became einherjar— and here I'd like to point out that they stemmed or were influenced probably from a common source, as the Wild Hunt is a ghostly horde (that does not seem to be the case in ACOTAR, but the connection is there).

Which brings me to another possibility: what if Gwyn's father is one the Daglan? We know they were cast down and hunted down, likely by Fionn (Rhys says that this one of the strains, but I'm going to go with it being true to Prythian), but just like there were Fae who fought with the humans in the Great War, were there not Daglan who sided with the Fae and Humans? We know that after they were cast down, the Fae hunt them down and imprisoned them, slowly, but how many managed to survive and live out there, in hiding? Even if they were not evil, the Daglan were demonized. Just like the Fae imprisoned Amren for thinking her one of their enemies, they could have turned against the Daglan who actually helped them.

The Daglan are, to me, inspired by the Fomorians who are described to be gods associated with the destructive powers of nature, being in direct opposition to the other race of gods, who are associated with more positive things. They also dwelled under the sea or under the earth. Cassian gives us Lubia as a seamonster. But under the Earth? We have the halls of the Prison, Under the Mountain, Hewn City... And yet unexplored Ramiel. With how the Hewn City designs were connected to the hounds of the hunt, these to me were important places of the Daglan of old. They might've even held the Dread Trove, once upon a time, and maybe Ramiel still does, or at least a clue towards it.

Gwyn being half-Daglan could neatly connect her to the overarching plot of the series, which seems to be going further into how the world was before the Fae took rulership. It would also tie her in with the otherworldly beings and plot that's emerging, and allow her to play a greater role. Would she be able to scry the fourth trove? No, but she and Azriel — because I firmly believe the next book is his — might be able to figure out and unveil the shadows surrounding the fourth trove.

This is very tinfoil-y and I'll readily admit that, but it's a thought that grabbed me and won't let go so I'm throwing it out there! Enjoy!

[rons-hermiones]

Come Find Me

Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Ron sent the owl out last night. He didn’t write much. He knew he didn’t have to. 

Fred and George would do as they were told, for once knowing the severity and seriousness of his requests. 

So now, he sat anxiously by his window awaiting their reply. 

When he woke up the next morning and saw an owl tapping at his window with a small parcel, he almost leaped in excitement. 

However, as he read the tag from his Mum and Dad, his face dropped in disappointment. He almost forgot, he’s seventeen today. 

Seventeen is a big deal in the wizarding world. You’re free to do magic outside of school, you can get an apparating license. He’s a legal adult. He can buy his own flat, drop out of school, get married, have free reign of his vault down at Gringotts. 

He should be excited. Over the moon with this new found freedom. 

But he’s not. 

The one thing he wants, it seems that no one can give him. 

The second best thing to that, Fred and George’s response, has yet to come. 

Bugger Birthday’s he thought as he collapsed back on his bed. 

He’d left the dining hall moments ago. The mass of Gryffindor begged him to stay for pudding, saying it was his birthday after all, but he declined. Made up some barmy lie that his Mum sent him some candy he wanted to have at. He promised them he’d meet them in the common room in an hour. 

Another lie. 

He was missing Hermione more than ever today. It was his first birthday in what, six years, that she wasn’t around to give him a gift. 

It would probably have been some book. He would’ve pretended he wouldn’t read it, but he would. He always did. 

There’s even a stack of all the ones he’s gifted them under his bed at the Burrow. He scanned through them all at least three times. Something about her picking out the various texts whilst she thinks of him is just so special. 

Merlin, I’m mental.  

He shakes his head trying to veer his thoughts from what could have been today. Instead he directs his mind to something he can understand. Something that’s simple enough, routine. 

You’re hungry. You eat. You wait. You’re hungry again. You keep eating. And so on. 

And right now his stomach is letting out a frustrated grumble at his decision to skip tonight’s pudding. 

For second he can’t even remember why he’d do such a- oh yeah. That’s why. 

Not wanting to explain to anyone, namely Harry, why he left in the first place, he opts for raiding his trunk in hopes to find something from Honeydukes. 

After rummaging through jumpers, parchment, and other miscellaneous items he closes the thing with a defeated huff. 

His eyes soon land on Harry’s trunk. They share just about everything. They’ve raided one another’s things before. What’s mine is his, what’s his is mine. 

After all, he can’t be upset. It is my birthday, Ron thought. 

He flung open his friend's trunk and spent some time in there, narrowly avoiding any contact with his best mates underwear. 

Finally, just when Ron reached the bottom he spotted them. 

Gotcha. 

For a brief moment he held them up and began squishing them, as if to test their density. He wondered why Harry didn’t have at them, he knew he was quite fond of the little things. 

Shrugging he unwrapped it and popped one in his mouth. 

After chewing thoughtfully for a few moments and deciding they weren’t spoiled, like he originally thought. 

Ron swallowed the chocolate cauldron. 

...

It had been twenty minutes since Harry entered the common room and Ron still didn’t come down. He had rightfully so been worried for his best mate as of late, and skipping pudding on any day, his birthday no less? Unheard of. 

Merlin, is this how he and Hermione always feel about me? 

Dismissing the thought, he trudged up the boys dormitory step and pushed open the door to their room. 

There he found Ron, sitting cross legged on the bed, a dreamy look on his face. It’s the happiest he’s seen him look in months. 

“Ron?” He called out, cautiously stepping further into the room. 

“Harry!” He called excitedly from the bed, jumping to his feet and smiling. 

“Hey...” he replied nervously. 

“Have you seen her?” The ginger asked almost anxiously. 

The chosen one was taken aback, “no, what? We just talked about this.” 

Ron looked confused, “we did? Well, where is she?” He asked eagerly, teetering anger and impatience. However, still looking rather well-drunk. 

“Ron what?” He shook his head, “did Fred and George send you Fire whiskey? You’re acting well-pissed.” The chosen one said. 

Before Ron could respond, something donned on Harry, “wait if they sent you fire whiskey, that means they sent you a reply. Meaning they know-“

Harry was soon stopped by a plush pillow thunking onto his head. 

“Focus Harry! Where is she?” He demanded, with a slight scowl, eyes still clouded. 

“Ron I just said-“ he watches as Weasley tosses the pillow onto the bed, leading atop foil wrappers. 

Glimmering gold foil wrappers surrounding his best mate's bed. 

Hermione’s voice distantly rang through his head: “That’s Romilda Vane. Apparently she’s trying to smuggle you a love potion.”

That along with flashes of a pink card donned in hearts and a sack of chocolate cauldrons flash behind his eyes.

Buggering fuck- 

“Ron, is this about Romilda?” Harry decides to ask carefully. 

Any anger soon leaves the other boy's face as a wistful smile takes over, “of course it is Harry, when is it not?” He sighs. 

Well, considering before this year I haven’t heard about her since Dean took her to the ball... never. He refrains from saying.  

“You’ve got to help me find her! Please Harry, will you? Please!” Ron pathetically dropped to one knee and clutched the edges of his friends shirt sleeves. 

Harry stares down a little bewildered. It was odd to see Ron in such a state and he knew he’d need to fix this fast. 

Knowing he couldn’t do it on his own, he weighed his options. 

Dumbledore was probably way too busy. McGonagall would freak out. 

This was a love potion after all, he could suppose a potions master would do. 

Trouble is, he doesn’t fancy waltzing around the dungeons or talking to Snape. On the other hand, he and Slughorn did have a rather tense conversation earlier about his relationship to Tom Riddle. 

Harry knew he had to push aside any awkwardness for Ron’s sake and decided on what to do. 

“Help me find her, please? She’d want me to find her.” Ron states, not happy with Harry’s silence. 

The Boy-Who-Lived gulp, he couldn’t help but hear Ron’s pained voice in the back of his mind telling him Hermione asked him to find her. 

‘Come find me.’

That’s what Ron said her last words to him were. 

He swallows the bile in his throat, preparing a tale, “come on, I heard Romilda is with Slughorn-“

“She’s with Slughorn? He’s way too old! He doesn’t love her like-“ 

“No, Ron, he's tutoring her.” Though a lie, this didn’t satisfy the ginger, “if Romilda does bad in potions then she can’t graduate. Then how will you guys start your lives together?” Merlin, he can't believe these words are leaving his mouth. 

“You’re right Harry! Come on, let’s go find her.” Ron stood now, but swayed a bit. 

Harry grabbed onto his shoulders for a bit of support. As the chosen one ushered his love sick friend from the room, he failed to notice the pecking of Fred and George’s owl on the window. 

...

Harry wrapped his knuckles on Slughorn’s door, hoping he’d be awake. 

Thankfully, after a moment, he heard shuffling. 

The small window through the door opened, “Harry?” The potions teacher questioned, soon his face dropped, “if this is about-“

“No sir!” He insisted, “I’m sorry to bother you so late, I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important, but it seems as if-“ 

“Harry, is she there?” Ron called loudly from a few feet behind.

Slughorn’s eyes widened, failing to notice Weasley’s presence, “it seems as if Ron accidentally took a love potion. I was hoping you may have a cure.” 

Horace’s eyes again flicked to the red heads. He noticed the unmistakable dazed look only a strong potion could cause and sighed. 

“Come in, I’ll be sure to fix Rodney right up. Harry chooses not to harp on the fact he messed up his name, despite only speaking it seconds ago, and turns to Ron. 

“Romilda had to get something from her dorm, but she’ll be back soon. Let’s wait for her in here. So she’ll know where you are.” Harry lies, knowing the fact Romilda Vane wouldn’t be inside would anger his love struck friend. 

Deafly, the ginger saunters through the now open door as Harry places him on the brown couch in the center of the room.  

Ron’s hands appear to be longing to hold something, as he desperately grasps at the air. Sighing, Harry shoves a pillow into his arms, seeing that had worked when he found him earlier. 

“I’m sorry again for this and earlier.” Harry told his Professor, walking to where he was mixing something. 

Slughorn tuts, “nonsense, water under the bridge. I’m happy to help you and your friend. It’s been a while since I’ve mixed a remedy for this, it’s quite fun!” He admits, throwing in some powder that turns the liquid a violet color. 

The dark haired boy can’t help but smirk, a bit amused by the old man's excitement. 

“Tell me boy, how did Rhodes find himself accidentally taking a love potion?” 

Biting his tongue on correcting Slughorn, Harry opted to explain, “He had left the great hall early. It is his birthday-“

“Birthday! Very important, seventeen is he?” Slughorn questions. Funny how he could get Ron’s age, but not name, correct. 

He nods, “yeah, well, I reckon he wanted some candy or something for it, dunno. I had some spiked with a love potion, he took it by mistake.” 

Thankfully, the professor didn’t seem to question exactly why Harry had spiked candies and instead handed him a glass. 

“Unfortunate on his seventeenth of all days! But you give him this and Ren will have time to

spare to celebrate.” 

Harry smiled gratefully, “cheers.” He joked before walking to the couch. “Ron?” He said tentatively. 

His blue eyes seemed to snap from a trance, “Oi Harry, you told me she’d be here!” He exclaimed fussily. 

A little annoyed, Potter sighs, “I know I did, but she told me she needs you to drink this first.” 

Funny enough, Ron doesn’t question it because of his current state and downs the whole thing in a few gulps. 

Just moments later, the glossed over look leaves his eyes, as his lips drop from their smile. 

“Merlin, what happened to me?” He groaned sadly. 

“Love potion.” Harry said simply, just as Slughorn joined them. 

“I feel really-Harry, did you hear anything about Hermione?” Ron asked, sounding so sad, clearly his mind was a bit foggy since he asked in front of Slughorn. 

“Miss Granger, I thought he was thinking about Romilda Vane?” Slughorn whispered loud enough Ron would’ve heard, had he been paying attention. 

Harry shook his head, not wanting to delve into the topic, “is he okay?” 

“Just needs a pick me up. It’s a bit drastic going from such a high to this. So what I’ll it be, Roy?” 

This seems to snap Ron’s attention. 

“Butter beer. Wine. Matured Mead.” He lists, picking up the latter, “I had other plans for this, but it feels appropriate. It is your birthday after all Ryan.” He winks. 

“Right...” Ron trails, still feeling rather down. 

Slughorn pours three glasses. Handing two to Harry, who passes the dark liquid to Ron. 

“Here’s a toast to,” the old man thought for a moment, “another year of life!” Slughorn and Harry clink glasses. 

Ron however, doesn’t wait, and takes a large sip of his. 

“Happy Birthday Ro-“ 

Before the potions master can finish his sentence a large thud sounds. 

At his and Harry’s feet, is a writhing Ron. 

[justadram]

Words Written on Wings

Jaime x Sansa fic written for @storey1. Thank you for your donation to help fight Nazis!

Request: continuation of Words Written in Steam

The soft sweet sound of Sansa’s high harp echoes in the chill of the corridor. Sansa once told Jaime that the harp was one of her weapons, and while that might be the case, he has heard those who play with more skill. Lady Leonette, her first teacher, while proficient and pleasant enough, was not Prince Rhaegar returned. Knowing it is Sansa’s head bowed beside its golden frame, however, lends some enchantment to the playing that few could duplicate in Jaime’s estimation. The only thing that might improve upon the glissandos would be the accompaniment of her voice. She rarely sings, but the beauty of her sad voice can cut as keenly as any blade. That is her true weapon.

Listening to her fingers pluck the taut strings is a fleeting pleasure: when he makes his presence known, she’ll put her instrument away for the night. For she plays either in solitude or for company, and he is something else to her. She doesn’t think to entertain or win him over, as she does the others, but he is also not yet a fading piece of furniture adorning her chamber.

Slowing his steps, Jaime tries to recall the song without the benefit of the words sung over it, but as soon as he thinks he’s caught a thread, she misses a note, two, and the music stops. Without yet turning the corner, he can picture her elegant white hands pressed flat to the strings, dampening their ring. Her face will be pinched with annoyance, drawing her finely arched brows down. It isn’t like her to make a mistake. Not on the harp, nor on any other field she commands, and yet tonight, she was not herself long before her notes went astray.

Something disturbs her practiced calm, enough that Jaime wonders whether he should have bent his feet this way to stretch out before her hearth and stare into the flames as is their habit. Custom overcame hesitation. That and the fear of the emptiness he feels, when he is left to his own devices. Those long nights when she must see to those more important than him in this new world order reverberates with voices lost forever, the past washing over him as relentlessly as the tide.

His good hand wraps around the thick frame of the door, as he dips his head through its entrance, clearing his throat to announce his presence. She ought to have a guard posted. It is a well-worn argument between the two of them.

Why do I have need of constant guard, when a lion stands beside me?

To protect us from each other, a more honest man would admit.

She lifts her gaze to him, and he swallows at the pull of her lower lip through her teeth as she stands and lets the harp rest back flat on the floor. How long was it before vague attraction, a sort of detached appreciation turned into this clawing hunger?

“You’ve been listening long enough to know I’m in need of practice.”

“Are my footfalls that heavy?”

“Just a wager.”

Sansa’s intuition is honed sharply enough that she could make a real menace of herself at the gaming table, should she ever take it into her head to indulge the pursuit. Indulgence of any kind is not her practice. Ned Stark’s daughter indeed.

“But yes, I heard. A disastrous effort to be sure,” he says with a slow grin.

If she would give an inch, he would be lost. It is her caution that keeps him in check. He is half a man at best, and the loss of his hand was not the cause. Nature made him this week: strong in body, weak in character. He is at best the reflection of others. Choosing the right mirror is the real trick. Ser Arthur Dayne for a time, his sister, now Sansa Stark. His honor, the one he sought so desperately, is only hers reflected back.

She hums her assent, though she knows he teases, and gestures at the two chairs before the hearth. It is an invitation he scarcely requires, as he strides to take his place beside her, but she is nothing if not courteous. It gives them a script to follow, which he appreciates. Knowing one’s role is half the battle.

“You might wish you’d sought out better company tonight, ser. It’s not only my playing that suffers if that weren’t yet plain.”

Even on her worst day, Jaime has known worse company. Certainly less beautiful company. Less quick. Less gentle. It is she that is forbearing of his moods more often than not, so he can afford to be tolerant.

“Will you ask what is amiss?” she asks, as she sinks into her chair and rests her head against the side of its high back, turning her lash shadowed eyes on him.

Crossing his ankle over his knee, he watches the light play over her unlined face, tracing the slope of her nose, her cheekbones, the bow of her lips, consuming every detail to sate himself. This is how they wile the hours alone, trading verbal intimacies and looking. It is only in the attendance of others that he ever dares touch her, freed from constraint by the safeguard of their presence.

Kneeling at her feet, he could wipe away that careworn look she wears.

The silence between them beats with the pulse of the blood in his veins, not yet sluggish with enough wine, watered down as it often is, though spring has come. Thriving vineyards are not the most pressing need of a thawing Westeros.

Giving up on his ever prompting her, she lets her head roll towards the fire with a purse of her lips. “A raven brought word today. Jon has arranged a marriage. For himself.”

His gut twists.

Just as Sansa’s giving of Winterfell to Jon Snow as a poor substitute for herself brought Jaime no real joy, he feels no thrill in this announcement. If she’d gone with Jon to the North, he could have dispensed with this attempt to be someone he fears he’ll never quite manage to be. The mummer’s act could be dispensed with and there would be some relief in that, he suspects.

Though Sansa will never admit it, Jaime can’t even claim victory over the dour faced bastard. He knows he is not Sansa’s first choice anymore than she is his. It is circumstance—mostly unwanted circumstance—that has thrown the lion and the shewolf together and formed them into a two person pride or pack.

If anything, he feels trapped. Like a hare in a foot soldier’s snare.

He runs his hand over the plush fabric covering the left arm of his chair. The fibers give under his touch and spring back, as he asks flatly in what he hopes sounds like bored disinterest, “One of the Mormonts?”

“The daughter of that hedge knight Daenerys raised up in High Garden.”

Jaime snorts. The men elevated in these days aren’t fit to sit at the same table with the likes of Tywin Lannister, much less hold a great house. He supposes his brother thinks it helps his queen consolidate her power to surround herself with loyal upstarts.

“She’s a child, is she not?”

Her narrow shoulders lift and fall. “Older than I was when Daenerys made land.”

“A child and a Southroner.”

That is like to irk Sansa more than the girl’s age. She is wary of all Southroners, and with good reason given what she endured at their hands. His family’s hands. He does penance for that, keeping his hands to himself, when he would like to run them over her smooth skin.

“Yes. It’s not what I was expecting from Jon.”

“You’re... disappointed? In his choice?” he falsely clarifies for her benefit.

“No,” she says, her eyes narrowing as her lips curl into something approaching a smile. “It makes more political sense than I gave Jon credit for.”

“How astute. That hedge knight’s wife was a crofter. A finer match was never made.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Daenerys favors these new families. She’ll be pleased. And Jon prefers a simpler woman, I think. It might suit him.”

He lifts his brows at her insincerity. “This message appears to have earned the old saying for you. Dark wings, dark words. What is the source of your upset then, if he has chosen so wisely, pray tell?”

She refuses to turn her attention on him, staring fixedly. Never will she admit what she really feels for her bastard brother, and while he taunts, the last thing he truly wants is an admission from her. Jaime seeks assurances of his place here. With her. If he is a rabbit, he’s sought the warmth of her lap. There were no need of snares.

“I own I am surprised in his choice. He demonstrated rather more refined preferences in women when last I saw him. More appreciation for those he’d call family too.”

That finally rouses her. Its an icy glance, as cold as any Northern winter she casts his way.

He’d rather she be full of wrath than sullen, so he presses further, as he extends a boot towards the fire. “Shall I arrange an assassination? Solve both your problems once and for all?”

“Don’t jest.”

“Was I?”

She exhales slowly as if in exacerbation. “Sometimes I don’t know with you, ser.” She reaches across the space and trails her fingertips over the linen of his shirt. His hairs respond, standing at attention in the wake of her touch. “But don’t you dare.”

He lowers his voice. “I’d do it for you, my lady.” Perhaps he would. He’s done worse or close to it. He’d feel some conflict, but not enough. “And then your honorable Jon Snow would come for my head.”

As surely as if he’d spoken of what he might do with his cock in the seclusion of her bedchamber, her cheeks color. She’s a bold thing, when she wants to be, however, and her hand finds his, slender fingers slipping between his sword calloused ones.

“No, I wish Jon and his bride all happiness.”

He would laugh at the absurdity of her statement if the tension in his chest permitted it.

He curls his fingers in, squeezing too hard in his rising desperation to hold tight to what feels like is slipping away from him even as obstacles are removed from his path. “Of course you do. Your concern for his happiness was most evident when you sent him away, trading him a kingdom for your love.”

She didn’t choose Jaime, but he would accept her claiming she did, plying him with some prettily worded lie here alone with her hand in his. He could live off that lie.

Her fingers dig half-moons into his palm. “Jon does not always know what is best for him.”

“And you do?” She normally does a better job of obscuring the fact that she believes she knows better than anyone else. Men do not like to be so blatantly managed. Most men. Jaime finds it easier to submit. Just a touch of artifice will do.

“His parentage doesn’t change what was. Ned Stark was his father. He needed to believe in the meaning of his Targaryen blood, but Jon and I are both Starks. Not Targaryens.”

“Nor Lannister.”

She nods. “We can’t always silence our hearts, but we can choose what’s right.”

It is not a romantic girl’s notion. She sounds like a septa. It would cool his ardor if he did not think stripping a septa’s veil from her coppery locks appealing. Jaime always appreciated playacting.

“Well, he lacks a sense of humor and fails in conversation, but I cannot fault him for his taste.” Neither in choosing Sansa nor a sister. “Best wishes to them both, I suppose.”

She gives her head a tired shake. “It’s all for the best.”

He turns his hand, letting her palm fit into his. “Sounds practically medicinal.”

“Not all tinctures are loathsome.”

Pulling their clasped hands from the arm of his chair, something dances in her eyes. Something other than the reflection of the flames. Something freed by a raven’s message.

“I can be plenty odious.”

She clicks her tongue and draws their hands to her breast. “I am aware of your questionable qualities, ser.”

Tilting her head down, she kisses each knuckle in turn, as his breath quickens.

“The songs never celebrate those who did what was best for them.” And while this Southron upstart might be just the thing for a lovesick bastard prince, Jaime wonders that Sansa’s skills at deception—even self-deception—can extend so far as to believe him a salve for what ails her.

“Imagine how dull it would be if they did. But they might sing of the wolf and the lion. Mightn’t they?”

They might.