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fierypen37 · 3 years ago

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Victory is in Your Veins

Chapter 9

Day Two Hundred and Nine: The Dragon Queen

The bone-white spires of Vaes Drivi in the distance were a boon to her sore eyes. After her sons slew the riders in the Painted Hills, those that remained swore to follow Daenerys’ khalasar. Even thus bolstered by horses, travel was slow on the plains, waylaid by prowling shadowcats. Three horses had died from snakebites and the weak streams were not enough to water horse and man alike. Yet more time was eaten away by their Lhazareen guide departing to seek her own people. The shepherdess would tell her tale to the chieftain and tiger-eyed godswife who would travel to meet them at Vaes Drivi.

A headache throbbed at her temples. The sun was a hot yellow eye bearing down on them. She longed for water, for shade, for rest. Still, she had not survived two journeys through the Red Waste and learned nothing. Daenerys kept her spine straight and her grip on the reins easy. Khal Lanno had fallen before her sons, and the second best mount the khalasar had to offer was the dun she now rode. A strong, hard-mouthed stallion. It took a great deal of her concentration to maintain her seat. It was a tacit test on the part of the newest Dothraki. A khal must ride, after all. The dun too, was worn out from the long march with little water. His proud head drooped, ears lax and pointed outward.

“Khaleesi?” Kovarro said, offering his waterskin. Daenerys sipped. It tasted more like mud than water, but she was grateful for it all the same. A plume of dust rose. Daenerys rose in the stirrups and spied her own dragon banner gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Relief sluiced through her. Respite before they travel south through the Bone Mountains to Slavers’ Bay. There they would find soldiers. Soldiers to win back her true home.

Day Two Hundred and Nine: The White Wolf

Facing death as many times as he had, Jon’s sleep that night was deep and restful. There was no help in fretting. He would live or die. Gamemakers were notoriously cruel and unpredictable. She did not visit him, but Jon was grateful for that too. Dreams of her stirred longings he would rather keep buried.

“Valar morghulis,” Jon said under his breath. Not today. I have business to finish. Morrgys will die by my hand.

The routine was familiar. Jon woke to the screech of the key in the lock. A Twin fastened his chains, led him to baths. No costumes or varied weapons this time. Jon was given a tunic of unbleached linen, belted at the waist, leather sandals strapped up to the knee. Weapons too, would be easy to find and keen as pain. It was blood the crowd wanted. As an added spice to this elimination games, the slaves would be shackled in pairs. Morbo was chosen as Jon’s partner. The Twin snapped the manacle shut to Jon’s wrist with a thin grin. Their mutual dislike for one another was no secret. Jon eyed Morbo narrowly. He looked fit. Lean and strong. Lightning quick as most Dothraki were. Time would tell if he Dothraki would try to knife him rather than fight together.

Like everything else in Volantis, the arena was old and lavish—slaves labored day and night to maintain it. Towers of gleaming white marble, every thoroughfare line with painted statues of past champions, even the torch sconces were chased in gold. Fused black dragon road paved the horseracing track. Tiered seating towered over the white sand of the arena floor. The most lavish boxes overlooked the arena, closest to the action. Triarchs and princes often sat there cosseted by their slaves. To Morrgys’ disdain, Volentenes could even flood the arena to stage mock naval battles. In his master’s opinion, this was frivolous nonsense that mocked the true meaning of the fighting pits: to achieve eternal glory by conquering one’s opponent. Jon’s loathing for slavers did not negate his awe at the architecture. Westeros’s marvel the Wall would have dwarfed the building, but Jon couldn’t help but remember the sorry state of Castle Black. Even Bran the Builder would have marveled the grandeur.

From Morrgys’ telling, the arena seated ten thousand, the same as the famed Daznak’s Pit in Meereen. ‘The best games are in the world are seen in the three sister cities of Slaver’s Bay,’ the native Astapori said. Still, Jon could see the master was nervous. He paced as the slave cart waited for their turn down the avenue to the arena. Slave masters were said to draw lots to determine their arrival time, but Jon heard grumblings from the Twins that the lots were fixed and bribes were rife. Tycho’s master Azmeher zo Queknak was a third-generation slaver, and Meereenese. He also had three more of the most prestigious champions and thus, Morrgys loathed him.

Crowds were thick. All were quivering with the promise of entertainment. Hawkers threaded through the throngs with skewers of meat, loaves of bread, cold water or flagons on wine. The fame of experienced slave fighters lit a madness in some of the spectators. They painted banners, shouted chants, shrieked and tore at themselves when they fell. Tycho, as a prestigious champion, was some ways ahead. The din of the crowd shred at Jon’s ears. So many people. The people of the entire North could fit into this building. The stink and the noise . . . Jon lowered his gaze, seeking an inward calm. With each step, he was reminded of Morbo. The taller man took long, brisk strides, forcing Jon to speed his pace lest he be dragged.

From the upper tiers, wealthy children sprinkled flower petals down on the arriving fighters. Crushed petals released a faint waft of perfume as they walked. The chant for Tycho died down. Morrgys’ slaves began down the queue. There were a couple shouts for Morbo, or Drazhen, Morrgys’ Ghiscari spearman. Then a woman caught Jon’s eye. Free and Volantene by her dress.

“Zokla timpa! Zokla timpa!” The chant caught, echoing into the entrance of the cavernous arena. It sounded as if a thousand voices shouted the name Morrgys gave him.

White Wolf. White Wolf! WHITE WOLF!

From his palanquin, Morrgys grinned and laughed, as if the adulation was his own. Had it been for himself, Jon would have heaped abuse on their heads, cursed their mothers, spat at them. But the mob was often the deciding factor in a match. More than once, Morbo had been saved from a slit throat by the crowd chanting: Life! Life! Life! So Jon waved and grinned at the crowd, loathing himself with each step. As his eyes cast over the crowd, Jon noted the slaves. Some were cheering, some were silent. One, a girl in a leather collar standing closest to rope cordoning off the crowds, watched him with solemn black eyes. Jon watched and she held up one tiny fist and held it tight. Jon let the false smile fall and he gave her a grave nod. Missandei had held up her end of the bargain. Now Jon had to find a way to speak to the crowd. And also not die, he thought ruefully.

Horse races and other lesser matches filled the morning. Mostly criminals thrown in with animals. A couple matches with starving children. In the bowels of the arena, Morrgys’ four pairs of slaves were plied with food and water, guided through gentle exercise with trainers to loosen their muscles. Morbo kept the chain between them taut, hampering both of them. Jon cursed under his breath in frustration.

“Listen, rider,” Jon began in mangled Dothraki, “if we want to live, we--”

“Speak Common, krol. You sound like a simpleton in the horselord tongue,” Morbo said sharply. Jon lapsed gratefully into Common, allowing the dig to slide.

“Listen. I don’t know why we’re rivals. I don’t know and I don’t care. Do you want to live?” he said sharply, yanking the chain between them for emphasis. Morbo’s thick black brows snapped together.

“Yes.”

“So do I. We need to learn to work together. And fast.”

The threat of death was a potent motivator, Jon thought dryly. The next hour, Jon and Morbo tested the movements the chains allowed. While he could fight with either hand, Jon was thankful the manacle tethering him to Morbo was on his left wrist. Morbo would have to fight off-handed, but he was skilled with either. Jon nodded, anticipation drawing his belly taut. Soon. Soon.

“It would be easy to cut off your hand and slip free--” Morbo suggested, after their arms tangled trying to move.

“Cut off my hand? Why not your hand?” Jon asked. It might have been a trick of torchlight, but Jon could have sworn the rider was smiling. Jon snorted. Morbo shrugged.

“I have use of it,” he said.

“I have use of mine as well,” Jon shot back, “now just focus on using your godsdamned speed and we should make it out alive.”

Any trace of humor left Morbo’s expression.

“Elimination games are meant to keep slaves in line. Champion grows too popular; masters begin to sweat. Tycho has forty-one kills to his credit. Too many.”

Jon remained impassive. There was no way Morbo could know about what he and Missandei planned. A savage excitement kindled. Let the masters sweat. Sweat and begin to know the fear of who they beat and raped and abused for their comfort and enjoyment.

“Then I’ll kill him. Solve their problem for them,” Jon said bitterly. Morbo spit into the sticky yellow mud.

“Kill too many and you will be next, Ver.”

“Ilon vīlība se morghūljas syt aōha jaqiarzir, O Jaqiarzus Mēre!” {We fight and die for your glory, O Glorious One!} Jon uncrossed his free arm from his chest. He tried not to gawp at the sheer breadth of the arena. Yards and yards of perfect white sand, marred here and there by drying pools of blood. Wild beasts could be loosed from hatches in the flooring, he knew. The match before had been a pack of jackals against three women. The jackals won. And the noise. Gods, outside there had been some relief from the din, but hemmed in by arena walls, the cacophony of so many voices was like thunder, harsh in his ears. His heart thundered along with it, his palms slick with sweat. A glance darted left down the line of paired slaves. Where was Tycho?

The triarch of Volantis answered, though his voice was lost in the crowd’s enthusiasm. An orator scaled the stair near the triarch’s box, garbed in a ridiculous green tokar.

“Begin!” he boomed.

The slaves scattered. Looping the excess chain around his arm, Jon loped back alongside Morbo. Not many pairs had made the same accord as Jon and the Dothraki. By Jon’s estimation, half began fighting each other. Of Azmeher zo Queknak’s three pairs, one was arguing where to run. Another pair had one slave snapping his partner’s neck and yanking the chain off the corpse. The third ran in tandem—Jon couldn’t see the distinctive green flash of Tycho’s dyed hair. Where in the seven hells was he?

“Sword, Ver!” Morbo hissed in his ear. Jon followed Morbo’s gaze and saw the gamemakers had dropped pairs of swords at regular intervals.

“Go!” Jon shouted.

The two of them sprinted across the sand. Longswords in the Westerosi style, whetted to a keen edge. Yes! We have a fighting chance. Tycho was famed for his skill with a bravo’s blade, a water dancer. The heavier Westerosi sword would slow him. He and Morbo each took one and ran for a strategic position near the arena’s edge. Jon measured his breathing, his senses sharp. Jon tested the sword with a couple singing swings. It felt good in his hand.

“There! Go!” Jon said, pointing to a pair of slaves attacking another. It easy to knife them both through the back. He and Morbo struck as one. The crowd howled and jeered as the blows hit home. The ever-thirsty sand drank down the red blood. A grim pleasure kindled. He and Morbo had sparred more in the past seven months than Jon ever had with anyone else, save perhaps Robb. They knew each other’s fighting styles and spacing as well as their own. Of the attacked pair, one was on his knees, bleeding from a wound to the belly. A thickset slave slashed out at Jon. He parried. Once, twice. On the third swing, he was too slow. Jon opened his throat with an almost casual flick. Easy.

Something was off. A shift in shadow.

“Ver!” Morbo’s shout. Jon ducked and shifted right. The sword whistled through the air. Another pair of slaves. A burly one, Lyseni by the looks of his shorn silver hair. The other was Dothraki. From his knee, Jon parried a blow. The shock rattled up his arms, singing through him. Morbo moved to slash at his attacker. The chain dragged Jon left, mistiming his parry. The Lyseni’s sword caught him, a grazing slash along the ribs. Jon grunted, the pain sharpening his focus. He dodged a heavy overhand, then cut. Deep, along the groin. Jon finished the swing with an artful flourish. Gouts of black-red blood poured from the wound. The Lyeseni’s life measured in heartbeats. Jon left him to die and rounded on Morbo’s attacker, in time to see the Dothraki run him through. The cheers were deafening, hooting as blood gushed on the sand. The Dothraki bent and cut the other’s braid in victory.

A slight tremor moved through him. The thrill of a fight. Sweat stung in his eyes. Jon tugged the chain to get Morbo’s attention. Across the arena, several pairs were locked in battle. Where the fuck was Tycho? A flutter of movement distracted him. Above the arena in the stands, spectators waved banners. Several showed a green profile and crossed bravo’s blades for Tycho, a couple gold Dothraki horses, one with a manticore, and a couple white wolves.

“Come, Ver!” Morbo said, pointing with his bloodied sword to a knot of battling slaves. Jon pried the Lyseni’s sword from his dead hand. Another sword in his off hand would help his parries. He and Morbo struck in much the same manner, slaying another two pairs in rapid succession.

Another muscled slave, a minor champion from Pentos, was using the chain with the severed hand of his partner as a flail, killing one attacker. Several pairs danced around the periphery, unable to get close. One hacked at champion’s leg, opening a shallow cut. Jon checked the blow with his off hand sword. The chain wrapped around the sword, useless. The manacle thudded painfully against Jon’s wrist. He dropped the sword and followed Morbo as he traded blows with the champion. Morbo spilled his entrails on the sand, and Jon finished him with a blow through the throat.

By now, the two of them sucked in air greedily. Jon licked his dry lips, trying to ignore the sticky blood dampening his tunic, his burning legs and aching arms. Blood dripped down the blade of his sword to slick the hilt. He discarded the sword and took up a fresh one. Jon hefted the chain, an idea blooming.

“Let’s go!” Jon shouted. He and Morbo ran as another pair squared off against them. Stretching the chain taut, he ducked low. With a curse, both the slaves landed on their faces.

“Wai--!” one started to say, his blue eyes wide. Jon rolled the sword point down and thrust quick. It took strength the pierce the muscle and bone caging the heart, but strength Jon had. Morbo cursed. He swiveled, saw his partner clutching his sword arm. Blood wept between his fingers. Jon ducked an incoming blow. No time to pull the sword free. Jon caught the opponent’s sword arm in a loop of chain. He yanked up and out. The skinny Essosi’s arm snapped. A wet sort of snap. He shrieked and the crowd jeered. Jon smiled grimly. Gods, there was such relief in shedding blood, even if it wasn’t the masters. The slave fell to his knees. There was no fear in his face, only grim acceptance. He lifted his chin to accept Jon’s death blow. He was young, closer to Bran’s age than Jon’s.

“Find peace, brother,” Jon said in bastard Valyrian.

“Konīr āeksia morghon issi daor,” he said. {There are no masters in death.} Jon gave him the relief he wanted in a quick clean blow. The boy sank into a heap on the hot sand with a sigh. In another life, the boy would have been an artist, a potter. Then some master had beaten him into a killer and he died alone on the sand by Jon’s hand. Jon pulled the blade free, panting. Weariness lay heavy on him. A part of Jon longed for the peace of oblivion. But the red thing in his chest snarled. Rage and vengeance remained unquenched. Gods, had it been hours, years since that blustering fool shouted at them to fight? Somewhere in the seething sea of the spectators, master and slave alike watched. If they won, if he and Morbo were declared victors, what would he say to them?

Jon cast a glance around the arena. There were only a few pairs left. Not many left now.

“That scratch won’t slow you, hmm?” Jon said, nodding to the blood running in sluggish drops down Morbo’s left arm. He shrugged. The banter was pointed, but surprisingly light. Removed from the opposition of rivals in the training yard, Jon could see Morbo being something of friend.

“The bite of a fly.”

The monotony of it began to settle on him. Raising his arm to bring the sword down and through another enemy. The resistance of flesh and bone as he hacked. The heat. The sweat streaming down his face. His dry, sticky tongue. The ever-present head-rattling roar of the crowd.

“They pulled Tycho from the games,” Morbo shouted over the din of the crowd.

“Aye. They’ll save his death for another day,” Jon said.

“We sho--” Morbo began. A wet tearing sound. The red point of a blade emerging from Morbo’s lower chest. Jon’s cry of rage was lost in the cheers of the crowd. Jon lost himself in the red, hacking down the one who had knifed Morbo. He and his partner both fell. Jon decapitated one in a double handed blow, the other he sliced down the arm, the thigh and let the thirsty sand drink its fill. The savagery was unnecessary, wasted too much precious energy. But Morbo was dying.

“Ver,”Morbo wheezed, blood reddening his teeth and trickling in sticky threads from the corners of his mouth. The wound was a red hole, making a horrible wet sucking sound as he tried to breathe.

“Get up, Morbo. There’s more to do,” Jon said gruffly, taking the proffered hand. He cast a wild glance around. There were no more slaves near them. In fact, only two pairs remained from Jon’s count. Two more and they would win!

“My strength is gone,” Morbo coughed. His black eyes shone fiercely.

“Make them pay, Ver. Make them pay!” Be it the other slaves, the masters, or something else, Jon didn’t know, but he promised just the same.

“Look up. Look at the sky. The stars are waiting,” Jon whispered. The gate to the Nightlands and the god of his fathers. Morbo’s eyes looked up and he breathed his last. Despite his weariness, the diffuse ache of his muscles and his wounds, Jon stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sawing off Morbo’s hand to free himself. He coiled the chain and set off at a sprint, plucking up a fresh sword as he went. A hand-and-a-half sword, a bastard sword. Perfect for me. Jon and the red thing within were in perfect accord. Blood they would have. Buckets and oceans of it until they choked and drowned in it. He was intent incarnate. A savage wild thing. The crowd saw him, the noise tipping up to a fever-pitch as he slew one. And another. And the last with horrific ease.

“Zolka timpa! ZOK-LA TIMPA! ZOKLA TIMPA! ZOKLA TIMPA!”

The words beat in his head like the multitude voice of a god. He had won. He lived—but only after so much meaningless death. Jon’s eyes scanned the sea of humanity. Slave and master alike. He said only what they would understand.

��Death!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, raising his bloodied fist in the air

“Death! Deeeaaaathh!” The word was a harsh drawn-out scream from his dry throat. The cheering mellowed in confusion. Then somewhere in the throng, he heard it.

“To masters!” someone answered.

“Death!” Jon screamed again.

“TO MASTERS!”

The chant took on a life of its own, catching like a wildfire: “Death to masters! Death to masters!”

Fighting erupted in the stands. Foremen with crossbows ringed the lowest tier of the arena, aimed at Jon. He waited, standing stock-still, waiting for the blow that would kill him. It never came. Instead, Morrgys emerged from the shadows of the Gate of Life, with the Twins and a dozen bodyguards in tow. One Twin struck out, snagging Jon around the throat with his whip. Jon choked and clutched at the leather as red stars burst along the edges of his vision. Morrgys drew Longclaw. From the tremor in his wrist, he was unused to the weight. Weakling. His face was impassive, but Jon could see something cold grow in his piggish black eyes. Fear. Morrgys set the Valyrian steel edge of Longclaw beneath Jon’s chin and waited.

“Master, I didn’t—I---” air was precious. The black began to creep closer. All he heard as the black closed over him was Morrgys’ cold voice: “You’re lucky you won. All you’ve earned is The Pit. A month, if I feel charitable.”

#jonerys fanfiction #fp37fic #victory is in your veins #Queen!Daenerys #Gladiator!Jon #tw violence

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ansheofthevalley · 5 years ago

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In one kiss, you’ll know all I haven’t said - Chapter 2 “The ‘Jon Situation’”

The party's time of death was 12:42 am.

Sansa and Margaery were sitting on the steps leading to the entrance of the house, bored and tired.

"So... why did you say that you didn't want Robb to see you like this?" Sansa ventured. Almost instantly, Margaery's cheeks flushed in a shade of pink oh so lovely. She knew that she would regret teasing her friend, especially when it was Jon, out of all people, who was coming to get them home safely. But she teases me endlessly, she thought. Now I can tease her.

"No reason" she muttered. She wouldn't meet her eyes. So unlike her confident (and normal) self. It only made Sansa smile. "I can't have him saying that I'm not a goddess 24/7. I got a reputation to look after" she elaborated, but her words didn't quite match her semblance. Sansa's smile morphed into a grin. Oh, she would have her time on the sun. Or on this case, the moon.

"You like him!" she gushed. Margaery tried to cut her off but it was of no use. "You do! You like him!". Sansa started laughing, a strange exhilaration taking over her. Gods, I am drunk.

"It's not my fault your hot brother dropped by the other day, all flushed and sweaty from running" her friend blurted. "I'm still a woman, Sansa. A human being".

"First off, ew" she started. Margaery threw her hands in the air as she mumbled something to herself in response. "Secondly, he dropped by? When?" she asked her. Their parents and younger siblings would be coming down to King's Landing to spend the holidays with them. Sansa knew her brother Bran wanted to check out Jaehaerys' Philosophy School. He still hasn't made his mind about which college to choose: King's Landing College or Oldtown University.

"He said it was about your parents. Apparently, they rented a house just outside the city" Margaery told her. "He wanted to let you know that you could bring a friend over if you wanted. Which is a godsdamn tragedy, since I'll in Pentos for the holidays" she pouted.

"And he couldn't tell me that over the phone?" Sansa wondered out loud. Her friend just shrugged and realisation hit her hard in the face.

Gods, he's pulling a Sporty Robb, Sansa thought, becoming exasperated in a second. Sporty Robb was the absolute worst. When she was a freshman in high school, Robb was the guy all the girls were mooning over. She had to endure the helpless sighs the girls would make each time they'd arrive, or leave, or just walked from classroom to classroom. Obviously, all that attention got into his head, in part thanks to one Theon Greyjoy, a new student from Pyke. Every time he would finish his rugby practice, he would go straight to where the cheerleaders were, trying to make idle conversation and flirt with a new girl each week. He would do that, every. single. week. And that's how Sporty Robb came to be.

She couldn't believe her 20-year-old-brother was behaving like a teenager again. She'll have to talk to him about Marge. She wouldn't let him ruin one of the few friendships she has in the South.

Though I hardly believe True Love is what Marge feels for him, she thought.

She spares her friend a look; she's resting against one of the marble columns, looking up at the sky, mesmerized by the stars.

Gods, we're both so drunk.

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"How long till your darling Jon comes? It's not like we're in up in the Vale" Margaery complained.

Your darling Jon

Sansa can feel her face redden. "He was sleeping when I called him" she said all too fast, her voice too high. "He lives near the Iron Gate and we're practically in Rosby". She hoped that her reasonable explanation would be enough for her friend to shut up. "Besides..." Don't do it, screams the voice in her head. Don't you dare do it. "He's not 'my darling Jon'".

And then, there's that look in Marge's face. That 'bitch-please-you-can-try-to-fool-yourself-all-you-want-but-you-won't-fool-me' look. I walked right into that one, she half thought, half chastised herself.

"Really?" her friends said, lifting a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. "We're gonna do this again?"

"He's not 'my darling'" she basically shouted. Get a fucking grip, that same annoying, yet reasonable voice inside her head told her. "He isn't" she said, once she gained some semblance of composure.

"Then why is it that since your arrival" she started "you haven't been out in a single date, hm?" she was looking at her as if she were a police detective fishing for answers from a criminal.

Sansa would've laughed, if only she didn't have the impulse to scream at her in exasperation.

"Because not all of us think about dating all the time" she retorted.

"But you do think about Jon all the time" she pressed on. Gods, she was relentless.

"I do not think about him all the time" she said, outraged.

"Yes, you do" Margaery teased in a sing-song tone.

"No, I don't!" she denied, feeling her cheeks starting to redden once again.

"You do!"

"I don't"

"Yes, Sans, you d-"

"Would I have secured a date with one of the boys from the rugby team if I was thinking about Jon all the time?" she retorted, in hopes to make her shut up, but as soon as she said it, she regretted it.

"You naughty, naughty girl" she said, all too amused. "Dating one of your brother's teammates". Oh, she was delighted. "Does he have a name?"

"Dickon" she replied through gritted teeth.

"The Tarly boy?" she gasped, bringing her perfectly manicured hand to her chest. Sansa could only roll her eyes at her. "Girl, you got your she-wolf paws on a hottie. Let me tell you. One time, I went to the running tracks after our Political Theory class to meet Loras. I don't remember what for... but that's not the point. The point is that I arrived just after rugby practice had ended, and I saw your Dickon along with Robb, cooling off near the benches-"

She had to stop her. Or else she would be like this during the whole ride home and Sansa simply wouldn't survive that. It was too much. "We just agreed to go out someday, it's not like we're having a full-blown love affair" she interjected, grabbing her friend by the shoulders, begging her to stop her drunken rambling. But Marge could only flash her that beautiful smile of hers. That infuriating smile of hers.

Just as she finished talking, she heard a car pulling over. A black Camaro SS. And suddenly, she felt her whole body redden at what was going to happen. She didn't know what would happen exactly, but she knew nothing good would come out of this. Nothing good can happen in car ride with me, Jon and a drunk Margaery, she thought somberly.

"Jon, the Dark Knight, to the rescue" Margaery shrieked, full of glee, and stood up as soon as she saw him. Sansa didn't need a mirror to know she was as red as a Dornish Camellia. She chanced a glance of Jon; a beautiful shade of pink starting to cover his cheeks. He always looked so cute when he'd flush. She didn't notice she was staring, at least not until she saw him standing right before her.

Shit

"So, I guess you had a great night" he offered with that gorgeous half smile of his. The one that would make her heart skip a beat or two. She saw that half smile transform into a full-blown smile and Sansa could swear she felt weak in the knees. You. Are. Staring, the -apparently sober- voice in her head told her.

"'Twas alright" she said, trying to appear nonchalant. "It was pretty snobby, actually. Marge and I tried to save it, but it was of no use".

Margaery, upon hearing her name, snapped out of her own world to correct her. "More like I tried to save it. I danced my ass off trying to revive the party and what did you do" she complained. "You know what she did, Jon?" her friend asked him, her voice full of hurt and wearing the most endearing (and hilarious) version of her "little rose" face. "You know what she did?" Seven Hells. Drunk Margaery had even more of a flair for the dramatics than sober Margaery... and she was pretty dramatic while sober. "She ditched me" she finally said, voice and face equally hurt. "For a handsome, tall stranger. Can you believe?". The astonishment in her face and the whole clutching-my-pearls pose would've been hilarious to Sansa... if it weren't for the tiny fact that she was telling Jon fucking Snow she flirted with Dickon, as in Dickon, his and Robb's teammate. "She's even gonna go on a date with him" she whispered to him, giggling like a child, because of fucking course, Margaery was having a field day with this.

Jon turned to look at her, his cheeks turning pink again, and Sansa wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow her right there in that exact moment. She was about to say something when she heard Margaery's playful and oh-so-innocent voice. "So, it looks like you might have some competition now, Dragonknight" she added while walking towards Jon's car. Sansa could just feel the smirk in her friend's voice.

The Stranger take me.

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

The one-hour ride from Harry's mansion to her and Margaery's flat was the longest hour in Sansa's life.

They spent the first fifteen minutes in silence: Margaery fast asleep in the backseat, Sansa staring out the window and Jon focused on the road.

With each minute, the silence grew stronger and stronger. It's was deafening and unbearable. She was desperately looking for something to say, but didn't trust herself in her drunken state. And in the trance Jon puts me in every time I'm close to him, her thoughts reminded her, proving her point.

She was starting to panic, when words left her mouth, without her permission. "Sorry about Marge" she tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Jon spared her a quick look. His eyes looked almost black and so deep and beautiful... Fuck. "You know how she is when she's drunk" she explains with a laugh; a laugh that sounds too forced in her ears. The thing is, Jon doesn't know how Marge is when she's drunk because this is the first time that she has to be alone (and wide awake) with Jon while being drunk. At least last time, I was lucky enough to pass out, she thought, feeling resigned. Here's the thing about about first times: they were fucking terrifying.

Jon only hummed in response. His eyes never leave the road.

It only made look at him again. Carefully.

His hair was pushed back from his face, into a man-bun. A few unruly curls still found their way to his face. He looked like he just woke up, and seriously, it just isn't fair. It's not fair that he looks like that after just being woken up by his best friend's sister. He truly was The Warrior come alive. Aemon the Dragonknight reborn (if he had black hair and gray eyes). Looking at him, she wanted nothing more than to push those unruly raven curls back. She wanted to touch his face, let his beard tickle her palm. She wanted to stand so close to him so she could see the gray in his eyes. She wanted to be oh so close to him that she could breath him in, the scent that made Jon Jon.

It wasn't until he looks back at her with curious eyes that she realized that she was staring. Again.

Sansa tried to do her best to salvage the situation her thirsty, drunk self put her in. "You really are the best" she says. She could feel the flush creeping on her cheeks once again. Like a fucking schoolgirl, she thought.

Her words made him blush and that made her feel more lightheaded than the alcohol. "Stop it" he told her, trying (and failing) to hide his beautiful smile.

"You are" she insisted. "Here I am, miles away from campus, in the house of some rich asshole." Her description of Harry made him laugh. And in that moment, she realized she could get high on that sound. She could let it lift her up up up until she reached the clouds. "Drunk, with an even more drunk friend" she laughed, while sparing her dear friend a look; she was sleeping like a baby in the backseat. A beautiful, drunk baby. "And I call you in the middle of the night and you come to my rescue. Even though you have practice tomorrow". She couldn't help the softness in her voice as she told him all of this, because it really warms her heart that he would drive up to Rosby at 2 a.m. for her.

He just took a quick look at her, then at the road.

And then the most catastrophic thing happens. For her heart, at least.

He gave her an earth-shattering smile. The kind of smile that makes you weak in the knees and makes you wonder 'how dare he be so godsdamn beautiful?'.

Fuck

"You make me sound like a hero, Sans" he laughed. "Like one from the stories you love to read".

Seven fucking hells

He remembers. "Well, that's because you are" she said, trying to put an end to this conversation because at this rate, she would make it home as human goo.

Then, the strangest thing happened. He looked at her with such tenderness. His eyes were incredibly soft. His lips were a little bit parted. He looked like he was about to say something.

The sight made her heart go berserker in her chest.

But something shifted in his eyes. Made them hardened, even if it was just a little bit. But Sansa noticed. He half-smiled at her and returned his attention to the road ahead of him.

She rolled to her side, looking out of the window, paying attention to the trees and the stars; but soon closed her eyes. She wanted to remember every single detail of the look that Jon gave her.

Even though it most probably become all hazy in the morning.

(Continue reading on AO3)

#jonsa #jon x sansa #sansa x jon #actuallyjonsa #jonsa fam #jonsa fandom #got #asoiaf #holidays au #modern au #college au #jonsa au #my fanfiction #my writing #my stuff #enjoy some fluff just in time for the holidays #this is the fluff ball that that's been taking me almost a year to write #so pls read it

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stormbornwithblackfyre · 6 years ago

Text

My Game of Thrones S8 Rant.

At this point we have two episodes left in the entire Series of Game of Thrones and to be completely honest it's been underwhelming, disappointing, and rushed, which now that the honeymoon period of having my almost 2 year wait end i can clearly see.

The writing is the main issue I have with all of this. It all comes back to the writing. Too many times gor too many occasions have I asked "why?" It just feel like too many things don't make sense and too many things were done to be overtly dramatic and shocking, instead of leaning on the STORY and NARRATIVES which we as a fandom has been salivating over for the entire series.

Let's start with "The North" and their whole Saga and the Dilemma with The Night King, White Walkers, and AotD. An evil that was shown do us from the very first episode, very first scene if i am not mistaken. An ancient and evil magic, that the living will have to deal with, that the living will have to overcome or become just more members if the AotD. THAT was the driving force of S7 basically. The reason Jon and Dany meet? Dragonglass mountain under Dragonstone. Dragonglass? Oh, just ine of the 3 ways you can kill members of the AotD. The reason every main charachter besides a certain red head *Insert word here cause I'm trying my bet to not name call* showed up for a summit in the Dragonpit IN KING'S LANDING OF ALL PLACES? Oh, just to show Cersei a wight in an attempt to convince her to help fight which was an idiotic plan in it's own right. Bottomline is the Night King and his Army was a driving force and tbh i appreciate focussing one half if the last season on him and the other on Cersei. Issue is Cersei conventionally should have been hit with a "Fire Style Fireball Jutsu"

Off rip cause that was the easiest and SMARTEST MOVE. But i digress this is avout S8. So i have no conv eptyal plab with the amount of time in episodes gi en hi the threat north but the dialogue and context are what begin my frustrations.

Everything feels rushed immediately, as evidenced by Bran

Dropping the bomb of the wall falling and Viscerion being controlled by the NK. Now the pace quickens and thats cool but it gets jumbled and stats jumbled. Which makes the North and their resistance to Jon bending the knee so weird....or weirder than it already is. Yes you want independence. Yes you want to be held out of wars. Yes want to be isolated but.......THE WHITE WALKERS ARE COMING FOR YOU FIRST AND JON WAS YOUR KING. HE LEFT WITH NOTHING BUT DA(D)VOS AND A FEW GOOD MEN AND RETURNED WITH TWO ARMIES, TWO DRAGONS, AND WARS SUPPLY OF DRAGON GLASS AND A GODSDAMN QUEEN.....Why in gods name are any of them so cold and hesitant to people helping thwm when they didn't have to? Or at the very least why thorough the very end of that war does it last?

Which brings me to a certain Red head. Sansa Stark has cause way more friction and problems than necessary this season amd it's so ridiculous and petty and stupid that legitimately gwt upset thinking about it. Upset about Jon not telling you he was going to bend the knee? Fair point. Ask him why and how he bent the knee maybe hmm? Want to stand your ground and show Dany you are a Wolf of Winterfell amd wont be taken down without a fight? I respect the chutzpah but Dany is here to save the North and literally gave you the warmest of hellos along with layer on telling you tje obvious that she loves your brother after you state the obvious that he loves her too. Maybe sit down and discuss the fate Winterfell and the North after the war is won before the war begins hmm? Mad Two armies, Two Dragons, and A Queens entourage now must be housed? THEN DIE ON YOUR GODSDAMN OWN AND JOIN THE ARMY OF THE GODSDAMN DEAD......Sansa and her pettiness and nothing. NOTHING...of use to the season until she breaks a swear to her own brother. Now we all know biologically they are cousins but They grew up Brother and Sister tho not the beat relationship. She swore to him i front of Their other Brother and Sister in the Godswood no less that she wouldn't tell a soul.......and then goes and Tells Tyrion. Why? Please. Anyone. Anyone please tell me why. I have zero clue. Break an oath to the man who was a brother to you? Why? You don't want Daenerys, the woman who saved your entire country from Death's icy grip, as tge Seven Kingdom's queen? Why? None of it makes sense. None. And for those who dare say she's "Playing the Game" No she isn't Triple H amd no it's not time to play the game it's time to think rationally.

Next up is the choices made by the writers that just rubbed me the wrong way and shot down my faith in the show. First and foremost Sam and the Tarly reveal. Absolute ridiculousness. Randyll Tarly, Sam's father, basically said to Sam: You aren't what a real man is, you aren't what a Lord should be, you are garbage. Go to the Wall or I'll take you out back and end you myself.

Now, person who may or may not read this, I don't know about you but i would tap dance on the grave of my father if he said and did to me what Randyll did to Sam. Period. End of discussion. On to Dickon *Insert snicker here* Tarly. I would have less hate for him but still no love. Dickon was now heir. Dickon was now going to get all the land and wealth and possesions and titles that nelonged to Sam simply do to patriarchy and age. (which is another discussion but we all know is how GOT is governed) So I have no clue why sam is boo hooing about either of the two. Now here's the kicker. Randyll Tarly....along with Dickon Tarly...COMMITED TREASON. TREASON AGAINST THE HOUSE THEY WERE SWORN TO FOR GENERATIONS. They also HAD. A. CHOICE. Death or Bend the knee. They chose death. End of story. Sam being a little shook? Understandable. Full fledged sobs? Stop watching Lifetime movies D & D.

That leads to Sam telling Jon, R+L=J with spite and anger which in all honesty is bullshit and Sam is a bullshit friend for it. You can't tell your supposed best friend his life was a lie n an attempt to get back at someone who honestly did you no wrong. Just bad decisions all around and feels lazy on top of it all.

Then comes the shock and awe that really just.....*Deep sigh* takes away from it all. No issue with Arya saving us. Being the hero that kills the NK. Being the Princess who was promised. But wait.......It was shock value? This was a decision made 7 years into this show? Not off rip? Jon and the NK stare downs were.....just stare downs? While all along we learn nada of the NK? Shock value is a no go most times and this is why. No substance. No merrit. Ep 4 references Arya as the hero....maybe 3 times in small passing. It just felt l like it didn't matter. More shock that was there dor shocks sake was Rhaegal dying. How did Dany not see them? Why did Dany not see them? HOW WAS I THE ONLY ONE PRESENT THINKING TO MYSELF THEY'LL BE AMBUSHED? Tyrion too drunk? Jon to tired with having to Defend Dany against Sansa because Sansa on that bullshit? Varys all of a sudden cant get information? Like how was THAT not foreseen and how wans every boltshot at Rhaegal a guranteed hit? The most shock value of all was Missandei, former slave and a POC being re chained and then killed in a foreign land by a foreign person(who's Caucasian as you guessed) for nothing. It was a heart stabber indeed and makes you want to see Dany destroy Cersei and Grewworm sestroy the Mountain but unnecessary.

All in all I'm real hurt. Real hurt. Totally prepared to wipe S8 from my mind and have GOT with S7. If you read any of this, welcome to my ted talk, sorry for rambling haha.

#gameofthronesedit #game of thrones #game of thrones rant #got rant #me

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