#Yes there are actually wolves in this chapter

[beerecordings]

Werewolf AU - Part 12

In his sleep, he has his babies.

"Up!" He heaves Hunter into the air, clutching his back and his head firmly. "And down!"

He drops him low, beneath his waist, and Hunter screams with delight, kicking his legs.

"Again? Up! And down."

Hunter laughs wildly, red in the face.

"Me too, Papa," calls Izzy, tugging on his pants. "Me too!"

He shifts Hunter against his chest and picks up his daughter, squeezing her to his neck. The warm smell of her fills his nose in a way it never has before. He can smell everything she's had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, can smell the wood of the drawers her clothes came from, can smell her strawberry shampoo and mint toothpaste. Most of all, she smells of candied nuts. He rubs his face against hers, squishing up her round cheeks, adding chocolate to the mix, and then does the same for Hunter. He wants to hide away with them, literally, wants to find somewhere dark and warm and safe just for the three of them to cuddle up in. To spread their scents across heaps of blankets and feed them everything they want and then watch them fall asleep, safe with Papa watching.

Maybe that's why it's so disorienting to wake up alone.

He can still smell her, he swears. He can still smell his babies. But there's no one in the room. No scent but his own. The sheets are cold beyond the cocoon of his own body.

His hands clench, nails biting into his palms, and something wild and furious rises in his throat, burning. His teeth ache as they grow out and he groans, flopping down into his mattress, trying to keep his control.

"Take my kids from me," he whispers, pressing his face into his own lonely smell. "Both of them."

It was Stacy, and he's angry, but at least she had some reasons, much as she's blown things out of proportion now. But that wolf - that wolf. They both stole his babies from him. He would have unsupervised visits by now if it wasn't for the lycanthropy. He could have them at his own house, instead of Stacy's fucking sister's place; he could cook for them and snuggle with them without being worried their aunt would call it inappropriate or say he was being manipulative by telling them he missed them; he could have them, he could have them, he could have them --

Chase keens aloud, and it almost sounds like a howl.

He's grasping for the scrap of fabric in his drawer before he can think about it, but his brain stops him before it gets to his nose. No! This is the wolf he hates, the one who hurt him, who destroyed his life and replaced it with something new. He can't hate him one moment and then press his scent to his face the next. And parts of all this have been good, yes, like Sean has been good and the guys have been good, and he loves his wolf form in the same tentative way a new sailor loves the sea. But he didn't ask for it, and he would take it all back if it meant he could just have his kids, his babies, his Hunter and Izzy, please. The guilt of every time he didn't put them first hits him like a bucket of water dumped over his head, and then the anger, the grief, the betrayal of his wife and every friend who turned on him, and the hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt.

He crumples back into his bed, inhaling the scent of that stupid fucking scrap of fabric. The last hint of that wolf is so close to being gone, but it's still there, haunting him, almost a month later. The smell of a far-off storm oozes over him. Such a pretty smell, and so deadly. He may as well have had a drink.

"Chase?"

He shoots up in bed, frozen. Knuckles rap against his door.

“You yelled. What's wrong?”

“Um, nothing,” he coughs, shaking his sleep and his rage off as best he can. “I'm fine.”

Henrik opens the door anyway.

They stand there looking at each other for a second, and Chase knows how he must smell, wrecked and angry and probably tainted by the poisonous smell of the storm. But Henrik just gazes at him, mouth soft and head tilted, and somehow, it only makes the anger worse.

“I said I'm fine,” he repeats, louder.

Henrik blinks. “If you don't want to talk about it, you can just say you don't want to talk about it.”

“Look, just – just give me some space, okay? You're in my space.”

His voice fades as the words come out, but Henrik still shrinks back a little, eyes pulling away. “You invited me in your space.”

Chase scowls down at his bedsheets, feeling on the verge of crying, and he's had enough of doing that in front of everybody for a lifetime.

“Do you want me to leave?”

He shrugs. Sullen and exhausted, clutching that fucking fabric.

“Can I come in?”

He doesn't have it in him to reply. Henrik comes over to him and sits down carefully on the edge of his bed, bringing ocean waves and lemon tea with him. And Chase wants to hide in him, suddenly, so badly it's actually embarrassing even to think about. What the hell's wrong with him, anyway? He never wanted to fucking cuddle of all things with other guys. Is it just wolf stuff, this need to share his scent with him, to spread the sense of belonging and unity between the two of them like cinnamon spread across toast? He can't help it that he's attached to him in a way that's new. He can't help it that he got attached to that other wolf, either. And it strikes him, then, how unsafe this all is, how out of control, how badly he's going to get hurt.

“Just get off me!” he snarls, leaping out of bed, and Henrik ducks back as though a wasp stung him. “Why are we even fucking doing this? You're just going back to Germany! You won't even be here in a couple months! I can't be your goddamn pack, Henrik!”

Henrik's scent mists, and then twists, and then sours, in a way Chase wasn't expecting. He shrinks away from him, lowering his head and his posture.

“You're right,” says Henrik.

His voice comes out cold in a way Chase has never heard it.

“We can't do this. Forget it.”

Henrik gets up from his bed and stalks toward the door, twisting the handle.

“Fine, well – then, go, then!” Chase snaps, pressing himself against the wall. “You were always going to anyway. Are you even trying, Henrik?”

“Am I trying?” he demands. “Is that what you just asked me?”

“Schneep, the full moon is in five days. What the hell are you going to do what it comes? How are you expecting to go back to Germany when you still won't even try running in the park?”

“You want to talk about me? At least I'm not the one still hugging that piece of cloth from a wolf who tried to kill the both of us! It's pathetic!”

“I don't need you to tell me it's pathetic,” Chase shouts back, eyes burning, pushing himself off the wall. “Fuck you, you know I hate that this happens!”

“If you hated it, you would give that stupid thing to Sean so maybe they could actually find that wolf and we could be safe, and maybe then I wouldn't be so scared!”

“So this is my fault?”

“I didn't say that!”

“You might as well have.”

“No, you're the one who internalizes all that shit, you think I don't know it? That you only took me in out of pity and guilt, because you think that if you had gone with that wolf – ”

“Don't you fucking dare, don't start with that – ”

“You think that if you'd stayed with him he wouldn't have bit me.”

“Shut up, Henrik! You know what, just get the fuck out! Get out of my room, get out!”

And he's crying now, dammit, always crying, red in the face and working to breathe.

“Fuck, this is out of control!” Henrik screams, and his scent spikes with something like ice, burningly cold, afraid. “We can't do this, I can't do this, I have to go home, I can't take this, I wish I could go home, I want to go home, I want my life back, I'm going to die, I'm dying, why is this happening?”

“Henrik,” chokes Chase. “Henrik, stop, stop yelling, just – ”

“It's killing me, it's killing me!” Henrik shrieks, grabbing his hair. “I knew you'd get sick of me anyway, I want to go home and be alone, forever, I want – ”

“Schneep,” breathes Chase, moving towards him. “Look, man – hey, breathe, breathe, okay.”

He didn't mean to upset him like this. Hell, they were actually yelling at each other just now, weren't they? What was he thinking?

“Forget it, forget it,” Henrik rasps, shoving through the door. “I know all I do is piss people off, I know there's a reason I don't have any friends, I know, I know – ”

“Henrik!”

He follows him down the stairs, watching in shock as he throws a jacket on and goes for his shoes next, tugging them on. “Dude! Breathe, okay? What are you doing?”

“I'm going to the hospital,” Henrik snaps back, lacing his sneakers.

“What?” Chase's spine chills. “Why? What's wrong?”

“I need to go to the hospital,” Henrik says, scent chilling and chilling, almost cold to breathe in. “I need to go to the hospital.”

“I'm not going to fucking argue with you while you're saying that, dude, but the hospital's miles away! I'll drive you, okay? Fuck's sake. You are freaking me the hell out. Look, I'll get the keys, but just tell me why you need to go, yeah? Are you in pain?”

“I – I need to make sure,” Henrik whispers, shouting fading out of existence like it never happened.

“Make sure of what?”

“That's there's no cancer,” he whimpers.

Chase pauses with his keys in hand, staring at him. “Why would you have that?”

“Because this – this is what it feels like,” Henrik hiccups.

And his own words seem to hit him like a car wreck. He staggers back against the wall, grabbing his mouth, and then he just sinks. Chase thinks maybe his knees give out. He moves forward to grab him, trying to keep him up, wrapping his arms around him.

Henrik shakes against him. Chase can barely stand his smell in that moment, too scared and too angry and too hurt all at the same time, overwhelming.

“Okay, okay,” Chase breathes, rubbing his back tentatively, pushing their skulls together. “I'm sorry we yelled at each other, but now you're starting to freak me out a little.”

Henrik chokes on a cry, gritting his teeth together so hard Chase can feel his jaw trembling against his shoulder. His fangs are so close to Chase's neck, and bizarrely, he finds something soothing in it, because they just screamed at each other, but he still knows Henrik won't bite him. Won't hurt him.

“You don't have cancer, okay, man?”

“You don't know that, you don't know that,” spits Henrik, digging his fingers into Chase's side. “You don't know – ”

“Schneep. Listen to yourself. You got bit by a werewolf, and now things are a little out of control. But that doesn't mean it's cancer.”

Henrik's just there by his ear, breathing. Shaking.

“When did you have it?” Chase asks. “That's what that was, right? You had it, and now it scares you sometimes, thinking you might have it again.”

“I told my mother I had no memory of it,” Henrik rasps. “I swore up and down. I never tell anyone. Never, never.”

“So... is that, like, why you became a doctor?”

“I won't touch cancer cases,” Henrik replies, shaking his head. “Anything but those cases.”

“Isn't that, um. Kind of a problem, in your work?”

“I'm so good at everything else no one makes me,” Henrik croaks, steadying a little against him. “I never have to do anything I don't want to. I've never had to.”

Chase laughs weakly, despite everything, letting out a long sigh.

“Well, dude, maybe that's not such a good thing?”

“We just... we grew up so rich, and after I got sick, my parents gave me anything I wanted. And then I was so clever, and the other kids couldn't keep up with me; I looked down on them and they hated me. My sisters too. I couldn't make friends. Every now and then I would, but they would never last. So I just... just studied, and excelled, at everything, all the time.”

“And by the time you were an adult, you had nothing but textbooks on your shelf and no real hobbies to speak of, huh?”

Henrik pulls back from him at last, gazing at him with red, exhausted eyes.

“Are you actually a genius?” Chase asks, grinning crookedly.

Henrik sighs. “Yeah. I suppose.”

“Isn't it kind of a stereotype to be the genius who can't make friends?”

Henrik scoffs. “It didn't help being the only Jewish kid in a school full of the richest children in Germany. My family made their wealth within the last generation, rebuilt from nothing. Want to guess where some of those other families stole their money from?”

“Yikes.”

“It was never easy.”

“Well, geez, doc, have you considered that not everyone in the world is a rich asshole?”

Henrik smiles timidly, looking down at the floor. “I felt removed from those social circles, too. Never fit anywhere. But when Sean took me back to his place, I was so pleased with it. He's so down to earth. He didn't care at all where I came from. And you, with your trashed, over-sized house, it's – it's perfect. Like your house isn't sure which group it belongs in either.”

Chase snorts, covering his mouth for a second. “I think I should be offended?”

“No. No. I like your house very much.”

The conversation halts uncertainly. They're just here, now, looking at each other at ass o'clock in the morning, and Chase doesn't even think he's processed that they just fought so badly they screamed at each other and then Henrik barely came back from the brink of an actual panic attack. And it just... shouldn't be this way. It just shouldn't.

“What are we going to do?” he asks him, so tired he thinks he might need to sit down.

Henrik stares at the floor. Shrugs.

“I really don't think I can do this,” he whispers, after a moment. “The shifting. I'm terrified of when the full moon will come, Chase.”

“But it will come. It's coming. Five days. I think you've got to make a decision about whether you're going to keep hiding until that day comes, and then be torn apart by the first shift – or if you'd like to be brave now, so you don't have to be quite so scared, then.”

“It's not that simple.”

“That's what I said when I realized I had to stop drinking. Like, holy shit, this is impossible. The first couple days, I thought I'd die. Or that it would be easier to die. But the alternative was losing everyone I love and drinking myself to death here in a couple years. There's just no easy ways out sometimes, dude.”

Henrik is looking across at him like he's actually getting through to him, so Chase keeps talking.

“You've had as much control as you could for years now. Even as a kid. Me, I never had that. I told you I was a foster kid. I never got to choose where I lived, or for how long, or what rules they would make me follow, or how other people would see me, or anything. I did stupid shit to take my control back, don't get me fucking wrong. But other times, you just... you have to accept impossible things. You have to keep moving past the worst, most life-destroying things you can imagine. It's not even because you're super tough, or super brave, although you might be by the end of everything. Sometimes, there's just no other way. Henrik... you've just got to shift.”

“I can't make myself,” he whispers. “I can't.”

“If you would try, I think you could learn. And you know something, doc? I honestly think the best way for you to get some control back is to embrace this. Learn to shift on command. Spend time in your other body, in your fur and fang. When you shift for the first time, it won't be an animal controlling your body, won't be a stranger or a monster or a sickness. It'll be you, Henrik. It's only ever going to be you.”

“Do you promise?” whispers Henrik, like a kid telling secrets beneath a blanket fort.

Chase holds up his pinky finger, and Henrik blinks down at it for a second before a smile clears his face and he reaches out shyly to intertwine their fingers.

“I promise,” says Chase.

Henrik clears his throat, letting his finger drop, smiling at him with the fragility of a little bird in the throat of a crocodile. “Should we... talk about how we just fought?”

Chase is too tired. “Actually, can we just not?”

“Yeah? Like... just pretend it didn't happen?”

“Honestly, yeah.”

“That's okay with me. I'm sorry.”

“Me too. Just tell me you'll go for a run next class, okay?”

Henrik nods slowly, letting his eyes slide shut. “I'll... go for a run.”

“Thank you.”

“If you give Sean that cloth.”

Chase stares at him, heat rushing to his face. If he does that, the last tiny bit of warmth he got from that wolf will be gone, and it will just be him, alone with the memory of how badly he was treated, and he'll have to accept impossible things again, and keep moving anyway.

Henrik sets his hand on Chase's shoulder, very near to his neck. The warmth seems to radiate from him.

Chase steps closer to him, unsure what he's doing, and then, very gently, Henrik massages the side of his neck with his thumb. Chase's eyes close. That's... really nice.

And a little less lonely, after all.

“Okay,” he says. “I'll give Sean the fabric.”

Henrik hugs him.

“Dumb sit-com to try and calm both of our frazzled nerves?” Chase offers, when they finally pull apart.

Henrik grins at him lop-sidedly. “Yes. That sounds good.”

And if Chase ends up falling asleep on the couch, well, it doesn't really matter. All he can smell is chocolate and ocean waves, and there is no storm in the distance.

.

He knocks on the door of Sean's office, shivering in the wind, despite the summer heat. He's wearing nothing but his sleep shirt and gym shorts.

There's shuffling upstairs, slow.

“Sean!” he calls. “Jack, hey!”

The door creaks open. Sean stares at him, completely bedraggled, and Henrik can't help that he starts laughing, looking at his crusted eyes and messy hair.

“It's too early,” groans Sean.

“I'm so sorry, mein schatz.” Henrik reaches out to grab his hand, pulling on him childishly. “But I've only got the adrenaline for this now. I can't wait til class.”

“Henrik, you smell terrified.”

“Yes,” he laughs. “Completely.”

Sean stares at him, rubbing the sleep from his face.

“I want to go to the park,” Henrik tells him. “Now. Please. I'm truly sorry, but please help, now.”

“I'll get my shoes.”

The park smells the same way it did before, but this time, Henrik doesn't try to distract himself from it, doesn't try to ignore it. There's other wolves here. He can smell them. Okay, okay. He's safe, he can do this.

“Deep breath, Henrik,” says Sean, and his soothing smell washes over him in a wave. “You're hyperventilating a little. Breathe.”

“I have to do this now,” he says. “I'll never get the courage again. I need these teeth out of my throat. Please.”

“Don't have to ask me, it's all up to you. And I know you can do this. You're going to be just fine. Henrik, it only gets easier after the first time. Okay?”

He grips Sean's hand, squeezing til he leaves half-moon marks against his palm.

“We can start with a walk, til your breathing slows down.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, it has to be now.”

Sean breathes out, nodding. “Okay. Let's not think, then. Don't think at all. Just come with me.”

He pulls him forward. Henrik follows. 'Don't think' is such a bizarre sentiment to him. What else does he do?

“Here we go. Just run.”

He used to love to run, before all this. He ate healthy, ran, never smoked or drank except with family, always wore his mask around the hospital. He just wanted to feel safe from his own body.

“We'll head for the trees. Follow with me.”

They're running now, just a little. It's good, to be exercising again, but now that he thinks about it, truly, it's not like this could have ever saved him if the cancer came back.

It wasn't real. The sense of control. It was just a story he told himself. A myth. He made a myth of his own body.

“There's the wind, yes, here we go, come on!”

And it's not his body's fault. It was never trying to hurt him. It was just a victim of circumstances, the same way he was. This body is a part of him. The surgery scars. The bite marks. It's still his body, and it's healing, recovering, caring for him.

It is him. His body.

It will never be a monster because he's not a monster.

Sean howls in front of him, piercing through every thing else, and Henrik realizes he's let go of his hand as Sean shifts, effortless. The wolf bounding in front of him is gleaming in the light of the moon, his fur glossy and his eyes alight, and he barks at Henrik, leaping across a fallen tree and beckoning him forward, yapping.

Medically, it's really very interesting. He wonders how many textbooks there are about just that single moment of transformation. The miracle of transmogrification in front of his eyes, and it looks so painless, so easy, so joyful.

He's changed halfway so many times now he feels it coming, and something in him screams aloud, but don't think, don't think, it's just my body. It's just my body and it doesn't want to hurt me. It's just my body and it's not my fault. This is just –

The radiation that destroyed and saved him at the same time. A new life, but not a new person. He's five years old, and he loves to read books because they interest him, and not because it scares him not to know; he's seven years old and he wants to talk about what he remembers; he's sixteen and he has a friend for the first time; he's twenty-five and he's ready to realize there are some things in his life that are out of his control, and that's okay. That will have to be okay.

And in that moment, Henrik lets go of something he's been clinging to for twenty years, and shifts.

.

On the top of the hill, a pair of black wolves are watching.

[void-kissed]

Hapi, off-screen: “Uh, Kitty-Cat? What the heck are you doing?!”

Catarina: “..Is it not obvious? The Chalice is needed. As are you four, for that matter. Come on, now - didn’t you notice the setup here?”

Byleth: “!”

This is a render I made.. sometime near the start of summer, I think! It’s essentially a screenshot redraw (albeit it’s a render, not a drawing), replicating a scene from the Cindered Shadows story with my self-insert, Catarina, in place of the character who’s normally doing this betrayal bit. I spent a while working on this and trying to get it as close to the in-game cutscene art as I could, and I like to think it turned out looking pretty good in the end!! ^-^

Since this is a reupload of a previous render, rather than a new piece, I won’t be using my tag list here. However, comments on and reblogs of my work are still okay and appreciated! Nothing is required, though~

[jellycrusher]

Wolves and Lambs: Part 4

Alpha Max Verstappen x Omega fem!driver

Genre: Series, Omega verse, Enemies to Lovers, Romance, Eventual smut

Summary: Male Alphas are the ones who dominate motor sports all around the world, especially Formula 1. It is a well known fact. Females in general nor Female Omegas are never heard nor encouraged to join the sport since the 1950s. Well, up until now...

Word Count: 5.8k

Chapter's Premise: y/n finds herself trying to come to terms on who she is and how she avoided her heat for so long.

Parts: W&L masterlist / general masterlist

"You heard the doctor. You have to stop taking your suppressants for a while." Megan takes the prescription sheet from your hands and shoves it in her bag.

Both of you just came out from the doctor's office. Megan was meticulous in giving you a disguise just in case anyone is going to spot you. You put your head down and hide in your little canopy of protection, your Aston Martin hat. A bit obvious but it's the only one you have at the moment.

"I can't. If it comes during a race weekend, I'm dead." You reply as you walk side by side with Megan, confined by the hospital walls.

"Ay Dios Mio. Your constant intake of suppressants may be the reason why you haven't had your first heat yet at 25 years old. We don't know if there's gonna be negative side effects on your health." Megan tries her best to whisper under her breath.

"Hey, that's not proven." You halt in your steps and turn to her, lifting your head up to face her.

"But the doc says it may be a factor. You can't keep it hidden forever. It has to come sooner or later. If it comes biting your ass, don't come running to me for help."

"I don't want to be confined on what biology or society dictates me to be. I want to prove to everyone first what I can do and who I am." You continue to walk.

"I understand. I just don't want something bad to happen to you." She groaned.

"Fine. If I win a race, then i'll start tapering my dosage. I'll let it come when it wants to come."

"When you win a podium, not a race. Better odds."

"Fine. A podium."

You felt like you've been basking in the sun, warm against your skin. You didn't want to look at yourself. For every second after that encounter in the elevator until now that you've stayed frozen behind the door of your room, everything was silent.

Your body was fighting your mind. You didn't want this. For so many years, your family and friends, who knew what you really are, told you that we're all bound to meet our mate. We'll know when we meet them.

No. You don't want to. Maybe just not right now. Yes, it's romantic to see couples who are mated and are having the time of their lives. But what if they fell for another person before they met their mate? And what if they refuse their Alpha? What would happen?

Right now, you just want to succeed in this career first. Call yourself stupid for going against your biological desires but there's a lot riding on this. Your parents sacrificed a lot just to get where you are right now. You want to prove that Omegas can also achieve greatness. Female Omegas can also stand in the halls of the greats.

Maybe you're just stubborn. Meeting your mate wouldn't be the end of the world. If you give in, you won't lose anything. Maybe.

Maybe you're just overthinking. Maybe you're being too stubborn.

Max is not a bad person. You've said it yourself before. He is actually a decent guy. Well, just from your text messages but there were no deep conversations yet. You don't love him to see him as your mate. You might learn to love him but it doesn't feel right for your feelings to be swayed just because your biological desires him so.

You barely slept a wink last night. The inkling that bothered you for a few weeks now since the first race have just been confirmed, and the fact that Max left you a lot of messages that you haven't read yet made your mind in a state of disarray.

Megan barged in your room to wake you up. She even had to throw the covers off the bed and furiously opened the curtains, blinding you with the beaming sun. You groan hard as she pulls you out of the comfort of your bed.

"I can't believe this. We're late! Ay Santo Dios..." Megan continued to mention a lot of words that you were not familiar with as she looks at your commitments for the day from her phone screen.

It only took a few moments and the both of you are now on your merry way to the circuit with you being the driver. Megan was still very furious at you for you haven't given her a reason for your tardiness. At the same time, your phone was still blowing up from Max's messages.

"I've had it with your ringtone. I'll set it to silent." Megan pulls your phone from the center console and sees '50 messages' beside the name 'He Who Must Be Avoided At All Times' on the screen.

"It's fine, leave it." You're barely able to look at Megan because you had to focus on the road.

"Who's this? Is there a guy bothering you? Stalking you?!" she asks.

"No. Just leave it." With eyes still glued to the road, you try to yank the phone off her hands.

"Tell me. Is it a stalker?! 'Cause if it is, i'll kill him." She warned.

"Please no. Relax, it's not a stalker." You assured in a calm tone as she hands the phone to you.

"Y/N. If you're in a dangerous situation and you're not telling me, your mom will kill me." She appealed.

Well, that's not impossible. These two are overprotective.

"Megan..." You paused. Megan patiently waits for your answer as you drum your fingers anxiously on the wheel. "It's Max."

"Oh, Max... Wait, who's Max? from Red Bull?" Megan rambles. "Why? Did he do anything to you?"

"He did nothing. It's just.. He found out last night that I was an Omega. I've been avoiding his texts since then." You confessed, tightening your grip on the wheel.

"How? You were always careful."

"That's the thing. I was. I'm still on my suppressants." You gently scratch the surface of the wheel. "Remember when you told me how you met your husband? Your mate?"

"Yes." Megan now replied slowly, now under a notion at where the conversation is going. "Oh my god! Is he..?"

"I think so." you confessed.

Megan was about to shriek from joy but she stopped for she knew how you would respond. For her, it sounds romantic. For you, it's not. She can't count how many times your rejected the idea of having a biological mate. It wasn't against the law of anybody to love somebody else aside your fated mate but for your body to act against your will regardless of what you feel. That's what you dislike about it.

"I still have to talk to him about it. I can't have him blabbering to everyone on the grid." You added. "Let's take this one step at a time."

"You still have a race later. Better focus on that first." She replies as she takes off her seatbelt when you arrived at the car park in the circuit.

Megan hauled you to the team hospitality to prepare you for the drivers' briefing. When you arrived at the briefing hall, majority of the drivers were already seated and the team principals were standing around in a circle, chatting. You stood by the door looking for an empty seat to take when you saw Charles, Oscar, and Lando calling you to take the seat they reserved for you on the third row. Your feet took a few steps when a hand suddenly but gently caught your wrist.

"We need to talk. You've been ignoring my texts." Max urged, eyes dead straight at you.

"Max, not here. Later." You scan the room for any eyes or ears that might eavesdrop as you carefully remove his hand from you.

Max takes a second to compose himself then tugs his hand through his hair. "Fine. Sit with me then."

"I'll choose my own seat. Thank you." You replied as you walk away from him, not giving him enough time to add more. Max's hand hovered uncertainly as if to stop you but he lets his hand limp

You strut farther into the hall and the three men gave you space to stride along the third row to take your seat between Charles and Oscar. Max took an empty seat on the first row beside Checo. He can't help but steal some glances in your direction during the driver's briefing.

It was hard to ignore Max as well. One good thing that your incident with Max has caused is that his scent doesn't make you cower in fear anymore. Knowing the reason why the dynamics between the two of you had changed, you mentally slap your pheromone-disturbed self from inhaling his lingering scent.

His scent wasn't really distinct before. For you, it was associated with fear or something menacing, but now he smelled so crisp like Cotton and sweet like baked Tangerine. Being that close to each other gave you a chance to actually distinguish his scent. Just remembering Max's small sniffs on your neck makes your body squirm, in a good way. It was nice and comforting. But it also felt sensual.

Alpha smells so good. Let's smell him once more. You mentally slap yourself once more, shaking off the tiny voice from your inner Omega in your head.

"I heard from Lance that you're moving. Where will you stay?" Charles' voice took you out from your trance just as the drivers' briefing just ended.

"In Monaco. It being a tax-free haven sounds enticing." you replied in glee knowing that it was the Monegasque who asked you.

Noticing the other younger drivers to turn to you after hearing your response, it took a moment for you to remember that a number of them were living there.

Lando perks up, legs bouncing. He leans forward and peeked his head across Oscar. "Do you know how to play Padel?" you shake your head. "We'll teach you. We had been waiting for another member to join our little club."

"He just wants to have the bragging right when he defeats all of us." Oscar chuckled, arms crossed on his chest.

"He even almost made Max cry. Have some mercy on all of us, will you?" Charles adds, further teasing Lando.

"I'll tell you when I've settled in. Maybe a housewarming lunch or dinner sounds good?" You ask. Lando quickly taps Alex's shoulder to tell him about your new residence and a possibility of a new member for their F1 drivers-exclusive Padel Club.

"I'm going to tour you to some of the best places. You still owe me a car ride." Charles couldn't help but smile at you, already making up a list in his mind.

When the briefing ended, all of the drivers went their own way back to their hospitalities. At the corner of your eyes, you saw Max hurriedly stood up from his seat on the first row and was about to make his way towards you. He noticed the miniscule squirm your body did when your eyes met. You almost panic in your seat but he came to an abrupt stop when he saw Megan pull you away.

Max tried his best to look for a chance to talk to you, much to his dismay. There wasn't much time for each of the drivers to get to interact with each other, especially during race day. After some of his media commitments in the morning were done, he went to visit the Aston Martin hospitality. He comes up to the small ledge when he saw Lance chatting with some of the staff.

"Hey Lance." Lance gets up from his seat when he noticed Max and greets him with a one-armed hug and a double backslap. "Have you seen y/n?"

"I think Sky Sports has her for an interview, I think. You know, the usual." Lance replies as he sits down. Max groans go unnoticed.

"Do you know when she might be free? I need to talk to her." Max asks as he leans his hand on the ledge.

"Maybe after the race? Her schedule's so full today. Haven't even seen her stay here in the hospitality for more than 15 minutes. Megan even got her shooting a lot of content for our Tiktok account."

"Megan?" Max quirks up his eyebrow.

"Speaking of..." Lance chimed in as he spots Megan behind Max, about to walk inside. "Megan!" She stops and turns to Lance's direction. "He's looking for y/n." He points at Max and Megan's eyes follow.

Megan thought differently when she saw Max right there, comfortably leaning on the ledge. It was in her overprotective instinct to assume that Max might possibly be a snitch or asking anyone in the team regarding what you are. She walks up to Max and asked him to come with her, already walking away without waiting for a response. Max was confused at first but did not hesitate to follow behind.

Max and Megan comes to a halt in an empty corner in the paddock, away from prying eyes.

"What are you doing?" Megan snaps around and narrows her eyes at him, arms crossed on her chest.

"I was just asking for y/n." Max innocently confessed.

"Were you going to tell on her? I can't believe you." She leans forward as if interrogating the driver.

Max leans back, baffled by the sudden change in demeanor. "No. Of course not... Wait, you know?" He tries to whisper.

She tries to examine his face for a minute for any sign of a lie but relaxes when she felt that he was telling the truth. "Listen, Max. I know she's been avoiding you but I need her to be at her best today. She needs to be on that podium."

"Don't we all?" Max scoffs.

"No, you don't understand. I need her to be on the podium because her health is on the line. I've let her be stubborn for too long 'cause she's in love with racing too much but I finally had her to agree, at last. I don't know what's going on between the two of you but please don't distract her too much today." She pleads with a serious tone.

Max hated knowing that it wasn't his place to pry. All he wanted from you was answers but it seems that even more questions are piling up. What does she mean? Your health is on the line? Are you sick? Are you injured? How is it connected to you getting that podium?

His inner Alpha was trying to fight himself.

Our omega... She's hurt or sick. Ask for more information. No, we're clearly told to stay put. She's not ours. Isn't it clear that she's avoiding us? Than ask her directly. Let's smell her again. No. Just shut up. Stay.

"Understood?" Megan asserts herself, taking Max out of his trance.

"Yes ma'am."

Megan waited for a bit to see how Max would take their conversation but left quickly when she saw that people are now starting to crowd the paddock. Max stayed in that quiet corner for a few seconds before going out into the paddock. There he saw you, sitting just outside your team's hospitality with Alonso and surrounded by a few cameras and staff. Probably completing a challenge with your teammate. His eyes locked onto you, taking in your smile. It was invigorating for him to see you having fun.

He used to feel so foreign around you. When he sees you having fun with his friends, it irritated him. His face used to turn sour when Lando or Alex hype you up.

There was something about you that intrigues him. You weren't able to race with most of them back then. Charles was a bit familiar with you because you got to race alongside his brother. Oscar and Logan had only met you once or twice and they had raced with you in a few Grand Prix but usually a lot of drivers keep to themselves and stayed in their own garages.

Then there's the big elephant in the room. You were an Omega, no doubt. After the incident in the elevator, he did scour the internet after his haze faded when he got back in his room. There were only articles about you stating that you were an Alpha, your achievements in F2 and F3, and also the highlights of your racing career. No scandals, not much haters. There were no articles claiming you have a bad beef with any driver.

For a public personality, you kept pretty quiet. Maybe that's why no one has discovered your secret yet. But that would be an extreme feat. To conceal your identity. What about heats? The horrendous and taxing schedule of Formula 1 isn't really ideal for Omegas. He recalled when Lando had to deal with Oscar's heat every month. When they were still unmated, Lando had to tiptoe around Oscar and avoid him when his pheromones were on the highest setting. How the other drivers reacted to him when it came around race weekend. It took them at least 5 months to come to the truth that they needed each other.

It was a bit easier for Oscar because everyone knows that he is an Omega since the start. They knew they had to avoid him when Lando or Oscar gave them a heads up. It scares him thinking that it will be much harder for you but it was also amazing how good you hide it.

Questions for another day, he admits to himself.

You were having a blast going against Nando in a PR competition when you spot Max walking through the paddock. Your eyes met and it made you nervous that he might come up and wait for you but no, he avoided your eyes and continued to walk. Your eyes followed his figure, relieved but also worried. Fernando had to call your attention to continue the challenge.

Your PR and media commitments were finally done and then, there was the driver's parade. The crowds in the grandstands were almost full and it was deafening. Everyone was screaming each of the drivers' names when they were called and when it was your turn to be introduced, it was heartwarming to hear their warm welcome. A smile so wide painted your face as you greet the driver while stepping in the convertible car and sat on the surface of the rear end near the deck lid.

You waited for your car's cue to go but you see it got delayed. There were a slight commotion amongst the staff that were on standby on the track and they were pointing to something behind you. You turn around and they were checking the car behind yours that was supposed to be for Max. Apparently, the engine of his parade car won't start again.

Fernando's car already left way before you and also Checo's. The staff are now pointing at yours and you see that the people who were talking to Max assisted him to get off the car. They were ushering him to your direction. Someone slapped Max's car number onto the side of your convertible. You now realize that they're letting you and Max share a car so that this problem won't delay the program.

The car shook slightly as Max climbs up the convertible. Max sees you scooting to one side trying to avoid his eyes so he quietly sat down on the other side of the convertible's rear. Both of you started to wave to the crowd as the engine of the convertible purred. Max would steal a few glances when you're not looking. Your body was stiff and awkward, in contrast to what you were showing the crowd, smiling and waving.

"Relax. It's not like I bite." Max spoke up just loud enough for you to hear under all those noise. "Just concentrate on the race later or else, you'll be an easy target for these guys."

You snap your head around and glared at him. He had this smug smile while still waving. "They wish." You scoff.

With just a few words from him, you find your shoulders loosening up. Slightly offended by his insinuation but you knew that he was just riling you up. It was also surprising that Max didn't bother to disturb you since the briefing. You would be at shoulder's length but still, he'd just nod when your eyes met.

The drivers' parade ended quickly and every driver headed for their respective garages to prepare. You spent the remaining time training with your physio and getting enough rest. The last program was for the national anthem. You make your way onto the track and answered a few questions for a Sky Sports presenter who was roaming and interviewing some of the drivers. You stood behind a grid kid to take your place and kept quiet. Right before the anthem was played, you noticed the female grid kid trying to steal a look at you. You smile back at her and she quietly squealed as she swiftly face in front. When the anthem finished playing and as you follow the other drivers exiting the track, your grid kid raised her hand to request for a high five. You gladly pressed your palm on hers and the other grid kids also eagerly raised their hand as you pass by them, catching the attention of the other drivers and the cameras.

You find yourself gritting your teeth and hands clenching the wheel as you drive the car in your grid position at the track during the formation lap. You look up at the red lights above.

"It's lights out and away we go, here at the Jeddah Corniche Circuit! and it's Max Verstappen who takes the lead of the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix."

With a good reaction time, you were able to overtake three places from 15th. You were able to fend for your position well in those crucial first few laps of the race. You attacked, you defended, you attacked, you defended. It was a constant cycle.

Max, who had started in pole position, lost the lead to Charles on the third sector in the second lap, won it back by the fourth lap and slowly and methodically pulled away for his second win of the season.

It took you only eight laps to move into 10th place, and only eight more to rise to sixth. By the halfway point of the race, and helped by the fortuitous arrival of a safety car that allowed you to make up even more ground, you find yourself in fourth.

"Y/n had played down her chances of victory from the moment a broken drive shaft ended her qualifying early Saturday and left her in 15th place. But that did not mean she had any intention of staying in the back of the field. Look at her picking her way through the pack behind her with ease"

Your driving style was aggressive and clever, a total beast on the offence. The journalists have also made note of your tyre preservation prowess. They have published a few articles after the first race mentioning that with your pairing with Alonso this year, Aston Martin can gain considerable confidence that it will be regularly able to take on the red cars and the black ones fielded by Mercedes too.

At around lap 46, Ben informs you through the radio that Lewis who is in P3 at the moment incurred a 5 second penalty. With Charles on P2 just 2 seconds ahead of Lewis and you tailing behind just a second away, there might be a chance for you to end up on the podium at the end of this race. You just have to maintain the gap behind Lewis and also for Lewis to continue battling with Charles.

Ben: "So, one more lap y/n, just bring it home." Y/N: "Think something happened to my left tyre." Ben: "Ok, copy. So Sainz, 30 seconds behind, battling with Russell."

You peek at your front left tyre and it was starting to wobble. You may have hit something on the track, possibly puncturing the tyre.

Ben: "If you go Diff-Mid 12, Sainz 20 seconds and gap to Lewis is 2 seconds." Ben: "Now 17 seconds. Now 16 seconds."

The car was already slowing down and the left tyre was tumbling around on its rim. Ben was constantly updating you but you did not bother to respond.

Ben: "So use Strat 5. 10 seconds to Sainz and 3 seconds from Lewis." Ben: "7 seconds to Sainz. 6 seconds to Sainz." Ben: "Maintain this gap to Lewis. 4 seconds."

You've passed the last corner and about to go on the straight where the chequered flag should be when you saw Sainz closely tailing behind you. With your feet instinctively pushing flat out, your car zoomed past and hopefully closing the gap with Lewis in less than 5 seconds for P3 position.

Y/N: "Do we have it?! TELL ME BEN, DO WE HAVE IT??" Ben: "That's it, y/n! You've done it, P3! YOU'VE DONE IT! Wow, you've done it y/n." Y/N: "Was there a flag? I did not see it." Ben: "There was a flag. You've done it though. Just stop. You can pull the car over. We'll come and get you." Y/N: "Fuck that was close! Sorry for the profanity." Ben: "Yeah, I was about to say the same thing. That was a close call. Too close for comfort. But awesome work, mate." Y/N: "LET'S GO!!!!! BEN, WE DID IT!!!"

Your team radio is now being broadcasted across all tv screens worldwide. As Max and the other drivers complete their slow lap around the track after they've crossed the line, they catch a glimpse of you in the screens. Throwing your hands in celebration, still inside the cockpit. When you got out of the car at the side of the track, you knelt down and pats the damaged tyre aggressively as if thanking the car.

You had to do your best as not to cry from overwhelming joy. You felt like you won the race for P3 but you didn't. It was as if you were soaring through the clouds right then. The crowds at the grandstands were screaming your name, fireworks were setting off in the background. That was for Max, of course, but it couldn't hurt to imagine that it could be for you too.

You were picked up by a safety car and your car was towed to the parc ferme. When you got out of the car, Oscar jumped at the moment to wrap you in a hug, Lando following behind.

Warm and sincere congratulations, pats on the backs and helmet taps too, were sent over your way when you threw yourself to your team of mechanics and engineers who were waiting on the other side of the barricade. You took off your helmet and balaclava so you could properly breathe and to revel in the sounds of your victory.

You were the first one who had to do the post-race interview, followed by Charles in P2 and Max in P1. You couldn't contain your smile, choking on your words yet again.

"Y/n!" David Coulthard calls out your name in joy. "That was an amazing race. You had your maiden pole last race and now, your maiden F1 podium after just 2 races in this season. Could you tell me more?"

"With the information of Lewis' 5 second penalty, I had to give everything on the table. I've never had a race like that before. We tried to maintain the gap but also had to monitor Carlos behind as well. It was a team effort and I couldn't have done it without them."

"Your last lap had us trembling in our seats. You managed to bring home your car across the line in that state. How did you do it?" David asked with such enthusiasm.

"I don't know how I've managed to be cool in that period but I just... I had no choice. Survival instincts came over me and I've come all this way. I'm not gonna pull over and back off to let anyone drive pass. I was thinking 'How can I get there with taking as much risks as possible without losing the car altogether?'. I still can't believe I did it." You try to take a few deep breaths after you finished your interview, still reeling in from that feeling of accomplishment.

Max and Charles pats your back as the three of you walked towards the cooldown room. The huge screen showing the highlights of the race, including your tyre mishap and struggle to cross the finish line for P3. Charles hands you a water bottle and you took it, not peeling your eyes away from the screen. If you only had your phone, you would take a photo of the small pillar with a huge number 3 and a small screen playing your driver intro bit.

The three of you are now ushered to prepare for the podium ceremony. Your feet was quick to move after your name was called. The crowd roared with applause and cheers as you made your way up the podium. You stood patiently on your step as you hear Charles' and Max's name. Despite feeling a bit flushed due to the adrenaline from winning P3, your cheeks felt a bit cold as you place your hands on the side of your face.

Your race suit now wet from the champagne being sprayed amongst the podium placers. Charles and Max were having fun targeting you, spraying the champagne at your face. They both admired your blissful smile and eyes filled with euphoria.

"Champagne suits you. Congratulations y/n!" Max can't help but admit to himself that you were an excellent racer. Your expression softened when you heard him and it's like Max's heart skipped a beat.

"Thanks Max. Congratulations on winning!" As if the champagne rain slowed down, it was just you and Max. The stage lights made the champagne sparkle, trickling down on both of you. He never saw anyone be so ecstatic in getting P3 but you made celebrating look so beautiful and graceful.

You watched Max's face as he shared a smile with you but not a second later, you could clearly see the horror in his face as his body stiffen.

"Y/n, your nose." Charles cocks his head to the side of Max, inconspicuously pointing to his nose, prompting you to do the same. Your hand crept up to your face and it was met by a warm liquid oozing down your nose. When you swiped it off, you saw blood on your fingertips.

Max was quick to turn you around, shielding you from the cameras. You try to wipe your nose with your arm but the blood can't seem to stop.

"Are you okay? What's wrong? Do you want us to call the medics?" Max whispers in panic, still spraying the champagne at Charles and towards the crowd below as he shields you behind him. To the people below and in the crowd, it was as if you're just wiping the champagne off your face.

"Relax. It's just a nosebleed. This will pass." You whispered, still trying to wipe off the remaining blood. The sleeve of your green suit now tinted red. "What the heck, it's not stopping."

"Y/n, I think the cameramen are now noticing." Charles' eyes darted to the cameramen below and above.

"I've been a bit more anemic lately. I think that's why." You murmured.

"When Megan told me that your health is compromised, is this it?" Max leans to your side a bit, still facing front and waving to the crowd.

"You talked to her? What did she tell you?!" You glared at Max, surprising the two men.

"Y/n, Max, can you two talk about it later? We're still on the podium." Charles cleared his throat.

You slightly nudged Max away from you, not noticed by the crowd, while you pinch your nose and cover your face. Max can't help but stare in concern at your figure. His inner Alpha wanting to carry you and rush to medic's tent.

Then the ceremony ended.

"Y/n, come on. I haven't told him much, I promise. I just told him to leave you alone that day." Megan pleaded as she follows you while carrying a large box filled with your household items.

You open the door to let Megan in but you avoid her eyes. She darts across the empty unit, footsteps echoing along the walls, to place the box labeled 'Kitchen Items' down on the floor. You sighed, accepting defeat, as you drop the huge bag of items that you were carrying.

"Fine, but next time, stop telling him unnecessary information."

"Hey, your health was not an unnecessary information. I'm just glad you're fine now. I told you that your prolonged use of suppressants will eventually bite you in the ass." She rambled.

"Yes, yes. You gotta stop scolding me. It's been like a thousand times already." You groaned. "I got the podium and I'm on a suppressant detox. Happy?"

"Yes. I'm working on your schedule just in case it came early." Megan skips across the unit and stopped near the door. "I'll get the last box. You can stay here just in case the delivery company calls through the intercom." She exits the unit after you nod your head.

The empty huge apartment unit was now filled with unopened boxes. There were no furnitures yet but the anticipation of decorating your new home is making you excited. Wood and cured paint scent filled the air. It was relaxing for you but after a while, it's actually nauseating so you open the door to the balcony.

Coldness of the elegant granite greeted your arms as you lean against it. Your apartment is located in a spot overlooking the marina where you can spot plentiful yachts. With just a soft breeze, you could almost smell the sea. Even with your eyes closed, you could vividly visualize the city below you from its sound. The hustle and bustle of Monaco.

Closing your eyes for a few seconds made you yawn. You are still recovering from that horrific anemic bout during the podium ceremony in the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. The team had to recommend you to a local hospital for a check up and was just given a prescription. You took a flight out the next day and went straight to "Moving Out" mode. It hasn't been two days since the race but here you are, renting a luxurious apartment in Monaco, about to live your best life.

"Looks like you could fit a head in your mouth." You heard a familiar warm voice coming from above your balcony. When you opened your eyes, there was someone peeking their head out of their balcony and looking down below at you, apparently still yawning. You closed your mouth in embarrassment.

"Max?!"

"Hi neighbor!"

Next part: Part 5

Taglist: @laura-naruto-fan1998 @fanboyluvr @giffywiffy3408 @notyouraveragemochii @cmleitora @exotic-iris13 @topguncultleader @mirrorball-6 @barcelonaloverf1life @silscintilla @aquangxl @whyamireadingthis @imaddict

[xetlynn]

Twilight- Switch of Daylight: Chapter Eleven, Cliffs

(Alice x Reader x Jasper)

[Ten] [Eleven] [Twelve]

Someone knocks on the truck door, startling me. I thought it was going to be Charlie but when it was Jacob instead, my eyebrows furrowed.

He opens the door and forces me to scoot over. I then look at the door to see Bella waving and then entering the house. "You apologized?" I asked, holding myself tightly. Not caring about anything else.

"Yes, and I need to apologize to you as well." He doesn't look me in the eyes as he says this. "It's fine Jake." I shrug it off but he disagrees.

"It's not fine. I didn't understand anything and immediately jumped on you. You're nothing like the Cullens." He says, I look up at him. "Jacob, the Cullens have done nothing to you." I cross my arms, "whatever, that's not the point of this talk. I should've never said those nasty things about you. Your situation... it's pretty serious and I'm sorry." He sincerely says in a soft tone. "I have another thing to bring up to you." He tells me and I nod for him to keep talking, bringing my knees up to my chest as I listened.

"Victoria, that red headed chick. You know she's after Bella-" "Yes I already knew that." I chuckled, "why?" My nose scrunches, confused on why he would bring something up I already obviously know.

"Well you know she's after you too right?" He asks, giving me a serious look and then I see in the forest line, Sam and Paul's wolves poking out. "Yeah, Laurent might've mentioned it." I look back to him, now tensed up from the conversation.

"I don't think it's to kill you though. I think she wants to trigger the curse." Jacob says, he's hesitant though. I think Sam fully explained everything to him for which I'm grateful but he should know I don't think I could ever truly trust him again. "Finish what James was trying to accomplish." I finish Jacob's words. Now thinking it all over. Before he turned me he said he wanted me to turn into a vampire so he could kill me and it would be permanent. But he didn't know if that was actually true.

"She figured out what James wanted to know." I sigh out, putting my head down.

He pulls me into his arms and I actually felt a tear pass my eyes, startling me but nothing that's supposed to make sense is anymore so I ignore it. "I'm scared, Jake." My body trembles as he holds me a little tighter.

"Hey, it's okay." He assures me, "we're gonna keep you safe." Even in the arms of Jacob all I can think about are Alice and Jasper.

The next day I decided to go hunting myself. I haven't gotten to do so in a while and I need to have enough strength to not react to other people's blood.

I'm not going to get into anything gory, of course attacking an animal I try to keep to a minimum due to the guilt I feel. Even if this is the better way I still hate doing this. Yeah, I ate meat as a human but I didn't have to do the killing to eat it. To my left I hear leaves rustling, almost scaring me until I realized it wasn't as close as I thought. Moments later a large body makes its way from the trees. I shake my head, smiling. "Hey Jake, Embry." I acknowledge the one behind him.

Jacob nods his head slightly, coming over to look at the animal I covered with leaves, then turning to look at me. "I uh, feel bad." I rub the back of my neck before wiping the blood from my mouth.

"Still on the search for Victoria?" I question as if I could understand them. I mainly go by body language. Embry huffs meaning they definitely still are. That was until we heard a laugh. Jacob gets in front of me and then we see a glimpse of red hair.

Jacob and Embry go after her as I stand there confused on if I should go help or not, then I remember I told Bella I'd meet her back at the house after hunting.

Racing home I get there to see Bella's truck gone. I begin to panic, using my speed ability to check around the house before thinking next of where she could be.

The guys weren't supposed to allow her to leave so most of them might be chasing after Victoria. I hurry up and  go to the Rez. Fuck, I don't know where she could be around here.

I run to Sam's house, banging on the door like a mad woman. It swings open and his face is furrowed.

"[Name], what happened?" I push past him in the house. "Where's my sister?" I look around, going into the kitchen then searching in other rooms. Only to bump into another woman.

"Sam, what's going on?" The woman asks, I push past her as well, going to go outside but Sam stops me.

"This is [Name], Bella's sister. And what's going on, why are you freaking out?" He questions me, I grow antsy, not wanting to answer him as I was just trying to find my sister. "[Name], what's going-" "Bella, where is she?" I glare at him. "You said you guys were gonna keep her safe, she was supposed to be at the house, where is she?" I start to grip back on his arm, visibly hurting him but I was not doing too goof. "It's okay, she was was just here." Sam attempts to calm me down.

"Yeah, she was looking for Jacob." The girl speaks up, I glance back at her. Then something comes back to me. The cliff. She wanted to cliff dive. "Thank you!" I point to the random woman I've never seen before.

Speeding out of the house, practically ripping my body out of Sam's grasp.

Arriving at the Cliff I look around, seeing Bella's truck parked. I hurry towards the water, Bella's body was falling to the water. "Bella no!!" I scream. She hit the ocean.

"Bella!" I cry out. Moments pass and then her body pops out. A huge relief settles in my body. Panic still over washed my face nonetheless. "Yes!" She laughs. Then a wave crashes over her, pulling her under the water. Without thinking I dive into the water once I hit the water I open my eyes, searching for Bella.

It takes longer than I liked but once I found her, her eyes were closed. I just barely grab her by her sleeve, once I have her I fix my grip to her waist. Swimming out of the water, making sure her head is above it.

Getting onto shore I try to remember what to do. I hear footsteps behind me as I begin CPR. "Oh my god, Bella." It was Jacob behind me, he gets down to his knees as well on the other side of her.

"Bella, please." I beg with her, dread entering my body. Jacob and I lift her torso up, hitting her back. Finally she spits out water.

"Bella!" "Bella can you hear us?" Jacob asks. "[Name]...? Jake?" She's attempting to focus on us, mainly staring at me. Sam stands behind us. "She'll be alright." He tells us, I stand up letting Jacob lecture her as mine will be far far worse.

I go over to Sam.

"Sorry..." I mutter. "Sorry?" His eyes widen slightly, surprised I'm talking to him to begin with. "For pushing past you, searching your house." I say, holding myself. Weirdly just now feeling the water drip from my clothes.

"Who was that girl?" I suddenly ask as he stayed silent after my apology. "That's Emily, Paul's imprint." He informs me.

I nod my head a little bit. "Oh," Was all I said in return before joining Bella and Jacob again.

"Get them home, I'm heading to the hospital, I'll meet you there!" Sam shouts over to Jacob who only nods in return. Sam jogs off.

"Why would you jump? Didn't you notice it's like a hurricane out here? You're lucky [Name] got here in time." Jacob turns back to my sister. "I know. It was stupid- Sam said hospital- someone's hurt?" She asks and then I realized what was said too and we both stare at him waiting for an answer.

"Harry Clearwater had a heart attack." He informs us. I close my eyes, knowing that's going to be heartbreaking for our dad. "Oh my god- does our dad know?"

"He and my dad are both over there." He says. "Will Harry be okay?"

"I don't know. Come on. I'll find you both something dry and drive you guys home." He tells us, helping my sister up. She then falls into my arms and we walk together as I hold her from the side.

Jacob both found us jackets but it was kind of irrelevant for me as I don't feel cold. Bella shivers though so Jacob pulls her close.

"Hundred and eight degrees over here." He smiles, she tucks herself further into him. "Must be nice, never getting cold." She says to the both of us, mainly to Jacob so I stay quiet. "It's a wolf thing." He shrugs it off. "It's a Jacob thing. You're just... warm." She compliments him. "Like the sun." He grins.

I roll my eyes from the subtle flirting he's trying to pull off. "Like the sun." Bella repeats him.

"Which like always comes back. You can count on me." He sincerely tells her. She only nods though. I feel her grow awkward. "There are other cool things about all this, like- I heal fast. Wanna see me stab my hand?" He jokingly messes with her. "Yeah, 'cause that would be fun." She sarcastically responds.

Jacob pulls the truck into our house. "So... this wolf thing's not all bad?" She changes the subject, I still decide to stay quiet. I feel tired almost which is weird but ignored like everything else has been. "It's better. Not that you know. But..." He grows quiet. "But..." She says, egging him on to continue. "It's just... comes so easily to me. More than the other guys."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" She tilts her head.

"Maybe. Or maybe it makes me less human than the others." I notice him glance at me then back to Bella. It was quick, not exactly intentionally but I saw it.

"Sometimes I'm scared I might disappear, you know? Who I really am." Bella looks him directly in his eyes and this where I take it as a sign to get out of the truck.

They of course noticed it due to Bella's truck being so nosey but they continued with their conversation. I leaned against the truck, wanting to wait for Bella before I went into the house. I closed my eyes thinking about how Bella might not have made it. Moments later Bella opens her truck door but Jacob pushes her back into the trucking slamming her door before grabbing me and leading me back into the vehicle as well. "There's a bloodsucker out there." He says.

"Hey! Excuse me!" I motion to myself, I get a quick apology but then I notice the sense of another as well. "How do you know?" She questions. "He can smell us. Wolves and Vampires have distinct smells." I tell her.

"Yeah, and they reek. Sorry [Name] but it's true. And I'm getting you guys out of here." He pulls out of the driveway, whipping the truck around. "It's not Victoria!" I shout. And both Bella and I look in the driveway again. Realizing who it is. "Yeah, stop, it's not here!" Bella screams.

"Forget it." He shakes his head.

"It's Carlisle's car! They're here. Go back!" Bella orders him but he doesn't listen. "It's a trick-" He floors it so I take Bella, opening the door and jumping out causing Jacob to slam the breaks. I try to careg Bella bridal style, going to run off to the house but Jacob gets in front of us. I slowly put my sister back down. "Stop, you guys gotta come with me." He desperately says to us.

"It's okay. They're my friends." Bella argues. "Jacob something might be wrong if they're back." I plead with him. "Don't you get it? If a Cullen is back here, this is their territory. The Treaty says we can only defend our own lands." He explains to us.

"It's not a war." Bella disagrees. "It is. And you'll only be safe in La Push. I can't protect you here anymore." This isn't about me anymore. I'm only plus one because I'm Bella's sister.

"I don't need you to-" "You're about to cross a line." He cuts her off. "Only if you draw one." Bella states. We begin to move past him but he stops us. "I'm not letting you two do this." He says.

"You don't have a choice. We- I don't belong to you." She says, knowing it will hurt him, and it does. She sees it but she knows she can't take it back. He hands her the keys. "Bye, Bella. I hope you both don't die." Bella flinches from his words, he disappears in the woods. Leaving us in the road so I take the keys from her. Grabbing her arm so we can continue our way to the house.

But as we begins rustling noises start. She freaks out but I smell the scent of who it is and I instantly let Bella go. She screams though, stopping once she sees who it is. "Alice!"

"You're... alive." Alice seems confused. I stand back, completely silent at the sight of her. Bella hugs her. "Oh my god, Alice. You're here." Bella grins. "I heard voices- I didn't think it was you two but- you're alive." She repeats herself from the first time. "You keep saying that." Bella chuckles anxiously.

"I saw you- a vision of you- you jumped off a cliff. I knew I'd be too late but- Why the hell would you try to kill yourself?!" She suddenly grows angry. "I didn't I was cliff diving." Bella corrects her.

"Why?!"

"Um... fun?" Bella even questions it herself, knowing her answer isn't a good one. "That was fun for you." Alice looks her up and down. "Until I hit the water." She nods. "I have never met anyone more prone to life-threatening idiocy... and what is that hideous dog smell on the both of you?" Oh so she can acknowledge my existence.

"Oh, probably Jacob. He's kind of a werewolf."

Masterlist

A&J M.L.

I am sorry for the weird ending of this chapter. Also I obviously switched up Paul and Sam to go with my story lol.

Taglist: if you want to be added lmk!

@stevenandmarcslove

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs

@kisekihany

@aureliacorvina

@l3ejm

@marit332

@marsyay78

[eri-pl]

Silm reread 16: Beren, Luthien, and the fourth wall,

through which Pengolodh needs to be punched a little. Or at least frightened.

So… This chapter is a lot.

First we get a remainder that we are in a narrative frame: there are many stories but this one is the best. So I, Pengolodh, will make sure it sounds proper.

Also, why is the Lay of Leithian… I thought "Leithian" was some variant of Luthien, but it's "Release from Bondage". What. Why. I guess it's that one scene where she takes Sauron's island?

Before I proceed: I wanted to say that writing a love story dedicated to your wife and overloading it with meanings is an absolutely valid thing to do. And beautiful.

Yes, this is an opinion I will stick with. No, it doesn't mean that I think everything in B&L is coherent or well-written. Most is, but there are places that stick out.

So we start with Beren. He lives with his fatherr and a band of outlaws and… they worship a (lake? river? translation unclear.) because Melian had hallowed it.

They are so competent that Morgoth tells Sauron (his 2nd in command) to kill them all.

Again we have a character with unprocessed grief (nor surprising, as he doesn't know whether his wife is alive or dead) and it is the entry point for the forces of evil. So, Gorlim. Sauron pulls the Dune-like thing on him. I wonder which was first. Jirt didn't like Dune, but had read it.

Beren sees Gorlim's ghost, in the (hallowed?) water, which is an interesting place for a ghost to appear. good for him I guess?

What is the thing with hands? Beren attacks the orcs and grabs his dead father's hand with the ring of Barahir. Unclear which hand was that. Also, he becomes vegan.

Beren is so competent that he gets a "wanted" poster Morgoth offers a prize for his head. As high as for Fingon. OK, so Morgoth gives money for killing important people? Or at least offers money? We aren't told if he ever actually paid anyone. But the orcs still prefer to run away, so he sends Sauron + a whole army and his werewolves.

How competent can one guy be?

Also, we get an explanation of what werewolves are. Terrible ghosts imprisoned in wolves' bodies and posessing them. This chapter has more on werewolves then the whole rest of the book.

So, Beren has to evacuate through Spider-land. Which he manages to do. (Seriously, how many Fate Points does this guy have?)

Luthien is so beautiful that he falls in love instantly. I would be more comfortable if Tolkien didn't show falling in love as simultanously a) totally uncontroleable result of beauty, and b) impossible to not turn into action. But Beren is a good guy so he is polite, he just admires her and stuff.

Also, she's got the exact same poetic colors of hair and eyes as Elrond, which makes sense. Or, more precisely, Elrond as her.

Fate this, fate that, I get the point but don't like the language.

Beren gets kind of sick, because he has to gain more Fate Points pays for the great destiny he is going to get.

I am not going to repeat that part I complained about already. Let's just say there's a lot of "she/they were the most X of everyone in all times" and this sounds, well, poetic but not factual. (Also, they are "the most happy anyone has ever been". )

Daeron snitches on Luthien (part 1). Thingol is sad and confused and asks questions. Beren says "I found what I didn't seek, but as I found it I will never give it up" and that is a really good line.

Thingol, of all people, complains of having made a hasty oath. :D

Beren would take death before dishonor. Also shows Finrod's ring and Thingol isn't very impressed. (I think this may be used as a counterargument to "Finrod should have written to Thingol" — Beren has already shown the credentials he could get from Finrod. What additional things could Finrod tell Thingol?)

We get a description of the ring of Barahir.

Melian tries to calm het husband down, but he is upset and resentful at Beren. And he says that he desires the Silmaril (does he? Did he desire it before he said that? Unclear)

At least Thingol says that with the Silmaril he will give Luthien to Beren if she will want to, which is very proper of him. Also he mentions the "fate of Ards is tied to the Silmarils" thing. Everyone realizes that he just wants Beren dead (so I guess it is a fact?)

Beren is very chill. He says "bye" to Luthien, bows. And then he moves the guards and just walks away ignoring them which is an awesome way of leaving.

Melian is worried, Thingol says that Beren will not return, and if he (thingol) believed that there is any chance of success for him, he would kill Beren, promise or not.

We have a lot of "Lay of Laithian says" so I guess this is suposed to be a later edition... I should do a reread (well, first read tbh) on the Lay one day. But it's hard to read with focus.

Beren goes to Nargothrond, and (so that the guards don't shoot him) yells often that he is Barahir's son. Which must have looked quite funny.

Also, Turgon isn't the only one with "shoot the intruders" policy, but Finrod's one seems less strict.

Finrod talks with Beren behind closed doors (I think it's because C&C. Finrod isn't naive, he's just… idk. Anyway this is a smart move.) Also he is surprised and sad and heavy-hearted because he realizes he's going to have to die. At leats he doesn't try to weasel out of his fate.

Also, Finrod says a lot of interesting / strange things:

the Oath is on again. So, we are in the "oath is an active thing" situation. Probably.

there is a "curse of hatered" on the Silmarils. (Huh??? Who cursed them? I don't remember Fefe cursing the jewels, he cursed many other things…)

who speaks their name with greed, awakens poweerful forces (WHAT? So… Thingol is greedy about the jewel? And it triggers the Oath? Or what? that's… a whole new conceptual area to explore)

the Feanorians would rather destroy all lands then let anyone else have a Silmaril (I'm not sure how true this is but him saying this tells us something about C&C)

the Oath "rules over the princes of Noldor" (What. Finrod, my guy, you are a Noldorin prince too. Also, what. What about their free will?)

C&C are a problem but Finrod won't break his word to Barahir, so we all are deep in trouble

Finrod makes a speech, expects support from his people. It's not said what kind of support. He doesn't say he is going to attack Angband directly.

Celegorm takes out his sword and quotes the Oath. That's pretty metal, but also definitely not good. Curufin is apparently more polite now (iirc he was brash some chapters earlier, I guess he learned. Or it was Celegorm too?). Citizens of Nargothrond are scared of war, they get sneaky, start using poison and generally turn Nor Great from this time on. Huh.

The Doom of Mandos awakes in C&C's hearts and gives them evil thoughts. This is a very close paraphrase. Excuse me, what? Pengolodh, what have you been drinking? something made by Namo (or one of his Maiar, which I find more likely, but anyway) makes them think evil things? Go home and check your phrasing, seriously. This sounds so off. Unless it's the translation again?

Finrod appeals to pity and gets ten guys to follow him. I agree that this speech of him doesn't sound great and … I think he just feels sad and abandoned and does some emotional blackmailing here. and Finrod is awesome but not so awesome to never do anything wrong. It's not terrible, but, yes, I think he would be better without it.

[Which implies that if it was just him and Beren, Sauron would not try to kill Beren earlier. Which… makes some sense. When you have 12 prisoners, killing one as an example isn't a lot. when you have just two, you need to use subtler means of persuasion. (sorry for a bit of Sauron PoV ;) )]

Still, Edrahil is pretty cool here. I like him. Yes, those two opinions can coexist and it is an important point.

The song duel. Finrod picks "Of secrets kept," as his starting line, which makes sense in the context (keeping their disguise) but also, considering what kind of secret had Finrod been keeping (mostly from Thingol, who is btw associated with this quest) for many, many years, I would say it does have a weak point.

So it leads to "In Valinor, the red blood flowing" and we're out.

Luthien feels that things are bad and asks mom and mom tells her that Beren is captured by Sauron. Which she knows. Because she's a Maia, probably? But still, to see into Sauron's dungeons is quite an achievement. Maybe fate was a factor too.

Huan! The dog that is under the Doom of the Noldor! It seems as if this was the reason he later dies at all, that without the Doom thing Huan would be immortal. What even is he. [A lesser Maia. I don't care it's no longer canon, it makes the most sense.]

Also, he never sleeps, his sight and smell can't be deceived and he is invulnerable to magic.

C&C capture Luthien and we have their reasoning explained. So, C&C's logic as told by the narrative:

Finrod and Beren are as good as dead now

so let's let Finrod die

also let's force Thingol to let Tyelko marry Luthien

we will be the most powerful princes of the Noldor

the Silmarils, yea, so let's wait. first we will rule all the Elven kingdoms and then we can work on reclaiming the Silmarils.

No, it doesn't mean that someone else may take them!

Yes, it is explicitely about political power. (But also, Luthien pretty and Celegorm is into her.)

Also, Huan (like Celegorm) understands all creatures.

Finrod dies. Pengolodh edits it heavily. Seriously, I hereby accept this fic as my canon for what finrod said, because the book is lying. Oh wait, no. It is the translation. In the Polish version Finrod literally says "it will be many ages before the Noldor see me" and he says it without "probably" or anything, he says it like a foresight. And we know it is not true, because he got reembodied very quickly.

The original is not that bad. Anyway, it is lacking. It reads like something Celegorm would say in the situation (no offense to Celegorm who had actually been in this situation in early drafts).

[HC time: I imagine Pengolodh as very much the kind of guy to get offended by and cut out anything that looks too strange and … I don't know how to call it. Difficult? He's not terrible, but very insecure after returning from the Exile. He really doesn't want to offend the Valar again and isn't taking the best approach to it.]

And, speaking of Pengolodh and his additions, "so died Finrod, the most beloved descendant of Finwe". Beloved by whom? Certainly not by Finwe. Maybe by the people, but it does depend on which people exactly. Most beloved on the average? Most beloved by Pengolodh?

Pengolodh, my guy, I actually agree with you that Finrod is the loveliest Finwean, but please, could you refrain from using "loved / beloved" and comparisions?

Anyway, song-rescue. This is something even Pengolodh can't mess up describing. Also, Valacirca (Sickle of the Valar, that is: the Big Dipper) mentioned, and … it's a sign of Morgoth's fall? I thought this one was a threat to him. (Yes, let me remind you: there is not one, but two different seven(ish)-star constellations that Varda put in the sky specifically as a threat to Melkor. Also, of all the weapons, a sickle.)

Sauron seems to have a thing with "standing on a high place and smiling/laughing just before he gets wrecked". (Later he does it as Numenor is falling). I hereby HC that just before he noticed the Ring being in the Crack of doom, he also stood high atop his tower and laughted (because Aragorn's army was losing).

I'm tired. I'll cut B&L reread into two parts.

[jessicas-pi]

So the Ahsoka show (and a dream I had last night) gave me an idea. Imagine: AU where in Chapter 11 of The Mandalorian, Bo-Katan tells Din to go to Ahsoka... but also says that if Ahsoka won't help, then he should try finding her apprentice, Sabine Wren, on Lothal.

So after Ahsoka refuses to train Grogu, Din goes to Lothal before he tries Tython, which is therefore where everything with the Darktroopers goes down, which means that (a) Sabine is able to give Hera a heads up that the Empire is Doing Something, and (b) Sabine ends up inadvertently roped into the events of the rest of Mando S2. The Grogu rescue mission sort of helps her feel better---at least to feel like she's doing something. Din, meanwhile, sees someone just like him, who needs to keep busy to keep her mind off her trauma, so he decides to call her up for a little "help" whenever he feasibly can claim he needs it, or for some Jedi Training™ with Grogu (who didn't go with Luke, due to no trip to Tython and no seeing stone), or whatever excuse he can make up, which ends with Sabine getting pulled into BoBF and Mando S3, too.

Highlights include:

Din & Sabine: *win the fight with Moff Gideon together* Sabine: *takes the Darksaber from him, just to disarm him* Sabine: WAIT ACTUALLY NOPE NEVER MIND *throws the Darksaber as far as she can & refuses to pick it up again*

Sabine: You want ME to teach your kid? Din: Yes. Sabine: You do realize that I can't use the Force? Din: Yes. Sabine: And that my master stopped training me because I wasn't good enough? Din: Yes. Sabine: And that I have absolutely nothing to teach him? Din: Yes. Sabine: ...nothing I say is going to deter you, is it? Din: No.

Sabine: I just... feel... lost. Boba: Well, you could always work for me on Tatooine. Fennec: Have you ever considered an assassin business partnership? Bo-Katan: It's gonna take me a loooooooong time for me to get over you winning the Darksaber again, but you are my best friend's daughter, so if you choose to, you may come with me. Greef Karga: The Nevarro school could use an art teacher, you know. The Armorer: You are always welcome to take the Creed and join our covert. Din: How do you feel about being adopted? [later] Ahsoka, to Hera: Should we be concerned about the number of questionable figures trying to take in Sabine? Hera, having Maul flashbacks: Trust me. It could be a lot worse.

Sabine: You need to go to the Living Waters? Yeah I know where that is, I can take you. Din: That's a relief. Otherwise I was going to go ask Bo-Katan about them. Sabine: Oh? Let's ask her anyway. I'm totally down to bother Bo-Katan. Any time, any day. Kalevala HERE WE COME-

Din: While I appreciate your modifications to IG-12, Sabine, I'm not so sure about the words you've added. Grogu, delightedly smacking his new button: KRIFF. KRIFF. KRIFF. KRIFF. KRIFF.

Din: You had me at 'battle droids.' Sabine, giggling: yOu HaD mE aT 'BaTtLe DrOiDs'

Sabine, watching Din make his 'your song is not yet written' speech: This is sooo much better than the holodramas. Axe Wolves, side-eyeing her: You don't get out much, do you? Sabine: Nope. Want some popcorn?

.....ANYWAY, my point is, Sabine gets dragged into All The Mandoverse Shenanigans. Which is pretty funny on its own, right? But it gets better.

Because it just so happens that Din is on Lothal with Grogu when Ahsoka shows up with the map. and he kinda just....gets pulled along for the ride. So then HE'S in the AHSOKA show, mostly just trying to make sure Sabine doesn't do anything crazy, following her when she does it anyway, and being confused about Everything. Which lends itself to additional hilarity--

Din: Nightsisters? I heard they were witches. Ahsoka: They are. Din, internally: Oh my manda, I finally KNEW something!

Din: The evil Jedi are chasing us! Sabine: They're not Jedi! Din: They're not? But they have laser swords like you! Ahsoka: There's still a difference! Din: What difference? Ahsoka: Jedi use the Light side! These are Dark side users! Din: There are different sides of your sorcery??

[Sabine and Ezra reunite] Din: I'm so glad you finally found your husband, Sabine. Sabine: Ezra: Din: The crabs: *start gossiping* Sabine: He's... he's not my... husband... Din, confused: But you've clearly been living the Mandalorian marriage vows? One when together, one when apart, sharing all... Sabine: Yeah, no, that's- that's just coincidence. Din: Hold on. You live in his house, and you keep all his things, and you refuse to leave Lothal for more than a week or two at a time because it makes you miss him too much- Sabine: *makes stop talking gesture* Din: -and you gaze lovingly at the enormous mural you've painted of him, and you left everything behind the second you knew you had a chance to save him, and as far as I can tell, you've been utterly devoted to him since the moment he disappeared ten years ago- Sabine: *stop talking gestures intensify* Ezra: Wait, Sabine, is this true? Din: -and you're telling me you two aren't married? Sabine:

[oddheadd]

Frostbite °• : ⁠｡ - Chapter II

Wendigo/Skinwalker x Reader

CW: Gore, animal deaths. The religion is made up and in no way do I intent to offend anyone, please don't read if such subjects trigger you.

I stare at my laptop screen, wanting to bang my head against the wall as I observe the blank page.

Yesterday I actually managed to fall asleep. The tapping didn't continue, but that's probably more disturbing. I would've brushed it off as the quirk of the cabin, but it was so random.

I sigh and close the laptop, lazily lifting myself off the couch and deciding to make myself another cup of coffee. I go outside and sit on the porch, drinking the steaming, bitter liquid. I watch the forest and I feel it drawing me in.

I keep watching the hypnotizing sway of the trees with the gentle wind, before I bring the now empty cup into the house and head out again, walking straight into the forest.

I wonder if it's still there.

As a child, I'd always wander into the forest, making mud pies, finding big sticks and hopefully searching for the animals. In my child, naive mind I thought I'd hop on their backs and they'd take me away into the wonderland.

Then I saw it... Not a cute, big eyed, furry animal, but the monstrously enormous monastery. What once used to be a praying space was then broken down and abandoned. And despite my fear, I went in.

The walls were painted with blood, carcasses of small animals hung loosely from the ceiling... In the very edge of the room, what I assume a recently killed deer was hung on the wall, its body was cut from it's neck to it's stomach, as if showing off it's insides.

I ran home crying and mom never brought me here after that. I assume it was something ritualistic. I shouldn't have wondered into the 17-19th century broken down catholic church anyways.

I sigh and kick around in the snow.

Looking down I see something. I furrow my brows and lean down, looking at what I assume is a deer footprint.

Then I hear shuffling behind me. I immediately turn around and-

"Oh, hi..." - A man waves at me awkwardly. He has dark hair with a matching pair of almond shaped eyes. Lashes, longer than my own rest on his eyelids under his thick brows. His hair is a little overgrown and he has a bit of stubble. He's wearing warm clothes and there's a hunting rifle in his left hand.

"Ah- You scared me." - I chuckle sheepishly.

"Sorry." - He smiles. - "What are you doing here?"

"...Taking a walk, I guess?"

"All alone? These woods are dangerous." - He furrows his brows a little.

"Really? I used to play in here all the time when I was a child..."

"You live here?" - He tilts his head and rests the rifle on the snowy ground.

"Not really, me and my family used to come here in summer. Now I'm here to uh, work, I guess?"

He smiles again. - "I just moved a few months ago."

I eye his rifle. - "You like hunting?"

"I hunt for food." - He corrects me. He then gives me his free hand to shake, and I do so. - "...Nathan."

"Y/N. You said the forest is dangerous? I've only seen deer so far..."

"Wolves." - He answers Shortly. - "But yes, there are lots of deer in here. Check this out," - He comes closer and leans down, pointing at the footprints I was observing before. - "I've never seen a footprint of a deer that big. If I manage to catch it, I won't have to hunt for a few weeks, maybe even a month. I swear to God I've been trying to hunt it down for days." - He sighs.

"Oh wow." - I tilt my head. - "Hunting seems intense."

"It's not as hard if you know the basics. Just long... And I'm impatient." - He chuckles. - "I could show you."

He looks at me with a smile and I find it hard to decline his offer. I smile back and nod.

We walk for a while, getting to know each other. He then lays down behind a fallen log and motions for me to do the same. We wait for a while and then two deer walk into our view. Nathan looks at me and brings his finger to his lips to hush me.

It all happens fast, there's a bang and the deer falls as the other runs away. Nathan gets up and approaches it. "You gotta be humane when you kill them, try aiming where it would have vital organs so it dies fast."

I hesitantly follow him. I look at the deers hooves and only then do I realize the huge difference between these and the footprints I saw earlier. The footprints were three, if not four times bigger.

I start to get bad vibes from this. - "...Have you seen big deer before?"

Nathan looks at me with a puzzled expression. - "Huh?"

"You said the footprints we saw earlier were big." - I say and sit on the nearby rock. - "You see them often?"

"...Not really."

"That's... Disturbing." - I sneer.

Nathan grins. - "Why, you worried for me?"

I snort. - "No, I'm worried for myself. I live on the edge of the forest." - I joke and he chuckles.

"It's totally a deer, I'm sure nothing to worry about." - He shrugs and starts tying the rope around the dead animal. - "If you're too worried, though..."

He stands up straight and approaches me, placing his hands on the rock, trapping me in-between. - "I could give you my number."

I chuckle and he backs up. - "The service is shitty but we can text. I don't like calls anyways."

"Okay." - I grin and he smiles. I write my number in my notepad, tearing the paper out and giving it to him after.

"You should go now, it's getting dark. Want me to walk you?"

I shrug. - "Nope. Just lead me towards the main path and I'll return myself." - I instruct him.

The walk home isn't too long, and I find myself attracted to the man as he waves at me. I walk into the cabin and sigh, happy to be embraced by warmth.

Then the deer footprints float up into my mind and I feel uneasy. How can Nathan be so calm? The deer is probably humongous, why? Is it a type of anomaly?

My worries wash away as my phone buzzes and I see a text from an unknown number.

"So you live on the edge of the forest? If you see a seven foot deer, text me asap ;P"

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

36 - Wolves of the Past and Back

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 18k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, graphic descriptions of gore and violence, references to past rape, sexual trauma, smut, past character death

Notes: I'm basing my description of the Others off of the books, but it's perfectly fine if you envision them as the White Walkers from the show. It's just my own stylistic preference. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

Nothing of the orders seemed as if it would lead to anything different. Black dyed fur sat warm around their persons as the same colour matched all the rest they wore, but it wouldn't be warm for long, not as they travelled. All sat atop a horse each as the jarring loud rise of the gate blared before them. The tunnel as it always was, stood dark, long and shivering in the air even despite the North beyond. As if the wind trapped inside as the gate opened never allowed it any warmth.

Finally as the men all waited for the second gate to rise, Will could only wonder how long this time would take. Some rangers would come back with whispers of strange happenings, some didn't even think twice of it, and it was always difficult to tell who was spinning stories from fear, and who was fearful from the things they truly had seen. As the three men had begun to move along the woods, nothing was out of the ordinary. Just snow and cold, and nothing within sight for far too long in far too chill of air.

But it was then which him alone which saw it, a plume of smoke. Nothing was around it, no signs of life or attack and there was not much in these closer parts that they could hide so well in. But climbing off the horse, Will saw nothing strange, but still approached as careful as he knew to be.

As he slowly descended on the small cliff side, he braced himself for whatever was waiting and yet, it wasn't them. Well, it was the wildlings, but not the way Will thought they would be spotted.

The bodies were frozen solid, many parts cut and severed brutally as they all sat formed on the ground which each body part stripped bare to the cold. Sat in the middle formed a large circle, with bodies straight down the middle of it and beyond with more body parts scattered across the end of it. Multiple spots on specific edges sat heads perched onto spikes whereas torsos, legs, and arms sat on the snow alone.

Whatever shock came from that sight, was tenfold to the sight of a young girl with large orange curls pinned dead and frozen to a tree, and it was what startled Will to run back to his horse.

Ser Waymar Royce hadn't actually worked to deserve the authority he was given, or the attitude he spoke with. He had only been at the Wall half a year. The youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs and he was dressed fancier, spoke fancier and looked down at both there, as Will returned to him and Gared to speak of what he had seen. “What'd you expect? They’re savages. One lot steals a goat from another lot and before you know it, they’re ripping each other to pieces.”

The thicker accent which spoke back looked at him with an ingidnance, and a searing startle that made him come off more angry then perhaps intended. “I've never seen wildlings do a thing like this. I’ve never seen a thing like this, not ever in my life.” Asking how close Will had gotten, he looked at Royce as if that was a ridiculous question. “Close as any man would.”

Gared spoke up next, “We should head back to the wall. It'll be night soon.”

But Royce only raised an eyebrow with a glint in his eye as mocking as his tone. “Yes, it does that everyday around this time. Don't tell me, do the dead frighten you?”

Gared was a brother who had spent forty years at the wall, he was not a man accepting to be made light of, but there was something else. A nervous tension coming close to fear that was felt not only in one man alone. There was an edge to the cold and darkness falling upon them, the cold blowing from far North had grown strong and stronger so with each passing hour out here.

The elder man though, tried to hold firm in his certainty. “Mormont's orders were for us to track the wildlings. We tracked them. Won't trouble us no more.”

But that was not going to stand with this present commander, not in his arrogant youth which hadn't learned a single lesson in his time. He was a highborn with a Ser attached to his name and spent many years of his life being handed things the moment he pulled such arrogance out. He cared more, Will suspected, for how it would look if he were to return, not the integrity of the task given. “You don't think he'll ask us how he died? Get back on your horse.”

Will only tried one last plea. “Whatever did it to them could do it to us. They even killed the children.”

Royce, once more, looked but entirely condescending. “It’s a good thing we’re not children. You want to run away south, run away. Of course, they will behead you as a deserter. If I don’t catch you first. Get back on your horse. I won’t say it again.”

They had moved as Will returned, his other two bothers at his backs. Moved perhaps, on their own or of something else. But there were no men left to show them, and thus, Royce had the three of them look the area, seek out where they could've gone.

But it felt dark, too dark and too cold. It felt wrong. The wind rustled and the trees blew so freezing it drew attention between all three, but just as Royce looked to Gared asking why he seemed to fearful of such wind, did it stand. The wind blew and so did the trees rustle, but Royce never heard a thing.

The Others made no sound.

Only when Will could see what happened from where he stood, and the wind blow so cold it almost froze him to the spot, did he see her. The little girl stood in a clearing, skin pale and deathly, but her eyes a glowing blue and so like Gared who ran for his own, Will did as well. Ran and ran and if something, or somethings chased after the two men, they did not know. Even though it felt as if many things were behind them.

Going until Will came across Gared who was as terrified across the way. It was so cold.

It came from behind Gared, standing taller then any man he'd ever met. It looked somehow gaunt and yet it's skin was also smooth as if a soft ice, and pale as milk in flesh. In the freezing winds, it's armour seemed to change colour with every step it took, looking like the sky rippling across water but in the trees and dark to match around it.

On silent feet it moved forward, the blade it rose looked as if it was made of moonlight. A shard of crystal ice that almost vanished if looking at it from the edged blade alone. Like the Others itself, its blade seemed to almost glow a tint of blue that made it stand out.

The one, two, three, five of them all emerged around the woods, as the one behind Gared rose the glowing ice and sliced through his neck with such an elegant stroke it looked as if not a shred of effort had been made. But then the one holding his head looked at Will, and as more of them came closer to did the ranger feel shock and numb, falling to his knees. Slamming him into the cold to whatever fate held, such terror was strong.

The Other opened its mouth to speak as freezing and dark came around, but it spoke in a language he did not know. It's voice sounding like the crackling of ice on a winter lake.

Only as they approached, did he look back up at them and the hand of milk white reached out to grasp, kill, take, whatever intended, did it stop. Glowing blue eyes like something of another world peered into Will's as if searching beyond the eyes looking, and it found them.

Pulling back, he and all the Others yelled out in a loud crackling of ice.

As the eyes of a shaggy haired boy, barley in his teen years watched, he knew that the men, Gared and Ser Waymar Royce had seen a ranger named Will.

The boy however, wasn't like them, not anymore. He could see the eyes behind Will. He was learning how to do it, move as if travelling alongside whatever gazing into the past the boy was doing.

But he also realized, the Others could see the person behind Will too. Despite approaching the man with intent, the boy watcher to the side knew that they only backed off, left him alive, beacuse they too, could see the dark hair, green eyed Baratheon girl behind them.

The Others didn't harm you, but the boy watching it all, didn't know why.

Bright the surroundings of the North looked as snow blanketed everywhere you went now. It was always beautiful, but not quite easy to see in summer, as the land didn't look as light and colourful as much against the dim sunlight it received. But against snow and ice, the sun now radiated off the brightness of the winter and lit the air around for all to see perfect in that morning hour.

When he found you, Jon knew your eyes looking around weren't where you and him stood. Your mind was elsewhere, and the white that covered them looked almost what he knew now, was what one looks like when warging. But you weren't a warg at all, and yet you still stood there eyes white and mind stolen elsewhere. But if your physical person were before him? Why did you look so much colder then even the air around you both?

Freezing air leaving your lips with a shiver as many would once the far North winds blew, but it was odd as nothing else but just your skin felt it. Each time before, you were able to be pulled out of it either by touch or a voice close to you in the present world but this time, neither party present could do it. Ghost  was in front of you, barking and growling when he had tracked you. The direwolf would turn to look aggressively in defence elsewhere but not find anything which was a threat.

Jon had tried calling your name, but you didn't react. By the time you had stopped, it was like you were still as a statue as the expression on your face with white eyes, looked terrified. Grabbing you by the arms was when he realized you were almost so cold your lips tinted blue. Moving so he could pull you back into his chest, while Ghost had whined and stepped up closer to your front and as if protecting you from something.

You grew colder and colder by terrifyingly quick seconds passed, until you blinked.

Your eyes focused on the world before you, tilting your head down to see Ghost before you started to properly shiver, being turned to face that which was behind you. Gloved hands grasped your cheeks and tilted you up, your eyes meeting Jons wide, grey ones full of a concern and filtering in fear. His eyes scoured you over, almost debating if asking about you being alright, but he knew the answer was no.

Instead, he ran a hand down your hair and pulled you in so he could almost hide you when wrapping more of the fur around him, to drape across you. Your hands found his waist as you spoke none, you rarely did for a few minutes when coming back.

Ghost looked around the area to find none of what he previously sensed before too walking up to the side of you both. His great size meaning as he moved to nuzzle his head into your side, his own fur was tall and warm enough it helped sooth you. You had something warm loose on you before and you didn't know when you lost it.

Likely you thought, eyes slipped closed as you leaned into Jons comforting and warm embrace, it fell from you when you, or whomever your eyes watched through, began to run. Running from the crystal blue glowing eyes. First it was fire, then you would see this, that, them, her, and now you were seeing what your dreams showed you, only now it was so much more real before your vision.

Jon's visions were nothing like this. You knew that, he was seeing both sights at once. He could see the world and he would see you and never be confused or lost as to who or where he was. You, were utterly gone from your mind when this happened. And your reactions were only growing more vivid.

Your voice muffled against his warm chest when you finally found a voice. “I don't suppose saying this is only stress, would be an acceptable explanation would it?”

Jon both tensed, and then sighed out a mixture of frustration and an on edge level of amusement. He tucked your face more into his neck, and you wondered if this was to comfort you, help warm you, or what you suspected Jon wasn't saying, was that maybe his reactions to this were getting more concerned.

Jon was trying to not tell you how much this was scaring him.

Maybe it was the sights you saw this time especially, and you wished you could be scared of your own mind. But you weren't. What scared you, was the black charred bones of a small Ghiscari girl named Hazzea, and the tall, looming nightmare that moved to crowd you as a group of five of those things came for you. Came, and yet, as it reached out to grasp you, it pulled back.

Pulled back and almost let out what their voices of a yell could sound like, which was as if someone cracked a shattering of ice inside your eardrums directly. They pulled back from you all suddenly at that, and just as you sighed out almost so terrified you had no feelings left in your heart, you were in a very different snowy woods.

The rangers out there were tracking wildlings. Wildlings which were no longer North, and out there on the orders of a Lord Commander that had been dead for years. You couldn't help but wonder, if the visions showing you the silver haired Targaryean were too in the past. But that wasn't possible. Any dream or vision you or Jon once held, always was based in the now. You saw things as they occurred even if you didn't then realize. You had seen each other that way, two visions accidentally finding each other and you somehow saw the other.

But this was far in the past, these now dead rangers. Or, at least, two. What happened to the one you saw through, Will, once they left you did not know. But if that fear in your heart now was shared with him, you wondered if he had found it in himself to try and run. If you were him then, you might try and desert that cause as well. Looking into their eyes as if they were truly right in front of you?

Part of you could feel the edge of Longclaws pommel, and you could only think to yourself that Jon was truly a man made of something entirely different. To have fought one, survived one, and killed one and yet he so determined led the true fight against them without letting that terror over take him. Beacuse it felt like it wanted to strangle you.

Pulling back, you shivered still, the cold of the winter air now seeping into your skin. Some of your body was warm, but you knew Jon was looking at the tints of blue still sat upon your lips you were so cold. His hands ran up and down your upper arms as he looked the rest of you over. Quiet for a good moment, he likely was keeping it inside until his voice could speak as steady as it did when he finally grasped the words to let out. “If you aren't with me, or with your guard, I'm having Ghost stay by your side from now on.”

Tilting your head, the ease of a protest slipped your lips, “Jon I can't ask-”

But he shook his head, a gloved hand rising up up cup your cheek and let the leather covering his thumb run along your cold lips. His brows furrowed as his voice dropped so you knew the frustration was there. “I know you didn't ask. This is a command. I don't want you alone anymore while this keeps getting worse.” You swallowed your words right back down your throat instead of arguing. The brightness in his eyes was not endearing, it was full of blatant worry. “You had almost gotten two miles away before Ghost caught up with you. I won't order you to stay only inside the castle walls, but I don't want you out here on your own right now.”

Nodding, you found no strength in you to protest. Nor did you really want to, it was his command and that was the end of it. Your cold, ungloved hands reached up, just enough that your shaking fingertips trailed over the direwolf etched into the dark leather across his torso. His eyes curious as they watched you as your voice came out hesitant, but affectionately soft in muttering. “You're still wearing the sigil.”

Not looking, you missed the way Jons face twitched almost to smother the conflict only as it passed for a second, but much more comfortingly landed on a softness, as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes with the thumb already at the side of your face. “House Stark is still my fathers house.” Your heart wanted to melt down into the snow at your feet at the ease he spoke. More of a whisper, he treaded the water that he had been avoiding before. “You told me the truth, and I took this all out on you for it. You didn't deserve that.”

The words of sorry were about to come from his mouth when you shook your head, letting one cold hand of yours run along the facial hair covering part of his jaw as you whispered back. “You were upset, that isn't your fault.” Jon trying to say different, that he had yelled at you but you took him off guard, your lips half finding a gentle smirk. “This is, what? Only the second time we've ever had any sort of fight, in nearly two decades of knowing one another? Not anything worth demanding a sorry for, not with you.”

Jon that time sighed out almost pretending to be more frustrated then he really was. Both hands now moving to cup your cheeks as he leaned down, his lips brushing over your blueish slowly warming ones. “Why do you make apologizing so difficult?” His lips were gentle, just a warm press that almost seemed to intent to bring the pink tones back to your lips proper.

You were both dancing around what happened just now, and that was how you knew for sure it was Jon which was scared the most. He would protect you, but maybe he wasn't ready to ask more about it. So you let him keep your lips pressed to his, until you felt shimmers of warm seep back into your bones.

A good while passed before he left one more kiss to your lips. “Come on, before the rest of them wake  up and start searching for us both.”

Sam sat in a disbeleif, eyes looking back over to Jon before returning to the fire they sat around as the morning was still early and quite bright. “I mean I knew he hated you, but this is different.” Jon had to tell Sam the truth, but at the least you could tell it was easier to swallow after spending a number of hours sleeping on the truth of what happened.

Jon had you sitting right by his side, but this time your distant mind wasn't that which was distracted. A drift of your gaze over to where Beric Dondarrian and Thoros of Myr were tied and kept. What Jon did with the others he had not told you, said it was best if you left it for him to handle as he prompted you away the night before. Nor did you know how he came to the conclusion to take those two with him, but you never once questioned or doubted his intentions.

All he had said for now, was that they had more to offer then nothing at all, but it didn't mean Jon was going to be kind about it. Already knowing there were to be two cells which would make home for them until he had the time to deal with it. But it was the way in which Thoros kept looking at you.

Your eyes would meet and you'd narrow them and peel back glaring towards the fire only to find Gendry's with more spite in the same intention. You didn't blame him.

Jon beside you spoke low even in the mostly private space in the packing up camp. “Said it was for the Watch. What all of them said. Think he wanted to do it for a while, I just gave him an excuse.” You knew both men flickered their gaze to you, but you ignored them as your eyes found the fire once more. You still felt unusually cold.

They had been dancing around the subject of how he was alive, likely sensing that Jon didn't want to talk about it as much as you didn't. “I imagine he probably couldn't believe he was going to die before someone like me.” Jon tilted his head at Sam, almost imploring him not to find a reason to run back down that route of insecurity. It was difficult not to when discussing Thorne. “What about..”

Sam's voice trailing off as you knew he was asking about anyone else who did it. For only a moment, did you know Jon felt you stiffen beside him. Your own gaze flickering up to meet where Theon was standing not too far off before swallowing. Turning back to the fire intently.

Jon luckily, was skilled at laying it out as diplomatically as he could while also holding a deep, rough tone as he started with the blatant truth. “I hanged Yarwick and Marsh.” You glanced up to see a bit of taken back surprise in Sams head as it jolted a bit. “They were the only two other then Thorne to help actually shove a knife in my chest.”

You hadn't blinked, eyes stinging a bit at keeping that certain information out of it. Theon, then Olly? And now you couldn't help but wonder, were you not there, what would Jon have felt compelled to do with the Brotherhood. Perhaps death truly had made you soft. Or weak. You supposed that distinction depended on who you asked. It was hard to tell if you made Jon worse for it too.

Once more your eyes found that similar to Gendry's. Only that time, both men were watching back. Perhaps not at him, but certainly at you, and you felt an unpleasant shake creeping down your spine  before you looked away again. Finding Gendry's, you knew he felt frustrated that they were even coming along despite their position as prisoners. A small shake of your head as you almost looked a bit narrow eyed trying to implore him to let it go for now.

There was enough problems around, none wanted the return to Winterfell to be full of more strife then was about to exist anyways. Sam's voice caught both your attentions back, fighting between focus and something in your mind desperate for things to just slow down or stop. Too much kept happening all at once and you were struggling to keep up. “I suppose its easier to get more people to listen to you if your a King then Lord Commander.”

There was a small huff in Jon beside you, as if a doubting laugh almost poked through. “Believe me, Sam. Doesn't make it any easier. No one thinks we're telling the truth in the first place.” Sam pointing out that Stannis had believed them, but Jons tone only grew deeper and more frustrated. “I'm starting to think he's the only one who will.”

Your voice was more of a quiet mutter, your arms slinking more into the cloak around you trying to hide from the cold that existed only in you still. “Most of us in the South don't even think The Long Night happened.” Eyes all turning to you, but you only shrugged as your voice didn't raise any further. “There isn't any proof it happened, so most of us grew up thinking Northerners are superstitious for even believing in it.”

The hope in Sams eyes however, was what surprised you. “But we do have proof.” Your brows narrowed as did Jons, prompting him to explain himself. “Well, not proof, but as close as I could find. It's..it's why I was coming back North. I know you sent me there to replace Maester Aemon one day-”

No one but Jon knew it, but as Sam continued, he felt something almost painful stir in his chest. A feeling Jon never once had to confront, it didn't mean the same thing then. He didn't think about it, what that line traced back to who. He didn't want to, he didn't want to look at them the way Jon did the Starks, they didn't deserve it. But maybe there was one who did deserve his memory.

Those people weren't Jons family, but Jon thought to himself, he and Maester Aemon still served together in the Nights Watch. And those men are still his family, his brothers. It was all confusing in his head, and for once he almost missed everything Sam had been saying. Ironically, you had to be the one to listen and respond for him as his mind drifted, when lately that was Jons job for your sake.

It was your responding voice that pulled him back to the present, you sensing Jon suddenly shifting beside you despite the past few minutes him being still as stone. “Why keep them a secret?”

Sitting up straighter on the wood you were all perched on around the fire, the slow creeping feeling of a gloved hand trailing along your back fell upon you. Jons hand reaching around you to rest against the wood at the side of your hip, for a single moment you almost tried to move away.

All of this speak of Robb so strongly the night before, and it was likely your mind had ever so briefly associated Jons touch with something kept for the secret or dark. Neither Theon nor Gendry noticed, or cared. But you did see Sams eyes glance down and almost look back between you with eyes just a bit brighter that you tried to ignore.

His voice a mock whisper, leaning forward a bit to you. “I mean, our ancestors weren't very nice to theirs, were they?” His head nodding a bit towards Jon. “Makes sense they would lock it away, if they think the First Men were all wild and superstitious. And like you said, most of us all think it's just stories. So there's no need to look at them if they aren't real.”

Almost in a tinge of amusement, Jon spoke much more dry as his face twisted up in a playful jest. “You do remember I sent you there to learn to be a Maester. Did you do any learning in between all this?” Sam and Jon both shared an easy look, the more you were around them both the more that it really did feel as if Sam was as good as a true brother to Jon. It felt good, seeing someone that so naturally brought out some of Jon's lightness with ease.

Protesting in his own mocking offence, “I did, spent my day busy with my tasks. It just meant I had to do a lot of sneaking around and reading at night.” Relenting to more serious but still within a memory that acted to entertain. “If we thought being stewards was messy work..” Shaking his head with a flash of something minorly disgusted in his eye. “Try being assigned latrine duty for a whole wing full of sick people. Made being at the wall feel like a privilege.”

A laugh shared between them, but you guided it, perhaps a bit stilted, back to the question in your mind. “So is that why you came here? You found these old texts and what they say?”

Multiple eyes turned to Sam, as he thought carefully his choice of words likely due to the number of people simply around. “I haven't been through a lot of it, mostly I just figured out a way to translate it but it takes time and, if we don't have much time before..” Before they come, was what you knew he wanted to say. “Then I can't spend only a few hours every night looking them over in secret. If the answers are in those runes-”

Jon finished for him, stern and focused back in his eyes. “Then we need to know what they say as soon as we can.” Sam nodded as Jon begun already to make plans in his head. “When we get back, I can find you a place to work in the castle, our Maester will help you.”

Sam almost grimaced, catching Jons questioning gaze. Sighing out, the man spoke a bit on the side of down trodden. “Don't know if he'll believe the things I tell him. I tried asking the Archmaester if there was anything on the Long Night in the library, and he only told me it would do me good to be a bit more skeptical about what Northerners say.”

In opposite stances, Jon was much more certain and sure of his own words. “Maester Wolkan's smart, you can trust him. And believe me, he's seen enough not to doubt that what we're up against is real.” Silent in you own words, but you knew the scar under yourself was the first in that line of abnormal things.

Just to the side, it was Gendry who leaned over to Theon with a whisper, “Am I the only person here who has no idea what they're talking about?”

Pushing up from where he leaned against a tree, he came more around to sit somewhat next to him with a quiet but much more casual air of his tone. “The Long Night was real, winter is coming and we're all going to die.”

Raising an eyebrow at him with a incredulous look that notably reminded Theon of the exact same kind of look you would give him when annoyed. “Okay, now can I hear the version that's not for children?”

It shouldn't have surprised any, how quickly you found yourself moving right back into things almost the second your feet were on the ground. You didn't want any decorum upon riding through the Winterfell gates and there was far too much to do. But it did strike some, the natural way you and Jon worked around each other in harmony, as if little needed to be said to be on the same page.

You once more avoided the look in Maege Mormont's eyes, you had the entire journey back. There had been no indication when you reunited that there was a thing between yourself and Jon, then once more you leave to Dragonstone and the eve of your return, you and him marry. Many were happy, and none vocalized any discontent, but you knew she had questions upon questions. None of which you were ready to answer.

You could talk to Jon and Theon about Robb, but talking about him to the rest of the very people he fought side by side with was another. Theon said no one cares what you and Jon do together, but it didn't stop the swirling pit of doubt fester in your stomach over it.

Lady Stoneheart had accused you of just being a whore there to warm Jons bed. And maybe, you were terrified, that those were not the words of a vengeful creature with no humanity. You were terrified, those were words spat out by what of Catelyn Stark had remained. She was a mother to you, you loved her son, you didn't want what was left of her to doubt that. Nor the rest of your people. Not wanting those words to match another dead voice tormenting your new life. Not wanting her voice to watch what Ramsay had said to you, what he made you believe.

Not too long in your return, did you feel Jons hand brushing against your lower back as he led you inside the castle from the hustling noise of people upon your return. Most here knew what was expected of them, and whatever reunions were to occur around, would be done without you for now.

“You have never seen them do that, why start now or..whenever I-” Your hands dropped from their position, landing with a thud on the drawers below you as you took a steady breathe until the words found themselves without a stutter. Moving back as you did, trying to slowly work through the now wet strands of your hair before they dried. “They want people like us for their army, why let one ranger go free after hunting them all?”

Jon had been quiet while you told him what you had seen. Silently letting you make your way through the whole tale as he had ensured your skin and hair were scrubbed gentle and clean from the days you had been gone. His voice only speaking in low murmurs in your ear when he had directed you out of the water. Telling you to stay put, quickly throwing something on for himself before moving to grab something warm for you to wear.

Naturally, you had thrown on a shift to hide the sight, and stubbornly made your way to the small mirror and worked to handle your hair before it became too much of a hassle. Mostly thinking out loud trying to work out what in the vision you saw made little sense to you.  It was only as you suddenly felt Jons warmth envelop your back, his hands pulling your hair from where you had it in your own hands. Collecting it himself without second thought as he took over for you instead.

You both glanced to the reflection to see the other trying to avoid a smirk at how both of you were too stubborn for your own good, before you let him just do it. His voice low as he concentrated behind you. “If it was in the past, could be long ago enough that they were still working slow. The free folk said things only started to get worse years ago.”

Nails finding your lip to tap along in thought, unsure if you could even gauge what these things could possible have wanted anyways. “Or none of it was real, and I am simply losing my mind.”

You felt Jons hands pause before continuing to run a comb through the locks, “You're not losing your mind.” Raising an eyebrow with an ask of how he would know that, Jon exhaled almost with a tone with a tinge of nerves behind them. “When Ghost found you, it was like he was trying to look for something. As if he could sense something was there, when it wasn't. And the only times I've seen him like that..”

Slipping your eyes closed with a sharp exhale, you felt yourself digging your nails into your lips, moving them off by force only to have nothing to occupy them with. Falling lamely against the wooden surface before you. “So, he what? Could sense what I was seeing, wherever I even was?”

Jon's face grimaced in an unsure thought, setting the comb aside as you felt him moving the strands around for whatever style he saw fit to look at on you which he liked. Noting silently in his own mind, that he loved how often you simply let him choose for you. “He was the only reason I was there to kill the wight that night in Castle Black. He knew something was wrong right away, and it was the same this time. Only, he couldn't figure out why he thought you were in danger.”

You wanted to avoid the worried softness in his voice, but he wouldn't let you, almost standing a bit closer then before as one hand dropped down to your waist. Sliding gently along to pull you back into him as the other draped your hair along the other shoulder. Keeping that hand closer to the back of your neck as if somewhat massaging the tense muscles there.

Your hands finally found their place, pushing up his sleeve just enough you could gently wrap your hands around his wrist and forearm comfortingly. His voice lulling near your ear. “If it was all in your head, you shouldn't have been freezing like that when we found you.” Only in the halls of Winterfell did you start to feel any warmth returning to you, like it was a cold that seeped deep inside. “You were cold like you were right there with them.”

Leaning back, you both felt the heavy air between at the uncertainty. First fire, then ice, and in between a scattering of your own memories flying through you to haunt. “It felt like I was right there. I had no idea I was- I didn't even feel myself. It was like I was just seeing and thinking through this persons mind without any idea who I was anymore.”

“Maybe you weren't yourself.” Brows furrowing in confusion, Jon moved the hand on your neck down to your waist. Running up and down, dragging around the shift that was currently your only covering in the airy breeze of his room. You felt not much of it against his warmth. “Your eyes were white until you came back.”

Neither needed to elaborate. You both knew from two what that seemed to mean. Only, you weren't doing that at all. You weren't really in control, you were just this person until you weren't. The silence though, it almost felt on the edge of too overwhelming the longer it went on. If Jon could hear your heart racing, or the growing unsettled illness in your chest, it only made his grip tighter.

Swallowing harshly, you tried finding the strain of a voice, “Jon..” But he shook his head, the hand around your front moved up. Tilting you by your jaw to the side so Jon could more rest you against the side of his, keeping the hand there gently running along what his thumb could reach.

Something more was trying to get out, but you just stood there with him. Patient for it to find it's way into the air between you. When it did, his voice was but a rasping whisper as he could barley find it in him to pull away long enough to meet your eyes. Ending up only shifting slightly as if just nuzzling closer instead.

“We need to stop doing this.” You hummed in confusion, but Jon just let the hand on your waist take over what his other did. Wrapping around your front and pulling you back into him more as he spoke. “Ever since I came back, it's like we can't go a week before something gets between us. I- I'm constantly terrified I'm going to lose you again, but I can't do any of this without you.”

One of your hands reached behind, gently running through his own still somewhat damp curls as if to keep him just as close. “I'm-”

“Don't.” Taking you off guard, like Jon wanted to be stern but it only came off in somewhat of a crack before he just let that vulnerability open up. “Don't say sorry, none of this was your fault.”

Your whisper would have been missed were he not as close as he was. “I think you're wrong.” If you thought he was going to let you pull away, you were mistaken. His grip strong and knowingly holding you right in place when you attempted to step away from him. He wanted you to explain yourself while in his embrace, which was as clever as it was unfair. “Every step of the way we've either stopped talking or been separated, has been beacuse I did something, or I screwed up. All I do is cause you stress, and force you to worry about me, when you have so many more important things to focus on.”

Heart going from racing to stopping in an instant, Jon said something you didn't at all expect. “Maybe it's me. You never had problems like this when it was Robb you were with.”

Your head fall back as much as he could allow, leaning as much into him as you could despite his tight grip. Voice a quiet tone despite the tear in your heart. Maybe you and Jon were experiencing similar insecurities without the other realizing, you wondered. The fact that he even remotely could think to compare himself to Robb, you never wanted that. You didn't want either of them comparing to the other. “What did I tell you in White Harbour?”

He was silent, and so you continued, but you knew he remembered it. “I told you, there are no conditions to loving you. That was true then, and it is now. And I don't want you trying to compare this, to what I had with Robb. You aren't him, I'm not with you to feel like I'm back with Robb. I'm with you beacuse I love you. And before you say it, yes I am aware of how hypocritical this sounds.”

The chuckle behind you started deep, and only increased as Jon almost playfully let his face drop in between your shoulder and neck to laugh. Only pulling back to press a kiss there, feeling the smile on his lips. “It's very hypocritical of you.” You and Jon both relaxing in his amused tone.

Finally though, he let you turn to face him. Your palms finding his chest flat, the shirt on him only managed it seemed to get on but not at all done up. Sliding them down to his scars did for once, your face not twist in a pain looking at them. It felt weird to think, but you almost missed them. Sliding them over his heart and one closer to the scar near his hip, your eyes shined bright as you looked up to his grey ones, finally looking warm and full.

Drifting up, one hand danced with the ends of his curls as the other draped along his shoulder under his shirt fabric. “We came back different then we used to be..I think maybe we need time to get used to being with the other like this.”

His large hands on your waist now before he cupped your cheek to lean in more, nose nudging gently against yours playfully. “You mean how now I'm the stern one and you're the emotional one?” He grinned as you almost laughed. Eyes fading to the side before rolling up to meet his with a faux look of offence that meant nothing. “I promised to take care of you, and I haven't been doing that. But I will from now on, no matter what. You're my wife now, I'm here to protect you. Even from me.”

Leaning up, you nudged his nose gently that time. Prompting him to tilt you to let him trace down the length of yours as you whispered. “You already take care of me, I should take care of you.” A bit of a pause, you added, “I don't want you to be perfect or think you have to live up to what I had with Robb. I was his, but now I'm yours. For good.”

It must have been more days apart then you thought, as Jon leaned in you both almost felt the kind of nerves that used to exist between you both so early on. But, this time you both closed the small gap. His hand on your cheek tight as yours at his shoulders were, his lips already will of a soft need as he pressed you gently into the drawers still behind you.

There was much to do, and far too many people to meet with but for now, you and Jon stayed right there. One of your hands moved to wrap around the back of his neck and returning to his curls. His kiss deepened, but was never with greed nor hunger. Just a steady coaxing for your lips to dance with his as long as you had the breathe to last.

And once that ran out, Jon gently pulled from your lips. Only a tinge of greed as he stole one more before pulling you into him, keeping you in a tight embrace. Your face tucked safe in his neck and his buried comfortingly in your hair. Neither of you knew how long you stayed like that, but you also didn't care.

Sometimes, it was going to have to just be about you two from this point on. You both sacrificed so much to get here, and what was that meaning or purpose if you let the other slip through your fingers time and time again?

It didn't fix the noise in your head, nor Jons, but at least your noises now hummed in mutual harmony.

Strangely, you  had never actually been down here for this sort of purpose. You had been in here when it was empty many years ago. It was in your first visit to Winterfell, and by then it was been a number of months and you were beginning to feel quite well adjusted. Which meant that a certain Stark had begun his quest to teach you the ancient tradition of sneaking around and getting into trouble.

Robb had asked if you ever have seen a dungeon before, and while you had on Dragonstone you admitted these ones were spookier. The Winterfell ones had not much light beyond torches hung along the walls, whereas the ones in your home still had light shining from the windows near sea level. He had begun to tell you stories, scary ones he'd heard from Old Nan until he watched you walk into an empty cell curious, and startled you into a shriek by slamming the gate shut.

As it turned out, he hadn't realized it would lock right away. It was the first time you'd ever heard Eddard Stark laugh, and certainly laugh that hard when he came down with Robb when he left to go get him to help. The sight of you sitting cross legged in the middle of a cell with an extremely Robert like scowl before he let you out.

Least to say, he had laughed even harder when you walked out and shoved Robb so hard he almost fell over. You had taken his seat at supper next to Jon that night, just to force him to sit in your further away spot alone. It took another two days for you to forgive him, when he had asked the bakers to make you a special batch of blueberry tarts and left them in a basket on your bed with but a note that said “Please talk to me again.”

Now though, you had intentions to speak to your newest guests. Part of you wished you could do so alone, but if you weren't going to convince Jon on it, you certainly weren't going to convince Theon. At least your pattern of finding yourself in dire situations had bonded them over something at the least, Theon already organizing a rotation of at least two guard with you, him being your primary captain of the guard when his time permits.

You had given him a look, asking “And what sort of guard is to be with the King exactly?”

But Theon shrugged with a knowing glint in his eye that he was purposely not telling the full truth just to annoy you. “Don't know. I'm captain of your guard, not his.” Only a roll of your eyes followed as he gestured you to continue forward. At least someone had maintained their sense of humour all this time.

Sat on separate walls not too distant from the other, Thoros and Beric had made themselves as comfortable as could be down here. Both eyes watching you closely as you made your way to the outside of the cell, arms crossed along your front with a flat look on yourself. Choosing to cut right to the chase you looked between them. “I presume you both understand why you're being kept here.”

Once more Thoros looked more curious, Beric more knowing as the later was the one who spoke. “Your life was put at risk, we can understand that.”

Your eyes narrowed, and for a few moments silent sat between you and them. Only your voice returned was quiet even in the empty dungeon. “You let good, innocent people die just to serve out a purpose that woman you follow, demanded. That does not make you ghosts who hide in the shadows to protect the common people. It only makes you murderers.”

His tone wasn't condescending, but you disliked it all the same. “What does waging war make you then, your grace? Because those same common people would say it makes you as bad as any murderer we've brought to justice.” The tense feeling swimming in you veins flooded only as you looked at Beric with a silent gaze that spoke little of your true irritation.

Your voice gave even less away in tone. “We did not go to war thinking it would be better for the realm during so. We did it because sitting back and letting the Lannisters rule would far more cruel for far longer then the years we spent forced to fight against it. Robb Stark never claimed he was a good man for declaring war, and neither do I.” Watching closely, you knew there was likely more he wasn't saying but he was good at keeping it tucked away. “Justice can be cruel, my lord. But only when you start enjoying that cruelty, do I think is a line which shouldn't be crossed. And the men you sent enjoyed killing those innocent people. My people.”

Thoros spoke up, quieter then you expected, but also much more calm and coherent then you many times knew before. “Suppose you would need to hang me first, make sure he can't come back.” You only rose an eyebrow, forcing one of them to elaborate in the silence you insisted on them. “Those men were hired under the behest of the Lady Stoneheart. It was not our choosing to send them to hunt you down like that-”

Your voice cut through louder then likely they had expected. “How did you know? Where to find me, how did they know I was in Barrowton? No one knew I was there.” They stared at the other, and you knelt down to meet their eye level through the bars as your voice felt more strained as did the blood flowing fast in your veins. “I would suggest telling me the truth, because the King in the North will not be anywhere near as kind or patient about it.”

If there was any sort of silver lining, it was that there was tone of regret found in Thoros which matched his unwillingness to look you in the eye. “I can't say from whom, I don't know, but the lady was being given information by an unknown source regarding yourself. They seemed to have an interest in you being in the North and I presume they knew she would want to know as well.” Asking who would even want to know where you were or where you had been going, Thoros gave an answer you felt a cold wave in your lungs hit as you heard. “Someone with enough watchful eyes in the North. Someone who would take issue with your involvement with your new King.”

That answer made much sense and yet very little. You knew spies were littered about Westeros and the North included but none led back to any who would have a single reason to guide a creature of vengeful blood thirst to your doors. Neither the North nor Jon meant anything to those you could think of, but looking between the men, it was as much as they knew as well.

There were dots you were missing, and eyes in your lands that didn't belong to the North. Neither you nor Jon had time to let spies watch and report to play into anothers distant games. “And you have no idea who would have known she was alive, or who would be able to get into contact with her?” Still the answer was no, and you had no inkling these two at least were lying over it.

Standing properly, you hadn't even turned away yet before it was Thoros who brought it up. “How did you bring him back? Your King.”

The stares between you both were something that left you feeling those same shivers even in the warmth from the underground. This time, no impatience or contempt was felt as you whispered in complete honesty. “I don't know.”

But the way Thoros looked, again you felt as if it was understanding. There was something that could be seen as kind behind his eyes as he spoke. “Do you know how I first came to discover the Lord of Light had chosen me to work through? That I could pray to raise him back?” Gesturing to Beric, who could only watch carefully.

Shaking your head, you stepped back a bit closer as he looked away lost in memory. “I was a priest in Myr. Sent to Westeros to spread the Lords reach. But I was terrible at it, I always was a terrible priest, and it only got worse here. Drank too much rum, and fucked every whore there was in Kings Landing and by the end of it all, I didn't even believe in him anymore. That he, that all the gods, were stories we told the children to make them behave. So I wore the robes and every now and then I'd recite the prayers, but it was just for show. A spectacle for the locals.”

It wasn't quite the same, but you knew of such a feeling. Not that they didn't exist, but you knew how it felt to be alone. Like whatever gods you prayed to had left you abandoned and no longer mattered to the world. A lot felt like that in the Dreadfort, and it only got worse with Ramsay. A demon sent to torture you, true genuine hell would be a mercy compared to what he did to you.

But Thoros looked to Beric, and there was an affection that was difficult to ascertain. Like there was something about whatever their dynamic was, that found of great importance as he continued. “Then The Mountain shoved a lance through this one's heart. I knelt beside his cold body and said the old words. Not because I believed in them, but he was my friend and he was dead. And they were the only words I knew. And for the first time in my life, the Lord replied. Then he did so, five times after.”

Your eyes had glazed over almost, much death flashing by your vision and none of it as he spoke. And yet he knew that, pointing to you from where he sat against the wall with a curiosity. “But you, your grace. You spoke no words, you performed no ceremony or ritual, but the Lord of Light gave you the power none should hold like that, and brought him back from your doing. He chose you to serve him.”

Heart pounding in your chest you could both feel the necklace sat under your dress, and the feeling against your palms of a phantom cold and tracing over what then was still fresh scars. Your voice was held back as your eyes stung. “I don't serve the Lord of Light. I serve the North, and I serve my King. That is all there is for me.”

But you hadn't gotten far, gesturing for the men with you to leave first but you were caught turning back to face him as Thoros somewhat yelled to you. “It won't get easier. That feeling inside of you. It never gets any better, no matter how much time passes.” Your body slowly turned back to face him, but the red in your eyes and the sting went away none.

Beric spoke low, the sympathy spoke of something you felt in waves in capture of the Boltons. “Death changes us all. Everytime you come back, you're a bit less. Pieces of you get chipped away.” It was sympathy beacuse that was exactly it. Part of you was missing, and you would never return to what was lost that night bleeding at Robb's side. “But to be the one to bring another back? It gives you purpose.”

“How can you deny you have a true purpose here?”

“Could be why you came back. You couldn't stay dead because you needed to be here to bring him back.”

Your throat closed, the weight in it too strong as Thoros had one final thing to say. “I've asked the Lord to bring him back six times, beacuse that is why I am here. What it means only he knows, but my purpose is to guide this man from the darkness each time it tries pulling him right back. And that changes you. Bringing a soul from death changes you. They become your purpose. The Lord needs you to keep them alive, so they can fulfill their own purpose.”

None dared said a word about it as you left the dungeons, but the glance you had just before stepping out into the corridors with Theon? Well, he had said just that didn't he? Only a tilt of your head in knowing, he didn't rub it in. Too much blood it took to get here, and saying he was right the whole time wouldn't make that any better.

The only solace, was that they respected where they shouldn't go. The guards with you now were aware their place was not the crypts and they let you walk in alone. Jon had told you to come meet with him here when you were finished speaking to the two of them, but as you walked up to the only ones of the Starks you knew, he wasn't anywhere to be seen.

You thought, your eyes would find Eddard Stark, but they didn't. The only statue you stopped in front of when you realized Jon wasn't here, was her. You had never stopped here before, never seen her, but now? It was a growing urge to tell her you were sorry, that you should've done better for her son by now. Maybe you would have said it, if that creeping feeling at the back of your neck didn't suddenly shout and forcing you to whip around.

As it turned out, her intention didn't quite work as planned. She startled you just as you startled her, and suddenly you stood in the crypts beneath Winterfell only feet from Arya Stark in silence.

Your eyes were wide, you knew she was here but it didn't feel like that was true until this very second. Somehow she both looked exactly the same, but completely different, but maybe that was true for all of you who remained now. But you knew the last you saw her, and the guilt that came with.

But she spoke first at least. “The Lannisters arrested you..who helped you escape?”

Gods, it felt like..well it was a lifetime ago. The one you barley recognized by now. Her voice was quiet, held back, and if possible yours was even moreso. Barley a whisper heard over the quiet crackling of torch fire. “Ser Barristan Selmy. Went through the tunnels under Kings Landing and got on a ship.” The silence continued, but as soon as you tried to let out that guilt in apology she stopped you. “Arya, I shouldn't have left-”

As if she wanted to step to you, but hesitated as you were as on edge as you ever had been with her, but that was just the way you were now it seemed. Nothing like who the Starks used to know. “They would have executed you if you stayed. Probably drag you up just like my father that day and..”

Head tilting to the side somewhat, you knew that painful sting in yours was there in hers. A strain in your voice as there was a painful floating feeling in your chest. “Please don't tell me you saw that..”

But she shook her head. Trying to send away that wave of emotion. Unbeknownst to you, but Arya stood there hating that she didn't know how to do this. She had known you her entire life, you were like a sister to her before even in marriage. Reuniting with Jon was so easy, but she hated that it was difficult with you and not knowing quite why.

“I was there..but I didn't see. Yoren made sure of that.” But you knew, the sound would haunt her all the same. When blood wasn't haunting you, the sound of a string of music did in it's place. “He was in the Nights Watch..tried to protect me, bring me home to Winterfell...obviously that didn't work.”

The gold cloaks, then Lannister guards then death and led all the way to Harrenhal. You knew the story, Gendry had told you as much, but it didn't make knowing she saw the things she would've seen any better. She didn't deserve to have the rest of her childhood stolen.

“But I was there that night.”

Eye widening just as your heart stopped, then raced all at the same instance you knew exactly what night she meant, and suddenly little stopped how watering her eyes looked as horror was yours. But you had to ask anyways, little breath left in your voice. “What do you mean you were there?”

Looking around, Arya found nothing to distract and landed on the ground between you both. “I was trying to get back to you all. I knew you, Robb and my mother were at The Twins for a wedding and..but when I got there...it- they had already...”

It already happened. The fire and muffled yelling, you knew little of it but was what you once thought was beyond death. Words failed you though, nothing could make that alright, nothing could hide what a massacre inside and out she had found. “Arya..”

But her voice raised, and the crack in tone only served to shatter more of that illusion she was holding herself together. “I saw you, I saw your body and..I still don't know if I've ever seen that much blood..” If how you woke up was any state, you had lost likely what was left in your body and somehow life was breathed back into that with no reason or possibility. The scar under your dress burned even now. “And I- I saw what they did...to Robb...”

You had never said it, never once not even coming close. You spoke none of it and you suddenly felt lightheaded, dizzy, ill and everything clawing at your heart in between. A sight so horrific that nothing would ever come close to making that nightmare go away and yet she saw that. The one thing you had spent a year and a half trying to bury. The tears fell on you then, and as soon as Arya saw yours, so did hers let free.

Her voice only a whisper as well. “We'll never be able to bring him home, will we?”

Head shaking a slow no, and without any more seconds passing, you both went to the other without care. Tall enough now you didn't need to lean down as much, but her strength was as tight as yours. Your arms wrapping one around her back and the other gently in her hair at the back of her head as you both just stood there, buried in the other's embrace as the pain was shared too much to bare.

The Young Wolf was what they called Robb, and they forced him to die just like that. If you both moved a few feet, you would see the place where he deserved to rest but never would. The Freys would have left nothing of him anymore. He was lost in the Riverlands, and in this place, only you and Arya would understand why.

Robb deserved to be here, but no one deserved to know his final memory was what it was. You felt just as ill as she did, and neither would part until the silent tears passing were gone enough to wipe away, despite the other knowing they fell freely.

Arya had been closer that night then you ever thought, and it was the only time you wished she hadn't.

By the time either of you had been seen by him, the cold of late afternoon had fallen over the sky and you and Arya had found yourselves tucked close to the others side sat on the steps just outside in one of the main courtyards. His focus was supposed to be entirely elsewhere, but then he saw you both.

Strange the feeling in Jons chest. Still being able to walk in his home and know you were there with the very freedom to stay, that you were his was already odd. You had been his best friend for years and yet still you could make his heart skip just with a smile sent his way.

But seeing you in the distance, sat so normal looking on the steps next to his baby sister, it made him feel overwhelmed. He never thought he'd see Arya, didn't even know she was alive, no one did. But now she was here, she was the only one of them other then Jon who made it back alive and here she sat with you, the love of his life, and no one around to hide his affections from.

Arya still made you smile and laugh easily, more easily then he still could. She had told him she wanted to be alone when she properly saw you again, and he could tell she was holding back something painfully emotional she wanted to save for you alone. But whatever it was, it didn't keep a distance between, she would lean into you with no doubt something far too clever for her own good coming out of her mouth and you would respond with a laugh that shined brighter then the sun just beginning to set.

She had always thought of you like a sister, and Jon's heart was warm and heavy still seeing that time had not changed that. It hadn't changed how much he adored Arya, and it hadn't in turn changed how much Arya adored you.

What little family Jon had left, he was glad it was you two who were in it. And for the first time in days, Jon never once felt that strange pull of conflict over the truth thinking in terms of his family.

“What is he like?”

If she had been expected a real answer, she was sorely mistaken. Glancing flatly at Arya to your side you almost rolled your eyes while doing so. “I'm not sure if I am the proper one to answer that question, beacuse I would say he's insufferable. But we also hate each other so, I could be biased.”

Sighing deeply, Arya leaned forward to wrap her arms around her knees. “What does he look like?” Turning to her in question, she elaborated. “Aegon, what does he look like? No one's seen him since he was a baby, how would they even know it was him?”

A shoulder shrugging, you thought little of it. “None of us at least can be sure, but in truth it doesn't really matter. As long as he believes it, that's the only truth that he needs to claim it.” Her eyes wide and curious still as she looked at you. “If he thinks he is truly Aegon, then that is all the power he needs to try and take the throne.”

You knew it was possible it was a lie, then you would recall the almost insecure way he stammered when claiming the baby that died that day wasn't him. Like the idea that the Aegon there was real, made him uncomfortable. It had been hard to tell, but you still wondered, if anyone had ever pressed him on the matter before.

“Still didn't answer my question, what he looks like.”

Her tone as flat, but you picked up the jesting nature with ease. Leaning back, you gloved hands fat flat on the stone behind you, fingertips tapping in your thought. “Well, he's rather tall. About the same as my father, who towers over me even still. He has blue eyes, and when I met him, he had been dying his hair blue matching. Likely I suspect, for the years he spent trying to hide his identity. Meaning I can only assume his hair is silver under it all.” Not much else you could think of stood out, and it didn't strike you that not once did you associate this conversation with the one person also in the courtyard that reasonably would be a point of comparison. “I'm not the best authority on the matter, not quite good at describing people, really.”

But Arya's eyes glanced to Jon, and running through that short list, so far nothing matched. And she was thankful for it. She didn't want any of it to match, Aegon had no right being thought of as his brother. His brothers are..well as she thought of it, his brothers are dead. Or lost somewhere far North in Brans case.

She hated that a lot. Bran was only a year younger then her, but they may as well have been twins the way they were. Bran looked a bit more like their mother, but they still looked so similar to the other in that age too. In her memory growing up, what Robb was to Jon, Bran was to Arya. The one that was a constant figure, her closest companion.

Sure, she was really closest to Jon, but they were simply so far apart in age that the dynamic was different then it was with Bran. She got to run around with Bran, play with him, annoy the other constantly knowing they never meant it. The day they came back with the direwolves, the boys had all been in the training yard trying to help Bran practice archery.

She still remembered hearing the shots from where she sat in her lessons. Having to listen to Septa Mordane compliment Sansa next to her, and all but ignoring whatever she had been stitching. To this day, she could still recall when she mentioned it to you, in the Kings visit you had so easily said to her, “That's beacuse you're left handed.”

Arya who had been sitting up on a landing whipped her neck to look at you, as you laughed. You had moved to sit down next to her, uncaring in the moment of how childish it would look to be sitting up there like that with her, legs dangling in the air both of you.

You had reached over casually to grab her left hand and held it up almost in display, “You write with this hand, you eat with this hand, do everything with this hand.” Your eyebrow raised, before dramatically tossing it to the proper side of her before yanking her right hand up with a mock sternness. “Use your proper hand like a lady, none of the other girls are trying to do it wrong.”

Arya had chuckled, nudging into you as she did so, telling her that you used to be terrible at embroidery beacuse your own septa made you use your right hand as well.

But then, she didn't know that. So she sat hearing the arrows flying and her brothers all laughing as she sat annoyed that her lessons always had to be with Sansa and her friends. So she snuck away, quietly finding herself in the training yard before she picked up a bow from behind her brothers. Truth be told, she hadn't expected to hit the middle, it was just a rather funny stroke of luck.

Bran had instantly moved to chase her, as she cold hear Jon and Robb behind them yelling jokes about it. But now? It wasn't just Bran not being able to use his legs, it was also that what was ever the likelihood he was coming back?

Jon had told her why the wildlings were here, and Arya hated that if all of them were in the North, that meant Bran and whoever he was with, were alone out there. Just Bran, ice, and snow. If beyond the Wall wasn't even larger and vaster then the North, Arya wouldn't hesitate to go find him. But if Jon knew he wouldn't be able to find Bran, Arya had even less of a chance.

Still however, Arya sat next to you as her own eyes kept looking at Jon, and thinking of the drawings in books of every Targaryean she'd read the daring feats of and realize, she didn't want him to be like any of that. He still looked like himself, he still looked like her even. But he also wasn't like the Targaryeans she used to read about, he was better then that, he was a Stark . But still, Arya felt an unusual fear that maybe one day Jon would learn he was more like Aegon then her, and decide she wasn't good enough as a sibling anymore.

That was stupid she knew, Jon wasn't like that. But still, as she asked you about Aegon she kept feeling relieved everytime it wasn't anything like her own brother. “Was he at least a good fighter?”

You had shrugged, thinking not much of it as if such details weren't plaguing you as it did her, which likely it wasn't. Arya needed to remember to ask Jon in private later if he was planning on telling you the truth too. “He's strong, I will give Aegon that. Almost got me a few times, but I think that was his first proper duel like that. So I can't say for sure if he's truly any good.”

It was quiet for a little while between you both. Just enjoying the ease at seeing the other again, despite both your minds running fast through too much to think on. By the time Arya found something else to say, you couldn't tell if you wished she didn't. The shock in your system of anxiety heightened in a single second to the height which you felt the muscles in your neck almost shaking from strain to keep still. “I still can't believe you two got married.”

Wishing you could be coy about it, but instead you found nothing to fall back on. Only the rumblings in your head that made you almost flinch.

“Fucking all those big, strong wolves made you a fighter, hasn't it?”

Don't think of it, you had made so much progress keeping from your mind you hated that he was spilling back into it now. But you kept hearing him until you felt him and the utter shame he hammered into your mind as if that was your only use ever to him, to the Starks.

Until at least, she elaborated as she called your name. But your eyes were kept open and set sternly forward with a hum in your throat to respond. So she sighed, and tried again. “Whatever you're thinking I'm thinking, you're wrong.”

Only one side of your lips half smirked for a second before fading. “Would you like to try that sentence again?”

You couldn't see her head tilt or the flat bemused look, but you heard as she clearly leaned more into your side with an earnest low tone. “You're worried I think badly of you for being with Jon now. But I don't, I'm happy you two are together.”

Eyes only flickering to the side, you didn't really still see her gaze nor did you know beyond the nervous anxiety in your heart, if you wanted too. Jaw clenching, the nod you gave was indiscernible were she not looking so intently.

It was no misunderstanding why you kept clamming up at the subject, how it looked to most outside of the North would be exactly what you feared. And you were still too much of a Southerner in your blood to see past that bias, when in truth the North all around you saw no issue. It was only you, and the many voices in your head talking down to you.

It was on the tip of Aryas tongue, but with your attention being called to elsewhere there was no time for it. Looking back to her, Arya hesitated wanting you to leave just yet, but you only spoke low with something hopefully comforting to placate that expression on her. “We'll talk later.” Arya nodded, and with your leave, she was left on the steps.

Eyes once more looking across the yard, and it almost was enough to make Arya grin. How so quickly once Jon glanced over to see you weren't there, he almost on instinct appeared to then turn his head trying to see where you had gone. At least she thought, now her brother could obsess over you but in public finally.

Trying to make sure before she too found herself useful elsewhere, Arya took one last look. Still looked just as much of a Stark as he ever has. If only one thing about that truth brought Arya comfort, it was that he still had the same amount of blood like Arya's own that they thought he did before.

Part of her hoped Aegon wasn't really who he said he was. At least she thought, then the only thing left of the Last Dragon then would be someone no one knew had any ties to him, and was the most Northern, the least anything like a dragon, and the most Stark a person could get. Just to rub it in.

But, Arya couldn't dwell on it. She had things to do, and around a list of eight hundred questions she was about to all but interrogate Gendry with, trying to figure out how in seven hells he and you even know each other.

Leaned back comfortably, the sheets and fur underneath you both keeping warm, as was the fire to the side, and the chest you were pulled back against.

One hand of Jons laid more lazily at your side, resting at your waist, while his other arm was draped around your shoulder, crossed your collarbones and let his palm sit at your other shoulder comfortingly. One of your own moved across your stomach where Jon had spared no time grabbing it. Whatever fingers he could wrap his around from that angle kept warm while your other reached up to run your thumb along his forearm.

You envied how he could lay behind you, only one layer covering his chest and even at that, the laces undone from top to bottom exposing should you look, the scars on his chest. Uncaring with you that they were visible. Having you sat between his own legs, both of you toying with entangling them just as much. You had a dark shift on under, but a long, slightly warmer dress, equally as undone at the front. Which Jon had been the one to insist you keep it that way. Coming up to you from behind and grabbing your hands as he murmured in your ear “Leave it, it looks beautiful on you like that.”

Only grinning at you in an almost charmingly boyish manner, when you raised an eyebrow, turning partially to try and see him as you responded, “I'd be curious if there was anything I could wear that you wouldn't think that about.”

Murmuring low in your ear, “Wouldn't be much.”

You had been trying to describe what you saw in the snow. How the first real thing you could recall was whatever symbol the bodies had been placed in. Jon had been quiet, his voice distant in thought as he asked you what it looked like.

Trying to think clearly, you hadn't been at an angle to see the whole thing but the organization separately was still clear. “Most of it was in a large circle. Arms, legs, torsos, all of them stripped down and laying there. Then there was a line right down the middle of it and another horizontally by the bottom.” Your face twisted trying to come up with the right way to describe it.

“Sort of like the basic hilt of a sword right down the middle of a circle. And..” You could partially see Jon lean over your shoulder a bit at your pause, giving enough comfort to your mind you continued. “At random places on the outside, heads were all on spikes. Not high up or anything just, specifically the heads were propped up on purpose.”

Jons hand on your shoulder almost rubbed gently like a caress as he was in thought, before he spoke low and a bit unsettled himself. “The first time I went north of the Wall, we reached the Fist of the First Men when I went with a Qhorin Halfhand, to go sneak up on a group of wildlings.”

He hadn't ever really said much about how it all happened, how she even came into his life, but Jon wasn't yet sure if here in the comfort of his bed, and you soft in his arms was the right time or place to say it. So he pushed onward, a rough clearing in his throat that you both knew you caught onto despite your silence.

“The Lord Commander and about three hundred of the rest stayed behind. I don't know when it happened, but at some point..they showed up.” The shiver down your spine was felt in Jons chest behind you. “Two hundred of my brothers that day died fighting them. And I didn't know about it until I was already inside Mance Rayders army.” Your own hand by your waist tightened on whatever grip you had, and Jon returned it in an instant. “When we got there, the ones that were left had gone. But the only thing still there was something in the snow. The horses we had, they cut them in pieces and laid them out.”

Describing the way it was, it clearly wasn't the same manner, but there felt between you was it couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

Almost shaking his head trying to comprehend it, Jon muttered. “There was something Mance said when we found it. Always the artists. Almost like he'd seen it many times before. It can't be a coincidence, both things happening wherever the Others attacked..I just..don't know what it's supposed to mean..”

Leaning back more to rest against him, you could feel the tense sensation in Jon's muscles loosen almost right away. Your voice trying to be kept soft as you could hear in his tone, the gears trying to form an answer in his head. “It has to have something to do with raising the dead. They kill a group of wildings, form that symbol in the snow. They attack your men, and you find another symbol just like it.”

Humming deep in his chest, Jon shifted to keep his hold on you a little more gentle. “Maybe there's an answer somewhere in one of those books Sam brought with him.” Turning back slightly, you couldn't really see him but the lightness in your tone said it all, as you emphasized the word brought with a question. Chuckling easy behind you, it brought more of you closer to a smile. “Alright, stole. The books he stole.”

Shaking your head slightly, “Is the King really going to let such a crime go unpunished?”

Muttering deep, you knew without looking his face had twisted into an expression amusingly doubtful, “I'm King in the North, not of Oldtown. When the Citadel finds itself moved all the way up here, maybe I'll have the ability to do something about Sam stealing old books no one was reading anyways.” You both laughed a bit at that one.

For a while, all you could hear was the crackling of the fire. Just long enough you almost felt the pull to fall asleep before Jon rasped in your ear. The hand on your shoulder tilting your head just enough so he could rest part of his head against yours. He finally decided on it. “She was there that day.” The hand on your waist drifting to pull you more into him by your stomach as you hummed. “When I went with Qhorin Halfhand to track the wildlings. Ygritte was one of them.”

Both your hands moved, the hand across your stomach, grabbing it with both you gently started to open his palm, your fingers gently toying with his now, or running your fingertips across the skin there, occasionally Jon would shift his own fingers to dance back with yours, as if to provide something to ground him.

He was quiet, his other hand slipping to your neck, just letting his thumb run over what he barley reached as his voice broke with something rough, something otherwise to be pushed down. “She was the last one alive, so the others left me to deal with it myself. I killed a wight before that, but..”

The softness of your own voice seemed to put him a little more at ease. “You had never actually killed a living person before..” Nodding against you, he was quiet for a moment before you slid from his grasp, but he followed. Turning with you, Jon gently guided you to lay with your back comfortably against the bed while he rested on his side somewhat hovering over your top half. His free arm not keeping him up reached over so he could gently run his fingertips along your cheek, caging you in.

His eyes were distant, a fog in them which spoke volumes of pain you knew he had purposely kept the worst of such out of your knowledge. “I don't know if she kept trying to get close to me because she thought she had the right, or if she was trying to make me uncomfortable. But I ended up having to have Ghost sleep in between us at night beacuse I didn't trust her not to do anything.”

Resting your hands gently on his waist, you simply looked up to his eyes with a brightness that was keeping him tethered to the earth as he spoke. You knew he needed to get it out without interruption or he would never go back to it.

“By the time I was in Mance's camp, the Halfhand had me kill him so I could convince them I wanted to be one of them. He knew I had a better chance at living and getting inside his army, but that wasn't enough for them. They wanted me to prove myself, and to them there was only one way to do that was..”

His eyes drifted away, causing you to run a hand gently along his own cheek, cupping it tenderly without forcing him to look back. His jaw clenched and even though he still didn't look at you, you could see something painful in his eyes you knew he didn't want to turn into anything close to tears. Even though you both knew you would never judge him for it.

“I had to send Ghost away. She made me send him away, beacuse we both knew he never would let her do anything if he were there to protect me..” He inhaled shaking, but dropped his gaze down to nothing on the bed just beside you. “But I did it, beacuse I had to. They would've killed me if I didn't, beacuse then they'd know I wasn't really one of them. And she spent every moment after that acting like she had any right to...I wanted all of that with you and she took it away from me.” Jons voice was so strained you could feel under your hand at his waist his muscles were tensing up at the feeling. Letting it drift up to his stomach and running over whatever scar you could find, it almost seemed to bring his focus back.

But no judgment was in your eyes, no pity. Just the same love he always gave you, and an understanding of the kind if pain such things left on a person. “And you still came out the other side a better man then most could dream of being in a lifetime.” He tried looking at you in a doubt but you once more ran your thumb over his cheek. “Trust me, most people are worse off for good after things like that. You're nothing to scoff at.”

Shaking his head, “What Ramsay put you through was so much worse-”

Interrupting him so abruptly almost took him back, but your brows narrowed at the very idea. “Jon, I'm not going to lay here and let you downplay your pain beacuse of me. What Ramsay did to me, what Ygritte did to you, it doesn't matter how different they were. What matters is that it happened to you, it matters that it still hurts. I don't care what I've been through when you're telling me about your pain.”

Your only looked at one another for a moment before he rasped quietly, “What you suffered through was far worse, but you're right. I know I shouldn't be keeping all of this to myself. I just don't like upsetting you.”

But you only smiled, and the brightening in his grey eyes almost made your heart lift. “You don't expect me to be better yet, and so I don't expect it from you either. We heal however long it takes to heal, but we do it together.”

Jon took his time just looking at you before he spoke, his eyes full of a teetering affection but his expression was serious despite his words. “You really did come back the emotional one, didn't you?”

Your face fell entirely flat, Jon breathing out a light chuckle instantly. Rolling your eyes in jest, “Sorry, do you want to be married to someone more like my father?” If such a thing was possible, Jons eyes rolled even harder then yours. His face twisting sour as he leaned down, his breath hitting your skin as he spoke.

“Do me a favour, never mention your father when we're in bed ever again.” You laughed, and Jon captured the sound with a greedy kiss.

Hovering more over you, your hands drifted up to his shoulders and back of his neck as he cupped the side of your face to tilt you over to him to perfectly fit his lips. Just a gentle brushing of his lips, never quite broaching into demand as he would deepen it. Each time he even slightly was separate from your lips he seemed to press you into the soft bed even more.

Running a hand in his hair so your nails could scratch along his scalp, your other hand just caressed flat against his neck and shoulders as if unable to decide where to stay.

Losing yourself in his lips, you felt just the slightest brush of his tongue along your bottom lip, only as you parted them slightly to let his tongue meet yours gently, his hand drifted down your face, neck, side of your waist until his palm landed flat against your thigh. Ever so slightly, did he begin dragging up the material did you react.

Quickly for only a second did your nails dig into his skin as you almost flinched from him. Pulling back in an instant, Jon looked down at you with a worried narrow eyes. “What's wrong?” But you looked up at him, lips parted and your mind a little confused at that as well.

So you shook your head, and pulled him down to meet your lips as you rose to meet him halfway.

Sliding your hands both down along his collarbones until you reached the edges of his shirt, Jon shifted from your lips, kneeling up over you slightly as he took over pulling it off and letting it toss somewhere behind him. You moved, sitting up somewhat so your palms could run all across from his stomach up to his neck. One arm wrapping around behind his neck again as the other grasped his waist as you somewhat kept his lips pressed to yours.

Jons hands both as you moved flat against the bed pressed at each side of your head as he coaxed you to ease up with how urgent you kissed him, only to slowly take over in deepening it. Growing more greedy as he almost without thought moved, so he could shove one of your bent legs wider to fit him in between. Then the strange unpleasant feeling returned.

Something that made your heart pick up that wasn't from Jons touch. But you didn't want him to realize it, didn't want him to pick up on it again. Instead letting your nails scratch at his scalp as your other leg almost rested along his hip, prompting him to grasp at your thigh. Wrapping an arm around it, and keeping you secure right there.

Running his rough hand along the skin until he reached the edge of your shift, you this time just kept it to yourself at the feeling of him pushing it up. Jon not bothering to undress you properly yet, he ran his other hand do do the same to the opposite side until he could blindly grasp at your underwear. His lips nibbling into your bottom lip only to just barley tease you with running his tongue along yours, Jon begun dragging the material down.

You wanted to be fine, just stay calm you told yourself. Just fall into it and let Jon do what he liked, or what made him happy. He had a rough time as well these past days. Tearing himself from your lips, Jon hovered over you, his own parted and eyes black as he breathed heavily. Not looking away from your own eyes peering more innocently back up at him, he yanked the material off your legs and reached right for the layers covering you.

The dress first easy to come off, and almost impatient as his own breathing increased he tossed away your shift even with less care. Peering down at what he could see, you ran your hands down his chest to the laces on his own pants.  

Jon only grasped your hands, and moved to shove them up beside your head, interlocking your fingers together as he moved to grind into your now bare core. Lips capturing yours. The feeling of his covered cock was at the perfect angle, hard as he could be, and almost selfless grind which just so happened to feel as good for him, as he wanted you to.

But even though your lips and hands worked, the rest of you didn't. You didn't feel good.

The more he hovered over you like this, the more your heart raced, the more your chest hurt. Your hands flexed in his, and Jon only tightened his hold with what you knew was something deeply loving in honesty. But you felt trapped.

If you opened your eyes, you knew the world would be spinning and you could feel it even as you lay there at his gentle mercy. Brushing against your lips as he rasped deeply, “I spent way too long without you,” Unable to stop himself from another biting kiss as he never left making his way to your neck, “Let me make you feel good,” Kissing and biting more down your neck, you knew it felt as good as normal, yet you couldn't help but wanting him to stop, but you kept quiet as he pressed a more gentle kiss to your jaw muttering, “Is that alright?”

Jon felt you nod, and that was enough. You kept your eyes closed, and your hands didn't even move when he released them. Kissing a path to your breasts, you were desperate if he could tell how fast your heart was racing, he'd think it was good. What you didn't realize, was that you weren't convincing of a physical lie.  

So much of your energy was being spent trying to be good for him, you didn't think to spend part of that on pretending you enjoyed it. As Jons lips would normally have greedily kissed and marked up your breasts, but he found something before he could start, when he let one hand move down between your legs.

Your legs tensed around him but he almost didn't need to notice that, since as soon as he even slightly went to brush two fingers down along your core, he stopped. Dark eyes suddenly accompanied by a furrowed brow as he looked up at you, no longer touching you with his lips. The hand between your legs moving instead of press against the bed beside your hip.

But, you didn't know what he was looking at you like. You couldn't tell what that glint in his eyes said and you interrupted whatever he was about to say, shaking your head. “I'm alright, I can take it-”

Jon however, didn't buy it. He pushed up more to hover over you more instead as you leaned up on your elbows. His head tilted at you in doubt, “Darling, you're not even close to ready..” Kneeling up more, he no longer was touching you beyond a gentle hand resting on one of your thighs. You swallowed nervously, and that weightful sick feeling only made you feel dizzy and far more guilty as he looked at you.

Shaking your head, you tried pushing yourself up to  go to him, but Jons other hand reached out. Pressing gently against your sternum to keep you in place as he looked over you. Your voice was not as confident as your face was trying to look. Not realizing you likely said the one thing that would not convince him, in fact, you said the one thing that instantly rung the bells too loudly in his head.

“We don't have to do this whole part, if you just want to get to it. It'll be fine, it won't hurt much.”

The way he looked at you though, your head started to hurt at that look. Something instead of being frustrated, or annoyed, just looked at you with those bright eyes shining as his heart broke.

You wanted to shrink in on yourself, you couldn't even pretend to be fine for one night for him.

You wished Jon would just do what he wanted, you'd get over it. You liked when he felt good, and suddenly you felt an upsetting frustration inside your own heart, not understanding why he wouldn't just take what he wanted, when you were already bare for him.

The way he deeply said your name, the narrowed expression as if he was trying to figure you out, and you felt something in your muscles trying to react.

“This would be a whole lot easier if you just pretended you enjoyed it, my bride. But, if you insist on making noise-”

By the time your eyes found his again, not realizing you drifted away somewhere, Jon was leaned much more into you. His hands hovering by your cheeks as if unsure if he should touch you. Only then did you feel that tears had silently fallen already down your skin. Whatever he was trying to figure out as he looked over you, you made it all the worse for yourself. You were good at that. Theon had said you had been making it worse for yourself, right?

But the painful race of your heart couldn't seem to grasp with the logic of your mind, that this wasn't Ramsay. And for a second, you could only wonder how much more boring and frustrating you were compared to a pretty hair of red.

Jon though, finally cupped one of your cheeks gently, tilting you up to look at him as he murmured your name more softly then Ramsay ever had spat it out. Your nails were digging so much into the sheets beneath you it almost tore the material as you looked up at him. You didn't know why you felt like this, you had been with Jon many times now what was wrong with you?

Shaking your head you tried to whisper, “I'm sorry..”

In truth, though? It only made Jon feel just as sick, he knew exactly by now what was going on. Running his nose gently along the length of yours, he felt you slightly ease up as your eyes fluttered closed. Rasping to you gently, you could feel his breathe along your skin, and this time it was soothing. “Will you let me hold you?”

You only nodded, something burning in you that flooded you in a deep self hatred. You couldn't even please your husband after what you had just put him through for days. Your voice was much more wavering this time. “I- I, I'm so sorry..I don't...”

Jon tilted you down just a bit as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, muttering into your hair before shifting. Pulling you up to perch right in his lap where he could get both his arms around you properly. “Don't be sorry.” Kissing another he muffled, “We don't have to do anything.”

Why did that make the growing panic worse? Why did that make you feel even more selfish?

So you shook your head,trying to move to press your lips to anywhere on him, and it took a good few tries for Jon to get you to look back at the call of your name. “Stop,” Tilting his head back, Jon gently cupped the back of your head, mostly so you couldn't as easily distract him, his own face sat in a frown. “Darling, if you don't want to do anything tonight, I'm not making you, not at all. I want you to feel good, not make you do things for my sake.”

But he could tell you looked as confused as you felt. Your mouth opening and closing a number of times before sighing out. Looking back up at Jon, who had nothing but a concerned patience in his eyes. “I- everything I've made you suffer these past days, what you just told me, I shouldn't- I should be..”

He watched you for a moment, before capturing your lips in one more, far more gentle kiss, barley pulling from you to mumble into you. “There's a lot going on inside that beautiful head of yours, it's allowed to feel upset or confused sometimes.” You almost sighed out a laugh, instead choosing to meet him back in another kiss. “Do you want to talk about it right now, or would you rather we lay down and I hold you for a while?”

Your hands on his shoulders eased in their tensity, looking up to meet his eyes you nodded your head and trusted, rightfully, he knew what answer that chose.

It took some time, but slowly you both laid down. Jon kept you in his chest, running a hand tucked behind your head along your hair while the other ran soothingly up and down from waist to hip. Your voice muffled as you kept your hands by his shoulders and around the back of his neck. “I assume if I were to apologize again for ruining things, you wouldn't want to hear it.”

A smile found its way onto his face that you could feel in your hair. “There's my smart girl.”

Rolling your eyes as you mumbled a shut up, Jon just chuckled deeply. Pulling you more into his chest, deciding he'd only move to pull the fur up over you both when you settled a bit, or were nice and asleep. For now, he hoped his own body heat was enough for you in the cold air.

At some point, you started to drift off, only having enough sense to press a kiss to the scar over his heart before nuzzling more into his chest with an, “I love you.” And falling asleep just before hearing him gently rasp it back to you in your ear.

Jon held you for a long time after you fell asleep, telling himself not to get upset on his own. He knew you were thinking about Ramsay, and he knew you would be insecure enough to wonder if he'd be angry you weren't ready for him at any moment. But Jon's need stopped the second he realized you weren't even slightly wet for him, when normally he'd have you already soaked. Instead, just keeping you safe in his arms, truthfully, was the thing which was making Jon feel just as safe.

You were upset, and what Jon needed right now, was for you to do just this. Not shove him away, let him take care of you no matter what.

Jon struggled to see what he was forced to do, as anywhere near as bad as what Ramsay did to you, but if you were going to be insistent that he not hide that pain as he insisted on you, that honesty was the least he could do. But if he were to tell you in that very moment, what was close to pulling tears from Jon still, even as you slept soundly against his chest, was how far you disappeared for a moment.

It terrified him that you had sunk so far into something scared that for a second, he knew you weren't seeing him as him. You were seeing Jon as if he was about to treat you exactly like Ramsay would. The Bolton had been dead for months, but he still haunted you as strongly as he did when Jon finally reunited with you in Castle Black.

But, Jon had to tell himself, had to remember that you were always going to push your issues away in favour of caring for Jon, tending to and healing his wounds inside and out. You would put priority on the looming horror coming from the North before wanting Jon to ever prioritize your pain.

He wasn't going to let that happen. Jon wasn't about to let the looming threat of the winter storms, take any more importance then the life he was building with you, here and now.

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

The Economic Difference Between The Miner and Mine Owner's Daughter

Chapter Three

Based of this ask (the dialogue from there is used here)

Rated Explicit | Warning: period typical sexism, noncon, non-Consensual somnophilia

Ao3

Taglist: @anastasiablossomlove @tfamidoingwithmylife

Chapter Two | Chapter Four

“Finish her off, Norton.”

When he first saw you, he wished you were dead. Just another rich kid with pockets lined with daddy's money. Your fucking suitor laughing as Norton was getting jumped for his lunch. Sickening, the misery of the poor is entertainment for people like you! Laughing as they fight for table scraps, as the poor are willing to do anything to just have a warm bed to sleep on, speaking on behalf of the poor yet none of them ever struggled!

Every day is a fight. Every night is a fight. The moment he was born, his fate was sealed in the black ink signature of your father's name. Norton had no chance, your father stole that from him!

What? Do you think a few shared meals would make him suddenly think differently of you? Ha, no, he meant what he said back then. If things worked his way, you would be on your knees sucking him off while your father grieved seeing his daughter sell herself for his survival.

The nerve you have to spit out that nonsense about change, hah, politicians say anything for some votes. Everyone knows the corporations won't let them actually change things. Too many hands have been greased to change the status quo. 

Nah, the only change he cares about is whether or not he will get out of this debt his father cursed him with by striking it big.

Damn, bastards! Damn all of them to hell and back!

It would be no surprise if they do not find any gold, they use him as a scapegoat. Quick to take the credit, quick to throw to the wolves. Your father will soon be like all the others.

Buried alive. At least in death, everyone is made equal.

Norton’s hands squeezing your throat, a grin on his face seeing you struggle to breathe.

Until your hand touches the scar, soft and gentle, he can see the tears running down the side of your face. Your voice cracks as you beg him to snap out of 

“Norton~,” The purr of the voice in his voice feeds into his anger, “She's right there. Just get rid of her!” Yelling at him.

It will be quick, a snap and all of it will be over.

Yet, he finds himself thinking about the bread you made for him. Yes, it was for him as a gift. Warm, moist, and fresh; all for him with a cup of warm tea.

Your father… You are not like him. Like others who laugh and look down at him, you honestly want to help. Stupid girl, truly, big dreams with no idea how reality works or how this world will chew someone and spit them out.

No good person lives long enough to see the change they fought for happen.

He flinches, you cup the side of his face, “Fight it.” Desperately trying to call out to him. “Please, Norton.”

“Come on, Norton.” Exaggerating the word ‘on’, dragging it out as if bored. “You have an arrogant little flower under you.”

When you approached him, you referred to him as ‘Mr. Campbell’ as if you respected him. It felt like a joke, an insult as you could—should—have been like everyone else. Constantly fighting, struggling, hyper-aware, plotting. He glares down at you, grabbing your hand and slamming it hard on the ground while making sure to have a painful grip on your wrist.

The pained sound you make is music to his ears, the wicked grin on his face growing with 

The rise and fall of your chest makes him very aware of your breasts covered by the blouse. Whenever he sees you around the worksite, you look… Normal. No showy dress, no lace fan (the one you did have you broke), hell, everyone saw you only wear pants. 

But here, right before the end, you are wearing a dress. The sort of dress one wears in the winter, a bright color that greatly contrasts with the current environment.

“Why don't you show this selfish delicate flower how to behave… Hm?” Dragging out the last few syllables as if moaning with excitement.

You have the nerve to smell good too, clean and sweet like a ripe freshly washed fruit.

The fight for air is a struggle he knows you cannot win. Watching your eyes roll back, the small fading gasps for air, and soon your struggling becomes weaker and weaker.

“Nortoooon,” The voice rings in his mind echoing in his own voice, “.... Come on now….” The voice draws him back seeing your life fade by his hand.

Slip you into unconsciousness. Body going slump on the ground, you look peaceful now.

Did he kill you?! Shit, shit, fuck! He shakes you then places his hand over your chest, a sigh of relief as he hears your heartbeat. The twisted thoughts in his mind raced between needing to escape and… And… Your perfume is sweet. Your clothes are so clean. You are like an angel sent from above into this dark hellhole.

The first button is the hardest, his hands are unsteady.

The second button is easier but still hard, the voice tells him to take; after all, your father took everything from him too.

The third button reveals part of your chemise, plain which he supposes he should have expected to not look like one the other miners talk about after a venture into a pleasure den.

The fourth button and the voice is getting angry, yelling at him again to hurry. Norton swears he can feel something moving his arms without him doing anything.

The other buttons are ripped open, his face buried in your neck as he sharply inhales, it is so different from his own skin. Soft, bathed, unmarked.

“Bite. Mark her.”

It speaks and he does it. Each touch of his chapped lips on your flawless skin is marked by his teeth. Some barely barely a mark while others are deep enough to leave dark bruising, those are above your breasts. Your clothes are cumbersome and it is more work to try to remove your clothes in a civilized way rather than ripping them open, but that is what he does.

The personality switch is not instant, it is through the actions he would have never done if not for this damn cave. He was the ripe fruit plucked and feasted upon, his mind slowly corrupted by the abyss he was forced to dig through.

“Fuckin’ hate you wearing these.” The voice is darker, laced with greed and lust, he tears open your bloomers as if it was made of paper. A mess of your clothes half torn and his buckle that decides to be a pain in the ass, not like he can stop himself.

The only moment he stops is when he growls at himself for not knowing what to do, of fucking course he knows the layout of what to do but the fine detail escape him. Worse, the guilt in the back of him is fighting himself right now. Fighting enough that he has to remove a glove, spit on his hand, and jerk himself off.

“Damn you,” Touching your legs, his black dust-covered glove marking your skin, he finds it rather hotter than the bitemarks all over your neck. When he kisses you, oh you taste like something sweet too, he has to stop to cough out his damn lungs. “When I am done with you, you won’t even know how ruined you are going to be.” Exasperated and angry.

When he is hard enough to thrust inside of you, he swears he saw stars. Bliss but you are so tight. Dry too but this is not about you. The scent of blood makes him laugh as you just lost your virginity in a damn coal mine--Blood for blood, justice.

Each thrust is hard because he hates leaving your heat. Your body reacts to him by getting wet, your moans in your current state are low,  his pace is awkward and selfish. This whole situation is selfish. Grabbing everything he can touch about you, kissing you when he needs a taste of you. When he feels himself about to cum, he makes sure it is all over the floor with your blood.

The whole activity was tiring.

The voice is in control, pleased but annoyed as he now has to figure out what to do next. Kill you with the others or… He raises an eyebrow at a bright idea.

[olderthannetfic]

I'm curious about people's opinions on this.

I recently saw some complaints about people writing het omegaverse and how it should only be for queer relationships and there seemed to be some drama over it and claims that het ships are ruining it. And because I tend to enjoy drama more than I should I read a long twitter thread. Now, the omegaverse isn't my cup of tea. All I really know about it is, wolves, Mpreg, dominance and submission. But it is very popular. Nearly all of my fandoms and ships will have a few omegaverse fics on every one of their AO3 pages. (Nearly all of them are M/M ships)

So I guess, what are the issues of people writing het omegaverse? Or should this be another case of Don't like Don't read and let people have their fun? Or does it just not really work for het ships?

--

Yes, het will totally ruin the weird dog dicks AU. Absolutely.

There are no ~issues~. People should write whatever the fuck they want. But if you want to explore whether it "works", you have to delve into what makes omegaverse tick actually, which is more than just wolves+mpreg.

One common use of the trope is to make someone 100000% the top 5eva. This is the type people often mock or complain about in m/m, and it works much the same in f/m. This is what showed up in that stupid omegaverse lawsuit situation: indie het erotica/romance novelists are now using this as a way to structure their fsub rapey ultra alpha hero stuff, and one of them decided she was the original and no one should steal her idea. (Soooo original.)

The Alphaest Alpha to Ever Alpha is a fantasy, not realism, no matter how many dicks the ship has, so it's not any stranger to go "No, he's really, really on top!" about the dude in het than about one of the dudes in m/m.

If this trope is hot to you, it's hot. If it isn't, it's not any stupider with het than with slash.

But that's not the only thing omegaverse gets used for. It's also used for the diametric opposite: debunking the idea of someone naturally being super, duper default on top. This kind of fic often does something with betas and actually engages with the idea of a three-biological-sex system (instead of betas being how you get rid of the characters you don't ship). It will have alpha/alpha relationships or omegas topping or omega-->beta trans characters or all manner of other gender/sex exploration.

I don't read a ton of het in fandom, but I do read m/m/f, and I've read fics where each chapter is a different scenario where the three are some other omegaverse combo. This is where you'll often see female alphas and male omegas and various takes on exactly what that would look like. There's no reason het couldn't also be used to explore sex and gender stuff.

And, really, some people just find knotting hot. A story being het won't change that.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 4: Midnight]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ 

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

It paints you like a canvas: sunlight, candlelight, sunlight again.

Two days after the miscarriage—the stillbirth, actually, the delivery, the beginning and the end all at once—you are searching the halls of Westminster Palace, the train of your gown dragging on the floor. It’s just a little too long for you now; it had been tailored to accommodate the additional weight and inches of pregnancy. And the court is just like they were before. They gawk, they jabber amongst themselves, but they can’t seem to think of a single word to say to you. Well…there is one exception.

“Sweet Jesus, what are you doing here?!” Nico exclaims when she rounds a corner and spots you. She rushes over and takes both of your hands in her own. “You look awful, you must be ready to drop over and sleep wherever you fall. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your rooms—”

“I can’t stay in bed for another second. I’m losing my mind. I’m just lying there, useless, staring up at the ceiling thinking about...everything.” The baby. The throne. Aegon. Aemond.

“Oh,” she says, sympathetic and yet proud. She sweeps back loose strands of hair from your face. “You have too much fire in you for that, I suppose. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a shame you were born a woman, you could have ridden into battle and butchered people and put all that ruthlessness to good use.”

“Being a woman didn’t stop Boudicca.” And she wasn’t just a woman. She was a wife, a mother.

“And where did that get her?” Nico retorts with raised eyebrows. “Nowhere enviable.”

You can’t think of a clever response. “Would you happen to know where Aemond is?”

“Not presently. He’s been looking in on you, you know.”

You do know: you’ve glimpsed him in the doorway, caught his whispers with the physicians and the midwives and your secretless English ladies. “I need to speak with him about something. To…” You pause. You can’t tell Nico about the poem that’s now hidden in the trunk at the foot of your bed; but you can tell her something else that’s true. “To thank him.”

“He’s been distraught,” Nico says, her voice low. “Quiet, secluded. Even more than before.”

As usual, she sees too much. “Yes.”

“He cares for you. Quite a lot, I think.”

“I’ll check the courtyard,” you say, hoping to change the subject. “Maybe he’s training there.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I think I can manage.”

“What if you pass out and end up out in a field somewhere covered with snow? What if you find a boat and row yourself back to Navarre? What if you’re eaten by wolves?”

“Send out a search party if I’m not back in an hour. But don’t invite Daemon. He’d drag me headfirst into the lair.”

“Alright,” Nico relents, touching your hair fondly again. “One hour. And I’ll chew my nails to bits the whole time.”

“As long as they’ve grown back by the wedding.”

She beams, white teeth and starry eyes. When she at last marries Daeron in August she will be another princess from the Continent, another thread in the Greens’ tapestry. She will be a lot like you…except that she will be in love with her husband. And she will be able to give him children.

But Aemond’s will come before them in the line of succession, you think, with a mournfulness that shocks you. The sons he has with whoever he ends up marrying, Helene of Austria or Beatrice of Naples or Anne of Bohemia. Some other woman, some other future, parts of him I’ll never know.

“I want you to help me choose every detail,” Nico says. “From the food to the fashion.” This is how she plans to distract you from your own misery. And the Duke of Hightower will indulge her: with every pregnancy you lose Nico becomes more relevant, and in any case Milan is a greater ally than Navarre. If the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter ends up crossing the English Channel, she will eclipse you both.

“I’ll endeavor to not be eaten by wolves until August,” you tell Nico, and then head outside into the courtyard.

Aemond isn’t sparring there with Sir Criston Cole; with the exception of a few amorous couples strolling through the powdery white snow, the courtyard is empty. You pass next through the palace gardens, frozen and naked, their treasures—angelica, feverfew, St. John’s wort, betony, chamomile, rosemary, pennyroyal—long-since plucked and dried and stored away for winter. Aemond isn’t there either, and he isn’t in the royal stables when you enter them, horses chomping noisily on oats and hay.

You go to Vhagar’s stall and she pops her great shaggy head out to greet you. “Hello, you big monster,” you murmur, smiling. You run your palm down the white stripe of her blaze. She’s killed people, and everyone knows those stories; she stomped one man to death and kicked another in the jaw, trotting away and leaving him to drown in his own blood. That was before Aemond tamed her when he was still a boy. He mellowed her, or she mellowed for him, and however it happened they’re both better off for it. She’s a weapon, the same as his sword or his strategies. She has a role to play in the Greens’ battle for the throne as well.

There’s rustling from Sunfyre’s stall, too loud to be a rat or a bird. You cross the aisle and peer inside. There on the floor, half-covered in straw, is sprawled your husband. Sunfyre looks passively down at him, stems of hay sticking out like porcupine quills from his muzzle.

“Aegon?!”

“Shh!” he pleads, waving one hand drunkenly. His white-blond hair falls over his face like a veil. “I’m hiding.”

“From who?” But the answer to this is obvious; you know before he says it.

“Grandsire. He’s furious, he’s a demon. He’ll have me drawn and quartered.”

“What’s he so upset about?”

“Oh, the same old thing, I’d imagine,” Aegon says vaguely. His shortcomings, his embarrassments. Then his murky ocean-blue eyes focus a bit and his voice goes tender. “Are you in pain?”

“I’ve had a lot of wine. It helps some.” Takes the edge off, smooths down the fangs, dulls the knowledge that parts of you are still collapsing down to fill the space where your child once lived. Blood drains away, blood fills up again, blood readies itself for the inevitable next attempt.

“Good,” he says, though uncertainly. His sentiment is clear, but he doesn’t know how to express it.

“Have you seen Aemond?”

“Not today.”

You sigh. “Never mind, then. I’ll keep looking.”

“Should you be running around the palace like this?”

“I haven’t done any running in a very long time. And I’m confident I can find my way back to bed when I need to.”

Now Aegon is gazing up at the stable ceiling, studying eaves and bird nests like constellations. “It should have been him,” he exhales like a confession.

“What?”

“Aemond. It should have been him. The one to shoulder the responsibility, to reign. I don’t belong someplace where people watch me. I have nothing to show them that they want to see. I belong someplace warm and wild, someplace I can disappear. Is it such a crime to not want to be held to a higher standard than an inconsequential man? Is it such a crime to not wish to be remembered? I never asked to be the heir. Not even the king wants me to be the heir. How am I the one in the wrong here?”

“I think many of us wish for things we cannot have,” you reply morosely.

“We could have them,” Aegon counters. “If we ran far enough.”

“That’s a coward’s way out.”

“I’d rather be a free coward than a jailed prince. Or a dead one.”

As if to emphasize his point, you spy something odd about his saddle, hanging from a massive iron hook on the stable wall. You move closer to scrutinize it. Then you return to Sunfyre’s stall. “Someone cut your stirrup,” you say, frightened. “Before the Christmas boar hunt. It’s sliced clean most of the way through and then the rest of it must have ripped as you were riding.”

Aegon squints up at you. He’s mystified. “Why would someone do that?”

Your exasperation—your contempt, not for him but for his failings—must show on your face.

“Please don’t look at me that way,” Aegon says. “Not you. Mother always loved Aemond more, Father always loved Rhaenyra, Grandsire loved the throne. You are the only thing I’ve ever had that’s supposed to be mine.”

And now you’re the one who is imagining a traitor’s death: hanged momentarily, cut down and thrown onto a table, drawn open like a gutted animal as the crowd’s screams mingle with your own, dissected into quarters once your belly is sufficiently emptied. Because surely you’re the worst sort of traitor there is. “You must be more careful,” you implore Aegon. And he smiles; he takes this as a token of affection.

You finally find Aemond somewhere you should have suspected. It’s where people go to find peace, solitude, wisdom. He’s sitting in a cascade of kaleidoscopic light pouring in from the stained glass windows, scenes of King Arthur and Saint George, lovers and swords and dragons. You slide into the pew, cool austere wood. The small private chapel is abandoned except for the two of you. On the altar is a cross: blood, pain, sacrifice, redemption. Aemond has his hands folded and propped on the back of the next pew. He stares straight ahead, grim and silent. He must know you’re there, but he doesn’t make any sign that he does.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say.

“You’re not interrupting. I was just speaking to God, but I’m finished now.”

“Do you believe he can hear us?”

“I used to.” Still, he keeps his eye on the altar. Flecks of luminance pepper his skin: gold, ruby, emerald, sapphire. “You’re wearing green,” he marvels. He can see you well enough for that, a blur on his periphery.

“Yes. Like ivy.”

And only now does he look at you, afraid and yet with fragile hope.

“Aemond,” you say softly. “I didn’t know.” I longed for it, but I didn’t know.

Long seconds tick by, ten, twenty, a hundred. “I have envied Aegon my entire life,” he says at last. “I have felt that I was more suited to be the firstborn, to be the heir. I have watched him squander opportunities and defile morality and bring nothing but heartbreak to my mother. I have worked myself to the bone to prove myself worthy of what he was freely given. I carry scars in the shape of his absence. I have always envied Aegon. But never more than the day I watched him marry you.”

You move without thinking, reaching for his hands and interlacing them with your own. “Please don’t hide from me anymore. I can’t endure it. Not added to the weight of everything else.”

He feels your cheeks and forehead, his brow crinkled with hushed concern. “You’re in pain.”

“I was alright when I left my bedchamber. Now…” Now the cramping is very bad again, and the strip of thick linen folded between your legs is nearly soaked through with blood, and your mood is sinking; you feel shaky and insurmountably sad, like you could rupture into tears at any moment.

He is distressed. “Why did you exert yourself like this?”

“I had to find you.”

He stands and offers you his arm. “Then now that you have, allow me to escort you back to bed.”

“And you’ll stay for a while?”

He smiles, warm, a flicker of candlelight in a dark room. “I’ll stay for as long as you’ll let me.”

You walk very slowly together, you clutching his forearm, Aemond distracting you with English legends: myths, monsters, men. But he does not speak of children. Westminster Palace is frenzied when you step inside, courtiers rushing around and hissing gossip back and forth to each other. Greens and Blacks appear to be equally scandalized; you wonder what has happened. As you and Aemond make your way down a hallway—your steps halting and dizzy—Prince Daemon sails by wearing a cruel smirk, sharp, delighted, Scottish deerhounds loping alongside him. And then you peek into the Great Hall and you see them: the Montfords, Lady Joanna’s parents and uncles and her handsome, ambitious brothers. They’re all beaming and radiant, though they really have no reason to be, now that Aegon is long past bedding Joanna and the Montfords can no longer call upon the Duke of Hightower for any exceptional favors. Come to think of it, you haven’t seen Joanna since around the time Nico arrived in London, since August, since you discovered you were pregnant again. That was five months ago. The Montfords are passing around an infant swaddled in green cloth, showing him off to the other powerful families of Southern England, accepting compliments and proposals of betrothal to wealthy newborn daughters. From what you can tell, the child is fat and mewing and…and…

You gasp, and Aemond swiftly directs you farther down the hallway before anyone notices you watching. He says nothing, but you can read the shock and fury on his face. Because Lady Joanna Montford’s infant is a healthy living boy with silvery white hair just like Aegon’s. Because her child is a Targaryen.

There are yelps and whimpers coming from Aegon’s bedchamber. Somebody must have found him hiding in the stables after all. The door is open. Inside the Duke of Hightower has backed Aegon into a corner and is slapping him: his head, his face, his hands when he tries to shield himself. Aegon’s pale skin is freckled with angry pink welts, his hair in disarray. There are still bits of straw knotted in it.

The Duke of Hightower seethes: “To do this, to have a bastard before you’ve secured the succession! It’s a disgrace! You have muddied the waters yet again, you have undermined certainty when we so desperately need it, when all of our lives depend on it! You should be putting every last ounce of the miniscule effort that you possess into producing a legitimate son with your wife—!”

“Grandsire, she’s not capable of it!”

Then they see you, and Aegon has the decency to cover his face in shame; but the Duke just glares at you, as if he wouldn’t mind hitting you too, as if you are dangerously close to becoming an enemy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks after the miscarriage, the royal family has gathered for a private dinner. The occasion is Daeron’s sixteenth birthday, although the king mentioned it once and then seems to have promptly forgotten again. He is admiring a collection of tiny woodcarvings of horses that Joffrey has made, praising them as if they are great treasures, handmade tapestries or poems or blades. Alicent, much to the contrary, fawns over her youngest son. She frets with his curly white-blond hair—trying to make it lie neatly, a pointless aspiration—and asks Nico about wedding plans. Nico is effervescent, bubbling over with enthusiasm for fabrics, colors, cakes, flowers.

Aegon sits to your right, Aemond to your left. Your husband is drowning himself in wine and peering blearily down at the trappings of the table: duck, mushroom pasties, spinach tarts, salmon pie, bread, and makerouns of course, Daeron’s favorite. Aemond doesn’t say much, but he ensures that your cup stays full of apple cider and your plate piled high with winter delicacies.

“I can’t,” you complain when he serves you another spinach tart. You’re still bleeding, although it has lessened considerably. You still have very little appetite. Weight has fallen off you like leaves from autumn trees since you lost the baby, a fact that no one seems to have noticed except Aemond.

“Try,” he replies, and slices you a portion of duck too, the browned skin crackling and shiny with grease. Across the table, Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange fleeting caresses and gazes warm with desire. Jace chats politely with Baela, Luke giggles with Rhaena. They all wear lustrous black like a uniform. Even the king wears it, accented with maroon the shade of dried blood.

“We must get you a real horse,” King Viserys is telling Joffrey, who smiles adoringly up at him. The king coughs into his sleeve and then continues. “Would you like a Marwari, like your mother has? They’re nimble, gorgeous creatures, and with such peculiar ears! They’re very rare as well, only bred in North India. Seafaring traders can bring some here for you to choose from. They come at a great cost, but you are worth it, don’t you agree, Joffrey? You know, India was once partially conquered by Alexander the Great. He…”

Aemond glances longingly at the king; it’s a split second, and then it’s gone. You are well aware that Aemond knows very nearly everything about Alexander the Great. The king never speaks to him about it. He rarely speaks to Aemond at all.

You lay a hand on top of Aemond’s. “Will you tell me about it later?” you ask him. “Alexander and India?”

He smiles, his cheeks blushing pink. “Of course.”

The Duke of Hightower clears his throat loudly. “I have some happy news to share.”

King Viserys looks up, as if suddenly remembering that the Greens are here too. “Oh? Do enlighten us, Otto.”

“After much negotiation, the Holy Roman Emperor has formally agreed to a match between his daughter and Prince Aemond.”

“Very impressive, Otto!” The king claps politely. He’s already resuming his conversation with Joffrey, a six-year-old.

“Wonderful!” Nico heralds cheerfully. “Lose a Helaena, gain a Helene!” She holds her cup aloft in a toast, then lowers it as she observes the awkward atmosphere of the table. You and Aemond are so determined not to appear heartsick that you can only avert your eyes, Alicent frowns anxiously, Daeron is bewildered, Aegon drinks. Rhaenyra forces a stiff smile; Daemon watches you, deep-set eyes gleaming with dark mirth.

“Well…” the Duke says. “Perhaps I should have started with the unhappy news. Princess Helene is dead of fever, God rest her soul.”

“Oh, the poor girl!” Alicent laments, crossing herself. “And poor Frederick and Eleanor.”

“Fortunately, Frederick still has one daughter left—only one—and he is willing to send her to us.” The Duke doesn’t have to say what this means aloud: that the Greens have risen ever-higher in the Continent’s estimation, that their allies grow mightier and more numerous by the day.

“How fortunate,” Daemon quips. “Always a wise idea to have children to spare.” He winks at you, swigs his wine, licks red drops from his lips. His Scottish deerhounds, which follow him everywhere, sniff around the table for scraps. “And who is the lucky bride-to-be?”

The Duke of Hightower is glowing. “Kunigunde.”

“Kunigunde?!” Aegon blurts out, then drops his head back down when the Duke glowers fearsomely at him. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, staring into his wine cup. “What the hell kind of a name is Kunigunde?”

“She sounds…” Daemon raises his white eyebrows, choking back laughter. The Black children are following his example and snickering derisively, even little Joffrey, who doesn’t have the slightest idea what this marriage represents. Even the king smiles. “Germanic.”

“You’ll like her,” the Duke informs Aemond, ignoring his detractors. “You should be crawling on your knees to thank me for this match. You think I’ve taken no notice of your hard work, of your sacrifices, but I have. Kunigunde has received an extraordinary education for a woman. She studies astronomy and mathematics and history, not just languages. She practices archery. She is a renowned horsewoman and hunts often. She is intelligent, and she is bold, and she is precisely the sort of woman you would choose for yourself, is she not?”

“She is,” Aemond admits gravely.

“Kunigunde,” Aegon mumbles again, incredulous.

The Duke continues: “And so when she arrives you will wed her and bed her and I will hear not a single word of complaint about it. You will like her, or you will grow to like her, or you will endure it with grace if by some miracle you don’t like her. Is that understood?”

“How romantic,” Daemon chuckles. “A toast? To love?” He lifts his wine. Only the other Blacks join him, their cups clanging merrily against each other.

“I’ll be delighted to make a new friend, at least,” Nico says. “And one from so distant and vast a kingdom!”

Alicent nods distractedly. “Yes, we’ll have to ask her all about what it’s like there.”

“Hmm.” Daemon bites into a halved pomegranate, spilling juice like rubies, like blood. “Now my curiosity is aroused. Tell me, Navarre, what is your homeland like this time of year?”

“That depends on which region you have in mind,” you say frostily. Aemond is glaring at his uncle, measuring him, waiting, coiled. “The mountains are cold and snowy, the valleys are more temperate, the deserts are stark but still golden. Navarre is beautiful, even in January. It might be the most beautiful place there is.”

“You don’t find it to be…rather…” Daemon grins, pieces of pomegranate seeds caught between his teeth like bits of organs. “Barren?”

The table goes silent. Time slows until it stops. You should have a barb of an insult to hurl back at Daemon; you open your mouth to loose it like an arrow. But nothing comes out. Instead, hot sudden tears brim in your eyes and begin to spill down your face, your skull filled with flashes like white lightning: What would we have named him? What would he have been like?

Aemond bolts from his seat and goes for Daemon, fists swinging. Everyone is yelling; chairs are tipping over as people leap to their feet. Nico is shrieking and swearing at Daemon as her betrothed holds her back, his hands linked around her waist. Aemond’s knuckles crack across Daemon’s face as guards flood into the room and struggle in vain to separate them; Daemon strikes out, scratches, bites, yowls like an animal. Rhaenyra is pulling Rhaena and Joffrey away to safety. Unprovoked, Aegon pitches a handful of salmon pie at Baela, then screams and flees when she scrambles over the tabletop in pursuit. Alicent intercepts her, pinning Baela’s hands to her chest where they pose no threat. Jace and Luke try to join Daemon, but the Duke shoves them aside, bellowing ferociously, words you are too panicked to register. In the melee, Daemon snatches up a fork, turns to Aemond, and aims for his remaining eye. You dart beneath the table and knock Daemon off his feet, catching him unprepared. He whirls to you with his back against the floor, eyes glittering savagely, and, roaring, stabs at you with the fork. You duck, but the metal skates across your cheekbone, drawing a thin stripe of blood. The Scottish deerhounds are snarling and snapping at you. Aemond yanks you away and drags you to the other side of the room as Daemon follows, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“Enough!” King Viserys thunders, and the turmoil dies. Alicent flies to him—attempting to pacify—but he ignores her.

“He must pay!” Aemond shouts, pointing at Daemon, whose nose is bloodied from his blows. “He must pay for what he’s said, for what he’s done!”

“It looks to me that he already has,” the king replies impatiently. He grimaces at everyone present, with no lines drawn between the blameworthy and the not. “This rivalry, this petulance, this bitterness, it must end!” He turns to the Duke of Hightower. “You must restrain your branch of the family, Otto, just as Rhaenyra must gain better control of hers—”

“Viserys, Daemon has ceaselessly antagonized the princess—!”

“I am not Viserys!” the king booms, then pauses to cough. “I am the king, I am your king, and since there seems to be enduring confusion, allow me to clarify some things, some exceedingly fundamental things. I have already chosen an heir, and it is Rhaenyra.” He looks to Daemon. “You have nothing to fear from Alicent’s children. You have no cause to provoke them. It is a waste of your many talents.” Now the king addresses Otto. “You can glorify your house however you see fit, but remember where this all ends. Rhaenyra and her heirs will inherit the throne upon my death. It stays with her, that is my most ardent wish. It is treason to undermine it. By all means, increase the wealth and status of your dukedom. But never forget who gave it to you.”

The king sweeps out of the room, Rhaenyra and her children following closely behind him. Alicent stands there helplessly, abandoned, forgotten. Nico and Daeron comfort her instead. Aegon meanders back to the table, sighs deeply, and pours himself a fresh cup of wine. Aemond examines the shallow gash across your cheek. Daemon watches, a dozen guards stationed between you and him. Growling Scottish deerhounds flank him like the train of a gown.

“I’ll kill you one day,” Aemond says calmly, matter-of-factly.

Daemon shrugs. “You’re welcome to try.”

And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two months after the miscarriage, the physicians say it’s time to try again. They are the ones who decide: not you, not Aegon, not either of the people whose bodies are requisite to the task. Just old men in the service of another old man: the Duke of Hightower. Men who have never had to feign pleasure as they were groped and invaded. Men who have never felt a child tearing from their own flesh, nor the cramping and blood that follows, reminders that are impolite to speak of.

Aemond keeps you company; you don’t even have to ask him to. Your ladies are no longer surprised when they walk into your rooms to find him there. He, Nico, and Daeron are frequent visitors, far more frequent than your own husband. You read together, or Aemond reads and you embroider, or you play card games, or you simply talk until the stars have rolled by overhead like a wheel and the first golden bars of daybreak spill in from the windows. Tonight, as you wait for Aegon to arrive—full of anxiety and impatience and hope, full of dread—you are embroidering a pillow with Vhagar’s silhouette. Aemond is sitting beside you on the bearskin rug and reading a book about the kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula, including Navarre. The fireplace pops periodically, heat and red-golden light, sparks and shadows. Aemond is dressed in his usual dark green attire, but you’re only wearing a white nightgown. Once someone has seen you sobbing on the floor and coated with the blood of failure, it seems useless to try to reclaim your modesty.

“Does this look like a horse?” you ask Aemond doubtfully, showing him the pillow.

He blinks at it. “It certainly looks like…a large land-dwelling creature. Of some sort.”

You sigh defeatedly. “I’m so damned nervous. My fingers won’t cooperate, I can barely feel them.”

“I’d still enjoy the pillow. Even if Vhagar looks suspiciously like one of Hannibal’s elephants.”

You laugh. “Yes, that nose…a travesty, surely.” You set aside your embroidery. It’s a lost cause this evening. You stare into the fire, feeling warmth like the sun on your face, so hot it nearly burns.

“Why are you still nervous?” Aemond asks gently. “After all this time?”

“Will you be nervous when you’re expected to fuck Kunigunde?”

“Yes,” he says, a bit startled.

“Only the first night? If she never stops feeling like a stranger to you?”

“No,” he admits. “Perhaps not.”

“That’s why I’m still nervous.”

Aemond closes his book and studies you pensively, firelight dancing on his face. Several miles away in the Tower of London, the bells toll twelve times: midnight.

“He won’t be here,” you say, relieved and yet broken, no end of your prison in sight. “Not tonight. And why would he be? Who would want this, the way it is between us? He’s fumbling and drunk, I’m a resigned liar, both of us trying our best but just waiting for it to be over. Rhaenyra gets to enjoy lying with her husband, Nico will enjoy it when it’s her turn, but I don’t. I never will. I’ll never know what that’s like.”

Time slinks forward. It seems like an eternity passes before he speaks, dust to pyramids, castles, cathedrals, civilization and then back to dust. “I could show you,” Aemond says, so quietly you might have imagined it.

You don’t understand. “Show me what?”

“How good it can feel.”

You gape at him, stunned. “I can’t lie with you.” And then you think immediately, like a traitor: Can I?

Aemond shakes his head, staring down at his open palms. “Only my hands.”

You should say no, here in your bedchamber waiting obediently for his brother to arrive, here on the skin and fur of a beast Aemond killed for you, here with sweltering flames inking you both with amber-rust light like sunset, like dawn. But something stops you. It’s the fact that Aemond knows you somehow, all of you, or very nearly all; and when he stumbles into one of your rare secrets like an unfamiliar room he wants to get down on his hands and knees and memorize every floorboard, every fleck of paint. You nod, moving towards him, your nightgown whispering against your bare skin. “Just this once?” you ask.

“Just this once,” Aemond agrees.

You can already feel yourself aching for him, muscles and nerves waking up, violent red craving. You press your left palm cautiously to Aemond’s chest. “How…?”

“It’s alright. You can lean against me.”

Your right hand travels up to rest on the back of Aemond’s neck; you can feel his long silvery hair ghost across your knuckles. You inhale him: leather, smoke, musk, darkness and possibility all tangled up together like the two of you are now. One arm circles around your waist, drawing you in even closer, until your thighs are touching. You wonder what his bare, defenseless skin would feel like on yours; you wish the clothes between you were in a pile on the floor. But that is far, far too risky. You could not remedy that instantly if there was an unexpected knock at the bedchamber door.

Aemond’s pale blue gaze—rapt, intense, starving—stays on yours as his other hand settles on your ankle. His fingertips move slowly upwards, tracing your skin lightly, slipping beneath your nightgown: calf, knee, thigh. He hesitates there: one last chance for you to stop him.

“Yes,” you murmur instead, resting your head against his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart. And already, you know this will be different; everything about it feels different. Because Aemond is the one here with you.

He reaches between your legs and finds warm, slick folds that are already wet for him. His breathing hitches, then quickens, his ribcage rapidly expanding and caving in again, a cycle like the moon or the seasons. He drags his fingers through your wetness and then places them on a spot that Aegon always paid great attention to, although to little effect. But when Aemond touches you there—experimenting with different pressures and motions—you are swept up in a euphoric riptide that can only carry you higher, higher, higher still. You’ve glimpsed this feeling before, but you’ve never been able to get lost in it. You are gasping, restless; your hand on the back of his neck wanders and inadvertently knots in his hair. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, low and husky, meaning: no, don’t apologize, no, don’t stop.

“Aemond, something’s happening…”

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers circle more quickly, more powerfully. You moan and bring your lips to his throat, delicious heat and salt flowering there. You fight the instinct to bite down, to leave bruises, to mark him as your own. He’s not yours and he never will be, and no one can know all the irrevocable ways he has written himself into you like the ink of a poem, words scaling the scarlet walls of arteries and veins, rhymes in your bone marrow. The pleasure keeps mounting; every time you think it can go no higher, you climb to a new height like the steps of a staircase. “I can’t stand it—”

“Almost there,” he pants, and pushes a finger into you, the heel of his hand still grinding against the place where the sensation is greatest. Your hips move in time with his thrusts.

“More,” you beg helplessly, and Aemond glides a second finger inside. You twist your grip into his tunic, into his hair. You meld yourself into him, never feeling close enough. Now he’s nipping at the line of your jaw, his free hand against your face, his whispered voice telling you to relax, to breathe through it, that it’s alright to give in. And then your eyes flick down and see the outline of him through his trousers—how large he is, much larger than his brother, thick and long, perhaps even too much for you to take—and it is this, the thought of having Aemond completely, of him spilling himself into you in body as he already has in soul, that sends an indescribable wave jolting through you: heat, ecstasy, contracting muscles, bursts of color.

“Stop, stop, stop,” you say in a rush when it ends and you’re too sensitive to be stroked. Aemond’s hand stills, but he keeps his fingers inside you, feeling your walls throb around him for what he undoubtedly fears is the first and last time, resting his forehead against yours, trembling all over.

Your thumbprint skates across his parted lips, and then you cup his face with both hands and kiss him deeply, soft and slow. It might as well be your first kiss, your only kiss. It blows the past out of you like stormwinds ripping up homes and centuries-old roots.

You tell him when it finally breaks: “I wish it could be you.”

Aemond searches your face, then kisses you again, fiercely this time, with an unspeakable desperation. Then he rises to his feet and leaves, no goodbye, no plans, no promises.

And when Aegon does stagger into your bed the next night, you’re able to nudge his hands into the perfect position and close your eyes and think of his brother, and for the first time you reach a shuddering, breathless peak with him. You try to stifle the sheer intensity of your pleasure, the arching of your spine and the way your fingernails bite into his skin, leaving dark pink blooms like roses. But he knows this time is different.

“Well, wife,” Aegon says, grinning roguishly. “I think we’re getting better at this.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Aemond fetches you without a word of explanation. He leads you to the royal stables, where the last of the winter’s snow and ice is melting away, dripping from the eaves like rain.

“Are we going to take Vhagar out walking…?”

But Aemond breezes right past Vhagar, who watches you both with large, intelligent eyes as she crunches on a mouthful of oats. He stops at a stall that has always been unoccupied, ever since you first arrived at Westminster Palace over a year and a half ago.

“What—?” And then you see her: pure glossy black like onyx, long mane and tail, intrigued ears pricked forward towards you. She’s heavy with muscle, bigger than Sunfyre or Caraxes, almost as large as Tessarion. “Oh, Aemond…”

“She’s an Andalucian,” he says, anxious, hoping you’ll approve of her. “I wrote to your brother Alonzo and arranged for her to be shipped over from Navarre a month ago, but she’s just arrived today.” He smiles faintly, wistfully. “So don’t think she is a gift for services recently rendered.”

You smile back. “I don’t recall having the opportunity to serve you.”

He flushes, but tries to ignore it. Still, his eye traces the curves and valleys your emerald green gown, all those places he never got to see, to taste.

You pet the Andalucian’s inky muzzle and she consents, nickering contently. “I never thought I’d have my own horse here,” you say. “Not unless I gave Aegon a son. Maybe not even then.”

“What will you name her?”

You look at Aemond as you answer, your eyes dark with craving for him, a curse you can’t break, a spell you’d cast over and over again. “Midnight.”

[reginarubie]

Just read your new work and as much as I adore anything you write I must confess seeing the past jonsa tag hurt me. I just adore them and have been patiently awaiting for the day the jonsa inspires you again! I hope this doesn’t offend you, it was meant to be a compliment. I’m just awful at wording, like I meant your my go to jonsa author of choice so seeing that tag just left me with feels that your moving on but I know experimenting and dabbling in other ships are great for authors!! I don’t know I’m just in my feels I guess?? So many talented Jonsa authors have become in-active or deleting their works, discontinuing, etc and while I know it just part of life and I’m glad some still continue to write or are SELF PUBLISHING!!! (Although sadly they won’t share their official works-I hunt it down one day) I just feel an odd pang in my chest when another one goes down like dang I just wanna hold you all and never let go. God this sounds like I have abandonment issues, I’m just going stop now before I embarrass myself even more

Aw...hello!,

I am your to-go Jonsa author? That like made my day, so thank you! Also don't worry, you are neither pathetic, not have your embarassed yourself. You have just shared in our common love for Jonsa, which I still believe will be the open endgame of the books, tbh, and I could not appreciate you more for it.

Of course I love experimenting and for a long while I have been uninspired in Jonsa, mostly because I have been hyperfixated on Aemondsa (which I think Jon and Aemond share so much traits it's ridiculous), but I have not forgotten all my wips for Jonsa, to which I mean to return in the Summer (I am a perfectionist, procrastinator so unless I am on the wave of hyperfixation I am never quite satisfied enough with my work to share it, but the updates shall come soon).

You know what else shall come soon, because my muse actually is never satisfied with just one story and just one ship at time?

A new Jonsa story I have been keeping under wraps, a season 7/8 rewrite with specks of book canon as well.

Look, I'll even leave the edit I've done for it, and the summary. I plan to get it out by the end of June with the first chapter, so prepare your popcorns, seatbelts and fav comf food because I'll be back on my Jonsa shit again. And it's gonna be epic!

A song for wolves,

The South has a new queen, a dragon queen who wears her name like a true Targaryen. Mother of the Dragons. Mother of monsters. Dark mother, brought ruin, death and fire to the Realm, and put to torch her enemies. With Fire and Blood she has torn at the lioness of the Rock and the whole world shall bend the knee to this foreign conqueror, or endure become ashes. And yet, to the North a new enemy rises. House Stark. The ancient kings on winter, the last defence against death and ice; battered, exiled and tortured they rose again in the name of the King in the North. A bastard deserter and his sisters; a Lannister's wife and a girl. “They are Starks, and the northerners never forget,” When winter comes... You'll hear no lions roar... No stags grazing the fields... No roses growing in the meadows... No snakes in the sand... The krakens will freeze where they swim... The flayed men will rot and wither... No trouts swimming in the river and no falcons flying in the air... Not even the dragons breath will warm you in your halls. Only the wolfs howl in the night... Winter is coming.

As always, hope you stay tuned, and yes the edit's got better since I started to make them, but alas no, those clips, music and quotes do not belong to me, we all knew how things would go if they did.

As always sending all my love ~G.

[littlesniggy]

Monster

Hellooooo....it's been a minute but I'm kinda back with a new story. It's a mafia AU with Mihawk and Crocodile. I'm still thinking about turning this into a multi-chapter story with smutty content later but not sure yet. Also, wanted to see your reaction if anyone is even interested. Please let me know how you liked it! Warnings: mention of torture, threat of death, waterboarding, mention of blood, reader is in great danger, mention of other bodily fluids Charakters: Dracule Mihawk, Sir Crocodile, Buggy the Clown, female reader Word count: 1.5k

Part Two

The impatient thudding of the tips of his long fingers against the dark wood of his mahogany desk was the only sound you could hear over your heavy breathing and the blood rushing in your ears. You were soaking wet; water was running down your face, your neck and disappearing into your soaking clothes. Strands of wet hair clung to your cold skin and your entire body was shivering. You felt dizzy. 

Next to you stood a man with a big cigar between his lips, holding a half-empty canister that was previously filled to the brim with water. His lips were forming a sadistic smile at your pathetic sight and he was more than ready to place the dirty towel back over your face and start the torture once again. 

“Are you sure you have no idea where your people hid the money?” his piercing amber eyes, that seemed to be almost yellow depending on how the light fell, looked at you almost bored yet observant and his voice matched that expression; his tone was nonchalant but had a certain edge to it that would not permit any kind of defiance.

“Of course, she knows where the money is! She is the one who fucking stole it!” that voice you knew. Next to the big desk was a fancy-looking sofa where the supposed head of this organization was sitting. You (and really anyone you knew) have been under the impression that he was running everything. Sure, he didn’t look like a lot but he had practically an army from thugs to clod-blooded murderers underneath him, so he was certainly not someone to mess with. But when he was silenced with a single glare from the man in front of you, you weren’t so sure anymore who actually was in charge.

“If you can’t behave, I suggest you leave, clown.” The man mumbled but it had the desired effect – Buggy was silent. Now, his attention was all back on you and you couldn’t say you were particularly happy about that. 

“I am still waiting for an answer. Or do we have to waste some more water on you?” A shuffle next to you put your whole body back on edge.

“I don’t know anything! I’m just the driver!” the words tumble over your tongue hastily, hoping to escape another round of waterboarding. 

“Yes, that’s what you said before yet somehow I don’t believe you.” The man in front of you mused. He glanced to his partner who was standing next to you. “How about you, Crocodile?” 

You’ve heard that name before but never had a face to it. Sir Crocodile – nobody knew his real name – was notorious, even among people in the underworld. If you didn’t have a particular death wish you made sure to stay clear of his business. But why was he here? 

“I think our little guest here knows more than she wants to admit. But this one is your call, Hawkeye.” 

You suddenly felt nauseous, your blood ran cold, bile started to threaten up your throat, and your entire body started shaking uncontrollably.  Hawkeye. Why was he here? As with Sir Crocodile, you had no idea what Hawkeye, Dracule MIhawk, really looked like but apparently, he was sitting right in front of you. If luck wasn’t on your side before with Sir Crocodile next to you, it had now outright abandoned you and thrown you to the wolves altogether. You balled your tied hands into fists, trying to wrench yourself free from your restraints but to no avail. 

Mihawk sighed seemingly defeated and nodded his head quickly in affirmation. 

“No!” You yelled but the towel was pressed onto your face once more, the chair was pulled back and immediately water started pouring out of the canister and onto your face. 

Hawkeye watched as the other man attempted to drown you, his fingers non-stop tapping against the dark wood. He didn’t know if he should believe you or not but quite frankly, he didn’t really care. Even if you told the truth and were some oblivious little girl – you were still part of the group who stole his money. And that was something he couldn’t let slide. 

He watched passively as your body convulsed under the water; how you tried to turn your head but the towel clung to your face like a second skin. He knew Crocodile wouldn’t kill you unless he gave the OK so he averted his gaze to his right where Buggy was still sitting, his eyes glued to your struggling form. 

“Get out.” Mihawk simply said. Buggy’s head snapped towards him with a venomous glare but was quick to rethink his next words carefully. 

“But-“ 

“I said get out. Or you’re next.” Without saying another word, the clown got up and left the room through a side-door which lead to another office. 

Mihawk’s attention was brought back to you when you started coughing violently as Crocodile removed the towel, the canister still filled to a quarter. He was glad he thought ahead when deciding on their new operating base. This room had a concrete floor with a drain in the middle. The expensive carpet that usually embellished the cold floor was neatly placed at the far end of the room. 

Your lungs were burning and your vision was blurry. Your knuckles had turned white from how fiercely your hands clawed at the armrest of the chair you were tied to. “Please….” You whimpered between coughs.  “I don’t know anything. Please, believe me.” Your pleading was met with silence from Mihawk and an amused chuckle from Crocodile.  

Your eyes started to focus again and you looked at the man in front of you, begging him silently with your eyes to believe you, to stop hurting you, and to please let you go. 

“Please, let me leave.” You whispered; tears started rolling down your cheeks.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”  uncontrollable sobs left your body and you started crying shamelessly. Your head hung low as you were shaking your head over and over in denial but that wouldn’t save you. 

Hawkeye got up from his chair and slowly walked around the desk until he stood beside you. Out of the corner of your eyes you could see his black boots. You instinctively inched away when he crouched down beside you, holding a knife in his one hand while the other one played with the sharp blade. 

“Please…” you tried again but MIhawk shushed you. 

“You see, I’m quite in a predicament here.” He started and he traced the blade of his knife over your leg, cutting through the thick denim of your jeans in the process. A whimper escaped your lips. “Don’t…”

“If you are lying and I’m letting you go, that would give people the wrong impression of me. If you are not lying and I let you go, people would still get the wrong impression of me. You might not be the one who stole from me but someone else from your organization sure did and it would let people believe that I am easy to steal from. So, the only option where I at least would keep my good name would be to simply kill you.” The pressure on your leg increased and you screamed in pain and at his words.

“If you don’t know anything, you are worthless to me and if you do know something you probably won’t tell me. Either way, I have no use for you anymore.” 

“No, no, please!” panic took over your mind and body and you’d do anything to survive this ordeal. “What if I do know something!” you tried to bargain, knowing fully well that you knew nothing. 

Mihawk’s lips were pressed into a joyless smile, his eyes were looking at you almost pitiful. Almost. 

“I’d kill you faster as a reward.” His voice could’ve sunk the titanic by how cold it was. Your heart sunk to your stomach, all blood that was still in your head also seemed to leave as you looked at the man, the monster, in front of you, telling you calmly that he’d end your life no matter what. 

Your brain was unable to grasp the thought of death as you suddenly felt extremely tired. It was as if someone put a warm blanket over your head that slowly drained out the last bit of light. Were you dying? But where was the pain? There was something warm running down your legs so were you already bleeding to death? It felt soothing. Your breathing became slower and slower, Mihawk’s face became nothing but a blur and then there was darkness. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

“She passed out.” Crocodile noted amused as he pressed his cigar out in the ashtray on the desk. Mihawk nodded and got back up, his eyes looking at your unconscious form.

“And she peed herself.” 

[jozor-johai]

some thoughts on identity as a motif in asoiaf. feel free to add on!

mostly just thinking about this because of how anything in asoiaf gains meaning from continued repetition, so it's interesting to keep track of these things, and see how different approaches to the same idea give more depth to the meaning.

Sometimes, these ideas are so similar that people create theories to argue that they are literally the same character. I think most "secret identity" theories are often misinterpretations of thematic parallels; yes, these characters have a lot in common thematically, but it does not need to be the case that they are literally the same character.

However, I recognize that playing with identity is its own motif in ASOIAF, so some thoughts:

Jon Snow's false identity; Young Griff's false identity, along with his whole party: Griff, the mysterious Septa Lemore, Duck, etc. Quentyn Martell (also a prince!) and his assumed identity, also in Essos, along with his entire party posing as sellswords. Barristan Selmy posing as Arstan Whitebeard. Alleras / Sarella. Asha pretending to be Esgred. Mance being glamoured as Rattleshirt, and later Mance as Abel. Varys as Rugen, and his other disguises. Ramsay Snow posing as Reek, and later Theon being forced to become Reek by Ramsay. And Theon-as-Reek "pretending" to be Theon again.

Which brings me to the chapter titles: identity is such a strong motif that it is also communicated in a structural way through the chapter titles, which begin to describe the characters rather than name them, or else take on the assumed name of the POV character.

Theon becomes Reek and the chapters reflect that. As he escapes the notion of Reek, the chapter titles reflect his changing identity. Sansa loses her identity, becoming Alayne, which is reflected in the chapter titles. Victarion goes in the opposite direction; he is the Iron Captain, the Reaver, and the Iron Suitor before his last chapter title becomes Victarion. Arya's identity changes as early as the second book, becoming Arry aka Lumpyhead, then Weasel, then Nan, then Squab, then Salty. Then she joins the Faceless Men, who heavily question the notion of identity, and cause Arya to question her notions of identity as a major plot device. Arya's chapter titles become Cat of the Canals, the Blind Girl, the Ugly Little Girl. We also get insight into other character's sense of identity, as well, even if they never get a chapter of their own name.

Plenty more to be said about the chapter titles, I'm sure, but Arya brings us to the Faceless Men, and Jaqen -> the Alchemist -> Pate, as far as we know.

On the topic of "anonymous organizations", there's the mystery of the identity of the Harpy, and the issue with the anonymity of the Sons of the Harpy, as well as, arguably, the equal issue with the anonymity of the Brazen Beasts (as the Shavepate is able to infiltrate his personal men into their ranks secretly).

Some identities that fundamentally change with death: Catelyn becoming Lady Stoneheart, and "Robert Strong", assuming he was the Mountain originally.

Beric feels like he's losing his sense of self with each time he dies, which is interesting because as that happens more and more of the Brotherhood Without Banners pretend to be Beric—he loses himself at the same rate his person becomes a symbol instead of a man. Also fitting for the Brotherhood Without Banners—no banners means without an identity in the way that most of Westeros conceives of it.

Because one's banners are their identity. Lannisters are "Lions" and Starks become "wolves" and there is a need to distinguish between wolves on two legs and wolves on four. The Tyrells are "roses" complete with thorns. "Dragons" refers to Targaryens just as often as it refers to actual dragons if not more. Obviously this continues ad infinitum.

And insofar as House names are identity, there is the voluntary renunciation of identity when becoming a Maester and losing one's last name, or taking the Black and forsaking one's familial ties, or to a lesser extent joining the Kingsguard and renouncing one's claim to lands. All of these are a loss of identity; one might argue that exile is a forced loss of identity in the same vein.

Which makes the Golden Company especially interesting, because they claim Westerosi names but without any real need to back them up with lineage.

And there are other voluntarily assumed identities that are not necessarily meant to be disguise, just self-chosen names. Bards often are specified as taking on stage names of a sort, like Rymund the Rhymer, Symon Silvertongue, and Tom Sevenstrings aka Tom of Sevenstreams aka Tom o'Sevens. Lem Lemoncloak. Cersei is especially bothered by the idea that the "Blue Bard" is really just a smallfolk man named Wat.

The "High Sparrow" might be more like a stage name, more important as the symbol of an identity than as a person. "The Hound" is also like a stage name, and the mystery of the Hound raiding Saltpans shows how the identity of the Hound can be separated from Sandor Clegane himself. Interesting that Lem, who already has a sort of second identity, will don the Hound over that in WINDS.

There is the mystery of identity even when assumed names are not into play, as with the Kettleblacks; they mystery of who they are and where they come from is important even without fake names (as far as we know).

Then there is the identity as reflected in prophecy. Melisandre sees a girl who she thinks is Jon's sister but then Alys Karstark appears. Melisandre sees Renly attacking Stannis' host at the Blackwater who turns out to be Loras in Renly's armor. Arguably, this applies to the symbol-identities we get: we understand that someone "is" the Mummer's Dragon, we understand that someone is the "giant" that Sansa will slay.

The "Three Eyed Crow" might be part of this category, and the idea of an assumed "dream identity". Maybe the weirwoods and warging are more identity-issues; Varamyr talks about how wargs take on the animal characteristics—so warging itself is about identity, too.

Which is then doubly potent with Hodor, who is a whole person that Bran is stealing the identity of.

There are tons and tons more but this is just a collection of thoughts on the idea.

[aegor-bamfsteel]

"All?" he mocked. "Tell me, little bird, what kind of god makes a monster like the Imp, or a halfwit like Lady Tanda's daughter? If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with."- Sansa(ACOK IV). How on earth Hound considered a hero?

If I remember correctly, that’s not one of the quotes people use when talking about how heroic the Hound is (although tbh he doesn’t say many positive things). Sansa a few chapters later shows him (politely, fearfully) where he can shove his nihilistic strongman philosophy:

She had forgotten the other verses. When her voice trailed off, she feared he might kill her, but after a moment the Hound took the blade from her throat, never speaking.

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, hisvoice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. —ACOK Sansa VII

So let’s get this straight: strong bitter Hound who says the weak are there to serve the strong holds a knife to a girl’s throat for a song…and she sings for mercy, holds his face, and he’s so shamed by what he was going to do he leaves her alone to never see her again. Hound has been mocking Sansa’s “soft” “bird” songs since she met him, and she, afraid for her life, proves to him and everyone reading that yes, those “weak” qualities are stronger than hatred and brute force. This is actually one of the best pieces of evidence that GRRM isn’t grimdark…not that a grown man broke into a girl’s bedroom and threatened her with a knife to sing (that’s sadly expected), but that girl, in a “voice that sounded small and tremulous to her own ears”, sang about mercy and peace…and she wins, he doesn’t hurt her anymore. It’s not so much Beauty and the Beast as it is Snow White and the Huntsman, in which Snow’s innocence means the Huntsman can’t bring himself to kill her; except Sansa singing and putting a hand on his face takes a more active role. She asked the Mother earlier to ease the rage inside him, and she (or She?) did.

No, the Hound isn’t a hero, but more importantly, his entire mindset in that quote is wrong. And Sansa—one of the series’ main heroes—shows us in the same book why. I can’t imagine reading Sansa’s Blackwater chapters and how she represents a core theme of the novels—that compassion, peace, and mercy are actually stronger than hatred, war, and revenge—and not understand she’s going to be one of Westeros’ future leaders by the end.

[merlot-and-chardonnay]

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 20

Chapter 19

"Jaskier!" you exclaim, tears in your eyes as you rush to embrace the man, everyone else looking upon the two of you stunned.

"Little sister," Jaskier exclaims in laughter, "it has been so long. Way too long." "I thought I'd never see you again," you say, trying to keep from crying.

The last time you saw your brother had been under less then ideal circumstances. You left with the hopes that he and the witchers would be spared the wrath of dragon fire.

The king and his family were still stunned by this reunion, but Otto stepped in to interrupt this moment, "Forgive this intrusion, but just who are you exactly?" "Well, I thought I was quite clear on who I was," Jaskier sasses, "I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount-" "Yes, you made that clear," Otto rudely cuts in, "it does not answer my question."

"Ah yes," Jaskier nods, "Well then, my lord, you are a lord correct? I'm only assuming by your stuffy demeanor, allow me to elucidate," Otto gave Jaskier the biggest glare from that remark. Daemon made a small smirk at that comment (reluctant as he may be) as Jaskier continued, "As I was saying before being of so rudely interrupted, I am the Viscount de Lettenhove, but for the sake of simplicity I go by my stage name Jaskier. Bard extraordinaire, well renown throughout the Continent, known for many a ballad, and for many a broken heart. And of course brother to this sweet, caring woman right here. Will those credentials be more than enough to suffice my lord?"      

"You're Lady (y/n)'s brother?" Rhaenyra speaks up, approaching, "I don't quite see the resemblance." "He's my half-brother, princess," you explain, "after his mother passed, our father married my mother sometime after." "Ah, so this is the princess," Jaskier says, "the Realm's Delight I am told. Truly a beauty unlike no other I have seen so far in this realm."

Rhaenyra smiled, "You flatter me. It seems to run in the family. That lute of yours looks quite sophisticately crafted." "Ah, do you like it?" Jaskier taps on his instrument, "this was handmade by the elves. It was a gift by their king actually. I've composed many a ballad on this instrument. Would you like to hear one?"

"That will have to wait another time," Viserys steps in, "that is until you answer the question as to why you are here in the first place."

"Ah yes," Jaskier says, tone turning more stern, which took Viserys by surprise, "I have a bone to pick with you. It wasn't enough to knock up my sister you had to steal her away from her family as well?"

Viserys only gave Jaskier a confused look, surprised this man had the audacity to address a king of all people in such a manner.

You roll your eyes a bit before whispering to Jaskier, "wrong royal, big brother," you nod towards Daemon, "that's the man who's bone you have to pick."

Jaskier turned his gaze to the prince, "oh I see, yeah, that makes more sense. In that case, my apologies your Grace," he makes a slight bow to Viserys and then turned to Daemon to confront the man.

"You. It wasn't enough to impregnate my sister with that little dragon of yours, you had to go and steal her and my niece and future heir from their family as well."

Daemon gave Jaskier a threatening look, "you are awfully bold to speak to me in such a way. Either that, or you have some kind of death wish."

"Oh yeah sure, go on, try and intimidate me with that menacing stare of yours, prince," Jaskier challenges, "you're not the first royal/noble to threaten me for things I may, or may not have done to their wives, sisters, and occasionally their mothers...and you're certainly not going to be the last. But I will not back down until I have what I came here for. I did not sit on some rickety ship and nearly get my head lopped off by Skellige pirates in a raid during a storm just to be cowarded into submission by some pretty boy with a pet dragon."

"Then what are you here for, Viscount?" Viserys asks. "Well, not that you may know, your Grace," Jaskier says, "but as it just so happens, my niece, my sister's daughter is third in line to my inheritance, seeing as I have no heirs of my own, not any legitimate ones at least," you smack your forehead at that statement, "my sister is next in line and by extension her daughter, and without them, I have no one else to pass my lands and titles to. By taking them away, you have deprived me of my future and my legacy. And I demand recompense for such grievances."

There was some awkward silence for a brief moment before Viserys speaks, "Well I am sorry for your loss, Viscount, truly. But I had nothing to do with this. I was informed that your sister was abducted against her will. Brought back to the Continent by a horde of mutant sell swords. Were you not aware of this?"

"Mutant sell swords?" Jaskier scoffs, "and vary odd way to describe-" you nudge your brother in the ribs before he could continue, "ow!" he protests.

"My brother was not made aware of this, your Grace," you say, giving Jaskier a certain look with hopes he'll keep his mouth shut for the time being, "and he was also not aware that Aemma was declared true born and is now addressed as Princess."

"Nor is he aware that my daughter is to wed the Prince Aegon when they both come of age," Daemon speaks up.

"...well then," Jaskier says with a calm tone, "We appear to be at an impasse. Tell me, your Grace, how do you plan to resolve this predicament I was placed in thanks to the father of my niece?"

"I hardly see a reason why this needs to be resolved," Otto retorts, "on what grounds should this burden fall on his Grace?"

"Alright then," Jaskier shrugs before stating his case, "if Lady (y/n) was indeed abducted by 'mutant' sell swords, she and her then illegitimate daughter should've been brought back to her family, being me. As Viscount with no heirs of my own, my sister holds the title Heir Apparent for my title, and Princess Aemma next in line. You know, now that I think about it, the real abduction of my sister and her daughter had actually occurred when THIS rogue," he points at Daemon, "swooped in on his giant lizard with wings and brought them here instead of the Pankratz estate where they truly belong."

Daemon gave Jaskier a very dangerous look, like he was already plotting the man's murder just for insulting his dragon. He probably would've if Alicent didn't pick this time to respond, "if this claim is indeed true, it may appear that this man has indeed been robbed of his legacy," she turns to Viserys, "surely a compromise can't be reached, provided time is given to negotiate."

Viserys thinks on it addressing Jaskier, "I suppose we could negotiate for such a compromise. As odd as you may be, you did come all this way in determination to see your sister again, which suggests a strong resolve. Very well, Jaskier is it? You'll be welcomed here as a guest. Accommodations will be provided as befitting your station."

"You truly honor me, your Grace," Jaskier nods, making a light bow, "now would you honor me further and allow me to see my niece, the princess?"

Right on cue, Aemma started walking on her tiny legs from the nurses and towards her mother. You go to pick her up and give her a kiss on the cheek, "Look Aemma," you say to her, "it's Uncle Jaskier, remember him?"

"Oh my goodness," Jaskier sports a wide grin on his face, "how have you grown, girl. You look so much like your mother, minus the hair and eyes that is."

Aemma gave Jaskier a rather confused look and hid her face into your neck. Daemon had a small smirk on his from the interaction, pleased that Aemma wasn't as willing to meet this man like she was with him.

"Aemma, it's alright," you whisper to her, "take a good look, maybe you might recognize him."

The young girl eventually looked up to her uncle again, who gave her another wide grin. She reached out for him. Jaskier took Aemma into his arms.

The other watched the interaction in fascination, except for Daemon, who at this point was coming with several different plots to get rid of the Bard. How said plots would be carried out would not make a difference, as long as they resulted in Jaskier's remains being fed to Caraxes.

You walk over to Viserys and address him, "if it is all the same to you, your Grace, I wish to take a walk with my brother and talk to him as I have not seen him for quite some time."

"...of course, Lady Lark," Viserys nods in understanding. The king then summoned one of the nursemaids to take Aemma back to play with Aegon.

--------------------------------

"It is so good to see you again, Julian," you say once you and Jaskier were out in the gardens and further away from the prying eyes of the nobles staying in the Red Keep, and pulling him into a crushing hug, finally letting the tears slip forth, "you have no idea how much I've missed you and....him."

"Well I should hope so, given how you left of so suddenly," Jaskier says with slight sarcasm, "granted it was against your will, but still."

You laugh a little, sniffling some as well, "I've missed your sense of humor too." "And I've missed you as well, little sister," Jaskier nods, now struggling to breathe, "but maybe I'll miss you some more if you stop crushing me with your arms." 

"Sorry," you say stepping back to wipe your tears away, "it's just...you have no idea what I've gone through since I've been brought back to Westeros." "I can only imagine," Jaskier nods, "I don't imagine you've been allowed to even leave this place much if only to have that scoundrel rogue of prince watching your every move like a hawk."

"Well he just came back from fighting in the Stepstones so he hasn't had much time to watch me," you admit, "but that doesn't mean he didn't have soldiers or servants to do that for him. I did try to escape, Jaskier, once or twice, but both times the plans were thwarted. At least Ciri managed to make it out okay."

"Ciri escaped?" Jaskier's eyes widen, "so...she's not here...with you?" "She didn't go back to Ger- to our friend?" your eyes widen back just as shocked.

"No," Jaskier shakes his head, "neither of us have seen Ciri in years, we thought she was with you this whole time."

"I need to know what's been happening on the Continent," you tell him after taking a breather from the information you had received, "what happened to Ger...to him." "Why won't you say Geral-"

You place a hand on Jaskier's mouth before he could finish his question, "because Daemon has forbidden his name to ever be uttered within these walls," you mutter, "and even walls have ears."

When you took your hand away, Jaskier looked up, down, and every other direction. No one was in sight, but the Bard was smart enough to know that spies could be possibly be hiding anywhere in sight, "I see your point," he tells you, "well then, how to do go about this?" "You've been brushing up on your elven?" you ask. "Not as much?" he admits.

"What about your Toussaintian?" you suggest.

"You tell me, Mademoiselle," Jaskier says in said language.

"Excellent," you say back in the same language, briefly looking back and forth before you continue, "a special source came up to me some time yesterday when I was in the godswood. He said a white wolf was spotted in the North, wounded and making his way towards King's Landing. I think it might be the man we're both acquainted with."

"And how do you know this?" Jaskier raises an eyebrow, "who is this source?"

"He said the wolf had gold eyes and sported a silver medallion around his neck," you answer, "and...he sang the song I wrote for the wolf all those years ago? I've never sung it to anyone here before, yet he know the lyrics."

Jaskier seemed shocked, but nodded, "I was hoping the White Wolf would've gotten here before I had," he admits, "looks like he managed to reach Westeros, but in the wrong place."

"What happened Jaskier?" you ask in the Common Tongue before switching back to Toussaintian, "Why...why did it take so long? Why would the White Wolf be gravely injured in the state he is in?"

"It's a long story," Jaskier answers in Common Tongue, "A lot has happened since last you and Aemma were there. There...there was a meeting on Thanedd, you know that place right?" you nod before he continues, "Ger....uh, the Wolf was there and...it went so horribly wrong. He got hurt badly and Yennefer-" "Yennefer?" your eyes widen, "Yennefer was there?" She's alive?!" "Shockingly yes," Jaskier nods, "and apparently she knew where Ciri was seen last." "I thought you assumed Ciri was back here," you point out. "Yes well...you know I don't trust Yennefer all that well," Jaskier points back, "for all I knew she could've been lying."

You shake your head a bit; Jaskier may not care for Yennefer much, which was somewhat understandable given that debacle with the Djinn, but you and her had actually gotten along the few times you've seen her. Sure it did bother you at first that her destiny was tied to Geralt's due to that damned last wish, but you've never held it against her, and that was before you and Geralt had even coupled the first time.

You were actually sadden when you heard the news she had perished at the battle of Sodden. It was a relief now that she had actually survived.

"So what did Yennefer do?" you ask.

"Well," Jaskier begins, "after what happened in Thanedd, after our friend was hurt and recovered somewhat thanks to some Dryads, the sorceress in question had created a portal to take him here. Looks like it didn't quite get him to the exact spot he was hoping. Yennefer did mention that could happen. Magic seems to work differently in this part of the world."

"So he is in the North," you realize, "and he's trying to reach this place. But if his wounds have not recovered...."

You were now beginning to wonder what kind of injuries Geralt could have received on Thanedd that he still had not recovered from them completely; witchers were known to recover from injuries faster then the average human being, and could survive wounds that most would've perished from easily.

If the man you loved really was gravely injured and not recovered, who's to say he would even survive the long trek he would have to make from the North to King's Landing.

You were now fearing for Geralt's life, and you were starting to contemplate the offer Larys Strong had given you the other day.

"You have that look on your face," Jaskier interrupts your thoughts. "What look?" "That, I think I might have an idea, but it might come back to bit us in the arse look," the Bard elaborates. "Wouldn't that imply I have ideas like that all the time?" you huff. "No of course not," Jaskier assures, but the look on his face said otherwise, "but I assume you do have such an idea now."

"...okay fine maybe I do," you relent,  discretely looking over Jaskier's shoulder to spot your idea in question.

You talk in Toussaintian, "a man with a cane and club foot is sitting on the bench in the distance behind you."

Jaskier turned to see, "hey be discrete!" you scold.

"Okay, I got a good peak," he says, "what about him?"

"His name is Larys Strong," you whisper, "the youngest son of Lord Lyonel Strong, who holds a seat on the small council. Larys is the one who told me about our Wolf friend."

Jaskier's eyes widen and he goes to look again, "Hey!" you scold again, "remember what mother said about staring." "She was your mother, not mine," Jaskier scoffs. "The rules still apply."

"Do you think this Lord Strong can help us with our friend's predicament?" Jaskier whispers his question.

"Maybe," you say, "he did offer to help me escape once but...I'm not entirely sure he can be trusted. He's...well I'm not entirely sure how to describe him, but apparently he's good at reading people. If what you've said about our friend is true, we may not have much of a choice."

"Well, maybe I can try talking to him," Jaskier suggests. "No," you shake your head, "you should let me." "(y/n)-" "You don't know these people like I do, Julian," you point out, "I know you're no stranger to scheming nobles yourself, but...these Westorosi lords are a different breed altogether, especially the Hand of the king."

"Yeah, he really didn't seem to like me all that much," Jaskier nods. "Not as much as Daemon dislikes you," you say, "if you didn't notice already he had been trying to burn holes into your head like he was an actual dragon."

Jaskier notice your facial expression was little more somber at the mention of the prince's name. He places a hand on your shoulder, "(y/n), can you be honest with me?" he asks, "Has...has he been hurting you? In any way? Will you please tell me?"

You look Jaskier in the eye, "he...he's kind to Aemma. He hasn't laid a finger on her. He even gifted her with a dragon's egg upon our arrival." "But he has touched you," Jaskier states.

You don't say anything for fear that someone might still be overhearing. Jaskier takes your silence and the look of fear on your face as an answer, "I'll make him pay for what he has done to you," he says with anger in his tone, "even if it costs me my own life, I'll take my lute and whack him upside the head if only to cause a good deal of damage against him."

"Good luck with that," you sarcastically scoff, "I'm sure he's plotting your own death even as we speak."

"Well then," Jaskier states, "he's going to have to try really hard at that. Lesser men have tried and failed rather spectacularly. Worry not for me, dear sister, for there are three things in this life I am good at. My songs, my ability to evade death, and most important, how to get enough people to like me that any plots to do away with me become nigh impossible."

You snort at that last one, "you and your dumb luck, brother."

After talking some more on trivial things, you and Jaskier return to the inside of the keep, where you brother could mingle with enough lords and ladies that they would grow fond of him and wonder where he would go to should he mysteriously disappear.

Chapter 20.5

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