#and Rhaegar took her hand. Her skin was soft almost too soft

[franzkafkagf]

once i write that rhargar/elia longfic is OVER for y‘all😭

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

hey i loved your part 3 in aegon and his third wife! i would love to read the bedding ceremony of Rhaegar x stark reader (she is his first wife, there is no elia in the picture) Both of them barely know each other, but they gotta do it as areys wants proof, like the whole scene is awkward but cute.

This is a cute idea. I took Lyanna out so basically you have replaced her.

There he was, sitting amongst the boisterous Lords swaying and parading the delight throughout the evening; a fly on the wall concealed among the brash partying that took place on this ‘prosperous’ day. It would’ve been best to celebrate too, had it not been in your name, shared with your new husband and prince – the reception of your wedding was the talk of the entire realm and would be for weeks.

His Prince to the Iron Throne was quiet throughout the entire ceremony and through the vows, rarely even showing a smile to those of his closeness or even his close family. His mother, Queen Rhaella was full of smiles and tears for her eldest son, with the four-year-old Viserys, tucked and swaddled against her skirts, his pale lilac eyes wide in awe for the grandeur. His Grace, King Aerys II, was sat among all the Lords and Ladies of the realm, drinking in all the compliments and praises like a lap dog, ignoring those as he drank merrily; making japes with other intoxicated lords and flirting with his sister-wife’s married and single ladies in waiting.

Among your family, your brothers, father and mother were in a close-tight knit, barely taking to others except for your brothers Brandon and Eddard, whom, the younger of the Starks was talking to the possible match of Lady Ashara Dayne.

The loud-mouthed Lords that surrounded you were loud and touchy when the night progressed, making it harder to ignore the more the hours passed and the morning was almost parting the new day. The only thing that came from these was bedding; the part that since you were a little girl, always dreaded with your future husband.

The bedding came and went, with both lords and ladies helping to shed the clothing of you and Rhaegar, dragging you to his apartment when King Aerys made the announcement it was time; the gruelling japes he made when the hall cheered and howled like excited beasts.

You were flung into the chest of your husband with the door flinging shut behind you, the muffled drunk noises coming from outside the door did little in helping to clear your nerves; maybe even making them intensify.

His Silver Prince’s clothes were shredded thanks to the ladies of the court: barely even hanging on to his toned and clear skin, his chest visible and bare when you realised your fingers were holding to his chest, immediately pulling away in shame.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” you blushed, trying with great struggle to cover yourself. There was a long slash to your dress down, the back completely exposed and ripped. “I did not mean to overstep.”

“Please, we are man and wife now, you needn’t call me your Grace when we’re alone.” Rhaegar was everything you dreamt of in a husband but never thought you would get: handsome and brave, sensible and sensitive, he would be the best of Kings when his father was finally rid of. You did not think you would be married so soon: only did you realise from the secret talks between your father and him, did you realise you were to be bedded before even reaching your 20th name day.

A tentative hand to your cheek, warm and soft, startled you out of your thoughts, looking up into the tender indigo eyes of your husband and prince. Rhaegar was made of stone, and at this moment, you felt soft and vulnerable, made of silk and feathers; too soft to cope.

“We don’t need to do this if you’re not ready.” He murmured into your dark hair, your wide grey eyes were glassy as you tentatively hugged him back. “I do not want to force anything onto you, my lady.”

“No, I’m ready,” you found your voice, strained yet loud. “His Grace would deem me not fit to be your wife… your future Queen, if I don’t do this.”

“Don’t think of him at this moment, this is to do with you,” Rhaegar corrected, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Please, this is only to do with you.”

You bit the inside of your lip, collecting your thoughts, “I want to, yes. I’m ready, my Prince.”

Rhaegar stared down into your eyes to sought for your truth, concerned eyes scanning yours before he sighed, pulling away. “I fear you’re afraid of me… of what my family are.”

It was true you were a little intimidated by the Targaryens: of the dragons they had and of the power they still carry, but you knew little of what happened when the first Dragons came and bent the North into submission, only from stories told by Old Nan. You would be intimidated by His Grace and the Queen, but never would you be of Rhaegar. But the person you could say you were most frightened of had to be King Aerys. He was more mad than sane, a mad dog that had to be put down before further damage was done to Westeros. You could still remember the harsh jape he made when he announced your betrothal to Prince Rhaegar. “Perhaps the wolves will be put in their place further when cornered by a dragon.”

You leant into him closely, trying to tell him subtly for his touch which he reciprocated. “You do not fear me, nor do the Dragons. I am a Stark overall.”

“A Stark indeed,” he drawled. “But you are warm and passionate and a dragon too.”

He circled an arm around you, your body drawing in his warmth, his adoration, pulling yourself to ignore those waiting outside the door. “I promise you this,” he began. “That I will never lay a hand on you nor allow another to do so too. You are my wife, and I will make that clear to anyone.”

“Rhaegar.” You exhaled his name but found your words caught in your throat when no more words were spoken. “It is just us, at this moment in time. Just us.” He drew closer to your face, his warm lips touching against yours before you could register what was happening. It was as you enjoyed the first time when announced as man and wife at your wedding, beneath the Seven. His kiss was careful yet wanton, passionate and deep.

The remainder of clothes were dealt with as the two of you made it to the bed, drawing tense breaths the more you touched experimentally of one another, finally, becoming one that night, your moans echoing through the entire room, clear to anyone outside that you had done your duty.

Your naked bodies were splayed as bare for the Seven to see, beneath the canopy of yellow wood as you pressed chaste kisses to each other’s flesh. “One and together,” you breathed, watching your husband’s breathing grow shallow as he fell asleep silently before you snuggled into the crook of his arm, muttering, “I like the sound of that.”

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 15

Some of you will hate me. Some of you will - well - love me just a little less than before, I guess. But this has always been where this story was headed. I can tell you, at least, that our heroes will have their justice in the end, if that softens the blow at all.

TRIGGER WARNING for blood and minor gore.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Fifteen: Tooth and Nail

"It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

They find Rhaegar Targaryen dead on a nondescript morning half an hour past dawn.

Jon and Sansa are roused from their bed and called down to Aegon's solar. Just before they reach the door, Jon slips his arm from her hold to instead reach down and link their hands together. She looks up at him as they stop just outside the threshold.

He sees the nervous flex of her throat and brings their joined hands up to brush a kiss along her knuckles.

"Jon, your father..." she says brokenly, the threat of tears lining her words. All for him. Always for him.

He lets out a shaky breath along her knuckles, keeps his mouth pressed to her skin. And then he pulls back, swallowing tightly. "I'll be alright." A short, tight nod. "We'll be alright."

Later, he tells himself. Grieve later. Rest later. There is too much at stake now to lose himself to it.

She keeps his gaze, says nothing in return. But something of understanding passes between them then, and the graze of her thumb over the heel of his palm is answer enough.

Jon opens the door.

The first gaze he meets belongs to Daenerys. She's standing at the edge of Aegon's desk, arms crossed over her chest with a glance over her shoulder at them when the door creeps open. Her face is a tight mask, the barest of shadows beneath her eyes. It strikes him suddenly, that she has lost her brother. And he cannot rightly tell what it stirs in her, so fiercely stoic is her mask. But the harsh clench of her fingers over her arms, digging white imprints into her flesh – that is enough to tell him something is stirred in her.

Jon looks away from her, to just behind her, where Rhaenys sits in an armchair along the wall, legs crossed gracefully, a nervous finger tapping along her armrest. She's wearing the same dress she wore the night before, and he wonders, briefly, if she's even slept at all. Her eyes flick to Jon and Sansa's joined hands for a moment, lips thinning into a tight line, and Jon is sure he feels Sansa's attempt to pull away, but he holds tight. Doesn't let her go. Rhaenys glances away as they step into the room.

"Welcome, brother." The silky voice calls his attention away and toward Aegon.

He's standing behind the desk, leaning over it with his fingertips perched elegantly along the wood top. The purple bruise from the previous night is harsher now, branching over his sharp cheekbone, the fall of salt-white hair over his shoulder casting it in shadow. "You're just in time," he says.

There is a measure of challenge to his voice, and Jon is perfectly aware as to why. He clears his throat. "Your Grace," he greets, head bowed.

(It is not the sort of challenge Jon ever intends to meet, after all.)

The slip of a smile curls at the edges of Aegon's mouth, like a spill of fine wine.

Sansa curtseys beside Jon as she releases his hand, offering her own greeting.

Aegon stands fully then, hands slipping behind his back. "Yes, well, I suppose even the servants must know by now," he says.

"They know a Baratheon traitor killed their king," Daenerys says, voice even. She cocks her head at her husband. "And they know we're vulnerable to siege. Dangerously so."

"We beat them back," Rhaenys contends, standing and walking toward them, stopping just at Daenerys' side. There's a subtle desperation to the words, a need Jon understands too well, for he cannot imagine her fate had they not beaten them back.

"Yes, but at what cost?" Aegon hisses, a glance to their sister. He shakes his head. "If they can kill a king in his own keep..." A refined sort of snarl mars his mouth.

"'They'," Jon repeats, stepping cautiously forward. "What 'they' are you speaking of?"

Daenerys nearly scoffs. "No one in this room is simple enough to miss the obvious."

Rhaenys folds her arms over her chest, shrinking in on herself.

Daenerys looks back to Aegon. "Stannis had help. He had help from the inside. Or else those gates would never have been opened. Those soldiers would never have made it so deep inside the castle so quickly."

"Agreed," Aegon says, brows furrowing. "And if we mean to show the kingdoms that House Targaryen has not been weakened by this assault then we need to act quickly."

Not been weakened? Jon wants to scream.

Their father is lying dead in his chambers this very moment, staining the air foul, rotting up the room.

Not been weakened?

Jon's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You speak as though you already know who's betrayed us."

Rhaenys glances up at the words, mouth parted anxiously.

Aegon sighs, chin lifting. "Father was near raving in the end there, I admit, but he had one thing right."

Jon swallows thickly.

Aegon tips his head slightly, eyes on Jon. "Viserys' fleet was too conveniently absent."

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Sansa begins, stepping up beside Jon, "But are you saying you believe your uncle orchestrated this with Stannis Baratheon?"

Aegon releases a short, sharp laugh – almost a bark. "Hardly, my lady. He hasn't the mind for such a clever coup."

"Then...?"

Daenerys frowns. "Either Stannis is a greater strategist than any of us have given him credit for, or Viserys has been getting some very treasonous ideas from his Lannister wife."

Rhaenys shakes her head, lip between her teeth, chest heaving. "Stannis would have done whatever it took to break Father after the rebellion. Even if that meant allying with the Lannisters."

"But the Lannisters have no reason to break faith with the crown. Not now," Sansa argues.

"They would if they thought they had a chance to supplant Father with Viserys and Cersei," Aegon says, a rueful chuckle leaving him. "Granted we were killed in the process," he finishes, nodding to Jon.

But Jon's mind is reeling, spinning. There's something in the back of his head like a steady scratching, a hum of discontent. It settles in his gut like shifting shards of glass. "Your Grace," he begins, licking his lips. "Do you really think Tywin would chance such a ploy with Ser Jaime in the Kingsguard? A possible victim of the siege? Do you really think he would risk his line, even if he would risk anything else?"

Aegon's mouth dips into a frown at the comment.

"If Cersei wasn't playing to her father's tune and whispering in Viserys' ear," Daenerys snaps, eyes fire-lit, "Then she was, at the least, privy to his treason and chose not to inform us. I cannot believe that conniving woman would not know what was going on under her own nose, in her own home, and thus, that Tywin Lannister would not know. The Lannisters are complicit in this attack, at best. And they are openly traitorous, at worst." Her eyes snap to Aegon. "There can be no mercy for either."

Aegon clenches his jaw, the motion seeming to pain his bruised cheek, or to pain something else, Jon cannot be sure. But there's a hesitance in his features, an uncertainty. It throws Jon just the slightest.

"Your Grace,' he tries, voice low and even.

Aegon's gaze flicks warily up to his.

"We're vulnerable, and we've taken too many losses." He licks his lips, swallows thickly. "But we are not alone."

Aegon quirks a brow his way.

"Call upon the North."

Daenerys releases a disbelieving laugh. "Summon Ned Stark? When we've not even discerned the traitor yet?"

"My father is not a traitor," Sansa says vehemently, chin raised. "He tried to warn us. He sent Theon Greyjoy with his missive, didn't he?"

"How do you know that?" Aegon asks quietly, voice thin, eyes sharpened like cuts of glass.

"I told her," Jon says instinctively, never missing the soft intake of breath Sansa breathes beside him.

Aegon's gaze slips to Jon once more, steady and unnerving.

Jon clenches his jaw at the look, hardly daring to say more.

"And what will the North give us, dear nephew?" Daenerys sneers.

He does not blink when he swings his dark gaze her way. "Time, at the very least."

She bristles at his remark.

He looks back to his brother. "You want to test Tywin Lannister's loyalty? You want the kingdoms to see our strength? Show them that the North still answers to the crown. Show them that fealty and solidarity are rewarded. Make Ned Stark your Hand."

Sansa swings wide eyes to Jon, stepping into him, a hand at his sleeve. "Jon," she whispers.

He presses his palm reassuringly over her hand.

It is too much to expect to be named heir, even if such a thing promises the sort of safety he wishes for Sansa, for their babe. To voice it would cast too much suspicion, especially now. And he never wanted a crown in the first place. Never wanted a hand in it. Let them squabble over heirs. Jon wants peace. Just peace.

But he's not stupid enough to think they can survive King's Landing alone anymore.

Daenerys' mouth opens, but no words follow.

Aegon's hands slip from behind his back, leveling on the table edge before him. His eyes narrow on Jon instantly. "What did you say?"

Sansa's hand curls tight in Jon's sleeve, but he ignores it. "Make Ned Stark your Hand," he repeats, voice steady.

A moment of keen disquiet passes through the room, and then Rhaenys steps up beside Aegon, a hand at his elbow, head bowed to him. "You would slight Dorne with such a choice for Hand," she says evenly. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. "They will not have it. Not with Stark blood next in line for the throne."

Aegon works his jaw, never looking at her.

A sound escapes Daenerys, strangled and low. She clears her throat. "Rhaenys," she seethes, wetness dotting her eyes.

Rhaenys frowns, hand slipping from her brother, face softening as she turns to Daenerys. "You know it as well as I. If you cannot conceive..." she says almost sadly, voice trailing off.

Sansa's hand falls from Jon's sleeve, and he does not miss the motion.

Aegon sucks a quiet breath through his teeth. "Rhaenys," he admonishes.

But her eyes are clear when they look back at him. "Jon is your heir, until you've a child of your own. Or would you rather name our uncle?"

Aegon's face screws into an ugly visage, lip curling at the insinuation. "Viserys will never - "

"No, he will never," Daenerys promises coldly, chin lifting.

"You don't have to name an heir, Your Grace, not just yet," Jon says. "You've just come into your reign. This isn't the time." He swings his imploring gaze around the room. "But we need allies. The North is still our ally."

"They are our subject, if you recall correctly," Aegon nearly snarls. "There is a difference."

Jon drops his gaze in deference, his skin itching with his frustration, knuckles white where he clenches his fists at his side.

Aegon's face slips back into a mask of practiced grace, the curl of his lip evening out. "No. What we need is to reestablish faith in the true Targaryen line." He looks to Daenerys then, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "And I will not let the Lannisters play our uncle like a puppet. Until I've a son to call my own, it must be Jon."

Daenerys's chest heaves, her eyes narrowing sharply. "He is a bastard."

Somehow, Jon thinks it should hurt less by now. And yet, it never does.

At his peripheral, Sansa presses toward him, a measure of silent comfort.

Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose. "He's legitimized, Daenerys."

"A hollow gesture," she cries, voice shrill now, desperate. "He's hardly a dragon."

Aegon ignores her, turning to Jon. "I'll consider your recommendation for Hand, but I promise nothing."

"Aegon," Daenerys bites out, jaw working.

Jon blinks at his brother, mouth parting. "That's not what I..."

Rhaenys shakes her head, a soft curse at the edge of her lips. "Don't insult Mother like this," she pleads, eyes imploring on Aegon.

"Your Grace," Daenerys tries again, voice dangerously low, a stillness overtaking her that chills the air in the room.

Jon swallows tightly when he glances to her, Sansa's words from earlier that morning taking root instantly.

Daenerys knows about the babe.

The air leaves him, the words stalled on his tongue, but Sansa must be thinking the same thing because –

"Your Grace, there's something you should kn – " Her words are cut off sharply.

"Sansa's with child," Daenerys interrupts with a snap of her teeth.

The room goes still. Jon's gut clenches painfully at Daenerys' exhale, his hand going for Sansa's at his side on instinct. He tastes her stark regret in the air, the confession stolen clean from her own lips. It rattles something of rage inside him, quieted only by a branding, instant fear.

Aegon slips his hands behind his back smoothly, eyes riveted to his wife. His pristine features, marred only by the blooming bruise at his cheek, sharpen almost indiscernibly. "What did you say?" His voice is like the snap of scaled wings.

Jon keeps his gaze resolutely from his sister's, even as he feels her sudden, wide-eyed stare on them. He only grips tighter at Sansa's hand in his.

"Brother..."

Aegon's gaze whips to Jon. "It is 'Your Grace'," he seethes darkly.

Jon lets out a stifled breath, blinking back the wetness. "Your Grace," he chokes out.

"How... how long have you known?" Rhaenys whispers out.

It takes all of him to tear his gaze to hers, only to find her eyes fixed to Sansa's stomach, tear-laced and unblinking. She clears her throat, wipes a hand over her face, looks back up at him.

Like the tears had never been.

But he catches the minute flex of her throat when she voices her question once more. "How long have you known?"

"Yes," Aegon breathes lowly. "How long?"

"Please forgive him, Your Grace," Sansa says suddenly, voice wavering just the slightest. "I only just shared the news with Jon this morning. It's what we'd meant to bring to you after we broke our fast but then..." Her voice breaks off with a pained sigh, gaze falling to the side.

"Then our father conveniently died," Aegon finishes for her.

She glances up at his comment, horrified. "No, Your Grace, that's not – "

"Your Grace," Jon pleads, throat tight.

"And how fitting," he interrupts, "That we should be speaking of heirs this morn." The king's smile is thin and wicked.

Daenerys stews in her disquiet at the edge of the desk, watching. Her fingers press white imprints into the pale flesh of her arms where they cross over her chest, like a shield. Or perhaps like a cage.

Jon thinks the distinction is rather lost on him these days.

He clears his throat, runs a reassuring thumb over Sansa's knuckles, though he cannot tell which of them he is trying to comfort more. "Please, Your Gace, there is still the traitor to consider. This... this changes nothing on that accord."

Rhaenys stumbles back a step, eyes drifting to the floor, clearly shaken. "This changes everything," she whispers brokenly.

It only makes him angrier. The vexation stains his throat, brings a growl to air. "Our babe is not the threat here."

"Enough," Aegon says tightly, jaw clenching. He's looking down at the desk before him, breathing deep. "Viserys will be summoned to King's Landing to account for his...dereliction." He looks back up, meets each of their eyes in turn. "I will hear no more talk of my heir. And that is final."

Daenerys' lips part, an aborted breath on her tongue.

"That is final," he presses, locking eyes with her. The flex of his jaw softens just the slightest when she glances away, eyes wet, nails digging half-moons into her arms.

Rhaenys draws an unsteady breath in, clearing her throat. "And Stannis?"

Jon glances to her at the mention, feels something stir in his chest. Remorse, perhaps. Or helplessness.

Always his sister, he finds.

Neither of them done right by, in the end.

She does not look at him.

Aegon sighs, shoulders loosening, and the look he gives their sister is startingly fond, tinged at the edges with a sadness like memory.

Not the sort he wants to keep.

"If he wants to keep his life, he'll talk."

Rhaenys' face screws into something ugly. Daenerys scoffs beside her.

"He should die for what he's done," Rhaenys grits out, trembling. "He must."

Aegon turns to her then, hand reaching for her cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "And he will. After he's spilled his secrets."

Rhaenys shakes her head, face bunching as though sick, stumbling back from Aegon's tender touch. "No, his life is mine. You cannot take that from me."

Aegon straightens slightly, hand falling back to his side. "You forget yourself, sister. I am king now, and my word is law."

"Aegon," she seethes, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes – wild and desperate.

"I'll not hear more," he says, turning away.

She lets out a disbelieving breath, head shaking again. "No, I can't - I can't sleep beneath this roof, I can't - not when he's alive. When he's here, alive, and – Aegon, please, no. I can't! Do not make me, please, brother. Kill him." Her voice cracks at the end, the rupture traveling all the way through her, sending her to violent shaking.

Aegon's eyes slip shut. "Leave me. All of you."

Rhaenys goes toward him, hands outreaching, but Daenerys grabs her back, hands at her cheeks, shushing her, pulling her gaze toward hers. "No, no," Rhaenys mutters brokenly, crumbling in Daenerys' arms, stumbling against her as Daenerys pulls them toward the door, a final, searing glance her husband's way, and Jon feels Sansa drifting toward the two women, face pained, words cracked and teetering at the edge of her lips, and he tugs her back by the hand, keeps her fist clenched in his larger one, swallows thickly as he shakes his head at her, even when his own pity for Rhaenys leaves him rattled.

"You will stay, Jon."

Jon glances up at Aegon's words, startled somewhat. Sansa stills beside him.

Aegon's eyes flit toward Sansa briefly, violet and sharp-hewn. "You may leave, Lady Sansa."

She offers a fumbling farewell, curtseying dutifully, hand slipping from Jon's as she backs away. "I'll wait outside, my lord," she says to him, a nod his way, lip caught between her teeth, and he sees the way her hand slips toward her stomach unconsciously. The door closes behind her before he can do more than croak in answer.

He is alone with his brother now. Or rather, he is alone with the king. It makes a fair difference now, he finds.

He looks up at him, meets his gaze.

Silence brews in the space between them. And then Aegon slips a hand toward the desk, tapping a finely-shorn nail along the table top. He cocks his head at him, a wan smile breaking over his lips. "What am I to do with you?"

The question lights something of unease in him. Jon shifts his weight from one leg to the other, mouth still clamped tight. Words fester and die in his throat, unheard. He swallows them back like bile.

In the end, he has no answer for him.

Aegon stops the delicate tapping of his nail, fingers curling into a fist, slow and measured. He braces his knuckles along the edge of the desk as he leans over it. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You did exactly what Father asked of you. Got a babe on your pretty little Northern wife."

Jon keeps is jaw clenched tight, standing stock-still on the other side of the desk.

Vaguely, he remembers the stone their father kept as a paperweight atop his desk – a stolen favor. He doesn't know why the thought should come to him now – only that it does. He swallows thickly, shaking the memory away.

Perhaps he does have an answer for his brother.

"You ask what to do with me?" he asks, chest heaving, just the once – a single, labored breath. "Send me away."

A finely arched brow is his only response.

Jon licks his lips, continuing. "Send us to Winterfell, away from the capital, away from any courtly influence. I know I will never truly be your heir. I've always known that, and I've never resented it. Naming me is just a means to punish Viserys, to remind him of his place, and I understand that, I do. So, have your justice. Call Viserys to King's Landing and hold him accountable. Drag whatever names you need to from Stannis. And then let us go," he pleads, voice cracking at the end, and he swallows it back, tries to rein in his breath, this thundering need in his chest, this rattle of desperation coiling tight in his lungs.

Just let us go.

Aegon stares at him quietly, a tick in his jaw, head cocked. He takes a moment, lets him stew in his unease. And then he blinks, face slipping into seemingly boredom. "No," he says.

Jon lets out a disbelieving breath, a hand wiped over his mouth, shaking with it. "Your Grace."

"You would have me send you North, and take Ned Stark as my Hand?"

"Ned Stark is – "

"Do not tell me what Ned Stark is," he seethes suddenly, face darkening. "I know very well what Ned Stark is." Aegon's lip curls, something angry and bitter branching out over his features. "He's a safety net for you. A way to placate my need for allegiance without costing you your freedom."

"What freedom, Your Grace?" Jon demands derisively, reckless in his urgency.

Aegon shakes his head. "I will not have it."

Jon leans over the other side of the desk, hands placed along the wood top, staring his brother down. "What are you so afraid of?"

A flicker of resentment lights Aegon's features, and it almost startles Jon with its sincerity, brief as it is.

There, and then gone.

Aegon's lip curls familiarly. "You can ask me that, after everything? After what has happened?"

Jon shakes his head, throat bobbing. "Aegon, talk to me."

"I will not be the king that let House Targaryen splinter to pieces," he snarls.

Jon presses closer, eyes imploring on him. "And I will not be the usurper Daenerys paints me as."

"She has reason to be wary, especially now."

"So send me away!" he snaps, acutely anxious, desperate now, teeth clenching at the words.

"With a babe on the way? With the only viable Targaryen bloodline in your wife's belly?" Aegon scoffs. "Come now, Jon, you can't be that simple."

It hurts. It hurts more than he ever thought it would. Jon rears back slightly, face pinched tight. "Is that what I am then? Am I a hostage now? In my own home?"

"You are a member of this House," Aegon says lowly, frown harshening. "And you belong in King's Landing."

Jon's sees red. Instant. Blaring. It overtakes him – rancid and biting. His lungs are full of it. He pushes from his lean over the desk, scoffing, stalking away to the far wall. "Oh, how convenient," he snarls. "To be part of the family – only now. Only now when it suits your purpose. When it is palatable."

"I am your king," Aegon bites out.

"And I am your brother!" Jon yells, stalking back to the desk, shaking with his fury. "Your brother, gods dammit, Aegon, I am your brother!"

"Aye, my brother!" he bellows, fist coming down hard on the desk, a snap of air chasing the motion, like a screech bent in half, a split-open wound. His eyes are wild. Violet-cut. "And I'm supposed to trust you, am I?" he shouts, teeth gnashing. "I'm supposed to take your loyalty at its word when it's already proven so fickle? When you abandoned your king – our father – once before already? Am I to expect the same? Tell me, Jon, is that what your loyalty is worth? Just a passing whim?" he demands, his booming voice filling the room, clattering into every corner, rattling the dust from the eaves.

Jon stares at him, chest heaving. He smacks his lips, the words tart along his tongue, aching for air. "I have never wished harm upon this family," he grinds out, voice catching. "Even when it wished harm upon me." His eyes prick at the corners, salt-tinged and hot. A smarting wetness. His jaw quakes with the effort to keep it at bay.

A stolen stone. Just a stupid, fucking stone. Not even worth the memory it takes to weigh him down.

As passing as a bruise.

(Except bones always remember, even when blood does not.)

A stolen stone, yes. And a loose horse in the night. A crushed petal beneath a boot. Years upon years upon years of it. Over and over. Until his skin is branded with it. Until it slips beneath his tongue like habit.

A shadow he can never shake.

You are not the kind of bastard they've always told you you were.

Jon holds tight to the memory of her words, even when everything else is fleeting.

(Because bruises are just shadows, in the end, and still, they pass.)

He holds tight.

Aegon straightens from his lean over the desk, fist slipping from the wood. An eerie quiet overtakes him then, an unearthly stillness. "Do you know what Father called you in the end there? When he was spluttering blood and breathing his last?"

Jon's rage quiets instantly, the breath raking from him. He cannot take his gaze from him.

Aegon works his jaw, brow furrowed. "Not 'son', not 'Jon', not even 'bastard'."

Jon's mouth parts, a coil of unease tightening in his gut.

"He called you 'traitor'," Aegon tells him.

Jon looks away, a hand wiping over his mouth. He tamps down the quake in him needfully. He looks back to his brother. "What are you trying to say?" he asks stiffly, never minding the rattle in his chest – the ache.

He wonders if he will ever stop looking for love in places it has never grown. His own foolishness, perhaps.

"'He's betrayed me', he said. As he was lying there bleeding, hand at the hole in his chest, the guards in chaos around him, and even when I screamed for him, when I dropped to my knees to hold him, to hold him, it was all he could say. All he could mutter between clenched teeth, his eyes never seeing me. 'He's betrayed me'. And even when enraged he was – he was crying, Jon, did you know that?" Aegon lets out a worn breath, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. When they open, they are wet, just the slightest. Just enough to catch a flicker of light from the far window, the sun seeping into the room like a reminder – irreverent.

Jon shakes his head, chest heaving. A croak leaves him, the words stalled along his tongue.

Aegon's hands wind behind his back, shoulders pulling taut. "And yet you want me to send you away, when I have every reason to try you for treason. When that's exactly what Father would have done, what he would have demanded, had he lived."

"Don't pretend you're doing any of this for me, to protect me," Jon grinds out, bitter suddenly. Bitter and shaken and holding himself together with the sharpness of resentment, with the vehemence of indignation. "Don't pretend I've ever been anything more than a tool to this family."

Aegon swallows thickly, voice hollow when he tells him, "We all have our roles to play." And it sounds so anguished, so unexpectedly regretful, that for a moment, Jon wonders if Aegon believes it – if he will always be this scared and this reluctant to break the mold.

Because he is, Jon realizes. His brother is terrified, he finds suddenly, startlingly.

Of kinghood. Of mortality. Of loneliness. Maybe of all of it.

Jon's throat goes dry, fists clenching at his sides.

And perhaps he would feel sorrow for his brother, for the unbearable pressure he must feel, for this great responsibility leveled on him before his time – perhaps he would ache for him, if he wasn't already so utterly resentful of him, if he wasn't so sick and tired of hiding his own agony behind clenched teeth.

Because Jon has learned well enough by now that understanding is not the same as condoning – that he can still be wronged by that which he pities.

And that he deserves better.

Jon sighs, the exhaustion rushing over him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his voice impossibly tender. "Aegon - "

A sudden banging on the door interrupts him. "Your Grace, Your Grace!" a voice calls.

Both men look to the door instantly, Aegon's command to enter sounding loudly through the room, and a guard bursts in without another second, panting, eyes wide. "Your Grace, it's Stannis Baratheon!"

Jon turns fully to the man, shoulders bunching in alarm. Distantly, he registers Sansa glancing into the room from her place in the hall outside, concern etched across her face.

Aegon narrows his eyes at the guard. "What is it?"

The man gulps. "He's... he's dead, Your Grace."

Jon blinks at the news, lips parting. "What?" It's a searing whisper that leaves him.

Aegon steps from around the desk, hands slipping from behind him and a dangerous glint to his eye. "What in the seven hells happened?" he seethes out, teeth nearly bared.

The poor guard blanches at the tone, mouth trembling. "Your sister, Your Grace, she...the Princess Rhaenys, she..."

Aegon rushes from the room without further word, a curse beneath his breath, and Jon follows instantly, reaching for Sansa's hand as he strides away, and she grasps it instinctively, eyes wide, questions at the tip of her tongue. They make their way through the halls quickly, down to the dungeons. Jon's heart is hammering, his lungs tight. He thinks of Rhaenys' desperate pleas just earlier. He thinks of her fallen face when Aegon hadn't granted Stannis' death that very moment. He thinks of his sister's shuddering form as Daenerys dragged her from the room.

But no, she wouldn't... To kill him would be...

Jon and Aegon stop short at the entrance to Stannis's cell, Sansa's gasp echoing about the stone walls when she pulls her hands to her mouth and stumbles to a halt just behind them.

Stannis is exactly where they left him, arms chained to the wall, back slumped against the stone, head fallen to his collar bone, only now his chest is cut to ribbons, his soiled cotton tunic drenched in blood, so that Jon cannot be sure where flesh ends and fabric begins, a tangled, bloody mess spilling out of his chest cavity, and the entire chamber is filled with a pungency, a sharp, copper-tang that lights the tongue – lessened only somewhat by the acrid scent of wet stone.

Jon rears back, a hand at his mouth. Distantly, he recognizes the light-footed steps of Daenerys coming down the stairwell toward them, racing, frantic.

"What happened? What happened? What – " Daenerys stills at his elbow, nearly jerking back when her eyes land upon the scene, chest heaving with her exertion.

Jon shakes his head, glancing to the side wall where the shadows fall heavy over Rhaenys' form. She sits on the dungeon floor with her back at the wall, bloodied up to the wrists, dagger held tightly and unflinchingly in the palm of one hand, the other curled into a loose fist in her lap, the purple silk of her skirts splattered with intermittent crimson – crumpled and stained. She stares vacantly at the opposite wall, mouth parted as though on a sigh, fingers flexing over the dagger hilt in her palm.

Jon's chest constricts at the sight.

He's only ever seen such a look on her face once before – when they pulled her near-comatose form from her half-dead horse all those years ago, Ser Arthur toppling to the ground behind her in a crumple of flesh and arrows.

"Rhaenys," he whispers brokenly, face pained as he looks upon her.

Her brow flickers at the name, but nothing more.

Sansa is at his side instantly, a hand at his wrist, touch trembling, her heavy, saddened 'oh gods' sounding at his shoulder.

Jon takes a steadying breath in, tries to block out the red. He takes a step closer. "Rhaenys," he tries again, voice wavering, hands trembling.

Stannis's body slides just a fraction, corpse dragging down the stone wall, and then his weight is caught abruptly by his chained arms, his elbows snapping taut at a sickening angle.

Rhaenys barely registers it, breath evening out, eyes unmoving on the far wall.

"What... happened?" Aegon demands, jaw clenching tight over the words.

The guard at the base of the stairs behind them shifts uncomfortably. "She asked to speak to the prisoner privately, Your Grace, and we... we stepped outside for only a moment – only a moment! And then he was screaming, and we rushed back inside, and she was crouched over his form, stabbing and stabbing and silent as the grave as she did so, Your Grace. Not a word uttered since, just..." He blows a breath from his lips. "Just sat there along the wall and waited for you all to come. Wouldn't let us take the dagger – not that we were too keen on trying, Your Grace, if you understand." He seems to shudder at the words. "Stabbed him seventeen times, you see. Couldn't get her off him 'til she stopped suddenly on her own, mouth clamped up tight, not a word, and he wouldn't have lasted 'til a Maester, see, barely got another breath in before he was gulping like a fish, moaning something or other, and then he was gone, Your Grace. Wasn't no helping it. And the Princess Rhaenys, she..." He stops suddenly, a weighted sigh leaving him. "She sat herself right on down along the floor like she was waiting for you."

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth in sudden realization.

Seventeen.

Seventeen arrows sunk into Ser Arthur Dayne's body.

He looks back to Rhaenys, to the dagger held needfully in her bloody hand, the wet glint of it eerie in the torchlight.

She's so utterly still and quiet, and he wants to shake her suddenly – bring back that biting, righteous anger of hers. Even her cruel digs. Even that. Something. Anything but this silence – this ruination.

He can't watch her break a second time.

Daenerys sighs beside him. "There's no questioning him now. We'll get no answers from a corpse."

Jon glances to her out of the corner of his eye, watches the tight flex of her jaw, the tip of her thumb pressed anxiously between her pursed lips. "Is that truly your concern right now? Rhaenys just killed a man."

"She's killed a traitor. A threat to our reign," Daenerys corrects, eyes slanting his way, and they're startlingly akin to his father's eyes in that moment, in the flicker of torchlight that illuminates her face – just briefly, just the span of a breath – like a memory you can't seem to shake. "I'd say she's done us a favor, except, perhaps, a little too hastily."

Jon huffs, brow furrowing. "She's clearly distraught by the experience. We need to get her to the maester," he growls out.

It's ridiculous, all of them standing around talking about it, talking about her. And she's just sitting there, there on the floor, without anyone even bothering to comfort her, and gods, he doesn't think she can survive another break, and he wants to hold her, he does. Wants to pull her into his arms and tell her it's going to be okay (even if it's not). Wants to pull the blade from her grip and clean the blood from her hands. Wants to look her in the eye and hold her face and let her cry and gods, even after everything, he just wants – he just wants to be a brother.

He just wants 'brother' to mean something again.

But he's too afraid to touch her. Too afraid to open that door again.

And he won't. He won't ever open that door again.

But she just looks so lost, and so sad, and so alone. And he doesn't know how to fix that anymore. Doesn't think he ever knew. Doesn't think even she ever knew. Just grasping at a shroud, really, just careening around each other – him and her and Aegon and Daenerys and even Rhaegar. All of them. Just blindly groping in the dark, missing each other by miles, flailing – falling.

Never learning how to fix what they never knew had been broken.

It breaks his heart, watching his sister. Breaks it beyond any repair he thinks could be possible.

He looks down to her bloodied hands.

(There is no going back from that. He knows this intimately.)

And throughout all of this, he is acutely aware of Sansa's presence at his side – the woman he wronged. The woman most justified to demand distance from his sister. She says nothing. Takes it all in. Breathes quietly at his shoulder.

And yes, the other – equally imperative – part of him is unable to reach out to Rhaenys for her sake. Because he will not submit his wife to any further disgrace, any disregard, any hurt. He will not betray his promise to her.

You, only.

And he means it. All the way down to his bones – he means it.

But he doesn't know how to reconcile these two halves of his heart. A yearning to protect. And a yearning to honor. To do right by those he loves. Always. To keep his promises.

Jon flicks his gaze from his sister, unable to look upon her any longer, his throat flexing with his unease.

Aegon looks at his wife, a softness flickering over his features minutely, even as his eyes narrow. "I thought you took her to her rooms," he says, not unkindly.

Daenerys glances up at him, gaze tearing away from Rhaenys. "I did. But she said she wanted to be alone. I thought some rest would do her good. I thought..." She shakes her head, frown deepening. "I guess I never thought she would... " She swallows back the words, voice thick.

Aegon sighs, a hand wiping over his mouth. He crouches down in front of their sister, watches her for an indefinable amount of time, brows pinching together, eyes wetting briefly, before he blinks it away. He clears his throat, takes a breath. "I don't want them to see her this way," he says softly, voice cracking at the end. His eyes flutter shut.

Sansa's hand curls around Jon's wrist, aching and tender. He can hear the shudder in her breath from this close.

Aegon shakes his head, eyes opening once more. He moves to stand. "I want any guards who were present at the attack brought to my solar immediately. And get me a cloak, something to cover her with."

The guard behind them voices his acknowledgement of the command, scurrying out of the dungeons quickly.

Jon watches the man go with knowing eyes.

Sansa shifts beside him. "What are you going to do, Your Grace?" she asks softly.

Jon turns to her, voice caught in his throat, but she's staring at his brother, a tremble lighting her as she holds tight to his wrist.

Aegon slips his gaze to her. "I will do whatever is needed to protect my sister's honor," he says decidedly. He glances to Jon, the two of them meeting eyes, and all at once, it is seven years ago again – when their father had called Rhaenys' rescuers to his solar and had his Kingsguard strike them all down, ensuring their silence.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes. His chest feels tight, the words lodged there.

It's not a memory he likes to hold onto.

Aegon looks down upon Rhaenys. "You're a Targaryen now, Lady Sansa. I'm sure you can infer my meaning."

Sansa quiets beside him, watching the scene with keen eyes.

"And Rhaenys?" Jon croaks out.

Aegon sighs, frowning, eyes still on Rhaenys.

Daenerys takes a tentative step toward him, a hand at his elbow. "Your Grace..."

He glances to Daenerys at her closeness, jaw tightening as he nods. "I know. She disobeyed a royal command."

"Your Grace," Jon urges, voice tight.

"But she is my sister, Daenerys," Aegon says, and Jon stops at that, blinking dumbly at him.

Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing, and he is infinite years older suddenly. Wizened. Worn. Even the bruise beneath his eye seems ancient suddenly. Years upon years upon years settled into the lines of his skin.

Daenerys drops her hand from his elbow.

"She is my sister," he whispers brokenly, hand branching over his face, holding it there, releasing a tremulous breath into his palm. He shakes his head, teeth grinding. "You foolish, foolish girl," he croaks out.

All at once, Jon remembers the way Aegon had looked when they pulled Rhaenys from her horse seven years ago. The way his hands (bloodied and calloused – even as a lad, even as a boy too young to have taken life for the first time) gentled over her form when they dragged her down between them. The way he'd settled her to lean against him, nestling her weight into his side. The way he hushed her, a hand smoothing down her hair, the other at her shoulder, holding her to him. How he shook when he breathed her name.

And he remembers how they linked hands, steady and dry-eyed, at Queen Elia's funeral. He remembers how Aegon gifted her a rose after his first tourney, still armored and sweat-lined – silver and gallant. He remembers how Rhaenys sat with him when Daenerys lost their first child, how he came upon them in the gardens to find Aegon's head in the crook of her neck, arms wound tight around her waist, crying into her shoulder as she hummed a lullaby their mother used to sing to them at night.

She is my sister, Aegon had said.

Jon forgets this sometimes. Forgets it too easily, really. But perhaps that is to be expected as a bastard – only ever half-welcomed. Half-needed. Half-loved.

And he doesn't mean to grow this resentment, he really doesn't. But he realizes now that he will never be the sort of brother he'd always hoped they'd see him as.

Even when he wishes to be.

"Oh Rhaenys," Aegon breathes, voice caught in his throat, his hand sliding down his face to watch his sister once more.

She seems to recognize the name, mouth parting at the address. She brings the dagger into her lap, her other hand winding around it delicately – cradling it. Her jaw quakes, and she closes her mouth. Opens it again. Tries for words. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes suddenly as she stares at the far wall. "Father wouldn't give me justice," she whispers, licking her lips. She glances up, eyes drifting just over their shoulders, never really focusing on them. And then her face crumples, the tears gathering quickly. "So, I took my own," she says, shaking with it.

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep. He tries to wash this ache from him. Never succeeds.

"My brother," she mumbles, shifting in her seat, glancing around suddenly. "Where is my brother? I want my brother."

Jon's eyes snap open, his chest constricting, and he is half a second away from stepping back, disengaging entirely from the scene, even as his hands bunch into fists at his side, his own tears dotting the corners of his eyes, when Sansa's hand slips down his wrist to wind around his hand.

He snaps his gaze to her, but she's looking down at Rhaenys, tear tracks already lining her cheeks, mouth trembling. She gulps thickly, lashes fluttering with her tears. She gives his hand one final squeeze, before her touch retreats entirely. "Help her," she gets out unevenly, chest heaving with it, eyes never leaving the scene before her.

Jon barely manages not to stagger back. Because he doesn't think he'll ever be able to rightly fathom what it takes for her to say such words, to encourage him, to urge him in comforting the woman who caused so much heartache, who sought to strike a rift sharply between them.

"Sansa," he says, voice rough, eyes flicking over her face.

She only nods. Quickly. Short and static – sniffing back her tears. "Help her," she says again, more a plea than anything now, and he can barely manage to tear his gaze from her face when Rhaenys's frantic muttering cuts him off.

"Aegon," she calls out, the dagger slipping from her grip instantly, clattering to the stone floor. She reaches up, unseeing. "My brother. Where are you? Where's my brother?"

Jon stills, halting himself mid-step. He blinks at his pleading sister.

Her eyes darken as she blinks, focusing, eyes flitting about the room until they land on Aegon beside her. She reaches toward him, crying anew. "Aegon, help me." She tries getting to her feet but she's unsteady, falling into him. Aegon is already reaching for her though, hands winding around her back, hefting her up as she grips at him, face buried in his chest, and then he's dipping down, hooking an arm beneath her knees to lift her up.

"I'm here," he breathes into the crown of her head, her dark hair matted with sweat to her temples.

She winds her arms more surely around his neck, eyes slipping closed on a ragged sigh. "Please help me, brother. I just... I want to sleep."

Aegon adjusts her weight in his arms, grunting with the effort, jaw flexing. "I know," he says. "I know, Rhaenys."

Jon barely manages to step back in time when Aegon starts for the door, brushing past him with barely a glance his way, eyes fixed ahead instead. He makes it to the entrance of the hall of cells when the returning guard comes bounding down with a cloak, and Aegon directs him to spread the cloak over her, adjusting his grip to gather her bundled form more firmly in his arms, and then he's winding back up the stairs without a backward glance to any of them.

* * *

"How are you?"

Sansa laughs. But it's a teary laugh, catching in her throat at the end, a hand to her mouth to smother the break. She shakes her head at Theon's question, and he looks contrite at the motion.

"Suppose that was a stupid question," he mumbles, glancing away.

She laughs again, only this time – genuine.

He flits his gaze back to hers, hopeful, a hint of that mischievous smirk at the corners of his lips.

Sansa sighs, wipes at her eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it to air. "It's not a stupid question. I just... don't really know how to answer it right now." She goes for honesty, because her head is too full of everything else and she only wants to breathe. Her hands drop back down to her lap as they sit beside each other on one of the innumerable benches lining the many sunlit hallways of the keep. Just down the corridor is the door to Maester Gregoir's, where Bran still lays bandaged and drowsy from doses of milk of the poppy. Sansa glances toward the far door where her brother sleeps, her chest tightening.

Theon sighs beside her, leaning back on his hands along the stone bench. "Has the maester said anything? About..." He lets the words teeter off, closing his mouth around an aborted question.

She shakes her head. "He's made it through the night. He'll live, that we know. But whether Bran will ever regain the use of his leg..." She glances back to Theon, a sorrowful look to her eye. "I... I don't know."

He only nods, mouth a tight frown.

"Gods, he doesn't deserve this," she bites out, angry suddenly, hands curling into fists in her lap, her eyes drifting down to the motion. "He doesn't deserve this."

"Neither of you do."

She glances up at him then. "What do you mean?"

He meets her eye, a sigh leaving him. "You know, you may not tell me everything, and I get that." He scoffs, but it isn't harsh, only resigned. "I'm not your brother, after all. Never will be. And I'm certainly not your husband." He swallows thickly, meets her eye. "But I think I've known you long enough to know when you're scared."

Sansa stiffens, her knuckles going white in her lap.

He glances down to her hands, face softening. "You're scared, Sansa. Have been ever since I told you about the missive from Lord Stark. And now with the king – " He stops, scrubs a hand down his face. "Sansa, what's going on?"

She bites her lip, tries to keep from shaking. Her eyes are dry and unblinking when she tells him, "I'm with child."

He straightens from his lean instantly, glancing to her stomach, and then back to her face. "With child?"

She nods, a hand smoothing over her stomach.

Theon cocks his head, brows going high. "And Prince Jon, he knows? The Targaryens?"

She nods again, chest constricting at the memory of their earlier conversation. "Just this morning."

Theon lets out a breath between his teeth, head shaking. "Sansa, it isn't safe for you here."

"Don't you think I know that?" she hisses, fingers curling over the fabric at her belly. "But you're not stupid, Theon, as much as you sometimes pretend to be," she says.

He throws her a look at the familiar insult but she bowls over it with a waved hand as she continues. "You know Stannis could never have gotten this far into the keep without an accomplice, and you know that Aegon – who, may I remind you, is king now – would never let us leave King's Landing until the traitor is brought to light."

Theon scoffs, head thrown back, "Sansa, you can't stay here, you – "

"And you know," she grinds out, ignoring him, "that to hide this babe would only give our enemies more evidence to frame us as usurpers, especially if we attempt to leave the capital following such an attack."

Theon curls his lip at the remark, unable to deny its truth. "'Our enemies'," he repeats roughly. "And who is that, hmm? The Lannisters? The Targaryens? Someone else entirely? Who, Sansa?"

"I don't know!"

"Then you have to get out!"

"Don't you see?" she hisses, eyes flitting between his desperately, her hands moving to grip at her skirts, an anchor, something to steady the quake of fear rattling through her. "There is no 'out'," she scoffs. "Not of this family. Not of this life." She quiets, fierce and still. "There never was."

Theon stares at her hard, jaw grinding. He shifts to face her more fully, taking a deep breath. "Sansa, you just have to get Stannis to talk. You just have to – "

"Stannis is dead." It's a cold, even whisper that leaves her.

Theon's head rears back, eyes narrowing. "But... but he was captured, I know he was. I was there."

She keeps his gaze, fingers tightening over her skirts.

"The traitor, did they kill him? To silence him?"

Her mouth parts, closes, parts again.

The walls – splashed in blood. Rhaenys' haunted eyes. The grotesque way Stannis' body hung by his chained arms, innards spilling to the floor.

Her stomach turns at the memory, her skin tingling, a tremor going through her.

(To know it was Rhaenys who could carve such ugliness.)

Sansa turns her head. "I don't... I don't think that it's."

Theon looks out across the hall, brows furrowed in confusion. "But then how..."

"Please don't ask me how," she whispers tightly.

It is not her sin to bear, nor hers to speak. And she thinks of all the things Rhaenys deserves from her, after what she'd done to her and Jon. She thinks of all these things, and yet, can only settle on silence.

So silence she keeps.

Theon glances back to her, notes the determined look in her eyes, the tight clasp of her hands in her skirts. He says nothing, and she is grateful for it.

She swallows back her trepidation, takes a deep breath. "Stannis is dead," she says, voice cracking. She clears her throat, tries again. "And with the king dead now also, no one is above suspicion."

Theon growls beside her, eyes shifting as he thinks, shoulders curling.

Sansa softens at the sight, her hands easing their fisting in her lap. "Theon, this information is dangerous to whoever has it, you understand? You cannot repeat what I've told you. Your life would be at risk."

"I know," he says, voice rough.

Sansa sighs, eyes closing momentarily. "And I'm afraid for Bran." She opens her eyes once more.

Theon cocks his head toward her. "I'm not leaving the capital any time soon, you know."

"Promise you'll protect him?"

"It's what I'm good at, didn't you know?" he says on the edge of a chuckle, reassurance seeping into his words.

She nods, swallowing tightly. The breath eases in her chest somewhat at the consolation.

Theon eyes her quietly a moment, before asking, "And you?"

She blinks up at him, words halted along her tongue. He's staring at her so determinedly, and she realizes, just then, exactly what her answer is. She softens at his look. "I'm not alone here anymore, you know," she says. And there's a measure of surety that hadn't ever been there before.

"I'd make the same choice, every time."

He'd come for her. Every time.

No, she's not alone. And she would never be alone again.

Theon flits his gaze between hers, still hard, still uncertain. She can see the clench of his teeth from the tick in his jaw.

She finds it in herself to smile – small and sure. "Jon will protect me."

She's never said it aloud, and maybe that's because she hadn't fully trusted it until now. But she remembers the way he'd put forth her father for Hand, and how he curled his palm reassuringly around her own, and how he'd held her earlier that morning, trembling and sweat-lined and bare before her – bare in ways they've never been with each other.

How he held her more precious than anyone ever has.

She notices, belatedly, the tears beading at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't bother to blink them back.

Theon's face softens at the sight of her, mouth parting slightly. He looks at her, and looks at her, and then finally looks away. His throat bobs, his hands curling over his knees when he sighs out, "You trust him, then?"

She nods. "I do."

"And you love him, then?" He looks back to her with the question.

"I do." Her answer is instant. Hardly a thought, rather – instinct.

Theon nods, never looking away. "Have you always?"

At this, she quiets. Because no, she hadn't always.

It's a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love. It has never been an easy love.

"No," she says, but it isn't with any sort of surrender. It isn't a confession of weakness or wrongness. It's just the truth.

And here's another truth:

It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again.

"I've never seen a man so scared in my life," Theon says suddenly, voice tight with remembrance.

Sansa furrows her brows at him, licking her lips. "What?"

"Jon. In the courtyard, with the attack. When he was screaming for you." He turns his stare to the wall, gripping his knees. "I've never seen a man so scared."

Sansa blinks back the memory, the scrape of air along her lungs when she'd laid eyes on him, watched him scramble toward her, her limbs heavy as they moved, as they carried her across the courtyard and into his arms, as she crumpled into him, shaking and beaten and wailing.

And she remembers, distantly, the image of Theon at her peripheral, bow still in hand.

Sansa winds her hands together in her lap. "Theon..."

Theon's gaze shifts back to hers, mouth a tight line. And then his lip quirks, just the slightest, just a hint. He rakes a hand through his hair, leans back along the stone bench. "I think maybe you're right."

She arches a brow in question, throat still too raw for words.

He throws a knowing look her way. "You know, the kind of man that can look like that – he's got something to protect alright." A roguish grin breaks across his face.

Sansa feels the lightness in her chest, the ease. She smiles back at him. "Thank you."

He nods, a gruff sort of acknowledgment sounding in his throat.

Her smile flickers, her hand going over his wrist then. "For everything, Theon. Thank you for everything."

His grin falters, eyes peering into hers.

She licks her lips, blinks back the wetness dotting her lids. "I know I wouldn't have made it without you – that Bran wouldn't have made it without you."

Theon sombers instantly, watching her.

Sansa pulls her hand back from his wrist, back straightening as she curls her hands into her lap once more. "I won't ever forget it," she promises fiercely, never looking away.

Theon purses his lips, a hoarse sort of laugh leaving him. "Yeah, well..." He stops, clears his throat, smiles once more – curled at the edges, wolfish – of a sort.

The image warms Sansa, her eyes wetting further.

He tuts at her, shoulders pulling back when he clears his throat once more. "Well, you'd better not. Because I plan on calling in a royal favor or two in the future, you know."

Sansa nods conspiratorially, a teary smile etching across her lips. "Of course."

Theon sighs then, eyes going to the ceiling, a hand wiping over his mouth. "Gods, this fucking place. Never thought I'd miss the asscrack of fucking nowhere that is the North."

Sansa braces a hand to her mouth as she barks a laugh, attempting to stifle it, and failing miserably. "Not enough snow for you, Greyjoy?" she taunts. "You've turned into a right Northerner, have you?"

He preens at the tease. "Near enough."

Before she can say more, Maester Gregoir opens the door down the hall, catching sight of the two of them along the bench.

Sansa stands instantly and makes her way toward him to greet him.

The greying man nods deferentially, a wan smile gracing his face. "Your brother's asking for you, my lady."

Sansa takes a breath, steadies herself. "Thank you, Maester." She turns to Theon but he's already bowing his farewell.

"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "Pretty sure Ser Rodrick is already crying for my return anyway," he laughs, head nodded toward the guest quarters.

Sansa offers an appreciative smile, curtseying delicately before striding through the door and making her way over to Bran's cot. She takes his hand, settling in a seat at his side, heart keening at the slight moan that leaves him.

Distantly, she takes note of Rhaenys' curled form along the other cot across the room, the princess' back to her, slumbering softly. Sansa swallows thickly, turning her attention back to her brother. She wipes a hand along his brow, relieved when she notices he's since sweated out his fever. "Bran," she greets gently.

His eyes flutter open to meet hers, a heavy breath raking through his lungs. "Sansa."

She nearly crumples at the sound of his voice, her words catching in her throat, her lip trembling. "I'm here," she says.

He blinks up at her, eyes focusing and re-focusing. "You're here?"

"I'm here. I'm okay, Bran," she assures him.

"I thought..." He smacks his chapped lips, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. "I thought you'd left."

She catches the break in her voice before it can make it to air. "Never."

Bran nods, the tension easing from his features. "That's right," he mumbles. "You would not leave me." He licks his lips, tries to form the words. A half-laugh breaks from him. "Stubborn as Arya, you were."

Sansa chuckles in response, watery and exhausted. She squeezes his hand in hers. "Though perhaps not half as skilled."

Bran groans something unintelligible, shifting along the cot. Sansa reaches for his shoulders, trying to ease him as he settles. "Why did you come for me?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.

Sansa blinks at him, a disbelieving breath leaving her. "Why did I come for you?"

His eyes search for hers, try to focus in his drowsiness, this state of half-wakefulness, half-dream. She wonders if he will remember this conversation, if he even knows what it is he's saying.

Bran nods, head turning to look at her more fully.

Her throat goes dry, her words sticking along her tongue. She glances down, moving to tuck his hand back beneath the blankets. "You're tired. And you haven't all your wits about you with that medicine in you. Rest."

But Bran doesn't let her pull her hand away, gripping it fiercely.

She stills at his bedside. He's staring at her, those familiar Tully eyes harsh in the candlelight – familiar in a way she doesn't particularly want to admit to.

In the way a mirror is familiar.

"Why did you come?" he asks again, his voice gravelly from sleep. "When you could have died?"

It's not something she thinks she'll ever forget – the stark, branding fear that had lanced through her when that man had gripped her by the hair and hauled her back, torn her from her clawing brother, sent her spinning with a ruthless slap along her cheek. She doesn't think she'll ever forget the wails, or the smoke, or the tightness of her own lungs in her chest as she ran and ran and ran and screamed. The fear. The godsdamned fear. The way it stained her to the root.

The way it stains her still.

(She only finds sleep in Jon's arms.)

No. She can never forget that. Not that.

Sansa opens her mouth but only a croak leaves her. She clamps her jaw shut, tries to smother that tremor that lights beneath her skin.

Why did she? When death had almost certainly awaited her?

Bran turns his head, a pain-touched moan easing from his lips, eyes slipping shut on a delirious sigh. "So stupid," he mumbles out.

Sansa stills at his words, brows furrowed sharply. "Bran, you're my pack, my – "

"Pack, pack, always 'pack'," he sneers in his drug haze, his free hand reaching up to his head. "So stupid, Sansa," he moans.

She rears back, a sharp pain in her chest, hand still gripping at his. She shakes her head, unable to find the words. "Bran, I don't..."

"Always the 'pack'," he grinds out, head turning back to face her, eyes alarmingly clear, even as he shakes from the effort, beneath both the pain and the drug. "Always the pack with you, like – like you aren't part of it yourself." His head falls back to the pillow, drowsy once more. "Like you aren't part of it yourself," he mutters groggily.

Like you aren't part of it.

Sansa sits back in her seat, hand slipping from her brother's.

"Jon will protect me."

Maybe she hadn't ever fully trusted it before because it wasn't something she thought she could ask for, or have, or demand. Maybe she'd gotten too used to living for others, even when those others were ones she loved dearly. Maybe she'd always seen the pack as something outside of herself.

And has it always been this way? Has she always been so dismissive of herself? Her own needs, her own wants?

Did she lose herself when she went looking for something more?

"Tell me what you need."

She'd never heard those words before until Jon spoke them – never even knew she needed them.

Sansa's mouth opens, a shallow breath breaking over her parted lips. She slumps with the revelation, a watery laugh caught in her throat.

(To be important to someone. To be important to herself.)

She sucks a shaky breath in, eyes tearing.

(To know that 'pack' does not mean others before self, but the whole before self. A whole that she is a part of. That she deserves to be a part of.)

Sansa curls both hands around Bran's now as he turns in his drugged state, trying to find a comfortable position to return to sleep.

"So stupid," he mutters again, eyes already drifting shut, and Sansa laughs at the words, blinking at the hot tears lining her lids. She squeezes his hand beneath her own, wants to remember this warmth always. She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, tugging the blanket up his chest with one hand. "Rest, Bran," she manages roughly, the weight of tears behind her words.

But it's a comforting weight. A freeing weight. Because it bespeaks a grief that is hers, and a fear that is hers, and a joy that is hers. It bespeaks a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love.

(Because loving yourself is sometimes the hardest thing in this world.)

"Everything's so heavy," Bran says on a sigh, gripping at the sheet pulled up to his chest.

Sansa smooths his hair down, smiling at his sleep-touched face. "Rest," she says again, a gentle hum following the words, the faint start of a song.

She warms instantly at the smile that tugs at his lips when he hears the note.

And so, she settles further in her seat. And so, she sings her brother to sleep. And so, it begins – her watch to keep.

* * *

Sansa wakes some hours later, sitting up from where she had fallen asleep with her head over her arms, braced along the edge of Bran's bed. He's sleeping sounding before her, and she brushes the hair from his forehead, blinking in the late afternoon light. She glances up and finds Rhaenys sitting along the edge of her cot, watching them.

Sansa straightens, her hand retreating.

It's not a conscious stare, she thinks, the woman's eyes slightly unfocused, just a touch off kilter, as though her gaze had caught along her shoulder and not her face. As though she wasn't really seeing them.

Pulling her lip between her teeth, Sansa brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and blinks away the sleep, standing slowly. She watches as Rhaenys seems to register the motion, her gaze shifting up to meet Sansa's. Like seeing her for the first time.

Rhaenys' mouth opens, and then closes. She blinks, curls her hands over the edge of the cot. Looks away.

There is no conversation in this world that Sansa particularly wants to have with this woman right now. And yet, something tugs at her insides, sets her feet to motion. She steps around the cot, glides through slants of dimming light from the thin windows. She can hear Maester Gregoir's scribbling at his desk in the next room over, the door between them still ajar. It's unbearably quiet otherwise, and Sansa has to steady herself, smooth her hands down her skirts, keep her face an impassive mask. She stops just before Rhaenys, a bit off to the side.

Rhaenys looks to her hands gripping the edge of the cot, seems to catch sight of the blood caked nearly to her elbows, and she releases the cot instantly, stilling a moment, before bunching her hands together in her lap, fingers curling over her knuckles with an acute awareness that belies her quiet, untethered state.

Sansa glances to the water bowl along the table at the edge of the cot, catches sight of the clean cloth hanging over the edge. She reaches for it, twists the excess water out. "Here," she says, handing it to the princess. The word is a jagged cut of air. She clamps her mouth tightly closed after its release, hardly knowing why the tremor is there at all.

Rhaenys looks at it out of the corner of her eye, jaw tightening. Her hands bunch tighter, and she looks away.

Sansa stands with her hand outstretched for only a while longer, nodding quietly to herself when she finally sets the wet cloth back to the bowl. She opens her mouth once more, finds no words to muster, lets her gaze fall to the floor.

She closes her eyes, trying to push back the memory of that morning's discovery. She doesn't know which sight was worse: Stannis or Rhaenys.

In the end, she thinks it matters little.

Rhaenys shifts along the cot, the noise catching Sansa's ears so that she opens her eyes once more, and finds Rhaenys reaching for the towel herself now, taking it to her stained hands with jerky, half-coherent motions.

Sansa only watches her a moment, before she's overcome with an inscrutable discomfort, as though she were intruding on something intimate. Her eyes flit away, a delicate sigh escaping her. "I'll leave you, my lady." And then she gathers her skirts to go.

It's the king's funeral tomorrow, after all. And it will be a long day of ceremony. Rest, she'd told Bran. But she needs rest herself.

And she needs Jon, she finds.

"You know what he took from me," Rhaenys says suddenly behind her. Sansa stops at the words, at the evenness with which she says them. She turns to glance back at her over her shoulder.

Rhaenys is watching the steady motion of her hands as she wipes the towel over her palms, scrubs slowly and surely at the blood caked there.

Sansa stares at her, suddenly breathless.

"You know what fear his presence here stirred in me," she says, almost like an accusation, her jaw tightening over the words, brows furrowing sharply.

Sansa realizes then that she's speaking of their conversation just before the attack – how Rhaenys had gripped at her, begged for her not to leave, clung to her like a lifeline.

And she imagines the woman hates that Sansa was the one to see her like that. That Sansa was the one she clung to, revealed herself to, was weak before.

But Sansa can only nod, her words kept carefully behind the cage of her teeth.

She does not blame Rhaenys for her terror. Truly, she doesn't. She blames her for a great many other things, of course. But never for that.

(She remembers what fear feels like behind the crack of white knuckles. And she can never imagine a barrage of them. She knows this, admits it.

But her pity can only take her so far.)

"I couldn't go back to that," Rhaenys whispers tightly, fingers clenching over the cloth in her hand. She stills her cleaning, finally glancing up to Sansa. Her dark gaze is steady as stone. Not a flicker of smoke. A dead thing, wrapped in soiled silks. "I won't... go back to that," she says lowly.

A quiver makes its way down Sansa's spine, sharp in its coldness. She cannot take her eyes from the woman.

Rhaenys sets the towel back into the water bowl with a grace that almost mocks the muddied state of her hands, her skirts. She rinses the cloth, wrings it out, watches the water run pink. She takes the cloth back into her lap, gliding it up her bloodied wrist. "I waited, you know. Waited for him to come to me."

Sansa blinks at her words, confusion flitting across her face, before Rhaenys looks up, meets her eyes once more.

She understands then, without knowing how.

"I waited for Jon to save me," she says. The cloth swipes gently around her narrow wrist.

Sansa's shoulders bunch, a wariness lodging tight in her chest, face hardening.

"But he was too busy saving you," she continues, fingers splayed out as she dips the cloth between them. Her eyes flick toward Sansa's stomach, settling there. "You and that babe of yours." It's almost a sneer. Almost, but not quite. There is still too much quiet beneath the words, still too much stoicism keeping her rooted and blank.

But Sansa curves her palm across her belly instinctively, a jolt of protectiveness moving within her, flaring hot – instant and irrepressible. She feels the silk bunch beneath her fingers, tries to moor her heart to the sensation, to anchor there. "Whatever his choices, Jon has no regrets," she grinds out, the pity drowned out of her tone. Only caution remains. Only the slow circling of a wolf on watch. "Can you say the same?"

Rhaenys stills her slow wiping, sighing as she settles the bloodied rag in her lap. She looks down to it, jaw working. She blinks fiercely – like trying to clear the shroud away. Trying to see through the marring of her own skin. "I will," she says. She looks back up then.

(It's a face Sansa will remember for years and years.)

Rhaenys tips her head, the shadow of a smile curling at the edges of her lips. "I will," she says again, and Sansa cannot be certain whether it is a promise or a threat that colors her words.

She wonders if there's even a difference with this family.

Taking a single step back, she grips more firmly at her belly, never releasing her stare, never turning her back on the dragon before her. Her teeth grind – a war of pity and rage and rancid, fleeting greed coiling tight in her gut. "Rhaenys...," she begins warningly, not knowing where her censure will lead her.

And then Rhaenys laughs – nothing bright or boisterous. Only surprised. Enlightened, almost. Softening out in a disbelieving breath, a shake of her head. "She was right," Rhaenys says with one last, vehement swipe along her bloodied wrist, eyes never leaving Sansa. "To kill a living thing – it's not so hard, after all."

Sansa tastes bile at the back of her tongue, that coil in her gut bunching high in her throat now, a flash of red, and then a sudden, obtrusive halt. She rears back at the words, mind whirling.

Her hand slips from her stomach. "Rhaenys, what...?"

The door pulls open behind her, and she turns abruptly, words caught in her throat. She settles somewhat at the sight of Jon. He offers her a reassuring smile as he moves toward her. Behind him, Daenerys steps through the threshold, eyes landing on Rhaenys. She carries an orange silk gown in her arms.

Jon reaches her with a hand at her elbow, his eyes flitting over to her brother's cot. "Bran?" he asks in concern.

"Sleeping," she answers, a hand going to his at her elbow. She watches as Daenerys makes her way quietly over to Rhaenys, setting the gown on the table beside the bed. Sansa clears her throat, gaze still watchful over the two women. Distantly, she notices Jon's uneasiness beside her, how he leans toward her like comfort, his own gaze hesitant upon his aunt and sister.

"I am well, too, brother," Rhaenys says a little too sharply, dropping the soiled cloth into the bowl at her side. "If you were at all concerned."

Sansa knows how the words pain Jon, without even needing to see his face. She feels his hand curl more tightly over her elbow, hears the breath raking from him.

"Rhaenys..." he begins, and not knowing how to finish, it seems.

But Rhaenys looks to Daenerys then, wiping at her eyes, dragging a rough curl back behind her ear. "I'm done resting," she says determinedly.

Daenerys watches her with discerning eyes, sighing at the ragged look of her, head dipping down when she reaches for her arm, goes to help her from the bed. "Come," she says simply, and Rhaenys follows, one last, unnerving stare sent Sansa's way. She doesn't even glance at Jon.

Sansa blows a tense breath from her lips, turning swiftly, tugging Jon out the room with her as he fumbles after her.

"Sansa, what – "

When the door slips shut behind her she turns abruptly, winding her arms around his back, burying her face in his chest.

He stills, hands held mid-air.

"Please," she gets out on a heated breath, fingers curling in his tunic. "Please, will you just hold me?" she asks, eyes squeezing shut.

She feels his worried sigh brush along her hair, but his arms are already slipping around her at the request, pulling her into his chest, one hand snaking up her neck to settle in her hair.

She holds him tighter, lets it fill her, brands the skin of his throat with the anger of her exhale, with the exhaustion of her heavy pant in the crook of his neck. "Just... hold me."

And he does. Wordlessly. And endlessly.

She thinks he would stand there and hold her for eons, if she asked it of him.

For eons and epochs and long, countless ages.

For all the time that she may need of him.

For always.

The heel of his palm is cool at the nape of her neck.

She breathes.

He holds her.

And she breathes.

* * *

"Do you need more time?" Sansa asks gently, standing from her seat at the vanity to walk toward Jon.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned over with his elbows resting along his thighs, hands linked between his knees. He glances up at her question.

She stops just before him, brushing a fine braid behind her ear. It's the morning of the former king's funeral, and after having broke their fast with the rest of the Targaryens (a stilted, quiet affair that had her near screaming in her own skin, in much the same way she imagined every one of them at that table felt), Jon and Sansa had returned to their chambers to ready for the ceremony, donning their second best leathers and silks.

Their best, of course, are for Aegon's induction ceremony.

It's not a detail that escapes Sansa.

Jon sighs before her, rubbing a hand down his face. "No, no, I'll be...I'll be fine."

She cocks her head at him, lip caught between her teeth. She reaches a hand out toward him, palm up.

He glances to it, smiling softly, before slipping his own hand around it, tugging her toward him slightly so that she presses against his knees, staring down at him while he grazes an affectionate thumb over the back of her hand.

"Besides," he adds, "It would be improper for us to be missing, or even late."

Sansa huffs at that. "This all happened so fast. The attack, and now King Rhaegar's death. Why should you be expected to stay stoic, unaffected?" She shakes her head, ire filling her. And sorrow. "Even royals should be allowed to grieve how they need – publicly or not."

Jon chuckles at her remark, a sad smile lighting his lips as he looks down to where he holds her hand. He watches the motion of his thumb across her hand, slow and measured. He takes a breath, releases it slowly. "I'm afraid the show must go on," he says darkly, eyes never leaving their joined hands.

She reaches her other hand to his cheek, stroking down the length of his beard, heart clenching when he doesn't even look up at the motion. "Jon," she urges.

It's a worn, weathered smile that tips the corners of his mouth when he finally looks up at her. "But I thank you all the same, my lady." He pulls her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles, swift and clean.

She misses the warmth when it goes.

His eyes catch along her waist and he cocks his head at the laces there, motioning toward it. "Your ties," he says.

She glances down, twisting somewhat to see what he's talking about, and notices the loosening laces along her side. "Oh," she says, brows dipping down, before giving him an impish look. "Help me?"

"Here," he says, nudging her to back up as he gives her an indulgent smile. She steps from his knees and turns to the side as he rises, releasing her hand to reach for her laces instead. His fingers are deft and practiced, tugging the laces out of their holes and threading them back through evenly.

She chuckles at the concentration on his face, watching him.

It's a calm, crisp morning strangely enough, even in the midst of the chaos that descended upon the keep ever since the night of the attack. And this room, this moment, it feels like a pocket of peace tucked away from the world. She holds it tight to her chest, tries to imprint it to memory. His face, endearingly focused. The soft hue of morning light that hits his dark curls from the near window. The steady, even lull of his breathing – rooting in its constancy. The conscious delicacy in his calloused hands when he tightens her laces.

She wants to cry suddenly, and she doesn't know why.

She wonders what this image might look like with the backdrop of snow falling past their open window. With the faint hollering of Arya and Rickon down the hall. With the crisp tang of winter filling her nose. With Winterfell, all around her.

She wants to cry suddenly, and she knows exactly why.

Keeping her eyes fixed to Jon, Sansa lets out a shallow breath of hesitation, voice low when she asks him, "Why did you put my father forward for Hand?"

Jon stills his work, eyes still fixed to his hands.

She stays watching him a moment, breathing deeply. "We haven't talked about it yet."

Jon swallows, nodding. He returns to his work, tying the laces off at the end. "Aye, we haven't." He straightens fully when he's finished, hands returning to his sides.

"Jon."

He shakes his head, a sad sort of resignation tainting his exhale. "You said you were all alone." His eyes finally meet hers.

She blinks at him, turning fully to face him. "What?"

"When you learned about my past with Rhaenys. The things you said..." He clears his throat, gaze dropping. "You said you were alone, and I guess I – it was the best thing I could think of at the moment. The best way I could make sure you were never alone here again."

Something swells in her chest, near painful in its intensity. Her throat bobs, her voice cracking. "Oh," she says, and then laughs at her own inarticulate answer, a hand going to her mouth. "Jon, I..." But no words seem right, and so she stops trying, reaching her arms around him instead, bracing around his shoulders as she pulls him into her. His arms loop around her waist instinctively, his hands warm at her back.

He sighs into her hair, his head dipping to her shoulder. "I just... I just thought that if there was no way to return you home, then at least you were safer with Lord Stark in the capital. And as Hand, he'd be able to protect you in ways I might not be able to."

She curls her hand along the nape of his neck, sighs at his throat. "Thank you." It's a tremulous exhale that leaves her, and she grips him tighter at its release.

Jon presses his temple to hers, a hand smoothing up her back, and then down again. "I don't know if Aegon will accept my suggestion, but I had to try. And even if he grants us leave to go North, if Ned Stark is Hand, we can be sure that he'll also speak for Northern interests. Your interests."

"Our interests," she corrects, muttered into his collar, her eyes slipping shut.

She feels his smile against her cheek in response, and then his short nod. "Our interests."

She doesn't move to release him just yet, too reluctant to be without him. His hand gliding up and down her back in comforting sweeps settles the breathlessness in her, but she's warm, almost unsettlingly warm, and when she opens her eyes her vision blurs at the edges, just a touch. She blinks it back in surprise, vision clearing quickly.

Sansa pulls back just a touch, enough to face him, her arms still wound around his shoulders.

He sighs at her mouth. "I never want you to feel trapped like that again. Like you have no way out – especially because of me."

A fond scoff leaves her lips. "Oh, Jon."

His hand settles at the small of her back, his thumb rubbing circles there. "And now, with Aegon and his suspicions, and Rhaenys..." He trails off, mouth clamping shut before he can manage the words.

Sansa drags her nails comfortingly along the nape of his neck. "I never... never thought her capable – of that."

Jon's gaze darkens, a worried furrow to his brow. "Neither had I."

They stand in each other's embrace a while longer, each remembering what they'd rather not remember. And then Sansa sighs, meeting his gaze. "Jon, something's not right with her. The way she looked back at Maester Gregoir's... " A shudder arches up her spine. "I can't shake that look from my mind."

Jon bows his forehead to hers, a heavy breath leaving him. "I know. And I'm scared, Sansa. I really am. I don't mean to alarm you, but... " He sighs, eyes slipping shut. "I don't know anymore. I just never thought she could do such a thing."

Sansa blinks at that, something pricking at the back of her mind. Something she should remember.

"Jon," she says warily, mind whirling.

"Hmm?"

"Something she said to me yesterday," she muses, voice trailing, eyes narrowing. "'She'...?" Her words cut off at the sharp twinge in her gut.

Jon looks at her curiously, arms loosening around her back to settle back at her hips. He dips his head to better look at her. "Sansa?"

Her eyes slip shut, a tight breath leaving her. The twinge mellows out into dull ache, hanging low in her belly. She shakes her head. "Sorry, I just... I think I need to – "

Another twinge, this time sharper, tighter. She bows beneath the pain of it, breaking from his embrace. "Oh, oh, I uh... I think – I need to sit down."

Jon's eyes go wide, shifting between hers frantically, his hands moving to her elbows instantly to help her to the bed. "Sansa, what is it?" His gaze shoots down to her stomach when her hand braces there. "Is it the babe?"

The quake in his voice is worse than any lance of pain.

Sansa starts to shake. "I don't - gods!" She doubles over, tears springing hot to her lids, mouth parting on a gasp.

"Sansa! Sansa, what is it?"

Her vision goes white, a low whine escaping her as she drops to the bed, one arm going out to brace her weight, the other wound around her stomach, trying to hold back the terrible pain, like a corkscrew winding slowly into her womb.

And then she feels the wetness between her legs.

"No," she mumbles, gasping, fumbling to right herself on the bed, arm protectively around her middle. She shakes her head vehemently, the tears salt-sharp at her eyes now. "No, no, no," she moans.

"Sansa," Jon begs helplessly, trying to ease her along the bed, face screwed up in fear.

The wetness is warm and heavy between her legs now, and she cries out, a shuddering wail cracking the air in her lungs, eyes screwing shut.

"Oh gods, Sansa," Jon moans, his own distress palpable.

She grabs for his sleeve, knuckles white and trembling. "Get the maester," she grinds out between tears.

He doesn't need a second command, bounding to the door and throwing it wide. "Bring Maester Gregoir!" he bellows at the guards outside their door. A passing chambermaid startles and drops a water basin, sending it crashing along the stones. "Now!" he shouts, his booming voice echoing through the hall, and the sound of their retreating footsteps reaches Sansa where she moans and drags herself up the bed.

When Jon turns back to her he stills instantly, eyes wide, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth.

The branding horror on his face lights a sickness in her, freezing her in place half sprawled over the bed, arm still wrapped tight across her middle. She follows his gaze to the spread of sheets she'd just dragged herself up, eyes lighting on the dark stain of blood trailing up to the soaked seat of her dress.

"Oh gods," she shudders out, sobbing anew, knees curling into her stomach, vision blurring, and she's hot, so inexplicably hot, sweat already lining her brow and then she's sick, bile rising sour and instant up her throat, making her cough on it, and she opens her mouth, gags on a vile breath, spits into the sheet, feels it dripping down over her chin and it's - it's -

Red.

A croak leaves her as she shudders atop the sheets, a trembling hand rising up to her chin, smearing the wetness there, and then pulling back before her tear-filled eyes for her to see. For her to see the blood staining the tips of her fingers. She looks down with disbelieving eyes, focusing on the spit-up of blood she'd just coughed into the sheets.

"Jon," she gets out shakily, terror coloring her voice, eyes fixed to her own blood-drenched fingers, "What's happening to me?" she sobs.

Just before she blacks out, she feels Jon's hands pulling her back by the shoulders, his cry of her name distant and muffled, his fearful face a hazy shroud above her.

Just before she blacks out, she remembers:

Tooth-and-nail loves will always leave you bloody.

[rickon-on-skagos]

Thaw

Pairing: Ned/Cersei

Prompt: Thaw from @asoiafrarepairs Spring Event

+++

From the way her bed was positioned in the room, Cersei could see the down into the yard. She spent most of the day looking out of the window since there was not much else to do since Maester Luwin had prescribed her bed rest for the last month of her pregnancy for both her and the baby’s health. For a while, she had tried to keep herself busy with needlework but quickly grew bored of it. 

She and Eddard had only been married for a little bit over a year but Cersei had quickly grew into her role at Winterfell, enjoying the way Ned trusted her to keep the servants in check. It was very different from what she was used to from Casterly Rock. Her father would have never let her do that, not when there were Kevan, Tygett or Gerion around. She had been there to look pretty and seduce the prince, nothing more. 

It hadn’t worked out how her father had planned. Cersei hadn’t married a prince and not the king, either. The prince had died and the king- the new king Robert Baratheon, First of his name- had married his true love Lyanna Stark. She had ended up with Eddard Stark. Her father had pushed for the match, unsurprisingly since there were almost no other man left that had been highborn enough for a match with her as Stannis Baratheon had married Catelyn Stark and her father would have never married her to Jon Arryn. 

She had been angry. She had raged about having to marry the northern recluse and moving into this sparse land. Cersei had wanted Jaime. She could not be queen but Jaime had been released from the Kingsguard and had come home, back to her just that she had to leave for Winterfell and he had to marry the other Tully girl, Lysa. Cersei had never been more mad in her life. Being in the North had not helped with that. The wedding had happened in the godswood, a place that still made her feel queasy today, and it had only made things worse back then. 

A soft knock snapped her out of her thoughts. 

    “Come in.” She called. 

Her husband looked almost sheepish as he came into the room, carrying a small tray. Cersei sat up a little straighter, one hand cradling her bump as he approached the bed. A delicious smell wafted over to her and her mouth started watering almost immediately. He made to say something but Cersei was faster. 

    “What’s that?” She asked, already reaching for the tray. 

He chuckled at lowly at that, his eyes wrinkling up as the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. 

    “You said you wanted honey cakes so I got you some.” 

The cakes were delicious, sweet and crumbly, just the way she liked them best and she hummed around every bite, even going so far to lick her fingers clean of any residue. With no one but her husband in the room, she thought to let this slip for once. She was pregnant and very uncomfortable, after all. 

    “It’s thawing.” He said, looking out of the window. “Winter is over, a raven from the Citadel arrived today.” 

She watched him for a long moment, took him in and pondered. During the past few months, she had demanded some outlandish foods to fulfill her cravings and every single time, Eddard had gotten it and personally brought it to her. Robert would have never and she doubted Rhaegar would have either. But Eddard had. He also started taking his dinner in her chambers with her, trying to make it every evening and if he couldn’t, he’d send her an apology. It was… nice. 

Cersei did not love Eddard Stark but she stopped being so angry a while back. She had come here with every intend to wage war against the man who hated her brother so much for every day as long as she lived, had expected him to be cold and harsh, cruel-hearted. But he wasn’t. He had not greeted her with open arms but neither had she and it had taken them a long time until she had grown tired of lashing out and he had enough of avoiding her and then even longer for them work out somewhat of a system. 

He had come to her chamber a lot more, afterwards. It had been one of the things she gave him early into her marriage: Laying with Eddard had never been awful. Awkward, impersonal and, at times, stilted and cold but never bad. He had never slept with a woman before her which had been painfully obvious and he wasn’t her Jaime- nobody could ever be him- but he had been careful and patient, taking to her directions easily enough. 

She rubbed her bump, well aware of how he followed the movement, his fingers twitching. 

Cersei would almost call him handsome in this light. Not an almost ethereal beauty like Jaime was or Rhaegar had been or a rugged attractiveness like Robert but Ned was handsome, in a way. He was softer than his solemn face made him look but not weak how she had assumed at first. His eyes were dark grey and by all accounts, he should come off as cold and unapproachable but he didn’t. 

Her father had ruled by fear, making sure everyone knew what would happen when they betrayed the Lannisters but not Eddard. Eddard invited people to the high table during the rare feasts they held in the Great Hall and listened to them, talked with them and shared laughter with them. It had puzzled her- still did, sometimes- to see him rule with kindness and honor instead of terror. Nobody in Winterfell covered in fear at the name of their liege lord and many came to him for counsel, nobody fearing him like they feared her father. 

Eddard was a good man. 

    “Give me your hand.” She said. 

It surprised him, she could see it on his face but he did without asking any questions and she grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer until she could put it on her stomach. She held his hand- rough and calloused- in place and the child did not disappoint, kicking hard and strong. She winced uncomfortable. 

    “They’re strong.” Eddard said, a visible smile on his face. 

    “A strong son.” She agreed. 

She had to give him a son, father expected it of her. Every man wanted sons for their legacy. A long time ago, back when she had been a child and still naive, she had wished for daughters so she could brush their hair until it shone, read them the stories her mother used to read her and gift them dresses, jewelry and puppets for their name days. She quickly lost those dreams once she grew up. Men needed sons, not daughters. 

    “No matter whether it’s a son or a daughter, as long as they are healthy, I am happy.” 

Cersei looked up at him, green eyes meeting grey ones, and she saw the honesty in them and when Eddard leaned forward- obviously having seen something in her eyes, too- to kiss her brow, she didn’t flinch away. 

+++

The snow had not melted away completely when Cersei went into labour. Eddard hadn’t been with her when the contractions started but he was by her side once she was in the maester’s chamber, looking frazzled and worried. He held her hand as she screamed and cursed him to the seven hells and back for making her go through this. 

The air grew hot and stuffy quickly, her sweat-damp hair clinging to her skin as she pushed and pushed. It smelled like blood, too, and Cersei gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. Eddard’s hand was surprisingly cool as he brushed a strand of hair out of her face, whispering encouragement and praise. 

She didn’t know how long it took but her voice grew rough at some point and her breaths were closer to pants. It was the most humiliating thing Cersei had ever experienced. Spread apart and so undignified, she felt exposed and vulnerable and she wanted it to stop. Tears were burning in her eyes but she refused to let them fall, no matter how much it hurt. She was a lioness and lions do not cry. She gasped for air, fingers squeezing tight around Eddard’s hand. 

Cold lips were pressed against her temple and she instinctively leaned into the touch, mouthing words she herself didn’t know what they meant. A wail stopped her and she gasped, immediately trying to sit up just to be pushed down by the midwife. 

    “Let me-” She rasped. “Let me see my child.” 

It was a boy. Her son was small with pink skin, soft tufts of light hair and grey eyes and still screaming when she took him from the maester, announcing his presence loudly and Cersei loved him. 

He was perfect, absolutely perfect. 

+++

The godswood unnerved her still, especially the heart tree with its weeping face. She had rarely been to the Stone Garden in Casterly Rock, never seen a reason to. Something about the northern woods felt different. 

Her shoes sank into the muddy ground and she pursed her lips, her skirts lifted to not drag through the dirt. Spring had fully arrived and most of the snow had melted already, leaving everything wet and muddy. It wasn’t warm, yet, and Cersei wondered if it ever really got warm up here. 

She finally found her husband underneath the heartree, sitting in the shadow of the big tree, their son in his arms. He was talking in a too low voice for her to hear but she could see his lips move, not even noticing her as he was too focused on their son. It did something to her, seeing him taking an interest in their child. She pushed the feeling down harshly, not liking the way her heart leaped in her chest when she saw him sitting in the nursery, rocking an upset Robb back to sleep as if it was nothing. 

    “My lord.” She called out, catching his attention. 

He smiled at her and for a moment, Cersei wondered how she looked to him. She was beautiful, she knew that but what did he think about her? She had to look awfully out of place with her golden hair, her dress that, despite being weather appropriate, had a distinct style that was popular in the Westerland, adorned with complicated embroidery and the heavy golden jewelry she had brought with her. She didn’t look like the northern ladies that had visited Winterfell and she didn’t try to. Cersei was a lioness. 

    “My lady.” He replied as he stood up. 

She crossed the little clearing, passing by the dark pool and when Eddard held out his hand for her, she took it and let him guide her to where he had been sitting. He sat down next to her, Robb still safely nestled in his arm, blinking up owlishly at his father. She reached for him and Eddard gave him to her easily and both of them smiled at their son, soft and unguarded.

    “Maester Luwin was looking for you.” She said, suddenly remembering why she had come to look for him in the first place. “A letter from White Harbor arrived today.” 

Eddard nodded shortly and thanked her, kissing her brow again before leaving, his form quickly disappearing between the trees. She looked down at Robb and smiled when he grasped for her fingers, making some gurgling noises. It almost made her less angry about the letter tucked away in a pocket of her dress but not forgotten. 

She had written her father as soon as she could, telling him about the birth of his grandson and in his response he had not asked about her health, only asked- no, demanded- for another son to secure the line of inheritance. That was all that mattered to him. Eddard was different in that regard. 

Maester Luwin had advised them to wait a few moons before laying together again and Eddard had not pressed but accepted it. She had always heard about him being honorable to a fault but she had not expected him to actually be like that. Not once did he try to sleep with her anyway and she had yet to hear about any secret trips to the brothels in Wintertown. 

Robb yawned and Cersei kissed his forehead. She loved him so much it almost scared her. She didn’t even love Jaime this much and even if he would ride up to Winterfell now and asked her to abandon everything to run away with him she wouldn’t. Because of Robb. 

    “I love you.” She whispered to him. She had never told anyone but Jaime this. “I love you so much, little lion.” 

He just blinked at her, not understanding what she was saying but paying attention anyway and Cersei laughed. He looked a little bit like his father in that moment, she thought. Robb would never feel like an outsider here, the godswood would never be unnerving to him and he would be a great lord, she would make sure of it. 

+++

Cersei gave Robb to the handmaiden along with a few more instructions and once everything was to her satisfaction, she left and made her way towards Eddard’s chamber. Her heart was fluttering in her chest and she didn’t understand why. He was her husband, he had seen her naked several times and she had never been shy about her attractiveness nor sex but when Maester Luwin had told her she was cleared to see after her wifely duties again, something like nervousness had lodged itself into her stomach. It was still there when she knocked on his door. 

He looked a little bit surprised to see her but let her in anyway and as soon as he closed the door again, she stepped into his space. Since he was only a few inches taller than her, they were almost eye to eye when she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers curling into his long, dark strands. Almost hesitantly, he put his hands on her hips.

    “Cersei?” He asked quietly, a slight frown appearing on his face. 

She licked her lips, taking him in and finally leaned forwards, brushing their lips together in an almost tender kiss. Eddard let her, his fingers flexing slightly and he kissed her back shyly. Cersei had never slept with anyone just because she wanted to except Jaime but somehow, Ned had sneaked his way into her heart. She hadn’t even noticed. 

    “Maester Luwin gave me the clear today.” She said once they pulled apart. “I thought it was a reason to celebrate, my lord.” 

    “Are you sure?” 

She smiled and pressed herself further against him, enjoying the way she could feel his body warmth through their clothes. Her nose brushed over Eddard’s, his breath was hot on her cheek and Cersei felt almost giddy. 

    “Absolutely, my lord.” 

He lifted her up easily, making her first yelp in surprise and then laugh as he carried her over to the bed, carefully laying her out on the soft furs. 

    “Call me Ned, please.” 

    “Ned.” She said, not stumbling over the name despite being unfamiliar with it. 

That night, Cersei did not sleep alone, instead found herself wrapped in a tight embrace, Ned’s legs entangled with hers and her head resting on his shoulder. She splayed her hand over his chest, absently playing with the coarse chest hair growing there. Ned was fast asleep, his hand loosely tangled into her hair, too, snoring softly. 

Cersei closed her eyes, feeling more warm and comfortable than ever before, and wished for a spring to bring her a girl. 

[dachi25writes]

Chapter One: Up North

AEGON I

It felt surreal.

Blond hair and violet eyes– just like his own– stared vacantly into the ceiling. Pale skin, translucent in the fluorecent lights.

Just a nightmare, any minute now he would wake up in the station, have some of that tasteless but nutricious space food, don his spacesuit and go out to the surface of the moon to collect data he would later send to his father…

His dead father who seemed to be staring right through him, body stiff as the metalic table he laid on, his lashes still frosted, lips blue.

What was he thinking? Going up to the North like that without proper equipment or a guide of any kind, it was not like him at all, but maybe things hadn’t gone as he planned, maybe he had been forced to–

Aegon turned around just as his sister apologized for his distracted behavior and signed for the body to be discharged so it could be sent back home. Gods, it had been almost 6 years since he had last seen Dragonstone, he remembered the salty air and ashen grey sand so cool to the touch you could lie there even on the hottest summer day.

[[MORE]]

The memory was enough to make him smile, wan and melancholy for he did not– could not - forget the circumstances in which he was going back.

Rhaenys touched his arm, gently almost tentative “C'mon Egg, we have to go”

He nodded and walked along, she was very diferent from the sister he remembered, not taller though he coludn’t be sure with the heels she was wearing but the way she carried herself was diferent. She used to slouch, father always tried to correct her posture. Rain never cared to try though, she still slouched a little, it was only noticeable in a slight bend of her shoulders, but that didn’t take away from her overall air of confidence, she didn’t have much of that back then; most shocking of all, her hair was long, she really hated long hair would chop it off herself if mom refused to take her to the hair saloon “It’s been a long time”

She sighed “ I know”

"Where’s mom?”

“She’s back at the hotel I did not think it would be right to bring her here”

He nodded, of course she couldn’t bring mom to the body deposit, Rhaenys would never risk to upset her “How- how did she take it?, about Dad I mean, did you tell her yet?”

As soon as they were out of the building Rhaenys opened her purse and got out a cigarette and a lighter, she offered him one but he refused waiting for her answer as she put the cigarette between lips, gave it a long drag and exhaled the smoke slowly.

“Of course I told her” she answerered at last “C'mon Egg, I’ll give you a ride I parked just around the block”

He nodded and followed “And how did she take it?”

Rhaenys shrugged “She took it well all things considered, said we should have visited Dad some time and other stuff, you know how she is, but I think she is looking forward to seeing us all again”

He grabbed her arm “You called them?” he couldn’t belive Rhaenys! she was family but them… if they came at all it would only be to gloat.

She raised her eyebrow at him and shook his grip with ease “Didn’t need to, it’s all over the news, also from what I know Mr. Connington called us, well he sent this really long e-mails but you get the idea, didn’t you get one?”

He shook his head , dumbfounded “I don’t know, I really haven’t got the chance to catch up. Mr. Connington commed me at the station and I just had to get here” actually he never even expected to see Rhaenys here. He hoped she would at least go to the funeral, Mr. Connington was arranging at Dragonstone, but this… He felt anger claw at his belly, like oil on a sizzling pan the heat thretened to jump in every direction, he held it in, gods he was so out of shape.

Breath in, 1, 2, 3… Exhale. Keep focus.

And it passed.

Rhaenys studied his face, really seeing him for the frist time since they had started talking

"Fuck Egg you look like shit!”

He shrugged but felt self conscious nonetheless, Father had always insisted to always keep a good image for the Academy’s sake. He ran a hand through his short buzzcut, and dragged it all the way down to his face, he was so, so tired.

The car was a small old looking thing of a vibrant orange color, Rhaenys opened the passanger’s door for him as if he hadn’t enough strenght to do it himself.

“Where you staying at?”

"Well as I said I haven’t really–”

“ 'Kay so that means you are coming with me, we rented a room with two beds but I guess mom and I can share,it’s just a night anyway.”

He had half a mind to protest but he was just too tired to go around town looking for some place to stay so he just stayed silent.

Rhaneys started the car and soon enough they were at some cheap-looking but cozy motel called “Winterfell” which wasn’t surprising at all , he had seen at least 10 different stores with the same name since they left the morgue, according to his sister everyone had the Stark fever around here and wanted to be part of the ancestral noble house.

“For real” she said between giggles “I pulled over for some gas on the way here and the guy at the station told me he was a distant relative of the Stark, but not only him the hotel clerk, the barista at Manderly’s and they all say it in this really secret conspiratorial way. It’s kinda sweet really, now I get why Robb insisted we should do a roadtrip here, I can practically see his smug face when he mentioned he was an actual Stark”

Her laugh stopped, and became a bitter sigh.

Aegon wished he could say something but he knew he would most likely say the wrong thing and he just wasn’t up for a fight.His sister parked and proceeded to rest her forhead on the steering wheel, brown curls obscuring her face.

“Sorry Egg, I just can’t help thinking about Robb when we are here. He was always talking about Winterfell and I just-”

“It’s fine” he tried to be nonchalant about it but he felt uncomfortable, he had never been particularly close to Robb, he did like him though. Robb was one of those people you inevitably admire, but after he died everything went to shit at the Academy, everyone blamed Dad for it even Rhaenys, Aegon had been the only one that stayed after that. He knew it was pretty shitty to blame Robb for dying but if he hadn’t maybe…

“God I am such a jerk” Rhaenys lifted her face enough to look at him “I haven’t even asked if you have talked to Sansa or–?”

“I haven’t” he pressed his mouth into a thin line, he didn’t want to talk about this with Rhaenys now or ever really. “You know what? The space travel is really catching up on me so I better go rest like you said”

He opened the door and practically slammed it shut when it dawned on him he had no idea of the room number and he had to wait for Rhaenys. Fuck! just after he had stormed out of the car like a broody asshole(Jon’s asshole face flashed briefly in his mind), the day couldn’ t get worse really.

Fortunately Rhaenys let him save some dignity and got out of the car calmly as if nothing had happened but in her eyes so alike mom’s he could see worry.

"Sorry Egg, you know I am an idiot sometimes, we should go rest”

He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t, not really, not even after she left did he ever thought that, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

She led the way to a simple room decorated in pastels with two identical beds, matching night tables and a very stiff looking couch where his mother sat reading one of the romance novels she loved so well.

As soon as she saw him she got up and enveloped him in an embrace he immediately returned, they parted after a while but she stayed close enough so he could smell her characterístic orange scent, she caressed his face.

"You look so much like your daddy”

Aegon searched for a trace of emotion in his mother’s eyes to know at least someone was grieving as much as him, but her eyes were dry and he remembered that even if his mom felt any pain for her husband’s death she couldn’t be able to express it. Maybe the only thing he resented his is dad for.

“You must tell me all you have done in this years, your sister and little Nym have kept me so busy I haven’t got the chance to visit you and dad.” she made him sit beside her in one of the beds, her soft hands patting his face and squeezing his arm, it made him feel comforted in a way he hadn’t in years “I hope you made him get out of the lab once in a while, Rhaegar needed someone to force him to rest or he would simply drop exausted which of course was never safe–”

"Mom” Rhaenys interrupted putting a hand on mom’s shoulder “Aegon has just arrived and has barely slept I think we better let him rest”

"But look at him dear, your brother looks like he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in years.”

That made him genuinely smile, gods, he really had missed mom “I’ve been eating just fine, I just need some sleep”

“Aegon you can’t sleep like that, you should at least change into your pajamas”

“Well I didnt bring any change of clothes” he confessed rather ashamed. It wasn’t like him to be so unprepared.

"Such a careless boy! Rain we cannot let him like this, we should go out to buy your brother some clothes and food”

Great, now mom was treating him as a 6 year old child.

“Ok, mom just give me a minute I need to call Daeron and Nym to let them know we are at the motel”

His mother nodded, and Rhaenys got out of the room with her cell in hand.He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Rain was a mom now, much less that he was an uncle. He had seen photos of ‘Nym’ when she was a baby and another one of a toddler dressed like Princess Jonquil from that animated movie, but he had never met her.

“Nym has been dying to meet you” As always mom guessed his thoughts.

"She has? I wasn’t sure that Rhaenys talked about me or the Academy”

Mom smiled sadly “Oh, Rain doesn’t talk about the Academy, but about you of course. You are a superhero to Nym, protecting the world from the alíens and meteorites, that girl is obssessed with space, she is always saying that when she grows up her uncle will take her to live with him in space”

He felt a warm feeling wash over him, more than ever he wanted to return to Dragonstone and meet his little niece. That would be nice, he figured, a quiet normal life where he could play with little Nym, of course first he had to investigate what dad was doing in the Wolf’s Wood on his own, he was the head of the Academy now, well he would be if there was an Academy anymore.

Rhaenerys entered again, she had a smile on her face. “Daeron said he and Nym will meet us tomorrow in Dragonstone, I was worried about not being there for her frist flight but her dad says she is very excited”

“I am looking forward to meet them” said Aegon at last, he wished so desperately to have his family back especially now.

"They do too” she replied with a soft smile “Mom, we should get going. Egg you should try to take nap until we come back”

He said he would, and he did try. As soon as they left he took off his shoes and laid down on the bed to the left. It was stiff and smelled way to much of air freshener, but he had been living in a space station for 2 years now so this was more comfortable than he expected. Still he couldn’t fall asleep, as soon as his eyes closed he thought about dad and his mysterious death.

Frustrated, he decided to watch TV to drown out his thoughts. He regreted the decision almost immediately, on the screen appeared a flash of red hair. He almost laughed at his own hopelessnes, there must be a thousand woman in Westeros with that same hair color, and even if he knew them all he would still wish it was Sansa.

The woman turned around and it was her. Sansa. She had grown taller and impossibly beautiful, statuesque and regal were the words that came to mind to describe her.She became an actress, he knew that much. It seemed she was at some red carpet event. His finger thumbed the button to change the channel, he didn’t want to see her, but suddenly a reporter came down on her like a falcon on his prey, and asked her about father’s death. Her brow furrowed, she looked around as if trying to gather if this was some kind of twisted joke, her eyes filled with tears, still she politely excused herself and went back to her limo.

She cared.

His heart skipped a bit, and this time he did laugh. Gods! He felt a fool. Sansa had made her feelings for him very clear on that last note she left him…

When the hosts of the show started talking he finally turned off the TV. He grabbed one of the pillows underneath him and covered his face with it no matter what he did his mind made up diferent scenarios for their reunion each more farfetched and unsatisfactory than the last and like that he fell asleep.

[madsmikkelsenschesthair]

Blood of the Dragon ch.14

Hvitserk x Freyja/Reader aesthetic ❤️

Warnings: angst, fluff, first kiss, violence, mentions of character death

Björn and his father were not on speaking terms at all. After greeting his younger brothers, Björn and Ragnar only scowled at each other than Björn, his mother and brothers greeted the King and Queen. Björn ignored his father and focused his attention on Freyja and Freyja only. He had not seen the little princess for almost a year and he was not going to let anyone ruin it.

She had changed. She was taller, growing into her body, hair longer. Skin was cleaner and smoother than before and Freyja constantly smelled of roses. Her cheeks were slightly pink as if pink satin was trying to escape from beneath her marble-like skin. Freyja’s wardrobe had changed too. She wore the same pretty dresses the Southern ladies of Westeros wore and her hair loose but combed and free of tangles. During meals, Freyja sat the same way her stepmother did and the eating manners she had back in Kattegat were gone. Still, his old Freyja was there. From the way she smiled to the way she teased her boys. She still fought as bravely as a shieldmaiden, her purple eyes flaming and Björn swore he sometimes saw a shadow of a dragon behind her. That’s why the gift he bought her was the perfect gift. Hvitserk noticed Freyja’s changes as well. She was beautiful before but now...she was an absolute dream. Ubbe still treated her like a little sister but his younger brothers were going for another route. Maybe they indeed had a crush on her for her soul and beauty but maybe they wanted to win her heart so Freyja could marry them and become Kings. Ubbe hoped they liked her for her, for their sake.

Lagertha watched her ex-husband’s sons bond with Freyja. They were all in the garden of the Red Keep; Ivar was sharpening his ax, Ubbe and Sigurd were trying to teach Fenrir how to play fetch, and Björn and Freyja were talking. He said something to her that made her giggle, Lagertha chuckled at how small she looked next to her son. She heard the soft click-clack of heels on the stone floor followed by the clinking of armor. Lagertha could smell Cersei’s perfume before she could even approach her.

“She’s happy you’re here,” Cersei said. Hvitserk pulled a braid and Freyja squealed, the booming laughter of the eldest Ragnarsons rang in the air.

“I can see that” Lagertha glanced at Cersei and then went back to watching the little princess with her princes. “Does she like it here? Does she miss home at all?”

Cersei’s smile faded a little, thinking about the first few weeks when Freyja arrived. “She...she may have gotten into a fight with Viserys”

Lagertha turned away from the children with surprise. “What happened?” She was very interested in hearing this story. The little Princess was known back home for standing up for herself and getting into fights with boys, she wondered how she fought off a man.

“The King wanted time break her old habits such as hunting”. Lagertha never understood these Westerosis and their strange customs, men, and women could hunt, fight, raid all the same but here things were strange. “One morning, the Princess snuck off to the Kingswood by herself. Viserys followed her. You see, he was angry with us, with her. Targaryens marry cousins and nieces but this time the little Princess will marry a son of Ragnar” Hvitserk braided Freyja’s hair while Björn told a story about one of the raids in a new world, jealousy crossed the princess’s eyes. “Viserys followed her and attacked her. The princess fought back” Cersei chuckled looking more proud now, “It was not a good outcome for him and left him in a bad state afterward” Lagertha grew angry and she wanted to hunt down the Targaryen prince and cut off his hands for even touching her Freyja.

The little princess was happy her family had returned but she noticed there was someone missing. A certain priest that helped raise her and love her as if she were his own as well. Athelstan. Floki and Helga were missing too, Freyja looked for their eager faces when they arrived but they were nowhere to be found. 

“Bear, where is Athelstan?” Freyja finally asked Bjorn. The boys looked at one another their eyes hiding a sad secret. Bjorn’s little brothers turned to him for answers, no one had the courage to tell her the truth. He didn’t want to break her sweet heart. “And Floki and Helga. They’re not here too, why?” Freyja began to get nervous her eyes darting from Bjorn to Ivar. From Ivar to Sigurd. From Sigurd to Ubbe. From Ubbe to Hvitserk. Finally going back to Bjorn. A heavy silence hung in the air. 

Finally, Hvitserk answered, “I’ll tell her, brother” Bjorn stared at his little brother. “Are you sure?” Hvitserk nodded. “Come Freyja. Take a walk with me” He extended his arm offering her his hand and she took it, together they walked deeper into the garden leaving the rest behind. Her anxiety worsened the further they walked without talking, not even the exotic birds were chirping they seemed to sense the dreadful feeling that they were hiding. They walked until they were far away enough to hide from the guards and the other boys. It was beautiful where they were, isolated with white rose bushes and a stone bench, the bushes were high enough to hide them. Hvitserk offered her to sit, “I think you shouldn’t be on your feet for what I’m about to tell you” Freyja swallowed but she sat down.

“You can tell me now,” she said in a small voice, the dreadful feeling wasn’t going away and it seemed to worsen with the small pauses. Hvitserk sat next to her and took her hands in his. 

“One morning Bjorn went to speak to Athelstan about the next raid” Freyja studied his face, her heart threatening to explode. “Bjorn noticed Athelstan’s hut was unusually quiet and there was the smell of blood coming from inside” A lump formed in Hvitserk’s throat and he tried to hide his tears because one of them had to be strong for this and he wanted to be strong for Freyja. When he was sure the tears went away, Hvitserk finally looked up, “Athelstan was found dead. Murdered and-” 

“Oh no!” Freyja cried out, one hand covered her mouth and she began to sob big gulping sobs. Her sweet Athelstan slaughtered like that. Like a pig. “Who did it, Hvitty? Who killed our Athelstan?!” 

It broke his heart to see Freyja like this but someone had to tell her, he made it this far. “I’m very sorry sweet Freyja but...it...it was Floki...Floki killed him.” Freyja knew Floki hated Athelstan for being a Christian but she didn’t know he would go as far as killing him. She cried even harder the ache in her chest far too unbearable. Hvitserk put his arms around her and held her close letting her cry into his chest, her tears soaking his shirt but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about his shirt only caring about Freyja’s shattered heart. 

_________________________________

Freyja was warned not to tell Ragnar or anyone else outside their little circle. All she knew was Floki was in a cave, tied to the ceiling, with only Helga as his company. 

She was not told how long Floki had been tied up. It hurt Freyja that Athelstan was brutally murdered but it also hurt to know the conditions of Floki and poor Helga, who did not have to be there and was suffering as much as her husband.

At dinnertime Lagertha, Bjorn, and his little brothers were invited to dine with the little princess and her family. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying their meal but Freyja, Rhaegar watched her from the head of the dining table not paying much attention to Lagertha. Freyja picked her meat and stared blankly at her glass of water. The ‘only one glass of wine’ rule was not relaxed because of her Norse family. Rules were rules, according to her septa and the little princess was ordered to obey. Hvitserk kept stealing glances at her to make sure she was okay, Sigurd kicked him and mouthed, “The King is watching. Look away”. His older brother shrugged, ‘Freyja is sad’ he mouthed back, Both brothers looked at the princess, Freyja flipped her roasted quail letting out a loud sigh but not loud enough to interrupt the conversation. Ubbe reached for another piece of bread, then stopped when he saw his little brothers gawking at Freyja. He made an irritated noise and his brothers quickly looked away. If the King or the terrible Queen were to catch them...

“Father, may I be excused?” 

The grownups stopped talking, Rhaegar frowned at her untouched plate and said, “Are you alright little dove? You haven’t eaten much”

“You look rather ill, Freyja” Lagertha’s soft hand touched her temple. It amazed Freyja that after all those years of battle, her sweet Lagertha’s hands remained soft. A comforting touch. “You are a little warm”.

“You may be excused, Y/n,” her father said, “I will send Maester Pycell to your chambers to check on you” 

“No!” Her stepmother said quickly, “I will send two septas but not the Maester”

Lagertha shot a suspicious glance at Viserys. The cowardly man looked away. “And you won’t be going alone.” 

Bjorn followed his mother’s eyes. He did not like the prince either and after he heard of the incident, Bjorn wanted to slice off his prick for putting his hands on Freyja but his mother stopped him from doing so. “I will accompany the Princess to her chambers, Your Grace. I know she would like that instead of your guards”. The King agreed but Cersei did not bother to hide her anger something Lagertha noticed. 

Once they were out of earshot Freyja finally burst into tears. Bjorn quickly wrapped his strong arms around her, “Sweet Freyja, little princess. Daughter of Thor, this storm will be over soon”

“My heart is broken” she sobbed, “Athelstan was a good Christian, he loved us all how could Floki do this to us?”

Athelstan, the same man that pampered, protected her, told her about his God’s stories and his life before Kattegat, was dead. A sweet man who envied no one and didn’t wish to hurt or kill anyone. 

Bjorn kissed her head. It didn’t matter what anyone said. A father was a man that raised and loved a child and Freyja was his child. It hurt to see her cry. “Athelstan is with his God now. He always wanted to go to Heaven. Soon his God and our God will put their differences aside and when we go to Valhalla Athelstan shall drink with us and will tell him about our battles.” It was little comfort but Freyja felt guilty for the death of Athelstan, if she had not left Kattegat then he would still be alive. She felt even worse knowing she couldn’t tell Ragnar.

_________________________________________

Hvitserk stared at the three-headed dragon sigil on Freyja’s door debating on whether or not he should knock. It was after dinner, everyone else went to their respective chambers but Hvitserk. He decided to wait until his brothers had fallen asleep, their breathing even with Ivar snoring in the background. He wiggled out of his bed, put on his boots and tiptoed out of the room. Hvitserk couldn’t wait any longer to do what he needed to do. He held his breath and knocked. Inside he heard Fenrir let out a muffled bark then Freyja shushing him softly. She was surprised to see Hvitserk so late. 

“Hvitty” Freyja said in a low voice, “It’s really late you know”

He swallowed, “I know but I had to see you, may I come in?” 

Freyja looked behind him and down the halls to check if the coast was clear, once she was sure they were alone she opened the door wider to allow him to come in. Hvitserk whistled at the beauty of her room. Now, THIS was a room for a royal princess. Freyja even had her own study, gold, silver, and the finest silk in all of the lands were owned by her, Fenrir the direwolf had his own bed right next to the fireplace but knowing his owner, he probably slept with her every night. 

She suddenly realized that they were alone, just the two of them, and she flushed a deep red. “Hvitty, what are you doing here so late? What is it you wanted to tell me?” Even in her simple pretty nightgown with her hair let down she was still the most beautiful girl in the world to him. Shieldmaiden or Queen, Hvitserk would love her either way. What if she rejected him? What if she chose another brother? He couldn’t imagine being in the arms of another.

“You’re beautiful, Freyja” Hvitserk managed to whisper, “more beautiful than the Goddess herself”

The princess giggled, “Thank you Hvitserk is that why you came to me so late? Because you wanted to tell me I was more beautiful than the Goddess?”

“No! I mean, yes but I wanted to do something else” It was his turn to blush. His heart was pounding and Hvitserk wanted to crawl under the bed and hide. The son of Ragnar Lothbrok, legendary Viking, too shy to admit what he wanted to do. “I wanted to ask if...if I could...”He looked down, heat spreading across his face, “Freyja you are so beautiful with a heart of gold, is it alright if I kissed you? I mean you don’t have to if you don’t want to”.

Freyja burst into a fit of giggles. “Have you ever kissed a girl Hvitty?”

He blushed again, “No. Have you ever kissed a boy?”

She rolled her eyes, “Bjorn is too overprotective, you know that”

“We will be each others first then-first kiss I mean”

She took his hand, a gentle smile on her lips, “I would love that very much”

Hvitserk sighed, relieved. He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes falling in love with every passing second and leaned in. They closed their eyes just as their lips met just a gentle touch with lips barely parted, his hand cupped her burning cheek. 

They pulled away shortly after, they couldn’t get caught kissing especially in her room. But Hvitserk and Freyja were smiling so hard their face hurt. He pressed her forehead against hers, “I knew your lips tasted like honey. Thank you...”

She shook her head, “No Hvitty, thank you. Let me walk you back to  your chambers”

The pair walked all the way to the other side of the Red Keep talking and laughing the whole time. When they stopped outside his chambers, Hvitserk said, “Freyja won’t you get in trouble for being out so late?”

“I would rather get in trouble for walking around than you getting in trouble for visiting my chambers so late at night”

Hvitserk kissed her cheek one last time, “Goodnight Frey, thank you”

“Goodnight Hvitty”. He watched her disappear around the corner leaving him blushing for the rest of the night.

Halfway up the stairs to her chambers, Freyja bumped into her annoying uncle. He stank of wine and his feverish eyes looked even crazier. He was still wearing his dinner silks.

“What are you doing out here so late?” He snapped, “shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Why do you care? I was on my way to bed anyway!” Freyja bit back and shoved past him.

But Viserys gripped her arm and shoved her until she was close enough to smell the bitter alcohol. “You do not talk to me like that do you understand? I am your Uncle and you respect me!”

Freyja tried to pull away but Viserys had dug his nails deep into her flesh. “I don’t have to do anything you tell me to do now let go!” 

“You and those barbarians will pay for taking my Throne away from me and I won’t rest until I’ve had my revenge!” 

She dug her own nails into his face scratching his eyes. Viserys hissed in agony pushing her, Freyja let out a scream as she fell down the stairs Viserys could only watch in shock realizing what he had done. Freyja landed face down at the bottom of the stairs and Viserys rushed to her. 

“Y-” He turned her over, a small trail of blood coming from out of her nose running down painting her clean gown. Freyja was unresponsive. Her body limp and he wasn’t sure if she was breathing or not but he wasn’t staying to find out. He dropped her on to the cold hard floor and fled to his rooms. 

@thot-for-mikehanlon​​ @haleypearce​​ @mellxander1993​​ @faeeiiry​​ @-thatgirloverthere-​​ @blonddnamedhandz​​ @lettersofwrittencollective​​ @weirdpotatostuff @shelbi-percifull​​ @i-only-signed-up-for-fanfiction​ @colie87​

[ardentmuse]

Ahhhhh! Congratulations on 2k! I'm so happy for you! You definitely deserve it! Thank you for doing this fun celebration! Could I request 11 with Ned Stark?

Promises Swept and Promises Kept

Game of Thrones - Eddard (Ned) Stark x fem!Reader

11. Well, I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities: yes and no.

Wordcount: 3.4k (welp, I give up. I am clearly incapable of 1k word limit. Sorry, I’m the worst)

Warnings: angst, ugh just all the angst, and fluff at the end, talk of war and death, but nothing outside canon, takes place at the start of Robert’s Rebellion

Masterlist

A/N: There are only like 5 Ned Stark imagines out there. WHY??? Ned is such a beautiful soul. I feel so so blessed to have gotten to tackle this and I clearly apologize for the emotional rollercoaster below. Also, sorry for two GoT pieces in a row. I’m doing these in the order they came in. 

You knocked lightly on the door to the solar even though you had been summoned. The door was ajar and you could just make out the form of Ned slumped over the desk, a crumpled version of himself, so small and withered compared to the massive force that was the man you were used to seeing so noble upon this seat, Lord Rickard Stark. But Lord Stark was dead now. And so was the young Lord Brandon. Your betrothed never seemed such a boy as he appeared now holding the mantle of Winterfell and the North upon his shoulders.

You knocked a second time, this one with more force, and with it Ned straightened his back and beckoned your entry.

“My lady, sit,” he said in a tone that mimicked his father’s voice so. The sweet nothings you were used to hearing from his mouth, soft late at night as you held hands upon the battlements, Ned begging you not to return home with your father’s men but to stay by his side until the end of his days, were gone. You were not meeting with your Ned but with Eddard instead.

You did as your lord commanded, settling your skirts as you leaned into the hard leather. Everything about this sight was imposing from the stout wood of the desk to the tension of Ned’s jaw to the stacks of parcels and parchments which created such a visible divide between you and the man you loved. You straightened your back, trying to appear the strong partner you knew he needed now in this time of loss and of war, but you felt yourself falter when he didn’t even look up to meet your gaze.

Ned lifted a hand to dismiss the maester you hadn’t even realized was waiting in the corner. He nodded and closed the door behind him, his chains making a gentle chime down the hall until they could be heard no more. But still, Ned did not look at you.

After several moments of awkward silence, Ned stood and walked over to your side. You smiled, thinking maybe he had wanted to wait for you to be properly alone before he offered your fingers a gentle kiss but he didn’t touch you. Instead, he grabbed the letter at the top of the stack, the seal already broken, and thrust it forward into your hands.

You looked at him in question but he had walked now to look out the window into the battlements below. The Lord’s chambers looked out into the courtyard, towards the stables and the western gate. The view of the hillsides stretched on your miles and if somehow the eye could continue on the horizon, you’d be able to see your own home. You had wondered often when you looked out on the horizon from your chambers in the years since your marriage had been promised if Ned was looking out at you too. And if the world were not curved, you might be able to look at each other. Only now, when Ned was indeed looking the way you had hoped all these years, it was to look at anything other than you.

You sighed and opened the parchment, prepared for news of another death or maybe a call to arms. Your heart clenched at the thought that it might be news regarding Lyanna, whom you loved as a sister, but when you took in the fish of the seal, you found yourself thoroughly confused.

As you read, you couldn’t even take in all the words. It was a jumble of phrases, each of which stabbed at your heart.

“Lord Stark… Catelyn the title of Lady of Winterfell… military support… promised in writing and word… Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell… shall see through and marry my daughter…”

The words were becoming even harder to read as you realized tears were rolling down your cheeks. Lord Hoster Tully wished for Ned to marry his daughter to fulfill the promise of her marriage to Brandon? Had the Lord not known of Ned’s forthcoming marriage? Of you?

You had been at Winterfell for well over a moon now, had come racing with your father and a few loyal men the instant you had received the raven regarding the Warden of the North’s demise at the hands of the Mad King. You had wanted to offer Ned comfort. Your dad had wanted to see you married before the inevitable horns of war were blown, but neither had yet to happen and now you understood why.  

“Ned, my love,” you called, which made his back visibly stiffen, breaking your heart in one fell swoop, “what is the meaning of this?”

Ned turned and looked at you for the first time since you had entered his solar. His eyes were rimmed in red and his skin was much paler than you would have liked. Ned was often out in the woods hunting or working on his swordsmanship in the yard. His skin was often kissed by the sun just as you would have liked to kiss it yourself. You recalled the man you met upon your first visit to Winterfell just a moon after you first bled. Ned smiled beside his siblings as you exited the carriage. He kissed your hand with the softest lips, never letting his eyes travel away from your gaze. His cheeks had been red when Brandon practically had to pull you away from him so you could greet Lyanna and Benjen properly. You remembered wondering if it was a sunburn or blush upon his skin, hoping beyond hope that it was the latter. And when he stumbled in his sword work, finding himself completely pinned under his brother’s training blade when he saw you watching from the covered walkway above, you knew for sure it had been exactly that.

You were betrothed before the next feast day.

“It means that if we want the support of the Riverlands, I must marry Catelyn Tully,” he said, sounding much more firm than he looked.

“And how do you intent to respond?”

Ned looked at the floor and swallowed. “Well, I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities: yes and no.”

You felt the lump growing in your throat as you fisted your skirts. You hoped you would be able to get out words.

“Just like that,” you said, “One Lord comes calling and you consider throwing me away? Do you not love me anymore?”

“It’s not like that—“ Ned spit his words with what could almost be anger but he stopped himself. He took short steps forward before falling into the chair beside you. “It’s not about love. It’s about the promise my father made to Lord Tully and—“

“And what about the promise he made to my father? Huh? Or the promises you’ve made to me? You promised to marry me, Ned, to love me, to be my lord husband. Am I just supposed to ignore all those letters you’ve written, all those late nights by the fires hoping the servants might not see our stolen kisses, the times you’ve told me you’ve missed me and how you’ve longed for the day I’ll be in your bed and the names you’ve already considered for our children?”

You were screaming now, not so much at Ned for considering following through with this request – if Ned was anything, it was honorable – but at all the other insane circumstances that you knew would pull this world apart but that you truly had believed wouldn’t be able to take away what you and Ned shared. That was the rule wasn’t it? The oldest marries for politics, the middle marries for peace, and the youngest serves the realm? You were a daughter of the north, a house that served and honored the Starks for years, a house with a bounty of resources and wealth to match the Starks in power if you didn’t share your northern values. You and Ned were the smart match for the North if not for your own hearts as well. Would the North not want a lady of their own blood running their largest stronghold and providing council to the man who called it his?

“Sometimes the promises of a boy do not align with the responsibilities of a man.” Ned said the words to the floor, though his hand seemed to fumble upon the armrest of the chair, clearly desiring to hold yours but unsure if it wise given his indecision.

As you sat together in silence, the tears were flowing in earnest. As you hiccuped to catch your breath, Ned made his decision and reached over your skirts. He caught your fingers in his own and squeezed them, strong and sure the way you hoped you might be as man and wife someday, a partnership that leaned on each other for strength.

“I don’t know what to say,” you managed.

“Nor do I.”

Ned’s other hand came up to run along your jaw and soon your head was resting against his shoulder, his own tears wetting the crown of your head.

“Stay with me, Ned,” you whisper, feeling desperate for the man before you.

“What you are asking of me could tear apart the realm.”

“Any more than Rhaegar already has?” you spat, the anger flying through you more and more by the second, by each moment Ned doesn’t simply say yes to you. 

A moment of silence passed as you held each other before you must break it.

“Is there nothing we can do? Can’t you promise something better to Lord Tully?”

Ned gave a sad laugh, “What greater honor is there for his daughter than to be Lady over the largest of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Queen?” you said without thinking, though at the words, Ned’s grip upon your back tightened before he began rubbing gentle circles into your flesh, his hand a little lower than would be considered proper had you not been alone. Even in this moment of pain, Ned gave you a little glimmer of what life might have been like as his wife if he ever gave you the pleasure. Your corset made the rub of his fingers feel like a ghost upon your skin. You wanted desperately to remove the garment, to allow him to touch your skin as he should. Part of you even wondered that if Ned could not be yours forever, perhaps he might be yours for a night, to allow you to taste the love you’ve sworn to all these years. But you knew Ned would never defile you so. His honor simply wouldn’t allow him to ruin you for your marriage bed, but maybe in a moment of weakness…

“I must leave at once, my lady.” Ned said the last words so quietly, fighting back pain. You hated to hear him so, but part of you was grateful that this hurt him too. “I must go give Lord Tully my word in person.”

“Will you return to me?” you asked, knowing how pathetic you sounded but honestly not caring.

Ned kissed your brow as he pulled your face away from his shoulder. He looked haggard, decades older than his years.

“I cannot say.”

You nodded. There was really nothing else you could do. Your eyes found your lap as you clasped your hands together. You loved the boy before you and as much as he was breaking your heart, you couldn’t bring it upon yourself to make this any harder for him in turn.

Ned’s hand found your chin and tilted your head upward, pulling you to meet his gaze once more. He looked like he wanted to say something but the words just were not there. Instead he gripped you a little tighter than you were used to and pulled your lips to his.

His kiss was tentative, soft and tender in a way only Ned could be. Ned was not one for many words – he never was – but the few fanciful phrases you were able to pull out of him over your engagement always came after moments like this, where he held you in his arms and took your lips against his when he thought no one could see.

When you finally gave in, leaning forward and tasting what you could of his glorious mouth, he poured his passion into you. It became the kind of kiss you assumed the common men spoke of when they praised whores. Ned had never given you so much of himself. His hands found your ribs and held you tight to him, pulling you from your chair and into his arms. He sat you upon his lap like a man carried his bride, caressing your sides as he explored your mouth with his lips and his tongue. You couldn’t stop yourself from holding tightly to his face, taking life and breath from him as if you would survive not a moment without it. The musk of him was setting your senses on fire and you felt the pain pull tight in your chest as his mouth left yours for only a moment, returning as quickly as it could to love upon your jaw and your neck with renewed vigor.

“Oh, Ned. My Ned,” you breathed as you held tightly to him. He was sucking upon your earlobe now but at the sound of the word ‘my,’ he completely stopped his movements. And after a quite moment, only your mutual breathing filling the void, Ned buried his head in your neck and cried.

The tears raked through his body, shook his core, and echoed in the room. You worried servants would come to check on you the boom was so loud but they seemed to know better than to open a closed door. All the pent up sadness, at the potential loss of you, the only constant left in his life after the death of his mother, his father, and his brother, the kidnapping of his sister and the war brewing just a few hundred miles south, was finally being released.

In your arms, Ned found the comfort to feel the pain he hadn’t felt since he put on the armor of Lord of Winterfell. And in your arms, he would leave it.

Minutes it took for Ned to calm down. And without warning, when his breathing grew stable, he picked you up and placed you on the settee by the window, allowing you to lie down among his things in his sacred space. He kissed your brow, allowing himself the chance to touch your soft lips, now red and puffy at his attentions, once more with his fingertips.

“I must leave Winterfell at once. And so should you.”

With strong strides, he walked towards the door, leaving you stunned.

Just as his hand found the doorknob, he turned to you.

“My lady—Y/N—I, I love you. No matter what happens, I know that I have never lied about loving you. I love you now and I venture I always will.”

And with that, he left his solar, and your life, for the great unknown. You sat for hours in that room, watching the stables and courtyard out the window until Ned and a handful of trusted men loaded up horses and began the long journey south to the Riverlands.

A year had passed since you last heard from Ned, not that you asked for any updates. Your entire energy had been focused on supplying the northern armies with food and shelter as they headed south and keeping the women and children of your keep warm and feed throughout the chaos. Ravens were few and far between, just the rogue notes from your men as they stopped at the inns on the high road, given you estimates of their needs and their returns.

The first you heard of Ned after he called upon your father’s armies just a week after your return home was a message that the Lord of Winterfell and his men would be resting at your residence on their long journey home, now that the war was won.

There was no mention of a Lady Stark.

You consumed yourself with preparations, daring not to ask too many questions about the fallout of the battles in the south. You knew of the destruction of the city, the death of the Mad King, and the downfall of many of the great houses but the specifics could be left until Lord Stark called the noble houses to his keep to inform them of the new regime running the Seven Kingdoms.

And so when you stood in the courtyard alongside your most trusted advisors, ready to greet your father and your lord, you were preparing yourself for the painful sight of him helping a pregnant Tully bride down from her carriage steps as well.

Ned and your father came riding through the gate together, though no carriage followed. You ran to your father with tears of joy, so grateful for the gods’ protection in seeing him safely home. And when you turned to Ned and he smiled at you, you hoped he might have found it in him for once to listen to his heart instead of his head.

But then you saw it, the tiny bundle in Ned’s arms, the dark head of hair so similar to his own and the little arms that fought to get out of the wool swaddling cloth. A true baby of the north.

A lump grew hard and heavy in your throat as you remembered yourself and dropped in your bow at your lord.

“My lord,” you said, gazing at the ground. You saw Ned’s fingers out of the corner of your eyes, helping to pull you back to standing. You took them and looked at the man who had your heart since you were but two and ten. He seemed sheepish, so different from the warrior you assumed he had grown into.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady L/N.”

“Lady Catelyn had a child?” you said with eyes down to the little boy, trying to hide the hurt in your heart at the thought that Ned’s first born would not be of your flesh and of your womb, a promise broken in exchange for another.

Ned swallowed, “Yes, she did, though this is not he.”

Your eyes flicked up to look at him full.

“The Baratheon babe is safely with his mother and father in King’s Landing.”

Ned was smiling full now, one of almost pride at you. Lord Tully was indeed willing to give up Catelyn’s place of Lady of Winterfell at the prospect of something greater. Ned took your council, the way a Lord should his lady wife. And the smile on his face let you know just now that he had spent a year fighting to guarantee that you could be just that.

Your heart swelled and you went to hug him, to shower him in the kisses you prayed you might be able to someday, but then the baby in Ned’s arms cooed again and you stopped yourself mid-motion.

And then everything came crashing down on your once more as tears filled your eyes. Ned fathered a bastard? The thought was so incongruous with the man you knew and loved. The idea of him sleeping with just anyone hurt even more than the idea of him finding another bride.

“My lady. My love,” Ned said, pulling your eyes to him once more, though the wheels of your brain just kept churning. His voice dropped to a whisper “I have never been disloyal to you. I would never choose to bring such shame upon your name. You will be my wife in truth and we shall only know each other for the rest of our days.”

“But—“ you began in protest but Ned’s body shot forward, keeping you close so his voice could maintain a whisper.

“How much did you love my sister, my sweet? Please tell me.”

You swallowed, feeling the loss of Lyanna acutely. “She was my closest and dearest friend,” you said in sincerity.

Ned smiled as he repositioned the baby so he might grip your hand. Taking a moment and rubbing his fingers over your knuckles, he continued, “Then, I need you to promise me that I can trust you with a very important secret.”

You looked down at the babe, at the dark hair upon his head and the cute button nose and the deep-set eyes so telling of his Stark roots. And immediately, like a candle flicking to life, it all made sense. You pulled Ned’s hand towards your lips and kissed it, nodding in turn as if your love for him was not confirmation enough, before taking the baby boy into your arms to surround him in motherly love. 

All tags: @fangirlandnerd, @aerdnandreaa, @thisisbullshytt,  @cancerousjojian, @whovianayesha, @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @luna-xxxxx, @sleepylunarwolf, @starryrevelations, @potter-thinking, @all-by-myself98, @bananafosters-and-books, @cutie-bug, @igotmadskills, @hazelandcoconuts, @yallgotkik

[fierypen37]

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 Jon floated up toward wakefulness, muddled by sleepy confusion. Where . . . ? This was not his room in the Red Keep, and—he breathed deeply of the musky-sweet smell of her. Daenerys. He rolled over, finding her sprawled on her belly. Her tangled braids coming undone, pale hair gleamed in the dull orange pulse of a dying fire. Jon watched her chest rise and fall, limbs loose and relaxed in sleep. A band tightened around his heart. Love had ambushed him. Here he was, smote by it, drowning in it. Only a few days in her presence and he knew he would kill or die for her. Follow her anywhere.

A kernel of hope wished to point their horses north, show her the Riverlands and his lady aunt’s home of Riverrun, then north again until Winterfell. Home. Uncle and Lady Catelyn would give them a prince’s welcome. Cousin Sansa would twitter around Daenerys happily, flatter her with her fine manners, offer to braid flowers in her hair. Cousin Arya would pilfer honeycakes from the kitchens and chatter about the goings-on in the castle—she always had a talent for making swift friends. Jon had loved her immediately. Once he heard word of dragons, Cousin Bran would pounce. Little Rickon would be too shy at first, and Robb . . . Jon breathed a sigh. Jon and Robb were natural good-natured rivals. Both could ride and fight and hunt as well as the other, though Robb could jest and sing. More like Rhaegar than Jon himself was. He hated the jealous weed in his heart, but it remained, clinging by stubborn roots. A nagging whisper wondered if Daenerys would take more to his handsome, erudite cousin.

Jon nestled closer, draping his arm around her. Mm, so warm and she smelled so good. He twined his finger around the white silk ribbon threaded in one of her unraveling braids. Their wedding ribbon. It touched him that she wore it in her hair. No, Daenerys loved him, pledged herself to him.

“I love you,” Jon whispered into the stillness. With a snuffle, she rolled over. Nestled into his chest with a sound of contentment. Jon’s heart melted, hands combing the snarls from her wild hair. Like silver-gold silk between his fingers, warm and wavy. The press of her naked skin was a thrill, though without the usual urgency of arousal. Her warm, solid weight was a comfort. The cadence of her snores soothed him, and Jon whiled away a pleasant hour drifting in and out of sleep. His mysterious aunt, watching her blather in Dothraki astride her silver mount was startling. There was so much of her life that he didn’t know. We have time to learn. I’ll tell her about Winterfell and the Wall and the godswood, King’s Landing and Blackwater Bay. The idea of crossing the sea appealed to him. Adventures they could make together. And dragons! Gods, to see a living dragon!

Jon dreamed of dragons. Gliding through the sky on powerful wings. Gleaming scales in half a hundred colors. Red and black like the Targaryen sigil, pale blue like Rhaena’s Dreamfyre, silver and green and bronze. Beautiful and terrible as the skulls in the Red Keep, cloaked in flesh once more. Fire and Blood. Welcome, they said in voices like thunder. Welcome, cousin. Daenerys appeared in his mind’s eye, moonspun colors soft against the vivid scales of their brethren. She should have looked small, frail in the face of their might, but she did not. She shone. Daughter of dragons, bride of fire. Mine. Fire was in their blood, tracing all the way back to the dragonlords of Old Valyria. He woke slicked with sweat and hard as iron. The fire had died, leaving the room in complete darkness. Daenerys slept on, draped on his chest. The need for her was a fever inside him. Jon eased her onto her back, peeling his trapped arm from beneath her head.

“Dany,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear, “nyke jorrāela ao.” {I need you.} Jon peeled back sheet and coverlet. He would rouse her. Slow and gentle, until she was drenched in honey and whimpering for him. Jon adored the strength and steel in her, but loved the taste of her surrender even more. Jon lay on his side, his cock throbbing against her hip. He leaned close, nuzzling the soft skin of her upper chest. One hand cupped the ripe weight of her breast, teasing the nipple with his thumb. Feeling it pebble under his touch delighted him. Gods, her skin was so soft, so warm. His hand smoothed down, stroking her belly, tracing her hipbones, petting the coarse hair of her sex. Jon’s mouth filled with water. So wet already. Slick from their earlier loving. One finger gently parted her folds. The softness and heat of her stirred an ache deep in his gut. A whimper answered him as his finger grazed her pearl.

“Jon?” He loved the sound of his name spoken in her sleep-slurred voice.

“Dany. Come here to me, love.”

Jon groped for her chin and tilted her head toward him with his free hand. He kissed her as his fingers delved and stroked in a rhythm. That soft mouth was pliant beneath his, though not for long. Her thighs clenched around his hand, her own grasping his cock. Jon growled against the seal of her mouth. Gods, would it always be like this? Passion sweetened by a knowing touch? Craving her more than the breath in his lungs? Jon persisted, teasing her pearl with his fingers despite the near-overwhelming twin pleasures of her hand milking his cock, her tongue plunging into his mouth. She would fall first. Soft little cries vibrated against his lips, her hips bucked and squirmed and—yessss Daenerys broke the kiss to moan as her pleasure washed over her. Jon breathed deep of her scent, wishing for even the faintest hint of light. He wanted to look into her violet eyes, delight in her kiss-puffed lips. Jon sucked her honey from his fingers. Gods, he loved how she tasted!

Daenerys reached for him, groping for his face. A squeak of the bed-ropes and she fumbled astride him. Jon hummed in approval, kneading ripe handfuls of her arse. His cock lay heavy against his belly, hard and leaking.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Daenerys asked with a hint of laughter in her voice. Jon chuckled, adjusting her weight with a shift of his hips. She slid down to press a string of hot, open-mouthed kisses on his chest. Jon gasped at the suction of her mouth on his nipple. Sensation swamped him, her mouth, the press of her weight, the wet kiss of her cunt on his thigh.

“D—Dreamed of dragons. And you. I woke hungry for you.”

“Jon,” she whispered. Jon pumped his cock, shuddering a little at the pleasure of it. He held it up, offering it to her. Daenerys’ hand covered his and she teased him, rubbing the slick head with her thumb. Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. With a soft cry, Daenerys sheathed herself on him. Jon’s head thumped back on the mattress. Sweat dewed on his skin. Fire surged to life between them, heat and bottomless hunger.

“So sweet. Oh fuck . . .” he said. Deprived of his sight, the feel of her was so vivid and vibrant. Slick and hot and soft . . . Jon’s hands smoothed greedily over the sleek shape of her body. My wife, my blood, my dragon.

Daenerys rocked above him, sinuous and slow, her nipples taut against his palms. Eager for her mouth, Jon rose on his elbows and drew her down to him. The kiss was deep and messy, their tongues tangling. Jon took her lower lip in his mouth and nipped it. Daenerys hummed, rocking faster.

“Oh yes,” Jon hissed against her mouth, “Ride me, love. Fuck me.” Daenerys moaned at the words, taking him deeper. Jon matched her rhythm with upward thrusts of his hips. The pleasure built in his chest, his gut, his balls. The bed squeaked beneath them. The sounds of wet flesh slapping together was almost obscene. The smell of her filled his nose. He felt the tension building, heard the shakiness of her cries. She was close.      

“W—When my dragons are grown, we will ride together. And no one in this world will stand in—in our way,” she said. Jon couldn’t hold it back. His spine arched, pleasure burst behind his eyes and he was spilling his seed inside her. Another couple strokes and she followed him with a thin cry. They writhed together, mindless in the throes of it. Daenerys slid off him, crawling close to lay her head on his chest, panting against his neck. Blindly, he sought her mouth. This kiss was sweeter. Pleasure unfurled and meandered through his veins as they rocked, sweaty and sated. Jon gathered her to his side as the sweat cooled and the thunder of his heartbeat mellowed. Jon breathed deep of her scent, petting her hopelessly tangled hair.  

“Truly? Do you mean it?” he asked.

“Hmm? What, Jon?” Daenerys said, pressing a glancing kiss to his collarbone. “About me and your dragons.” Despite the dark, he could feel the press of her gaze.

“Of course. You are Targaryen. My blood, my husband. I’m sure one of my children will take to you. And we will be unstoppable.” Jon remembered the sheer power of the dragons of his dream, and thought uncomfortably of his father and kin in the Red Keep.

“But--” he said. Daenerys cut him off with a swift kiss. Daenerys bumped her forehead to his, pressed so close he felt the ghosting tickle of her eyelashes.

“Husband, I have no desire for a throne, especially your father’s. Rhaegar can keep his Seven Kingdoms, and give them to that pretty Dornish son of his. I will never make war with him, I swear that to you.” Some secret tension in him dissolved and fell away in relief. Jon tilted his chin to kiss her.

“Thank you, my wonder.” Daenerys nuzzled his cheek with her nose.

“I only meant that once my dragons are grown, we can do as we please. Neither magister nor king nor god can tell us otherwise.”

“’Like their dragons, Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men,’” Jon quoted.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked. There was a certain smugness in her tone that made him smile.

“Some dusty book of Lord Tyrion’s at the Red Keep. He has a particular fascination with dragons.”

“I knew he was a clever man,” Daenerys said, curling beside him. Jon chuckled.

“Don’t say that within his hearing. His head will swell.” Daenerys’ finger traced the shapes of his chest and belly with ticklish lightness. A ghosting touch along his ribs made him stifle a giggle.  

“How is it that your lord father named him Hand? Men of his stature are not well regarded in Essos.” Jon bristled a bit; Lord Tyrion was a good friend. The delicate curiosity in her tone mellowed him.

“Tyrion is the son of a great Western house, the Lannisters. His father Tywin was Hand to your lord father King Aerys. Tyrion held the position on the small council of Master of Coin at his father’s decree. After my lord father quelled the Baratheon rebellion, and after Lord Tywin died, there was some upheaval on the small council. My lord father admired how Tyrion managed the chaos in King’s Landing after Renly Baratheon raised the treacherous Reacher lords and marched on the city. The post of Hand seemed a natural fit.”

Daenerys made a sound low in her throat.

“There is much of Westeros’ politics I don’t know. Perhaps my lord husband would educate me?” Jon grinned at the indulgent affection in her tone.

“And my brother the king knows about his Lorathi wife?”

“Yes. Shae was handmaiden to my lady stepmother during the Baratheon rebellion. She was . . . memorable.”

“Memorable?”

“Aye,” Jon said, grinning, “she is a deft hand with a dagger.” Daenerys giggled. Such a bright, merry sound, he thought. Gods, he was besotted. Jon rubbed his cheek against the crown of her head, feeling the ticklish slide of her hair, and considered himself supremely content.

“Were they attacked?”

“Aye. It was a group of thieves coming to take what they could during the unrest in the castle—Her Grace Lady Elia and my half-sister Rhaenys were at the Sept of Baelor at the time. The thieves wanted their jewels. Shae quickly disabused them of such a notion.”

“I imagine Her Grace was grateful.”

“She was. The Dornish are an intemperate lot as a rule, though generous to fault. Martells, especially.”

“‘Intemperate?’ You’re such a priggish northerner, my love!” Daenerys said, with a light, playful slap to his chest. Jon rubbed the spot, caught between amusement and affront.  

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” he said, sitting up. Even with his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could only make out the shape her, the faint pale gleam of her hair. He could feel the glow of her smile despite that. His Winterfell cousins were boisterous, but respectful. His half-siblings tended to snipe, and Tyrion quipped. Though he prickled at the being the butt of a joke, he found he liked the taste of Daenerys’ gentle brand of teasing.  

“I said you’re priggish.”

“That’s what I thought!” Jon said, pouncing on top of her. Daenerys squealed as he tickled her ribs, under her arms. Her laughter was heady as they thrashed and wrestled. Before long they were both breathless and wheezing with mirth. After a moment of rest, Daenerys retaliated, devilish fingers finding a ticklish spot on the bottom of his foot.

“No, no no, stop that!” Jon said, wiggling back and finding only empty air. He fell off the bed and landed with a hard thump on his rear. That made them laugh even harder. Jon clutched his sore sides.

The door burst open with a halo of gold lamplight and Grey Worm shouldered in with his spear. Jon leapt to his feet, one arm flung back to protect Daenerys. He squinted into the light, wishing for his sword.

“Jelmazmo, this one heard--” Grey Worm’s stony face revealed only the slightest hint of surprise in the widening of his black eyes. Jon stood straight, unconcerned with his nakedness. A quick flash of anger banished the lingering euphoria of laughter.

“You heard what, soldier? You thought I was abusing my wife? You came to skewer me with your spear? Shall we settle this on the training yard?” Jon said, fists balled. Grey Worm did not so much as blink or lower his spear.  

“Gods save me from bull-headed men!” Daenerys said, shoving past his protecting arm.

“Grey Worm, you do me honor by seeking to protect me, but I need no protection from Jon. Go back to your bed. Now.”

“But Jel--”

“I said: Now.” The steel in her tone was as cold as Uncle’s sword Ice. Grey Worm set the lamp on the hook and shut the door behind him with an emphatic thud.

“And you! You want to duel my bodyguards? Anyone at all who looks at you squint-eyed?” Daenerys said, poking his chest hard. Naked, flushed pink with her hair in glorious disarray. His cock twitched in interest. Jon clenched his jaw, his ire climbing.

“Yes! If I must. I would never hurt you.” The hard glint in her violet eyes softened. She cupped his cheek, stroking his beard with her thumb.

“I . . . I have suffered at the hands of men in the past. After Ser Darry died, I was a wayward princess alone in the world. My people wish to protect me.” Jon swallowed down hot choler in his throat. ‘Suffered’ she said. Every manner of horror rose in his mind’s eye. His beautiful wonder, abandoned. How he wished to embrace her. No, no. He wouldn’t trigger any harsh memories by rough gestures. Jon fell to one knee and cradled her hand between his.

“I will never hurt you.” The words felt so small, so ineffectual. Daenerys smiled.

“I know that. Do you think I would marry you if I didn’t?” she said with an arched brow. Jon turned her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, closing her fingers as if to cherish the touch.

“What can I do to put you at ease? To earn the respect of your people?” he asked. Daenerys tugged his hand, drawing him up to his feet. She nestled into Jon’s arms. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and kissed her forehead.  

“I trust you already, husband. As for my people, all it will take is time,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him. Jon twined their wedding ribbon around his finger and tugged gently.

“Time we’ll have when we sail for Pentos. I’ll look for a ship in the morning. Come. Let’s get some sleep.”

 Daenerys was not an early riser. Jon enjoyed waking at dawn, watching the sun rise with a hot cup of tea. There was a sort of peace in those quiet minutes, suspended between day and night, sleeping and waking. Jon wiggled from bed in the grey predawn. At the ewer stand he washed with cold water and a bar of lye soap. He combed and tied his hair, dressed and armed. He even dispatched a kitchen lad to fetch their breakfast. All this while his wife lingered in bed, going so far as to bury her head beneath the bolster to blot out the light peeking through the shutters.

In her sleep, she’d kicked off the coverlet. Jon chuckled. He quite liked the view of her bare-arsed in the morning.

“Daenerys. Dany, love. Wake up,” Jon whispered, stroking the small of her back. She mumbled something and rolled away from him, curling into a tight ball.

“Dany. Wake up,” Jon said, louder.

“Unngh,” she groaned. One bleary violet eye glared at him from beneath the bolster. Jon schooled his expression to neutrality. In her current mood, she might not appreciate his amusement.

“It’s after dawn. We need to get moving.” Daenerys grumbled as she swung her legs to the edge of the bed, dragging the coverlet with her. Silver hair hung in a messy snarl. That, plus her sleep-flushed cheeks and owlish blinking eyes made for a fetching sight.  

“Good morning,” he said.

“’Morning,” she said, yawning, “I need Missandei.”

“I’ll fetch her.”

“And tea. Hot. With lemon.”

“As you say, my lady,” he said, layered with sarcasm. Was he her body servant? They shared the same royal blood! Daenerys’ scowl relaxed into an expression of half-chagrined contrition.  

“Please,” she added. Jon grunted. She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Part of learning each other’s’ rhythms, husband. I dislike waking, on any circumstance.” Jon kissed the back of her captive hand.

“You’re right, of course. We will learn more about each other. We have time. First, Missandei. I’ll ready the horses.”

Missandei shared a room with Grey Worm. It was the Unsullied guard who opened the door, already dressed and armored. Immaculate down to the laces of his boots. An air of mutual dislike chilled between them.

“My lord,” he said with the barest incline of his chin. Jon’s temper rankled at the casual address.

“Daenerys is asking for Missandei.”

“I am here, my lord,” she said, slipping past Grey Worm with a murmured word in Valyrian.

Unblinking, Grey Worm said: “Bisa mittys iksis tolī iā rīza et iā zaldrīzes.” {This fool is more a lizard than a dragon.} It took considerable effort not to react to such slander, especially said in that atrocious bastard Valyrian. The words lilted and lurched like a drunkard. Missandei was quick to admonish him.

“Ilva dāria pāsaga zirȳla. Lyks, jorrāelo.” {Our queen trusts him. Peace, love.} Jon studied the translator. Her hair was a soft black cloud around her head, bound away from her face with a silver headband. The black leather trousers and deep green tunic were of a fashion of Daenerys’. It was a subtle remark of how highly his wife esteemed the slender young Summer Islander, to garb her in the same clothing. Like family. Jon found a smile for Missandei, heartfelt and easy.

“Her first intelligible words this morning were that she needed you,” he said. Missandei’s answering smile was wary, but warm.

“She is a dragon upon waking. The easiest way to soften her is with tea and bread with honey,” she said.

“Good to know,” he replied. Missandei made her way down the hall to their room. Seconds ticked by as Jon held Grey Worm’s hard black gaze. Jon rested his hand casually on the pommel of his sword, his thumb worrying the dragon tail etching.

“Shall we ready the horses?” Jon asked at last. Grey Worm gave a bare nod. Rakharo and the other big Dothraki—whose name Jon could not place—were shoveling down bacon and bread in the taproom.

“Daenerys Jelmazmo is breaking her fast. We ready the horses and find a ship.”

“At last! Leaving the cold, miserable sunset land for home!” Rakharo said, swiping grease from his mustache. Jon chuckled. For his part, he was eager to begin their journey as well.

“Come, let’s find a ship.”                

[shazyloren]

The Room: Chapter 47 - Opening the Gifts

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12710496/chapters/31609206

---------

Daenerys woke up the following morning as a wave of bliss rolled over her completely. She'd been dreaming off curly hair, soft lips and a smile so piercing she almost felt the wind be knocked out from inside her lungs. It happened, she'd been brave enough to ask for the kiss she'd wanted, a comfort after such a torturous talk about her past. It had been everything she'd dreamed of. A blanket of warm enveloping her as her senses worked overtime.

She did not have much to go on when it came to kissing, her own knowledge and experience had been limited to the three she'd shared with Jon and while the first two were enjoyable, it had nothing on the feeling she got from the one the night before. There wasn't too much pressure in the kiss, her lips were in sync with his and they moved at a pleasant rythmn. He tasted like a sweetened musk, her tongue harbouring flavours she never knew existed. His hand held her jaw, cupped it perfectly as if he never want to let her go. It was fireworks on a dark night, lighting up her existence one bang at a time.

And now as she lay in her four poster bed, her fellow Slytherins snoring peacefully beyond her curtains, she couldn't help but think of this and smile. Jon Snow, the man who does not know how much of her life he'd changed. This secret she'd been carrying with her for so long, this violation of her very being, the weight of it all was gone. It had been lifted off of her shoulders in a way she hadn't anticipated at all.

And she felt free.

She couldn't help it, even though she wasn't completely free of it yet. Any day now she would get the news of an arrest, but the ministry was taking forever on screening all two hundred plus of her memories. Each memory was taking almost half a day to completely screen and test according to Professor Lannister. The last she spoke to him a few days ago they'd done nearing three quarters of them so it could be anywhere between a few days or a few weeks to finish it all off and get this arrest going. He would go down, it was known. There was so much overwhelming evidence, but the standard procedure meant she would still have to attend a trial.

But the day was coming, it was almost over for her. And then all she had to worry about was not dying in the second task at the beginning of February. she hadn't even had time to examine her piece of treasure she picked up from the end of the first task, worry after worry has been plaguing her and the task was pushed to the back of her mind. But now the ball was out of the way and she and Jon were on the same page, it'd be useful to start her research. She'd save that for at least boxing day though, today was Christmas and she wanted rest after a blurry and mad evening the night before.

Drawing her curtains back she saw that all the other girls in the dormitory were fast asleep still, it was nine o clock now. Daenerys would've usually called them lazy and woken them up with Decoy Detonators, but everyone was up late last night, so she'd leave them to sleep in for however long they wanted. Plus it was Christmas, it'd be a little unfair to be a pest to them on this day.

Daenerys threw back her covers and examined her in the one mirror the dorm room had, she looked a mess. Her hair was all tangled in the braids she left it in, her makeup had once again smudged across her face and she looked so tired Daenerys was wondering if she'd even slept at all. She knew she had, the dreams of Jon were proof, but her body was so tired, perhaps from the reveal of her close guarded secret to Jon. Tired didn't even begin to cover it for Daenerys, but it was Christmas, and there would be a feast later and the tree in the common room had presents under them.

Daenerys never got many, she'd always get something from her mother and father, a nice dress or some new books she'd been interested in reading about their wizarding history. Missandei always got her sweets and biscuits and chocolates in a big bumper back which she enjoyed for at least a week before they were all gone. That would usually be it, but it would always be things she wanted so she was never bothered that everyone else in the dorm had piles upon presents.

This time, she was only expecting Missandei's, both her parents has gone and her brother was still not talking to her. It was a mess, the longing she had for a family that cared and loved each other never faded. Had everyone stuck together would Viserys had done this to her body? Yes, a monster is always a monster. Rhaegar would've found out beforehand too, he would've done something about it. But he wasn't home, he couldn't protect Daenerys.

Sighing at her inevitable pang of loneliness at Christmas time, she took her shampoos and towels into the dorm's bathroom and began to run the shower. She pushed the dysfunctional family thoughts out of her mind and remembered the night before. Not the confession, that was still too much to process for her and it was something she still did not fully understand.

Instead she thought of the kiss.

As she stepped into the shower once her night gown was off, she allowed the feeling of glee and pleasure from their intense kiss fill her bones and flood her mind. The warm water trickled across her skin and raised the goose bumps across it, her mind became intense suddenly as the feel of his lips on hers evoked other images that she'd had in the shower about him the day before, ones she could not control. Not now, it's Christmas day, she thought in a frustrated sigh.

Ignoring the growing pleasure building under her layers of skin she washed her body and hair, trying to be finished as soon as possible. However, as her own hands swept across her body with a flannel to clean it, she felt herself come alive. The urge to let her hand go to places she never touched herself on was astronomical, her nipples were hard once again and she was craving something to touch them.

She'd already ignored the sensation once, it had been a difficult task, she didn't know if she could do it again. As soon as she thought this her walls were down. She found herself sweeping a hand over her sore and swollen breast and instantly slid down the wall in crippling pleasure. It was terrifying, scary and exciting all in one confusing mess. Viserys abuse had been so painful and so frequent, Daenerys thought she'd never feel this way. A clear fantasy in her head as Jon held her in an embrace and a clear reaction from her own body.

What changed that she felt like this was something she could deal with? Was the baptism of fire of telling Jon everything, that he was the one person in this school that knew the details as much as he did, that he was the one person who she felt this intensely about, was that what had changed? Whatever had changed, it scared her, as change often did. But she could not control what her body wanted, she could not control her hands as they glided down to her sex. None of it.

But it happened anyway, and Jon's mouth fell from her lips in a moan so full of want and desperation that as soon as her hand landed down there the pleasure was almost gone. It was strange that she felt like this, she didn't know what to think. She knew she loved Jon, she knew that maybe in ten years time she'd feel comfortable with something like this... but not now, she'd gone through too much.

yet her body continued to want this.

Shaking at the bottom of the shower, one hand on a breast and the other down there, she felt herself come to what she only knew had to be an orgasm. she'd never had one before, she'd never even touched herself before. It ripped through her body fast that a fire through a barrel of fuel, than a fire-bolt through air. Her mouth formed an 'o' shape as it did, the experience was something so unlike anything she'd ever felt. Then, words fell out of her mouth before she could process them. "Oh Jon"

That made her tip over the edge and her breathing increase tenfold. It woke her up from the trance she'd seemed to be in and almost felt shame flow through her. Missandei would say it was nothing to be ashamed about, that she'd read about it in Witch Weekly and it was something that was suppose to give a woman strength or something like that. But in this moment, given her history and her only recent confession of love to Jon, it all felt to raw.

She clambered up off of the floor and shut the water off. She got out of the shower and looked at her naked body in the reflection of the mirror, her hair clinging to her face and covering her breasts. For once in her life there were no bruises on her skin, even the ones she'd got from the tournament had gone, only a few scars lingered on her inner thighs and arms. Her breasts were full now, a D cup after being flat chested for so long. Her curves were in the right places, she'd come out the other side of her body changes. She was a woman now, yet, she still felt like the same scared thirteen year old she had once been.

Not wanting to look at herself any longer, she grabbed a towel and dried herself down, her bathrobe encasing her once she'd done. The intensity of the shower and what had occurred had vanished, but when she walked back into the dorm she realised that once again she'd been in there a long time. She did not want this to be an occurrence every time she had a shower now. It was nearing half ten when she looked at the clock. That was an hour and a half.

Taking no longer than a few minutes to dress in jeans and a jumper, she put her hair up and went downstairs to the common room. There wasn't many people, only a couple of first years who'd already opened their presents. She was the first of all the people who attended the ball to be awake. She walked straight to the tree, wanting to see her chocolates and sweets from Missandei.

The good thing about the trees in the different common rooms is that they were all linked. So Daenerys last night when she'd returned tot he dorm had put all the gifts underneath it, even the ones for Missandei and Jon and they will then turn up into the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor Common rooms respectively. So now as she looked at the tree, she was two presents with her name on. She picked them up and took them over to the fireplace to be unwrapped. One of the first years there mumbled. "M-morning Daenerys"

"Hello" She replied kindly, wondering if they were scared of her. She knew that a lot of the first year students had been warned of her fiery temperament. The others glared as if not scared by her, so she just went about opening her presents. One was a care basket from Missandei which yes had a lot of sweets and chocolates and biscuits in, but it also had face wipes and a mascara and a lipstick and an eye-shadow palette. Daenerys was excited, she'd never been bought makeup and had only been borrowing Missandei's this year.

She unwrapped it to look at all the colours. The lipstick was by Witching Decay, a company she'd seen about in Witch Weekly when deciding which lipstick to get Missandei. When she opened the packaging she looked at it. 'Witching Decay Maddening Matte Lipstick' it said on the box. she opened and looked at the colour, a neutral peachy nude shade which Daenerys knew she was going to get some use out of. The Mascara was by the same company and was black brown rather than full black and the eye-shadow palette was all neutral tones too. She was going to get a lot of use out of them all.

As she opened the second present which was from Jon, she began eating some of the jellied sweets she'd received. She ripped the not so well wrapped wrapping paper off of the present and felt her jaw drop. It was a photo frame, black with engraved dragons around the edges that looked expensive, but in the frame was what was more important. She remembered this day, the day of the tournament.

When they was debriefed after finishing first Jon's sister Arya too a photo of them both. It had ended up being the only one where she'd smiled, despite beign covered in dirt and god knows what. But there she was, with Jon, both of them smiling back at her as the picture moved. Daenerys felt hot tears form in her eyes, she loved it. It was such a personal present that she got emotional just looking at it. She needed to seek him out now and thank him, it was beautiful.

Ignoring the girls who were wondering why she'd started crying she took all of her stuff back up to her dorm and after shoving the sweets under the bed, she put the picture of her and Jon next to the one of her and Missandei on her bedside table. She didn't care that the girls in the dorm would see it, after Jon punched Joffrey last night (something she found out when she re-enter the Slytherin common room after her dance/kiss with Jon) everyone knew they liked each other.

She was about to leave the dorm room with her wand and walk the corridors before lunch when a tapping on the window near her bed brought her back. She turned to see an owl she did not recognise there, wanting to come in. That's odd, she thought. The Sand twins' owl was a large eagle owl and Margaery's was a barn owl. This one wanting to get in was a snowy owl and she knew no one with a snowy. She unlocked the window and let him fly in. It dropped a letter and package on her bed before leaving out of the window it came in. Perhaps it was going to the Owlery for a snack.

She closed the window and sat on her four poster bed. The letter was hand-writing she recognised but almost did not want to believe initially. She opened the present first. Once again, her jaw dropped as she couldn't believe what she was looking at. A sterling silver Dragon necklace which curled around the neck as if a protector. It looked very expensive and very heavy. She lifted it up and put it on, the mirror in the dorm room showing that it did indeed suit her. It was a statement piece of jewellery as her mother would say, one that showed power and that was dragon themed.

She needed to read this letter, so she ripped the seal off, which had a burning sun with a spear through it and opened the letter. It was him, it was from Rhaegar.

Dearest sister,

I know I have not been around for you to have a connection with the last ten years and I know there is no excuse for my actions. I cut you all off because of my own petty feud with father and now, you have to deal with having no mother or father to love and support you. Nothing can erase the hatred you probably feel towards me, the angry, but do know that I do not blame you one bit.

So I'm telling you finally, what happened. I fell in love, Daenerys. I fell in love with the most intelligent and gifted witch I've ever met and she has me too. We're so happy together, we're getting married soon. I love her, and she loves me. I know that it can be a lot to take in, but I do not blame you if you do not want to do this, but I'd love for you to come, it won't be until the summer however.

Christmas time can be lonely, particularly for someone who will be spending it at school and not with the remaining member of her family at that house, so I sent you this small gift as a reminder of our past, our heritage and our ways in Valyria. We used to be among the most feared, we had many dragons bonded to us, we were a grand house. We gave our enemies death with Fire and Blood, and while we are both a product of their unnatural ways, that's all our history has ever known.

So this Dragon necklace, let it be a reminder to you that while our parents are gone, and while I have failed you in not being a part of your life (or that I did not come to support you i the tournament, one which you seem to be winning) you are a fire that can give the world something to think about. You could lead, create or bring together people. You can do anything you put your mind too, Daenerys Targaryen. Because you are my sister and while I have not shown it, I love you and support you wholly.

Forever your brother (and I someday hope to be your favourite once again)

Rhaegar.

It was a couple of rereads of the letter, her emotions swivelling inside her before the tears fell.

[ladywolfmd]

Bringing Sexy Bach & All that Treble

Summary: His fingers skim nimbly across the ebony and ivory piano keys while hers pluck and fiddle against the strings of her cello while Bach flows first vivace, then adagio, and finally allegro to fill the music room they've reserved for rehearsals. All the while, their bodies singing for a different kind of music, and Jon has had enough pining.Song they're rehearsing: Bach's Sonata in G Minor, BWV 1029

There was only so much that Jon could take.

There she was again with her long clever fingers pressing against the strings, her other hand curled elegantly on the bow as she moved it back and forth. He tried not to be jealous of a piece of wood as he stared at the large redwood cello cradled between her creamy long legs for days while her face - gods her face - her eyes were closed shut, long lashes brushed against her sharp cheeks while there was a quiver between her brows as she concentrated, her delicate mouth slightly parted as Bach flowed from her fingers like waves that crashed powerfully against you with each damn passionate note.

Gods.

What Jon would do to feel those nimble fingers dance on his skin, those long legs cradling him against her - seven hells his body would sing and chant nothing but her name.

Sansa.

Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.

Crescendo. A gradual climb then peak and sustain.

Forte. For-te. FORTE.

His mind would urge him.

Sansa. San-sa. SANSA.

And he'd swear, in turn to make her give him that same enraptured expression she always had when she plays, using his fingers, his tongue, his cock - if she'd let him, he'd make her body sing his name too.

So when the opportunity came when she needed an accompanist for her recital, Jon fought tooth and nail to make sure no one but him would get the opportunity. If that meant bribery, threats, and begging - so be it.

Read the rest on AO3 or continue reading here.

Sansa Stark was his.

Or she will be.

...If she wants to that is.

He swallows and starts his pep talk all over again.

Now was not the time to be a wuss. It was, as Theon and Tormund said, about time to just nut up and do something before someone else makes Sansa unavailable again. He's waited a whole damn year.  

And here they were, on their second week of making sweet music together, his fingers on the keys of the baby grand, lending all support for her powerful playing when all he'd wanted was his fingers working somewhere else for her and together they'd sing.

Oh how sweet it would be to hear his name pour out from those lips with the same variation of Sonata in G Minor.

They've had enough of a vivace introduction if he wasn't just imagining the light flirting they've started.

This was it.

With one last deep breath, he emerged from the corner he was hiding, checked back to make sure that he locked the door, and went to walk behind her quietly and slowly. He bit his lip to keep from groaning as she was, as usual, too engrossed in her playing to notice he had come in, too focused on her perfect playing.

Slowly he sidled up behind her, almost groaning again at the peek of skin from her bared shoulder, a constellation of freckles dotting the top, he wished to trace with his tongue, while her long, silky red hair was loose and hanging over the other shoulder that his hands itched to wrap around.

He wanted to touch her but not yet. He wanted her to come to him.

He coughed once to alert his presence, chuckled when she hit a sharp from being startled and there they were - the bluest eyes he's ever seen, blinking at him in surprise before her face broke into an embarrassed grin, her cheeks turning pink as she looked at him sheepishly, rendering him speechless for a moment.

"Sorry. Were you standing there for long, Jon?"

He blinked and gathered his wits. Coughing once more to drown out the growl that almost came out from the sweet way she said his name. "No. I just got here," he lied, smiling back.

Sansa seemed to buy it as she nodded at him, waiting. And there Jon noticed something was off with her from the way her eyes looked suddenly far away, her fingers fidgeted around the bow and her cello as she hugged them to her, the tiniest pucker between her brows gave her away the most.

"What's wrong?"

She blinked, caught herself before she laughed nervously, a lock of her hair falling from her ear that she quickly tucked back in before he could even offer to do so himself. "The recital is so near, I just realized. I'm a little nervous," she bit her lip and Jon had never seen a more endearing sight.

He took one of the stools and sat in front of her, taking one of her hands in his, giving it a squeeze when she didn't protest. "You have no reason to be. Seven hells, I'm the one who should be nervous. I don't want to ruin this for you."

She shook her head furiously and squeezed his hand back, the actions making his heart do things. "You're wonderful."

He sucked in a breath and colored then colored some more when her own cheeks started flushing prettily as she caught her words. "I mean, you're an excellent partner."

He smiled slowly and took a deep breath before speaking. "You make it easy to blend my music with yours," he looked at her, half hoping, half shaking.

She ducked her chin and looked away then, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "The credit goes to you. You seem to know how best to support my playing. You make me play more confidently," she confessed in an almost whisper. "Thank you for agreeing to be my accompanist. I'm glad it's you."

His heart almost stopped then before it pounded quickly just as soon. He moved closer then, held her gaze as he reached out to take her face in his hand, the corners of his lips quirked up whens she let him.

"No. The pleasure is all mine," he might've said a little more gruffly than intended, making her gasp - the sound going like a bolt through his hyper aware body.

He caressed her face twith his thumb and he felt her lashes as she leant closer to his touch and shivered.

She wants this too.

"Sansa."

Her eyes fluttered open in question.

"May I kiss you?"

Another wave of heat on his face as she nodded demurely, her face tilting up slightly and Jon could hardly believe this was happening. He closed their distance, cradling her face as he kissed her at last. A gasp and a groan escaping them as they pulled away in shock before fusing their mouths together once more.

Gods.

It was better than he'd imagined.

She was soft everywhere.

He wanted more.

But he would take his time.  

Adagio. Like the second variation of their song. Never mind that his body was thrumming to move faster and harder after a year of watching her from afar. He forced himself to remember that this was always about her and not his base needs. Slowly and gently he touched, senses trained to her every reaction.

Just as he'd imagined, she started soft and shy, pianissimo like the perfect lady she was. She's trying to control herself but it only drove Jon to be bolder.

He'd give her so much pleasure, she won't be able to control herself. This was a promise.

But first.

Slowly he pulled away to look at her, make sure this was something far more than just lust.

He wants her, yes.

But not just for a moment, a day, a week.

He wanted her always.

All of her.

"Sansa," he whispered, almost groaned, when he caught how her eyes were half-lidded and glazed, her face leaning the slightest bit forward as if chasing him.

"Jon," she breathed out.

"Sansa I--"

"Jon I have to--"

"No you go first."

"No, go ahead!"

They both laughed then, both of them smiling tenderly but the heat was still there.

"Jon?" she tilted her head and searched his eyes.

He swallowed and waited.

Her smile vanished while she looked at him intensely that he almost panicked at the look that resembled regret in her eyes.

She bit her lip then, ducking her head as she placed a hand on his chest. "I had seriously hoped you'd accompany me. I'd have chosen you no matter who else tried."

Jon swore his heart stopped while his mouth hung.

When he didn't say anything - he couldn't, half-convinced this was just a dream, her eyes lifted back at him. "I chose that piece so someone would play with me...play the piano specifically because you play that and...just..." she said carefully. "I wanted it to be you. If there was the smallest chance you'd--"

Jon crashed his lips against hers then and brought her impossibly closer, words pouring out in between kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her nose, her throat. "You could've just asked. I had to beat a lot of hopefuls--"

She kissed him back just as fervently, her hands clutching at his shirt as she panted her answers. "I didn't think you'd be interested. You never said anything. You never talk to me."

He shook his head against her neck. "I didn't know how."

He felt her laugh then and he couldn't help but smile against her skin. "I was interested since last year, you have know idea."

She gasped. "But--"

He sighed. "I know. I'm shite at this."

She laughed again. "Well... we're here now."

He pulled away to look at her, his hands cupping her face. "Aye, we're here now."

They grinned at each other for a beat until they felt the spark between them once more.

He tilted his head.

She nodded.

Pages of sheet music flew, the sound of objects crashing on the floor, as Jon backed Sansa up against the baby grand, knocking everything down as they made out against the piano.

With one hand, Jon pulled the top board prop, the lid snapped loudly as it fell shut, another loud thump as he easily lifted Sansa's body up against the now closed lid, her heeled foot dropping on the keys causing dissonant chords that made her eyes fly open in panic, her hands on his shoulders ready to push him away.

But Jon just laughed against her shoulder and kept her still but gently. "Don't worry about it. If we destroy it, I'll have my father replace it. It's the least Rhaegar could do for me." He rolled his eyes at the thought of his asshole father.

She still looked unsure as she bit her lip, looking enticing once more that Jon had to kiss her again.

So he did.

More dissonant chords bounced off the acoustic walls mixed with broken breaths and escaped moans as Jon, standing in between her legs, pulled her closer, one leg wrapped around his torso while the other still dangled over the keys, her heel bouncing as they both ground their hips together while their lips explored every sliver of skin exposed.

A loud thud followed by the steady clicking of the fallen pedometer at 150bpm that made both of them pause for a moment before they both grinned wickedly at each other as they hastened their actions, clothes flying everywhere while hips thrusted in tempo with the fast swinging pendulum.

"Jon."

She sang.

"Jo-o-n," she sang some more.

"San-sa," he sang in reply.

"Oh Jon," she moaned and Jon never heard a more beautiful sound that he redoubled his efforts, her lovely arpeggios climbing octaves he's never heard before turning into staccatos as he moved faster.

"J-Jon, Jon, Jon..."

His answering groan of her name was just as loud and broken.

And then he saw it.

That same face she has when she's in one of her trance like state when she's nearing the end of her performance. One of complete rapture that he swears at any moment the room shall be filled with applause from yet another-

"Oh Gods."

-yet another

"Ungh."

Standing.

"Jon!"

"Sansa!"

Ovation.

A beat.

And only the sound of the still clicking metronome was heard over their heavy breathing as they collapsed into each other sated on top of the baby grand that was now displaced shockingly near the wall from its true place in the center.

Jon pulled back and looked down at her, waiting until she opened her eyes and met his gaze. He brushed her cheeks with his thumbs and kissed her forehead, earning him a shy smile as she twined her arms behind his neck.

"Wow," was all he could say.

Sansa giggled but suddenly shy again she ducked her head against the crook of his neck. "Oh Gods. That happened."

Jon chuckled, kissed her bare shoulder and stood up, pulling his pants up before helping Sansa down.  

He caught her before she tripped, her knees still wobbly that Jon couldn't hide the proud look on his face only to feel Sansa slightly shove him. "Don't be too smug."

Jon chuckled and nuzzled her neck. "Sorry, well, not really."

Sansa tugged at his hair from the nape of his neck then from where her hands were twined.

That only made him kiss her again.

When he pulled away, he cradled her face and smiled when she sighed, shook her head, and smiled brightly at him. She looked away briefly and gasped when she saw the state of the room.

Jon followed her gaze and started laughing, earning a slap on his chest.

Aside from the displaced piano, sheet music was everywhere, his shirt was on top of her cello while the metronome was still clicking on its side, with Sansa's tiny lacy blue underwear swinging with the pendulum back and forth.

"Oh Gods!"

Sansa practically shoved him to grab it but he was too fast, grabbed it first and pocketed it. "Ah, I'll be keeping this. Thanks." He winked at her.

She rolled her eyes before shaking her head as she continued surveying the room.

He walked over to the piano and checked it. Aside from a few scratches, it was fine. He couldn't help but smirk when he started pushing the piano back to the center and snapping the lid back up.

"I wonder if Rhaegar would let me keep this one," he muttered aloud.

Sansa's head snapped to him then, looking scandalized that he had to laugh. "Or lets just keep it here. Every time we see other people using it, I'll just imagine the best music played on it."

"The best music? Really?"

Jon skimmed the keys. "The best," he repeated, replaying the sounds he made Sansa make in his head.

"Hmm... then I should find out if my cello played its best too. Don't you think?"

"Wha-" But Jon didn't get to finish his question. The moment he turned around his jaw fell to the floor as his eyes bulged from seeing Sansa naked with only her cello covering her as she looked at him challengingly.

"We only have half an hour of rehearsal time left, Jon Snow. I suggest you accompany me now."

Jon didn't need to be told twice, his mind already racing with a hundred more ways to make Sansa Stark sing for him.

[marthajefferson]

+ au ASOIAF fic + lyanna stark / arthur dayne + pg + 1794 words +

for this prompt x : lyanna doubt arthur's riding skills and wants to help him*

*setting in the Essos AU where everybody survived and lives now away from Westeros’ mess (and yes: jon is named jon is every universe, this is law!). as you will see, i took a few ‘liberties’ with the prompt. sorry :P ---AO3 LINK

-

“I am better than you.”

There was no need of being precise for him. Lyanna was a better person than he was in every way, so he simply nodded at her statement. “You are.”

“A better rider I mean.” The young woman wanted to be precise anyway.

Then--a scream, and they both looked hastily at the ocean. A laugh, they realized, as Jon was playing with the sand, making castles and running around, splashing water on his ephemeral buildings when tired of being a ‘lord'. And any panic vanished. Arthur and Lyanna watched him from afar, leaned back against a rock warmed by the sun. 

They spent the day on a deserted beach on the Orange Coast, a few miles from Volantis. The sound of the waves, the smell of salty sea air, the colour of the water… The beauty of this continent was the easiest part of their exile to accept.

“Hmmm I am… not certain about that my Lady.”

She gave up on trying to convince him to use her name after two years and many demands, but she would definitely fight to defend her indisputable talents. However, there was no irreverence in Arthur’s words, more a teasing music she had learned to recognize and to play with. She looked up at the man sitting by her side: white linen shirt out of grey breeches, purple eyes carefully watching the waves, dark stubble and hair, a faint smile gracing dignified features… The sun seemed to love him, for his skin was born to profit and benefit under it. “I saw many tourneys, many exceptional riders. I am pretty good myself,” he eventually breathed, pulling her out of her contemplation.

“Certainly. But, when it comes to just you and I,” she bumped her shoulder against his broad one, “I am better than you.“

Though still focused on the ocean and Jon playing, he shrugged, feigning disinterest. And Lyanna smiled. They’d been playing this game for a while now, a whole year of teasing and flirting and general suggestiveness -mostly on her part. Arthur’s distance excited her, for he seemed to be holding back, giving in to his instinct inch by inch. She wanted to draw it out, know it in its fullness. She wanted to be wanted by this man.

Her slender hand reached down to take his in the sand. “I could teach you,” she suggested, “to mount properly.”

“I’m too old my Lady.” Too old to learn. Too old to change. Too old for you.

“You are not, Arthur,” she answered right away, the weight of her chin resting now on his shoulder. “Look, I know that we own just one mare but we can try to improve your style anyway.”

Arthur’s face turned towards hers and Lyanna saw the minuscule tightening in his strong jaw. “And how?” he asked, amused eyes searching hers.

“Well, you’ve got to learn the theory first in order to know what you’re doing, right?” There was a tone in her voice he knew too well. “Let me show you.”

His purple eyes widened when she shifted her stance, her petite form climbing onto his lap to straddle his hips. The way she had executed the maneuver so perfectly left Arthur stunned for a moment.

“My Lady?” he breathed, the words caught in his throat.

She raised her forefinger at him. “First lesson. You need to learn how to sit properly on your saddle and to find your balance.” Lifting one hand to rest on his pectorals for stability, she moved on top of him, seeking for the most secure position. A simple roll from her hips, quickly followed by a frown from him. “Your legs must hold on tight. This way… the stallion knows who is truly in charge.”

“My Lady, yo–”

“Lyanna,” she cut across him. Her hands rested on his chest, feeling his rib cage expand as her knight inhaled deeply. “Second lesson: the reins.” Light fingers traveled up to the wisps of his black strands and her hands fisted in tousled hair. “The grip has to be strong and solid, and yet… you have to give some slack. If not, the stallion will rebel.”

Arthur was at a loss for words at her boldness, such was the power of that small woman. Fingers twitched into the sand, he kept his arms by his side and his wide and unblinking eyes on her. Briefly, he thanked the fact that Lyanna adopted the less conformist dress-code of their new land: a pair of man’s trousers, under a light tunic ornamented with embroideries she made herself ; if she had simply worn a gown, she would have certainly felt hi–- “I witnessed people using whips,” Lyanna crooned, unable to hold back a wicked smile, “but I don’t like this at all. A shame, truly, to hurt such a magnificent and obedient animal, isn’t it?”

Was she really expecting an answer from him?

“Third lesson: the commands and the tone used.” At this point, the whole breathing thing was forgotten by Arthur, and he opened eyes he hadn’t even realized he’d shut when she spoke. “Intonations are more important than orders, since a stallion is a very instinctive animal,” she purred, “You shout orders. You do not whisper them.” Lyanna’s fingers tightened more in his dark locks and she noticed only now that both his hands had moved from their previous places on the sand to now being still, in the air, inches above her legs straddling his waist. Afraid of touching her. “If I whisper my commands, if I whisper orders like... faster–” her hands slowly drifted down his scalp to rest on his tense shoulders, “–higher–” to run gently up and down his arms, “–slower–” to eventually wrap around his wrists, “–would the stallion obey?”

This drew another sigh from him and the sound made her pause: the normal soft purple of Arthur’s eyes was now only a thin ring around dark pools of repressed yearning and a heat swelled, radiated from his entire body. The sight made her bit her bottom lip and she rolled her hips once more, wriggling against his lower belly. Goose bumps rose over the nape of his neck. “My Lad–”

“Lyanna,” she corrected him again. Please, say my name. “Fourth lesson: the pace.” Her fingers were still curled around his wrists, but they never pushed his hovering hands down on her. Please, touch me. She leaned forward. “You and your stallion have to move together. In harmony. As one… In perfect… rhythm.” Each of her words punctuated an imperceptible rub against his clothed crotch.

A low groan. His gaze drifted from her eyes, to her hair, her nose, her lips, until he looked her in the eyes again. Abandon. His lips parted. “…Lyanna–”

She almost gasped at the word.

The last person she had heard whispering her name was Rhaegar in a promise he hadn’t kept. A name chosen by her parents, used by her brothers, honored by the North, forgotten in Essos. The six letters vanished from her life in their exile for safety, Jon calling her ‘mother’, and Arthur calling her  ‘my Lady’. But now, hearing it after years, in someone else’s mouth, in her knight’s mouth with such reverence and awe… it felt real. And clean again. She was Lyanna.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her chapped lips. “Say it again.”

His hands finally landed on her thighs. “Lyanna,” he murmured.

A deep, perhaps irrational part of her wanted him to say it again, and again, and again, to compensate for years of oblivion. She put steady hands where his elbows bent and could only breathe in the clean scent of him along with the salty smell of the shore. Again. “Please…”

The scream was higher this time.

It snapped them out of their trance, and they both instantaneously focused their attention on the dark haired boy at the water’s edge. A laugh, a high and enthusiastic cry, and the boy destroyed another sand-castle. Lyanna sighed out of relief and heard a identical breath from the man beneath her. Her Jon didn’t seem to like castles or being a Lord.

When she turned back to Arthur, his hands were gone from her legs but rested on her waist, yet she knew the moment was gone now. Quickly but gently, he pulled her off him as if she weighed no more than a single snowflake, to put her back to her initial position by his side. She tried to protest but Arthur was already on his feet, looking down at her. “I need to–”, he paused and she knew he was searching for the right way to finish the sentence, “I need to go for a swim.”

Lyanna’s eyebrows raised. “A swim?”

“This is a beach.”

His plain statement should have induced a quick and caustic reply from her, but her mind didn’t completely recover yet from the thrill of Arthur’s body trapped beneath hers and her name on his tongue.

He moved to face the ocean, his back to her, and promptly pulled his shirt over his head. At the sight of his bare back, she didn’t divert her eyes. On previous occasions she had spotted his strong body through veils and curtains or interstices, but had hastily repressed the memory or the desire to study it longer. Now, leaning back on her arms, fingers in the sand, Lyanna observed him in all his tanned and muscled glory. “You need a cold bath, don’t you?” she smiled.

That she was able to make a joke of what just happened made a part of Arthur that was tense relax completely. He looked at her over his shoulder. “Can you look after my shirt please? Oh, and after your son as well… occasionally.”

She scooped up a fist full of sand and threw it at him, but the light earth-dust never reached its target. “Hey! I am an exemplary mother.”

With a sudden seriousness she was familiar with, he answered. “You are, my Lady.“

My Lady, again. Lyanna let out a sigh of annoyance but the vision of her bare-chested knight walking toward the sea in simple breeches made her mood change.

When he reached Jon’s level, he gently ruffled the boy’s hair, which incited a new laugh from her son and made Lyanna smile even more. It was a simple action, almost unnoticeable, but one swelling her heart with a warm lump of joy.

Arthur dived into the blue ocean, Jon built another castle, and Lyanna dug her feet into the warm sand.

In that moment, ‘exile’ didn’t seem as frightening as it had sounded almost 4 years ago.

- -

AO3 LINK

for @my-hypes

-

+ a moodboard to illustrate that lazy day at the beach

[lyannas]

a night in the sun // elia x lyanna

It didn’t please Robert to learn that Rhaegar wished to visit Storm’s End as a part of his royal progress. Then again, there were few things that did please Robert. One was fighting, which he did often enough. Another was drinking, which he did often enough. The third was fucking, which he did often enough, but not always with Lyanna.

It struck her as passing strange that once she had seethed over the idea that her husband would stray from her bed. After three years of being wed to him and two children, Lyanna found herself grateful for the nights that he sought another woman’s company. She was not sure what it was, whether he was simply a poor lover, or she was a poor recipient of his affections, but their nights together rarely brought her any sort of pleasure. It was worse still when he was drunk, as he tended to ignore any protests in such a state. Still, with gritted teeth and frequent baths, Lyanna endured him, even when it hurt.

Lyanna did not spend long in the hall with the royal host; her sons had commanded her attention. First it was Eddard, still only a few months old, and who Lyanna had insisted on nursing despite Robert’s protests. Her son was just as fickle as her husband, however, and did not go to sleep easily. Not long after being run haggard by Eddard, Jon came to her in the middle of the feast and asked to be put to bed. Lyanna did not think to ask someone else, especially not Robert, to do so. Thus she scooped him up in her arms, and on the walk to his room had already fallen asleep.

By then, the feast had progressed past an hour, with most of the food cleared out and replaced with drink. She saw Robert sullenly drinking a mug of ale as Rhaegar attempted to share conversation with him. It was strange to look at two of them together; one man was her husband, while the other had once wanted her to spurn him. She wondered what it meant that she felt nothing for either of them. Not love for Robert, nor nostalgia for Rhaegar. They were another two men in a sea of disappointment.

Lyanna took her place beside Princess Elia-- Queen Elia, she supposed, now that Rhaegar was king. That would take some getting used to.

“There you are,” Elia said, dark eyes twinkling. She looked a vision of beauty with her long dark hair plaited down her back, and copper skin glowing in the candlelight. Lyanna surely looked a tired and rumpled thing beside her. “Your children have robbed me of your company.”

“Indeed,” Lyanna admitted with a weak smile.

“How old are they?”

“Jon is two years old; Eddard is but 3 months.” She could not help but warm at the mention of them. She loved them more than life itself, despite the pain it took to bring them life, despite their father.

“Your hands are full.”

“Yes,” Lyanna admitted. Her gaze drifted to Elia’s own children, who sat at a table with other noble children. Prince Aegon must have been near four years of age, and his sister Rhaenys almost six. “I almost cannot wait until they get that big.”

Elia chuckled. “Savor it. They grow up far too quickly.” To Lyanna’s surprise, Elia touched her cheek. “Meanwhile you look the same maid I recall at Harrenhal.”

Lyanna felt color rise into her cheeks. “Oh, I doubt that, your grace.”

“Don’t. You are lovely.” Lyanna didn’t know what to make of the queen’s soft touch or her honest smile, or how to respond to any of it. Still, words tumble out.

“You are lovelier.” As soon as she said it, she felt shy-- a rare feeling for Lyanna Stark. “That is, you seem much stronger than you did when I last saw you.”

“I am indeed. It helps not to bear children.” Elia withdrew her touch, but not her mysterious smile. “I am quite tired, however. The road was long. Can you escort me to my room?”

Lyanna glanced around, seeing able Kingsguard knights who could do the same. Still, she found herself nodding. “This way, your grace.”

They arrive to her prepared rooms with Ser Arthur Dayne at their heels. They had little to say in his presence until they reach the door.

Lyanna was not eager to leave the queen’s side. Still, she curtsied. “Good night, your grace.”

“Come inside and sit with me, Lady Lyanna,” the queen said. “Let’s speak away from the noise.”

Lyanna tried not to be surprised at this invitation. She nodded anyways, feeling compelled to obey, and entered the room after Elia.

“Close the door behind you,” the queen added. Lyanna did so, not sparing Ser Arthur a second glance on the other side of the door. By instinct, she sat across from Elia at the table in the room, situated by the big windows that opened to the sea. Elia poured them both a goblet of wine. “To your health, and that of your children’s,” the queen toasted before taking a demure sip.

“Long live the queen,” Lyanna returned, taking a more generous swig. She saw how Robert drank tonight; she would need courage and dulled senses for later.

“And the king?” Elia asked, one dark eyebrow raised. She looked so lovely, dark skin bathed in moonlight and bringing a glimmer to her dark eyes. It distracted Lyanna.

“And the king, of course,” Lyanna added hastily, following it up with another sip.

Elia chuckled good-naturedly. “You know, there are some who say we ought to be enemies. What do you say to that?”

Lyanna considered her words. “I say that if you hold a grudge against me still for that time in Harrenhal, then I would beg your forgiveness, your grace.” She did mean that; Elia’s humiliation had never left her mind since that day.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Elia returned warmly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I do very dearly want to be your friend, Lady Baratheon. Even though my husband still stares at you so.”

Lyanna felt her face grow warm. Had Rhaegar truly been staring? She had not noticed. She had been too busy looking at Elia. “I did not realize he was staring,” Lyanna said, choosing to be honest and echoing her thoughts.

“No?”

“No.” Lyanna looked down at the cup of wine in her lap. “Truth be told, I have long since tired of the affections of men.” Robert’s kisses and touches hardly brought her any joy; she doubted there was a man who could make her change her mind.

“Is that so?” Elia’s voice was warmer than the sun in the middle of the day; Lyanna found herself drawn to her, and she moved closer. “I know my husband was not alone in the hall staring at you. There is something about you that draws the eye.”

“I hope not,” Lyanna answered perhaps a little too honestly. “I am sick to death of men’s stares.”

“It’s not only men who stare, my dearest lady.” Elia too moved her chair closer, until they were hardly more than a foot apart. Lyanna could smell her perfume on her; a strong floral scent mixed with something spicy. It was intoxicating. “I think you and I have something in common.”

“What is it?” Lyanna managed to answer despite leaning so close she could almost taste Elia’s sweet breath.

“I think we are both sick to death of men, but none more than our husbands.” Elia’s lips quirked into a little smile.

“You do not even know the start,” Lyanna whispered, just before her lips covered hers, and she tasted Dornish red.

[feynites]

I... wrote Game of Thrones fanfic? Which is weird because I’ve only watched like two episodes of the show and read like none of the books. But I know a lot about it anyway and I couldn’t stop thinking about Elia, especially with all the awesome Rhaenys stuff that Cinn has been doing. Sooooo... yeah. This is my take on one of the most tragic characters in the series. Please excuse any continuity errors in light of the fact that I have no clue what I’m doing.

Elia Martell knew that having children might kill her.

It was something warned of for nearly her entire life. She was frail; she was sickly. She had a heart that fluttered and breaths that stuttered, blood that flowed too freely, narrow hips and frequent headaches and irregular moons. Her parents had hesitated in marrying her off. Even to a match most nobles would gladly throw any child into, even with the threat of a mad king’s displeasure should they do him the insult of refusing.

Elia’s parents loved her. But she was still a noble born girl, in the end. Still expected to produce heirs, or face unrelenting shame.

The world had always underestimated her. Even her family had, at times, though in their case, Elia knew it was from love and worry. Poor, sickly Elia. Her first pregnancy had been a nightmare. Much of it she spent bedridden, and she had felt for months upon months as if she was dying. As if they were both dying; herself and the little flicker of life building within her.

Rhaegar had been attentive. She had been glad for him, in many ways. His father was a nightmare, and her heart wrenched for Queen Rhaella, and all that she endured. But she could ask for far worse husbands than one who came and played soft music for her when she was ill, and sat often at her bedside, and spoke of books and songs and poets. Histories, quite often. Rhaegar was a scholarly prince, and an artistic one. He was handsome – though, privately, Elia thought that his looks had been over-sold. It was comparative, she reasoned. Any decent looking man born a prince would become the height of desirability.

Rhaegar always looked just a little too pale to her eyes, though. He was tall and fit, but his smile rarely reached his eyes, and his sharp features had a waxy quality to them at times, which made her think of masks and carvings more than any face. He was courteous and thoughtful. He brought her flowers and played her songs, but at times he also spoke of strange things.

Mad, she deduced, in fairly short order. He was mad, like most Targaryens, but at least his madness had no fire. It was more like the moon. Fickle and fey and driven to odd preoccupations. But harmless, she had thought.

A foolish thought.

Elia could scarcely recall Rhaenys’ birth. There was pain and blood and most of her recollections are of that, but she could remember afterwards. The startled feeling inside of her when she woke, and realized that she had not died. The warm weight of her daughter, being placed in her arms, and oh. Oh. She had thought she might despair if the baby was a girl, if only because it would mean that she would have to try again. To endure more months of torture and pain and probable death. And some part of her, later, did quail.

But Rhaenys was perfect. A little squalling bundle of a babe, round and healthy, with Elia’s brown skin and hair and the most beautiful eyes. She was a daughter, and she did not look a thing like Rhaegar. She looked like a Dornish girl, like home. Elia’s precious child. It did not matter, in the end, that she would have to make another attempt to give Rhaegar a son. Rhaenys was hers. Her girl. The best thing she had ever managed to achieve, through blood and pain and fear, and the sheer stubbornness that had kept her running past it all.

She had to work not to fight anyone who tried to take her daughter from her arms. When she discovered that she could not make enough milk to feed her, she wept like the fragile woman everyone always took her for, and was inconsolable on the subject despite all her best efforts to be practical.

Of course, the rest of the world was not always inclined to share her sentiments. Rhaegar seemed pleased – he held Rhaenys and cooed at her, and smiled his softest smiles for her – and there were celebrations in King’s Landing. Many happy congratulations on ‘the little princess’. But King Aerys did not share any good sentiments. He disliked that Rhaenys looked Dornish; he accused Elia of all manner of infidelity, and his son of weakness, and called his own granddaughter snake spawn and sand rat.

But he was mad, and that was known.

So it was not until he threatened to burn Rhaenys, should he discover who her ‘whore mother’ had actually permitted to sire her, that Elia felt something click in her. Something much colder than a mad king’s fire. It made her canine teeth itch like fangs, and the back of her throat taste like poison. It made her feel calm, and ready, and though she did not recall explicitly contemplating the matter before – that was the day she decided that if she ever got the chance, she would kill King Aerys.

Of course, Aerys was fire and power and madness, and paranoia in spades. So Elia did not suppose she would have very many opportunities. And she was still recovering from the ordeal of pregnancy, on strict orders from the Maesters not to over-tax herself. She spent more time in Queen Rhaella’s company, and that of the septas assigned to guard the queen’s honour. Court was sparsely populated ever since the king began to lean too heavily on his hobby of live immolation. The humiliation of Rhaella being forced to share her bed with the older women, to prevent adultery, struck Elia as a terrible and unworthy insult. But the queen herself seemed much happier to spend time with the septas, and her young son, than with her husband.

There wasn’t much for it, either way.

“Rhaenys may well end up marrying Viserys,” Rhaella mused, one afternoon, while the two of them had tea in Elia’s chambers. Rhaenys was down for her nap, but Viserys was with them. Playing with his toys as the two of them spoke.

Over my dead body, the cold venom in Elia hissed.

“May well,” she agreed, aloud.

“Dornish whore!” Viserys exclaimed, laughing. “Dornish whore, whore, whore!”

Rhaella sighed, and tsk’d. It made Elia think of her own mother, who had taken Oberyn’s chin in her hand the first time she heard him repeating that kind of language, and made him look her in the eye and repeat it. She had shamed him so neatly and concisely that Oberyn had nearly swallowed his tongue, hadn’t dared repeat such words again where she could hear them.

Somehow, Elia doubted that the same technique would work on Viserys.

“He has no idea what it even means,” Rhaella offered, apologetically.

“Of course not,” she agreed, and took a further sip of her tea.

When Rhaenys was old enough, she decided, then, she would send her to Dorne. She would convince Rhaegar to allow it, however she had to. She would foster her daughter out in her homeland. Send her to her family, get her away from the dragons and their ilk. She would not marry Viserys. Elia would find her a Dornish husband. 

But... Rhaegar had assured her, when they had first married, that they would be able to leave King’s Landing before long. That they would be free to go to Dragonstone, and avoid the mad king’s court for a time. The promise had proven hollow. Aerys was convinced, at times, that Rhaegar was plotting against him. That any mobility he granted his son would be used to organize a strike.

Elia had no idea if it was true or not. The crown prince did not confide in her. More importantly, she had learned the lesson of a broken promise, and learned it more firmly with each day that passed in King’s Landing. Getting Rhaenys away would be a challenge.

Recovering from her first pregnancy took time, and King Aerys railed and raged, at turns deriding both his son and Elia for failing to produce a suitable Targaryen heir; and at others gloating that he had a second son, that he had Viserys, now, and Viserys would surely prove to be everything that Rhaegar was not. Loyal and gifted and virile. He would shriek at Elia that Rhaenys would never marry Viserys; as if that was meant to wound her pride.

As if she wanted such things for her daughter’s future. Sitting in this stinking cesspool of a city, caught in the deluded ravings of this farce of a court.

The Dornish court had its dangers, and treachery, and ugliness. Elia had known that well enough. But it still functioned. More and more, she longed for home. The thought that she might be trapped here indeterminately was almost unbearable. Aerys was not so old, for all that poor hygiene and terrible habits and past suffering had weathered him. And Rhaegar was a disjointed mess; far kinder and better, but who knew if that would last? People had said that King Aerys was dashing and likable in his youth, too.

What if Rhaegar ended up the same as his father?

Elia passed several weeks nearly unable to look at the queen for long, for fear that she was looking into her own future. Rhaella’s wrists were bruised, and her eyes were tired. Another miscarriage. Aerys had raved of her infidelity, impossible though it was.

And then Elia’s second pregnancy took hold.

As bad as the first had been, the second was many times worse. It likely did not help, Elia supposed, that she felt so trapped. Rhaenys had discovered the wonders of toddling around on her own two legs, and raced around with happy abandon; but her increased mobility meant that the septas could watch her more, and Elia’s own seclusion gave her protests little weight. She felt almost entombed; trapped in her rooms, forced to avoid ‘excitements’, and with few visitors to speak of. The nobles who were both invited to attend court, and willing to tempt the fickle ire of the king, were few and far between. And maids and servants all kept as quiet as possible. Servants were often the first to be targeted by Aerys’ paranoia. None would risk immolation for the sake of smalltalk, and Elia could not even blame them.

She wrote letters home. More than once she thought of asking her family to send someone, some of her cousins or friends or maids, to come and attend her. Most of all she wished she could ask for her brother to come, but always, she would remember King Aerys, and her hand would still. Her mind filling with visions of some innocuous incident setting him off, and him exploding into tirades on Dornish assassins or intrigues, and burning them.

He would do it, too, she was certain. He believed everyone was already plotting against him, that they were all his enemies, or willing to be. A paranoid certainty in him that meant he was not afraid of making enemies. There was no point in trying to prevent something that had already come to pass, after all.

She began to wish, instead, that she could ask to come home. Dornish weather, she thought. She could claim that the Dornish weather would suit her better. She could take Rhaenys with her. Dorne had never been conquered by the Targaryens. It was by agreement that they had joined the seven kingdoms, not force. Her people had resisted conquest even when the dragons actually had dragons by their side. If she could go home, her family would protect her, they would have royal Targaryen children in their hands, they could go to war and finally rid the kingdoms of Aerys…

…And that was why she would never be allowed to leave. No matter what entreaties she made. Dragonstone, she remembered. The king would not even permit her to go that far, and Rhaegar had not brought it up again, despite several efforts on her part to suggest it once more. The subject would be changed. Apologies lurking in her husband’s gentle voice.

Sometimes, she thought about plucking the strings off of Rhaegar’s harp, one by one, and then smashing it against a wall.

She wrote to her family that she was expecting another child. That she missed and loved them dearly, but that they must not worry. She was strong. It would be a son this time, she was certain, and she would manage well enough.

Her family sent kinsmen to her anyway. Chief among them Ashara Dayne, whom Elia had known since childhood, and who kept her company in the infirmity of her condition. Laughing and joking and remarking upon things with the Dornish perspective that she had missed so fiercely.

It eased her mind; though not much could be done for her body, save hope.

As little as she recollected her daughter’s birth, her son’s would prove vivid in her memory, in all of its excruciating details. She felt certain that she would die, and the certainty was all the more terrifying when she knew what she would be leaving her first child to, if she did. Alone and motherless in this court of rot and ash, with a grandfather who hated her, who would never let her see Dorne, who would marry her off to her uncle, while her spineless fucking father played the harp and read books and broke his promises…

It was a miracle that she did not say anything treasonous in the throes of her worst pain. Pain that became so all-consuming that it circled around to a queer sort of place, where Elia could not process anything else. In labour it felt as if she lived in that pain, as if she spent a decade trapped in it, trying to fight something that could not be fought.

When it was over, she was so startled to find herself alive that she almost could not reconcile the shock of it.

Aegon, she was ashamed to say, did not win her heart as swiftly as Rhaenys had.

His father loved him with great preoccupation, spoke of stars and portents and old stories, and believed he had a destiny. He had the Targaryen look. Fair hair and violet eyes, and when Elia held him, and went through familiar motions of rocking and soothing him, she felt as though she was holding someone else’s child. A dragon child. Not hers, not really; he was for Rhaegar, for mad Aerys and for the cold Iron Throne.

It filled her with guilt. What an awful thing, to leave a poor baby motherless in this place. But she was exhausted and still in great amounts of pain, bleeding and weak, and Aegon… Aegon looked like a ghost. It made her feel dead, to hold him.

She tried to, anyway. Yet she did not fight the nurses when they came for him, did not wish to hold him longer than she had to. Rhaenys was brought to her in the afternoons, when she was often feeling strong enough to not frighten her daughter with lethargy or fainting or bleeding. Recovery was actually swifter than the first time, for all that the pregnancy and labour had been worse. Swifter, and yet, less complete. Her body was ruined. She could not have another child, but she had done her duty and given Rhaegar an heir, and survived the process.

And as the weeks passed, the alarming indifference towards her son began to ease, bit by bit. He had her skin, and her nose, she thought. He had Rhaegar’s eyes and hair, but he was darker, and there was nothing unnerving in his gaze. He was just a little baby, like the Lannisters’ so-called ‘imp’ had been. Not a monster or a horror or anything deserving neglect. If, perhaps, she still did not feel as though he was her baby, she did not see fit to mention it to anyone. Her heart was trying to shield itself, she thought. The gods had given her the Targaryen son she needed, and in so doing, the son that would never wholly belong to her.

He was Rhaegar’s perfect, healthy, unquestionable heir.

Aerys hated him anyway.

Called him ‘reedy’ and ‘weak’ and insisted he had the look of some ancestor who had gotten fat and disreputable in his old age. Elia had stood and taken the insults, had stared at Aerys, pale and thin-lipped and still aching in so many places. She knew some of them would likely always ache, forever on into the rest of her life.

However long that managed to be.

After that, she loved Aegon almost defiantly. Fervently as she loved his sister, though it was still different, too.

She had nearly died to give the dragons their accursed due – if Aerys did not want him, she thought, acid building on her tongue, then she would gladly take him home with her, too. Hair could be dyed, to look less Targaryen. And much of him did seem Dornish. When he smiled, she did not see Rhaegar’s own soft, sad expression; she saw Oberyn, the first time she had peered into his cradle, and he had grinned back at her.

It was a sweet, foggy memory.

We will be alright, she told herself. Aerys not favouring his grandson was not the worst of fates. He would still be more focused on Viserys, then, and if nothing else, they could avoid him as often as not. Perhaps, finally, he would let them go to Dragonstone, if they left without Rhaegar. There was no more need for Elia to remain close to her husband, now that she was barren, and whatever insults Aerys had levelled against them, he at least did not seem to credit her with being strong enough to pose a threat.

Not on her own, anyway.

Rhaegar, though…

After Aegon’s birth, Rhaegar himself became more of a worry.

“There is no chance whatsoever?” he asked, for what felt like the hundredth time, after Elia and the Maester and everyone, it seemed, had explained that she simply could not have another child. It made her glad all over again that the possibility itself was extinguished; because she knew, then, that for all his politeness and consideration and gentility, for all that he had never struck her or touched her harshly, or even raised his voice at her, that he would let her die trying for another child.

A child he did not even need.

“None,” she said, with more finality than she generally employed. She could grant that it was not the most secure of arrangements, to only have one daughter and one son. But Aerys himself had only been able to produce two viable children after decades of attempts, and Rhaenys and Aegon were both healthy. And if it came to it, Elia supposed, they could discuss the prospect of divorce. But not until the children were older. Rhaenys she might have been able to keep with her, but Aegon would be swept up by the court, and in constant danger. Not only from the existing threats, either – if Rhaegar’s second bride should prove scheming or ambitious, Aegon would stand in the way of her own heirs inheriting the throne.

And who would protect him? His grandfather, who hated him? His grandmother, who was abused and locked away? His father, who was sitting before her with that damning moonlit fire in his gaze?

Even Elia was not sure what she would be able to do for him. For any of them.

“You must understand. It has to be three,” Rhaegar said, all woe and tragedy in his countenance. “The dragon has three heads.”

She could have hit him. She wanted to slap her husband clean across the face, in fact. She wished that she believed it could work; that one single, stinging smack could shake the clouds from his eyes and drag his mind back up to reality, but it would only make him look woeful again, she suspected. And hurt her hand.

“I cannot give you three,” she said, at last. Her throat felt tight, to her own surprise. Her voice wavered, as she could not help but ask. “Are Rhaenys and Aegon not enough for you?”

What a terrible thing, for her children to have a father who loved them so little.

Rhaegar only looked still sorrowful, though.

“For me?” he asked. “For me, they are more than enough. But there must be more. All the signs… Elia, I don’t know how to explain it all to you. I have spent my entire life learning everything that I need to know, in order to understand what I do.”

Her father had told her, once, to never trust anyone who claimed that what they did was too complicated to explain. Either they were a swindling liar, or they thought too little of everyone else’s intelligence.

“You want three children because you believe that a prophecy has foretold the coming of a great hero, who will be needed in the days hence,” she summarized. “You named our son Aegon because the great hero of your line was a man who rode the back of a dragon alongside his two sisters, whom he married. You want a second sister for your son, so that when the time comes, the three of them can awaken the dragons of your dreams and restore your family’s dying legacy by beginning the cycle of history anew.”

Rhaegar stared at her for a long moment. Less sad, and more reserved.

“You think I’m mad,” he guessed. Elia thinks she might have appreciated it if he had sounded at least a little accusing, rather than pitying.

Has the possibility never crossed your own mind?

“Of course not, my lord,” she said, aloud.

He stood up. Put his back to her.

“This was a mistake,” he said. “I… I am sorry for it. But you were never the one who could have given me what I needed. I see that now.”

A cold, hard knot of ill-defined fear settled in the pit of Elia’s stomach. A warning bell rang in her mind. She could guess how a sensible man, in Rhaegar’s position, might react to all of this. But that was the thing about madness, she supposed. If it was sensible, it would not be mad.

Her husband left her chambers. Apologies scattered in his wake. Steps quick and stiff, shoulders tensed. Unhappy.

When he was gone, Elia found herself moving to the window, and looking out towards the grounds. If she was a fit woman, she thought, she would go into the nursery. She would take the children, and bundle them up, and carry them out. In the dead of night, when none were expecting such a move. And she would go… where?

Where could she go that would not result in either death or betrayal? Dorne was too far away.

And it did not matter. Elia was not a fit woman, and never had been. She put the thought aside, but went to the nursery, all the same. She was tired. Yet she felt much more at ease when she saw them both sleeping, safe and sound. For a long moment she watched Rhaenys’ eyelashes flutter in her sleep. Smoothing back some of the curls that had gotten into her face. Then she went, and peered down at Aegon.

His mouth was moving in his dream.

Gods, she hoped his dreams were not like his father’s.

It will be alright, she thought, but could not say.

She was expecting things to become complicated. Difficult. Even unpredictable; and it was the last one that struck first, of course. When Rhaegar arranged for his tournament, and fought, and passed her over in his victory run to name the Stark girl-child his Queen of Love and Beauty. Elia’s first thought was that he was shaming her on purpose. Her second thought was that Lyanna Stark was an active and healthy girl, but also, a girl. There was still baby fat on her cheeks and a certain hint to her frame that suggested she was on the cusp of a growth spurt.

Did Rhaegar choose a child, she thought, in hopes of making it clear that he was intentionally snubbing Elia? But, why pick a girl who was engaged to his own cousin? Surely Robert Baratheon could easily interpret the slight as one aimed at him, and it would be a needless insult if Rhaegar’s only goal was to humiliate her…

She sat, calm but also frozen, as something else pressed against the back of her mind.

Lyanna Stark.

The Starks were a northern family, of course. The wolves. Honourable but simplistic, viewed as very steadfast, and unwise to provoke, but also not generally involved with courtly affairs. They were well-liked by their bannermen, so far as Elia knew, and that was impressive, given the number of brutal houses reputedly situated in the North. But then, she supposed, pragmatism was often inescapable when one lived in a dangerous place, and the North was home to the Wall, and served as the last border against the wildlings. The first sentinel of winter.

…Cold.

As ice.

Ice, and fire.

Oh, Rhaegar could not be so stupid, could he? Lyanna Stark? Aegon was not even out of the cradle yet, and already her ‘honourable’ prince was making moves to woo a highborn and betrothed girl to his bed, all for the sake of his thrice-damned prophecy.

Elia was calm, and collected, and spitting mad when she finally made her way out of the stands with as much decorum as she could manage. Her heart was hammering hard enough that it was difficult to disguise her shallow breaths. The court was all in a flurry over things, of course, and the number of pitying looks she received was unsurprising. She preferred the outrage, though, and for once, when Aerys launched into one of his tirades, she found some small vindication in it.

Naturally, Aerys still managed to blame her for much of it. And Rhaegar’s response to his father’s shouting was stoic and resilient. Elia was permitted to leave, by way of her father-in-law bellowing that everyone else get out, and she did. She had no interest in hearing more of his tirades about spies and traitors and his son being an embarrassment. She had no will to even begin to defend her husband.

She was surprised when Rhaegar sought her out, not long after the shouting had finished.

She sat by the fire, trying to warm herself up, and calm the tangle of her nerves. Rhaegar stood at her doorway, still dressed as if for a fight. He looked tired.

“None could fault you for leaving me, now,” he ventured, after a few awkward moments.

Elia stared.

“Is that what you think?” she asked.

He blinked, as if that was not a response he had expected.

“You think I have stayed here because I could not manufacture a decent excuse for leaving?” she continued, too angry and too tired to bother minding her manners. “You are a fool. My children are Targaryens, Rhaegar. They are heirs to the Iron Throne, and your father may be as mad as a bag of cats, but at least he knows how political maneuvering actually works. There is not a lord in all seven kingdoms who does not want to see him off of the throne by now. If I go home, it will be with my children, and if I take my children to Dorne, then there will be nothing to prevent Dorne from rallying the discontent lords throughout the kingdoms, deposing your father, and ruling as regents until Aegon comes of age. He knows that.”

Rhaegar looked sad and stoic. Sad, and stoic, and gods, she was tired of it. He was an able warrior, a man with access to all the resources of the kingdom, and yes, his father was a mad wretch, and Elia did not pretend to know what growing up with that must have been like. But she, who had none of his warrior’s prowess, had taken to keeping a poisoned dagger beneath her skirts. She had watched, and learned, and she knew the way this court worked. She had laboured and nearly died to give Rhaegar his heirs, had done exactly what was expected of her, and given half the chance, she would bury her dagger in his father’s black heart and do what was needed, too.

Rhaegar had more than half a chance.

And he used his chances to give flowers to betrothed girls of five-and-ten.

“…I am sorry,” he ventured. “I did not think…”

Silence fell between them again.

Elia looked into the fire. She needed the warmth. But the sight of flames had long since begun to make her feel sick. The venom in the back of her throat felt like blood and ash, instead.

Rhaegar sighed.

“I will make certain you are safe,” he promised. She supposed it was the only thing he reasonably could promise, here. No other words of comfort would not tread too close to treason. The walls had ears; Elia had possibly said too much herself. Though, come to it, she doubted that she had said anything that King Aerys was not entirely assured of already.

“Of course. I know what your word is worth,” she replied.

And there, just barely, she saw him flinch. Saw the barb land home, for once. Before he turned, and walked away.

Elia of Dorne knew that having children might kill her.

But she had always supposed that it would do so in the carrying and birthing of them, and not the terrible intrigues that would follow after.

[him-e]

Sansa and Ned, kingmakers

x, x

It’s been often discussed how Sansa and Ned share some character traits and how their storylines have common points (Littlefinger being a mutual false ally, the Vale, etc). But with season 6, everything clicked into place, at least for me. I know many viewers were frustrated that Jon was made king instead of Sansa, and while I think it would have worked MUCH better if the writers had kept Robb’s will in the story, I would make the opposite argument—that it was a good writing decision, as it highlights Sansa’s political trajectory as a mirror to Ned’s. Because, like Ned before her, it isn’t in Sansa’s cards (at least at this stage) to be a queen, but to ride at a king’s side, and be, at least in part, the architect of his success. (warning: spoilers for season 7)

(pictured: Ned and Sansa smiling affectionately at their bffs)

to begin with, there are a few narrative parallels between Robert’s rebellion and Jon&Sansa’s /Reconquest of Winterfell/.

both are a reaction to a violent, sadistic tyrant;

both were sparked by an explicit threat to the rebels’ right to exist: Aerys wanted Ned and Robert’s heads, Ramsay more or less threatened to rape, torture and kill everyone with the Pink Letter;

both are in response/connected to unforgivable crimes committed against the blood of Winterfell (Rickon is Brandon, the trueborn heir horribly executed, but he’s also Lyanna, the captive Stark, the other catalyst of the war, dying tragically in front of her brother who came to her too late);

both wars end with a bittersweet victory, tainted by the burial of (a) beloved sibling(s);

the prelude to both is a… complicated journey back to Winterfell that begins in the Vale. In Sansa’s case, it happens long before the wheels of the war are set in motion; in a sense it is what sets those wheels in motion (although I’m talking specifically about her arc in the show, I’m moderately confident that she will make that journey in the books too, and it might be an even closer parallel to Ned if she, as it’s often speculated, travels by boat from the Vale to White Harbor) 

Sansa’s saving the day with the knights of the Vale is reminiscent of the battle of the bells, where Ned came to Stoney Sept with a Stark/Tully/Arryn army (!!!) in time to save the wounded Robert and turn the tables against the royalists;

finally, both wars bookend the secret of Jon’s parentage: the end of Robert’s rebellion marked the beginning of Ned’s lie about Jon, the conclusion of the battle for Winterfell, with Jon being crowned king at Sansa’s side, heralds the end of the secret and the unveiling of the truth—clearly for the audience, and soon for the characters as well.

Father and daughter, in different times and circumstances, make the history of the seven kingdoms through a war that sees them as co-leaders and that ends with the extinction of an entire house and the rise of a new king. 

it’s interesting how Sansa’s position in the war mirrors and contrasts Ned’s. 

neither of them were supposed to raise the banners during their life. Ned as a second son, Sansa as a girl, they weren’t prepared to deal with this. But due to extreme circumstances and extreme violence perpetrated against them and their blood, they had no choice but take the survival of their home in their own hands.

not unlike Sansa with lord Glover & Lyanna Mormont, Ned was initially met with skepticism and had some trouble convincing people to jump on the rebel bandwagon.

they both have extremely high, personal stakes in this war (even more so for Sansa, who has directly experienced Ramsay’s sadism on her own skin). 

but they take almost a sidekick role, more or less implicitly pushing their partner forward as as they recognize the latter makes for a better “face” for the rebellion (Robert because he had an actual claim to the iron throne, Jon because he’s male and a relatively experienced commander)—it is Robert’s rebellion, much as it is the battle of the Bastards.

they’re at his side when he triumphs (Sansa literally, as she’s seated next to Jon during his crowning), but the victory is tainted by an opening rift between them. For Ned and Robert, it was the disagreement over the brutal murders of Elia’s children, for Jon and Sansa it’s a mix of mutual trust issues and Sansa’s growing resentment for being passed over; in both cases, what began as a closely-knit duo evolves into at least one person being severely disillusioned about the other (and we know that in Ned’s case the disillusionment re:Robert was never really resolved, but intensified when 15 years later he is named Hand).

unlike Ned towards the Iron Throne, however, Sansa has an interest and an actual claim for the seat of Winterfell (that she’s only partially and ambiguously aware of during the whole campaign), and Jon’s rise as King in the North happens at the expense of her own birthright being literally bypassed in front of her eyes. This makes the conflict between Jon and Sansa more layered, and possibly running deeper, than the one between Ned and Robert.

there’s a sibling or sibling-like relationship between both Ned and Robert (fostered together) and Jon and Sansa (raised as half-siblings). While Ned knew that Robert wasn’t his actual brother, seeing him in that sense was a deliberate choice of the heart. For Sansa, it’s almost the opposite: the reason she trusts Jon and is willing to ride at his side is largely because of a sibling bond they actually don’t share (though a family bond still stands, via Lyanna). Who knows if Sansa eventually comes to make Ned’s choice—prioritize nurture over nature and accept Jon as a brother despite not sharing any parent with him. It will be interesting to see how this evolves post r+l=j.

at some point, both Ned and Sansa end up doing something against the other person’s back and keeping a dangerous secret that could be perceived as a betrayal and does contain the seed for a potential threat to the other person’s rule. Ned secretly adopts the last natural son of Rhaegar Targaryen, passing him off as his own bastard. Sansa secretly asks for LF’s help, allowing him into Winterfell’s politics, with all his schemes and personal agendas (and we know LF will try to undermine Jon’s rule). Notice how we’re supposed to sympathize with Ned, but not with Sansa. Ned’s protecting his nephew, while it looks like Sansa’s motivation is either ambition or a lingering hostility towards Jon’s bastardy, neither of which seems particularly noble.

again sooo unlike Ned, Sansa is (seemingly) positioned as the ruthless one in dealing with the remnants of house Bolton AND those who didn’t support their cause despite being bound to house Stark by centuries of vassalage. See: “they can hang”, her execution of Ramsay—and even before that, in season 5, her possibly planting in Ramsay the idea of killing Roose, Walda and the newborn heir (I’m not saying that Sansa intentionally used Ramsay as a proxy to wipe out the entirety of house Bolton, but… yeah, it makes an interesting counterpoint to Ned’s righteous fury at the deaths of little Aegon and Rhaenys).

one of the reasons why Ned was frustrated with Robert at the end of the Rebellion is that Robert ignored his advice to send Jaime to the Night’s Watch as punishment for breaking his oath. Guess who’s also frustrated that the king doesn’t listen to her advice?

yeah.

NOTE: due to the purpose of this post, Jon takes Robert’s place in this Rebellion 2.0, but it goes without saying that’s merely a circumstantial parallel, as the two couldn’t be more dissimilar in personality. Of course, Jon is also = Ned in this scenario, as many of the things above also apply to him, see especially the /going to war against a tyrant who left him no choice and committed atrocities against his family/; also the whole parallel/contrast situation re: Lyanna and Sansa, with Ned rushing to save his sister who was dying inside a tower VS Jon watching his sister come to him after saving herself by jumping off a tower (and how both Sansa’s and Lyanna’s captivities were a major factor in the war, though in different ways). (there ARE some fascinating aspects to Sansa’s season 5 storyline, imo).

I’m not going into this in depth, but it would also be interesting to compare/contrast all the above with the other “kingship” experience in house Stark’s recent history, Robb/Cat. (note how Catelyn has a “breaking of trust” moment too, when she released Jaime behind Robb’s back.) I’ve often seen Sansa compared to Cat via their common role of counselors/supporters of the newly made king, and not without reason, given the deliberate similarities between the two king in the north scenes and the two storylines in general (they were pretty heavy-handed with the Cat/Sansa parallels throughout season 6). But while Catelyn’s role is more in line with a typical mentor figure, due to the generational gap and, well, Catelyn being Robb’s mother, Ned and Sansa are, respectively, Robert’s and Jon’s age peers. Their role is less of advisors and more of co-leaders. 

Catelyn generally took a socially-conscious sidelined role, and exerted her influence through soft power and private conversations, or as an envoy. Sansa’s role is more upfront. She marches at Jon’s side, not behind. She participates to parleys and war councils. She discusses military plans. She addresses their allies and bannermen directly, and personally demands fealty, even when Jon’s right at her side. She even shares with Jon the same cloak and Stark insignia, establishing the two of them as part of the same package. 

A package that she personally designed, btw.

(just a thought, does this make Dadvos the Jon Arryn of the situation? I bet it does.)

But here’s the problem: Sansa is a woman. She doesn’t physically lead her men to battle. She’s a leader, but not a military commander. This makes her political role in all of this harder to define, compared to the one Ned had in Robert’s Rebellion. Is Sansa a part of Jon’s retinue? A privileged advisor? Is she the equivalent of some, huh, queen consort, minus the consort part (I guess)? Is she Hand of the King? Is she Lady of Winterfell, implying that the two titles, lord of winterfell and king in the north, are now de facto distinct? And if so, is she Jon’s first vassal?

Or is she nothing but the king’s sister and the next one in line for succession (until Bran shows up)?

It’s all very blurry because it’s an unprecedented situation, at least in the North, and I think this confusion is at the root of a lot of the current tension between Jon and Sansa. It’s also why we see her in various stages of assertiveness throughout season 6: she is, herself, uncertain of her role, of what her prerogatives and boundaries are (see the war council pre-botb, in which she waits until everyone leaves to question Jon’s plans: it’s like, the more Jon grows into his role as military commander, the nearer the big battle gets, the more Sansa retreats to the shadows, painfully conscious that this is not her purview. The more anxious she gets, too). It’s clear that one of the main future challenges for Jon and Sansa as a team will be to sort out this confusion and define their respective roles.

in light of these parallels, what to expect from season 7?

It looks likely (and spoilers confirm) that Jon and Sansa will have to part ways, at least for a while. Like Robert and Ned at the end of the Rebellion, Jon has to consolidate his rule across the country and this will bring him South, to Dragonstone and King’s Landing, while Sansa stays in Winterfell, entrenched behind its walls, reluctant to ever leave it again, like Ned himself did for so long. But fast forward 15 years after the Rebellion, and you’ll see Ned in King’s Landing again, sitting on the Iron Throne in Robert’s stead, as Hand of the King, and that’s exactly what Sansa is going to do in Winterfell during Jon’s absence. This will be a great testing ground to exercise her political skills, but what I’m actually interested in is how she might—like her father before her—be involved in a mission to thwart a treasonous plot against the King, a plot that features Petyr Baelish in a prominent role. The person Ned trusted to help him expose Robert’s enemies, and who betrayed him. This person is now whispering in Sansa’s ear, earning her trust, making himself *indispensable* like he did with Ned in King’s Landing. This person is simultaneously one of the puppeteers behind the War of the Five Kings, orchestrated Ned’s execution by manipulating Joffrey behind the scenes, and is now trying to use Sansa to undermine Jon and take control of the North. This person has to be dealt with VERY carefully, because, not unlike the Lannisters in AGOT, he holds a good portion of the wealth and the military resources that allow Jon and Sansa to maintain their rule.

It’s time for Sansa to come full circle, by confronting and defeating her father’s nemesis and fix the ultimate wrong, the original wound** that split house Stark in several broken pieces and sent it on a downward spiral: Ned’s death. Where Ned failed—his begrudging trust in Littlefinger being the reason of his fall—his daughter, his legacy, will prevail, by virtue of knowing the enemy intimately enough to predict his strategy and use it against him. The Ned in Sansa has shrunk (a bit) to make room for something of Littlefinger’s, and that’s precisely why she’s going to win this battle.

** because it is the original wound, it makes sense that Sansa, despite being formally in charge, isn’t alone in this. That Arya and Bran will play a role in casting LF down. It will be a joint effort by all of Ned’s children to bring the end of the man who destroyed their father.

in conclusion:

season 6 has firmly convinced me of Sansa’s potential as a political agent, but not necessarily as a queen—a ruling lady of an important castle or region, or, even better, a /hand of the king/ type. She’s still learning, she’s made some obvious mistakes along the way, and the fact that her political training comes from Littlefinger whereas Ned’s came from Jon Arryn inevitably makes her approach to /power/ a bit different than Ned’s—a bit more on the *scheming* side, as it seems that Sansa is growing more and more confident with the Game, in a way Ned was never able to be. 

But that’s only for the better. 

[mon-blanchetts]

Winning means losing, so let’s go till the end (Part 1)

Sansa hatches a scheme in order to protect what’s left of her broken heart. Jon tries to make sense of it all.

When the final horn blew, a long, deep sound that drifted far into the distance, Sansa knew that she couldn’t prolong her absence any longer. Even then, she took her time stepping out from beneath the beamed roof of the Great Keep into the main courtyard, her hands holding her skirts from coming into contact with the muddy ground beneath her boots, while her hair danced against her cheeks. Without command, her household parted a way for her as she made her way to the front of the crowd and beyond, just as the first members of her husband’s party trotted through the tall archway. I’m his wife and queen, she reminded herself, but that did little to generate enthusiasm. The words were meaningless to her, these days; it had been that way for some time now, ever since she’d accepted just how disenchanted Jon was with her, with his title, with the world he continued to live in. Everything between them was a performance now, done for the sake of maintaining their appearances. Nothing, though, was as great a pretense as their marriage. It was like a tapestry, woven from the threads of political necessity, rather than those of love and passion. And now the tapestry has caught fire, she mused, thinking to herself how truly apt the analogy was.

It wasn’t the kind of thinking she wanted going through her mind when Jon emerged from the archway at last, astride his black palfrey and clad in furs she knew he had had little use for while he had been in the south. Such thoughts had certainly not been present when he had once ridden through the gates of Winterfell on that cold, blistering day more than a year ago, his face desolate and wary, despite the victory he had lead them towards, one so grand in scale and magnitude that it would be the only thing anyone would sing about for centuries and centuries. And while the songs did crop up, soon enough, Sansa had failed to heed the lyrics that referred to other events, of a love affair that had been consummated on a royal barge between Dragonstone and King’s Landing, one so passionate and all-consuming it could have brought the Wall down, had it not been the Night King who had gotten to it first. It was only after Sansa had said her vows in the godswood, while Jon stood before her with an unreadable look on his face—only after she realized that he couldn’t love her the way he loved another, that she realized her blunder. It was a fact that she should have wised up to, when the chance had still permitted itself: never marry a man obsessed with another woman. She’d encountered it so often, too—Rhaegar Targaryen, Robert Baratheon, Littlefinger—that they all could have been an omen, for all she knew, and yet she had chosen to ignore all the signs.

Jon caught sight of her almost immediately, but she held her head high, meeting his gaze with a determined look of her own. She was no longer optimistic enough to believe that he had stayed faithful to her while he’d been in King’s Landing, but she’d be damned if she let him think that she was affected by it. If she had any advantage in this situation, it was that she knew about it the whole time, that Jon had never really stopped loving Daenerys Targaryen. She might not have taken notice of the signs when she had the chance, but that hadn’t meant that the knowledge hadn’t lingered in the back of her consciousness. Now that she had accepted it, Sansa refused to buckle under the emotions, no matter how badly her heart had shattered at the reality of it all. I sought preservation, not love, she reminded herself, and found it more comforting than what she had told herself earlier. Neither was it love she felt for Jon, she reasoned, watching as he dismounted from his horse. Familiarity, perhaps, during a time of war and uncertainty, when death had seemed so imminent for everyone, and the fantasy of living happily ever after with a man whom she thought could love her as much as she loved him was as comforting as the heat from a fire in the middle of a freezing winter night. She knew that she only had herself to blame for believing that her fantasy could potentially grow from something less ideal.

“Welcome back, husband,” she said, as he approached her. She stood a distance apart from those of their household who were present to welcome their king back, and for a moment she wished that that wasn’t the case; they would have served her well by reminding her of the role she must perform, the mask she needed to keep in place. If only you had stayed in King’s Landing, like I told you to, she thought. If only you had listened.

“The North has missed you greatly,” Sansa proclaimed, loud enough for those present to hear. Jon’s face was enough evidence of his fatigue, but there was a hardness to it as well that hinted at the conversation that would inevitably take place. She flashed him an assuring smile in the hope that it might soften the look on his face, knowing that all eyes were on him. It wasn’t good to have him looking more sullen than he usually did, and she sighed quietly to herself when his features relaxed somewhat. It was probably enough to stop tongues from wagging, but then she remembered what Jon had likely been doing in the south, and she knew that she’d have more damage control to perform in the coming days. A husband’s infidelity was as good a reason as any to lash out at him, whether there was an audience or not, but to do that was to admit her attachment to him. It was a weakness, one that could be used against her, and Sansa refused to let anybody, even Jon, have that kind of advantage over her.

Jon stared at her for a moment before those soft, grey eyes of his fell on her stomach, only to realize that the most evident sign of her condition was covered by the folds of her most voluminous cloak, something she had worn intentionally to hide her pregnancy from him. She was hardly that big, anyway, and would not be for many months yet; still, it made sense to her that the less he saw of her physical changes, the less likely it would be for him to come to terms with the situation at hand. It was better this way, she thought, watching with slight amusement as his brows furrowed in momentary confusion, that her pregnancy remained as foreign and intangible to him. Without a doubt in her mind she knew that he had only come back to save face after learning of her pregnancy, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if such news had been the force that had brought the walls of his fantasy crashing down, that fantasy in which he wasn’t married to her, that he wasn’t tied to the north. His melancholic behavior would likely worsen, she thought again, as she’d been thinking since she had learned of his plan to return. How soon would his melancholy turn into anger and resentment?

“Has everything been all right?” He inquired, his gaze returning to her face. “Have you been well?” His tone had a ring of sincerity to it that momentarily dashed away her worries—enough that she was almost inclined to believe that he cared.

Almost.

She nodded with another reassuring smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He didn’t answer, but she remained as subtle as ever, refusing to buckle under the scrutiny of his gaze.

“Is the babe well?”

“Yes.” It was concise and to-the-point, exactly the way that Jon liked it. Anything beyond that was extraneous, irrelevant in his mind, and for the first time she wished for his indifference. It would’ve made things so much easier.

Satisfied with their exchange, she took a step around him to welcome the rest of his party as they continued to trickle through the archway, only to be stopped by the hand he had wrapped around her wrist. Sansa glanced down at their point of contact before looking back at him, a brief flash of worry crossing her features before vanishing completely.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly, his voice as grave as his expression. “Alone.”

“You’d feel much better after a bath and a change of clothes,” she suggested, ignoring his request. “Let me have Kevan prepare the hot water. We’ll have your things out of your tr—”

“No,” he bit out, his fingers still firmly wrapped around her wrist. She could feel the warmth from his skin seeping into hers, despite the layers of fabric she wore. A Targaryen trait, she recalled, what with their skin as hot as fire. The reminder was followed by the Dragon Queen herself, of the warmth her body produced when pressed tightly against Jon’s—a passion so great it could have brought down the Wall…

“I need to talk to you now, Sansa,” he urged, leaning in towards her so that his words couldn’t be heard by anyone else. “Why didn’t you—”

“Lord Tyrion!” She announced, perhaps with a bit too much relief, as she spotted the dwarf over Jon’s shoulder. The Hand was also riding a black palfrey, his shoulders draped with a cloak made of velvet and fur, a style so convincing she thought she would have mistaken him for a Northman had she been less knowledgeable. Sansa glanced back at Jon. “We’ll talk later,” she insisted, though she had no intention of honoring her statement. If she played her cards right, she wouldn’t have to speak with him until the morrow; by then, it would be too easy to blame her busy agenda for not being able to fit in a private audience with him.  

Jon stared at her wordlessly before releasing her. She stepped around him, leaving him in her wake as she approached the Hand, all while trying to ignore the determined gleam she had seen in grey his eyes that she hadn’t recognized before.  

“I hope you’re not too disappointed by my arrival, Your Grace,” the dwarf said, leaping off his saddle before a step could be brought before him for an easier dismount. He was a strange sight to behold, if only because time had altered her memories of him, like a painting where the lines and colours had been destroyed because someone had splashed water on it. Somewhere in the back of her mind Sansa remembered that she had been married to this man before, and yet it seemed to her a miscellaneous fact that was barely worth acknowledging. It was the way with all her of marriages, she thought, feeling Jon’s eyes on the back of her head—nothing more than a footnote, something that was hardly worth paying much attention to, except in the case of those devoutly interested.      

“Not disappointed,” she insisted, holding out her hand for him. “But I was very surprised to hear that you were accompanying the King back to Winterfell, though.”

Lord Tyrion reaches out to cradle her hand between his own little fingers before pressing his lips against the back of it. “I never did get a chance to see the North after the War, you see,” he explained. “According to your husband, it’s not the land I remembered it.”

Sansa knew that there must be more to his agenda than that, but she merely smiled. “You are more than welcome here, Lord Tyrion. I’m delighted to have you here with us.”

It was only after the words had been said did she realize that she meant them. For one thing, she knew that Jon held him in high esteem; his presence could potentially have a good influence on him, keep him in better spirits.    

Lord Tyrion bowed his head in deference. “I’m honoured to be here, Your Grace. Also,” he stepped forward, his neck tilted as far back as possible to look up at her, “I want to congratulate you. We know you wanted to keep it under wraps, and I can assure you that the news won’t spread, not until you’d like us to announce it.”

“You’re very kind, my lord, and I thank you.”

She could sense that Jon was watching her again, and it frustrated her to no end. She had hoped that he would have already made his way into the castle a long time ago, but the fact that he was still present set her on edge.  

“Lord Tyrion,” she began, urging him to follow her into the Great Keep. “Surely you must be tired from such a journey?”

“I most certainly am,” he confirmed.

“Then I’m sure the idea of a warm bath in front of a roaring fire would appeal to you, would it not?”

“Will it be attended by a beautiful woman?”

A comment of that sort might have scandalized a younger version of herself. The woman she became didn’t even bat an eyelash. “If you can convince His Grace to follow suit, than I can promise you a dozen beautiful women to attend to your bath for as long as you’re here.”

The dwarf clapped his gloved hands together in delight. “Well, that settles it, then. Come along, Your Grace,” he encouraged, gesturing towards the Great Keep with a nod of his head, “let’s get the filth and grime off us, if pleases the Queen. No beautiful servant girl for you though,” he added, pointing at the King somewhat impertinently. “You’re already married to the fairest woman in the North.”

Sansa smirked at the Hand’s comment, ignoring the way that Jon looked at her. He relented eventually, turning around to make his way towards the castle, Lord Tyrion beside him the whole time. Married to the fairest woman in the North, but infatuated with the fairest woman in the south, she pondered, clutching her hands tightly. A strange notion flashed through her mind for only a moment before it disappeared altogether, making her frown.

It was to her good fortune that the next time she encountered Jon, it was during supper. Knowing his penchant for rambling on and on, Sansa had sent Maester Payton to the King’s solar, where he had been tasked with informing Jon of all that had taken place during his lengthy absence. The old man hadn’t let her down.

The Great Hall was packed tonight to welcome their King home, with the bulk of diners being members of their household, but a smattering of nobles were present as well. Ghost kept one of her feet warm beneath the table, and throughout the evening she threw scraps of meat and bone at him. The direwolf had followed his master south, though that had been more at her behest than Jon’s; Arya had made a passing remark in one of her letters about seeing Ghost again, and it was too simple a request that she couldn’t decline. Neither could she have denied Jon’s request to travel south when she realized how much he had taken to the idea. For all that had likely taken place while he’d been down there, Sansa knew that she had acquiesced because she knew that it would make him happy. She wanted that for him, despite all her heartbreak. Sansa wanted him to smile at her the way she had once remembered, wanted him to find meaning in the life he was fated to continue living. His polite mask of indifference couldn’t hide the ennui he’d been suffering from ever since he’d returned from the Wall, at least what was left of it. His unhappiness was like a tarnish on her the collage of successes, a mark of failure. She wasn’t enough for him—far from it.

Unable to staunch her curiosity, Sansa peeked over at him, sitting beside her on the great chair. A bad idea, she realized afterwards; it made her remember the magnetic pull that existed between Jon and Daenerys, as if an invisible rope were tied around their waists, so that where one was, the other was never far behind. If only she’d taken it seriously when she had the chance. Prior to her realizations, the notion of a broken heart had, in her mind, been a thing of imagination. Sansa had learned, over and over, how real an affliction it could truly be. It was such a shame that Jon had been the cause. It was such shame that their marriage had come to this.

They didn’t speak much to each other, but she had anticipated that. Sansa inquired about her sister, even went so far as to ask after the Dragon Queen’s health, only because she knew that Jon wouldn’t confess anything, not before their subjects. His eyes continually found their way to her stomach, only to come up empty each time. She had taken some pains when it came to picking out a gown, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to depend on her furred cloak to cover the growing swell of her belly. She was more determined than ever to bring as little attention as possible to her condition while in her husband’s company, eager to keep it out of his mind. He wanted answers, she knew, but she wasn’t in any mood to give him any.

To her surprise, she found some distraction in the form of Lord Tyrion, who sat on her left. Sansa glanced at the Hand with as much curiosity as she did whenever she glanced at Jon, the nature of his agenda still a preoccupation in her mind. Despite his earlier explanation, she wasn’t satisfied.

“Might I ask what about myself makes you so fascinated with me at the moment, Your Grace?” He inquired suddenly, while the attendants removed the platter of roasted mutton laid out before them. One of Jon’s favourite dishes was stewed mutton, and she had ordered the cook to prepare it for this evening’s meal, hoping it would be better company than herself. A quick evaluation at both his plate and the platter that had been taken away told her that he hadn’t eaten much. Had she mistaken his preferences? Or had his palette been altered by the cuisine he’d had in the south?

She pushed the thoughts aside as she smiled sheepishly at the Hand. “It’s just dawned on me recently that I haven’t seen you since—well, since I had last been in King’s Landing.”

Sansa didn’t bring up Joffery’s wedding, or the events that had followed. In some strange way, it was almost akin to the ale she had been drinking throughout the evening: barely tangible if she were to pour it into her hands, and yet as solid-looking as ever within the confines of a cup. She could drown in those memories, just as she could drown in the heartache she had felt so acutely only a little while prior. Sansa had overcome both counts—she would do whatever it took to overcome any other trial that came her way, if only because she no longer had a choice. The day would come when she will hold her child in her arms, a child who will need her as much as she will need it.

The Hand sighed dramatically. “I was quite hoping you would say it was because of my fine looks, but what you’ve actually said is surely more accurate. We have come a long way though, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have,” she agreed, nodding her head, but something was still missing. “It’s not the end though.”

Lord Tyrion gave her a pensive look. “Our tragedies are behind us, Your Grace. Even if you’re of a more cautious mind, surely you must know that the worse is over.”

There was so much that she could say to that, so much that she wanted to say, but she knew that she was in the wrong company to do so. Beside her she could hear Jon conversing with Ser Davos, their voices low and muted. Cheers erupted in the hall when the next dish was brought out, but she still sat there wordlessly, as the Hand’s comment went through her mind again and again, for reasons she had no desire to meditate on.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Lord Tyrion asked. Sansa hadn’t realized how far her mind had drifted off until then; when the dwarf’s face came back into focus, she saw the concern written all over it.

The feel of Jon’s hand atop of hers prevented her from assuring the Hand otherwise. At the sudden contact she gasped, yanking her hand away from beneath his as if she had just been burned by fire. Sansa stared at him, bewildered, her eyes as wide as moons, while her heart raced almost painfully in her chest.

Jon stared at her with just as much astoundment on his face, but in his grey eyes she thought she saw hurt as well. For some reason she wanted to laugh. You’re hurt because of that? She nearly blurted out, trying to hold in the tears that were suddenly threatening to emerge. What would you rank my pain then, Jon?  

Her name on his lips was almost like a plea, but Sansa ignored it. You’re better than this, she chanted to herself, over and over, channeling all of her energy into keeping her emotions in check. Jon’s gaze was still fixed intently on her, as frozen as the statues that lived in the crypts beneath them. He had touched her before, when they had been in the courtyard together, but tonight was the first time that his skin had met hers, when she had least anticipated it. There wasn’t any reason for it, anymore, now that she was with child; for Jon, there had been never been any good reason for it, when his desire had been for someone else.

Sansa didn’t want to think more on it, but it all came at once, like a rush of blood to the head: once, when she had thought she had no one else but Jon, she had indulged herself by leaning into his touch, on those occasions when he would offer it; those nights when he came to her bedchamber, her heart an uneven, rapid beat against her chest, as he gently undid the laces of her dress, causing shivers down her back when his fingers ghosted across her skin. And even when she realized that they had been falsehoods, it had been hard to deny them. She was a poor substitute for his Dragon Queen, this much she knew, but now that he’d fulfilled his duty with her, it shouldn’t matter anymore whose bed he wanted to share.

“Your Grace?”

At the sound of the Hand’s voice, the plaguing thoughts disappeared. She blinked at Jon several times before realizing where she was, turning away from abruptly him to assess the damage of her actions. The Great Hall was still noisy with music and the clink of spoon and forks, and when she stole a glance at the diners around her, it was apparent that her reaction had somehow gone unnoticed, drowned out by all the commotion. An absolute relief, she thought, exhaling deeply.  

“Sansa,” Jon said, the same way he had done earlier, but she gestured dismissively before he could say anything more. “It’s nothing,” she insisted, turning her head to look at Lord Tyrion, determined to wipe the dubious look on his face. “It’s a strange symptom of pregnancy,” she lied. “I tend to get startled rather easily these days, you see. Even a mouse would have a better chance against me,” she jested, smiling widely.

The Hand smiled back, though his concern was still apparent. “A good thing your husband isn’t a prowling cat, then,” he said.

“Perhaps I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to have a husband by my side again,” she explained, leaning in toward the dwarf so he could hear the rest, “and I know not what to do, now that I have two of them in my company.”

The way that Lord Tyrion looked over her shoulder told her that Jon had overheard. “I think it’s rather safe to say that our ship floundered before it ever took sail,” he answered. “But some things are sometimes for the best. Isn’t that right, my King?”

She glanced at Jon. His face remained hard with concern, and with an expectant look she urged him to respond.

“Yes. You’re right.”

Better than nothing, she supposed, turning back to look at the Hand again. The awkward air that her reaction had caused had disappeared by this point, and she guided the conversation towards other subjects, all the while hoping that Jon would just leave. Eventually her wish was granted when he rose from his seat to announce that he was retiring for the night, though he bade that everyone continue on with their merriment, if they so pleased.

“It’s best that I stay,” she cut in, before he had any chance to ask her to follow him. “There are some matters I must attend to first with Maester Payton before I can retire for the night. Sleep well, husband.”

“Can’t they wait until tomorrow?” He asked, frowning.

“These matters are important, Your Grace,” she lied, her voice steady. “I do bid you a good night, though.”

Jon continued to study her face closely, unconvinced. Sansa wasn’t worried. Vestiges of his old self, of the man she married, were showing itself again—the apathetic response to everything, his wife and his duty, a hollow shell of his past character; she could handle this rendition of Jon, even if she hated it as well. It was one thing for Jon to feel. It was another thing entirely for him to act on his feelings.

In the end he bade her a good night, leaving the Great Hall with his squire and two guards at his heels. For less than a moment she had hoped, as she hoped before, that he didn’t give up so easily—that he felt enough of something for her to fight for it, to fight for her. At least it hurt less nowadays, each time he didn’t.  

You bed a queen in the south and forget the one you left in the north, but I won’t be broken.

“His Grace must be tired after so many days of hard riding,” Lord Tyrion pointed out, as soon as Jon disappeared through the archway. “He’ll likely never get on another horse again for a long while yet, but I think it’s a price he’s willing to pay to be reunited with his beautiful wife.”

The irony was so great that she thought it physically stung, but she forced herself to smile. Sansa knew that neither Jon nor Daenerys were foolish enough to flaunt their affair before the court, but it also meant that she was constantly beating around the bush. It could be so, so tiring.

They conversed a little while longer, until she was convinced that Jon had retired to bed. By then the wine casks had run dry for the evening and the heaviness of a long day hung on everybody; when she too bade everyone a good night to seek the quiet comfort of her own bedchamber, she knew that most would follow suit. Her bones were aching relentlessly now and her back was giving her more pains than she had wanted, but she decided to honor the excuse she had told Jon by inviting Maester Payton to accompany her back to her chambers. He did a quick evaluation of her symptoms and condition before deeming her in good health.

She was beginning to unravel the braids of her hair when there was a knock on her door. “Maester Payton must have forgotten something,” she explained to her handmaiden before giving her permission to open the door.

It wasn’t Maester Payton, after all. Sansa knew it the moment she saw the look on her handmaiden’s face through the glass.  

“It’s the King, Your Grace. He wishes to speak with you.”

Her hands froze in her hair. How could he still be awake? After a journey of that magnitude, after the soothing bath, the food and the wine, she’d been positive that he would’ve been asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

She almost thought to deny him, using her own tiredness to keep him out, until she remembered the gleam in his eyes that she had noticed earlier, when they had been in the courtyard. Sansa hadn’t been able to shake it off, not until a good while later, but now the memory came back full force. Jon wanted answers, and he wanted them badly, even if it was only to assuage his guilt. She could send him away, but the delay might transform his guilt into resentment—that was something she didn’t want. No, it wouldn’t do to send him away, she thought, reevaluating the situation from a different angle. Perhaps if she relented just a little, he’d be satisfied enough with that, at least until she figured something better out.

Sansa finally nodded at her handmaiden to allow him in, turning back to face the glass so that she could study his reflection, rather than the real man himself. She took her time unraveling the remainder of the braids, bent on looking as nonchalant as possible by his sudden reappearance.

Through the spaces between a thick curtain of own hair, Sansa looked at the glass to see Jon’s reflection as he crossed the threshold, pausing after a few steps, his demeanor hesitant. He was still dressed in the clothes he wore at supper. It was a stark reminder that she was only in her shift, that her growing belly would be more visible than he had ever seen it. Perfect.

The door had already clicked shut just as she thought to call her handmaiden back to fetch her dressing robe, leaving her to do the best out of her situation.  

“Aren’t you tired?” She asked, casting her gaze on the floor in front of her as she spoke. “You’ve been through such a long journey. Lord Tyrion mentioned that you had several days of hard riding.”

“I’ve barely slept,” Jon said. “I’ve barely been able to rest since I learned you were pregnant.”

Sansa kept her eyes fixed on the floor, but the tiredness she could hear in his voice made it difficult to deny the truth in his comment.

“I see,” she said, hands still working through her locks. It was comforting, almost soothing, considering the high tension that had followed her husband into the sanctuary of her bedchamber. “It shouldn’t have come as that much of a shock to you, really. It’s our duty to produce an heir, remember?”

“You know I’m here because of that.”

“Then why are you here, Jon?” The name sounded foreign against her tongue.

“How did it come to be that I learned you were with child when it slipped through Olenna Tyrell’s mouth?”

Her hands stopped moving. When she looked at the glass again, she could see Jon striding towards her, but before he could close the final distance between them she rose from her seat, quick to get away. There was a certain amount of space that needed to be between them for her to remain in control; though she was constantly trying to lock her emotions in the deepest recesses of herself, Sansa knew that if he came close enough, he might see the pain he’d inflicted, might learn just how badly affected she was by his betrayal.

The worse part of it all, when she thought about his infidelity, was the unintentional air that existed in it all; that the magnetic pull that had always existed between Jon and Daenerys, likely generated during the first moments of their initial encounter, that bond of theirs, had finally evolved into something that neither could deny, even if any either of them wanted to. Theirs is the song of ice and fire, she remembered someone sing, but she hadn’t realized how grave and serious the words were until now, when her heart was in shambles and her dreams as tattered as they’d always been.

“Olena Tyrell has been rather bitter towards me since the War’s end,” she commented, trying to keep her voice steady. “Arya said that you hid it quite well, though. If she was looking to one up you, I’d say she failed. What is there to be so worked up about?”

“You think I’m upset because I was humiliated?”

She crooked a curious eyebrow at him, running her fingers through her locks absentmindedly. “What other reason is there?” Her tone was innocent, but she was fairly certain that she could guess what he was referring to.

Jon stared at her in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me, Sansa? You wrote me letter after letter, and I read them all, but you never mentioned you were pregnant, not even once. Why?”

She responded with a mild shrug, keeping her face as passive as ever. It was the one question she had anticipated, since she learned that he was returning, and yet oddly enough, she didn’t have a straight answer for it, at least not for Jon. Their marriage had been built around evasion; rather than making any attempts to break the walls that had been erected between them, his indifference had evolved into an ocean too wide for her to cross, a fact that only became clearer the more she realized how badly he didn’t want to be saved—not by her, at least.

“You would have learned about it eventually,” she reasoned, as if such an answer should have placated him. “What matter does it make if you knew now or six months from now, when the babe arrives? More to the point, though,” she pressed on, just as he opened his mouth to protest, “I didn’t want anyone in King’s Landing to know, at least not yet. A letter to the Reach seemed safer than a letter to the capital. I guess I thought Margery Tyrell could keep a secret.”

It was a pretty weak explanation, she knew, but it was the best that she would give him. Margery had been the only person she had really told, and even then she had only implied it in her letters. Her own household hadn’t known, either, save for Maester Payton. It wasn’t hard to figure out how Olenna Tyrell caught wind of the news, was even less difficult to imagine someone like the matriarch throwing it out like that before Jon and everyone who had been on that tour to the Reach, including Daenerys Targaryen and Arya. Had it not been so detrimental to her own plans, Sansa could’ve smiled at the whole thing.

Jon looked far from satisfied. “You trusted Margery Tyrell with news of your pregnancy over your own husband,” he accused. Sansa couldn’t help but roll her eyes. She supposed that it was something worth noting, that he still identified with being her husband.

“You would have told Arya,” she countered, setting her cool gaze on him, “and your aunt, as well. Neither would have kept the news to themselves, especially when the politics of the Kingdom would take a turn because of it.”

“So you weren’t ever going to tell me,” he concluded, looking away with frustration marring his features. “If you could’ve had it your way, I wouldn’t have known until I came back to Winterfell.”

She held her head high, even while the meaning behind his words caused another crack in what she had thought was her mended heart. His stay had extended from one moon to another, all of them with excuse that too many matters still had to be dealt with, when she knew that politics had little to do with anything. “And when would you have come back, had this not happened?” She demanded, maintaining an air of nonchalance, eager to show him that it meant nothing to her either way. She wondered how she would react if he only spoke the truth—if both of them did. Would they both be better off for it? Or would they only flounder, burning the very last of their bridges that connected one of them to the other?

Jon’s face fell just as he turned his head away to look elsewhere. Sansa saw it as proof of his guilt, of what he’d pursued while in King’s Landing. His guilt was what had brought him back to her, was likely the reason he’d stay, but it was the resentment that would grow within him that she worried for. Guilt was an easily controllable emotion; but resentment, along with her cousin anger, was another thing entirely, both too independent and wild for her to rein in. She’s not sure she could handle a resentful Jon, not unless there was something to staunch the emotion, to keep it in check.

Something, or someone?

“Jon,” she began, keeping her voice steady, even while her mind was abuzz with an idea so beyond her grasp, and yet so dangerously brilliant, that she nearly keeled over in awe at the thought of it. It could work, or it could not, but they were both so gone from their point of origin that she thought there was nothing to lose. He’ll never be happy here, she reminded herself, heart racing in the cavity of her chest, but she would have to keep him placated somehow, if she wanted to keep the status quo. A distraction was what he needed—she was certain she knew just where to find one. Jon didn’t love her, but she had already accepted that she didn’t need it, anyway. Not anymore. Sansa had managed to build a reputation for herself as a competent monarch, adept at the politics that unfolded around and within her court, loved by the small folk for her charitable nature and respected by her nobles, even those who hadn’t thought her fit. Jon might not find any meaning in his duties any longer, but she did. It was even more important now, with their child growing inside of her; she wanted her progeny to inherit a kingdom fit to live in, rather than this war-ravaged place she had been working so hard to keep together. She wanted her children to know what it meant to be children, rather than pawns in a game where survival or death was the only two outcomes.

“Jon,” she said again, this time with some more warmth to it. “Try to get some rest, please. You’re tired, and that’s taking its toll on you. Let Maester Payton prescribe some Milk of the Poppy. We’ll talk some other time.”

He raised his head to look at her again, his face as sullen as she had always remembered it. “You’re trying to get rid of me again.”

If only you knew. “Can you blame me? I’d like to go to sleep as well, you know. I can’t exactly do that when you want to keep prolonging a conversation we could’ve had tomorrow.” Or never.

His eyes fell to her stomach again, the way it had been since she had welcomed him back, except this time there wasn’t a cloak or a high-waisted dress to cover it. Sansa watched as his face slackened, replaced with a flash of curiosity and something else. Tenderness?

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice as soft as the skin of a babe–their babe’s, she realized, her emotions threatening to erupt again. It was harder to control them now, as she moved further along in the term. Sansa rued the day when she could no longer staunch them, revealing to the one person she didn’t want knowing just how weak she could be. She had forgotten just how soft and tender Jon could be, considering the distant way he would behave with her.

“Never mind,” she said, gesturing towards the door with a dismissive hand. Sansa turned her back to him with the pretence of finding something on her dressing table, hoping he understood that they were done. While she had been honest about her own fatigue, her mind was as active as a galloping horse, turning over the stones of doubt that could cause the plan forming to go awry, but knowing that she’d already bought into it, thus putting little weight into those doubts. It felt like an eternity while he still stood there, making her worry that he would prolong this encounter of theirs with more questions, but his footsteps push the possibility aside. The moment she heard her door shut, Sansa collapsed onto her seat, the realization of all that was happening around her like a violent wave against a jagged cliff.

Something had to be done, now that Jon had returned. And Sansa was no longer afraid of doing things that had to be done.

 AN: Look, look. I just wanted to write something short and nice (???) while I was in the middle of editing another fic, and, I don’t know, this happened. Not only did I not write something short, now there are a bunch other parts are sitting around, waiting to be edited, and I’m just crying over everything. Also, please keep remember that his part is from Sansa’s perspective. Thanks for reading.

Also, also, title comes from “We Fight Ourselves” by Epik High.

[kittensjonsa]

Guard You With My Life

Long AU drabble I had an idea of - while dealing with writer's block for my actual Jonsa fic. Kind of fluffy but smut ahead. Enjoy! ********** "I'm sorry to leave you like this Miss Stark but it's an important family emergency. I'll make sure arrangements are made for my temporary replacement," Brienne apologised the moment she entered the room. Sansa turned to see the statuesque Head of Security standing behind her. Her assistant Podrick was as usual next to her. Sansa had heard of news of Brienne's father's illness. He was at death's door, a whisper away from breathing his last, his health ravaged by Stage 4 lymphoma. Sansa sighed and sat on her velvet sofa and motioned to Brienne and Podrick to sit with her. "Please Brienne, Podrick, sit. What news of his health, my dear? I heard talk but I wanted to know from you," Sansa asked with concern. Brienne and Podrick had served her family well in almost half a decade. They were like family to her. Now that, Father and Mother were gone. And Robb had moved to Europe with Talisa a few months after their wedding. Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon were the ones holding down the fort that was Winterfell estate. Brienne glanced down and almost choked on a sob. Sansa understood what she was going through. She had been through the same, twice. She decided that a sabbatical would do her well. Perhaps Podrick could use a break too. "Take as much time as you need, Brienne. You can never be replaced, you know that. Both of you. Go and do what you need to do and when you come back, the position is still yours if you want it." Brienne felt a tear roll down her cheek. She was fortunate enough to have worked with the Starks, one of the most influential and noble families in the North of the country. The huge yet humble mansion had seen fifteen generations of Starks live and die and a large number of them had been pioneers in building the North to what it was today. Brienne nodded and smiled. Sansa grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze of reassurance. Her blue eyes sparkled, slightly wet with her own tears. Sansa watched as Podrick hauled the last suitcase into the van that was leaving for the airport. She hated goodbyes but this wasn't really a goodbye. Brienne will be back a better person perhaps. Sansa gave her a hug and some words of encouragement. She watched and waved as the van left and faded into the distance. "Sansa," she heard a familiar voice calling her name. Sansa turned and was met with dark eyes hiding behind dark curls holding a suitcase. Sansa felt a hitch in her breath and her stomach doing a somersault. Jon. "Jon. What are you doing here?" Sansa could only manage to breathe out a few words in greeting. Jon smiled, he secretly loved how he could still effortlessly surprise his favourite cousin after all these while. Jon had to step back and receive Sansa as she leapt into his arms for a tight long awaited embrace. She smelled like how he remembered her that day by the great oak tree by the lake. Lavender and rose. His memories came flooding back all at once. Her lips, her smooth and soft fiery red hair. They were teenagers but that memory presented itself as if it happened just yesterday. "My flight was delayed. I would have gotten in yesterday night. Maybe surprise you and the family during dinner or something," Jon whispered into her ears as she nuzzled against his scruffy beard. He smelled wonderful, freshly scrubbed and clean, the way Sansa loved it. Sansa had to refrain from kissing her cousin whom she had adored since she was 13. She would always be grateful to him for saving her life. If it wasn't for Jon, Sansa would be in a grave at 13 years old. Death by drowning. It was Jon who pulled her out of the deep end of the lake during a hot summer day and resuscitated her. The moment she got to breathing again, the first person she opened her eyes to was Jon. She could never ever repay him for what he did, even after times she was unkind to him. She had a skewed impression of her cousin growing up, no thanks to her friend Keyne Poole who was always in on the town's latest gossip. The story that was told of him being a bastard and a stain upon the Stark family name, when her Aunt Lyanna had eloped with the then already engaged Rhaegar Targaryen. But it all came to light when Lyanna and Rhaegar revealed their marriage and Jon was born legitimately of Targaryen and Stark blood. Unfortunately, a car crash took their lives that left Jon on his own. That summer was a difficult one to forget and a horrible one to remember. Despite all the tragedies that fell upon Jon and his family, there was never any resentment nor bitterness in him. Somehow, Jon seemed to have a knowing that things were going to turn out all right in the end. And of all people, Jon was always kind to her. Sansa then vowed to never be mean to her cousin again. "I have no words except that I'm so happy to see you! Oh I missed you!" Sansa squealed as she finally parted from their embrace and looped her arm around his elbow as they made their way into the house. Sansa called for the butler to inform the rest of the Starks of Jon's arrival and to prepare a feast for dinner that night. "Oh no need to tell Robb, he knows about me coming here. He was the one who wanted me to come and stay, " Jon quipped as he opened to unpack his suitcase he placed onto the bench as Sansa showed him into his old room. It was just like before, except the posters were gone and the walls were newly painted. Sansa turned and looked at him, her eyes questioning his. "Stay? What do you mean, stay?" Jon decided to unpack later and walked over to Sansa who was standing by the large windows. He had always loved the view of the garden from his room. Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn were always so generous with him when they looked after him. Jon faced Sansa and held out his hand for hers. "Sansa, I heard what happened to you. That Ramsay fellow, I'm glad he's dead. I wanted to kill him myself, leave the firm and kill that fucker for what he did. Robb told me everything. I know it's been a while but thought I'd grab the opportunity when I heard there was a position open," Jon explained, his mouth slowly forming into a smile at the end of his sentence. Sansa smiled back shyly, though her memories of the assault sometimes kept her up at night. Sansa felt Jon's fingers tuck in a stray hair behind her ear and then leaned in to kiss her on her forehead. His skin and lips were hot to the touch. Despite the constant chilly winter weather in Winterfell, Jon was always warm to the touch. "So, you're my new Head of Security now? Did Brienne ask you to do this? Be her replacement? Because I'll have you know that she's not replaceable," Sansa gave a chortle, and poked his chest. "Oh no she isn't. I know that. I don't need a title for me to make sure you're safe do I? Be there when you call me? Although I don't do coffee runs. That's what I told Robb. I will do most things for her royal highness Sansa but she can get her own coffee." Sansa gave Jon a playful smack on his arm. She could trust Robb to look out for her. Even though he was far away with his own family, he was always looking out for his siblings and he and Jon were almost siamese twins. Inseparable since birth. "Right. Thanks to Robb I guess. So you'll do anything? For me?" Sansa teased him, batting her eyelids playfully at Jon. Jon's eyes were now gazing lovingly into hers, his face somehow softened and there was a look that she remembered. The day she and Jon had their first kiss. Under the oak tree. To Sansa it was a gesture of heartfelt gratitude and appreciation. And an olive branch of sorts to make peace with Jon for all the times she had been awful to him. But to Jon it was something else. Something he knew would be with him as long as Sansa was still walking this earth. "Anything for you. I'll guard you with my life if I have to, sweet girl." Time seemed to stand still as she watched how Jon slowly leaned in to press his lips on hers, making her quiver and recall their shared memory. Soon, their tongues were crashing into each other's and Jon's hands were undoubtedly roaming lower to her waist and slowly down her buttocks. Their fierce lip lock was only interrupted by Sansa pulling away, only to walk towards the door to lock it. And sauntering over to his bed. Jon felt his cock stir and come alive. He had never been hard like this before, in a matter of seconds. Jon took off his trenchcoat and blazer as he walked over to Sansa on his bed. She looked exquisite as he remembered her. But more womanly, with her full breasts and curves that made his mouth water. Now she was sitting seductively on his bed, waiting for him to pounce on her. Sansa loved how good he looked in a suit. He kept his lean and muscular physique all these time, and she loved how his well defined biceps shaped his sleeves. And there it was, an obvious bulge in his trousers that made Sansa gush between her legs. The anticipation was killing her. How long she had dreamed of this? Ever since her almost drowning incident she and Jon had gotten on fabulously and they had kept in touch often even when he was away. She knew that after she had graduated high school that her crush on Jon was more than just a crush. She had never known a man like Jon, the brave, sweet and gentle soul that he was. She was in love. She didn't dare tell a soul, afraid of being judged for being in love with her own cousin. When he left the North to join Uncle Benjen's security firm, Sansa was happy for him yet sad. When she heard news of his new girlfriend, she was devastated. So debilitating was the heartbreak that led her to meeting the murderous Ramsay Bolton. She was vulnerable and needed a rebound guy, someone to take her mind off Jon. Ramsay had said all the right things and did everything right. Up until she decided to not lie to herself and ended it. She wasn't happy and Ramsay wasn't Jon. And that was when all the horrors started. He terrorised her and her colleagues at work, stalked her, burned down her apartment as proof that she was dead while he kidnapped her and tortured her, left her scars she had to laser off to erase the nightmare. She was glad it was all over when Robb and Mother came to her rescue. How Ramsay died she did not want to know. He deserved to die. He and his traitorous family. From then on Mother had promised a bodyguard for Sansa, in the form of Brienne Tarth. Catelyn met Brienne who came forward and saved her life when she was caught in an altercation involving the Lannisters. The Lannisters were a powerful family that had their claws on everything and everyone in the South and the Capital and Catelyn was convinced Ned hadn't died of natural causes. Brienne Tarth hated the Lannisters just as much as Catelyn did as she believed it was them who was behind the death of her former love, Renly Baratheon. With her ally in Brienne, however, her investigation was not welcomed and soon Catelyn was caught up in a scandal that threatened the safety of her family. Catelyn had to think twice before avenging Ned's death. The last straw that broke her was Sansa's assault and kidnapping. Catelyn felt it in her bones that the Lannisters were behind it. Catelyn couldn't be strong any longer. Not without Ned. Catelyn's sorrow consumed her till she was too sick to care for her own children and passed away. She made Brienne vow to watch over her family as long as they were alive and especially Sansa. However, Sansa didn't think she needed a bodyguard but when simple social occasions became a traumatic event one after another, Sansa gave in to her Mother's last wishes, knowing that she needed time to cope and deal with her post traumatic stress disorder. "What are you thinking of, my sweet Sansa?" Jon's voice brought her back to the heated moment as she faced Jon sitting on the bed with her, his shirt unbuttoned and looking sexy as hell. Sansa didn't feel lust or wanton desire this time, she felt love and peace and joy that she was finally with a man she had always loved. Sansa didn't know what came over her as she cupped his face, looking deep into his dark grey eyes and said the three words she had always wanted to say to him. "I love you." Jon's eyes widened in surprise and was stunned into silence. Sansa didn't care if he didn't love her yet or said it back to her, important thing was that she loved him. And that he knew it. Jon grabbed her hands from his face and kissed her deeply and desperately, hungry for her. He wanted to make sure it was really her saying those words to him and that he wasn't daydreaming. Jon pushed Sansa down gently until they were both lying on the bed. Jon's lips wandered down to her neck and gradually peppered her heaving chest with kisses. Sansa's shirt dress had come undone in a matter of seconds as Jon's hands caressed her breasts and pinched her teats that made her gasp with pleasure. Sansa hands grabbed a fistfuls of his soft curls as he made his way down further to her thighs. Sansa shivered in anticipation and felt her wetness growing. Sansa hissed in pleasure as she felt Jon's hands deftly removing her panties and let out a whimper as his hot breath caressed her wet slit. She moaned out loud when Jon had his fingers gently part her folds, to gain oral access and kiss her down there. She never had a man put their mouth on her like that before and the feeling was highly erotic. Sansa felt a gush slip out of her again. There was pressure building in her loins and it was coming to a head. Jon stuck out his tongue and licked at the small fleshy pink nub as his fingers delved in to stroke her inner walls. She was delicious in his mouth. Sweet and tangy, just as he had imagined. There was some resistance and tightness that greeted his fingers that told Jon he had to ease into her and be gentle. What Jon was doing was driving Sansa mad with desire and the pressure was now rapidly building inside of her. It rose until Sansa almost screamed out his name as she rode out her intense pleasure wave. Jon watched as Sansa twisted around arching her back and tremble from her orgasm. What a beautiful sight she was. Even when she was coming, Sansa looked elegant and almost divine. His heart did a leap at the sight of her coming down from her ascent. Jon believed it may have been her first orgasm. It made him smile that somehow he was her first in a way. Sansa calmed down, still panting hard from the gratifying intensity she had just experienced and tried to land back down to earth. She felt like she was floating. "I fucking love you, Sansa Stark. Ever since that day by the lake, under the oak tree. I've always loved you. No one else would take that place, my love. Only you." Jon had moved up to face Sansa and his hard cock was nicely positioned at her entrance. Jon knew it was now or never. He would make her his this time. It was Sansa and had always been. He was a fool to think he could forget her by being with another. And he almost lost her. He would not lose her again. "Jon, I need you. I want you inside me Jon. Take me, I'm yours." Sansa's pleading voice gave him all he needed and gave his cock a gentle thrust into her wet folds. She was burning hot and well lubricated yet snug. It was like a warm wet hug. Jon felt like home and it took him all he had to not come there and then. She felt fantastic. It was as if Sansa was made and shaped just for him. They were meant to be. Sansa gasped as Jon's cock made its way into her, feeling full within her, stroking her insides. The friction and Jon's gentle thrusting along with his tender kisses felt explosive. It was better than she had dreamed of. Jon moved slowly, pumping in and out, careful not to lose it and spill in her. Every stroke his cock made, her inner walls massaged it and sucked it in as if a part of Sansa was hungry for him. Jon felt he hit a spot that immediately made Sansa howl with pleasure and she shook and quivered again in her second orgasm. This time, he felt her as her walls contract and squeeze him, milking his cock dry. It was too much for him and Jon tried to pull out but the wonderful sensation pulled him back in. He howled too as he spilled in her, convinced he had never come so much in his life ever. Jon smothered Sansa with kisses as he took deep breaths to calm down from his own orgasm and rolled over to her side and spooned her. He didn't stop kissing her neck and back, he couldn't get enough of her. "Sansa? I'm sorry I didn't pull out. I was reckless my love. Whatever happens, I want to be here for you. I'm all yours," Jon finally said, voicing his concerns but he wanted to assure Sansa. There was no doubt of his love for this woman. The idea of Sansa carrying his child was something he hadn't considered but now, it seemed like an attractive possibility. But of course it was up to Sansa. Sansa turned around to face him and smiled. She was on the pill but hearing Jon making plans for a possible future almost immediately made her heart leap with joy. She would give him as many babies as he wanted. If they all turned out as kind, brave and gentle like him, she wouldn't mind. "Well I guess you're kind of stuck with me now, Jon Targaryen. You'll have to guard me and do more than that, sometimes at night in my room too." Jon chuckled. Yes, he was here to fill in temporarily for Brienne as Robb had asked him to. Somehow, he had a feeling he would be around for much, much longer. He didn't mind, only thing to do now was to tell the rest of the family and make it public. He wasn't going to waste anymore time now. He didn't care what others would think of them. And he was certain Robb would give his blessings. Robb had always known Jon had something for Sansa, only he didn't ask him about it. But for now, Sansa and only Sansa's opinion and judgement mattered to him. Perhaps, he would stop by the jewellers tomorrow if he could sneak in some free time without Sansa knowing. It was time. He had found his second and better half, he would complete their joining as one by making her his wife. "Oh well you're stuck with me too. I'll guard you with my life, for the rest of my life, if you'll have me forever, Sansa Stark." *********** Thanks for reading Jonsa cruisers! You were responsible for this rare burst of creativity so this one's for you! xx