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Blood and Cheese does not happen. Instead, Daemon plots with his connections to kidnap Aegon’s most prized possession: his wife. They ask Agon and the Greens to give up the throne and she will be returned. Aegon is furious
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—
The guards standing on each side of the small council chamber bowed their heads at their king. Aegon hated these meetings, finding them lengthy and uninteresting, but now that he wore the crown, he couldn't escape them.
He pushed the large door open and stepped in. Inside, one person sat at the table: his mother. Beside her, a man in armor stood. Their hushed conversation ceased as he arrived.
Alicent glanced at her son with a somber expression. ‘’Please have a seat,’’ she beckoned.
Aegon furrowed his eyebrows. ‘’Where is everyone else?’’
‘’Council meeting is canceled today,’’ she informed him gravely. ‘’We have more urgent matters to discuss.’’
Seating himself at the table's head, Aegon braced himself for what was to come. The tension in the chamber was palpable, and he knew something serious had happened.
Alicent hesitated for a moment, her eyes betraying the weight of the news she carried. ‘’There's been an incident,’’ she began, her voice strained. ‘’Before I explain further, I need you to stay calm.’’ Her eyes held Aegon’s, waiting for a silent promise before pursuing. ‘’We all know that Daemon still has connections in the city. Some of his men breached our defenses and infiltrated the castle and she…she was taken by the Blacks.’’
Aegon laughed dryly. This had to be a joke.
But he found no sign of jest in his mother’s solemn expression.
The king turned to the lord commander standing to her left. ‘’Where is my wife, Ser Criston?’’ he implored, still in disbelief that you had been taken.
Ser Criston's gaze fell to the ground, his silence speaking volumes. ‘’I regret to conform, your grace,’’ he murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. ‘’The queen has been taken.’’
Aegon felt as if the ground had been ripped from beneath him. His wife, his beloved, stolen from him — kidnapped — by the hands of their enemies.
‘’We've received a raven from Dragonstone,’’ Alicent informed, clearing her throat. She forwarded the rolled piece of parchemin to Ser Criston, who handed it to Aegon.
He unrolled the parchemin and read the message: As a result of stealing from the rightful heir, something of yours has been taken. Abandon the throne and she will be returned.
Aegon's jaw clenched so tightly that the parchment in his hand crumpled beneath his grip. His violet eyes filled with wrath as rage spread through his blood.
He rose to his feet, his voice dripping with fury. ‘’Ser Criston, tell the dragonkeepers to get Sunfire out of the dragonpit. I will go to Dragonstone myself and—’’
‘’I’d rather not,’’ Alicent interjected, her tone icy. ‘’Going to Dragonstone is driving yourself to your own death.’’
‘’I will not stand idly by while my wife is held captive by our enemies!" In a surge of anger, Aegon tore the silver crown from his head and flung it to the ground with all the force of his rage, the clang of the Valyrian steel reverberating off the stone walls like a thunderclap.
At his outburst, Alicent's lips pressed into a thin line. ‘’You may leave us, Ser Criston.’’
The lord commander nodded and exited the small council chamber in silence, leaving the king and his mother alone.
‘’You have no idea the sacrifices that were made to put you on that throne?’’ she stated, her tone heavy with implication.
Aegon's frustration boiled over, and he leaned against the back of his chair. He ran his hands through his silver hair, tugging at the roots in a gesture of despair and anguish. ‘’I never asked for that throne!’’ he exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion.
All he wanted was his wife back, it was all he needed — you.
During his father’s reign, the castle had never been threatened. Viserys was a peaceful king, one who stayed away from conflicts. Therefore, he never had to worry about the loyalty or competence of his kingsguard.
Now that he had fallen and that a civil war had begun, the safety - and life - of those who lived in the castle was at risk. In the days following Aegon's coronation, all who had refused to swear to him had been beheaded. So, how could this have happened?
‘’I want these men’s heads,’’ he declared, his voice filled with a mixture of vengeance and determination as he straightened. ‘’Plot against the king and I will pay it back a hundred times over.’’
—
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i’m not made by design ; jaime lannister.
track seven of BROKEN MACHINE.
part two.
pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)
synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.
words ; 47.8k
themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn
warnings / includes ; war/violence/murder/injury/blood, attempted sexual assault, this story covers the events from game of thrones s1-4, politicking, incest, talks of sex, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, reader is known as the bitter wolf and is ned’s youngest sibling, bittersweet ending
main masterlist. read on ao3!
You first met Jaime Lannister during the Year of the False Spring, at the Great Tourney of Harrenhal—you had only been ten years of age, still starry-eyed and gentle-of-tongue. Knights, lords, and ladies hailing from all over Westeros were buzzing about the opening feast. Chalices of golden ale, platters of fruit and cheese, and sizzling trays of freshly-roasted meats were splayed out over several long tables.
To your right was your eldest brother, Brandon, biting into a large turkey leg and gingerly offering you a piece when he caught you ogling him. To your left was your sister Lyanna, popping voluminous grapes into her mouth and chattering to your two other brothers, Benjen and Ned, across the table. Her grey eyes were alight with glee, and she tipped her head back to laugh when Benjen made a snarky comment about Ned’s overgrown hair.
You were well into your second serving of glazed lemon cakes when the crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood up front. A hush descended upon the crowd when the handsome, silver-haired man brandished a large, golden harp.
He sang a song of sorrow, one of tragedy and death. His voice was soft and beautiful, saturated with honey and rich soil. It was a strange choice for such a joyous event, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it. Your sister, most of all, as she had tears warbling over her stormy irises upon his serenade.
When Rhaegar finally finished, Benjen noticed Lyanna’s tearful eyes and began cackling loudly with no restrain. Your sister scowled deeply and poured her entire glass of wine over Benjen’s head, Dornish red dripping down his shocked face. The younger man moaned with grief at his soiled tunic, but was still giggling nonetheless. You had watched the entire ordeal with a wide, toothy grin.
As the feast progressed, more and more people left to go dance. You and Brandon were exchanging knowing glances when the great beauty, Ashara Dayne, a woman of lengthy midnight locks and dark mauve eyes, began dancing with Ned Stark upon Brandon’s request. The two of you cheered him on from the sides, embarrassing your quietest and shyest brother beyond relief, his cheeks stained with a permanent dusting of rouge.
“Come, little sister,” said Brandon, only seven-and-ten at the time, holding out his hand with a kind smile. The soft grey of his eyes gleamed with earnest. “You shall be my last dance of the feast.”
You glanced around, apprehensive. “Would you rather not dance with any of the other ladies present?”
“I’ve had enough dances with girls I hardly know, much less any I’d ever see again. Come, let me have a dance with my youngest sister. It may be a long while until I see you again after this.”
Acquiescing to his wishes, you slid away from the table and took his hand, beaming up at your oldest brother. The two of you were no good at dancing—you trod on his feet more times than you could count, and he wasn’t quite used to having a dance partner less than half his height, resulting in a clumsy waltz of flailing limbs and awkward shuffling. Nonetheless, the both of you were laughing and smiling regardless of your quickly-numbing feet.
The joy was abruptly leeched away when the hall grew eerily quiet, orchestral music halting mid-note. You stopped in your dance with Brandon, letting go of his hand to turn and see what was going on.
King Aerys shuffled in, back slightly hunched, his glossed-over eyes surveying the crowd. His white hair was long and tangled beyond salvaging, the ends split and the strands near his scalp bunching together in matted clumps. There was a sickly, pallid color to his skin. His hands were twitching wildly by his sides, long, ochre-hued claws scratching the bare flesh of his irritated wrists.
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. You felt yourself step back closer to your brother, suddenly feeling a wave of fear dance through you. This was the first time you’d seen the King in the flesh—and from what you’ve heard, he was far from a good one.
The rumors did not fall upon deaf ears—you knew he was going mad. Now that you were looking at him, it seemed so obvious. He went from yelling at his squire at the top of his lungs, threatening to burn him alive, to laughing hysterically about a trivial matter that was lost to you, until he began wheezing and coughing and spluttering spittle every which way.
All of a sudden, the King’s wild gaze fell upon Jaime Lannister, a young blonde sitting on the table across the hall from you, beckoning the young man closer to kneel before him. You craned your neck to get a proper look at him. He was a sharply handsome young man, with soft tendrils of spun-gold, and gleaming viridescent eyes. There were many tall tales about him—of his unending skill in battle, of his excellent swordsmanship, of his bold fearlessness.
The young knight was called to swear the oath of the Kingsguard in front of the entire hall. You watched with muted curiosity—he was barely older than Brandon, and yet he was already swearing away his entire life to the Mad King.
What a waste.
What you hadn’t picked up on, however, was that Jaime was none too happy about this ordeal, either. His expression was not set in stone, subtle flashes of anger bubbling through his stoic facade.
The crowd burst into raucous cheers when he got back onto his feet.
You did not clap.
The King had sent Jaime away later that night to guard the Queen and her children, and you did not see him for the rest of the tourney.
Perhaps that was a good thing—the Tourney at Harrenhal led to many, many things shortly in the aftermath. The abduction of your older sister, Lyanna, by the crown prince. The death of your eldest brother, Brandon, along with your father, Rickard Stark, by the hands of the Mad King. An entire war broke out. Your brother, Eddard, marrying Catelyn Tully in Brandon’s stead, and siring a newborn son, Robb. Off he went to battle not too soon after—leaving only you and Benjen and tiny Robb as the remaining Starks in Winterfell.
Rhaegar Targaryen dying from a blow by Robert Baratheon, who’d been madly infatuated with your sister. Or, at least, he’d deluded himself into thinking he was.
Jaime Lannister slitting the throat of the Mad King.
Everything had spun by so quickly—it all happened in a mere few moons. You were infamously named the Bitter Wolf, for not once have you smiled since the deaths of your dear family. It did not help that Benjen soon left to the Night’s Watch, leaving your only kin left to be Eddard and his young son.
“The Bitter Wolf,” the people of Winterfell always whispered as you passed by, foolishly thinking that you couldn’t hear them. “Take care not to get in her way… lest she ties you naked to a stake outside the castle walls to freeze overnight.”
Thwack.
Little Bran stomped a small foot in frustration when his arrow flew wildly off course, splintering into the damp wood of a barrel beside his intended target.
Jon patted his half-brother on the shoulder comfortingly. “Go on,” he said, “father’s watching. Your mother, too.”
The second arrow whizzed straight over the target entirely, disappearing somewhere into the trees behind. Bran’s older brothers began to chuckle under their breath, an even younger Rickon joining in on their laughter.
“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” asked Ned from the platforms above the courtyard. You briefly thought back to when you were ten—right when the war started. When you’d lost Lyanna, Brandon, and your father…
The other two boys chimed in with their advice.
“Don’t think too much about it,” said Jon.
“Relax your bow arm,” piped Robb.
Having a certain soft spot for your young nephew, you decided to voice your own thoughts. “Keep practicing, Bran. It’s alright not to be perfect at first, despite what your foolish brothers may tell you. For years, I kept missing my targets just because I always gripped the bow wrong. There is a certain art to it,” you told the young boy with a steely tone whilst nocking your own longbow, lining your gaze up with the target. In the blink of an eye, you sent it arcing forward, impaling the center of the coal-lined circle perfectly. Robb whistled with an impressed expression coloring over his features. “Archery is something you build up to—you won’t magically learn to perfect it in half a day.”
From somewhere behind the lot of you, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing the target right beside the tip of your bolt. You rounded your gaze behind you to see your young niece, Arya, holding her own bow, and grinning widely, immensely proud of herself.
It was no secret that Arya admired you greatly, aspiring to be like you when she grew older. Ned would often lightheartedly blame you for his second daughter’s callous, wild, and unladylike nature, but you would always reply with a straight tone, “Arya is every bit Lyanna. I am not Lyanna.”
With a frustrated huff, Bran darted after his sister, angry that she had bested him in something she wasn’t even supposed to be good at. Arya scurried away with a cackle, mud and gravel flying up beneath her boots with her remarkable speed. Robb and Jon burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
The smiles fell away when you shoved a bow into each of their arms. “Alright, boys. You think you’re so much better than your brother? Show me. I want ten perfect hits—only grazing the circle does not count.”
The two young men incredulously glanced up at their father, as if expecting Ned to save them from your stern wrath. Your older brother merely shrugged, half of a grin tilting his lips lopsided.
With a groan, the boys turned to do as they were bid, until Theon Greyjoy came bounding up to Ned with a message. A deserter from the Night’s Watch was captured not too far from Winterfell. An execution by Ned’s hand was in order for breaking a sworn oath.
Saved by the raven, you thought grimly, though you made a mental note to get them to practice again afterwards, even if it meant you had to drag them out by the ears.
The biting winds nipped at the small amounts of exposed bare skin that wasn’t covered by layers of thick furs, turning your face frigid. Outside the castle walls, the cold was more daunting and the gales were far stronger. You were well-acquainted with this sort of weather, however, and showed no sign of discomfort when Bran quietly asked you if you were as cold as he was.
They set the deserter upon a log, his neck resting upon the wood for Ned to chop it off. The poor fool was mumbling incoherently, too quiet for you to catch, but you could see the panic crystal clear in his far-away eyes.
“Don’t look away,” said Jon to his younger brother. “Father will know if you do.”
Bran blinked, looking up at you for a brief moment. You dipped your head in agreement. It was something he needed to face eventually—death was inevitable.
“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” said Ned. “I, Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”
With that, your brother raised his longsword and swung it down cleanly onto the back of the deserter’s neck. His severed head fell to the frozen ground with a squelching thud.
“You did well,” you quietly told little Bran, who had a slightly disturbed expression upon his quickly-paling features, but did not flinch all the same. He didn’t look at you, feeling a certain sickness coiling in his stomach.
Both Jon and Robb gritted their teeth. The older of the two turned and led Bran away to the horses.
“Bran is an imaginative boy,” you told Ned once he lumbered over to you, sheathing his sword. “He dreams of fights and knighthood—the glory and praise of it all. He knows not of the blood and death that consequently comes with it. Prepare him for that, Ned. Or he will be left traumatized and shrouded with fear.”
No one had prepared me, you wanted to say, but bit down on your tongue.
Your older brother took a pause at your words, considering them seriously. With a grim nod, he strode off to speak to his second-youngest son.
The ride back to Winterfell was rocky and far colder than when you had left. On the way, the group came across a mauled carcass of a stag, its bloodied guts pooling out of its abdomen, flesh nearly clawed apart.
“What killed it?” asked Jon.
“Mountain lion?” offered Theon, eyes darting to the trees in search of such a beast.
You shook your head. “Mountain lions don’t venture up this far. Must be a Northern animal. Claw marks are too small to be a bear.”
With slow strides Ned walked around the dead animal and down a muddy hill, where a bubbling creek rushed by. You followed along, brows quirking upwards upon seeing the large body of a direwolf, fresh blood coating the entire front of its pelt. There was an antler sticking out of its throat—no doubt the poor wolf died in agony.
Your attention was brought down lower to small, yipping pups, suckling at the teats of their dead mother.
“It’s a freak!” Theon said.
You shot him an icy glare, making him whither beneath your eyes. “Show some respect. The direwolf died protecting her pups.”
“Tough old beast,” Ned gruffed, before pulling out the bloodied antler.
“There are no direwolves south of the Wall,” Robb postulated, befuddled as to how this had happened.
“Now there are five,” said Jon, before picking one of the pups up by the scruff and moving it out to Bran. “You want to hold it?”
The pup whimpered as he was placed into Bran’s awaiting arms, wanting to go back to its mother. “Where will they go?” asked the boy. “Their mother’s dead.”
“They don’t belong down here—better a quick death,” said Ned, pulling out his sword once more. “They won’t last without their mother.”
Eager to please, Theon leapt forward, brandishing a knife and pulling the direwolf pup away from Bran. “Right, give it here.”
“No!” cried your nephew.
“Put away your blade,” you barked out, stepping closer to the ward.
Theon gulped nervously, but was stubborn to a fault. “I take orders from your brother, not you.”
“Please, father!” begged Bran, ever the sweet boy. He had already witnessed one death today, and was not yet ready to see five more.
“Put it away,” you repeated menacingly at Theon, before looking to your brother. “Ned, there are five direwolf pups… one for each of your children. The direwolf is the sigil of our house—it would do us no good killing off our own symbols. ‘Tis a rare thing to find direwolves around these parts. This is a blessing, brother. Take it as one.”
With a sigh, Ned hung his head, before staring directly at Bran. “You will train them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves. If they die, you will bury them yourselves.”
Theon sheathed his knife at Ned’s words, thrusting the pup back into Bran’s grasp.
The group began to walk away, and you hauled up one of the pups into your arms, wondering whether it will go to Sansa, Arya, or Rickon, as Robb and Bran seemed to already have their pick.
“What about you?” Bran asked Jon.
The dark-haired man stiffly replied, “I’m not a Stark.”
The sound of another whimpering pup roped your attention away from the one in your arms. Jon knelt down by the stump of a tree, brandishing a pure-white direwolf, its eyes a hazy shade of crimson.
“Ah, the runt of the litter,” chuckled Theon. “That one’s yours, Snow.”
Jon still seemed disheartened, staring at the scrawny little thing with narrowed eyes as the rest of the group were already hitching their horses.
“Come on,” you nudged the younger man along with your elbow. “The runts always turn out to be the strongest. Perhaps not physically, but their wills are unmatched.”
It was not often that you were remotely affectionate to him, but when Jon turned to glance at you, your expression had hardened back to its usual state. “Now get on your horse, before I convince your father to abandon you out here.”
The month passed by in a blur. The direwolves were growing at a rapid speed, reaching taller than the height of your knee when they sat up, ears perked. News of Jon Arryn’s death had come not too long ago, and King Robert Baratheon was due to arrive at Winterfell any minute by now, along with his family, and a plethora of other royal subjects.
“I want to see the Imp,” Arya babbled to you, scurrying along by your side as you swiftly crossed the courtyard to the stairs that led to your chambers, eager to change into something more appropriate for the arrival of the King.
“Why? Because you want to meet someone shorter than you, for once?” you asked her dismissively, allowing her to slip through the door behind you as you changed out of your muddied garments into much cleaner ones. “Take no offense to this, Arya, but Tyrion Lannister prefers the company of much older women.”
Arya hopped onto your bed, eyebrows furrowing. She reminded you much of your late older sister, and it pained you to look at her for too long. Your comment about Tyrion’s tastes flew right over her head. “I’m not that short! Bran and Rickon are much shorter than me!”
A derisive snort fell from your lips as you did up your tunic, leaning close to the warped mirror to make sure you were decent enough for the public’s eye. “Not for long, girl. Not for long.”
Before Arya could reply, you were already making your way out of your chambers, just in time to see Bran clamber down the tall castle walls, yelling out, “The King is here! I saw him, he’s here!”
Not ten minutes later, nearly a hundred horses clopped through the gates, carrying fluttering Baratheon and Lannister flags.
You stood beside Catelyn, head held up high. To her other side was Ned, then Robb, then Sansa, then Bran, and finally, little Rickon. Arya pushed forth between Sansa and Bran, shoving her younger brother aside. “Move!” she gruffed, earning her an angry glare from both parties.
Behind you was Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy, the former looking like he’d really rather be doing anything else, and the latter looking excited to see Southern folk—the girls there are much prettier, he’d always thought.
The King certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He’d grown twice as wide since last you saw him, rounded belly straining the buttons of his stretched coat. His dark beard was thick and long, wild locks of black hair hastily combed back. A servant had to place down steps for him to clamber off his horse.
Ned knelt down before his old friend, and you followed suit. The King strode up to him, beckoning your older brother to rise, along with the rest of the people of Winterfell. You stood back up on your feet, hands clasped behind your back. Your eyes wandered further behind the King, wondering where the rest of the royal family were.
“Your Grace,” said Ned, bowing his head.
Robert scanned his eyes over the Warden of the North, thick brows quirking down with disapproval. “You’ve got fat,” he quipped. Pot, meet kettle.
Your older brother tilted his head, using his chin to gesture to Robert’s own protruding stomach. The King then let out a loud, wheezing laugh, spreading out his arms to wrap Ned in a tight embrace.
He gave Catelyn a hug next, exclaiming her name warmly.
His dark eyes then landed on you. “Ah, the infamous Bitter Wolf,” he boldly said. He dared not hug you, wondering if you’d bite off his hand, uncaring that he was the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms. There was a pregnant pause—his gaze rested a second longer than it should have, for he couldn’t help but notice how you’d grown well into your features, sharing a few traits with Lyanna—though she looked much like your father whilst your appearance favored your late mother. “Time has done you wonders. Last I saw, you were only but a wee thing.”
“If only I could say the same to you,” you replied, voice sharp and level. Robert only gave a grand chuckle at your words, before moving his gaze back to Ned.
“Nine years—why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”
A ghost of a smile graced Ned’s lips. “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace.”
“From what? Naked tree branches and piles of snow?” he said, amused at his own jests.
A little ways behind Robert, you could see Queen Cersei Lannister step out of a carriage, lifting her golden skirts just slightly so they wouldn’t drag along the mud.
“Where’s the Imp?” you heard Arya ask her sister.
“Will you shut up?” Sansa shot back, rolling her deep blue eyes to the side.
The King walked on to see the Stark children, a proud glint to his expression. “And who do we have here? Ah… you must be Robb,” he said, shaking the eldest boy’s hand firmly. Robert looked at Sansa, brows raised. “My, you’re a pretty one.”
He then leaned down closer to Arya, who looked much too preoccupied looking for the Imp, asking for her name. Arya absentmindedly responded, still searching for Tyrion, not even bothering to look the King in the eye. Robert seemed not to mind, only barking out a gruff chuckle.
“Ooh, show us your muscles!” Robert told Bran, who immediately raised a scrawny arm with a small grin. The King wheezed a chesty laugh. “You’ll be a soldier!”
The last of the horses rode into Winterfell, and you keenly noticed a golden-armored knight climbing off his steed, tugging his helmet off his head.
Jaime Lannister.
The man who killed the King. The very same King that murdered your father and brother.
Nearly unchanged from all those years ago, he was. His golden hair stood out starkly against the grey walls of the castle, green eyes bright and cunning.
You hadn’t even noticed that you were staring at him until your attention was ripped away by Cersei Lannister, her hand held out in front of Ned.
“My Queen,” he said, lightly kissing her knuckles. Catelyn bowed, a polite smile to her lips. You watched her with narrowed eyes, and for a brief second, Cersei met your cold gaze, as if challenging you to back down.
Before she could say anything, Robert strode back in front of Ned. “Take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects.”
To Lyanna. He wanted to see Lyanna.
Cersei scowled. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”
The King ignored his wife. “Ned. Let’s go.”
Your brother glanced apologetically at the Queen, before leading Robert away, down to the crypts.
“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asked a third time, bouncing on her feet.
Nobody spared her a response, but Cersei swiftly rotated around to Jaime, taking hold of his arm. “Where is our wretched brother? Go and find the little beast.”
You watched Jaime huff in amusement, before striding off in search of Tyrion.
When Cersei turned back to the Stark family, you were nowhere to be seen.
The feast was held at sundown.
Your creamed potatoes were growing cold, but you hadn’t the stomach to eat anymore—not when Robert Baratheon was sticking his tongue down a servant’s throat only two tables away from you. So you opted to sipping on your drink instead, half-listening to whatever tall tale Robb was exaggerating to the lords around him.
It was only when half of the food was already scarfed down, did your brother Benjen arrive. He came clopping on horseback, striding through the crowded entrance and ducking between cheering men with overflowing chalices of ale.
“Little sister,” he greeted, clapping a hand on your shoulder and drawing you into a tight hug. Surprised at the sudden embrace, it took you a moment to reciprocate his affection. Your nose buried into the thick furs of his coat. You did not smile, but there was a faint trace of fondness to your eyes. “You are looking as sour as ever. Not a wonder why people only ever call you the Bitter Wolf these days. ‘Tis a rare thing to see you at a social calling, much less one this crowded.”
“Aren’t you a charmer? I’m only here because the King ordered me to be. Why, I cannot possibly say,” you dryly replied, before shoving him away and handing him a goblet of wine. “Here. Must be better than what you’ve got up on the Wall.”
Benjen said something in reply, but it was muffled into the rim of the cup as he slurped it down with a greedy groan. “Ah, I missed this terribly. You can’t imagine how awful alcohol tastes up there. Where is our dear brother? Ned!”
The taller man strode away to the eldest Stark by the main table, cuffing his shoulder with a wide grin. Ned, however, was solemn-faced, pondering about the mad boy he had beheaded all those weeks ago.
You chanced a glance towards the King—he was far too occupied with two other ladies fawning over him to notice you slipping out of the Hall. With that, you began weaving through the packed throng, eager to take your leave.
To your dismay, you were stopped in your tracks by a taller figure, the dark lapels of his tunic brushing against your face with your sudden halt. You reared back a step, your narrowed eyes meeting his curious green ones.
Jaime Lannister.
“Excuse me,” you said, none too pleased about being stopped in your tracks.
“Lady Stark,” he murmured, voice silken smooth. “Or, should I say, the Bitter Wolf?”
Annoyance growing, you only scowled at him. “Pardon me, Ser Jaime. Or, should I say, Kingslayer?”
Jaime frowned. The action twisted his sharp features in a manner that did not suit him at all, as if such an expression did not belong on such a face. The words stung like he’d just been slapped. Nonetheless, he pressed forth, determined to keep your conversation ongoing.
“I hear your brother is to be Hand of the King.”
What was this? Amicable chatter? With the Queen’s brother, no less? You were bewildered as to how you got to such a predicament—you only wanted nothing more than to retire to your chambers.
“Yes, lovely to hear that I am the last of my siblings to remain at Winterfell,” you snarkily replied, deftly stepping around him and ushering out of the Hall. It was to no avail, for Jaime simply strode with you, ambling after you out into the cold snow. “Why are you following me?”
“Walking you to your chambers,” the blonde knight simply replied, as if it were common sense. “You were there, were you not? At the Tourney of Harrenhal? I saw you. Small thing, you were.”
A beat of silence. In the distance, a raven cawed. You could feel the tension in your shoulders only barely dissipate.
“Yes,” you carefully replied. “I remember little of it… I was so young. Times were simpler then.”
Jaime huffed out a dry laugh and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for me, they weren’t.” It was clear to you that he was implying his time with the Mad King. You were given no chance to reply when he continued speaking. “You weren’t so bitter then. I saw you dancing with your brother… Brandon, was it?”
A lump formed in your throat. “Yes,” you quietly responded, voice suddenly hoarse.
“I’m sure a tournament will be held in honor of Lord Eddard’s new title, should he accept,” Jaime said, hands clasping behind his back. “I would hope to see you there, Lady Stark. Perhaps you can watch me best your brother in combat.”
Much to Jaime’s amazement, you scoffed, bordering on a near laugh.
He had made the infamous Bitter Wolf nearly laugh! A strange sense of pride curled within the confines of his chest.
“Your arrogance will be your downfall, Ser Jaime. Besides—Ned doesn’t fight in tourneys. I wouldn’t, either.” You turned the corner to climb up the steps to your chambers, halting in your tracks to look down upon Jaime. “‘Tis a foolish thing, fighting for naught but gold and praise. When the enemies come striking, there is no gold waiting on the other side. Just the bittersweet relief of survival.”
Jaime tilted his head, considering your words. “It’s not always a relief.”
“Pardon?”
“Relief… not all are relieved to be alive,” he mused, hand resting upon the stone wall beside him.
You observed the man before you. Perhaps you had severely misjudged him.
“Yes,” you murmured, casting your gaze up to the starry night sky. “I know what that’s like.”
The two of you stood in silence for a while longer. It was neither comfortable nor was it unbearable. It was simply just there.
“I’ll be retiring for the night, Ser Jaime. You’ve followed me this far—I could only hope you won’t follow me into my chambers,” you said in a warning tone, eyes locked intensely with his.
With a playful tone, Jaime pushed at the elasticity of your limits. There was a roguish grin to his mouth. “I would never. Not unless you invited me, of course.”
And there it was again—your gruff scoff-laugh. Jaime stood up straighter, wishing to hear you laugh properly.
“Good night, Ser,” you curtly said.
“Good night, Lady Stark. Sleep well. Perhaps we’ll reconvene on the morrow,” he replied with a small bow of his head. With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back into the mess hall. You hummed in thought, thinking back to his earlier words as you slid into your dark chambers.
Not all are relieved to be alive.
You were up early the next morning, sharpening one of your many throwing daggers by the foot of the staircase.
It all happened in a blur. One moment, you heard a faint thud from the edges of the castle walls. You thought nothing of it at first—brushing it off as one of the saddle boys accidentally knocking a barrel over. But the morning was still young, and you doubted any of them would even be up at such an hour. It would do you no harm to go check. And so, you sheathed your dagger and strode across the yard and rounded the bend.
The next moment, you were happening upon Bran’s small, broken body, laid across the grass and gravel, clearly having just fallen from a great height. You had yelled for the maesters so loudly that the entirety of Winterfell seemed to awaken at the commotion. With frantic motions, you gathered Bran up in your arms and sprinted towards the infirmary, murmuring panicked prayers to the Old Gods beneath your breath.
The startled Maester Luwin swooped to take Bran from you, setting him down on a bed to check on him. The small boy was unresponsive, but still breathing.
Catelyn and Ned came running in soon after. You took to comforting an anguished Cat while answering Ned’s solemn questions as to what happened.
For the days to come, you rarely ever left your nephew’s side, curled up in a chair by the head of his bed, only ever leaving to occasionally clean yourself up and grab food for yourself and Catelyn. The boy’s poor mother was in shambles, often crying into his blankets and pleading for him to wake up. She prayed to her Seven Gods, begging them to bestow mercy for her sweet boy. When she wasn’t sobbing, she would read to him in a low, croaking voice, or occupy her shaking hands with needlework.
Cersei Lannister had appeared by the doorway the morning after Bran’s fall, clutching her thick coat close to her form.
“Oh, I would’ve dressed, had I known you were coming, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, standing up to bow slightly. You glanced up from your own book, dipping your head in acknowledgement to the Queen.
The woman hummed. “Please, this is your home. I’m your guest.” She looked upon Bran, green eyes dark and thoughtful. “Handsome one, he is. I lost my first boy—a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter, too… tried to beat the fever that took him.”
Her words made you set your book down, brows furrowing.
She seemed to sense both you and Catelyn’s agitation, clasping her hands in front of her. “Forgive me. That must be the last thing you need to hear right now.”
“I never knew, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her palm. She was exhausted, having forgone sleep for the entire night.
“It was a long time ago,” Cersei replied wistfully. “Robert was furious… beat his hands bloody on the wall. All the things men do to show you how much they care.”
“Without actually caring,” you murmured, thinking back to his crazed infatuation with your older sister. Cersei’s stare turned to you, and she nodded once.
There was a long, pregnant silence. The Queen cleared her throat and continued on. A thin film of tears warbled over her viridescent irises. “The boy looked just like him. Such a small thing. A bird without feathers. When they came to take him away—Robert held me. I screamed and battled, but he held me. I never saw him again. Never visited the crypts.” She drew in a shaky breath and fixed her stare back on the motionless Bran. “I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she will return your child to you, Lady Catelyn.”
“I am grateful,” Cat sniffled.
“Perhaps this time she’ll listen,” said Cersei. She turned to take her leave, but not before glancing at you. “You were the one who found him, were you not?”
You set your jaw at the question. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Hm. It is a miracle you were there… he would have been dead if not for you,” she murmured, a strange edge to her tone. The skirts of her dress swished noisily as she strode out of the room.
The fresh air was doing you good. Your head felt much clearer as you made your way around the castle, the cold winds settling nicely over your skin, pleasantly tousling your hair. You made your way to the smithy, where you spotted Jon hovering over the wooden table where a blade was being carefully cleaned.
It seemed the young man was quite taken with the prospect of going up to the Wall with your brother, Benjen, and swearing the vows of the Night’s Watch. You weren’t too happy to hear of his plans on leaving Winterfell, but you supposed he’d feel much more at home further up North with people cut from the same cloth as him. Not only was Jon leaving to the Wall, but Ned, Sansa, and Arya were also going to the capital with the King quite soon.
“Jon,” you greeted, dipping your head at your nephew. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”
The grey-eyed man shook his head, curls flying. There was a small, wary smile touching the corner of his lips. “I was going to come visit you and Bran before you left. I have something to give to Arya first.”
You peered over his shoulder to take a closer look at the thin sword. “A sword for your sister? Be sure your father doesn’t see you giving her that.”
Surprised flashed across Jon’s face. You were never one to pass up the chance to nag him until his ears fell away. “Are you not going to tell me off?”
“No,” you grimly replied. “King’s Landing is a dangerous place. The girl’s going to need it someday.”
Jon nodded once, pleased that you weren’t going to stop him.
It was then that you heard a familiar voice susurrate from behind you, making both you and Jon turn around at the same time.
“Lady Stark, my deepest condolences for your young nephew. Let us hope he makes a speedy recovery,” he said. He was grinning strangely, in a manner that you rather misliked.
“Yes,” you responded stoically. “I suppose this is a farewell for us, then.”
The blonde knight tossed his head back in a confident manner. “Only time will tell, Bitter Wolf. You never know—our paths may yet cross again.”
You couldn’t quite tell if that was a promise or a threat. Perhaps both.
You spared him a distant hum, turning back to look upon the sword Jon was having specially crafted for Arya.
“A sword for the wall?” the Kingslayer asked, head tilting.
“No. I already have one,” said Jon.
The older man’s brows lifted. “Good man. Have you swung it yet?”
The bastard scoffed. “Of course I have.”
“At someone, I mean,” the knight clarified. Jon remained silent. “It’s a strange thing… cutting a man open for the first time. You realize we’re nothing but sacks of meat and blood and bone to keep it all standing. Let me thank you ahead of time, Jon Snow, for guarding us all from the perils beyond the Wall. Wildlings and white walkers and whatnot.”
Jaime tightly clasped Jon’s hand, clearly mocking the man with a condescending lilt to his words. It took no genius to discern that Jaime was no fan of the Night’s Watch—to him, they were nothing but a group of lowly thieves, rapists, and murderers.
The younger boy tried to pull his hand away from Jaime’s grip, but the blonde man merely grasped harder. “We’re grateful to have such good, strong men like you protecting us.”
“I’d appreciate it if you let go of my nephew, Ser Jaime,” you cut in, voice icy and eyes ablaze. You were rather indifferent to the blonde knight, but he was starting to get on your nerves.
Jaime took one glimpse at your hardened scowl, before relinquishing his hold on Jon and stepping back. You couldn’t quite read the expression on his handsome features. “Give my regards to the brothers at the Wall. I’m sure it will be thrilling to serve in such an… elite force. And if not, well… it’s just for your entire life, right? Small price.”
The Kingslayer left the both of you glaring at his back, making his way back into the castle to find his brother. You looked to Jon.
“His arrogance will be his downfall,” you whispered, parroting what you’d told him the night of the feast.
Jon only grunted in response, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.
It was easy to say goodbye to Jon. You knew he was going to be safe with your brother watching over him, and he was going to be much happier at the Wall without feeling out of place, like he did in Winterfell. You gave him a one-armed hug, pulling away to pat his cheek twice.
“Write to me, will you? I want to know how you’re faring,” you said, tone uncharacteristically soft. It’d been nearly a month since Bran fell out of the window, and you weren’t keen on losing another one of your nephews.
Jon nodded, lips pursed grimly. “Of course. Will you let me know if Bran wakes up?” he asked.
“When he wakes up,” you corrected.
“Right. When he wakes up. You Starks are hard to kill.”
Though you didn’t smile, there was a clear glimmer of fondness to your irises, one that Jon only rarely caught when you were speaking to Ned or little Rickon. The fact that it was directed to him for the first time made his stomach roil—he was going to miss you.
“You’re a Stark to me, Jon. You’re my nephew, my blood… never forget that. Now, get on—Robb’s waiting to speak to you.”
You ushered the younger man off to say his farewells to his half-brother, but Jon paused in his steps and lowly asked, “Before I go, I wanted to ask you… do you know anything about my mother?”
There was a beat of silence. You certainly hadn’t expected Jon to ask you that. “Your father never spoke to me about her. All I know is that she must’ve been a good person if Ned took a liking to her. I’m sorry… I wish I could tell you more, but I know little of the matter myself.”
You didn't miss the glimmer of disappointment to the young lad's grey eyes. “Don’t be. Farewell, Aunt Y/N.”
You watched Jon turn on his heel and walk off to speak with Robb.
“You don’t look too happy to see me off,” said Benjen, magically appearing by your side and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. He ruffled your hair with a mild grin. “Then again… you never really look happy, do you?”
With a scowl, you ducked away from his hands. “Oh, stop it. I’ll be seeing you again sooner or later, no doubt.”
“I’m being serious, dear sister. I cannot remember the last time I’ve seen you genuinely smiling,” he said, evident concern flooding his winter-hewn features. “Give me a smile—just one before I leave. You used to smile all the time when we were little.”
Before the war. Before father and Brandon were murdered.
You shook your head, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. “That was a long while ago, Benjen. I am not the same person I was before.”
Barking out a laugh, Benjen crossed his arms over his chest. “Indeed you are not. I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll be keeping Bran in my prayers.”
“You don’t pray,” you dryly said.
“I would for him,” your older brother replied solemnly before mounting his horse. “Goodbye, Y/N.”
Your own goodbye was too quiet for him to hear, as he was already clopping away.
The next farewells in order were for Ned, Sansa, and Arya. Your brother tugged you into a loose hug, face grim.
“Winter is coming,” he had whispered into your hairline. “Take care, Y/N.”
As for the two girls, Sansa was rather intimidated by you, and squeaked out a stiff goodbye, whilst Arya hugged you tightly, her face buried into the fabric of your tunic. You had frozen at first, but loosened with time and gently patted her head.
There was too much of Lyanna in her, you thought with a frown as she pulled away from you and scurried off to get into the carriage behind her older sister.
Hours later, you found yourself sitting by Bran’s bed once again, Catelyn on the other side weaving together a prayer wheel for her son. You were flicking through a voluminous tome on the history of dragons, muffling a yawn behind your fist. It was only when Maester Luwin strode into the room did you pull your attention away from the book.
“It’s time we reviewed the accounts, my Lady,” he hesitantly said to Catelyn, hands clasped together. The woman’s eyes watered, and she glared at the maester for even thinking that she was up for speaking of money when her son was still hurt. “You’ll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us.”
She hummed dismissively. “Talk to Poole about it.”
Sympathetic, Luwin lowered his voice. “Poole went south with Lord Stark, my Lady. We need a new steward, and there are several appointments that require our immediate attention—”
“I don’t care!” Catelyn bit out. “I don’t care about appointments! My son needs me.”
Another figure stepped through the doorway. “I’ll make the appointments,” said Robb. “We’ll talk about it first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be happy to help, if need be,” you offered, nodding to Robb.
“Very well, my Lord—my Lady,” said Maester Luwin to the both of you, before dipping his head and excusing himself out of the room.
You casted a worried glance to Catelyn, who’d taken to intensely staring at her prayer wheel once more.
“When was the last time you’ve left this room?” Robb asked his mother. Crossing the room in three long strides, he reached out to open up the windows. The noise of the howling direwolves flooded into the chambers.
There was a tremble in her voice when she said, “I have to take care of him.”
“He’s not going to die, mother. The maester says the most dangerous time has passed,” Robb tried to reason fruitlessly.
“What if he’s wrong?” she retaliated, eyes wild. “Bran needs me!”
Her eldest son shook his head. “Rickon needs you. He’s six. He doesn’t know what’s happening—he follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying out for you, for Bran, for father—”
The direwolves howled some more.
“Close the windows!” Catelyn cried, abandoning her prayer wheel to curl her hands into fists and knock them against her knees in frustration. “I can’t stand it! Make them stop!”
The howling only grew louder.
With furrowed brows, you stood up on your feet to stand beside Robb and glance out the window.
Your heart leapt into your throat.
Fire.
Red, greedy flames. Licking at the air, spitting embers at the gravel.
With urgent movements, you dashed out of the door to help put the growing blaze out, catching Robb ordering his mother to stay in the room.
When you returned to the chambers not fifteen minutes later, you found Catelyn curled up on the cold floor, murmuring prayers beneath her breath, her hands soaked in dark ichor. An equally bloodied Summer was laying protectively over Bran’s unconscious form.
On the other side of the room was a man, throat nearly turned inside out, crimson so dark it nearly looked black, gushing out of his neck.
And on the ground between them was a dagger.
A dagger to change the fate of the entirety of Westeros.
“This is where he must have fallen,” you whispered to Catelyn, gazing out from the opening in the tall tower.
Your sister-in-law gritted her teeth. “Or where he was pushed.”
Anger bubbled within your throat. It made sense—Bran had never fallen before while climbing, and someone was sent to murder him not too long after the first failed attempt.
“Who would do such a thing?” you asked in an icy voice, gaze scouring around the rest of the tower.
Catelyn knelt down on the ground, eyes widening. From the ground she picked up a long strand of blonde hair.
Fury turned your vision red.
Cersei Lannister.
Nearly an hour later, Catelyn had convened a small group she was sure to be loyal to her. Ned’s ward, the master-at-arms, the maester, you, and her eldest son.
“What I am about to tell you must remain between us,” she said, an urgent edge to her words. “I don’t think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was thrown.”
Maester Luwin bowed his head in thought. “The boy was always sure-footed before.”
“Someone tried to kill him twice. Why? Why murder an innocent child?” Catelyn whispered, blue eyes hardened. “Unless he saw something he shouldn’t have seen.”
Theon tilted his head. “Saw what, my Lady?”
“I don’t know… but I would stake my life the Lannisters are involved. We already have reason to suspect their loyalty to the crown.”
“Did you notice the dagger that the killer used? It’s too fine a weapon for such a man. The blade is Valyrian steel, and the handle is dragonbone. Someone gave it to him… someone with a lot of money,” said Rodrik, presenting the sharp dagger for everyone to see.
Enraged, Robb snarled, “They come into my home and try to murder my brother? If it’s war they want—”
“If it comes to that, you know that I’ll stand behind you,” Theon interrupted, ever desperate to please.
“Perhaps it is best you think first with your head before your fists,” you told the two bristling boys in a placating tone. “War is the last thing we need. We have to keep our emotions in tact… find out who did this. Justice will be served, but it mustn’t be rushed.”
Robb blew out a frustrated breath, but nodded. It was not wise to rush headfirst into war. Everybody had to be smart about this.
“Lord Stark must be informed,” said Maester Luwin.
Shaking her head, Catelyn responded, “I don’t trust a raven to carry these words.”
“I’ll ride to King’s Landing,” Robb offered.
Immediately, Catelyn refused his proposal, not wanting to put another one of her sons in danger. “No. You are Winterfell’s heir—you should remain here. I will go myself.”
“Mother, you can’t—” Robb began to protest.
“I must,” said Catelyn, heavy with finality.
Rodrik pursed his lips before saying, “I’ll send Hal with a squad of guards to escort you, my Lady.”
Again, Catelyn denied the offer. “I don’t want the Lannisters to know I’m coming. Too large a party will attract attention.”
“Then let me accompany you,” said Rodrik. “The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone.”
Crestfallen at having to see his mother off, Robb whispered, “What about Bran?”
Catelyn’s lips trembled. “I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month. Bran’s life is in their hands now.”
By nightfall, Catelyn had packed a small rucksack to take with her, and Rodrik was awaiting her by Winterfell’s gates.
“Watch my boys for me,” she murmured, taking your hands within hers and squeezing. Tears lined her eyes, threatening to fall, but none did. “There isn’t much you can do for Bran but Robb… Rickon… they need you.”
“I’ll be here, sister,” you said solemnly, squeezing her palms in a reassuring manner.
With that, you helped her mount her small horse, and watched as she rode off with Rodrik in tow. Robb came by your side, his jaw set.
“All my life, I’ve watched people go,” you said to him, wistful. “My father, my brothers, my sister, and now your mother. The waiting is the worst part.”
The younger man casted you a curious look—this was the first time he’s heard you speak of your past. He pulled a hand over his weary face. “I’m not good at waiting.”
“You’ll have no choice,” you told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, Robb. We have an entire castle to uphold. We must work together, you and I. You are a young man, with a heavy responsibility weighing over your head… but I will shoulder it with you. You hear me, boy?”
Conflict warred within the blue of his eyes. He looked so much like Catelyn, nothing like you or Ned. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
To his surprise, you pulled him into an embrace, and he couldn’t help but swallow down the lump in his throat, forcing away the sharp sting to the corner of his eyes. Never before had you openly shown him such affection, but these were changing times. You loved your nephew dearly, even if you weren’t one to show it.
“Come,” you said once you pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “Let us go have supper.”
A week had gone by when Bran awoke.
He was tired and groggy, and felt nothing from the waist down. He’d never be able to walk again, the maester had said. Bran was angry at the news, spending his days looking glum and solemn.
When Robb had asked him if he remembered anything, Bran merely bit his bottom lip and shook his head. You wrote to both Jon and Ned of the bittersweet news, sending the raven off first thing in the morning.
Nearly a moon later, Lord Tyrion returned back to Winterfell after his little adventure to the Wall, with a brother of the Night’s Watch, Yoren, accompanying him.
“I must say I received a slightly warmer welcome on my last visit,” the Imp mused, standing before you and Robb and Maester Luwin.
A scowl flitted over your features. “Winter is coming, Lord Tyrion. Not much warmth going around the North these days.”
Robb tilted his head. “Any man of the Night’s Watch is always welcome in Winterfell.”
“Any man of the Night’s Watch but not I, eh, boy?” Tyrion asked.
With a steely tone, your nephew gritted out, “I’m not your boy, Lannister. I’m the Lord of Winterfell while my father is away.”
“Then you might learn a Lord’s courtesy!”
It was then that the door to the hall swung open, and Hodor lumbered in, carrying Bran in his arms.
“So it’s true,” said Tyrion, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?”
Maester Luwin responded on the boy’s behalf. “He has no memory of that day.”
Frustrated, Robb asked, “Why are you here?”
Ignoring the question, the Lannister looked back to Bran. “Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt.”
With a straight face, Bran quietly said, “Kneel, Hodor.”
The large man did as Bran asked.
“Do you like to ride, Bran?” queried Tyrion.
“Yes. Well… I used to.”
Luwin’s brows furrowed. “The boy has lost the use of his legs.”
Brandishing a paper scroll, Tyrion easily replied, “With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.”
The small boy frowned at the wording. “I’m not a cripple,” he said, clearly upset.
“Then I’m not a dwarf!” Tyrion exclaimed before handing Bran the scroll. “My father would be rejoiced to hear it. Here—this is for you. Give it to your saddler, and he’ll provide the rest.”
He unraveled it eagerly, a smile touching his lips upon seeing intricate designs for a special-made saddle to accommodate for his legs.
“Will I really be able to ride?” asked Bran.
“You will,” said Tyrion. “On horseback, you’ll be as tall as any other man.”
Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “What game are you playing at, Lord Lannister? Why are you helping my nephew, if you even are?”
“No game,” the Imp replied. “I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”
Bran smiled at the blonde, and Robb seemed to soften a bit at this.
“You’ve done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” he said.
Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Spare me your courtesies, Lord Stark. There is a brothel outside your walls. There, I’ll find a bed and both of us can sleep easier.”
With that, Tyrion turned to leave.
“I’ll be right back,” you told Robb, who watched you go with curious eyes. You said nothing more, getting up from your seat and hurrying out after the surprisingly quick man. “Lord Tyrion.”
“Ah, the Bitter Wolf—I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of speaking to each other alone before,” he hummed. “My brother seems to think you’re amusing… though you don’t quite look the kind to jape.”
You waved away his words, getting straight to the point. “Do you know where Cersei Lannister was the morning Bran fell?”
The Imp’s brows raised. “I can’t say I do… I was sunken into my whore and my cups… and Cersei avoids me like the plague. I scarcely know where she is even when I’m sober. Why? Do you believe my wretched sister played a hand in his crippling?”
“Indeed, I do,” you shot back, a sharp edge to your words. “These are dangerous times, Lord Tyrion. Sleep well.”
With no more to say to him, you turned on your heel and marched back into the hall, with the Imp’s gaze burning holes into the back of your head.
The small scroll the raven brought to Winterfell bore nothing but bad news. Catelyn had taken Tyrion as hostage in belief that he was the one responsible for Bran’s fall, as the dagger apparently belonged to him. She planned on bringing him up to the Vale to contest his crimes with her sister, Lysa.
It is not Tyrion, you wanted to scream at your law-sister, even though she was thousands of miles away. It is Cersei Lannister. I am sure of it.
Not too long after the news of the Imp’s imprisonment reached you, another raven came flying into Winterfell. This time, its contents were far graver.
Jory was dead. Ned was seriously maimed on behalf of Catelyn—a spear pierced cleanly into his thigh—and he was tossed into a jail cell by order of Jaime Lannister.
Fury had consumed you whole when you read the little parchment, nearly ripping the paper apart from your tight grip. You had half a mind to ride to King’s Landing and demand your brother be freed at once, but you steeled yourself with reason. There was little you could do—the Red Keep was swarming with golden lions and hungry cats of the same ilk. It was no place for a wolf of winter.
When you had told Robb of the news, he was surprisingly calm about it, drawing away from you to mull it over silently. He did not want to jump headfirst into violence—but what choice did he have now?
“My mother shouldn’t have done that,” murmured Robb, voice lowered so nobody would be able to overhear. “The Lannisters will go to war with us for this.”
You hummed, pensive. “No, she shouldn’t have. It is not Lord Tyrion that pushed Bran—he may be a drunkard, but he is not a fool. He wouldn’t equip an assassin with his own personal dagger. Only an arrogant idiot would do such a thing.”
“Then who do you think did it?” asked your nephew, blue eyes cold.
“Cersei Lannister. Your mother and I found a long strand of blonde hair in the tower Bran fell from. Who other than Cersei has long blonde hair? I don’t know why she would do such a thing—but I’d bet an arm and a leg that it was her. She loves nobody but her own children… and she is none too fond of your father, or the King, or any of you. Perhaps Bran saw her with someone. Someone she wasn’t supposed to be with,” you said, tone slow as you spelled it out for him.
Brows raised, Robb reared back at the realization. His breath seemed to crystallize within his throat. “If word were to get out about Cersei’s couplings, the King would have her head on a spike. It would make sense for her to eliminate any… threats.”
“Yes, boy. We must keep this to ourselves for now—we could lose our tongues at the very least if we have no proof.”
The younger man blew out a sigh. The heavy burden laying over his shoulders seemed to only grow weightier by the minute. “Should we not tell Bran? About any of this?”
Both of you looked at the sweet summer child, hollering out excitedly as he rode about on Dancer, strapped into the new horse saddle Tyrion had designed.
“He seems happy. Perhaps it is best we let him remain in such a state for a little while longer.”
It was then that Theon made his way to the two of you, having heard the news of Jory and Ned from a grave Maester Luwin.
“Are you not going to make the Lannisters pay?” he asked Robb, grey eyes ablaze.
Setting his jaw, Robb firmly shook his head. “I will not go to war.”
“It’s not war—” Theon firmly replied, “it’s justice.”
A scoff lodged itself in your throat. “Queer definition of justice, ey, Greyjoy? Is revenge the only way you settle fights back on the Iron Islands? ‘Tis a wonder the lot of you haven’t already murdered each other, then.”
The ward bristled at your nonchalant comments, but decided to ignore you, addressing Robb once more. “Jaime Lannister put a spear through your father’s leg. The Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock, where no one can touch him—”
“It was not him,” you sharply corrected Theon, scowling.
“What?”
“It was not Ser Jaime who speared Ned,” you repeated yourself, slightly quieter.
Mirroring your frown, Theon shook his head with frustration. “What does it matter? He was there. He fought Lord Stark in front of a whorehouse!”
“What would you have me do?” demanded Robb, lifting his head in a challenging manner. “March on Casterly Rock and order the Kingslayer to come out of hiding? Then you are more a fool than I thought, Theon.”
Raising his voice ever so slightly, Theon retaliated, “You’re not a boy anymore! They attacked your father. The war has already begun, whether you like it or not. It’s your duty to represent House Stark when your father can’t.”
“And what do you know of duty?” you spat, glaring angrily at Theon. “It is not your house—I’m afraid you’re confusing captivity with duty.”
With an angry yell, Theon pushed himself up to his feet, towering over you, but you merely rolled your eyes to the side. The both of you knew that if Theon were to lay one hand on you, he would be hanging from a noose by the end of the day. Uncaring of the bridling man, you glanced around to look for Bran.
Where the devil was he?
“Where’s Bran?” asked Robb, wildly looking around for his younger brother.
Still upset, Theon hissed out, “Don’t know. Not my house.” With that, he stalked away, shoulders slumped.
You and Robb hurriedly scoured the forest in search of little Bran. A nocked bow was gripped in your hands, and a dagger was safely tucked beneath your cloak in case you ever needed it.
Finally, the two of you heard whispers and mutters coming from behind a bush, and you raised your bow with narrowed eyes. It was Bran on his horse, appearing frightened—and around him were four Wildlings, their furs muddied and their faces covered with soot. One of them had a blade against Bran’s paralyzed leg.
“Drop the knife,” Robb commanded, voice booming. He unsheathed his sword, the cold metal gleaming with the sparse rays of sun through the dark grey clouds. “Let him go, and I’ll let you live.”
The wildlings glanced at each other, snickering. One of them dove forward with a yell, arcing an axe down upon Robb. Your nephew was quick to parry and duck away, his sword slicing cleanly along the flesh of his throat.
You let your arrow loose straight through the eye of the wildling closest to Bran, and he fell back with an ear-splitting scream. With nimble movements, you ran to the horse, beginning to unbuckle the straps to the saddle keeping him in place. To your right, another wildling came charging at you, her dull axe swinging down to your arm. You jerked away before it could make a clean chop, but the blade carved a large gash into your forearm nonetheless, blood splattering all over your tunic. Pain blossomed over your hand and you rolled away before she could hit you once more. Robb came forward, slanting his longsword against the wildling woman’s jugular.
The last straggler grabbed your injured arm, making you cry out at the sudden pressure, the tip of his own dirty knife pressing into your jaw. A crimson bead leaked out from your skin, rolling down your neck.
Robb’s eyes widened. From his horse, Bran worriedly yelled your name.
“Drop the sword!” the wildling yelled, glaring at Robb holding his friend. “Do it!”
With slow, cautious movements, Robb reluctantly lowered his sword, but didn’t relinquish his grip on the woman.
All of a sudden, an arrow flew through the air, piercing straight through the wildling that was holding you with a sickening squelch. More blood splattered over your face and you grimaced, shoving him away with a gasp. You rounded your gaze behind to see Theon Greyjoy, his face grim yet smug.
Robb was quick to rush to Bran, asking if he was alright. His blue eyes glanced at you with concern, noting how your entire arm was drenched with your dark blood.
“I’ll be fine,” you whispered to him, wincing as you put pressure upon your gash. “Maester Luwin will stitch me up.”
“Do I not get a thank you?” Theon asked you, nocking another arrow to point at the wildling woman’s forehead. “In the Iron Islands, you’re not a man until you’ve killed your first enemy. Well done, Robb.”
A scowl crossed your features, but Robb replied in your stead. “Have you gone mad?” he growled out. “What if you’d missed? You could’ve gotten her killed!”
Indignant, Theon gruffed, “That wildling would’ve killed the three of you anyway, had I not been there.”
“You don’t have the right—!”
“To what? To save Lady Stark? It was the only thing to do so I did it! Would you rather her be dead?”
You raised a hand to placate the two, tone calm and soft. “Alright, alright. Thank you, Theon. Happy? Can we get on with actual important matters now?” Your eyes darted to the last wildling alive.
Whimpering, she cowered beneath the tip of Theon’s arrow. “Please, m’lord, gimme mah life and ah’m yours,” she simpered, crawling closer to Robb.
Ever the tender boy, Robb bowed his head. “Keep her alive.”
She blew out a sigh of relief, kneeling down to press her head into the cold, damp soil with gratitude. You turned away, marching back to the castle, leaving a trail of blood dripping from the deep gash in your wake.
Benjen had disappeared. The small raven’s scroll was read over and over nearly ten times altogether… desperate for some sort of misreading or that the words would magically change. But they did nothing of the sort—your older brother had vanished into thin air beyond the Wall.
Before you could even begin to process your grief, another message came to Winterfell, written by Sansa.
Ned had been arrested.
“Treason?” Robb whispered after he read the message. “Sansa wrote this?”
“Sansa’s hand… but a Lannister’s words were stuffed down her throat. No mention of Arya either,” you growled out, pacing back and forth in front of your nephew, Maester Luwin, and Theon.
The old man clasped his hands in front of him, appearing grim. “You are summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new King.”
Brows furrowed, Robb spat, “Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his ass kissed?”
“This is a royal command, my Lord,” said Luwin. “If you should refuse to obey—”
“I won’t refuse. I’ll go to King’s Landing… but not alone. Call the banners,” Robb told the Maester, grave and solemn.
Lowering his voice, Luwin asked, “All of them, my Lord?”
“They’ve all sworn to defend my father, have they not? Now we see what their words are worth.”
There was a glint of pride in Luwin’s eyes. He’d been the one to pull Robb out of his mother’s womb, and now he was practically a man grown. With a bow of his head, he turned to amble away, off to send the ravens to the bannermen.
Robb’s hands were shaking violently. It didn’t go beyond your notice when he clasped them over one another in an effort to stave his nerves away.
“I’m going with you,” you told him firmly, surprising both Robb and Theon.
A protest formed on the tip of your nephew’s tongue. “No, you should stay here with B—”
“Ned is my brother. The only one left, if Benjen is truly gone. I need to go, Robb. I need to.” Your voice cracked with desperation and you reached out to tightly clutch at his shoulder, eyes cold with muted fury. “When the King summoned my father and my brother, Brandon, to King’s Landing… they never returned to Winterfell. And now Joffrey is calling for you… I can’t let you go alone. I’m coming with you—end of story.”
There was a lengthy beat of silence.
Eventually, Theon was the one that caved, barking out a laugh. “There’s no stopping her, Robb.”
“For once, Greyjoy seems to be finding sense,” you snidely remarked.
A small sigh fell from Robb’s lips. “Alright. Perhaps this is the best thing to do—I don’t know if I could lead a war all on my own.”
“You’re not alone, my boy,” you told him, patting his cheek twice. “You’d have to pry my cold, dead body away from you if it meant I was to be leaving you.”
A grand feast was held for the bannermen’s arrival at Winterfell. Everybody drank and ate and chattered joyfully, exchanging tall tales of war and battle. Everybody save for Robb, who was still ridden with anxiety, prodding around pieces of chicken with the prongs of his fork, having no appetite to eat. You sat beside him, taking small bites of a berry cake.
From across the table, Lord Umber was barking out, “For thirty years I’ve been leaving corpses in my wake! I’m the one you want leading the vanguard!”
His efforts to convince Robb were fruitless. “Galbart Glover will lead the van,” he repeated himself, quite exhausted of the matter already.
“The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!” the old man yelled. “I will lead the van… or I will take my men and march them home!”
You paused mid-bite, placing the half-eaten cake down on your plate as you glared at the northman. Icy were your words as you threatened, “Do so, Lord Umber, and you would be hanging from the gallows in under a fortnight. Your house would be branded with the name of an oathbreaker.”
The man’s dark eyes hardened and he stood up from the table, slamming his fists against the top. Plates of food and cutlery clattered with the sudden motion. “Oathbreaker, is it, Bitter Wolf?” You stood up as well, which prompted Robb to get up onto his feet, along with the rest of the table—save for Bran, who glanced worriedly between you and his brother. “I’ll not sit here and swallow insults from a woman who doesn’t even know the first thing about war!”
“How dare you speak to Lady Stark in such a way?” Robb bellowed, making the older man’s heated gaze fall on him.
“And you! How could I be taking orders from a boy so green he pisses grass?”
With that, he drew his blade, the sound of steel singing across the table. In a blink of an eye, Grey Wind leapt onto the table and knocked Greatjon onto his back with a great thud. The direwolf’s sharp teeth sank into the Umber’s hand, tearing off two fingers completely. Blood splattered all over the floor, accompanied by his agonized shrieking.
With a frustrated growl, he pushed himself back up onto his feet, clutching his maimed palm close to his chest.
“My Lord father taught me it was death to bare steel against your liege Lord,” said Robb. After a considerable pause, he continued, much softer. “But doubtless… you only meant to cut my meat for me, no?”
Oh, Robb. Sweet summer boy… too kind for his own good, you thought with a mild scowl. It will be the death of him.
It appeared as if the Umber wanted to curse Robb out some more. He glanced down at the direwolf, its muzzle covered in his blood. A bolt of fear jolted down his spine.
“Well,” he reluctantly said, clearing his throat, “your meat is bloody tough!”
The rest of the hall slowly fell into laughter, chortling at the dissipation of what could’ve been a bloodbath. Robb laughed amicably, finally sitting back down to actually start eating his food. You didn’t laugh, nor did you touch the rest of your cake.
By the time the feast had waned away, you escorted Bran and Hodor out of the hall, following behind the large, gentle giant into Bran’s chambers.
You sat by his bed once Hodor laid him down. With nimble, fleeting touches, you tugged the blanket up to Bran’s chin and brushed his hair away from his face. You were not the nurturing, motherly kind… you were not Catelyn, nor were you what Sansa wanted to be. You didn’t know how to care for Bran in the way he needed to be—Rickon even less so. But they were your family, and you needed to try for them… now more than ever before.
“Have any of your memories come back?” you asked, tone soft. When he shook his head, you blew out a sigh. “That’s alright. You just rest for now. How have you been sleeping?”
Bran bit into his lip, as if contemplating whether he should lie or not.
“I dream a lot,” he said, deciding to tell you the truth. “Every night. The same one.”
Cocking your head, you silently beckoned for him to go on.
“I see a raven… with three eyes,” he whispered. “Every time I get closer, it flies away.”
“Your mind knows no bounds, even in sleep,” you said, a hint of fondness to your gaze.
There was a long pause before Bran hesitantly queried, “Can I ask you a question, Aunt?”
“Go on, boy.”
“Does it ever… bother you? When people call you the Bitter Wolf?”
You leaned away from your nephew, humming in thought. “It did. It still does. It’s a constant reminder of my past.”
“Well, why don’t you order them to stop? You’re of higher rank than any of them!” squeaked Bran.
“The creatures of winter will always whisper, dear boy,” you murmured. “Only once the frost has taken them and iced their bodies into hard stone—only then would they fall silent.”
The young boy looked as if he wanted to ask you more, but the door creaked open, pulling both of your attentions to Robb, making his way into Bran’s chambers.
“What is it? Has something happened?” asked Bran, his deep blue eyes widening at Robb’s solemn features.
“It’s alright, nothing’s happened,” he replied, quiet. He met your gaze, and you nodded once in understanding. It was time to go.
It was then that Bran noticed Robb had donned his traveling furs. “Where are you going?”
“South,” Robb said. “For father.”
“But it’s the middle of the night!” he protested.
“The dark gives us cover for a few hours,” you spoke, voice only barely louder than a whisper. “The Lannisters have spies everywhere, no doubt.”
Bran reared back to face you. “Us? You’re leaving, as well?”
“Yes, Bran,” you told him simply, grim-faced.
“Can’t I come with you?” pleaded Bran. “I can ride now, you’ve seen me! And I won’t get in the way, I’ll—”
Before he could finish, Robb was already shaking his head firmly. “There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Until I return, that will be you. You are not to leave the castle walls while we’re gone. Do you understand?”
Crestfallen, Bran reluctantly nodded.
“Listen to Maester Luwin. Look after your little brother,” you gently told him. “Be brave for us, Bran. Winterfell needs you.”
“Okay,” he mumbled.
“Until we return,” Robb added, stepping forward to ruffle Bran’s hair affectionately. “We’ll ride together once I come back.”
A ghost of a watery smile traced the corner of Bran’s lips. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
With that, you pushed yourself onto your feet and both you and Robb made your way outside. Snowflakes danced with the cold wind.
“Do you really think this is smart? Going to war with the Lannisters?” asked Robb. You glanced at your oldest nephew, lips pursed. He was so young… and already carried himself as if he were two decades older than he actually was.
“No,” you quietly admitted. “War is never smart. But we don’t have a choice, do we?”
Robb hummed. “No. I suppose we don’t.”
A fortnight breezed by in the blink of an eye.
The war was steadily waging on—with Jaime Lannister at the crux of the oppositional side. To think that you had once thought him a decent man… it made your stomach roil just thinking about it. With Tywin Lannister’s armies approaching as well, Robb seemed to be vastly outnumbered in battles.
Your good-sister, Lady Catelyn, joined you in the Neck, the marshy region of House Reed. She had embraced you tightly, before pulling away to query about her two youngest sons with tearful eyes. You assured her that they were safe in Winterfell, pointedly avoiding the encounter with the Wildlings, not wanting to worry her any further.
Many strategy meetings were held on whether to move ahead on Jaime Lannister’s army, or Tywin’s. You butted heads with Greatjon Umber far too often, as you bore no liking for him and he would rather think with his fists than his head. Either way, the group would have to cross the Twins, which meant you had to garner the support of the Freys. The Lord of the Freys, Walder, was no man easily swayed. He had a penchant for gold and young girls, often of his own kin, and thought very little of his sworn oaths.
It was all one big headache.
You spent many sleepless nights practicing your archery, which was hard to do with your injured hand. It was steadily healing, but still throbbed when overworked. On days the pain would grow too overbearing, you would write letters for the ravens to take. To Maester Luwin, enquiring about the boys. To the Wall, wondering how Jon was doing after taking the black… and if Benjen had returned. You dared not write to Sansa or Arya, knowing full and well it would only be intercepted by the cunt of a Queen, Cersei Lannister.
By the next three days, Robb had reluctantly agreed to have his mother go into the Freys’ castle in hopes of bartering an agreement with the prickly old man, since she’d known him when she was a young girl.
When she came back, her face was solemn.
“Well?” Robb asked. “What did he say?”
“Lord Walder has granted your crossing,” she replied. “His men are yours, as well—less the four hundred he will keep here to hold the Crossing against any who would pursue you.”
The damn Lannisters, you thought grimly.
There was a steely glint to Robb’s eyes. “What does he want in return?”
“You will be taking on his son, Olyvar, as your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in good time.”
Nodding, Robb stroked the shadow of a stubble growing along his jaw. “Fine, fine. And?”
Catelyn blew out a shallow sigh. “And Arya… will marry his son, Waldron, when they both come of age.”
You gritted your teeth. “She’ll be none too happy about that.”
When Catelyn nodded at your words, she pursed her lips, as if she had more to say.
“There’s more?” said Robb.
“And… When the fighting is done, you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer—he has a number he thinks will be suitable.” Reluctance weighed heavily in Catelyn’s tone.
If Robb was upset at the news, he did well to hide it.
“I see,” he said. “Did you get to see them? His daughters?”
“I did. One was… nearer to your age,” she replied, slow and cautious. “Do you consent?”
The poor boy, you thought. Having to give up his choice in exchange for duty.
“Can I refuse?” he asked. For a moment, he looked as if he were his age again, eyes wide and fists clenched.
“Not if you want to cross,” replied his mother.
There was a long beat of silence. In the distance, his direwolf barked at a stray mutt passing by.
“Then I consent,” Robb said. With that, he quickly stepped out and away from the tent, in need of some time to digest his new betrothal.
As you watched him go, you heard Theon come up to stand beside you.
“A small price to pay,” he crooned, a slight smirk to his lips. “A marriage to win the war.”
“You only say that because you’re not the one paying,” you lightly responded, though there was a sharp edge to your tone, as if warning him not to toe your boundaries. “Robb carries a heavy burden. Do well not to add yourself to that, Theon.”
With a nod, you excused yourself, heading back to your tent, itching to write to Jon of the news.
Two thousand men sacrificed to distract Tywin Lannister… whilst the other eighteen thousand took over Jaime’s armies.
And now Robb had the Kingslayer in his grasp.
He was bound and kneeling before you and Cat, blonde hair caked with dried blood and face filthy with dirt and soot.
“By the time they knew what was happening, it had already happened,” said Robb, staring down at the Lannister with pure hatred roiling within the blue of his eyes.
“You did well, Robb,” you said, keeping your narrowed gaze trained on Jaime.
The knight looked to you, a lazy smirk curled at the corner of his bleeding lips. “Bitter Wolf. It is a pleasure to see you again. Terrible circumstances, but a pleasure indeed.”
You frowned. All you could see when you looked at him was his sister, who you suspected played a hand in Bran’s fall. His nephew, the cruel boy that had your brother imprisoned. He was a Lannister first and foremost… no amount of lives he took or saved would ever change that.
“I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Ser Jaime,” you replied in a stiff tone.
Jaime merely hummed, before turning his head to face your good-sister. “Lady Stark. I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have lost it.”
With stinging words, Catelyn sharply said, “It is not your sword I want. Give me my daughters back. Give me my husband!”
Jaime swallowed, his throat itchy and dry. “I’ve lost them as well, I’m afraid.”
“Kill him, Robb!” said Theon, eyes wild. “Send his head to his father! He cut down ten of our men—you saw him!”
Brows furrowing, you shook your head firmly. “What use would that be, you foolish boy? Killing him would bring us nothing but Tywin Lannister’s wrath. We keep him alive for leverage.”
“Is that all I am to you, Bitter Wolf? A bargaining chip? You wound me,” Jaime sardonically gruffed, though there was a twinge of gratitude to his voice.
“You are nothing to me, Kingslayer,” you spat, effectively wiping away the smug look on Jaime’s face.
Robb bowed his head at your words. “Aunt Y/N is right. He is more useful to us alive than dead.”
Catelyn nodded in agreement. “Take him away and put him in chains.”
Just as two of the guards were ready to haul him away, Jaime barked out, “We could end this war right now, boy. Save thousands of lives. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters. Just you and me—swords, lances, teeth, nails… you take your pick. Let’s end this here and now.”
Save thousands of lives, he had said. A tempting offer. But would that be worth the life of your nephew?
Robb squared his jaw. “If we do it your way, Kingslayer, you’d win. We’re not doing it your way.”
The guards laughed as they began tugging Jaime along, off to shackle him down. “Come on, pretty man,” one of them cackled, kicking at Jaime’s feet.
Turmoil danced clear as day over Robb’s features. “I sent two thousand men to their graves today.”
“The bards will sing songs of their sacrifice,” said Theon.
Robb momentarily shut his eyes. It was all so incredibly loud. “Aye. But the dead won’t hear them.” With that, he stepped forward to address the rest of the army. “One victory does not make us conquerors! Did we free my father? Did we rescue my sisters from the Queen? Did we free the North from those who want us on our knees? This war is far from over.”
Stone-faced, Robb turned on his heel and marched off.
You blew out a long, tired sigh. From the trees above you, you noticed a rotund pigeon staring straight at you from a high branch. It chirped lightly, before flying off, making its way North. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, before stalking away, retreating back to your tent.
The sun had not yet risen when a ground-shaking scream tore through the camp. Guttural, visceral, rageful…
Broken.
You had fallen to your hands and knees upon reading the raven’s message, wailing your sorrows to the ground.
Ned Stark was dead. You were the only one of your siblings left.
Dead. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. Killed by Joffrey’s command. Bitter wolf. Bitter, bitter, bitter wolf. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming.
Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and your eyes stung as if hot pokers were pressing against them. Thunder rumbled within your chest and you curled your hands into fists. Someone tugged you up and held you close. Your cheek was smushed into their neck and you cried even harder, sobbing hysterically.
Gods, give him back to me, you pleaded silently. Give him back. He was the only brother I had left. Give him back, give him back, give him back—
“Shh, shh, I know, I know,” Catelyn’s hoarse voice whispered into your hair. It took you a moment to realize that it was her cradling you.
Immeasurable guilt filled your lungs. She was the one who lost her husband. She had lost just the same as you, if not more so… and yet she was the one holding you, comforting you, mothering you.
“I’m sorry,” you wailed against her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Cat, I’m sorry, I—” You dissolved into another fit of heart-wrenching cries, fruitlessly trying to pull away and wipe your tears.
“It’s not you that should be sorry,” she patiently told you, cupping your damp cheek to gently stroke the hair away from your face. The blue of her eyes warbled with her own unshed tears. “Let it out, good-sister. Let it out.”
And so you did. For hours, you did nothing but cry until your voice mellowed into buzzing silence and your eyes could bear it no longer.
By the time the sun was beginning to sink down the horizon, you finally left your tent.
Robb. You had to speak to him.
Your nephew was in the thick of the woods, far enough from the camp where nobody could hear him cry. Dried tear tracks on his cheeks reflected the waning light of the disappearing sun as he swung his sword against the tree over and over and over again.
He stopped when he heard you coming, hands slackening around the hilt.
When he turned to take you in, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that you were just as much a mess as he was.
“Robb,” you whispered.
“Aunt,” he whispered back.
“You poor boy,” you croaked, vision blurring over once more. In no less than three long strides, you made your way to him, tugging him into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Robb. I’m sorry.”
The young man only loosely reciprocated your hug at first, choking back his own tears. He had so much he wanted to say… but his thoughts came too quickly and too many at once, all lodged into the back of his throat. And so he fell quiet, soaking in your rarely-offered comfort. He had already cried out his promises of revenge with his mother, cursed his enemies with Theon, angrily strategized with his grieving bannermen.
All he needed now was some quiet support—a steady shoulder to lean on. And if that was all you had to offer him, he would gladly take it.
“You were right,” you whispered into his ear, expression hardening. “The war is far from over. Winter is coming, Robb. And lions do poorly in the frost.”
The hall was dimly lit with blazing torches hanging on the walls, casting ominous shadows across the room. You were seated beside Robb, with Catelyn on his other side. The bitter, the young, and the stone-heart.
“The proper course is clear! We join our forces with his!” yelled one of the bannermen.
He was speaking of Renly Baratheon, the late King Robert’s youngest brother.
Frowning, Robb firmly replied, “Renly is not the King.”
“You cannot mean to pledge allegiance to Joffrey, my Lord!” the older man responded, affronted by the notion. “He put your father to death!”
Evenly, Robb said, “That doesn’t make Renly King. He’s Robert’s youngest brother—if Bran can’t be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can’t be King before Stannis.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, Lords leaning their heads together to whisper and heckle.
“You mean to declare us for Stannis?” asked one of the Lords.
“Renly is not right, either!” exclaimed another.
“If we put ourselves behind Stannis, he would surely send us all to our deaths!” yelled a voice from the back.
Pounding his now-empty chalice down onto the table, Greatjon Umber stood up to address the riled-up mass. “My Lords—here is what I say to the two Kings!” He bent at the knees and spat a mouthful of wine onto the ground. “Renly Baratheon is nothing to me! Nor Stannis, either! Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery fuckin’ seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are wrong! Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to… and now the dragons are dead.”
The sharp sound of steel rang loud and true as Lord Umber unsheathed his sword to point at Robb.
“There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to. They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair, as well. The King in the North!” he proclaimed. “My sword is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day, until my last day!”
A beat of silence.
One after the other, the rest of the Lords pulled their swords out of their respective scabbards to pledge fealty to Robb, and bend the knee.
Robb stood up, casting his gaze over the kneeling crowd.
“The King in the North!” they all cheered. “The King in the North! The King in the North!”
You glanced at Catelyn, noticing the conflict warring across her weathered features. Briefly, Robb caught your eye, and you bowed your head in an encouraging manner.
“The King in the North!” you yelled along with the rest of the Lords.
No longer would a lion be able to hold their paw over a wolf’s throat.
Robb was King now.
The King in the North.
It was colder tonight than it had been for the past decade. Your sigh misted into an opaque fog once you stepped out of your tent, small pinpricks of frost kissing your skin. Most of the knights and lords had retired to their own cotts, deep in slumber. Some of them were on the outskirts of camp, patrolling the perimeter in case Tywin was to come surging forth with his army to retrieve his prized son.
And that was just who you were leaving to see. You needed to ask him the same thing you had asked Tyrion—if Jaime knew where his sister was when Bran fell.
The guards raised their eyebrows at you, as if asking what you were doing here at such a late hour, but you simply stared at them until they uncomfortably shifted to the side to allow you to pass by.
It was certainly quite a sight—seeing Jaime Lannister shackled. He was cold, you could see, the tip of his sharp nose was crimson and his fingers were quivering ever so slightly.
You had made no noise whilst stepping in front of him, silent as a wraith. Jaime only noticed you were there because of your shadow looming over him in a near menacing fashion.
“Lady Stark,” he greeted, strangely pleasant despite being bound, freezing, and starving. “You look lovely tonight. Had I known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned myself up a bit.”
“Ser Jaime,” you replied in a curt, level tone.
The man before you tilted his head curiously. “To what do I owe such a pleasure? Is your bed lonely? Is that why you came? I’m not at my best, as you can see… but I think I could be of service for you. Slip out of those furs—let’s see if I’m up for it.”
His words were crude and unbecoming, but held no weight to them. Your expression remained unchanging.
“Celibacy is a part of the Kingsguard’s oaths,” you lightly said.
Jaime barked out a rogue laugh, leaning his head back against the stone wall. “Surely you know what everybody calls me. Oathbreaker.”
“For killing the King,” came your whisper. For a moment, Jaime could swear he caught a glimpse of gratitude within your stormy eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it came. “I can’t say I fault you for doing it. Aerys wasn’t fit to be King.”
The knight hummed, a ghost of a grin to the corner of his lips. “See… your brother seemed to disagree. He thought it wasn’t honorable. And look where his own honor got him—beheaded in front of his daughter, and placed on a spike by the walls of the Keep. Terrible shame, what happened to him. I wanted to have a clean duel with him before he kicked the can.”
Your fists clenched by your sides at the callous way Jaime spoke of Ned.
The green of his irises gleamed when he looked up at you. “How does it feel? To watch your family die off slowly, one by one?”
“Your tongue likes to run, doesn’t it?” you murmured with a scowl. “You’ll understand what it’s like soon. The war is sure to leave a trail of lion’s blood in its wake.”
Jaime sucked in a humored breath. “Bitter Wolf, indeed. Tell me, how long have you had that long stick shoved up your arse?”
There was a long moment of tense silence. Your hand was hidden within your cloak, resting upon the hilt of a dagger. When you began to speak again, you ripped your eyes away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, training your stare upon an uninteresting stone on the ground.
“When I heard Aerys burned my father alive, I wept until I nearly blinded myself with my own tears. My father was a good, honorable man. My brother, too. I loved them dearly. The Mad King took them away from me and I hated him for it. I hated you, as well… the youngest of his Kingsguard just stood by and did nothing. But then, not too long after, I heard that you were the one who slit his throat. I still hated you—but I couldn't be more grateful. You were right to kill him.”
Another beat of silence, this time longer. The atmosphere between the two of you seemed to shift. Jaime looked nearly stunned at your admission. “Do you still hate me?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft. It was as if he was eighteen all over again, having to ‘go away inside’ when he didn’t want to deal with what was going on anymore. Your gaze left the stone on the ground to meet his. “No, Ser Jaime. To hate is to care. I do not care—not for you, at least.”
Strange, Jaime thought. His chest seemed to ache uncomfortably at your cold words.
Before he could say anything, your good-sister strode up by your side, her features stony and grim. For a moment, she met your gaze. If she was wondering what you were doing here, speaking to the Kingslayer, she didn’t ask.
“Lady Catelyn!” said Jaime, grateful for the distraction from the uncomfort within his ribs. “Join the party—we were just exchanging war stories. Except… neither of you have been to war before, I’m afraid. Oh, well—I suppose I can just entertain you with—”
Before you could react, Cat bent down to grab the exact same rock you had been staring at, jerking forward to strike Jaime across the face with its sharp end. Pain rattled throughout his face, blood streaking down where she had struck him. He grunted at the impact, working his jaw gingerly once Catelyn pulled back.
“I would kill you tonight, Ser… pack your head in a box and send it to your sister!” growled Cat.
“Then do it,” Jaime replied, infuriatingly glib for someone who nearly had his skull bashed in. “Hit me again, over the ear. Again, and again, and again. You’re stronger than you look—it shouldn’t take too long.”
Frowning, Cat asked, “That is what you want the world to believe, isn’t it? That you don’t fear death.”
“But I don’t, my Lady,” said Jaime. “The dark is coming for all of us. Why cry about it?”
Lips curling with contempt, Catelyn spat out, “Because you are going to the deepest of the Seven Hells if the Gods are just!”
“What Gods? The trees the Bitter Wolf here prays to? Where were the trees when your husband’s head was getting chopped off?” he murmured. Fury coiled within your stomach, as black as tar. “If your Gods are real, and if they are just… why is the world so full of injustice?”
Cat’s fingers curled tighter around the rock. “Because of men like you.”
There it was again—his hoarse bark of laughter. “There are no men like me. Only me.”
More silence stretched thin between the three of you. You thought about your original purpose for coming here, pursing your lips.
“Do you know where your sister was the morning Bran fell?” you asked him, voice hardened with steel.
His eyes met yours—bright green to a frigid storm.
“No,” he curtly responded, nose twitching as he sniffed lightly. A tell.
A lie.
“How did he come to fall from the tower?” Catelyn’s question was quiet, as if she were afraid of the answer.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaime said, “I pushed him out of the window.”
Shocked, you flinched back at his blunt confession, eyes widening. It was him. Him that put Bran in his coma, him that crippled your nephew. Was it him that sent the assassin, as well?
But… you’d found long blonde hair at the tower, undoubtedly Cersei’s. You had thought that Cersei was coupling with some nameless squire or stableboy, not her own brother. By the old Gods, that could only mean—
“Why?” whispered Catelyn, appearing like her heart had been trampled on and torn to shreds.
“I hoped the fall would kill him,” Jaime simply said.
“Why?” she pressed.
You were stunned and at a loss for words, lips parted and chest heaving.
Jaime leaned his head back against the stone wall, inhaling sharply. “You should get some sleep, Lady Catelyn. It’s going to be a long war.”
The red-headed woman glared at him with the might of a thousand suns. She relinquished her hold on the rock, which had cut into her own palm, and stormed away.
Jaime and Cersei coupling… and her children were golden-haired with no trace of Robert Baratheon within any of their Lannister-esque features…
The realization slammed against you like a tidal wave—Gods, the boy on the Iron Throne was a bastard.
You would’ve laughed at the thought if not for the dire situation at hand.
It was no wonder Ned was imprisoned and later executed. He knew, just as you now. Only, he was foolish enough to get his honor in the way of his head. You had to be smart about this. A running tongue was a dangerous one—and you weren’t too keen on losing yours.
Jaime regarded you with a guarded look. He wasn’t aware that you knew of his vile doings with his sister. “Let me ask you again. Do you still hate me now?”
Perhaps his father was right. Maybe he did care what others thought of him.
Disgust ran thick through your veins at the sight of him. The man you had once begrudgingly respected, now a boy-killer. A sister-fucker.
With quick motions, you stepped forward, curling your hand around the front of his tunic, yanking him closer just as you drove your fist into the side of his face. Over and over again you struck him, rage shadowing over your wild expression, until your knuckles split and bled and ached with each punch. Jaime put up no fight. He groaned once you finally pulled away, shoving him back against the stone wall. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his lips.
Cold steel kissed his throat when you unsheathed your dagger, slanting it just below his Adam's apple. “One cut, Kingslayer. That’s all it’d take.”
“Do it,” he challenged, baring his teeth. “Do it.”
If only you could. You still needed him… Cersei had Sansa in her wicked clutch.
“Never before have I changed my mind about a man so quickly. To hate is to care, Ser Jaime,” you bit out, words dripping with venom. “And I hate you, more than I’d ever care to.”
With that, you slipped your dagger back into its scabbard and turned on your heel to stride away, fury splayed clear as day over your features. You were going to tell Robb of your newfound knowledge as soon as morning broke.
Jaime watched you go with a soft exhale.
He found no sleep that night, but went away inside nonetheless.
Battle after battle, Robb found himself victorious.
Camp after camp, Jaime found himself stinking of his own piss and shit.
When you had told Robb of Joffrey’s true parentage, he huffed out a hesitant laugh, unsure if you were jesting or not. Then again, you were never one to jest.
And now he stood before his captive with you by his side, gazing down at the Lannister were pure contempt. This was the first time you’d seen the Kingslayer since he told you he pushed Bran out the window. And time had done nothing to mellow your anger.
“I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safe-keeping,” surmised Jaime, tongue darting out to lick at his dry lips. “But you drag me along from camp to camp… have you taken a liking to me, Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.”
Unfazed by his insults, Robb said, “If I left you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within the fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with the message: Release my son. You’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem.”
Jaime shook his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you to battle?”
“I trust them with my life. Just not with yours,” Robb quietly replied.
“Smart boy,” snorted Jaime. At the crinkle in Robb’s expression, Jaime piped up with a mocking frown, “Oh, what’s wrong? Don’t like being called a boy? Insulted?”
From behind you, Grey Wind stalked up to his master, a growl rumbling low within his chest. For the first time, you could see genuine fear dance across Jaime’s green irises.
“You insult yourself, Kingslayer,” said Robb. “You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy. Perhaps you’ll be killed by a boy.”
Grey Wind lithely moved closer and closer to Jaime, snarling and pawing at the dirt.
“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros,” you said, jaw squared. “Ravens detailing that the boy King, Joffrey Baratheon, is neither a true king, nor is he a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”
Jaime scratched at the shackles over his wrists, growing restless. “If that’s true, then Stannis would be the rightful King. How convenient for him!”
“My father learned the truth,” Robb hissed out. “That’s why you had him executed.”
Frowning, Jaime pointed out, “I was your prisoner when your father lost his head.”
“Your son killed him so that the world wouldn’t know who fathered him. And you… you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen,” accused your nephew.
Swallowing, Jaime coughed out, “Where’s your proof? Or are we just trading gossip like a couple of fish wives?”
“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.”
Jaime scoffed at that. “You think my father’s going to negotiate with the likes of you? You don’t know him very well.”
Bowing his head, Robb hummed in acknowledgement. “No, I don’t. But he’s starting to know me.”
“Three victories don’t make you a conqueror,” said Jaime.
“Better than three defeats,” your nephew countered. With that, Robb rotated on his heel and marched away, trailing his fingers along Grey Wind’s pelt.
The direwolf snapped his jaw only a hair’s breadth away from Jaime’s face. His eyelids squeezed shut, bracing himself for the agonizing pain. When none came, he cracked one eye open. The wolf was gone, leaving only you standing before him.
“When you were in King’s Landing, did you see my niece?” you asked.
“Sansa?” he replied. “Yes… in court here and there with her betrothed.”
Her betrothed. The bastard boy. Jaime’s son.
“No, not Sansa,” you snippily replied. You worried for Sansa, yes, but at the very least you knew she was alive in the Keep. There hadn’t been a single word about your younger niece in any of the ravens you’d received. “Arya.”
The Kingslayer pursed his lips. “Which one was she again?” Whether he was genuinely miffed as to who Arya was, or he was just pushing your boundaries to purposely annoy you, you couldn’t tell.
“I have no taste for your games,” you gruffed, your patience wearing thin. “I’ll see to the guards forgoing your meals for the next two days. Good night, Ser Jaime.”
Not waiting to see his reaction, you promptly turned and followed after Robb.
Theon had left for the Iron Islands in hope of garnering his father’s support, along with his large fleet of ships. Catelyn, on the other hand, was off to try and obtain Renly Baratheon’s allegiance.
You and Robb planned the next battles together. The cut on your arm from the wildling, Osha, was now fully healed, leaving only a dark mark in its wake. Whilst Robb and the Northern bannermen fought, you would watch from a distance, taking down Lannister-allied soldiers with your bow and arrow.
And once the battle was done, you made your way onto the field, side-stepping half-dead men and corpses alike, plenty with your arrows sticking out of their chests. Most of the casualties were part of the Lannister’s troup, and so you bore no sympathy for their pain.
You met up with Robb just as he was parting with a pretty girl—a medic, by the looks of it. She was leaving on a cart, hands bloodied and dark hair drenched with sweat.
When you glanced at Robb, you could see the unmistakable glint of youthful curiosity and lust behind his blue eyes. With a sharp cuff to the back of his head, you growled out, “You are betrothed, boy. Do well to remember it.”
Robb scowled at you. “What are you on about? I was only talking to her.”
“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “And my name is the Smiling Wolf.”
“I’m a King now, Aunt. You shouldn’t be disrespecting me in such a way,” warned Robb, though his words lacked any true bite.
With a huff, you patted his cheek softly. “You’ve been King for only a few moons by now. But you’ve been my nephew for your entire life. One takes precedence over the other, I’m afraid.”
Robb smiled at that, but it disappeared as he glanced around at all the dead bodies littering the hills, decorated with your arrow shafts. “You took down nearly four dozen of these men…” he said, brows raised. “And all from far away, as well. Color me impressed and a little intimidated.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you replied, walking along with him back to the tents to clean up. “I do what I can to help.”
“I’m grateful you’re here with me. With Theon and mother gone… it made me think about how you’ve always shouldered the burden of ruling with me, without complaint. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Aunt.”
Not one to be very good with sentimentalities, you tugged him into a brief embrace and let him go the next second, gently shoving him off into the tent.
“Alright, alright, boy,” you said, tone rife with affection. “Go take a bath—you stink of war.”
A week later, Catelyn returned to the camps. Accompanying her was a blonde soldier, a woman taller than any man amongst Robb’s army.
“It’s good to see you, Cat,” you told her. “No battles have been lost just yet.”
The woman smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “King Renly… he’s—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Roose Bolton came running up to the two of you.
“Apologies, my Ladies,” he panted out, holding up a small raven’s scroll. “News from Winterfell.”
Initially, you were quite excited, because it’d been a while since you heard from Bran, Rickon, and Maester Luwin.
When you filed into the tent to listen to Robb read it aloud, however, your heart plummeted to your stomach upon hearing the news. Theon had taken Winterfell, holding Bran and Rickon hostage.
“I TOLD YOU, NEVER TRUST A GREYJOY!” yelled Catelyn to her son, face scarlet with fury and twisted with anguish.
Teeth gritted, Robb announced, “I must go North at once.”
“There’s still a war to win, Your Grace,” Roose Bolton protested.
“How can I win a war, call myself King if I can’t even hold my own castle?” spat Robb. “How can I ask my men to follow me if I can’t—?”
With firm hands, you placed them on your nephew’s shoulders. “Robb. Stop—think about this. You have thousands of men at your disposal. You needn’t do this yourself. If you loosen your grip on the Lannisters now, they’ll go scurrying back home and rally more of their allies.”
The young man appeared conflicted. In his haze of rage, he hadn’t thought about the lives of all the rest in the war, only focused on his little brothers.
“Let me go talk to Theon,” Catelyn offered, worried to death for her two youngest boys.
“There will be no talk. He will die for this,” snarled Robb.
Stepping forward, Roose offered, “Let me send word to my bastard at the Dreadfort. He can raise a few hundred men and retake Winterfell before the new moon. My boy would be honored to bring you Prince Theon’s head.”
Bowing his head, Robb blew out a sigh. He glanced at you for a moment, before returning his gaze to Roose. “Tell your son Bran and Rickon’s safety is paramount. And Theon—I want him brought to me alive. I want to look him in the eye and ask why… and then I’ll take his head myself.”
It was the dead of night when Jaime Lannister escaped.
In the process, he’d become a kinslayer, as well. Just another name to add to the extensive list.
The golden lion. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. Now a kinslayer.
He had bashed his cousin’s brains in with a stone, alerting the young guard on duty. Jaime then strangled the boy, a Karstark, and fled the camp.
The taste of freedom had never been so sweet.
And, inevitably, the taste of defeat had never been so sour.
By the break of day, he was recaptured. You had emerged from your tent at the loud commotion, fingers wrapped around the wood of your longbow. Men were jeering, yelling, and throwing rotten food and small stones. They were pushing and shoving, some unsheathing their blades with manic, greedy expressions. In the middle of the crowd was Jaime, rebound and so bloody you could barely see a clean patch of exposed skin. Strangely, he was smiling and laughing, seeming to enjoy how riled up the Northmen were.
“Die, Kingslayer!” they yelled.
“You’ll pay for your crimes!” they shouted.
“Gut him! Put his head on a spike!” they screamed.
You forcefully wove your way through the crowd, brows knitted and your bow and arrow knocked at the ready. The men had parted instantaneously upon seeing you, all of them expecting you to order Jaime’s execution on behalf of Robb, who had temporarily left to accept the Crag’s surrender. To their enraged shock, you stood between them and Jaime, the tip of your arrow pointed not at the Kingslayer himself, but at the men calling for his head.
“Back the fuck away from him,” you barked out, voice loud and commanding. “Have you all gone mad?”
“Get out of the way, Bitter Wolf!” Lord Karstark yelled, hell-bent on getting his revenge for his murdered son. “I deserve justice!”
“Or what, Lord Karstark?” you shouted back with an equivalent ferocity, teeth bared in a near snarl. “You’ll cut through me to get to him? Need I remind you that if you were to lay a hand on me, you’d be laying a hand on the King’s blood.”
Reluctant, a few of the lords lowered their weapons, stepping back slightly. Some held guilty expressions, looking like children being scolded by their mother. Most stayed their ground, angry that you were stopping them.
Your countenance hardened. “If Jaime Lannister is dead, we lose any leverage we have over Tywin���s army—over Cersei, who has hold of my nieces! What good do you think would come of this? We put his pretty head on a spike, hoo-fucking-ray! Has it not occurred to you that we keep prisoners for a reason? That they’re not toys to toss about as we see fit?”
“You’re right, Bitter Wolf,” growled Karstark. “He’s not a toy. This monster killed my son. He deserves worse than a slap on a wrist and a few measly chains. He deserves death. Slow and painful, just as he did to my boy!”
It was then that Catelyn came rushing through the crowd, her pale features gaunt and eyes widened with fear.
“I understand your pain, Lord Karstark,” she assured, exhaust lacing heavy with each of her words. “He crippled my boy. He will answer for his crimes, in due time, I promise. Just not here.”
“If you try and stop me—!”
“I am the mother of your King!” Catelyn yelled.
Rearing back with frustration, Karstark bit out, “And where is our King now? Gone to the Crag, sure, but not to negotiate. He brought that foreign bitch with him!”
Your brows raised in surprise. The medic girl.
Steel sang out as Brienne unsheathed her sword. “Threatening my Lady is an act of treason!”
“Treason?” barked the Karstark. “How can it be an act of treason to kill Lannisters?”
“In the name of my nephew, the King in the North,” you lowly spoke, bringing his attention back to you. The tip of your arrow was pointed right at his chest. “Stand down.”
With a squared jaw, Lord Karstark bowed his head. “When the young wolf returns, I will demand for the murderer’s head.”
“Wise men do not make demands of Kings!” protested Cat.
“Fathers who love their sons do.” With that, Karstark turned to stomp away, back into his tent.
The crowd slowly began to disperse. Only then did you put down your weapon, relaxing the drawstring.
“Thank you for fighting for me, Bitter Wolf,” snarked Jaime, an infuriating smile plastered over his filthy face. “I’m surprised you would have put down one of your own men just for me. Growing rather fond of me, eh? Tell me, you haven’t lost your maidenhood yet, have you? It would be an honor to be your f—”
Gnashing your teeth, you swiftly knelt down in front of the Kingslayer, grabbing his grimy cheeks with one hand, squeezing uncomfortably tight, nails digging into his skin.
“I said we’d have you alive, Kingslayer… not whole. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t carve your eyes out with a hot spoon,” you hissed, eyes cold as winter.
To your fury, Jaime merely laughed, a roguish grin dancing across his bloody lips.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take them. Take every part of me, until nothing is left. Let’s see what my father would think about having another crippled son.”
You released your hold on him, shoving his face back.
“Gag him tight,” you told one of the guards. “Mix in shit with his food. Piss in his water. Make noise every time he falls asleep. It might very well be his last night amongst us—see that it’s spent in agony.”
With that, you stepped back, nodding at Catelyn, before retiring into your tent.
The later the night grew, the more drunk the men became, and the angrier they got.
“He won’t last the night,” commented Brienne, her hand resting comfortably and cautiously over the hilt of her sword. “Won’t be long until the Karstarks draw their swords. And when they do… who wants to die defending a Lannister?”
With pursed lips, Catelyn bowed her head. “If he dies, my girls die with him.”
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable.
“We need to release him,” your good-sister whispered. Her words made your eyes snap to her, lips parting. “We need to exchange him for Sansa and Arya.”
“Cat…” you began, about to protest, but the words lodged in your throat. She was right. The men were going to kill him if he wasn’t released—and Jaime Lannister was of no use to you dead.
A glassy film of tears layered over Catelyn’s blue irises. “I need my girls back, Y/N. I need them back, I need—” She covered her quivering mouth with a shaky hand. “If we give Jaime back to Cersei, we’ll make him swear to return the girls to us.”
You shook your head, frowning. “Jaime is a man with no honor—an oathbreaker. We cannot rely on his word. I’ll take him to King’s Landing to barter with Cersei. Threaten to put an arrow in Jaime’s head if Sansa and Arya aren’t handed over to me. I do not trust anyone else with the job but myself.”
A shiver danced down Catelyn’s spine and she tugged her furs closer to her. “You’ll need protection. At least bring Brienne with you. I trust her with my life. She can escort both you and the Kingslayer to the capital.”
Wistful, you blew out a long breath. “Robb won’t be happy about this, Cat. He’ll hate you for letting Jaime go. He’ll hate me for abandoning him. He’ll send a hundred men after us. We won’t be able to outrun them.”
“Not on foot, no,” said Brienne, stepping forward. “We take a boat down the river. We’ll put more distance between us and them that way—but only if we leave now.”
Conflict warred within you. Was this really the smartest decision? Letting go of the Kingslayer?
And if you were to leave now… you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Robb. The dark thought of never seeing your nephew again crossed your mind, but you shoved it away. You’d see him again. He was a strong lad.
“Alright… but Tywin will then have reason to march his army and slay Robb’s if they no longer hold his son,” you said, tentative.
Catelyn clutched your hands within her colder, quivering ones. “We are so close to winning this war already. This is a risk we must take for Sansa. For Arya. Please, Y/N. Please.”
With a determined nod of your head, you whispered, “I won’t let you down.”
The Kingslayer smiled lazily when he saw you approaching, Catelyn and Brienne in tow. To his muted interest, the red-headed woman ordered the guards to leave with a sharp tongue and a hardened glint to her eyes.
“Come to say goodbye?” he crooned. “I believe it’s my last night in this world. I could think of no one better to spend it with. You sure are the life of the party.” His tone dripped with sardonic mockery, to which you supplied no reaction. If Jaime wanted to provoke you, he would find himself sorely disappointed.
You had a mission tonight—and there was no time for jesting.
“They want your head, Ser Jaime. Do not make me hand you over to them,” you quietly said, just loud enough for him to hear. It was an empty threat, one that you couldn’t follow through, but Jaime didn’t know that. You were completely serious, for all he knew.
With a huff, Jaime said, “No, no, Bitter Wolf. You like me too much to give me away. Lord Karstark, however… he doesn’t seem very fond of me, does he?”
Scowling, Catelyn hissed out, “You strangled his son with your chains!”
“Oh,” Jaime simply said. There was no remorse in his tone. None at all. “Was he the one on guard duty? He was in my way—any other knight would’ve done the same.”
“You are no knight!” spat Catelyn. “You have forsaken every vow you ever took.”
Rolling his bright green eyes to the side, Jaime snorted in contempt. “So many vows. They make you swear and swear! Defend the King, obey the King, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? Like Rickard Stark, eh, Bitter Wolf?” A part of you seized up at the mention of your father. Jaime lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s just too many rules. They make sense alone, sure… but together? It’s a load of shit. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking a vow for another.”
There was a long pause. Jaime grinned sharply, feeling as if he had won the argument—if it even was one to begin with.
“Is that a woman?” he asked, changing the topic, eyes drawn to Brienne. “Where in the seven kingdoms did you find such a beast?”
“She is a truer knight than you will ever be, Kingslayer,” Catelyn replied, tone as hot as ever.
At the offensive name, Jaime narrowed his gaze. “Kingslayer. And what a King he was! Here’s to Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm… and to the sword I shoved into his back. What did you say about me before, Wolf? That you were grateful that I did it?”
You could feel Catelyn’s eyes on you for a moment. You didn’t grace either of them with a response.
“You are a man without honor,” said Catelyn.
“Hm.” Jaime tilted his head. “You know… I’ve never been with any woman but Cersei. So in my own way, I have more honor than poor old dead Ned. What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”
Jon.
“Snow—a bastard from the North.” Jaime smirked in a rogue manner. “Now when good old Ned came home with some whore’s baby… did you pretend to love it? No, I don’t think you’re very good at pretending, Lady Catelyn. You’re an honest woman. You hated that boy, didn’t you? How could you not? The walking, talking reminder that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark fucked another woman.”
You were no stranger to Catelyn’s grievances with Jon, but it sounded all the worse coming from the Kingslayer’s tongue.
“That’s enough,” you said, heavy with finality. “Your sword, Brienne.”
This is it, thought Jaime. This is how I’m going to die. Covered in filth and looking up at a snarling she-wolf. It isn’t so bad. At least she’s pretty—even if she never smiles.
Instead of the steel striking his head, it struck at his chains. They gave way after the third lumbering hit. His green eyes snapped up to you when you reached out to grab his arms, hauling him onto his feet.
“Come, Kingslayer. We have a long way to go.”
It was quite an amusing sight, Jaime Lannister falling off the horse with a sack on his head. He grunted through the fabric and you tore it off, shoving it into the pack slung over your shoulder. Brienne urged the horse to ride away, back to camp.
Jaime blinked up at you, vision still adjusting to the sudden brightness. “Ah, Lady Stark. You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.” He glanced at Brienne. “Oh, the big lady-knight came with us, as well? She is much uglier in daylight! Damn—and here I was hoping we’d spend more time alone together, Bitter Wolf.”
“Shut up,” you told him, stepping back to allow Brienne to haul him up to his feet and shove him towards the small boat.
“Ooh, cranky today, are we? You want to turn around and go back home? I’m sure your little King nephew will welcome you back with open arms—or maybe not. Maybe he hates your guts now. Care to find out?” he goaded, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He sat down in the boat, Brienne following suit.
You eased yourself in last, taking a seat behind her.
He’s right, a voice snarked inside your head. Robb is probably furious with you. He’d never forgive you.
“And what might be your name?” Jaime asked the large blonde woman, tilting his head.
With a stony countenance, Brienne replied, “Brienne of Tarth.”
“Mmh, crescent moons and starbursts. Lord Selwyn Tarth is your father, no? You have any brothers and sisters?”
Silence. Brienne began to row the small boat, taking the three of you downstream.
“Come on, it’s a long way to King’s Landing—we might as well get to know one another. Have you known many men? I suppose not—perhaps women? Horses?”
At the last question, Brienne purposefully struck the blunt end of the oar against Jaime’s knee, which made him grunt out in pain.
“I didn’t mean to offend, my Lady,” he said, looking none too sorry. “How unlikely it is! It seems you’re not the only virgin amongst us.”
He fixed his stare on you, though your eyes were trained on the river banks, cautiously watching in case anyone had followed your trail yet. So far on your journey, you haven't come across a single soul. The Gods were on your side, for now. At his words, however, you curled your hands into fists.
“Tell me, Bitter Wolf, did any man in Winterfell ever dare to court you? Were they all intimidated by you? Or did you just bite off their heads as soon as one tried?” Jaime seemed genuinely curious, having known little of your childhood.
With a squared jaw, you replied in a steely tone, “They tried. The nice ones were politely declined. The more… pushy ones were stripped naked and thrown into cells of ice. The winter took their souls whilst their bodies froze.”
Jaime blinked, smiling in a fox-like manner. “Now that is a fine tale! Why did you turn away the nice ones? Are Northerners too ugly for you? They’re too solemn for my taste, I’d say… no offense.”
You didn’t grace him with a response.
For the next half an hour, Jaime chattered on and on about the most trivial topics. He’d ask the both of you questions, to which he was often met with dead silence.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re as boring as you are ugly?” Jaime asked Brienne.
With a roll of her eyes, Brienne rowed the boat harder. “You will not provoke me to anger.”
“I already have!” countered Jaime, excited that she was finally retaliating. “You look ready to slice my head off my shoulders. Do you think you could? Could you beat me in a fair fight?”
“I’ve never seen you fight,” Brienne replied in a leveled tone.
As if it were obvious, Jaime said, “The correct answer is no. There are only three men in the entire Seven Kingdoms that might have a chance against me—you’re not one of them.”
“All my life men like you have sneered at me,” the blonde woman stated. “And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust.”
“Unlock my chains, then,” said Jaime. “Let’s see who beats who.”
To his disappointment, Brienne spared him no more words.
His gaze landed on you once more, and to his surprise, you had dozed off to sleep, having gotten none the entire night while helping him escape. By the side of the boat, your hand was curled tightly around the longbow you had taken along with you.
Funny, he thought with a slight, huffy laugh. Even in slumber you were scowling.
Brienne had pulled ashore for a short break, and you were grateful for the opportunity to stretch your legs. She helped you out of the boat and over the large, slippery rocks it was slanted against.
“Five minutes,” she told you kindly. Then, she looked over her shoulder at Jaime. “Five minutes!” she parroted, much colder this time.
You were really beginning to like Brienne.
Rolling his eyes, Jaime hobbled out of the boat as well. “Childhood must’ve been awful to you,” he commented to Brienne. “Were you a foot taller than all the boys? They probably laughed at you, called you names. Some boys like a challenge—one or two must have tried to get inside big Brienne!”
Brienne frowned.
“Ah, did you fight them off? You probably did. But maybe you wished one of them would overpower you… fling you down and tear off your clothes. None of them were strong enough, were they? I’d be strong enough.”
“Stop it,” you calmly told Jaime. “Or would you prefer I gag you?”
With a smile, Jaime cocked his head to the side. “Oh, are you jealous? Don’t worry—there’s enough of me to go around.”
But you weren’t paying attention to Jaime anymore. Instead, your eyes were trained up to the creaking branches, where three women were hanging. They were discolored and slightly bloated—the bodies must’ve been up for around a day by now. A sick feeling twisted within your gut.
Around the neck of the woman in the center was a sign that said—
“They lay with lions,” read Jaime. “Tavern girls, most likely. Probably served my father’s soldiers. Maybe one of them gave up a kiss and feel—that’s how they earned this.”
“They earned nothing,” you coldly replied, stepping back slightly. “These are victims of war.”
Jaime barked out a laugh. “How hypocritical of you. This was done by your men, Bitter Wolf. The glorious work of Northern freedom fighters. Must make the both of you proud to serve them.”
Before you could spare him a response, Brienne gruffed out, “I don’t serve the Starks. I serve Lady Catelyn.”
“Hm. You tell yourself that,” said Jaime, allowing himself to be pushed around when Brienne shoved him towards a tree, ordering him to stay put. You moved to stand beside him, making sure he wouldn’t flee as Brienne made towards the thick rope tied around the tree trunk keeping the women hung up.
Confused, Jaime asked, “What are you doing?”
“Burying them,” she replied.
“We shouldn’t stay here, we should get back on the river!” said Jaime.
Scoffing, you retorted, “Eager to get home? I’m sure your sister would be delighted to have her fuck-toy handed back to her.”
“In exchange for you darling niece, is it?” Jaime immediately snarked back. “Oh, turns out I’m of great value after all, Bitter Wolf. Admit it. I’m important to you—”
Just then, a few men’s voices echoed through the woods. You pressed yourself closer against the tree, pulling the hood of your cloak up over your head so your face would be obscured by shadows.
“Untie me!” said Jaime.
“Shut up,” you replied. “Keep your head down, and pray they won’t recognize you.”
The voices were growing louder.
“Woah!” one of them said, having spotted Brienne. “What’s your business here?”
“Traveling prisoners,” she hastily responded.
The three men burst out into raucous, incredulous laughter.
“You? But you’re a woman!” exclaimed another one with a pig-nose and blackened teeth. “Well, fuck me! They’ve really gotten desperate for soldiers, haven’t they?”
Clearing her throat, Brienne started to say, “If you’ve quite finished—”
They began cackling at her again. You frowned, fingers curling around your longbow, which you had stealthily covered within your cloak. If you were to play the part of a prisoner, you had to look like it, as well.
“We’ll be going,” Brienne curtly said, in no mood to deal with the oafish men.
The men immediately halted in their laughter. “Now, hold on there. Who do you fight for?”
“The Starks,” said the blonde woman. She briefly glanced at you, nearly hidden behind Jaime. Good.
One of the last men, a red-head, pointed at the two of you. “What did they do?”
After a momentary pause, Jaime spat out, “Apparently eating is now a crime. My friend and I were merely trying to get some food.”
Hm. A good actor.
“By stealing it—which, indeed, is a crime,” Brienne added on.
“It’s not a crime to starve, that’s justice for you,” Jaime murmured. You dared not speak, worried they would recognize you by your voice alone.
The pig-nosed man stepped forward, narrowing his beady eyes at you. “Where are you taking them?”
“Riverrun,” said Brienne.
“Why?”
“Steal from the Tullys, it's their dungeons you’d rot in,” she quickly responded.
“No. I mean why not just kill him?”
A thrill of adrenaline and a twinge of fear shot through you, nestling within your feet, as if preparing yourself to act.
“For stealing a pig?” scoffed Jaime.
One of the men lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve killed for much less. Alright—have it your way… m’lady.”
The red-head squinted at Jaime. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
You were grateful that Jaime’s usually lighter hair was dirtied with mud and soot and appeared far darker than it actually was. “Have you been to Ashemark?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then you don’t know me.”
Just as the three of you were about to stride off, pig-nose queried in a disgustingly prideful manner, “What do you think of these beauties?”
“I hope you gave them quick deaths,” Brienne reluctantly told him.
He smirked maliciously. “Two of them we did, yeah.”
White-hot anger coiled within your abdomen.
“Wait!” exclaimed the red-head. “I do know you! That’s Jaime Lannister!”
With a hoarse chuckle, Jaime said, “Well, I wish you’d have told me, I wouldn’t have had to steal that pig!”
“If this is the Kingslayer, I think I’d know about it,” said Brienne, urging you forward.
Noticing this, the red-head barked out, “And who’s the one in the cloak? Another Lannister?”
Couldn’t be more wrong.
“I was at Whispering Wood,” he vehemently said. “I saw him! They dragged him out of the woods and threw him down before the King!”
The King. Your boy, Robb.
“I have a question for both of you. And I want you to answer at the same time,” pig-nose snarled, hand on his sword’s hilt. “I count to three, you both answer. What’s his name?” He pointed accusingly right at Jaime’s chest.
“One.”
You discreetly lined an arrow up to your bow.
“Two.”
You pulled against the string.
“Three.”
You brandished the bow from out of your cloak and sent the arrow whistling through the air, straight into one of the men’s heads.
Unsheathing her sword, Brienne quickly slashed the throat of the red-head.
“Two quick deaths,” she hissed, before knocking pig-nose down onto the ground. Slow and painful, she drove the blade into his stomach and twisted, gutting him like a pig.
Jaime’s brows were raised, impressed at the both of you.
“Those were Stark men,” he said, surprised that you had willingly killed a man of your nephew’s army.
“There are always a few rotten apples in an orchard,” you easily replied, lowering your bow and knocking back the cowl of your cloak. “And rotten, they were.”
Brienne nodded, before heading off to bury the tavern girls.
“Do you know how long it’s going to take us to get to King’s Landing by walking through fields and forests?” Jaime just about whined, growing tired of the journey.
Without sparing him a glance, you asked, “And what do you propose we do instead?”
“We could take horses.”
“Too noticeable.”
“Take a ship, then.”
“And how will you pay the ship-keepers? Will you pay them with your own gold? The gold you currently do not have?”
Jaime frowned. “Walking, it is. How ever will we pass the time?”
Both you and Brienne glanced at each other, exasperated.
“By putting one foot in front of the other,” the large woman told him, shoving him along.
Stumbling from the impact, Jaime blew out a sigh. “It’ll be such a dull walk.”
“I’m here to escort Lady Stark to King’s Landing and exchange you for her nieces. Dull is fine,” Brienne snapped.
Lolling his head over to you, Jaime spoke, “Is dull fine for you, Bitter Wolf? I’m sure you have so many interesting stories hidden behind that scowling exterior of yours. Tell me one!”
Deciding to indulge him for only just a little bit, you said, “What would you want to know?”
Jaime smiled triumphantly. “Tell me about Winterfell. I overheard one of the guards speaking about it—that Greyjoy pup claimed it as his now, has he?”
Stiffening, you shot Jaime a glare. “I will not be discussing such matters with you.”
His shackles clacked against each other as he raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk about something else.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “Tell me about your sister.”
Anger flooded across your features. “Shut up.”
“Why? Have I struck a nerve—?”
“Shut up!” you barked again, which made Jaime fall silent, though there was still a slight smile to his grimy face.
Sensing that he wasn’t going to get anything of value from you, Jaime looked back to Brienne. “What about you? How did you come into Lady Catelyn’s service? That’s something we can talk about, no?”
The blonde remained as sour-faced as ever. “Not your concern, Kingslayer.”
“It had to be recently. You weren’t with her at Winterfell… I would’ve noticed your dour head smacking into the archways.”
The memory of Jaime’s visit to your home flashed across your mind. Things had been so much simpler then. Until he pushed your nephew out of a window with the intent to kill the boy, of course.
“If you don’t serve the Starks… did you pledge yourself to Stannis?” the knight asked.
“Gods, no,” Brienne quickly responded.
Brows raising, Jaime exclaimed, “Ah, Renly, then! Wasn’t expecting that from you. He wasn’t fit to rule over anything more important than a twelve-course meal.”
“Shut your mouth,” Brienne hissed. It seemed Jaime had a particular talent for irritating the life out of both of you.
“Why? I lived with him at court since he was a boy, don’t forget. Could hardly escape the little tulip… skipping down the corridors with his embroidered silks. I knew him far better than you,” Jaime bragged, taking pleasure in getting beneath her skin.
Frowning, Brienne spat, “I knew him just as much as anyone else. As a member of his Kingsguard, he trusted me with everything. He would’ve been a wonderful King.”
Would he? From what you could recall, he never really cared much for the wellbeing of the realm. Nonetheless, you remained silent.
Jaime, however, cackled gleefully. “Sounds like you quite fancied him.”
“I did not fancy him,” she gritted out, a tad too fast.
“Gods, you did! I can see it all over your brutish face! Did you ever tell him? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being a part of his Kingsguard and whatnot… well, I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t quite Renly’s type. He preferred curly-haired little girls like Loras Tyrell. You’re far too much man for him.”
How ironic, you dryly thought. “I didn’t take you one to gossip,” you said, sensing Brienne’s uncomfort. “Neither of us have quite the appetite for your foul rumors.”
“Oh, but it’s not gossip, Wolf,” said Jaime. “It’s very much true. His proclivities were the worst-kept secret at court!”
“Who gives a shit about what he used to do with his free time? It’s not like he was hurting anybody,” you retaliated. Truthfully, you bore no love for Robert Baratheon’s youngest brother, but since Jaime made it his mission to antagonize him, you couldn’t help but want to defend the late Prince.
Jaime dryly chuckled. “Don’t tell me you fancied him, too. He wouldn’t quite like you much, I’m afraid. He liked his affairs brainless and sweet-faced—two traits you sorely lack, Bitter Wolf. Hm… it’s a shame the throne isn’t made of cocks. They’d have never gotten him off of it.”
Snapping, Brienne grabbed at Jaime’s hair and yanked him back, her sword against his throat in a blink of an eye. You calmly watched, not moving to stop her just yet. She was a loyal, honorable woman, and you were confident Brienne wouldn’t actually kill him if it came down to it.
“Shut your mouth!” she just about shouted, baring her teeth in a snarl.
Jaime winced at the pain of her hand yanking his hair. “I don’t blame him,” he said, tone considerably much softer. “And I don’t blame you, either. We don’t get to choose who we love.”
The insinuation behind his words was as clear as day.
You bitterly scoffed. “But we do get to choose who we have sex with, don’t we, sister-fucker?” Rolling your eyes to the side, you gestured for Brienne to unhand him. “The journey is still long—let’s save our energy by spending it in silence.”
Brienne reluctantly relinquished her hold on him, but before either of them could say anything, the clopping of hooves pulled your attention away.
It was a simple tradesman, tugging along his packhorse, who had bundles of wheat and hay strapped to its back. He waved at the three of you, a smile to his innocent face.
“Hullo. Where are you lot headed?”
“South,” said Jaime. “You?”
“Riverrun,” the man said. “Stayin’ off the Kingsroad, are you?”
The three of you nodded.
“They get you no matter where you go,” he advised. “You can’t run.”
Ominous were his words, but he could simply be speaking of the road tax they were imposing amongst the common folk. Nothing more than that.
Right?
“Looks like you two are safe enough. Meaning no offense, of course… I wouldn’t want to tangle with you lot,” he said with a chesty chuckle. “Seven blessings to you.”
Off the tradesman went, his horse in tow. You briefly wondered if he had recognized you or Jaime. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t.
“He knows who I am,” Jaime muttered under his breath.
“He doesn’t,” said Brienne.
“Maybe you’re right. But what if you’re not? What if he tells someone? We have to kill him,” Jaime pressed.
Blowing out a breath, you turned to him. “We’re not killing him. Unlike you, Kingslayer, I wouldn’t take innocent lives for no reason.”
Your words seemed to strike him in the face and he reared back with a sneer.
“And you wouldn’t risk his innocent life for your innocent nieces?” Jaime countered.
A beat of silence. You could feel a lump growing in your throat.
Wordless, you beckoned Brienne to push Jaime along your path. There would be no more bloodshed than necessary.
The three of you had stopped for a break by the river. Brienne had told you to get some sleep, that she’d keep watch for a few hours.
Body aching and weary with the long journey, you gratefully nodded, leaning against a tree trunk and pulling your cloak up over your head, slipping into a dreamless slumber.
It seemed that luck was not on your side, for you were startled awake by the clashing of steel not even two hours later. You scrambled onto your feet, blinking away your grogginess, and grabbed the bow you had kept by your side.
Jaime and Brienne were by the river, yelling at each other so quickly that you couldn’t make out anything they were saying. When you rushed closer, your eyes widened upon seeing one of Brienne’s longswords clutched between his grimy hands.
Quiet as a shadow, you nocked an arrow to the drawstring, silently creeping up to the dueling two. Jaime was breathing in a haggard fashion, clearly exhausted by the fight. Brienne, on the other hand, had yet to break a sweat, but her movements were rough and lacked calculated grace.
“That’s enough,” you commanded, tone steely, raising your bow so the tip of the arrow pointed straight at Jaime. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, Kingslayer, we are doing you a favor by taking you back home.”
Before he could reply, a dozen clopping horses resounded from over the bridge, and you swiveled your gaze over to the group with baited breath as they drew closer.
They were carrying Bolton banners of flayed men. And riding on one of the horses was the tradesman you had let go. You squared your jaw. Mercy was to be your downfall.
“Looks like the Bitter Wolf has gotten the better of you, Kingslayer,” said Locke, the man leading the group crooned, thick brows raised.
You exchanged a quick glance with Brienne, who still had her sword raised.
“Let us go,” you said, raising your chin. “As your liege lord’s blood, I order you to let us go—!”
Locke barked out a laugh. “Let you go? If the King in the North hears I had the Kingslayer and his precious aunt and let you go, he’d be taking my head right off. I’d rather he takes his.” The man jutted his head towards Jaime, who began to slowly step back, your arrow grazing against the base of his neck.
There was no way you and Brienne could fight off all these soldiers.
With a scowl, you loosened your hold on your bow as Brienne simultaneously sheathed her longsword in surrender.
One of the men grabbed your bow and arrows, breaking them over his knee with a cackle before he bound your wrists together with rope and roughly tossing you onto a horse. He moved to do the same with Jaime, who had tried to fight off with his sword, but easily batted to the ground in his already-fatigued state, shoved behind you. Brienne was forced onto another horse.
“Never thought I’d see you as a prisoner… for your own nephew, no less,” Jaime leaned forward to murmur into your ear. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it after a while.”
“It looked like Brienne had the upper hand on you,” you coolly said.
Jaime frowned. “She did not. I was in chains. Had I not been shackled, I would’ve easily beaten her.”
You gave him no reply, staring straight ahead with a cold, distant stare. The group began moving, and you swallowed down the urge to puke over the side of the horse.
“When we make camp tonight, there is a great chance those men will take you and Brienne and have their way with you.”
A moment of silence passed before you firmly replied, “They won’t. I am their King’s—”
“Their King believes you to be a traitor for helping me escape,” countered Jaime. “They’ll rape you, and they’ll call it justice. None of these men have ever been with a noblewoman, much less the Bitter Wolf herself.”
There was a thickness to your throat, as if you’d swallowed a mouthful of cold honey.
“It’d be wise if you didn’t resist,” Jaime said, voice lowering. “They’ll hurt you more if you do.”
“You want me to just let them rape me?” you asked incredulously, loathing the way your voice tremored ever so slightly. You were afraid.
Jaime blew out a sigh. “I stood guard outside the Queen Rhaella’s chambers as the King raped her. Night after night, I could hear her screaming. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked Jonothor Darry once, ‘Are we not sworn to defend the Queen, as well?’ He didn’t even look at me when he replied, ‘We are… but not from him.’ And so I had no choice but to stand and listen. Listen to her pleading, crying, trying to fight him off—which only made the Mad King angrier. The maids said she looked as if she was mauled by a wild animal by the time he was done with her. Scratches, bruises, and bites littered her body.” There was a long stretch of silence before Jaime bowed his head. “It is better you let them get it over with. Let them have what they want, and they’d have no reason to hurt you anymore.”
“You said you had no choice,” you hoarsely said, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “You always have a choice, Jaime. Always.”
Though you couldn’t see his expression, you could imagine the way he would grimly chuckle. “I realized that right before I put my sword through his back.”
Your nose stung as you sucked in a chestful of air. “They’ll kill Brienne if she fights them. They can’t kill me, but they can and would kill her if she fights back—which she will.”
This time, Jaime was the one who didn’t grace you with a response, brows furrowed and his thoughts far, far away.
The chains around your wrists were cold. There was an itch on your back, but with your hands tightly bound together, there was little you could do about it. And so you slumped against the tree, stomach cinched with hunger, and back itchy as you watched the Bolton men eat their roasted meats over the fire, drinking fresh river water that your throat ached for.
Jaime and Brienne were bound to other trees across the camp. From this far, you couldn’t quite see Brienne, but you could see Jaime as clear as day—and he was staring out into the distance, not a single thought behind those green eyes of his.
Once the men had had their suppers and were mildly drunk on the wine they brought along with them, they stumbled onto their feet.
“I’ll take the big bitch first,” you overheard one of them proclaim. “You lot… can tame the Bitter Wolf. We can switch after.”
They burst into raucous cheers. Fear coiled within the bottom of your chest.
Let them have what they want, you could hear Jaime’s voice say.
His green eyes were on you now, watching you with furrowed brows.
“My Lord, I am Brienne of Tarth. Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to King’s Landing—!” Brienne began to protest when four men began dragging her up onto her feet, but was quickly cut off.
Grinning maliciously, Locke interrupted, “Catelyn Stark is a treasonous cunt. Orders were to take the Kingslayer and the Bitter Wolf alive. Nobody said shit about you.”
You didn’t see it when it happened. Sickening thuds, cracking bones, and a resounding slap. Brienne’s screams as they began beating her. From what you could hear, she put up quite a fight. Tears filled your eyes, and you yanked on your chains, knowing it would do absolutely nothing.
“Take her over there where it’s dark. I’d like a little privacy,” said Locke. “The Wolf can go over there—behind the bushes.”
Two men seized you on each side. Though you didn’t fight as wildly Brienne did, you were more calculated in your retaliation, allowing them to think you weren’t going to resist. But after the first few steps, you jerked away, shoving one of the men down onto the ground and using the cold metal of your shackles to wind around the other’s throat. Gurgling chokes erupted from his purpling lips.
You pressed, and pressed, and pressed—
Until another man came and hauled you off, striking you twice across the face, both of your cheeks stinging with the impact. You were bleeding—you could feel it dripping down your jaw, but you didn’t quite feel the pain just yet.
In the distance, you could hear Brienne’s yells echo through the trees.
You bared your teeth in a snarl when the man yanked your head back by your hair, eliciting a tear to fall from one of your eyes. “I’m going to have fun with you, Bitter Wolf. You’re a pretty little thing when you cry—maybe I’ll ask your nephew if I can keep you.”
��You think my nephew would want me to be raped?” you growled as he began dragging you away.
“He doesn’t give a shit what happens to you… fucking traitor,” he snarled, brandishing a dull knife gleaming with the reflection of the fire. The blade tore through your tunic and smallclothes, and you struggled to keep yourself covered with the few remaining scraps clinging onto your skin.
Your breath caught in your throat when he began undoing his own pants, a scream tearing from your chest when he held you down with his free arm.
“No!” you shouted, so loud it felt like the ground beneath you rumbled. “ROBB WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF ME!”
The man’s hand wrapped around your throat, his thumb digging into your airway. You were beginning to grow lightheaded
Without thinking, you garbled out a cry, “BRIENNE! JAIME! JAIME, PLEASE!”
Please what, you fool? you thought. Brienne can’t help you. Jaime can’t do anything. Nobody can save you.
You kicked out against the captor, landing a solid punch to his face as you tried to crawl away.
From the camp, Jaime’s jaw twitched upon hearing you cry out his name, heavy and broken with desperation. The Lannister glanced up at Locke.
“You know who she is, right?”
Locke smiled. “Some big, dumb bitch from who knows where? Hm… never been with a woman that big.”
“Brienne of Tarth. Her father is Lord Selwyn Tarth. Ever heard of Tarth? They call it the Sapphire Isle… every sapphire in Westeros was mined in Tarth. I’d bargain that Lord Selwyn would pay his daughter’s weight in sapphires if she’s returned to him,” said Jaime, trying to appear nonchalant. “Only if she’s alive, though. Don’t think he’d pay you much if you brought him his dead, defiled daughter.”
After a long moment of consideration, Locke turned and called out, “Bring the big one back here!”
From the distant dark, Jaime heard you scream out again. You were still fighting.
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to handle the Bitter Wolf in such a way. It’s better to leave her honor unbesmirched. See, if you’re going to sell her off to Robb Stark… he loves his aunt very much. I saw it myself, during the year I was their captive. He wouldn’t take kindly to his kin being tossed around and raped in such a fashion,” he said.
Narrowing his dark eyes, Locke stepped closer to Jaime. “Unbesmirched?”
“Not defiled,” Jaime clarified.
Much more reluctant, Locke huffed out a sigh, before calling out to his men. “Bring the Bitter Wolf back here!” He fixed his gaze back on Jaime. “Fancy word for a fancy man.”
“I hated to read as a child. My father forced me to study the books every morning before I could practice with my sword or horse. Two hours, every day, holed up in the maester’s chambers,” replied the knight. He caught sight of you being dragged back to the camp, your face bloody, leaves and foliage clinging to your hair, and your tunic torn off of you. “For God's sake, get some clothes on her! She’ll catch a cold and freeze to death in such weather! Little Robb Stark wants her alive, doesn’t he?” Jaime urged, cocking one of his brows upward.
With a haggard sigh, Locke undid his cloak and shoved it onto your shivering, horrified form, your arms crossed over your chest in an effort to salvage what little dignity you had left. Jaime’s loose, running tongue had saved you from being raped. You grabbed at the cloak and wrapped it over your shoulders, pulling it tight around you.
Brienne, on the other hand, was brought back fully clothed, still struggling. Blood dripped from her nose, but she seemed otherwise physically fine.
“Your father…” said Locke, “he’d pay your weight in gold to get you back?”
“You’ll be a rich man till the end of your days,” he responded. “And your sons will be rich men and their sons after them. Lands, titles… you’ll have them all. The North can’t win this war. You’re a smart man, you understand that, don’t you? We have the numbers, and we have the gold. Fighting bravely for a losing cause is admirable—but fighting for a winning cause is far more rewarding.”
Locke nodded once. “Hard to argue with that.”
Jaime momentarily glanced over at you, staring at him with wide eyes.
He looked back at Locke. “Now that we’re speaking man to man… I wonder if you really need to keep me chained to this tree. I’m not asking to be freed from my constraints, but if I could sleep lying down, my back would thank you for it. I’m not as young and spritely as I once was.”
The man in front of him smiled. “None of us are. Unchain Ser Jaime from the tree. I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat.”
“Hm, I’m famished, actually,” said Jaime, his stomach giving a loud rumble at the enticing thought of hot food.
“Famished—another fancy word,” mused Locke. “We’ve got a spare partridge on the fire.”
“Splendid. I do like partridge.”
Now free to stand, Locke led the Lannister closer to the fire—closer to you. You watched with narrowed eyes, unsure of what was happening, still reeling from the fact that you were nearly raped.
“Bring the bird here, and a carving knife.” There was a dark glint to Locke’s eyes that you misliked. “Any other fancy words you want to tell me, Ser Jaime?”
Before the blonde could reply, Locke had kicked out at Jaime’s leg, shoving him against a wooden log, his cheek painfully pressing against the dry bark. Two other men came forward to hold him down, and a third brought the knife.
Locke took it from him, pressing the blade just below Jaime’s one of eyes, squeezed shut. “You think you’re the smartest man there is… that everyone alive has to bow and scrape and lick your boots.”
“My father—”
“And if you get in any trouble, all you have to do is say ‘my father!’ and that’s it. All your troubles are gone. Hm? You got something to say? Want to tell me more about your rich, fancy childhood of books and horses? Careful, Kingslayer. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You’re nothing without your daddy. But your daddy ain’t here! Never forget that.”
The blade Locke was holding came away from Jaime’s eye.
You blew out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.
And it came down onto his right hand, cleaving it right off his arm.
Jaime screamed so loud you flinched back against the tree in shock, eyes wider than saucers. Dark blood spurted from the amputated limb. You yelled out his name, chest rising and falling unevenly with rapid, panicked breaths.
Locke turned his greedy eyes to you, slanting the crimson-slickened blade against your cheek, smearing Jaime’s blood all over your face.
“You keep silent, Wolf,” he snarled, grabbing at your face so you would be forced to stare at Jaime writhing in raw, undulated pain. “Listen to him… listen to his screaming. Music to my fucking ears.”
And so you did.
For the rest of the night, you could do nothing but listen to Jaime’s agonized yells.
In the next hour, he had passed out from the pain, clutching his severed hand to his chest.
“Jaime,” you whispered, trying to nudge his unmoving body with your foot, worried he was dead. “Jaime.”
He never replied.
The hand thumped against his sternum with each step the horse took. It smelled rancid: of rotting flesh and dried blood, accompanied by the stench of shame.
Shame.
That was all Jaime could feel for himself.
He was ashamed.
He could feel your eyes on him. Those pretty eyes of winter, usually cold and hardened… now gaunt with trauma and exhaust. If he looked closely, he’d be able to see the concern behind your irises, as well.
But he didn’t look closely, because he was too ashamed to. His own gaze was rooted to the moving ground, watching the foliage pass by. He felt like he needed to puke, but his stomach bore nothing for him to retch. The woodsy dirt seemed to grow closer and closer with every blink…
“How many of those fingers do you think we could shove up his ass?” one of the Bolton men jeered.
Locke coughed out a laugh. “Depends on if he’s had any practice. Is that the kind of thing you and your sister go for, Kingslayer? Did she loosen you up for us?”
The knight teetered on his horse. Your gaze flickered from him to your captors, brows furrowing.
“He’s going to fall,” Brienne called out, her voice rattling through the trees. The men paid her no mind, going on with their sneers and their crude japes. Again, she exclaimed, “He’s going to fall off the horse, someone help him!”
They all watched as Jaime slid off the poor creature’s back, falling face first into a schlop of cold mud. He groaned at the impact, weakly squirming in a fruitless attempt to try to push himself back up.
“Water. Please, water,” he croaked just as the group came to a grueling halt. Locke swung himself off his horse to stand in front of Jaime.
In a cruel manner, he unstoppered his leather water pouch, only to pour its contents over the top of Jaime’s head.
“Just give the bloody man some water,” you snarled. “It’s been days. He’ll keel over without it.”
Locke rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough.” With a smirk, he shoved another waterskin into Jaime’s single quivering hand.
Greedily, Jaime ripped it open with his teeth and tipped the pouch bag to chug down what was inside.
“Hm. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a man drink horse piss that fast,” Locke observed.
Jaime doubled over, gagging, puking out everything he had just gulped down into the filthy mud. Two cackling men seized him on each side, but Jaime was quick to react, elbowing one in the stomach and grabbing his sword.
It was one against a dozen… Jaime when he had two hands would’ve beat the lot of them in a blink of an eye. But he was no longer Jaime with two hands. Just the one.
A man kicked out at the back of Jaime’s knee, sending him sprawling forward.
“Stop!” Brienne yelled, jumping off her horse. More men surrounded her, beating her down to the ground, as she was tied and weaponless. They placed the tips of their blades to her throat, telling her she had gone far enough.
You wisely stayed up on your horse, watching as Locke landed several kicks into Jaime’s stomach and chest. A sickening crack sounded out through the woods. You weren’t really sure what broke, but it didn’t sound good.
“Stop! Stop hurting him,” you gruffed. “You’ve already taken his hand. He poses no more of a threat to you than I.”
“And what are you proposing, Bitter Wolf?” Locke asked, spreading his arms out. “That I beat you, instead?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, you spat out in a steely manner, “Yes. Go ahead. Beat me until my skin turns purple and blue. It won’t change the fact that you’d simply be wasting your time.”
Locke’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Fucking traitor.” He glared down at Jaime. “Be grateful the Bitter Wolf has decided to abandon her family for the side of the enemy. If I had it my way, I’d cut off your other hand and stuff it down your throat.”
A breath of relief slipped from your lips when Locke stepped away, leaving Jaime to lie in the mud for a few more seconds. The men eventually tossed him back onto his horse as if he were a sack of potatoes.
He wheezed every time he inhaled, still refusing to meet your gaze.
“Thank—” wheeze, “—you.”
“You did the same for me,” you quietly replied.
Neither of you spoke after that, continuing the journey on in a mutual, respectable silence.
Harrenhal was much larger than you’d remembered. Then again, you were only a small child last time you came, hyper-focused on all the food and fighting.
The Boltons hauled you off your horse, shoving you onto the ground, followed by Brienne and Jaime.
From in front of you stepped Roose Bolton.
Locke kicked Jaime to the muddy ground. “I give you the Kingslayer, Lord Bolton.”
“Pick him up,” he said with a dour expression. “He’s lost a hand.”
Cackling, Locke shook his head. “No, my Lord. He has it here!” He pointed at the severed limb tied loosely around his neck.
Roose scowled, stepping forward to rip the hand off of Jaime. “Take this away.”
“What? And send it to his father?” asked Locke, slightly miffed.
A muscle jumped in Roose’s jaw. “You’ll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it. This is the King’s uncle.”
The realization of the Bolton’s betrayal to Robb dawned upon you like a sharp strike to your cheek. “You… you fucking traitor!” you snarled, chest heaving with anger. “Fucking traitor!”
Roose arched a sharp brow. “Look who’s talking, Bitter Wolf. We’re on the same side now, you and I.”
You wanted to snap back, tell him that you’d never be on the side of the Lannisters. But you held your tongue—perhaps if you could play the part of a traitor to the North, they would treat you less harshly. Maybe even allow you to integrate into their group after long enough. You’d be a spy of sorts. You’d have to be patient… and play the long game.
“Cut them free. Apologies, my Ladies. You’re both under my protection now,” Bolton ordered. Someone sliced through your ropes, and you struggled to push yourself onto your legs, weak with exhaustion. “Find suitable rooms for our guests. We’ll speak later.”
Just as Roose was about to stride away, Jaime croaked out, “Lord Bolton. Has there been word from the capital?”
“You haven’t heard?” he said. “Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King’s Landing… sailed into Blackwater Bay. Stormed the gates with thousands of men. And your sister, how can I put this…?”
Fear danced clear as day across Jaime’s features.
“Your sister is alive and well. Your father’s forces prevailed,” Roose hummed. Overcome with a sudden barrage of overwhelming sensations, Jaime jerked forward, falling to his knees with a pained groan. “Ser Jaime isn’t well. Take him to Qyburn.”
You watched as they led Jaime away, somewhere inside the castle. Another man nudged you and Brienne forward, taking the both of you to the baths, where you were to clean yourself up.
When the hot, steaming water kissed your skin, you couldn’t help but moan out in relief. It’d been months since you bathed in anything but cold, frigid river water. Brienne sank into the waters across from you, blowing out a sigh and respectfully avoiding her gaze to give you a bit of privacy.
“I never had the chance to thank you for taking me so far. Or trying to, at least,” you quietly said as you began scrubbing the dirt away from your skin. “Thank you. You’re a good woman.”
An indiscernible look flickered over her expression. “I failed you. I failed Lady Catelyn. You shouldn’t be thankful for that.”
“You kept me alive. You saved my life several times. You helped me during a long, rough journey. If that doesn’t warrant my gratitude, I don’t know what does.”
The two of you were silent for a while longer. You leaned back to wash all the accumulated dirt and oil away from your hair, lathering your body with fresh soap by the stony bathtub’s edge.
“May I ask you a question, Lady Stark?”
“You may.”
“Why does everyone call you the Bitter Wolf?”
You let the question soak in for a few seconds as you rinsed away the soap. “I haven’t smiled since the Mad King killed my father and my brother. Not much to smile about, anyway. I suppose they also call me that because I’m none too friendly around people.”
There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”
“Sorry for what? Sorry for asking or sorry that it happened?”
“Both.”
“It’s alright.” Another long moment of quiet. Then, you asked, “Do you ever miss home, Brienne?”
The blonde tilted her head. “Sometimes. My father is a good man, and Tarth is beautiful. I often wonder what my life would be like if I never left. If I stayed and married a nobleman, like my father wanted.”
“But it’s not what you want,” you quietly said.
“No, my Lady. It’s not.” Brienne scrubbed away the dried blood on her bare shoulders with a brush. How it had even managed to get there, she wasn't sure. “Do you miss home?”
The thought of home made your chest ache. The fluffy snow, the direwolves, your comfortable bed. “Yes. More than anything, I miss my family. I miss my brothers, all of whom are gone now. I miss my sister, dead long ago. I miss my nephews, two of them may very well be long gone by now. I miss Robb and Catelyn, and I can only hope he’s not giving her too hard of a time. I can only hope he doesn’t hate me, that he can find it within him to forgive me. And I miss my nieces. It seems our little quest to save them has come to an abrupt end.”
Brienne shifted uncomfortably. The idea of failure still hung heavy over her broad shoulders.
After another ten minutes, Brienne had found that her fingers were beginning to prune, and so she slipped out of the tub, wrapping a thin linen towel about her tall, dripping figure.
She bid you adieu, but not without first saying, “I’ll protect you, my Lady. I may have failed in bringing you to King’s Landing and escorting your nieces out, but I will protect you with my life.”
Though you didn’t smile, Brienne could catch the faint look of fondness behind your usually frigid irises. “Thank you, Brienne. Truly.”
The big blonde exited the bathroom, having a guard lead her to her chambers.
You sank further into the tub, wishing to just stay there for a little while longer and forget. Besides, you didn’t know when the next time you’d be offered a bath would be, and you wanted to savor it for as long as you possibly could.
You grabbed a scrubbing brush, lathering it with soap before running it up and down your body, still feeling immensely dirty despite washing it all away. The bristles scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t stop, memories of men touching and shoving you flashing across your thoughts.
“Not so hard,” said a familiar voice. Your head snapped up, thinking Brienne had come back for a moment, before your eyes met Jaime. He was tired and weak, tugging his dirty clothes off. “You’ll scrub all your skin off.”
Brows furrowing, you sank lower beneath the water to make sure he wouldn’t see anything. You remained silent, simply watching as he made his way to the bath, nude as the day he was born.
It seemed Qyburn had done quite a number to his stump, which was cleanly bandaged and no longer bore the coloring of rotten flesh.
When he lowered himself into the tub, he let out a long groan of relief. The feeling of hot water kissing his body was a simple pleasure he missed dearly. Jaime noticed you shifting farther away, until you were pressed up against the opposite edge.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice gravelly. “I told you before, haven’t I? I would never… not unless you invited me, of course.”
Those were his very same words from all those moons ago, when he was standing in front of your chambers in Winterfell. You looked at him, expression softening.
“Your hand. What did Qyburn do?” you quietly asked.
Jaime waved the bandaged stump just above the water’s surface. “Want to see?”
Apprehensive, you slowly crossed the tub until you were only half an arm’s length away from him. With gentle hands, you reached out to take his arm, inspecting the wrappings and the visible outline of the stitches beneath it.
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes. More than when it was lopped off, actually,” Jaime admitted, surprised at himself for being so honest with you.
“And does it hurt now?”
“I was given milk of the poppy,” said the knight. “Numbs the pain.”
A shadow of disappointment danced across the green of his irises when your hands fell away from him.
You were entirely aware that the both of you were naked, and he was so close you could feel his leg brushing yours. You’d never been this close to a man in the nude before. Clearing your throat, you stepped back just a bit.
“If I faint, pull me out,” said Jaime. “I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.”
“I should let you drown,” you murmured.
The blonde man tilted his head to the side. “But you wouldn’t.”
“No, Ser Jaime. I wouldn’t.”
“And why is that? You’ve grown fond of me?”
The quiet that stretched between you felt heavy and tense, thick enough to cut through with a knife.
“I don’t know,” was all you said.
“I can see it in your eyes,” Jaime said, a mild grin to his cracked lips. “You’re fond of me. When we spoke at Winterfell, you had the same look. Then it was gone when I was your nephew’s prisoner. And now it’s back… not many look at me in such a way.”
You paused in your scrubbing for a moment to look at him. “What are you talking about? You’re the Golden Lion. Everyone loves you.”
“No. They all want me to think they love me, because they’re scared. I know how they really feel. I’ve seen their hatred for seventeen years, face after face. They all despise me. Judge me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. Your law-sister, Lady Catelyn, had that face. Brienne of Tarth, too. Hell, even Roose Bolton, who betrayed his King in the North… he still looks down upon me. Everyone but you.”
You blew out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. What were you supposed to say to that?
Before you could think up a response, Jaime continued on, “Have you ever heard of wildfire? The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn. The way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. Each time he burned a victim, he’d drag his Queen to the chambers and rape her until she passed out, then do it again and again, until he’s had his fill. He burned lords he didn’t like… Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys Targaryen saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city… beneath the Sept of Baelor, and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, and taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. He burned your father during a trial by combat, claiming fire to be his house’s champion. Your brother was put in a Tyroshi strangling device… forced to watch as your father cooked in his armor, and choked himself to death trying to save him.”
The corners of your eyes stung with a warbling film of tears. You knew Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed by the Mad King, but not like this. Not in such a miserable, painful way. You ducked your head as you furiously swiped the stray water away from your cheeks.
“Finally, the day of reckoning came—Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory on the Trident. But my father arrived first, with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my father better than that… he’s never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the King didn’t listen to me, nor did he listen to Varys, who tried to warn him. Hm, but he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle… that grey sunken cunt.”
A long pause. You took a step closer when you noticed Jaime slumping back with a haggard sigh, the rims of his eyes red as he recounted the story. He was tearing up, just as you were. This was equally as traumatizing for him as it was for you. You had reached out, but didn’t touch him, stopping yourself before you did.
“‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the King, begging him to surrender. The blood everywhere, the dead bodies… it was a massacre, Lady Y/N. In response, Aerys told me to… he told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said.” A tear fell down Jaime’s grimy cheek. “‘Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.’ If you were commanded to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”
Your lips parted. “No,” you hoarsely whispered.
Jaime blinked away the tears, inhaling sharply. “First, I killed the pyromancer. And then when the King turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. So I slit his throat. I don’t think he expected to die. He… he meant to burn with the rest of us, and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies into ash. That’s where your brother, Ned Stark, found me.”
“Why didn’t you tell him?” you whispered. “Ned would’ve listened—”
“You think the honorable Eddard Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me.” Jaime’s chest started to stagger with heavy, uneven breaths. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”
“No, Ned would have heard you out if you explained—”
Jaime’s face twisted into one of frustration. “Your love for your family blinds you, just as mine does for me. You were the only one, Lady Y/N… the only one…”
A wheeze and a puff. Jaime teetered forward, eyes slipping shut.
Quickly, you darted forward just before he could fall into the water, holding him slightly upright within your arms. His face pressed against your shoulder and he groaned out something incoherent.
“Guards!” you called. “Help!”
“The only one who called me Ser Jaime before calling me a Kingslayer,” he muttered against your skin, just before the guards rushed in to help him out.
The dress they had given you to wear was an ugly shade of yellow. It was not at all akin to the type of dresses you would wear up in the North, which were thick and voluminous with high collars. No, this one had a tight bodice with a flowing skirt, its neckline square and plunging. It was a dress Southern ladies would be quite comfortable with, you were sure, but you were no Southerner.
Jaime’s green eyes had shimmered with slight mirth upon seeing you uncomfortably amble into Harrenhal’s mess hall, two guards forcing you out of your chambers so you would speak with Roose Bolton. In front of the knight was a generous plate full of roasted meat, along with a heaping of creamed potatoes and glazed carrots. It was a most appetizing meal, especially to a man who hadn’t had proper, hot food in longer than a year, but it proved to be hard to cut into the meat with just one hand.
“Lannister gold,” said the knight, glancing at your dress as you took a seat next to him, before fixing his stare on your sour expression. He then went back to trying to cut his meat with his one hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Not as bad as hers, anyway.”
To his other side sat Brienne, who was forced into a frumpy pink dress, the collar rimmed with brown fur. Somehow, she looked even more out of place than you did.
“I see my men have found you both appropriate attire,” said Lord Bolton, smirking at your clear uncomfort.
“Yes, most kind of them,” Brienne replied, though it lacked any true sincerity. “You’re a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Stark’s orders to accompany Lady Y/N and Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing.”
With a scoff, Roose rolled his eyes. “If Catelyn Stark wasn’t the Wolf-King’s mother, he would have hanged her for treason.”
Growing frustrated at Jaime’s obvious struggles, Brienne reached over for a fork and stabbed it through the meat, allowing for him to cut through it easily.
“I should send you back to Robb Stark, Kingslayer,” said Roose.
You narrowed your eyes. “And here I assumed you already betrayed my nephew?”
“Gold is a tempting wealth, one that the Lannisters have in abundance,” Roose said, words sharp. “But it is easier to offer it than to dole it out.”
With raised brows, Jaime popped a piece of tender meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “And here you sit, watching me fail at dinner rather than tossing me into the back of a carriage and dumping me in front of Robb Stark. I wonder why that is.”
“Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you,” Roose told Jaime. Then, he looked at you.
“And we both know who would pay the most. Or who would make you pay the most if he found out you captured me and sent me back up North for a summary execution.”
A set of cutlery was placed out in front of you, and you trained your stare onto a dull butter knife. Not as sharp as you would’ve liked, but it’d do.
“Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill all three of you and burn your bodies,” said Lord Bolton.
You wrapped your fingers around the butter knife, but, to your surprise, Jaime’s hand let go of his fork to gently rest over yours, as if to stop you from doing anything rash. This didn’t go past Roose’s notice, and he narrowed his cold, pale grey eyes.
“It would be, yes… if you truly believed my father would never find out about it.”
His hand slipped off of yours.
“King Robb is keeping him quite busy. He doesn’t have time for anything else.”
Humming Jaime, bobbed his head. “He’d make time for you.”
It seemed that Roose Bolton was convinced. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I will allow you to go to King’s Landing… as restitution for the mistakes my soldiers made. And you will swear to tell your father the truth—that I played no part in your maiming.”
“Very well,” said Jaime, seeming satisfied. It dawned on you that he thought both you and Brienne were to go with him. “My Ladies, may our journey continue without further hindrance.”
You bit down on your tongue when the Bolton simply smiled cruelly. “Oh, they won’t be going with you. They’re charged with abetting treason.”
Incredulous, Jaime said, “I’m afraid I must insist.”
“You’re in no place to insist on anything,” Roose scathingly replied. “I would have hoped you’d learned your lesson about overplaying your position.”
“Then let me insist. Send me back to my nephew,” you barked, brows knitting. “He can deal with me as he sees fit. I’m not going to be your prisoner.”
With a wide smile, Roose Bolton pushed away from the table to stand. “Oh, but your nephew doesn’t know you’re here, Bitter Wolf. And I intend to keep it that way. It seems like you don’t have a choice.”
Before you could ask him anything else, Lord Bolton was already striding away. You exchanged a worried glance with both Jaime and Brienne, fear clutching around your heart.
They’d put you in chains, and tossed you into a dark room, Brienne in another far, far away from you to prevent an elaborate escape scheme from forming between the two of you. The one they put you in had little to light the space other than a single lonely torch hanging by the doorway, and a small, rectangular window that filtered pale moonlight through the glass. You sat on one of the cold, uncomfortable chairs, arms wrapped around yourself as you shivered. The dress they’d given you wasn’t one fit for the cold. You supposed they were probably aware of that.
The door on the other end of the chambers creaked open. In strode Jaime, his arm in a sling, a guard following close behind.
You rose to your feet, face solemn.
“I thought you’d left already.”
“Tomorrow,” replied Jaime. He stepped closer. “I tried to bargain with Roose. He’s adamant on keeping you here. I’m sorry. I’ll convince my father to buy you out. No man can deny the gold when it’s presented right in front of him.”
You wrenched your gaze away, fixing them upon the torch’s warbling flames. “Why?”
The blonde knight tilted his head. “What do you mean, why? I’m going to get you out.”
“Yes, I got that,” you softly said. This time, your eyes met his inquisitive green ones. “But why would you want me to get out?”
“Because I… I owe you a debt. You released me from my imprisonment,” he replied.
Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you strode forward the rest of the way, until you stood only inches from Jaime. You lowered your voice as you said, “I did it for a reason, Ser Jaime. Please… when you get to King’s Landing, swear you’ll send my nieces back to Robb. Send the girls to him, and consider the debt repaid.”
Jaime nodded. “I swear it.”
You studied him for a moment longer, eyes watering and nose stinging. “I wish there’s more you could do than simply swear. But I trust you, Ser Jaime. I trust you.”
Something within his expression changed, as if crumbling apart, piece by piece. He could see the anguish written across your complexion, clear as day. “Lord Bolton is traveling tomorrow. He’s going to the Twins for Edmure Tully’s wedding.”
Your eyes widened. “Edmure Tully? So… Robb isn’t the one marrying the Frey girl? It’s Edmure?”
“Your nephew married a foreign girl,” said Jaime with a hint of a smile. “Stirred up quite a scandal amongst your people.”
“Oh, Robb. Foolish, foolish boy. The Freys couldn’t have taken that kindly,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, remembering the medic he was making heart-shaped eyes at. “But if Roose isn’t loyal to Robb anymore… he must be scheming something. What it is, I’m not sure.”
After a second, Jaime cleared his throat. Guilt splayed over his striking features. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’ll be left alone in this castle with Locke and his men. Without Roose, and without me.”
“Not another rape speech, Jaime,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Suddenly, Jaime’s hand darted out to grasp one of yours. Your eyes snapped up to his again, lips parting at the unexpected touch.
“Offer them money. As much as they might want. Even if you don’t have it, offer it. These men are greedy, sniveling creatures. Offer it to them, and they might just leave you alone,” said Jaime, deadly serious.
You looked away again, squaring your jaw and nodding. A second passed before Jaime let your hand go.
“Jaime,” you whispered, fear suddenly shadowing over your chest. “If your father buys me out, I’ll simply be moving from captive to captive. I won’t be returning home, will I?”
The blonde man’s features softened ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t be your captor,” he said. “I could never find it within me to stand back and watch you suffer just the same as I did.”
“I wouldn’t be your captive. I’d be your father’s. All my options seem to be dead ends for me,” you responded. Utter hopelessness flooded your features. “Thank you for trying, nonetheless. Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”
It might have just been a trick of the quivering fire’s light, but you could’ve sworn there was a whisper of tears in the corner of Jaime’s eyes. “Goodbye, Lady Stark.”
He held his hand out for a handshake, and you took it firm and steady. With a dip of his head, he turned and left your chambers.
And then, you were alone.
“Qyburn hopes your father will force the Citadel to give him back his chain,” said Roose, striding up behind Jaime as the knight mounted a horse, struggling with only his one hand to aid him.
Snorting, Jaime retorted, “My father will make him Grand Maester if he grows me a new hand.”
Roose hummed with thought. “You’ll give my regards to Lord Tywin, then, I trust?”
A nod, and a slight smile. “Tell Robb Stark I’m sorry I couldn’t make his uncle’s wedding. And that his aunt dearly misses him. The Lannisters send their regards.”
There was a malicious sort of glimmer to Roose’s pale eyes. He bowed his head.
And off Jaime went, his horse walking slowly out the gate, a few Bolton loyalists accompanying him. There were eyes on him from every point of the castle, burning into him. Locke awaited by the gate a sneer to his lips. “Safe journey, Kingslayer. Ooh, nothing to say? I liked you better before… I don’t remember chopping your balls off, too!”
Jaime remained wisely silent, jaw clenching.
“Don’t you worry about your companions. We’ll take good care of them. I’ve never had Wolf before, you know?”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It settled heavy within Jaime’s stomach.
He rode out of the castle without looking back.
They took a pause on their journey around half a day later. His legs were weary and numb, but his stub throbbed. Qyburn took care of that, placing a strange sort of white ointment over the stitches before rebandaging them. In no time, the pain seemed to ebb away.
After a bit of smalltalk on Qyburn’s rather disturbing confession to performing experiments on diseased men, Jaime swallowed uneasily and said, “You were in charge of the ravens at Harrenhal, no? Did you get a bird off to Brienne’s father in Tarth?”
Even if there was nowhere for you to go, Jaime surmised that at least Brienne would be able to return home with a proper ransom, right?
“A bird flew off and a bird flew back,” said Qyburn. “Lord Selwyn Tarth offered three hundred gold dragons for his daughter’s safe return.”
“A fair offer,” hummed Jaime as he stood up to his feet to head back to his horse.
“Yes. An offer Locke won’t take.”
Jaime faltered in his steps. “Why not?”
Qyburn frowned in thought. “He’s convinced Lord Tarth owns all the sapphire mines in Westeros. He feels he’s been cheated.”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
Jaime blew out a long breath. “They’d be fools to kill her.”
“Hm. These men have been at war for a long time. Most of them will be dead by winter, and they’re well aware of this. Both she and the Bitter Wolf will be their entertainment for tonight. Beyond tonight, I don't think they'd care very much what happens to her. They’ll have to keep the Stark alive for Lord Bolton, however. Use her as they see fit until he returns.”
Brows knitting together, Jaime shook his head. There was no chance he’d be able to live with himself knowing he condemned Brienne to her death, knowing you’d be raped and tortured and beaten when he could’ve put a stop to it.
He turned to one of the men accompanying him. “We have to return to Harrenhal,” he said.
“Why?” asked the soldier, upper lip curling with contempt.
“I’ve… left something behind.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve got orders from Lord Bolton to take you to your father in King’s Landing, and that’s what I intend to do.”
Cocking his face, Jaime narrowed his keen green eyes. “You think you’ll get a reward?”
“I serve Lord Bolton. Any appreciation from your father—”
Cutting him off, Jaime hissed out, “Let me explain something to you. When my father sees me, the first thing he’s going to ask is what happened to my hand. And I’ll be telling him that you were the one that chopped it off.”
“I had nothing to do with—!” “Or,” Jaime interrupted once again, lifting a finger, “I could tell him this man saved my life, and he’ll reward you greatly. We’re returning to Harrenhal. Now.”
The man in front of Jaime considered his words for a moment, before reluctantly nodding, ordering the rest of the men to get ready to turn back.
He was going back to get you, one way or another.
Jaime hurriedly leapt off his horse once he was within the dreary confines castle. From afar, he could hear drunken singing and chanting. With quick feet, he rushed up several creaking stairs, up and up and up he went, before he came up onto an elevated platform more than twice his height, where hundreds and hundreds of men were gathered. He could barely hear anything over their loud song about a bear and a maiden.
To his horror, as Jaime pushed through the crowd, he caught sight of a large arena. And within it… was a large brown bear.
Brienne was down there as well, in her tattered pink dress, her hands wrapped around a rather useless wooden training sword. And behind her, she was shielding you. Your expression was wild with terror, eyes darting every which way in an effort to search for a way out. The golden dress you were wearing was soaked with mud, torn in several places, and hanging haggardly off of one shoulder. Brienne was no better, with deep claw marks running along her neck down to her clavicle, blood dribbling down from the wound and staining her dress’ neckline crimson.
“Don’t spare her!” one of the onlookers yelled.
“Let the Wolf fight! Fucking coward!”
“Get on with it already!”
The bear roared angrily. Jaime could hear Brienne yelling, “Stay behind me, my Lady! I’ll protect you!”
“Well, this is one shameful fucking performance. Stop running and fight!” exclaimed Locke. Jaime’s eyes snapped up to him.
“You gave her a wooden sword?” he asked, nose wrinkling with disgust.
Locke glanced at the Kingslayer, thick brows raising in surprise. “Thought you’d gone.”
“You gave her a wooden sword!” he gritted out.
“We’ve only got one bear,” scoffed Locke.
Shoving people out of the way, Jaime stormed closer to the rotten man. “I’ll pay their bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires, whatever you want. Just get her out of there!”
With a smirk, Locke shook his head. “All you Lords and Ladies still think that the only thing that matters is gold.” He grabbed Jaime’s bandaged stub. “Well, this makes me happier than all your gold ever could! And that makes me happier than any of her sapphires! I’m sure taking the Bitter Wolf’s cunt for myself is going to be more pleasurable than winning the fucking war myself. So go buy a golden hand and fuck yourself with it!”
Furious, Jaime shoved Locke away, turning back to watch the fighting pits. The bear had swiped out at Brienne, causing her to fall back with a yell as one of its claws snagged against her jaw. You had yanked her to the side, effectively saving her from a deathly blow from the bear.
And without another thought, Jaime clambered over the railings, and jumped down. He had no idea what he was doing. His heart was racing within his chest, thumping an irregularly quick pace. All he could think was to stand in front of you and Brienne.
“Get behind me!” he yelled.
“I will not!” Brienne spat out a wad of blood as she struggled back onto her feet.
Just as the bear was about to strike again, an arrow shot out from the stands. You looked up to see one of the men Jaime had left with, clutching a crossbow.
“What the fuck are you doing to my bear!?” Locke yelled, incredulous.
“Lord Bolton charged me with bringing him back to King’s Landing alive, and that’s what I intend to do!” he gruffed in response, loading another arrow.
The next one missed its target, landing into the large bear’s shoulder. Jaime took its distraction to his advantage, grabbing your hand and shoving you towards one of the tall walls.
“Pull her up!” he ordered the people above. “Climb on my back!”
You did as he told with little complaint, hurriedly taking one of the offered hands and rolling onto the platform, breathless. Wasting no time, you got onto your feet and stormed to Locke, shoving him aside. You blew out a breath of relief as Brienne was also hauled up, leaving just Jaime in the pit.
Terror clawed within your ribcage. Another bolt went flying to the bear, but it missed completely, skirting off to the side. Frustrated, you grabbed the crossbow from the man, loading another arrow and aiming with narrowed eyes.
Before the bear could maul Jaime in one strike, you let the bolt flying loose, and the sharp arrowhead pierced the bear clean through the skull. It fell down with one large thud, mud flying every which way at its collapse.
“Help him up!” you told Brienne, placing another arrow into the crossbow and aiming it straight at Locke. “Put your hands on me, and I’ll have your eyes shot through the back of your head.”
To your relief, Brienne had helped Jaime back up onto the platform.
The men all around you booed, upset their entertainment was ripped away from them.
“You’re staying here. The big bitch, too,” said Locke, infuriated.
“If I stay, you’ll be dead. If Brienne stays, you’ll be dead. Is that a deal, or are you going to let me go?” When Locke found himself at a standstill, you growled out, “I’ll put a bolt through Jaime Lannister’s fucking head right now if you don’t let Brienne and I go. Do you think Tywin Lannister is going to be happy with his son dying by a Bolton arrow?”
There was a tense moment of silence. Locke stepped back, defeated.
Jaime and Brienne both made their way to you, escorting you out of the castle.
“Sorry about the sapphires,” remarked Jaime just before he went down the steps, his smile sharp.
He caught up to you, still gripping the crossbow tightly.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Fucking peachy,” you spat. You casted a worried look to Brienne, quietly asking if she was too hurt to travel. When she expressed that she was fine, you finally turned your eyes back on Jaime. Your expression softened as you studied him. “You came back.”
“I came back,” he echoed, tone equally gentle. “Though, did you just threaten to have me killed up there, or—?”
“You know I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“Hm.” Jaime smiled. “I guess I do.”
The journey to King’s Landing was going by quicker than you expected. Perhaps it was because Jaime had become less of a thorn in your side, and more of a respectable companion. Most of the time, anyway. He was still quite an annoyance, pestering you for stories of your past and never failing to jest about your infamously stoic disposition.
The Kingslayer was not your friend, no… but he certainly seemed to be treating you as one. Were you treating him as a friend, as well?
You were resting against a tree, arms crossed over your chest as you tried to find sleep. The crossbow you had taken with you was propped up against your leg. Brienne was on watch, sharpening her sword a few meters away from you.
To none of your surprise, Jaime had come ambling past, dropping beside you with a mild grunt. You didn’t spare him a glance, simply humming in acknowledgement.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, lolling his head against his shoulder so he could look at you. The green of his eyes glinted with the pearly moonlight, sharp and curious. “You’re free to go if you’d like. I told you I wouldn’t be your captor.”
Freedom. Something you hadn’t tasted in a long while.
Slow, you turned your head to face him, startled to see how close he was. Nonetheless, you didn’t pull away.
“I need to find my nieces and bring them back to Cat. To Robb. This… all of this… it can’t have been for nothing,” you murmured. “I can’t give up now.”
The man nodded. “I’ll help you, then. I swore I would.”
“I know,” you whispered in return. Jaime studied your features. Tired and weathered, broken and determined. Your eyes, however, read nothing but gratitude. “I still can’t believe you jumped into a pit with a bear in it. It was a foolish thing to do.”
“Yes, well, it saved you from a gruesome death. Some would say it was brave rather than foolish.”
“Bravery and foolishness go hand in hand,” you mused, with a slight scoff. After a lengthier silence, you croaked, “Thank you, Jaime.”
The blonde smiled. You didn’t see, for you had already turned your head away from him to gaze upwards, to the hazy stars in the night’s sky.
Not ten minutes of amicable silence later, Jaime felt a weight drop upon his shoulder. You had slipped into a peaceful rest, accidentally resting your head against the knight. For a moment, he considered moving, giving you more space to sleep for longer. Your hair tickled his cheek, and your chest rose and fell with unencumbered breaths. You looked so much younger when you were asleep, free of the waking world’s burdens and tribulations.
And so Jaime stayed still. Jaime couldn’t quite understand why he began grinning. He didn’t even notice that he was smiling like a damn fool, even after the sun had long risen and you had jerked awake when light rays danced across your irritated eyes, murmuring flustered apologies and stumbling onto your feet to hurry away with a lame excuse of checking on Brienne. No, the smile stayed for a long, long time.
King’s Landing was smaller than Jaime remembered. Much smaller.
When Jaime stepped foot into the Red Keep, the first thing he did was go to see his sister. His beloved sister. Her door creaked open. Her back was to him. Golden hair shimmered beneath the sun’s waning light.
“Cersei,” he said.
She turned, startled at the sound of her twin brother’s voice. Those sharp eyes of hers caught sight of his filthy state. Of his handless arm.
Disgust flickered over her expression.
Hot shame washed over him. You didn’t look at his stump with that kind of disgust. No, you had looked at it with a certain kind of soft curiosity. Cersei looked angry, almost. Affronted that he would show up in such a broken, weak state.
Why wasn’t Cersei happy to see him? After all this time?
A few hours later, you were tossed down in front of King Joffrey, still in that disgusting, ripped golden dress the Boltons had given you. In contrast, Jaime had already been bathed, donned in golden armor and a white cloak. He hadn’t been able to speak with you since the three of you had arrived at the Keep.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
“And what are we to do with you?” his nephew, his son, crooned, smiling wide as if he’d caught himself a prize. “Sister to a traitor. Aunt to a traitor. Bitter Wolf, indeed.”
You refused to meet Joffrey’s burning gaze. Instead, you were looking at Sansa, off to the side of the courtroom, her blue eyes wide and tearful. Youthful hope was plastered clear as day across her pale, beautiful features. Relief.
“Maybe I should put your head on a spike,” Joffrey mused.
At his words, Jaime stepped forward. “Your Grace, Lady Stark saved my life several times. She was the one who helped me escape. She is the entire reason I’m here now.”
It looked as if Joffrey wanted to spit at his uncle for ruining his fun. Before he could say anything, however, Tywin Lannister interrupted, “As the Hand, Your Grace, I’d advise to exercise compassion for the Bitter Wolf. We should be grateful to her for returning one of your Kingsguard back to you.” He thought it wise to make allies with you—after all, you were now technically the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, with all the Starks dead except your nieces. The rest of the North would be keen on following after you, rather than Roose Bolton.
“What good is a Kingsguard with just one hand?” snarked Joffrey. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. “She helped you escape, then, Uncle? Did she play a part in the Red Wedding? She must have, if she was so willing to betray her nephew!”
Wedding…?
You finally tore your eyes away from Sansa, looking up at Joffrey. Confusion clouded your expression.
The blonde King raised his brows. He grinned so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split into two. “Oh, Gods, she doesn’t know!” He began laughing. It was a cruel and calloused sound. “Robb Stark is dead. The traitor wolf died at his uncle’s own wedding! His pregnant whore of a wife and his bitch mother, as well.”
At the news, your lips parted, and your hands came up to cover them. Tears were quick to sting the corner of your eyes, and burn the bridge of your nose. Roose fucking Bolton did this. You didn’t want to cry in front of the monster of a boy, you really didn’t. But you couldn’t help it—your nephew was dead. Your good-sister was dead. And you weren’t there for them.
Did Robb die hating you?
A silent sob wracked your entire body and your knees buckled. Sansa took a step forward, but stopped when one of the Kingsguard snarled at her.
The rest of the court had fallen into a hushed silence. It was only broken when Joffrey stepped down from the Iron Throne, smirking maliciously.
“Welcome to court, Lady Stark. We are… forever indebted to you,” he chuckled, taking great pleasure at the fact that he was the one to break the tragic news. Then, he walked straight past you, humming as he left the throne room. The rest of the whispering Lords and Ladies trickled out after him.
Jaime watched, brows furrowed in concern, as Sansa finally was able to run forward and envelop you into a tight hug. You gripped your niece and cried harder against her. It shattered your heart in a million pieces when she began to quietly cry into your neck, as well.
Lips pursed in a tight line, Jaime spared you one last glance before he turned to head after the King.
They’d put you in a large chamber, with large, arched windows giving you a perfect view of the ocean. Warm air billowed through, the breeze tousling your just-washed hair and cascading a heated flush down your face. You weren’t fond of hot weather—you were a Stark through and through, made of ice and snow.
The handmaids laid out a dark grey Southern dress for you to wear. It was loose and lightweight, with a neckline that plunged far too low for your liking, wide enough to only barely hang off your shoulders. The sleeves were long and drooped far past your hands. You narrowed your eyes, shifting the fabric around your waist, frowning at how it cinched uncomfortably. Damn Southerners.
There was a knock on your door just as you had finished readjusting the dress to the best of your abilities, and you turned to see Sansa quietly slide in, her handmaiden following after her.
“My dear girl,” you whispered, reaching out to her. When Sansa stepped closer, you gently cupped her heart-shaped face with one hand. Her red curls were twisted into an updo, blue eyes scared and wide.
She looked so much like her mother… her mother who was now gone…
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you roped her into an embrace. She was crying again, pulling away to hastily wipe her tears away, sniffling.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
Though you’d never been too close to Sansa back when you were in Winterfell, as she wasn’t a fan of your cold nature, you still loved her, nonetheless. Sansa had lost her entire family in such a short span of time, she was immensely grateful to see you alive and well. A naive part of her hoped that you would whisk her away. Away from Cersei, away from Joffrey, and away from King’s Landing.
“Where’s Arya?” you asked.
“I don’t know. She disappeared when… when father…”
You nodded. Disappointment danced over your irises. Hopelessness. “She must’ve run out of King’s Landing. No doubt tried to make her way back home on her own. She could be anywhere from here to Winterfell by now.” Biting your lip, you encompassed her hands within yours. “Sansa, tell me. What’s happened here? Have they been treating you well?”
She shifted uncomfortably at the question. She hesitated for a moment, but quietly spoke upon remembering that you were her aunt, and that she could trust you. You were family. “No. Joffrey’s a monster. He’s cruel, and he likes hurting people. He’s pursuing Lady Margaery Tyrell now… and I’m married to Tyrion.”
“What?” Horror flickered over your expression.
Quickly, she added, “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, though… he’s not like Joffrey.”
From the corner of your eye, you could see Sansa’s handmaiden shift from foot to foot.
“That’s a relief. Are you sure you’re alright?”
Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes once more. “Better, now that you’re here.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that all on your own,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You poor girl.”
“What happened to you? Why did you leave Robb?”
“I wanted to save you and your sister. I thought that if I traded Jaime for you and Arya, I could… I could bring you back. It’s a long story, but… it didn’t work out. Your sister is gone, and Robb is gone, as well. Winterfell is not ours anymore. There is nowhere safe for us to go.”
Fear made her lips warble. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying… we must stay here for a while. It’s safest here. For now. But when we find an opportunity, we must take it.”
She looked like she wanted to protest for a minute, but she blew out a shaking breath. “Alright. I trust you.”
The weeks passed by in a breeze. A warm breeze. Jaime had grown rather accustomed to the cold of the North during his year of imprisonment. The heat down here was sticky and uncomfortable—especially beneath his golden armor.
He never would have thought that he’d miss the sight of snow.
He was rarely given the chance to speak to you or Brienne, busy with his duties as part of the Kingsguard. But he would see you in the distance, hovering protectively over your sweet-faced niece, walking the gardens, staring out at the oceans, as if planning out an escape. It was a strange thing seeing the two of you together. The little dove and the bitter wolf.
Exactly four weeks after Jaime had returned to King’s Landing his father called for a meeting with him. Apparently, Tywin had something to give him.
“It’s magnificent,” Jaime said in awe, slowly swinging the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, testing its balance. “Fresh-forged?”
“Yes,” said Tywin, stoic-faced.
Jaime turned to look at his father. “No one’s made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria,” the knight commented, brows raising.
With a nod, Tywin sank into his seat with seamless grace. “There are only three living smiths who know how to rework Valyrian steel. The finest of them was in Volantis. He came here to King’s Landing at my invitation.”
Jaime hummed. “You’ve wanted one of these in the family for a long, long time.”
“And now we have two.”
“Two?”
“The original weapon was absurdly large. Eddard Stark’s. It provided more than enough for two swords.”
There was a long pause before Jaime stepped forward. “Well, thank you. It’s glorious.” As Tywin nodded, whatever small glimmer of pride in his eyes waned away when Jaime struggled to sheath the sword, with his only one hand to aid him.
“You’ll have to train your left hand,” his father gruffed.
Frowning, Jaime replied, “Any decent swordsman knows how to use both hands.”
“You’ll never be as good.”
A pause. Even with both his hands, Jaime was never good enough for his father.
“As long as I’m better than everyone else, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Narrowing his keen eyes, Tywin sternly said, “You can’t serve in the Kingsguard with just one hand.”
“Where’s that written?” Jaime snapped back. “I can and I will. The Kingsguard oath is for life.”
“The war is over. The King is safe,” said Tywin.
Jaime scoffed. “The King is never safe! How many people in this city alone would love to see his head on a pike?”
You, for one. Jaime knew you would snap Joffrey’s neck if you were ever given the chance to.
Damn it. There he went, thinking of you again. It was as if you were some sort of disease festering in his mind.
“The King was protected by other knights while you were a prisoner. They will continue to do so when you go home.”
Ah. So that’s what this was about.
“Home?” Jaime echoed.
“You’ll return to Casterly Rock… and rule in my stead.”
Tywin wanted him to go back and abandon all his duties. Find a wife from a noble house, bear children—preferably sons, and secure heirs for the Lannister household. But that was not who Jaime was. No, Jaime wanted… he wanted…
“You are the Lord of Casterly Rock,” reminded Jaime, studying his father as if he’d gone daft.
Face ever so stony, Tywin replied calmly, “I am the King’s Hand. My place is here. I don’t expect to see the Rock again before I die.”
“You know what they call me? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. And now you want me to break another sacred vow,” sighed Jaime, blowing out a long, exasperated breath.
Tywin’s green eyes, paler than Jaime’s were, bore holes into his head. “You won’t be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieving the Kingsguard of his duties. The King will exercise that prerogative.”
How could Jaime leave his brother and sister here for a life he didn’t even want? How could he leave you with his monster of a nephew? How could he leave Sansa when he swore to you that he would get her to safety?
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” parroted Jaime.
Tywin’s upper lip curled into a slight snarl. “I don’t believe I asked you a question.”
“But I’m giving you an answer,” said Jaime.
“If you think your bloody honor comes before—”
“My bloody honor is beyond repair, but my answer is still no!” Jaime interrupted, his voice raising in volume. “I don’t want Casterly Rock. I don’t want to marry some woman I barely know. I don’t want to bear her children.”
“Then what do you want?”
For a moment, Jaime struggled for words. Cersei, he thought. But Cersei doesn’t seem to want me anymore. Not with my hand missing.
“Supper would be nice,” said Jaime.
The older of the two scowled heavily. “For forty years I’ve tried to teach you. If you haven’t learned now, you never will. Go. If serving as a glorified bodyguard is the sum of your ambition, then go serve.”
“I suppose you want the sword back.”
“Keep it. A one-handed man with no family needs all the help he can get,” spat Tywin.
No family. That stung Jaime much more than he’d care to admit.
With no more words to spare his father, Jaime strode away, sword in hand, his white cloak fluttering with his departure.
A golden hand. Qyburn had brought him a golden hand.
“A work of art,” he declared.
Jaime wasn’t so impressed. The gold just brought more attention to the fact that he didn’t have a hand in the first place. Not to mention that it was heavy and clunky. He would’ve been much more satisfied with something dull and lightweight.
“If you like it so much, chop off your own hand and take it,” he dryly remarked.
Pouring herself a chalice of wine, Cersei rolled her eyes. “You’re such an ingrate. I spent days with the goldsmith getting the details just right.”
“Days?” Jaime asked, skeptical.
She shrugged. “The better part of an afternoon.”
Once it was properly fixed onto his stub, Qyburn asked how it felt.
“A hook would’ve been more practical,” said Jaime.
It was then that his sister dismissed the older man, thanking him for his services present and past. Jaime waved around the new hand, testing its lopsided weight.
Finally, Cersei turned to him.
“Odd little man,” he quipped.
“I’ve grown rather fond of him. He’s quite talented, you know.”
Tilting his head, Jaime asked, “What past services? You were hurt?”
“None of your concern,” she calmly replied.
Frustration licked its way up Jaime’s chest. It was as if Cersei was purposefully dangling her secrets in front of him, but kept him at a safe distance by not disclosing anything. He wanted to yell, throttle her, asking her to be plain and truthful with him. It was wishful thinking, of course.
“You let him touch you?” was all he could think of saying.
There was a laugh to her tone. “Jealous?”
No. Bitter, more like—he’s spent too much time with you, perhaps. “Surprised. You never let Pycelle touch you,” he said.
“You think I’d let that old lecher put his hands on me?” She sipped on the wine. Then took another, and another, and another. “He smells like a dead cat.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a dead cat.” Narrowing his eyes, Jaime observed his sister finish what was in her chalice, reaching over to pour more. “You drink more than you used to.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The way her lip curled in disdain was eerily reminiscent of his father. Jaime felt the beginnings of a headache pound at the front of his temple.
“Hm, let’s see. You started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the capital. My husband died in a tragic hunting accident.”
An accident you made sure to cause, Jaime thought. She is just as much of a Kingslayer as I am.
“Must have been traumatic,” Jaime sneered, dripping with irony.
“My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne.”
Our daughter.
“We suffered through a siege.”
Blowing out a sigh, Jaime barked out a humorless laugh. “A rather short siege.”
“One that I didn’t expect to survive,” she quickly snapped back. Wisely, she decided not to tell Jaime she was a hair’s breadth away from poisoning Tommen. “And now I’m marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden, while I’m supposed to marry her brother, a renowned pillow-biter.”
Without her noticing, Jaime had stood up and came to sit beside her. “Father disowned me today,” he said.
“He can’t disown you. You’re all he’s got,” she said.
“You’re forgetting Tyrion.”
At the mention of her other brother, Cersei’s face twisted with repulsion.
“You don’t really plan on staying in the Kingsguard, do you?”
Jaime leaned forward, placing his golden hand behind her and his remaining one atop her knee. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was doing. Trying to kindle whatever there was between them again, perhaps. Desperately seeking what he used to have before he left King’s Landing. “Staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here, in the Red Keep with you.”
Just as he dipped his head forward, his nose brushing against her cheek, Cersei yanked herself away, standing up to stride back to the table and pour herself some more wine.
“Not now,” she said.
Frustrated, Jaime gritted out, “Not now? Then when? I’ve been back for weeks! What’s changed?”
“Everything!” she practically yelled. There was fire behind her irises. “Everything’s changed! You come back after all this time with no apologies and one hand and that bitch wolf and expect everything to be the same?”
Baffled, Jaime asked, “What do you want me to apologize for?”
“For leaving me,” she spat.
“You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?”
“I don’t know what you wanted. You weren’t here. You left me alone.”
It seemed that Cersei was so blinded by her rage, she refused to see anything from his perspective. They’d always considered each other to be their missing half. Now, Cersei felt more like a thorn in his side rather than something that’d make him whole.
“Every day, I was a prisoner. I plotted my escape, every day.”
Cersei shook her head. “But you didn’t, did you? Not until the Bitter Wolf set you free.”
“I murdered people so I could be here with you!”
“You took too long.”
“I… what? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you took too long,” she echoed.
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away!” yelled Jaime.
“Come in,” said Cersei.
The door swung open. Beyond his limit, Jaime stood up and shouldered past the handmaiden to storm out of the chambers.
Brienne fidgeted beside you as you watched Sansa pray down by the stony shores. What she was praying for, you weren’t quite sure. It seemed that Brienne was restless, seeing that Sansa was right there, but she couldn’t quite do anything about it. There was nowhere to take the both of you. She felt like she’d failed you—again.
Jaime came to stand by the two of you, commenting on how strange it was to see a Wolf in Southern drab, but quickly shut his mouth when you spared him an unimpressed look.
“You made a promise,” said Brienne.
“Mmh, yes, to return the Stark girls to their mother, who is now dead,” Jaime replied.
It was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack beneath all your jaw-gritting.
“To keep them safe,” Brienne emphasized.
“Well, Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money’s on dead. There’s a certain safety in death, no?”
Your stomach lurched. With a scowl, you spat out, “She’s not dead. Arya’s a smart, nifty little thing. She’s probably off posing as a stableboy somewhere. People always mistook her as one back in Winterfell, anyway.”
With a huff, Jaime continued, “Alright, well, regardless, she’s not here for me to protect. And Sansa Stark… well, she’s Sansa Lannister now, yes? Bit of a complication.”
Brienne drew herself to her full height, staring Jaime down. “A complication does not release you from a vow!”
“And what would you have me do? Kidnap my sister-in-law? And take her where? Where would she be safer than here?”
“Look me in the eye and tell me she’ll be safe in King’s Landing,” hissed Brienne.
Jaime wasn’t able to do so. Instead, he crossed his arms and narrowed his green eyes. “Are you sure we’re not related? Ever since I’ve returned, every Lannister I’ve seen has been a miserable pain in my ass. Maybe you’re a Lannister, too. Got the hair for it.”
Trouble in paradise? you thought in mild amusement.
Though you were reluctant to admit it, you said, “She’s not safe here. But this is the safest place she can be for now. I was thinking of the Vale, but Lysa Arryn is not sound of mind… I doubt she’d welcome Sansa into her home with open arms. There’s the Night’s Watch, where Jon is. But there is no way we could pass through the North without a Bolton hound sniffing us out.”
The blonde knight hung his head. “It’s better if you just stay here. Things will be less messy that way.”
Before either of you could fit in a reply, Jaime was already striding away. Brienne glanced at you apologetically, before heading away, murmuring something about having to speak with Margaery Tyrell.
Tyrion Lannister invited you to breakfast. You’d stared at the parchment with raised brows, chewing on your bottom lip in thought. From what you could recall, Tyrion was a sharp-tongued man, but Sansa was clear that he was kind. And so, you accepted the invitation.
Needless to say, you weren’t expecting to see Jaime there.
But of course he was there—they were brothers, after all.
The knight bowed his head in a silent greeting, looking overall weary but tried to offer you a small smile nonetheless. You nodded in return, taking a seat beside him. Tyrion watched the exchange keenly, sat down across from the two of you.
“How is the capital treating you, my Lady?” asked Tyrion, voice pleasant.
“Fine,” you replied hastily. “Hot. Dry. The air tastes like salt.”
With a chuckle, Tyrion began digging into his breakfast. “Yes, that would either be the piss on the streets or the ocean itself. You can never tell here.”
You glanced down at the plate full of eggs and sausages and fried potatoes the cupbearer put down in front of you. Suddenly, you had no stomach to eat. It seemed Jaime was thinking along the same lines, because he had yet to touch his food.
Glancing down, you noticed his new golden hand. Following your gaze, Tyrion quipped, “That new hand is better than the old one.” He looked up at his cupbearer. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pod?”
With a quiet hum, you shook your head. “Heavy, immobile metal over real, living flesh? Your definition of better must align with expenses, then.”
Tyrion smiled a genuine smile. “It looks better.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Neither of you are eating. Why is no one eating? My wife wastes away, her aunt sulks around, and my brother starves himself.”
“I’m not hungry,” Jaime was quick to say.
“You lost a hand, not a stomach.”
Drawing in a breath, you gritted out, “You’d sulk if your entire family was killed, wouldn’t you?”
The comment made Tyrion wince slightly. “Apologies, my Lady. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just wanted to have a meal with my family. The tolerable ones, at least. I invited Sansa, but she politely declined. So please, try the boar. Cersei hasn’t gotten enough of it since one killed Robert for her.”
After a beat of intense silence, you sat up straight and began cutting through the food, eating slowly. It didn’t go past your notice when Jaime pushed his plate further away from him.
“A toast to us,” said Tyrion, lifting his goblet. “The dwarf, the cripple, and the Bitter Wolf.”
Both you and Jaime grimaced at the names. Jaime reached forward to grab his wine chalice, but clumsily forgot that his golden hand couldn’t bend to take it, effectively knocking it over. Purple-crimson spilled all over the table, dribbling down onto you and staining the dress you were wearing a darker shade of mauve.
“I’ll clean it,” started Pod.
Jaime waved him away. “No. I’ll do it. Leave us.” He turned to you, frowning and handing you a dishtowel. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s alright,” you quickly reassured him, taking the rag and wiping away the excess. “It’s not my dress. Not my wine. It feels refreshing on my skin, actually.”
Jaime watched you for a moment, his eyes soft.
Tyrion tilted his head. “Seems the wolf isn’t so bitter, after all. The journey softened you, I take it?”
At his words, your expression hardened, and Jaime sent him a sidelong glare.
The younger of the two quickly backtracked. Gods, you were just not a very good conversationalist, were you? “My brother told me you shot down a bear to save him.”
“I did,” you curtly said.
“You and I are going to be good friends, I think,” Tyrion mused. He grinned wide, before taking another sip from his cup.
Joffrey’s wedding ceremony was a grand event. It was all decorations and Lannister heraldry, candles and flowers and bells every which way you looked. You didn’t care at all for it, really. As long as the monster wasn’t marrying your niece. It was a shame—Margaery Tyrell seemed a nice enough woman. At least, you knew Sansa took a liking to her.
You hadn’t even realized that the ceremony was over until people began clapping, Joffrey pulling away from his kiss with Margaery. If she was upset about the ordeal at all, she didn’t show it. Either she was as deranged as her new husband, or she was a very good actor. Jolting out of your reverie, you lightly clapped thrice before letting your hands fall back to your sides. Gods, this dress itched. A pale shade of pink, laced with golden thread. How the Southerners wore this kind of garb every day, you never knew.
Before you knew it, the wedding feast was commencing. Somehow, it was even more of a large-scale event than the ceremony had been. Performers in every corner, some swallowing swords, others juggling flaming torches, and a few with seductive eyes, twisting themselves into knots and rotating their bones in ways you never knew the body could bend. There were a million and one dishes lining the gilded tables, platters upon platters of rich foods, sweet pastries, fruits with cheese, and savory meats. Chalices of golden ales and honeyed wines were passed around, filled to the brim. Frankly, you would’ve enjoyed the event, had it not been in honor of the most rancid boy you’ve had the displeasure of knowing.
The lords and ladies attending avoided you like the plague—either spooked by the deep glower etched over your features, or by the fact that you were the infamous Bitter Wolf herself… It didn't make much of a difference. Two people who didn’t treat you as if you carried a disease were Oberyn Martell and his paramour, Ellaria Sand. Both of them regarded you with poorly-hidden lust, offering for you to join them in their chambers after the feast, to which you had no idea how to respond. You were flattered, truly, and there was no doubt that they were both very attractive people, but you were in no mood to fool around in the capital. After you bid them a hasty farewell, Tyrion came to say hello as well, and you dipped your head in greeting. He was quick to walk away, claiming he was in dire need of alcohol in his system.
After the short interactions, you made a beeline for the royal table, wishing to be by your niece’s side—no doubt she was feeling anxious at Joffrey’s wedding, even if she wasn’t the one to wed him.
Just as you grazed a hand against Sansa’s shoulder, clad by a soft purple dress, Olenna Tyrell made her way to the two of you.
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you before, Bitter Wolf,” said the old woman, smiling kindly at you.
“We haven’t,” you curtly replied. “Congratulations on the wedding.”
She waved away your words. “Congratulations to you for making your way to King’s Landing alive, despite everybody’s expectations. You were surely a surprise for everyone at court.” Then, she darted her eyes to Sansa. She reached out to brush her hand along her braids and the necklace resting against her clavicle. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother, and your nephew. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding… it’s horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage!”
Roose Bolton. The name seared hot fury through your chest. According to Jaime, Tywin had given the North over to the Boltons to take over—but he would be met with all the stubbornness of the Northern houses, and they wouldn’t bend the knee to anyone but a Stark. It was a relief to also hear that Tywin wouldn’t be helping the Boltons any further.
Olenna’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit! Now that peace has come and all's right with the world… it would do you good to see some of it,” she told Sansa, smiling kindly. Then she glanced over at you again. “You look wonderful, Lady Y/N. You’re much prettier than I thought you’d be… your name carries a certain weight to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I ate some of this food I paid for.”
She ambled away, and you rubbed your hand along Sansa’s back. From afar, you caught a glimpse of Jaime speaking with Loras Tyrell. The green of his eyes caught yours. “I’ll be back,” you whispered to your niece, before making your way to Jaime. You didn’t quite know what you were going to Jaime for. Perhaps it was because he was the only other person in the wedding than Brienne and Sansa you felt comfortable conversing with. What a long way the two of you had come.
“Y/N,” he greeted, straightening himself when you grew close. His heavy golden armor shone beneath the hot sun. “You look beautiful.”
There was a warm sincerity to his words, but you shook your head anyway. “In comparison to your months with me covered in mud and filth, of course.” After a pause, you asked, “What’s it like? Watching your nephew get married? I… I wasn’t there to see Robb marry the medic girl he seemed so smitten with.”
“It’s strange,” Jaime truthfully admitted. “Especially when I hardly know the Tyrell girl. My sister detests her, though. Calls her a whore more often than she drinks, and we both know how much she drinks.”
Though you didn’t smile, there was a glint of amusement in your eyes. “Be honest with me. I know he’s your nephew… your… your blood… but you can’t truly love him, do you?”
The knight bit the inside of his cheek. No, of course he didn’t. Jaime was well aware that he was a monster, beyond saving. “Family is family,” he eventually replied.
The disappointment in your expression didn’t go beyond his notice.
“I wanted to ask, Jaime,” you carefully began. “What would happen if I were to leave the capital with Sansa? Would you be ordered to bring me back? Or would we be able to walk away free?”
“Not this again. I told you, it’s safest for you to be here—”
“It’s a hypothetical. Would you turn me in if you were ordered to?” you quietly asked. “I need to know if… if I can trust you, Jaime.”
Jaime’s eyes searched yours. He stepped closer, hand lifting to grasp your forearm and tugged you to the side, where it was a bit less crowded. “No. Is that what you want to hear? That I’d betray my oaths for you? That I’d help you cross the world if you asked, honor be damned?”
Stricken by his words, you found yourself speechless.
You cleared your throat after a long moment. “Well… even if that was true, it’s not like we’d have anywhere safe to go. My bannermen are scattered, and between them are the Boltons and the Freys. The seas are occupied by the Greyjoys and pirates alike.”
Jaime nodded. “Stay here. I can keep you safe from here.”
“Can you?” you challenged, eyes narrowed.
A bark of a laugh. Jaime spared you a roguish grin. “Don’t make me swear it. You know my habit of breaking my vows well by now.”
You blew out a breath. “Thank you, Jaime. Truly.”
“Yes, you chose a perfect time during my nephew’s wedding to discuss such matters.”
And then came a sound foreign to his ears—you laughed. You just laughed! It was awkward and barely counted as genuine, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Jaime’s mouth parted, gaping at you with amazement.
“Did you just laugh?”
“What? Am I not allowed to?”
“No, no, it just… took me by surprise. It was nice.”
He smiled, wide and genuine. From the corner of his eye, he caught his sister glaring at the two of you with an intense, angry gaze. The smile fell away from his lips, and his entire body stiffened. You followed his gaze, raising your brows upon seeing Cersei. With a nudge and a grunt of a goodbye, you stepped away from Jaime, not wanting to antagonize the Lannister woman any further.
You moved to the tables to pluck at the sweet, fat grapes, popping them into your mouth with a pleased hum. Not too soon after, Brienne joined you, chattering about the food and how it reminded her of her own home. Just as you were about to ask her what her favorite dish was, glad to have someone you could call a friend, a certain blonde woman came forth to the two of you.
“Lady Brienne,” greeted Cersei. You turned to look at her. “Bitter Wolf. I owe you both my gratitude. You returned my brother safely to King’s Landing.”
The taller woman gave you a glance, unsure of what to say. You nodded. “Jaime did his fair share of saving. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him, either.”
The green of her eyes flashed dangerously. It didn’t go past her notice that you called him by his first name without his formal title of Ser. “Did he, now? Strange… I haven’t heard a thing about it from him.”
“Not such a fascinating story, I’m afraid,” said Brienne, grimly thinking back to the men trying to rape her.
“I’m sure you have many fascinating stories, Lady Brienne,” Cersei crooned in a condescending manner. “Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next, serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.”
Brows knitting together, Brienne protested, “I don’t serve your brother, Your Grace.”
“Hm.” Cersei lifted her chin pridefully. “I just find it funny how… a few moons ago, the Bitter Wolf was our sworn enemy, behind the mighty King in the North. And now here you are, safe in our capital, making seductive eyes at my brother. You betrayed your nephew, who’s to say you won’t betray my brother, as well?”
Seductive eyes?
Anger began clawing up your throat, smoldering hot. You swallowed painfully slow. “Is that all, Your Grace?” you asked in a level tone. She wanted a reaction out of you… to warn you to stay away from her brother. Her lover. You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of being upset. “Brienne and I want to go watch the performers, if you would excuse us.”
She looked infuriated at your dismissal, watching as you linked arms with Brienne and gently led her to the stage.
“Are you alright, my Lady?” asked the large woman.
“I’m fine. She’ll have to do far worse than that if she truly wants to provoke me,” you replied.
The two of you enjoyed each other’s company for a little longer, striding through the crowds and plucking food off of the mountain-high platters. Though she was younger than you, she carried herself with the weight of someone with several decades’ worth of experience. You appreciated that about Brienne.
Your conversations were cut short when Joffrey stood up from the royal table, screeching for silence. He was presenting a show—one depicting the so-called ‘history’ of the war. It was a crude rendition, riddled with falsities.
You felt your heart drop to your stomach when several dwarves ran out in offensive costumes, depicting Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Joffrey himself, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark. One by one, they battled one another. Stannis killing off Renly, Robb taking out Balon, Joffrey eliminating Stannis with wildfire.
Tears filled your eyes when Robb was the only one left standing, with only Joffrey left. You glanced at Sansa, who watched the show with a stony expression. Her time in King’s Landing taught her never to give anything away. Keep her emotions within herself, for her own safety.
And finally, you couldn’t take it anymore once they knocked his direwolf’s head off. The actor playing Joffrey grabbed the head and began to motion humping it, moaning as the crowd cheered. The real Joffrey—the one lounging at the royal table, only a few feet from your sweet niece—spat his wine all over as he laughed and snorted and chuckled.
A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. For him to disrespect your family in such a way… it was sickening.
Once the disgusting performance was over, Joffrey clapped and hollered. He turned to his uncle Tyrion, offering him to go and prove his worth by fighting the actors.
In response, Tyrion said, “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace. I think you should fight them, instead. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first hand witness. Climb down from the high table and show everyone how a true King wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust.” He gestured towards the imitator of Joffrey who had pretended to fuck Grey Wind. “It would be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”
A hesitant ripple of laughter echoed across the crowd. Joffrey was so furious it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure of his clenched jaw. With no further words, Joffrey grabbed his chalice of wine, stomping over to Tyrion and tipping the cup over so the sticky liquid spilled out to drip down his uncle’s head.
“A fine vintage,” said Tyrion. “A shame that it spilled.”
Acknowledge me! Joffrey wanted to scream. Fight me! Show me how angry you are!
“It did not spill,” he gritted out.
“My love, come back to me,” said Margaery, reaching out for her husband, wishing to quell the tense atmosphere. “It’s time for my father’s toast!”
The young boy made a grand show of being void of wine, and demanded Tyrion be his cupbearer, seeing as he was too cowardly to fight. He dropped the empty chalice for him to pick up, cruelly kicking it away just as it was within Tyrion’s reach.
“Bring me my goblet,” he said.
He relished watching his uncle get to his hands and knees, crawling beneath the tables in search of the goblet. Your niece, your sweet, darling niece, stood from her chair to bend down and pick it up, as it was closest to her. She handed the cup to her husband, pursing her lips.
The next few moments passed by in a tense haze.
Tyrion filled the cup. Held it out for his nephew to take.
Joffrey ordered him to kneel.
Tyrion refused to do so, staring straight at him with defiant eyes.
The pigeon pie came out, large enough to feed the entire wedding three times over.
You watched as Tyrion and Sansa were about to leave the wedding, and you had half the mind to follow them, wanting nothing more than to be alone in your chambers for the night. However, before they could leave, Joffrey called out for his uncle once more.
“Where are you going? You’re my cupbearer, remember?”
“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace.”
“No, no, no. You’re perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.”
Tyrion glanced back at Sansa. With a huff, he made his way back to the table, handing the goblet back to Joffrey, and turned to walk back to his awaiting wife.
The King gulped down the contents of the cup greedily. Droplets of Dornish leaked from the corners of his mouth.
“If it please Your Grace, Sansa is very tired—”
“No!” yelled the boy-king. “No. You’ll wait here and—”
He dissolved into a fit of coughs. Drank more of that wine of his.
Both you and Brienne glanced at each other.
Joffrey wheezed. Cersei sat forward in her chair. Margaery’s eyes widened.
“He’s choking!” she screamed once Joffrey began clutching at his chest.
“Someone help the poor boy!” yelled Olenna Tyrell.
Joffrey staggered forward, falling as he continued coughing, spluttering, and choking. Bits of pigeon pie fell from his mouth, flecked with wine and a far darker liquid: his blood. This was no mere obstruction of his windpipe—this was the work of poison.
Your lips parted open as you watched Jaime hurriedly push through the crowd to get to him, kneeling beside him, calling his name, unsure of what to do. Cersei screamed even louder, shoving Jaime to the side, cradling her oldest son to her chest as she weeped.
His face turned purple. His eyes bulged out of his skull. Foam frothed about his lips.
He twitched, and twitched, and twitched again. One of his hands lifted to jerkily point at Tyrion, who was watching on in confused horror.
Blood dribbled out of Joffrey’s nostrils.
A second later, the twitching stopped.
Joffrey Baratheon was dead.
And you were too busy relishing in the fact, you hadn’t even realized that Sansa was gone.
It wasn’t often that Jaime visited the Sept.
Now that Joffrey was dead… well, that was plenty of reason for him to go. Especially now that Cersei seemed to spend all her time there, hovering over her dead son like a vulture. When he came through the grand doors, he passed by his father and little Tommen, the former in the middle of telling the young boy about the duties of marriage, seeing as he was now King.
Tywin didn’t seem too upset that Joffrey was dead. To be fair, neither did Jaime.
“How are you?” Jaime asked, stopping in front of his youngest nephew. It wasn’t an easy thing—watching your older brother die in front of you at his own wedding.
“I’m alright,” he murmured.
Jaime nodded, patting his shoulder. “Good.”
Then, he made his way down the rest of the steps, Tywin leading Tommen out. Jaime dismissed the rest of the priests, wanting to be alone with Cersei.
Once only the two of them were left in the Sept—along with Joffrey’s corpse, of course—Cersei finally spoke. Her voice was croaky and hoarse with disuse. “It was Tyrion,” she said. “He killed him. He told me he would. ‘A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.’ That’s what he said to me. You saw it… you saw Joff point at him before he—”
Lowering his tone, Jaime whispered, “I don’t know what I saw.”
Cersei shut her eyes. “Avenge him,” she said, words warbling with emotion. “Avenge our son. Kill Tyrion.”
What she said seemed to strike Jaime across the face. He reared back, affronted. “Tyrion’s my brother. He’s our brother. There’ll be a trial. We’ll get to the truth of what happened.”
“I don’t want a trial!” she hissed. “He’ll squirm his way to freedom, given the chance. I want him dead.”
Tears slipped down both of her eyes. It was as if the dam inside her had finally broken under all the weight of her grief.
“Please, Jaime,” she sobbed. “You have to! He was our son! Our baby boy!”
He drew closer to her, tugging her into an embrace. Her fingers curled into the leather of his tunic. When she raised her tearful face to yank him into a desperate kiss, Jaime didn’t resist.
Then, as quickly as she had advanced upon him, she shoved him away yet again. Jaime was beginning to grow tired of her pushing him in such a way. It wasn’t fair.
“Tyrion’s wretched wife, Sansa, has disappeared. No doubt she played a hand in Joff’s murder. I want you to find her. Kill her, too. And I want the Bitter Wolf locked up in her niece’s place.”
Jaime’s eyes widened as he regarded his sister with an incredulous stare. “What? But Y/N hasn’t done anything. She has nothing to do with this!”
“Oh, because you were watching her the entire time, when you should’ve been guarding my son? It’s not a wonder he was murdered right beneath our noses, then!” Cersei screeched, voice raising several octaves. “Tell me, do you love her? Do you love that fucking wolf traitor more than you love me, your own sister? More than you love your son?”
Jaime was at a loss for words. Did he love you?
When he didn’t reply, Cersei angrily turned away from him, drying her face with the fabric of her sleeves. “You’re a disgrace to us. To our family.”
She sounded exactly like father. Anger coiled within his stomach. Jaime narrowed his sharp eyes.
“You are a hateful woman,” he seethed. “Y/N is anything but. Bitter Wolf, people call her, but she is not bitter. She is hurt. She is grieving. Just as you are. She saved my life, and I owe her nothing but my gratitude.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, Jaime strode away, off to go pay you a long overdue visit.
A knock on your door. It was the dead of night, and you were only minutes away from falling asleep, having exhausted yourself with tears and stress. You weren’t at all dressed properly for visitors. Nonetheless, you dragged yourself out of your bed, your shift hanging wrinkled and lopsided over your body.
Your door creaked open, and you were tiredly blinked upon seeing Jaime on the other side. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shifted away from the entrance, silently opening the door wider to make space for him to come in. Without hesitation, the knight slid in, dipping his head as greeting. You’d been crying—he could still see the dried tear tracks on your cheeks, only faintly illuminated by the sparse candles in the chambers.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” croaked Jaime, looking every bit as defeated as you. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Are you alright?”
You gingerly shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a weary sigh. “My entire family is gone. Lost or dead.”
“Right. Stupid question.” Jaime cleared his throat. “We’ve both lost our nephews now.”
“It’s not the same, Jaime,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You know it’s not. Joffrey was a monster, and the world is better off without him. And I… I loved Robb as if he was my own son. The younglings, Bran and Rickon, as well.”
For a second, Jaime looked like he wanted to say something. Wisely, he held his tongue. He took a small step forward, closer to you. He was keenly aware that he was alone in your room, not at all appropriate for an unmarried lord or lady, but he really couldn’t care. The two of you were above that. Besides, he’d seen you naked before, for heaven’s sake!
So why was he suddenly so flustered now?
“Cersei wants me to find Sansa,” he began, carefully. “And she wants me to kill her.”
Noticeably, you stiffened. Your eyes were wide, he could see the panic begin to set within your wintry irises.
In a placating tone, he quickly reassured, “I would never do such a thing. Frankly, I’m offended that you’d think I would. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it, even if Catelyn Stark is dead.”
After a second, your muscles loosened. You avoided his eyes, but murmured, “I believe you, Jaime.” There was a soft silence hanging between the two of you. Finally, it was shattered when you asked, “What of your brother, Tyrion? What is to happen to him?”
Jaime nodded, glad that you were on the same wavelength as him. “I was hoping… you’d come with me to speak with him.”
The dungeons were much colder than above. You were well acquainted with the drops in temperature, but it seemed that Tyrion had yet to adjust. He was shivering, bundled up in a musty blanket that Podrick had brought him.
“To tell you the truth, this isn’t so bad,” said Jaime, glancing around the spacious cell. “Four walls. A pot to piss in… I wasn’t given such a luxury during my time as a prisoner. I was chained to a wooden post or a stone wall, covered in my own shit for months on end.”
The younger brother sent him a half-hearted glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Maybe a bit,” replied the knight. He glanced down at his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“Complicated, yes,” said Tyrion. “And you brought the Bitter Wolf with you. Hello, Lady Stark.”
His eyes, sunken and empty, darted over to you, shrouded in the shadows behind Jaime.
“Hello, Tyrion.”
“Hm. How is our sister?” he asked Jaime.
Defeat danced over his handsome features. “How do you think? Her son died in her arms.”
“Her son?”
Something foul coiled within Jaime’s stomach. “Don’t,” he warned.
Tyrion let the matter drop.
“Do you know what’s to come?” you spoke for the first time since you came.
“My trial for regicide. Yes, I know,” said Tyrion. “I know the whole bloody country thinks I’m guilty. I know one of the three judges has wished me dead more times than I can count—that judge being my father. As for Cersei… well, she’s probably working on a way to avoid the trial altogether by having me killed.”
Jaime kicked at a small pebble on the ground. “Now that you mention it, she did ask.”
“So should I turn around and close my eyes?”
“Depends,” said Jaime. “Did you do it?”
A small smile traced Tyrion’s lips. “The Kingslayer brothers. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?” After a short pause, he spoke again. “Are you really asking if I killed your son?”
Jaime narrowed his eyes. “And are you really asking if I’d kill my brother? How can I help you?”
“Well, you can set me free, for starters.”
“You know I can’t,” Jaime reluctantly said. “What do you want me to do? Kill the guards? Sneak you out of the city in the back of a cart? Have you forgotten that I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”
Frowning, Tyrion gruffed out, “Sorry, I’d forgotten, which is a miracle, considering how loud your golden armor is! I’d hate for you to do something inappropriate while I rot away in jail.”
Drawing in a sharp breath, Jaime snapped back, “You’re accused of killing the King. Freeing you would be treason.”
“And was it not treason to put a sword through the Mad King’s back?” you quietly asked. Both men went silent at your words. “Even if the trial goes in Tyrion’s favor, which I highly doubt, your sister would stop at nothing to have him dead. He needs to get away from King’s Landing.”
Tyrion nodded at your words. “If the killer threw himself down before the Iron Throne, confessed to his crimes, and gave irrefutable evidence of his guilt, it wouldn’t matter to Cersei. She won’t rest until my head’s on a spike.”
“Not just yours,” said Jaime. “She’s offering a knighthood to whomever finds Sansa, dead or alive.”
Brows furrowing, Tyrion protested, “Sansa didn’t do this.”
“She had more reason than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Do you think it’s a coincidence she disappeared the same night Joffrey died?”
“It’s not a coincidence,” you said. “Someone must have snuck her out, knowing the blame would be placed on her. Sansa’s not a killer. She spent an entire year around Joffrey—if she wanted to murder him, he would’ve been dead long before his marriage.”
Jaime pinched the space between his brows in frustration. “Regardless of who did it, Cersei won’t rest until all of you are dead. I won’t let that happen.”
“Then we have to do something,” you said, words coated with a layer of urgency. “We have to find Sansa. With Cersei practically keeping me as hostage here in Sansa’s stead… we need to send someone we trust after her.”
Brienne drummed her fingers against the table.
A sword of Valyrian steel was laid out in front of her. Both you and Jaime glanced at each other.
“It’s yours,” said Jaime.
“I can’t accept this—” she began to protest.
“It was reforged from my brother’s sword,” you said, voice soft. “And you’ll use it to defend my brother’s daughter.”
Brienne’s eyes widened. “No, my Lady, this should belong to you, not me.”
“I’m no good with a sword,” you admitted. “They’re clunky things, far too large and hard to maneuver if not trained properly. I’m much more comfortable with a bow and arrow. You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother. Now, Arya may be far, far away from us by now, perhaps even long gone… but there is still a great chance of finding Sansa and getting her somewhere safe. Wherever that may be.”
Nodding emphatically, the large woman solemnly said, “I won’t let you down.”
“I had something else made for you.” Jaime pulled at a tarp over a mannequin, holding fine platelets of armor, hewn from the strongest of metals. “I hope I got your measurements right. It’s hard to judge by the eye.”
“I’ll find her,” promised Brienne. “For Lady Catelyn. And for the both of you.”
“I almost forgot,” Jaime added. “One last gift.”
Turns out Brienne wasn’t too keen on her last gift, Podrick.
You couldn’t quite understand why—he was a very sweet, innocent boy, ever the loyal squire to Tyrion. No doubt he’d faithfully serve Brienne, as well.
“I don’t need a squire. He’ll slow me down!” she exclaimed.
“My brother owes him a debt. He’s not safe here,” Jaime argued.
The woman looked like she wanted to protest again, but you intervened, “You’ll be doing him a favor. Cersei wouldn’t hesitate to be rid of him.”
“I won’t slow you down, Ser!” chimed Pod. He winced upon realizing his mistake. “Uhm… m’lady. I promise I’ll serve you well.”
“See? He’s a good lad!” said Jaime.
As Pod went away to ready Brienne’s horse, you were left standing in front of her, contemplating how to say goodbye. They were never your strong suit. Every time you’ve said goodbye to someone close to you, it’d never ended well before. They usually never returned.
Oathkeeper, Brienne named her sword once Jaime claimed that all the best swords have their own respective titles.
“Find her for me,” you said, voice warbling. You stepped closer, placing a hand on Brienne’s arm. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry our time was cut short.”
“I will,” Brienne replied. “Thank you for everything, my Lady.”
“I owe you my entire life,” you said, rife with rare fondness. “Safe journeys, Brienne.”
She held her gaze with you for a moment longer, before nodding and heading off to Pod and their horses.
Both you and Jaime watched as they rode away from the Red Keep, their figures growing smaller and smaller before they disappeared into the heart of King’s Landing.
“My entire family is gone,” you murmured. “And I just sent away the closest thing I had to a friend.”
Jaime was tempted to thread his single hand through yours. It looked like it’d fit perfectly. Instead, he merely observed your pained features, laced with regret.
“Look on the bright side,” he said, nudging you in an affectionate manner. “At least now I’m the closest thing you’d have to a friend.”
To his delight, you didn’t refute his statement. All you did was spare him a sidelong stare, and a quirk of your lips—was that a smile?—before turning and making your way back into the castle.
It was time for Tyrion’s trial. It was quite the dreary event—witness after witness called upon to spit accusations and twisted observations of Tyrion’s so-called monstrosity to the three judges. What piqued your interest, however, was when Grand Maester Pycelle claimed that the King’s fool was the last one to be seen with Sansa, spiriting her away after the feast. Residue of poison was found in her necklace. That was not a good look for neither Tyrion nor his wife, your niece. Though you didn’t believe she killed Joffrey, you would’ve been proud if she was the one who managed to do it and get away.
Nearly five hours into the trial, Tywin finally called to adjourn for a break.
You were grateful for the pause in the trial, feeling the beginnings of a headache nursing at the front of your temple. As you left to go get yourself some water, Jaime quickly followed after his father into a separate room.
Tywin poured himself a goblet of wine, swirling the rich liquid around before sipping. His green eyes fell upon his oldest son, stiff in his golden uniform.
“You’d condemn your own son to death?” Jaime hissed, disgust running rampant across his features.
Unfazed, Tywin merely reached over to a platter of food to load fruits and cheese upon the prongs of his fork. “I’ve condemned nobody. The trial isn’t over.”
“Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it!”
An uninterested hum. “I know nothing of the sort.”
Irritation bubbled within Jaime’s chest. “You’ve always hated Tyrion.”
“He killed his King!”
“As did I!” Jaime snapped. “You know the last order the Mad King gave me? He wanted me to bring him your head. And what was it for? I saved your life just so you could murder my brother? Your son?”
The worn features of Tywin Lannister hardened with his words. “It won’t be murder. It would be justice. I’m performing my sworn duty as the Hand of the King. If Tyrion is found guilty, he will be punished accordingly.”
“He’ll be executed!”
“No,” Tywin rebutted, voice raising loud enough to echo back against the stone walls. “He’ll be punished accordingly!”
Jaime drew in a sharp breath. “Once, you said family is what lives on. It’s all that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years. What happens to your precious dynasty when Tyrion dies? I’m a Kingsguard… forbidden by oath to carry on the family line.”
The father shoveled the forkful of fig and brie into his mouth. “I’m well aware,” he said after deliberately taking his sweet time to chew and swallow.
“And what happens to your name? Who would carry the lion banner in future battles? Your nephews? Lancel Lannister? Others whose names I don’t remember?”
Sitting forward in his seat, Tywin shot back, “And what happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson’s killer?”
Finally, Jaime spat out, “It’ll survive… through me.”
A pause. Tywin reared back slightly, surprise flickering over his stony features.
“I’ll leave the Kingsguard,” said the reluctant knight. The words felt bitter and heavy on his tongue. “I’ll take my place as your son and heir… only if you let Tyrion live.”
Without hesitation, Tywin immediately said, “Done.”
Jaime certainly hadn’t been expecting that. His white cloak fluttered slightly.
“When the testimony is concluded and the guilty verdict is rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy. I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. In three days’ time, he’ll depart for Castle Black and live out his days at the wall.”
Relief flooded Jaime’s veins. His features softened.
Tywin kept speaking, “You’ll remove your White Cloak immediately. You’ll leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You’ll marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. And you’ll never turn your back on your family ever again.”
“I have one more condition.”
Tywin narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”
“I’ll return to Casterly Rock and sire heirs for you… but only if the woman I marry is Y/N Stark.”
There was a lump in his throat. Letting go of his decades of servitude to the Kingsguard was much harder than he expected. If he married you, he’d be living up to his name, after all. Oathbreaker. A man without honor.
This time, the surprise in his father’s expression was poorly concealed, clear as day.
“Do you love her?” he asked, quick to return back to a neutral visage.
Did he? Did Jaime love you?
His lips pursed, and he trained his gaze on the ground.
Tywin hummed whilst nodding. “Alright. The North may yet be given back to the Starks, should Roose Bolton and his bastard fail to take it for his own. You have my word that Tyrion will be spared.”
Jaime felt like he should’ve given his father his thanks. He didn’t. Instead, he stoutly nodded, speaking not another word, before turning and heading back to the trial room.
The bells tolled, signifying that the trial was to resume. You strode in just as the last bell rang out, catching sight of Jaime speaking to his brother by his stand. The knight was explaining to Tyrion what he was supposed to do: plead guilty, and beg for mercy to be sent to the Night’s Watch. With one final reassuring goodbye, Jaime stepped away, his eyes meeting your curious ones.
To your interest, instead of taking his place by the edge of the court, he wove through the crowd to get to you.
“Jaime,” you greeted, still miffed as to what he was doing, standing beside you.
“Y/N,” he said. “I have to speak to you. After all this.”
Another second passed. You studied his features, pallid and clearly anxious. Before you could interrogate him some more, Tywin called for a start. Across court, Jaime could feel his sister’s angry stare burning through the both of you. His hand brushed against you. Swallowing his nerves, Jaime curled his fingers around yours. You didn’t pull away.
He was to marry you. It was still hard for him to wrap his head around the idea. How would you feel about that?
Angry, probably, Jaime thought.
The trial droned on. It was only when the last witness was called up—Shae, the whore that Tyrion had fallen in love with—did Jaime’s throat begin to close up. Panic clawed at his chest when he noticed Tyrion’s resolve began to crumble away.
He was anguished. The longer Shae spoke, the more questions she answered, the more miserable Tyrion’s expression grew.
Tears filled the brother’s eyes when he growled out his speech—on how he was guilty, yes. Not of killing the King, but of being a dwarf. How watching Joffrey die in front of him had given him more pleasure than a thousand lying whores. How he wished he had enough poison to kill everyone in the courtroom.
The lords and ladies in the crowd burst into scandalous gasps and affronted murmurs.
Finally, Tyrion demanded a trial by combat.
You shared a worried glance with Jaime, who looked practically shattered at the turn of events. Sympathetic, you shifted so your entire hand slotted into his.
The crowd began to thin away when the trial drew to a close. The combat was to be in a few day’s time.
Before you turned to take your own leave, you looked at Jaime one last time. “What did you want to tell me, Jaime?”
His heart fell to his stomach. Now that his father couldn’t uphold his end of the promise, Jaime couldn’t guarantee that he’d have to leave his post as Kingsguard for Casterly Rock. He wouldn’t have to marry you.
The green of his eyes shone with pain when he finally met your gaze. Hopelessly, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.
With that, he let go of your hand, shouldering through the crowd to make his way out of the throne room.
Oberyn was named Tyrion’s champion. The Mountain was named Cersei’s.
To none of your surprise, the Mountain won. He’d crushed Oberyn’s head like a bloody watermelon with his bare hands. The memory was none too pleasant to relive, that was for sure.
The next day’s afternoon, Jaime heard the footsteps of his sister as she slipped into his chambers, uninvited.
She uttered his name, soft and sultry. Jaime only frowned.
“You won. You now have one fewer brother. Must be proud of yourself. There really is nothing you wouldn’t do, is there?”
A cruel smile graced her lips. “For my family, no. Nothing. I would do things for my family you couldn’t imagine.”
“Tyrion is your family.”
“He’s not,” she denied.
“You don’t get to choose!”
Cersei snarled, “I do. And so do you. We choose each other.”
Do we?
On she continued, “You can choose the creature that chose to kill our mother whilst coming into this world—”
Brows furrowing, Jaime incredulously asked, “Are you really mad enough to blame him for that? He didn’t decide to kill her, he was an infant.”
“A disease doesn’t decide to kill you,” the blonde woman snapped back, “but you cut it out before it does, all the same. What do you decide? Who do you choose?”
She stepped closer.
“The things I did to get back to you, to endure all that, only to find you actively trying to have our brother ki—!”
Before Jaime could finish his sentence, Cersei had propelled herself forward, yanking at his face with no abandon, pulling him close until his lips touched hers.
“I choose you,” she whispered against him. Jaime felt sick.
“Those are just words,” he replied. With jerky movements, he gripped at her arm in a fruitless effort to keep her at bay, the golden hand she had forged for him hanging uselessly by his side.
Cersei hummed an affirmative. “Yes. Just like the ones I said to father. I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“I told him about us.”
Dread filled his chest. “You told him?”
“I told him I wouldn’t marry Loras Tyrell. I told him I’m staying right here with Tommen, and with you.”
A foolish woman, Cersei was. She thought she was smarter than everyone, but this might’ve been the most idiotic thing Jaime could even fathom doing. Telling his father that he used to fuck his sister and fathered her bastards was a one-way ticket to being disowned. “You think he’ll just accept that?”
Cersei studied the dubiety in Jaime’s expression. “Go and ask him.” She kissed him again, and again, and again. Jaime was far too shocked to push her away.
“What did you say?” he queried once he’d finally gathered his wits.
“I don’t want to talk about Tywin Lannister,” she hissed, dragging her lips down to his jaw.
Jaime didn’t want this anymore. He felt nothing when she touched him. He thought about how light his chest felt when you held his hand during the trial. No longer did he harbor such feelings for Cersei. Years ago, perhaps. Not anymore. Not now.
“I don’t choose Tywin Lannister. I don’t love Tywin Lannister. I love my brother… my lover. People will whisper and make their jests. Let them. They’re all so small, I can’t even see them. I only see what matters.” She took his handless arm, lifting it so she could kiss the gold. To her, it was an act of love. To him, it was an act of pride.
Having enough, Jaime pushed her away. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stagger back a few steps.
“I can’t do this,” he said. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why?” demanded Cersei. She scrutinized him with a sharp glare. After a moment, she withdrew herself, upper lip curling in disgust. “You’re in love with her. With the Bitter Wolf. You love her.”
Horror sank its dark nails into Jaime’s shoulders.
“I’ll have her killed,” said Cersei, venomous hatred coloring her tone an ugly shade of green. “Have you watch as she gasps and chokes around the noose I’ll tie around her throat. She’s a traitor to the realm, don’t you know that, you imbecile? Aunt to a false King, and to the wife of the murderer of my son.”
Desperate, Jaime shuffled closer again, raising his hand as if he were taming a wild mare. “I don’t love the Bitter Wolf. I don’t. I swear it.”
I do, he thought. I love her.
And so, Jaime knew he had to keep Cersei away from you, at any cost necessary. Keep her occupied, for as long as he could. He pressed forth and kissed her. Her mouth was hard against his, but softened with each of his advances.
“I love you,” he lied. “I love you.”
He repeated the sentiment over and over again, praying to any God that would listen that his sister would believe it. The hours passed by in a blur as Jaime kissed and licked and sucked every inch of her. She climaxed maybe once, or twice, or half a dozen times. Jaime didn’t know, and neither did he care. Most of the time he had disassociated back within his own mind, wanting nothing more than to just get it over and done with.
Eventually, Cersei blissfully passed out from exhaustion, fast asleep beneath his silken sheets. After making sure she was completely unconscious, Jaime slipped his clothes back on and snuck out of his chambers.
The torches lining the halls of the dungeons did very little to illuminate the space. Jaime could barely see half a foot in front of him. Nonetheless, he hurriedly made his way to Tyrion’s cell.
“Oh, go away, you son of a whore!” Tyrion yelled once the grill to his cell rattled opened, thinking it was one of the guards coming in to torment him.
Jaime strode in, tilting his head. “Is that any way to speak of our mother?”
Shocked, Tyrion immediately sat up at the sight of his brother. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Jaime retorted, ushering his brother out and through the narrow halls. “A galley is waiting in the bay bound for the Free Cities.”
“Who’s helping you?” Tyrion asked, bewildered.
“Varys. You have more friends than you thought, Tyrion.”
Deftly, the two of them hurried through one of the many secret passageways of the Red Keep. The ceilings hung so low that Jaime had to duck his head so as to not smack his skull against the uneven stone.
“There’s a locked door at the top of the stairs,” said Jaime once they reached the end. “Knock on it twice, then twice again. Varys will open.”
Tyrion looked up at his brother. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.”
Breath hitching in his throat, Jaime could feel the beginnings of tears sting the corners of his eyes as he knelt down and drew his brother into a tight hug. He pressed a lingering kiss onto Tyrion’s cheek.
This was the last they were going to see of each other.
Anguish wrote itself heavy into his tone when he whispered, “Farewell, little brother.”
It ached to pull away.
Just as Jaime was about to go, Tyrion called out his name.
“Thank you,” his brother said. “For my life.”
Jaime nodded. He blinked away the tears as he gestured for him to go. “Quickly, now. Before anyone notices you’re gone.”
With that, Jaime rushed to abscond, taking twisting turns, straight to where he knew your chambers were. Ensuring there was nobody around, Jaime stepped out into the hall, knocking twice on the door and slipping in.
You startled at the intruder, sitting up on the bed, the book you were reading snapping shut, but relaxed slightly upon seeing Jaime.
“Jaime? What’s going on?”
“You have to leave. Come with me,” he said, urgently striding forward and taking your hand in his, pulling you off the mattress and to the door. It was a relief that you were already fully clothed, and had no personal belongings to take with you, because there was simply no time for anything at the moment.
Brows pulling together, you demanded, “Jaime, tell me what’s happening. Where are you taking me?”
“Out!” he impatiently replied, slipping down the secret passageways once more. “Away. Away from King’s Landing—from my sister. She wants you dead. I can’t have that happen. There’s a boat waiting for you. Varys is helping.”
Finally Jaime yanked you into a dingy little room, lined with dust and rusted-over weapons. Shrouded in the shadows of the corner, Varys stepped out, pushing the cowl back from his head.
“Bitter Wolf,” he said.
“Lord Varys,” you carefully replied. “Why are you helping me?”
“I was fond of your brother, Eddard, however foolish he was with his honor. And, though we haven’t spoken before, your death at the hands of the Queen Regent would reign nothing but war from the Northerners.” He glanced at Jaime suspiciously before lowering his voice and saying, “My little birds tell me Sansa Stark is in the Eyrie, posing as Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter.”
All the air in your chest seemed to slip away. Sansa was alive. She was alright.
For now, at least.
“I can help you get to the Vale to be with your niece,” said Varys, gesturing down another staircase, which led to the waters. “There’s a boat ready for you, with everything you need inside—a map, a cloak, rations. A bow and a quiver of arrows, included. The crew will be silent, I can assure you.”
“How can you be sure?” you queried, cautious. Varys offered you a thin smile. “I cut their tongues out when they were young children. Little birds don’t stay little for so long, but they’re loyal to me.”
Horror painted your insides black. You had no idea what to think of Varys. You glanced at Jaime, who looked none too pleased at the notion, but gave you an encouraging nod.
Besides, what other choice did you have?
After a hesitant, quiet murmur of your gratitude to the eunuch, you slipped down the stairs, Jaime hot on your heels. He wasn’t supposed to follow you out of the Keep, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see you leave for himself, ensure that you left the capital safely.
The boat was a small, rickety thing, but it’d do. You spotted half a dozen young men and women onboard, deathly silent. Their eyes seemed to glow unnaturally against the dark seas. Unease settled within the pits of your stomach.
You turned to Jaime, lips parting as you struggled for words. What could you say to him, after everything the two of you had been through together?
He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, grappling for a proper farewell. The words were lodged in his throat.
“You’re a good man, Ser Jaime,” you finally told him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Beneath all of your sister… and all of your father… there is good in you. There’s so much of it.”
Taking a step closer, Jaime gently cupped your face with his remaining hand, the golden one on his left arm feeling heavier by the second. You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to be vulnerable for just a moment. For decades and decades, you refused to let your guard down. With Jaime, you finally felt safe enough to do so.
But you were leaving.
It was a bittersweet feeling, he realized. He was glad you were going to leave: you’d be safer out there, looking for your niece in the Vale than in the capital with his wretched sister. But then again, he wanted you here. He wanted to be by your side, more than anything. To think, he had thought he was going to marry you only yesterday.
He leaned in closer, slow and tentative. There was ample time for you to pull away, but you didn’t. When his lips finally grazed yours, you finally pressed forward, fisting the lapels of his tunic, and tugging him closer.
The kiss was soft at first, one of uncertainty and turmoil. It was quick to grow more desperate, pouring all the unsaid words and months of pent-up yearning into the embrace. You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against the side of his. He chased after your lips, but you forced yourself to turn your head away.
Jaime’s entire chest ached. It ached and longed and screamed for you.
You had to go. The longer Jaime stayed out here with you, the riskier it was.
“I owe you everything,” you whispered, nose pressed against his cheekbone. There was an uneven warble to your voice. “Everything, Jaime.”
“No, you don’t,” he responded, kissing the patch of skin beside your pained eyes. “You did the same for me. We’re even now.”
A part of him wanted to tell you that he had asked his father if he could marry you. But he held the words back, knowing it would bring nothing but either of you pain. To love each other, only to never be able to be together. Jaime didn’t want you to feel that pain. You deserved to be free, to love a kind and soft-hearted Lord… someone that wasn’t him. That wasn’t a Lannister. That wasn’t the enemy.
After all, wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.
A burning tear fell down his cheek. You offered him a watery smile.
You smiled for him, after decades of never doing so.
Jaime loved you. He loved you more than anything. And he had to let you go.
Your hands slipped away from each other, and you turned to board the ship. The silent crew fluttered around you like ghosts, readying to sail away in effortless coordination.
As the boat rocked into motion, edging away from King’s Landing, you heard alarm bells tolling in the distance, signifying Tyrion’s escape from prison. Jaime made his way back into the Red Keep, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the hazy fog.
The Bitter Wolf and the Golden Lion, Jaime thought.
Now that was a tale certainly worth telling.
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Deadpool with a teenager protege plsss, thank youuu!
Wade will always claim that he never wanted a side kick.
‘Protege’ you’d correct him on the fly.
‘That’s a way too big of a word to be in your vocabulary so suddenly little featus.’ He’d quickly say in response before going in to boop you on the noose, only for you to swat his hand away.
Wade as a mentor was so unserious it hurt.
He tried to shoo you away as though you were a stray fucking cat trying to follow him home or something!
There was no point in searching for any deep wisdom from him when anything he said was rude and rather crude for some people, you’re better off finding wisdom in a brick wall then wade, but still you were stuck with the human personification of intrusive thoughts.
He was the devil on your shoulder telling you to dropkick the elderly down a flight of stairs or send them floating down a river in a box (not blind Al tho) and or to kill/kidnap and torture the enemy in your love life.
Wade acts like he hates having you follow him like a lost puppy but the moment he losses sight of you he runs amok, claiming that his ‘mother’s adrenaline’ was kicking in and he had to find you while causing death and destruction in his path.
He wasn’t the ideal person you should be following in the footsteps of and he knew it too, but by this point he had grown an attachment to you and he knew in that moment he was fucked, royally, up the ass with no lube nor warning beforehand.
(He likes a pre-warning countdown before he gets royally fucked in the ass)
You bicker more often then not about how to handle things and it ends with the enemy often getting away, which then becomes even more unnecessary bickering!
‘He got away! Again!’ You’d cry.
‘I’m not the one who wanted to talk all peace and love with the guy in hopes it would change him, this isn’t booktok little fetus!’ Wade would shout back.
‘You were going to kill him without finding out where the rest of them were based at!’ You screamed incredulously, waving your hands towards the twin guns in his gloved hands as though it wasn’t obvious enough.
‘You’re in time out.’ Wade said. ‘Go and sit in the taxi with Dopinder and think about what you’ve done!’
‘Fuck you, you ain’t my dad!’ - you
‘That’s it! No Mac and cheese when we get home!’ -Wade, crossing his arms.
‘I hate you wrinkle dick!’ - you shouting over your shoulder as you walked towards the taxi.
To anyone else It looked more like siblings fighting rather than a mentor and protege going at one another for the second fuck up that day.
While it may look like Wade doesn’t take anything seriously, if you were to get seriously hurt however, it was a different side of him entirely. He’s doing things that you have never seen him do before and just how terrifying he could be with how effortlessly he moved through the goons as though they weren’t shit before making it to your side.
Whether you can heal like him is up to you, but regardless Wade will make sure that your wounds weren’t too deep or too serious for him to handle. He didn’t want to see his protege hurt, not on his watch, you had very much became his child over the course of your time as mentor and protege, so much that he was finally allowing himself to sit with the feeling he had been having for a long while.
He cared. He really cared and it kinda scared him as how was he suppose to look after someone else when he couldn’t even look after himself? He didn’t want you to end up like him as he knew you could be greater but was too selfish to let you wander too far away from him, not without feeling that tug within his chest that told him to keep an eye out.
You never knew what you were getting with deadpool/Wade Wilson, he was unpredictable and chaotic but you wouldn’t want it any other way.
If you were to do anything that was too ‘Wade’ he would pretend to wipe a tear as you looked back at him with a smile as though you didn’t have blood on your face, and fake a sniffle.
‘That’s my little featus, I birthed them from my womb and now they just began to run with their tinny, stumpy baby legs.’
Wolverine next to him like: 🤨what the fuck are you on about-
Wade: shhhh, I’m being proud of my tiny creation, don’t ruin this for me with your toxic macho man brooding.
Needless to say you need to be a little bit mental to have someone like Wade as your mentor.
#marvel x you#marvel x reader#marvel imagine#marvel imagines#marvel x y/n#deadpool imagine#deadpool imagines#wade wilson imagines#Wade Wilson imagine#mcu x you#mcu x reader#mcu imagines#mcu imagine#mcu x y/n#deadpool
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My Compliments to the Chef
You and Alastor face-off in the kitchen. Who will be crowned the superior chef? And what will the prize be?
TW: Swearing, mentions of death, mention of fire, death by fire, self-loathing, enemies to lovers, SLOW(ish) BURN, mention of drug addiction, mention of dementia, angst, some fluff towards the end.
Word count: 3,721
Salt. Fat. Acid. Heat. These four simple elements were the building blocks to every culinary masterpiece. You lived and breathed by them, working tirelessly until you had perfected each individual component. Thousands of hours spent in the kitchen using every kind of stove, range, and grill; finally, all that hard work had paid off when you opened your own restaurant. The critics raved about your cuisine, you had a full house nearly every single night, and the headlines were calling you the next celebrity chef. Everything had been an absolute dream, until it became your worst nightmare.
You try not to think about the fire, although it was nearly impossible not to. You weren't sure how it started, just that is spread within seconds and engulfed everything in its path. You didn't even have time to run before you the flames completely surrounded you; you can still feel how excruciating the smoke felt in your lungs...and how you burned.
*BEEP BEEP BEEP*
The kitchen timer pulls you from your trance with a gasp. Your eyes quickly dart around as you momentarily struggle to gain your bearings. Right, you were in Charlie's kitchen at the Hazbin Hotel...and your pork chops were burning.
"Shit!", you exclaim as you scramble for your oven mitts. Luckily, you got to the meat just in time and started simmering your green beans and mashing your potatoes as the pork rested. The kitchen was your safe space, something familiar that brought you comfort as you struggled to process your death, how ironic it was that it was the same room you died in. It was more than just the familiarity of the space though, it was also that the kitchen was the only room that did not have any mirrors.
Accepting your demonic body proved a greater struggle than accepting your untimely death. You still looked very human, much more so than most other residents of the hotel, but your skin was littered with angry, red splotches- permanent burn marks. They were not raised and did not hurt, but were certainly unsightly(to you). Your hair was the same color it was when you died, but was singed on the ends and your eyes were now a fiery orange, the amber color far from a natural shade for a human. Most say you were lucky to get such a tame demonic appearance, but it only served as a reminder of how your skin crackled under the flame.
You were just stirring the sour cream and cheddar cheese into your mashed potatoes when the hotel guests started filing into the kitchen for dinner.
"Mmm smells great Y/N!", Charlie smiled at you before taking her seat.
"Yea Toots, I'm starving!", Angel called out as you were chopping the chives to garnish the meal with.
Everyone loved your cooking, immediately digging in as soon as you handed them their plate. Well...almost everyone anyways, there was a certain scarlet cervid demon that you could never get a read on whenever he ate what you prepared. Most of the time he just ate in silence with that spine-chilling smile on his face, not giving you a single clue as to what he was thinking.
Alastor and you were not exactly friends. The kitchen was his sanctuary as well, this particular kitchen in the hotel was his domain long before you ever showed up. But you refused to let him frighten you from the one place you felt at peace; so you struck an agreement that you would rotate meal duties and stay out of each other's way. You two really brought the old "too many cooks in the kitchen" phrase back to life.
The worst part of the whole ordeal for you was that you desperately wanted his approval. Alastor himself was a masterful chef, having a century of experience blending flavors together creating symphonies for the pallet. His creole meals-cooked entirely from just his memory- were absolutely to double-die for and you knew you would never come close to replicating them even with the best ingredients Hell had to offer. You had tried every kind of cuisine you could think of to impress him, from steak to lasagna and enchiladas to scotch eggs. He still gave you nothing- just a quiet meal, but at least he always cleaned his plate so that had to count for something.
But tonight you were hoping for a true reaction. This meal was the house specialty at your restaurant; you were hesitant to make it, there was so much emotional baggage attached so this once beloved dish. You took your time picking out the right pork chops- they had to be of even thickness and trim, as the star of the dish they could not be any less than perfect. You then made sure to get the freshest spices and produce you could find and pulled out every trick you knew from searing the meat in garlic butter to your added secret ingredients to the spuds This meal put you on the map in the living world, you were hoping it would at least put you in Alastor's orbit.
You carefully watched The Radio Demon's reactions as you ate, you were pleased with how it turned out- the pork was juicy and tender with just the right amount of crust seared into the flesh, the green beans had a crispy garlic taste, and there was not a single lump to be found in your potatoes. Everything was perfect, magazine-worthy just like you relentlessly crafted it to be. So why did the crimson asshole look so fucking unimpressed?!
"How's the food Alastor?", you couldn't take this anymore, you needed to know what he thought. His blank and bored expression snapped your very last nerve; you were tired of being patient and waiting for some inkling of sentimentalization to form on his ever-stoic face. If he wasn't going to volunteer it himself, then you would pry it out of him forcefully. You turned toward him expectantly, effectively putting a pause on all dining table chatter.
The demon stilled momentarily, not expecting your abrupt outburst. He eyed you for a second before speaking "It's fine", and resuming his meal, that unimpressed mask back over his face.
You flinched back as if he had slapped you, your jaw nearly dropping to the table and eyes wide in bewilderment. "Fine? That's it?! This very dish was going to win me a Michelin Star and you say it is just FINE?!!", your voice grew louder as you spoke. This was outrageous, the ultimate insult to you as a chef, the AUDACITY of this cherry-colored prick to sum up what you slaved your entire life away on in just a seven-letter synopsis.
Everyone else was staring at the two of you with wide eyes as you bristled, turning your entire body toward Alastor with a white-knuckled grip on your fork like you were preparing to stab him with it.
Alastor's response to your sudden rage was to calmly place his own fork down and fold his fingers together in front of his chin with his elbows on the edge of the table. He closed his eyes for a second before fixing them on you intently, however, his voice was calm when he finally spoke again.
"That is your problem Dear. Yes, the food is fine- it is very good actually- but you cook for praise, for critics, for awards. In doing so your cooking has fallen flat, it lacks originality, heart, dare I even say soul; in all the meals you have made for us I have yet to taste YOU in your own cooking. You have mastered every physical component of the process, but until you learn how to put yourself on a plate I'm afraid each dish will only ever be good- never transcending into great. I suggest you stop cooking for others and begin cooking for yourself Darling."
You gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish as you fumbled over your own thoughts before saying the only thing that came clearly to mind, "Fuck you!!", you stood abruptly, desperate for any sort of upper-hand no matter how delusional that upper-hand really was. To his credit Alastor remained calm, looking like a patient parent waiting for their toddler to cease an illogical tantrum, which only served to piss you off more. "Well if you deem my cooking to be so unworthy of the The Radio Demon's stomach," you spit his self-proclaimed name out like it was a dirty word, "then how about you prove why that is? Face off with me in a blind taste test", you gestured to your audience of hotel guests. "If you are so much better than me then prove it- without magic! Compete with me on completely equal standing, just our own skills in this very kitchen", you cross your arms in front of you and glare down at the deer.
Alastor chuckled at you, "Very well Darling. Pray tell, what does the winner of this little competition receive?"
"Whatever they want."
"Hmm...are you sure that is a wager you want to make with me my dear?", his aura turned slightly green and symbols of his magic began to swirl around him as his eyes flashed to radio dials for a brief moment, the static in his voice getting thicker. But you were not going to let him scare you...you had something to prove.
You raised your chin defiantly at him, "Absolutely certain- who knows?- maybe I will own your soul after I win." You let that idea simmer in the air between you two as you grab your plate to wash it, noting with satisfaction how his smile tightened and posture stiffened slightly.
"Well, as the one challenged it is only fair for me to choose our main dish. I will procure two identical venison steaks for us to prepare in whatever way we best know how in the same exact amount of time. The rest of your dish I will leave up to you. Sound fair enough for you?", he extended his hand toward you to solidify your agreement to the terms.
"Fine", you deadpan back to him as you take his hand in your own briefly before wiping it off on your pants- a show of dominance The Radio Demon often used himself.
His eyes narrowed at you, "Lovely!"
You were the first to leave the kitchen, followed closely by Alastor; leaving the stupefied and unwitting judges of your cook-off to gawk at one another.
"The fuck just happen?!", Angel was the first to break the silence, looking between each of the other residents in confusion.
"We just caught in the middle of a ridiculous, egotistical contest between our two cooks!", Vaggie huffed irritably.
"I wish they could just work together on meals instead of against one another", Charlie sighed. Vaggie gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze in agreement.
"Sooo...this mean we get two dinners tomorrow?"
You looked over your work station, recounting each and every ingredient at least 3 times. You and Alastor agreed 4 hours was enough time to make your very best venison dish. You were pulling out all the stops, deciding to make one of the most difficult dishes to execute correctly- a venison wellington made with homemade puff pastry. Making puff pastry itself was a long and tedious process and your timing had to be perfect or else the venison would be either underdone or overcooked. You knew that if you cooked this dish flawlessly you were sure to win.
Alastor created two identical workplaces, you agreed that he was allowed to use his magic so that you could cook at the exact same time but that is it. He sat at his own station with nothing but the meat set out and a coffee in hand. He looked up at you, "Are you ready to begin?"
Oh, you couldn't wait to wipe that stupid grin off his face, "Ready!"
With that Alastor started a countdown on the wall and nodded at you before opening his newspaper, not moving to prepare any ingredients at all.
You, however, were a flurry of activity; setting your flour in a small pile to meticulously wet bit by bit until you formed your dough which you then folded over a dozen times and flattened out. Once that was in the fridge you set out to beat your butter until you formed a neat 4x4 cube. Before you knew it an hour had passed and Alastor had yet to prepare anything. You narrowed your eyes at him, what the hell was he doing?
You had no time to fret over the deer demon, once your butter was cooled into a solid mass again you diligently folded your dough and butter together forming dozens of butter-pastry layers. Once that was finally finished nearly two hours had ticked off the clock. Alastor was finally chopping potatoes, carrots, and onions- taking his sweet time like he wasn't on a time crunch.
You couldn't help but smile to yourself, you were starting to feel a bit cocky considering your dish seemed to be far more complicated. Next, you worked on cutting up your own produce- onion, garlic, and mushrooms. As you mixed your spices together you melted butter in a cast iron skillet, watching as Alastor cubed his own venison. You seared your whole backstrap steak on all sides until a nice crust formed before wrapping the meat in a blend of your spices and minced produce before finishing it by wrapping it all in bacon. Finally, you wrapped the whole thing in your puff pastry before setting it in the oven to cook.
You peeked up at the clock- 30 minutes left. Glancing over at Alastor, you saw him standing over a large pot, stirring it slowly and humming a jazzy tune to himself. Was he making a soup? Did he really think that would be complicated enough to win a cook-off?
When your venison wellington was done cooking the crust was a gorgeous golden color. You cut into it and let out a breath of relief that the meat was a perfect medium rare. Everything was textbook perfection, you were about to hand The Radio Demon his ass, you bit your bottom lip to keep from giggling at your apparent victory.
As you were setting out the plates of food for the other residents- who were strictly forbidden from entering the dining room until you and Alastor had left so they would have no idea who cooked what- Alastor came in with his own dish.
"What kind of soup did you make?", you asked a bit snobbishly.
"This, My Dear, is my favorite venison stew", he replied merrily, obviously pleased with his dish and showing not an ounce of trepidation for his impending defeat.
"Interesting that you think a stew is worthy of a cook-off victory."
He stopped to fully turn towards you, eyeing you up and down with a look of disapproval, "Darling, the complexity of a dish is not the most important aspect. Sometimes the simplest dishes give us the most satisfaction."
His gaze was intense, he was boring right into your very soul as if he was trying to convey a secret message with just the look in his eyes. You look down "Er...yea okay", you feel your face go beet red, you could almost get lost in those eyes if he weren't such a dick.
The two of you go back to the kitchen to clean up your stations after letting the other residents into the dining room to eat and cast their votes for their favorite dish. You didn't speak, just let the sweet melodious notes of Jazz fill the silence. Just as you were drying your last bowl Charlie walked in with a piece of paper in hand.
"It...was unanimous. Just so you know we all really enjoyed both meals and it was REALLY hard to choose between them! And we by NO means prefer one of your cooking over the other! We all hope you both will continue cooking and not let this competition stop you from doing what you love!", she spoke in a rush. She carefully placed the folded paper down on the counter before taking her leave.
You snatched it up before Alastor could make a move for it; you took a look at the verdict and your heart plummeted into your stomach. There was absolutely no way, this had to be a mistake. You looked up at Alastor and it was clear he already knew the outcome based on the small but smug grin on his face. Grabbing a spoon you rushed over to Alastor's pot and took a bite of his stew permission be damned.
FUCK!
It was good, more than good it was downright sinful. The venison melted in your mouth like butter, the spices in the gravy transported you back to Grandma's house- visions of dinners together as a family came to mind as the nostalgic taste danced on your taste buds. The whole dish filled you with a sense of comfort and tranquility, like being wrapped in your favorite blanket by a fireplace with a book in hand on a cold winter's night. He made a dish that evoked literal emotions in the consumer...how were you ever going to compete with someone who could do that with a simple stew? He was right...your cooking was flat by comparison, like biting into basic sirloin compared to a beautiful wagyu porterhouse.
Tears filled your eyes but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry in defeat. You rushed out of the kitchen as fast as you could not having any particular destination in mind, you just had to get out of the kitchen. You doubted you would ever return to it again.
Your tears steadily streamed down your face as you looked over Pentagram City from the hotel balcony. Questions about your identity plagued for mind- what were you supposed to do now? where did you belong? were you a fraud- an imposter- your whole life? should you just leave the hotel? what will Alastor want for his prize?
The sound of static alerted you to his presence behind you, but like a petulant child you kept staring straight ahead refusing to acknowledge him.
"It was my mother's recipe", he leaned over the railing beside you.
You finally looked over at him,"Huh?"
The deer demon chuckled softly, "The stew, it was my mother's recipe. She taught me everything I know about cooking, most of my happiest childhood memories involve my mother teaching me different techniques and dishes. Perhaps that is why I tend to get a bit possessive of the kitchen and meal prep." He smiled brightly down at you, your face flushed again at this unexpected and rare bit of honesty and vulnerability from The Radio Demon.
"Well you can have it back, I'm done cooking", you respond bitterly, your face hardening in disdain as you stare back out at the pentagram again.
"Well now Darling there is no need to be so dramatic! Why I bet all you need is to go back to your roots, remember why you started cooking in the first place! Now, tell me, what was your inspiration?", he leaned his chin in one hand as he waited for your answer.
You scoffed,"Well, I never knew my father and my mother was a drug addict who left my siblings and I to fend for ourselves most of the time. We went to live with my grandmother when I was eight. She did great raising us at first but then she developed dementia; sometimes she would forget to feed herself, let alone the rest of us. So I guess my inspiration to learn how to cook was the need to not let my family starve."you laugh humorlessly. "Grandma would remember bits and pieces here and there, teaching me certain recipes she enjoyed. Turned out I was pretty good at cooking so I checked out every book in the library on the subject, learning everything I could. I entered a tuition giveaway when I was 18 and earned a free ride to culinary school. It changed my life, I was determined not to let the opportunity go to waste. I swore that I would be the best, always taking my recipes to the next level to prove that I earned the positive turn my life took." You viciously wiped the tears from your eyes as they started up again.
Alastor remained silent during your rant, watching you with a contemplative expression. He understood your demand for approval now, the constant need to show your cooking prowess through complex dishes. You had something to prove, but you didn't realize you were trying to impress yourself more than anyone else.
"What do you want from me"?, you angrily whispered at him, glaring over in his direction. You figured he would ask for your soul, you'd be as unpleasant as you could be to him until you were under his ownership.
The deer hummed, "Join me for dinner."
You bellowed out an incredulous laugh, "We do that quite often Alastor. I told you that you could have your kitchen back, I have no intent on encroaching on your domain anymore."
"No, not at the hotel, there's a restaurant I would like to take you to. I hope you don't mind but I have already taken the liberty of purchasing you something to wear- it is a coat and tie establishment after all!", he twirled his cane in his hand, looking at you expectantly.
"Your kidding me right?", you were stunned.
"Nope! I do not believe I am!"
"You...you want to go on a date?"
"Yes, I suppose that is technically what you could call it. Now, how does tomorrow evening sound? I shall inform Charlie that we will be out, there's plenty of leftovers to keep our residents well-fed in our absence. Meet me in the lobby at 6 PM sharp and not a moment later My Dear!" With that he disappeared into the shadows, leaving you to stare at the spot he just vacated in shock.
You have a date with The Radio Demon...boy does the undead life come at you fast.
To be continued...
#hazbin alastor#alastor x reader#alastor x you#hazbin hotel#alastor the radio demon#alastor x y/n#enemies to lovers#slow burn#angst#alastor fluff
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because of you • epilogue
PART I • PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V • EPILOGUE ❝ an enemies to lovers fic with Steve? 💙 maybe they have to put aside their differences to fight upside down stuff and realize they actually have a lot in common 👀 • 18+ | ( 1k – a little bit of king!steve, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, enemies to idiots in love, steve x reader )
B E C A U S E O F Y O U • E P I L O G U E 🎶 believer – piano version, SYML
❝ WE’VE BECOME ECHOES, BUT ECHOES ARE FADING AWAY, SO LET’S DANCE LIKE TWO SHADOWS, BURNING OUT A GLORY DAY ❞
Walking across the parking lot of Hawkins High with Steve Harrington’s hand in the back pocket of your jeans was a surreal feeling. Never in a million years did you think you’d be on speaking terms with him let alone dating him. You also didn’t think the world would end, so maybe being wrong was something to get used to.
Steve had a bag of clothes under one arm while you pulled a wagon of canned food and blankets behind you. It seemed like everyone was in need of something – shirts, coats, shoes, bread, cheese, shelter – and despite the way everyone had rallied against Eddie, they changed their tune quick after the news broke. Came together as a community to support each other through these unprecedented events.
The story came out that it had been a serial killer who’d murdered those poor kids, not Eddie, and it was all forgotten anyway the minute your little town suddenly turned into a war zone. Helicopters and tanks and soldiers, scientists and news crews from all over the nation. The ash hadn’t stopped falling since the Creel House and in the daylight the damage was so much worse than any of you had expected.
When Steve drove you home, it just simply wasn’t there. Swallowed up in one of four deep gashes splitting the earth at the seams. Your parents had survived, came back to see if maybe you’d go home to find them and tried to salvage whatever they could.
They’d sought shelter with your aunt on the other side of town, but Steve insisted you stay with him. Told you you’d have your own room and space and whatever you needed and when you expected a no, your parents surprised you with a yes, with relief. It was tight enough over at your aunt’s as it was and maybe it was better that way. With a friend – friend.
“Donations?” a volunteer asked, pulling you from your thoughts.
“What?” you started, but Steve held up his bag.
“Yeah, yeah. Clothes, food, some blankets.”
“Great, that’s perfect. Clothes are on the tables at the far end of the cafeteria, food is being collected here in the quad and blankets go to the library,” the volunteer said and Steve thanked her with a small smile.
Even though you were bringing things to donate, it was a weird feeling knowing you’d likely be looking for things for you too. You wondered about everyone else. Wondered if they had lost everything too and hoped they hadn’t. Hoped they were all safe. The Wheelers, the Sinclairs, Max and Robin and Eddie–
“Holy shit–no way! Sweetheart, who’s that in your back pocket??”
As if summoned by your very thoughts, Eddie materialized at the bottom of the parking lot turning your cheeks cherry red, Steve’s hand still tucked into your jeans.
He gave Eddie a big grin and dipped down to press a kiss to your temple, “Shut up, Munson.”
“It’s Steve you idiot,” you snarked, lips tugged up in a little smile, no heat behind it and as soon as you passed the wagon off to a volunteer, your best friend was pulling you into a hug.
“Missed you too, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured into your hair, holding you tight to his chest. His voice wobbled a little and it made your throat squeeze. He’d brushed with death last night, just the same as you, and feeling him here – really here – was like a big sigh of relief.
“Wayne okay?” you asked quietly and he nodded, curls tangling with yours.
“Yeah, thank fuck,” he exhaled, finally letting you go to rub at the back of his neck. “Trailer’s totaled though.”
“My place too,” you commiserated and Steve’s grin faded as his realized just how much had been at stake outside of the party, outside of Vecna.
“Listen,” he started, clearing his throat, “My parents checked in this morning to make sure I was alright, but aren’t coming home anytime soon. If you need a place to stay there’s plenty of room…” Steve jammed his hands in his pockets, unsure if he’d crossed a line or was breaking some unsaid rule, but Eddie grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into a hug too.
“Thanks, man! God, that’d be great. Promise Wayne and I aren’t messy, we’ll clean up and help with dinner and the trash and–”
“Eddie,” Steve laughed, giving the other boy’s shoulder a squeeze, “It’s okay, I’m sure you’re fine.”
You were positive your heart was going to burst, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time in the last 24 hours – mostly because of these two idiots – and both boys noticed at the same moment.
Eddie frowned, worried, “Hey, hey, what’s up?”
“Oh–shit–you okay, Princess?” Steve asked, his words blending together with Eddie’s.
“No, I’m okay–” you sniffled, pressing your palms to your eyes, half-laughing at how stupid you felt, “–you two just suck.”
Both boys laughed, we love you, and Steve pulled you under his arm, “Hate to say it, but I think you’re stuck with us.” He shot Eddie a look and the other boy grinned.
“Yep. Sorry, sweetheart,” Eddie gave you one of his too-charming winks, “can’t get out of this one.”
You huffed a laugh and buried your face into Steve’s chest. Warm like summer and the sun, like safe and home, and when you pulled away to push up onto your toes and catch his lips between yours a voice echoed across the quad.
“OH MY GOD–WHAT?? STEVE, WHAT THE HELL?? WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME YOU’RE DATING–”
“Oh, Christ–Robin! I’m right here, you don’t have to yell!”
[ I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF, THIS SCENE WAS SCREAMING AT ME LIKE ROBIN – YOU'RE WELCOME ]
crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️
#stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x fem#steve harrington stranger things#steve stranger things#steve x you#steve fanfic#steve x reader#steve x fem#steve harrington series#steve harrington fic#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington angst#because of you#steve harrington smut#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington fluff#epilogue
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Billy Batson related question, as always! How do you think the League would react to Black Adam knowing who the Captain is, especially when they don’t even know? (The relationship between Billy and Teth doesn’t matter, they could be allies or enemies).
Billy Batson related questions are my personal favorites!
The idea of the Justice League not knowing who Captain Marvel's secret identity is always makes me giggle :D it's the layer of mystery and unknown danger that presents itself behind not knowing who the Big Red Cheese is that keeps them on edge sometimes. They admire their friend, but sometimes they do wonder, are they his friend? What is he? An alien? A human? A monster beneath the disguise of a man? Three kobolds in a trenchcoat? Nobody knows... They do wish to get to know their friend better.
Normally, most league members have their secret identities kept, you know, a secret. With the exception that Batman knows, of course. However, even he remains stumped on this mystery. He doesn't enjoy not knowing who Captain Marvel is behind the boy scout smile he often shines, but Batman is determined to find out one day. There's almost some respect for how well the Captain manages to hide his identity and tracks.
Meanwhile, Billy is surprised he's lasted this long with a secret identity. He's working with a braincell, half an oreo cookie, and a dream.
I got sidetracked, ack! Okay, so the relationship (depending on which version of Captain Marvel and Black Adam you are familiar with) is almost always going to be personal. There's their shared relationship with the wizard Shazam, but the one I'm most familiar with and enjoy is Black Adam being the one to have killed Billy's parents. (Also, I appreciate you separating the identity of Black Adam and Teth!)
It would be absolutely amazing and gutwrenching to see Captain Marvel shake hands with a "reformed" Black Adam, possibly during a public setting with the JL in attendance, fully knowing the truth behind his parents murders and still going through with the painful decision to let him go unpunished.
For Billy, this hurts. On a deep level that scars his heart and soul for allowing his parents deaths to go unavenged. For the years of pain, he spent alone on the streets homeless and separated from his twin sister, none of it can be fully healed no matter how hard he tries to forget. Scars fade over time, but to Billy, time is eternity. This pain will follow him for eternity.
However, as Captain Marvel, he understands that there's more to the situation that he can't control, and fighting Black Adam would only make things worse. With the wisdom of Solomon, he knows he can't justify a fight against the ruler of a nation, no matter what. So he just smiles for the camera and shakes the hand of the man who orphaned him.
It is through holding Black Adam's hand that the thought passes through his mind: the hand he's holding right now was once stained with the blood of his parents.
Then, the heroes are given a moment of privacy to be around each other without the public's eyes or ears to interfere, and that's when **** hits the fan.
Captain Marvel is avoiding Black Adam, understandably, but when Black Adam loudly calls out his name among the other heroes, Billy can't help but feel rage boil inside his divine blood.
"William. I thought you knew better than to ignore others when they're trying to talk to you. Such rudeness, I am most glad your parents were not the ones to raise such behavior in you."
Whispers among the league ensues. Was that the Captain's name? Did Black Adam know Captain Marvel on a personal level rather than just a regular hero and nemesis level? Despite the eyes watching them, waiting and prepared to step in case of a fight, the Captain grits his teeth and, through miserable eyes of a broken man, chooses to smile.
"Yeah, they really were good people, Adam. I may not live up to their expectations, but I do live for them. Every day. I suppose I have you to thank for that."
"Your gratitude is most welcome, William. May one day come where you live for Mary and Frederick, as well. They would appreciate you honoring them."
Through a wicked smile, Black Adam chuckles, turning his back to take his leave back to Khandak. Leaving Captain Marvel still smiling all alone, his fists at his side curled with rage, drawing his own divine blood from the intensity of his own strength.
After that, the league would be in all rumors and whispers about Captain Marvel. From the past, they knew that Black Adam was fond of taunting the Captain with strange and mean words during their harrowing battles, but had it all been a personal dig at him all this time? Did Black Adam have a hand in accidentally giving Captain Marvel the motivation to become a hero?
Superheroes like Batman would immediately be looking into any information they learned from this and try to decipher what is the truth behind the Captain. Or should he say, "William," now having a name to the face of the hero of Fawcett. He would also be investigating Black Adam far more closely now, should the reformed man ever step out of line. If he heard right and Black Adam had indeed killed the Captain's parents, then he needed to keep an eye on Captain Marvel, too. In case of a breakdown or instability in emotions.
On the other hand, heroes like the Flash and Superman would take the time to visit the Captain in his city and check on him. They'd be concerned after seeing how pained Captain Marvel was. If a villain like Black Adam knew who the Captain was and specifically chose not to reveal his true identity to the public and just the Justice League, then perhaps there was more to it. Superman knew as well how painful it was to let a guilty man go free because he was deemed "reformed" in the eyes of the public (Lex Luthor, ew).
Overall, there would be a whole range of emotions after finding out Black Adam knows who Captain Marvel is. And I am here for it!
#this ended up way longer than anticipated#oh gosh but this was such a great ask#this was such a lovely ask#tysm for the ask!#billy batson#dc captain marvel#shazam#justice league#black adam#teth adam#angst#im sorry this took so long but you have no idea how many drafts this took to seem coherent haha#I adore the angst#Black adam bullies a child and sees nothing wrong with it
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10 Plot Premises That Never Get Old
There’s a great many lists out there complaining about the worst and most overused tropes in fiction. I want to pass the mic to tropes that will never get old. The love-to-hate ones, the knife-twisting ones, the shipping fodder.
1. Killing the character who knew too much
Or, the “Maes Hughes” effect. Your story centers around a massive mystery or conspiracy and one lone character is unfortunately not genre-savvy enough to remember that the phrase “the early bird gets the worm” ends in “but the second mouse gets the cheese”.
This is the character who has unraveled the partial, if not entire truth, coming to a shocking realization moments before their untimely murder. Usually, they’re alone. Usually, this death rocks the remaining characters, sometimes for the entirety of the remaining plot (see FullMetal Alchemist). Usually, they become genre-savvy at exactly the moment they realize there’s no way out of this. Conveniently, they’re never on the phone with the right person, or there’s never any cell service. They didn’t write their findings down or didn’t hit record.
This whole entire tragedy is only a tragedy because this character made the wrong choice that is also the only choice this character would have made.
2. The enemy of my enemy
As OSP once said, anyone can be a minion, even the presumed Big Bad. Whether it’s a serialized cartoon with well established sides of good and bad or a single movie, having two entities that loathe each other reluctantly and bitterly join forces to deal with an even Bigger Bad… that’s the good stuff.
Either the villain has been minion-ed, or the good guys and the bad guys’ enduring battle of morals is interrupted by a wild card third party that insults them both or threatens the world both sides are trying to save in their own ways.
This is *not* a redemption arc. This is the temporary alliance that usually terminates once the threat is dealt with (see: Transformers Prime, or ‘Marabounta’ from Code Lyoko). Extra points if they’re age-old rivals who fight better together than the hero does with the rest of their team. Extra extra points if they both realize this and firmly deny that it happens (and even more if the villain tries to exploit the hero with this fact later on).
3. The redemption arc
***Emphasis on the word ‘arc’*** The ones that span 56 out of 61 episodes (see: you know the show). The ones that cost the redeemer their ideals, the friends they thought they had on the wrong side, maybe a limb or two. The ones that start with a villain so convinced they’re right, only to slowly question everything they’ve come to know and, without shedding their entire personality, do the right thing and still survive the process.
This is not redemption equals death. This is not a half-assed heel turn at the very last second—that’s a button mash impulsive act for shock value. This is taking a character almost all of the heroes have given up on trying to save, someone they themselves have nearly written off, and deciding to try anyway. This is a character deciding to do the right thing even if it doesn’t ever redeem them at all. This is a character whose whole life ahead of them is spent doing better than what was done before, and we love them for it.
4. The haunted ashes of a fallen empire
This one is a bit more tricky to define but think Prometheus of the Alien franchise, or Xerxes from FMAB. These are characters in the present exploring the ruins of a civilization that never should have fallen, but did due to the Big Bad they either created or tried to imprison. This is those characters looking around at what used to be, and making history repeat itself whether they’re genre-savvy or not.
These are the glaring red sign posts telling the heroes to turn around every step further in *or else* and they do it anyway. Or, these are the heroes who know exactly what happened and in their own hubris, are convinced it won’t happen this time to them.
5. The Most Dangerous Game
The originator: An island owned by a big game hunter who has evolved into hunting humans. The trope: Powerful and/or incredibly skilled character in any other situation is trapped in the confines of a dwindling clock matched up against the very antithesis of who they are and what they represent, but who is also just like them.
I just love seeing characters who are normally incredibly competent and rarely fazed, tripped up by the horror of being hunted by someone just like them who lost their humanity. So many juicy existential questions arise, so much angst. Double points if the character has a firm no-kill policy or extremely picky morals and has to wager tossing them aside to survive.
6. Stranger in a strange land
Whether it’s a character in a foreign country trying to learn and respect the ways of the people who saved them (see: Last Samurai, or Avatar '09), or an alien who crash-landed on Earth and struggles to assimilate and not get caught by the government (see any PG 13 alien adventure movie), a time traveler to the past or the future (Outlander, Back to the Future), either drama or hilarity ensues, often with a heaping helping of socio-political commentary.
It gets kind of troublesome when the writer is a white guy taking all the wrong messages from throwing his white guy protagonist into a land of the ‘savages’ (see uhhhh all variations of Pocahontas). But then you have strange lands like Wonderland, or Narnia.
7. Magical Otherworlds
Speaking of Narnia and Wonderland—magical hidden otherworlds. They can be incredibly blandly executed sometimes, but some of our most cherished stories come from living vicariously through Harry Potter or the Pevensie siblings. In this case I’m specifically talking about complete otherworlds, not hidden-in-plain-sight otherworlds (see: Percy Jackson) because of the complete freedom and creativity you have in geography, history, and world mechanics.
The possibilities are endless! Double points if the otherworld is a metaphor for childhood adventure and living without adult responsibilities (see: Peter Pan), a world in which we know, no matter how cool the world is, the protagonist was never meant to stay there. They must always inevitably, inexorably, return home and take what they’ve learned there to live a better and profound life.
8. “I know you’re in there somewhere”
Is it done to death? Yes. Is every situation different because it’s completely dependent on the relationship between the characters involved? Also yes. Tends to overlap with a redemption arc, but more often a hero-turned-temporary-villain. The drama! The angst! The shipping fodder! (see: many, many anime, too many to count)
This trope also has some uncertainty to it. You never know if the confrontation will be a success, if the character in question will commit some heinous act to wrack them with guilt later, if they even want to be saved, or if they really were saved and not just faking it. Either we get a POV of the stricken character’s battle in the mind or are left watching on the edge of our seat as unknowing as those trying to save them, and sometimes, rarely, they’re just not salvageable.
9. On the Run
The base has been discovered, the ship has been overrun, the house has burned down, the government is on the hunt. The hero team is forced apart with only the clothes on their back and what they can carry with only one or two others and loses all contact with most of their team, scattered to the wind. They leave a trail of sketchy motel rooms and diner take-away boxes, or they sleep in their car, or are forced to hide out in old bases that the villain definitely knows about but wouldn’t bother checking, built in a bygone era with a friend that’s no more.
Everything they ever knew has been called into question. The character they find themselves stuck with wasn’t their closest buddy on the hero team, but both forge a newfound respect for each other in this new unknown. Poignant conversations are had as one keeps watch in the dark so the other can sleep, and yet doesn’t, as they mourn the passing of the life both knew and vow to take it all back in their darkest hour.
10. The Thing
As in, a mysterious entity or illness has invaded the story and knowing which characters are infected and compromised is impossible. This entity either bodysnatches other characters and can be expunged, zombifies them, or kills and replicates them (see many zombie shows, iterations of The Thing, or “Croatoan” from Supernatural). This entity is a sickness slowly spreading throughout the town or the base or the ship and the heroes (or villains) realize far too late that something is very, very wrong.
This entity brings characters to their breaking point, paranoia making them do very bad things in the name of survival, killing off characters the audience knows is clean, but their murderer doesn’t, for extra knife-twisty fun. This entity brings a morally devout character near to ruin as they almost cross a line trying to do what’s right. This is an entity where, even when it’s defeated, is never really gone for certain… is it?
#writing resources#writing a book#writing tools#writing#writeblr#character design#tropes#fullmetal alchemist#atla#the most dangerous game#the thing#redemption arc
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The Real Deal
The Penguins of Madagascar is a great show for many reasons, but I feel like one is very underrated. Despite being a comedy, it has good villains. I have seen series where the comedy becomes a bigger part, so villains are written as playful obstacles or too silly to really be taken seriously. That does not happen here.
Hans is a villain who not only acts as an antagonist for the show, but he also connects to Skipper's past, adding new layers to the already mysterious nature of the Denmark incident. Because of whatever happened, Hans is that type of villain who won't kill the heroes. He even mentions how he didn't want to fry Skipper in a real volcano. He just wants to make him miserable. These villains are so dangerous because death isn't their goal. In a sense, torture is.
Dr. Blowhole is on the other end of this. He makes it very clear that he wants Skipper dead. Between making him even "most importantly" forget how to swim (as he falls into the ocean, mind you), this dolphin has a penguin-seeking middle. He has plans to make the world suffer for his pain and will destroy anyone in his path.
Rat King is a surprisingly fun villain to me. He easily could have just been the dumb jock kind of enemy who's basically an older version of a high school bully. Despite that, he's pretty clever too, shown when he hustled the penguins out of their habitat. He's also way more ruthless than I gave him credit for being. He had a vat of acid somehow and was going to use it to kill them.
Kuchikukan was not a villain I ever expected to see in the series. Evil spirits weren't on my radar, but this is probably the only time I won't complain about their presence. He was so much fun! He mastered the combination of "light-hearted jokester who messes with the mere mortals" and "all-powerful being who can and will destroy the Earth." That's not an easy balance to strike. It's such a great time to watch him go from an almost laughable threat due to his host body, then show how much he can still do. By the time the episode is over, I know why he was able to destroy a world inside of a cheese loaf.
Blue Hen was a nice way to give the penguins a psychological threat. She knew how to come after them where it mattered most. Go after Kowalski's obsession with science and go after Skipper's position as leader. It's a shame that she only was in season 3 because it would have been fun to see what else she did with more time.
Last, but certainly not least, X. Just X because he's been an animal control officer, zookeeper, exterminator, fishmonger, storekeeper, and unemployed. Of them all, he is my favorite. I love this character so much. He's also got something going for him that I feel is unique to him. You can see the downward spiral of X throughout each episode he's in. Gradually, he becomes more and more unhinged. It makes sense that he's one of the only human villains because he's so competent that he doesn't even need to know what the penguins are saying in order to stop them from doing everything they want. He just was the pinnacle of competency to the point of even freaking Skipper out because he kept failing against him in the zookeeper episode. Through it all, we see X go from this super officer of animal control, then more and more, he loses it because of the penguins. He even gets a cameo in an episode where he's just throwing chopsticks of a poster with the penguins on it and is later shown to have bowling pins painted as penguins. I almost feel bad for him since he really did want to just do his job, but there comes a point when you have to relinquish your obsessions and he's an example of why.
The other villains were also fun to me, but these were my favorites. PoM didn't have to try hard with its villains, but they still did and I really appreciate that.
#penguins of madagascar#the penguins of madagascar#Pom#Tpom#pom skipper#pom private#pom kowalski#pom rico
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What the Hell is Wizard101 (and Pirate101)
I'm making this post for the lovely @ellazimmermansblog, who is very sweet and wants to actually have half a clue what's going on in the fandom that I'm in but she's not. And oh sweet cheese and crackers. You asked for it. I tried to leave this in the comments. I really did. This is gonna get long, so feel free to read this in chunks or disregard it or just read it whenever you get the time.
Genre:
Wizard101 is a JRPG or junior-role-playing game that's also an MMO or Massive Multiplayer Online game that was big in the 2010s. In case you don't know what those are:
A JRPG is a game where you basically play as the protagonist of a middle grade fantasy/adventure story, meaning the target audience is usually 7-13. Think Pokemon or Kingdom Hearts.
An MMO is a game where everybody who plays the game is playing at the same time, in the same world. You can always interact with other players and are heavily encouraged to team up and collobarate.
While it is advertised as "free to play," it's only free for like the first hour or so of playtime. You can do the tutorial and like two other areas before you have to fork over some cash for a membership.
Basic Story:
Anyway, the spoiler-free story of Wizard101 is that you are a young Wizard enrolled in Ravenwood School of Magic by Headmaster Ambrose. He found you magically transported from "a strange world that doesn't believe in magic" (read: Earth). He believes you may be "the one we've been searching for." After doing a personality quiz to decide which school of magic you belong to, your enrollment is immediately crashed by Malistaire Drake. He used to be the Professor for the Death School, until his wife fell ill and he went mad with grief and turned evil trying to bring her back.
After beating up your would-be teacher, you learn that he's been unleashing scores of undead onto Wizard City, mind-controlling people, is going after major infrastructure, and is just being a dick in general because he's eeeeeeeeviiiiil. Ambrose turns you loose in the streets to help a number of other student NPCs save the city and do general damage control.
The main story of Arc 1 basically has you trekking after Malistaire like a lunatic, cleaning up his messes and trying to stop him from breaking the world apart while he attempts to ressurect his wife. This is where me and my brother J-Dog are at in our playthrough.
But there are 4 arcs, and the story continues WELL after you mop up the Malistaire problem. It's basically the Young Wizard saving the spiral from major threat after major threat, trekking through quirky worlds willy-nilly, and meeting a massive and entertaining cast of NPCs, all with different motivations and sidequests and problems for you to solve (or cause).
Each world in the spiral is also kind of an analogy for a real life place or a popular fictional story, but you replace all the humans with anthropomorphic animals (I'm really not sure why this game isn't more popular with furries). Marleybone, for example, which is where my brother and I are right now, is analagous to Victorian era England and populated by a bunch of stiff-upper-lipped dogs that nobody likes, mutliple crime rings of cats, and a contingent of Irish foxes that only appear in the less-popular but very good companion game: Pirate101 (I'll get to that).
That's the most basic I can make the gist, but there's still a lot of other basic information that might matter when I talk about it, so I'll put that under a cut!
Magic Basics:
The 7 main schools of magic that you can play as, and what they're general purpose/ability is are as follows:
Storm: Hit things really hard in exchange for a low accuracy rate and lower base HP. Glass cannons basically. This is what I'm playing as.
Fire: Also hitting things, but focuses more on damage-over-time spells that kill your enemies slowly.
Ice: Damage Sponge. They have the highest natural health pool, access to some decent spells early on to reduce damage, and even have a taunt spell that can draw enemy fire onto them (this isn't very useful in practice from what I've heard).
Those are the three elemental schools. The next three are spirit schools.
Life: Healers. What did you expect? They're the only class with the ability to heal other players. They get a high health pool, really good accuracy, and a lot of healing spells, but they're less good at hitting things and dealing damage. This is what J-Dog is playing as.
Myth: Summons. You can summon lots of different minions to help you out. From what I understand, each minion plays slightly differently and you're supposed to build different strategies around what they give you.
Death: Drains. Stealing health from the enemy basically. A lot of their spells will hit the enemy really hard, and then give half of that back to you. Because of the capability to hurt and heal in the same turn, they're the best to solo the game with.
And finally there is a school that lives in between Elemental and Spiritual:
Balance: battlefield control. They have a lot of damage increasers and damage reducers, and have the capability to mess with the powers of any of the other schools.
While each class does have it's unique and specific niche, they do all have the same main function: summon a monster to hit your enemy. All the combat in the game is done in a summoning circle where you take turns summoning monsters to hit each other. Each side can have up to 4 allies at a time (are we sensing a number theme yet).
Each enemy in the game has an assigned school that they belong to. Casting spells from the same school as them does less damage, while spells from the opposite school are stronger. Opposites are as follows:
Life and Death
Fire and Ice
Myth and Storm
Balance is a special snowflake that has no opposite :)
Your ability to cast spells depends on your Mana, which can be restored with blue wisps of magic floating around the world. Your ability to not be dead depends on your health, which can be restored with red health wisps.
Most spells that you cast, especially damaging spells, have a chance to "fizzle" or fail to cast. It's like missing in a pokemon game. This is the bane of every player's existence.
There are also Astral Schools later that do other things, but I ain't got there yet, so it's whatever.
Extracurriculars:
There are a number of other fun things you can do in Wizard101 that don't involve saving the world:
PvP: player versus player combat! Get the shit beaten out of you by people with more time and money! For fun! Beat the shit out of other people and win arena tickets, which can buy you cool prizes like better gear!
Pets: You can have a number of adorable little animal companions that, if you take good care of, will help you in combat! Some of them cast spells on their own, some of them give you extra spells to cast, some of them have passive abilities that increase your strength, and all of them will get more helpful the more you train them. You train them via minigames, like teaching them to dance or having them eat snacks off a stage or FIRING THEM OUT OF CANONS (amongst other questionable activities).
Gardening: Take care of the weirdest assortment of magical plants you've ever seen, in exchange for harvesting them for money and crafting ingredients and treasure cards and stuff. All of them are puns btw. Like. I have laugh-o-dils, despairagus, baby carrots (literal screaming baby carrots in diapers), and dandelions (which have actual lion faces) to name a few.
Fishing: Pull weird magical pun-based fish out of the water and sell them for exorbitant amounts of cash or stick them in your aquarium or something!
Monstrology: Study various creature types by killing them a lot until you become an expert and can either summon them as minions, stick them in your house, or just get EXTRA good at killing them.
Crafting: Use natural ingredients you found across the spiral (reagents) to make better gear yourself!
There's also photomancy, but that's just a glorified screenshot feature and we all know it.
NPCs:
Me and everybody else who plays this game is fucking obsessed with all of the non-player characters in both games. There are so many of them though, and they're so different from each other, that you're better off just asking who's who every time I post about one.
Pirate101:
While the Wizard is off being a tragic chosen one saving the spiral from various world-ending threats, there are other adventures going on underneath their nose! Pirate101 takes place at the same time and in the same universe as Wizard101, but never interacts beyond vague references.
The basic spoiler-free plot of this one is that you are a young orphan who got thrown into prison after crossing the Clockwork Armada, a tyrannical army of steampunk clockwork robots who want to conquer the world and end our God Given Right to steal shiny things (and also suppress free will or something. Idk. I never got that far).
You're broken out of jail by eccentric pirate captain Boochbeard and his monkey first mate Mr. Gandry, drag a fellow captive along with you, beat up one of the high-ranking members of the Armada, and are taken to the pirate safe haven of skull island. You're introduced to it's steward, the successful and retired pirate Captain Avery, who immediately enlists you as his errand boy/girl/goblin thing. You meet one of the first companions of your crew, Bonnie Anne, and together you run some turncoat sharks out of town.
After proving yourself to Avery and getting swindled out of a real ship, you basically spend the rest of the game chasing after untold gold and riches, beating up the Clockwork Armada, and helping out unfortunate souls where you can.
The critical difference between wizard and pirate though: The wizard makes temporary NPC acquaintances and even a few true friends, but they're always left to fight alone with just themselves (and a few other wizards if you're playing the game multiplayer, as intended). Meanwhile, the pirate is collecting ragtag companions for their motley crew like they're pokemon cards. Some of them are looking for adventure, others money, others freedom or a new life, and a lot of them just feel like they owe you because you beat them up.
All of these NPCs join your crew and you can have up to 3 of them in a fight with you, in addition to a pet. They all have highly entertainig personalities and different sets of abilities that are useful in different scenarios.
Pirate101's combat is much more up close and personal, playing more like chess where you have a bunch of different pieces that you have to strategically move around to hit different attacks with.
The different classes of pirate, which are determined by which crime got you in jail at the beginning of the game, are as follows:
Musketeers (my fave): guns and traps. The idea is that you don't have to get too close with them.
Witchdoctor: magic! They function sort of similarly to wizards in wizard101, but they can also hit things over the head with their staff and get stabbed, so no they don't.
Privateers: Healing, boosting, and commanding other pirates
Bucanners: Big sword that hits one thing very hard (and also big defense) at the cost of more agility and freedom to move.
Swashbuckler: Also hitting things, but less defense and health in exchange for more agility.
Pirate101 also has ship combat. While Wizard has convenient magical teleporters to move you between worlds, Pirate101 said "get in your boat and drive there yourself." You basically fire canonballs at each other until one ship gets damaged so badly it stops moving and gets boarded, at which point you transition to regular combat.
Pirate101 is in general, the neglected younger sibling. Kingsisle doesn't pay a quarter as much attention to Pirate, but it's still really good.
Apart from the companions and the combat, the biggest difference in pirate is probably your lack of supervision. You don't constantly have people glaring over your shoulder and telling you what to do, you just have a ragtag gang of misfits and a general order to "get money, don't die, and don't be a dick." The pirates get to be very chaotic in comparison to the wizards.
Holy mackeral, that was a lot. Anyway, I played both games a lot as a kid and spent my summer allowance on memberships for them. Now that I have an adult brain and adult money and am a lot better at video games, I have returned to enjoy them again, and I am dragging my brother along with me (don't worry, he's having fun too).
I highly recommend that you play them both, they're very fun. But this post should be a good guideline if you don't want to put that much investment into it, but still want to have half a clue what I'm talking about when I bring up either game. Thanks so much for asking!
#wizard101#pirate101#wiz101#wizzy101#w101#wizblr#wizposting#wizzy fandom#w101 fandom#pitty101#pitty fandom#p101#the spiral#kingsisle games#ki#ki games#giraffe's ramblings#I am so so sorry this got so long#I am incapable of making things short#I hope this all makes sense
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TNGDH 22
“I still don’t know what I should do.”
Sen sighed.
“His Highness Belial is much more considerate than I had thought. If I agree to follow him to the castle, he told me he would take care of me so I wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”
I snorted inwardly while taking a bite out of the sandwich in my hands.
‘Take responsibility my ass.’
Who knows how much trouble it might bring if he involves himself in her business. Would a prince even have the time to protect a mere maid? Sure he would, if he plans to marry Sen that is.
“What are you pondering about? If I were His Highness Kyle, you’d be rooting for me.”
Sen clasped her hands together and looked up to me, her eyes open wide and sparkling, waiting for my answer.
I avoided her gaze as I nibbled on my fried ham and cheese sandwich.
“I’ve made up my mind, but I’m worried…… worried that I won’t be able to accomplish what I want.”
I glanced at her while licking off the bread crumbs on my finger tips. You said you wanted revenge. Why can’t you do it? Do you not have enough power?
The expression on her face looked to say that she knew that even the easiest path may also be a path full of thorns, so her worries didn’t seem to be anything about that. It may be a sense of helplessness on a more fundamental issue……
Between annoyance and curiosity, the latter got ahead of me. I made a subtle remark.
“What are you worried about? You’re smart and hardworking. Struggling from the lack of power and authority will only be temporary. The you I know will surely be able to accomplish whatever you want if you put your mind to it.”
That’s right. It hasn’t been long since we first met, but I knew this for a fact.
Sen is that kind of person. She will always go a step beyond the limits a person would set to oneself.
I could feel her determination. The determination to live on and to not stray from her own beliefs and values.
This is why I am not overly anxious about the story of this world, despite working hard to prevent Kyle’s death.
Sen can achieve everything she can possibly want to achieve without anyone’s help. In the time one would look back and regret their actions, Sen would take another step forward and eventually reach her goals.
It would’ve been better if <Winter’s Heart> was a fairytale. Everyone deserves to have the happily ever after. Sen, me, and also Kyle.
Suddenly, the contents of the original story popped up in front of me.
[“Your Majesty Belial. Could this be fate? For you, who resembles His Majesty the late Emperor, and I, who resemble my mother, to become so intertwined. Please tell me. Is this a coincidence……. or is this karma?”]
At first I couldn’t understand why this appeared. Why am I being shown something between Sen and Belial?
I know however. The system would never show me anything that wouldn’t be useful. Even the smallest details would have some sort of meaning.
[(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)]
No, not emotes. Those are usually useless.
[(´。_。`)]
I swiped away the emotes and carefully re-read the story contents from before.
‘Fate, coincidence, karma…….’
Human relationships can’t be neatly organized into those three categories. Belial wouldn’t be able to easily reply to a question like that. So, that shouldn’t be the point here……
Ah. Sen resembling her biological mother.
“Sen.”
I said as calmly as possible.
“Did you say that you wanted to avenge your mother?”
“Yeah. Due to some various incidents, she fell from her position from a baron family. I also heard she was once nominated for Serena. However… I’m sure you know. The nobility is always full of fights, with no knowing who started it. It could’ve been a fight for authority and everyone pretended not to know anything……”
Ah, now I understand.
There was now confidence in my voice.
“Then go.”
“Hm?
“You’ll know when you get there. Who is your enemy, who wants to get rid of you. Don’t miss anything and look around you carefully.”
Sen’s enemies will definitely recognize her. After all, she resembles her mother. They will see her and will want to erase her existence. Just like they did to her mother.
And if I were to guess from what Sen said in the story, one of those enemies would be Belial’s biological mother, the preceding Queen Serena.
“Would that be enough?”
“Of course. Also…….”
If she’s going against Belial’s mother, she definitely has to go with Belial.
The first step towards revenge is returning back after the passing of many seasons and seeing the shock on the faces of those who thought they had perfectly trampled everything down.
“Don’t let go of Belial.”
Whatever emotion it is that compels her is fine. Belial Serena Meinhardt. He will be Serena’s clue.
Sen began to ponder by herself. I couldn’t give her comforting words, but at least I conveyed the words she needed.
It seemed she decided to trust me. I’ve only shown her my suspicious and shady side, but she nodded her head with a boldly.
“Good. That’s what I’ll do.”
“You said you disliked the cold here in the North, so it worked out for you well.”
Then it seems I won’t be able to see Sen for a while. Will she be ‘Serena’ by the time we meet again, as according to her will?
No longer wishing to influence her fate, I felt that it was now time to step out of her life.
“Take care. Don’t be sick.”
“Shu.”
Sen looked at me quietly.
“Whenever you need help in the future, I will definitely come help you.”
I nodded and said yes.
It felt strange. It’s been a long time since someone told me they would help me, so those words sounded foreign to me. After my uncle ran off with all my insurance money, I couldn’t trust anyone anymore.
“Great. Don’t even think about taking back your words when that time comes.”
I laughed.
And then I prayed. For a happy ending to come to Sen, whether it would be through fate or a miracle.
[The possibility of Sen finding the correct revenge has increased!]
[The threat to Kyle Blake’s life has been reduced.]
[Current Miracle Value 23.0%]
If the miracles of saving a person’s life could really make everything perfect, then perhaps that would really be a life like a miracle.
*
As expected, the life of a hamster is the most comfortable. No need to worry about anything and without Kyle around, I could enjoy my time on my own.
I’ve earned quite a bit of Miracle Points. I wouldn’t use them often since these points weren't permanent, but it’s still good to have them in case of emergency.
There will definitely be items like the ‘Long-Lasting Acorn Cookies’ from before that can help turn the situation around.
Let’s see…….
‘Show me everything you’ve got.’
[(⊙ˍ⊙);;;]
Why, what. Is this your first time seeing the strength of a nut?
### He is flexing the amount of Miracle Value points he has
Give me everything you’ve prepared. No, give me everything including the ones you haven’t finished preparing too. Look at me trying my hardest to do good deeds. Let’s be nice to each other, ‘kay?
‘Come to think of it, didn’t it say it had a renewal opening?’
I was curious about the other pages I couldn’t see before. Kyle hasn’t come back yet, so I could look over it slowly.
[☆*: .。. o(≧▽≦)o .。.:*☆]
[!Nut Store!]
Good, good.
[Knock Knock Pistachio Shell |Miracle Points 2% consumption|1-time use Master Key. It can open any lock!]
[Sweet Almond Tart |Miracle Points 5% consumption|You can transform into something else for 1 hour.]
Wow.
They’re worth as much as they’re expensive. The durations are short, but I am a ham- no a person who mastered the usage of ‘Summon’ despite its short duration.
As I tried to turn the page, another system window appeared before my eyes.
[NOW LOADING…….]
‘……Is it not completely made yet.’
Well, developing isn’t an easy task. Take your time.
While inspecting the system window thoroughly, I saw a new heart-shaped button in the right corner. What is this? Is this also a shop?
[Love Love Corner~❤]
‘Ah.’
Before I fill up my Miracle Value, I hope I can hit the system just once. I calmed down my emotions and clicked on the Love……. anyway, I clicked on it.
[Fluffy hamster yarn! | ❤×1]
[Small and precious knitting needle set | ❤×1]
[Try making one yourself! 79 styles of hamster clothes| ❤×2]
[Replica hamster to soothe the loneliness (Duration : 30 minutes) | ❤×100]
This time, the currency unit was not Miracle Points
‘Heart? What is that?’
[Currently Possessing Hearts | ❤×312]
[Products bought in the ‘Love Love Corner’ will be recognized as an ‘Item’! Both customizable and adjustable!]
When did I possess so many hearts!? I’ve never even collected them!
‘This, no way this is…….’
*
My life…….
I looked over to Kyle with a rotten expression on my face. And impressed by his affection towards me, I pushed my front paws onto the rope.
“You ride well, Cashew.”
He said with overflowing satisfaction.
I sat on a piece of wood held up by two thin ropes and swayed on it helplessly back and forth.
It was a swing that Kyle brought over.
Who bought this thing. Don’t tell me, Sen? This…… is this how you repay me back after helping you…….
[||ㄱ―||]
I know, my expression looks exactly like that emote. We both know I look like that, but only that bastard Kyle doesn’t know.
Kyle continued to push the swing I was sitting on while making noises unlike of his character.
“There you go! Try stretching your legs a bit further. You are holding on tightly to the rope right? As expected, you must be enjoying this a lot.”
―Squeak. (Stop it.)
“Sen said you’d like this, since you are such an active child always running on the hamster wheel.”
―Squeak……. (Bullshit…….)
Sen. ‘m gurnna gill you……
### “Sen. I’m going to kill you……” with clenched teeth in frustration
Doing all this doesn’t mean I’ll lose weight or form a mana stone, and yet it seems he’s already quite happy seeing me play like this. He looked truly happy and had a soft smile on his face.
“From magicians to veterinarians to a demonic beast specialist… you have no idea how much I’d do for you.”
Hearing those words, I pushed my bottom harder while letting out a deep sigh. The swing creaked and began to swing a little faster.
Kyle then let go of the swing. I pushed myself against a pillar to rock myself back and forth.
The wooden swing made cheerful and light noises as it swayed fast. Kyle was so moved seeing me shake my bottom that he began to clap.
Sigh. It sure is hard to play with you.
[Currently Possessing Hearts | ❤×320]
As long as you’re happy…….
--------------------------------------------------------
Main / Next Chapter
T/N: Please don't hesitate to message me through Ask Me Anything if there are mistakes! Also, consider tipping me if you liked my translation here. Every tip will be an extra chapter released the week after, plus early chapter access for members!
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I feel like they've done this just to make Rhaenyra less culpable for her actions during the taking of kings landing by having alicent basically hand it over to her blame will be placed on Alicent, any deaths will be ultimately alicents doing and rhaenrya's role will be limited to executing her enemies if they even let her be the one to do it
I think your exactly right. If Alicent hands Rhaenyra the information she needs. She will be hated by both sides of the fandom for betraying her faction and maybe even the people of kings landing if the civilians get harmed. The fall of kingslanding lead to the deaths of Otto and Gwayne and Alicent will be seen as the main reason for their executions, even if Gwayne dies in battle it'll still be attributed to Alicent's betrayal and most of the fandom either like or don't have a problem with Gwayne given that he was just dragged into this has shown to care for his sister and see Daeron as his own son. It won't just be kings landing they blame her for. Anything else that happens after the greens lose kingslanding will be tied back to Alicent. They already try to place blame on her whenever they can. Blood and Cheese should have been a sign that this was the direction her character was going in. She was done dirty at times in season one but she was also portrayed as somewhat sympathetic and more layered than just a woman that exists for people to shit on in-universe and in our world.
#I think they might make Helaenas suicide Aemond + Alicents fault because she will get on dreamfyre to defend the city and end up killing ppl#alicent hightower#anti ryan condal#gwayne hightower#house of the dragon#anti hotd#hotd leaks#hotd spoilers#otto hightower
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Maladaptation
ATLA x Hunger Games Crossover
The sun is just rising. The dawn is gray and foggy. I wait out in the woods for my best friend – my only friend – Gale Hawthorne.
It is not like him to be late and it’s not often that I reach our meeting place before he does.
I wonder what may have stalled him.
Peacekeepers? A sick sibling? Errands for his mother?
Or is it nothing?
Perhaps he has decided to sleep in. It is, after all, reaping day, and the reaping does not start until two. Most will try to sleep in. If they can.
I move to edge of the tree-line, peering through the chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire, and watch as the Meadow grasses sway in the early morning breeze. Beyond the Meadow is the Seam.
At this hour, the Seam is usually crawling with earthbenders heading out to their morning shift at the coal mines. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles. Many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails or the lines of their sunken faces. But not today.
The dawn is just ending when I spot Gale, hurrying out of the Seam and into the Meadow. He does not bother to shimmy under the lifted part of the fence, like I had. He merely bends the earth underneath himself and propels himself over the barded-wire loops. He lands a little clumsily. He is not as adapt at earthbending as he likes to think.
Out in the woods with me is one of the few places that he gets to practice without the scrutiny of the Peacekeepers. If the people of the Seam are seen using their bending for something other than for the mining of coal, they can expect to be reprimanded. Or if the authorities thought you intended to use your bending to fight back, to use it against them, or the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol… you will be executed.
Gale flashes something at me from underneath his coat. A loaf of bread. Still steaming, fresh from the bakery. Real bread, nothing like the flat dense disks of bread we make from our grain rations. He passes it to me and it almost burns my hands.
“Still so warm,” I say. “What did it cost you?”
“Just a frog-squirrel,” says Gale. “I think that old man was feeling sentimental this morning. Even wished me luck.” He pauses to take his bow from me and shoulders it. “Coming from a firebender, I guess I should be grateful.”
The undertow of resentment in his tone is unmistakable. While there are benders of all kinds in District 12, earthbenders make up the majority of the Seam and firebenders run the Town. Long before the Dark Days, before there even was District 12 proper, those firebenders came to this land and colonized it. Even with the Capitol now overseeing us, there are still long-standing prejudices between the descendants of those firebenders and earthbenders. Gale, comprised of great pride of his origins, holds fast to such feelings.
My father was an earthbender – before he got blown to bits in the coal mines – and my mother is a waterbender and my little sister, Primrose, is a waterbender, too… and while I take after my father, and I can bend earth – I never thought of myself as someone who could afford the luxury of discriminating against the Townspeople. I need them to trade with. My greatest enemy since my father’s death has always been starvation – which has no ties to any type of bending.
Gale and I trek to our favorite spot, surrounded by berry bushes and shrouded from prying eyes. He slices the bread. I offer up the bit of goat-gorilla cheese Prim had given me that morning. Gale places basil leaves onto the cheese. We munch on the blackberries. Our own little reaping feast.
“Have you seen the newest imposter?” asks Gale, as we hike to the lake for fishing.
I glance over. He is smoldering with anger underneath his stony expression.
“I haven’t,” I admit. “Is this one more believable than the last ‘Avatar’?”
“It’s worse,” says Gale. “Since the death of the last Avatar sixteen years ago, there have been countless pretenders, or Capitol puppets, or imposters – whatever we should call them… you’d think they would get better at pretending.”
“We should be grateful,” I say. “The Capitol stopped trying to scourer the districts after a decade of…” I stop myself. I do not need to say it. Gale knows of the horrors. Every baby examined. Every birth attended by a Capitol envoy. The schools putting every child through rigorous testing and scrutiny. Parents, neighbors, strangers all interviewed, interrogated, and encouraged to spy and to betray each other.
“I’m glad they never found the new Avatar,” says Gale. “The Capitol would have raised them to be worse than the last. Someone who promotes the Hunger Games in the name of balance, who is Capitol fed and pampered, who betrays the rest of the world for greed.”
President Snow had indeed grieved when his pet Avatar died, after sixty long years of having them as his puppet. Since then, there have been whispers… fears… hopes… things that the Capitol would not want in the districts.
But they are just that. No one seems to know who or where this new Avatar is. Worse, they would still be a child – just sixteen. And if they are living in hiding, then they likely have not trained enough. Not enough to fulfill the hopes of overthrowing the Capitol and restoring true balance to the world.
I choose not to engage in such fantasies.
Life is hard enough without clinging onto impossible hopes.
We take the fish we catch down to the Hob, where we are able to trade them for a decent amount. The strawberries we picked are sold to Mayor Undersee. When we arrive, it is his daughter, Madge Undersee, who answers the door. She’s in white. A lovely reaping dress. There are rubies on the cuffs of her sleeves. Symbols of her wealth – and a touch of red, some subtle firebender pride. All of it makes Gale look sick with hate.
While it is true that those rubies could keep a family from starving for months, I do not hate her. For being the mayor’s daughter, she is surprisingly demure and kind. I have spent many days sharing quiet school lunches with her, or teaming up together in gym. Madge wishes Gale and I luck in the reaping.
Back home, my mother and Primrose are waiting for me. Prim jumps up and greets me. She shows me the reaping outfit she is wearing. Deep green earthbender garbs. My mother had painstakingly taken it in, since it used to be mine; but it is still a bit big on her. And she isn’t even an earthbender. I motion her to me.
“Tuck that tail in, little turtle-duck,” I tell her, securing the fabric of her shirt into the back of her skirt.
“Quack!” says Prim.
“Quack yourself,” I say.
My mother gives me a dress from when she was a teenager; back when she lived in Town with her waterbender family that owned the apothecary. It is waterbender blue and embellished and when I put it on, it feels wrong, but it fits and it is beautiful, so I thank her.
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So, the atrocities Rhaenyra committed never happened because “unreliable source” but F&B is suddenly very trustworthy when it comes to the Greens, am I right ?
Most of the stuff that Rhaenyra was claimed to have done was stuff she did. Eustace primarily looked to whitewashing Aegon II with his whole “he didn’t care until his children were threatened” BS.
Most of what she did during her half-year tenure (the taxes, the murders, the lavish feasts while her people starve, refusing to offer credible surrender terms to the Greens, etc.) cannot be mistaken as anything but her doing, with the only exception of Haelana, who may have been pushed, may have committed suicide, or may even have been murdered by Larys Strong (I doubt that though). Arguing for people who doubted the Strong bastards’ paternity to have their tongues ripped out definitely happened (and as Tyrion stated, “when you tear out a man’s tongue, you are not proving him a liar, you’re only telling the world that you fear what he might say”). Rhaenyra knew about Blood & Cheese beforehand, and never punished Daemon. Maelor’s death can’t be biased history, her Knights Inquisitor were publicly charged with finding Maelor. Ordering Lord Mooton to murder Nettles and ordering Addam Velaryon to be executed without trial was also something that definitely happened, writs of execution have paperwork.
The smallfolk of KL turned on her, and that can’t be explained away as propaganda after-the-fact, they were the ones living it. Their reactions can’t be explained away as propaganda; they slaughtered the dragons: the living symbols of Targaryen power, and justified their actions as righteous action. How can that be construed as anything but legitimately held rebellion against the very aspect of her rulership ? The heads that were placed on pikes above Maegor’s Holdfast too, are physical things that can be observed and confirmed (or disproven).
See, I don't think anyone taught you how to analyze unreliable sources. An easy way to do that is if there are other sources corroborating the story or see if the idea makes sense with the person being talked about. It's also important to consider the context of the decisions, which is analysis 101 by the way. So, since apparently holding your hand and walking you through something like I'm your fucking middle school teacher is necessary, let's go through your post.
First off, the taxes. Yes, I agree with you, the taxes are something Rhaenyra actually did, we know this because in a kingdom, tax records are always kept. This is how I know that you, much like all the Nettles stans who interact with me, have never fucking read a thing I've written. I've said that the heavy tax isn't something that's a sign of Rhaenyra being incompetent or a tyrant. It's a necessary cost of war, especially since the Greens stole the treasury, she needs money. The people did hate this and eventually riot, but, by looking at the context of the riot, it was rooted in hatred of the war, not Rhaenyra. They believed that if she took the throne, the war would be over, but it wasn't because of Aegon's cowardice. If Aegon was still on the throne, the people would have still rioted, they hated the war and blamed the monarch, end of story.
As for the beheadings, I hate to break it to you, but F&B takes place in a medieval world, meaning that beheading was the method for punishing treason. Aegon's supporters committed treason then, unlike Rhaenyra's supporters, tried to hide throughout the city. Now, am I saying that beheading your enemies and putting their heads on spikes on the walls is a good thing? No, it's something that's barbaric and cruel, however, it's no less than what Aegon did to her supporters, so condemning her for something Aegon does is extremely hypocritical and sexist. Also, it wasn't a witch hunt, Rhaenyra needed to find the treasury and Aegon in order to stop the war; was it extreme, yes, but, again, context is important. I find it interesting that you condemn the taxes she levied while also condemning her attempts to end the reason for the taxes, could it be you just hate Rhaenyra and are looking for any reason to shit on her?
Now we're getting into something that requires a little critical thinking, which I know is hard for you: the feasting. The only source that says Rhaenyra held feasts while she was in KL is Septon Eustace. Let's look at Eustace really quickly; he's the man who crowned Aegon and is known by the in-universe writers of F&B to be unreliable, he also wasn't in KL when Rhaenyra was ruling. So, if the maesters who wrote the sources F&B drew from deem him to be unreliable and he wasn't present during her reign, does that make Eustace a trustworthy source? And if the many courtiers who were in KL and weren't fans of Rhaenyra didn't corroborate this rumor, is it likely to be true? The answer to both of these is no. Eustace claiming Rhaenyra feasted during her time in KL is 99% a lie, and that other 1% would refer to the fact that nobles always ate better than their people.
Now, I have another question for you anon, I do hope you'll consider it. Would you offer mercy to the man responsible for the deaths of all but two of your children, your husband, your ex mother-in-law who acted as your surrogate mother, began a war based on your gender, and wanted to kill you and your remaining children? Unless you are literally a saint, the answer is, no, you wouldn't be inclined to offer that person "credible surrender terms". I think you're just referring to when Rhaenyra refused to split the kingdom between her and Aegon as well as refused to spare his life if she caught him while she was in KL. How exactly is throwing the kingdom into a shit storm by splitting it in half, despite the fact that a majority of the lords supported Rhaenyra, "credible terms"? It's not, it's fucking entitled and ridiculous, of course Rhaenyra rejected that audacious idea. Also, Aegon refused to surrender in any way, in fact he was more determined than ever to keep the war going (even after Rhaenyra was murdered, he kept fighting), what's the point of offering peace terms if they're going to be rejected again? She already offered very merciful terms at the beginning of the war.
"As for my half-brothers and my sweet sister, Helaena," she announced, "they have been led astray by the counsel of evil men. Let them come to Dragonstone, bend the knee, and ask my forgiveness, and I shall gladly spare their lives and take them back into my heart, for they are of my own blood, and no man or woman is as accursed as the kinslayer." (Fire and Blood: The Dying of the Dragons - the Blacks and the Greens)
Keep in mind, this is an official decree by Rhaenyra, terms delivered to Aegon and his council, meaning they were recorded and had official documentation. So not only are you not using any critical thinking, you're flat out lying and making shit up to try and support your argument.
Now, moving on to Rhaenyra's sons, her wanting people who are committing treason to be punished how the king decreed isn't an outlandish or unreasonable expectation. Jace, Luke, and Joff were declared the legitimate sons of Laenor by Viserys, Corlys, and Laenor himself, making them (at the very least adopted) Velaryons. Are you saying that people who are adopted are undeserving of inheritance just because of their blood? That's not even a medieval idea, since adopted heirs has been a custom since the Ancient Romans. Moving on, Viserys was the one who declared the punishment for the treason of questioning the boys' legitimacy, not Rhaenyra. There's also the fact that no one outside of the Greens cared about whether the boys were Laenor's blood or not, they are recorded by everyone, including Eustace himself, as true Velaryons. I'm not even going to address the Tyrion quote, since you clearly don't actually care about accuracy or literally any of the messages in ASOIAF.
Continuing your trend of blatantly making shit up, there's no evidence that Rhaenyra knew about B&C. All we have is Daemon's letter to her, which only said that Luke would be avenged, something which could be accomplished through taking her throne and executing Aemond. In fact, that's the most likely conclusion to be drawn from such a vague letter.
As for Maelor, Rhaenyra did order her knights to find him, as having Aegon's last child could motivate him to surrender. However, she didn't order him to be executed, that was clearly an example of how war twists people and drives them to atrocities. Rhaenyra offered a reward for his return, meaning she wanted him alive, it's not her fault that a mob tore him to pieces. Her people came to break up the mob, but they were too late, so they executed the people responsible. Rhaenyra gave Maelor's remains a Targaryen funeral, something Aegon and Aemond didn't bother giving to her children.
Rhaenyra ordering Nettles' and Addam's executions are actions that I don't defend and never have. Those are signs of how Rhaenyra is another gray character, a woman driven to intense paranoia and making unjust and harmful decisions. This makes her a gray protagonist, not an unredeemable villain, as you and her other antis seem to believe. If you guys want all good protagonists, maybe read a differen book series.
As I said earlier, the revolt of the KL smallfolk weren't against Rhaenyra herself, it was against the war. They killed the dragons because they were being led by a man who took their discontent and used it to support his religious fanaticism. The Shepherd wasn't preaching against Rhaenyra, he was preaching against the Targaryens, including Aegon. That's why they killed all the dragons they could, not just Rhaenyra's, they killed Jaehaera and Helaena's dragons, how is that an act just against Rhaenyra?
TG stans and Rhaenyra antis' arguments are driven solely by a lack of critical thinking, willful ignorance, and twisting of passages. You either have issues that aren't actually supported by the narrative or simply apply double standards to Rhaenyra while supporting other characters who do the same or worse. You seem to think that this ask was a "gotcha" moment, however, you have simply shown how even the Rhaenyra antis who have read the book lack critical thinking and don't understand how unreliable sources work. Have a good day/night anon, I do hope you'll eventually learn how to use logic and your critical thinking, I'm sure you can do it.
#anti rhaenyra antis#anti team green#anti team green stans#rhaenyra targaryen#team black#house of the dragon#asoiaf#fire and blood#hotd spoilers#kinda
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Moveset and Minigames for my Amy Rose game idea
Wow, I did not expect you all to like my Amy idea as much as you have. Some of you even made concept art. Thanks so much. So, while I'm at it, here are my minigame and moveset ideas for Amy Fortunes of Rose: A Sonic Story.
Amy's Basic Moveset:
Hammer Spin - When moving on the ground, pressing the attack button will make her spin around with her hammer out. (Think like Crash or Jak's spin attacks)
Hammer Slam - When standing still, Amy can raise her hammer over her head and then slam it down to the ground, this is useful for slamming down pegs or sturdier breakables.
Jump and Hammer Flip - This is Amy's bogstandard jump from Sonic Adventure and Sonic Advance, Amy will jump into the air, but not spin into a ball, and when you tap attack she curl up, spinning her hammer around as she lands. Allowing her to attack enemies like Sonic, Tails and Knuckles can by jumping.
Hammer Glide - Similar to the card glide in Frontiers or her gliding skill in Heroes, holding the jump button when in midair will start a glide, this will let Amy get over certain pits. You gain a better distance doing the glide at the very peak of the jump.
Amy's Unlockable Moves:
These next few moves are abilities you can unlock as you progress through the game, which will help with enemy management, or getting everything in previous levels with areas you couldn't access prior.
Hammer Dash - Basically Amy's drop dash equivalent from Origins and Superstars, crouching and then tapping the action button will begin a hammer dash, and letting go of crouch unleashes it, causing Amy to go on a speedy smashing spree
Death Hammer Spin - Upgrade to Hammer Spin - Now when Amy spins, you can tap the attack button repeatedly, to have Amy keep spinning, in a rosy tornado of doom
High Jump/Super Slam - Upgrade to Amy's Hammer Slam - Now Amy is capable of charging up her hammer for a super slam, her hammer will ignite fire once fully charged, and when the attack button is release, she slam her hammer down and be sent flying into the air, as a shockwave obliterates surrounding enemies. Depending on how long you held attack, the jump height can be used for easier gliding, or to reach high up areas.
Boomerang Hammer - This allows you to either throw your hammer either standing still or in motion at enemies and breakables, or if you hold the button for it, go into a zoomed in mode to better aim at long away enemies or targets.
Minigames:
Chao Race - Accessed through Cream - Play as Cheese or Chocola, and race to the finish line and see if you get first place
Baking with Vanilla - Accessed through Vanilla - Amy and Vanilla are spending some girl time in the kitchen, time your button presses right and bake some sweets, the better the timing, the better your sweets turn out.
A Friendly Spar - Accessed through Blaze - Take on Blaze in a friendly sparing session, dodge carefully and keep your guard, Blaze doesn't hold back and you know it. You'll unlock higher levels of difficulty each round you beat.
Spring Cleaner - Accessed through Sticks - Sticks needs help cleaning badnik scrap out her backyard, use your hammer to bat away badnik pieces or even bombs, why does Sticks have bombs in her backyard anyway?
Getting high enough scores in these minigames will award you costumes, such as Amy's classic era outfit and hairdo, her Riders outfit, her goth outfit, or her Sonic and the Black Knight outfit
Collectables:
Rings - Each level has a certain amount of rings you can collect, and much like tradition, if you get hit, they scatter, however if you don't recollect your scattered rings in time, you'll have to recollect them again when you return to the level. Much like in Forces, your ring count doesn't automatically go back to zero when hit.
Red Star Rings - There's five red star rings hidden in each level, some will be easy to get, others will need you to get certain abilities then return to that level later with them. Collecting red star rings will grant you unlockable concept art of Amy throughout the years, from Sonic CD, all the way up to the comics and recent games.
Fortune Cards - These are pivotal, and can be collected by completing certain tasks in levels. As you progress you'll be needing certain amounts of rings and cards to unlock levels, like the power orbs from Spyro 2. However these aren't all the cards can do, as every 5 cards, it'll give a little extra power to Amy's attacks, and you can see them flutter around Amy when she attacks (this can be a toggleable option too). You will also be able to view the art of each card in a extras menu, with paragraphs of what the card means and references hidden in the art.
Chao - The chao sanctuary has been put into ruins, with chao now being used in a lot of new badniks, you know what you gotta do, use that hammer and get to work!
Chaos Emeralds - It wouldn't be a Sonic game without the chaos emeralds. These are unlocked by 100 percenting all levels in a zone. Doing that will make a big ring appear, jump into it and enter the special zone, thrusting you into a 2.5D recreation of a area Amy's been in from her past (Sonic CD, Adventure, Heroes, 06). Get to the chaos emerald at the end without dying. These special zones act like traditional classic Sonic levels, tailored to Amy. You'll also get at least one chaos emerald from the boss of the zones leading up to the final zone. And getting all the chaos emeralds gives you a good ending.
And that about covers it, hope you guys enjoy these details, and thanks to those of you who gave me ideas and made concept art based on my game idea. You all rock
(Logo made by me)
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OC: Halia "Sigma" Connors
Name: Halia Connors
Age: 23 (As of 2022)
Alias(es): Halie (by her aunt), Lia, Raven, Sigma, Corporal, Bravo 7 - 3
Gender: Female
Birthday: March 7th, 1999
Nationality: American
Place of birth: San Diego, California, USA
Languages: English (her mother language), Spanish.
Occupation/Rank: Senior Airman/Corporal
Affiliation: U.S Air Force (formerly), associate member of Task Force 141, JTF - Ghost Team
Hair color: Natural black
Eye color: Bright blue
Scars: None
Piercings: 1 (belly piercing)
Face claim: Emily Rudd
Height: 5’5 (165 cm)
Weight: 120 lbs (54 kg)
Build: Toned
Blood type: O+
Family: Unnamed mother (deceased), Unnamed father (deceased), Lala Connors (aunt), Ruby (German Shepherd dog)
Siblings: none
Personality: ISTJ, a quick thinker and has high intelligence, not wasting any time, gets a job done.
Friendly: not afraid to start conversation, likes to chat with people when not on the missions.
Serious: Serious, yet logical, she's beauty, she's grace, she'll break your knees.
Strong-willed: has a lot of determination and always tries to do what she can. FAVOURITES
Color: Toriquise
Season: Autumn
Food: Macaroni with cheese
Drink: Black tea with lemon, hot coffee and kiwi lemonade
Dessert: Coconut Yogurt
Hobbies: Singing, hiking, play tennis, spending free time with Ruby ABILITIES
Fighting style: Can rely on strength, speed, intelligence and stealth, but she's more into stealth type, can sneak attack enemies from behind, but she's brutal too while in combat.
Weapons: she's mastered firearms mastery, also very proficient with knives and in-field crafts.
Planes: a safe flyer, she only flies for air support if needed.
TRIVIA
Sigma is a dog person.
While Halia is left to train in the Air Force, her aunt felt lonely. But in 2 years (2020) Lala bought a female German Shepherd to prevent loneliness. After Hassan's death, Sigma came back home to her aunt and she was greeted by Ruby in surprise, then she began to love her.
The "Sigma" callsign not only mean the eighteen letter of the alphabet, but also an cosmology. A property of galaxies used when trying to work out the mystery of galaxies and their supermassive black holes.
Sigma sometimes wears darkers gears and clothes on a missions. (stealth type)
She can drive. She started her driving lessons when she was 18, but still was in high school. Missed most of her classes, but did her school work in time.
Used to have a long hair. HATES PONYTAILS. Uncomfortable, tight, hurts her scalp, because it gives her a headache. While being in U.S. Air Force, she used a fishbraid.
Sigma never dyed her hair, because she wants to keep her natural black hair healthy.
Sigma is allergic to sunflower seeds.
Had a boyfriend once in high school, but it didn't worked out well.
Sigma is ambidextrous. Can work with both hands well.
BIOGRAPHY
Born and raised in San Diego, Halia’s parents were killed by the secret organization when she was 10 years old, they destroyed their home while Halia managed to run away safely. Until then, Lala, her aunt found her and adopted her.
Years passed by, when she finished high school when she was 19, Halia decided to join the U.S Air Force, living up to her father’s legacy, then she found her code name "Sigma" in the first place, passed every training with flying colors. Halia was intelligent and very active all those days while in training. She left her aunt too to live her normal and peaceful life.
Other than being in Air Force, Halia rarely contacted her, writing letters, had no time to rest for the training. She build her relationship with her aunt very well for years. Until then, she made her allies in U.S Air Force who could trust them.
When became an Senior Airman/Corporal, General Shepherd and Kate Laswell contacted her that she has a mission in Las Almas, in close air, to help Ghost, Alejandro and Soap to capture Hassan and work with Graves and his Shadow mercanaries.
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What are the grossest or most controversial dishes each of the Great Kingdoms has?
This is difficult to answer because there are usually many different cultures operating within each Great Kingdom, and each culture has different cuisine. Also, many of these dishes are shared between multiple kingdoms and cultures.
For example, the nasty troll cuisine I talked about in another post is not specific to any one kingdom, but can be found in several of them.
That said, I can talk about some controversial foods that are most commonly eaten in different kingdoms (though they may not be exclusive to them or even originate from them).
Folkvar: Brodfesk - also called "cheese 'n chovies", it's raw fish slathered in blue cheese on a piece of bread. Many Folkvarans also eat raw blubber, especially from marine animals.
Matuzu: Sugar-coated locusts and other insects. Setsiki brain soup. Matuzans eat a lot of animal brains and livers in general, sometimes raw. In some Matuzan cultures, men eat the genitals of powerful animals because they believe it increases their sexual prowess.
Lamai: Gruju - a drink made from blended maggots. The Lamaish eat a lot of reptiles and amphibians, such as snakes, turtles, lizards, and frogs. They also eat a lot of wild fungus, some of which has psychedelic effects.
Yerim-Mor: There aren't many offensive dishes in Morite culture. The nasty part is how they're prepared. Because this kingdom is so poor, sanitation usually takes a back seat, so food is washed in unclean water, left unrefrigerated, and cut with dirty utensils. Most Morites have adapted to all this bacteria, but it makes foreigners sick.
Zareen: Just about everything on the traditional Zareenite menu is loaded with questionable chemicals, harmful fillers, heavy metals, and god-knows-what-else. While everything is prepared in sanitized factory settings, the ingredients are so over-processed that you're basically eating plastic. There are Zareenite dishes that cannot legally be called "food", and are instead labeled "edible products".
Evangeline: Bloodbread - This dish originated from underfed slaves in Kelvingyard. These slaves make a crude flour from dried weeds, dirt, and blood, which they baked into a bread-like biscuit in the sun. The blood was usually from vermin like rats or insect, but sometimes it is harvested from their fellow slaves who were too weak to defend themselves. Needless to say, this stuff is hella nasty and only eaten in life-or-death scenarios.
Mogdir: If eating bugs and bug byproducts sounds gross to you, you will not like Mogdiri cuisine because it's very bug-based. One of the most popular foods is a cheese made from fermented caterpillar silk. They also eat raw grubs and giant roasted caterpillars.
Etios: Minotaur breast milk is a popular beverage for all ages in Etios Nation. Many Etiosi also eat animal marrow straight from the bone, then dry the bones in the sun for a few weeks before grinding it into bonemeal. This bonemeal is used in cooking other things.
Seelie: Speaking of bonemeal, the ancient Seelie were known to grind up the bones of their enemies and use that bonemeal to bake cookies. Cannibalism in general was pretty hot in this kingdom for a very long time. It's illegal today, but it's still happening in some dark pockets of Seelie society.
Unseelie: Where to start? Basically everything on the Unseelie menu is weird and nasty. Stray dog meat, roasted vermin, blood wine, pickled squid...just take your pick.
Damijana: Has the same problem as Zareenite cuisine, where most food available is overly-processed into what is basically plastic with vitamins sprayed onto it after the fact. By far the nastiest thing though, is a dish called "gutter roast". The poorest Damijani catch wild rats in the city and roast them. Though this is one of the least-processed dishes in Damijana, these rats are often riddled with disease, their guts are full of trash, and there is weird chemicals in their blood from the polluted environment.
Aquaria: Aquarians will see the grossest, slimiest, most alien-looking marine critter wriggling across the sea floor and think to themselves, "Mmm, looks like dinner! :D"
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