#and he contrasts well with jon

[very-uncorrect]

i actually love how sock like probably knows gender roles and shit exist but gives no shits and wears a skirt with jeans and striped socks like omg go off king i love you

He's so gender it's great, Sock definitely knows about gender roles he just doesn't care dude wears whatever

[lupinqs]

SAFE AND SOUND (1/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 10.1K

☆ ━ warnings: nothing yet really, should all be in the next chapter lol

☆ ━ links: part two, part three, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: if i had a nickel for every time i wrote one of my ships going to the hunger games together, i’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice 🧐 obviously this is a hunger games au so if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie or are not familiar with the premise, i don’t know how well you’ll be able to understand. alsoooo this part is lowkey very much buildup and not actual pazzi just mostly azzi; it was meant to be one whole part but it would’ve been too damn long so i split it!

“AZZI FUDD.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything stops. The world around her seems to freeze in time. Lucia Bliss, the escort from District Nine, says the name with a certain flair, her voice high-pitched and breathy, as if this is a celebration instead of a death sentence. Lucia’s purple hair gleams under the harsh midday sun, her too-bright smile a sick contrast to the crowd’s silence.

Azzi stands rooted to the ground. Her heart slams in her chest, and her vision narrows as shock seeps through her bones. She can’t move, can’t breathe. Her body is disconnected from her mind, numbness spreading through her limbs. She vaguely registers the weight of the stares from the girls around her—some wide-eyed with horror, others carefully blank. Azzi blinks. Is this real? She swallows hard, but her throat feels like sandpaper.

She never let herself think about this. Never allowed the possibility to take root. She spent the whole week worrying about her little brothers, Jon and Jose, her anxiety circling around them like a storm cloud. Jose, especially. It’s his first Reaping, and he’d been so scared he couldn’t sleep the night before. Azzi had promised him it’d be okay, that the odds were in their favor. She’d lied. And now it’s her name that hangs in the air.

Her legs feel heavy, like they’ve been weighed down with stones, but somehow, she forces them to move. One step. Then another. Each movement is stiff, mechanical, her body obeying while her mind is still reeling. The faces in the crowd blur into a mass of pale colors, and Azzi avoids looking at any of them directly. The sun presses down on her back, making her skin feel tight, suffocating, but she barely registers it. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, a dull roar that drowns out everything else.

I have to do this. She repeats it in her head, over and over, as if it will numb the panic creeping up her spine. I have to get up there.

The platform is higher than it looks. It looms above her as she approaches, and the closer she gets, the more she feels the weight of the district watching her. Her hands tremble at her sides, but she keeps them balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She can’t afford to show fear. Not now.

She steps onto the stage, the wooden floor creaking beneath her shoes. Lucia Bliss beams at her, all synthetic kindness and hollow enthusiasm, like she’s completely oblivious to the fact that she’s sending a sixteen-year-old girl to her death. Azzi wants to scream, to shout at her, to demand to know how she can smile like that. Instead, she stands there, stiff as a board, staring blankly into the crowd.

She doesn’t look at her family. Not yet. If she lets herself see them—really see them—she knows she’ll fall apart. And she can’t afford to break down, not in front of everyone. Not here. The numbness is the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

“Now, for the boys!” Lucia announces, with that same bright cheeriness, like this is all just a grand spectacle and not a nightmare come to life.

The second name is pulled, and Azzi barely registers the sound of the boy’s name. “Kellan Ryder.”

Her eyes catch a glimpse of him as he stumbles forward—a scrawny boy with messy red hair and too-thin arms. He looks no older than fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. His face is pale, his mouth set in a tight line as he walks toward the platform like a condemned man heading to the gallows. There’s no strength in him, no fire. He’s shaking like a leaf, and Azzi knows his fate immediately. Anyone with a brain should. He won’t make it.

Kellan’s knees wobble as he climbs onto the platform, nearly tripping on the last step. His frightened eyes dart around, but when they meet Azzi’s for a fleeting moment, she sees it—the absolute terror, the resignation that’s already settled in him. He knows he’s dead. And now, she’s tethered to him.

Lucia claps her hands together, looking as if she expects the crowd to erupt into applause, but no one moves. District Nine never claps at the Reaping. There’s nothing to celebrate here.

Azzi’s jaw tightens, her hands still clenched at her sides. What now? What happens next? She can’t feel anything except a dull, creeping fear gnawing at the edges of her consciousness. It’s been less than five minutes since her name was called, but it feels like an eternity has passed. She feels lost, unmoored, floating in a space where time no longer makes sense.

As the anthem blares across the square, she chances a glance into the crowd—just for a second. Her gaze locks onto her family. Her mom is there, her face pale but strong. Azzi’s dad stands right next to her, an arm around her waist. They wear the same firm expressions—like they may actually believe their daughter can make it through this. Azzi can’t find Jon and Jose—they’re somewhere within the rest of the relieved crowd of boys who have been spared this year.

Lucia is speaking again, but Azzi barely hears her. The words are muffled, distant, as she’s ushered off the stage and into the cold interior of the Justice Building. Her chest feels tight, her throat burning from holding back everything that’s clawing at her insides, threatening to break free. She can’t let them see her cry.

Inside the Justice Building, it’s quieter, but the silence only makes her pulse race faster. She’s taken to a small room to wait. The goodbyes. They give her only a few minutes with her family before she’s whisked away forever.

Her mother is the first to come in, and the second the door closes behind her, the stoic mask she’s been holding up crumbles. She rushes forward and pulls Azzi into a bone-crushing hug. Katie Fudd does not shed any tears, but Azzi can feel her shaking against her shoulder. Trembling, but trying to fight it.

“You’re going to come back,” her mother says firmly, as if she’s manifesting it into existence. And then, more choked: “Please, Azzi. You have to come back.”

Azzi stands stiffly for a moment, then wraps her arms around her mother. She wants to promise that she’ll come back, that she’ll survive, but the words stick in her throat. How can she make a promise like that when she doesn’t know if she can keep it?

“I’ll try,” Azzi says instead, her voice hollow. I’ll try. It’s all she can offer.

Her brothers come in next, Jon leading Jose. The second Jose sees her, he runs to her, clinging to her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. His face is streaked with tears, his breath coming in ragged sobs.

“You’re gonna come back, right?” Jose’s voice is small, broken. Azzi’s reminded that he’s only twelve. “You have to come back.”

Azzi pulls away slightly, brushing the hair out of his face. “I’ll do my best,” she whispers, her voice trembling. She can’t say anything more than that. She wishes she could lie, give him something more hopeful, but the truth is all she has.

Jon is much quieter, and he stands back, his face hard as stone. But his eyes—his eyes are full of pain, full of everything he’s trying not to feel. When he finally steps forward, he pulls her into a tight hug, whispering in her ear, “Please try to come home.”

Azzi nods, her throat too tight to respond.

And then it’s her dad that gets her last, his arms wrapping around her softer, less firm. He rubs a hand along her back, rests his chin on top of her head. It makes Azzi want to cry. But she doesn’t. She keeps the tears in. Tim tells her, “Be smart. Don’t trust anyone.” And then he pulls away, meeting her gaze. His eyes aren’t sad, they don’t memorize the lines of her face as if this is likely the last time they’ll ever see each other. Instead, they’re firm, a fire burning in them, a fire that believes Azzi has enough spark in her to win. “You’re strong, Az. You find what you’re good at, and you stick to it. Just like shooting.”

Azzi nods, though his words don’t truly reach her. She’s good at basketball—great, even. The best shooter in her district. But the Hunger Games isn’t basketball. It’s entirely different.

The goodbye is over too quickly, the Peacekeepers ushering her family out of the room, their voices echoing down the hall. As the door closes behind them, the reality of the situation hits her with full force. This is happening. This is real. There’s no way out of it. In just a few days, she’ll be in the arena, and all that will matter is survival.

Azzi takes a deep breath, her hands trembling. She has to survive. For her family. For her mom. For her dad. For Jon and Jose. I have to win.

But as the cold emptiness settles into her chest, she knows it’s not going to be that simple. Not even close.

THE ROOM in the Capitol’s Remake Center is pristine and clinical—too clean, in fact. The walls are bright white, and the overhead lights are too harsh, casting everything in an almost sterile glow. The faint hum of machinery buzzes in the background, and Azzi sits stiffly on the plush chair in the center of the room, her back straight and hands clenched in her lap. She can feel the cold, unfamiliar air of the Capitol against her skin, a far cry from the familiar, earthy smells of District Nine. The whole place feels wrong.

Azzi’s mind is still spinning from the events of the past day, from the Reaping to the train ride to the Capitol. Everything feels like a blur—one unending nightmare she can’t escape from. The vibrant, colorful city that’s supposed to be awe-inspiring feels nothing more than a glittering cage, trapping her in a world that doesn’t belong to her.

A knock at the door startles her from her thoughts, and she straightens, her heart thudding a little harder in her chest. The door opens, and in walks a tall, slender woman with dark, shimmering hair cut into a sleek bob. Her skin is flawless, glowing in the artificial light, and she’s dressed in an outfit that’s both futuristic and elegant, all smooth lines and shimmering fabric.

She strides into the room with the kind of confidence Azzi has only ever seen in Capitol citizens, her heels clicking against the floor. When she reaches Azzi, she extends a perfectly manicured hand and offers a soft, warm smile.

“Hello, Azzi. I’m Seraphine,” she says, her voice gentle, as though she knows how jarring this experience must be. “I’ll be your stylist for the Games.”

Azzi stares at Seraphine’s hand for a second too long before realizing she’s supposed to shake it. Her fingers feel cold as she grips the stylist’s hand briefly, then pulls away, her eyes flickering nervously to the floor. She hasn’t said a word since entering the Remake Center, and even now, her throat feels tight, like it’s closed off from the weight of everything around her.

Seraphine seems to notice Azzi’s discomfort and doesn’t push her to speak. Instead, she walks around the chair, studying Azzi with a critical yet kind eye, taking in her features as if she’s a sculpture being examined for the first time.

“You’ve got very strong features,” Seraphine says, her voice soft as she moves to stand in front of Azzi. She lifts a hand, her finger tracing the air just in front of Azzi’s face as if imagining her canvas. “A really beautiful face. Great symmetry. Your nose is perfect—straight, but with just a little softness at the tip. And your lips,” she smiles, “plump and well-shaped, the kind people pay for here in the Capitol.”

Azzi doesn’t know what to say. She swallows hard and forces out a quiet, “Thank you.”

But the words feel hollow in her mouth. Two days ago, she probably would’ve flushed at the compliment and grinned at the woman before her. But it doesn’t matter now. Being beautiful won’t keep her alive. It won’t stop a sword or a spear. It won’t protect her when she’s standing in the arena, staring down a tribute who wants her dead. She doesn’t care about her looks. She cares about surviving.

Seraphine seems to sense the tension in her, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she steps back and claps her hands together, her expression shifting into something more professional. “Well, we’ve got a lot to do before the Opening Ceremony tonight. The tributes from District Nine usually get an agricultural theme, but we’re going to make sure you stand out. You’ll need something that catches the eye, something that makes people remember you. The Capitol loves a good first impression.”

Azzi tries to focus on what Seraphine is saying, but her mind keeps drifting, her thoughts pulling her back to District Nine, to the faces of her brothers, her parents, their small home nestled in the farthest corner of the district. She feels like she’s been dropped into an alien world, surrounded by people who don’t understand what it means to fight for survival. Here, everything is about image—how you look, how you present yourself. But in the Games, none of that matters. At least, not to Azzi.

Seraphine motions for Azzi to stand, and she does so stiffly, her muscles aching from sitting so rigidly for so long. The stylist begins to circle her, appraising her figure and murmuring to herself. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Seraphine snaps her fingers, and a team of assistants rushes in, carrying bolts of fabric and strange devices Azzi doesn’t recognize.

Seraphine smiles softly, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s shoulder. “We’re going to make you look incredible. Trust me, Azzi. I’ve been doing this for years.”

Azzi doesn’t respond. She lets the team of assistants work on her, trying not to flinch as they run strange tools across her skin, smoothing it, shaping it. They tug at her hair, pulling it back tightly from her face, and apply makeup to her cheeks and eyes. She’s never worn anything like this before, and the sensation of it all feels foreign, uncomfortable. The air smells heavily of perfume and hair products, nothing like the open fields and fresh earth of her home.

Seraphine watches closely, making small adjustments as the assistants work. “We’ll keep it simple but striking,” she says as she examines the fabrics. “District Nine is about agriculture, the backbone of Panem’s food production. So we’ll lean into that, but in a way that makes you look powerful. Strong. Like someone the Capitol will want to root for.”

Azzi barely nods, her mind half-absent.

The assistants pull out a long, flowing piece of fabric, the color a rich golden hue that shimmers in the light. It’s embroidered with intricate patterns, resembling the fields of grain District Nine is known for. The material clings to her body, forming into a fitted jumpsuit that accentuates her athletic build. The design is sleek and modern, with a slight flare at the shoulders, giving her the appearance of strength, while the fabric flows behind her like a cape made of golden wheat.

Seraphine steps back, admiring the final look, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. “You look incredible, Azzi. Absolutely stunning. This will make the audience remember you—beautiful, but more importantly, formidable.”

Azzi stares at herself in the mirror, her reflection almost unrecognizable. The girl looking back at her is a Capitol version of herself, someone polished and made to look like she belongs here. But Azzi can see right through it. She doesn’t belong here.

“How do you feel?” Seraphine asks, stepping up beside her.

Azzi hesitates, her eyes lingering on her reflection. She looks strong, she looks like someone people might fear. But the question gnaws at her, the same thought that’s been looping in her head since she arrived at the Capitol.

“Being beautiful won’t help me in the arena,” she says quietly, her voice low, as if the thought escapes her without permission.

Seraphine’s expression softens, and she places a hand gently on Azzi’s shoulder. “It’s not just about beauty. It’s about presence. The Capitol citizens, the sponsors—they want someone they can believe in. If they believe in you, they’ll help you. They’ll send you things you need. And that could be the difference between life and death.”

Azzi doesn’t know how to respond to that. She’s never thought about it that way—never considered that people watching her might care enough to help. She doesn’t know if she likes that idea, though. It feels too distant, too detached. How can she trust that some faceless audience in the Capitol will care enough to keep her alive?

But she nods anyway, her jaw tight as she looks back at her reflection. “I guess.”

Seraphine gives her a reassuring smile, but Azzi can see the flicker of something else in the stylist’s eyes. Maybe a recognition of the bleakness that comes with the Games. Or maybe just sympathy. Either way, it doesn’t change the reality.

And then Seraphine is clapping her hands again, signaling the rush of assistants and stylists bustling back into the room. They tidy up the last few details, adjusting the cape of shimmering gold fabric that flows behind Azzi, smoothing out any wrinkles in the intricate embroidery of her jumpsuit. The noise, the movement, all of it feels overwhelming, but Seraphine stays calm and poised, giving Azzi a reassuring smile before gesturing toward the door.

“Come, Azzi. We need to head downstairs. Your chariot awaits,” Seraphine says.

Azzi’s legs feel unsteady as she follows her stylist. There’s a gnawing anxiety low in her stomach, a knot that’s only been growing tighter since her name was pulled. She walks behind Seraphine, out of the room and down a long, marble hallway that echoes with the click of the stylist’s heels. The air feels heavier here, the anticipation hanging thick in the space around them as they make their way to the first floor.

The elevator doors open, revealing the Remake Center’s ground floor—a massive, gleaming stable. The smell of horses hits her first, a sharp contrast to the sterile air of the upper floors. The space is wide and open, filled with row after row of chariots, each one assigned to a different district, waiting to carry their tributes into the Opening Ceremony. It’s loud, too, with the sound of people bustling around, prepping the tributes, adjusting the horses’ harnesses, and giving last-minute instructions.

Azzi’s eyes dart around, searching for Kellan, her district partner. She spots him off to the side, standing next to one of the chariots, his eyes wide with fear and his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He looks terrible, Azzi thinks, her heart twisting in her chest. Kellan is so young—fourteen—the same age as her little brother Jon.

In fact, Kellan could’ve been Jon. Could’ve been Jose. The thought makes her feel sick. He’s just a kid. And now he’s about to be thrown into a fight to the death.

Azzi’s stomach churns as she approaches Kellan, trying to think of something to say, something that might ease his nerves, but nothing comes to mind. What can she say? You’ll be fine? It won’t be that bad? It would be a lie. There’s no comforting truth here.

Lucia is already there, too, flitting around with her usual enthusiasm. Her bright purple wig bounces as she talks, gesturing wildly with her hands. She’s all Capitol—flashy and clueless, too caught up in the spectacle of it all to realize what’s really at stake.

“Ah, Azzi! You look fan-tastic!” Lucia exclaims, clucking her tongue and clapping her hands together. “Seraphine has really outdone herself this year.”

Azzi gives a stiff nod, but her attention is drawn to the figure standing next to Lucia.

Their mentor—Cyrus.

A tall, grizzled man in his mid-forties, Cyrus won the Games when he was seventeen, Azzi knows that. His hair is streaked with silver now, and his face is lined with years of bitterness and loss—an expression she’s come to recognize in former victors. Cyrus isn’t the warmest person, but he knows what it takes to survive, and that’s all that matters to Azzi now.

He steps forward, eyeing her and Kellan critically, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You both look good,” he says, his voice gruff, as if the compliment costs him something. “But this isn’t about just looking good. It’s about making the Capitol love you. You need them on your side, or you’re dead in the water.”

Kellan swallows hard, his eyes darting nervously toward the chariots. Azzi can see his hands trembling slightly at his sides, and again, that pang of guilt hits her. He shouldn’t be here. He’s too young.

So is Azzi. So is every other tribute here.

Cyrus doesn’t seem to notice Kallan’s behavior—or if he does, he doesn’t care. He steps closer, his voice dropping into a low, urgent tone. “When you get out there, you smile. You wave. You make sure they see you, like you’re already a victor. The crowd loves confidence. They love tributes who look like they’ll win, not ones who are scared to death.” His eyes flick to Kellan, lingering for a second too long. “So you both smile. Got it?”

Azzi nods, even though the last thing she wants to do is smile right now. But Cyrus is right. They have to play the game, even here.

She turns her head slightly, trying to shake off the weight of the moment when something—or someone—catches her eye.

Just across the stable, standing next to another chariot with her district partner, is a girl. She’s tall for a girl, like Azzi is, with long blonde hair that’s been braided back into a bun. Her outfit is clearly themed around District Seven—lumber—and it’s made of rich brown leather, like freshly cut wood, with patterns that resemble tree bark. But what stands out most to Azzi isn’t the outfit. It’s her face.

The girl’s features are sharp but soft in all the right places. She has a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a pair of piercing blue eyes that seem to flicker with something unspoken. She’s pretty—beautiful, even—but not in the overdone, Capitol way. There’s something natural about her beauty, something real.

Azzi’s breath catches in her throat as their eyes meet. For a moment, the noise of the stable fades into the background, and all she can hear is the pounding of her heart in her chest. The girl holds her gaze, her expression unreadable but intense, like she’s studying Azzi just as much as Azzi is studying her.

This girl is another tribute. Another person Azzi might have to kill. But the thought doesn’t stop her from staring a second too long, from letting herself get caught in the girl’s gaze.

It’s only when Cyrus barks something at them that Azzi snaps her head back around, her cheeks flushing as she tries to focus. This isn’t the time for distractions.

She forces her attention back to Cyrus as he continues giving them last-minute instructions. “Smile. Wave. Make them love you. Got it?”

Azzi nods, though her thoughts are still jumbled. She glances at Kellan, who’s biting his lip nervously, his eyes darting around the stable like a rabbit caught in a trap.

And then they’re being ushered toward their chariot. Azzi takes a deep breath, her legs feeling wobbly as she steps onto the platform, Kellan following behind her. The horses, sleek and muscular, are restless in front of them, their hooves clattering against the marble floor. She grips the edge of the chariot tightly, her knuckles turning white.

As the chariots begin to roll out, Azzi takes one more deep breath. She can hear the roar of the crowd growing louder, the excitement building as the tributes are about to make their grand entrance.

The moment they roll into view of the massive audience, the noise is deafening. The Capitol citizens cheer and shout, their brightly colored hair and outrageous outfits blending together into a sea of vibrant chaos. Azzi forces herself to smile, just like instructed, letting her dimples show through as she waves to the crowd, her arm moving mechanically as if on autopilot. She hates it—the way their eyes are all on her, the way they’re watching her as if she’s nothing more than a piece in their twisted game.

She’s never wanted attention like this. The only way she’d ever dreamed of being noticed was by playing basketball, maybe one day making it big enough to play in the Capitol’s professional leagues. But that was a stupid dream—something far out of reach for someone from a District. Even if she won the Games, even if she became a Capitol darling, she’d never be allowed to play. The basketball leagues are for Capitol citizens, not for tributes. Not for people like her.

Azzi keeps smiling, keeps waving, even though every second of it feels wrong. The crowd’s cheers grow louder, their excitement palpable, but Azzi feels nothing. All she can think about is the girl from District Seven—the girl whose eyes she can still feel on her, even now, as the chariots roll forward.

IT’S THE second day of training. Yesterday, Azzi found her strength—throwing knives. It was quick; the dagger was the first weapon she picked up and tried. And it just… worked. It surprised her at first, but as the blades left her hand, spinning in the air before sinking into the target with a solid thud, it felt almost familiar. The motion, the precision, the focus—it all reminds her of shooting a basketball. In her mind, it’s the same concept: aim, release, make the shot. Whether it’s a knife sinking into a dummy or a ball swooshing through a hoop, the goal is the same. And it comforts her in a strange way, turning something deadly into something she’s used to, something she can control.

Now, Azzi stands several feet away from a dummy, gripping a knife, the handle cool against her palm. She lines it up with the target. Her muscles tighten as she flicks her wrist, releasing the dagger. It slices through the air, embedding itself into where the heart of the dummy would be with a satisfying thud. A perfect hit. She lets out a slow breath, allowing a small flicker of satisfaction to cross her face. The trainers don’t miss it either, nodding with approval as they observe her from across the room.

Cyrus, her mentor, has been watching her closely since she got here. And, after Azzi informed him of her successes with the daggers last night and his compliments of her physique, the true muscle she has, it’s been clear he’s placing his bets on Azzi this time around. It seems there’s just no point in trying with Kellan.

As for Kellan, he hasn’t said much of anything since they were whisked away to the Capitol. He’s just a boy, and Azzi has watched the fear in his eyes grow with each passing day. Cyrus has tried to train him, to offer him advice, but Kellan’s barely even listened. It’s as if he’s already given up. Azzi sees it in the way his hands tremble whenever he holds a weapon, the way he flinches during combat drills, and the way he refuses to meet anyone’s gaze. He’s already dead in his mind, and Azzi knows that mentality will get him killed in the arena.

“Focus on yourself,” Cyrus had told her bluntly last night after dinner. “Kellan’s not gonna make it. You need to accept that now.”

Azzi had nodded, the truth of Cyrus’ words sitting like a heavy weight in her chest. She tried talking to Kellan once, offering him a few words of encouragement, but he barely even acknowledged her. After that, she stopped trying. She can’t afford to waste time or energy on someone who’s already checked out. It isn’t like she doesn’t feel guilty—she does—but she has to survive.

She can’t focus on anyone else’s survival but her own.

Today, Cyrus has her focusing on something other than knives. “You’ve got those down,” he’d told her before the session. “Learn how to survive the elements now. Plants, food, water. You need to know what’s safe and what isn’t. Most tributes die from hunger, dehydration—not all of it is blood and guts.”

So Azzi finds herself crouched in front of an information station, its holographic displays showing various plants, fruits, and fungi. She taps the screen, cycling through images of plants she might find in the arena, trying to commit them to memory. Which ones are edible, which ones are poisonous, which ones could be used to heal wounds. It’s not as exciting as knife-throwing, but it’s necessary, and she knows it.

She’s absorbed in her study, staring intently at a particularly nasty-looking mushroom, when she senses someone approaching from the side. Her muscles tense instinctively, and she glances up, prepared to brush off whoever it is—until she sees Paige Bueckers standing next to her.

Paige Bueckers. District Seven. Azzi knows who she is. She’s memorized all the tributes’ names and districts by now—it’s smart to know who she’s up against—but Paige was the first one she committed to memory. Maybe it’s because of the way Paige caught her eye before the opening ceremony, their silent exchange of glances lingering in Azzi’s mind longer than she’d like to admit. Or maybe it’s because she’s watched Paige train over the past two days and realized just how dangerous the girl really is. Azzi saw her with a sword earlier, moving with a deadly grace that sent chills down her spine. Paige might be one of the most skilled tributes here, and that’s saying something.

Paige is tall, even a little taller than Azzi, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a thin, black headband resting over it. Her sharp, blue eyes meet Azzi’s as she stops next to her, wearing a grin that seems completely out of place in the tense, competitive atmosphere of the training center.

“Azzi Fudd,” Paige says, her tone casual, as if they’re not preparing to kill each other in a matter of days. “District Nine.”

Azzi glances back at the screen, her brows furrowing slightly. She doesn’t know how to feel about Paige approaching her. She doesn’t know what she wants. This could be some kind of strategy—get close to your enemies, make them lower their guard. Azzi isn’t stupid. She knows better than to trust anyone here.

“Bueckers,” Azzi replies, her voice neutral, not giving anything away. She keeps her eyes on the screen, scrolling through more plant images.

But Paige doesn’t leave. She shifts her weight, bouncing slightly on her heels, like she can’t seem to stay still. The grin on her face widens, and Azzi feels even more confused. Why is Paige so friendly? Why is she smiling like they’re just two normal girls having a chat?

“So, you’re, like, really good with daggers, huh?” Paige says, her voice light. “I saw you throwing earlier. Pretty impressive.”

Azzi doesn’t look up. She sighs instead, her fingers hovering over the screen. “Guess so,” she mumbles. In the back of her mind, she knows she should probably be nicer. Paige might be trying to form an alliance, and with Kellan being a dead end, Azzi could use one. But trust is a luxury she can’t afford right now, and Paige’s enthusiasm throws her off.

Paige doesn’t seem fazed by Azzi’s short response, though. She keeps standing there, grinning like an idiot, her eyes twinkling with some kind of amusement. It’s unnerving how at ease she seems, how… happy. It’s probably a mask. She’s probably as terrified as the rest of them, and she’s just getting through it in her own way.

Nevertheless, Azzi can’t take it anymore. She turns her head slightly, locking eyes with Paige. “Why are you talking to me?” she asks bluntly.

Paige blinks, her grin faltering for just a moment. For the first time, she looks a little unsure of herself. “Um… I don’t really know, actually,” she admits with a small, nervous laugh. “Just… wanted to, I guess.”

Azzi narrows her eyes, studying her. She has no idea if the girl before her is being honest. But the sincerity in her voice catches Azzi a little off guard, and for a second, she’s not sure what to say. This is the Hunger Games. No one talks to someone just because they “want to.” Everyone has an angle. Yet Paige stands there, looking oddly genuine, like she really doesn’t have a reason. Like she just wants to talk to Azzi, no strings attached.

For a moment, Azzi’s walls start to crack. She considers the possibility—however slim—that Paige is just… a good person. It doesn’t make sense, not in a place like this, but the warmth in Paige’s smile makes Azzi’s suspicion waver.

“Well,” Azzi finally says, her voice a little softer than before, “maybe you shouldn’t.” She doesn’t look away this time, her eyes lingering on Paige’s, almost like she’s testing her.

Paige’s grin returns, softer this time, but still there. “Maybe,” she says, “but I’m here anyway.”

Azzi shakes her head a little, gaze returning to the screen. She needs to focus on this, not the girl beside her.

Paige doesn’t seem to be deterred, though, still watching Azzi with that easy smile, her eyes bright. “You’re pretty serious, yeah?” she says, tilting her head, almost like she’s teasing but not quite. “Locked in. I get it. Gotta be. But… we’re all here, y'know? Same boat.”

Azzi shifts her weight, feeling her jaw tighten. “I have to be serious,” Azzi mutters, her fingers swiping across the screen, though she’s not really paying attention to the plants anymore. Her heart beats a little faster under Paige’s gaze. “You can’t survive if you’re not.”

Paige leans in just slightly, and Azzi catches the faint scent of something sweet on her, like flowers. “I know that,” she says, her tone softening for a moment. “But you might need some help in there—if you wanna win.”

Azzi’s shoulders tense. The suggestion makes her uneasy, and her instinct is to push back. Help. From anyone, it feels too dangerous. It feels like relying on someone she can’t control. She barely trusts herself in this place, let alone a girl from another district who, let’s be real, could very well end up as an enemy.

“I don’t need help,” Azzi says, her voice firmer than before. “Especially not from people I don’t know.”

Paige’s smile fades a little, but there’s no frustration in her expression. If anything, she just looks… thoughtful, almost curious about Azzi’s reaction. It’s like she’s trying to figure her out, trying to see beneath the guarded exterior.

Azzi hates that. She doesn’t want to be studied or analyzed, especially not by Paige Bueckers. She’s already doing too much of that herself—constantly assessing everyone, weighing their strengths and weaknesses, trying to predict who’s a threat and who might just fade into the background.

“I’m not trying to get in your way, Azzi,” Paige says quietly, her voice losing some of its earlier lightness. “But, y’know, maybe we don’t have to be enemies. I’ve seen you, and you’re good. Like, real good. And neither of us are Careers and both our district partners are kinda duds, so I just thought…”

Azzi cuts her off, turning to face her abruptly. “Thought what? That we’d be allies? Friends?” She shakes her head, ignoring the strange knot of tension building in her chest. Paige might be trying to help, but Azzi doesn’t want it. She can’t want it. Not here. “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t work like that. Sorry.”

Paige stands there, still watching her, and for a second, Azzi thinks she sees something flicker in Paige’s eyes—disappointment, maybe, or understanding. But Paige doesn’t push back. She just nods once, a slow, thoughtful thing.

“Okay,” Paige says, stepping back a little, giving Azzi space. Her smile returns, softer, but still there. “I get it. Just… keep doin' what you’re good at.”

Azzi feels a strange pang in her chest as she watches Paige step away, like maybe she’s made a mistake. But no—she can’t think like that. She needs to stay focused, stay sharp, stay alone. That’s how she’ll survive.

Without another word, Azzi turns on her heel and walks away, her heart beating faster than before.

THE PINK dress hugs Azzi’s figure, its soft blush fabric shimmering under the bright lights of the dressing room. It’s not something she’s ever imagined herself wearing—not this shade, not this tight. She looks almost like a Capitol citizen now, polished and flawless in her own right.

The dress has a high neckline and delicate straps that crisscross her shoulders, falling in elegant folds down to her ankles. It’s simple, yet the color makes her stand out, glowing softly against her dark skin. Her hair is styled in loose waves, not unlike the Capitol’s obsession with effortless beauty, with the font pieces pulled back into braids. The makeup is light but dramatic—plump lips, accentuated cheekbones, and eyes that pop with a subtle pink shimmer.

Seraphine steps back, admiring her work with a satisfied smile. “You look stunning, Azzi. Like a dream.”

Azzi nods, not fully meeting Seraphine’s gaze. She knows she looks good, but it doesn’t feel like her. The face staring back at her in the mirror is a version of herself she doesn’t recognize. It’s not the Azzi from District Nine; it’s not the girl who shoots hoops with her brothers or helps her dad tend to the crops. It’s someone else—someone made for the Capitol’s stage. Someone for their entertainment.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, though her voice lacks enthusiasm. Seraphine doesn’t seem to mind. She knows by now that Azzi is serious, focused. There’s no time for compliments when the Games are looming.

Seraphine’s assistant adjusts the hem of Azzi’s dress one last time before stepping aside. “You’ll knock them dead,” she says with a wink, though the words sit heavy with the weight of their meaning. Knocking them dead. That’s quite literally what Azzi will have to do soon enough.

As she’s led out to the waiting area before the interviews, Azzi’s mind begins to drift. She thinks back to the training evaluations, how she had scored a 10—one of only four tributes to do so. A 10 is good, she knows that, but the competition is fierce. Both the girl and boy from Two scored 10s and Paige managed a 10 as well. There are other tributes with 9s, plenty who will be formidable in their own right. But Paige? Paige is different. She’s unpredictable, unnervingly skilled. And something about her makes Azzi feel a pang of unease.

As Azzi settles into her seat backstage, waiting for her interview with Caesar Flickerman, she watches the other tributes’ interviews on the screen. The Careers are all flashy and confident, playing up their deadliness to the crowd’s delight. Caesar eats it up, grinning and laughing as they boast about their skills and charm the Capitol audience. The boy from District Four also stands out—tall, muscular, and intimidating. A strong swimmer, no doubt. He’ll be dangerous, especially if the arena is at all water-based.

But none of them hold a candle to Paige.

When Paige steps onto the stage, it’s as if the entire room shifts. She looks stunning, effortlessly cool, in a crisp white suit that contrasts sharply with the frilly dresses most of the other girls have chosen. Her hair is down, styled in soft, wavy locks, with the top half pulled back in a way that highlights her sharp features. She looks more masculine than the other girls, but somehow that works in her favor. It’s not just that she’s different—it’s that she owns it. The Capitol loves different.

Azzi watches, unable to tear her eyes away, as Paige charms the entire crowd. She’s funny, confident, and just the right amount of cocky. Caesar practically beams at her, and the audience is eating out of the palm of her hand.

“You’re quite the swordswoman,” Caesar says, raising his eyebrows in admiration. “I saw your score, Paige—a 10! That’s incredible.”

Paige just grins, shrugging casually. “You know, I try.”

The crowd laughs, and Cyrus begins to mutter under his breath. “Damn it,” he says, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “She’s going to have sponsors lined up around the block.”

Azzi knows he’s right. Paige isn’t just skilled—she’s magnetic. People want to root for her. She’s dangerous, yes, but she’s also got this charm that makes you want to see her win, even if that means she’ll be killing people to get there.

Azzi swallows hard, feeling a knot form in her stomach. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s drawn to Paige, too. There’s something about her that pulls Azzi in—her confidence, her grace under pressure, her ease in the face of what’s to come. It’s not just attraction, though she can’t deny that Paige is beautiful. It’s more than that. There’s something about Paige that makes Azzi feel like she’s… alive. Like she’s not just surviving, but living fully in the moment, despite everything. Ironic, considering Paige could be the one to kill Azzi in that arena—or vice versa.

And Azzi hates that she feels this way. She shouldn’t be drawn to Paige. She shouldn’t be thinking about how Paige’s eyes had locked onto hers back at the opening ceremony, or how Paige had approached her during training, trying to talk like they were friends. None of it matters. Paige is just another tribute, another obstacle standing between Azzi and survival.

But still… there’s something about her.

As Paige’s interview wraps up, the crowd erupts in applause, and Caesar gives her a hug before she leaves the stage. Azzi watches as Paige walks off, her suit practically glowing under the stage lights. For a brief moment, Paige glances in Azzi’s direction, their eyes meeting across the room. It’s quick—just a fleeting second—but Azzi feels her heart skip a beat before she looks away, reminding herself why she’s here.

Just two interviews later, Azzi is taking a deep breath as the lights hit her, stepping forward onto the stage. The crowd is massive, louder than she imagined, and their cheers seem to echo in her chest. Her eyes land on Caesar Flickerman, who’s grinning wide at her as she approaches him, his flamboyant suit sparkling under the stage lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Azzi Fudd from District Nine!” Caesar announces, and the crowd’s cheers grow even louder.

Azzi sits down next to Caesar, her fingers resting awkwardly in her lap. Despite the excitement around her, she feels the familiar nervousness bubbling up inside. This isn’t her element—talking, being the center of attention. She’d rather be on the sidelines, unnoticed, but here, there’s no avoiding it.

“Azzi, you look absolutely radiant tonight!” Caesar says, his voice warm and enthusiastic. “Tell me, how does it feel to be here in the Capitol, getting all this attention?”

Azzi smiles politely, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “It’s… different,” she says softly. “I’m not really used to it. But it’s nice, I guess. Everyone’s been very kind.” Very kind because they probably know I’ll be dead in a couple weeks.

Caesar nods, leaning in slightly. “I can imagine it’s quite a change from life in District 9. Tell me, what’s life like back home?”

Azzi pauses, her mind drifting back to the open fields and the quiet days of working alongside her family. “It’s simple,” she says. “We work hard, but it’s peaceful. Most of my days I’m just spending time with my family, doing the chores or playing basketball. It’s nothing like here, but it’s home.”

Caesar smiles warmly, sensing the connection she has to her district. “Family, huh? I bet they’re watching right now, rooting for you. Tell me, do you have a big family?”

Azzi shrugs a little. “Not too big, not too small, I think. There’s my parents, and then I have two younger brothers. And we’re still very close to my grandparents. I just… love my family, they’re very supportive. They’re great.” She feels her throat get choked up by the end of the sentence, not wanting to think too much about her family, how much she misses them. Even though, truthfully, she knows she should be thinking about her family because that is what needs to be her motivation. She needs to win this for them, no matter how impossible it may seem.

The crowd gives a soft murmur of approval, and Caesar’s grin widens. “That’s wonderful. Sounds like you’ve got a lot of people cheering you on back home. And speaking of support…” He pauses dramatically, the audience clearly hanging on his every word. “Any special someone out there you’re hoping to impress? Perhaps a crush back home?”

Azzi’s eyes widen a little at the question, feeling her face heat up. A crush. That is quite literally the last thing on her mind right now. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not sure how to answer without sounding awkward.

“I, um… no,” she says with a laugh that’s more nervous than she intended. “Not really. I’ve been focused on training, so… no time for that.”

Caesar laughs good-naturedly, waving a hand as if to brush off the question. “Oh, I get it, I get it! Training comes first, of course. But I’m sure there are plenty of admirers in the Capitol who are wishing they could get your attention.”

The crowd cheers in agreement, and Azzi can’t help but smile a little at their enthusiasm, though she still feels her nerves fluttering in her stomach.

“But let’s talk about something fun,” Caesar continues, changing gears smoothly. “You’ve been in the Capitol for a little while now. What’s your favorite part so far? The food? The fashion? The luxury?”

Azzi takes a moment to think, glancing down at her dress. It’s true, everything in the Capitol has been overwhelming—lavish and excessive compared to the modest life she’s known back in her district. But there’s one thing that stands out to her more than anything.

“The food,” she answers with a small smile. “I’ve never seen so much of it in my life. And it’s all so… colorful. I didn’t even know you could make food look like that.”

Caesar chuckles. “Colorful! I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” He hits his knee as he laughs, the audience giggling with him. “But, yes! The Capitol chefs do love their extravagant dishes. Has there been anything in particular that’s caught your eye?”

“Honestly, the desserts,” Azzi admits, her smile widening. “There was this cake we had the other night, and it was shaped like a swan. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so good.”

The crowd laughs once more, clearly charmed by her innocence, and Caesar claps his hands together. “A girl after my own heart! Who can resist a good dessert, right?”

Azzi relaxes a little more, finding it easier to talk now that the conversation has shifted to lighter topics. Caesar’s friendliness helps, and she realizes that, for the first time, the crowd isn’t as intimidating as she thought they’d be.

“You know, Azzi,” Caesar says, his tone softening just a bit, “you’ve got this quiet strength about you. I think a lot of people are really drawn to that. You don’t need to be loud or flashy to make an impact. And clearly you have made an impact—you scored a ten in the training. I mean, come on!”

Azzi smiles a little bit at the validation, her dimples poking through. “Thank you,” she says, nodding. And then she shrugs, her lips quirking up a little further as she adds, “I try.”

Caesar and the crowd chuckle at the action. “Well, you’ve certainly done well,” he tells her earnestly, before adding, with a wink, “And I have to say, your smile is absolutely infectious. I think you’ve got the whole crowd wrapped around your finger.”

The audience cheers again, louder this time, and Azzi feels her face heat up.

“Well, Azzi, it’s been an absolute pleasure talking to you tonight,” Caesar says, standing and offering his hand to help her up. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all rooting for you.”

Azzi stands, shaking Caesar’s hand and giving the crowd a small wave as they erupt into applause. As she walks off the stage, back to where Seraphine, Lucia, and Cyrus are waiting, the adrenaline from the interview still buzzes through her.

Lucia beams at her as she approaches, her hands rushing to cup Azzi’s cheeks. “You were perfect, Azzi! Absolutely perfect.”

Seraphine nods in agreement. “The crowd loves you. You’re going to get so many sponsors, I just know it.”

Even Cyrus gives her a rare grin, clapping her on the shoulder. “You did good out there, kid. Real good. I think you’ve got them in the palm of your hand now.”

Azzi lets out a breath, the tension slowly leaving her body as she realizes she’s done it. She got through the interview, and didn’t just survive it—she actually made a connection, made herself heard and liked. The Capitol might not feel like home, but for now, at least, she knows she’s done everything she can to stand out in the best way possible.

THE MORNING is unnervingly quiet. Azzi walks beside Cyrus, the soles of her shoes barely making a sound on the sleek marble floors of the Capitol building. They’re headed toward the hovercraft, the final step before the arena. The place where everything will change. Each step closer feels heavier, the weight of what’s coming settling into her bones.

Cyrus walks just ahead, his brow furrowed in thought. Azzi knows well enough that he’s not the type for overly emotional goodbyes, but there’s a seriousness to him today that wasn’t there during training. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and Azzi notices the faint lines of tension in his jaw. She’s quiet, still processing the fact that in just a few hours, she’ll be fighting for her life.

As they near the docking area, Cyrus stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are sharp, cutting through the nervous haze that’s settled over her.

“Listen to me, Azzi,” he begins, voice low but firm. “This is it. From here on out, it’s all strategy. Everything you do, every move you make—it has to be calculated, smart.”

Azzi nods, her throat tightening as she listens.

“I know it’s not in your nature to trust easily, but in the arena, you’ll need to be even more cautious,” he continues. “Don’t form alliances unless it’s strategically sound. I don’t care if they seem friendly or if they remind you of someone from back home—trust no one unless it gives you an advantage.”

His words cut deep, and she swallows hard. She hasn’t really thought much about alliances, but it’s clear that Cyrus has. He knows this game inside and out.

“And whatever you do, keep your emotions in check,” Cyrus adds, his gaze hardening. “The moment you start caring too much about anyone in there, you’ve already lost. I know you’re good-hearted, Azzi, but that’s not going to save you—not in the Games.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods again. The lump in her throat grows as the reality of what’s coming washes over her.

“And the bloodbath.” Cyrus pauses, before his voice lowers slightly. “The moment those platforms rise, it’s going to be chaos. Don’t linger. Don’t get caught up in the fight unless it’s unavoidable. Get what you need and get out. Do you understand?”

Azzi meets his eyes, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. “I understand,” she says softly.

He studies her for a moment, and for the first time since they arrived in the Capitol, Cyrus’s tough exterior seems to soften. His hand reaches out, resting on her shoulder, and the squeeze he gives is firm, reassuring.

“I believe in you,” he says quietly, his voice sincere. “You’re smart, and you’ve trained hard. I’m going to do everything in my power to help get you home.”

Her eyes well up slightly at his words, but she quickly blinks back the tears. She can’t afford to be emotional right now. There’s no space for it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely able to get the words out past the lump in her throat.

Cyrus nods once, and then he’s stepping back, his hand falling away from her shoulder as they reach the hovercraft. Seraphine is already there, waiting for Azzi, her usual cheerful demeanor muted with the solemnity of the day. The metallic hiss of the hovercraft’s door opening sends a shiver down Azzi’s spine. This is it.

Without another word, Azzi steps inside. Seraphine follows, offering a small, reassuring smile as the door slides shut behind them. The hovercraft hums softly as it lifts off, heading toward the arena.

Inside, the sterile, clinical atmosphere makes her stomach churn. A Capitol medic approaches her almost immediately, a small syringe in hand. Azzi barely flinches as the needle pierces her skin, injecting the tracker into her forearm. She knows it’s necessary. They need to know where she is at all times. It’s standard procedure, but it still makes her feel like livestock.

Seraphine sits beside her, her usual flair for Capitol fashion stark against the dull surroundings of the hovercraft. She doesn’t say much, just watches as Azzi rubs her arm where the tracker was inserted. The silence is heavy, filled with unspoken words, and it’s not long before they arrive at the underground facility just outside the arena.

Once inside, they’re led into a small room where Azzi is handed her arena outfit—a black, water-resistant suit that fits snugly against her frame. It’s durable, sleek, and clearly meant for endurance. The material feels odd against her skin, foreign compared to the simple, looser clothes she’s worn most of her life.

She glances at herself in the mirror. The suit is practical, but its design tells her something about the arena. Water. The Capitol is hinting that water will play a significant role in the Games. Maybe a jungle, maybe a lake, or something more treacherous. Her mind races with possibilities, but she pushes the thoughts aside. She’ll find out soon enough.

As she pulls the last of the suit into place, Seraphine watches her carefully, her eyes glassy. The usually confident stylist seems suddenly small, fragile, as if she’s struggling to keep herself together. She steps forward, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of Azzi’s suit, her fingers trembling slightly.

“You’re going to be alright, Azzi,” Seraphine says softly, her voice cracking just a little. “You’ve been so strong. You’re going to make it back—for your family. I know you will.”

Azzi’s chest tightens at the words. Seraphine’s sincerity, her belief that Azzi can survive this—it’s almost too much to bear.

“Thank you,” Azzi whispers, her voice barely audible.

Seraphine pulls her into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around Azzi’s frame with surprising strength. It’s brief, but Azzi feels the weight of Seraphine’s worry in that embrace. It’s like she’s saying goodbye.

When they pull apart, Seraphine’s eyes are red-rimmed, though she’s trying her best to hold it together. “Good luck, Azzi,” she says, her voice shaky. “You’re going to be okay.”

Azzi swallows the lump in her throat and nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just gives Seraphine a small, grateful smile.

The door to the launch chamber opens, and it’s time.

Azzi steps into the glass cylinder, her heart pounding in her chest. The last thing she sees before the platform begins to rise is Seraphine, standing in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer.

And then the ground shifts beneath her feet, and she’s lifted upward, the glass tube carrying her toward the surface. Toward the arena.

The first thing she notices is the intense humidity. The air is thick, almost suffocating, and it clings to her skin. As her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, she realizes why—it’s a jungle. Dense, tangled vines hang from towering trees, their massive roots weaving through the ground like some ancient network. The ground beneath her platform is slick with mud, and just beyond the edge of the platform is a large body of water—a vast lake, its surface calm and unnervingly still. It stretches out as far as she can see, bordered by the dense jungle on one side and the metallic glint of the Cornucopia in the center.

Water. She was right.

Azzi’s gaze darts to the other tributes. There’s movement all around her, platforms rising as the others are pulled into view. Some faces are familiar from the training center, others not so much. She spots the Careers first—the boy and girl from District Two, standing tall and confident, both of them dangerous and ready. Their eyes are already locked on the Cornucopia, clearly prepared to kill anyone who stands in their way.

A few spots down, she sees Kellan. His face is pale, his eyes wide with fear. He looks like he’s barely holding it together, his body stiff as if he might bolt the second the gong sounds. He’s trembling slightly, and Azzi’s heart tugs at the sight. He’s not going to last long, not with that kind of fear weighing him down. But she can’t afford to think about him—about anyone, really. Cyrus’s voice echoes in her mind: Don’t get too close to anyone.

She swallows hard, her gaze shifting back to the Cornucopia. The metallic structure gleams in the sunlight, stacked with supplies—everything they’ll need to survive. Weapons, food, water. But it’s a death trap. The Careers will get there first, and they’ll cut down anyone who tries to take something they’ve claimed.

Azzi’s eyes flick to the jungle behind her. It might be safer to head for cover, to avoid the bloodbath entirely. But then again, if she doesn’t grab something now, she could be left empty-handed, vulnerable. She forces herself to breathe deeply, trying to focus on her strategy. It has to be quick, precise. She’ll grab something—anything—and get out. That’s it. Nothing fancy.

The countdown begins, the metallic voice booming over the arena. Sixty seconds.

Azzi’s heart races as the clock ticks down. She glances around once more at the other tributes, trying to gauge their movements before it’s too late. Some are already tensing, their eyes glued to the Cornucopia. Others, like Kellan, are frozen in place, terrified to move. Far across from her, Azzi thinks she sees a flash of blonde hair. Paige. She wonders if she’s scared right now.

Thirty seconds.

Azzi’s hands ball into fists at her sides, every muscle in her body tightening. The humidity, the jungle, the water—it all presses in on her, but she pushes the fear down. She can’t afford to freeze up. She won’t.

Fifteen seconds.

Her pulse pounds in her ears, the world around her narrowing to just the Cornucopia and the water at her back. She feels the weight of everything—Cyrus’s words, Seraphine’s hope, the Capitol’s eyes—bearing down on her. It’s overwhelming, but she won’t let it break her.

Ten seconds.

The other tributes are crouching now, their bodies taut, ready to sprint the moment the gong sounds. Azzi glances at the Cornucopia again, her mind calculating every possible move, every route.

Five seconds.

Her heart hammers in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Three.

She digs her heels into the platform.

Two.

Her hands tremble.

One.

The gong sounds.

The Sixtieth Hunger Games have begun.

[jackoshadows]

Firstly, why is it that Sansa can only be praised by comparing her to Arya? Secondly, in what world is Arya physically strong and more than Sansa?!

The masculinization of Arya Stark by tradfems in fandom has become so commonplace that I suppose many of them imagine this is how Arya and Sansa are in the books:

In case folks don't know this: ARYA IS TWO YEARS YOUNGER THAN SANSA! She's the younger sibling!

Anyone who has read a Jon POV chapter should know that Arya is a skinny, little girl. Jon specifically makes a small, lightweight, thin sword for Arya to handle.

And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. - Jon, AGoT

Arya has been on the run for two years, hunted by Lannister men, a slave put to hard physical work and starved for food.

She spent the rest of that day scrubbing steps inside the Wailing Tower. By evenfall her hands were raw and bleeding and her arms so sore they trembled when she lugged the pail back to the cellar. Too tired even for food, Arya begged Weese's pardons and crawled into her straw to sleep. - Arya, ACoK

Often as not, she went to bed hungry rather than risk the stares. - Arya, AGoT

"Lommy's hungry," Hot Pie whined, "and I am too." "We're all hungry," said Arya. - Arya, ACoK

Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? One of the women picked for questioning had tried to be brave, but she had died screaming like all the rest. There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. - Ary, ACoK

I knew we should never have left the woods, she thought. They'd been so hungry, though, and the garden had been too much a temptation. - Arya, ASoS

"An inn?" The thought of hot food made Arya's belly rumble, but she didn't trust this Tom. - Arya, ASoS

Rabbits ran faster than cats, but they couldn't climb trees half so well. She whacked it with her stick and grabbed it by its ears, and Yoren stewed it with some mushrooms and wild onions. Arya was given a whole leg, since it was her rabbit. She shared it with Gendry. - Arya, ASoS

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

We have the contrast of Arya having to trade some carrots and cabbages they picked from an overgrown garden to get some food and the innkeeper complaining about the lack of lemons to the sumptuous 64 dish feast in the Vale with a 12 feet tall lemon cake made especially for Sansa.

Anguy shuffled his feet. "We were thinking we might eat it, Sharna. With lemons. If you had some." "Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool? Why don't you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too." She shook a finger at him. "Now, I suppose I could cook it with Lem's cloak, if you like, but not till it's hung for a few days. You'll eat rabbit, or you won't eat. Roast rabbit on a spit would be quickest, if you've got a hunger. Or might be you'd like it stewed, with ale and onions." Arya could almost taste the rabbit. "We have no coin, but we brought some carrots and cabbages we could trade you." - Arya, ASoS

Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for silver wings before their lord. From the rivers and the lakes came pike and trout and salmon, from the seas crabs and cod and herring. Ducks there were, and capons, peacocks in their plumage and swans in almond milk. Suckling pigs were served up crackling with apples in their mouths, and three huge aurochs were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard, since they were too big to get through the kitchen doors. Loaves of hot bread filled the trestle tables in Lord Nestor’s hall, and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the vaults. The butter was fresh-churned, and there were leeks and carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips, parsnips. And best of all, Lord Nestor’s cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar. For me, Alayne thought, as they wheeled it out. Sweetrobin loved lemon cakes too, but only after she told him that they were her favorites. The cake had required every lemon in the Vale, but Petyr had promised that he would send to Dorne for more. - Alayne, TWoW

Arya was already a little, skinny girl smaller than Sansa when they left Winterfell. She has been worked to the bone, sleeping rough and gone hungry. Again, by what logic is this Arya supposed to be physically strong and more than Sansa?!

There is this idea that's often pushed where Sansa is some dainty, fragile princess while Arya is this strong executioner henchwoman and it's just so tiresome and toxic.

Arya is also not Brienne! They are two different characters. If you want physically strong warrior types to compare to Sansa, there is already Brienne. Arya is the smaller, younger sister. In canon and logically, it's the taller, bigger, elder sister with access to good, rich food who would be physically stronger.

The Stark looking Starks tend to be slender and quicker compared to the bigger, stronger Tully looking Starks.

He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. - Bran, AGoT

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

"Can't you guess?" Jon teased. "Your very favorite thing." Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: "Needle!" - Jon, AGoT

Arya was always quick and clever, but in the end she's just a little girl, and Roose Bolton is not the sort who would be careless with a prize of such great worth. - Jon, ADwD

This is one of the reasons for why Jon Snow is so protective of Arya Stark - he certainly doesn't see her as some physically strong warrior type, despite gifting her with a sword. He's scared for her because he knows that despite how clever she is, Ramsay can kill, rape and torture her - she's 'just a little girl'.

Arya deserves to be protected, same as Sansa. She is not there to be anyone's henchwoman, she does not have super strength and she is certainly not physically stronger than Sansa.

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

Jon’s subtle Becoming in season two is possibly one of my favourite aspects of the earlier show in hindsight, and I think it links really nicely with why ends up aligning with the Eye, whereas Gertrude rejected it.

There’s a consistent theme with avatars and finding a sense of protection or comfort in the entity they serve, and being an avatar is never really about what you fear, as much as it is about how you cope with what you fear.

Throughout season two, Jon is actively faced by one of the entities directly — Not!Sasha — and pairing that with Gertrude’s unknown killer, he spirals into distrust and paranoia, always feeling as though he’s being watched or that people are plotting against him. His manner of coping with this worsening state of constant fear and paranoia is by both becoming a causer of it, as well as desperately seeking answers and investigating.

He has to know, and he has to be sure of what he knows. The unknown variables bother him.

He always feels as though he’s being watched, and so, he becomes the watcher. He stalks Not!Sasha, Tim, and Martin, and then digs up as much info on them as he can, alongside Elias. He makes note of their every move, every detail, every slip up, until it becomes obvious to all of t he m.

Note that it’s a stark contrast to his original coping mechanism of ignorance, because that proved it could only work so far. After Jane’s attack, he can’t afford to let his guard down anymore. He can’t afford to trust anyone except himself and what he knows.

He finds a comfort in the Eye before he even knows about it, in a sense, and while this is likely a simplification of season two Jon, I just wanted to gush a little about it, because it’s really clever set up.

He’s the Ceaseless Watcher’s special little boy for a reason!

[novaursa]

Legacy (the north and the south)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: homesick

- Next part: sisters

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril

The raven arrived early in the morning, its cries echoing across the stone corridors of Dragonstone. The castle was shrouded in mist, the waves crashing relentlessly against the cliffs below. You were sitting in your chambers, cradling Maelor in your arms while Damon played with wooden soldiers on the floor. The warmth of the fire contrasted with the chill that lingered outside, but the peace of the morning was soon interrupted by a knock on the heavy oak door.

A servant entered, carrying the sealed letter. "My lady," he said respectfully, offering the parchment.

You handed Maelor gently to his wet nurse and took the letter, the seal unmistakable—the direwolf of House Stark. Your heart quickened as you broke it open, your eyes scanning the words written in Jon’s unmistakable hand.

“From Jon?” Tywin’s voice came from the doorway, calm yet piercing. He entered the room, his keen green eyes narrowing as he studied your expression.

You nodded, rereading the letter before speaking. “Winterfell is his again. Sansa is safe.”

Tywin approached, standing beside you. “And?”

A shadow passed over your face as you continued. “Rickon… he’s dead. Killed by Ramsay Bolton.” Your voice caught, and you paused to compose yourself. “Jon says there is still no word of Bran or Arya.”

Tywin remained silent for a moment, his jaw tightening. “The boy was a casualty of war. The North would have suffered greater losses had the Boltons not been stopped.”

You turned to him, your eyes sharp. “He wasn’t just a casualty. He was a child. My family.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, though his tone softened slightly. “I do not diminish his loss. But this is the cost of reclaiming Winterfell.”

Your fingers tightened around the parchment as you continued reading. “Jon plans to come here. He wants to meet Damon and Maelor.” You paused, the next part of the letter weighing heavily on your heart. “And he intends to speak with you, Tywin.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—curiosity, perhaps, or annoyance. “To what end?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Jon says he will demand justice for what has been done by your family to his.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, his features a mask of control. “Justice,” he said, the word laced with cold amusement. “The Starks have always had an idealistic view of the world.”

“Jon is no idealist,” you countered, your voice firm. “He’s been through too much to cling to fantasies. If he seeks justice, it’s because he believes it’s owed to him.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, his hands clasped behind his back as he turned to the window, gazing out at the misty sea. “He may demand what he wishes, but justice is not so easily defined. What does he expect? For me to undo the past?”

“He expects accountability,” you replied, your voice softer now. “He’s lost so much—almost his entire House. He blames you for what Boltons did and for the death of his father.”

Tywin turned back to you, his gaze piercing. “And do you?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You met his eyes, your heart torn between loyalty to your husband and the pain that lingered for your family. “I don’t know. Roose followed your orders for the Red Wedding, the rest of it was done by him alone,” you admitted quietly. “But Jon deserves to be heard.”

Tywin regarded you for a long moment before nodding once. “Very well. Let him come. I will hear what he has to say.”

You nodded, your shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you.”

Tywin’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, his hand brushing against your cheek. “I understand what this means to you,” he said quietly. “But do not let sentiment cloud your judgment. The world is not built on fairness.”

You placed your hand over his, your heart heavy but grateful for his understanding. “I know.”

As the day stretched on, the letter weighed on your mind. You found yourself watching Damon and Maelor more closely, their innocent laughter a reminder of what was at stake. Tywin’s words lingered, but so did the promise of Jon’s arrival.

The North and the South would meet again, but this time, it would be in the halls of Dragonstone.

The war council convened in the Great Hall of Dragonstone. The dark stone walls, lit by flickering torches, seemed to absorb the heated conversations as lords and knights debated the many pressing issues facing the realm. At the head of the long table sat Tywin Lannister, his presence as commanding as ever. Beside him, you occupied a seat of equal prominence, your gaze steady as you listened intently to the discourse.

Maps and reports were spread across the table, but the topic dominating the room was not one of politics or armies—it was the juvenile dragon that had made its home in Dragonmont. The beast had eluded every attempt at capture, growing bolder and more dangerous with each passing week.

Tywin tapped his fingers against the polished wood of the table, silencing the room. “The creature cannot be ignored any longer,” he began, his voice cutting through the tension. “It is a liability, one that poses a threat not only to this castle but to our control of the realm.”

Ser Jaime Lannister, seated further down the table, leaned back in his chair, his golden hand resting on the edge of the table. “A liability that breathes fire,” he quipped, though his tone lacked his usual humor. “If we can’t trap it, how do you propose we deal with it?”

Varys, standing near the shadows as was his custom, interjected smoothly, his hands folded before him. “Perhaps the question isn’t how to deal with it, but rather how to use it.”

All eyes turned to the spymaster. Tywin’s gaze narrowed. “Explain.”

Varys stepped forward, his silken voice carrying easily across the room. “The dragon is young, yes, but it is still a dragon. A creature of power, a symbol of strength. Instead of attempting to subdue it through force, perhaps we should consider… nurturing it.”

The suggestion drew murmurs from the lords, some of them uneasy. Tywin raised a hand, silencing them once more. “Nurturing a creature that has already killed men? Do you expect it to be tamed?”

“Not by just anyone, my lord,” Varys replied, his eyes brilliant with calculated intrigue. “But there are two in this very castle who share its blood. Your sons, Damon and Maelor.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Varys’s words sinking in. You stiffened slightly, your gaze darting to Tywin. His expression remained unreadable, though his fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping.

“You propose I send my children into a lair with a creature that has killed grown men?” Tywin said coldly, his voice dangerously low.

Varys inclined his head. “Not immediately, of course. The creature is still young, impressionable. Dragons have always responded to those with Valyrian blood. The sooner a bond is forged, the greater the control. If one of your sons were to claim it, my lord, it would no longer be a liability—it would be an asset.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though some lords exchanged uneasy glances. Tywin’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes searching your face. “What is your opinion on this?”

You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on you. “I won’t deny that Varys has a point,” you said carefully. “But Damon is only three years old, and Maelor is barely out of the cradle. It’s too dangerous.”

“And yet your ancestors bonded with their dragons at a young age,” Varys pointed out gently, his gaze sliding to you. “Your blood allowed it. Why should your sons not have the same potential?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his focus returning to Varys. “You suggest we gamble the lives of my heirs on the whims of a dragon.”

“I suggest you secure your house’s future,” Varys countered smoothly. “Two dragons are better than one, my lord. And with a Lannister’s hand on their reins, the realm will bend the knee without question.”

Jaime, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. “You’re assuming the dragon will accept either of them,” he said. “What happens if it doesn’t? If it sees them as prey instead of kin?”

Varys spread his hands in a gesture of feigned helplessness. “All things in life carry risk, Ser Jaime. But this is a calculated one.”

The room fell into a tense silence as Tywin considered the spymaster’s words. His mind weighed the potential benefits against the undeniable dangers. Finally, he turned to you once more. “You are the only one here who understands the bond between dragon and rider. If this course is pursued, it will fall to you to guide them. Can you do that?”

You took a deep breath, your heart heavy with the implications of what he was asking. “I can,” you said quietly, “but only when the time is right. Damon and Maelor are too young now. Forcing it would be a mistake.”

Tywin nodded once, his decision made. “Then we will wait. The dragon remains undisturbed for now. But preparations will be made. If the creature cannot be bonded to one of my sons, it will be dealt with.”

The lords murmured their agreement, the tension in the room easing slightly. Tywin dismissed the council with a curt wave of his hand, and the men began to file out. Varys lingered for a moment, his expression unreadable, before offering a slight bow and disappearing into the shadows.

When the room was empty save for Tywin and Jaime, the latter rose to his feet, a faint smirk on his lips. “A dragon bonded with the blood of Lannister. It’s a strange thought.”

Tywin glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Strange, perhaps. But necessary.”

Jaime shook his head, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t see Damon as dinner.”

Tywin said nothing, his gaze shifting to the door as if already contemplating the battles yet to come. You placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to you.

“This isn’t just about the dragon, is it?” you asked softly.

“No,” Tywin admitted, his voice quieter now. “It’s about ensuring the legacy of this house—whatever the cost.”

The sea breeze swept across the battlements of Dragonstone, carrying with it the scent of salt and the promise of change. You stood beside Tywin atop the castle's walls, your eyes fixed on the horizon where ships emerged from the mist, their sails bearing the stark grey direwolf of House Stark. The sight filled you with a strange mixture of pride and apprehension.

“They’re here,” you said softly, the words almost lost to the wind.

Tywin’s gaze remained steady on the approaching fleet, his expression unreadable. “Punctual,” he remarked, his voice carrying its usual commanding tone. “As expected of the North.”

You turned to him, your lips curving into a faint smile. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate Northern punctuality.”

“I appreciate men who understand the value of time,” Tywin replied, his eyes never leaving the approaching ships. “Your adopted Stark child appears to have that much sense, at least.”

Your gaze returned to the sea, the sight of the ships stirring memories of Jon—his determination, his sense of honor, his quiet strength. “Jon isn’t like most men,” you said, almost to yourself. “He’s been through so much, and yet he’s still standing.”

Tywin’s silence spoke volumes, his mind likely dissecting every possible outcome of Jon’s arrival. “The question is whether he’ll remain standing after this meeting,” he said finally. “The North has a tendency to act before thinking.”

You shot him a look, your amusement tinged with exasperation. “Jon isn’t Robb.”

“No, he isn’t,” Tywin agreed, though his tone carried a note of caution. “But he is still a Stark. And Starks are ruled by their emotions.”

“Perhaps,” you conceded. “But Jon’s emotions are tempered by experience. He’s seen things most men couldn’t imagine, let alone survive.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted to you briefly, his green eyes seeing through you. “You seem eager to defend him.”

“I’ve raised him,” you said simply, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And he’s been through enough betrayal for one lifetime.”

Tywin’s expression hardened slightly at your words, though he said nothing. Instead, his attention returned to the ships, which were now closer, their banners fluttering in the wind. The soldiers aboard could be seen moving about, their armor shining faintly in the sunlight.

“Cersei won’t like this,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence. “The idea of a Stark setting foot on Dragonstone—of all places—will drive her mad.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Cersei’s opinions are of no consequence. She can seethe in King’s Landing while I ensure this house’s future.”

You folded your arms, leaning slightly against the stone battlement. “Still, she’ll see it as a betrayal. First me, now Jon. In her eyes, we’re all traitors.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, a sound that could have been amusement or irritation. “Cersei has always been blind to the larger picture. She clings to power with the desperation of a drowning woman, never realizing the waters are rising because of her own actions.”

You watched him closely, his words a rare glimpse into his thoughts about his daughter. “And you?” you asked softly. “How do you see this?”

“I see it as necessity,” Tywin replied, his tone measured. “The Boltons are finished, the North is once again Stark territory, and Jon Snow has proven himself capable. If an alliance with him strengthens our position, I’ll entertain it.”

You nodded slowly, your heart heavy with the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. The waves crashed below, their sound a steady rhythm against the silence that stretched between you.

Finally, Tywin spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “Do you trust him?”

The question caught you off guard, though you didn’t hesitate in your answer. “I do.”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he turned back to the sea. “Then let us hope your trust is not misplaced.”

You followed his gaze, the ships now close enough to make out the direwolf emblems clearly. The sight filled you with a strange sense of both hope and foreboding.

The wind carried the salty spray of the sea across the rocky shore of Dragonstone as Jon Snow and his men disembarked from their boats. Clad in dark furs and armor befitting the harshness of the North, they moved with quiet purpose, their eyes scanning the formidable fortress looming above them. Davos Seaworth stood at Jon’s side, his steady presence a stark contrast to the tense expressions of the other Northern men.

At the head of the welcoming party stood Tywin Lannister and you, flanked by Jaime, Varys, and a host of household guards and attendants. The Lannister crimson and gold stood out prominently against the dark grey skies and the volcanic black stone of the island. Tywin’s eyes were fixed on Jon, assessing the young man with the cold precision he was known for.

As Jon and his men approached, you stepped forward, breaking protocol with a determined stride. Jon’s grey eyes widened slightly as you closed the distance, your pale hair catching the light of the overcast sun. Before he could say anything, you enveloped him in a warm embrace, your arms wrapping tightly around him.

“Jon,” you said softly, though your voice carried enough for everyone to hear. “It’s been too long again.”

Jon stiffened, clearly uncomfortable under the gaze of so many powerful men. “It has,” he replied awkwardly, his arms hesitantly returning the embrace. His gaze darted to Tywin, whose expression was as unyielding as stone.

Davos cleared his throat, stepping forward to save Jon from further discomfort. “May I present Jon Snow, King in the North,” he announced, his tone formal but respectful.

At this, Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Jaime’s healthy hand rested casually on his belt, his expression unreadable, while Varys watched with quiet curiosity.

You, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the title. Pulling back from the embrace, you took Jon’s face in your hands, your violet eyes scanning his features with a motherly intensity. “You’ve lost weight,” you said, your voice laced with concern. “And you’ve been fighting again. I can see it in your eyes.”

Jon’s cheeks flushed faintly, and he shifted on his feet. “I’ve had… responsibilities.”

“And you’re not taking care of yourself,” you replied firmly, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. “It’s just like when you were a boy. Always too serious.”

The Northern men behind Jon exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to respond to the unexpected display. Even Davos looked slightly amused, though he wisely kept his expression neutral.

“Mother,” Jon said quietly, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “There are… people watching.”

You smiled warmly, unbothered by his discomfort. “Let them watch.”

Finally, you released him, your hand lingering briefly on his arm before you gestured for him to follow. “Come,” you said, turning back toward Tywin. “There’s someone you need to speak with.”

Jon’s gaze shifted to Tywin as he approached, the older man standing tall and unyielding as ever. Tywin’s piercing eyes locked onto Jon’s, his expression betraying nothing but a cold, calculating air.

“You must be Jon Snow,” Tywin said, his voice calm but edged with authority.

Jon nodded, his posture straightening under Tywin’s scrutiny. “I am.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Tywin remarked, his tone neither warm nor hostile. “And for a purpose, I presume.”

“I have,” Jon replied evenly, his gaze unwavering. “There’s much to discuss.”

Tywin studied him for a moment longer before nodding curtly. “Then let us not waste time.”

As Tywin turned and began walking toward the castle, Jaime fell into step beside him. Varys lingered near the back of the group, his watchful eyes taking in every detail.

You walked alongside Jon, your hand resting briefly on his arm as you leaned closer. “You handled that well,” you said softly, a faint smile playing on your lips.

Jon glanced at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not sure I did.”

“You did,” you assured him. “Tywin respects strength. Show him that, and he’ll listen.”

Jon nodded, though his shoulders remained tense. “And what about you? Will you listen?”

“I always have,” you replied, your voice gentle but firm. “And I always will.”

As the group ascended toward the fortress, the sound of the sea fading behind them, the weight of the impending discussions loomed heavy over everyone. But for now, Jon was here, and you were determined to stand by him, no matter what the future held. The North and the South were about to collide, and the world would never be the same.

The Painted Table in Dragonstone’s council chamber was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its intricate carvings depicting every mountain, valley, and river of Westeros. The torchlight cast light over the map, making the painted seas shimmer as though alive. It was around this table that warlords and kings had planned their conquests, and now, another pivotal moment was unfolding.

Jon Snow stood at the far end of the table, his posture straight and resolute. Beside him, Davos Seaworth hovered silently, his experienced eyes scanning the room. Across from them, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. To his right, you sat with quiet grace. Jaime Lannister leaned casually against a pillar nearby casually like always, while Varys stood in the shadows, his hands clasped before him, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Jon’s eyes swept the room, taking in the power gathered before him. He drew a deep breath, his voice steady as he spoke. “I came here for justice.”

The room stilled, all eyes on him. Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, though his fingers tapped idly on the edge of the table. “Justice,” he repeated, his tone carrying a faint edge of mockery. “A vague term, often misused. What form of justice do you seek, Snow?”

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground. “For the deaths of my family,” he said firmly. “For my father, who was betrayed and executed. For my brother, murdered at the Red Wedding. For my stepmother, who died defending him. House Lannister’s hands are soaked in Stark blood.”

The accusation hung heavy in the air. Jaime stiffened slightly but said nothing, his eyes flickering briefly to Tywin. You reached out and placed a hand on Tywin’s arm, a subtle gesture meant to steady the mounting anxiety.

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his expression as cold as steel. “Your grievances are well known,” he said coolly. “But war is not won by clean hands, nor by mercy. Your father, Eddard Stark, chose to defy the crown. Your brother, Robb Stark, declared himself King in the North and took up arms against the rightful king. The consequences of their actions were inevitable.”

Jon’s voice rose, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes. “The rightful king was a tyrant who murdered innocents. You chose to stand by him until it served you to betray him. Don’t speak to me of rightful kings, Lord Tywin.”

The room grew colder, the tension palpable. Tywin’s gaze narrowed, but his voice remained calm. “Mind your tone, boy. You stand here as a petitioner, not an equal.”

Before the tension could escalate further, you spoke, your voice gentle but firm. “Jon, this is not a battlefield. It’s a council chamber. Speak plainly, and let us find a path forward.”

Jon’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his resolve didn’t waver. “Very well,” he said, his voice steady. “The North has bled enough for the South’s wars. We’ve fought for kings who’ve betrayed us, and we’ve been punished for our loyalty. I’ve come to demand two things: justice for my family and recognition of the North’s independence.”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. Jaime arched a brow, his expression one of faint amusement, while Varys’s smile widened ever so slightly.

Tywin’s lips thinned. “Independence,” he said slowly, as though tasting the word. “You seek to break the Seven Kingdoms apart.”

“The North is already apart,” Jon replied. “We’ve always been different—our customs, our gods, our way of life. The Iron Throne has brought us nothing but suffering. Let us govern ourselves, as we did before Aegon’s conquest.”

Tywin leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. “And what will you offer in return for this independence? Loyalty to a crown you no longer recognize? Trade agreements? Military aid? Or will the North retreat into its icy wasteland, leaving the rest of the realm to fend for itself?”

Jon met his gaze evenly. “The North will not retreat. We’ll fight for our survival and for the survival of the realm. But we won’t bow to a king—or a queen—who sees us as nothing more than a tool.”

You watched the exchange carefully, your heart torn between the two men. Jon’s words carried the weight of his father’s honor, but Tywin’s pragmatism was undeniable. Finally, you spoke again, your voice calm but resolute.

“Perhaps there’s a compromise to be found,” you said. “One that ensures the North’s safety and autonomy without severing it entirely from the realm.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to you, his expression thoughtful. “Compromise is not my preferred method,” he said, though there was no malice in his tone. “But I am not blind to the value of the North.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head slightly. “Then let’s find that compromise. But know this—I will not leave here without securing my family’s future. The North remembers, Lord Tywin.”

The room fell into silence once more, the weight of Jon’s words settling heavily over everyone. Tywin’s strategic mind was already turning over the possibilities, while you sat quietly, your heart heavy with the knowledge that this was only the beginning of a long and difficult road.

The Painted Table had seen the plans of conquerors and kings, but today, it bore witness to something far more uncertain—the hope for a future where the North and the South might find common ground, however fragile.

The day’s negotiations ended in stalemate, the members of the war council disbanded, each retreating to their respective quarters with heavy thoughts. No agreement had been reached between Tywin Lannister and Jon Snow, their views seemingly irreconcilable. Though composed, Jon’s frustration had been evident as he left the Painted Table, and Tywin’s silence spoke volumes about his unwillingness to compromise without gaining something in return.

As the sun set below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the Dragonstone courtyard, you sought out Jon. He was standing near the cliffs, gazing out at the crashing waves. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid as he appeared lost in thought. Beside him, Ghost sat vigilantly.

“Jon,” you called softly as you approached, one hand resting on Damon’s shoulder while the other cradled little Maelor against your chest. Damon walked beside you, his small feet padding softly on the cobblestones.

Jon turned at the sound of your voice, his brooding expression softening slightly as he saw you. His gaze flicked to the two children, his brow furrowing with curiosity.

“I thought you might like to meet your brothers,” you said warmly, gesturing toward the boys.

Jon’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “Brothers?”

You nodded, kneeling beside Damon to encourage him forward. “This is Damon,” you said, ruffling the boy’s silver-gold hair. “And this little one,” you added, lifting Maelor slightly, “is Maelor.”

Damon eyed Jon curiously, his eyes wide as he clutched a small wooden lion in his hands. Maelor gurgled softly, his tiny fists waving in the air.

Jon knelt to Damon’s level, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Hello, Damon,” he said gently. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Damon tilted his head, studying Jon for a moment before stepping closer. “You’re big,” he observed matter-of-factly, his voice innocent.

Jon chuckled softly, glancing up at you. “He’s observant.”

“He gets that from his father,” you replied with a faint smile.

Jon’s expression shifted at the mention of Tywin, though he quickly turned his attention back to Damon. “Do you like it here on Dragonstone?” he asked.

Damon nodded, his grip on his toy tightening. “It’s loud. The waves are loud. But I like Viserion. She’s big too.”

Jon’s brow arched in mild surprise. “You’ve seen her?”

“Seen her?” Damon echoed, his tone incredulous. “She’s my dragon!”

Jon glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Your dragon, is she?”

You laughed softly, adjusting Maelor in your arms. “He’s not entirely wrong. She’s protective of him. And of Maelor.”

Jon’s gaze softened as he looked at Maelor, who was now babbling happily. “They’re… beautiful,” he said quietly. “Both of them.”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice tinged with emotion. “They’re the reason I fight, Jon. For their future. Just as you fight for yours.”

Jon’s expression grew somber, his dark eyes meeting yours. “Do you think Tywin understands that?”

“He does,” you said after a moment. “In his own way. But he’s also a man who doesn’t give without taking something in return. It’s how he’s survived this long.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident. “The North isn’t something to bargain with. It’s my home. My people.”

“And Tywin sees it as a key piece of the realm,” you replied gently. “But that doesn’t mean there’s no hope. These things take time, Jon. And you’ve already proven yourself stronger than most.”

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark curls. “It feels like I’m fighting against a mountain.”

“Mountains can be moved,” you said softly. “But it takes patience and persistence.”

Damon tugged on Jon’s sleeve, drawing his attention. “Do you have a wolf?” the boy asked, pointing to Ghost.

Jon smiled faintly, reaching out to scratch Ghost’s ears. “I do. His name is Ghost.”

Damon’s eyes widened. “Can I pet him?”

Jon hesitated, glancing at Ghost. The direwolf stared back, his gaze calm and steady. “He won’t hurt you,” Jon said finally. “Go ahead.”

Damon stepped forward cautiously, reaching out to pat Ghost’s thick white fur. The direwolf remained still, his ears flicking slightly as the boy’s small hand stroked his side. Damon’s face lit up with delight.

“See?” you said, your smile returning. “Even Ghost knows you’re family.”

Jon chuckled softly, standing and watching as Damon continued to pet the wolf. 

You and Jon Snow continue to stand on the edge of the courtyard, watching as Damon eagerly followed Ghost, his small feet pattering on the cobblestones as he giggled with delight.

Jon’s expression remained thoughtful, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Do you truly think he’ll listen?” he asked quietly, his voice breaking the silence. “After all this—will Tywin Lannister agree to anything?”

You sighed, folding your arms as the weight of the question pressed on you. “Tywin is… complicated,” you admitted, your gaze shifting to the keep where the man in question likely sat in calculated thought. “He doesn’t respond to emotion or appeals to honor. He needs something tangible, something he can’t deny. Proof.”

Jon frowned, his brow furrowing. “Proof of what?”

“That the North’s independence won’t destabilize the realm,” you replied. “That the sacrifices he’s made to secure the Iron Throne’s dominance won’t unravel. Tywin’s a man who weighs everything in terms of power and legacy.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident. “How do you prove something like that? Winter is coming, the Long Night is coming—and if we’re not prepared, there won’t be a realm left to fight over.”

You turned to him, your expression softening. “I’ve tried to make him see that. I’ve told him about the things I’ve seen, the threats that are coming. But Tywin doesn’t believe in visions or warnings. He believes in what he can see and touch.”

Jon exhaled slowly, his hand running through his dark curls. “Then we’re already at a disadvantage. By the time he sees what’s coming, it’ll be too late.”

You placed a comforting hand on his arm, your voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll find another way to prepare. Tywin may be slow to believe, but he’s not a fool. If he sees the North as an ally in what’s to come, he’ll act.”

Jon turned to you, his gaze searching. “And do you believe he’ll act in time?”

You hesitated, the weight of your own doubts pressing heavily on you. “I hope so,” you said finally. “For all our sakes.”

Damon’s laughter drew your attention, and you smiled faintly as the boy ran toward Jon, clutching a small stick in his hands. He held it out triumphantly, his violet eyes gleaming with excitement. “Jon! Look! I found a sword!”

Jon crouched down, taking the stick from Damon and examining it with exaggerated seriousness. “A fine weapon,” he said with a faint smile. “You’ll make a fierce warrior one day.”

Damon beamed, clearly pleased with the praise. “Can you teach me?”

“Damon,” you interrupted gently, your tone light but firm. “Jon has more important things to do than play swords with you.”

Damon’s face fell slightly, but he turned back to Jon with hopeful eyes. “Will you?”

Jon hesitated, glancing at you before returning his gaze to Damon. “Maybe later,” he said, his voice kind. “But for now, I need to talk to your mother.”

Damon nodded solemnly, though his excitement quickly returned as he turned back to Ghost, who was lying nearby with an air of patient tolerance. The boy reached out to pet the direwolf, his small hands running through the thick white fur.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “You’ve made an impression on him,” you said to Jon. “Don’t be surprised if he follows you all over the castle now.”

Jon smiled faintly, his eyes softening as he watched Damon. “He reminds me of Robb when he was little,” he said quietly. “Full of energy, always curious.”

You nodded, your heart aching at the mention of your late nephew. “He’s a lot like Robb,” you agreed. “And like you. Stubborn, determined, always asking questions.”

Jon’s gaze returned to you, his expression serious once more. “I’ll stay,” he said firmly. “I won’t leave until Tywin hears me out—until the North has what it needs. I owe it to my family, to the people who died for it.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And I’ll stand by you, Jon. Whatever happens, you’re not alone in this.”

The two of you stood there for a moment, the weight of the coming battles heavy on your shoulders. Behind you, Damon’s laughter echoed through the courtyard as Ghost licked his face, the innocence of childhood a brief reprieve from the storm that loomed on the horizon. The North and the South were converging, and the future of the realm hung in the balance.

[cherrrydragon]

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER NINETEEN: INTERTWINED, SEWN TOGETHER

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SUMMARY ↳ And the universe said, "I love you." You stare at them. "Infinite universes. Infinite possibilities." pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: none wc: 4.6k

It’s nighttime in Gotham, a city of shadows and contrasts that you've come to know well. The skyline is a jagged silhouette against the dark canvas of the night sky, punctuated by the occasional glimmer of lights from skyscrapers and streetlamps below.

You swing gracefully through the city, the rhythm of your movements second nature after months of navigating these streets. The cool breeze brushes against you, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and distant echoes of Gotham's perpetual hustle.

Arriving at a familiar rooftop, you land softly and take a moment to survey your surroundings. Oftentimes this is where, Damian and Jon often met you, a secluded spot where you can discuss plans, share moments of quiet, or simply enjoy each other's company away from the chaos of your nightly duties.

Tonight, however, the rooftop is empty when you arrive. The absence of their familiar presence gives you a moment to reflect on everything that has brought you to this point—the life you’ve led, the friendships you cherish, and the burgeoning feelings that have taken root in your heart.

You find yourself replaying conversations and moments in your mind, Jon's warmth and Damian's complexities intertwined with your own thoughts and uncertainties. The city seems to hold its breath around you, as if waiting for your next move.

You don’t get to, because you feel a sudden and violent gust of wind, and then there’s someone right behind you.

“[Name],” Jon breathes, pajamas and all. You turn around slowly, senses buzzing at his presence.

He takes two half-hearted steps towards you, before using his speed to get right in front of you in the split of a second. He reaches out a hand, almost instinctively, as if to steady you or perhaps himself. His gaze searches yours, his expression a mix of relief and something more complicated, something you can't quite decipher in the dim rooftop light.

“It’s you. It’s really you,” he says, reverently. His eyes trace your face, taking in every feature. “There’s no one else with that heartbeat.”

And, fuck, if that doesn’t just completely do you over.

He places his hands on your arms tightly, pulling you to him. As if you’ll disappear if he isn’t holding onto you. “What happened? Where were you?”

You try to speak, but no words come out. “You were just gone. I couldn’t hear you at all,” he whispers. He spots the Web-Watch. “What is this? Did whoever took you put it on you? Is it hurting you?”

His hand wanders over to it, and you suddenly remember how you first got stuck here in the first place. You snatch your wrist out of his range, because his strength is no joke. He looks at you confused. “It’s mine,” you choke out.

Jon's eyes narrow slightly, searching yours as if trying to unravel the mystery that surrounds you. He grabs your hands in his, gently bringing them up his face. “[Name], [Name][Name][Name],” he mutters. His lips move against your fingers, breath warm. “We’ve been searching for you everywhere.”

“I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes tight and shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.” Jon's grip on you loosens slightly, his eyes flickering with a mixture of relief and lingering worry. "We missed you," he admits quietly. "Damian's been impossible, you know. He wouldn't rest until..."

You sigh deeply. “I honestly… didn’t think you’d care all that much,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the city's distant sounds.

“Why wouldn’t we care?” he near growls, looking at you fiercely. “With how we feel–” he cuts himself, breathing deeply. Jon's expression softens, his gaze holding yours with a depth of emotion that resonates through the quiet rooftop air. His hands remain on yours, a gentle warmth that anchors you in the moment. "I didn't think I'd see you again," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” he asks, hands moving to run down your sides. It feels nice.

“No.” Your hands lay gently on his, not moving them. “I need to tell you something. You and Damian.”

Jon's hands pause their gentle exploration, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that reflects both concern and a hint of apprehension. The rooftop seems to hold its breath around you, the city's distant sounds providing a muted backdrop to this moment of intimacy and vulnerability.

“Can you take us to the Den? To talk?”

"The Den," he repeats softly, as if testing the idea. "Yeah, we can go there. Whatever you need." His voice carries a reassurance, tinged with an unspoken question. "Are you sure you're okay to talk about this now?" Oh, Jon. Ever the sweetheart.

You nod, taking a moment to steady yourself. "You deserve to know.”

He scoops you up in his arms tentatively. His eyes linger on your form wrapped in his arms, almost longingly. He sighs when he feels your arms wrapped around his neck. He flies you across the city, urgent but at the same time leisurely. Trying to savor whatever time with you.

As you arrive, Jon gently sets you down, his concern apparent and his touch gentle. The Den's interior is familiar and comforting, the place a testament to your resilience. It looks just like you left it, like it was frozen in time. The sight of it makes your heart squeeze.

His hands gently cup your face, turning you to him. “I’m gonna go get Dami,” he says, not making any move to let you go.

Your gaze is filled with infinite amounts of fondness for the boy. “I’ll be here,” you promise. You bring your hands to his face and angle him so you lay a sweet and cherished kiss on his cheek. “I promise.”

His eyes fall to your lips for a few aching seconds before he nods.  Jon lingers for a moment longer, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek before he reluctantly pulls away.

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance as he turns to leave the Den.

You watch Jon go, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervousness settle in your chest. Alone in the quiet of the Den, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. . The soft light from the fairy lights cast gentle shadows around you, creating a cocoon of solitude.

Minutes stretch into a timeless space, each second filled with the weight of anticipation. You find yourself replaying moments with Jon—his earnest concern, the warmth in his touch, and the unspoken emotions that seemed to hover between you both. Damian's complex presence also flickers through your thoughts, his sharp wit and guarded vulnerability leave an undeniable mark on your heart.

Finally, the soft sound of footsteps heralds Jon's return. He enters with Damian in tow, the atmosphere shifting subtly with their presence. Damian's expression is a mix of relief and something harder to define—perhaps a blend of concern and guarded hope. He approaches with a measured stride, his posture betraying a readiness to hear whatever you have to say.

Jon moves to stand beside you, a reassuring presence at your side. His hand finds yours, offering silent support and encouragement. Damian's gaze flickers between you and Jon, his demeanor a mix of curiosity and a hint of apprehension. 

"Where have you been?" Damian demands, his voice edged with a mixture of relief and frustration.

Jon looks at him sternly, and, surprisingly (is it really, though?), Damian’s demeanor stutters. The silent signal calms his initial intensity. His gaze softens fractionally as he looks back at you. Damian contemplates for a moment, before sighing and approaching you. He takes you in with a mix of guarded concern and curiosity, his usual stoic demeanor softened slightly by the relief of seeing you safe. 

“Beloved,” he mutters without constraint. His use of the endearment catches you off guard, a rare display of vulnerability from someone so often guarded. It almost makes you want to cry. He takes your face in his hands, the same way Jon did.

You feel his fingers trace your lips, a gesture that speaks volumes in its tenderness. Damian's gaze searches yours, his usually sharp eyes softened by an emotion you rarely see openly displayed. "Where have you been?"

"I thought... we thought..." he continues, voice faltering for a moment, as if grappling with the weight of his own emotions. "Are you hurt?" he asks quietly, his concern palpable in every word.

You shake your head slowly, overcome by the intensity of the moment and the flood of emotions that threaten to spill over. "I'm okay," you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the Den.

Damian exhales sharply, a mixture of relief and lingering tension leaving his frame. He pulls you into a tight embrace, surprising you with the strength and earnestness of his hold. His arms wrap around you protectively, as if to shield you from any harm that might dare to approach.

"I wasn't sure if you would return," Damian admits quietly, his tone tinged with a mix of vulnerability and something deeper, something you're beginning to recognize as a bond that goes beyond mere partnership or friendship.

Jon's presence beside you feels like a grounding force, and as Damian's arms wrap around you, you realize just how much you missed this—missed them. You close your eyes, letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of their concern and the strength of their embrace. It's a moment that transcends words, a silent affirmation of the bond you share with them.

When Damian finally releases you, his gaze still holds that unspoken question, the need to understand where you've been and why you were gone. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself to share the truth with them, to lay bare the secrets that have kept you apart.

Silence stretches between you, filled with words not said and emotions too raw to name. Finally, Damian breaks the silence, his voice steady yet filled with a quiet plea. "Don't disappear again."

You squeeze his hand gently, a silent promise passing between you. "I won't," you assure him, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself to share the truth with them, to lay bare the secrets that have kept you apart. Jon and Damian's eyes remain locked on you, their concern and anticipation on display in the quiet of the Den.

"Where do I even start?" you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, things I’ve kept hidden because…well, because I thought it was for the best." Jon's hand tightens around yours in silent support, while Damian's expression remains intense and focused, waiting for you to continue.

“I’m not from here,” you state, hesitant be damned. You’ve spent far too long hesitating. “I’m from Earth-143258 in an alternate universe.”

Jon and Damian exchange a glance, their expressions shifting from confusion to curiosity. Jon's grip on your hand tightens slightly, while Damian's intense focus on you doesn't waver.

“A universe where you, where the Justice League and Gotham and Metropolis don’t exist…” you look at them, “...outside of a series of comics.”

Damian's brow furrows, and Jon's eyes widen with a mix of intrigue and concern. The weight of your revelation hangs heavy in the air, the enormity of it settling in their minds.

"A different universe," Damian echoes, his voice filled with a blend of skepticism and curiosity. "And in this universe, we're...fictional?"

You nod, feeling the intensity of their gazes. "Yes. In my world, you’re all characters in comic books, movies, TV shows... You’re heroes in stories, legends. But here, you're real."

“A man named Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man of Earth-928, made an autonomous multiverse jump using a device like this.” You lift up your wrist to show them the Web-Watch. “Using it, he amassed an elite force of others like him from different universes. Including me.”

“Karen, would you mind?” you ask. Suddenly, a hologram forms, showing the intricate base of operations that is the Spider-HQ. “Our purpose is to protect the multiverse from anomalies and threats that could destroy entire realities. Sometimes people end up in the wrong universe, and we send them back to their home universe as well.” The hologram casts a gentle glow on their faces. “We call it the Spider-Society.”

The hologram shifts, changing into a bright tree. An intricate veil of webs expands around you, filling the space. “This is all of us. All of our lives woven together in a web.” You take a moment to admire the image. “The web of the multiverse.”

Jon and Damian stare at the hologram, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief. The tree of webs illuminates the Den, casting intricate shadows that seem to weave the narrative you’re sharing. Jon's grip on your hand remains firm, a silent anchor as you delve deeper into your explanation.

“All of our stories are pretty much the same. We get bit by a radioactive spider that gives us powers, and we use those powers to help people.”

Damian listens intently, his usual skepticism softened by the gravity of your words. He glances at Jon, silently exchanging a look that conveys both their shared disbelief and the realization that your story, no matter how fantastical, is being delivered with sincerity.

“Was there an… anomaly in our universe then?” ask Damian, looking at you.

“No,” you sigh. “I was never supposed to be here.”

Your legs carry you closer to the hologram, Jon following in an effort to not lose his grip on you. “I found a particle accelerator. Most of the time that means nothing good. Turns out, an alternate version of me,” you emphasize, “[Name] [L.Name], had gotten stuck in my universe and was just trying to get home. But seeing me,” you pause, taking a breath.

“All they saw was someone trying to get in their way. They activated the particle accelerator and threw me in it.” You turn to look at them. “That’s how I ended up here.”

Damian and Jon exchange a glance, their expressions a mix of disbelief and concern. Jon's grip on your hand tightens slightly, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and determination.

“So, you’ve been… lost all this time?” Jon asks softly, his voice carrying the weight of the revelation.

“The whole reason I wanted to create the badassium was so I could use it to power another watch,” you say, looking down at it. “Since other me destroyed it.”

“A while ago, they visited me. In this universe.” You look at Jon. “On New Years.” You watch as recognition flickers in his eyes. “You can imagine how well I reacted.”

“That’s why you were crying,” he says softly in realization. “Suddenly seeing the reason you were… stuck.”

“I told them to find Miguel O’hara. And he did, a week ago.”

Jon's hand brushes your cheek gently, his touch a comforting presence amidst the weight of your words. Damian stands nearby, his expression unreadable as he processes the implications of your story.

“So, this entire time,” he begins, voice hinting with disbelief, “while we have been over ourselves with worry that you were somewhere hurt–”

“Damian,” cuts in Jon sternly.

Damian ignores him. “You were enjoying yourself, finally home and away from this cursed place you got stuck in? Somewhere we couldn’t even begin to look for you? Is that it?”

Your heart sinks at Damian's words, his anger and frustration cutting deeply. You can see the mix of emotions in his eyes—relief, betrayal, confusion—all battling for dominance.

“No,” you whisper desperately. “No, it wasn’t like that. In fact, the whole time I was home I couldn’t focus on being happy because I was focused on you,” you state. “On how I left things and how I wished I could explain everything to you but who could I when there’s such a disconnect between us–” you choke, cutting yourself off.

“Didn’t you think we cared? That we deserved to know?”

You flinch at his words, the truth of them hitting harder than you expected. “I… I didn’t know what to think,” you admit quietly, meeting Damian’s gaze with a mix of regret and vulnerability. “In my world, you’re… different. Fictional. I never expected…” Your voice trails off, unable to find the right words to express the complexity of your emotions.

“I would’ve never even considered the possibility of your existence before now,” you whisper. “I really should’ve known better.”

You stare at them. “Infinite universes. Infinite possibilities.”

“Then why didn’t you stay?” Damian asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you were finally home, why come back?”

You take a deep breath, the weight of Damian's question hanging in the air. Your gaze shifts between Jon and Damian, their eyes reflecting the depth of their concern and the complexity of their feelings.

“How could I?” you ask them. “After everything, how could you expect me not to feel the way I feel?”

"When I first got here," you continue, "I felt lost, out of place. But then I met you both, and everything changed. You became my friends, my partners, my family. The thought of leaving you behind... pretending everything that happened never happened. It was unbearable."

“You're real,” you say softly. “Everything about you, and everything I feel about you is real.”

Silence descends upon the Den, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Damian's gaze remains fixed on you, his usual guarded demeanor momentarily faltering under the weight of your sincerity. You feel Jon’s grip on you tighten, a constant presence of support and understanding at your side.

You breathe in. “I’m telling you this now, because you deserve to know. And if you’ll have me..”

Looking at them now is like looking at destiny. “I’d like to stay in your lives.”

Damian's expression softens imperceptibly, his gaze lingering on you with a mixture of contemplation and something deeper that you can't quite decipher. Jon squeezes your hand gently, a silent reassurance that speaks volumes amidst the unspoken tension in the room. They look at each other for a heart stopping moment.

"Beloved," Damian murmurs softly, his voice holding a rare vulnerability. "You've been missed."

Jon nods in agreement, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that mirrors your own. "We want you here," he says quietly, his voice a steady anchor in the midst of uncertainty.

You nod, a weight lifting from your shoulders as you step closer to them. Jon's arms wrap around you first, pulling you into a warm embrace that feels like coming home. Damian joins, his embrace steady and reassuring, his presence a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of emotions. 

You take a deep breath, feeling the warmth of their embrace resonate deep within you. "Thank you," you say, your voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you for choosing me.”

Jon presses a gentle kiss to your temple, and Damian's hand finds yours, his grip firm and reassuring. "We always will," Jon vows, his voice steady.

“Well,” starts Jon, grabbing your shoulder to turn you to face him. “If it’s no trouble, I’d really like to kiss you now.”

Your chuckle breaks the tension, and you nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. Jon's eyes light up with a mix of relief and affection as he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a tender, heartfelt kiss.

It’s different from Damian’s kiss. His lips move in tandem against yours, intertwined, sewn together. His hands rest on your waist, squeezing lightly.

Jon's kiss is a symphony of warmth and tenderness, a stark contrast to the urgency and passion that often defines Damian's touch. You can feel the depth of his emotions in every gentle movement of his lips, the way he holds you as if you're the most precious thing in his world. The kiss is a promise, a reassurance, and a declaration all at once.

Damian watches the exchange with a soft, almost imperceptible smile. He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your chin, tilting your face towards him. "Beloved," he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "My turn."

His kiss is different from Jon's—more intense, a reflection of his complex emotions and the guarded vulnerability he's allowed himself to show. It's a kiss that speaks of his longing, his relief.  When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, seeking reassurance.

Later that night, you sit between Jon and Damian, cuddled up on a worn-out couch in the Den, the soft glow of the fairy lights casting a warm light around the room. Small talk fills the space.

“Wait, so, Wonder Woman doesn’t exist, but Thor, God of thunder, does?” asks Jon. You’re not paying all that much attention to him since the feeling of his fingers caressing your side is quite distracting.

“I guess the universe picked and chose,” you hum.

“So there’s no Justice League?”

“There's the Avengers,” you say. “Just as cool as the Justice League. And they’re my friends,” you grin triumphantly.

Damian listens quietly, eyes lidded and content. “Were you a fan of these comics you mentions earlier?”

Your grin turns a little shy. “Maybe just a little bit.”

Jon's fingers trace idle patterns on your arm, a comforting gesture that grounds you in the present moment. "Does that mean you know all our secrets?" he teases lightly, a playful glint in his eyes.

You raise an eyebrow, matching his playful tone. “I don’t need pre-knowledge to figure out all I need to know about you.” Your hand flattens against his chest, rubbing along it.

Jon sighs at your touch, eyes fluttering. “Smooth,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his lips to yours. You melt into the kiss, the warmth of Jon’s lips against yours sending a shiver down your spine. His hand moves to cup your cheek tenderly, his touch gentle yet filled with a quiet intensity that speaks of promises and shared moments.

Across from you, Damian watches with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, his gaze lingering on the intimacy between you and Jon. He clears his throat, drawing your attention. “As much as I appreciate witnessing this... display of affection,” he says, voice tinged with a hint of dry humor, “perhaps now is not the time.”

Jon presses a few more kisses to your lips before breaking away. “You’re just jealous,” Jon teases, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied grin.

Damian rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitch upward in a rare display of amusement. “Hardly. You two are insatiable.”

“Insatiable is right,” you mutter, staring at Damian’s lips.

Damian raises an eyebrow at your comment, a hint of amusement coloring his expression. "I beg your pardon?"

You shrug, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I mean, you're not exactly innocent in all of this," you tease, leaning closer to him. "The way you kissed me back then..."

You turn back to look at Jon. “Did you know he picked me up and pinned me against the wall?”

Jon’s eyes widen in mock surprise, his playful demeanor matching yours. “Did he now?” he asks, leaning closer with exaggerated curiosity. “You have to tell me all about it.”

Damian's cheeks color slightly, but he meets your teasing with a smirk. "I don't recall you complaining," he retorts, his voice laced with amusement.

You move, placing yourself on Damian’s lap, and wrapping your arms around his neck. Damian's hands settle comfortably around your waist as you settle on his lap, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of amusement and something deeper, a warmth that lingers beneath his usual stoic demeanor. Jon watches the exchange with a playful grin, leaning back against the couch as he enjoys your dynamic.

Damian’s expression softens slightly, his sharp features betraying a hint of the turmoil beneath. “I… I apologize for my earlier insensitivity,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a rare humility. “It’s… difficult to process.”

You lean forward, your hands playing with Damian's hair as you look into his eyes. "Don’t apologize," you say softly. "I get it."

Damian's gaze softens as he meets your eyes, his usual guarded demeanor giving way to a vulnerability that speaks volumes. "Thank you," he murmurs quietly, his voice holding a depth of emotion that resonates through the quiet of the Den.

Jon watches the exchange with a soft smile, his hand finding yours once more as he leans in closer. "We're here for you," he says gently, his voice a steady reassurance amidst the lingering tension.

You smile warmly, leaning in to press a kiss to Damian's forehead. "We're in this together," you assure him, your voice filled with sincerity. Jon leans in from his spot beside you, pressing a kiss to Damian's cheek with a fond grin.

Oh, you remember something. “You know what I found out?” A small grin spreads across your face. “I went to have a talk with alternate me.” Your finger gently traces patterns on Damian’s chest. “Found out something really interesting.”

“And what would that be?” Damian mutters, subdued by your touch. Jon’s hand comes up to rest on your back.

“Most of us Spider’s usually have the same people in our lives,” you begin, voice dropping. “A Gwen Stacy, an MJ, maybe a Felicia Hardy,” you lift your head to look at Damian. “AKA, the Spider’s very own cat burglar, Black Cat.” Damian raises a brow at that.

“However, they didn’t have any of those people. You know what they did have, though?” you ask, pausing for dramatic effect.

“They had you two,” you say softly, gaze shifting between them. “Damian Wayne and Jon Kent. Not Superboy or Robin, just completely normal people.” Jon and Damian exchange a glance, their expressions reflecting a mix of surprise and contemplation.

“I love you,” you say, smiling softly. “I love you in every universe.”

Jon stares at you, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and affection. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a silent affirmation of his feelings.  Damian looks up at you like you're a thing to be worshiped, face one of awe. “We love you too,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that resonates through the quiet of the Den.

Jon sighs contentedly, leaning back into the couch with a smile. "I don't think I'll ever get used to hearing that," he admits, his voice smitten.

You laugh softly, the warmth of their affection enveloping you in a cocoon of happiness. "Get used to it," you tease gently, resting your head against Damian's shoulder. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Damian's hand finds yours, his touch grounding and reassuring. "We wouldn't want you to," he murmurs, his voice a soft whisper that echoes through the room.

Jon nods in agreement, his gaze never leaving yours. "You're stuck with us," he says with a playful grin, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead.

The three of you settle into a comfortable silence, the Den filled with the quiet intimacy of shared moments and spoken promises. As the night stretches on, you find yourself surrounded by the warmth of their presence, knowing that in this moment, and in the countless moments to come, you've found who you truly belong with.

Wrapped in their embrace, you let all your worries wash away, the echoes of their voices and the steady rhythm of their hearts lulling you into a state of peace. In the quiet darkness of the Den, amidst the city's distant hum, you find solace in the knowledge that you are home—at last, and always—with Jon and Damian by your side.

notes: see you guys sunday for the epilogue :)

[owlwithanapple]

Blossom ❤️‍🔥🌸

Content : First love/Young love/Kissing...

Characters : Jonathan Kent x Y/N Wayne

17 years old—

“Everyone, sit down. We have a new student in our class today.”

“Damian! It’s a new student!” Jon said excitedly.

“I know… no need repeat it.” Damian said impatiently.

The moment you stepped into the classroom, saw your twin brother Damian Wayne. After writing name on the blackboard, you turned to your classmates with a bright and sunny smile on your face to show friendly attitude. The classmates focused attention on you. What was shocking was you and Dami had a very different personality. You were optimistic and positive, while he was cold and indifferent. Although were twins, but still different.

Jon was surprised and pulled Dami's sleeve and whispered, "She's your sister?!"

Dami covered his head and sighed helplessly, "Shut up, Jon."

Daddy once said you are the type of person who is charming and will attract a lot of attention. You are the only one in family who has the biggest contrast with them. Your optimistic and cheerful personality attracts the attention of many classmates. During lunch time, everyone gathered around you to chat. You didn't know how to get rid of them, until your brother walked into the crowd.

"Hey. Get out of my way. Stay away from my sister." Thanks to Dami's help, your classmates finally gave you some space.

"Dami... I..." You looked straight at his expressionless face.

"You're welcome as usual." He teased you with his hands in pockets.

"Haha, thanks for the compliment?" You laughed for some reason.

"Hello, Damian's sister! My name is Jonathan Kent, just call me Jon." The boy with glasses who stood behind Dami greeted you warmly and cutely.

"Hi, just call me Y/N. Dami's friend, also my friend." You said generously.

Jon had a smile on face but suddenly became shy and hid behind Dami to secretly look at you. He was Dami's good friend, and personality was opposite of your brother's. It was impressive when first met him. Dami glared at you and left the class. You understood what he meant so you left your desk and followed him. You walked to a quiet place, where you two were alone. To be honest, your brother's personality was so arrogant and unique charm.

"Father arrange it?" he asked.

"Yes. He wanted me to get in touch with ordinary life." You smiled calmly.

"TT. Come to school, and same school." He covered his forehead and sighed.

"It's just class, as a leisure and entertainment." You swayed back and forth in front of him.

"What about Robin?" he asked.

"Hmm... I want to try, wonder if dad will allow it." You turned around and looked at him.

Suddenly, an inexplicable fierceness surged, you knew where it came from, you stared at your cold brother with a smile in your eyes. You knew very well how important Robin was, he relied on dad very much, wanted to be the best Robin and fight side by side with Batman. But you are not interested in the role of Robin, just curious.

"Don't worry, I have the ability but won't snatch it. There are so many Robins, I will look inconspicuous." You enjoy the solemn atmosphere he brings without worry.

"I'll give you a piece of advice, if you want to snatch it, do your best to snatch it. Robin is not as simple as you think." His tone became heavy.

"That's why I said I won't snatch it." You smiled.

The brother and sister are not arguing but enlightening each other. Each has own mission. You have your own sense of propriety. It is a wise choice not to intervene in the dispute. There must be conflicts between people, but you choose to maintain good communication with others, whether family or friends. The greater the ability, the greater the responsibility. You have secretly reminded Daddy and Dami several times, but didn't stop them. With your ability and wisdom, there is no need. Mommy's education is different from Daddy's philosophy, and your point of view is also different.

"Hey~ Damian! Y/N!" Jon ran towards you two.

"Tsk, the annoying one." Dami scratched his head impatiently.

"Jon!" You were jumping and laughing enthusiastically.

"Hey... Hey... Hey...!" Jon braked and stopped in front of you, not daring to raise his head.

"Hey~ Jon." You leaned close to his face and blinked, keeping a close distance with him.

"Wow!" He blushed and immediately dodged you, hiding behind Dami.

"Don't get so close to me, it's hot..." Dami complained reluctantly.

"Sorry..." Jon apologized like a puppy.

The interaction between the two of them is really good. Such a stubborn and arrogant brother can become friends with Jon who is lively and cheerful. Your brother is the least good at dealing with the character and one of the least suitable people for Jon to meet. It is really an interesting combination of two people. Your stomach is rumbling, you leave that place to find food and fill hungry stomach, before run far, you turn back smile and wave goodbye.

"Tsk..." Dami looked at your back indifferently. At this time, he noticed Jon's face was red and full of joy. He pushed Jon with his arm to pull him back to reality.

"Sorry! What's wrong!" Jon was panicked.

"Since my sister came into the class, you acting weird." Although Dami is very indifferent, he still cares about his sister, not completely zero.

"It is ...?" Jon whistled in his mouth to ease the tension.

"I'm warning you, don't think about my sister." Dami left these threatening words, and Jon realized he was really in trouble.

At night—

You followed dad to the Batcave, Batman's hideout. Looked around and were shocked by these technological caves, which were filled with countless efforts and sweat from your dad. You had underestimated your his ability, but now have seen it with your own eyes and realized how good he is. You looked carefully, everything was unfamiliar.

While you were appreciating these wonderful moments, he took you to a room with many glass display case containing equipment. Many equipment of Batman and other partners were gathered here, you walked forward curiously to observe carefully. It was the first time in your life that saw such a huge base, and this was the meaning of Dad's protection.

"Y/N, come here." Dad stood next to a glass display case.

"Here we go~" The equipment lights up your eyes. The R design on the chest represents Robin, the bright yellow cape, the red and green combination, the mini skirt and the black tight pants, just like the image design of the male version of Robin in previous generations, then mix and match the female version.

"Do you want to put it on? It's customized for you." Daddy waited silently on the side.

"I want it!" Daddy avoided it, and you put it on quickly. You look at yourself, reflecting the vivid brilliance on your body. The bright colors are as eye-catching as the first generation Robin. The brothers used to debut with Robin, now they are expanding themselves in different fields.

You stepped out of the door, turned around and put hands on waist, posing your own unique posture, showing energetic and charming temperament. Daddy walked forward with a smile on face to help you adjust cloak. He held your shoulders looked at you as he had something to say but couldn't express.

"Little princess! It suits you so well!" Your brother Dick Grayson, Daddy's adopted eldest son, Nightwing himself. He rushed over give you a big hug, lifted you up in the air and turned around a few times before putting you down.

"Thank you for the compliment." You turned around gracefully and saluted.

"Wow, my little princess has become Robin~" He expressed his opinion proudly.

"She's just doing an internship." Dad on the side interrupted.

"Hm, that's right. The little princess has no actual combat experience." He touched your head regretfully.

"Can I go out with brother tonight!" Your eyes are shining, even dad and brother have trouble controlling them. The two of them discuss it while you wait and do warm-up exercises.

"Little princess, come with me today!" Dick was very happy.

"Keep an eye on her. If something goes wrong, retreat and don't force it." Dad warned you two.

"Wish me good luck~" You pecked Daddy on the cheek, and excitedly went to the scene to experience Robin's busy life.

After reaching the high place, Dick introduced the Robin equipment one by one. The Grapple Gun on your waist is a must, allowing to fly and escape at high altitudes at will. You took it out and shot it towards the opposite side, tightened it, ran at full speed, turned over in the air and swung in that direction, and landed there smoothly. You opened arms and looked at Dick. He came in front and touched your hair several times.

"Good job! You are so brave!" He applauded you repeatedly.

"Hehehe! ~" You are full of confidence.

"If you perform well, maybe Batman will make you Robin." Dick brought up the topic that you care about.

"Nah... I'm just curious." You hesitated a little.

"Don't you want to be Robin?" He asked you curiously.

"I haven't thought about it. I'm just curious what you do every day? And why Dami is so determined to help dad?" You responded to his answer with a question.

"Hmm... I see. I thought you moved here for this reason."

"Nah... I'm here to enjoy life." You curled lips and smiled.

"Nightwing!" A familiar voice caught your attention.

A boy with a red cape and an S logo on his chest, holding a boy with a black cape and an R logo like you, landed in front of you from a high altitude. It was your brother Damian Wayne and Superboy. Superboy admired Nightwing very much and quickly ran towards him quickly. The two hugged each other happily. Dami stared at your whole body to see what was going on. You posed for him to see, he shook head helplessly.

"Hey, why she come out with you?" Dami walked towards Nightwing and was about to scold him.

"Come and experience it, it's okay." He convinced Dami with an optimistic attitude.

"You just spoil her too much. You know how dangerous our job is!" Dami complained to Nightwing.

"Only tonight. I will keep an eye on her. You can rest assured." The two seemed to be in conflict or in negotiation...

There was a gaze staring at you for a long time, from Superboy. You walked up to him and observed him carefully, he kept avoiding your gaze. It was indeed him, Jonathan Kent, your brother's friend. You met him for the first time in this way, which shocked you. You approached him, and he dodged you again.

"Jonathan Kent!" You called him.

"I'm here! No! How you know it's me!" Jon looked surprised.

"Hahaha, come on, it's already been exposed." His innocent and naive look made you laugh.

"...I still want to show my handsome side." Jon frustrated.

"Then how do you know I'm Y/N?" You leaned close to his face.

"I..I..." He blushed, could it be...

"Are you using your X-ray vision on me!" You said loudly, covering your chest.

"You dead bastard! Using X-ray vision on my sister?!" Dami grabbed Jon.

"You'd better explain it, otherwise..." Nightwing suddenly became a different person.

"Absolutely not! I...!" He wanted to say it but was shy.

Your two dear brothers started to pick on Jon because recognized you right away and they were very curious. The situation was two large dogs surrounding a cute little dog, which looked really pitiful from the perspective of a bystander. You stepped forward pushed them away, pulling Jon aside.

"Can you tell me?" You leaned close to Jon's face.

"I... you will be very surprised to hear it..." Jon scratched his head and his face turned red.

"I don't mind." You encouraged him optimistically.

"Your... heartbeat..." He clenched his hands and lowered head with a blushing face.

"My heartbeat?" You were confused.

You were stunned. He recognized you by the sound of your heartbeat. This is the power of Superboy. It was really shocking and touching. You looked at the other two who were whispering, their eyes full of curiosity. It really exciting to see brothers around you. You just made up a random excuse to dispel their curiosity.

"He recognized me by my hair color." You pointed to Jon behind you.

"Ah? Oh oh oh! Yes! Just as she said!" Jon straightened his spine.

"If you dare to look at my little princess's body with X-ray eyes, I will pierce your body with Kryptonite. Do you understand?" Nightwing lowered his voice to threaten Jon.

"I will tie you to a chair and stuff Kryptonite into your mouth, so you can know for yourself." Dami also joined in.

"Stop! Enough! You are scaring Jon!" You opened arms in front of Jon to save him from the innocent.

"Hey, little princess, you are biased~" Nightwing pulled you.

"I'm not biased. I'm trying to stop you two from bullying my friends" You confessed earnestly.

"Y/N..." Jon behind you showed a happy face.

"Now let me ask a question. Dami, aren't you supposed with Daddy? Why with Jon?" You put hands on waist.

They stared at each other, obviously hiding something. You walked towards them step by step, but Dami stopped you, "Superboy and I have something to do."

"Something? Is it necessary to be fully armed?" Nightwing interrupted.

"I see. You're doing it in secret, right?" You realized something and snapped fingers.

"Eh!" Jon's expression was completely exposed, as you guessed.

"Explain. Do Batman and Superman know where you two are going?" Nightwing leaned against the wall and became serious.

With no other options, Dami and Jon confessed. They said there was a rumor a factory was producing counterfeit drugs, they were going to investigate the matter before reporting to Batman and Superman. Nightwing said he had indeed heard the rumor, but no reason to interfere without a precise statement. Dami couldn't wait and took the initiative, Jon came to help as a partner.

"You all go back. I'll take care of the rest." Nightwing walked towards them.

"Wait a minute! We're going too!" Dami and Jon shouted at the same time.

"How about we go and see it? It's just a look." You raised hand to comment, out of curiosity whether it was true or not.

"Little princess, you..." Nightwing held your shoulders tightly.

"If something happens, I will notify Daddy and Superman immediately. Besides, you want to handle it, so having a few more followers to help won't get in the way, right?" You turned to the other two and blinked, Dami shook his head because he was very knowing your rhetoric, Jon nodded seriously.

"Fuck...I know. Remember, don't rush into the vanguard. If something happens, I will open a way for escape. You must escape, do you understand?" Nightwing scratched his head and pointed at you.

"Yes!" You and Jon saluted Nightwing.

"It's so noisy." Your noise made Dami speechless.

After some thinking and analysis, Nightwing has no choice but compromise. You arrive at the rooftop where Dami said, it's suspicious. You notice Dami's focus there, the hound is on the target. At this time, you and Jon's eyes meet, he smiles, you smile too, until Nightwing comes between you.

"Enough of the flirting?" Nightwing whispers.

"I'm not!" Jon yells shyly.

"Shhh!" You cover Jon's mouth with your hand.

"Rooftop! Shoot!" shouts from below.

The people below fired at the rooftop. Nightwing reacted quickly and pulled you away. Jon and Dami dodged the rain of bullets with agility. No one was hurt, for now. You followed Nightwing to a safe place. Dami jumped in without following the rules. Jon had no choice but to keep up with him.

"That guy didn't intend to stay still from the beginning!" Nightwing complained.

"Nightwing..." You held him.

"Little princess, I'll deal with it. You notify Batman about this, stay here don't run around. Do you understand?" Nightwing held your hands tightly.

"Got it." You nodded.

He rushed inside. You turned on the communicator contact Batman and Superman. If they knew Dami and Jon were messing around like this, they definitely be scolded.

"Speak." Batman and Superman answered the call.

"Batman, it's me. There's a suspicious pharmaceutical factory here. Nightwing, Robin and Superboy are currently taking action to fight."

"Jon is here too?!" Superman screamed.

"Hahaha... I just found out..." You're afraid of being scolded, especially by your dad.

"Turn off the communication device, or your throat will be in danger." With a knife on neck, your whole body stiffened. You had no choice turn off the communication device and raise hands in surrender.

"I turned it off." You stayed calm.

"Eh?" Jon, who was busy inside, heard your heartbeat.

"Hey! Why are you in a daze?!" Dami kicked the enemy away with a flying kick.

"Y/N she..." Jon was very uneasy.

"Don't move! Otherwise, I won't care if her head is smashed!" A gunshot instantly attracted the attention of the three people, you were threatened by the enemy with a gun on your head.

"Damn you!" Nightwing clenched the weapon in hand.

"Tsk..." Dami clenched fist.

"Put your hands up! Or I'll kill her!" He fired a gun beside your ear.

The gun was only a millimeter away from your ear. When fired, the sound of gun went straight into your ear, causing tinnitus. The ringing sound in mind kept repeating. You closed eyes in discomfort and wanted to cover your ears with both hands. When you opened eyes again, the gun had been crushed into pieces. A pair of bright red eyes appeared in front of you. It was Jon.

Jon threw the broken gun on ground and punched the person who threatened you. You were so surprised that forgot how to blink. All the gunfire focused on Superboy and you then started to shoot randomly. He used his steel body to protect you from any bullets hitting your body.

"Jon..." You looked at his face.

"Don't worry about me, I'm invulnerable." He smiled to reassure you.

You used the hacking technology Tim taught you to hack into the circuit of this factory and temporarily shut down the whole factory, plunging into darkness. The enemy began to panic. You felt someone grab your arm, and didn't know who it was in the darkness. You struggled to shake his hand off.

"Don't afraid, it's me." Jon's voice is right next to you.

"Nightwing! Now!" The vision is black, but it can't affect the actions of the other two.

"Ok!" Nightwing responded.

"Don't move here." Superboy quickly knocked down the others.

After the circuit returned to normal, it was bright and peaceful again. All the enemies had been annihilated and fell to the ground. You stood up saw three of them were safe. You walked slowly towards them. Suddenly, one of the people screamed like crazy and grabbed your feet, attracting the attention of the other three. You kicked his chin and made him faint.

"Are you okay?" Nightwing hugged you worriedly.

"I'm fine. Thank you." You patted his back to comfort him, looking at Jon standing beside and winking.

"Really, how could you be caught so easily?" Dami came forward.

"You blame me. You acted on your own." You stuck out tongue at Dami's stinky face.

"The most important thing is that everyone is okay." Jon came forward to comfort everyone.

Everyone went to investigate the situation separately, and just as the rumors said. You collected all the information handed it over to the police and dad later. The other three tied up the enemy who fell to the ground. You moved closer to Jon to help him. He would sneak a glance at you from time to time, so you seized the opportunity to make eye contact with him.

"Got you!" You laughed playfully.

"Eh?! Haha... Sorry..." He lowered his head shyly.

The other two who were busy, you closed the distance with Jon. He dodged you again, and you moved closer again until he gave up. He kept avoiding you, even his ears were red. You reached out to touch his ears, and his body trembled and turned head to face you. You finally waited for this moment.

"Thank you, Jon." You leaned close to his face.

"Well, you're welcome." He smiled and didn't avoid you.

Suddenly, the door was blown away by some strange force, and a gust of wind rushed inside. Jon hugged you tightly block the sudden attack prevent you from being hurt by the impact. When everyone entered a state of alert, two tall figures and familiar voices stepped in. They were Superman and Batman.

"Father!" Dami stood up straight.

Batman walked up to you, and said coldly, "Too tight, let go of my daughter."

"Ah! Sorry!" Jon quickly let go of the hand that was tightly holding you.

"Little princess, are you okay?" Batman knelt on one knee on the ground.

"I’m good." The serious daddy called by your name, and the gentle one called you little princess like Dick, you smiled and shook head.

"It seems we don't need to help." Superman walked towards Nightwing.

"Yes. Thanks to them." Nightwing said politely.

"Them? You mean Robin and Superboy?" Daddy's face suddenly darkened.

"It's not good to make decisions on your own." Even Superman had a blank expression.

"Everyone go back to the base." Batman helped you up.

The four of you all returned to the base, and all defeated by the aura of Batman and Superman. All of you stood there silently, waiting for their terrible punishment. Daddy's quiet look is always scary. This time Superman was so quiet. Everyone is really finished.

"Dick. I told you to keep an eye on her and retreat if something goes wrong. I trusted you to take care of her, why did she get involved in this situation?" Daddy stared at Dick, you didn't dare to speak at all.

"I did, but one of them caught her unexpectedly... It was my mistake, sorry..." Dick blame himself and helpless.

"Damian, Jon. Why are you two handling this matter?" Superman questioned them.

"We just want to investigate the truth of the rumor, just..." Jon lowered his head.

"The incident happened as the rumor said, the enemy has been captured, and the evidence is conclusive, which means the matter itself is over." Dami said.

"Damian, can you think about the consequences when do things? Your sister is there, she inexperienced, what will happen if something goes wrong!" Daddy stood in front of Dami.

"Jon blocked the bullet for her, she was unharmed, isn't it okay!" Dami angrily retorted to Daddy.

"Damian!" Nightwing hugged Dami to comfort him.

"Bruce..." Superman stepped forward.

"This time it's my fault. I didn't stop them." Dick told dad guiltily.

"She is your daughter who you raised with your own hands. Her life is more important than my contribution. Even the identity of Robin should be given to her. Am I right!?" Dami roared.

"I instigated it!" You shouted.

"Little princess?" Dick called, everyone looked over.

"I told Dami and Jon the rumor, then used a bunch of twisted logic to convince Dick to let us go. I wanted to take this opportunity to get Dad's attention." You clenched your hands and looked at Dad.

"Y/N. Bear the consequences of what you say. Do you understand?" Daddy glared at you.

"Everything I said is true. You can punish me however you want." You curled lips and smiled.

It has always been everyone indulges your willfulness and unreasonableness. This time have to pay the price for them. You did have idea to convince them to solve this matter, but realized they were all trying to protect you. This fault cannot be entirely blamed on them, even if you are lying or true.

"You are grounded for a week. Put all your equipment back and go back to your room." Daddy said and turned his back to you.

You put away the Robin suit, a feeling of frustration surged in your heart. Perhaps this is the best ending. You didn't want to be Robin, just wanted to wear that suit and run around. Experience the adventures that your brothers experienced. You kept smiling said goodbye to them and left the Batcave.

"Y/N!" Jon caught up.

"What's wrong?" You held hands tightly behind, not wanting to show your emotions.

"It's not your fault at all! Why did you do that!" Jon's voice was messy.

"Nono... That's fine." You put your index finger on Jon's lips.

"But..." Jon's expression was solemn.

"Thank you for saving me, Superboy." You hugged him tightly to express your gratitude.

After letting go, you immediately back to room and lay on the bed, wanting to cry but not letting the tears flow. Dami was reckless, but the matter was perfectly resolved thanks to his efforts. Jon risked his life to block all the risks for you, and the innocent Dick almost took all the blame. At this time, there was a knock on the door, you opened the door and Dick walked into your room sat on the chair.

"Little princess. Why did you do this?" Dick questioned you seriously.

"It's not your turn to say." You sat on the bed.

"This was done without permission. I have the responsibility and obligation to stop and protect, but I didn't." Although he looked solemn, but still kept a gentle tone.

"You were instigated by me. Don't forget that I convinced you." You shook your feet to ease mood and smiled.

"Little princess, you making excuses?" He smiled.

"No, I'm adapting to the situation." You said with ease.

"Are you imitating Jason?" He leaned back in his chair.

"Oh, you caught me." You laughed.

"Have a good night's sleep, little princess." Dick gave you a goodnight kiss and a hug before leaving the room.

Jon POV

I clenched my fists, feeling very resigned. It was clearly our fault, but Y/N had to bear the consequences. Damian's twisted thoughts and the words he yelled. I couldn't understand why he had such negative thoughts about Y/N, why he was obsessed with getting his father's approval over his sister.

"Why do you say that?" I stepped forward block Damian's way.

"Get out of my way, I have nothing to say to you." He glared at me with hatred.

"What about your sister? Why didn't you admit that we acted on our own?" This was the first time I was unwilling to accept it for someone else.

"Is it necessary?" I was furious when heard this, I grabbed his clothes with fighting spirit.

"Jon! What are you doing!" Dad rushed over.

"Why is it not necessary! Batman, you know!" I roared at them.

"Is it wrong I don't want her to become Robin! She is very good and smart, and she meets the requirements to become Robin! She will be hurt after becoming Robin, but am I wrong if I don't want her to be hurt?!" Damian's explanation shocked me, this was the first time.

"Y/N refuses to become Robin." Batman, who was sitting next to him, finally spoke.

"Eh?" Damian and I looked at Batman at the same time.

"I won't give Robin to her either." Batman looked at us calmly and said.

"Father..." Damian's heartbeat calmed down.

"Then why punish her?" I asked.

"It's a good thing my daughter rebelled against her father for the first time." He curled lips and smiled.

"You have a really bad character." Dad stood aside and laughed.

"Jon, thank you for protecting my daughter." Suddenly Batman expressed his gratitude to me.

"I...!" I wanted to explain but was interrupted by Damian.

"Even save my sister, I still have to warn you not to think about my sister." Damian told me fiercely.

Y/N POV

You were so bored lying on the bed staring at the dark ceiling. Everyone was busy, but you were bored and lonely. At this time, there was a knock on the window. You got up from the bed in shock. This was the third floor, why would someone knock on the window? You went over carefully, opened the curtains and saw Jon floating in the air, you quickly opened the window.

"Jon? Why are you here?" You were surprised.

"I came to find you. Do you want go out and play together?" Jon told you shyly, scratching the back of his head.

"Unfortunately, I'm grounded." You sighed helplessly.

"It's okay if you're not found~" He showed a bright smile.

"You're so bad, Superboy." You smiled wickedly.

"Let's go, Y/N." He approached the window and stretched out his hand to guide you away.

You chose to go with him without hesitation. He hugged you and flew to a distant place. The panoramic view of the entire city from high above were so beautiful. You looked at Jon, who was full of confidence and looked so handsome. You didn't expect that he would block all the gunfire damage for you. Wonder if he would feel any pain.

"We're here!" He landed on a quiet beach.

"Wow~ amazing. You got here so quickly." You told him excitedly.

"Just a small matter." He said shyly.

You stood on the beach, the sea water rushed to feet, enjoying the coolness brought by the wind, and there was a crisp sound from the sea water. There was no one on the endless seashore, only you and Jon. You opened arms to embrace the world, and screamed loudly to vent the emotions that had been suppressed in your heart for a long time.

"Jon, thanks for bringing me here." You turned around and smiled at him.

"I should thank you." The sky was dark, and Jon's smile was very moving.

"It's me who should say it. You stood up to protect me, don't know how to express my gratitude." You told him sincerely.

"Then... how about staying here with me?" Jon smiled.

"Okay. I'm happy to." You laughed along.

A plan emerged in your mind, turned around and splashed water on Jon. Jon, who was splashed with cold water, laughed loudly, and he ran over to play with you. You accidentally fell into the sea, Jon quickly pulled you out of the water, you looked at him, he avoided your gaze again.

"Jon, look at me." You hold his face.

"Y/N! I..." You can feel his face is warm.

"Why did you recognize me through the sound of heartbeat?" You look expectantly.

"Because... you. Y/N, you are very special." He leans on your forehead, closes his eyes and breathes gently.

Your heartbeat speeds up as if it is about to jump out of chest, feel unimaginable and indescribable emotion. His breathing is so calm, and your heartbeat is agitated. The simple close distance at the beginning has a different feeling compared to now. You can't think calmly, heartbeat is messy, as if your emotions are about to burst out at this moment.

"Jon, you're so weird." You curled lips and smiled.

"Because you... I'm weird... only for you." When he opened his eyes again, you were really caught in his eyes, you wanted to possess him.

He shyly lowered his head to your face, because of him your face was also hot, couldn't take your eyes off each other anymore, it seemed confirmed that the two of you hearts belonged to each other. The two of you gave up all feelings for this wonderful encounter, kissed each other's lips, leaving a sweet mark.

"Y/N..." He called your name again after kissing you.

"Jon..." Not only his lips, he kissed your forehead.

"It's you. Only you." He hugged tightly and whispered softly in your ear.

"Jon, that was my first kiss just now." You blurted out, and he was shocked.

"Really?!" He shouted nervously.

"Really." The two kisses made your heart beat.

"We..." He looked at you with a puppy dog ​​expression.

"I don't have any idea about love yet... How about we get closer first?" You said shyly.

He smiled with eyes shining, this side of him left a deep impression on you. His sunshine-like gentleness and strong body kept making your heart beat. You held his hand and kissed his cheek, his shy expression turned into a smile, and his smile also infected your heart.

You returned to the beach, he used his super breath to blow out a strong wind to dry your wet body. If he hadn't held you tightly, would have been sent away. After dry, he picked you up, floated in the air, moved towards home. He opened the window, and you quietly stepped into the room when no one was there.

"Goodbye, Y/N." Jon said goodbye to you reluctantly.

"Good night, Jon." You were reluctant but still smiled.

Jon POV

A good night makes me look forward to tomorrow, want to see her soon. I flew home and went in through the window, changed into pajamas and wanted to drink a glass of water, went downstairs saw my brother Connor Kent and dad Clark Kent sitting there. I walked to them with the water, wanted to get some advice from them.

"You're late, I thought you would be home first." The first thing my father said, I left earlier than my father and went to Y/N's place before going home.

"Where have you been fooling around?" Kon said with a smirk.

"I have something to talk." I sat up straight.

"Tell me." Dad put down what he was holding and listened carefully.

"I fell in love with a girl." I blurted out shyly.

"Really? Who!?" Kon pulled me closer.

"Falling in love is a happy thing. Who is the lucky girl?" Dad looked at me with a kind expression.

"Damian's sister...Y/N." I said.

"No hope." Kon made a conclusion at once.

"Huh?! Why?" I stood up in surprise.

"It's a bit difficult indeed." Even my father said so.

"Y/N Wayne. The little daughter of the Wayne family. She has a father and four brothers, the most vicious of whom is Jason Todd. You have encountered a problem." Kon's words made sense.

"Jon, you are fine, there will be no problem." Dad put his hand on my shoulder gently comforted me and gave encouragement.

"Take it step by step, maybe soon Batman will recognize you as his future son-in-law~" Kon curled his lips and smiled.

"Future son-in-law!" I became shy.

"Hahaha, still a long way to go and a lot of tests. Especially her family, you know..." Dad encouraged me but was a little confused.

"I know. I'll try my best!" I was full of fighting spirit. Since I love her, can't give up halfway. I have decided she is my life partner, no matter how terrible her family is, I still have to do my best.

"So passionate." Kon laughed at the side.

"Who wouldn't chase love madly." Dad looked at Kon.

— The End —

🖤Like and Reblog to motivate me🖤

AO3 Heroes in Love by owlwithanapple

[microclown]

Martin is such a good foil to Jon in different ways throughout the whole show, but I'm particularly enjoying the way they contrast in these early episodes of s5

Specifically, the way Martin continues to be so... normal? In spite of everything.

For example, the way he insisted on bringing the maps and tea, and mocked what he anticipated Jon's flowery ominous response would be

The way he just falls into saying things a normal person would say if the world was normal, even if it isn't exactly true, like in the intro to 163

Also, the way he slipped so easily into a casual friendly banter with Helen in 164, which would not have sounded at all out of place at an office Christmas party pre-apocalypse

And I know in the latter example he's probably being strategic -better to have allies than enemies and all that. And there's probably an element of his time with the lonely in the way he's interacted with everyone/thing this season so far... (which I'll probably have some thoughts on once I get a little further into the series)

But- I still think there’s an aspect here of Martin "Not big on change" Blackwood being this sort of living relic of the way the world once was. Subconsciously or consciously upholding the customs and patterns it once followed.

Meanwhile Jon serves an opposite purpose as the “post apocalyptic google” exposition machine.

He knows exactly how different this new world is, and doesn’t see a point in acting like it’s not.

and it just works so well especially in these first few episodes where Jon and Martin are our only real examples of how people not trapped in nightmares are coping with the world post change.

It's not only grounding for Jon as a character, but also for our journey though this world as a whole.

[goodqueenaly]

Hello Good Queen Alysanne, I have a question about Jorah Mormont and Lynesse Hightower. Was the marriage doomed from the start? Was there anything they could do to make it work (e.g. Jorah temper her expectations about the Bear Island)? I remember Catelyn said something along the line of she was unprepared for a life in the North, but eventually adapted to it.

Here’s the thing, though: we’re talking about a marriage not just between two very different people from two extremely difficult cultural backgrounds, but one which had not even been on the radar for either until maybe a week or so before it took place - and that I think is being generous with the timeline. Catelyn and Ned had certainly not known each other, in any deeply personal way, before their wedding, and each had certainly grown up (though perhaps somewhat less so, for the Jon Arryn-raised Ned) in a family and a society very different the other’s, but Catelyn had been taught from a young age to be the dutiful inheritor of her father’s political designs - and from the age of 12, had understood that duty meant eventually marrying the heir to Winterfell, becoming its lady, and continuing the Stark dynasty. Likewise, while Ned had never expected to become Lord of Winterfell or marry his brother’s fiancée, he had certainly understood the wartime necessity of taking Catelyn as his bride and preserving the rebellion’s alliances via marriage. This is not to say, of course, that Catelyn immediately adapted to being Ned’s wife and that she never experienced any struggles during her marriage; it took her time to “[find] the good sweet heart beneath Ned's solemn face”, and some aspects of life in the North always remained foreign to her - the godswood sacred to Ned’s faith, or the (ostensibly) bastard son whose origins Ned angrily refused to detail . Nevertheless, I think it’s fair to say Ned and Catelyn’s marriage succeeded, at least in part, because Catelyn came into the marriage understanding the politico-dynastic duty impressed on her for a large chunk of her pre-marital life by her father, because Ned too understood and accepted the the duty he had to marry her during the Rebellion, and because both Ned and Catelyn spent years developing passion and devotion toward one another, alongside that duty.

By contrast, what could even be said of Jorah’s and Lynesse’s respective expectations going into their wedding and marriage? Jorah very explicitly had only married Lynesse because he “could not take [his] eyes off her”at the joust, purely acting on his physical attraction to her. Lynesse, for her part, had no reason to have known who Jorah even was, except perhaps on the most general level, ahead of and even during the tourney: if she was pleased to accept the favor of a hero of the recent war, a lord in his own right and a bannerman of the victorious king’s closest friend, she likely had as little knowledge of Jorah personally as he did her. Compounding that is, as I mentioned, the incredibly short timeframe of their marriage: Jorah asked for Lynesse’s hand immediately after winning the joust, and they married while Jorah was still in Lannisport for the tourney, meaning that they were going to the altar having been quite literally complete strangers at most a week, if not a few days, before the wedding. Even if Jorah and/or Lynesse had wanted to get to know each other as marriage partners before their wedding day - and Jorah certainly doesn’t seem to have been interested, in any event - there was simply no time to do so: before either, but especially Lynesse, may have realized the full implications of what to come, Lord Leyton had already signed away his youngest daughter’s future to Jorah.

In Lannisport, in those bare handful of days, it may have been easy for Jorah, and perhaps Lynesse as well, to imagine their future as one of sunshine and roses. Literally riding high on his very recent and illustrious knighthood and his unstoppable victories during the joust, in the warmth and wealth of the oldest and southernmost city in Westeros, Jorah may have thought that the realities of Bear Island life seemed physically and culturally very far away. Lynesse, still just a teenager and one who, as the youngest of a large and wealthy family, had likely lived a pretty sheltered life, may have seen Jorah as no more and no less than what he appeared as before her - a spectacularly talented tourney knight and war hero, a lord in his own right who could make her a lady of her own castle and House, as her sisters Leyla and Denyse were not. (Let’s never forget the creepiness of Jorah being almost two decades older than Lynesse.) The deliberately fantastic environment of what for lack of a better term we have to call their courtship and engagement - even for the most high-ranking Westerosi aristocrats, life is usually not feasts and tourneys 24/7 - only heightened the lack of reality at the foundation of their marriage; their entire experience of one another had been defined by a purposefully temporary world of pleasure which could never have been sustained.

Consequently, I think both Jorah and Lynesse experienced, on their return to Bear Island, disillusionment so profound that there was no making the marriage work. Jorah tells Dany that Lynesse resented that Bear Island was “too cold, too damp, too far away”, that the Mormonts “had no masques, no mummer shows, no balls or fairs”, and that the Mormont “cook knew little beyond his roasts and stews”, but I think these complaints reflect a more fundamental alienation Lynesse was feeling in her new role. Bear Island wasn’t just different from Oldtown; it was a world whose entire life and existence could not be compared to that of Lynesse’s native city. Her faith, her experience with Oldtown’s intellectual and artistic culture and the Reach’s tradition of chivalry, her training as a southron lady - none of that had any place on Bear Island. She was, as Jorah’s aunt and cousins may have reminded her (or commented in her hearing), the lady Jorah “won … in a tourney”, a lady whose “soft hands were never made for axes … nor her teats for giving suck” - in other words, a failure compared to the Mormont ideal lady who had a baby on one hip and an axe in her other hand. She had married a lord, a war hero, and a champion jouster, only to find herself stuck as lady of a castle only so called by courtesy, on an island that to Lynesse probably seemed physically and culturally in the middle of nowhere, with a husband who never again either took up arms in war (at least in Westeros) or distinguished himself on the tourney field.

Jorah clearly grew to resent and eventually hate Lynesse, but he was far from blameless in this situation. It had been Jorah who had, on no greater impulse than his physical attraction to Lynesse, taken a likely sheltered teenager from the only home she had ever known to one only he of the two of them knew and understood; it had been Jorah who had courted (again, to the extent we can call it that) the daughter of one of the wealthiest lords in Westeros from one of the most ancient reacher aristocratic families with absolutely no practical plan on how he could make Lynesse comfortable and happy in this new world; his best option in his mind was to spend money he very well knew he didn’t have and pursue a jousting career in which he knew very well he wasn’t cut out to succeed. Could Jorah truly be shocked that Lynesse “grew wild when [he] spoke of pawning her jewels”, or “moved into the manse of a merchant prince named Tregar Ormollen” after he, Jorah, became a sellsword? Far from fulfilling whatever expectations (again, likely at least founded in unreality) Lynesse may have had of this marriage, Jorah was now asking Lynesse to give up her remaining connections to those expectations and that foundation - the jewels she may have easily received as the daughter of rich Lord Hightower, the position of Westerosi lady marriage to Jorah had offered her.

Ultimately, I think this marriage was destined to fail because neither could ever be what the other may have gone into the marriage expecting. Lynesse could not be forever the tourney fantasy he had encountered at Lannisport - the beautiful highborn maid cheering him on from the sidelines as he won tilt after tilt in a tourney on the heels of his wartime fame. Jorah could not be forever the image Lynesse encountered at that tourney - the lord in his own right, the recent war hero and royally dubbed knight, the spectacular tourney champion. Jorah could not offered Lynesse the life of ease, security, and aristocratic culture she had grown up living with and perhaps consequently expecting; Lynesse could not offer Jorah the perfect highborn southron maid who would at the same time perfectly accept life as a Mormont bride.

[boltonplaything]

GOT men in the bedroom

Robb Stark: He growls 100% he'll pin you down to the bed, push your legs back until your knees are by your ears and pound into you. He's the type to want you to role play with him in the bedroom. Call him "Your Grace" and he's done for. Playfights and silly games will almost always end up in some passionate lovemaking as well. He's a service Dom for sure, he wants to give you every ounce of pleasure he can and make sure you are thoroughly cared for in every aspect of life

Ned Stark: He seems to be the type to pant and grunt. He'll talk you through it though with that deep rumbling, accented voice. He'll hold you gently which would be a heavy contrast to the urgency in his thrusts. He'd shower you with praise before and after, how gorgeous you are, how lucky he is, how good you feel. He's pretty vanilla but somehow it doesn't take away from the experience.

Jon Snow: He growls and Whimpers depending on if he's the Dom or the sub. If he's the Dom he'll handle you firmly, groaning and growling into your ear about how he's been wanting to fuck you all day. If he's the sub he whines and pants while you fuck him, begging for his release and we can all guess that as a sub he'd cum fast and apologize for it. As either the Dom or the sub his words would become unintelligible after a certain point of bliss. I also feel like he'd be into somno but he'd have to have discussed it in depth with his partner beforehand.

Jaime Lannister: He's a talker, he pants and groans but he's mostly a talker during sex. Everything is teasing and cheeky remarks it doesn't matter what position he's in. He is a tease, he is a flirt, he is an asshole. He'd be fucking you from behind while giving a whole monolog then getting playfully annoyed when you don't know what he's been saying because he's hitting it so well. He'd fuck you till the point where you're shivering but the second he feels your body clench around him, he'll stop and chuckle. Doing it over and over again until eventually he gives in with an "alright alright". If he's the sub he doesn't understand why you won't let him finish ,maybe because he deprives you, but nonetheless he talks the whole time. He'll groan and pant and finally give in and whisper out his pleas. He's a brat and a tease.

Tyrion Lannister: He grunts, every thrust he makes he grunts and curses, he grips you like his life depends on it. If he's the submissive he turns into a whiny pathetic mess, all of his eloquence is lost on him.

Tywin Lannister: Groans and Moans. I wouldn't have said he was a moaner a week ago but in light of recent discoveries he is in fact a moaner. He is not gentle in any aspect either bending you over the nearest surface or wrapping your legs around his waist. He taunts you for how needy you are beneath him, wanting you to stroke his ego. He will never let you be in control and he won't tolerate brat behavior, he wants complete subservience. If you brat during sex you'll regret it severely with him either spanking your ass raw, or edging you for a considerable amount of time. Even if you apologize he won't grant you release. You can possibly appeal to him by calling him by his titles or handing him praise in return.

Joffrey Baratheon: He moans and Whimpers, he likes to say that moaning is womanly but he's so loud and needy when you ride his cock, there's no way he is dominating anyone. If he happens to catch himself moaning he'll whimper on accident as if that makes it any better. He's a brat, he walks around talking about how he's the king and he can do as he likes. He likes to think that this extends into the bedroom, you have to slap him around a bit to get him to apologize, overstimulate him to get him to behave.

Ramsay Bolton: Canonically the man makes no noise whatsoever but...I'd like to imagine him moaning and growling. He'll take you from behind or put you in the mating press. There's no gentleness when he fucks you, he'll call you the most disgusting things. He loves it when you cry and beg. Honestly I don't know if he likes it better when you beg for him to fuck you or if you beg for him to stop. If you somehow get him to be submissive, take the opportunity to be a bit rough with him for a change. Slap him, or choke him, call him a good boy while you do it too.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

The Quiet Wolf's Reminisce

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

Length: 15k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, child illness, mentions of child death, past character death, possessive or obsessive behavior, internalized trauma, mentions of blood and violence

Notes: This was originally a request of Neds pov over the years of Jon and yours relationship but it turned into something a bit different, so I hope that's still okay. The final scene was literally written just today, and I am so sorry in advance. Series Masterlist Here

Ned Stark would admit that for a while, he had been concerned. It was not uncommon for the firstborn of a noble House to make leave to Ward for another Lord, to learn. And at young ages as well, too was that not uncommon. But, what wasn’t common, was when the firstborn a Lord sent for that duty, was their daughter. You were the only child of Lord Stannis Baratheon, and a little over a full moon had passed since your arrival.

You had arrived giving Ned many worries, the first being during supper the night of your first day. You had been more quiet and dispondant then even the shy girl he met hours earlier, then when no one was looking, you had collapsed to the ground burning with a mighty fever. Maester Luwin had said you might not even make it the night. Ned could recall so vividly, sitting at his desk with his quill in hand trying to form the words of the worst case scenario. A horrible thing it was, a father trying to write a letter to another father about the passing of his only daughter when it hadn’t even occurred, but it had been so likely, that Ned knew it was important to be prepared.

By the time it was finished, Ned could look through the window and see from the moon was near the middle of the night. Jon had volunteered to watch you for the night at first, take care of you and be there to inform Luwin if anything changed in your condition. It was likely about time he should check up on Jon as he promised, make sure he hadn’t either fallen asleep or wanted to go to bed. The door was still wide open as it was when they all left the room, and no sounds were heard still but the fire crackling the closer he got.

Peeking first around the corner, he saw you. Just the same, laying still in bed as your skin flushed with the fever riddling your blood with heat. The window shutters had been pulled open, cool air from the night flowing in to hopefully cool you off. He could see the pail with a cloth sat nearby, there to run over your skin gently to also ease the fever’s effect on you as Luwin suggested. Every now and then a cough would leave you, making Ned stiffen more on edge until you settled back into your ill sleep as still as before once more.

The only thing that had changed, was his son.

Jon had looked concerned before, they all had. The little girl new to their home that day had fallen ill right in front of them, being told she might not make it. Ned was proud of his son for so confidently volunteering to watch over you for the night. Already a sense of responsibility within him to look after those weaker then him. Of course he would though, he had Stark in his blood regardless what his surname was. He was raised exactly how Ned had planned to raise Robb in the same way, there would be no reason to think Jon couldn’t handle it.

But, the Jon he was now watching from the doorway was not exactly the same Jon as he left in the room hours earlier. He had pulled a chair up to the bed, right beside you enough that he could watch your breathing, and that he did. Angled just the right way where Ned could see him, but Jons focus had him distracted enough that he couldn’t quite see through his side vision with his thick, black curls in the way, his father watching him watching you.

His eyes an intense grey. The Starks always had eyes that bled from blue to grey, and with Catelyn’s eyes being blue, it made Robbs blue eyes contrast much against Jons grey ones. Ned had blue eyes, his brother Benjen had a blue-ish grey tint in his own, but Ned knew what grey Jon inherited those eyes from.

He could recall what Lyanna looked like at this age so vividly, and now it was like looking back into his own memories. Her own hair still curly but a bit more on the wavy side, he knew Jons curls at least had certainly come from the Stark side of his blood. Robbs were much the same, only his more brown and auburn to match both he and Catelyn, whereas Jon had not just Lyanna’s grey eyes, but her black hair too.

Both their faces soft and eyes wide and bright, he was so much like her in so many ways at this age. Some days, Ned would find himself alone down in the crypts in front of the statue of his sister. All Starks were buried down there, but it was only Kings and Lords which had statues built. When the war was over, Ned did not hesitate to have statues built for his father and brother, the Lord and the heir, it made sense. But he didn’t bring two bodies home. He brought three. And it was the third which was the contentious choice. Building Lyanna Stark a statue where she was buried, and Ned had hoped to bury with her, all the pain he came home with.

For a while, it worked. His life so drastically different when he came home. He was now the Lord of Winterfell, and he had a wife and two sons. He had a lot to adjust to, so it was as if grief did not have time to come. Not that grief hadn’t plagued Ned long before now.

The strongest of Neds grief that he buried, came from that room. That room smelling so thick of blood that in his memory it felt like the blood was everywhere, not just in that bed. There were no words to describe his feelings when he pushed that door open. That day in Dorne. His sister barley able to move, in a bed soaked in her blood as she was pale and flush just like you lay in bed looking now, only without the blood and hopefully never would be.

Ned never had to connect the dots together, his mind knew right away what he was looking at. Rhaegar Targaryean had not even entered the war he caused until many months in, and now, Ned knew why. But, Ned had buried that memory in her tomb. He had buried that horror so that he could move on and do what needed to be done. But, there had come a time where it was undeniable.

Lyanna had looked so much like her brothers that no one ever even had an inkling of reason to question it, thats why it worked so perfectly. His fears that Jon would not look like Lyanna for long were eased, but then replaced with a strange feeling of watching the ghost of his sister, in her own son. He looked like her, and in many ways, he acted just like the best parts of her. It was supposed to bring Ned comfort, that the son that became his, was just like his mother.

That was the son he left to watch over you, but it wasn’t that son he returned to. And thats what had Ned stuck in the door frame with tense eyes. It was not Lyanna’s son he returned to, nor was it his own son he chose himself. Instead, Ned realized then, he was watching his son.

The intense and overpowering look of Rhaegar Targaryeans stare as he gifted the crown of love and beauty to Lyanna, that day of the tourney of Harrenhal, it was that exact look Jon held now, but watching you. He didn’t blink, nor move. A hole could be burned into you should such a thing be possible the way Jon watched you. As if Jon had become obsessed with the concept of not looking away.

Ned wasn’t even certain Jon understood why he was feeling the way he was. At first, it was simply...cute. He had spotted the way Jon did a double take looking at you the first time across the yard and he knew instantly his son had a crush. He was smart, so no doubt by now Jon likely understood he liked you in some way, but Ned knew Jon wouldn’t understand why he felt so obsessed so quickly, or at all.

Jon did not have Rhaegar’s eyes, nor hair, nor anything else about him that mattered, but Jon did watch you with an obsession only Rhaegar could’ve passed onto him. Did it worry Ned? He wasn’t sure. Jon was his son now, and he wanted to make sure he was raised with as best of a chance as he could bet, but this was something Ned didn’t know how to prevent. Taking a slow step into the room, the creak in the door finally snapped Jons trance away from you and whipped his head around to catch the sight that startled him.

A hand reaching out to grasp at the back of the chair had eased as Jon saw only his father, relaxing somewhat before turning right back to you. Coming up behind, Ned rested one hand on the back of the chair just as Jon had. “How is she?”

His sons voice was tight, controlled, as if not saying anything he hadn’t previously rehearsed to say. “No better, but she hasn’t gotten any worse.” He only nodded, looking up to you as well.

As young and small as you looked awake, you looked even smaller and younger now. Only two years younger then his sons, but you were considerably shorter and petite as if you had never quite matured into the growth most girls your age begun to experience. The green in your now closed eyes reminded him so strongly of the ones he knew for years on Robert, and the hair just the same as well. Dark and thick like all Baratheons and very long. You had arrived almost too innocent for the North, in your gently fur lined boots that were dyed in a pastel sort of pink to match the gentle, high pitched but shy voice that came from you.

Ned could understand what about you had Jon so smitten right away, his younger son much more sensitive to his strong emotions, Ned had no doubt Jon was feeling something incredibly protective about you. A small, innocent girl in what they all loved but knew was a rough and cold place.

Jon didn’t look tired, but he suggested it anyways, letting the hand on the chair sit on Jons shoulder. “How about you go to bed, get some rest while I watch her.”

It was not Ned nor Lyanna within him that answered. But a stern, short, and almost angry, “No.” Until Jon himself seemed to realize what he said and how, confused as to why he even responded that way, Jon almost shook the emotion off his clothes and changed tones looking back to his father with remorse. “I only meant, I’m not tired. I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyways, so I might as well stay here.”

Looking between Jons gaze intense as it returned to you, then looking himself to your still terribly ill self asleep, Ned nodded. A pat on Jons shoulder more firmly so he felt it and hopefully elicited some degree of comfort from it. “Alright, only if you’re sure.” Affirming he was, Neds brows narrowed for a moment as he watched Jon. His gaze unblinking towards you, before beginning to move. “I’ll have Robb come check on you again when he wakes.”

Jon didn’t really respond, nor did Ned at that point expect him too. It took him a few moments longer to leave the room entirely, turning back more then once again to affirm what he was looking at, and still, he saw none of himself, and none of Lyanna in the way Jon was watching you. It wasn’t quite fear running through him, but moreso a concern. Ned was confident in how he was raising his son, but he could not deny what, or who, was really in his blood nor did he have a clue how much influence that was truly to have going forward.

Ned hoped you lived for many strong reasons, but one of them certainly being he knew Jon would not at all take it well if you didn’t make it. The Rhaegar in him latched onto you stronger and quicker then could’ve possibly imagined. But it only made his thoughts drift.

He should’ve been asleep, Catelyn herself asleep and warm in his arms, Ned only laid awake, looking up at the darkness of the ceiling as he thought. How much Rhaegar must have obsessed in the year between seeing Lyanna, and taking her. And how much in that year he must have planned exactly how to do it, how and when to take her. But he refused to linger on the thought. He had told himself never to let those worries come back.

Jon was his son and that was the end of it. He wouldn’t fear his sons secret for as long as he could.

But, more then a moon had passed since that night, and now his concerns were vastly different. Time had told his answer, and he had little to worry about. Jon felt the way he felt, and Ned knew it. If Jon still was obsessing over you, he didn’t show nor act like it so openly. He was protective, but he also had been the first to truly pull you out of your shy shell, and he was also simply enjoying having a new friend that wasn’t just Robb.

Robb though seemed to be the subject of ire as the two of you stumbled into the room just as food was being served. Catelyn had been of great help getting you clothes more suited to the cold, a thicker hooded cloak wrapped completely around you and clasped close at the front, stitched together in fabric of whites and light blues you seemed to like the most. You looked like you fit in more as you acted like it now.

Holding something back and high in his hand, a paper of sort as you followed in shouting his name. Neither of you even paying attention to Ned now watching with a bemused stare. Robb played as if he was to hand it to you, only as your outstretched arm came close he snatched his back and away high and behind where you couldn’t reach. Your face scrunched into a scowl Ned recalled so vividly many times on Robert himself. “Robb, I said to give that back.”

Your shout however, needed some work. It had that Baratheon potential, but coming out of such a small, high pitched and innocent voice did not intimidate Robb in the slightest. Only pulling a mischievous grin from him. “Aye, you did. But not politely.” Judging by the rough exhale you gave, you both had likely been at this for some time. Robb no doubt playing word games just to try and trip you up and refuse to give you whatever he was holding.

Tried to quickly move around to snatch it, Robb ducked and spun without needing to think. Reflexes learned in the training yard no doubt. He did it a second time, your back now to the hall you came in from. “You can’t keep my things from me forever.”

Ned could hear the grin in Robbs voice as you crossed your arms. “Not forever, just until you beg me.” All but hissing out that you already said you would never do that, Robb only pulled his arm to his side and waved the scrolled up paper in the air to mock you. “Then you’re never getting this.”

Jon had barley turned the corner into the hall when you spun around with an accusatory tone, not even taking Jon off guard as a smirk tried to shine in his eyes. Flickering his gaze beyond you for only a moment as he spared a glance to Robb, something silent being said between them before his grey eyes turned back down to you as you continued. “This is your fault. You said you wouldn’t do this again.”

Jons answer was short and rather amused of himself. “I didn’t, Robb took it this time.”

Muttering under your breath, “No thanks to you.” As you turned away from him, a glare still peeled onto your face as you looked at Robb. “I’m not begging this time.”

Looking at Jon, Robb was just as amused with himself. “Then we’ll just have to read it ourselves, see what terrible secrets you’re trying to hide.” Suddenly moving with more panic you tried to snatch it again, only for Robb to toss it over your head and reach behind to you to Jon. Spinning around you looked between them as Jon rolled it open, your hands suddenly wringing together as you stopped fighting.

Muttering under his breath, Jon went from curious and bemused to softening his gaze and looking towards you. A look that Ned knew had never been given to anyone else that soft. Suddenly looking away a bit more vulnerable, you crossed your arms with a mutter, embarrassed. “I told you I didn’t want anyone to know.”

Jon didn’t say anything about it, only looking at Robb with something imploring him to stop as he handed it back to you gently, and without any ulterior, mischievous motives behind it. “Sorry.” He sounded more ashamed of himself, and genuinely remorseful as he watched you snatch it and roll it back up before hiding it away on your person.

Finally speaking up, Ned made his presence more known as all three of you spun in place at the sound of his voice. “Alright, lads that’s enough. Leave her be.” A look was given towards the both of them from you, before a small smile of gratitude came over you, nodding back you gave a small polite curtsy in place before scurrying off no doubt to finally read what had come for you in the safety of your chambers.

Nudging both his sons up towards the main table, a smirk came over him as he rounded the other side to where the two of them always sat, asking what exactly happened this time. Both looked at the other, likely trying to figure out which one of them was going to fess up, but Robb took the dive first. “Luwin said a raven came for her, and she seemed excited so we got curious.” Leaning forward with a raise of his voice as if to implore his father to understand the dire nature of the situation. “But father, she wouldn’t tell us what was in it we had to know.”

Ned kept calm and his bemusement to himself, allowing a tone of a more stern nature. “And the only way to learn that was to steal it from her?” Instantly Robb said that was Jons idea, who refuted it right away only for a childish argument to break out before he held a hand out as if to wave them into a silence, which they fell into right away. “You two wouldn’t like if it she read your secret letters would you?” Neither said anything but he could read the guilt on their faces as he eased up a little. “She’s younger then you both, remember. And more sheltered. It may seem like she’s having fun when you tease her, but she isn’t used to being around other children like that. Go easy on her. You’ve only just gotten her to start warming up to us.”

The guilt on Jons face was tenfold, swallowing roughly the weight in his throat as Ned knew Jon had put a lot of work into making you feel more comfortable. Always trying to include you in things he and Robb did together, so that you understood you were welcome around both of them. He liked teasing you, but then there had been days like that day where Ned suspected Jon might have pushed it too far and you hadn’t really vocalized it.

Ned met his sons gaze for a moment before flickering to Robbs. “Alright, lecture’s over.” Gesturing for both of them to start eating. It didn’t suprise Ned that you hadn’t returned, spotting you a little while later in between something had you doing in the afternoon by the kitchens. The cooks loved you, a small, polite little girl quietly asking if there was something she could eat as if she wasn’t a highborn girl in the royal family who could have whatever she wanted, whenever.

It was around that same time Ned had made his way to his study, paper after paper he had piles of things to go over when Jon had slipped in the door, “Jon.”

Nervous looking his wide eyes glanced behind him before asking in a more quiet tone, “I wanted to ask you something.” Nodding him in, Jon closed the door behind him before making his way to the seat in front of his fathers desk. It took Jon a good few moments to come up with the right words, but he was patient with him to get there on his own. “I needed advice.” Ned only raising a brow slightly as to prompt Jon to keep going, which he did, slowly, and a bit embarrassed if he wasn’t mistaken. “On what to get someone...for their Nameday.”

Facial expression not moving, Ned knew better then to rub any of it in Jons face yet. But, he knew what he was really asking. Putting the quill down, he leaned his forearms across the desk clasping them in front of him with a knowing look. “Is this someone a girl?”

Jon didn’t meet his eyes at all. Only looking to nothing in particular off to the side before nodding. That time, he could see his son try not to sink into his chair as Ned chuckled. He couldn’t help it, Jon was nervous about many things but not so outright like this, and never about a girl. Robb recently had come to the point where he was more understanding he was finding girls pretty, but Jons situation was different. He knew it might take him longer to come to any sort of crush let alone romantic involvement with a girl, a lot to hold him back if not in how they look at him, but how he sees himself. But months ago Ned could’ve firmly said this wasn’t who he was expecting Jons first crush to be.

Asking how well he knew this girl, keeping it vague for Jons sake, he mumbled, “Well enough.” Ned kept asking questions, what does she like to do, but Jons answer was frustrated as he clearly thought of it himself. “Nothing that I can give her anything for. And none of it is anything we could do thats special, she does all those things already.” If Jon realized his father knew who he was talking about, he kept it as vague as Ned was.

Thinking it over, not wanting to tip Jon off to who he knew this was, he tried to keep it discreet in how he said it. “Well, it doesn’t need to be anything grand. I’m sure she’ll be happy with a small gesture.” Asking like what, Ned didn’t know why he said it. He once would pale at the memory of them let alone the sight of them, but the splitting image sitting right in front of him made Ned connect it together. As if wanting to rectify it.

Blood coated them last time, so give her son a chance to find a new use for them without that. They grew them exclusively in the Glass Gardens, the Winterfell blue roses. They had been Lyanna’s favourite, and they were something he knew they did not have in the south, let alone Dragonstone. It would be a small gift unique to welcoming her here without being abrasive.

He could see Jon considering it, wanting it to be the right thing and not overbearing. He tried not to think of the second image that he dared not suggest. Collecting flowers and roses weaved into a crown. No, Ned couldn’t make that comparison. It wasn’t the same thing. No matter how much part of Neds mind was trying to tell him it might be. Jon was not a danger to you, and he was only a boy. It was only a gift for your Nameday, it wasn’t anything to linger on.

Ned however, did recall that only a day or so later, he had passed by your chambers with the door still open. And in a vase by your window sill, sat a collection of blue winter roses tied nicely together with a matching blue ribbon as they sat flourishing in water. When they saw their end, you didn’t keep replacing with the same thing, but you kept the vase there and as long as the guest chambers were yours, a vase sat on that window sill with flowers in them. All because your first Nameday here, Jon gave you some as a gift, when you had wanted to hide it.

Everytime you arrived in Winterfell afterwards, flowers too already sat in the vase ready for you and Ned knew instantly that Jon was the one who went out of his way to put them there for you.

It wasn’t much of a mystery. Not to Ned at least.

He felt like he said it to himself a lot, but it was true. Were he anyone else’s son, he might have worried more. But, he trusted him. To a certain degree. If he fully trusted him, he wouldn’t have gotten out of bed and dressed to do this. Though, not that he could entirely blame his son for what was the thing which he gave Ned reasons to lack trust.

Jon was fourteen now, still just a boy, but as far as the journey from boy to man went, boys at fourteen certainly acted and felt like they were already men. It felt as if manhood had hit Jon fast, as if he woke up one day and the gods did the work in a short amount that time hadn’t. It was one of the few things that both boys knew Jon had over Robb, Robb only just getting out of that phase where a boys voice deepens to man, and cracks sometimes came out that were always embarrassing no matter how used to it they thought they were.

Unlike Robbs long frustrations though, Jons voice only went through that for a few weeks at best before settling on his voice now. Still a ways to go in other ways, but likely as deep as it was going to get. If Jon had any doubt how much he truly was of the North, anytime he spoke it would be a reminder. His voice deep, but too the accent of many Northerners was thick in his. Were he interested in any of them that way, Jon could’ve had many girls around swooning for it. It was the kind of deep voice that reminded him of Brandon, women certainly always loved Brandons deep accent, especially whenever they were south, all the southern girls would drape themselves on his arm just to hear him talk, and he’d smugly let them.

Jon wasn’t like that, he wasn’t even sure he thought about his voice whatsoever in that way. Like Ned had said, Jon wasn’t interested in girls. Just one girl.

The crush hadn’t gone away, and in fact, it was only getting stronger. Ned knew that for years, it was innocent. A child’s crush on a child, but fourteen with his emotions raging and changes more on the way that Ned knew too well, Jons crush was going to get serious if it didn’t fade away now. It didn’t help that you were slow to develop.

Two years younger, and only having just turned twelve, you were still short. Taller then before, but still much shorter then what he knew the other Baratheons to have grown into, and you were still rather scrawny. Still clearly a girl in many ways, but too did it not help that your face was more mature. You looked in your eyes older then you were and you spoke and acted older then you were and that was not going to help.

Catelyn had been trying to figure out how much you knew about what happens to you as a girl when you begun to mature, but you seemed rather innocent. She had confessed to Ned one evening, that she wasn’t even sure you actually even knew what sex was yet. He pointed out you knew what a womans moonblood was and what it meant but not how the process before worked? She was dismayed at whomever was giving you your education on Dragonstone about yourself and what to expect as a woman, they didn’t seem to be doing a good job.

But, Jon was much more mature now. Taller, getting bigger as the more he and Robb trained the more muscle it build, his face simply much more mature now and no doubt both his sons would soon have facial hair all but appear in the middle of the night and never look back as all Stark men Ned had known in his life, including himself. Jon was teetering on a period of time in which his feelings were going to change if they stayed towards you, and become likely too, much more physical.

Ned didn’t yet know how worried that should’ve made him or not.

It wasn’t as if Ned didn’t trust Jon not to do anything, but more he wanted to keep an eye on things. Gauge where Jon was really at in his feelings when alone with you, or thinking he is, and how comfortable you were with Jon at this point. He didn’t know exactly what to expect. He knew you and Jon had been sneaking out of bed for nearly three weeks now every single night after everyone went to bed, but he didn’t know what for.

Just a scratch in his head, knowing a truth no one else did, that maybe he should check to see if Jon was even ready to be trusted being alone with you every single night, when no one was around. He had many places he checked until he had nowhere else to go but outside the castle itself. He preyed that you both were at least not being so foolish you’d leave the castle walls completely, but the gates were closed and both your horses were still in the stables.

It wasn’t until he neared the training yard when he heard it. Jons voice came first, speaking in a stern but soothing nature as he spoke to you. Right away, Ned knew what you two were really doing out here, and it made him smile. If he could look towards the crypts at that moment, he would have told Lyanna that Jon certainly was her son all right.

He had always said that were their father to allow it, Lyanna would’ve been likely to carry a sword with her, and it seemed Jon was not too far from that idea towards yourself. He recognized instructions right away coming from Jons more serious tone. “You’re having trouble because you’re trying to fight like everyone else.” Asking what you were supposed to do otherwise, Ned paused for a moment to listen to what his son had to say next, and was not disappointed. “Most men all fight the same way, learn the same way. You need to know how to fight around them, not against them.”

Walking slowly, Ned turned the corner just enough to lean against a wall as the two of you came into view. Jon looked natural in the training yard, but you seemed a bit out of place. Like you were growing more comfortable there, but still not as sure as others would be. Both of your sides were to Ned, thus far either of you risking being seen by him. Wanting to watch patiently to see how Jon played this out, if this is what had been going on for the past weeks, he wanted to see how Jon had done to teach you.

Jon circled around you, both of you holding a training sword, one easily held in his hand as his other gestured as much as the pointed end of the sword did as he spoke. “You’re not stronger then me, nor will you ever be. Meaning you won’t ever overpower any man bigger then you.” Your eyes followed as you stood obediently sill, Jon moving with more intent. “They’ll always think they have the advantage, which means to gain it back, you need to be-”

The lesson was a hands on one it seemed. Jon suddenly moving the sword at your back, only for you to pivot in place with both hands holding your own as you blocked. Jon stopping the dull blade from colliding just inches away from yours as you both stared at the other with sharp and bemused eyes, as you answered for him. “Quicker?”

He nodded once, and Ned couldn’t help but give a smile. It was without a doubt that Jon enjoyed teaching you, that, and getting this kind of alone time with you when it was difficult to come by uninterrupted during the day must have been a rare treat. “Exactly.” Standing more up, Jon begun to circle back the way he came as he continued, you now standing more at the ready not knowing when he might try and strike again. “Which means you need to focus on how they’re moving a lot more then how you’re moving. Most of what you’ll do will have to rely on your instincts, so we have to build those first.”

Shifting to stand across from you much like a sparring partner, Jon only hesitated for a moment. Gesturing to your hands holding the sword, “Stop using both hands.” Taking you off guard for a moment, you stood straighter with a question in your eyes as he elaborated with a small knowing smirk. “You’ve been using both hands to compensate that your right isn’t strong enough to hold it on its own. Your sword is lighter, you’ll do better using just your strong hand.” Asking how he would know that, Jon said it as if pointing out the obvious. “Because I know you always try to hide that you’re left handed.”

Ned shook his head a little, the degree to which Jon must pay attention to you at near all times to have known that, when Ned had known and worked with you for just as long and hadn’t noticed that yet himself. With a pause and a flat expression, you slowly shifted the sparring sword to what looked much more of a comfortable grip alone in your left hand. “Are you sure about this?”

You sounded a tad hesitant, not doubtful of Jons instruction but perhaps within your own ability, but the sentiment was not shared. “I’ve been out here every day since I was old enough to hold a stick, trust me. I know.” He didn’t even need elaborating any further, he may have payed such close attention to you, but you trusted Jon without second thought. “Now, show me your stance.”

Instantly, a teacher of sort came through once again as Ned watched Jon look you over carefully. Nudging at your legs to shift or at your back to straighten until you were in the exact right position. He must have established a routine, getting into position himself, Jon didn’t need to give you instructions, assuming you were doing the same as you had before, but from the sounds of it, a bit more detail then before, whatever he had been saying.

It took you off guard, how much faster Jon must have come at you then nights previous. Barley managing to push back, but he kept coming. Jon in the training yard had always been something to watch.

He gauged himself up against Robb constantly, he still did. And never gave himself the credit for what he was better at, only ever wishing he were better then Robb at what Robb just so happened to excel at. It had irked a young Robb to no end that Jon was the better shot between them though. A marksmen at ten, Jon always had a good eye and he had the quiet patience for it as well. When bringing the boys out hunting, Jon was always the one he could send alone up ahead to scout knowing he would sit in waiting as long as he needed and not get impatient.

But, his sword fighting was interesting and he didn’t really know where it came from. In comparison to women, there was not a lot men could do which ever would be described as graceful, but Jon fought with a graceful style. He could fly across the field like a dancer would a ballroom floor, but with a sword in his hand. Ned had no doubt, it was that uniqueness that was rubbing off on you.

One hit then another, and Ned without thought had moved a step forward the second he watched Jon with a mighty strength disorient you and send you down onto the ground roughly. Training you was one thing, but you were smaller and younger then him, and not experienced or anywhere near as strong. The father in him wanting to lecture Jon to go easy on you, but without doing so, Ned only could watch as you quickly pulled yourself up and back into position without a word or hesitation.

Clearly, this was not the first time Jon didn’t hold back against you, and likely you did not expect it to be the last. He trained you the rough way he and Robb were trained. More then once, Jon would stop mid motion, and gesture to your hands, “Left only.” It was smart, Ned noted. You weren’t as strong and most women who were not large with more bulk like many trained men, had trouble holding something as large and heavy as a broadsword.

Eventually, you gained more of an upper hand as you got used to the way Jon forced you to move quick around him. Thus far working on making you dodge quickly, but easing into getting you to hit back during those quick advantages. More then once Jon blocked you in the nick of time with a knowing look, growing in pride. “Close.” Trying to move more around him, Jon caught you as he used his left hand to lunge forward, grabbing at your sword arm unexpectedly and pulling you close, knocking you off balance as you couldn’t reorient yourself enough to make a move, nor block how swiftly Jon pointed his own right at your abdomen with a grin. “That one you didn’t even try.”

He grinned brightly at you, your own narrowing with a glint of both bemusement and determination as you both pushed off the other. Almost trying to take you off guard with more aggression, Jon went to either grab you or knock you down, but instead with a grace of your own used the advantage to duck under his arm with a spin quick enough that Jon barley had the time to block, both the training swords hitting the other with a clang.

Then, it was free to go at the other more and more. Finally deciding that it was both late enough, and that you were both getting aggressive to the point that it might be difficult to explain the marks Jon was going to leave on you if you wanted to keep it a secret.

Stepping into the yard, you spotted him first as Jons back was to him. Your eyes went wide as your stance dropped right away. Jon turned instantly and too a heavy shock sat in him, but whereas Jons turned almost to disappointment, yours behind him turned to guilt. “Father-”

Cutting Jon off with his own amusement, but his face not quite giving it away, Ned looked between you both. “At least I didn’t find you two doing anything else out here this late.” Jon refused to give anything away, but there was a tenseness in his grey eyes that spoke all Ned needed to know. Jon wouldn’t do it, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t part of his mind that hadn’t thought of that long since starting this. You on the other hand, didn’t have a clue what he was insinuating and both of them knew it.

You spoke up though, voice urgent and desperate and higher pitched with a worry as you tried to take the blame. “My lord, it was- Jon was only doing what I asked, it was my idea.” Ned knew that wasn’t true, and he knew Jon could tell Ned was fully aware of it. Brief eye contact saying all that needed to be said as Jon didn’t speak up against you while you were trying.

Saying your name with a softness, you didn’t seem to detect yet that you weren’t in trouble. “It’s about time you go inside to bed.” You got only a step or two towards the displays when Jon turned. Mumbling that he’d put it all away. An excuse to catch your eye, trying to apologize in his gaze but you only grew more upset. Thinking no doubt you had just gotten him into trouble, and you hated that. Walking swiftly away from them into the castle, they watched until you disappeared for Jon to turn and start cleaning the area up.

Not yet looking at his father, but Ned walked over to him regardless. Letting the silence sit between them, knowing Jon would need that breather to gather his thoughts a bit. He wasn’t going to make Jon drag out the truth, that he was doing this as an excuse to spend time alone with you. He let Jon find another excuse that didn’t insinuate the feelings Ned always knew Jon had always been hiding.

His voice a deeper mumble, barley meeting his fathers eyes when he turned around to face him. “It wasn’t her idea. She was just curious about sword fighting..and I offered to teach her.” Only asking how long, Jon was at least honest and gave the answer Ned already knew. “Almost three weeks. We started a little after her nameday.” It was prying when he asked, and he knew it but he asked Jon anyways how he thinks you were doing. The smile was instant no matter how quickly Jon tried to cover it up. “Good. She learns fast, could be good at it in some time..if she were allowed to..”

Jon seemed to suspect what you did, that this was the end of it. But, Ned wasn’t about to repeat what he knows whats his fathers mistake. Maybe having a sword wouldn’t have given Lyanna a chance, but maybe it would’ve done something, anything, other then just a fifteen year old girl out alone near the Vale with nothing to defend herself. He knows why his father didn’t let Lyanna learn, but Ned was not his father, not in that way. “Start her off three days a week.” Jons head whipped up in confusion as he elaborated. “We’ll start her in the yard out here with you and Robb three days a week to get her up to speed. You will continue to teach her with Robb to help starting first thing in the morning.”

Jon only looked at him for a moment as the information finally registered. He tried to hold a smile back, but it failed, and it failed further when Ned let himself smile more freely. Nodding towards the castle with a warmer tone, “Now go on. No more late nights for either of you.”

Maybe it was taking away the precious time Jon got to have alone with you, but Ned did not raise his son to woo a girl by knocking her into the dirt in the middle of the night with sparring weapons.

He had known to start paying attention, but not this much.

It had all started a few years prior. A raven arrived from Kings Landing one day, Lord Stannis saying that he was sending you to Winterfell for an unknown period of time, and not to inform you that he is aware why. You were by some definition, a woman now. You had finally bled, and it was discovered by Queen Cersei before anyone else. Thus Stannis had informed that the Queen no doubt planned to wed you off to someone to her own advantage as she had tried very hard over the past few years to get you under her thumb. And that until further notice, he would prefer you stay safe in Winterfell, and reject any and all possibilities of suitors.

You were fourteen by then, hardly a woman yet in truth. You had grown certainly. Having ridden ahead of your escort guards while they brought your things, you had arrived unexpectedly alone. Ned had been up on one of the landings and watched from above the three reactions with curiosity. Naturally, you had caught the attention of all three lads, Robb, Jon, and Theon both. The later not yet realizing who you were, and that there would be no entertaining any flirtation towards you.

To Ned, you were like a daughter to him. You were a sort of daughter to him before he had his own daughters the way that Jon Arryn was a sort of father to him and Robert before he had a son of his own, born only just recently. You were a sort of trial for a girl, and by the time Sansa had been born, Ned was so elated for a little girl that the bells of Winterfell tolled from sun up to sun down. But, he had also been a boy of sixteen or seventeen once. He knew what went through their minds.

Only two years since you had left a short and scrawny girl with a mature face for your age, but those two years had the rest of you catch up. And Ned understood why Stannis said to not allow any suitors to approach you even here, because they would. You had grown much more into your height finally, which you likely were grateful for. His sons had shot up in height in the past years. Theon had been tall since the day he met him, but then he was lean and gangling but he had grown more to fill his stature at least. Luckily you had grown, so you would not be the endless mocking of your short height.

All three of them took a look as you climbed off your horse, that Kings Landing had spoiled you. No longer scrawny, but not large as he had seen Robert growing to be as of recent. No, you were grown in a way that he could tell enticed the most base part of a young mans mind. Ned could tell his boys noticed with that something else on their minds, not that they would act on that. But, none of them could focus on that for long. They had noticed you changed, and not in the way they knew teenage girls could act, but something darker.

You were angrier, smiled less and less and laughed less. Something always seemed to be on your mind or bothering you and no one could get you close enough to the truth to find out. You had been through a lot since you had been here last, but you held a dark cloud over you at all times now and it was noticeable. But, if anything had been established with it, is that you and Jon only grew closer because of it.

So often the two of you when not busy could be found with the other, as if matching in how you carried yourselves a little more quiet and troubled then before. You meant it as no offence to Robb and he didn’t take it as such, but you simply confided in Jon more. It didn’t help his sons feelings though.

Jon was almost seventeen by the time you arrived, whatever childish or even teenage feelings he had were long since gone. He was a man now, and his feelings matched it. He was more protective then before of you, and always seemed to be seeking you out in one way or another. In his worst moments it was your company he craved and it only made those feelings grow and grow.

But, it wasn’t even then that he noticed something. It was some time later, it was when you had returned and reached your seventeenth nameday. Some nights where duties were lax, you would disappear with Theon, Robb, and Jon and he was well aware you four would be drinking. Not that he would interrupt, you were all old enough to handle that and you four never caused any trouble needing intervening with.

Ned had been awake earlier then normal that morning. Much to do and on his mind, Ned had failed to fall back asleep before he simply told himself to not waste time, to get up and be productive. His destination had required passing through the shorter hall which led to Jons bedchambers a bit further off from the rest. At first he assumed like himself, Jon was up early as well.

Only, he was wearing the same clothes as the night before only a bit more ruffled as if he slept in them. He had too been creeping into his room, not quietly leaving. Neds footsteps must have caught Jons attention, having turned around suddenly in silence and a startle as he saw his father. Raising an eyebrow at the scene, Ned could tell without a doubt that Jon was hungover. But, hungover not having come from Robbs room, meaning he didn’t pass out there with his brother.

Again, Ned had been his age. He knew. He knew his son had been drinking late into the night, and fell asleep in your chambers, if not in your bed. There was a guilt in his eye that said it all, caught going into his chambers was all it was but Jon was guilty as if his father sensed he had done something he wasn’t supposed too. Ned knew better though. Jon was many things like a true Stark, but he was not Brandon. He would not so freely go too far with you, not take your maidenhead, and certainly not drunk. But, he could see Jon was scared his father knew about whatever it was you both did that night and Ned knew it couldn’t have been the first time you both did something.

Nodding once at Jon, Jon looked very confused but nodded back. Making his leave to let Jon either get a little more sleep or tend to his hungover state, he knew he had confused him as to what he had meant in catching him. Jon was his son, he trusted him. But, that didn’t mean Ned turned a blind eye.

In fact, he did the opposite. His eyes were more keen to watch you both, especially when you felt eyes were not on you at all. He could see something deeper there, something lingering in your looks together and the air a bit heavier between you both even if you pretended otherwise. There was something you both were trying to pretend wasn’t there, something deeper then two friends.

Almost a miracle it was that no one else had put it together. Jon was worse then you at hiding it, his eyes gave it away. How they were always drawn to you, and not in the way they used to be. No longer was it a yearning, but something that was deeper and more knowing. The way a man looks at a woman when he already had her. In what way, Ned cared not to consider as long as you both understood the limits of what would be appropriate or acceptable.

It was hardly longer after catching Jon that morning did he do the opposite, not even knowing you two had been in there together, he had knocked on his sons door needing him for something. Right away he figured out you were in there, the slight hesitation before his son came to open the door. Jon himself looked normal, put together like nothing went on.

But, it was a little less subtle in you. Nothing out of place, but, perhaps the skirt of your dress a bit more ruffled and off centre and your hair a little less smoothed out and neat then before. You clearly had moved yourself right away to Jons desk to pretend as if you were both simply doing separate things in the same room, but mentioning he needed Jon for something he called to you as well, “You come as well.”

Instantly you had reverted back to something more formal, only trying to smooth your dress and hair out when he had turned to walk out into the corridor. Just a non stop growing tension between both of you that was not awkward but was noticeable. Jon acting just a little bit more soft towards you, his eyes a little bit brighter looking at you. And everytime you came back from Kings Landing, you and Jon were just a bit closer, just a bit softer with the other, and spent just a bit more time alone together without drawing suspicion.

It didn’t feel good, Ned knew why you both were hiding it. Even if it hadn’t occurred to you, it certainly occurred to Jon. You were a Baratheon, a highborn girl and the niece of the King. Jon, was a bastard. And his son knew it would end there. You two couldn’t just freely marry because you wanted too, you couldn’t be public about your feelings for the other. You two hid in the shadows because thats the only place your romance could bloom. And whatever trouble you would get in, Jon would get into more should Stannis hear of it, and as much as he respected the man, Ned was not going to let Jon suffer at his hands just because he fell in love with a girl he knew he shouldn’t have.

You made each other happy, and it made it more tragic. How much better you both were with each other then without, how natural you both worked together and how you both gravitated towards one another without a second thought. Ned wished he could go down to the crypts, tell Lyanna that her son was doing well. That he fell in love, and had a girl all of his own to be with, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t nor would he lie to the memory of his sister about a life her son couldn’t have.

Ned wished he could give it to him, just legitimize him the way Ned knew Jon always wanted and he would be free to marry you as you both wished. But Ned refused to draw attention to Jon. Not from the wrong people, he spent his entire life protecting him from any eyes or attention that could put him in danger and making him a Stark would shine such a bright light onto him that things might be scrutinized that Ned could not hide from such a large amount of masses. Legitimizing Jon, letting him marry you, only to have Robert find out the truth and realize of all people whose son by blood married his own niece? He may as well walk Jon to the Red Keep himself and offer up his head then and there.

Ned was vastly too involved in his children’s lives in ways he wished he never was.

He had found himself that day seeing you and Jon in a moment alone. Nothing happened, nothing he wouldn’t want to see. In fact, it was rather sweet. Seeing his son a way no one but you ever did. Rightly thinking you both were alone in the corridor, save for Ned whom had been in the area for an unusual task needed of him that normally wouldn’t have needed tending to, he just so happened to be in the right place at the right time.

You had been walking in one direction, your mind pre occupied by whatever was running through your head that afternoon as Jon walked in the other direction. Spotting you when you didn’t spot him, Jon had murmured your name as you passed him. Your head shooting up just in time for Jon to yank you back by your arm.

A cry of his own name in surprise and protest came out as he grinned, spinning you in the right manner to keep your back pressed against his chest. Your hands reaching up to grab at his forearms to steady yourself as one of his own slid down to hold at your hip.

Jons voice carried only enough so that Ned could hear him. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

A scoff of a laugh left you as you attempted to turn your head somewhat to get a better angle to speak to him at. “I’ve been busy all day, doing my duties. As you should be.”

Jon only smirked, one hand leaving you to pull loose strands of your hair behind your back before pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “I can balance by duties and spending time with you just fine, darling.” A flush came over you at the term being said so out in the open. Muttering his name, but Jon seemed confident. “I’ve called you that before.”

The fluster still evident in your face. “Not out in the open like that.” Asking with a brighter grin like what, you squirmed in his grasp not letting you go to say it with a mumble, your eyes drifting to the side. “Like I’m the only girl you’d ever call that.”

It was the way that Jon said it, that had Ned feel a tinge of that sadness. “You are the only girl I’d ever call that. You’re my girl, and my only girl.” Muttering his name, Jon turned you to face him, your hands grasping instinctively at the belt around his waist keeping his weapons on him. In return, Jon cupped your cheek with one hand and gently held at the side of your waist with the other. “Don’t start doubting that again.”

Again. A silent hum ran through Ned, the way Jon so easily and naturally reassured you on how he felt, you had clearly expressed doubt before. Wondering if Jon wanted to be with someone openly the way he couldn’t with you. It made Ned feel bad, seeing you both talk quietly with bright eyes and soft smiles, Jon clearly adored you.

There was a love in Jons eyes that was rare for any man to feel for a woman in a lifetime, and there it was in how he felt for you. Parting ways, Jon didn’t push it. Pulling you close with a hand sliding to the back of your neck, he pulled you just close enough to press a kiss to your forehead before pushing you along your way down the hall, a gentle hand guided at your lower back until you were out of his reach.

Ned parted at that point, not wanting Jon to discover and feel guilt at being caught that time so clearly with you in a way that friendship alone would be hard to justify. But it was that interaction that made him feel bad. That something he could do was always out of his reach and probability.

He couldn’t legitimize Jon without shining too much attention onto him, especially from Robert, and he couldn’t just risk your lives or well being by letting a bastard marry the King’s niece. There was so little Ned could actually do to give you both what you deserved. You made Jon happy, and Jon made you happy and it was cruel that Jon was born in a life that did not allow it.

Quill tapping at the edge of the ink bottle, Ned stared blankly at the words on the paper he was supposed to finish as his thoughts travelled. A Stark and a Baratheon would be a powerful couple. It was why his father arranged for Lyanna to marry Robert in the first place. Robert already was the Lord of Storm’s End, and any with a mind for diplomacy knew that whomever had the Storm Lords as their ally, was someone not easily to be trifled with. And having the Starks as your ally was just as powerful, as it always presumed to have the rest of the North to follow.

Were that to even take place, it couldn’t have happened. This between you both. In all cases, Jon wouldn’t even be born. Not even in that world could it be Robb in Jons place, with your families tied before this. In all cases, you’d have long ago been married off to some Lord or heir that wouldn’t treat you the way he could see Jon treated you. Ned had known you since you were a girl, he’d rather you live a romance here in secret with Jon then be miserable nowhere near here with people who didn’t know you well.

But too, there was another angle to it, a stranger one. It wouldn’t just be a Stark and Baratheon. That side of Jon that was hardly there, but Ned couldn’t just ignore in the privacy of his own space. Your tryst with Jon was a union of Stark, Baratheon, and Targaryean. He’d never know it, but Jon in a different life would be even more powerful of an ally to stand at your side then Robb would be.

He wished he could find a way to make it work. He didn’t like the feeling that one day this was going to have to end, that it couldn’t go on forever in secret. He didn’t know when, but it was going to come to an end one day and Ned could only hope it wasn’t painful for you both. But, judging by the way Jon held such a passionate, almost addicted kind of love in his eyes for you, he held out little hope that this would ever end between you both without Jon taking it the worst.

Were his blood not petrifying most emotions with in in that moment, Ned may have passed out from a sudden fear flooding him.

Only days ago did he leave Winterfell. His final parting spoken with Jon at the crossroads of the Kingsroad to where it split off headed towards Castle Black. He had told Jon the truth as close as he could, but with no less heart within it. The he was a Stark, that Jon may not have Ned’s name, but he has his blood. That blood being a son didn’t even matter, Jon was his son, and he was a Stark in what mattered about him the most. Though, he suspected it would take some time if ever for that to truly sink into Jons stubborn head.

The vulnerable way Jon had finally asked, it had been so long that Ned couldn’t even recall how old Jon would’ve been the last he even attempted to ask about his mother, but he felt brave enough that time. Asking if she was alive, if she knew about his life, where he was going, if she cared. He wanted to say yes, of course she did, and of course she knew all about him, but she wasn’t alive, and the why to that question forever kept it a secret in Ned’s mind.

But he made a promise, one he did not even know if he was going to be able to keep one way or another, but that the next time they saw each other, they’d talk about his mother. What Ned would say, he didn’t even know, and he wished he had a better answer for Jon then promises he might not be around to keep. But it was best he could.

And yet with that memory so fresh in his blood, it had disturbed Ned a great deal to hear Robert in a fury sitting across from him. “I’ll kill every Targaryean I get my hands on.”

He knew, oh Ned knew too well. And in a snip of cleverness Robert would never know, Ned simply sat the letter he was shown about Daenerys Targaryean back down onto the table, even though his words sounded like it was about her, it was the grey eyed black haired son headed towards the Wall in his mind. “Well, you can’t get your hands on this one, can you?”

This was why he never legitimized Jon. This is why he knew he had to sacrifice the love you felt for each other to protect him. Jon could think and feel otherwise personally, but Ned wanted Jon to value his life more then an innocent love he felt for you. You were so close to Robert, you were far too much a risk to put Jon anywhere near you meaningfully. And gods forbid you might have had a child if Robert ever found out.

He dared not think back to the sight of the bodies of Elia Martell, of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys in the throne room after being found slaughtered in their royal apartment. What would become of you and Jon, of that child if the wrong person were to find out? Not much could ever match up to the terror of the Targaryeans fire and blood, but a Baratheons fury was the closest thing to it as a man could get.

You and Robb would be happy together, he knew it. He was not worried about you falling for Robb, or he you. In time, when you’d return to Winterfell, you would be properly married and start a family that would be safe. Have a life where neither of you lived in such danger for existing, let alone together. As much as he never wanted to hurt Jon or you by separating you two, the risk at your lives would never be worth it.

Before him, Robert continued. His mind luckily no longer focused on Targaryeans in general but in specifics of plans and opponents like he was always skilled at. Always a warrior at heart and never truly a King despite the crown upon his head. “This Khal Drogo, it’s said he has a hundred thousand men in his hoard.”

Ned though held no patience for such fantasies. His temper slipping through, finished with anger from the previous conversation to frustration for Roberts need to always seek war where it need not exist. “Even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm, as long as they remain on the other side of the Narrow Sea. They have no ships, Robert.”

Robert though, continued along the path. Always planning in his mind for the worst. Much like Ned, much like many of their age, Robert too was stuck in the rebellion. Always waiting for what enemy was to come crawling around the corner. “There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me Usurper. If the Targaryean boy crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the scum will join him.”

From what little over the years had he been told of Viserys Targaryean, Ned did not have much hope that the man was a warrior. Few Targaryeans were ever known as such and most of them had their reputation stained and were seldom recalled only in such glory. The Mad King was no warrior, and neither was his eldest son. Rhaegars final stand at the Trident proved as such, and he could not imagine a life on the run had made Viserys nor Daenerys warriors in any way. They would need more then just their name alone to be a leader, and neither of them had that power. None of the Targaryeans did, not anymore.

And Ned’s words reflected that as such. “He will not cross. And if by chance he does, we’ll throw him back into the sea.”

Robert wasn’t convinced however, not managing to even have a sip of the ale in his mug did he shake his head as his mind brewed with that tension Robert lived in. “There's a war coming, Ned. I don't know when, I don't know who we'll be fighting, but it's coming.”

The only thing was, Ned did not disagree. Between his sons sudden fall, and the perils warned in Lysa’s sudden letter to Catelyn pointing the finger of her husbands sudden death at the Lannisters? Ned knew more then Robert that war was coming, but it wasn’t coming the direction Robert thought it would. It was not coming from across the Narrow Sea, it would be in his own home, in his own family.

Even with Jon safe from whatever it will be at the Wall, Ned could look just beyond the hill they sat under and would see you by the water trying to no doubt get Arya and Sansa to spend time together all three of you as sisters. He thought of Catelyn upset with everyone and her herself, sat at Brans bedside in their home, little Rickon who barley even know anything about the world, and Robb with the coming weight of the world on his shoulders that he didn’t deserve to bare alone.

Robert was right. War was coming. And Ned had a terrible feeling that once again, his family would be struck down as it had been in the war before them.

As soon as he heard your name, Ned had paid closer attention.

The last he saw of you, both of you were being dragged away from one another by the gold cloaks that betrayed him. Sent off to different places in the Black Cells, he knew that your life was in more danger then his even. Ned knew the truth, but so did you, and worse, you were the blood of the one Cersei knew was the true heir. You being allowed to live was a great risk. But, it was not your death which he feared that was the news that was brought to him that day, night, whatever it was.

“Still had such a loyal friend in Ser Barristan Selmy. He helped her flee less then a fortnight ago in the middle of the night.” The relief washing over him, knowing you escaped the city with your life. More enthusiastically as much as he could muster he asked where. “Winterfell, to your son. But they didn’t stay for long. The two of them are now marching south with an army of Northmen. Led by your son. Loyal lad, fighting for his fathers freedom.”

He could imagine it, yet he couldn’t. His son, he and Catelyns firstborn son, now a man leading an army for his sake of all things. He could see it, and he knew his son could do it, but it still was a contrasting image. “Robb? He’s just a boy.”

“Boys have been conquerors before. But the man giving Cersei sleepless nights is the King- the late Kings brother. Lord Stannis has the best claim to the throne. He’s a proven battle commander, and he is utterly without mercy.” Ned stuck to his honour. He knew the truth, he knew Stannis was the rightful heir, and he wouldn’t back down just because it was easier too. And he stated as such, the throne was Stannis’s by right. But Varys only tsked with a disapproval at him. “Sansa pleaded so sweetly for your life, it would be a shame to throw it away.”

Ned didn’t want to hear it. His poor daughter, caught in something she must not understand and yet still came to court in front of everyone to beg for his life to be spared. They had barley spoken in weeks if not months, and yet she still came to beg for him. But this was bigger then one girl, it had to be. The repercussions of what the truth was and what was coming couldn’t be all for nothing for his girls. He couldn’t just let this happen just because Sansa wanted to help him.

But, with nowhere to go, Lord Varys continued. Trying to find reason with Ned. “Cersei is no fool. She knows a tame wolf is of more use to her then a dead one.”

That was where he snapped. The things she had done, that he knew she had done at this point beyond the doubts of a fresh widowed Lysa. Cersei was his enemy. He knew what would happen if he offered her mercy, but he had to. He had seen what became of Elia Martell and her children, how they were wrapped in Lannister cloaks despite being the ones to murder them. How the young Prince Aegons face was so smashed in that he was unrecognizable beyond his clothes and being found next to his dead mother.

How even later then that, Lyanna dying in a bed thousands of miles from home. How she begged him to protect her son, begged him to love him and protect him no matter what. “Promise me, Ned.” That promise never left his mind. He had made many mistakes in his life, including with Jon, but he did what he did to protect him from Robert. If Robert found out about Jon, no matter where he went, Roberts wrath would follow. And so he told that to Cersei, that Robert would not let it go, to protect her children and run while she had the chance.

But she didn’t, because in that conversation she already knew Robert was going to return from the hunt a dead man. He offered her mercy, and she paid that offer of mercy with cruelty. And it was that cruelty that made Ned snap, spitting out with an anger. “You want me to serve the woman who murdered my King, who butchered my men, who crippled my son?”

But Varys too, had also snapped. The least composed he’d ever seen or heard of the man as he yelled down to Ned. “I want you to serve the realm. Tell the queen you will confess your vile treason, tell your son to lay down his sword and proclaim Joffery as the true heir.” Ned only looked away, a seething in his blood at what he was being told to do. To betray everything he’s ever known. Varys only continued to push the knife deeper into that wound. “Cersei knows you as a man of honour. lf you give her the peace she needs, and promise to carry her secret to your grave, l believe she will allow you to take the black and live out your days on the Wall with your brother and your bastard son.”

Jon. How tempting it was. Even for a chance to see him one more time. If Ned could do it all over again, or have that chance, there was so much he wanted to tell him. So much he wanted Jon to know before it was too late. Tell him who his mother truly was, how she had died loving him so much that she begged Ned to protect him. How Ned never saw Jon as any less then his other sons, how he was not lying when he told him he was a Stark.

Robb was older, and his first with Catelyn, but in a way, Jon was his first boy. That wide grey eyed baby that he held in his arms, the only thing that snapped him out of being nearly catatonic after Lyanna had died in front of him. How much fear and worry raising him had at who he’d turn out to be, and how his fear was so wrong. How much Jon was just as much Lyanna as he raised him to also be like himself.

How in an overwhelming fear, with everything coming down around him and Robert right there so close to the son Ned protected him from his whole life, he let that fear get the best of him. And now Jon was at the Wall, no doubt thinking that his father had abandoned him there when it was the opposite. Ned wanted Jon to stay in Winterfell, but Cat wouldn’t have it. Grief stricken from Brans fall, and overwhelmed with Ned agreeing to take Roberts offer, he conceded to letting Jon join the Nights Watch. But it was Winterfell he wanted him in.

Robert had stood at Lyanna’s tomb, looking at her statue saying how she belonged on a hill with the sun and clouds above her. Ned had said a truth, “She was my sister. This is where she belongs.” It was true. She wanted to come home, she wanted to come back to Winterfell even in death, but it wasn’t that alone. Robert had only replied that Lyanna belonged with him, but she didn’t either. Lyanna had belonged in Winterfell, with her son. The son she died for, the son in how few days she had with him, loved him more then a mother could ever hope to love a child. Lyanna belonged in Winterfell with her son, as Jon belonged in Winterfell with his mother.

But it was too late for that. It was too late to go back, too late to make him a true Stark, to let him marry you as soon as he did it so that you both could finally be honest and happy. To give Jon a life he knew he never thought he’d have, and now in the Nights Watch, never would. He wanted to see Jon just one more time to tell him all of it, but he couldn’t.

It was too late to take back a life of being a bastard and an outsider in his own home for Jon, and it was too late for Ned to make it right now that Jon already left most of his family and the woman he loves, behind. Ned had a duty, and he had to do the right thing. It’s what got him through the worst of his life, his duty, what was right, and he had to stick to it now that more then his family alone was at stake.

And he told Varys as such. “You think my life is some precious thing to me? That I would trade my honour for a few more years of..of what?” Varys only watched with wide eyes, seeing Ned Stark speak a truth so few would ever hear him say with such heart and honesty. His head leaned back against the stone wall behind him. “You grew up with actors. You learned their craft and you learned it well. But I grew up with soldiers. I learned how to die a long time ago.”

Pity, Varys said. Such a pity. But just as he was to leave, Varys turned around, and in Ned’s weakness thinking of Jon pulled at the right heartstrings to wake him up. That his love couldn’t be pushed down by his duty, because what was his duty worth if he gave up what he loved most? What did putting them at risk, do for his honour then? And Varys said it in the right moment in just the right way to get Ned to realize what he needed to do.

“What of your daughter’s life, my lord? Is that a precious thing to you?”

It was not the noise nor crowd which he even saw first.

Being brought out into the courtyard from the Sept of Baelor, did Ned first see Baelor’s statue beyond the crowd, and a small girl whom had climbed atop of it. Her eyes met his, and a fear and pain both filled him as Ned and Arya looked at one another. Varys had said she feld and escaped being captured, looking ragged and covered in filth, he didn’t want to think how long it had been that she was in the city alone trying to survive.

There was little he could do, being dragged out limping into the crowd by the guards did the crowd overtake with their emotions around him. Screaming that he was a traitor, and Ned could not even blame them for it. The people only ever knew what the nobility told them, and that is what they were told. The guards kept a firm hold to bring him to the main podium as everyone yelled and crowded around him for his crimes. But it was one face he saw that he knew. He didn’t know him well, but he knew he rode all the way to Kings Landing just to make sure he knew before anyone else. He knew he was someone Benjen trusted.

“Your brother Benjen, his blood runs black. Makes him as much my brother as yours.”

Yoren stood watching, a held back look on his face that seem to if not know but sense the lies around him but wasn’t a man who could do anything about it. But, he could do one thing, if not for Ned himself, then for Benjen. Barely able to get the words out as he passed he tried to yell over the crowd, “Baelor,” The voices so loud but Ned needed him to understand what he meant, and he yelled louder stretching around one last time. “Baelor,” Yoren looked in the statue’s direction, and would no doubt recognize Arya still watching.

The bells still tolling around, Ned was brought up to the podium where they all stood. A look on Petyr Baelish’s face that felt as if it was Brandon he was looking at. As if deep down, this was still all retribution for the duel that day. Brandon was murderd in this very city before Petyr could get his revenge, and so just maybe, this was as good as revenge as he could get. Upon the brother who married Catelyn after.

But it was not that face that stuck with him, it was Sansa’s. He could tell she was desperate with hope, a look as if she had barley spent many hours in the past weeks not crying. A redness in her eyes and a flush in her cheeks but she gave him a soft look and a little smile was if promising him. Promising her father that she truly did beg for his life, that nothing that happened between them before mattered and she promised she had gotten Joffery to promise to show him mercy. But only, if he confessed.

Ned wasn’t going to. This should’ve been more then that, he didn’t want to save his life alone. But Varys had asked him, if his daughters life was worth that cost. Sansa’s, Arya’s, were their lives all precious to him enough to cast his honour aside? As he was moved beyond Cersei and Joffery beside her, he knew that it was precious enough to him.

But as Ned was positioned in the middle of the stage as the crowd was enticed to silence, Ned knew that it was not his own daughters alone that were precious. Ned knew the story being spun that you were the source of this treason, but Ned would not bring you down with him even in name. Because much like how Jon was in his own way, Neds true first son?

Your life was just as precious to Ned, because in your own way, you were really Ned’s first daughter.

So, he spoke for all the crowd to hear. “I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King. I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of Gods and men.” Pausing, he looked to Arya watching, and if he was not mistaken, her hand on Needle as if she could stop this when she shouldn’t even think this was her responsibility to stop. Then looking to Sansa, she nodded for him to trust her. He did, but too that guilt also sat, that she shouldn’t have to have done this for him either. Neither of them deserved this. But, Ned wouldn’t let one more guilt sit within him. He would confess to what Cersei wanted, but he would not drag you with him.

“I betrayed the faith of my King and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son and seize the Throne for myself.” The crowd erupted in more shouts, and something was thrown at him. His leg wounded and burning in pain he stumbled, someone behind him having to steady him on his feet as much as he could. Summoning with all the strength he had, he knew that his duty meant nothing if it put his loved ones in danger by keeping it. So he said the lie they all wanted to hear. “Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the grace of all the Gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

He judged not the crowd for cheering. They all had no reason to think Joffery was otherwise, and they celebrated the traitor for finally admitting as such. Grand Maester Pycelle somewhat beside him, implored the shouting and cheering to silence as he spoke. “As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of Gods and men. The Gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful.” Turning to Joffery, he then asked, “What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?

Varys was right about one thing, it was not Sansa’s pleading alone that was at stake here. Joffery himself stating without manipulation, what too it was Cersei herself had put forth if he confessed. “My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join The Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And My Lady Sansa, has begged mercy for her father.” His voice was clam, but after a pause, it wasn’t any longer. No, it became the very voice that stood up and looked at Ned and you both in the Throne room demanding both of your deaths then and there. “But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your King, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head.”

A flood of something unrecognizable rushed through him, Ned barley turning to look at Joffery before he was shoved down to his knees. The crowed erupted before him, roaring in shouts as he could barley comprehend anything around him. He could barley turn and hear his poor Sansa screaming so desperate in a way he had never heard in his life. He could hear the tears and the desperation clawing at her throat as she yelled begging over and over for them to stop.

But it didn’t matter. Ser Ilyn put on the mask of the Kings Justice, doing Joffery’s sentencing for him and even more of an insult, pulling out Ice to do so. Ned had thought many times since Robert had stepped into Winterfell that this might not end for Ned the hopeful way everyone else thought. He had thought many times in the Black Cells alone he would meet his end, and it was finally time.

An unjust murder of a Stark, in the same city his own father and brother too were murdered, all for trying to do what was right to protect their family. Something was rotten in this city, and he wanted his children, his daughters, to get as far away from it as they could before it was too late for them too. You had already escaped, but in truth, knowing you and Robb both were coming this way to save his life and knowing it would long be too late?

Whatever war continued after him, Ned feared for your lives as well. In a horrible twist of fate, there was only one child he had no fear for any longer. Robert was dead, and Jon was a brother of the Nights Watch. Jon was somehow now, the only child who Ned could die, assured he was safe from this, any of this. He only regretted that Jon would feel abandoned and alone, never understanding why Ned did what he did. Never understanding the degree to which he was always his son, how much Ned truly loved him.

But just as he could not stop Jofferys orders for Sansa now, he could not take back what Jon would never know. Looking forward towards the statue of Baelor, Arya, was no where to be seen. And in his final moment that was all he could’ve hoped for. Not to be here for this.

His head bend downwards of his own volition, words near silent on his lips as he preyed one last time.

[targaryenluvs]

SEE YOU AGAIN

pairings: robb stark x fem!targaryen!reader, platonic!stark family x reader

warnings: none!

a/n: i had only two drafts and this was one of them!! might just get back into got/hotd writing! god this was written a while ago

Within an hour you wound up being introduced to the entire Stark family. You especially liked Ayra, she reminded you of Rhaenyra in certain aspects such as her rebellious behaviour. Although you did have to cover your head with a scarf for the most part, your violet eyes were quite hard to miss. You chalked it up to a birth defect and were introduced as a maiden of the Red Keep, returning home for marriage but also a friend of the Eldest three children.

You yourself had never visited the North before, as your parents had deemed it unworthy of being visited by a Princess. But you found yourself growing fond of the place despite its cold nature.

You had also found Nyraxes huddled in front of a bonfire in a near by cave. Surprisingly she hadn’t torched the entire area and it’s inhabitants. You had wondered how the Starks had managed to tame a dragon.

But at the moment you were more concerned about getting home. As nice as it was to be in the area, you found yourself surprisingly longing for the Red Keep. Currently you found yourself dining with the family, the food seemed foreign, scarcely containing any notable fruit or vegetables but Jon had explained the lack of crop in such harsh times, which you understood. You felt uncomfortable, out of place.

Everyone chatted so freely, everyone knew each other where as you were an outsider in every way. Your gorgeous purple eyes in contrast to the ever so common brown and black, bright, striking silver hair which was no longer covered, compared to red and brown.

“Y/n, who are you marrying my dear?” Catelyn questioned you as the entire table diverted their gaze to you. Your face became hot, especially under Robb’s sharp gaze. “Yes Y/n, who are you betrothed to?” You felt like ripping him a new one, perhaps feeding him to Nyra.

“I’ve returned home for my parents, we’re heading up to Casterly Rock for the wedding, he’s a lord but I doubt you would know of him your grace.” Laughs bellowed out around you, Robb loudest of all.

“Your grace?” Robb cried out. “Hush you all. She has decorum and respect unlike most, why mock her for it? My dear, please, call me Catelyn.”

You nodded.

Ed and Catelyn still didn’t know of your real name, nor your lineage/descent. That much they may have been able to get their heads around but you weren’t so sure they would have opened up their castle to you quite so swiftly if they knew of the, as most royals and small folk would claim, “Beast” in the caves.

You sat at your windowsill looking out onto the courtyard as a someone knocked on your door. “You alright if I come in love?” You allowed him in. “Not the view your used to?” You nodded, “I wish to go home Robb. But if what you say is true how can I? All the Targaryens are gone. My Aemond, ended up dead in battle Above the Gods Eye along with my Uncle Daemon. Aegon, Helaena, Her children, Otto, Rhaenyra, Nyra, Jace, Luke everyone. In the history books and life I am forever known as the Princess who Hid. A coward.” You cried as he sat down and hugged you.

As he soothed you Robb slowly raised you face to him, as he wiped away your tears. “Not everyone.” Your head shot up, “What?” You croaked, “I didn’t finish the book my love. Aenys the mad King has two surviving children. Daenerys and Viserys. Although Viserys passed away a long time ago.”

“A-and Daenerys?” “Alive, and well as it seems. She’s been wed to Khal Drogo seemingly pregnant too as it seems.” Robb swiped a stray hair behind your ear as he leaned in, so did you.

-

You woke up the next morning after Robb as his side of the bed was seemingly empty. You prayed to the old gods and new that no one had heard the two of you yesterday. And if they did that they wouldn’t mention anything it. Everyone had broke their fast earlier on in the day as you had slept longer than usual. You weren’t use to having such lengthy nights of rest but were more than grateful.

After dressing you walked the halls with Arya for a bit before making your way to the courtyard where everyone seemed to have gathered for something, it wasn’t long before Sansa pulled you in front of all the people where the reason for the spectacle (rather reasons) came into view.

Robb was laughing loudly before Jon attacked, blade in hand. Robb swiftly moved to the side away from Jon and used his blade to propel Jon forwards again. As Jon fell Robb raised his sword to his neck.

“And you’re dead.”

Jon laughed, “Perhaps you should become a knight brother.”

They’re laughter stopped as you stepped out, fully dressed in your old clothes and determined. “I take it you’re planning on leaving now?” You smiled and nodded, ��I appreciate your hospitality Robb, Jon. But if I do have surviving family than I must go to them. Thank you, truly.” You spoke as you walked past them, as much as you wished to stay longer you knew you’re descendants needed your help.

So as you mounted your Nyraxes, you couldn’t help but look back at him.

Maybe, you’d see him again.

[branwinged]

I've actually been meaning to ask this so might as well lol, but why are there such different readings on Dany as the exception, or antithesis as you put it and as the culmination or the best of her house especially since it doesn’t split neatly dowm a anti or pro Targaryen stance. I'll see fans who love Dany and even the Targaryens but still think she's the antithesis and fans who hate Dany but still think she's different from the rest of her house. I honestly reads very random to me.

i tried answering this but i'm just not familiar with any antithesis readings of her which are not interpreting 300 years of targaryen history as a reign of a series of bad actors. and like, in a sense, it would also be incorrect to say she's not different from her ancestors. she's using the symbol of her house, of the claim to her ancestors' power, for the dismantling of an oppressive institution in slaver's bay. some of the antithesis readings are probably coming from there. and she's obviously, deliberately written to contrast aerys, who was symbolic of their dynasty in its death throes, having lost all their magic and grandeur—especially through his obsession with wildfire, which aims to mimic dragonfire but is a poor substitute for it. but i don't find much value in criticising the targaryens before her for having used the dragons the way they did—because they were all kings with the priorities of kings, and dany's characterisation follows from theirs, not as a reversal, but as something that builds upon 300 years of history. asoiaf is asking how do you wield power judiciously within an unjust hierarchy, and all the targaryens before her are involved in answering that question. notably, egg, whose formative years spent among the smallfolk made him conscious of his place in that power hierarchy and what responsibility he owed the people because of it. dany follows from there, except grrm also others her in the first book when viserys sells her to drogo. unlike most of her ancestors, dany has experience with dehumanisation. how violence is enacted upon outsiders, those who live on the margins of society, who don't fit normative social codes. but this is true for a number of our pov characters, the ones the series terms "cripples, bastards, and broken things". bran, tyrion, jon, arya, brienne, even sansa (once she becomes a traitor's daughter and no longer fits the perfect image of a chivalric maiden) have all been made familiar with the systemic violence of the world they live in through an act(s) of violence against them, which makes them all especially conscious of prejudices in a way most highborn people in westeros aren't. it's what i said about ned, that his children's heroic tendencies are different from him, which is not a condemnation of ned, simply the narrative transitioning from an older kind of fantasy hero to a new archetype(s). dany too, is inheriting rhaegar's legacy—whose dream of spring had been false, but perhaps this time they'll make it true.

[dipperscavern]

okay so to start, hades being the god of the underworld feels very parallel to cregan being lord of winterfell. i loooove winterfell, but its predominant feature is the snow. snow and winter both have a pretty prevalent media connection with death — which we actually see in asoiaf with how heavily the starks are connected to death (i.e. every stark's storyline being associated with death, either their own or someone elses.) so, if snow/winter mean death then winterfell becomes the underworld! hades governs all aspects of death and afterlife, like cregan 'warden of the north' governs all of the north. hades two symbols are his weapon, the bident, and cerberus; cregan is pretty heavily associated with his weapon, ice, and the symbol of the direwolf for house stark. also, hades is described as being 'not sevil but stern and impartial', which is similar to cregan's description as 'stern and formidable.' (i'm so locked into exams i almost cited my sources for this)

but as far as a hades and persephone thing goes, being cregan's silly little southern wife :3 trying to grow pretty flowers in the desolate frozen courtyard of winterfell. i don't think cregan would abduct his lady, but maybe! maybe he has some weird kind of twisted moral reason! uhh but i just want to be his cutie sunshine wife to contrast his brooding nature. i need to bear his children WHO SAID THAT

also, in my research i came across this picture which is very cregan i fear (but maybe not. maybe its 2010s fairy goth cringe) https://pin.it/2O69SMtru

- chiron anon 🏛️ (i've never watched or read percy jackson, fun fact :3)

you explained everything so well omfg it makes so much sense?!?! ALSO YOU ALMSOT CITING YOUR SOURCES LMAOOO IM GONE U NEED A BREAK

“snow and winter both have a pretty prevalent media connection with death - which we actually see in asoiaf with how heavily the starks are connected to death (i.e. every stark's storyline being associated with death, either their own or someone elses.)”

this is so… oh my god. allow me to nerd out a bit but i can also see the death connection being the others !! the starks have guarded the wall, made of ice (ice & snow go together like mac and cheese), for hundreds of years; have guarded it from death. and, in the asioaf universe, winter a lot of the time is heavily associated with & does mean certain death for those who aren’t prepared for it.

i know we’re talking about hotd rn but on the subject of the starks, their storylines are SO connected to death, ur so right!!! the first scene in the books that we read of the starks is literally them coming across a dead direwolf mother (impaled by. a stag antler) (ok foreshadowing). jon serving in the nights watch and his connection with the others — robb having stories told about him and his killer direwolf, then later dying himself — lady stoneheart — arya calling herself the ghost of harrenhal & her braavos storyline — theon (figuratively) dying and becoming reek, becoming the ghost of winterfell; i could go on but oh god i’ve already said so much forgive me

being cregans silly southern wife :3 you’re maybe even tyrell, coming from highgarden — you love flowers. and uh…. you took my mind to a dark place there with twisted morals cregan. i shan’t. (i also need to give him children) (who said that) (breed me) (WHO IS SPEAKING)

[pumpkinstrawbrew]

dreams of you.

(part 1 ?)

...

(my first *baby* attempt to make a comic-like art. i wanted to try an' tell a lil snippet of a story in like, 2 pages. there is technically supposed to be the second part to it, from bruce’s perspective. but idk, when *if* i will get around to it.

i suppose that this lil thing can be kinda related to this n' that timeline. so it might take place, after the ‘bruce sitting next to jon, when he tripping balls too strongly to be moved’ part, but before jon gets bold an’ steals one of batman’s gloves, bc he’s a lil freak.

this can be considered what came before all of it. the begining of crane slowly becoming obssessed with the bat. mostly since he keeps dreaming things, that he doesn’t think had happened, but they feel like they did. an' considering how he has barely any expirience with those things, it's odd how he can sorta recreate smth like that. smth that feels real. it gives him a food for thoughts. but the sort of thoughts, you can't really do much with.

while i think of btas crane as more emotionally detached / apathetic person, it’s feels natural for him to begin clinging to that one person, he seemingly has ‘connection’ with. even if said connection can be just a wishful thinking, a dream that he had under influence of ft. but for some reason keeps seeing even after he had 'recovered'.

i love to imagine that while irl, he was hallucinating an’ seeing batman as bat-monster, in his dreams, it’s opposite. he sees him as human. an’ he also sees himself to be a bit younger too. almost like it’s a callback to some more vulnerable part of him, that he prefers to forget about or ignore. the show writer’s notes said that jonathan has the same background as his comic counterpart, so he was pretty much bullied an’ isolated as well. but unlike comic!crane, he’s less emotionally volatile an’ more research-driven. but it’s hard to be calculated an’ logical with things, that he doesn’t understand. nightmares, he’s familiar with, those oddly ‘soft’ *in comparison* dreams aren’t smth he knows what to do with. esp bc he doesn’t even know if it’s based on reality or not.

regardless, i find it interesting that btas crane isn’t actually scared of the bat. he mostly view him as annoyance. such a contrast to both comicverse an’ arkhamverse, who are also way more engrossed in whatever confrontation they have with batman, than this particular jonathan.

he needs more time an’ his own trigger, that would kickstart his more personal involment with batman. it will start small an’ slow, but eventually lil flame grow into a forest fire. tho, i think he would handle the realization that he went from indifferent to hyperfixated to obsessed way differently, than his other counterparts too.)

[mariacallous]

As with many a lame-duck president in the past, it feels as if Joe Biden has already left the national stage even though he has a month left in his term.

In his case, that disappearing act is vastly exaggerated by the man who was his predecessor and will be his successor. Donald Trump sucks up every bit of oxygen in the room with his daily outrages – horrifying cabinet choices, transactional friendships with oligarchs, appalling social media posts.

With all the lack of grace we’ve come to expect, he is threatening and bragging his way to inauguration day.

Biden, by contrast, is mostly low-key and taciturn.

One of Barack Obama’s former aides, Jon Lovett, took a sarcastic jab on the Pod Save America podcast: “Joe Biden believes in tradition and institutions, and we should only have one president at a time, and I think it’s a surprising choice to allow it to be Donald Trump.”

Some major news organizations are giving Biden an extra shove into the wings with coverage that emphasizes what we already know: that Biden, at 82, is old and less than vibrant.

A Weary Biden Heads for the Exit, read a headline in the New York Times, with observations, in the newspaper’s own voice, that Biden “looks a little older and a little slower with each passing day”, and that “it is hard to imagine that he seriously thought he could do the world’s most stressful job for another four years.”

The Wall Street Journal reprised its once disparaged and now praised coverage from last spring about the president’s increasing frailty with a story about how staff shored him up and distracted the public and the press: “Aides kept meetings short and controlled access, top advisers acted as go-betweens and public interactions became more scripted.”

But even in this diminished state, and even amid low approval ratings and endless criticism, Biden remains himself to a large extent: decent, optimistic, patriotic and empathetic.

In an extensive video interview published recently by the progressive, independent media organization MeidasTouch Network, Biden sounded cogent and thoughtful as he answered questions from founder Ben Meiselas.

Granted, the interview was non-combative; rather, it was notably tactful and respectful. But it was also substantive, and Biden sounded the familiar notes as he pledged to attend next month’s inauguration and explained why he invited Trump to the White House, despite having often depicted him as a threat to democracy.

“Because it’s who we are as a nation, it’s how we’re supposed to be … ” he said about the peaceful transfer of power. He emphasized his belief in the American people and joked about being what he called “congenitally optimistic”.

I’m not sure I share those rosy views, given the outcome of the election and the way things are unfolding day after day. But that’s vintage Biden.

And as I watched and listened to him answering Meiselas’s questions, I somehow felt nostalgic – yes, nostalgic for a presidency that hasn’t even ended, though it is fading fast.

I couldn’t help but think that – despite all Biden’s well-documented faults and misjudgments (including failing to step away much earlier from the presidential campaign) – this president has done a lot right.

His accomplishments are real, and his decency as a human being is, too.

Some of us, at least, are going to miss him when he’s gone. Even if it seems like that has already happened.