#and it’s a moment where eyrie has it all shoved in their face

[daenerysstormreborn]

After finishing reading AGoT, I have a brand new hope for a way the books may differ from the show. I want to see Sansa snap. I want Sansa to be violent. I want her to get her hands dirty!!

In the show, yes, she’s responsible for the deaths of Ramsey and Littlefinger, but they’re detached kills carried out by someone else. I’d much less likely she’ll kill Ramsey in the books since I know that her marriage to him was a show exclusive, but I wouldn’t mind a bit if she did it on behalf of Jeyne. And I can only hope she kills Littlefinger with her own two hands.

To me, Sansa seems like a character who has believed her whole life that that beauty, politeness, and grace are the keys to her safety. If she can be ladylike, she will be safe. I interpret her desires for Arya to be more of a lady as, at the heart, a desire for her sister to be safe. The songs tell of lovely, happy things, so if she can keep things the way they are in the songs, it will bring safety and happiness and the heroes will win. This is a reasonable conclusion a kid might draw. Kids often fail to recognize what they actually want and misidentify the true sources of their anxiety because they simply lack the self awareness. It wouldn’t be a stretch for a child’s internal, subconsciously narrative to take “the gentle and graceful ladies of the stories are happy and safe” and conclude that “beauty and manners will make a girl happy and safe.” Combine that with a desire for her family to be safe, and it all gets expressed as a desire for Arya to be ladylike. I could imagine that at her core, it’s not politeness that Sansa truly values. She has no reason to care if Arya likes dresses. It’s safety she wants, but she’s a child who doesn’t know how to voice that.

But it seems to me like the books are setting her up to learn that these things, these “feminine” qualities, will not save anyone. To be a lady means nothing. Lady was murdered. And I want her to be ANGRY about it. Angry that she wasted so much time and energy trying to be the perfect image of a noblewoman. And I want her to lash out. I think she definitely has it in her, based on her last chapter in AGoT. She thinks multiple times about wanting to hurt others. She is FURIOUS.

He did not hate her, Sansa realized; neither did he love her. He felt nothing for her at all. She was only a … a thing to him. “No,” she said, rising. She wanted to rage, to hurt him as he’d hurt her,

Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him,

A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, “Maybe my brother will give me your head.”

And my favorite:

All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all.

I can only hope that’s foreshadowing. I hope that, in an impulsive act of violence and rage, she pushes Littlefinger off the Eyrie. Nothing proper or calculated. A simple moment where that madness overtakes her and all the rage she’s had comes out in final shove.

[qtipcottonbuds]

𝙒𝙀𝙏 𝙎𝘼𝙉𝘿, 𝙈𝙊𝙎𝙎-𝘽𝙊𝙍𝙉. [WITH GHOSTFACE]

so, i decided to spilt this request into two parts for the two suggested killers here if that’s okay - and you can find frank’s (the legion) part here - i hope this is okay >:D , i altered this one a little bit too @demonbitterbite

Submitted request - Can I request a dead by daylight reaction for Jake and Leon where the killer keeps chasing the reader and making suggestive comments. Then when killer has them on their shoulder they slap/hold the readers ass. For the request I’d like it with frank or ghost face if possible but I don’t really mind

warnings ;; flirting, explicit language possibly and embarrassment, possible descriptions of gore etc

by qtipcottonbuds 2022. do not repost.

𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗘 𝗫 𝗚𝗡!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥;

Coated in sand particles, just short of the Eyrie of Crows, Jake tries his best to bandage the wound across your lower abdomen, knowing the constant grating of the sand and debris embedded in the gash, had to be hell. You’d crumpled into your front the moment the attack had happened, and Jake grimaces at the recent memory - the shriek you’d let out was unnerving - at least if the Enitity had chosen a realm with a damper climate, it may’ve been easier to have braced the fall.

But, it wasn’t worth reflecting on what could’ve been - he needed to patch you up. You’d already been hooked twice, somehow constantly being targeted by the killer - it was awful. Jake wasn’t entirely sure whether the usage token of Obsession had been activated, but even so, it was never this intense.

As he finishes up tying the makeshift tourniquet into a tight knot, he panics, feeling the familiar thrum of the heartbeat nearby, reverberating in his skull.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

There wasn’t enough time.

You’re still wincing from each pull of your muscles as Jake heaves you from your spot, but, apologies could be said later - using his strength, he shoves you forward, a few meters ahead, into the doorway of the abandoned building.

“Go! Get to the gate, I’ll be right behind you!” he calls out, and you nod in return limping up the staircase.

Preparing himself mentally to take the blow, Jake turns on his heel, ready to shield and loop him around the nearby bookcases. It would be more than enough time for you to vault out across the opposite staircase closest to the exit case-

Yet, as he turns, he notices the killer disregarding him completely; bypassing where Jake had thrown the pallet down in a short lived attempt to stun them, heading up towards the opposite staircase to you; you, who was blindly limping straight towards them.

And Jake can visibly see the panic in your features, knowing there was no other route, other than to keep moving forward, dragging yourself with the aid of the banister to get to the vault point before Ghostface did.

He’s sure that the stitches hidden underneath the bandages were at their limit now, threaded with no proper surgical precision - something to hold the wound together for the meanwhile - but, with the constant pulling and contracting of your muscles, he stares on, fighting the urge to flinch at the way you gasp, so close, only to have your forearms yanked behind you, pinned; and your stomach being jerked into the splintered wood.

Fuck.

Crouching low, Jake slips into a nearby crevice close to the staircase, out of sight.

“That was a bit of a close one, toots.” And, from this angle, Jake can see how near the killer’s mask is pressed up against your earlobe, gloved hands firmly placed around your waist, and the pressure of his chest weighing on top of your back - keeping you securely bent over the banister, still weak from the previous assault.

“That guy, he patched you up nicely too; tell him I said thanks.”

Jake can’t hide his relief of you being caught before toppling over the banister, he’s had the pleasure of experiencing it one too many times. He’s learned though, to keep his wrists tucked to his chest - last time he wasn’t so lucky. But, all the meanwhile, he’s conflicted - why hadn’t the killer hauled you over his shoulder to be hooked; why was the killer stalling?

Watching on, Ghostface continues on, murmuring now, “Gotta be careful. Might not always be around to catch you like this. Huh. Considering our positioning… This would be a good spot for a quickie. You into roleplay? Maybe we could rehearse that routine of, “oh no, I think I might be stuck!” although… a window could be a better alternative. I’ll have a think on it, yeah? Of course with some knifeplay. I know you like it when I use this little, old thing.”

“Danny,” comes out as a hiss.

(Who, who was Danny?)

“Have I ever told you how much I like when you say my name. It’s real cute. Buuuuuut, maybe, can you say it with a bit more emphasis, drawn out, desperate even-”

“Shut up. Just be quiet. Please.”

“How about if you kiss me,” with a brief glance, Jake catches on to the way Ghostface tilts his face to the side, fingertips tapping across his chin, playful, before pointing to his masked lips, “...Right here, I might.”

“You might be quiet?”

“That is what I said, toots.”

A pause.

“Are you bribing me?”

“So, you’re considering kissing me? Cute. And me? Bribe you? What - How could I ever, I’m a good boy, very well behaved if I do say so myself. Especially today. I haven’t hooked you for the final time yet. I was gonna give you the hatch, toots. I ain’t that mean. It’s just a little exchange - a kiss on the… lips for me being quiet, whaddya say?”

Jake attempts to crane his head from behind the eroding staircase he’s positioned behind, with as much leverage he can without being spotted (and resulting in a potential nasty cramp), but he can hardly see the situation playing out - and opts to listen instead waiting for you both to enter his line of sight once more. It’s all he could work with for the time being.

He didn’t understand though, not fully anyway. Since when did Ghostface, or rather killers talk? Could all of them talk? Or was it a select few; and they had names? Human names?

As the dust settles with another creak from the floorboards above, Jake takes one more look, and almost feels guilty for being so nosey.

He observes the way you chastely kiss Ghostface on the plastic covering of his mask, the killer seemingly releasing his hold on you prior, your stomach not digging into the worn banister any longer. 

And, he watches on, once more, at the way Ghostface visibly lights up, more jovial than before - and imitates the miming of a zip-lock across his lips.

Silence.

Maybe that was wishful thinking, Jake muses. It’s only a short few five minutes before the silence is filled once again. You spare the killer a stern glance.

“Oh, c’mon. Whaaaaat? You said to be silent and I was. What's the problem, sunshine?”

“Key word being ‘was.’ And, it was for five minutes. Five.”

“So, you’ve got a wrist watch on you somewhere? Listen, if you remember clearly; you didn’t give me a time limit. Did ya? Huh? And, you like it when I talk, ‘specially when I talk dirty. Y’know, when we were together the other night in the Blood Lodge-”

“And nothing had happened, at the said Blood Lodge-”

“You sure? Huh, toots, I sure don’t remember it that way. I recall you and me-”

Exhaling softly, whether in relief or exhaustion, Jake tunes out, rolling his shoulder and testing the limits.

You’ve left him with more questions than answers - that is if you manage to escape this realm first. For now, he’ll pretend this never happened. Nope. This was just a fever dream he’d just somehow found himself in.

[dragon-fics]

Shruikan's Rider (SR): Prologue: A Broken Bond {Inheritance Cycle fanfic}

Book description: Alys Emmasdaughter is going through the worst pain any Rider can ever go through--her dragon is dying and there is no way to save him.

While she mourns his inevitable death, the Eldunarí at the Dragon Riders' Academy inform her of a dragon who is suffering a similar fate

Alys led her silver steed up the path to the Dragon Rider Academy, high on Mount Arngor. Icy wind skimmed against her bare, almond arms as she focused on the dirt path beneath her. She felt and looked unkept; her frizzy, black hair was like a bird's nest; her clothes torn; and her skin filthy and dotted with scars.

The attack had been unprovoked; all she and her dragon, Ugauc, wanted to do was to visit the Stone of Broken Eggs near Ellesméra.

But that didn't happen.

Several hooded figures had struck them down, all baring spears that glistened with what Alys found out later was Seithr Oil; the product known to be used by the Ra'zac.

Every night, all she heard was Ugauc's cries as spiked nets doused in the erosive liquid dragged him down. The scene played over and over in her head; his cries, the pain, the figures emerging from the night's shadows, and them stabbing him to death as she killed them all with her blade. One by one, they had crumbled to the ground, leaving nothing but their scarlet cloaks behind.

From there, she ran to Ellesméra, seeking the aid of the elves, who insisted on her leaving as soon as Ugauc was stable, saying his recovery would be long and waiting there would render her useless.

But where she was wouldn't matter; without her beloved partner-of-heart-and-mind, she was useless.

Alys paused where she was and looked up, fighting off the tears forming in her eyes—again. It surprised her she had anymore tears to cry after her long journey back. She'd sob as she rode, keen while she ate, and cry as she slept—she was empty without him.

the ball of sadness in her heart was heavy, growing on its own accord throughout the day, causing her to crumble into tears unannounced.

And now was one of those moments.

Alys' throat grew sore and her lip quivered. Why had they done what they did? And why now, of all times, had the sadness grown stronger?

She placed her hands over her eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. The last time she had walked along this path—or rather had to walk along this path—was when she was summoned, six years ago, by Eragon himself to be tested at the age of sixteen. According to the Eldunarí, her dragon Ugauc was the one for her. And they were right.

She wanted to reflect further, to remember his hatching and their training and his personality and how perfect he was, but she'd just end up wailing halfway up a mountain near people who she was supposed to tutor; now wasn't the time to bawl.

Alys continued her breathing, slowly gathering herself and drying off her eyes. "Kausta, Epona," Come, Epona, she said to her elf horse, putting on the bravest of faces she could muster and continuing up the path.

As she climbed, she thought of ways to distract herself; like what to put in the letter to her family for this month, or which eggs were ready to hatch next month; all the while fighting off any memory of a green dragon that emerged in her mind.

Finally, she stood in front of the large, open black-painted steel gates, looking in at the large sandstone courtyard. A few Riders stood about, talking to each other and preparing their dragons for slights.

Again, her sadness swelled.

Not now, she insisted. Don't think about him.

Alys pushed her head up high, pushing back any tears that were read to form and walked through the courtyard, focusing only on the large oak doors in front of her. On one door was a lifelike carving of a dragon, surrounded by fog at its feet with a tongue of fire escaping its maw. It looked down at the figure carving in the opposite door—its rider. The Rider seemed to be neither elf nor human, male nor female. Its features were pointed, like an elf's, yet its build was broader like a human's.

As soon as she reached the door, Alys turned to Epona and removed her belongings—a small pack of food and a book along with a rolled-up blanket. "Elrun ono, fricai," Thank you, friend, she said, stroking Epona's face.

The mare leaned into her touch and backed away before trotting out of the courtyard and out of sight.

Alys drew in a breath, shoving a new pulse of sadness aside and pushing open the varnished door. On the other side, she saw a few students bustling through the hall, with small dragons following them. She swiftly turned to the nearest set of stairs, jogging up to the dormitories.

From the outside, all the dorms looked like the inside of a beehive, openings in the rock connected by balconies and stairs. Each hole was big enough for most dragons to fit through, just like the corridors in the Academy. on the inside, it was nowhere near as intricate-looking, just three levels lined with average-sized doors and a large open balcony on each floor, so the dragons could fly up to the balconies if they couldn't fit through.

Alys loved the layout. It was so simple yet so thoughtful, allowing the dragons and riders to be individual yet have they stay in the stay quarters.

Alys continued her walk to her dorm, slowly opening the door with a quiet creak. She half expected to see Ugauc land on the balcony and make his way towards her, past his nest and her bed and her bookcase overflowing with books to nuzzle her. She closed the door with a quiet click and tossed her stuff onto her bed and looked out through the balcony, holding her arms akimbo and breathing deeply.

Alys shook her head, her sadness growing. A tear fell down her cheek, slowly, as she looked at the bright sun. She looked down at Uguac's nest, a large indent in the stone floor, lined with a thin cushion, littered with green scales and tufts of fur and feathers.

She smiled sadly at it and looked over at the green fragments of Ugauc's dragon egg on her ebony bookshelf. She drifted over to it, picking up the largest piece of the emerald shell, the intact base of the egg, where Ugauc had comfortably sat after he hatched, looking around at the hatchery and his Rider with his curious amber eyes.

Alys sighed sadly, wiping away her tears and swallowing hard, burying the lump in her throat as best as she could. She returned the fragment to its spot and stood back, tears returning to her cheeks again. "I miss you," she whispered.

The heavy flapping of dragon wings came close to her balcony, and a sapphire blue dragon landed on it. Alys looked at her, wiping away her tears. "Hello, Saphira. Eragon," she greeted.

Eragon slid off his saddle, brunette locks bouncing as he landed. His brown eyes softened. "Alys... I got word from the elves as soon as you came to them," he started, coming closer, Saphira following close behind him. "And may I say, I am so, so sorry. I should've sent someone with you." He drew in a breath, smoothing his hair with both hands. "It shouldn't have happened. I promise we'll find out who's responsible."

Alys looked down. "That's thoughtful, Eragon," she said. "But I... I don't think I want to find out; it's not going to change anything."

Eragon paused. "Alys, you can't say that. It's important that someone is held responsible."

She shook her head, fighting off more tears. "I'm sorry. I—I can't do this now," she turned around, holding herself. "Please, let me grieve."

Eragon went to reach for her, but retracted his hand. "I will investigate, to save others." He sighed and glanced at Saphira. "When you're up for it, I'm sure Eldunarí would like your company; they want to talk to you."

Alys nodded dismissively and listened carefully as they left before letting out a choked sob.

*-*-*-*

It took Alys weeks before she could force herself to leave her room to actually talk to people. A few would stop by throughout the day, giving their condolences and offering her the food they had brought. She excepted most of the food but ate little of it.

She plodded her way to the Hall of Colours, keeping her head low as she nibbled on her last apple slice. She ignored everyone that passed, focusing solely on her meeting with the Eldunarí. Finally, she began her climb towards the eyrie—Eragon's sleeping quarters—high in the hold, and at the last stop, he turning into a small side tunnel. She entered the large, disk-like chamber, looking ahead at the many tiered daises that held the array of gleaming Eldunarí. Multi-coloured flecks of light beamed around the room, brightening the cool room immensely.

Alys' mind grazed against the dragons' minds. She found it soothing, feeling their calmness when all she had felt was heartbreak for so long. Her eyes landed on Umaroth's white Eldunarí. He and Glaedr were one of the few she always remembered.

Welcome, Alys-vinr, Umaroth greeted.

Hello, Umaroth and everyone else, she responded, keeping her mind as pain-free as possible. I heard you wanted to talk to me.

Yes, we have some news, Umaroth said elusively.

Alys' heart skipped a beat; could they help Ugauc? Could they save him?

Her joy and thoughts of Ugauc flowed to the Eldunarí.

No, I'm sorry. We cannot help him.

Her heart sank, but she forced herself to push it aside. Pray tell.

We have found a dragon who needs your help, Shur'tugal, Glaedr explained.

Alys sighed, aware they couldn't hear her irritation; she was in the worst shape to help anyone. Though she could admit that she needed a distraction. I appreciate the thought, but I'm not ready to help anyone. I'd only make things worse for them.

You misunderstand, Umaroth stated. This dragon has been without a rider for some time and is lost without them. Please, only you can empathise with him and save him from himself.

[agentrouka-blog]

Hi! When Sansa got her first period she burn the beddings implicating fire n blood. Do you think she will loose her maidenhood to Jon or does it signifies another thing? She has fire n blood imaginary in her chapters.

While I agree in principle that Sansa has more than a few hints that her eventual partner will be a certain trueborn Targaryen (”the dragon’s heir”, Sandor’s cloak stained with fire and blood,...), there is little reason to assume that Jon will come to openly embrace his Targaryen ancestry and actually wrap Sansa in a Targaryen cloak. The cloak remains hidden at the bottom of Sansa’s chest, after all. He is a hidden prince, but he’s the biggest Stark stan of them all and his foreshadowing leans toward remaining an official bastard, if not becoming a Stark outright. So these images already tell us that his true parentage will be steeped in conflict.

And while it’s very likely that Jon will be Sansa’s first (and probably only) Lover,  I actually think that the specific scene you are talking about is not a hint about that. 

(Other things surrounding that scene, though.. I go into much detail further down.)

The scene of Sansa’s first moonblood in ACOK actually mirrors the scene of Dany’s miscarriage in ADWD. It’s all steeped in panic, violence and horror. Not happy imagery for sex. 

Women swarmed over her like weasels, pinching her legs and kicking her in the belly, and someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons. When she woke, the pale light of morning was slanting through her window, yet she felt as sick and achy as if she had not slept at all. There was something sticky on her thighs. When she threw back the blanket and saw the blood, all she could think was that her dream had somehow come true. She remembered the knives inside her, twisting and ripping. She squirmed away in horror, kicking at the sheets and falling to the floor, breathing raggedly, naked, bloodied, and afraid. But as she crouched there, on her hands and knees, understanding came. “No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now. Madness took hold of her. Pulling herself up by the bedpost, she went to the basin and washed between her legs, scrubbing away all the stickiness. By the time she was done, the water was pink with blood. When her maidservants saw it they would know. Then she remembered the bedclothes. She rushed back to the bed and stared in horror at the dark red stain and the tale it told. All she could think was that she had to get rid of it, or else they’d see. She couldn’t let them see, or they’d marry her to Joffrey and make her lay with him. Snatching up her knife, Sansa hacked at the sheet, cutting out the stain. If they ask me about the hole, what will I say? Tears ran down her face. She pulled the torn sheet from the bed, and the stained blanket as well. I’ll have to burn them. She balled up the evidence, stuffed it in the fireplace, drenched it in oil from her bedside lamp, and lit it afire. Then she realized that the blood had soaked through the sheet into the featherbed, so she bundled that up as well, but it was big and cumbersome, hard to move. Sansa could get only half of it into the fire. She was on her knees, struggling to shove the mattress into the flames as thick grey smoke eddied around her and filled the room, when the door burst open and she heard her maid gasp. In the end it took three of them to pull her away. And it was all for nothing. The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were  bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see. (ACOK, Sansa VI)

I mean… “Madness took a hold of her.” And then she gets fire happy. The fire and blood in this scene harkens more of Dany, more of rape, miscarriage, still-birth and death than of anything life-affirming or positive. 

But, to get positive:

There is plenty of Jonsa to be had, though, in the chapter transitions. 

THEON IV -> JON VI -> SANSA IV -> JON VII -> TYRION XII

Jon’s chapter embrace Sansa’s, while he himself is flanked by two of his foils.

Theon IV has this:

Mercy, thought Theon as Luwin dropped back. There’s a bloody trap. Too much and they call you weak, too little and you’re monstrous. Yet the maester had given him good counsel, he knew. His father thought only in terms of conquest, but what good was it to take a kingdom if you could not hold it? Force and fear could carry you only so far. A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame. 

End of chapter:

“Prince Theon,” Maester Luwin entreated, “you will remember your promise? Mercy, you said.” “Mercy was for this morning,” said Theon. It is better to be feared than laughed at. “Before they made me angry.”

A prince of mercy, linked to marrying Sansa and ruling Winterfell, Gotcha. Next up? Jon.

Jon VI chapter opening:

They could see the fire in the night, glimmering against the side of the mountain like a fallen star. It burned redder than the other stars, and did not twinkle, though sometimes it flared up bright and sometimes dwindled down to no more than a distant spark, dull and faint. Half a mile ahead and two thousand feet up, Jon judged, and perfectly placed to see anything moving in the pass below.

You’d think this was referring to Ygritte, who is “kissed by fire” and will later be eulogized as “Well, the hottest fires burn out quickest." But. There are a ton of Sansa-in-the-Eyrie references.

A red fire in the mountains, sometimes bright, sometimes dull, but never twinkling, very high up… 

The wash her aunt had given her changed her own rich auburn into Alayne's burnt brown, but it was seldom long before the red began creeping back at the roots. (AFFC, Alayne I)

The chapter then has Jon climbing up in the mountains with Stonesnake in a way that mirror’s Sansa climbing down the cliffside in her escape from King’s Landing in ASOS, and later her descent from the Eyrie in AFFC. Jon later also climbs the Wall up, while Sansa is only ever described in detail climbing down. These two are destined to meet in the middle at some point.

This is also the chapter where he meets Ygritte (*spits*) who is the hot and dangerous kind of fire. But:

“Fire is life up here,” said Qhorin Halfhand, “but it can be death as well.”

There is more than one kind of fire.

I cannot quote everything here, but the language is just incredibly similar to the Eyrie descriptions.

There were wonders here as well. He had seen sunlight flashing on icy thin waterfalls as they plunged over the lips of sheer stone cliffs, and a mountain meadow full of autumn wildflowers, blue coldsnaps and bright scarlet frostfires and stands of piper’s grass in russet and gold. He had peered down ravines so deep and black they seemed certain to end in some hell, and he had ridden his garron over a wind-eaten bridge of natural stone with nothing but sky to either side. Eagles nested in the heights and came down to hunt the valleys, circling effortlessly on great blue-grey wings that seemed almost part of the sky.

The waterfall screams Alyssa’s Tears while the natural stone bridge references that little stone saddle bridge that is crossed by Catelyn on her way up and by Sansa on her way down. Where she hears the ghost wolf big as mountains.

But back to transitions, end of chapter:

“Do it,” she urged him after a moment. “Bastard. Do it. I can’t stay brave forever.” When the blow did not fall she turned her head to look at him. Jon lowered his sword. “Go,” he muttered. Ygritte stared. “Now,” he said, “before my wits return. Go.” She went.

What does our prince do? Show mercy. Which, of course, does indeed entrap him with the wrong partner.

Followed by Sansa IV: 

This chapter is choked with horrible abusive imagery for Sansa. 

The southern sky was black with smoke. It rose swirling off a hundred distant fires, its sooty fingers smudging out the stars. Across the Blackwater Rush, a line of flame burned nightly from horizon to horizon, while on this side the Imp had fired the whole riverfront: docks and warehouses, homes and brothels, everything outside the city walls.

Even in the Red Keep, the air tasted of ashes. When Sansa found Ser Dontos in the quiet of the godswood, he asked if she’d been crying. “It’s only from the smoke,” she lied. “It looks as though half the kingswood is burning.”

While more destructive fires burn, Sansa is surrounded by false partners, false heroes: Tyrion, Dontos, Littlefinger, the Hound. The smoke hides the stars.

More references to mercy:

The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

That red fire high up and perfectly placed to see anything below?

Turning back to the stair, Sansa climbed. The smoke blotted out the stars and the thin crescent of moon, so the roof was dark and thick with shadows. Yet from here she could see everything: the Red Keep’s tall towers and great cornerforts, the maze of city Streets beyond, to south and west the river running black, the bay to the east, the columns of smoke and cinders, and fires, fires everywhere.

Isn’t this beautifully done??

Sansa encounters the Hound, they discuss the joys (and lack thereof) of killing. (Hint: big contrast to merciful Jon.)

It’s follow by Sansa’s moonblood nightmare night/morning and her panic attack arson reaction. 

This is followed by her breakfast with Cersei where they discuss flowering, childbirth, Robert v. Jaime, Joffrey and love. Emphasis is put on how her brother (ahem, lover, father of her children) showed her devotion in connection to childbirth. Jaime is Cersei’s love. While she denounces the subject to Sansa, she certainly values it for herself.

End of chapter:

Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?” “Everyone wants to be loved.” “I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. “Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”

Followed by: Jon VII. 

(Gotcha, someone heard Sansa wants to be loved, and went me me me, I can be your sweet poison, baby.)

Opening:

It was dark in the Skirling Pass. The great stone flanks of the mountains hid the sun for most of the day, so they rode in shadow, the breath of man and horse steaming in the cold air. Icy fingers of water trickled down from the snowpack above into small frozen pools that cracked and broke beneath the hooves of their garrons. Sometimes they would see a few weeds struggling from some crack in the rock or a splotch of pale lichen, but there was no grass, and they were above the trees now.

More language that straight-up mirrors the Eyrie chapters. Sansa can’t see the stars, Jon can’t see the sun, hidden int he mountains. 

More discussions of mercy. 

“If I had needed her dead, I would have left her with Ebben, or done the thing myself.” “Then why did you command it of me?” “I did not command it. I told you to do what needed to be done, and left you to decide what that would be.” Qhorin stood and slid his longsword back into its scabbard. “When I want a mountain scaled, I call on Stonesnake. Should I need to put an arrow through the eye of some foe across a windy battlefield, I summon Squire Dalbridge. Ebben can make any man give up his secrets. To lead men you must know them, Jon Snow. I know more of you now than I did this morning.” “And if I had slain her?” asked Jon. “She would be dead, and I would know you better than I had before.”

We see who they are by what they do. 

In later chapters: Sansa sings for mercy even for her enemies, treats her enemies (bit for the very worst ones) with compassion and kindness. In ASOS, Ygritte murders an unarmed old man they come upon almost exactly the way Jon came upon her. We’ll just let those two things speak for themselves. 

Jon goes wargy and has a Nightmare of a false partner and a panicky reaction of his own:

As he lifted his eyes to the ice-white mountain heights above, a shadow plummeted out of the sky. A shrill scream split the air. He glimpsed blue-grey pinions spread wide, shutting out the sun . . . “Ghost!” Jon shouted, sitting up. He could still feel the talons, the pain. “Ghost, to me!” Ebben appeared, grabbed him, shook him. “Quiet! You mean to bring the Wildlings down on us? What’s wrong with you, boy?” “A dream,” said Jon feebly. “I was Ghost, I was on the edge of the mountain Looking down on a frozen river, and something attacked me. A bird . . . an eagle, I think . . .” Squire Dalbridge smiled. “It’s always pretty women in my dreams. Would that I dreamed more often.”

Shadows in the sky? Drogon. Dany. Scary. 

They are stalked by the Wildlings, the warg eagle, they cannot escape. Just as Sansa will not be able to escape. The trap Jon laid for himself when he spared Ygritte is slowly moving shut. Mercy, that two-edged sword. 

End of chapter:

When dawn broke, Jon looked up into a cloudless sky and saw a speck moving through the blue. Ebben saw it too, and cursed, but Qhorin told him to be quiet. “Listen.” Jon held his breath, and heard it. Far away and behind them, the call of a hunting horn echoed against the mountains. “And now they come,” said Qhorin.

Bad things are coming. 

Who’s coming? Tyrion XII. 

Tyrion is coming, he won’t know it for a while, but he is coming for Sansa, like Ygritte is coming for Jon.

Chapter opening:

Pod dressed him for his ordeal in a plush velvet tunic of Lannister crimson and brought him his chain of office. Tyrion left it on the bedside table. His sister misliked being reminded that he was the King’s Hand, and he did not wish to inflame the relations between them any further.

Tyrion is dreading his own oncoming encounter with Cersei. We learn that Theon’s lack of mercy has become public: Bran and Rickon are reported dead. This endangers Jaime.

“I still hold Sansa!” the queen declared. “We still hold Sansa,” he corrected her, “and we had best take good care of her.” 

Tyrions wants them to take good care of her. Ygritte promised Jon could join the Wildlings if he wanted to switch sides. Mercy? In reality, they are pressured into marriage or sex. In ASOS, this happens to Jon and Sansa, respectively.

More on false lovers: Cersei threatens Tyrion’s partner - but the false partner! She threatens Alayaya, the whore he pretended to see, when he was really going to see Shae. 

Her hands were bound with rope, and they’d gagged her so she could not speak. “You said she wouldn’t be hurt.” “She fought.”

No mercy for cities that fight back, as Sansa speculated earlier.

“Sweetling,” he said, “you must be brave. I am sorry they hurt you.” “I know you’ll free me, my lord.” “I will,” he promised, and Alayaya bent over and kissed him on the brow.

Theon promised mercy, and lied.

Sansa is promised escape, it is a lie. 

Alayaya is promised rescue - it is a lie. She will be whipped and shoved through the gates naked when Cersei releases her. 

He visits Shae:

“The Lady Lollys—” “She’s asleep. Sleep’s all she ever wants to do, the great cow. She sleeps and she eats. Sometimes she falls asleep while she’s eating. The food falls under the blankets and she rolls in it, and I have to clean her.” She made a disgusted face. “All they did was fuck her.” “Her mother says she’s sick.” “She has a baby in her belly, that’s all.”

No sympathy for a rape victim, much like Ygritte doesn’t comprehend the concept. But the theme of sexual violence and pregnancy continues.

Who will show Lollys kindness later? Sansa.

We see how rare mercy and compassion actually are. How rare and precious.

End of chapter:

When she felt him go soft, Shae slid down under the sheets and took him in her mouth, but even that could not rouse him. After a few moments he stopped her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. All the sweet innocence of the world was written there in the lines of her young face. 

Innocence? Fool, she’s a whore, Cersei was right, you think with your cock, fool, fool.

“Just go to sleep, sweetling,” he urged, stroking her hair. Yet long after Shae had taken his advice, Tyrion himself still lay awake, his fingers cupped over one small breast as he listened to her breathing.

The imagery here is reminiscent of Jon and Ygritte in ASOS, Jon V:

They shared the same sleeping skins every night, and he went to sleep with her head against his chest and her red hair tickling his chin. The smell of her had become a part of him. Her crooked teeth, the feel of her breast when he cupped it in his hand, the taste of her mouth . . . they were his joy and his despair. 

Fake love, wrong partners. What Tyrion wants is what he thought he had with Tysha. Something innocent and true. What he has is false. Much like Jon will eventually realize with Ygritte:  who she is and what he has is very different from what he thinks it is, what he actually wants: something innocent, something true. As rare and precious as mercy.

Sansa, our resident prophetic genius is right: Everyone wants to be loved. 

The fact that Jon’s chapters are basically hugging Sansa’s flowering and shielding her from the two pervs who want to do all the things she is narrowly escaping and having nightmares about is sort of.. important. THAT is a hint that he will protect her from such a fate, that he will take the things he learns from Ygritte and put them to a worthier use, when he and Sansa both end up meeting in the middle.

[arlandvery]

Hen, Chick (and Hawk)

A concept sent to @yandere-love-love-love got me started on this fic, and the first thing I’ve written on my new laptop! Still getting used to the keyboard and it sucks! :D Anyhooo, this is written from the pov of the kid, purely because I thought it would be a bit more interesting.

You didn’t like the new apartment.

It was small; your apartment was nicer. It was big. Daddy called it an eyrie. Your room at home was big and soft- it had to be, to accommodate your wings (you were big enough now that you could keep your flapping under control, but it was annoying at home, where the worst meant Mommy and Daddy finding out you lied about brushing your teeth,but here that meant knocking into something, and after a couple of weeks your wings were sore). You didn’t have any toys here either, and that was no fun.

Mama liked it here though, you could tell.

You didn’t get it.

At home, Mama didn’t need to work. She didn’t have to leave. She could play with you all day if she wanted, or lay in bed all day. But now Mama went to work every day and left you with an elderly neighbor named Mrs. Saito. Mrs. Saito was nice, you guessed, but she was old, and didn’t really want to play, or do anything very interesting.

You missed Daddy.

You wanted him here, now. But Mama wouldn’t let call him, or tell you what was going on.

It all got fuzzy when Daddy had to leave town- he said he’d be gone for two weeks, but he’d bring back lots of presents to make up for it. Mama had hugged him tight when he left, and cuddled you when you started siffling. That day, Mama was jittery. She kept disappearing into hers an Daddy’s room. When Daddy called that night, to tell them good night, Mama had picked up and told im about her day, then let you talk to him. 

But the moment that you were off the phone, she’d said you were leaving.

And you didn’t have any choice but to go with her.

You slept in the car the first night. Then you walked everywhere. There was a tiny motel room where the water was brown and the sheets had cigarette burns. It took two weeks for Mama to find a job and another month to get the apartment.

“When can we see Daddy?” You whined that night as Mama tucked you into bed. 

Mama frowned and looked down at you, carefully tucked away for sleep, your wings folded gingerly.

“We aren’t.” She admitted, and you didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t you go home? Wasn’t this just a vacation?

“B-but I want Daddy!” You whined, your eyes getting hot with unshed tears. Mama sniffled and climbed into bd beside her, pulling you close.

“I know baby, but it’s better this way.”

But you didn’t understand.

So Mama told you a story.

It wasn’t a nice story.

But you never asked when you were going back to Daddy again.

You think about your Dad more than you want to admit.

It’s hard not to think of him, when wings sprout from your back, soft white and itching to fly. But you don’t, because that quirk would be too noticeable.

(Mom paid someone in the Quirk Registration offices to lie- you’ve got a weak quirk on paper, something about sensing changing wind currents. You don’t fly. Your wings are always folded neatly beneath your clothes, feathers plucked as soon as they grow in.

Mom cries every time you do it.

But she doesn’t stop you.)

You look like him too. You hate that.

But Mom doesn’t flinch when you move too quickly (a memory that you recovered when you were ten), or spend a scary amount of time with hat blank-faced stare when you do something that reminds her of him anymore (something that she did but used to hide). So things are okay.

You think about the story.

(The first time she told it, it was the bare bones.

There was a man who fell in love with a very unlucky woman.

He followed her and learned everythig about her; her name, where she lived, what she did, what she wanted.

And he approached her and wooed her and she loved him so much. Everything moved so fast her head spun, but that was alright, she thought, because she loved him.

She married him.

And then things got bad.)

Things are nice now. Normal. You’ve moved out of the dingy apartment and the gross hotel room. Now you live in a nice neighborhood. Mom has friends that she goes out with on Thursday nights. You usually hang out on Sundays- they remind you of when you were little and it was just you and Mom, because Dad-

(Her new husband always wanted to know where she was. He always kept her busy, and soon her other friends faded away. He was angry whenever she suggested going back to work because he could provide- why would she need to work? 

She let him isolate and manipulate her until one day she went out without telling him.

For no reason she decided one day that she wanted to go out. If he loved her, she said to herself, he’d understand her need to breathe, to be away from him, just for awhile.

She didn’t do much that day, just walked around. Did some window shopping.

But she never entertained the thought of calling her friends. Or leaving him.

When she came back that evening, he was waiting at the door for her. He dragged her inside and that was the first time he hit her.)

Mom’s gonna be late tonight, so you’re probably just gonna get pizza and do your homework. You’re thinking about calling your friend Chi and bitching over the latest garbage episode of your guys’ least favorite show that you both watch unironically.

You like Chi because his favorite hero wasn’t Hawks. Well, there was more to it than that, but it made your friendship easier, purely because you didn’t have to look at your Dad’s smug PR smile on his merch everywhere when you went to his house. Chi preferred All-Might, something you both had in common.

 But the thing is, you feel uneasy.

It’s nothing new, you always feel like that. Anxiety, Mom calls it, looking guilty. So you don’t tell her about it. It’s not her fault that you’re always scared that Dad’s coming, that he’ll find you both. You keep your long nights secret- nights where your breath is shallow and rattles in your throat and you can’t breathe because you’re so sure that he’s outside the window waiting waiting waiting

But you get home without incident. You unlock the door, lock it behind you, change into some sweatpants and text Mom you made it home safely. Then you study- math’s kicking your ass. You learn better by doing, and sitting still has and always will be a nightmare.

Mom says you get that from him.

But she didn’t sound sad when she said it. You’d been in the teacher’s office, again, because you didn’t get it, you got frustrated, so you lashed out. Mom had to leave work. You felt awful. But she didn’t yell at you or anything. She let the teacher talk, agreed you were in the wrong and then you talked about it at home. When you finally told her how hard it was she’d nodded and petted your hair.

“We’ll work on it together.”

And you did.

You learned how to listen, how to pay attention. Little tricks.

You’re not stupid, you just needed extra attention.

(And not because you don’t have a dad, like the PTA mom’s hush-whisper about)

Around 6 you order pizza, checking your phone. Chi hasn’t called you back. Mom’s messaged you to remind you not to stay up too late and that she loves you.

Love you too, ma, you text back.

(After that, her husband didn’t let her leave the house. He kept her locked in the bedroom. Sometimes he drugged her to keep her quiet. He’d come home and fix dinner and bring her out and feed her as if she were some pet.

But now the woman knew what kind of man she’d married. She began to fight him, using the pain to spur her onward.

One night she nearly got away.

But by nearly, she almost made it to the door. 

Her husband dragged her back to the bedroom and he hurt her.

-Mom shows you the scars on her back when you’re 10, because you didn’t know how bad it was and you wanted to know.

You traced the scarring carefully, with gentle fingers. You could imagine the feather in Dad’s hand. Brighter red than the blood welling up. He’d taken care that it was scar, would pull if she moved a certain way.

Hawks, the letters said, because she’d never escape being his-

And after that she couldn’t fight him, because then she was going to have a baby.)

You take a break after you order. Your eyes are starting to ache and your hand is cramping. You could call it a night reasonably. Instead you shower and unbind your wings, sighing as you flex them. You’d be lying if you sad that you didn’t worry about what the constant plucking and binding was doing to your wings. 

There’s a knock on the door and you scramble to grab your wallet.

“Coming!” You shout, running because, well, pizza.

But when you open the door and standing there, holding the pizza box is your Dad, smiling like nothing is wrong. Like you saw each other this morning, not 6 years ago. Like he isn’t a monster.

“Dad,” you say quietly, gripping the door. His smile is every bit as predatory as his name.

“Hey eyas! Gonna let your old man in?” You notice that his foot is wedged against the door. You couldn’t close it if you wanted. Or, rather, if you had the presence of mind. 

But all you can think about are the scars on your Mom and how much he scares her still. What will he do to you?

Dad’s still waiting, and laughs a little, “c’mon kiddo, pizza’s getting cold. We can catch up til your Mom gets home!” There, there’s that darkness that you know is there, never noticed as a kid.

Wordlessly, you step aside and let him in, trying not to tremble.

You know what he is, and you hate him. But that’s still your Dad. And he wants to know all about you.

“You don’t deserve to know me!” You snap, interrupting his steady stream of questions as he goes through your phone. You shove your pizza away and stand up to leave- to run.

But your Dad’s wing flares out, blocking the door and cornering you. Dad just looks up at you without moving his head.

“Kiddo, sit down. We’re gonna have a talk now, okay?”

You know what he can do with those wings. Mom tortures herself and watches his televised fights. There’s a reason that he’s #2. So you sit your ass down. He nudges the pizza towards you again.

“Tell me, why don’t I deserve to know you? Is it because I didn’t find you immediately when your Mom had a moment of insanity and stole you?” You open your mouth, but he keeps talking, eyes flashing. “Do you have any,” he takes a deep breath and tries to lower his voice, “any idea what it was like when I came home and you both were gone? Bags packed, no note, your mom’s ring just there on the counter-!”

“You can’t even tell the truth now, can you!” You demand, because damn the neghbors, hopefully they’ll cal the cops. “You called her nightly to make sure she was where you put her! How long until you rushed home because you knew she’d found a way out, a way to get us out and stay safe-”

“Safe?!” He snarled, “I finally track you down and you’re terrified of me, your wings are- are plucked, living illegally-”

“Mom has a legal job-!”

“Lying to the Quirk Registry Office is a crime, along with kidnappig.”

“You kidnapped her! You isolated her and hurt her and raped-”

His backhand is sharp and snaps your head to the side.

“Don’t you ever say that again.” Hawks voice is dangerously low, and goosebumps break out on your skin. Your cheek hurts- it’s gonna bruise. But you don’t move. “I love your mother, I did everything for her, to keep her safe, and happy. Sometimes people don’t know what they want,” remarkably, he smiles again, and you want to hurl. “She needed me, and she needed a baby- and now she needs to be reminded exactly why you don’t kidnap your child and hide them for 6 years.”

“Dad-”

“Love is a beautiful thing, kiddo,” he cups your hand and curls his wing around you, and you stifle a sob.

You...you have good memories of your Dad.

Memories that you don’t like thinking about, because he’s a monster, good memories of him aren’t fair.

But dad taught you how to groom your wings and held you when you were scared. He took you to the doctor when you got sick and surprised you in the morning with omelettes and cheese because he wanted to show his family that he loved them. When sat on his lap he’d wrap his wings around you and you felt warm and safe and you’re crying now, you can’t help it as he hugs you close and strokes your hair.

“Love is so beautiful, and I can’t let anything ruin that,” he coos, kissing your head. 

[twilighcreed]

Title: Wolves Bane 

Pairing: Daenerys Targaryen X Male Stark Reader 

Author:  TwilighCreed/DawnWrites 

Word Count: 4.9k+

Warning: Violence, explicit language, slight sexual content, mention of blood, slightly depressed reader, fluff, slight angst. Spoilers for season one and seven. Short chapter? 

Summary:  Y/N Stark was forced into exile after helping three fugitives escape beyond The Wall from King Robert. Four years after his exile, he receives news that Lord Arryn is dead and his family could be in immense danger. After accepting an offer to help get him home to his family, Y/N is to work for Magister Illyrio Mopatis and protect the princess, Daenerys Targaryen. What the lone wolf did not expect was to fall in love with a woman he could never have…   

Author Note: Hey guys! Once more I apologize for the long wait. I’ve finally got this part done and will start working on the next one tonight or very soon. I will finish this series. I really do enjoy writing it. I just do not like rushing my writing and spitting it out, I like to put quality in my work so you guys can enjoy it and I am not wasting your time. I did decide to put this into four parts instead of three so that I have more to work with and I can put the chapters out faster. Like that works... lol Next part will be solely around Dany and male reader. I did kind of find it difficult to write Dany since we do not get much of her personality before the start of GOT. So I am going to be going off how the book describes her. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy and have a wonderful rest of your day/night! 

Enjoy! 

Part One ► Pilot   [PREVIOUS] Part Two ► The Dragon’s Bodyguard   [HERE] Part Three ► The Lone Wolves Howl   [COMING SOON] Part Four ► The Rouge Wolf of the North

ONE WEEK LATER

298 AC, The Free Cities of Essos, Pentos

There was a strange and peculiar scrutiny Y/N felt the moment he dismounted from his horse and step foot through the northern gate of the Free City of Pentos. He was used to getting the odd looks and glances from time to time, but it was much more protruding this time. He wondered what was so bizarre that had them all gawking at him like he was some sort of hero out of the many stories his wet nurse use to read to him as a child. It was uncomfortable, but he did his best to shake it off and seem as if their stares did not concern nor distract him from his objective.

“Go to Pentos and ask for the man named Illyrio Mopatis. He’ll know what to do.” Lord Varys told him back at the docks in Braavos.

Their talk did not last much longer after Varys told him of the news of  Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Hand of the King. It consisted of Y/N getting very heated when asking about his father and mother, but Varys seemed to have prepared for their encounter and spoke with soft words. He had even given Y/N a letter from his mother.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Y/N asked, his eyes holding a deep emotion of pain and his hands shaking as he held the neatly folded letter.

“Your mother wanted me to give this to you a long time ago. I couldn’t find you, but now that I have…”

“You just love playing your sick little games… Don’t you?”

Y/N could still feel the bitter angry he felt at the moment, but he did what he could to suppress it and think of something else that did not involve his precious family.

Holding the leather reins with a redundant tightness, Y/N walked cautiously among the people of Pentos, navigating himself with the prior knowledge he gathered from taverns, traveling merchants, and the locals, he was able to find himself in the center of the Market. Merchants called out to the bypassers with their lowest prices, farmers trading their livestock and tailors showing their latest work in patterns and designs. The overbearing smell of spices surrounded Y/N as he walked past stalls, he could even taste the heat of the spices on the tip of his tongue just by smell. There was not a moment he did not feel suffocated by the heat, different smells, and the people―he needed to leave.

Pulling on the reins to lead himself and his mount, Y/N started to make a break to the other side of the market when he felt someone place a heavy weight on his shoulder, forcing Y/N to turn around a face his intruder. What he was not expect was the broken nose and busted lip of the Captain.

Before Y/N could reach down and pluck his sword from his hip to defend himself―he saw the inevitable form of the Captain’s large fist and the expected splittingㅡnose crunching pain before he blacked out.

291 AC, Westeroes, Winterfell 

It was cold. It was very cold, colder than Y/N could ever remember. A young boyㅡno older than eleven namedaysㅡlaid underneath the warmth of deerskin pelts and furs, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweating so profusely, his eyelids closed and his breath erratic. He was battling a terrible fever.

“There has to be something you can do, Maister?” Eddar asked, his voice cracking with desperation.

Luwin gave a deep sigh, glancing over at the sick young boy and his concerned mother by his bed.

“I’m afraid I’ve done all I can. It is up to the boy and the gods now.” Maester Luwin regretfully informed, “I will supply him with the milk of the poppy for the pain, but that is all I can do, Lord Stark.”

Eddar shook his head, looking over at his firstborn son and to his wife Catelyn, he felt a pain in his heart to see his son and wife. It broke him to see them this way knowing he could do nothing about it. But it did not mean he wasn’t going to try. 

Discussing more discreetly with the Maister, Eddar and Luwin talk about other resolution for the young Lord. Neither finding an answer.

Catelyn sat near the end of her sons’ bed, her back to the warm blazing fire in the pit and a cold wet cloth in her hand. Slowly she started to rub the cloth all along the boy’s forehead, her thoughts running wild, blaming herself for her son falling ill.

If she had just kept her mouth shut and Jon did not hear her spoke so foul about him, Y/N wouldn’t have gone about his and fell in the lake. Out of all the frozen rivers and lakes, why that one?

Catelyn let out a soft sob, a tear rolling down her face. She leaned over and gently kissed her sons’ temple.

“Is Y/N gonna be alright, mother?” Robb asked, looking over at his older brother in bed, Jon, Bran, Sansa and even little Arya next to him, looking up at their mother with hopeful eyes. Jon seemed to be the most concerned out of the others. 

Catelyn secretly hated that Y/N and Jon were so close…

Not wanting to frighten her children, Catelyn gave an uncertain nod. Noticing how short she was, Cat gave them a much more determined nod. “He’s going to be alright,” she said, giving them an encouraging smile, “Y/N is strong. He’s a Stark, he was born in the cold. Nothing can hurt him.”

Jon looked down at his folded hands; backing away slightly. He knew he was responsible for Y/N going after him. He would never leave Jon alone. A soft sniffle left his lips, his black curly locks bouncing with each movement he made, catching young Robbs attention. Going over to his brother’s side, Robb placed a small hand on his shoulder.

“This is all my fault… if I hadn't―”

“Of course it’s not your fault! Y/N shouldn’t have been the fool and walked across the lake!”

Jon shook his head.

“He pushed me out of the way… I was supposed to be the one. I should be in that bed―not him.”

Ned glanced over at the young boys when he overheard Jon’s guilty confession. Walking over to where his son and nephew were, he got down on his knee. Looking over at Robb, he gave his son a short nod dismissing him before looking back at Jon. 

Placing two hands on his shoulder, Eddar made Jon look up at him. When the boy refused...

“Jon, look at me.”

“It’s my fault, Lord StarkㅡIts my fault.”

“I know, I know…”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear!”

Eddar smoothed out Jon’s ruffled hair, looking into the boys’ eyes. Eddar was not ignorant of his son and his nephews growing brotherly bond, Y/N saw Jon as a brother as he should, even though the young boy was smarter then he looked. Y/N saw right through Ned, even for a boy of nine.

“Listen to me, Jon. You stop this nonsense right now. We both knew Y/N wasn’t going to leave you alone in those woods, you are his brother. Brothers look after one another, you are no exception. Do you understand?”

Jon gave Ned a soft nod.

“Good. Now clear your eyes. Y/N is going to be alright.”

THREE DAYS LATER

298 AC, The Free Cities of Essos, Pentos

Y/N had woke with a startle. His body covered in a thin layer sweat he did not realize he even created. His throat was parched and his body was sore and heavy. It was as if a large boulder was placed on top of him keeping him pressed against the soft material of what he presumed to be a bed. Everything seemed to hurt, his nose is what kept his attention. The consent throbbing seemed to follow the rhythm of his heart and the tightness he felt with every breath. For a moment Y/N could not remember what happened, his head was pounding too much for him correctly recall the events that lead him hereㅡwherever here is.

With the little strength he could muster up, Y/N pride open his eyes. At first, he was blinded by whatever source of light was coming through the room, but slowly his eyes adjusted. Formerly, everything was a soft haze, each time he blinked and rubbed his eyes lazily, the smeared objects began to take shapes around him. When his eyesight became normal again, he was able to look around himself more thoroughly.

Instead of being tossed in an alley or left on the streets of the market, he was in a large open room. It was bright, the large windows were covered by a soft velvet see-through sheet that moved with each breath of wind. The room consisted of several white pillars, a small stone makeshift fireplace in the corner as well as wooden bookshelves that held trinkets, rolled parchment. A desk was shoved at the bottom of the window giving whoever sat there a clear view of the outside world. Makeshift decorations littered the walls beautiful, gold lining the bottom and top of each pillar. Orange, red and bright colors of sort themed the room giving off a warmth, almost welcoming vibe. Feeling underneath him Y/N felt the silk sheets and soft blanket that he had been lying on. 

A bed?

Where am I, he thought.

Thoughts of paranoia quickly spread and Y/N was quick to get to his feet, regretfully, a sudden burst of agonizing pain almost crippled Y/N to his knees. Settling back onto the bed in a sitting position, Y/N looked down at his side where he noticed bandages wrapped around his ribcage. With a shaky hand, he quickly started to unwrap the makeshift bandages. When the bandages were gone he saw no blood or any wounds on the surface, but he did see a large patch of discolored skin on his left side. It was tender to the touch and it looked horrible. Dark purple shades covered a large portion of his left side following his ribcage, spots of red and a light pink even visible.

“What the hell?” 

“You were ambushed by a group of pirates down at the market if you were wondering.” a light grating voice filled the emptiness of his room. Startling Y/N into looking up at whoever the intruder was.

A man stood near an archwayㅡa doorway Y/N presumedㅡwith his hands by his side and a rather curious look in his eyes. He was a large man no doubt, and by the flamed silk grab he wore, Y/N judged the man was of great wealth. Was he one of the Magisters of Pentos? He had to be. He seemed to hold a delicacy within himself, even with a man of his size, the way he struts over near Y/N’s bed seemed to tell him that much. He wore loose clothing as well; it reminded Y/N of the gowns his mother used to wear.

“Lucky for you, before those thieves could make out with you and your small living, my guards stopped them. It’s rather a coincidence that my men stumbled upon you, don’t you think Lord Stark?”

Y/N went rigged, “How do you knowㅡ”

“Lord Varys told me of your arrival. With his description, it’s not hard to tell an exiled Lord away from the common man.”

Y/N cringed at the words ‘exiled Lord’. He didn’t have to add salt to the wound.

“And you’re supposed to be Magister Illyrio?” Y/N asked, strengthening his back to appear much more than he was. Although it was a poor attempt, Illyrio admired it. 

“I am, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos.” he corrected, brushing away the attempt on insult. “And you are under my care and roof, I suggest you act more generous to your host.”

Y/N glanced over at Illyrio before looking back directly in front of him. He didn’t like the idea of being treated as a lower, he was born a Lord, but considering his statues, Y/N was nothing in Essos, just a common mercenary. 

Putting his pride aside, Y/N slightly lowered his head.

“Forgive me, Magister. The trip was long.” Y/N spoke.

Illyrio seemed pleased, it almost made Y/N gage. He never bowed down to anyone, he hated it.

“Good. Now that we have that out of the way… how are you feeling?” Illyrio asked, taking a seat in front of Y/N.

“Like shit.”

Illyrio didn’t seem surprised.“Mhm… expected. Before my guards could retrieve you, the men who attacked you beat you. Your ribs where badly bruised in the process and they left you with a bloody nose, other than that you should be fine. A few cuts and bruises are all.”

Y/N nodded, “And my pursuers?”

“I’ve sent word for their arrest.”

“I have never taken Magisters at the type to call for a bounty. You are just a merchant.”

Illyrio seemed to slightly smirk.

Another man with tricks, Y/N though grumpy.

Shaking his head, Y/N looked around to room before going back to Illyrio.

“How long was I asleep for?”

“Three days. You like to push your body beyond the ordinary. That sort of thing will get you killed.”

Y/N frowned but said nothing.

“I have a proposition to offer if you’d like to hear it.”

“And what if I don’t?” Y/N challenged.

Illyrio sighed, “Then I suppose going home back to your family is impossible. Help me and I will help you.”

Y/N knew that he had little to no chance of getting back to Westeros and to the north without allies or help, it was impossible. If he was right then the pirates must have taken his gold and with that his ticket to get home. He needed the coin to get on a ship and sail west. If it wasn’t for those damn pirates he would be so close…

With a sigh of regret, Y/N nodded his head, “Okay.”

After Y/N was cleaned, redressed of his bandages and thrown into a comfortable cotton tunic and a pair of trousers, he and Illyrio walked the neatly designed layout of the Magister’s home. They were tailed by two well-dressed slaves, their head down as they followed. Y/N was surprised to find slaves. Pentos was supposed to be a free city, but from the looks of it, it wasn’t.

Y/N had learned from in a course of a few hours the many boundaries Magister Illyrio had in place for him, the rules and layouts of what Illyrio expected of Y/N and what should not be tampered with. He was very detailed in each his rules, making sure Y/N knew everything that needed to be known, even the consequences if he ever stepped out of line. It was a lot, but nothing Y/N couldn’t handle. This was easy compared to the ruling as a Lord. Although he did have to listen to each and every word that came out of Illyrio’s mouth, he did take the time to study Magister Illyrio and his large manse.

“… it is best if you are discrete in these halls, you are a bodyguard, nothing else. Speak little and when in the presence of the Targaryen’s, keep your eyes low and your tongue lower, especially around the King. We don’t need him getting suspicious of who you are.” Illyrio spoke quickly, ushering the both of them into a large room.

It was well decorated, the room’s colors were similar to the rest of the manse Y/N had seen. Red and orange, a common theme he found. It had a large desk in the middle, parchment and open letters scattered all along the surface. 

This must be his office.

“I have informed my guest that you are a hired mercenary,ㅡseeing that you are well known for that line of workㅡyou are to be a guard for the Targaryens, more specifically the princess,” Illyrio said, walking over to his desk while his slaves shut the door behind both men, leaving them alone.

Y/N was taken back when Illyrio had informed him that the Targaryen’s where his guest. He was housing them, guarding them, feeding and providing clothing and every possible needed. It took him not long to suspect Illyrio of supporting the Targaryen rein, there was no other explanation other than he wanted to use them for some sick joke. 

There was no secret that some did still support the Targaryens even after their tragic downfall, but knowing that the Starks, his family, was one of the reasons why the Targaryens were defeated during Robert’s Rebellion, it unsettled the wolf greatly. He understood why there were so many rules to conceal his true identity.

Sitting in a chair opposite Illyrio, Y/N tried his best not to disturb his side. Breathing was painful, let alone moving and walking, he was already feeling fatigued.

“You want meㅡa Stark, the reason her family is here in the first placeㅡto protect a Targaryen? Is your Unsullied not enough?”

“I’m afraid not. Viserys is convinced King Robert has sent hired knives. I want the King to have a comfortable stay while in my house. You are to be that comfort.”

Y/N narrowed his eyes, doubting the man of his true intentions but said nothing. 

This is for your home, for your family, don’t screw it up Y/N, he reminded himself.

Nodding his head carefully, Y/N couldn’t help but think of all the things that could go wrong with this. If one thing fell out of place and who he was, was discovered, any chance of home was gone. He felt a sudden sickening feeling fall at the pit of his stomach, it was a lot of pressure, but Y/N knew how to cover up his emotions well.

“When do I start?”

THE NEXT DAY

Signs of the morning started to show as the day passed into tomorrow. The events of yesterday left behind where they belonged at the chase for the future once more began. The beautiful dark moon made its way down past the mountain range into the far distance, it’s following shadows close behind as the sun’s bright rays started to stretch across Essos, waking the land from its dreams.

Y/N laid across the sheets of his newfound bed, laying on his back to avoid any pain or any possible further damage to his bruised ribs. They had a different source of medicine here than Westeros; he had to deal with the throbbing sensation as best as he could. Y/N had a high pain tolerance, however, the continual ache was driving him mad. He would do anything to have the milk of a poppy right about now.  

Thankfully, it was quiet in the room; the only sound was the distant splashes of water from the courtyard’s fountain and the waking servants. The birds singing their morning tune could also be heard in the far distances. It was peaceful.

The light from outsides sun started to filter through the cream curtains, pushing the darkness back and lighting up the room with warmth. It took the wolf several moments to stir in his bed, a soft groan mixed with his movement gave the sign of him waking. He gave out a deep sigh, his muscles relaxed and his mind at ease, his eyes closed recalling the delightful dream he had. 

No not a dream: a memory.

He remembered running across the open grass fields that laid in front of Winterfell’s great walls, a wooden play sword in hand with one thing in mind: don’t let them catch you! He remembered his brother Robb’s battle cry as he tried to best his older brother in a spar. 

Jon watching on a fallen trunk with Theon Greyjoy leaning against a tree, and a young Bran watching from the tree’s canopy. He loved to climb. He could remember sidestepping and swinging his play sword at Robb’s knees, resulting in him watching the young wolf fall. Y/N would never forget the face his brother gave him when he once again, won. Robb always tried to beat his brother.

Deeply inhaling, Y/N opened his eyes lazily, letting them fall on the ceiling above him, silently thinking to himself. He wondered what his father would say when they saw each other. Would he even recognize the young man from a fourteen-year-old boy he saw sail away on a ship to Essos? He doubted, but he still had his hopes.

Getting up from his bed, Y/N allowed himself a second to stretch his sore musclesㅡcareful of his sideㅡbefore cleaning himself up and getting ready for the days work. Redressing his bandages himself, he took his time to dress before strapping on his black leather stained armor. It took more time than necessary, but he was able to manage to drown out the pain with more pleasant thoughts. 

Strapping on his sword, Frost, he gave the blade a few practice swings before sheathing it. Deeming himself ready, Y/N stepped out of his room and into the halls of Illyrio’s manse.

Remembering the way to Illyrio’s quarters, Y/N took his time to observe the manse in much more detail than before. He wasn’t able to see much while he walked with the Magister, so he took this as an opportunity to get a lay of the area, especially if he was to call this place home for a time.

Like most of his observations, the color theme was the same. The halls were open with archways and tall marble beams, the floors were tile and the halls decorated with a soft elegance. Y/N did notice a large number of Unsullied soldiers guarding post, doorways, as well as several of the main gates.

Viserys must be terrified if there are so many guards, Y/N quietly though.

Walking down a short flight of stairs and into a much more open and greener area, Y/N quickly took notice of the tall green Evergreen trees and neatly cut bushes and a large amount of vegetation growing within the courtyard. It was undoubtedly beautiful with the endless different breeds of trees and blooming flowers, Y/N was almost afraid that if he touches the velvet petals they would turn away from his cold fingers.

Walking further into the courtyard, Y/N spotted a large statue of the anatomy of a young boy, his body poised in a duel with what looked like a bravo’s blade in hand. Gold shoulder-length hair and white marble skin. He was at the center of a marble pool, six cherry trees surrounding the water making it almost look like a sacred altar. 

At the base of the pool, Y/N perceived a small patch of wildflowers, a small bush that survived inspection. He noticed the small green buds that started to spring from the stems of the bush. Kneeling down in front of the small bush, Y/N started to lightly pick at the dead leaves and pluck the small insects that infested the plant. When he was satisfied, he cups his hands, drew water from the pool and poured the cool liquid on top of the plant.

“Grow.” Y/N encouraged quietly, watching the ground soak up the moisture rather quickly.

Y/N reminisce about the times he used to walk by his mother’s side when he was young. It was too cold in the north to grow any summer flowers, and the frost killed a majority of any seedlings he and his mother nurtured. But the few plants he was fortunate enough to help raise, he learned much about the earth’s herbs and flowers that he started his own study as a herbalist. His father was surprised, yet, he was proud.

—“Who are you?”

A soft voice spoke out from the distance startling Y/N from his position crouched on the ground. He wasn’t aware of a feminine figure standing behind him, watching with careful eyes as his large northern hands gentle brushed through the petals of a Tropaeolum bush. 

She has never seen this type of man before. When the stranger quickly got to his feet and turned to face the voice, bother were astonished by each other.  

A woman stood a yard in front of Y/N, a soft silk slip covering her most intimate parts with a braided rope woven into the fabric; wrapped around her neck. It was the only thing keeping the summer gown from falling and leaving her vulnerable; Y/N took notice of her bare shoulders, but it was not as eyes catching as her features were. 

Her hair was long, almost past the mounds of her breast. The color almost looked blonde, but unlike the gold locks of Lannister, it was much lighter, paler, almost white although it did not cross that line, it was like a pale comparison to silver being melted down. It was beautiful.  It looked almost unkempt with how puffed out it appeared, like how’s his mother’s hair looked after a few strokes of her brush, yet, it looked almost purposeful. Though that was nothing compared to her eyes.

His breath hitched in the back of his throat when his dark stormy eyes met the stunning pigment of her gentle violet eyes. They were majestic, and with this angle with the sun shining in her eyes, they reflected back as slightly pale purple with hints of a deeper purple near her ires. They reminded Y/N of the rarest kind of gems he’d seen on Kings and Queens crowns of old—one of a kind. Her flesh looked well taken care of, soft to the touch; pale.

Daenerys watched with cautious eyes as the man stood star struck, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes taking in each of her delicately carved details. It would have been flattering to have such eyes like his on her, however, she was used to the animalistic eyes of a lusting man that she was unfazed, yet, she did not see such motivation in his eyes, this sparked her interest.

“Did you not hear me?” the women pressed, disturbing Y/N gawking. He snapped out of it, his eyes rapidly blinking before they landed on her eyes, his lips pressed into a line and a much harder emotion overthrew the soft curiosity he previously had. “Who are you?” the woman asked once more now that she had his full attention—not that she did not already.

“Forgive me,” Y/N hesitated, “—princess.” Unsure of himself, Y/N gave the woman a reluctant bow. 

This was foreign to him, he did not like the idea of bowing to no one, he was, at a time,  a Lord, and once more he had to remind himself: For your family, for your homeland, for your namesake. 

“I am Y/N; your assigned personal guard.”

It was not hard to pick out her royal blood. The silver hair and striking violet eyes—everything screamed Targaryen.

The Targaryen princess eyed the exiled Lord suspiciously. If it was not for the countless Unsullied soldiers guarded at every post and ever doorway, she would have thought the man to be a trespasser. There have been few of those in the past and they’ve always been caught. Even with her faith in the Magister’s security—she still narrowing her eyes; doubt flooded her mind.

Y/N stood there unassertive in his spot by the fountain. He was uncomfortable and unprepared to encounter the princess. He didn’t even know her name, just that she was an exiled royal and King Robert loathed the Targaryens and that his father supported Robert’s rebellion, his father supported the unthroning of her family. He could now see why Magister Illyrio was cautious.

He cursed himself quietly. He should have just went straight to Illyrio and avoid this until further instructions. He was too damn curious for his own good.

Trying to settle the tense look in the girl’s eye, he spoke softly and gently. The last thing he needed was for her to scream and then he’d be surrounded by guards, who may or may not be unaware that he was now a guest under Illyrio, whether they did or not, he was not taking a chance.

“You are unaware? If you’d like, your Highness, we can go—”

She stopped him.

“No.” she spoke in a stern voice.

This took Y/N by surprise; even the woman who spoke the word was astonished. But before the wolf could question her, Daenerys averted her eyes away from the man and began to walk away.

Disoriented and confused, Y/N stood in his spot, completely oblivious to what just happened. He would have stood there for a while if it wasn’t for the young princess to stop and look over her shoulder, speaking in an almost authoritative voice. “You are my guard yes?” not giving Y/N an opportunity to speak, “Well don’t just stand there.”

Quickly, before he could make a fool of himself again, Y/N took several strides and was by the princesses back in a matter of a second. Turning her head away, Daenerys begins to walk forward, deeper into the garden. Y/N was so caught up in his own anxiety and analysis of the situation that he missed the smile that passed her lips.

Photo Credit(s): –

Disclaimer: I do not own the Game of Thrones pilot, characters, events, or any reference to the TV show or George R.R. Martin’s books series, all credit goes to creators. I only own my own plot twist. (2018)  

Tag(s): @tybg400

��                                                                                                           May 3, 2018

[myrish-lace-love]

(Dedicated to @amymel86, who made this beautiful moodboard, and @tiny-little-bird who helped inspire the story!)

Jon and Sansa visit the same spot in Winterfell every day. Sansa goes there at dawn, Jon at dusk. They each have visions of their future wedding, thanks to a special grey and silver stone that the old gods gave to Jon.

After the Great War is over, and Jon's parentage is revealed, Jon confesses his love, and Jon and Sansa wed under the weirwood tree. Sansa has the stone that brought them together set into a necklace, and unknowingly creates a new tradition in the North.

***

Sansa stood on the ramparts, the cloak of her hood turned up against the cold, as the sun crested over the forest. Shafts of light pierced through the treetops, painting the world a delicate gold.

Read more below or continue on AO3

She came to this place each morning, to watch the sunrise. She'd stepped quickly over the light dusting of snow on the ground. The servants kept this area well-swept, perhaps because of her early morning visits.

Sansa sighed. She’d hoped her time alone would stay secret, but secrets traveled like lightning through a castle starved for news and gossip. Still, she could steal a moment for herself and breathe in the dawn air. She cleared her mind before the work of rebuilding Winterfell began again. Checking grain stores, meeting with masons rebuilding the outer walls, haggling with merchants over the cost of scarce meat.

At least none of the servants or the lords or ladies knew why she stopped here, right here, each time.

Our spot, it's our spot. Where Jon had kissed her forehead, gently, with concern and something more in his eyes.

Jon’s kiss was not Sansa’s first. She’d endured several, each one a hateful memory.

The kiss she’d had to bestow upon Widow’s Wail, as Joffrey sneered down at her. The cold metal had stung her lips. She’d suffered the humiliation, holding to her courtesies, grasping at the hope that Robb would defeat them all and save her. But that song had died along with Robb.

The kiss Littlefinger had forced on her in the Eyrie. He’d grabbed her face and told her to call him Petyr, as if that small intimacy absolved him of the liberty he took when he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Her castle of snow, Winterfell rebuilt, had seemed soiled and ugly afterwards. She’d smashed her hard work with her boot once Littlefinger left. She never wanted to think of Winterfell in that loathsome man’s shadow again.

And Ramsay...Sansa shuddered. Ramsay was dead, dead by her hand, and she would not summon him up again.

But Jon...she carried Jon’s kiss with her, a sweet moment no one else could touch.  He’d asked her, mutely, before he leaned in, and for the first time in her life Sansa had the chance to say yes .

He’d tipped her forehead and his lips were soft, softer than she could have imagined. He held on with his gloved hands and she’d had the wild, improbable wish that he’d taken them off. She’d wanted to feel Jon’s hands in her hair, as he caressed the side of her head.

She’d ached with loss immediately when he pulled away. He’d looked at her, in a way she didn't recognize. Except...except she thoughts perhaps she did, deep down.

He was everything that father had promised, brave and gentle and strong. And her half-brother. The gods were cruel, malevolent, to give her what she dreamed of and hold it just out of reach.

It's the name Stark that keeps us apart. Divides us. A chasm neither of us can cross.

She was trapped, because the family that bound them together forced them apart.

So she was doomed to spend the next year curtsying to suitor after suitor, politely declining, until political reality caught up with her and she’d be obligated to agree. She’d enter a carriage as another man’s wife, and ride away from Winterfell and Jon.  Because the one man who made her feel safe, the one she trusted, could never be hers.

She wiped away her tears. There was a little magic in her life still. She reached down to a crevice in the rampart’s rock wall. When her fingers found the soft fur, she managed a small small.

She took the stone from its red fur pouch, and held it up to the morning light. It was dark grey, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, veined with wide streaks of silver. Stark colors. The stone was exquisite as a jewel, rich and gorgeous in her hands.  

She’d experienced desolation and death, torture and pain. But now, as the new day began, she brought the stone to her lips and kissed it. The surface was warm, despite the bitter cold. She closed her eyes and Jon was kissing her again, except this time it was a kiss pressed to her mouth after they’d said their vows, after he’d swept his cloak around her shoulders, under the weirwood tree.

She saw the image so clearly that she had to blink rapidly when she opened her eyes. She slipped the stone into the hiding place as the sun rose higher in the sky. Sometimes Sansa let herself imagine the pouch was a gift, meant just for her. On a few occasions, when the previous day had been particularly bleak, she allowed herself to dream it was a gift from Jon. A girl’s dream, a girl’s foolish song.

The courtyard began to stir, and Sansa left.

Jon

Ghost had already trotted off to hunt when Jon stood on the the castle’s ramparts. The setting sun bathed the sky and the snow in red hues. This was the moment when the grey storm clouds overhead transformed, became something else entirely, red and orange and a soft deep yellow.

He snuck out here when the work of the castle was done. When the day’s weapons training and endless council meetings and petitions were behind him.

Our spot, it’s our spot.  Where he'd reached out for the first time to touch Sansa, after her slight nod. Her skin had been soft, softer than he’d imagined in his shameful dreams. She’d flushed and looked at him from underneath her eyelashes. He’d stroked her hair, lost. He'd been lost since she jumped into his arms at Castle Black, to be honest. Lost and found at the same time, but he couldn’t tell her. He never had the words, and the words were too dangerous anyway.

He’d prayed in the godswood after they’d taken Winterfell back, after his feelings for Sansa grew stronger rather than fainter. He’d knelt by the deep pool of dark, still water and pleaded with the old gods to stop this madness, to rid him of his desires. Please, she deserves better, bring her a lord who’ll care for her, cherish her.

He’d heard no answer, only the faint rustling of leaves. Then ripples had formed on the water’s surface. Jon had watched in wonder as the ripples grew stronger, until a swell of water had deposited a rock at his feet.

The water had fallen still again as soon as Jon touched the stone. It was round, smooth, shot through with veins of silver. Jon had never seen a stone like it, neither here at Winterfell nor at the Wall. He’d taken it with him. He’d tried to treat it as a reminder of his father, perhaps a talisman for protection given to him by the old gods.

But he’d found, as he carried it with him, that the stone only made him yearn for Sansa more. He'd kiss her all over again when he brushed the stone with his fingertips, only this kiss was under the leaves of the godswood, soft and sweet, Sansa radiant in her white wedding gown. She's mine, mine to protect, mine to love, mine to care for.

He would ask for her hand in a world where they weren't brother and sister. He could preserve the Stark name for her, give her Winterfell. There was so much longing in his heart, for love and marriage and a keep of his own. He’d buried it, dismayed that Uncle Benjen had been right, and served the Night's Watch.

He’d dreamed for years of a beautiful high-born lady, but her features had been vague, undefined. Now, no matter how he tried to fight it, he thought of Sansa, with her silken auburn hair and sharp tongue. She kept her intelligence closely guarded, as if men would hurt her for it, because they had.

Jon had heard men joke about giving their wives free reign for an evening at a dance, as if their wives were on leashes. The jests made him queasy. All he wanted was for his wife, his lady to be his partner and equal.

Sansa was more than his equal, he was certain, but if they wed - they'd rebuild Winterfell together, side by side, and Jon would be able to see her smile at night in their chambers, a smile that was just for him. He'd kill any man who tried to harm her.  He knew he shouldn’t be overcome by feelings fierce enough to tighten his chest, but he was hopelessly, helplessly in love with her.

Tossing the stone back into the godswood's waters seemed like a violation of that sacred space. So he’d fashioned a crude fur pouch and hidden it in a crevice near the spot where he’d kissed Sansa for the first and last time. Perhaps it was a Stark stone, meant for her family. Perhaps it would help Sansa, show her who her husband would be.

He’d secretly wished Sansa would find it and keep it, but the pouch was still there each time he visited.

He could still hope she’d discover it someday. He kissed the stone’s warm surface and slipped it back into the pouch. The first few stars were shining as he walked back to his chambers in the gathering dark.

***

Later, after the end of the Great War, after the truth of Jon’s parentage was revealed, Sansa proposed a marriage of political expedience to Jon. She refused to look at him until he went down on one knee and took her hand.

“Sansa, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I have to tell you no.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “I know I’m not what you might have wished for, Jon, but these are times we have to put our dreams aside. Our union would unite the North and South.”

Jon swallowed. He held her gaze.

“I can’t, because I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

“I’ve been in love with you ever since you came back to me. I fought it for so long, but if I were to marry you, I couldn’t hide it from you.” He cast about for the right words. “I wanted you to know, Sansa, so you’d have the chance to change your mi-”

Sansa yanked him to his feet, harder than he would have thought possible, and kissed him. She threw her arms around his neck and he pulled her closer, overjoyed, kissing her deeply. When she tucked her head into the crook of his neck afterwards, he brushed his lips over her hair. He murmured my love and sweet girl, endearments he’d struggled to keep to himself.

Sansa traced his cheek with her finger. “Can I tell you something foolish, Jon?”

Jon smiled at her. His heart was full to bursting with happiness. “Of course, love. Though I doubt it’s as foolish as you believe.”

Sansa hummed. “A stone told me to marry you. A stone, up on the ramparts where you kissed me.” She flushed. “I’d visit that spot each morning, and there was a stone tucked into-”

“A pouch,” Jon said slowly, “a fur pouch.”

Sansa drew back. “How did you know?”

Jon ticked her hair behind her ear. “Because I left it there, Sansa. I found it in the godswood and...and it made me think of you, of marrying you. I knew that was wrong, but I hoped you’d find it, that it might be some solace for you. It seemed….it seemed like it belonged to the Starks, to Winterfell.”

Sansa nodded. “I think it does belong to us. To both of us.” She lifted her chin. “I’ll have it set into my wedding necklace.”

“Sansa it’s only a stone, I’ll find you something finer, a real jewel-”

Sansa fixed him with a stare, the same stare she used to crush disputes in the great hall. Jon laughed, and held up his hands,. “As you wish, my lady,”

Sansa smirked. “Very wise, my lord.”

Preparations for the celebration set the castle buzzing. Singers traveled many miles to be part of the feast’s festivities. Sansa brought the stone to the town’s jeweler as the first set of alterations were completed on her gown. When the jeweler cut into the stone it sparkled with silver, along with a streak of garnet that matched Sansa’s hair.

Sansa brought the necklace to Jon the day before their wedding. “Look, Jon, do you see the red? It’s your Targaryen heritage too. It’s both of us together.”

Jon rested his forehead on hers. He’d expected Sansa never to speak of that side of his family again. He’d taken the Stark name, and he would have let House Targaryen fade away entirely. But she’d found a way to weave that part of him into their marriage, into the life they shared.

***

The common folk spun tales of their wedding day, how Lady Sansa’s shining red hair was unbound, spilling down her shoulders, a perfect match for the weirwood leaves. How the gem at her throat gleamed as Lord Stark wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. It was said the jewel had no equal in the seven kingdoms.

The jeweler who’d cut Lady Sansa’s stone parried a thousand questions, but finally confided in a few friends about the source of Lady Sansa’s gem.

Soon young men and women in the North would pray, silently, in the godswood, for a sign of a marriage for love. If the odds were right, and the gods were good, the dark pool of the godswood would offer up a stone, warm and smooth, with a story hidden inside, waiting to be told.

[him-e]

Which are your top 5 book!Sansa moments and why?

i.

The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away.The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “He was no true knight,” she whispered to him.

Okay, this is a classic. It is early in Sansa’s journey, she still has to undergo the massive character evolution of the later books (and learn the True Face of Official Chivalry and what it will do to her), and yet she’s already moving past her initial assumptions, holding the Beast’s gaze with resolve and dignity, seeing the abused child in a man that legitimately terrifies her, acknowledging his legitimate anger, understanding that what really wounded him wasn’t his brother’s assault per se, but the fact that Gregor was never punished for it, but upgraded to “ser”. With that “he was no true knight”, Sansa defends the true ideal of knighthood against impostors, and already implicitly denounces (and challenges) the profound injustice of a society that rewards violent, cruel men and corrupts noble ideals. And, “somehow, the fear had gone away. […] she was afraid for him now, not for herself”—this eleven years old harmless little girl is suddenly no longer scared of [one of the most terrifying men in the seven kingdoms] the Hound, but worried and sad for him, and I think it’s amazing.

ii.

She threw back the shutters and shivered as gooseprickles rose along her arms. There were clouds massing in the eastern sky, pierced by shafts of sunlight. They look like two huge castles afloat in the morning sky. Sansa could see their walls of tumbled stone, their mighty keeps and barbicans. Wispy banners swirled from atop their towers and reached for the fast-fading stars. The sun was coming up behind them, and she watched them go from black to grey to a thousand shades of rose and gold and crimson. Soon the wind mushed them together, and there was only one castle where there had been two. She heard the door open as her maids brought the hot water for her bath. They were both new to her service; Tyrion said the women who’d tended to her previously had all been Cersei’s spies, just as Sansa had always suspected. “Come see,” she told them. “There’s a castle in the sky.“ 

I just love this passage; the beautiful prose and imagery, the (relevant to the bigger picture) symbolism of there was only one castle where there had been two, how it perfectly encapsulates Sansa’s imaginative, romantic nature and transformative gaze on reality. A trait that is both a hindrance and an asset, as we see in various instances.

iii.

What are you looking at?” Joffrey said. “This is what I wanted you to see, right here.”A thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as Sansa’s chin, with crenellations cut into it every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. Sansa had noted them the moment she’d stepped out onto the wallwalk, but the river and the bustling streets and the setting sun were ever so much prettier. He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can’t make me see them.

Another early passage, another classic, one that was nicely adapted on the show too, but I can’t not pick it because it’s such an iconic and character-defining moment for Sansa—both a turning point in her attitude and one of her first victories against her oppressors. Sansa gives no angle here for Joffrey to play. Outwardly compliant and submissive, she however doesn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see her suffer, as he was certainly anticipating. She chooses not to see. Again, the transformative gaze; it becomes a shield, a full coat of armor. 

But shortly after that: A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, “Maybe my brother will give me your head.” And: The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all. So. Much. Anger. SO MUCH HATRED. I love Sansa when she’s like this, and I thank GRRM for writing her in such a relatable way. She first utters something INCREDIBLY defiant, then coldly considers committing regicide then and there, not bothered at all by the likely collateral damage of her dying too, whether she goes down with Joffrey or she’s executed later. It doesn’t matter. “Those fat wormlips.” Her disgust for Joffrey knows no limits, and I love it.

iv. 

Sansa threw a plain grey cloak over her shoulders and picked up the knife she used to cut her meat. If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself. She hid the blade under her cloak.

She’s just found ser Dontos’ message, that she doesn’t know yet is from ser Dontos. She is in turmoil the whole evening, paranoid about everything (including her bedmaid), torn between wanting to meet her mysterious ally in the godswood and suspecting this is nothing but a trap orchestrated by her own captors to test her loyalty; she goes to bed, but then some kerfuffle near the walls tells her she might take advantage of this distraction and reach the godswood unnoticed. And so she goes. She chooses to meet the author of the letter, who might as well be ser Ilyn Payne and behead her on the spot (as she indeed fears). Clever girl, she brings a knife, and will not hesitate to point it at ser Dontos when he approaches her. “If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more”. It reminds me of:

and then they say Sansa is “passive”. No. It’s that her situation only allows her a minimal wiggle room. But when she finds a loophole, she goes for it. (also, sad reminder that Sansa has been feeling lowkey suicidal since Ned’s death.)

v.

They made a tall tower together, kneeling side by side to roll it smooth, and when they’d raised it Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. “That was unchivalrously done, my lady.” “As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home.” She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell. 

the whole snow castle scene is beautiful and poetic and symbolic, but I’m picking this moment in particular, in which Sansa, almost intoxicated by her rekindled connection with Winterfell, finds the courage to directly question Littlefinger—Littlefinger who just decided to invade her own private moment of remembrance of her childhood, who played word games with her, who took advantage of her desperation, who lured her in this strange place with the false promise of taking her home. I don’t want to read a sexual metaphor in Sansa’s breaking the tower—rather, this is Sansa destroying something she created with Littlefinger’s (unwanted and intrusive) help, and throwing it in his face. Foreshadowing? Only a gentle and playful teasing? I don’t know, but there’s a lot of subdued anger in this gesture alone, and it’s also a moment of sharp lucidity. Shortly after this, LF forces a kiss on her and she notes how he “sounds like Marillion” (i.e. an attempted rapist). She questions the fact that she could as well be his daughter, and protests that he should be kissing Lysa, instead. 

This moment, followed by the icing on the cake of Sweetrobin’s destroying the castle and throwing a fit, is the catalyst for so many things in Sansa’s arc. It’s an eye-opener on the nature of her relationship with Petyr (it makes it clear to both Sansa herself and the reader that Petyr is sexually attracted to her, and perfectly capable of acting on it, despite Sansa’s age). It makes Sansa temporarily break the spell of the Eyrie and decide to be proactive about her situation, at any cost (I will tell my aunt that I don’t want to marry Robert. […] She wasn’t a beggar, no matter what her aunt said. She was thirteen, a woman flowered and wed, the heir to Winterfell. Sansa felt sorry for her little cousin sometimes, but she could not imagine ever wanting to be his wife. I would sooner be married to Tyrion again. If Lady Lysa knew that, surely she’d send her away… away from Robert’s pouts and shakes and runny eyes, away from Marillion’s lingering looks, away from Petyr’s kisses. I will tell her. I will!) But it also unleashes Lysa’s anger on her, which in turn leads to Lysa’s death and Sansa’s complete descent in Littlefinger’s underworld as Alayne. So, a lot of things going on here.

(Sansa has a lot of small & quiet Fave moments, so it was hard for me to just pin it down to 5. I just chose the ones I felt like discussing the most. Also, sorry for the late answer, but I needed to take a break from writing meta.)

[mairiangel]

A Test of Patience

Summary: Lord Baelish’s words are starting to grate on his nerves though Jon tried to remain unaffected, something broke when those words left the man’s mouth and the next thing he knew, he was choking him. Based on the Game of Thrones Season 7 Official Trailer.

Relationship: Jon Snow & Sansa Stark

AO3 Link: x

Notes: This is what I though is happening based on the spoilers and jonsa tumblr fans’ ideas...? There is also a link for the AO3 one if you liked that format. This is a oneshot.

He was taking a short brisk walk towards the crypts to gather some courage to face the power thrust onto him. His footsteps were barely audible as he tried not to disturb anyone who might have the mind to visit the place though he doubted anyone would lounge around here still it wouldn’t hurt to be careful.

 And then he felt something watching him, Jon tensed, and after a second, he craned his neck to see who it was but was surprised to see nothing of sorts, the corridors were completely empty except him, he shifted on his feet and returned his gaze back in front of him. First time visiting the crypts after a long time and someone is trying to haunt him, he hoped it was just his imagination.

 Jon continued his walk, idly observing the path before him as his thoughts wondered around his current dilemma. He doesn’t really know if he had what it takes to be the designated king that they wanted him to be, he knew it was not his rightful place and instead it should belong to his sister yet she didn’t do anything to prevent the declaration of the lords.

 He let out a barely audible sigh, one hand reaching to his side of the head as he contemplated whether or not this really is the best course of action—he felt like this authority doesn’t really belong to him, he was just the bastard son of the Lord Stark of Winterfell, nothing of significance and nothing to inherit.

 But yet, he was suddenly being given the title of King—not just any king but the King in the North—somehow, that made it more complicated and frightening, their expectation of him to guide them would all be drenched when they learned that he doesn’t exactly know how to rule like a king, this should have been Robb, not him.

 But Robb is dead, and only his siblings are left to rule Winterfell.

 “I see you’re having quite a problem,” Jon tensed, one hand falling to his scabbard as he spun around to face the threat only to step back as his gaze took in the sight of the man he was tempted to avoid at all costs.

 Standing there, in black, was Littlefinger.

 He fought back the urge to walk away and instead let go of the handle of his sword as Jon straightened and gave a sharp nod. “Lord Baelish, what can I do for you?” Just staring at the man’s eyes is enough for him to become repulsed, this is the man that Sansa had warned him about not to trust at all costs.

 Jon can see why, even without anything suggesting that the lord was a threat—there was this aura around him that spoke of confidence that made someone like him uncomfortable just being in the same vicinity as him. And then he remembered another reason why he doesn’t like this man, he is the one that sold Sansa to the Boltons.

 It was suddenly harder for him to stay still, he clenched his fists to prevent him from doing anything untoward against the man, Sansa wanted this man around—he doesn’t know why but she seemed to be scheming something as of late, he was not aware if it has something to do with the welfare of the Winterfell or this man.

 “Shall we say,” Littlefinger drawled out, his gaze penetrating him as he regarded the man in front of him. “A proposition.” At those words, Jon immediately became on guard, trying to see if something is amiss as he returned the man’s gaze with one of his gazes that would guarantee to make someone uneasy though it seems the Lord was unaffected by it, just staring at him in concealed amusement.

 He doesn’t trust this man one bit, something just screamed deceit within him and Jon knows enough to trust his instinct when it comes to things like this however he knew better than to deny the man the chance to speak his thoughts, so Jon let it be, raising an eyebrow as he said. “What kind of proposition?”

 “When all hope had been lost, the Knights of the Vale had come to your rescue and greatly increased the odds of winning the battle against the Boltons,” Littlefinger paused, observing the man in front of him with a keen eye. Jon bit back a sigh of annoyance, if the man would just spit it out and get out of his way before something untoward happens then everything would be a normal day though it seemed that the man in front of him had this sudden goal of lingering as long as possible.

 Jon nodded as he processed his words, he bit out. “I am grateful for your help, Lord Baelish.” Maybe if you hadn’t sold Sansa to the Boltons then I would have been more grateful for your help. He mentally shook his head at that though as he raised a brow and asked. “Though what does this have to do with your proposition?”

 If there is anything he can do to shove the Lord out of the way and packing then we would give him anything just to see him back in the Vale where he was supposed to be and not loitering around Winterfell where he can always be seen looming around Sansa.

 That was another thing he had been burying deep within his mind, Littlefinger is always around Sansa—talking with her, walking with her and who knows what, it had been eating at him but he doesn’t let it show and although he wanted to ask Sansa why she is letting the man near her, something seemed to be stopping him and he doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a dreadful thing.

 “All I asked for return is Lady Sansa’s hand.”

 Jon blinked, a look of confusion on his face as he tried to analyze those words and after a moment, his confusion turned to distrust and wariness as he narrowed his eyes and regarded the man in front of him. “No.” Suddenly, as if things are coming to place—he now realized all the things that Littlefinger has been doing around here, the way he looked at Sansa and the fact that he still hadn’t returned back to the Vale.

 Littlefinger gave him that deceptively polite smile though his eyes tell a different story. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

 Jon bit his lips to keep from scoffing, this man is downright insane. Who would give Sansa away to someone that had made her life more miserable than it already is. “No.” His eyes still narrowed as he repeated those words, he would die first before he would give his sister to Littlefinger.

 “I’m afraid you don’t seem to understand the situation, milord.” Littlefinger said, the word ‘milord’ rolling off his tongue with a hint of mockery that Jon was sure is intended. “With House Stark marrying the Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale, it would increase your army by tenfold, after all, the Knights of the Vale are more well-off than most of the other armies in Westeros, they hadn’t participated in war for years while the other houses had their armies took great damage from the War of the Five Kings.”

 Jon didn’t budge, his hands clenching on either side of his body as he stared at the man. So, this is why he is still here in Winterfell? This was his plan all along? He couldn’t believe that this man arriving is the reason they even survived the battle against the Boltons, fate really is cruel.

 “It isn’t my decision to force Sansa to remarry once more after what you set her into.” He wouldn’t let Littlefinger have his way, he promised to protect Sansa and she may not believe that he could protect her—he would still show to her that she doesn’t need to worry about those kinds of men anymore because he would do anything to prevent her from succumbing to that fate Littlefinger had thrown her into.

 Even with all those dismissals, Littlefinger still had the nerve to look at him straight in the eye as he continued to convince him. “You don’t seem to notice, milord, but I would take care of Lady Sansa unlike her previous husband.” He said those words as if he would believe them.

 Jon fought the urge to assault him as he tried to calm down, this man is just begging to be punched in the face. Take care of her? How can he take care of her when he himself is the one that sold her to the abusive husband and if the rumors were true about Littlefinger—that no information escape his notice—then that must had mean that the behavior of the Bolton Bastard hadn’t escaped his notice.

 Just thinking about that is making his blood boil, he tried to take a deep breath and closed his eyes—he is fighting the urge to break the bones of this man, he reminded himself that it would be fruitless to antagonize the man as it would only result to Sansa becoming disappointed at his attitude but he really wanted to hurt him.

 “The difference between Lord Bolton and I is simple, milord.” Littlefinger started, his gaze penetrating towards the man in front of him as Jon opened his eyes to stare him down, daring him to say anything. Baelish let the corners of his mouth curved upwards as he regarded the man before him and then he said those words.

 “I love Sansa.”

 And then the next thing Littlefinger knew is those hands choking him, a look of surprise overtaking his features as he stared down at the man glaring up at him with the eyes of someone with vengeance. It was silent for a moment, their gazes meeting with each other—one of disbelief, the other, of furious. And then the boy’s eyes darkened as he responded to his words.

 “You dare tell me that after everything she had endured because of your decision?!” Jon glared, his hands tightening around the neck of this vile man. How dare he declared those words as if he hadn’t done anything wrong to her? Didn’t make her life as miserable as possible? How can he say that he loves her when he only saw her as a pawn for his to move?

 “You love her yet you make her suffer? You don’t know the scars she had received! The nightmare engraved on her dreams because of your affection, tell me, how can you say you love her when you further ruined her already shattered life?!” Jon watched the man squirm, trying to escape his hold but he was having nothing of it, tightening his hold as tight as possible.

 Littlefinger tried to respond, gasping for air as he vehemently observed. “Jon?” The sudden voice made him falter, he turned around and saw Sansa walking down their path with an unreadable look on her face as she analyzed the scene before her and then promptly shook her head.

 “Don’t let it get to your head.” She said, her gaze remained towards him. With a reluctant huff, Jon released him and watched Littlefinger took a huge gulp of breath as he pressed a hand on his neck.

 Jon pressed his lips to a thin line and focused his attention towards her though she had her gaze narrowed towards Littlefinger before she turned around and caught his gaze. “You need to rest, let us take a walk outside to calm your head.” She said as she started walking without a second glance towards the Lord Baelish.

 He stared at her before he returned his gaze towards the man and gave him one final look of warning.

 If it weren’t for Sansa, he wouldn’t have stopped.

Notes: I cannot wait for Season 7 like seriously, my body is ready.

[sansa-hand-of-the-king]

Sansa and Dany parallels

1) Both characters are being married off so that they can get an army and return home. Sansa to Winterfell / Dany to Westeros.

"I do," he said sharply. "We go home with an army, sweet sister. With Khal Drogo's army, that is how we go home. And if you must wed him and bed him for that, you will." ."  Daenerys I AGOT

"Petyr put his arm around her. "So he is, but he is Robert's heir as well. Bringing Harry here was the first step in our plan, but now we need to keep him, and only you can do that. He has a weakness for a pretty face, and whose face is prettier than yours? Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him.". - Alayne I  TWOW

2) In this case both feel like they dont have any other choice. Sansa feels littlefinger is all she has, and Dany feels the same about Viserys. (both are confused about how they feel, they dissociate the good version with the bad, sansa calls him  Petyr when he is her “protector” and littlefinger when he is the manipulator and shady figure. The same did Dany: Viserys is the good sweet brother when they were little, but she calls him cruel and weak when he gets older.  

He saved Alayne, his daughter, a voice within her whispered. But she was Sansa too . . . and sometimes it seemed to her that the Lord Protector was two people as well. He was Petyr, her protector, warm and funny and gentle . . . but he was also Littlefinger, the lord she'd known at King's Landing, smiling slyly and stroking his beard as he whispered in Queen Cersei's ear. And Littlefinger was no friend of hers.... She would have fled them both, perhaps, but there was nowhere for her to go. Winterfell was burned and desolate, Bran and Rickon dead and cold. Robb had been betrayed and murdered at the Twins, along with their lady mother. Tyrion had been put to death for killing Joffrey, and if she ever returned to King's Landing the queen would have her head as well. The aunt she'd hoped would keep her safe had tried to murder her instead. Her uncle Edmure was a captive of the Freys, while her great-uncle the Blackfish was under siege at Riverrun. I have no place but here, Sansa thought miserably, and no true friend but Petyr. Sansa I AFFC.

"He is your brother," Ser Jorah acknowledged.

"You do not understand, ser," she said. "My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have."  Daenerys V AGOT.

Viserys had been stupid and vicious, she had come to realize, yet sometimes she missed him all the same. Not the cruel weak man he had become by the end, but the brother who had sometimes let her creep into his bed, the boy who told her tales of the Seven Kingdoms, and talked of how much better their lives would be once he claimed his crown.   Daenerys I ASOS.

3) Both littlefinger and Viserys are not loved or rispected in the circle they tried to rule. Varys is considered weak to the dothraki and Littlefinger is not trusted by the lord of the vale for his scheming. (Thats also why both want a marriage with the most valued member of that comunity, a person who they will follow.)

"Petyr arched an eyebrow. "When Robert dies. Our poor brave Sweetrobin is such a sickly boy, it is only a matter of time. When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright.   Alayne II AFFC.

"You see how long it is?" Viserys said. "When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braids in disgrace, so the world will know their shame. Khal Drogo has never lost a fight. He is Aegon the Dragonlord come again, and you will be his queen."

Khal Drogo had offered him a place in a cart the next day, and Viserys had accepted. In his stubborn ignorance, he had not even known he was being mocked; the carts were for eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old. That won him yet another name: Khal Rhaggat, the Cart King - A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IV

4) both women are wanted dead by the crown (Robert wants to kill Dany and all the targaryens while Cersei wants to kill Sansa and all the starks.)

She is not dead ... but before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss -  Cersei IV  AFFC

"Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?"

The king frowned. "A knife, perhaps. A good sharp one, and a bold man to wield it." Eddard II AGOT

5) Both have a older, protector. In both cases there is a “beauty and the beast”  theme. Sansa with Sandor, Dany with Jorah.

She'd thought she was going to die then, but the fingers had twitched, all five at once, and the man had shrieked loud as a horse. When his hand fell away, another hand, stronger, shoved her back into her saddle.... The Hound leapt at them, his sword a blur of steel that trailed a red mist as it swung. - Sansa IV ACOK

She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine - Daenerys X AGOT

6) Both have sworn knight that promised to protect a member of their family and, after that person died, swore to defend them instead. Brienne swore to Catelyn to save Sansa, Ser Barristan was Rhaegar knight, now protects Dany (both suffered a long journey to get there, and both have connection with the lannisters...).

"I will find the girl and keep her safe," Brienne had promised Ser Jaime, back at King's Landing. "For her lady mother's sake. And for yours."  A Feast for Crows - Brienne I

I came to bring Daenerys home. Yet he had lost her, just as he had lost her father and her brother. - A Dance with Dragons - The Queensguard

7) Both used they abilities to survive in a dangerous place. Sansa in KL keeps her head down and survives. Dany uses her fire and blood, never showing her vulnerable side. In an opposite way both addapt to the circumstances.

"What … what does he want? Please, tell me."

"He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love," the Hound rasped.

"He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words the way the septa taught you. He wants you to love him … and fear him.

"After he was gone, Sansa sank back onto the rushes, staring at the wall until two of her bedmaids crept timidly into the chamber. "I will need hot water for my bath, please," she told them, "and perfume, and some powder to hide this bruise." The right side of her face was swollen and beginning to ache, but she knew Joffrey would want her to be beautiful.  Sansa VI AGOT.

If Khal Drogo had been with her, Dany would have ridden her silver. Among the Dothraki, mothers stayed on horseback almost up to the moment of birth, and she did not want to seem weak in her husband's eyes

"The Dothraki follow only the strong," Ser Jorah said. "I am sorry, my princess. There was no way to hold them. Ko Pono left first, naming himself Khal Pono, and many followed him. - Daenerys AGOT.

8) Both want their life to be like a song. (Sansa in the beginnig of the story, Dany near the end..)

A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs.- AGOT Sansa.

How beautiful, the queen tried to tell herself, but inside her was some foolish little girl who could not help but look about for Daario. If he loved you, he would come and carry you off at swordpoint, as Rhaegar carried off his northern girl, the girl in her insisted.- ADWD Daenerys.

9) Both just want to return home (Dany at the beginning of the story, Sansa at the end..)

When she rolled onto her back and stared up at from where she had come, her head swam dizzily and her fingers clawed at the dirt. I did it. I did it, I didn't fall, I made the climb and now I'm going home.  A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

She was lying there, holding the egg, when she felt the child move within her … as if he were reaching out, brother to brother, blood to blood. "You are the dragon," Dany whispered to him, "the true dragon. I know it. I know it." And she smiled, and went to sleep dreaming of home.  A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IV

[readbookywooks]

Eddard

The straw on the floor stank of urine. There was no window, no bed, not even a slop bucket. He remembered walls of pale red stone festooned with patches of nitre, a grey door of splintered wood, four inches thick and studded with iron. He had seen them, briefly, a quick glimpse as they shoved him inside. Once the door had slammed shut, he had seen no more. The dark was absolute. He had as well been blind. Or dead. Buried with his king. "Ah, Robert," he murmured as his groping hand touched a cold stone wall, his leg throbbing with every motion. He remembered the jest the king had shared in the crypts of Winterfell, as the Kings of Winter looked on with cold stone eyes. The king eats, Robert had said, and the Hand takes the shit. How he had laughed. Yet he had gotten it wrong. The king dies, Ned Stark thought, and the Hand is buried. The dungeon was under the Red Keep, deeper than he dared imagine. He remembered the old stories about Maegor the Cruel, who murdered all the masons who labored on his castle, so they might never reveal its secrets. He damned them all: Littlefinger, Janos Slynt and his gold cloaks, the queen, the Kingslayer, Pycelle and Varys and Ser Barristan, even Lord Renly, Robert's own blood, who had run when he was needed most. Yet in the end he blamed himself. "Fool," he cried to the darkness, "thrice-damned blind fool." Cersei Lannister's face seemed to float before him in the darkness. Her hair was full of sunlight, but there was mockery in her smile. "When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die," she whispered. Ned had played and lost, and his men had paid the price of his folly with their life's blood. When he thought of his daughters, he would have wept gladly, but the tears would not come. Even now, he was a Stark of Winterfell, and his grief and his rage froze hard inside him. When he kept very still, his leg did not hurt so much, so he did his best to lie unmoving. For how long he could not say. There was no sun and no moon. He could not see to mark the walls. Ned closed his eyes and opened them; it made no difference. He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares. The thought of Cat was as painful as a bed of nettles. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He wondered whether he would ever see her again. Hours turned to days, or so it seemed. He could feel a dull ache in his shattered leg, an itch beneath the plaster. When he touched his thigh, the flesh was hot to his fingers. The only sound was his breathing. After a time, he began to talk aloud, just to hear a voice. He made plans to keep himself sane, built castles of hope in the dark. Robert's brothers were out in the world, raising armies at Dragonstone and Storm's End. Alyn and Harwin would return to King's Landing with the rest of his household guard once they had dealt with Ser Gregor. Catelyn would raise the north when the word reached her, and the lords of river and mountain and Vale would join her. He found himself thinking of Robert more and more. He saw the king as he had been in the flower of his youth, tall and handsome, his great antlered helm on his head, his warhammer in hand, sitting his horse like a horned god. He heard his laughter in the dark, saw his eyes, blue and clear as mountain lakes. "Look at us, Ned," Robert said. "Gods, how did we come to this? You here, and me killed by a pig. We won a throne together . . . " I failed you, Robert, Ned thought. He could not say the words. I lied to you, hid the truth. I let them kill you. The king heard him. "You stiff-necked fool," he muttered, "too proud to listen. Can you eat pride, Stark? Will honor shield your children?" Cracks ran down his face, fissures opening in the flesh, and he reached up and ripped the mask away. It was not Robert at all; it was Littlefinger, grinning, mocking him. When he opened his mouth to speak, his lies turned to pale grey moths and took wing. Ned was half-asleep when the footsteps came down the hall. At first he thought he dreamt them; it had been so long since he had heard anything but the sound of his own voice. Ned was feverish by then, his leg a dull agony, his lips parched and cracked. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, the sudden light was painful to his eyes. A gaoler thrust a jug at him. The clay was cool and beaded with moisture. Ned grasped it with both hands and gulped eagerly. Water ran from his mouth and dripped down through his beard. He drank until he thought he would be sick. "How long . . . ?" he asked weakly when he could drink no more. The gaoler was a scarecrow of a man with a rat's face and frayed beard, clad in a mail shirt and a leather half cape. "No talking," he said as he wrenched the jug from Ned's hands. "Please," Ned said, "my daughters . . . " The door crashed shut. He blinked as the light vanished, lowered his head to his chest, and curled up on the straw. It no longer stank of urine and shit. It no longer smelled at all. He could no longer tell the difference between waking and sleeping. The memory came creeping upon him in the darkness, as vivid as a dream. It was the year of false spring, and he was eighteen again, down from the Eyrie to the tourney at Harrenhal. He could see the deep green of the grass, and smell the pollen on the wind. Warm days and cool nights and the sweet taste of wine. He remembered Brandon's laughter, and Robert's berserk valor in the melee, the way he laughed as he unhorsed men left and right. He remembered Jaime Lannister, a golden youth in scaled white armor, kneeling on the grass in front of the king's pavilion and making his vows to protect and defend King Aerys. Afterward, Ser Oswell Whent helped Jaime to his feet, and the White Bull himself, Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, fastened the snowy cloak of the Kingsguard about his shoulders. All six White Swords were there to welcome their newest brother. Yet when the jousting began, the day belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: gleaming black plate with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. A plume of scarlet silk streamed behind him when he rode, and it seemed no lance could touch him. Brandon fell to him, and Bronze Yohn Royce, and even the splendid Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion's crown. Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost. Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark. Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses. "Gods save me," Ned wept. "I am going mad." The gods did not deign to answer. Each time the turnkey brought him water, he told himself another day had passed. At first he would beg the man for some word of his daughters and the world beyond his cell. Grunts and kicks were his only replies. Later, when the stomach cramps began, he begged for food instead. It made no matter; he was not fed. Perhaps the Lannisters meant for him to starve to death. "No," he told himself. If Cersei had wanted him dead, he would have been cut down in the throne room with his men. She wanted him alive. Weak, desperate, yet alive. Catelyn held her brother; she dare not kill him or the Imp's life would be forfeit as well. From outside his cell came the rattle of iron chains. As the door creaked open, Ned put a hand to the damp wall and pushed himself toward the light. The glare of a torch made him squint. "Food," he croaked. "Wine," a voice answered. It was not the rat-faced man; this gaoler was stouter, shorter, though he wore the same leather half cape and spiked steel cap. "Drink, Lord Eddard." He thrust a wineskin into Ned's hands. The voice was strangely familiar, yet it took Ned Stark a moment to place it. "Varys?" he said groggily when it came. He touched the man's face. "I'm not . . . not dreaming this. You're here." The eunuch's plump cheeks were covered with a dark stubble of beard. Ned felt the coarse hair with his fingers. Varys had transformed himself into a grizzled turnkey, reeking of sweat and sour wine. "How did you . . . what sort of magician are you?" "A thirsty one," Varys said. "Drink, my lord." Ned's hands fumbled at the skin. "Is this the same poison they gave Robert?" "You wrong me," Varys said sadly. "Truly, no one loves a eunuch. Give me the skin." He drank, a trickle of red leaking from the corner of his plump mouth. "Not the equal of the vintage you offered me the night of the tourney, but no more poisonous than most," he concluded, wiping his lips. "Here." Ned tried a swallow. "Dregs." He felt as though he were about to bring the wine back up. "All men must swallow the sour with the sweet. High lords and eunuchs alike. Your hour has come, my lord." "My daughters . . . " "The younger girl escaped Ser Meryn and fled," Varys told him. "I have not been able to find her. Nor have the Lannisters. A kindness, there. Our new king loves her not. Your older girl is still betrothed to Joffrey. Cersei keeps her close. She came to court a few days ago to plead that you be spared. A pity you couldn't have been there, you would have been touched." He leaned forward intently. "I trust you realize that you are a dead man, Lord Eddard?" "The queen will not kill me," Ned said. His head swam; the wine was strong, and it had been too long since he'd eaten. "Cat . . . Cat holds her brother . . . " "The wrong brother," Varys sighed. "And lost to her, in any case. She let the Imp slip through her fingers. I expect he is dead by now, somewhere in the Mountains of the Moon." "If that is true, slit my throat and have done with it." He was dizzy from the wine, tired and heartsick. "Your blood is the last thing I desire." Ned frowned. "When they slaughtered my guard, you stood beside the queen and watched, and said not a word." "And would again. I seem to recall that I was unarmed, unarmored, and surrounded by Lannister swords." The eunuch looked at him curiously, tilting his head. "When I was a young boy, before I was cut, I traveled with a troupe of mummers through the Free Cities. They taught me that each man has a role to play, in life as well as mummery. So it is at court. The King's Justice must be fearsome, the master of coin must be frugal, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard must be valiant . . . and the master of whisperers must be sly and obsequious and without scruple. A courageous informer would be as useless as a cowardly knight." He took the wineskin back and drank. Ned studied the eunuch's face, searching for truth beneath the mummer's scars and false stubble. He tried some more wine. This time it went down easier. "Can you free me from this pit?" "I could . . . but will I? No. Questions would be asked, and the answers would lead back to me." Ned had expected no more. "You are blunt." "A eunuch has no honor, and a spider does not enjoy the luxury of scruples, my lord." "Would you at least consent to carry a message out for me?" "That would depend on the message. I will gladly provide you with paper and ink, if you like. And when you have written what you will, I will take the letter and read it, and deliver it or not, as best serves my own ends." "Your own ends. What ends are those, Lord Varys?" "Peace," Varys replied without hesitation. "If there was one soul in King's Landing who was truly desperate to keep Robert Baratheon alive, it was me." He sighed. "For fifteen years I protected him from his enemies, but I could not protect him from his friends. What strange fit of madness led you to tell the queen that you had learned the truth of Joffrey's birth?" "The madness of mercy," Ned admitted. "Ah," said Varys. "To be sure. You are an honest and honorable man, Lord Eddard. Ofttimes I forget that. I have met so few of them in my life." He glanced around the cell. "When I see what honesty and honor have won you, I understand why." Ned Stark laid his head back against the damp stone wall and closed his eyes. His leg was throbbing. "The king's wine . . . did you question Lancel?" "Oh, indeed. Cersei gave him the wineskins, and told him it was Robert's favorite vintage." The eunuch shrugged. "A hunter lives a perilous life. If the boar had not done for Robert, it would have been a fall from a horse, the bite of a wood adder, an arrow gone astray . . . the forest is the abbatoir of the gods. It was not wine that killed the king. It was your mercy." Ned had feared as much. "Gods forgive me." "If there are gods," Varys said, "I expect they will. The queen would not have waited long in any case. Robert was becoming unruly, and she needed to be rid of him to free her hands to deal with his brothers. They are quite a pair, Stannis and Renly. The iron gauntlet and the silk glove." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You have been foolish, my lord. You ought to have heeded Littlefinger when he urged you to support Joffrey's succession." "How . . . how could you know of that?" Varys smiled. "I know, that's all that need concern you. I also know that on the morrow the queen will pay you a visit." Slowly Ned raised his eyes. "Why?" "Cersei is frightened of you, my lord . . . but she has other enemies she fears even more. Her beloved Jaime is fighting the river lords even now. Lysa Arryn sits in the Eyrie, ringed in stone and steel, and there is no love lost between her and the queen. In Dorne, the Martells still brood on the murder of Princess Elia and her babes. And now your son marches down the Neck with a northern host at his back." "Robb is only a boy," Ned said, aghast. "A boy with an army," Varys said. "Yet only a boy, as you say. The king's brothers are the ones giving Cersei sleepless nights . . . Lord Stannis in particular. His claim is the true one, he is known for his prowess as a battle commander, and he is utterly without mercy. There is no creature on earth half so terrifying as a truly just man. No one knows what Stannis has been doing on Dragonstone, but I will wager you that he's gathered more swords than seashells. So here is Cersei's nightmare: while her father and brother spend their power battling Starks and Tullys, Lord Stannis will land, proclaim himself king, and lop off her son's curly blond head . . . and her own in the bargain, though I truly believe she cares more about the boy." "Stannis Baratheon is Robert's true heir," Ned said. "The throne is his by rights. I would welcome his ascent." Varys tsked. "Cersei will not want to hear that, I promise you. Stannis may win the throne, but only your rotting head will remain to cheer unless you guard that tongue of yours. Sansa begged so sweetly, it would be a shame if you threw it all away. You are being given your life back, if you'll take it. Cersei is no fool. She knows a tame wolf is of more use than a dead one." "You want me to serve the woman who murdered my king, butchered my men, and crippled my son?" Ned's voice was thick with disbelief. "I want you to serve the realm," Varys said. "Tell the queen that you will confess your vile treason, command your son to lay down his sword, and proclaim Joffrey as the true heir. Offer to denounce Stannis and Renly as faithless usurpers. Our green-eyed lioness knows you are a man of honor. If you will give her the peace she needs and the time to deal with Stannis, and pledge to carry her secret to your grave, I believe she will allow you to take the black and live out the rest of your days on the Wall, with your brother and that baseborn son of yours." The thought of Jon filled Ned with a sense of shame, and a sorrow too deep for words. If only he could see the boy again, sit and talk with him . . . pain shot through his broken leg, beneath the filthy grey plaster of his cast. He winced, his fingers opening and closing helplessly. "Is this your own scheme," he gasped out at Varys, "or are you in league with Littlefinger?" That seemed to amuse the eunuch. "I would sooner wed the Black Goat of Qohor. Littlefinger is the second most devious man in the Seven Kingdoms. Oh, I feed him choice whispers, sufficient so that he thinks I am his . . . just as I allow Cersei to believe I am hers." "And just as you let me believe that you were mine. Tell me, Lord Varys, who do you truly serve?" Varys smiled thinly. "Why, the realm, my good lord, how ever could you doubt that? I swear it by my lost manhood. I serve the realm, and the realm needs peace." He finished the last swallow of wine, and tossed the empty skin aside. "So what is your answer, Lord Eddard? Give me your word that you'll tell the queen what she wants to hear when she comes calling." "If I did, my word would be as hollow as an empty suit of armor. My life is not so precious to me as that." "Pity." The eunuch stood. "And your daughter's life, my lord? How precious is that?" A chill pierced Ned's heart. "My daughter . . . " "Surely you did not think I'd forgotten about your sweet innocent, my lord? The queen most certainly has not." "No," Ned pleaded, his voice cracking. "Varys, gods have mercy, do as you like with me, but leave my daughter out of your schemes. Sansa's no more than a child." "Rhaenys was a child too. Prince Rhaegar's daughter. A precious little thing, younger than your girls. She had a small black kitten she called Balerion, did you know? I always wondered what happened to him. Rhaenys liked to pretend he was the true Balerion, the Black Dread of old, but I imagine the Lannisters taught her the difference between a kitten and a dragon quick enough, the day they broke down her door." Varys gave a long weary sigh, the sigh of a man who carried all the sadness of the world in a sack upon his shoulders. "The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that's true, Lord Eddard, tell me . . . why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones? Ponder it, if you would, while you wait upon the queen. And spare a thought for this as well: The next visitor who calls on you could bring you bread and cheese and the milk of the poppy for your pain . . . or he could bring you Sansa's head. "The choice, my dear lord Hand, is entirely yours."