#assassin dullie

[cookie12sposts]

I DID IIIT!!! HERE'S ASSASSIN DULLIE!!!

Oh my god.. coloring in color pencil is something else lol, but it looks so good!!

[anonymous-dentist]

Or: A prince and a pirate meet in a bar...

For Spiderbit Week Day One: Pirates

-

Las Casualonas used to be a smaller building, Roier thinks. More smoke, less space. More room for dancing, less room for goddamn swordfighting.

Roier watches passively as yet another pirate-wannabe gets thrown out of the building. He sips at his (terrible) beer, fingers idly drumming the table in a neat rhythm.

The loser's sword- a pitiful little thing with more holes than a slice of cheese- gets thrown out after them by the winner: a tall woman with white-blonde hair and a big floppy hat.

"Better luck next time!" she taunts. She laughs, loud and harsh and very pirate-y, and turns right on the heel of her boot to head back to the bar to order a round of celebratory drinks for her crew.

The sword on her belt shines dully in the dim tavern light, blood spattered across its blade.

Roier... considers. She's tough. She has a crew of tough-looking people- Roier watched them cheer her on during the fight, and he can see them surrounding her at the bar now with claps on the back and laughter. She has a nice sword. She has a big hat. She has to be a pirate, right?

But. But she just isn't right. She isn't the one he's looking for.

And so Roier turns his attention from the woman and back to the tavern as a whole. Back to the drawing board...

Pirates.

Oh, pirates.

There's a new law against piracy in the kingdom now. There's also a new pirate in the kingdom- or, rather, from the kingdom.

Coincidence? No. The new law was created within days of the Bear Captain's attempted assassination of the royal family's oldest child, and the Bear Captain hasn't been seen since the law was put into place.

This is a problem, because Roier wants the Bear Captain dead. He wants him more than dead, actually, but there are laws against torture these days, too. (UGH!)

And so Roier sips his (terrible) beer in Las Casualonas' most secluded table. He wants a pirate, but he wants a certain kind of pirate. One that will seek him out, not one who jumps onto tables and stabs a guy (though that is pretty cool, can't lie.)

The hood of Roier's cloak is pulled over his head. He's wearing gloves. He's in all-black, and he has a sword on his belt and two knives up his sleeves and another knife hidden in his boot.

His eyeliner is black, and that's all that matters, isn't it.

The woman and her crew leave the bar and head to a table across the tavern: out of sight, and now out of mind.

Roier sighs and looks down at his reflection in his beer. His eyeliner is smudged, ugh. He'll have to touch it up soon; he might be emo now, but he has standards.

His reflection blinks up at him: black eye and healing lip and broken nose. He looks pirate-y, right? Suitably criminal?

He tries a smile. Fails. Sighs again.

Flinches slightly as the chair across from him is roughly pulled out.

"Shit, my bad," he hears. Deep voice, kind of raspy as if he'd just been yelling.

Roier looks up from his drink and locks eyes with a stranger.

Roier... considers. Broad shoulders, some visible muscles, but not many. Solid figure and large, scarred hands. Short hair, scar across nose, golden earrings, bags under eyes, healing broken nose.

Rapier on his hip, and a pair of flintlock pistols hidden beneath his heavy-looking green coat.

Pirate, Roier thinks.

The pirate sits and immediately leans back into his chair with a groan and a slump, his face burying itself in his hands. He has rings on every one of his fingers, and they're shiny. Gold and silver and gold.

"Sorry if I'm intruding," the pirate sighs. "It's just... so much over there."

He doesn't point, but Roier's eyes go over the pirate's shoulder and towards the group of pirates the woman has at her table. (Is he one of them...?)

Roier shrugs. "It's fine."

(Because it is.)

"I was hoping for some company, anyway," he adds.

(Because he was.)

"Really?" the pirate asks, cracking his fingers apart and looking through the gap. He doesn't sound convinced. "You look..."

"Handsome?" Roier supplies.

"Yeah, but I was going to say, 'emo'."

Roier laughs. He can't help it. (He hasn't laughed since it happened, and it tears his throat up a little, but he almost can't feel the sting.)

Leaning forward slightly, Roier braces himself with his elbows against the table. He tries a smile, and he even sort of succeeds.

"Maybe I am," he hums. "But even emo guys have shiny things. Here."

He manages to smile a bit wider as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shiny gold piece. He places it on the table and slides it across, his fingers lingering as the pirate snatches the gold piece up.

Both hands turning the gold piece over, and suddenly so much more attentive, the pirate frowns: contemplative.

"Okay," he cautiously says. He looks up and furrows his eyebrows at Roier. "What do you want."

Roier's fingers tap against the table.

"Eh, not much," he shrugs. "Just tell me what you know about the Bear Captain."

The pirate snorts and looks back down at the gold piece; his eyes are practically shining like stars, and it's really actually kind of adorable, actually.

"Who, Spreen?" he casually asks, not noticing the way Roier's entire body freezes up at the name. "He's new in the area. Not much of a captain. He doesn't even have any treasure."

Roier gasps dramatically. "Oh my God, he doesn't have any treasure!"

"Fuck you, treasure is important," the pirate huffs. "Who becomes a pirate for fun? It's all about the treasure."

He pauses, then: "Or... it's all about the killing."

Absently, Roier reaches up and scratches at his chest. The rough fabric of his shirt does not feel good under his nails, but he hardly notices.

The pirate looks back at Roier, eyes narrowed just slightly.

"Which are you?" he asks.

Roier hums, feigning confusion.

"Which kind of pirate are you?" the pirate asks. "Treasure, or killing?"

There's a pistol and a bag of ammunition in Roier's satchel at his feet, but he answers, scoffing, "Treasure, obviously? Do I look like a killer?"

He gestures towards himself with a painted grin. His scar just barely pokes out above the collar of his shirt, and so do the bandages plastered over his shoulder wound.

The pirate... considers.

Then, he smiles and looks back down at his new gold piece.

"You're right," he says. "And you're smart. Like I said, it's all about the treasure. Who needs to kill to get money when you can just steal it?"

He flips the gold piece into the air, and he grabs it mid-fall. He opens his palm, and... nothing.

He meets Roier's surprised gaze with a cheeky grin.

"But if you want someone dead, you're talking to the right guy," he says. "I'd have to talk it over with my co-captain, but-"

"Your co-captain?" Roier asks.

At the same time, the woman from earlier stands and cups a hand around her mouth and shouts, "Cellbit! Stop flirting and get over here! Tubbo's going to do a backflip!"

The pirate- Cellbit?- just rolls his eyes and flips her off without looking.

"Her," he says, voice just short of a sneer. "I'm down to kill whoever you want dead, but she'll be a bit harder to convince."

"Ah," says Roier.

He's still smiling, but it doesn't seem to be reaching Cellbit's eyes anymore.

Reaching forward, leaning across the table, Cellbit brushes a hand behind Roier's ear; Roier bites back a gasp, a shiver running down his spine.

As Cellbit sits back down, he holds up the missing gold piece. He flicks his wrist, and another gold piece slides out from behind the first one.

"She doesn't do it for the gold," he explains. He drops the coins onto the table, watching them roll into each other. "She has morals."

Roier frowns. "Is she even a pirate?"

"No, but I am, and so is half our crew. She prefers the term 'boat mafia'. But, anyway, let me finish here."

Cellbit reaches into Roier's cup and pulls out a third gold piece, placing it neatly onto the table near the other two.

"If someone was to come onto the ship and, say, kill the Bear Captain without Bagi's approval..."

He slides his gaze up to meet Roier's, smirking slightly.

(His eyes are so blue, Roier thinks. Just like the ocean...)

Roier finds himself smiling, genuine.

He nods. "I get it."

"Good. Now, let's go join the others so we can-"

Cellbit is cut off mid-sentence as Las Casualonas' doors crash open and a legion of armed guards come storming into the tavern.

Roier folds into himself, pulling his hood further down his face. (He was supposed to have more time, what the fuck?)

"Everybody, stop what you are doing!" Etoiles, the head of security for the royal family, commands.

The woman, Cellbit's co-captain, slowly turns to face him.

"Um," she says, "no? Who the fuck are you?"

"Who the fuck are you!" Etoiles counters. "Are you a pirate?"

"Technically, no."

"Oh, well that's alright, then. But everyone else!" He pulls his sword out and points it at the rest of the tavern. "Put your hands up where I can see them! Princess Leonarda has informed me that her cringe brother is being held captive in here- which is totally embarrassing, by the way, total rookie move from him, and I am not leaving without him!"

Cellbit looks at Roier.

Roier looks at Etoiles.

Etoiles looks at the barkeep.

Roier looks back at Cellbit.

"Kidnap me," he whispers. "I'll have you and your entire crew pardoned when Spreen is dead."

Without hesitation, Cellbit stands and kicks his chair backwards and turns and pulls both pistols out of their holsters and points them both right at Etoiles' heart.

"Cellbit!" the woman hisses. "We are not doing this again!"

Cellbit ignores her and says, voice low, "The prince is not going anywhere. He's coming with me."

"Okay, those two sentences contradict each other, but that's fine!" Etoiles says. "I may not be good at grammar, but I am much better at killing pirates. Are you ready?"

Slowly, Roier wraps his hand around his bag's strap under the table. He's beaten Etoiles once before, sure, he can do it again. Probably. Maybe. (Not in his condition, not now when he's still supposed to be under bedrest, but...!)

"Get ready to run, your highness," is all that Cellbit says in response.

He glances back at Roier, winks.

And then he pulls the trigger, the tavern explodes.

[blossom-hwa]

after the ashes | c.sc

pairing: Seungcheol x gender neutral!reader genre: angst, hurt and comfort, king!seungcheol, nobility!reader warnings: war mentions, violence word count: 2.4k notes: — couldn't really stop thinking about coups as a royal so this happened! blame ursa :) — just a warning that pov shifts quite rapidly sometimes, I hope it isn't too confusing Seungcheol comes back from the war changed, and a little broken.

Seventeen Masterlist

The night after Seungcheol's formal coronation, he slips past his guards and leaves his room. No one speaks to him. No one stops him. Two guards simply fall into line as he steps into the hall, silent shadows trailing his footsteps. He is the king now, after all—it isn't anyone's place to question what he does. 

(He has worn the crown in all but actuality for five years, but for some reason, when they placed the circlet of gold upon his brow today, he had never felt more like an impostor.)

The dark walls of the palace are almost exactly how he remembers them. Seungcheol traces his fingers lightly against the stone, feeling the weathering and cracks beneath his skin. Everything is the same. He knows where to find it all. He hasn't been in the palace for five years and he could give anyone explicit directions to the kitchens, to the guest quarters, to the gardens where he used to hide as a child whenever he was upset. Here he is three, playing in the nursery. He is ten, learning to hold his first sword. He is fourteen, pulling his hair out in the library, eighteen, sitting in his first council meeting, and twenty-one, receiving the news that his brother is dead.

He passes the king's office (his office, his and not his) and suddenly he is twenty-three, watching his father die in front of him again and again.

Bile rises in his throat. The assassin is dead. The war has been won. It doesn't change the fact that Seungcheol watched someone slit his father's throat in front of him. It doesn't change the fact that he hasn't seen home in over five years. 

(For five years this palace has stayed the same, and everything about it feels so wrong.)

No one says anything when he pauses. No one says anything when he reaches out to the door. No one says anything when his fingers graze the door handle, then draw back as though they touched fire. 

No one says anything when he drops his hand and moves on.

Dully, vaguely, Seungcheol walks the palace halls in the night. Torches burn in sconces on the walls and moonlight glows pale through the curtained windows but he doesn't really see anything, rather moves across the stone floors in a blurry haze. He could find his way through the palace blindfolded. He doesn't need to see. Doesn't need to breathe. 

(I don't want this I don't want this I don't want this I don't want this)

He took the crown off his head before leaving the room, carefully locked it in its gilded case as he stumbled out of the king's quarters, barely breathing. He still wears the long cloak, pinned to his shoulders, cascading down his back—still wears all the regalia from earlier today, silk and jewels and gold bullion weighing down his body. He had dismissed all of his aides and servants the moment he entered his quarters (His quarters? His father's quarters?) and couldn't find the energy to take it all off himself. 

Seungcheol pauses in front of a portrait he knows well. His father, sitting on his throne, his mother and brother posed around him. He hadn't been born yet. He wasn't even expected. He was the miracle second child, never meant to be born yet cherished, who was never intended for the throne. 

But then, fate does love to toy with the lives of those one holds most dear. 

The portrait hangs almost above Seungcheol's head. He touches the gilded frame. Dust comes away on his fingers and he stares at it numbly, gray in the moonlight, like his father's ashes as his body burned on the pyre. 

His brother is dead. An accident while riding. His father is dead. A very quick assassin. His mother lives, but she has changed. Her family has been decimated, and the second son who wasn't meant for this life will never be enough to bring back her spirit. 

He looks at the portrait again and starts running down the hall. 

The guards cry out and make chase. Seungcheol can hear their footsteps pounding on the stone floor. He himself is weighed down by the silks and satins and jewels of today but he is strong and he is fast and he knows the palace better than almost anyone so he sprints through corridors and winds through doors, hurtling through time and space until—

"Seungcheol?"

You look like a ghost, standing in the middle of the hall with moonlight pouring over you. This vision almost gives him vertigo—dressed in a plain shirt and pants, just a thin leather belt tied around your waist for decoration, you look so simple. So normal. Like the sun was out, and you could head out riding together in just a few minutes. Like old times. Like more than five years ago. 

In turn, you stare at Seungcheol. In the faint moonlight spilling from the window, he looks haggard, pale. The huge ceremonial cloak that had made him so majestic earlier today swallows him now, swaths of deep red completely shadowing his figure. He looks so—so small. So tired. So lost in this place he once called home. 

"Seungcheol." You take a step forward, slowly, quietly. The strong man you saw earlier at the coronation, who, draped in the medals and regalia of a true hero, promised the kingdom that they would move forward from this war and prosper in the name of his deceased father and brother, has disappeared under the mass of rich fabric and jewels. Still, you know that the broad shouldered man who loved you is still there, hidden under the riches. "What happened?"

Seungcheol shifts. It isn't just your voice that compels him to move. It's what you called him—Seungcheol. Not Your Majesty. Not even Your Highness. Just him. His name. Nothing more, nothing less. 

His voice cracks on your name. "Y/N?"

You're close enough now to gather him in a hug. Instead, though, you place a tentative hand on his shoulder, where his long cloak meets the ceremonial shirt. You try not to think about how much the fabric looks like blood. "What happened?" you ask again, even softer this time. 

Seungcheol stares at you. Why are you doing this? Why are you here? Why are you talking to him like you still care for him, like you still love him, even though he was the one who ended things a month after his father's death because he was about to march off to war and wanted you to move on, because he was broken, because he was nothing, because he didn't want to leave you widowed so soon after marriage? 

He saw you in the crowd at the coronation. You were beautiful, resplendent in the colors of the kingdom, but he could only see your muted eyes, your hollow cheeks, a visible reminder of everything he lost in this war. He lost his father. He lost himself. He lost you. 

Looking at Seungcheol, you feel the tears you held back for years now rising to the surface. You were heartbroken when he ended your relationship. You didn't care that both of you were setting off to war. You didn't care that he might die and leave you alone—hell, you might have done the same to him. You didn't care that there would be no ceremony, that it would be a simple exchange of rings and signatures in the throne room of the palace—you didn't care. You just wanted him. Seungcheol. The man you loved, currently love, and will forever love. 

The man you would have loved to the death. 

You wanted to cry, but you didn't. Because to cry would be to mourn what you two had, as though you would never have it back. Throughout the war, five years of bloodshed and death, you refused to cry, clinging to the bare hope that you would both live, that you would both survive, that you would one day find Seungcheol again and build back what you once had. 

Once, you were steady. Sure-footed. Certain of every step you took, everywhere that you went. Now, though, Seungcheol sees a wariness to your step, favoring one leg over another even as you stand before him, one gentle hand on his shoulder. You fought in the war, he remembers. Wielded your own sword in the name of your family's honor until someone shattered your leg and you were sent back home to recover what mobility you could.

(He never stopped checking on you, not once through the five years. There was not enough manpower to devote any single person to report solely on your movements, but he did demand that if there was news of you, he was to be informed as soon as possible. The day he learned of your injury, the world seemed to turn dark. Blurry. Gray. He couldn't shake it off, even when he learned that you had survived.) 

But there is still a surety in your gaze that reminds him of before, echoes of the person you once were. In this moment where Seungcheol has no idea who he is anymore, he latches onto that memory. The piece of you that he still knows. 

"Why?" he whispers. 

You cock your head, a habit you had even as child. "Why what?"

"Why are you here?"

Why are you here? Because your family is close enough to Seungcheol's that you were invited to stay at the palace during the coronation festivities. Because you can't sleep anymore, plagued by memories of what you saw on the battlefield and residual pains in your leg, and so you've taken to wandering the halls of wherever you happen to be at night. But you get the feeling that this isn't what he is asking, and these aren’t the answers he seeks.

"Because I love you," you say quietly. "I loved you then. I loved you during the war. I love you now." You swallow the tears back. "I have always loved you, and I always will."

Seungcheol's head hurts. You're not making sense. "But I—but I left," he whispers. "I left you, and—I'm not—you don't love me anymore." He's going to cry. He's going to cry like a damn idiot. A weak idiot. But you don't shirk away even for a moment. He has half a mind to turn away in shame but your hand won't let him. 

"You can't love me," he chokes out finally. "I'm not who I was before. I'm—I'm broken." He takes a deep breath. "You shouldn't love me. Not like this."

You lift the hand from his shoulder. Seungcheol braces himself for you to walk away. But instead, you pull him to you with so much force that your leg gives out beneath you and the two of you tumble to the floor. 

"Choi Seungcheol," you murmur into his ear, arms embracing him tightly, "since when have I ever allowed you to make decisions for me?"

He almost laughs. Never, he wants to say. Never, not once.

"I am not who I once was," you tell him. "I am not the same person I was five years ago. But even without the war, I would have been different anyway." You pull back enough to look into his eyes again. "You are still you, Seungcheol. Broken or whole, it doesn't matter. And for as long as you need, I will help you pick up the pieces. Help you stitch yourself back together." You kiss his forehead. "Because you would do the same for me."

Seungcheol gulps. "But I left you," he whispers. 

"And I'm not letting you off the hook for that so easily," you reply, a pinch of humor hidden in your voice. "But it doesn't matter, because you found me again."

He shakes his head. "No, you found me first."

"And do you plan on letting me go again?"

The answer is as plain as day. No. Never.

"So it doesn't matter," you murmur. "Because I'm not letting you go, either."

His tears finally begin to fall. 

You hold him as he cries, tears of your own soaking the rich fabric of his cloak. He's shaking and you're trembling just as hard, but nothing in the world could make you give up this moment, when you have Seungcheol and he has you, when you can finally hold him and know that he is yours. 

Seungcheol clenches his eyes shut against the memories that flood through his brain. His father falling dead to the ground. His knife plunging into the assassin's chest. Bloody swords clanging on the battlefield, entire villages burning as he and his men tried to get everyone out that they could. These visions haunt his nightmares and privately, in the deepest recesses of his soul, Seungcheol fears that they will never go away. 

But he feels your arms wrapped tight around him, around the shoulders that tremble, around the chest that heaves, and he reminds himself that you are still here. That you stayed even though he left, and waited patiently for him to return. That while everything about his home now feels so terribly wrong, you are one thing that has always felt right.

"I'm sorry," he whispers when most of the tears are gone and your shirt has been soaked through. 

"What ever for?" you ask. 

"It shouldn't just be me," he mumbles. "I should be taking care of you, too."

Your answer is soft, quiet, yet every word burns itself into his mind with the sharpest clarity. 

"But you need me now."

He swallows. "I'm afraid," he admits quietly. "I'm afraid that this isn't real, and I'm going to open my eyes and you won't be there anymore."

Your heart shatters on the floor when you hear those words, but you keep your voice steady. "Do you trust me?" you ask. 

The answer is immediate. "Always."

"Then look up."

Slowly, slowly, Seungcheol's eyes open. You stare back at him, retracing every line of his features that you memorized before the war, every piece of him that haunted your dreams and kept you sane in the five years since.

"I'm here, Seungcheol," you whisper. "I'm always here." You kiss him softly. "And I am never going to let you go."

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :)

[kuroneko1815]

Tyranny of a lost love

Callisto loved her but he had known that too late. As he stared out at the beautiful day, he cursed it too. Behind him the bed was empty, a proof of his failure. Her absence like a monster gnawing on his very being, the silence haunting him. There would be no more smiles, no more sharp words, no taunts luring him in until he made her beg, spread out on his bed, tangled together and her words of devotion only for him.

He had bid her a final goodbye today, watched as her body was forever entombed in a grave for the two of them, their child dead with her. The Eckharts hadn’t come, too busy fawning over their newly returned daughter, over the girl that had caused all of this. That miserable wretch who had accused his Princess of all manner of wicked misdeeds, he had stopped them but not in time for them to beat the life out of her.

Her broken body etched forever in his mind and soul. The Eckharts had made a nuisance of themselves in the meantime, celebrating the engagement between their precious real daughter and the Marquis, joining his brother’s faction and slandering him.

He cared not for it.

“Your highness?” Porter asked him from where he stood on the other side of his room. Baroness Eloise by his side.

“I love her.” He said dully, voice devoid of life and emotion, just as he now was. “I wanted to protect her, protect them, forever.”

Porter was silent for a moment.

“What do you wish to do?” The aide asked.

“Burn them all to the ground.” He said, a flame lighting up in him. Penelope had wished him to be the perfect emperor, but he couldn’t do that with those filth still walking about.

“As you wish.” Both Porter and the Baroness replied.

-

-

Cedric watched his Liege as he issued out commands. He’d known this to be a possibility for years. Perhaps he should be against this, others certainly would. But Cedric had been sixteen when he followed a twelve year old crown Prince into battle, watched as he stained his hands with blood, destroyed his innocence, butchered his own soul in order to obey the commands given to him by the Emperor and to prove himself to a thankless empire.

The Crown Prince who kept his studies even in the battlefield, who did his work as both the leader of the military and the crown prince, had done the work of practically every other Imperial family member, and yet all he received from high society was scorn and ridicule, the barbarian prince, and assassins every other day or so.

And to see him fall for the first time, to see shades of the boy he’d been resurface around the woman he loved had been so very uplifting. To see the shadows and darkness chased away as he gazed at the Lady, the gentleness with which he held her, the excitement upon his upcoming nuptials, and of his secret impending fatherhood. And then too see it all ripped away, Cedric hadn’t been surprised by the path that the Prince chose to take.

There were many who would follow him to such a course of action, Cedric included. Not just for his liege but for the sake of his friends among the mages as well. His friends who had been trampled on for generations because of their magic when they were so very useful. Far more useful than those corrupt, insolent, uppity nobles in their gilded homes who knew little of the world beyond their halls and balls.

-

-

He had made sure to make a nuisance of himself, a bigger, more effective nuisance. One that constantly undermined his brother and his faction. Destroying the relations between the citizens and those certain nobles further, sowing seeds of distrust and discontent.

He bid his time, he chased down any rumours from Penelope’s days in the streets, his informants more well versed in the art of street gossip and the shadier sides of the world. And he found one in particular. The pink monster, a tale of a little girl with pink hair and blue eyes, angelic in face, but would devour a man whole, sucking the life from them and leaving them as ashes.

Now which demon did he know of that did that? The Laila was known to be a goddess this time around, and that description was quite specific, narrowing it down to two girls within the capital at the time. Penelope and Ivonne Eckhart.

But Penelope had been well known and still well loved among the people of the street, that meant that the monster had to be Ivonne.

He found a wicked sense of humour in the fact that the Marquis, the pure white gentleman of high society would soon be sharing his bed with such a vile thing.

And then he heard tales of his brother’s movements and he smirked. A coup was it?

-

-

In the end, the Marquis brought his bride to be into the Palace, had supported the coup in such a state. Whether he did so willingly was no matter to him. The Eckharts had participated and so doomed themselves as well.

Callisto played the part of hero and caught them in the act. What he discovered was that the Laila could heal the host body with life forces, he threw the brothers in first, made the Duke watch what his daughter had done to his sons. Made him remember how he’d cast out his other child.

He had no sympathy.

The Marquis had escaped his grasp but he hunted him even now. It wouldn’t be much more until he caught him.

Outside the doors, the new Emperor was hailed, the golden hero of the Empire. Many families had been purged from nobility, many more loyal servants and soldiers uplifted into nobilities ranks.

-

-

Winter Verdandi watched it all from a cave far away. Too late had he awoken from the thrall. He had destroyed an innocent girl, the Crown Prince… no, the new Emperor’s love. And had inadvertently caused her death.

It set about a path of silver tongued tyranny for the Golden Prince.

He looked out at the capital, at the buildings being rebuilt after the Laila had unleashed the Golden Dragon. So many… so many lives had been destroyed by his actions, so many lives lost. The faces of his apprentices appeared in his mind, the fear and betrayed looks they’d given him as he allowed Ivonne to take them, to devour them, it was too much.

He set about making things right as he stepped into the ritual’s circle and felt the flames lick in to his skin.

-

-

The spell had been done too many times. Far too many to even be counted. The soul that had suffered so many agonizing deaths and moments had shattered long before the spell had even been cast.

Time froze, unable to accommodate the glaring absence needed to complete the reversal.

Fate compensated.

The soul was remade, a child was born in a new world. Parallel experiences mirroring the ones she had suffered through in one world, only this time, she was born in a place and time where she had a choice.

Fate decreed only in death. Death came, but could not fully reap.

The child grew into a woman who fell unconscious and woke up in the other life.

And so time reset, now able to proceed along the many paths it could take.

Obviously I’m on to my angst phase again. I guess I’ve been working on too much fluff behind the scenes too, including a new Imperial Domesticity instalment. So I needed to balance it out.

[llamamamarisen92]

The Wolf and the Lion

Chapter 1 - A Wolf Snuck into the Lion’s Den

Chapter 2 Link:

https://www.tumblr.com/llamamamarisen92/760433510540541952/the-wolf-and-the-lion?source=share

Named Dark Urge

Pre-BG3 Dark Urge/Gortash Head Canon

Warning: Violence

Characters: Johim (Durge), Gortash, Orin, Sarovek

Word Count: 1,800ish

By: Jesh Llamas

Bored. He sat bored upon the throne of Bhaal. Long ago he had mastered his domain. Celebrated among those who thirsted for blood. Idols of the white dragon beginning to show up in homes of partriars who dabbled in cruelty and debauchery. For years he sat on this throne. Picking up the pieces of Sarovek's failure. Building something much more than a temple of murder. Growing an empire of his own designs in the name of his father. Divine blood flowing righteously through him.

Orin stood atop the altar chanting as wails of terror filled the ceremony hall. Hammers crashing down upon mighty drums. Building a cacophony of anguished horror in honor of Lord Bhaal. In honor of him. Johim Ba'elwyn, chief scion of the dread god. The last victim was stretched upon the stone slab. A high elven maiden who seemed no older than 40 years. Her eyes were beautiful. Hazel panic filled eyes danced in silent beseechment of him.

He stood up slowly, holding his hand in the air to stay Orin's blade. Unhurried as he walked down the dais stairs towards the terrified woman. A stalking lion making its way to a lamb tied to a spit. He stood above the woman now. Eyes softened as he placed a gentle hand on her cheek. For a moment the terror fled from her. Tears of relief flowing as he smiled gently down at her. He bent over brushing his lips against hers. An intimate lovers gesture. Little whimpers escaped her, body relaxing slightly. He chose that moment to dig his dagger deep into her heart. Watching her face as confusion and anguish were her last expressions. When the light in her eyes dimmed he thrust his bloodied fist into the air. Roaring as he transformed into the dread dragon's form. A trick he used to stir the worshipers into a zealous frenzy.

Orin was now kneeling on the ground bowing deeply. This was her role. Submission. His sister, the granddaughter of Sarovek showing obeisance to his rule. The graven crimson eyes of Bhaal flickering above him. A sign of pleasure from his divine father. He turned away from the crowd of worshipers. The echo of vile cheers followed him as he made his way to his private quarters. He made a few short commands to the sentries at his door. He did not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening.

Closing the door and turned back to his normal form. Handsome leonine features set upon sun-kissed skin. Thick red hair that fell like a river of blood down his shoulders and back. He had been alive for a thousand years, but he looked no older than thirty five. A benefit of being the spawn of a god he supposed. His beauty was a mark of his status as Bhaal's perfect scion.

Thankfully a basin had already been filled with water. He walked over to wash the blood off of his hands. Dully scanning the bowl as the blood washed off. How many times had he performed this ritual? It had become automatic. Hardly having to think about or calculate how proceedings would go. It was always the same. A fear stricken victim. A false sense of hope. And a crowd cheering at the illusion of a dragon.

When he was finished cleaning up he settled at his desk. A pile of letters filled with requests from various lords and ladies of the land. Desiring for support in this venture or that. Someone requesting to hire his assassin's blade. Another wishing for an intimidating presence. Some of them simply dinner invitations with the intention to keep in Bhaal's good graces. What better way to stay unmurdered than to appeal to Bhaal's charismatic and indomitable son.

Outside of the temple when he was representing Bhaal he was always the dragon. When he took over he had seen fit for the temple to present a more diplomatic face. To slither into the upper class and puppet the rulers of the land. It wasn't that hard. The good and great of the sword coast often debauched and thinly veiling their own personal evils.

Sifting through the letters until one of them finally caught his eye. It was sealed with the black mark of Bane. Raising his eyebrow in curiosity at the oil stained paper he unfolded it. Banites did not send appeals to Bhaal's temple. Their gods were similar and at times their objectives aligned. But their desire for the outcome of the world was very different. Their differences often landed in deadly quarrels between their respective cults.

His curiosity was peaked further a half smile curving his lips as he read the letter:

"Beautiful son of Bhaal." The letter was off to a good start. "How long will you sit upon your fathers throne. Growing stagnant in the shadow of your father's power. Surely one such as yourself craves more. I see the way you control the inner workings of your realm with an iron fist. But perhaps it is time to loosen your grip on the shadows and reach towards higher elevation. Not to simply sit contented as the son of a god, but to be in truth a god entirely of your own. Perhaps it is time to shed the dragon and instead become the lion."

His brow furrowed at that last line. Very few outside the temple were privy to his true form. And one did not simply step into the temple without very careful vetting. It served him well when he wanted to walk the city streets discreetly. Watching and listening for information from crowds of people that may prove useful. A salaciously whimsical smile masking the monster inside. Seducing his way into the beds of important men and women for a multitude of reasons all designed to further his kingdom.

The letter ended in a peculiar sign off.

"May we obtain absolute glory in the light of our own ambitions, Gortash."

Setting the letter down he puzzled out the words. The motives that may lay behind them. Getting up he walked towards a shelf of books on the gods of the realm. It was important to be studied on the entire pantheon and its histories. But Johim truly found pleasure in knowledge and was as devoted to his scholarly pursuits as he was to his brutal acts of worship. Constantly drinking up knowledge as if he was on the cusp of dying of thirst.

He selected a volume recounting phrases of power and declarations in the name of Bane. Searching for something within the text that matched up with the strange phrase. Banites were often ambitious, but the mechanical nature of their thinking often limited them. Frustration built as nothing jumped out at him as he flipped through the pages. He put down the book and sifted through his own knowledge for anything that may prove familiar.

A thought struck him and he walked back to the vast shelf of books. At the top was an old tome. It was a second hand recounting of the life and destruction of Karsus. The priceless book was given to him by a calamshite mage who enlisted him to personally slaughter a rival of his. Johim smiled a bit at the memory of Orin's rage when she found out her brother took on a contract for a book. Raging that it was beneath him to do anything for dingy worn out pages.

He flipped to a page near the end of the book reading the passage that came to his mind.

Karsus lay broken and bloody upon the floor of his own half constructed temple. Mortal once more, his life rapidly flitting out like a candle in the midst of a tempest. The failed child that would be a god grasped by the oppressive hand of Mephistopheles as he was dragged down into the depths of the hells.

He continued to read until he came to a final stanza on that same page. 

Karsus cried to the heavens in one final display of defiance, 'May I still obtain absolute glory in the light of mine own ambitions'.

It was famously the last words Karsus spoke before his kingdom and godhood was snuffed out. His artifacts were rumored to be kept in the volts of Mephistopheles himself. Karsus was an infamous figure in history. But not many outside a handful of powerful mages and perhaps clerics of Mystra were well read on the subject.

Suspicion filled him as he pondered how Gortash would not only know his true identity but also be keen enough to put in a reference to a rare passage about Karsus. But suspicion was also accompanied by a deep curiosity and the spark of a fire that had been simmering out at the monotony of his own success.

He sat back at his desk with the book in hand. Clearing a spot so that he may write a letter in response. He dipped a quill in ink and simply wrote:

"Ambition is what distinguishes between those who would remain mortal and those who would reach above the divine."

Another reference from the same book. He signed it, 'Your roaring lion'.

Eager to catch a glimpse of this Enver Gortash he donned a dark hooded robe as he walked through a door that led to a secret tunnel that connected to the docks of Baldur's gate. There was no address. Nothing to indicate where Gortash may be. No. But judging by the oil stains on the paper it was likely it came from the steel factory that sat next to the docks. He slipped into a dark corner waiting for any sign of the man that wrote to him. A group of artificers walked out of the factory gate. He perked up as one of them waved to a man in an ornate set of robes.

"Your ingenuity will cause you to outpace the Master Artificer in no time Gortash. Safe travels home."

Johim grinned as the young black haired man walked into the dark streets. Presumably to go home. Johim followed him quietly, keeping to the shadows. Gortash turned the corner onto a walkway that was lonely at this time of night. Taking the opportunity he quickly covered Gortash's mouth as he held his dagger to the man's back. Just enough pressure to warn him against calling for help.

"It seems a wolf has been playing in my den." He whispered softly into Gortash's ear. He sheathed his dagger and slid his response letter into one of Gortash's pockets. Before Gortash could respond or turn around, he slunk back into the shadows undetected.

Johim was all too ready to play whatever game this clever wolf was setting in front of him.

[la-muerta]

five lines fic meme

tagged by @cheetahing! ❤️

rules: find five lines in your fic based on the prompts you are given, then change one of the prompts at the end!

Most of these are more like paragraphs than lines 😆

A Line You Think is Hilarious: from names of people we could be together, a modern rival assassins AU, (Word of Honour, rated E, ~17.8k words

Wen Kexing leans closer, his breath brushing the nape of Zhou Zishu’s neck. “Aren’t you going to give me a kiss for good luck?” “I could give you a broken nose, for whatever luck that brings,” Zhou Zishu mutters darkly.

A Sad Line: from two halves of the end of the world, set in Batavia just before the onset of WW2 (Shadowhunters, rated E, ~25.4k words)

"If losing it is the price I have to pay for you to come home safely, it's a price I'll gladly pay," Magnus says, then lets out a bitter laugh. "Isn't that how it works? You don't believe in gods until you need to bargain with them — take this precious thing, and this, and this — whatever it takes, as long as you keep my love safe."

A Furious Line: from again and again we look up to the moon // 细算浮生千万绪, canon divergent set 10 years before canon (Mysterious Lotus Casebook, rated E, WIP)

"There's no antidote for the bicha poison. She laughed in my face when I begged her for it," Yun Biqiu replied dully, finally looking up at Li Xiangyi, suddenly hopeful. "But you're alive, so you must have found a cure after all? It's been almost two weeks since that day, but you still look well." No thanks to you, Li Xiangyi thought. "So you betrayed me with good intentions. The battle with Jinyuan Alliance never happened and it's all to your credit, you must be pleased that Jiao Liqiao's scheme worked. Then why are you hiding here like you can't face the light?" he snarled.

A Line About Dreams: from lovers be lost (but love shall not), a 1910s casefic where Wei Ying is betrothed to a recently deceased Lan Zhan (The Untamed/MDZS, rated T, ~13k words)

“Oh! We can talk to each other now? This is good,” Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan shakes his head, his expression troubled. “I don’t think this is a good thing.” “What? Why?” Wei Ying says in surprise. Instead of explaining himself, Lan Zhan frowns and stands up. “Wake up, Wei Ying.” “Huh?” “Wake up."

A Line About Love: from Definitely Not Haunted (Anymore), a line about familial love rather than romantic love (Shadowhunters, rated E, ~50.4k words)

His mother was standing right before him — not as a greyed-out, bloodied ghost but exactly as she'd looked the day Magnus had last seen her alive, with colour in her cheeks and no blood on her white blouse. "A-ma," Magnus breathed, and she smiled. "Anak sayang," she murmured, reaching out to place a hand on his cheek, and Magnus' face crumpled with the terrible ache in his chest when he grasped her hand in his and found that he could hold her hand again after all this time.

No pressure tagging: @dragongirlg-fics, @sfjessii, @sasamelons, @the-wintry-mizzenmast, @howdaretrashships with the following prompts

Prompts:

A Line You Think is Hilarious

A Sad Line

A Line About Dreams

A Line About Love

An Atmospheric Line

[adrift-in-thyme]

Day 26: Forced to Choose (Wild & Time)

Ao3 link

Cw for blood and injury, implied/referenced torture

Quick disclaimer: this has some Tears of the Kingdom stuff in it, BUT for the most part it's spoiler free. I haven't watched any gameplay videos except for the Nintendo one, or read any reviews, or seen the artbook leak. So, this whole plot is just me having fun with angsty ideas. If any of it is actually in Tears of the Kingdom I'll be amazed. Still, if you want to go into it completely spoiler free, avoid reading this until you've played the game.

——————-

Time is dying.

Wild can see it in the deathly paleness of his skin, the tremor that runs through him with every labored breath, the blood spreading along the middle of his tunic like the sky during a blood moon. He’s slumped forward, eye trained dully on the ground, the grip of the Yiga assassin on his shoulder the only thing keeping him upright. But when Wild chokes out his name, he raises his head to look in his direction.

“You’ve gotta hold on,” Wild manages through the tears and the pain and the terrible crashing guilt because this is his fault, all his fault. “Please, old man.”

The Yiga drag him back even as he fights to reach his brother, his friend, the man he’s come to think of almost as a father. He inhales sharply as the ropes tear into his wrist (his fleshy, soft, human wrist, not the one that can no longer be torn by such things as weak as rope. Not the one attached to an arm whose powers he hasn’t even begun to fully understand yet has still landed them here.)

“What-whatever they want,” Time says, voice quiet and hoarse, strained by blood loss and pain, “don’t gi-give it to them, cub.”

Laughter erupts from behind him, deafening and maniacal, and it sets Wild’s blood to boiling. He glares at the assassin standing behind Time, wishing for all the world he could tear every one of these cursed sadists apart. It hardly has the effect he wants it to, though, what with the tears streaming down his cheeks and the blood and grime smudged over his body and his arms pinned behind him.

He could escape if he wanted. With his new limb, he could drop right through the floor and resurface wherever he so chose. He won’t though, not now, not when leaving that way means abandoning Time. That’s not an option Wild will ever entertain.

And the Yiga know it.

“Your friend isn’t doing too well, is he?” One of the assassins sneers now, leaning over Wild’s shoulder, his breath hot and clammy in his ear. “Looks to me like he’s bleeding out.”

“Oh dear,” another joins in, jeering tone grating upon Wild’s ears. He holds a demon carver in his hand, the same one responsible for the wounds marring Time’s body. “What a horrible situation! Whatever can the chosen hero of the goddess do?”

“If only there was a way to save his life,” the first Yiga murmurs. He reaches over Wild’s shoulder to dangle a potion in his face, tone changing from mocking to threatening. “You know what we want, hero. Give it to us and he lives. Refuse and we’ll make you watch as he dies a slow, agonizing death.”

“Champion,” Time says, stern despite the pain in his voice, “do-don’t.”

Wild squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of Time battered and broken and covered in blood, trying to stop the sound of the cackles and jeers surrounding them. He knows exactly what they want, he’s heard their demands repeated for the last few hours, whispered and murmured and screamed inches from his face. And he’s refused them for just as long, every single one landing in a new strike upon Time’s body.

But he couldn’t give in, he just couldn’t. What they want from him, what they’re asking him to do, could doom Hyrule.

His arm, this wonderful new appendage gifted by the gods when Ganon’s dark magic devoured his natural one, is one half of the key to the Silent Realm where Ganondorf is now locked away. The other half is the Master Sword, lying hidden deep within the Korok Forest where the Yiga cannot go. But the assassins, loyal as ever, want nothing more than to set Ganondorf free. And they will stop at nothing to accomplish their goal. Even if it means forcing their sworn enemy to unlock the Silent Realm for them.

Last time Ganondorf revived he’d nearly wiped out Hyrule and the remnants of people working to rebuild it. This time, Wild doesn’t doubt he’ll finish the job.

“Cub.”

Wild pries open eyes clouded with tears and raises his head to meet Time’s gaze. The man seems to have grown even paler in the last few minutes alone. But his face is set in a look of determined resignation.

“You can’t.”

And he knows he’s right, he does. But to just let Time die, to sit and watch as he’s deprived of his future, to see the light leave his eye and know he’ll never lead the group again, never tell cryptic stories around the fire, never laugh or smile or feel. To know Malon will lose her beloved “fairy boy” long before his time…

Wait.

Wild’s spiraling thoughts come to a screeching halt, eyes widening as it hits him like a stone talus to the face. Fairy boy. Time is a fairy boy. He grew up in the Lost Woods, has even admitted to knowing them like the back of his hand.

He raises his eyes to Time once more, a plan formulating in his head.

It can be too much sometimes. I can’t take the grief of my entire kingdom, only to lose just one friend.

But maybe, just maybe he doesn’t have to.

“So, what’s your answer, hero?” The Yiga hisses. “Will he live or die?”

Time gives him a small smile, and Wild knows with terrible certainty that he has made peace with the fate he believes he will meet.

Wild swallows, and steels himself. It takes every inch of his strength to keep his gaze on Time as he speaks the words, trying desperately to communicate what he cannot say.

“I’ll do it. I’ll open the Silent Realm.”

The laughter swells around him once more, full of victory and mad glee. But all Wild can focus on is the way Time is looking at him.

“The Look of Disappointment” is what Twilight has dubbed it, and Wild sees now why it sends shivers down his spine. Though in this situation, he guesses it’s warranted. For all Time knows he has just doomed his Hyrule to utter destruction. He only hopes he can communicate his true intentions soon.

******

In true Yiga style, the assassins refuse to give Time the potion until Wild has done the deed. So, when they drag their captives to the entrance of the Lost Woods, the old man is limping. He is white as a sheet, now, and swaying dangerously on his feet. More than once he collapses, only to be kicked and prodded back into a standing position. Wild can’t help but wince every time it happens.

“Well?” The assassin says once they’ve reached the spot where the first torches gleam. “Lead on, hero. And–” He presses his demon carver to Time’s neck, “–don’t you dare try to lead us astray. Do it and he dies.”

“That’s just the thing though,” Wild replies, as steadily as he can under the circumstances. “I can’t lead you without a torch. I don’t know these woods well enough.”

In an instant, another Yiga is up in his face, blade pressed against his chin.

“You want us to untie you, don’t you, little hero? Don’t think for a second that we’re gonna fall for that trick.”

Wild stares him down for a long moment, then inclines his head towards Time. “Then he has to lead. He can do it by memory.”

Time meets his eyes, a frown creasing his brow.

“It’s a good thing too,” Wild continues, keeping his gaze stubbornly trained on Time. “It’s too easy to get lost in here.”

Understanding dawns like the sun breaking through the clouds, and Time draws himself up a little straighter, some of that horrible disappointment gone. Wild is glad to be free of its oppressive weight.

“Fine.” The Yiga growls, shoving Time forward with such force he nearly faceplants. “You do it. And be quick.”

Their progress is certainly not quick. Time is hardly standing at this point. He stumbles forward, every step a struggle, every breath one that Wild fears will be his last. It’s not enough just for his plan to work, Time has to survive until it’s through. And with the wounds he’s sustained so far, he can’t help but wonder if he will.

He manages to stay alert enough, however. Wild may not have the same sense of direction as him, but he’s been in these woods enough to have a feeling of the right ways and the wrong. And Time takes them on a path that’s all wrong.

The Korok’s giggles grow closer with each step, and the Yiga grow more visibly nervous. Then, when the mist has become so thick Wild can hardly make out the ground beneath his feet, they begin to disappear.

Playful, tinkling laughter fills his ears as the forest children swoop in, working their magic. The Yiga’s screams of terror are drowned out so fast, it’s as though they were never in the forest in the first place. Where the Koroks whisk them away to, Wild hasn’t a single clue. He doesn’t care, though, especially not when the last assassin is dragged away right as he lunges forward to seek revenge for his companions’ deaths.

“They’re gone,” he says after a moment or two has passed and no other red-costumed maniacs leap from the fog. Relief bubbles up in him, so exhilarating and overwhelming, he nearly chokes on it. “It actually worked.”

“You did well, cub.”

He looks up and Time is smiling down at him, looking proud and alive (if only barely), and Wild feels tears of an entirely different sort spring to his eyes. But then, the moment ends as abruptly as it came. Time collapses, spreading crimson upon the green grass. He’s unconscious before he even hits the ground.

[domoz]

i wish u would write a fic where izuna and hashirama conspired

"Ah, Izuna-san, thanks for coming!"

"Sure." Izuna responds dully. As if he really had a choice. Hashirama has been duly elected the leader of this little mess that everyone is calling a village, and now Izuna is obligated to answer to him. To a Senju, which stings, but not so badly that he can't bear it. Mostly it hasn't been an issue, because so much of the work they've done to make this nonsense work is by committee -- but today it just might become one. The -- former, now, as of his election -- Senju clan head has really never had cause to talk to Izuna one on one like this.

His skin prickles as Hashirama leans back and activates a privacy seal. Izuna doesn't let the tension in his chest bleed over to his expression, since all that seal does it stop eavesdroppers. The security seal that would prevent him from leaving hasn't been touched. Maybe the Senju has noticed anyways, because he flashes Izuna a lopsided grin and leans back in that stupid home grown office chair of his.

"I hope you don't mind if a cut to the chase., He says, "There's a mission I want your thoughts on."

Something in his tone make's Izuna attention sharpen. It's ever so slightly different than normal. Calmer than usual, or maybe… More serious. Whatever this is, it's gotten Hashirama to drop his usual buffoon act.  There's no  scroll to be seen, so this mission is likely one of those, where linking paperwork to the deed is just too dangerous. Izuna has his done his fair share. He raises an eyebrow.

"Well I'm sure your brother has already said his piece. What's with all the secrecy for a second opinion?"

"Ah… No. I don't send Tobirama on missions like these for… A variety of reasons. And this one is very need to know."

"…Missions like?"

Izuna lets himself look suspicious, and Hashirama's smile dims, though, it doesn't fall completely. There's nothing that Hashirama should trust Izuna to do for over his own brother. So far the Senju hasn't seemed the type to eliminate his enemies by sending them on suicide missions, but Izuna is well aware that he still doesn't know the man well enough to know.

"The daimyo has asked us to assassinate a political rival of his. Make it look like an accident, you know how it is." Which is not the sort of mission the Uchiha have gotten in a long time. Those sorts of requests only go to the most well trusted and well placed in court, and neither the Uchiha or the Senju have been in that position for a long time. As if reading his thoughts, Hashirama goes on, "I suspect this is a test, of sorts. And I thought, well, maybe it’s a good opportunity to test something out myself!"

Well assuming that mission is real, someone's going to have to do it. Izuna crosses his arms and waits for an explanation. For once the Senju gets to the point.

"I've realized that as the Hokage I might be in need of some people who serve me directly instead of going through the mission office. And I thought…"

"Me?" And not his brother? If it were just an assassination mission, sure, Izuna can agree he's more suited to it since Tobirama is disgustingly unsubtle for a shinobi. But as, what, an aide?

The Senju's stupid big brown eyes crinkle with another smile.

"You!" He agrees, "Really, if you've done even half of what Madara has told me you'd be perfect for this, and, well…" There's something sharp in the Senju's expression, a look Izuna isn't certain he can ever recall seeing there before, "When it comes to things like this, I thought it would be best if I asked someone who would keep me accountable."

He's insane, Izuna thinks, and not for the first time. He's either insane, or he's toying with us all. And if it's the latter, what the hell is Izuna supposed to do about it on his own? At least with this on offer he can keep a closer eye on him.

"I'll be telling my brother you sent me on a mission." He challenges.

The Senju's smile melts back into it's usual fake cheer, "I was thinking a delivery to rice country would be the perfect cover. I already have the wine you might have brought back as a souvenir!"

Izuna snorts, mostly out of disbelief with himself, and steps closer to lean over the desk. "Which I would give to nii-san and not to you, so don't you dare crack the seal on it. Now fill me in on the actual details."

[msbigredmachine]

TARGETS - 27 - In The Mouth of Darkness

Roman Reigns is an agent in the secret organization The Authority and one of the world’s deadliest assassins. When he crosses paths with a mysterious woman during an assignment, he makes a life-changing decision that switches his role from the hunter to the hunted.  (AU Espionage Story)

TARGETS MASTERLIST

--------------------

Roman leaned against the wall of the van he was ensconced in, staring dully at the heap of clothes in front of him, seeing them without seeing them. His mind was somewhere else, spinning with a million thoughts - all of them centered on his love.

It seemed impossible that six hours had elapsed since he had last seen Jasmine; six hours since she left Leona's house. Since then, he'd replayed their last encounter several times in his mind, reducing it to the fragmented haze of sight and sensation that all treasured memories seem to consist of. He recalled what she said before she left, remembered what she had been wearing - heck, he could still remember the warm softness of her lips beneath his as he kissed her, the determined look in her eyes before she walked out that door. If he'd known this would happen, that that psychopath would take her, he'd have barricaded the doors and kept her inside and in the safety of his arms.

That Corbin had Jasmine, frankly, terrified Roman. If that bastard had his way, he would never see her again. If he lost Jasmine today, he wouldn't know what to do with himself, he honestly didn't. But he could not allow himself to think like that. He knew firsthand that his girlfriend was a firebrand, a fighter. There was little doubt in the Samoan’s mind that she was going to survive Baron and be reunited with him.

Roman had hitchhiked on a laundry delivery truck, hiding out among the dirty clothing. It wasn't a problem for him, as he'd staked out in worse places for agonizingly long periods of time. He recalled his phone conversation with Dean and Seth a couple of hours ago.

"What exactly is the plan, Reigns?" Dean asked. "After this...after you rescue Jasmine...what are you going to do?"

"We're going to bring the Companies down," Roman answered him, "both of us."

"What?" Seth and Dean exclaimed, their voices so loud that Roman actually had to hold the phone away from his ear.

"Bring the companies down? You tellin’ us you wanna bring down F.L.O.R.A. and the Authority?" Dean repeated incredulously, "Have you lost your fuckin' mind? How the hell do you expect to bring down two groups of the world's deadliest assassins all by yourselves? And need I remind you that even if you do rescue Jasmine intact...Corbin would have done some serious damage, you know that. She may be in no shape, physical or mental, to do anything by the time he's through with her."

Roman wished he could explain himself further. He knew they both wanted in on the action. But he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let them get in harm's way. Not for him. "There's a plan in place, don't worry," he assured them. "But right now, the less you know the better. And if Jasmine and I do make it out of this mess, we've got a one-way ticket to Jamaica. And if we don't make it..." He watched their eyes widen. "I've asked Leona to head there if she doesn't hear from me. I want you to do the same. Both of you."

"You're joking," said Seth, stunned. "You want us to run?"

"Not run. Walk away. Start over. Skip town and this God-forsaken life behind. You deserve better lives than this and you both know it," Roman replied fiercely. And the silence that followed proved him right.

"Still...Dude, let us help you. I can get Dean to turn the car around right now," Seth pleaded.

"I can't let you do that. This is my fight. I got into this mess all on my own. I can't get you involved any further and have them chasing after you for the rest of your lives."

"Meh, they know we're involved already. We’ll take our chances," said Dean, "Corbin won't be in that building without backup. You need us, man."

"I don't care how many people are in there; I'll kill them all for hurting her." He paused and swallowed hard, the emotion threatening to take over again. He finally understood why sentiment was outlawed in this business; the pain of losing someone you cared about was overwhelming, all-consuming, and almost impossible to recover. But the former Authority agent knew he needed to put that aside and focus on getting this done, like any other assignment.

"Remember, boys. Jamaica," he reminded them. "I will meet you there as soon as possible."

"Your ass had better be there," snarled Dean, "You got a week to show up, and if you don't, I swear to God I'll come right back to the States and take out your fuckin' ghost."

Roman nearly laughed at the threat. He was sure he meant it, too. "I'll be there. We’ll both be there. I promise."

"Good. It’s about damn time we met the woman that’s stolen our boy’s heart,” Seth said with a deep, resigned sigh. “Get rid of the phone the moment you can, alright?"

"Will do. I'll see you soon, boys." And with that, Roman had hung up.

-----------------

He sniffed the air, and was instantly taken back in time. He knew exactly where he was. It took a bit of effort, but he broke out of the laundry truck and jumped out, relieved that he hadn't hurt himself as he did so. Looking across the road, he was spot on with his calculations. Roman could feel his fingers itch with eagerness. Shaking his muscular shoulders, he set off towards the building. In other circumstances, he would have given more time for to scout the area, but time was something he was lacking right now. Every second lost took Jasmine further away from his reach.

His walk was somber, subdued but determined, and a reminiscent chill swept through him as he crossed the tarred road. Yeah, this was it. This was the very place where he'd first got involved with The Authority. Unfortunately the ‘meeting’ hadn't gone very well; He was a bystander then, a hungry punk kid fresh out of prison and finding his way around Vermont, looking for some food to get him through the day. The warehouse looked like a good place to start. He ended up stumbling on an active ‘interrogation’ and the sight of a man in a chair covered in blood. Kevin Owens spotted him. He remembered fighting for his life against Owens, remembered the helplessness he felt as Owens stood over him, a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, sadistic enjoyment practically oozing off of every word he spoke...

"Sorry, man; you're at the wrong place at a very wrong time..."

That night changed his life forever. But by the time all of this was over, they would wish they let him go. They would regret ever crossing Roman Reigns. Every single one of them. And he would start with Corbin. That was a promise.

He dragged his beanie hat over his tied-up hair, hands in pockets, looking like just another pedestrian. He watched as a hooded man slipped in through the lone door at the side of the building and shut it behind him. Locked, surely. Approaching the door, he began working on the lock, looking around a number of times to make sure no one was watching him. The door opened successfully after a couple of tries. The area was blanketed in darkness, stuffy and uncomfortable. Perfect conditions for him. He navigated inside, his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. He made his way quietly down a flight of stairs towards the basements, where he had deduced Jasmine was being kept. Just as he thought, there were people standing guard; two men and a woman. He recognized them all; former Authority recruits. One of the men, Trick, if he recalled his name, stood there at the bottom of the stairs, oblivious to the intruder behind him. Withdrawing his gun, Roman aimed it at the back of Trick’s head and fired, the silencer giving nothing away. He stepped over the agent's body and kept walking like nothing had happened.

He made quick work of the other two, Dijak and Jakara, the woman. Their presence meant that Roman was at the right place. Both had dark hoodies slung over their heads and guns in their grasp as they patrolled the long, straight corridor. Roman moved quietly, ensuring to remain in the shadows. His footsteps were silent, invisible to the naked eye or ear. He approached Jakara from behind, locked his hands around her head and twisted it brutally to the side. Dijak received a bullet in the head for his troubles. He confiscated their weapons and continued on his way.

As Dean had shown him, there was a long line of doors along both parts of the corridor. Roman resolutely picked open the locks of each one, his heart pounding with anticipation and hope. But each door produced nothing. Time after time, hope after hope was dashed. And Baron was still nowhere to be seen.

He had pushed open the very last door, almost certain that he'd been too late, when his gaze landed on the slender figure dangling in the middle of the room. He recognized the person instantly, and shock flooded his body.

Her red wig was gone. Her dark hair was limp and dirty and tinged with blood. She was suspended in the air, heavy chains binding her arms above her head, her feet off the floor with her legs shackled together. Her half-naked body exposed the cuts and bruises littering her skin. There were deep, nasty-looking gashes along her stomach and both of her thighs. Corbin had hurt her. Badly. And Roman would make sure he paid if it was the last thing he did.

Rushing into the room, he aimed his gun and fired at the chain holding her arms hostage. He caught her before she dropped to the ground. Gently cupping her head, a sob nearly escaped his throat when he took a look at her face for the first time. It was battered and streaked with blood, and her eyes were swollen shut. Roman placed a gentle palm on her cheek. "Jasmine, wake up. It's me. Please wake up, baby."

She stirred, a small groan emanating from her. Squinting through swollen eyes at him, she gasped with surprise. "Roman?" she whispered. Her voice was incredibly weak. Roman felt the tears sting his eyes. "Oh, thank God," he breathed, bringing his forehead to hers.

Tears filled her eyes. "You're here. You found me."

He pushed his lips against hers and stroked her lank hair. "Of course I did. I told you I would." His bottom lip trembled, and it was all he could do not to break down in front of her. He couldn't describe the relief he felt that she was alive. "I'm so sorry, baby girl."

"Don't be," A sad smile tugged at her full lips. "Just get me out of here, and hurry. I don't know where he's gone or how long for."

"I'm on it. Is anything broken?" he inquired, just to make sure.

"No." Jasmine winced and hissed in pain when she brought her arms to her front. She was hurting everywhere; her entire body felt like she had third-degree burns, and it didn't help that this was the first time she could move in over six hours. Roman came back in front of her and unshackled her legs. His gaze drifted to the spot on her thigh where the branding iron had struck her, leaving an ugly wound that looked like it was infected. As he gingerly touched the area, Jasmine violently flinched with another hiss, and he regretted causing her pain. He eyed the bruises on her inner thighs, and looked up tentatively at his girlfriend, already dreading the answer to what he was about to ask. "Corbin...did he…do anything else?"

Jasmine swallowed hard, tears of shame rising. "He...touched me…He…put his fingers inside me," she clarified meekly. The heartbroken look on his face made her want to actually cry. "I'm sorry...I tried to stop him, I swear-"

"Hey, hey!" His hand was back on her face, his lips on her bruised cheek, soothing her, assuring her, "It wasn't your fault. You hear me? He did this." Jasmine's head was bowed as she nodded. Roman trembled with fury and hatred. "And he gon’ fucking pay. I'll kill him," he growled. "I'll rip his fucking balls out and feed them to him."

"Not if I kill him first," Jasmine told him, and Roman smiled as that familiar fire of hers flickered again. "Come on, let's get you to your feet," he said. "I can carry you out of here. Can you move for me?"

"I'll try." She glanced up, her gaze immediately drifted to the door. "Roman, look out!" she screamed.

The sound of the gunshot echoed all around the room.

-------------------

Thoughts?

Credit to the owners of the pics and the gifs.

Please leave comments. I love comments!

[littleladymab]

Listening to Royal Assassin and let me tell you my eyes never stop rolling back so far in my head with any Molly and Fitz scene how is it that a trope I'd normally find interesting is done so dully is it perhaps that Molly has been reduced to just Fitz's object of affection instead of an interesting character and friend or is it because both of them go in circles over the same arguments "you never give me any time or attention" "because my duty is to my king" "okay fine then I shall ignore you as you asked" "I SHALL WITHER INTO DUST DON'T YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU" both of you shut the fuck up you are not interesting to me when in the same scene together

[cravyn]

You've been trying to assassinate this man for weeks. It's next to impossible to get past his bodyguard- the people you send never report back to you. All the while, your target nonchalantly continues about his life.

Eventually, you're desperate enough to try yourself. You book a meeting with him and hire an assassin to break in during the meeting. Against the two of you, your target and his bodyguard don't stand a chance.

The day finally comes and you've been kept waiting for awhile. When you are eventually let into the room, your target is sitting at his desk, watching you dully. His bodyguard is leaning against the wall, not even paying attention. This is the perfect opportunity. You press the button on your phone to alert the assassin.

...and you hear a muffled ringtone from within the room. Your target snaps his fingers and within a second his bodyguard is on you- all tight grip and slavering jaws. It is then that you notice the ringtone is coming from the bodyguard's belly, which is slightly pudgy.

It isn't long before you confirm the remains of your assassin. If he didn't make it out of this stomach alive, what chance do you have?

[lifeofpriya]

All This Time - Andrei Kuzmenko imagine

[gif credit goes to @bohorvat]

summary: a dinner date gone wrong inadvertently leads to confessions...

Я так тебя люблю - I love you so much

You could feel your chin lower to your chest; a long, low sigh escaped from your lips after the waiter walked up to your table with a sorrow look in their eyes.

"I'll just get the Assassin's Spaghetti," you could feel a pulse in the back of your throat as you spoke -- your heart thudded dully in your chest while staring at the waiter.

At that point, you had given up on all hope for the date that your friend set you up with.

The waiter solemnly nodded their head and scribbled something on the notepad before they rushed off to the kitchen -- presumably to relay the order to the chefs.

You had enough of waiting nearly two hours for someone, only for them to never show up in the first place. That was the last time you would agree to go on a blind date, you thought to yourself.

\\\

His eyebrows squished together as he heard the doorbell ring out of nowhere. He wasn't supposed to have anyone over for the night, was he?

Letting out a huff as he got up from his seated position on the couch, Andrei scurried over to the door and tried to steal a peek from the peephole. Much to his surprise, he saw it was you standing outside his door.

His hands rushed to grab hold of the doorknob, he played with it for a few seconds before opening the door.

"Y/N? I thought you had date?" Andrei tugged on his ear and felt his head flinch back slightly as he greeted you with a look of confusion written in his deep brown eyes.

"I was, but the date never showed up," your lips were straightened into a thin line. All you wanted to do was forget about the restaurant debacle that caused you great embarrassment for the rest of the week.

Your ears perked up as you listened to Andrei mutter something in Russian under his breath.

"Come in, Y/N," there was a deep frown on the Russian's face as he step aside and let you enter his apartment. "Did you have dinner at restaurant? Should we order pizza?"

A small smile made its way onto your lips as you glanced at Andrei. "I had some pasta at the restaurant, but honestly, I could go for some pizza right now."

Andrei's dimples were on full show as he fervently nodded his head and pulled out his phone. "I still got some of your favorite ice cream in freezer if you want."

Before he could ask you another question, you speedwalked into the kitchen to seek out the tub of your favorite ice cream, which made the Russian giggle.

\\\

You could feel your eyes slowly start to droop close; your head gently rested on Andrei's shoulder as slumber began to call your name. Andrei briefly glanced at you with a wistful smile on his lips.

"You're so beautiful, you know, right?" the Russian quietly whispered to himself while he played with your hair. "I never could find the right words to say, but...you make me feel at home, Y/N."

You could faintly hear Andrei's soft voice as you spoke; however, you kept your eyes firmly shut as you wanted to secretly listen.

"I keep thinking I'd never have chance with you because I thought I wasn't your type." The Russian let out a dry chuckle and continued to speak. "My heart keep breaking whenever you tell me about how your dates go..."

Andrei kept rambling on, but slowly, he could find himself start to doze off, "Я так тебя люблю, Y/N. All this time, it was always you..."

\\\

tag list: @2manytabsopen, @ratkingbunting, @lam-ila

[walpu]

"I can explain, please-"

A loud slam of a gloved hand on the table as Verian's eyes were just short of meeting Aventurine's desperate ones.

"I've heard enough."

"You planned to sell me out to the IPC when I was a threat, huh?"

The Stoneheart shook his head rapidly, trying not to let the stinging tears in his eyes fall down his cheeks as he tried to grasp his bodyguard's clenched fist with his own shaky ones.

"Enough, you scum."

Aventurine almost recoils at the way Verian dismissed him so harshly, the buildup of tears bursting as he let out a weak sob, unable to bear how the man he loved wholeheartedly could be so cruel.

"I wasn't going to, I was never going to, Verian, please, you have to listen to me-"

Verian pulled his hand away, the loud clink of the ruby earring that matched Aventurine's falling to the floor as it laid dully on the ceramic tiling.

"It seems you are no different than everyone who wants to use me."

*SLAM*

The gambler fell back into his chair, tears spilling don his face as he wept silently, his hands covering his own face in pure shame and guilt as he begged into the silence.

"Don't go... please, Ver, don't leave me, not again..."

He stared at the wanted poster of Verian that he had first seen when digging into Verian's shrouded in shadows past.

The thought crossed his mind of selling out his bodyguard if he had the slightest whiff of betrayal. But he decided against it. It was neither practical or beneficial. Verian would be better off kept on his leash than to be a vengeful assassin.

But now, he just wanted the man who would pledge his undying loyalty to. The man who would give the gambler the privilege of seeing that gentle side of him in lazy mornings.

He could not bear the thought of going home and only having the company of three cake cats that would be meowing for their other parent.

The coldness that had not been felt in a long time would come back.

??

Are you allergic to happiness??

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “Cat’s Cradle”, Part 5

Yup, finally did it.  Enjoy, lovelies.

“Cat’s Cradle”

Chapter Five: One String at a Time

History is, after all, just a repetition of turns in a game for keeps.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 fin

* * *

"To set in motion what needed setting."

Sansa mulls over Bran's words as she sits in her solar, a lone nail tapping along the desk in front of her. The shock of his return is still vibrant beneath her skin, the joy still lingering dully in the pit of her stomach, and yet, there's an unexplainable dread winding round and round the quiet of her mind.

They had all decided to keep up the pretense of Bran being Gilly's wounded and bedridden brother, sequestered in their guest quarters, with only Maester Wolkan being alerted to the situation, as Sansa had demanded Bran be seen by a healer. Jon and Arya could not calm her until Bran had relented to Wolkan's attentions. Later that same night, Bran had gone into more particulars about his absence these last few years, and it only served to unsettle Sansa further.

These cryptic lines of his, the way he speaks, the things he knows, it's not... it's not normal. This Three-Eyed Raven, and his tales of the Children of the Forest, everything is just... just too much.

She only wants her brother back. Her little brother.

Her chest tightens at her innocent need. She fears he will never fully return to them. Not as he once was.

(But have any of them returned as they once were?)

Sansa shakes her head, eyes shifting closed on an exhausted sigh.

What had he meant? What needed to be set in motion? Ever since word of Bran's 'assassination' had made it to them with Arya's return, Baelish had become more impatient, more reckless. As though he saw an end to his manipulations in the near future, all his plans coming to fruition, just within reach. Is this what Bran meant? That Baelish would hasten his plans, that he would slip, that he would be too blind to their machinations in his own desperation?

But then why keep her and Jon in the dark about his survival? Why have them experience such pain, when he must know how news of his death would devastate them?

It comes unbidden to her then, the memory of her and Jon in the godswood. A mess of strings in her hands, the grief lodged in her throat, and his warm hands along her face, his comforting words breathed into her skin, and his kiss – their kiss –

Sansa's hand ceases its tapping, a sharp breath sucked between her teeth. She lurches forward in her seat.

No.

No, Bran could not know. And even if he did, he would have no reason to... no disregard of the gods to...

It plays through her mind in instant, bewildering flashes – Jon's mouth pressed firmly to hers in the godswood, her confession in his chambers, his refusal of the lords' marriage proposals, the moment in her solar before Bran's arrival, when he was nearly hers and she was nearly his and nothing had ever felt more intoxicating in her life.

No.

This cannot be what Bran had meant to set in motion.

Even if she has made her peace with loving her own brother, Bran would have no reason to sanction such a union, or to encourage such feelings in either of them. It's senseless. Against the order of the world. Gods, she's said as much to herself before!

And yet...

She cannot find a reason for his deception. Not to them. Not to those who love him most.

What game is Bran playing?

A knock sounds at the door, startling Sansa from her thoughts.

"Come in," she calls, straightening in her seat.

Arya opens the door.

Sansa nods stiffly at her, her frustration with her sister still ripe and untouched.

Arya closes the door behind her, shoulders pulled back. She makes her way to stand before Sansa's desk, her hands wound behind her back. It's an image Sansa has grown familiar with these last several weeks, and yet, somehow detests. It's not that it's her sister, not that she seems strong and confident and fierce. Rather, it's that... that she seems so lonely.

Sansa realizes suddenly – acutely – that she misses the Arya that needed her.

Or perhaps more accurately, she misses being the Sansa that her sister needed.

"I saw Lord Royce's entourage earlier," Arya greets.

"Yes," Sansa says, "He arrived this morning."

Arya pulls a deep breath in. "So, tomorrow it is, then?"

Sansa looks carefully at her. "Yes. Tomorrow."

Arya cocks her head. "Are you nervous?"

"Should I be?"

Arya glances to her desk, a frown marring her face. "Baelish may have contingency plans we don't know about," she says uneasily.

"None that you may know about," she corrects.

Arya glances up at her.

Sansa leans back in her chair, hands coming together over her lap. "Believe me, I would not set this in motion if I wasn't absolutely sure of his escape routes. He has none. Not for this," she promises.

Arya gives her a concerned look, her hands tightening behind her back.

Sansa offers a reassuring smile. "Only when he trusts you fully will his fall be possible," she tells her, quoting Baelish's words from long ago. "This is what he believes. And for once, he is right."

"Baelish trusts you?" Arya asks warily, a single brow cocked. "Completely?"

"He trusts that I have no way of revealing his crimes without also implicating myself," she answers. "And he would be wrong."

Arya considers her a moment, nodding. Her gaze shifts over to the far wall, her throat flexing with her anxiety.

Sansa watches the expression curiously.

"Is Lord Royce prepared then?" Arya asks.

Sansa nods. "I've already spoken to him this morning. As well as Jeyne." Her voice softens at the end, the memory of her reunion with Jeyne still lingering in her mind. Their hesitant embrace, Sansa's sigh along Jeyne's hair, Jeyne's tightening arms around her waist, the way they each barely managed to hold back the tears, the way Jeyne's eyes shone determined and alive again, when Sansa cupped her cheeks in her hands and smiled at her.

Jeyne needs this as much as any of them do, she realizes. And she deserves it, probably more than any of them do.

If it means granting her friend peace – if it means granting her aunt, and her cousin, and her mother, and her father, and all of them peace, then there is nothing that can stop her now. Nothing that can save Petyr Baelish.

"When they've tried him for his crimes against our cousin, when Royce has stripped him of his status as Lord Protector, then I'll have Brienne bring you in as Gareth Stone, and we can level our own charges against him before the Northern court. Are you ready?"

Arya nods, remembering the plan they'd laid out the night before upon Bran's arrival. "Yes. I've already prepared a body," she tells her.

Another of Baelish's nameless spies. And perhaps Sansa should be worried at her sister's body count, but then, none of this would be possible otherwise. She swallows down her unease with a practiced sense of resignation.

"When you're finished interrogating me," Arya continues, "Brienne will take me out for the 'execution'. We'll make sure to burn the body we've prepared in place of Stone."

Sansa nods, her lips pursed tight. "Well, then. We're all set."

Arya chews on her lip. "Yes."

"I'll see you in the morning then," Sansa tells her, her dismissal clear.

Arya hesitates a moment, before she steps back, turning for the door.

Sansa's chest is still tight, her longing still acute.

Arya stops halfway to the door and Sansa's breath catches at the sight.

It's several moments, long and drawn-out, or perhaps only a second later, that Arya turns back to her, stalking up to the desk, her brows dipped into an anxious crease. "I'm..." She swallows it back, chest heaving with her sudden agitation. And then she bites down on her lip, a frustrated breath escaping her. "I'm sorry," she says.

Sansa blinks up at her.

Arya's shoulders slump with it, her whole form sagging beneath the weight of the admission. She looks desperately at Sansa. "I'm... I'm so sorry, Sansa. For keeping it from you. I didn't... I didn't want to. I didn't mean to, but then – but then what Bran said – and with Baelish – and all this trouble about who's claim is the right one, and not knowing where you or Jon stood, and... and..." She squeezes her eyes shut, breathes deep. "And not knowing what to do..." Her voice cracks at the end there.

Sansa's throat closes up, her little sister's desperation so keenly familiar, so painfully intimate. King's Landing is brilliant and golden and deadly in her mind once more, the memory hot at the base of her skull.

"I don't know what to do," she cries, terror-stricken, just a girl.

(I'm just a girl, she wants to wail.)

Sansa stares at her sister, chest throbbing, lungs aching. She stares at her.

(She almost reaches for her.)

Arya opens her eyes, meeting Sansa's gaze with a hung head. "I didn't know what to do," she says brokenly. "At first, I thought... I thought Bran did it because he didn't trust you." She stops, swallows, lets out a trembling sigh. "But now I know he did it precisely because he does trust you. Both of you."

Sansa looks off toward the far wall, licking her lips in her trepidation. She swallows it down quickly, hands clenching in her lap. "I still have questions," she tells her.

Arya takes an eager step toward her from the other side of the desk. "I'll answer them," she promises.

Sansa looks at her once more.

"I'll answer all your questions," Arya whispers, her eagerness waning slightly as she meets Sansa's gaze.

Sansa takes a moment, tries to quell the memory at the root, tries to hush the terror of remembrance that still visits her dreams sometimes.

Her father's head, tumbling down the muddy steps. Joffrey's sneering from his throne on high. A gauntleted slap across her face, cheekbone cracking beneath the force of it. Cersei's taunting whispers at her ear. News of Mother and Robb's gruesome deaths. An empty, golden room, but for her sometimes-husband, sometimes-captor. And the loneliness.

Gods, but the loneliness.

Sansa sucks back the unexpected sob along her tongue. She stands swiftly, hands stiff at her sides.

Arya opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes.

More than anything, she realizes, she wants to be Arya's Sansa again. She wants to be the Sansa she needs.

She only hesitates a moment, and then she gathers her skirts in her hands, striding gracefully over to the twin cushioned chairs settled before the hearth. "Come," she tells her.

Arya follows obediently, quiet and rigid.

Sansa allows herself a small, contented smile when she catches sight of the bundle of string along the side table. She settles into one of the chairs, taking the strings with one hand and motioning beside her with the other. "If you're so apologetic, then repay me with a game. I'm in need of a partner as of late."

Arya watches hesitantly for a moment. "I'm a bit rusty," she offers as a paltry excuse.

Sansa pats the seat across from her. "Then I shall have to help you, won't I?"

Arya stares at her a moment, lip caught between her teeth, before she cautiously rounds the chair and settles into it.

Sansa leans over her knees toward Arya, stretching out the familiar web of strings between her fingers. She gives her sister an expectant look.

Arya stays perfectly still a while, just watching her, and then her gaze shifts to the strings, a tremble lighting along her chin, a sheen of wetness over her eyes, before she's blinking it back, reaching for the strings herself.

Sansa walks Arya gently through her stumbling, and so, quietly and slowly, they begin again the game from their childhood.

Turn after turn, Sansa's understanding grows. She misses this, she finally registers. Misses her little sister. Misses the person she is when she's with her little sister. Misses her home and her childhood and those that left her. Misses everything. Misses all of it. Misses even herself.

But she's tired of missing that which will never return. And tired of fearing that which now remains.

She will never be the person she was years ago. Neither will Arya. For that matter, neither will Bran, or Jon, or Jeyne. Bits of them may remain, in glimpses. Familiar smiles and familiar pains and familiar dreams. But there are things in each of them to be learned anew.

She could never have loved Jon when they were children, in the way she does now. Perhaps, then, it's alright to love Arya a little differently as well. Perhaps, this is how one sets aside their longing, their missing of the past.

Sansa looks at Arya, catches the sight of her brow creased in concentration at their game. She allows herself a soft smirk. "You were always much better at this game than you gave yourself credit for."

Arya snorts across from her, eyes never leaving their game.

Sansa piques a brow her way. "I mean it. You had the hands for it, you know. I could see it in your sewing."

"My sewing was shit and you know it."

Sansa allows herself a chuckle. "Only because you never truly tried." She takes the set of strings cleanly from Arya's hands.

Arya stares at the strings, gauging her next move in silence a while. "It wasn't me," she says finally, so low Sansa almost misses it.

"No, I suppose not," Sansa muses. More silence pervades the room as they take their turns. She peers at her, watching the way Arya focuses so intently on their game, her fingers deft and sure. "But you've more a touch for it than you know. You just wield a different sort of needle now, I suppose."

Arya glances up at her, and then continues her turn quietly, mouth tipped into a frown.

Sansa sighs softly. "I guess I never really understood that – why you were the way you were. I still don't, truth be told. These... skills of yours, now. This... profession." Sansa swallows thickly. "I may never understand it, or your need for it, but if it makes you happy – "

"I'm not happy," Arya interrupts swiftly, voice resigned, like a noose she's spent too many years carrying round her neck.

Sansa looks up at her, hands stilled over the net of strings.

Arya's gaze is resolutely downcast, strings held taut between her trembling fingers. "I'm not happy, Sansa," she gets out in a quaking voice, swallowing tightly. She looks up. "But I'm home," she says roughly, blinking furiously against the wetness dotting her eyes.

Like a noose cut open at the knot, frayed ends splaying wide.

Sansa watches her, silent and still.

Arya clenches her jaw, looking at her hands. "What I've learned – what I've done..." She shakes her head, voice wavering. "I can't say it's brought me happiness, but it has brought me home." She flicks her cautious gaze back up to meet Sansa's. "And I think that's as good a first step towards happiness as any," she whispers shakily, keeping her eyes fixed to Sansa's.

Sansa licks her lips, blinking away the sudden moistness at the edges of her eyes. She clears her throat, resuming the game with a gentle touch. "A very good step, I'd say." She takes the web of strings from her sister's hands with surety.

Arya peers up at her with a guarded gaze, hands settling limp along her knees.

Sansa sighs, the game halted between them. "And I'm proud of you for taking it – that first step."

Arya's eyes wet instantly, her mouth tightening with her waning control, lips trembling.

Sansa leans toward her, never letting her look away. "No matter what, I'm proud of you," she says fiercely, chest constricting with the words.

Arya's face crumples suddenly, a sob hitched in her throat, before she's sucking it back with a heavy inhale, a hand going to her face. She blinks furiously up at the ceiling, sniffling back the tears, looking back down again after a single, steadying breath, the heel of her palm dug into one eye, the heavy, lingering wake of a too-long second spilled out between them, and then she's leaning forward swiftly, taking the strings from Sansa, distracting her with another turn, still sniffling back her unspent tears.

Sansa almost laughs. Instead, she tucks the sound quietly between her ribs, lets the warmth nestle there. She bites her lip to hide her smirk, following Arya's cue and taking her next turn in silence.

Arya tries to discreetly cover her sniffles, and Sansa lets her.

Another turn passes in silence, before Sansa cocks her head, her smirk settled more firmly along her face. "I'm still going to win this one, though," she says confidently.

Arya barks a laugh, tear-laced, leaning back in her seat as she wipes her nose on her sleeve. "You always do," she says.

Sansa beams.

She finds that maybe, more than the girl she used to be, more than the girl she thought she should be, more than everything, more than all of it – she misses the woman she wanted to become.

"Your turn," she tells Arya.

Perhaps that realization is as good a first step toward happiness as any.

* * *

Bran stays resolutely quiet. Jon urges him to join the court, to let them announce his survival. It would mean Bran taking his crown, of course, but Jon's already made peace with that. He'd intended the crown to be Sansa's though, once news of Bran's death seemed indisputable. Yet, oddly enough, Bran only continues to repeat his first assurances of abdicating, and his need for secrecy about his presence in Winterfell until Baelish is disposed of.

"I must go South," he tells Jon when he visits his younger brother the day after his arrival, while Arya visits with Sansa in her solar following the meeting with Yohn Royce. "Once the throne of Winterfell is secured, once Baelish is dead, once the Others are dealt with – I must go South. There is much to do."

Jon stares at his bunched hands, sitting along the edge of Bran's bed. He can't deny the part of himself that feels relief at Bran's decision. The chance to remain Lord of Winterfell, King in the North. All he's ever wanted, really.

It feels wrong though. Far more wrong than it did before.

He thinks about the bundled scroll lying atop the bedside table – Robb's will.

He hasn't the heart to read it yet, though Bran has already shared its contents. Maybe because reading the words in Robb's own hand makes everything more real, more permanent. Maybe because it finally validates his desires. Maybe because it means another thing stolen from Sansa.

Jon sighs heavily, glancing up at Bran.

His brother is looking at him evenly, head canted, hands held limply over the blanket covering him. "You have a choice," he tells him.

Jon furrows his brows at him.

"I've given you the tool you need to cement your rule in the North. Will you take it? Or will you heed Sansa's claim instead?"

Later that same day, after he's made his way down to the crypts, that conversation plays over and over in Jon's head. He stands before the stone statue of his father, eyes fixed to it, taking in a lungful of needed air. Down here, there is a clarity he cannot find elsewhere.

"It's your choice, what you do with it," Bran had said, when he placed the worn scroll of Robb's will into Jon's open palm. "Though I hope you wait until Howland Reed arrives. There are things you should know before you make your choice."

Jon wipes a hand down his face, sighing, before he turns from the stone visages of his dead family and makes his way back toward the entrance of the crypts.

First, they deal with Baelish. Then they settle the succession of the Northern crown. One step at a time. There are enough battles to choose from, after all.

And Jon only wants to protect.

"Your Grace," Jon hears upon his exit from the crypts. He turns toward the greeting with a sneer, finding Baelish waiting for him past the stone markers.

Littlefinger nods at his notice, coming up beside him. "I pray you are not too troubled, Your Grace. I know the crypts of Winterfell have long provided solace to the Starks," he says pointedly, a nod sent behind them as he follows Jon in his trek away from the crypts.

Any other time, Jon might have lashed out at the man's audacity to approach him, but there's an even calmness blanketing him instead. He wonders if it's the presence of Robb's will at his breast, tucked beneath his tunic, beneath the weight of the cloak Sansa had sown for him herself.

(He would laugh at the irony of it, if it weren't so cruel.)

Or perhaps it is the certainty he feels about their meeting with the lords the next morning that pacifies him. The day they enact their plan against Baelish, just past the dawn. He thinks it should have him restless, uneasy, anticipatory. Rather, the knowledge of Littlefinger's impending downfall (though hardly assured) keeps him tranquil, at ease.

No more whispers in Sansa's ears, no more subtle touches, no more lingering shadows.

Sansa will be free, and so will the North. Free of his treachery.

Jon can endure another tiresome conversation with Baelish one last time, he figures. It may be the last the man ever speaks to him, after all, before his throat is slit.

A final mercy, if you will. The thought almost makes Jon compassionate. But not quite.

Jon continues to stalk down the halls toward his quarters, Baelish in tow. "You didn't come find me to inquire about my troubles, I'm sure," he scoffs, glancing at Littlefinger over his shoulder.

The man offers a perfunctory smile, tight at the edges. "No, Your Grace, you are correct there."

Night falls heavy around them, the fire in the sconces along the walls flickering orange slants of firelight across their forms as they walk.

Baelish clears his throat. "I wish to speak to you of the Lady Sansa."

Jon stops abruptly. The weasel is wearing Jon's mercy down already. With a thin frown, Jon turns fully back to him, a challenging brow lifted when he tells him, "I believe I already informed you not to speak of my sister to me ever again."

Baelish nods with acknowledgement, and Jon doesn't miss the way he swallows uneasily, a hand going to tug at his collar briefly, before smoothing his palms over his tunic, the memory of Jon's hand around his throat clearly fresh in his mind.

Jon can't help the dark smirk that tugs at his lips at the reminder.

"Again, you are correct."

Jon stares at him. "Then why are you still here?"

Baelish lifts his chin slightly. "It seems my concern for her well-being overrides even that for myself."

Jon wants to roll his eyes at the comment, his teeth grinding in his skull. But he won't give Baelish any ground the night before his trial. "Speak," he nearly barks. "And quickly. Before I change my mind." He flexes his hand at his side, a warning.

Baelish seems to notice, the slight curl of his lip signaling his distaste just half a second before he hides it behind a deferential smile. But Jon has grown to recognize the man's tells.

"I was surprised at the sudden arrival of Lord Royce," he begins.

Jon's shoulders tense at the words, but he says nothing.

"I had known of Lord Arryn's feebleness, of course, but I hardly expected him to decline so quickly. The news Lord Royce brought with him was disheartening to hear."

Jon eyes him cautiously, licking his lips. "Yes, we were all sorry to hear of the boy's sickness."

"Hardly warrants a journey to Winterfell, though. A raven would have sufficed, don't you think?"

Jon gives him a deadpan look. "What I think has never been of interest to you before, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger smiles then. "No, I suppose not, if we're being honest."

Jon raises his brows at that. For a moment, a brief flicker of trepidation lights in his gut at Baelish's easy admission.

Baelish smacks his lips, straightening his shoulders as he takes a step toward the sconce along the stone wall beside them, eyes following the flame. "I do, however, suspect you have an inkling as to why Lord Royce made the journey himself. Not that I expect you to tell me." He raises a couple fingers to run along the ash-lined rim of the sconce's frame, frowning, and then flicking away the dust – disinterested.

"Then why bother asking me?" Jon gets out lowly, watching him with an eye of caution.

Baelish glances back to Jon, fingers rubbing together to clear the smudge of ash. "You were so adamantly against Lady's Sansa's marriage. I must wonder why."

Jon is momentarily thrown by the change of subject, but he doesn't let the surprise bleed into his voice. "I don't see how the two are connected."

That smile is back, sickly sweet. Baelish looks again to his dirtied fingers. "Lord Arryn is young. He has not an heir of his own, you see. The heir apparent – at the moment – is the Lord Harrold Hardyng." He lowers his hand finally, linking it behind his back with his other one, turning fully to Jon. "The man I represented when the court last spoke of Lady Sansa's marriage prospects. The man you refused without so much as an introduction."

"I've already given my reasons for delaying Sansa's marriage. I'll not repeat myself."

"Hmm, yes," he says. "'Delaying', as you say."

Jon takes a step toward him, face dark.

"But considering you usurped her rightful claim to the Northern crown, is it not only right that you secure her future for her? As Lady of the Eyrie?"

Jon barely restrains the snarl at the back of his teeth in response to his boldness. "You're very quick to discount your lord's possible recovery."

Baelish squares his jaw. "I'm not unfeeling, Your Grace. Simply practical."

Jon does scoff then, a rueful chuckle following the sound. "I beg to differ."

Baelish purses his lips. "Even still – "

"Even still, you want to secure your influence," Jon interrupts, a note of disgust lining his words. "If Sansa can't have my crown, then she will have another, is that it? A crown you can control."

"I only want what's best for her."

"Do not presume to think your greed has gone unnoticed, Lord Protector. You want what's best for yourself, and that's all. You care nothing for Sansa," he snarls, the heat rising in his chest, unbidden. He swallows thickly, trying to smother it.

Baelish's eyes flash at Jon's quiet outburst, a knowing smirk spreading slowly over his lips. He keeps his hands linked behind him, a tilt to his chin when he tells him, "I see the way you look at her."

Jon's chest constricts, that flicker of trepidation flaring brighter, harsher. His gut curls at the sensation. "And how is that?" he manages through grit teeth, eyes never leaving Baelish.

Littlefinger is quiet a moment, lips pursed in contemplation, an oily smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Much the same way I look at her," he says lowly, a glint in his eye.

Jon's chest heaves at the words, his growl choked back when he takes a step forward, hands already fists at his side.

Baelish's smirk curls into another sickly sweet smile. "With devotion," he finishes reverently, before Jon can say anything in response.

Jon sucks a ragged breath though his clenched teeth, turning slightly to face down the hall, a hand wiped over his mouth in his ire. "My position is unmoved," he growls out, not even daring to meet Baelish's eyes, for fear of what he will do to the man. "There will be no more discussion of my sister's marriage. And considering recent events, I think it best you direct your devotion to your ailing master, instead, Lord Baelish." He sends a glare toward the man, eyes narrowed and unflinching. "You are the Lord Protector of the Vale, not my sister's keeper. Perhaps you should start acting like it."

"I daresay I'm not the only man playing your sister's keeper."

Jon stills, glare never leaving Baelish. "What?" he gets out tightly.

Littlefinger only smiles. "But then, I suppose you are simply just an... affectionate brother. Rather affectionate, wouldn't you say, Your Grace?"

Jon's nostrils flare at the insinuation, his skin thrumming with alarm. "I could have your head for such implications," he says on a deadly exhale.

Baelish gives him a baffled look. "I have implied nothing, Your Grace."

"You've really no care for your life, then, do you?"

"And you've no care for your allies, is that it? Because if the Lord Arryn should hear of such threats on my life..." He shakes his head with feigned concern, brows furrowed. "If your own lords heard such threats, just weeks before your Vale allies were needed most in this little war of yours?"

"This 'little war' is a concern for the entire realm, and I'll not have us splintered by your poisonous words," Jon seethes.

"Good," Baelish says. "Then we are agreed."

Jon is practically shaking with his fury. "Agreed?" he asks mockingly.

"That the Lady Sansa should wed Lord Hardyng, keep our ties strong, keep us from... splintering," he finishes meaningfully, with a cock of his head and an impish smile. He winds his hands together before him.

Jon lets out a bark of laughter, clipped and menacing. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the minute flinch of Baelish's hands at the sound, the subtle twitch along his jaw.

Good, he thinks. The man still fears him at least, even when he's grown adept at not showing it.

Jon thinks instantly of Sansa's caution.

"You're rather determined, aren't you?" he asks derisively, bottling his rage as best he can.

Baelish pulls his shoulders back. "I think my determination is one of my more positive traits, actually."

"Personally, I don't think you have any positive traits, Lord Baelish," Jon says evenly, no longer bothering to hide the look of distaste on his face.

Baelish clears his throat. "Be that as it may – "

"Be that as it may, I tire of your grating voice," Jon clips, taking one last step closer to the man, a deadly calm overtaking him, a dangerous stillness. "And I tire of your presence beside my sister. Rest assured, when I return from our venture North, yours will be the next head my blade sets to rolling."

Baelish swallows thickly, his smile wilting into a sneer, not even pretending any more. "Then I shall pray for your safe return, Your Grace," he quips.

Jon raises a hand, reveling in the wince Baelish tries to hold back in response, just before he lands his calloused palm along his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. He leans in. "Good man," Jon whispers, dark eyes shifting between his menacingly, a slow smirk forming along his lips, before he releases him, turning and stalking back down the hall toward his chambers.

He keeps his fury smothered in his chest, thrumming just beneath his skin. He never looks back.

When he finally makes it to the hallway holding his chambers, after long moments of trying to ease his breathing back to normal, to wash Baelish from his mind (for just one night, for just one night more he reminds himself), he finds Sansa standing before his door with her hand raised as though to knock.

She turns when she notices his presence, offering a smile.

Jon sighs heavily, resuming his infuriated stalk to his door and ignoring her look of concern when he grabs her by the elbow, though gently, and leads her into his rooms.

"Jon?" she asks, stumbling past him when he latches the door closed behind them.

He takes both hands to his face and scrubs, an exhausted sigh leaving him. "Baelish," he growls out, as though it is answer enough.

Sansa gives a soft 'oh' of understanding, before reaching for his wrists and dragging his hands from his face. She peers up at him. "What has he said?"

"Well," Jon begins, a tick at his jaw, "For one thing he threatened to tell the lords of an 'indecent' relationship between you and I."

Sansa frowns, her brows bunching together. "He said that?" she asks sharply.

"Not in so many words. But I can understand his meaning. He means to discredit me with the lords if I move against him."

"Against him on what?"

Jon's eyes flick between hers. "On your marriage to Harrold Hardyng,"

Sansa is quiet, her touch rescinding from around his wrists. He misses the warmth instantly.

"Sansa..."

She turns and paces across the floor of his solar, hands winding together, one thumb pressed into the opposite palm. "It is, of course, still on the table," she says carefully, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Jon only frowns at her.

She sighs, turning fully to face him once more. "Jon, you know it must be. At least... until we have dealt with Baelish, but even then, once you return from the war, there will still be talk of my marriage. It's not something we can ignore."

"I know!" he snaps, regretting the heat in his words instantly. He softens then, shoulders slumping. "I know," he says again, this time only in quiet resignation.

But he will not think of that now. He cannot. Not if he wants to last the night.

Day by day he must bear this burden. Day by day he must fight this need. He knows he hasn't the strength to think of the 'after'.

Releasing another sigh, Jon walks to his desk, dropping into the chair unceremoniously. "I just can't... I can't bear to hear him talking about you like you're a... a... "

"A pawn?" she supplies sadly.

He meets her eyes. "Aye."

She offers him a reassuring smile, small as it is. "That's exactly what I am. At least to him. And that's exactly how I need to remain in his eyes, for this to work."

Jon nods mutely, resting his elbows along his knees.

Sansa makes her way toward him, slipping into the space between him and the desk, leaning back along the edge of it. "Did he speak of anything else?"

"He believes the story we spun of your cousin's ailing health, though he suspects an ulterior motive to Royce's arrival."

"Of course he does."

"No mention of Jeyne though. We've hidden her well enough."

Sansa releases a breath of relief, a hand going to her chest. "Good. We need to keep her safe until morning."

"I have only my most trusted guards at her door," he tells her, reaching for her hand. He rubs a tender thumb along her knuckles in reassurance.

Sansa nods, looking down at where he holds her hand. She takes a steadying breath in.

Watching her, Jon feels his chest tighten, his eyes riveted to her face. He releases her hand swiftly, licking his lips as he looks away.

Sansa stays silent a moment longer, and then she's smiling again, looking up at him once more as she leans her hands back along the desk's edge. "Then we're almost there."

"Aye," he says on a disbelieving exhale.

"And once Baelish is disposed of, you can make Robb's will public, solidify your claim."

Jon snaps his gaze back to hers. "Sansa," he begins in resistance.

"Most of the lords supporting my claim are traditionalists," she reminds him. "The Stark name means everything to them, and with Robb's will, they'll finally see you as I do – as a Stark."

His mouth goes dry, his words sinking back into his gut as he stares at her.

"It's the way it's meant to be, Jon," she says softly, already knowing his mind, it seems. "It's okay."

"But it should be yours," he chokes out, straightening in his seat, remembering those late-night conversations when she'd finally admitted to her hurt and resentment of Robb when she was held hostage in King's Landing, when their brother hadn't thought her valuable enough for a trade. He remembers those nights, when she rubbed the tears from her cheeks and still – still, after everything– professed her love for Robb, sobbed over how much she missed him. He remembers being disappointed in his brother for the first time he could ever recall. Jon clears his throat, watching her with saddened eyes. "Robb only legitimized me to keep the North from falling into Lannister hands, or any hands that would use you. You've said it yourself." It doesn't make it hurt any less. And so, he shifts closer to her along the edge of his seat, stares imploringly up at her. "But I promise, Sansa, they cannot use you anymore. I promise. I would notlet them," he vows heatedly.

She sucks a shallow breath between her teeth at his fervency, a trembling smile touching her lips. "I know that," she says solemnly, one of her hands reaching for his jaw. She brushes a delicate thumb over his bearded cheek with a tenderness that nearly rends him. Her smile is something singular and sacred. It makes his heart clench uncontrollably. "But I also know you'll keep our people safe. They'll follow you anywhere, Jon." She takes a tremulous breath in, her hand hesitating at his cheek a moment, before she withdraws it. "As will I," she whispers breathlessly.

Jon opens his mouth, a ragged exhale leaving him. "Sansa," he sighs.

Her smile returns, that wisp-like, wonderous thing.

He stares at her, something filling him he hasn't a name for.

And then she clears her throat, rocks along the edge of the desk before him. "Bran will support it. I know he will. And you'll have Arya and I. We're a pack, now, remember? We protect each other." She levels him with a determined look, her ice-blue eyes glinting. "I promised, didn't I? That I would protect you."

He remembers, suddenly, that first night they retook Winterfell. He's there again, instantly, soot filling his lungs, grime beneath his fingernails, muscles raw and aching from the fight and then there –

There, beneath a once-white sheet –

Rickon's arrow-riddled body, taking up all the air in the room, all their words, all their fractured hopes.

They've won the battle, but the victory is a hollow one, when their brother lies dead before them.

In his memory, Sansa glances across the room to the body beneath the sheet. She swallows thickly, eyes glazed over. "Do you remember his face?" she asks, voice hollow and soft.

Jon looks up at her, elbows along his knees, hands clasped tightly between them. He doesn't answer. Doesn't even rightly know what she's looking for when she asks it.

Sansa tears her eyes away from their dead brother, meeting Jon's gaze. "I don't remember," she says in lieu of his non-answer.

The words linger in the air between them – an honest and unclean truth.

She turns away.

And the rub of it?

He doesn't remember either.

There's a vague image where the memory of Rickon should be. Auburn hair. Ruddy cheeks. Toothy smile. But it's just pieces. Nothing whole. Just parts of the boy they used to know. His face is still unclear, still out of reach.

Perhaps that's just what happens after so many years. Perhaps Rickon simply hadn't lived amongst them long enough to cement his permanence in their memory. Perhaps that's just what happens when you're apart from someone longer than they've even been alive.

Jon grits his teeth at the wrongness of it.

He wants to remember his little brother. He wants to remember.

Sansa sighs across from him, and the sound steals his attention so acutely, his breath nearly stills in his chest.

"I suppose that makes me a terrible sister," she says, voice cracking. She slumps back in her chair, both hands pressed to her face, a hitch in her breath signaling the first sob.

But it never comes.

It's a dreadful silence instead. One where Jon imagines he should go to her, stride over and kneel beside her, draw her hands from her face, tug her into his chest, hold her like the sister he'd missed, even when it hurt too much to think it. He imagines he should tell her she's not alone. That he doesn't remember either. That he misses Rickon even still.

That it's okay if she does as well.

He imagines he should brush her tears away with gentle thumbs, cradle her face in his calloused hands, stifle her sobs with soothing words. He imagines he should be her comfort, as she has so lately been his.

But he also imagines that he is not the brother that can give her this.

So instead, he simply watches her. He keeps his distance. He clears his throat. "I don't think you're a terrible sister," he finally manages, voice rough with disuse.

She peeks through her fingers at him, breath held tight in her chest.

He clears his throat again, licks his lips. "I think we just... missed our chance with him."

Sansa draws her hands down her face, watching him with red-rimmed eyes, the sheen of wetness over them evidence of her precarious control.

Jon sighs, hands releasing their white-knuckled grip as he leans back in his chair. He shoves the sudden guilt down, down, down. Tries to smother it with reason.

But there is no reason enough to excuse... this.

Their baby brother, dead beneath a sheet – the pristine white of it stained with blooms of red. The figure beneath it is far taller than Jon remembers, like that of a young man, and not the boy he knew instead. It only hurts worse at such a thought.

(It shouldn't have been Rickon.)

Sansa surges from her seat suddenly, sucking a tight breath between her teeth. She exhales roughly, hands wringing themselves as she starts to pace across the room, past Jon's seated figure, the body on the table at her back. She stills when she makes it to the far wall, turns back stiffly, eyes fixed to him. "I don't..." She takes a deep breath, one thumb pressing into the opposite palm. "I don't want us to be the last of the Starks," she says quietly, tears lining the edge of her words.

Jon blinks at her admission, at the seamless and instinctual way she says 'us'. He thinks back to just earlier that morning, atop the ramparts.

"I'm not a Stark."

"You are to me."

Sansa purses her mouth into a frown, taking a single, confident step toward him, her shoulders pulling back. "Like you said, we have to trust each other. We have to... we have to protect each other. And Bran and Arya, wherever they are. We'll find them. We'll protect them. And..." She bites her lip, taking another step toward him, her hands held tight before her, her back immeasurably straight, like the lady he's always known her to be, even all those years ago.

(Even just months ago, when she came through the gates of Castle Black snow-beaten and weary from the journey, a trail of Vale soldiers at her back.)

"And I'll protect you," she promises firmly, eyes never leaving his. "I swear on the memory of our father, I will protect you, Jon."

(It's strangely the safest he's felt in a long, long while.)

Looking at her now, many moons since that harrowing day, as she sits along the edge of his desk, a confident smile gracing her lips, her eyes only for him (for him, after everything) – he recognizes just how determinedly she has kept that promise.

It unlatches something within him – a door opened, perhaps never to be closed again.

His eyes wet instantly, a sound of longing caught in his throat, and he knows now – irrevocably and without warning – that he will never love anything so dearly as he loves her.

He reaches for her.

A short yelp of surprise breaks from her when he wraps a hand around her wrist and tugs her down to his lap, his other hand bracing along her thigh to hold her there, and she falls against his chest, knees hung over one side of his legs, tangled in her skirts, her free hand grasping for his shoulder to steady herself. She blinks wide eyes at him, stilling when her nose brushes his, his hot breath splashing across her cheeks.

Jon's chest rises and falls steadily against hers in the silence that blankets them, his mouth parted as his eyes rove her face, his grip over her wrist trembling.

"Jon," she manages breathlessly, hardly daring to say more.

His brows crease, his jaw tightening. It seems so suddenly and incredibly... easy, now – to give up the fight.

Everything comes spinning down into a clear, pinprick focus.

Just her.

Just Sansa.

The one who wants him unabashedly and unreservedly. For him. Just as he is. The one who protects him, even against terrors she has been fighting herself for years. The one who so easily names him a Stark, even when he wears her crown. The one who never stops fighting for him, sacrificing for him, embracing him.

The one, the one, the one.

The only.

Jon's chest aches, his heart thudding against his ribs.

He knows they don't have time – or the gods – on their side. They have only each other.

(But that is enough for him. He knows that now.

And he wants to believe that such a love could never be wrong.)

Jon releases her wrist, reaching for her cheek instead, a shaky thumb arching over her cheekbone as his eyes flick between hers. "Sansa," he exhales against her lips, like a surrender.

She swallows thickly, watching him, her chest heaving beneath anxious breaths.

His hand glides up her jaw, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of her neck. She sucks a shallow breath between her lips in response, and he glances to her mouth, the hand still supporting her along her thigh gripping tighter, shifting her slightly atop his lap. She arches subtly into him, almost unconsciously.

Jon meets her gaze once more.

This time, it will not be grief. It will not be loneliness or confusion or fear.

This time, when he kisses her, it will be on purpose. It will be with meaning.

He leans in.

"What are you doing?" she asks tremulously, barely breathing, the warmth of her words felt at his lips when he pauses just a whisper away.

She's strung taut like a pulled bow, teetering on the edge, ready to crash against him with only the right words.

They come to him unbidden, a rueful smile in their wake.

"I'm redrawing the lines," he tells her, and she has only a moment to blink at him in surprise, before he takes her mouth with his own – firm and decided.

Sansa sags against him, her tear-laced sigh swallowed by his heady kiss, her arms slipping around his neck as he pulls her into him, slants his mouth over hers, his tongue pressing hot and fervent against her own. Her breath floods his mouth and his urgency only grows, his mouth moving desperately over hers, swallowing her delicious whimpers.

Jon presses harder, a groan of impatience escaping him when he drags her over his lap, needing her closer, needing her, needing her – the heavy tangle of guilt and self-control and exhaustion coming undone in his gut. It washes through him violently, like a release. Like a dam breaking beneath the surge – the floodgates blown wide.

He doesn't know how he ever stopped it before. Doesn't think he ever could again. Not when she's this warm, and this close, and this indisputably his.

Not when he knows how she tastes now. How she tastes when he isn't fighting it, when he isn't fighting her.

And yet –

Jon rears back from her, panting, chest heaving, his hands fumbling for her waist, and then he's hoisting her up with a grunt as he stands, dropping her back atop the desk and stumbling into her. Sansa manages to keep one arm around his neck through the jostle, her other hand hitching up her skirts a bit at one knee to accommodate him when he settles between her legs.

And then he stops, one hand braced against the desk beside her, the other settled at her waist, just at the curve of her hip, and he hangs his head at her shoulder, a delirious pant of disbelief escaping him, every muscle in his body coiled tight, and he squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, begs her –

"Tell me again."

Sansa stills with her hand at the nape of his neck, fingers sunk into his curls. Her swollen mouth parts silently in confusion.

Jon opens his eyes, lets the dam break further. "Tell me I'm a good man," he asks of her, voice finally cracking.

Sansa doesn't even hesitate. She pulls her hand from his hair, cradles his face with both palms now, raising his head so that he meets her gaze – that ice-cut, ardent blue. "You are a good man, Jon," she tells him, eyes wet, yet unblinking. "The best I know," she gets out breathlessly, a shaky smile branching across her lips.

Jon's eyes slip shut once more, his chin trembling with his control, his throat tight. "I'm in love with you, Sansa," he tells her. He gasps a needed breath at the end of the words, his tongue heavy with them. He shakes his head, his voice breaking as it leaves him. "I'm in love with you."

"Jon," she urges, her thumbs brushing his cheeks.

He opens his eyes, meets her unhindered gaze. "But you deserve – "

"I deserve a love returned in kind," she says firmly, her hands still gentle over his cheeks. "So," she begins, eyes softening on his, "Will you love me? As I love you?"

Jon takes a sharp breath in, and then he grabs for her face, kisses her with a fierceness he has never known, his whole body aching for her, for her nearness, for her words. He presses closer, his chest braced against hers, so needful and so forceful and so finally unrestrained that he pushes her back along the tabletop, his weight settled atop her, panting against her mouth as his hips pin her to the desk, that heat between her legs, that heat, cradling his growing hardness, one of her heels steadying herself along the back of his thigh as she kisses him back with abandon, her hands dug into his curls. He breaks from her with a heated breath, a sob hooked along the end of it, one hand trailing along her jaw, the other gripping frantically at the skirts at her thigh, fingers flexing with barely held control. "I will love you more," he gasps out, a fervent promise, this madness like a fever running through him. He presses his forehead to hers. Breathes her in. Breathes her out. Feels her pulse beating steadily beneath his touch.

She smiles.

(He swears he can feel the warmth of it against his mouth.)

"Then I was right," she says. "I can never regret loving you." She kisses him then. Kisses him, and kisses him, and holds him. Her touch is a revelation. Like spring sprouting beneath every graze of her fingertips, like a garden blooming beneath his skin.

The frost of winter slips away.

And she is the one, the one, the one.

His only dream of spring.

* * *

She's imagined this for many moons now. She barely hears Davos' updates on the war preparations, or the interjections of the lords. She barely acknowledges the slow waning of morning light through the windows lining their Great Hall.

"If that is all, then, Your Grace," Baelish says in request for a dismissal of their gathering.

It isn't until these words are spoken that Sansa comes back to herself. She stands gracefully, swallowing her trepidations behind a cool mask. "That will not be all, in fact, Lord Baelish."

The lords grant her an audience of silence, waiting for her to continue. Littlefinger raises an attentive brow her way.

Sansa takes a deep breath, stems the urge to reach for Jon's hand beside her. She feels his presence though, knows he's there, watching her, backing her. She knows he's there.

It is all the strength she needs.

"As some of you may know," she begins, voice ringing out in the silent hall, "Lord Royce of the Vale has recently made the journey to Winterfell. He brings urgent news, and I've asked him to take the floor in addressing the court this morning." She nods at Yohn Royce where he sits along the edge of the gathered lords with his retinue, ignoring Baelish's curious eyes.

Clearing his throat, Royce stands with a raised chin, a disdainful look sent Baelish's way. Littlefinger glances toward Sansa, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed a moment, before looking back to Royce.

"Many thanks, my lady," Royce begins with a sonorous voice. "You are as gracious as ever, and my lord sends his regards, as well as his gratitude for granting us the stage to unmask this serpent."

Mumbles of confusion blanket the hall. Sansa keeps her gaze determinedly away from Baelish.

"In short, there has been an attempt on my lord's life," Royce continues to the crowd.

Cries of outrage sprout from the gathered lords, demands for further explanation.

Baelish steps further into the open space between the head table and the seated lords. "Lord Royce, you did not mention this when we spoke upon your arrival yesterday," he says urgently. "Is this true?" His eyes are searching upon the other man's, his posture still carefully unperturbed.

Royce gives him a look of derision. "Yes, Lord Baelish." He puffs his chest out, hands resting along his belt. "Though you knew that already, didn't you?" Murmurs sound through the hall at the accusation.

Baelish blinks at him, the minute quirk of his lip revealing his confusion, and his dread. His eyes flick toward Sansa briefly.

She does not reward him with a look in return.

Baelish clears his throat and steps further onto the floor, his attention returning to Royce. "I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," he says tightly.

"You understand my meaning precisely, Lord Baelish, as you were the one to order his poisoning."

Shouts echo through the hall at Royce's words, Lord Cerwyn standing from his seat with a fist pounded into the tabletop. "This is an outrage."

Baelish narrows his eyes on Royce, a sharp breath leaving him. "That is a heavy allegation, my lord. Be careful who you accuse of what," he warns.

"Then I suppose it's good I carry the proof of it," Royce answers back with a lifted chin, his face reddening in his indignation.

Baelish swings wide eyes to Sansa then, and she is ready for it, even as the chaos in the hall grows. She keeps his gaze with a steady look of calm, knowing he cannot condemn her without also condemning himself. She watches the way he bites his tongue in frustration, the way his throat flexes with his control, his breathing growing unsteady. She offers him the slightest lift of her lips in acknowledgement, watching his eyes grow wider, before she turns to Royce. "You may continue, my lord."

Baelish's head snaps toward Royce, watching as he gives Sansa a grateful nod. Littlefinger licks his lips, his hands flexing as he steps closer to Royce, head bowed somewhat. "My lord, if we could talk elsewhere, perhaps I ca – "

"Perhaps you can explain your treachery, is that it?" He keeps his voice booming for all to hear.

Baelish's mouth snaps shut, his breaths coming heavy now. "This is... this is...preposterous."

"It's treason, is what it is!" Royce bellows.

Baelish's face screws up in poorly veiled anger. "Mind your tongue, Lord Royce," he bites out, eyes flickering to the crowd behind them.

"Lord Royce, you spoke of proof," Sansa interjects.

"My lady," Baelish pleads, his head whipping to her. When she only gives him a raised brow, Baelish swings his frantic eyes toward Jon. "Your Grace, please, this slander is unworthy of your court."

"I believe my sister has the floor, Lord Baelish," Jon says cooly from his seat beside Sansa, leaning back in his chair. "So, you'll submit to any of her questions, should you truly respect the 'worth' of this court," he quips nonchalantly.

Baelish's mouth dips open, only for him to clamp it shut. His wide eyes swing back to Royce.

The Vale lord gives a great huff at Littlefinger before standing aside to usher Jeyne Poole to stand beside him. She rises from her seat unsurely, the hood pulled back from her straw-like hair, fingers trembling as she settles the material around her neck. She never meets Baelish's eyes.

He's too stunned to react, regardless, but Sansa won't let herself feel any satisfaction at the reaction just yet. There's still work to be done, after all.

Over murmurs at the young girl's appearance, Sansa's voice rings out steadily over the hall. "Identify yourself for the lords, my dear."

She swallows tightly, nodding at Sansa. "My name is Jeyne Bolton, formerly Jeyne Poole. My father was Vayon Poole, Lord Eddard Stark's steward."

More murmurs spread through the crowd.

"And how did you come to be Jeyne Bolton?" Sansa asks gently, her throat flexing with her control. She keeps the tears at bay.

Jeyne raises a shaking arm, a slender, accusatory finger pointed at Baelish, eyes flashing in pain and hatred. "That man sold me to the Boltons after forcing me to impersonate Lady Arya."

"I did no such thing," he denies vehemently, stalking toward her.

"You will restrain yourself, Lord Baelish," Sansa snaps, and he halts instantly, glancing up at her. She motions toward the guards along the wall. "Or I will have you restrained."

In unison, the guards all brace their pikes to their chests, a clang of armor resounding in the hall.

Baelish takes a cautious step back in place, swallowing thickly as he watches.

A guffaw sounds behind them from the crowd, another's holler, another's rebuke.

Jon raises a hand to silence the crowd. He glances at Jeyne from his seat. "Is there anyone to corroborate your story, Miss Poole?"

Sansa smiles to herself at how Jon addresses her friend, remembering their agreed decision to annul her disgusting marriage to the Bolton bastard.

"Aye," she says, her hand settling back to her side. She nods toward Barbery Dustin, seated amongst the other lords. "Lady Dustin was present for the course of my imprisonment, before I fled Winterfell and shed the false name."

Dustin shifts in her seat uncomfortably, but she gives a silent nod of acknowledgement, her mouth a thin frown.

"Then Lord Baelish is the one to blame for your treatment after Ned Stark's execution?" Sansa asks her, bringing the attention of the lords back to the accusations at hand.

Baelish scoffs. "That is hardly – "

"Yes, my lady, he is," Jeyne answers swiftly, hands wringing themselves, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. "He brought me into dishonor, attempted to smear Lady Arya's name, and aided the Boltons when he sold me into cruelty beyond imagination."

Baelish wipes a hand along his sweat-slicked brow. "These are baseless lies, my lady," he pleads, looking at Sansa. "And regardless, I don't see how any of this slander has to do with Lord Arryn's poisoning." He gives a meaningful tilt of the head, a warning flashing through his eyes.

But Sansa is well past caring for any of his warnings.

"Because when I finally escaped to the Vale, when I finally thought I was safe," Jeyne continues, voice shaking but urgent over the mutterings of the seated crowd, "I found I'd only fallen back into his clutches. He threatened me, hurt me. He knew Lady Sansa had asked me to care for her cousin, Lord Arryn, so Littlefinger knew I had access to him, and that's when he gave me the poison. Threatened to kill me if I didn't follow his instructions, or worse – throw me back into the hell he'd first dragged me into." She was trembling at this point, her whole body shuddering in her fear, her eyes riveted to Baelish's, her lip held tight between her teeth.

Sansa wants to pull Jeyne into her embrace once more, to hold her dear friend like she used to, to wrap her arms around her and comfort her, the way Jeyne used to do for her.

Her hatred of Baelish only boils hotter beneath her skin.

"I never gave you any such orders, girl," Baelish snaps, "Nor any poison."

"Then explain why Maester Colemon says that's exactly what's been happening to our Lord?" Royce demands.

"What are you talking about?" Baelish snaps, flexing a hand nervously at his side.

Royce raises a sealed scroll in his hand for the gathered lords to see. "I have here the sworn statement of Maester Colemon attesting to Lord Arryn's poisoning, after inspecting his blood and his symptoms. Explain this, Lord Baelish. If you didn't give the poison to the girl, as she freely admits, then how do you explain Lord Arryn's condition?"

Littlefinger bites his tongue, a dangerous glare sent Sansa's way. He heaves a single, frustrated breath, his trembling hands smoothing over his tunic in a measure of control. "I cannot," he bites out, eyes slipping back toward Lord Royce.

Sansa lets the first breath of relief rattle from her lungs, cautious in its release.

"But this reeks of falsity, my lords," Baelish beseeches the crowd, turning to take them in. "I have been nothing but loyal to the Vale. And this girl admits to the poisoning herself," he says, a hand motioning back to Jeyne. "This is simply an attempt to escape punishment, by throwing the blame elsewhere. She has falsely named me as the arbiter of her fate since the honorable Ned Stark's execution, and so she must continue the farce! Where better to place the blame, than at my feet?"

"I admit to my part in the plan," Jeyne interrupts, grabbing Baelish's attention back, "But only because I could not do it any longer. I could not harm Lady Sansa's kin, not after everything her family has done for me, not after everything they have been through." She swings imploring eyes on Sansa. "Please, forgive me, my lady. I was at threat of death. But I just... I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't let that man hurt you or your family again."

"You lying whore," Baelish seethes between his clenched teeth, a step taken toward Jeyne, but Sansa's voice stops him once more.

"Lord Baelish, you will stay where you are," she snaps. "I will not repeat myself."

Baelish twists his neck in his ire, his jaw working. "My lady," he grinds out in acknowledgement.

Sansa turns her attention back to Jeyne. "We thank you for your service, Jeyne. I know it wasn't an easy decision, and I know what you must have risked to confess to Lord Royce. I promise, you have my protection, as the Lady of Winterfell. Is this agreeable to you, Lord Royce?"

Royce nods, stuffing the sealed scroll of Colemon's testimony back into his tunic. "It is, my lady, now that the true culprit is revealed."

"And have you any other instructions from my cousin?"

"I do," he answers with a growing smirk. He tugs his tunic into place with an air of satisfaction, turning to face the fuming Baelish once more. "By the decree of Lord Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East, Petyr Baelish, you are hereby stripped of your status as Lord Protector of the Vale and named a traitor to House Arryn. Any lands and titles in your possession are revoked, and now property of House Arryn."

Baelish's face goes red with his rage. "You can't do that, you fat, incompetent oaf!"

Royce huffs his indignation at Baelish, a hand waved to his guards, and instantly, they rush toward the floor, two of them grabbing for Littlefinger's arms as he splutters his denials, tearing his arms away. "You can't – you can't do that, you – unhand me! Unhand me, you fools!" He struggles in their grasp, his arms yanked behind his back as he's forced to his knees. "My lady," he pleads, eyes wide as they fly toward Sansa. "My lady, please, you know I did not do this. You know. Please, my lady. Sansa! Sansa, please!"

She raises a hand to halt the commotion.

Everyone stills, the two guards on either side of Baelish still holding his arms behind him as they glance toward Lord Royce. He nods silently at them, lips pursed. They remain in their place as Sansa turns to address Royce.

"Before you haul him off to face these charges, Lord Royce," Sansa begins calmly, a sideways glance sent Baelish's way, "I have some things to say."

Baelish's shoulders slump in his relief, a heavy sigh escaping him as he shuts his eyes, the cautious hint of a grin etching at the corners of his lips.

It does not last long.

Sansa turns back to face Baelish. "I have some charges of my own," she finishes, watching in barely concealed delight as Baelish's eyes snap back open, his body going rigid.

"My... my lady?" he asks hoarsely, mouth parting anxiously.

"Of course, my lady," Royce answers, taking his seat, a hand along Jeyne's shoulders to usher her back to her chair as well. He doesn't bother to hide his satisfied smirk now.

Sansa settles the tips of her fingers along the table's edge before her, like an anchor. She taps one fine-boned finger along the wood tremulously.

Beside her, Jon shifts in his seat, a soft rustle of furs signaling the motion, and then he's trailing two fingers down the length of her cloak, slow and steady, obscured to the crowd before them by the table and the closeness of their chairs. It's a measure of comfort, of constancy.

It quiets the noise in her head, the pulse pounding in her ears. It sets her spine to rigidity, eases the heaviness of her tongue.

Just the lightest of his touches, even through their layers –

(She was undone by his touches just the night before, and yet now – now she is the steady, grey stone of Winterfell. Now, she is the surety of a coming winter. Now, she is the unbending North.)

Just a touch – but it's all she needs.

Sansa lets the hint of a smile tug at her lips.

"Sansa, what is this?" Baelish asks, all sense of false propriety leaving him.

She levels him with an even stare. "I have a witness claiming you tried to assassinate my siblings, and Ned Stark's trueborn heirs, Bran and Arya Stark."

Glover upends his chair with the vehemence with which he stands, face blotted red as he bellows his rage. "Treason!" He reaches for his sword instantly.

"What is this?" Manderly shouts from the next table, standing as well, roars of fury and indignation sounding in the hall around them.

"Quiet, all of you quiet!" Jon barks, standing as well, motioning for Glover to sheath his sword. "Lady Sansa is speaking,"

The crowd grumbles their acquiescence, Glover and Manderly slowly lowering back to their seats with murderous glares sent Baelish's way.

Littlefinger is sweating, for his part. It stirs a dark satisfaction in Sansa, watching him. He's still held on his knees, his eyes shifting frantically between her and Jon, Royce and his men against the wall, and the Northern lords howling for justice at his back.

"I don't – I don't understand," he mutters, looking up at her.

"I believe you know Gareth Stone," she continues, motioning for a guard to open the door at the far end of the hall where Brienne enters, dragging her sister behind her while she wears the false face of a half-beaten Gareth Stone. The lords along the benches and tables all stand to get a better look, talking amongst themselves, and Baelish shifts along his knees to watch their entrance, eyes narrowing in confusion, mouthing like a fish on a hook.

"He's the one you assigned to lead the party of assassins sent after my siblings," Sansa accuses smoothly.

Baelish shakes his head vehemently, his breaths coming heavy now. "I've no idea what this man has told you but he hasn't been in my employ in months. Whatever he's done was never at my behest," he defends, chest heaving.

"Lies!" the false Gareth cries as he and Brienne make their way to the open center of the hall before the head table, stopping beside Baelish. He wipes a hand over his bloody nose, tossing his head in Baelish's direction. "The lord here told me to make sure I was the one to gut the little runts personally. 'Make it bloody', he said. 'Make it hurt'."

"I never told you that!" Baelish denies on a shout, trying to rise, only to be shoved back to his knees, and he grunts beneath the force of it, hands going out to the floor to brace himself as the guards finally relinquish their hold of him. "This is ridiculous," he spits, looking up to Sansa from his hands and knees. "You know I never... you know I only ever meant to help you." He licks his lips nervously, fingers curling along the stone floor. "I sent men out to find Bran, not to kill him. You know that, my lady."

"I know you were concerned you would find him alive," she snaps, eyes heated suddenly, a hate so violent and gut-wrenching she cannot keep it contained any longer. "That's what I know," she seethes dangerously.

Baelish blinks at her, understanding slowly inking into formation behind his eyes.

She drags her hands from their precarious perch along the tabletop, clenching them into fists at her sides, her shoulders pulling back as she straightens. "We have his confession," she continues after a breath, a practiced iciness to her voice.

"He's... he's lying," Baelish begs, his head snapping toward Gareth suddenly, a venomous look overtaking his features. "Tell them, you idiot. Or I swear I'll – "

"And if the orders are in your own hand?" Brienne interrupts suddenly, the hand not holding Arya by the arm rising to show a crumpled missive between her fingers.

Baelish's face goes white, his shoulders slumping as he eyes the thin slip of parchment.

"We've read its contents already, Lord Baelish," Jon says from his seat with poorly veiled smugness. "It confirms your underling's confession."

Baelish balks at them, speechless, while the lords continue their shouts for justice behind him. Jon motions half-heartedly for them to quiet.

"I have your treason by your own hand, Lord Baelish," Sansa says tightly, the words suddenly catching in her throat. It all comes frothing to the surface. "And now every man here knows what you are." Her throat flexes with her control, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, salt-tinged and fierce. "You cannot whisper your filth to me anymore."

(Like the first breath after drowning. This is how it comes to her.)

Baelish slumps back on his haunches, his hands hanging limp in his lap as he stares up at her, mouth opening, and then closing. The confidence seeps from him instantly, his shoulders slumping. A quiet, slack-jawed disbelief settles over him.

"Let me see that," Manderly demands, moving toward Brienne. She hands him the missive, and the hall is quiet as he reads it, face reddening as the seconds pass. Glover leaves his seat as well, stalking over to them, grabbing the missive for his own eyes when Manderly is done with it. The other lords crane their necks around to witness the confirmation. A tense quiet overtakes the room as the missive is then passed round and round, Cerwyn reaching for it next, before Dustin takes her turn.

Sansa stays staring at Baelish from her place at the head table while the murmurs of the court grow, murderous curses stewing in the air.

Baelish nearly shrinks in on himself, his breaths coming shallow and quick now, eyes blinking furiously.

"Take him away," Sansa says to Brienne, motioning toward Stone. "You know my will," she says simply.

Arya makes a show of terrified pleading in Gareth Stone's skin. "Please, no! M'lady! M'lady, please! I've told you all I know. Please! Mercy, I beg you, mercy!" The shallow cries grow faint as Brienne drags her back through the door they first entered, a growing eddy of voices gathering around them.

Baelish watches their exit with dread, eyes never leaving their retreating forms. He stays still as glass, fingers curling into his palms with a fierce tremble. "Where is your sister?" he asks Sansa on a hoarse whisper. He clears his throat, shifts his gaze back to hers. "I'd like to hear the account from her." There's a note of defeat to his voice.

But Sansa will not let it make her careless.

"Don't worry, Lord Baelish. She's tending to a very special guest of ours, though I'm afraid you won't get the chance to meet him," she promises.

Littlefinger narrows his eyes in confusion.

Jon smirks proudly beside her.

"Lord Royce," Sansa calls out, turning once more to face the stout man.

He stands at the address. "Yes, my lady?"

"Lord Arryn gave you full authority on the matter of Petyr Baelish, did he not?"

"He did."

"Then, considering the attempts on the lives of both our liege lords, and considering my familial ties to each of them, have I your trust in the sentencing of this traitor? Will you honor my decrees?"

"I shall," he affirms. "Let it be known that the Vale cedes to the North's decision concerning the fate of Petry Baelish," he booms, turning to address the entire court. He looks back to Sansa, a short, reserved bow sent her way. "We know you will give us satisfaction," he adds, before taking his seat once more.

Sansa raises a brow at Baelish following Royce's words.

He only breathes deeply, his head still held high, though his chin trembles, words held tight behind his teeth.

"Have you anything to say in your defense, Lord Baelish?" Sansa asks primly.

He works his jaw, eyes glancing around the members of the court. He looks back up to her. "Only that it wasn't that fool Jeyne who poisoned young Robert."

She keeps her features schooled into passivity when he continues, knowing his coming words, recognizing his last attempts to lash out, to take her down with him.

"It was you," he spits.

Cerwyn stands swiftly. "You will swallow your slander, lord, or I'll have you swallow your tongue," he threatens on a bellow.

A resounding answer of support echoes throughout the hall, with fists on tabletops, several hands on swords, a few chairs upended when many of the lords stand in their indignation.

Baelish sneers up at Sansa, eyes never leaving hers.

She keeps her steady stance, keeps her face impassive. It is not an unexpected attack, after all.

"You're saying I poisoned my cousin?" she asks incredulously.

"That's exactly what I'm saying." He gives her a hateful look, his lip curled back, even as he swallows thickly, trepidation flooding his body. "You were so weak, so alone. You only needed a little goading. Only a little attention. And then you were mine. You listened to every direction. You trusted my word, never questioned my intentions. You were a doting, scared little girl, and you did everything I asked," he says darkly, a knowing look passing over his features, before he glances furtively toward Jon. The curl of his lip slips into full disgust. "And I see now just how closely you followed my instruction," he bites out.

But even now, he cannot touch this.

What lies between she and Jon.

He can never touch this.

At that moment, Brienne enters the hall once more, striding toward the head table to stand behind Sansa. She gives her lady a nod, and Sansa dips her head in acknowledgement.

Jon takes that moment to stand, the scrape of his chair along the stone silencing the angry lords in the crowd. He sets a hand to the small of Sansa's back. "Is this how you would defend yourself?" he asks Littlefinger incredulously. "By besmirching my sister? The one who's supported you all this time? All while you plotted treason behind her back?"

"I wasn't the one plotting behind people's backs, it seems. Or doing worse," he says meaningfully.

Sansa sucks a shallow breath through her teeth, bracing for it.

Baelish spreads his arms wide, taking in the court from where he kneels. "Shouldn't they be told, my lady?" he asks with a hint of delirium, voice rising. "Shouldn't they know where this sudden self-righteousness of yours comes from, hmm? This swift change of loyalty?" His eyes darken on hers, an unhinged laugh escaping him. "Shouldn't they know that it's because you've fallen into bed with your own brother?"

"That is enough!" Lady Mormont shouts from her seat. Several lords echo her sentiment. An uproar begins in the hall.

Sansa simply watches as the chaos ensues, the cries for Baelish' head, the way Glover steps out fully into the open space before the head table now, brandishing his sword at Baelish, the way Mormont shouts her derision at the accusations, how Cerwyn spits at Baelish's feet, the two Vale guards behind Littlefinger barely holding the fuming lord back from their charge.

She knows he wouldn't be believed. She knows he couldn't expect to have been either. And yet, that coil of unease still curls hot in her gut.

Because it's the truth.

Because she had fallen into bed with Jon. And because she'd fallen into so much deeper.

"Enough of your poison!" Manderly bellows amidst the crowd.

"Yes, enough of this madness," Mormont agrees. "Do not give him a stage to speak any longer!" A chorus of assent sounds around the room.

"Even with all the evidence against you," Jon begins, eyes narrowed on Littlefinger, "Even now, you spin your tales. You spew your treacherous lies."

Baelish laughs, his eyes wet. It's a crazed, yet saccharine sound. The kind of laugh that sees the end coming.

"It doesn't matter," he whispers harshly, licking his lips. "Nothing matters anymore." He hangs his head, hands curling into fists in his lap. Another coarse laugh escapes him. "Not without you, Sansa." It could be the promise of a lover with how ardently he says it.

Instead, it scrapes at the underside of her skin, stirs a sickness in her gut. She blinks at the sudden wetness along her eyes, her breath hitching in her chest.

She never wants to hear her name on his lips again.

(Never again, such repulsiveness.)

"Did you think you could share such vile confidence with me and I wouldn't reveal it?" she says disbelievingly, taking in a long, indignant breath, before exhaling it carefully. "Did you think I would let you plot treason against my family, against my kingdom? Did you think I would sit idly by and let you manipulate this court? Let you threaten my brother's rule, let you divide us? Did you think I would gladly swallow your poison?" The words snap from her on a heated breath. She's near shouting at the end of it, her chest heaving, the tears hot at the corners of her eyes, and it's only Jon's hand pressing firmly at the small of her back that calms her, his palm spreading warmth throughout her even through her cloak.

That anchor.

That steadiness.

Like their embrace that fist snow-lit afternoon, when she came through the gates of Castle Black – his arms around her winter-weakened form, his disbelieving breath hot against her cheek, her fingers curling in the rough leather of his tunic, at the nape of his neck, her feet lifted up, up, up off the ground, braced tight to his chest, and rocking, like a song, like a song she used to know, held there against him with all the force of ages-long yearning, and his choked-off laugh at her ear, her name expelled in his tremulous breath across her neck when he presses his nose to her shoulder and she is lifted and steady and spinning, all at once – all at once whole again.

His hand braced to the back of her head. Her tears warming her cheeks.

She'd found her home again well before she ever found Winterfell.

Now, she means to keep it.

There's a knock at the door nearest the head table, before Arya, now rid of her earlier disguise, opens the door and enters the hall, meeting Sansa's eyes when she turns at the noise.

Sansa swallows back the fervency of her recent outburst, nodding to her sister. "Arya, join us, please."

The raucous crowd dims slightly at Arya's entrance, watching her stalk across the stone floor, halting at the edge of the crowd in a ring around Baelish. She stares at him impassively, her hands held behind her back, shoulders pulled taut. "Brienne informed me of the progress of his trial," she says by way of greeting, her head canted toward Baelish.

A scoff escapes the disgraced lord. "Trial," he mocks, glancing up at her. "You shouldn't even be here," he grits out, eyes flashing.

Arya grins smugly in response. "You got sloppy, Baelish." She piques a brow at him. "Perhaps you should work on that. Though, it doesn't look like you'll be getting that chance now."

Baelish closes his eyes, a heavy breath rattling from him when he braces his head in his hands. "How is this... how is this even..."

"You'll forgive me, my lords," Arya addresses the court, "For not coming forward concerning Bran and I's attack earlier, but I was following King Jon and Lady Sansa's orders.."

"We could not risk her safety by revealing the attempt without evidence," Jon explains.

Grunts of acknowledgement sound about the room.

"And now that we have that evidence," Sansa continues, "I believe a judgement is in order."

The lords answer with shouts of support, a slow but thunderous rhythm of fists along the tables taking form.

Sansa lets the growing hum of bloodlust go uninterrupted for a moment, simply staring down at Baelish, watching as he drops his hands from his head, looking up at her in desperation, his mouth opening and closing like a gut fish.

Like something bloodied.

Gasping.

The thrill of his life in her hands is not something she thinks she may ever forget.

Sansa clears her throat, lifting her chin. She looks to her sister at the end of the head table. "Lady Arya, if you will."

Arya steps forward, striding slowly to the center of the floor, a hush gradually descending the riled crowd as she unsheathes the Valyrian dagger at her belt, holding it ready. Baelish watches the blade with widened eyes, a flicker of recognition lighting his face.

"This is the knife you sent with your man, is it not?" Sansa asks. "The one you ordered him to 'gut the little runts' with, yes? "

A cool, even quiet settles over the now still hall.

Baelish's eyes slip toward Sansa's with a distressed shake of his head. "Please..."

Sansa swallows tightly, unblinking. "Fitting that it be used now to gut you."

"Sansa," he rasps out, one hand reaching toward her.

Reaching.

And empty.

"It was your throat he aimed this blade at, Arya," Sansa clips out, eyes shifting toward her sister between them. "I do believe you should return the favor."

Baelish's hand drops back to his lap, a choked off sob escaping his lips, barely discernible.

Sansa turns to Jon beside her. "Is that fitting, Your Grace?"

Jon's hand slips from the small of her back. "Quite fair, I'd say," he answers darkly, gaze heavy on Littlefinger.

Baelish glances between them frantically, a hand pressed to his sweat-licked brow. "Sansa, wait, please – "

"In fact," Sansa interrupts, a raw lash of anguish catching in her throat, "This is the very blade you set against Bran's life the first time, isn't it? All those years ago, while he was lying comatose in his bed after the fall?" She grinds her teeth, her jaw quaking beneath the force of her control.

Swallow it back. Keep it closed. Don't let it to air.

(He can never hurt them again, she promises.)

It flares hot in her gut, the remembrance like a torch beneath her skin, her body trembling with it.

(Her father's head tumbling down the muddied steps. Her shriek lighting the air, all the dreams of her youth severed at the root, at the neck. Her world caving into muted darkness.)

Sansa sets her jaw, her nostrils flaring.

Swallow it back. Keep it closed. Don't let it to air.

(She hasn't let the light in since.)

"Pity you didn't also have it when you put a blade to our father's throat as you were betraying him," she bites out, voice as thin as ice.

Baelish goes still.

A beat of silence pervades the room.

He blinks at her, mouth parting. "What – "

"I did warn you."

The world tilts on its axis, teetering on a breathless edge, a great upheaval happening within her. Everything is loud and blaring and crashing inside her. But outside, she is –

Still.

Still as his breath.

Breaths that come out of him quickly now. Once. Twice. And then swallowed back. His chin trembles, his eyes watering. He shakes his head. "No," he groans out. He shakes his head harder. "No."

She sees the moment he makes the connection.

"I did warn you not to trust me," Baelish had said as he held his dagger to Ned Stark's throat in the throne room of the Red Keep, those many years ago.

(All the dreams of her youth severed at the root, at the neck.)

Baelish mouths at the air, eyes blinking furiously in his disbelief. "How... how do you know that?" he whispers out.

Sansa thinks of her conversation alone with Bran when he first arrived. "He chose power over truth," he'd told her, revealing the details of Baelish's betrayal concerning their father's arrest – details he had no way of knowing, like the many things he had no way of knowing and yet, does.

She thinks of the time she first showed Baelish her little game of cat's cradle. "I did warn you, my lord," she'd said, the mess of strings undone in his hands.

And then she thinks of Jon. She thinks of the night just before.

(She thinks of a love they deserve.)

They lay stretched out together before the fire, her bare shoulders peeking out from the furs covering their sweat-slicked and sated forms, his fingers running a path up and down her back as he holds her to his chest.

Sansa presses her mouth to the juncture of his shoulder and neck, inhaling deeply. She sighs into his skin when his hand trails down the length of her spine, settling at the small of her back. She tightens her arm slung around his waist, pressing into him.

He moans softly in contentment, his hum at her temple, against her hair.

"Jon," she says.

He pulls back just enough to watch her face, his hand curving over her hip. "Hmm?"

"Are you ready? For tomorrow?" she asks cautiously, her lip caught between her teeth.

Jon sighs, rolling onto his back fully, his hand still fixed to her hip. "Are you?"

Her gaze shifts down to his bared chest, eyes alighting on his scars. She brushes a gentle hand along the one above his heart.

Jon stays watching her quietly.

She lets out a slow breath. "I have to be," she answers finally, glancing up at him.

Jon's gaze shifts between hers, a furrow to his brow. "What are you afraid of?" he asks on a whisper. It isn't a judgement. It isn't said with any derision. It's warm, and caressing.

As if the words were open arms.

I'm here, they say.

Sansa sighs, pressing her face into his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

"Hey," he says, his hand rising from her hip to settle in her hair, brushing it from her cheek carefully. "Hey," he eases.

She pulls her face back, meets his gaze. And then she's sitting up on a heavy exhale, the furs falling from her bare form. She looks down at him. "I just... need to know that they'll be safe. That Bran and Arya will be safe."

Jon rises as well, shifting as the furs settle over their laps. He braces one hand to the floor beneath him, leaning on it as he cocks his head at her, watching her. His other hand lifts to cup her cheek. "We do this, and they will be. Baelish can't touch them again."

Sansa leans into his touch, eyes slipping closed. "And after? When he's dead? What then?" Her eyes shift open to catch his, a flicker of uncertainty stretching across her brow. "We still have a war to fight. And a crown to secure."

"Aye, we do," he gets out hoarsely, swallowing thickly.

Sansa simply watches him a moment, eyes wetting. And then she blinks it away, glances to the fireplace before them. "You'll leave me."

"Sansa," he says instantly, both hands cupping her face now, turning her gaze to him as he leans toward her.

She meets his gaze reluctantly.

But then his mouth is on hers – so urgent, so warm. She whimpers at the unexpectedness of it, her hands going for his wrists, anchoring there. She gasps at the heat of his mouth when he pulls away, his lips still close enough to brush hers.

"Sansa," he pants at her mouth, fingers curling along her jaw.

(But she thinks that neither of them could ever truly leave – not now. Not after knowing what they know. Not after loving what they love. Not ever. Not anymore.)

She doesn't let her sob escape her. "What are we supposed to do?" she asks brokenly, her forehead braced to his. "What are we... what can we possibly do?"

"We ensure your safety," he says confidently, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks as he leans back to meet her eyes. "And we make sure the North continues under the Stark name."

"But Bran – "

"He's told you his wishes."

Sansa quiets, her gaze drifting down. "He's father's last trueborn son," she says, unable to hide the resentment that blooms just behind her ribs.

Because it should be Jon's, even if that means she cannot be Jon's.

Robb's will can only make certain of that.

"And he doesn't want the throne," Jon tells her.

Sansa gives him a baleful look, shaking her head, and his hands slip from her cheeks at the motion. "He should," she says. "And if he doesn't, then it's you. It's you, Jon, and that's the way it should be."

"But it's not the way I can live with," he says with a surety that stills her. He reaches for a strand of her hair, brushing it past her bare shoulder, his eyes drifting down over her naked form. "And maybe... maybe part of it is because I don't want to be your brother for true."

She can't help the breath that she sucks between her teeth, a slow heat gathering in her gut at the look he gives her. She knows he must see the marks he's left along her neck, along her breasts. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, every previous thought banished at the lingering gaze he rakes over her now.

"Not after everything," Jon gets out breathlessly, his hand trailing down past her collar bone, just barely brushing the valley between her breasts before he draws his hand away. His other hand grips at the furs in his lap, his eyes rising to meet hers when he takes in a heavy breath. "I'd be lying if I said this wasn't part of it, even though I know it doesn't matter, not truly. But I'll take being your bastard brother over being your legitimate one, if it means you and I can – " He stops, swallows the words with a shake of his head.

"Jon," she whispers achingly.

"That's not how this works, I know that," he says, jaw squaring. "Just makes the guilt easier I guess." He heaves a sigh. "Even when it shouldn't."

She knows exactly what he means though, since there's a part of her that's always rationalized her feelings because they were ever only half-siblings.

It doesn't erase the sin. She understands that. Always has. But somewhere along the way, that 'sin' became her refuge, her guiding star. Somewhere along the way he just became... Jon.

Confirming that Robb actually legitimized him would pull the smokescreen back. It would make the truth undeniable.

Not simply that she was in love with her brother, but that nothing could ever truly come of that love.

(It's the only thing that haunts her anymore, even when she knows he deserves it – even when she urges him to claim it.

Because she knows he deserves it.)

Jon sighs, a hand raked through his curls. "Doesn't make a difference, in the end."

Sansa peers up at him with consoling eyes, one brow raised in question.

He watches her face when he tells her, "I made my decision long ago."

His words narrow her focus instantly, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

He watches her a moment longer, mouth parting, and then he turns away, pushes himself from the floor. He walks to the desk beside his bed, and Sansa follows the naked lines of him, muscles taut beneath the flickering corners of firelight. She gathers the furs around her chest and stands to follow him. He takes a deep breath, his broad back rising with the motion, and then falling, his hand clenched around a rolled parchment.

Around Robb's will.

Sansa stops just behind him, a hand at his shoulder, eyes fixed to the scroll in his grasp. "Jon," she says carefully.

He turns to her.

Her gaze flits between his own dark eyes and the scroll in his fist. "Jon, what are you saying?"

"Once Baelish is dealt with, once Bran can safely reveal his presence to the lords, he's going to renounce his claim. And then I plan to do the same."

Sansa's eyes go wide, her breath hitching in her throat. She mouths a word, silent. And then she clears her throat, shakes her head. "Jon, wait – "

"I know what I'm doing, Sansa."

"But why?"

"Because it always should have been yours. I never meant to keep it any longer than it took to rid you of Baelish, to guarantee your safety. That's been the goal from the start."

Sansa licks her lips, glancing back to the will, and then to Jon. "But Robb legitimized you. We have the proof now. The lords will fall in line and there won't be any division anymore."

Jon grits his teeth, his dark eyes shifting to the will in his hand. He takes a deep breath, jaw working. "Then maybe such proof should never have been found," he says evenly, before he stalks back toward the hearth.

Sansa sees what he means to do just moments before he does it, and she flies toward him, the furs falling from her grip when she reaches for him, stops his hand just before he can toss the bound scroll into the fireplace. "What are you doing?" she cries, stumbling against him with the momentum, looking up into his face frantically.

Jon catches her with his free arm around her waist, his other hand halted in her grip. "I'm making sure your claim can never be contested."

"Jon, no, wait," she gasps, tears beading in the corners of her eyes. She sags against him, her chest heaving. "Wait, you can't – " Her voice breaks, and she swallows it back, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, anchoring there. "Jon, being a Stark is what you've always wanted," she says on a pleading cry, peering up into his face desperately.

Because she's always wanted it for him.

For him, for him, for him.

(Even when it means he'd be her brother for true. Even when it draws a line between them she could never redraw, not ever.

Even when it means there's no going back.)

Jon softens at her cry, his shoulders slumping. His wide hand spreads over her waist, the hint of a resilient grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He dips his head to hers, meets her eyes unblinkingly. "Being wanted is what I've always wanted," he tells her, nose brushing hers. His hot breath fans her cheeks and her hand slips from his wrist unconsciously, the breath winded from her. Her eyes shift between his, blinking furiously.

"Jon," she whispers in the space between their lips.

His grin grows wider, a tenderness to it. "I have that now – because of you. And I didn't need to be a Stark to get it."

Her tears are hot along her lids now, threatening to fall. Her chest aches, her breaths coming short and shaky. "Are you certain?" she gulps out, words barely making it to air.

Because if he does this – if he does this –

"You may never get a second chance," she sobs out, her face falling, everything spinning, spinning – crashing.

Jon presses his cheek to hers, sighing heavily, his hand curling tighter around her waist, holding her to him, their naked forms a single, pressed line – seamless. "You are my second chance, Sansa." He presses his nose into her shoulder, the breath shuddering from him. "I don't intend to waste it," he promises into her skin, and then he tosses the will into the fire.

She doesn't have a chance to stop him, her intake of breath cut short by his own hot mouth, and then she's bundled in his arms, stumbling back beneath the force of him, pressed up against the sudden wall behind her, her sob caught on his tongue, and her gasp of his name is lost somewhere between their mouths, between his low groan, between her breathless whine, between the frantic, helpless way they reach for each other – limbs entangled like a mess of strings.

Between skin to skin. Between heart to heart. Between hope to hope.

She finds her own second chance – somewhere between his love and hers.

(She finds it, and doesn't ever plan to let it go.)

Sansa pulls a single, measured breath in as she cocks her head at Baelish now, that spinning, spinning, spinning from the night before finally settling into a slow rock, a smooth hum in the back of her mind.

A rhythm as fixed as the repetition of turns in this game for keeps.

The touch of a smirk lights upon Sansa's lips. "Would you like to play a game, Lord Baelish?" she asks, voice lilting girlishly.

Littlefinger goes pale, recognition blooming behind his eyes, the silent fall of his mouth a darkly satisfying thing to Sansa.

(She imagines the web of strings, the cat's cradle, pulling taut – threads bowing just before they give, coming undone in her hands.)

She glances to Arya with a graceful tilt of her head. Arya gives an acknowledging nod in return, starting to stalk a circle around their kneeling captive, dagger steady in her palm.

Baelish pants with a sudden terror, taking in Arya's gait frantically. "My lady," he stutters out, mouth trembling as he glances back up to Sansa.

"It's a game of foresight," she continues, ignoring his breathless plea.

Arya comes back around the other side of Baelish, boots halting along the cool stone just in front of him. A gurgled sound of desperation leaves his throat.

"A game of precision," Sansa clips out, eyes never leaving his. "Of control."

"Sansa, please," he begs, tears hot along his blotchy cheeks now, his hands wringing in his lap.

Arya raises the dagger, a single brow cocked his way.

Baelish shifts frantic eyes from Arya and the blade back to Sansa, and then to Jon, back to Arya, Sansa again. "Sansa," he gurgles out – small and worthless and writhing.

Sansa's lips press into a thin line. "A game of follow-through," she finishes.

Arya's wrist flicks out instantly, the blade catching smoothly along his throat, a wide arc of red spraying the stones at his feet. He cries out – or tries to, a hand jerking out toward her, reaching, grasping at air, and then he's falling, his other hand pressed to his slit throat as he topples forward, blood gushing over his knuckles, his wrist. He flails against the stones, coughing, eyes squeezed shut, legs kicking out.

It's a game of strings - one misplaced line, one slip of the hand, and it all comes undone.

Sansa watches with unblinking eyes, the warmth of Jon's hand returning along her back, the hush of the still crowd blanketing the hall.

Arya wipes the blood from her blade in one smooth, clean motion.

Baelish claws at his own throat, choking grotesquely, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath his twitching form.

Sansa breathes deep, exhales slowly. She looks up at the rafters, at the long stretch of the hall's ceiling, the wooden beams crossing and webbing out.

She lets the first bloom of long-awaited relief flood her lungs.

"My turn," she whispers to herself.

(One string at a time.)

[clavissionary-position]

LUCIAN x READER

Dispel Veil

ONESHOT . ANGST . DISTURBING IMAGERY

x o x o x o

He feels like a ghost to you. Any given hallway you might find yourself in alone is always a hallway filled with two. And yet his footfall is soundless, his breath nonexistent. There is not enough of him to create a shadow, or disavow your imagination of fanciful thoughts.

A war of assassins is underway and Chevalier has been forced to play one of his most valuable pieces, in your favor. Until you decide the next king and make yourself scarce from the castle, Lucian is to be your protector around the clock.

But who is he?

You've only ever seen him once.

On a moonless night inside the chapel he bent the knee to you and promised his oath. Quiet, nondescript words in a voice like water that no memory, no matter how perfect, could ever clasp onto and soak in. And that is by design. To do his job well, Lucian cannot be allowed to exist.

So what does that do to a man?

"Lucian?" You whisper into the twilit alley as you board your carriage. "Are you here?"

It makes no sense, does it? But it makes no difference either, if you whisper or shout (not that you've ever screamed the name of your secret protector out loud for all to hear).

Lucian is not supposed to answer. If he answers, then something has gone terribly wrong.

A pair of crows barter past your feet. The rainwater reflects something on top of the carriage. But when you turn to look, you're only met with wide, vacant sky. Red with no black.

Later, back at the castle, when your head hits your pillow and the last of the candle-smoke pirouettes into the dark, you find yourself holding your hand out over the edge of your bed.

You have five more days before the rose sheds all its petals. Will you get to thank him before then? Shake his hand? Feel a pulse?

Again you think, you're being absurd. You're fascinated with the idea of him, but that doesn't change the fact that you don't know a single thing about him.

Only that he must have killed people. Many. Countless. Killed them so quickly that the air and the earth never tasted a drop of blood.

Chevalier is bladed spectacle. Lucian is something else.

But if all you know about him is that he is a killer, what in the hell are you doing chasing after him?

Two nights later you find out.

x o x o

The blade never touches you. A cry in front of you is muffled and cut short. Something heavy slumps to the ground. Something wet seeps over the flagstones. The smell. You'll never forget it.

A hand takes yours, and then you're running. There's scenery, and eventually there's people again, but all you can register is the body lying dead in the alley and the warmth against your palm, without which you'd be...

...You don't have a word for it. Your mind is pulling apart against itself, and there's worms in your stomach, knotting around your intestines like laughter coils around a tongue. There's bits of flesh tucked into every thought you think.

You can't run anymore. You need to stop. You need air. You need help. You need something to make you sleep.

Someone is holding you.

Your sobs come out as soundless, choking breaths.

Someone is holding you.

It's only then you realize that Lucian has a shape. Tangible beyond the hand that severs a life. That saves the one next to it.

There's enough space within his awkward embrace that the winter chill finds you everywhere it shouldn't. You're dully aware that part of his arm is muffling your mouth.

It's not like your tears will echo.

The humiliation is endless.

Lucian. Of course. He's always just been a dream of yours, to occupy you during this anomaly of a month. You designed him. And that Lucian is not here. That Lucian exists even less than the one holding you.

And holding you.

And holding you.

And then he says, in a voice meant for your memory, for you a day from now, a week from now, ten, twenty, fifty years from now to recall, lovely in how it sounds, lovely in how it sits outside your dreams but ignites inside your heart:

"Take your time."

[electrasev5nwrites]

Ninja Daily: AIC 34

Jiraiya had a better plan than Aiko did.

...At least, he promised that it was. "Tsunade and I can do it," Jiraiya swore. His face was locked in the same grimace it had been for the last hour. Debating the best way to kill a former teammate did not seem pleasant. "If we can get her on board, we can do this. We'll take down Orochimaru, while you run interference on his people."

"Can we get her on board?" Aiko asked dully. She rubbed her thumbs against her cold coffee cup. It was long-since empty, but her assistants had cut her off of caffeine for the day. Supreme executive power was clearly working out so well. Sure, she could fire and jail Nishikawa for the impudence, but then who would make her appointments, update her calendar, and remind her who needed to be assassinated this week? She was stuck with the bastard.

"We have to." Jiraiya cast a dark glance out the window, into the night sky. There was nothing to see except the outline of city buildings in hazy, distant streetlight. But he seemed transfixed. "Look, the Sandaime is not going to give us anyone," he admitted. "He is seriously mistrustful of you and Minato. My attachment makes my judgment suspect by extension- he won't agree to move fast enough to meet your deadline. Even if he did- there's not many people in Konoha I would trust to bring with me for this. I can't waste lives against Orochimaru."

Aiko sighed. "I don't like it," she said. "In a pinch, I'll bring both Mei and Utakata. But if either one of them dies, it would be crippling to Kirigakure's structure."

"So we can't let them die," Jiraiya said bluntly. "Look, against Orochimaru… I would not bring anyone who is not kage material. But he's going to have allies. We need to have allies as well, or we're going to get cut down."

"We need to make a call one way or the other on Suna." Aiko ran her hands through her hair. "If we don't ask them, they could take it as an insult. If we include them, the insult to the Sandaime regarding his exclusion is stronger."

"It's always better to have fewer people angry with you," Jiraiya said philosophically. "It's much easier to figure out who is trying to kill you when there's less than 20 suspects."

Aiko gave him a disbelieving look. She sincerely doubted there had been a 2-day period in the last 30 years when less than 20 people had been actively trying to kill him.

He did not seem to notice her doubt. "Should we go to Suna now, then?"

...how was he still alive?

"Let's wait until business hours," Aiko said. She did not look at the clock, because nothing good came of that after 3am. "But also, I would not contact anyone who is currently in Suna. The real power is Temari."

Jiraiya took a moment to place the name. He leveled her with an unimpressed look. "The 14 year old genin?"

Wasn't Temari 15, going on 16? If Gaara was 13, and Kankurou was the middle child, Temari had to be older than 14.

"She's a chuunin now," Aiko said, as though that made a huge difference. "And she'll probably be the next Kazekage. They're promoting her asap. Her political star is rising." Even she had a hard time injecting enthusiasm into this idea.

"Is it," Jiraiya said flatly. "What did you do? Is she here?" His jaw tightened.

"In Kirigakure? Where it would be convenient for me to talk with her?" Aiko scowled. "Don't be stupid," she said. She waited just enough enough for him to relax. "I moved her to an ally in the Daimyo's court after you got here, I didn't want you sneaking around. So thanks."

"Very stealthy, I like that you hide things for no reason and interfere in every country you see. But that maneuvering isn't going to help if she gets killed against Orochimaru," Jiraiya snapped back. He took two jerky steps away and then stopped himself. "Forget Suna, then. Anyone who comes with us has to be A-class, bare minimum."

His tone didn't allow for argument. Not that she really wanted to argue with that. She wasn't looking to bring home body bags, or risk calling on her god.

Aiko had to grimace. Temari would get to that level of strength, but she wasn't there now. Baki would fit the bill, but he was too loyal and she had no personal relationship with him. Baki wouldn't subvert Temari's orders, and she would certainly demand to come along with.

The only contact from Suna she knew who was accessible and powerful… was Gaara.

Utterly unacceptable. No matter how clever or strong he was, he was too young and vulnerable to trauma. He needed more time. She refused to expose him to Orochimaru. "No Suna, then," she agreed. "We'll tell them it was a total accident that we stumbled onto Orochimaru and killed him without inviting them. They won't mind being left out."

Her life was an unending disaster.

Jiraiya snorted. "Plausible." He stretched. "We should get some sleep. Tsunade won't thank us for waking her up."

"No, but it would be a quicker way to die than a fight against Orochimaru," Aiko mumbled. "Fail to protect your head and it'd be all over. We should keep it in mind as an option."

There was a moment that felt off. Jiraiya turned from the window and looked at her directly with the beginnings of a frown. Then he seemed to shake it off. He ducked his head and snorted. "I, for one, want to live. We'll find her after 10 am."

Aiko opened her mouth to make a reflexive crack about it being a shame, but she held herself back. She nodded instead, and went home for the few hours of sleep she could afford to fit in.

Tsunade had not gone far since Aiko had tracked her down. Jiraiya knew offhand where to find her, which made Aiko feel sadder for him than she knew she had capacity for. She caught herself hoping that she did not end up outliving all of her loved ones and relationships, and then choked on the stupidity of the thought. She had to grit her teeth not to let out a laugh.

She was more alone than Jiraiya was. Tsunade was still alive, at least. The only person who really knew Aiko was Minato, and she didn't know him. There were plenty of people who looked like her loved ones walking around, but they were functionally strangers who wouldn't be more than disappointed if she died tomorrow.

'That's not true. I have Obito. I always have Obito.'

What a fucking blessing. She still had the madman who kidnapped her, lied to her, and dug out her eyes to feed them to Zetsu. Murdered her parents. Given her all sorts of interesting neurosis and nervous disorders. He was the truest of bros.

'Good old Obito. Thank god I'm not alone in the world.'

She really did laugh at that. It bordered hysteria. Jiraiya gave her an unnerved look, but did not ask. Luckily, Tsunade exited the gambling hall about ten minutes later, glowing with a good mood. She was well and truly hammered.

It wasn't even noon. Was she already drunk, or was she still drunk?

She took a moment to watch Tsunade stumble on the pathway. Like, this was worse than Aiko was used to. Aiko had never realized that Tsunade had cut back on her drinking when she'd returned to Konoha. God, this was what she had done for a decade and a half? Shizune noticed them first, and tugged on her mentor's sleeve nervously. Tsunade did not react to the tug, cheerily barreling forward. That was a bad sign.

Jiraiya seemed to think so as well. He looked pained, and then pulled on a smile. "Tsunade-hime," he sang. Her head snapped up and she instantly looked more alert.

Aiko took a prudent step away from Jiraiya. Anyone who Tsunade made eye contact with was in the danger zone.

The movement caught Tsunade's eye. Her stare locked onto Aiko. Oh no. "You," Tsunade said. She frowned. "I remember you." She raised a finger accusatively.

Jiraiya gave Aiko an alarmed and sympathetic look.

"You told me..." Tsunade wavered, and then scowled. "That was depressing. I didn't want to know any of that."

Ah. "That didn't make it any less true," Aiko said firmly. She felt like she was talking to Fukiko, when the girl wanted to skitter away from an unpleasant topic. "You should do something."

Tsunade tossed her hair and made a high-pitched whine. Then she slumped dramatically. Shizune barely caught her. "I don't want to," she wailed.

Sanbi made a sound of disgust. Aiko's stomach rolled in agreement. It was terrible to see Tsunade acting so pathetic. This was the most powerful woman in the world, the titan of Aiko's childhood. A living legend. The woman who Aiko had modeled herself after, whose orders she had followed into fucking hell and back on faith.

Aiko realized that she was making a fist. With effort, she unclenched it. "Tsunade-sama," she said, in as calm a voice as she could manage. "You need to grow the fuck up."

The air felt very dangerous all of a sudden.

Aiko took an aggressive step forward anyway, because she was pissed off. "I do lots of shit that I don't want to do, because I am the only one who can do it. A fairly central premise of adult life is that you fucking deal when someone needs you to. And this?" She waved her hand at Tsunade. "This is not dealing. Do you care about your family? I'd hope so, but even if you can forgive that, who else can or will take responsibility for the rest of that shit?" Disgust colored her tone. "The Sandaime gave up a long time ago. He's complicit. Is anyone else going to stop it? You have no idea what kind of body count Danzo has in Konoha."

"Wait, what?" Jiraiya looked seriously alarmed. "What are you talking about?"

Aiko spared him a glance. "Danzo is a traitor," she explained. She looked back to Tsunade. "He's been eliminating possible rivals for leadership for a very long time. Cooperated with Orochimaru- oh, he was probably a large part of why Orochimaru turned to human experimentation and got banished, by the way. He kidnapped hundreds of children and made them fight to the death to make the survivors his ideal soldiers. Been killing Konoha shinobi and citizens, many of them for the purpose of stealing their genetic material. He has 11 sharingan eyes, and material from the Shodaime on his body alone. God only knows what he's had done to his expendable followers."

Tsunade was covering her ears, but it was clear that she could hear every word. Jiraiya was watching Aiko recite the list with open-mouthed horror. Shizune was the only one who seemed remotely composed- but then, she was both sober and had been piecing some of this together from the reports.

"You're right," Sanbi said, with potent condescension. "Now is the best time possible for this discussion and scolding. When you desire this woman's assistance. How clever of you."

The turtle was right.

Aiko deliberately took in a long, slow, exhalation and reached for calmness. "We didn't come here for this discussion," she said. She managed to make it sound halfway apologetic. "Tsunade-sama."

Jiraiya gave a grim nod.

Tsunade hiccuped. Shizune stepped forward, putting her body between Tsunade and Jiraiya and Aiko. "Now isn't the best time," she said firmly. "Jiraiya-sama, Mizukage-sama. Another day would be much better."

"We don't have the time for that!" Jiaiya ran his hands through his hair and shifted his feet. "Tsunade-hime," he pleased. If she had been sober, she might have killed him for the gentle way he leaned over to put their faces level. "Please. I am begging you. Put yourself together. I need you." His voice broke. "I can't do this without you."

Aiko couldn't breathe. Watching this hurt, but she couldn't look away.

Tsunade wavered, making eye contact. Her lips moved silently. Her brow furrowed. And she turned her face to vomit onto the grass.

The sound Jiraiya made was outright painful to hear.

Shizune supported Tsunade in a way that told of familiarity. She didn't look at either of them. "Jiraiya-sama," she said. "Mizukage-sama." Her voice was tiny and ashamed. "We can't help you. I'm sorry. There isn't going to be a good time for you to have this discussion with Tsunade-sama."

Jiraiya took two steps back, gaze locked on Tsunade. He was a wounded animal. He nodded. "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Yes." He looked away. "Do you have a hotel for the night? I'll at least… I'll help."

Shizune twitched, just a bit, in Aiko's direction.

Ah, yes. She was an interloper to their grief.

Before Shizune could turn Jiraiya down, Aiko cleared her throat. She plastered on a mildly interested and pleasant expression, although no one was looking at her at all. "Jiraiya-san, I'll leave you to catch up." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and remembered that she ought to tie it up. Her heart was nearly down to her stomach. "It seems that we are changing our plans for tomorrow, which means that I have my own errands to run."

There was another person present, another man with light colored hair. He knelt at Tsunade's side with a heartbroken expression. He was the only person to look over at Aiko. They made eye contact. He didn't seem at all surprised when she looked directly at him. He gave her a slow, defeated look, and then a nod before he turned back to Tsunade.

She swallowed. "I'll give you two hours. I'll go inform Mei and Utakata to prepare. We can discuss the issue further."

Jiraiya nodded. He hovered, hand nearly resting on Tsunade's back. "That… Good, good plan."

Aiko would have turned and ran away if she was not required to maintain a modicum of dignity. She walked down the block and turned out of sight before she allowed herself to cry. She leaned against a building face and buried her face in her hands. Her eyes burnt.

She hated the sounds of her own ragged breathing, but at least she was a fairly quiet crier. It was turning out to be a useful skillset. The Mizukage couldn't be caught uncomposed. She didn't get to have those feelings. She had no right to cry over seeing how the people she admired were as flawed and lost as she was.

She wiped at her eyes with unkind force, willing the liquid to dry up immediately.

Sanbi made a soft sound of comfort. Aiko wished that he was physically there, because she really wanted a kind touch. She felt like she was going to break apart.

It was, she reflected, a very good thing that Utakata was not there. At this point, she might actually let him hold her.

"You could accept a kindness," Sanbi said.

She hated how soft his voice was. She hated that she needed the gentleness. Aiko shook her head forcefully. "I don't feel the same way that he feels about me," she disagreed. "It's not… It wouldn't be fair. And it wouldn't be appropriate, as his boss." She leaned on him enough, too much. He deserved better than that.

"He would not expect anything," Sanbi argued. "He is your friend."

Aiko used her sleeve to pat her face dry. She used her fingers to make sure that her hair was falling in an attractive way, and then secured it in a braid. She put her head up high, and she thought about Rice Country.

"Fine," Sanbi said. He sounded as defeated as Dan had looked, as Jiraiya looked, as Tsunade obviously was. "Only Terumi, then. We shall not call upon Utakata. He will be hurt," Sanbi mumbled.

Aiko winced.

Sanbi was kind enough not to mention it. "Your masked warriors served you well against the Akatsuki," he went on. "Shall you turn to Temari as well? Perhaps you should directly contact Konoha as well. Orochimaru's former apprentice may aid you, regardless of her country's stance. Your father will stand with you."

"I am tired," Aiko said clearly. She felt her voice shaking. "I am tired of getting other people involved in my problems. I am tired of being responsible for death."

It was all that she fucking lived. She was dead, she was death, she was plague on this world. Everything she did, no matter how petty, seemed to lead to suffering for other people. She'd started fucking around with fuinjutsu that she didn't understand and accidentally pissed off a man so powerful that he could send dozens of people to assassinate her. And she'd killed them.

And their families, when she fucked over Kirigakure by unleashing bijuu on it.

All the tiny little babies that died when the ancient electrical generators in the hospital failed were at her feet. She'd brought them back but the rows, the rows of little cots in the care unit haunted her at night. Splash, splash, blood on the pavement with Jiraiya and Tsunade bickering behind her, just cutting her way through the city full of scared people trying their best. Splash, splash. Back when they were both taller than her and knew what to do, before they became small and old and flawed.

She took in a deep breath, trying to steady herself and-

Anko made a terrible little gasp, lost under the wet sound of Pein ruining her throat. Her face fell, her head fell too. Her body landed separately, spraying blood and spit. Aiko remembered kissing that throat, sucking hard enough to leave bruises above the pulse point and she was dead, she was fucking dead, Konoha was falling and Aiko just wanted to be fucking dead too and she was going to take that bastard with her

Sanbi made a sharp, alarmed sound that pulled her back to the current day. Dumbly, she looked at her hand. It was hovering an inch from her heart. Aiko realized that she was in the process of placing a hiraishin seal on her chest. She swallowed. Slowly, she lowered her shaking hand.

God fucking damnit, her eyes were welling up again. She averted her face when two civilians passed on the street.

'Good job, moron,' she thought, viciously hating herself. 'Blow yourself up here, and you can kill some civilians when you go. That'd be fitting. Fuck over- god, am I in Tea Country? I don't think I've fucked them over before.'

Her personal demon rumbled. He didn't know what to say.

She didn't either, to be honest.

After a long pause, Sanbi managed to break the silence. "You have no intention of contacting your allies," he said. It wasn't a question. He knew.

She felt her stomach lurch. She pushed off the building she'd been leaning against and started off down the street, away from the quiet sounds of people eating lunch in a restaurant. 'I'm sorry,' she said, and meant it. 'I'm sorry that you have to come with me.'

There was a spark of interest, where Sanbi had an idea- and then he dismissed it. She was grateful. She thought she knew what he had considered. If he told her that she was not allowed to die because it would damn him, she would be trapped.

"I am your friend," he said gently.

She blinked fast and dodged a cart. 'I know. You should take me over before I die. Hopefully I'll kill Orochimaru first. No one else would have a chance at holding you.'

Thank you, she meant.

She just… if it all possible, she had to ensure that he wouldn't end up caught in one of Orochimaru's labs, or dissolved to ignominious non-existence for 50 years.

She went to her office. It was quiet, despite work clearly going on outside. Aiko considered writing a note but she didn't have the stomach for it. She pulled on better armor and weapons from her stash there, lingering over the buckle on her forearm protection. But eventually, she was ready. She caught one glimpse of herself in the glass of a cabinet. Pale. She looked pale, with sunken eyes. Her stomach turned again. She left.

The first wave of Sound ninja fought her. Aiko cut them down dispassionately, wondering how many of them were going to reunite with loved ones. Maybe if she killed Orochimaru, the Death God would let her go back to her reality. She hoped that he would free Minato's soul, too. This was no place for the dead.

She stepped over a girl with pink hair. She wondered if this was a relation to Orochimaru's bodyguard, who had died holding the barrier in Konoha.

Aiko blinked, and the girl looked a little like Karin.

She blinked again and the girl was just a skeleton in subpar equipment, grinning up at the sky. "You're lucky," she told the girl. The Sound nin was probably only a couple of years older than Aiko had been when she had died. That girl got to stay dead. Lucky, lucky, lucky. It was good and right and natural, not at all like what the profane human had been doing. It was not acceptable for the living to take from her realm.

Justice rang in her ears, and brought new clarity to the world. She could see it now, in the last vestiges of life seeping into the air from her people, claimed as her children with a short sword. So fragile. She loved them. It made sense now. Her steps were a little faster. Someone was talking from inside her head, but his voice was unimportant for now. Perhaps later, little chakra beast.

There were more servants inside, but she found that she had no interest in them. Perhaps they had received new orders, or perhaps it was simply fear, but they hung back. None of them dared to breathe, as if that would make them invisible to her.

She felt her steps crack. She gave a glance down and noticed that the weight of her passage was breaking the stone she walked on. This world was not big enough. It chafed. The vessel had been stretched and stretched and she could hold herself in this body, but it would not fit well in this place.

"Mizukage-sama."

The thief was waiting for her at the end of the hallway. His posture was languid, but his eyes were ready and sharp. He thought to toy in the affairs of gods.

"I'm afraid that I was not ready to host such illustrious company. You should have sent word." He grinned, but it was bloodless and thin. She could see how his heart was beating too fast, feel the nervous trembles of his chakra. She raised the short sword. Something dripped off the end.

"Not very friendly," the fool said.

And then the servants closed in from behind. The world twisted, as the thief dared call upon what was hers. The white-haired corpse rose again, without the drama of before. It stared at her with black eyes. She felt a spark of sympathy, a hint of possessive fury.

"That's mine," she said, in a voice that bloodied her tongue. Inconvenient, this body. She had to hack to clear enough air for the next words. "I will take it back."