#both sansa and jon refuse the stealing custom with others

[reginarubie]

Full in agreement with the stealing motiff around Sansa. I would like to add another 2 instances.

Sandor trying to steal her during the Battle of Blackwater. Their conversation especially from his side is sexually charged(song as a euphemism for sex) paired with subjugation (pinning her down and manhandling her)which is a close parallel to what the Wildlings describe as "stealing" which is nothing more than a sanitized name for rape and abduction.

Another is Baelish stealing her away from the clutches of her own husband during Purple Wedding and framing him for murder by staging that dwarf joust in order to make him look guilty and make her a widow.

Ciao!

Of course, you're completely right, the whole unkiss deal is a void vessel of what is supposed to be ‘Jonsa’.

The entirety of it, even after it, when Sansa's remembers it is sexually charged in a way that is dangerous (she remembers a kiss that did not happen, by cruel lips that press against her — which as I've said in another meta, x — is a way for her to romanticize the abuse she suffered as the cruel lips are the cruel bite of the dagger against her throat and the pressing is supposed to remind us that the Hound was pressing her, a little girl to her bed whilst he demanded a song from her for her life).

And also Baelish whisking her away during Joff's wedding, framing Tyrion as the murderer (and her as well as complicit to him) in the attempt to make of her a widow. This second one it's because in this Sansa is playing the part both of Lady Stark and the bastard who killed the father pertaining LF (Baelish) in the parallel with Bael the Bard and his story (a parallel so cunning that the lady Stark fo the story, who loved Bael, flung herself from a tower when she learned of his death; whilst Lysa, who loved LF, was killed by pushing her through the moon door, falling to her death) like I have analyzed in this meta, xx.

I think it's because Jon and Sansa refused in a way to be stolen/steal with the other possible partners:

Jon denies having ever stolen Ygritte, and though he does think he loved her, he still chose the Watch over her, and didn't let his love for her ‘steal’ him from his duty;

Jon thought of taking up Stannis' offer and marry Val, become Lord of Winterfell and take it back from the Boltons saving Arya, to have sons to his own name. But in the end he refuses that and rejects Stannis' offer, defending Sansa's right to Winterfell as, as far as he knows, Bran and Rickon are both dead, Robb is dead making Sansa the rightful lady of Winterfell;

Sansa does sing for the Hound, but does not follow him, and even though he asks for Florian and Jonquil, instead Sansa sings to him the Hymn of the Mother; rejecting any romantic hues in their relationship;

Sansa does go with LF, who frames everything as if he is defending her. He teaches her how a harp (thus the gift of communication) can be as deadly and dangerous as a sword in the right hands, and whilst Sansa plays her role well because she is led to believe it's the only way to stay alive, she never forgets who she is, and she'd sooner flee both LF and Petyr Baelish (the man and the mask) if only she knew where to run — cue in the news that Jon has made Lord Commander of the NW.

So, Sansa/Hound and Sansa/LF as well as Jon/Ygritte and Jon/Val, are only void vessels of what Jon and Sansa actually want and possibly might find in each other.

Also yes, the whole deal of the Hound going to Sansa that night and to a degree respecting her choice to stay back instead than go with him, is reminiscent of the whole wildling custom of ‘stealing’, as for the way it's framed in their culture the woman must consent to it by letting herself being stolen and is entitled to fight against it. Whilst I agree with you that the entire idea of it, which is sadly based off real customs, is often that of sanitized name for rape and abduction, Martin tries to frame it differently. Especially as I've analyzed in the piece about the unkiss I linked above how in several instances the phrasing of “cruel mouth”/“cruel lips” is used as a metaphor for weapons/blades which again begs the similarity with the Wildling custom of stealing through violence against the will of the woman or by being fought by her.

Thank you, I had not linked the whole of Hound/Sansa unkiss debacle with the stealing custom, though it's clearly linked to it!

As always I wish you a very nice day and send all my love ~G.

[une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir]

random stuff on songs in Sansa I ~ AFFC

All her nights were full of song, and by day she prayed for silence.

Sansa loves songs, but in truth they are just a sanitised version of history. Sansa's role in history will be big, from her stay at King's Landing to her return to Winterfell, on and on. She's already part of a song, she's just not aware of it.

And the songs he chose . . . He sang of the Dance of the Dragons, of fair Jonquil and her fool, of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. He sang of betrayals, and murders most foul, of hanged men and bloody vengeance. He sang of grief and sadness.

No matter where she went in the castle, Sansa could not escape the music.

This is the history she has not lived yet. We know this is true because the very first, the Dance of the Dragons, has a second equivalent that has just only started and hasn't affected her as of yet (not even in her first chapter of TWOW).

Anyway, three songs: Dance of the Dragons, Florian and Jonquil, and Duncan and Jenny.

It floated up the winding tower steps, found her naked in her bath, supped with her at dusk, and stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters tight. It came in on the cold thin air, and like the air, it chilled her.

There are four moments these songs catch her in. It's the second that gives it away as to how it should be interpreted because they match 1:1. But starting from the start...

"He sang of the Dance of the Dragons" VERSUS "It floated up the winding tower steps."

The Dance of the Dragons redux has started when Young Griff outed himself as Aegon VI and invaded Westeros. He opened the "hostilities" when he refused to grovel for Daniella's favour and went to get his birthright himself. Daniella will also participate because she sees the throne as her birthright and has no problems usurping the rightful heirs (Viserys). It's likely Jon will be dragged into this, as he's Targaryen as well.

"It floated up the winding tower steps" projects the idea of an upwards movement. The dragon song is coming up North. There are two options here, Sansa will flee North because the dragon war reaches the Vale (in whatever form, even if by rumour) straight to the arms of another dragon (Girl in Grey) and / or the dragon war will eventually come North. It's my conviction that the Targaryen brothers will fight each other for a time (Aegon's Conquest meets Northern Independence) before reaching a truce, which would qualify as part of the Dance of Dragons.

"Jonquil and her fool" VERSUS "found her naked in her bath"

This is the most obvious sign that they should be paired as said, since Florian and Jonquill's story is literally that, Florian finding Jonquill naked in a pool and falling in love with her. There is more to this story (it also involves dragons), but in specific the bath part is mentioned here. BTW this is a stupid story. Nobody falls in love with another because they see them naked, at most they fall in lust. Regardless, if Sansa is up North (either way from the previous song she's already there and as of TWOW she's heading there soon), then there's one candidate, the Winterfell Hot Springs.

We can guess a male finds Sansa naked at the Hot Springs, and something that can be passed of as romance happens. Much like before, there are several ways this can come to be but there are only two characters that are associated with frisky times in the Godswood of Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow. The former is too traumatised by sexual torture while the latter has fantasies of bathing naked with his woman and then have exibitionist sex in front of the Heart Tree, so the latter is the likelier candidate.

I know it's not a popular theory because it's somewhat disgusting, but it all adds up. The Stark kids bathed naked at the Hot Springs (Bran confirms this in ACOK, but this also happens at the Water Gardens until they're 12-14,). A 12-14 male teen is at that age when they start getting "interested" in the opposite sex (only worse if thy parade around naked), so imagine a teen getting "interested" in someone they shouldn't at the weekly Stark kids bathing routine and this horrifies them so much because tHeY'Re NoT tArGaRyEnS to the point of wanting to join a celibate order, sacrificing their biggest wish (family). And that's remembered by this teen, now a man, in a "take two" of this event. Truly a fool though, as he knows nothing about "tArGaRyEnS" or that they're actually not siblings.

"Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies" VERSUS "supped with her at dusk, and stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters tight"

"supped with her at dusk" projects the idea of just before the night starts, which in ASOIAF also projects the idea of the Long Night and before winter. Such this all gives us the time frame, just before the dead come. You know, around the time the northern campaign happens. It's my conviction, from a number of feasts Sansa attends where she supped "trouts", that this suggests the norther campaign will likely extend to the Riverlands and may meet with Aegon's Conquest campaign (Dance of Dragons V2, congruent with song 1).

"stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters" projects the idea of a thief getting inside an intimate place (where she sleeps, where her bed is) despite her best efforts not to. The simpler conclusion is rape. The most likely conclusion though, is something much more benign.

"stole into her bedchamber" in ASOIAF is associated with wildling custom of marriage. Most (if not all) accounts of this ritual involve the man getting the woman while she's asleep. I can recall three stories where it happened as such. Bael stole a Stark maiden from her bed. Yggrite accuses Jon of stealing her the night the Night's Watch raided their camp, she's the one that was asleep. Longspear stole Munda from her bed while she was asleep. Interestingly, the first is a Stark, the others are redheads. These fit Sansa perfectly.

So Sansa stolen by a wilding or someone that qualifies as one. Any will do, but in specific there's a character that has already been mentioned twice in regards with these songs and also fits into this one. Jon Snow has been accused of having become a wildling / half-wildling due to spending time with them and making peace with them. He was accused of stealing Ygritte but refused that he did it, considered stealing another to make a family but also refused to usurp Sansa's claim (we'll get to that below), so there's a third coming up for him.

"even when she latched the shutters" suggests resistance and that's also according to wildling custom, as the woman is supposed to fight against stealing. While a wildling woman fights physically, Sansa fights psychologically. As for sex, Sansa fought against Sandor with kindness and fought against Tyrion with courtesy, so neither succeeded in stealing her. However, Sansa "latching the shutters" suggests a different kind of resistance than those used before (both Sandor and Tyrion entered her bedchamber without stealing into it), as if she put barriers in place.

Sansa putting up barriers happens in ASOS / AFFC. She doesn't believe anyone will marry her for love ("It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love.") and she doesn't really want to marry again. ("A marriage . . ." Her throat tightened. She did not want to wed again, not now, perhaps not ever."). Such, "stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters" suggests that Jon convinces her otherwise. The question is... how.

"Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies" Now, for the song that goes with it, is also kind of telling. The story of Jenny and Duncan is about Duncan falling in love with Jenny and abdicating so he can marry her. So someone throws away their claim, breaking through Sansa's belief that nobody will marry for love but for her claim, and will ease her into wanting to marry again.

Jon actually has two claims. The first is Robb's will, which names Jon as his heir over Sansa. Jon wanting to void the will not only follows the Jenny and Duncan song (the man throws away his claim for the woman) it also destroys half of Sansa's barrier (he protects her claim, we already know he did this once per Stannis' insistence, incidently stealing a woman was mentioned, as said before it appears it's all thematically linked).

The second is by birth, as he's Rhaegar Targarye's son. If somehow Jon is legitimate, then he's King Aegon VI's heir until he has children, and he's also a prince. If I recall, most of Sansa's allusions around a Targ union are with a Targaryen prince, not a Targaryen king). If Jon is a bastard, then he'll be considered a threat to a Aegon VI, just like every bastard is (the Targaryens are well known for bloody wars between legitimates and bastards). I would assume this will be a doozy for brothers to deal with.

Somehow, either or both claims should have a hand in convincing Sansa that Jon would want to marry her for love instead of her claim as well as convincing Sansa to marry again. Robb's will clearly covers the former but not the latter (she can't marry her brother, tHeY'Re NoT LaNnIsTeR oR TaRgArYeNs, even though they are). However, Jon's second claim is what allows that marriage. For example, if Aegon accepts peace between the South belonging to him and the North belonging to Sansa as long as Jon throws away hs claim, yeah that's it. But any that fits the Duncan and Jenny story as well as Sansa being stolen despite her misgivings, will do.

It's worth noting Robb's will and it's implications (Sansa being usurped and Jon's kids being a threat to the legitimate line) are discussed at lenght between Cat and Robb at Oldstones, precisely where legend says Jenny and Duncan met (or where she came from, I cannot remember now the specifics), next to a sepulcher that represents Jon's true birthright as a Targaryen (the sepulcher is of a king with a warhammer upon his chest, which is how his father Rhaegar died, and covered with wild roses, which are a symbol of his mother Lyanna), and solves Robb's will implications (they can marry each other, so his children are hers, so they're no threat to the Stark legitimate line). As said, all tightly thematically linked and I cannot blieve this us a coincidence.

It came in on the cold thin air, and like the air, it chilled her. Though it had not snowed upon the Eyrie since the day that Lady Lysa fell, the nights had all been bitter cold.

So Dance of Dragons starts (Aegon's Conquest), some shenanigans at Winterfell's Hot Springs, then some claim throwing to the trash and a marriage. And after that comes winter. So it kind of suggests this all happens BEFORE the War of the Dawn, not after.

After the songs bit, we have the "meat" of the chapter, which is what the whole thing revolves around. Petyr and Sansa must lie about Lysa's fate to both Robyn and the Vale Lords. I would just like to point the following.

“Some lies are love, ” Petyr had assured her. She reminded him of that.

“When we lied to Lord Robert, that was just to spare him, ” she said.

“And this lie may spare us. Else you and I must leave the Eyrie by the same door Lysa used.” Petyr picked up his quill again. “We shall serve him lies and Arbor gold, and he’ll drink them down and ask for more, I promise you.”

He is serving me lies as well, Sansa realized. They were comforting lies, though, and she thought them kindly meant. A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant.

Petyr, who's pretending to be Sansa's father, lied to her cousin Robyn about his mother, to spare him from the pain of the truth. Likewise Ned, who's Sansa's father, most likely lied to her cousin Jon about his mother, to spare him from the pain of the truth. Some lies are love, they are kindly meant.

Petyr, who's sort of Warden of the East for the time being, must lie to the Vale's lords & company about Lysa's fate, as he believes if he told the truth, he and his fake child (Sansa) would die. Likewise Ned, who's Warden of the North, must also lie to the rest of the realm about Lyanna's fate (death by childbirth), as he believes if he told the truth, he and his fake child (Jon) would die. Some lies spare innocents (Sansa / Jon), they are also kindly meant.

There's more stuff, but I don't feel like writing it now.

I always lol at Sansa's cousin being upset about his mother's death so he soughts her bed to nuzzle at her breasts and wet the bed (*shifts eyes*). This is important because Sansa bars the door to keep him out ("she latched the shutters"), yet at the end of the chapter, her cousin gets inside anyway ("stole into her chambers") because she forgot to bar the door. No idea what's that supposed to suggest, right?

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Precious Inexperience

A/N: Welp. Should I be posting this on Easter? Probably not. This was written under the influence of the lack of sleep and the over-abundance of wine. This is for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​’s “What’s Old is New Again" Challenge. I used the prompt #14,  “I do not know how to kiss or I would kiss you. Where do the noses go?” - Ingrid Bergman 

Pairing: King!Robb Stark x F!Reader

Rating: M for DARK THEMES including dub-con, death, death of children, Robb being a dick, a bit of smut, and canon-typical sexism

Warnings: Again, dub-con/dubious consent, talk of pregnancy, men being terrible-PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: The King in the North was now King of the Seven Kingdoms. Peace reigned. But Kings need heirs.

The King in the North they called him. King in the North even as he sat on the Iron Throne. Robb Stark was King of the Seven Kingdoms—won with bloody battles and dead wives. Alliances were sewn with marriages and Robb had easily taken a wife when it meant more men for his armies, more food to feed them, a stronger claim to the throne that had taken the head of his father all those years ago.  A Frey girl. She’d been pretty. Pretty for Frey with small hips and a nice smile. She died in childbed—their son along with her.  Then there was Margaery Tyrell. The beauty of the Reach. With the Reach under his command, Robb was unstoppable. Food was plentiful even as Winter came and went and the remaining forces loyal to the Crown starved and died. 

Yes, she made a beautiful queen for a year. When her face turned purple and blood poured from her eyes, everyone cried “poison! Poison!” and pointed fingers at the Greyjoys, still refusing to bend the knee to their new king. No one ever truly knew who had murdered The Gracious Queen Margaery, but the heads of hundreds of Greyjoy bannermen decorated the pikes outside the Red Keep until the last Greyjoy, Yara, finally accepted his rule.

The Realm had peace, it seemed. The Dragon Queen had stayed in Essos with her army and her dragons and the Wildlings to the North had been eliminated under the command of his bastard brother, Jon Snow.

Peace, they said.

But, Kings need heirs.

The Westerlands submitted their prettiest maids from the best houses. The Stormlands, too. The Vale followed, along with the Riverlands, and the North. And Dorne, who had skillfully played both sides of the board during the war with the lions, had been slow to send a proposal.

The Martells were skittish, for good reason, to marry into another royal family. But that did not mean they did not want a Dornish woman to marry their new king. Robb had been kind to Dorne; knew their worth and history. He met with Prince Doran in the Water Gardens, personally, to broker an alliance and laughed with Ellaria Sand and Prince Oberyn at their feasts. The Northern King knew the power Dorne held. It had been no secret that Robb had sought Dorne’s council on many things.

But it came as a surprise to Y/N when Prince Doran sent for her and her father to come to the Water Gardens and meet with him. Her house was small and held modest power, nestled on the westernmost coast of Dorne, just south of House Dayne of Starfall. It was mostly a small naval fleet port and trading post with merchants from the Reach and Westerlands. As the fifth child of her family, she was often over-looked in many regards as her elder sister was groomed to one day take her place as head of the family. It was no bother to her, mostly. She was able to read and spend her time racing horses. Her Northern-bred mother was aghast when she had first learned of a few Dornish customs, but had softened immensely when she learned her firstborn, her daughter, had not made her a terrible wife. She’d produced an heir, after all. But the one frivolity she could not and would not condone was any sort of romantic interludes. She did not care that the rest of Dornish nobility embraced paramours and bastard children. 

Y/N and her seven siblings were raised with Northern sensibilities in that regard. No men were left near her unsupervised. She was given little education on the art of romance other than the books she had to smuggle away from her mother’s prying eyes and, because she cared little for most people, it did not bother her in the slightest.

Marriage was not something she thought about often. Her house was secure with her sister and her marriage to Prince Doran’s son, Trystane. Her sister was pregnant with her second child already, much to the happiness of her family and the Martells. Her elder brothers were prosperous knights and her younger siblings were contemplating becoming maesters or a septa. The family coffers were plentiful. She needn’t marry for advantage in any regard.

Or so she had been led to believe.

When Prince Doran reached for her hand with a soft smile, she gave it to him readily, even as his heir, Princess Arianne could not offer a comforting expression. “The King has asked for a bride. You shall be our envoy.”

There was no argument. No brokering. No tears.

It was a strange sort of fog that clouded her mind as her father thanked Prince Doran and Princess Arianne for “the honor” and then tried to ready her for the trip to King’s Landing and the long days spent in the wheelhouse on the journey north. She hardly remembered any of it. The ladies maids were frantic about her, as they helped her dress in a pretty golden gown and pressed sweet-smelling perfume to her neck and wrists. All of it felt like it was happening to someone else. Not to her. Things like this didn’t happen to her. She would read and race horses and get scolded by her mother for smelling of hay or stealing berries from the kitchens.

It was a cattle show, if she had to give it a name. The potential brides were scattered about the throne room, their fathers at their sides, all primped and ready for inspection.

“Stand up straight, girl,” her father chided, a soft tone betraying his love for his second daughter.

“Yes, father,” Y/N murmured in return and did as he bid. “But, truly, you cannot believe he will even look at me.” She had always thought herself plain. It was no bother, really. Her sister was the heir and beauty and it took all the pressure of being a lady away. Her sister was kind to her, too. Perfect in every way. If she were standing here, Y/N was sure she would have been proposed to by now. And her younger sister was so enthralled with religion she hardly spoke of anything else.

“Prince Doran knows the King very well. He chose you for a reason.”

“Fine. But when we get sent home, I-”

“Your Grace.” Her father bowed and she quickly followed with a curtsey, grimacing at not noticing when the young King had stepped in their direction. “May I present to you my daughter, Lady Y/N.”

The King was handsome, obviously. His russet hair curled over the tops of his ears and even with the growing beard, he still had a young man’s roguish charm. Her heart suddenly constricted as he held out a hand toward her and her fingers shook as she placed her hand in his. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” His words were murmured, beard scratching against her fingers. 

“L-likewise, Your Grace.”

Robb stood straight with a smirk and there was a gleam in his eye that made her stomach twist. He nodded to her father and walked away to greet the next lady as she deflated, breath rushing.

“Well, I hope are happy, Father. I did my part on behalf of Dorne.” She was ready to go home. Now. The look the King gave her left her unsettled. There was a darkness behind his pretty eyes, one she had only seen when faced with feral animals that would howl in the night outside her family’s castle walls.

But then some man in a grey and black surcoat, embroidered with a snarling direwolf, stepped to her father’s side and whispered in his ear before his unfamiliar eyes flickered to her. The exchange lasted barely a few seconds and soon the man was walking away, following his king through the shadows.

“What is it?”

Her father frowned and dropped his voice to a low whisper she had to strain to hear even as he bent to her level. “You’ve been requested to meet His Grace in the gardens tonight.”

“Tonight?” She parroted. “Will you be there?”

“No. This is to see if you would be compatible.” Even as the words left his mouth, she knew he did not understand them.

“Must I go?”

Her father nodded. Sealing her fate.

                                                           **

The gardens were quiet except for the chirping of an incessant bird hidden somewhere in the greenery. The only other person she had seen while following the map she’d been handed just after dinner, was a guard at the entrance who looked at her with hard eyes from beneath his helmet before letting her venture in to the twisting, turning paths of green.

She squinted at the crudely drawn map in the dim moonlight and hoped she had found the right place. There had been a statue, a few turns ago, of the King’s sister, Sansa, holding the head of Cersei Lannister on a platter. Before that, a statue of the slain Stark boys, Rickon and Bran, astride their direwolves—a dead lion was crumpled under their paws. Arya had to be somewhere, too. Y/N was sure of it. She wondered what her statue depicted her doing—Arya was known throughout the Realm for her vicious nature and love for her family. She had set sail to the West not long ago with her new husband, Lord Gendry Baratheon.

She sat down on the stone bench and folded the map, putting it away before chewing at the side of her thumb. Whether it was boredom or trepidation, she wasn’t sure. The entire situation seemed…off kilter. There was something bubbling beneath the surface she didn’t understand.

“My Lady.”

She quickly stood and curtseyed as the king walked around the corner and into the small clearing. “Your Grace.”

He reached for her hand and pressed another kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve been told you are the fifth of eight children.”

She frowned at the strange start of the conversation but did nothing to deter it. “Yes, Your Grace. Two sisters and five brothers.”

Robb hummed and nodded, eyes raking down her form. “And your sister? She’s pregnant with her second child. After only two years of marriage.”

She nodded. “Yes. They are hoping for another boy.”

Robb’s eyes closed and another smile touched his lips, this one much more relaxed, as he settled on the bench behind him. “Good. That’s good.” She moved to sit beside him when he pressed a hand against her stomach and pushed her back. Her feet stumbled and he caught her at the waist, pressing his fingers into her skin with a grip that stung. “No. I want to look at you.”

Standing tall, she tried to even out her breath as she felt his eyes start to roam. His hands moved to her hips and his thumbs dug into bottom of her stomach, pulling a gasp from her lips. “Y-your Grace?”

“These…” He squeezed her hips. “These could do nicely.”

She looked down at her hips he seemed to be so attentive to, wondering what he could possibly mean. “Princess Arianne said I had my mother’s hips, perfect for children.” The compliment had always been a strange one, but the Princess assured her it was good.

Robb dragged her close, feet once again tangling and almost careening her forward as the young king kept her mostly steady. “Your father and Prince Doran have assured me that you are pure. I will ask you this only once. If you lie, I will know and the consequences will be severe. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, Your Grace.” Her heart was hammering a painful beat against her ribs as he looked up at her. “I understand.”

“Have you ever been with another man?” His eyes pinned her, cold and knowing.

“No. I have never even…” her words trailed off as heat washed down her spine.

“Finish what you were saying.” Another squeeze to her hips.

“I have never been kissed, Your Grace, let alone laid with a man. I am afraid my inexperience will only disappoint you.”

Robb’s answering smile reminded her of his family’s sigil; sharp, snarling teeth. As he stood, his hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts, and dragged her close. “You are mistaken, my lady. You have made me very happy.” And he kissed her then, stealing her breath as he pried her lips apart and shoved his tongue into her mouth. Shaking hands found purchase in his dark-colored tunic as she tried to keep up with his mouth that seemed determined to devour her whole.

                                                             **

The examination by the maester had left her shaking. “She is untouched, Your Grace,” the maester said to Robb as he waited outside her chambers. “As promised.”

The door hadn’t even closed and he was basically shouting her purity to the halls of the Keep. She curled into a ball on her featherbed and drew a pillow to her chest as if that would help take away the embarrassment and the discomfort from the Maester’s previously prodding instruments and fingers. She barely heard them speaking of fertility, her mother’s, her sister’s. Hers. Her bed dipped with the weight of someone sitting but she didn’t turn to see who it was, expecting her father.

“Could I have some tea, please, papa?” The old nickname for her father slipped out. “I feel like…I feel like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

“It doesn’t.”

She sat straight at the sound of the king’s voice, fright grasping at her heart. “Your Grace, I-I-I-”

Robb suddenly loomed over her, legs bracketing her thighs and pressing her against her pillows. His hand slithered its way under her chemise to press against her bare stomach and she felt her heart try to lodge itself up in her throat. The scent of him, of leather and spice and ale, flooded her senses as he leaned closer to breathe his words against her mouth. “This belongs to me. All of it. All of you. I will make you round with my children as many times as your body can take if it pleases me.”

“Y-your Grace-” Her scared eyes looked over his shoulder to see the door to her chambers had been shut, sealing her away from the world.

“You will give me an heir that is mine without question and then you will give me more. More children to fill these cursed halls with something other than the whispers of politics and subterfuge.” He sat back on his heels watched her heaving chest with a smile that looked too soft for him now. “You have made me a very happy man, Y/N.”

Her name sounded strange on his tongue.

And she hated how much she liked it.

                                                           **

The ceremony had been ornate and befitting of the young king and his new queen. She traded her father’s colors for black and grey and silver and felt the snarling direwolf pressing against her back with the new bridal cloak even as his pretty lips pressed against hers and the crowd cheered.

She was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

His third queen.

The festivities came and went and soon she was alone with him in his chambers and he hardly kissed her again before her dress was discarded and her chemise torn to near shreds. And it hurt. Every slap of his hips as he rutted against her brought her closer to some strange precipice she couldn’t name, cresting between pleasure and pain. Coiling tighter and tighter in her stomach like a terrible snake.

“You’ll give me a boy,” he said, breath hot against her ear as he dragged her ever closer. “You’ll give me children.”

“I will,” she whimpered in return, fingers trying to find a grip on his slick back. A scream nearly wrenched its way from her throat as he sunk his teeth into her shoulder. “I will!”

His thrusts turned animalistic and her head nearly hit the carved headboard as he pushed her further and further up the overstuffed featherbed and then, with a final thrust, he sunk his deepest yet into her and stayed there as warmth shot through her.

And her coil snapped, legs shaking and eyes rolling with convulsions she couldn’t stop.

He stayed inside her for a while, prick softening. And it was the gentlest he’d been with her since the ceremony, letting his hands roam her torso, sponging kisses to her face and breasts, murmuring how she’d give him an heir.

“I will,” she said again, words not her own, body still reeling with aftershocks. “I will.”

Robb held her face in his hands and kissed her slowly, almost repentantly. “You will. Or you will see The Stranger just as Roslin and Margaery did. Do you understand?”

It was only after she had ‘accepted’ his proposal had she learned that Roslin had birthed a boy that could never have been Robb’s son, born too early to have been conceived by him, and Margaery had been barren. She nodded and gently pushed the hair away from his eyes, now uncaring that they held very little warmth when they looked at her. Maybe they would when she gave him a son. Maybe he could love her then.

When he finally pulled out of her, he canted her hips up and shoved a pillow beneath them to keep her aloft. “Stay like that until morning.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

A/N: Well, there you go. Please tell me what you think. 

Part two

[moon-ruled-rising]

as the rain hides the stars | xvii

Read it on ao3... or Wattpad...

Babe, there’s something lonesome about you.

Something so wholesome about you,

get closer to me.

-Hozier, “From Eden”

The Godswood of Winterfell was always magical. Something about the overgrowth of the plants gave it a mystical quality and enhanced that it was a holy place. It was surrounded by activity and noise but remained quiet and peaceful, wholly removed from the frenetic atmosphere of the castle. Jon found himself there often, listening to the soft bubbling of the hot spring and the light birdsong. He’d spend hours there if he could but somebody always discovered him and the moment was ruined. 

 Now, instead of the uninterrupted nature scene, there were a hundred or so chairs arranged in front of the heart tree to form a long aisle lined with white and wine colored flowers and twinkling lights. The decorators even wove them around the tree branches, letting the strings dangle off and wave like the branches of a willow. At the beginning of each row of chairs stood an arch, laden with flowers and greenery. There wasn’t an altar or arbor, the Weirwood provided all of that, its red leaves stretched over the place they would stand. 

On top of the ethereal decor, the excited energy from everyone gathered for the rehearsal ceremony created a palpable buzz. Jon hoped it was enough to cover up his apprehension. He refused to be nervous, it wasn’t any different than all the state appearances and functions he participated in. But there was still reason to be hesitant.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Dany’s voice called from the back of the seating area, “The final fitting took longer than expected.”

The wedding planner assured her it was okay as Dany charged up the aisle. When she reached the front, a bundle of fabric was pushed into her arms and she settled into the seat next to Jon.

“Is that a bride’s cloak?” “Yes,” she sighed, “I had to make a compromise with Her majesty so I could repay a favor I owe someone.”

He assumed she meant the single photographer that prowled around the area of the Godswood, whose obnoxious camera clicks interrupted the soft bird song and whispers around them.

Dany unfolded the bundle and swept the black cloak around her shoulders, fastening the clasp with ease. Jon was a little pleased to see it was lined with fur.

“You’ll be glad to have it tomorrow,” he commented.

“Why? It feels fine right now.”

“There’s going to be a cold snap.”

The forecast didn’t predict for anything other than a rain shower over night but Jon could tell. The drizzle would turn to flurries and the snow would stick around long enough for the wedding ceremony around noon. At least it would be ice and snow instead of muddy and damp.

“Let me guess, you can feel it in your bones?”

“Something like that.”

“Doctors say that’s a sign of arthritis.”

Jon splayed his hands out in front of him and then turned them so Dany could see, “They look fine to me. Would you like to assess them, considering you have a wealth of medical knowledge?”

“Mm, I’ll pass, thank you.”

He shrugged and dropped his hands but unconsciously popped the joints. He noticed Dany doing the same thing.

“Alright everyone, let’s get started,” the wedding planner said, “We will be running through the whole ceremony so everything goes smoothly tomorrow. After the processional we will have the opening remarks and invocation from His Highness, Benjen Stark, a reading from both sets of Their Majesties, then the unity promise and changing of the bride’s cloak, then we’ll exchange vows and rings, and finally the recessional. It should be noted that the vows and rings section will only be mentioned.”

They were given the run down of the processional order and dismissed to their starting positions. Dany retreated back down the aisle with Sansa and Arya right behind her, wrangling a gaggle of high born children. A stirring, melancholy melody started from the string quartet behind the seating and his father and Catelyn started down the aisle. They were followed by Elia, escorted by Bran as her husband would be responsible for leading Dany.

As was a royal wedding custom, the bridesmaids and pageboys followed the bride down the aisle, so Dany walked before them. With her brother absent, she forged down the lengthy walkway by herself. She was far enough away that she looked small and lonely despite the bodies behind her.

That Dany reminded him of the version he’d first met, the outer shell of Daenerys that the media observed and critiqued. Jon would’ve assumed she used her solitary nature as a form of elitism. Keeping people at an arm’s length and seeming to float above them just to show she was better. But he knew her at least a little bit better than that and was starting to understand it.

Being alone was easier for Dany. He noticed that long and lengthy social events weighed on her. She still smiled and made conversation, like any good Princess was taught, but she always slipped away quietly when things settled down. It made sense then, why she skipped the gala to swim in fountains.

As she neared, Jon saw that instead of a bouquet she had a sword in her hands. It took him by surprise until he remembered that she was supposed to have it. The presentation of a weapon the groom could use to defend the bride was meant to further reinforce the idea that she was under his protection. Rheagar would carry it tomorrow but, for now, it was hers. And paired with the stoic look on her face, Dany looked like a painting of a warrior queen Jon saw at a museum opening once. A romanticized rendering of a woman standing against the backdrop of a dark, furious storm. Her dress and hair caught in the forceful gales before the skies opened up, the sword held tight against her chest. 

Then the breeze picked up, tousling Dany’s hair and fluttering the white silk of her rehearsal dress. And Jon wondered if the Gods pulled that warrior out of her frame and set her walking down the path toward him.  

“You picked a fine young woman, Jon,” Uncle Benjen remarked.

There weren’t priests for the old gods so the wedding committee picked the closest thing they had to a holy man. It helped that Uncle Benjen was ordained by the state too.

“We’re just lucky she hasn’t sprinted back down the aisle yet.”

Jon elbowed Robb in the ribs, “That’s because this is a rehearsal, dumbass.”

“You never know.”

But they did know and there was no chance anyone was allowed to get cold feet. 

Finally, Dany was standing at his side, her stoic expression as they turned to face Uncle Benjen. As he started in on his opening remarks, Dany set the tip of the scabbard into the ground and rested her crossed wrists on the pommel. 

The invocation started when Uncle Benjen started asking the Gods to watch over the ceremony and provide a number of things to the couple about to be married. It was during this that Dany leaned toward him and whispered,

“So, do you have a huge bachelor party planned for after this?”

“You mean like a stag party?”

“Yes, that.”

Jon hadn’t wanted to tell her about the custom practiced in the North so it would come as a surprise. But he figured Dany wasn’t a big fan of those, so he decided to tell her. The ceremony moved on to the readings.

“Actually, we have this… tradition-” the look she gave him was full of annoyance- “where the groom has to steal their intended from their family. Otherwise he isn’t worthy of her.”

“I think we’re far past needing to worry about ‘worthiness’ but continue.”

“And we get out of the castle for a while.”

“Just us?” she raised an eyebrow.

“And the security detail.”

“Alright, I’m in. Just one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Am I supposed to put up a fight?” the smirk on her face…

“You can if you want to,” Jon agreed.

“I’m in.”

Uncle Benjen stated it was time for the unity promise and motioned to Dany.

“If you plan to steal me, then you’ll probably need this.”

She offered the sword to Jon, the modestly embellished scabbard glinting as he took it. A hand-and-a-half, a bastard sword. A small smile bloomed on his face, he wondered if Dany knew it was called that. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, a little worn from use, and the silver pommel contained an egg shaped fire opal that shifted between orange and green and red. He pulled the sword out of the scabbard enough to reveal the swirling texture of the blade. Valyrian steel, the technique of making it was long lost to the world. Owning one was rare as the Targaryens kept them in a private collection. 

House Stark had one in their possession, the greatsword Ice. It was gifted to them by the original dragon lords of Valyria who settled on Dragonstone, before Aegon’s ambitious conquest and the doom. The greatsword was only used in the coronation ceremony of a new King of the North now but it was still considered to pass from king to king as though they still used it in battle.

It would belong to Jon, without question. But there was a time when it couldn’t be. He couldn’t remember if he really wanted the sword and he certainly didn't expect it. But what young, bastard boy doesn’t want to rise above his station by some miraculous means?

“Does it have a name? All the best swords have names.” Jon prompted, wondering if Dany knew any of the history behind the weapon.

“If it did, we don’t have any record of it. It’s one that we loan out to museums but I’ve always been fond of it so I figured it could find a home here.”

There was something wistful about her tone, as though she wasn’t really talking about the sword.

Jon handed the sword to Robb, who placed the Stark bride’s cloak in his hands. He turned back to Dany and she removed her Targaryen one. The direwolf embroidered in pearls and jet gave the cloak weight and her shoulders shifted trying to distribute it and keep the clasp from her throat.

“May you each bring your best self to the other. May you each bring commitment as well as faith to the task set before you. May you maintain enduring respect and trust. May all who follow your lives have cause often to rejoice, not only in happiness, but also in your brave and generous living,” Uncle Benjen recited.

Jon couldn’t think of a more perfect blessing for a marriage forged in politics. There was no reflection of love, merely neutral intent and factors that would make any business relationship successful. 

They had to go through the recessional, Dany and Jon retreating down the aisle to the playful cheers of their family. Luckily, the wedding planner deemed the single run through acceptable but there was still one more rehearsal waiting for the happy couple.

The tables of the Great Hall were pushed to the sides, as they would be after the dinner portion of the reception, to create a dancing space. Above them hung the banners of every house in the North, from Karstark to Reed, and the decorators hadn’t spared the hall in their descent upon the castle. The same flowers and lights were strung through the heavy chandeliers, similar bunches near sconces and on window panes.

The choreographer gave them last minute reminders before the music started. An old fiddle, guitar, and pipe ballad at a walking speed, perfectly paced for two arguably amateur dancers but a tad melancholy for a wedding celebration.

“Are you ready for this?” Dany asked over the music as they circled each other.

“As ready as I can be. You?”

“We’ll see.”

The first pass of steps was easy and they stayed far enough away to avoid injury. The next part brought them closer until Jon offered his hands and Dany accepted them. They both had to focus harder to keep from making mistakes. However, their little blunders still happened. 

The instructor once explained the symbolism behind the steps and their order. Something about the development of his and Dany’s relationship but also the expected camaraderie between North and South. Jon didn’t know if any of the wedding guests would pick up on it, they would be too drunk to really care, and all he could focus on was how complicated the steps were despite the slow pace of the song.

Jon second guessed his hand placement and missed the intended mark entirely, colliding with Dany’s rib cage. She stumbled but recovered.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to remember what piece of the overly complex choreography came next.

She chuckled and shrugged it off, “If it boosts your confidence, you’re better than a good portion of the partners I’ve danced with at court.” 

She looked up at him, inclining her chin in the slightest hint of movement. Their bodies were pressed close together as they moved back and forth across the floor, allowing them to lower their voices. 

“I highly doubt that.”

“Not all noblemen are light on their feet. I’ve had my fair share of toes and fingers crushed.”

“Fingers?”

“It’s a long story,” she dismissed.

“One for tonight?”

“If the conversation leads us there.”

They quieted as they came closer to the end of the dance, the series of steps and passes and small hops requiring their full attention if they wanted to get through it. Dany stepped on Jon’s foot when she was behind the music. 

The apologizing started again but was cut off when Jon wrapped his arm securely around her waist for a small lift, foreheads bent close to offset the gravity. Dany’s cheeks were a deeper shade of pink when he set her down but whether that was from the dance or something else he couldn’t tell.

They entered the last section of the dance, a series of spins and twirls ending with the two facing each other, palms touching. Instead of the expected applause, they were celebrated by a groan from the choreographer.

They received a sum of all their mistakes, accented by looks of disappointment, but Jon and Dany fell into their regular fit of stifled laughter that came with the hilarious thought of broken toes and misplaced hands. They would run it two more times before they were allowed to leave the Great Hall, tired and sweating.

Jon found Robb and Theon in the smoking lounge with a large group of people fussing over a pile of foam swords. Left overs from someone’s birthday party long ago but they would serve their purpose. 

“We’re going to have to split into teams, Dany doesn’t have enough family for it to be any fun,” Robb said as Jon approached.

“Sansa and I will be with her and the Southern Queen tonight,” offered Arya as she poked her sister with the soft weapon. 

Sansa knocked it away but when Arya stuck her again, she gripped the foam blade and pulled it from the young troublemaker.

“And I plan to be there too,” Rhaegar Targaryen, who arrived at Winterfell only an hour ago, pitched in.

“Just don’t give Dany a sword. She’d love to knock me senseless right about now.”

“I will make no such promises,” Jon answered, not wanting to deny Dany the satisfaction taking her anger out on her brother in a relatively harmless way.

After double checking the transportation and destination arrangements and sending Sansa and Arya off to ‘guard’ Dany, Jon was able to relax into some light drinking with the men who joined him. They lounged around with their glasses and laughed at stupid jokes they had heard a millions times before. He was already feeling a little more like himself, ready to run through the halls of the ancient castle wielding a foam sword like a damned idiot. It wasn’t long before they were ready to begin that night’s fun.

Jon stood, raised his glass and said, “Alright boys, let’s go steal my bride.”

Cheers and laughter rose up as Jon drained the contents of his glass and slammed it down on the table in front of him.

[silkygoldmilkweed]

I am yours and you are mine

OK. So. The episode of Game of Thrones that follows the fabulous weird intimate-as-fuck emo melodrama of “Blackwater” is “Valar Morghulis.” And in this episode, which follows the epic SanSan intimacy of “I’ll keep you safe. Do you want to go home? etc etc” there are not one, not two, but three couples basically making commitments and pledging to each other.

I THINK THE SHOW IS TELLING US SOMETHING ABOUT SANSAN AND MARRIAGE GENERALLY THROUGH THESE COUPLES ALL OF WHOM ARE DOOOOOOOOOMED in different ways. (Five of the six people involved have since been murdered.)

I’ll circle back to the couples in a minute, but first I must quote problematic Cat Stark from this ep, because I think if there is a message here, rather than some broken models of what not to do, she’s the one delivering it.

Cat to Robb about his feelings for Talisa and their agreement with the Freys: 

“Your father didn’t love me when we married. He hardly knew me. Or I him. Love didn’t just happen to us. We built it slowly. Stone by stone, over the years. For you, your brothers and sisters, for all of us. It’s not as exciting as secret passion in the woods, but it is stronger. It lasts longer... You agreed to it. Treat your oaths recklessly and your people will do the same. If your father lived his life for one thing...”

(1) I gotta appreciate the “over the years” in this because god knows that SanSan has been years in the making. 

They’ve been completely apart for many of those years, but dear god the personal growth! She’s a wolf now; he’s no longer an emotionally crippled thug with a serious drinking problem.

If they are cosmically linked soulmates who have been bound by some inexplicable tie for a long time, they have used the intervening years relatively well. Sansa learned how to survive and make her own justice, and Sandor built a very strong relationship with the only other surviving true-born Stark (by my account Bran is dead) and went to rehab and therapy, etc.

Mistakes were made, to be sure, but they are both better, healthier and stronger people after the fact.

Source: http://devilsbastion.tumblr.com/image/168855312743

(2) “It’s not as exciting as secret passion in the woods, but it is stronger. It lasts longer.” 

This line makes me feel like the writers have read all the Blackwater AUs where Sansa and Sandor run off together and despite best-laid plans end up fucking inside a month. In fanfic they usually end up happily ever after (usually), but in George’s world, Sansa probably ends up married to a Frey, Sandor ends up dying at the hand of god knows who, and without the Hound, Arya ends up raped and dead in a ditch and certainly not the killer she is today.

(Of course, Robb and Talisa do go the forbidden love route and we all know how that turns out.)

(3) “You agreed to it. Treat your oaths recklessly and your people will do the same. If your father lived his life for one thing...” 

I will say this: Sansa tried valiantly to keep her promises and the promises her family made. She agreed to marry Joffrey, arranged thought it was, and she keeps to that agreement.

In the same episode, Theon is whining: “Yes my captors were so very kind to me...Do you know what it’s like to be told how lucky you are to be someone’s prisoner?” but at this point in the story, Sansa is being held prisoner by awful people and being beaten and stripped and threatened with rape at every turn.  So Theon can just shut up. 

And in re Robb, Sansa was bound to marry a much worse prospective spouse than a Frey girl, and yet she stuck with it, even if out of sheer cluelessness. She was offered a “get out of jail free” card by Sandor Clegane, and she refused it. 

As horrible as it is, and as patriarchal and un-woke, Westeros custom says that Sansa was Joffrey’s—to torment or treat any way he saw fit. And, for better or worse, Sansa and Sandor have both internalized the patriarchy in a way that Arya never does.

In season four, Arya asks the Hound, “Didn’t you steal anything from Joffrey before you left?” He says no, he’s not a thief, and then says “a man’s got to have a code.” 

Arya’s talking about gold or other treasure but in the same conversation he calls Arya “the only thing of value I’ve got in the world,” which tells us as clear as day what really matters to him—even though he wants us and Arya to believe the issue is her exchange value in gold.

Sansa is the only thing Sandor wanted to steal, but she belonged to the king and if she didn’t want to go of her own volition—if she didn’t think she needed to be rescued—he wasn’t going to abduct her. 

He probably should have, for her sake, but I suspect he was too hurt when she turned him down to face her fighting him and being disappointed and teary. Sansa’s recrimination and distress was not something he was equipped to cope with at that point. Now Arya he could manhandle, but Sansa, for reasons (SEX REASONS PEOPLE), he could not, would not and did not.

ANYWAY MARRIAGE

He cloaked her in the throne room. She accepted the cloak. 

Did it mean something to them? Did it mean something to the gods? 

We have no idea. It has never been addressed.

But...the line in the Westerosi marriage vows is “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” And within weeks he’s saving her from being gang raped (and he’s secretly pretty fucking pleased with himself), and he risks beheading (or much much worse) by attempting to smuggle away Tywin’s prize hostage and get her through the entire war-torn country to Winterfell. 

If that’s not protection, I don’t know what is.

Tyrion’s speech at the Blackwater (after the Hound has already deserted) about defending Your City rings false for the Hound because he literally cares only about one thing in the whole place (maybe two if you count Stranger). Hound figures why not take the girl out of the city rather than trying to save the whole shit city to protect her?

But it doesn’t work, and Sansa and Sandor break up.

Next episode. Sandor does not appear. Sansa does. And three separate couples—all doomed in different ways—make promises.

MARRIAGE PLEDGE #1: JOFFREY BARATHEON TO MARGERY TYRELL

Joffrey: “It would be an honor to return your love. But I am promised to another. A king must keep his word...I took a holy vow.”

Pycelle: “The gods do indeed hold betrothal solemn.”

Joff: “The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart...you will be my queen, and I will love you from this day until my last day.”

OK so mostly this is foreshadowing for Robb getting whacked and Joffrey getting poisoned at his wedding. But it’s also amazing extra-level bullshit. Every single person in the scene is lying through his or her teeth and putting on a show for the court, except for Sansa who is genuinely delighted to be relieved of Joffrey. 

Well, the situation also thrills Littlefinger who pounces on her literally moments after Joff sets her aside. If the Hound had waited maybe one more day he and Sansa would have been so much freer to figure themselves out together--but then it wouldn’t be a heartbreaking romantic separation would it?

But there are a couple of lines I want to highlight as possibly important for SanSan.

“The gods do indeed hold betrothal solemn.”

What if this is true on some level and the gods have considered SanSan to be pledged to one another in some spiritual way? Could the gods actually have been intervening in their favor in some way? Probably not but...maybe.

“I am free to heed my heart.”

So so so few people in Westeros are free to heed their hearts. That’s why the freefolk call themselves that—they aren’t bound by the feudal system and the arranged marriages and the taxes and high-maintenance castles and all that. 

But come season eight, guess who is free as hell to heed her heart? Sansa Stark. She’s even finally rid of Littlefinger. Nobody except maybe Jon Snow can tell her what to do, and I feel strongly that he DGAF who she marries so long as he’s a good man. 

MARRIAGE PLEDGE #2: SHAE DA FUNNY HOAR TO TYRION LANNISTER

Tyrion: “I’m a monster, as well as a dwarf. You should charge me double.”

Shae: “You think I’m here for money?”

Tyrion: “That was the arrangement we made. I pay you and you lie to me.”

Shae: “You have a shit memory. I am yours and you are mine.”

I don’t understand these two. I think Tyrion did love her, but “I pay you and you lie to me” was the truth of it. Their relationship was built on a shaky foundation of business and lies.

In the end she testified at his trial for capital crimes and he strangled her to death. So...as the Hound said to Tyrion in the series premiere, “It’s not hunting if you pay for it.”

You can buy a wife with an army or gold, or you can buy the girlfriend experience from a prostitute, but you can’t buy a healthy, happy and loving marriage, not for any price.

I am a crazy person, admittedly, but I think George’s endgame is two well-deserved happy marriages: Jon & Dany, and Sansa & Sandor. (I wouldn’t mind Brienne & Jaime, Missandei & Grey Worm, and Sam & Gilly also living happily ever after but WE WILL SEE.)

MARRIAGE PLEDGE #3: ROBB STARK AND TALISA MAEGYR

Secret love in the woods!

The theme to this scene is “I Am Yours and You Are Mine,” a lushly romantic love theme by Ramin Djawdi. These are good people, and they are madly in love, and they are doomed as fuck.

As a wise man once said, “What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms...or the memory of a brother’s smile?”

I wish I could tell you that the series is consistent about punishing oathbreakers, but I can’t. The best I can offer is that the story does seem to treat marriage (and the children of marriage, i.e. trueborns versus bastards) as a special and very important kind of oath. 

The camera focuses on Lady Oleanna Tyrell at Joffrey and Marge’s wedding just as the High Septon says, “...one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” And of course, House Tyrell is eventually exterminated. 

George, if not the gods, does seem to value fidelity in marriage and not running around “stabbing” girls you don’t plan to marry. Ned Stark is a saint who never cheated. Cersei and Bobby are both unfaithful, but Cersei went a step further and aborted all of her trueborns and cuckholded Bobby with Jaime’s bastards. Stannis is a cheater. Renly is a cheater--he’s married to Marge but sexes up Loras. Rhaegar was a bigamist maybe--timeline unclear but undoubtably problematic. Ramsay Snow was fucking Myranda while married to Sansa. Theon is a jackass for whoring and banging captain’s daughters whereas Jon Snow doesn’t want to make bastards on Ros. Daario wants to come to Westeros as Dany’s fuckboi even if she’s going to marry someone else but Dany is all “hard pass” because Dany ain’t like that. Brandon Stark (Ned’s murdered brother) was a bit of a fuckboi. Littlefinger gets married and murders his wife within the space of a...day? No bueno!

Tyrion gives Shae a heartbreaking speech when he’s breaking up with her for her own safety about “you are not fit to bear my children, and Sansa is.” Bastards! So much talk about legitimacy or not and what that equips you for, or not, in Westeros. Blah blah thousand-year dynasty.

These are not always our contemporary morals, at least in popular media, but they do seem pretty solidly founded in Westeros: 

Marriage matters. Fidelity matters. 

I do think it is important that we never ever see Sandor interact with other women on the show besides Sansa and Arya (and the farmer’s daughter Sally). 

Not Cersei. Not Myrcella. Not Melisandre. Not whores. He isn’t even shown talking to Dany after she saves him on Drogon. Sansa is his woman. Period. 

Sansa takes marriage very seriously, but she is never in a position to choose her husband or control the circumstances of her marriage. Marriage to Sansa is suggested or arranged, canonically, to Joffrey Baratheon, Tyrion Lannister, Littlefinger, Robin Arryn and Ramsay Snow, and that’s not even including all the fan-made pairings like Sansa-Marge, Sansa-Tywin, Sansa-Stannis, Sansa-Edd, Sansa-Jon, Sansa-Pod, Sansa-Bronn, etc. 

Tyrion is by far the best of the lot of Sansa’s canonical consorts, a list that includes two psychopaths, one sociopath and one disabled child. 

By Ned Stark’s standard of “brave, gentle and strong,” again, Tyrion might qualify as brave and gentle, but the other four fail to have even one of those qualities. Ugh. Sandor is all three, to my mind, although the show de-emphasizes “gentle” in favor of sassy, but we all know that he’s a very different kind of brute from Joffrey or Ramsay.

Three more tidbits and then shutting up. 

** The episode ends with Dany’s vision in the House of the Undying. Drogo says: “Or maybe it is a dream. My dream, your dream. I do not know. These are questions for wise men with skinny arms. You are the moon of my life and if this is a dream, I will kill the man who tries to wake me.”

If Sansa’s dreams are as important as I think they will turn out to be, this line may feel more evocative of SanSan in the future. I mean, LOL, “These are questions for wise men with skinny arms” is a total Sandor POV thing to say, although Sandor does have a rough-hewn wisdom of his own.

** The next episode is the season three premiere, “Valar Dohaeris (All Men Must Serve)” and in that we get:

Littlefinger telling Sansa that “stealing you is treason”

Sansa telling Shae that it’s better to use your imagination and dream than think about the truth, because “the truth is always terrible or boring.”

Ros telling Shae that Sansa is a very important person and reminding us of her connection to Winterfell

And Marge telling little kids that knights “protect the weak and uphold the good”

** And then finally, in the second episode of season three, Sandor reappears and it’s clear that he’s been drunk non-stop since he left Sansa behind. He gets captured while unconscious and when he comes to, the first thing he sees is Arya (he recognizes her instantly) and the first words of out his mouth are “What in seven hells are you doing with the Stark bitch?” It’s clear to me that he determines on the spot to watch over her. He has not been granted the status of protector of Sansa, but Arya is fair game.

Was it divine justice or the hand of the gods, putting Sandor together with his wife’s little sister who needs to be protected? We shall see. We shall see.

“In winter, we must protect ourselves.” “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” “I miss him.” “Me too.”

[humblemagic]

don’t swallow your pain

It hurts in a different way than it had with Ramsey. With him, the thrusts of him inside of her were always secondary to other humiliations he had devised for her. In time, she had learned to give him enough tears to keep herself as unmarred as possible but never enough to truly satisfy him. It was a game she played to distract herself from what he was doing to her body.

Now, there is nothing to focus on but Jon. His stuttering breaths are warm on her neck. His hands clutch the bedding beside her body. A bead of sweat from his neck falls onto hers. His movements grow more forceful, and she closes her eyes, pressing her lips together. She will not cry out.

A warm gush of liquid and Jon withdraws immediately, rolling off of her and swinging his feet to the floor in a single movement. She listens to him take deep, steadying breaths before he rises and leaves her chamber. Only then does she lower her legs to the mattress. She cannot explain the sob she swallows. He is always so gentle with her.

She knows not to expect his presence the next morning. He will have left the keep before the sun rose as is his custom the day after after he beds her. She should rise and perform her duties. Instead, she turns on her side. She feigns sickness and refuses a maester when her lady’s maid offers to call for one. She keeps to her chambers, sleeping intermittently throughout the day. She does not weep. She watches the light seep from the skies and blinks to find it is morning.

She wants to remain in her bed for another day or two, but that is not her way. She rises and sits beside her husband to break their fast. The hall is quiet as most are still wiping the dredges of sleep from their eyes.

“Are you well, my lady?” Jon asks, staring into his porridge bowl.

“Quite well, my lord, thank you,” she answers. She wills the smile to reach her eyes. He nods, and they eat the rest of their meal in silence. She cannot put words to the growing unease in her stomach. When she stands to leave, he follows suit and nods to her. His eyes are locked on the floor. Sansa falters in her curtsy. 

He steadies her with a hand on her arm. His brows furrow, eyes roaming over her face before averting them past her head. “My lady?”

He cannot bear to look upon me. Her knees weaken beneath her. Her stomach churns as she trembles in his arms. “Jon,” she releases with a pained gasp. The world darkens around her, and she forces herself to straighten. She fills and empties her lungs once, twice.

She holds a hand to her chest. “I apologize, my lord. I felt faint but a moment.” His hands tighten on her arms. He only touches me as much as he must. She takes a step back. “I will return to my chambers. Perhaps another day of rest is needed.”

She can feel his searching eyes on her again. She cannot return his gaze. If she does, she feels she might not be able to contain her sorrow.

To her surprise, rather than calling for one of her lady’s maids, he takes hold of her arm again. “Let me escort you to your chambers.”

She opens her mouth to refuse him and quickly closes it. She will be grateful for his strength if she faints on the way to her chambers.

When they reach her doors, she expects him to leave her to retire, but he opens the doors and leads her to her bed. He lowers her slowly on the edge of the bed. His hands close at his side. 

“I’ll call for a maid,” he says. He walks toward the door. She bites at her lip to stop its shaking. There is a long silence. Sansa watches him place a palm on the door before straightening his back and turning to face her. “You have only fainted once that I have seen,” he starts. “You were eight. Theon and I were training. He said --- well, he angered me, and I cut him. He bled so much you swore I’d killed him, that Father would have to execute me for murder. Do you remember?”

Her heart beats fast against her breastbone. “Father said only a man without honor kills a child.”

“What troubles you now, Sansa? Will you tell me?” She says nothing. “Did something, did something in the hall give you reason to be frightened? Did someone,” he cuts himself off.

Sansa lowers her head. She traces the pattern of a on her dress. She wants her father to hold her as he did then, to brush away her tears and promise that all would be well. A tear falls unbidden from her eye, and then she is sobbing, a hand to her mouth.

Jon comes to her side at once. He kneels in front of her and takes her hand in both of his. His thumb moves back and forth, too rough to be soothing. But she is still glad for the warmth of his hands on hers.

“It is only a woman’s worry,” she dismisses.

“It’s my wife’s worry,” he corrects, “and so it is mine. Tell me.” His voice is nearly a growl.

I am just a stupid girl, she thinks, for she answers him truly.

“You do not look upon me.”

“I --” he stutters. He leans back on his heels in confusion.

“Neither when you speak nor when you lie with me. Your eyes dance away from me, and you, you only touch me after you have doused the fire and blown out the candles.” She pulls a hand away from him to take out a handkerchief from her bodice. She dabs at her eyes and nose. “I have suffered your apathy these past moons, and I will find a way to bear your disgust, my lord.” She stops her tears, a flush on her cheeks, and smiles at him reassuringly.

He stands and moves away from her with haste. His hands are stiff at his sides as he stares out the window, and she worries she has angered him with her histrionics.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord,” she murmurs. “The emotion overtook me. I will not allow it to happen again.” He does not respond, and Sansa does not know what else she should say. Her fingers twist together.

He sighs heavily and leans his back against the window frame. He stares at her, and she must press her lips together to stop herself from apologizing again. A lady never speaks overmuch. They stare at one another. When Jon steps toward her, she cannot stop her flinch. He halts.

After a moment, he clears his throat and walks to the chair at her table. Sansa’s wary gaze follows his every movement. He turns it to face her and sits. He places his elbow on the table. When her heartbeat slows to a more normal pace, he finally speaks, slowly, as though each word is chosen with great care.

“It is I who must beg your forgiveness. I know that I have been -- distant since we wed. Please allow me to assure you that it was not born from apathy but shame.” She blinks. “Rhaegar Targaryen,” for he never calls the man his father, “stole and raped my mother. Sam says that she went willingly, but it matters not. She was but a child, and he a married man. If anyone had carried you away in such a manner, or Arya,” his voice deepens with anger, “I would have done things not fit for a lady’s ears.” He exhales sharply and tempers his tone. “You have the right of it. It is disgust I feel but never with you, Sansa. To find myself following that man’s path, stealing you and your home away, after everything you have survived... I am too ashamed to look upon you.”

But he looks at her now.

“I thought my scars --”

He interrupts, “I do not care about your scars, Sansa. I have plenty of my own. We are survivors of war. It is only natural that we should bear its mark.”

Her mouth falls open. Her eyes pass over the lines of his forehead, the downturn of his lips, the slump of his shoulders.

“Then, we are both fools.” She rises. “You did not steal me. I chose --”

“What choices did you truly have?” he interrupts again.

Without thought, his legs part for her to stand between them. She places a finger on his lips. She waits for his nod before dropping her hand to the table.

“I did choose,” she asserts. “Even after what Ramsey did, my claim was enough to ensure there would be offers. I chose the boy who shaped snow into flowers for me when I complained that there were none this far north. I chose you, because I trust you to keep me safe. I trust you not to hurt me.” Her eyes sting with more tears. “The things he said to me, the scars he left, it is hard to not think of myself as distasteful, but I will try,” she says before he can contradict her again.

“I will try to put aside those thoughts and memories,” she continues. “I only ask that you do the same.” She covers his hand with hers. “Will you try?”

He watches her small fingers brush over his knuckles. “I will.”

“Then, we have an agreement.”

He flips his hand to capture hers. He takes a fortifying breath and then brings her hand to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the center of her palm. He pushes his chair back to stand. He stares at her, a question in his eyes that she does not know. She nods anyway.

Jon brings a hand to cup her cheek and brushes a stray tear away with his thumb. His eyes drink in her expression, and she finds it difficult to breathe at a stead pace. He tilts her face up slightly and leans in. His mouth is an inch from hers when he pauses, giving her a chance to move away. She stays still.

His lips are soft against hers. They move away after a moment, and she breathes out, a hand coming to his forearm. He leans in again, and this time, his mouth moves against hers, nibbling at her lips until that hand tightens on his arm, and she is leaning into him, her mouth falling open.

He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple. Her breath shudders out of her. He kisses her lips again before stepping back completely. 

Jon’s cautious gaze is on her when her eyes blink open. Unconsciously, she licks her lips. And he smiles. She has not seen him do so since she before he went South. His eyes are alight with warmth, and she thanks the Seven that she did share her insecurities.

He rubs the back of his neck and gestures toward the door. Sansa watches him with a smile of her own as he moves toward it.

He turns back to her when he reaches it. “I promise you I will endeavor to be a better husband to you, Sansa.”

“And I a better wife,” she says. He opens his mouth to argue, and she shakes her head once. If either of them had only spoken their thoughts earlier, neither of them would have suffered so. It is a shared fault, their first as husband and wife.

Jon leaves then to perform his duties, and Sansa does take the rest of the day to rest. Her head aches from crying. She drinks warm broth. She reads a book, touching a finger to her lips every so often.

Her husband returns to her chambers that night. He does not initiate a coupling. He merely presses a kiss to her head and holds her to him. It is uncomfortable at first. Jon lies stiff behind her, and Sansa is tense with anxiety. But eventually, they relax into each other. Their breaths even out, and their fears abates. Jon finds that he likes the feel of Sansa, the scent of her hair, her soft skin against his where they do meet. Sansa feels quite secure with Jon’s chest at her back and his arms encircling her. Her heart warms at this touch that wants nothing but to comfort and give affection.

It will be better, she thinks. It is already. 

[thebluelemontree]

What do you think about valientned's theory that Sansa invented the Unkiss to explain the situation in her recollections, versus the prevailing SanSan theory that she invented it because she wanted it (later)? One puts stock in the Unkiss as proof of Sansa's fear, and the other as proof of her desire or love. Not that those are mutually exclusive. +They both make sense and have evidence. IMO, the fact that Sansa makes it up after she starts having erotic dreams indicates desire for him, not fear

**Edit** I do follow valientned’s tumblr and I enjoy their posts.  I was not aware of their position on the unkiss or read anything about it from them personally, so I’m taking your word for it.  But I will answer from the position that some people have about the unkiss being about processing trauma or fear.***

It’s sooooo not about fear or trauma.  Just, no.  That makes no sense and here’s why.

I think to understand the unkiss, we have to look at it first in a literary way and why the Blackwater scene was written the way it was. What is GRRM (not Sansa) trying to say to the reader with not just the unkiss, but everything connected to it?  He obviously can’t write a literal romance between them in the early books for so many horrifically unconscionable and logic-defying reasons.  George is really following a literary tradition using sexual and romantic symbolism to speak directly to the reader without the characters being aware.  It’s a classic Gothic literature theme of exploring sexual desire that is fraught with fear for it being taboo or somehow non-prescribed by society.  Or in Sansa’s case, that it is not the ideal.  (See the Bear and the Maiden Fair).   

The Blackwater scene itself is not actually sexual, though it is terrifying, to say the least.  It is however very sexually and romantically symbolic in its wording.  The dagger as a phallic symbol, the “wetness that was not blood,” the blood-stained cloak evocative of loss of virginity, etc.  BTW, we were already pre-exposed to Sandor holding a blade against Sansa’s neck and she was not scared (kind of unimpressed actually).  Swords and daggers are dicks and they are everywhere.    

What we’re really talking about here at the Blackwater is metaphoric wife-stealing and it’s important to understand what wife-stealing actually is.  It’s a ritual among Free Folk to demonstrate to the woman a man’s prowess and worth to be considered as a suitor.  They value traits of being brave, clever, and quick.  Ygritte has no fear or trauma from Jon unwittingly stealing her at knife point because she is interpreting the events through her cultural lens.  She enthusiastically accepts “his suit” because he passed the test.  It is not an assault on the woman or an actual kidnapping.  The man might get the shit beat out of him, but the woman is never supposed to be hurt.  In the end, the woman has the final say if she will have him, as Tormund’s daughter Munda did with Longspear Ryk after he stole her.  This custom is set apart from the already existing sexual freedom for both sexes to hook up.  Wife-stealing is a public declaration of a serious romantic relationship.  It’s a marriage proposal.  Sandor fails the wife-stealing test metaphorically at the Blackwater.  He’s drunk, scared, barely holding on mentally and he is refused.   

So GRRM has given us extensive literary set-up to place the Blackwater in a symbolically romantic context.  Why?  So he can make the unkiss just about Sansa processing fear and trauma?  That makes no sense.  Now that we have the proper literary context, we can look at Sansa’s progression of thought toward the unkiss logically.   

This is before the first incarnation of the unkiss:  

1)  It’s implied she’s already forgiven Sandor after he leaves her room wrapping herself in his cloak.  She was cold, but she was already in her own bed.  She has cloaks of her own.  That does not speak of fear and trauma after the fact to seek out his cloak and remain under it for some time.  It speaks of subconscious emotional attachment.  

2)  Still so hint that she was traumatized.  This passage takes place approximately one month later according to the ASOIAF timeline.    

I wish the Hound were here. The night of the battle, Sandor Clegane had come to her chambers to take her from the city, but Sansa had refused. Sometimes she lay awake at night, wondering if she’d been wise. She had his stained white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. She could not say why she’d kept it. The Hound had turned craven, she heard it said; at the height of the battle, he got so drunk the Imp had to take his men. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. It was only the fire he feared. That night, the wildfire had set the river itself ablaze, and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, Sansa had been afraid. Outside ��� she could scarcely imagine it.                 

 She wishes the Hound were there for his advice.  She’s has spent more than one night considering the events of the Blackwater, so she’s already processed it.  She secretly kept his cloak with her future wardrobe, though she can’t give a reason she is consciously aware of.  She understands why things happened the way they did from a non-emotionally charged place and with critical thinking.  The only fear she emphasizes is the fear of the wildfire, both inside and outside the castle.  By “wondering if she’d been wise” (that slight pause over her choice but without overwhelming regret) says she might have chosen differently if he had approached her the right way.

Now we get to the first incarnation of the unkiss.  Compared to what actually happened, let’s look at what’s stayed the same, what’s changed or added, what’s been removed:

Sansa wondered what Megga would think about kissing the Hound, as she had. He’d come to her the night of the battle stinking of wine and blood. He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song.

He did not not come to her.  He was already in the room.  It’s been changed so he’s coming through the door where she can see him instead of startling her in the dark.  The first thing she says is that she kissed him.  The whole tone of the passage is matter-of-fact.  Not emotionally charged either positively or negatively.  No mention of the knife at her throat.  Then he kisses her.  Then he threatens her and makes her sing him a song.  So the kiss comes before any threat and is tied to the song instead.  The kiss didn’t come under duress, the song did.   

We know from Sansa’s fantasies of Loras Tyrell, she imagines herself being an actor, not just acted upon.  All while the Bear and the Maiden Fair is sang LOUDLY in the background (pointing to the subconscious) by Butterbumps just to drive the point home it’s the bear that satisfied the maiden.  Loras is still very much her conscious ideal at this point.  It’s the type that she is supposed to be with.  He’s what the songs are made of and she wants her life to be just like a song.  Sandor doesn’t fit in that superficial equation at all.  That’s the struggle.  The unkiss is not about coming to terms with trauma.  It’s coming to terms that deep down her erotic desires are the stuff of Gothic literature.  She’s not scared of Sandor, she’s scared of what wanting him says about her.  Miss dutiful, oh so proper lady that she is.  Ha!  

Her first erotic dream that replaces Tyrion with the Hound in the marriage bed is definitely not a nightmare at the end.  It comes the night of Lysa and Petyr’s very loud bedding after their marriage and after Lothor Brune (who she initially mistakes for Sandor) saved Sansa from Marillion’s unwanted advances.  So if the dream is coming after she’s being reminded of sex by the wedding night and Sandor is replacing and protecting her from the unwanted, doesn’t that make his presence wanted? Desired?  The context in how we interpret these things is key.

Finally, let’s get to the second and last (so far) incarnation of the unkiss:

Before she could summon the servants, however, Sweetrobin threw his skinny arms around her and kissed her. It was a little boy’s kiss, and clumsy. Everything Robert Arryn did was clumsy.  If I close my eyes I can pretend he is the Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras had given Sansa Stark a red rose once, but he had never kissed her … and no Tyrell would ever kiss Alayne Stone. Pretty as she was, she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket.

As the boy’s lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.

It made no matter. That day was done, and so was Sansa. 

Once again, we must look at the context of what sparked this final version: Robert’s clumsy kiss.  Clumsy and cruel are now tied together.  Although Sansa has no desire to reciprocate Robert’s crush, she does want to be kissed again.  Her first inclination is to pretend he’s Loras, but that doesn’t work. She’s accepted the reality that courtship among the noble class is first and foremost about pedigree and politics.  The rose given was an empty gesture.  She can’t make him the focus of her desires any longer while accepting the truth.  Then her thoughts pivot to her “memory” of the unkiss. 

This version is far more poetic in tone than the first.  The wildfire outside is now turned into a vivid backdrop to the scene, not a horrific apocalypse.  There’s no knife, no threat, no vomit, no wine, no startling her in the dark, no fear.  She’s removed all unwanted elements and kept only the intensity of the moment.  Remember that Sansa wants to be an actor, not just acted upon.  As far as she knows the unkiss is her first real, mature, and erotic kiss.  And it was impulsively done (clumsy) under circumstances where she wasn’t prepared to meet it like an equal participant.  And he left!  The cruelty is making her desire him and leaving her nothing but a bloody cloak.  While the addition of the cloak is factual, it speaks to what she was given, what she was left with, was ultimately unsatisfying though she kept it all the same.  “That day is done,” there’s no going back.  He upended her usual fantasies and rocked her world view.  No other erotic fantasy will measure up now and it’s over before it can be satisfied.  We know from the preceding passage about Loras that her conscious desires now hinge upon accepting the truth.  This isn’t fear or trauma, it’s disappointment.  Like “I kissed the Hound and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”  She’s consciously accepted her desire and must put it behind her immediately because he’s gone.

But not to worry because literarily speaking, GRRM has set us up for a do-over and she’s due to see him again really soon. ;)                

[elenatria]

Tormund’s Wedding XV

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10614180/chapters/26854533

“Wake up, bitch.”

Brienne had barely opened her eyes when she felt a boot poking her ribs. She could have easily grabbed the man by the foot and thrown him to the ground; the only thing stopping her was the steely shine of Finbarre’s blade hanging inches from her nose. He wouldn’t kill her, no; he would maim her, probably attack the parts she wouldn’t need in battle – or in rape; teeth, nose, ears, fingers, a whole arm maybe if they made sure she didn’t bleed to death. Just enough to make her look pitiful and ridiculous.

She forced herself up.

“Walk,” she heard the man say, “They will soon be here.” She looked around; Tormund was already outside his cell, two men holding him by each arm, a knife pressed against the back of his neck.

“Who will be here?” she demanded.

“Don’t be curious,” the bald man spat. “You will soon find out.”

The guards pushed her and Tormund towards the staircase. When they finally reached the surface the sunlight hurt their eyes. Lord Glover was already there, waiting for them with Sansa on his side and two men guarding her.

“Where is Lord Royce, Aedan?” he asked the bald man.

“He’s with the boy, your lordship,” he croaked.

“What do you mean he’s with the boy?” Glover said impatiently.

“Pardon me, m’lord, he refused to leave his bedside during the night.”

Sansa’s pale lips trembled but she didn’t utter a word.

“He’d better join us soon,” Glover snarled. “Our guests could be here any minute now.”

Brienne sneaked a glance at Sansa who looked back at her; she had sickly black circles under her blue eyes.

“Open the gates!” someone barked from the other side of the Dreadfort’s walls. Two men rode into the yard, two northern lords. Their cloaks had furs and they had four silver chains drawn on their chestplates. Brienne couldn’t recognize the sigils but she could tell the men were related, they were both tall with strong jaws, pale cold eyes and long black hair. The older one took a look around before greeting Lord Glover, and then his tiny eyes settled on Tormund. He turned to the man on his side who seemed younger but had the same resentful look on his face.

“Look at that, Leecan,” he said with a jerk of his bearded chin. “That him, you think?

Leecan didn’t answer. He dismounted keeping his eyes fixed on the person his brother showed him.

“My lords,” Glover rushed to greet them. “I hope you had a safe journey. We need to finish this as soon as we can, before word gets out.”

“What, you plan on sending crows, Glover?” the bearded man quipped. “Or are you going to keep the women alive to spread the news?”

“No, Lord Ven. Lady Sansa will be sent to the Queen for killing king Joffrey, her beloved son. I don’t think she’ll have the chance to contact the King in the North ever again. As for Lady Brienne, that’s for you to decide what to do with her, my lords.”

“I’m sure their cocks can decide what to do with her,” Ven chuckled as he nodded towards Finbarre, Aedan and the rest of Littlefinger’s men. Finbarre smirked.

“We’re not here for pleasantries, brother,” Leecan snapped and crossed the yard hastily towards the group of men standing next to Brienne and her captors.

“You’re right,” Ven agreed. “But first let’s thank Lord Glover before the festivities begin, after all he was the one to message us about this great find. Your letter was most unexpected and most elevating, dear Robett, and we thank you for letting us know of his whereabouts,” he bowed to Glover.

“We’re lucky this fool followed Lady Sansa’s party cutting himself off Jon Snow’s protective entourage. I don’t know what he was thinking but all the better for us, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” the bearded man nodded and walked to his brother who was already glaring at Lord Glover’s “find”. “So we meet at last,” Ven said resting his hands on his belt. “Tormund. Is that right? The infamous Tormund Giantsbane.” He tilted his head back in fake admiration. “The bear fucker. The leader of the wildlings. Or should I call you Lord Karstark now?”

Tormund frowned. These men looked horribly familiar but he just couldn’t put names to faces. The squinty eyes, the square jaws, the narrow noses, the cold stare. He had never seen those faces before, yet they seemed to know him. And he certainly knew them.

“It must feel good to be one of us now, eh?” Ven sniggered. “Look at your clothes, look at you.” He pulled at Tormund’s collar. “I imagine the lands you and your people will now feast upon like locusts, the warm walls to keep you safe from the coming winter, those same walls our ancestors built with their blood.” He placed his hand on Tormund’s shoulder squeezing hard and brought his face closer. “And of course little Alys’ sweet cunt,” he whispered dropping his head on the side. “The biggest prize of them all for serving the bastard so loyally. Was she sweet like butter when you split her pussy open? She must be real progress for you considering you only had bears to fuck beyond the Wall.” He hit Tormund’s shoulder mockingly. “Come on, what was she like? You can tell us.”

Tormund winced and gnashed his teeth. He tried to escape but Glover’s men were holding him by both arms.

“I’m sure you wasted no time tasting that minge and it felt good, eh wildling? I’m sure you fucked her good before she could even get out of her wedding dress, fucked her till she bled. Poor girl.  Isn’t that how you goat fuckers do it, you steal and fuck little girls in the ass, don’t you? But her cunt is too good for the likes of you, you dog. I mean, can you believe it? The women, the lands, the castles, the riches, all yours for the taking. But you know, Lord Karstark, we still own the north...”

Tormund froze; he had heard those words before. He had seen eyes like them before. He now recognized them despite the thick streams of blood that were running down his face choking him, blinding him, his own blood as well as that of the enemy. The enemy whose throat he had just ripped out with a wild triumphant howl.

Finally he knew who they were…

“You really thought we wouldn’t get to you in the end?” Leecan hissed pulling Tormund’s hair and making him grunt in pain, their eyes locked in a hateful stare. “You really thought that marriage of yours would protect you and we wouldn’t hunt you down after you slaughtered our brother?”

Brienne held her breath, her mouth hanging open.

It was them.

The remaining Umbers.

Seven help us.

She knew what Tormund had done to Smalljon Umber during the battle against the Boltons. “Always believe the stories about me, always,” he had told her the night before. Apparently those stories couldn’t be confined within the ranks of Jon Snow’s men. Bad news travelled fast, gruesome stories of hated blood thirsty enemies even faster.

“We knew you wildlings are animals who eat human flesh but you chose the wrong man to chew on, you smelly fucker,” Ven Umber spat. “You must be really proud of those strong teeth of yours, aren’t you?” he gloated pushing Tormund’s mouth open and shoving his thumb into his throat while he grabbed him by his messy ginger hair with the other hand to stop him from struggling. Tormund tried to bite down but Leecan swiftly pulled out his dagger and poked his throat, forcing him to stand still. “Your rich clothes won’t save you,” Ven continued. “That silver sun on your chest won’t save you. That jest of a marriage won’t save you. We’ll take our time pulling those wretched teeth one by one, the teeth that savaged our poor brother. And then we’ll ass-fuck you with them like you ass-fucked the Karstark girl. We’ll sit back to watch you shit blood and teeth, bastard.”

Once again at the mere mention of his wife Tormund struggled furiously, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Brienne, but Ven’s strong thumb in his throat kept holding him down and so did Leecan’s dagger. Glover’s men tightened their grip on Tormund’s arms not letting him move one inch against his enemies.

“But we’re at the Dreadfort, and no festivity is complete without some flaying,” Ven Umber kept taunting him and looked around. “It’s traditional and we northerners respect our customs, right, boys? Who knows, taking part in this age-old tradition of house Bolton might make a northerner out of you yet, Giantsbane! We all look the same under our skin after all.”

“Take my dagger, brother,” Leecan exhaled eagerly.

“I’m not so sure I want to start with the flaying, Lee,” Ven Umber said and took a step back pulling his thumb out of Tormund’s throat letting him breathe and cough at the same time. “I want him alive. Let him ponder a little longer on the thought of being flayed, I’d love to see the fear in his eyes. And who knows, by the time we get to use your dagger he might even beg us to kill him.”

Finbarre scoffed. “Have you ever done that, wildling? Have you ever begged?”

“No,” Tormund growled hoarsely, his glaring eyes dark and menacing like those of a caged wolf. “But you will.”

Ven Umber guffawed and turned to Glover. “Did you hear that, Robett? The filthy animal hasn’t learned manners yet, and he wants to be a northern lord.”

“Gag him,” Glover said and threw a piece of dirty cloth for Umber to catch. “Maybe you should start by chopping off an arm, or a foot, immobilize him first. He’s dangerous.”

“I might just do that,” Ven said and began to draw his sword as his brother gagged Tormund with the cloth.

“No, use that one,” Glover said and held up a big sword with a lion on its pommel. “It belonged to her but I don’t think she will be needing it anymore,” he said looking at Brienne. “It’s only fitting.”

“Don’t you dare…” Brienne growled through gritted teeth.

“What was that?” Glover began but the fearful glimpse in her eyes made him stop in his tracks. He saw the worry and the desperation. He saw everything. The feelings she had be trying to hide all this time were now plain as day.

“Oh. Ooooh,” he smiled as the realization hit him. “I understand now. I understand why the wildling left his newlywed wife to follow them into the wilderness. He followed her.” He pointed at Brienne who was now covered in cold sweat. “Lord Umber, it seems we hit two birds with one stone here. Torture one and you’re torturing both. She doesn’t want us to use her precious sword on her precious wilding. Do you, Lady Brienne?”

“Glover, you traitorous sadistic bastard…” Brienne hissed as she tried to escape the men holding her.

“Stay put and you might spend a little more time with your loved one before Finbarre and the rest take care of you too.”

Finbarre jolted joyously at the mention of his name; this is what he’d been waiting for since he saw her the previous night lying face down on the floor of her cell helpless and unconscious, her long legs spread open, the lower part of her gambeson folded up on her back and revealing her delicious behind to him. Soon there would be nothing between him and her ass, and it was about time he and his companions got paid for all their efforts.

“Are you getting wet, bitch?” Finbarre jeered. “I’ll get you wet I promise. I sure am getting hard for you right now.” He grabbed his crotch and rubbed it up and down causing the rest of the men to burst in laughter.

That was the straw that broke the horse’s back. No gag could silence Tormund’s wrath now, no dagger in his throat could keep him down. With a fearful roar he pulled his arm trying to get rid of one of his captors but he only managed to drag the man in front of him. Ven Umber immediately punched Tormund in the stomach making him fall on his knees.

“Not so fast, lovebird.”

Tormund gasped desperately for air, blood dripping from his lips. Ven had hit him so hard that Tormund barely felt or heard the ripping of his clothes as Leecan tore the back of his tattered tunic with the dagger.

“Time to see if you’re just like us under that thick skin of yours, wildling,” Lord Glover said. “Time to see if… Royce. Finally you’re here. What’s wrong?”

The grizzly man had just appeared in the courtyard, pale as a ghost, lips trembling.

“You’re shaking, my lord, what’s happening?” Glover insisted.

“Dead…” Lord Royce whispered. “He’s… he’s dead…”

“Who is dead?”

“Lord Arryn... Robin… Robin’s dead. My sweet sweet boy.”

Nobody spoke. Sansa was hardly breathing. The Umbers were too busy kicking Tormund and ripping the remains of his tunic. For a moment there the men’s grip on Brienne felt loose; it was now or never, she would escape them while they were distracted, but Sansa was far from her and standing too close to Glover. Brienne might not get a chance to grab a weapon before Glover used Oathkeeper to threaten Catelyn Stark’s daughter.

Tears were running down Yohn Royce’s cheeks.

“He was mine to protect after Lady Lysa died and I… I couldn’t save him.  I couldn’t save Lord Arryn. That arrow… it must have been poisoned. The Vale… the Vale is doomed.”

He was stuttering now, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

“Pull yourself together, man!” Glover urged him grabbing his shoulder and trying to steady him with one hand, the other still holding on to Oathkeeper. “Nothing’s lost. Lord Baelish will be the lord of the Eyrie now, calm down!”

“Lord Baelish…!” Royce lifted his head in a moment of clarity, tears still welling up in his eyes.

Robett Glover let go of Royce’s shoulder taking a step back. It was too late now, he had to speak. His eyes were cold as ice.

“You didn’t expect Lord Baelish to let the boy live, did you?” he said in a low dark voice. “He would never let a weakling stand in his way to become lord of the Vale.”

“You… knew?!... And you let it happen?”

Glover blinked.

“I didn’t let it happen. I ordered it.”

Lord Royce was too dumbfounded to utter a single word. Sansa was shedding silent tears. Even the Umbers stopped beating Tormund and lifted him up grabbing him by both arms as they watched the exchange between the two lords. Tormund was coughing out blood, his brow split open, his face and naked torso badly bruised. He was too weak to resist them anymore.

Brienne felt her heart miss a beat.

She had failed the lady she had sworn to protect.

She had failed the man she loved.

“You… ordered it…!” Royce muttered.

“It had to be done. Ever since those wildling bastards invaded our lands nothing was the same. I'm glad we'll get rid of them at last and I can only thank Lord Baelish for that. It was his idea to capture Tormund after he sent Robin and Sansa to the Eyrie for their supposed marriage. Littlefinger would never give up the Eyrie to a retarded little boy.”

“That little boy was my lord! He could have let him live!” Royce barked.

“No he couldn’t, you know it as well as I. That was the price we had to pay to get rid of the wildling leader, my lord. It was a fair trade. He didn’t tell you because he knew you would back down, but he told me. I instructed his men to use the poisoned arrow. It’s all for the best, now calm down!”

A dark crazy laughter filled the air, a chilling barking sound. Everyone turned to Tormund. His face was a bloody bruised mess but he could still laugh. The Umbers held him tight but they didn’t dare stop him. He was cackling uncontrollably and spitting blood at the same time.

“You fucking kneelers,” he roared trying not to choke on his own blood. “You fucking stupid kneelers. Finding new lords and kings to kneel to every single time. How does it feel now, Royce? How does it feel to bend the knee to Littlepecker of all people? He tricked you well, didn’t he?”

Royce stopped weeping. His eyes were fixed on Tormund.

“You’ll be fine serving that smirking little weasel now. You deserve each other, you know,” Tormund nodded. “Come to think of it, it could be an improvement from that dim-witted runt you had for a lord. I wonder if he would ever manage to wield a sword or hit a target with an arrow. I doubt it but I’m sure you’d urge him to try, if he ever let go of his feeding bottle that is. But I guess we’ll never know, will we? I’m sure he couldn’t even take a piss without you.”

Royce’s eyes widened as all rational thought left him.

“Songs will be written about you, old man, wait and see,” Tormund giggled. “The Wet Nurse and the Halfwit. I’m sure you’d even breastfeed him if you could, that does sound like something you-“

Not a second passed and Oathkeeper was no longer in Glover’s hand. It was in Royce’s furious grip as he pushed back Glover stealing the sword from him, marching frantically towards Tormund. Brienne yanked at her captors instinctively, tightening her right fist but grabbing nothing but air, as if trying to control Oathkeeper from a distance. What was this madman thinking? Was this his ultimate attempt at a petty triumph over his tormentors, his final insult? What a fool, what a STUPID fool!

“You shut your mouth, you filthy-“ Royce hissed.

“Or what?” Tormund mocked him with a mad desperate grin on his face. “Will you help me piss as well, Royce? Will you hold my pecker for me? You’ll need both hands, old man, it’s quite heavy…”

With a horrible cry Royce lifted Oathkeeper over Tormund’s head but Tormund was quicker; and stronger. At the very last minute he pulled his left arm in front of him with a beastly growl dragging Leecan between him and Royce’s sword, shielding himself against the aged knight’s rage. Oathkeeper landed on Leecan’s neck half-beheading him, blood squirting everywhere. As soon as his left arm was released Tormund turned the other way and clobbered Ven Umber’s face until it was a mass of blood and broken bones. Before Royce could pull Oathkeeper out of Leecan’s neck Tormund grabbed Ven’s sword and chopped off Royce’s hand. Oathkeeper fell on the ground with a clang. The aged lord was screaming.

Tormund’s distraction was enough; for a split second Brienne felt her captors’ grip loosen up. Now was the time. She head-butted one of them and pushed the other to the ground, kicking him until he was unconscious. She then took his sword and pierced his chest through and through before finishing off the other man as well.

As soon as they saw what was happening, Finbarre, Aedan and the others grabbed their swords and circled the pair. Brienne was quick enough to grab Sansa, drag her away from Glover and place her behind her. She had her back turned on Tormund and couldn’t see his watchful eyes, his tense muscles or his head crouching like a predator, and as the adrenaline set her pulse racing with deafening violence she could hardly hear his quick breathing.  But for the first time in her life she had the weirdest feeling: she felt as if she was in two places at once. Their hearts beat as one, their breathing was synchronized. And even with her back turned on him it was like she was looking in a mirror.

That moment they were one. And they had only one thing in their minds: escape.

Tormund didn’t wait for Littlefinger’s men, he attacked first. They thought they had him at a disadvantage but the beating he took from the Umber brothers did nothing to soothe his rage. In a matter of minutes he eliminated all his opponents. Except one.

Finbarre was crawling on the ground trying to escape Tormund but his leg was broken. He was sniveling like a baby as he turned on his back, raising his hands in a hopeless attempt to protect himself from the wild monster with the flaming hair.

“Don’t… Don’t kill me!” he begged. “Please…”

“What did you say to my woman?” Tormund growled.

“Please! Oh please don’t..!”

“What. Did you say. To my woman.”

Tormund grabbed him by the hair and Finbarre cried in pain. “Are you wet enough for me, blondie?” he whispered. “Are you? Oh I forgot, you don’t have a pussy. Well, let me carve one for you.”

He raised Oathkeeper and shoved it into Finbarre’s groin. The young man squealed like a pig. Tormund stabbed him again and again until his crotch was covered by a glistening pool of blood.

The half-naked madman smiled coldly as drops of Finbarre’s blood were running down his forehead. “Seems wet enough to me now,” he chuckled.

He turned to Brienne and Sansa. The last man standing was Glover. He was in a bad state and weaponless with Brienne’s sword pointing at his neck but he was still looking her in the eye. Yohn Royce was sitting on the ground next to him. He was dying, the loss of his hand had drained him.  Tormund almost pitied the old man.

“Go on,” Glover muttered. “You might as well kill me.”

“I might,” Brienne quipped with a steely voice.

Glover didn’t expect that answer. For a moment there he thought of surrendering but he knew it was too late to beg. “You can tell the King in the North,” he said decisively “What I did, I did it for my people. I did it for my Erena.”

“It is quite unfortunate then that you won’t be there to tell her,” Sansa murmured calmly and her eyes were darker than the rain clouds that were gathering in the sky. She slowly turned to Brienne and nodded. Brienne nodded back. Without hesitation the warrior woman swang her sword and beheaded Robett Glover, the lord of Deepwood Motte. His lifeless body collapsed on the ground in front of Yohn Royce who was now too weak to even sit up.

The Knight of the Vale tried to lift his head and face the people he had persecuted. He struggled to lean on his elbow but he had lost too much blood. He lied back down.

“Lady Stark, I’m so sorry,” he wheezed. “So very sorry. I don’t deserve to live as I don’t deserve to find peace in death either.”

Sansa kneeled beside him and brushed his hair back wiping away the sweat from his feverish forehead. He was pale as death but his grey eyes were full of regret and sorrow.

“You brought the Knights of the Vale to the north, Lord Royce,” Sansa said as she tried to smile. “You helped my brother. You deserve Mother’s mercy.”

“I betrayed you...” Royce whimpered. He had lost too much blood now, and there were no tears left in his eyes. Only pain.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Stark, I’m so…”

Sansa knew he was a traitor but couldn’t hold back her tears. “Give my greetings to Sweetrobin when you see him. I know you will.”

“I’m so sorry, my lady, I’m… So….” He stopped struggling. He was finally at peace.

He wasn’t a lord, or a knight, or a traitor anymore.

He was nothing.

Sansa wiped her tears as the first raindrops started falling.

“Time to go,” Tormund said dryly and he turned his back on the bodies of the northern lords and Littlefinger’s men. “I’ll get the horses.”

“Lady Sans-“ Brienne said.

“I’m alright,” Sansa interrupted her. “Let’s go.”

Brienne took a deep breath – she knew Sansa was suffering even if she was too proud to show it. The last few days had been horrifying to her.

“I promise you as soon as we’re able to send a raven I’ll ask for men to come here and burry the bodies of Lord Arryn and Lord Royce.”

“I wish their bodies could be taken back to the Vale,” Sansa replied. “Sweetrobin would like to be with his mother.”

“I know,” Brienne said taking a small bow.

“The horses are ready, come on,” Tormund barked.

Brienne gave him a scornful look. “Can you wait? Lady Sansa needs a bit of a rest. Just a little longer.”

“She can rest,” Tormund answered. “On her horse. Soon it will be pouring down and we do not want to stay anywhere near the Dreadfort. We don’t know if Lord Littlepecker has sent any more men.”

“Lady Sansa is mourning. She just lost her cousin. That ‘dim-witted runt’. I think Lord Arryn deserves your respect – and your patience.”

Tormund pulled the straps of his saddle and looked at her. Headstrong to the end.

He shrugged tilting his head.

“So be it. The rain can wait for us I guess. Although you shouldn’t take my words about the boy so seriously.”

“Perhaps I should,” Brienne snapped. “Was that the great plan you came up with yesterday after I… after we… talked?

Tormund let out a snicker but Brienne ignored him.

“Did you have to offend Lord Arryn’s memory so much in front of Lady Sansa?”

Tormund gave her a look of disbelief. “He’s dead. We’re alive,” he said and without warning he threw Oathkeeper for Brienne to catch. It would have hit her in the face if not for her impeccable reflexes. It almost did. “I hope you’re happy we are,” he continued icily as he turned his back on her.

“I am happy.”

“You don’t look happy to me, Lady Brienne.”

“I am happy… you are… not dead.”

The change in her tone made him turn. She was looking down embarrassed, her cheeks, spilled with blood just like his, blushing like a little girl’s. Tormund smiled.

“Is this the closest to a love confession I’ll ever get from you?” he sighed. His heart was already racing but if she kept being stubborn as a mule he wouldn’t take a single step towards her. He only wished they were alone.

“No. But this is.”

Without letting go of Oathkeeper, Brienne walked towards him, put her hand on his cheek and placed a light kiss on his lips. She sure knew how to surprise him. His lips parted as he closed his eyes and tasted the sweat and the blood and the sweetness of her mouth. Gods, this was heavenly. Her tongue dominated his and then it dawned on him: they had never kissed before. They had done lots of things to each other but this was their first kiss. And he wasn’t dreaming, it was real.

He let his hand slide around her waist and he gently pressed her against his naked torso. He heard her moan. Just a tiny moan, meant only for him to hear. And there was nothing he could do about his erection now. He wondered if she was as excited as he was, if there was another way to tell. He was dying to feel her ass, make her feel his hard-on but he didn’t want to offend Sansa, or Brienne would take his head. But she was still holding back, still hugging him with only one hand. The other was holding Oathkeeper, never letting it go.

Tormund pulled back and smiled as their lips glistened with saliva and drops of rain. Their hair was getting more and more wet but none of them seemed too eager to leave now.

“Is this another distraction to make us stay longer under the pouring rain?” he joked. “Do you have an ulterior motive again?”

“No,” Brienne smiled back beaming with joy. She was the most charming creature in the world.

“In that case…” Tormund took her hand gently by the wrist, held Oathkeeper by the hilt and made her loosen her grip. He put down the blade slowly, carefully, without ever letting her go of his sight, smiling as he rose again to hold her with both hands. He couldn’t help noticing her biting her lip ever so slightly, lustfully, as her gaze travelled down his round belly and even lower than that. She wanted to see him. With a deep sigh he pressed her against him and was happy to feel both her hands caressing his back, his ribs, his waist, her fingers sneakily reaching into the back of his trousers as she lost herself in his mouth, and tried to steady herself while he gave in to his uncontrollable desire for her. And since he couldn’t feel her generous curves or dive into her pants just yet he simply stood there, waiting for the hot wave of desire to retreat and his heart to calm down.

Finally they pulled away from each other.

“Let’s go,” Brienne whispered in his ear.

“Yes, it’s time,” Tormund agreed and smiled back. “Or you’ll finish me in front of Sansa, and I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it.”