#brienne: (gestures vaguely)

[almostaknight]

brienne explaining the jaime situation to her father would be THE “but daddy I love him” moment of all time

[dianneking]

The Bet - Brienne/Reader bookshop AU

Hi dears, in case you wanted some trashy, slightly angsty romance bookshop AU starring none other than the majestic Brienne of Tarth as well as yourself...well, look no further cause you're in the right place! It is with great pleasure that I present you

The Bet

Tags: Alternate Universe - Bookshop, Out of character, Angst with a happy ending, POV second person, Idiots in love, Mutual Pining, Misunderstanding, Panic Attacks, Hints of past violence, Swearing. Word count: 5423.

AO3 link in the title above.

"Hello?" 

You did a double take when you lifted your eyes from the monitor. You didn't mean to, but the woman in front of you was not the kind of person that usually found her way to your tiny bookshop. 

She was...well, she was imposing , to begin with: taller than you'd ever seen a woman be, with broad shoulders that the t-shirt she was wearing did nothing to hide...and she looked clearly out of her environment among the shelves, standing with her back ramrod straight and her hands clasped in front of her, shifting from foot to foot, a frown taking over her face the more and more you looked at her without saying anything. As if she was waiting for your reply...

Oh!

Right.

"Oh uhm sorry, yes? Uh hi, welcome! What brings you to our bookshop today?" You cringed at your own awkwardness, but her expression didn't change too much from her frown.

"I lost a bet."

"A...bet?" Well this was unexpected. Surely your little shop was not so scary that getting into it was a dare? And this woman in front of you looked as if she'd be afraid of very little. She looked more disgruntled than scared anyways, light eyebrows corrugating over those piercing, beautiful blue eyes, lips pressing together as her nostrils flared out. She looked like the type of woman who spends more time in a gym than in a bookshop but apart from that, you had no idea what kind of bet would bring her here. Not that you were complaining. 

"Yes. I lost a bet and now I have to buy a book here. Surely you can provide me with one." She enunciated, as if she was talking to the dumbest person alive. You didn't care. Her accent was melting your insides into a pile of goo. 

I'd like to provide you with my number , your mind dreamily suggested as a reply, but you squashed it ruthlessly down. Not every woman with muscles is interested in other women, you reminded yourself. And even if she were, it didn't follow that she would be interested in you , anyway - the woman was the definition of Out Of Your League, with her short blonde hair, her chiseled jaw, her strong arms crossed on her chest…and you had lost your train of thought once again. 

"Hmmmm yes sure. Uhm not a fan of reading?" She bristled as if you had insulted her.

"Of course I read .” She scoffed “I make time to read daily. I simply don't waste my time with all of this..." she gestured around her, vaguely including the manga section and the horror shelves in her speech "...this fiction ." She spat the word as if it had offended her by its own existence.

Right.

If you had to be completely honest, if it had been anyone else insulting your beloved books, you'd have been all up in their faces. These weren't just books, they were your babies, your companions during the long days at work and your even longer sleepless nights, they were your best friends in a way no human ever could aspire to be. From the moment you had understood that in those pages lied countless stories, adventures you could partake in, emotions you had never felt, you were in love with reading already.

That's why you were working here, day after day, smiling up at the shelves filled to the brim, cursing the paperwork and cleaning and everything that kept you away from cracking open the newest release and losing yourself in its pages.

You loved your job because you loved books.

So anyone insulting your papery companions would be treated to your Cold Stare™ and Dismissive Attitude™.

And yet...you guessed this woman was clearly misguided in her dismissing all fiction with such a sneer. The fact that her sneer was so damn attractive didn't absolutely play any role in your sudden conciliatory attitude. Absolutely not. Nuh-huh. Not at all.

"Hello? Are you still there?" 

Well, fuck. Daydreaming of a client when they are in front of you. Great way to appear professional, and to make a good first impression on a gorgeous first-time client.

"Huh. Yeah, uhm sorry, I was thinking of possible recommendations that would suit your needs. What are your general interests?" You tried to patch things up only to be once again met with her frown.

"That is a useless endeavor. I will not enjoy wasting my time reading it anyways. Just give me one." 

"But you will read it?" 

"Of course! I did give my word."

Her word . Who said that nowadays? Giving your word? That was the stuff of old, of knights, of epic tales of heroism, of... fiction .

Oh.

You might have the right book for this hard, formal, stunning woman.

You stood up, surprising her with your sudden movement, but you didn't notice the way her eyebrows shot up, nor the way her eyes followed you as you made your way to the book, rising to your tiptoes to reach it.

You presented it to her like a hunter presents their caught prey.

"This." 

She gingerly caught it between her fingers, as if it could bite her, or worse, contaminate her with the debauchery of reading for pleasure.

"This?" 

"You'll like it." 

"Haven't you listened? I said I don't like fiction."

"I heard you. You didn't say you don't like it. You said you don't read it." You didn't even know where the confidence came from, but you were sure. This was the right book for her.

She seemed to be surprised by it. Surprised enough to give up her fight with a huff. 

"I guess I might as well get this since you're so sure about it." 

She started skimming the first pages as you rang it up for her, and you could see her frown slightly easing up.

You hid your smile, feeling it pulling at the corners of your mind as she absent-mindedly handed you her card, paid and wandered out the shop, her nose still in the book.

____

"So about that little bet we had, did you get the book?" 

Brienne didn't like admitting she was wrong. She sure as shit wouldn't admit that to Jaime of all people. She wouldn't hear the end of it.

But no matter all of her misgivings, she was enjoying that book. The plot had captivated her against her will, and more than one time she had found herself up until the early morning hours glued to the pages, lost in the description of adventures that had never happened if not in the fantasy of the author.

Such a far cry from her usual dry, factual fare of nonfiction books. Boring , some would call them, practical , she’d counter. You see, Brienne was a practical woman and she happened to like that about herself. And if people found her boring, it was their fault, not her own.

"Yes, I did get that" she replied in a bored tone, hiding her excitement below her well-polished mask.

She thought of the excitement on your face as you got the idea of suggesting this book to her. Of how smug you had looked when handing her the volume.

So sure she'd like it. And the most shocking aspect of it all was the fact that she did. 

And maybe, maybe in the privacy of her own mind she could admit to herself that she also thought of the way your shirt had risen as you reached for the book, exposing a sliver of your midriff as it did so. And the way your eyes had sparkled when you had handed her the novel, challenge and amusement and confidence mixing in your gaze. 

She had liked that too, just like the book, and just like the book she had liked it almost against her better judgment.

________

"How did you do it?"

Your heart skipped a beat as she charged into the shop, the bell ringing behind her long after she had entered, a thunderous frown on her face, the copy of the book she had purchased from you tightly held in her slender yet strong fingers.

She had gorgeous hands too…some people were just blessed with beauty, you thought. And you were blessed with being able to see and talk to such beauty.

The smile that climbed to your face was not your usual customer service one, but a warmer one, a special one just for her.

"So, did you like it?" 

She looked taken aback at your warmth, and you could see the faint beginning of a blush on her cheeks.

"I did, if you must know it!" She looked offended at the very thought. It was adorable.

"Oh I am so glad to hear that! The author is an emerging one, only has another one published, if you liked their style you might enjoy this too!"

"What for?"

"Why, as your next fiction book, of course. Isn't that why you came back?"

"I…maybe."

This time your smile got a definite hint of smugness in it.

"Are you going to fight me over this one too? Should I dare you to read this as well?"

"Listen here, don't get cocky. You just got lucky there. It won't happen again."

It did.

As a matter of fact it kept happening, and you fell into a sort of beautiful bookish routine. Depending on how long the book was and how busy she was, your favorite client would grace your shop with her presence once every couple of weeks or more, always putting up an offended front at having liked the fiction book you had suggested and yet always asking for another one.

Slowly but steadily she would start opening up about what she liked in them, allowing you to start collecting tidbits of information about her as well - she loved historical fiction, and fantasy too. She wasn't so keen on sci-fi and urban fantasy unless the plot was somehow worth it. She loved strong female main characters and complex character arcs. 

During the day she was kept busy from her work (law enforcement, she told you on one occasion, and didn’t go in more detail, you wondered if she was just a regular cop or maybe something cooler), but she found time to read in the evenings ("Mornings are absolutely for working out, no way I am skipping that for a book. Even if it is a good one.” she had stated, as if it was the law, and you had nodded dumbly, once again mesmerized by the intensity of her gaze, even if you woke up with a book and read it during breakfast and on the commute to the shop and couldn’t think of a better way to start the day). 

_______

“And I loved the world building in this one, the interaction between the characters, and I can't wait to read the second part and understand where these mechanical enemies are originating from!” 

You looked up at her as she agitatedly waved her copy of Clockwork Boys in the air, trying to express how much she had enjoyed it. You found it hard to believe how different she was from the hard, reluctant person that had first set foot in your shop. Mesmerizing. Just as she was. 

Suddenly you felt brave, braver than you'd ever thought you could be.

“In two weeks the author is going to be at our local book fair, if you'd like…maybe we could…go together?” you stumbled on your words a little and you could feel your cheeks getting hotter but that didn't change the fact that you had managed to ask your crush out!! 

And she didn't say no! She looked a bit stunned for a second but then she ran her free hand through her hair (oh it looked so soft and silky, you wanted to bury your hands in it too).

“Sure! Is it going to be Tuesday in two weeks, right?”

“Y-yeah.” Had she just…?

“Cool, I have the day off anyways, so it works like a charm.” She… She…

While your brain was still reeling, unable to process the fact that she had said yes , she grabbed the stack of post-its and pen and started jotting down something.

You blinked at her, unsure of what to make of the string of numbers you were seeing until she straightened up and handed you the sticky note with a…was it a shy smile pulling her lips up? Her eyes had never looked so big before, of that you were sure.

You looked at the sticky note. It was a pink one, and you had to resist the childish urge to draw hearts all around the numbers. You just were so happy! You thought as you went to save it into your phone, only belatedly noticing a glaring tactical error on your side. 

You still didn't know her name!

You felt like hitting your forehead on the desk. How was this even a thing? Who doesn't know their crush’s name? You, that's who. Too busy ogling her and inviting her to book fairs to remember to ask her her frickin name! 

Hehe. But you did ask her out and she did say yes. That had to count for something, right?

You looked down at your phone and then typed up “ My Knight 🩷 ” in the name field, struggling to contain the giggle that threatened to escape your lips. In another world she would have totally been a proud knight, protecting the defenseless and fighting for justice, you were sure of it. And she would have looked gorgeous in armor. 

Tomorrow, you told yourself. You'd text her to work things out tomorrow. Surely you could resist that long. The fair was ages away anyway. You could resist a handful of hours to avoid seeming desperate, surely you could.

You texted her that same night, of course. 

But she did reply almost instantly, and you managed to start a conversation beyond the bare minimum details of your…was it a date? It had to be a date, right?

She told you about her dinner, and how she had already started on the sequel of the book she had just finished. You could almost feel her excitement through the message.

You fell asleep with your phone beside you on the pillow, dreaming of soft blonde hair and armor  and book fair dates. 

____________

"Are you the one who's been selling Brienne fiction?" 

You were pretty sure you had never seen the man who had just entered your shop as if he owned it. 

"I'm sorry?" 

"You know, Brienne? Tall, blonde? Hates all fiction books except the ones you've been selling her?" 

So that was your knight's name! And what a roundabout way to learn it! Just like in the best novels, it seemed that you had been spared the humiliation of asking her for her name after you’d known each other for months. 

Brienne.

You liked the way it sounded. 

Brienne.

It sounded like the name of a warrior, a strong, hard-headed and hard-working woman who'd stop at nothing to achieve her dreams. A knight. 

“I am Jaime by the way, nice to meet you. So are you the one?" He offered you his hand, you took it mechanically, trying to answer his question without giving too much away. Your knight’s reading habits were none of this dude’s business,that’s for sure.

"I don't know if I am the only one. Maybe she just doesn't tell you about all the fiction she enjoys."

"Nice try to defend her honor. I see why she likes you."

She liked you?

Butterflies erupted in your stomach and it took all of your self-control to avoid bursting into a happy dance.

She liked you!! Shelikedyoushelikedyou.

She liked you. 

She liked you.

She liked you !

The man in front of you kept talking, oblivious to the cheering going on within your brain.

"Listen, I know Brienne, okay? She's a lovely girl but I had to bet with her to make her unwind enough to consider reading something for pleasure."

“Well she probably didn't find the right book until now.”

“Or the right book dealer… so are you hers or not?” 

"Maybe I am…But why do you want to know that?"

“Well if you were , I'd owe you a huge thanks and possibly a round of drinks, cause she's been in a downright good mood for the past months, and especially in the past week or so. As her partner, I spend most of the day with her, and believe me, I am beyond grateful for the change.”

Oh.

Her…

Oh.

Of course.

Of course she had a boyfriend. No, a partner. That's even more committed, right?You had been so stupid. Stupid and stupidly hopeful. So hopeful and you'd once again mistaken friendship for something else, just like you did so many times in the past. 

You tried to swallow around that piece of news, you kept on a brave face while he still waffled about something or something else, but you had no idea what he was talking about.Nor did you care, all the joy that had taken over you had just as quickly dissolved, leaving a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

You didn't remember him leaving, but you knew that you were quick to lock the door after him and close up shop.Only then, surrounded by your beloved books, you allowed yourself to break down and cry all of your tears.

____________

You didn't cancel on Brienne, even if a part of you wanted to do nothing but stay home and mope. Yet you were sure you'd regret it for the rest of your life if you didn't go. 

And she had looked so happy when you had invited her. She probably didn't have a lot of female friends, you thought. When she talked of her hobbies, it had always been things that she did on her own. Working out, reading, jogging. 

She was probably glad to have some company. Someone to talk to that she vibed with. That was that. It had always been that, and you reading more into it didn't change the harsh truth.

Your heart was beating faster when you pulled up to the parking lot of the venue, but it was more due to trepidation than happiness. You had been preparing yourself mentally for a bookish date with your crush, not for…an outing with a friend. You weren't sure how to behave now, your mind too busy going through every single interaction the two of you had had, dissecting each word, each smile, each playful joke at each other's expense. When did you start thinking you could have a chance? At what point had your hopes become delusions?

Your phone started buzzing as you got out of the car. “My Knight 🩷” appeared on the screen, and you had to swallow against a hard knot. 

You know you should have changed the name. You knew her name now, and she most definitely wasn't your knight. And yet…you still hadn't.

With a sigh, you picked up, trying to be optimistic despite the dread pooling in your stomach. You could do this. Friends. You could hang out with your friend that just happened to be the hottest woman you'd ever seen. It was going to be okay. 

_____

It was not okay. 

It was anything but okay. 

Who thought that Brienne was going to be the kind of straight girl that gets all touchy-feely with her female friends? She had hugged you when you two met up and you thought you would die on the spot, surrounded by her arms and her perfume and the happiness of her voice.

And then as you walked through the venue, weaving through the stands, checking out books (you couldn't remember a single one you'd seen, preoccupied as you were with your companion) her hand kept finding excuses to touch you, once on the shoulder to get your attention, once wrapping around your elbow to direct you to a certain stand, once simply splayed on your back as you discussed cover designs.

It was torture. Every time her warm hands touched you, your heart would start racing, still stubborn in its hopefulness. But then you’d remember that it was all in your head and your heart would painfully constrict because oh it would have been so nice if it had just been true.

By the time you sat down in the auditorium where the author panel was about to start, you were a jittering mess. 

You kept replaying each interaction you had with Brienne, trying to rationally explain to your heart why, even if it might seem like she was coming onto you, she had a boyfriend and therefore it had to be her way of being friendly. 

Yes, even when she placed her hand squarely on your knee as the authors started their introductions.

To be honest you weren't sure what had been said at the panel. You mechanically laughed when you felt others do the same, and studied Brienne’s profile out of the corner of your eye. She had a soft smile on her face. As if she was enjoying herself. As if there was nothing wrong with the way her hand was resting on your leg, absentmindedly stroking lazy patterns with her thumb. Driving you mad. 

You were so engrossed in your thoughts and in her touch that you hadn't even noticed that the panel had ended, and most of the spectators had filed away, leaving the two of you alone in the auditorium.

You did notice Brienne shifting in her seat to turn towards you. Mainly because that caused her hand to climb slightly up your leg, putting it decidedly in the thigh area. Clearly an oversight on her part, but you could feel your breathing getting slightly quicker, and looking up to see her stunning eyes trained on you with laser-sharp focus didn't help you with that.

How unfair.

How terribly unfair for her to be so close, and yet unreachable.

How crushing that her hand, searing hot on your thigh, was not a promise of something more.

How sad that you'd never get to kiss those lips even if they were getting closer as Brienne leaned towards you…you could see her blonde lashes fluttering slightly, the small scar on her upper lip, her breath light on your face…

Suddenly she was too close.

Your heart jumped in your throat, and it felt like it had cut off all of your air supply. 

There was a ringing in your ears, and your skin was crawling hot and cold at the same time. 

You could see the little scar on her lip almost flickering, as your vision swam with black, and you knew without any doubt that you had to 

GET OUT OF HERE!! 

______

"So this is where you've been hiding." Brienne's voice was not warm anymore. You guiltily looked up at her from your spot on the bench. She wasn't smiling at you anymore and you wanted to hit yourself for that. It wasn't her fault that you had misunderstood all of her cues and kept seeing what your wishful thinking desired, and yet she had been the one to go through the pains of searching for you while you hid away to work your way down your panic attack.

She sat down beside you, a heavy sigh on her lips.

"I need to ask you something."

Oh. There it comes, you thought. The direct questioning that preceded the gentle let down. The 'I'm flattered but I don't feel the same' speech. As if you had never heard it before. Your heart remembered the pain as if it had been yesterday, and valiantly tried to brace itself for the inevitable rejection.

"Why?"

Huh? That…that was not what you expected her to start with, but she kept talking, and you had no choice but listen. "Why ask me out if you're so clearly uncomfortable with me? Is this some sick joke? It wasn't enough to prove me wrong over and over again? You wanted to humiliate me, too?" 

You could only stare open-mouthed at Brienne as she rained down harsh words on you, anger and pain mixing on her face. She was so beautiful. Even when angry. She looked like a vengeful angel, the righteous hand of God, coming to punish you for daring to hope too much .

"I-I'm sorry." You tried to explain yourself, but she didn't let you, her voice hard and cutting and relentless.

" You are sorry ? Is that all you can say? That's not enough for me. Especially when it's clearly bullshit. Do you think that's the first time people make fun of me? That someone thinks that going out with Brienne The Beauty is the funniest prank on Earth? Did you do it for a laugh, hm? Didn't expect me to say yes when you asked?" 

"No, actually I did not."

"You! The fucking nerv-"

"I didn't dare to hope you'd say yes because you're out of my league!" 

A stunned silence met your words. You didn't know where the strength to interrupt her came from but you had to. You couldn't let her go on thinking you had asked her out to make fun of her or something. And once you started talking, you couldn't help yourself. The truth had to come out, so you pushed on: "Which clearly you are. But you said yes and I…Brienne, I am so sorry. I tend to live in my head and you were so nice to me and I thought…but clearly I shouldn't have. Thank goodness Jaime told me before I made a fool of myself. Which apparently I still did. Fuck. I am sorry for that, I promise you I am enjoying myself today and I am sorry I am awkward and I understand if you don't want to see me anymore after this." 

"Jaime? What does he have to do with all of this? Did…did he set you up to do this?" You could hear the betrayal seeping in her voice and you couldn't bear it. If you couldn't have her, at least you could do your best not to have her break up with her boyfriend over a huge mess of a misunderstanding that you did all by yourself. By thinking you had a chance with this goddess.

Better if she hated you instead. Which she would do anyways. If she didn't already.

"No. Nono he's been nothing but friendly. He just dropped by the shop because he was curious about the books you've been reading." 

"Then why did you bring him up?"

"I didn't know, okay? When I asked you to come here, I didn't know."

"What didn't you know?" Oh she wasn't making it easy on you, was she? 

"I thought…I thought you might be interested in me - which I now realize is ridiculous. That's why I asked you out. I asked you and you said yes and you gave me your number and I thought it meant…I swear I didn't know! But then he told me and now I can't help but be awkward because I had thought this was a date and now it's not and I didn't want to ruin it for you which I guess I did anyways. I swear I didn't know when I asked you."

" Know what ? What did Jaime tell you?"

"That he's your…That you're his…That you two are together. Which makes sense, because you are so well assorted and you look perfect for each other and I am sure he can make you happy in ways that–" 

"WHAT?" The roar that came out of Brienne's mouth was almost feral.

"What 'what'?" You babbled back. You looked worriedly at her shaking hands. You knew she was going to be angry at you once she found out about your silly crush. But you still hoped she wouldn't hit you or something. She didn't seem like she'd be the type to take out her anger on you but…but those hands looked like weapons, clenched as they were into tight fists. 

"WHAT DID HE TELL YOU?"

You flinched away. You couldn't help it. The loud angry voice booming next to you, the hand shooting out towards your shoulder…you flinched away, your hands instinctively coming up to shield your face. Trying to make yourself as small as possible. Just as instinctively, apologies started dropping out of your mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!" 

Silence.

Well, not really silence but the soothing pitter-patter of rain on the tin roof above you. 

But no words.

No more loud anger.

And no new pain blooming on your body.

You dared to open your eyes and peer beyond your hands. 

Brienne…well, she was beautiful, as always. But she was also white as a sheet, her deep, blue, stunning eyes wide open and bright with unshed tears. Her whole face a mask of hurt as her gaze took in your shape, as far away from her as the small bench allowed you. Her hand was still in the air, but it had lost all the strength, it was just hanging, palm half-opened towards you as if to show you it was harmless. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a broken whisper.

"I…I wasn't going to hit you."

"I…huh…I'm sorry."

She sighed and straightened in her seat, tearing her eyes away from you to settle them on her hands, now clenched in her lap. Her back was once again ramrod straight. Just as she probably was , your mind cruelly reminded you.

"No. You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, to make you think that I was…unsafe. I guess that with how I look, it's an easy assumption to make."

"Beautiful."

"I'm sorry?" 

"You said 'with how I look' and that's beautiful. You're beautiful, Brienne. He's a really lucky man."

It wasn't her fault and you knew it. You couldn't blame her for this huge misunderstanding, you couldn't let her think that she or her appearance was to blame for your reactions.

You put your hand on top of hers, trying to get her eyes back on you, to show her how truthful you were. Her hands were so cold. She still didn't look at you.

"He…We huh we're not together together." Her whisper was so soft that you thought you had misheard.

You had to. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Jaime and I are not together." 

"You two…are not?"

"No! I don't know why he would…wait. What did he say? What were his words?"

"Huhhh I don't remember exactly. He said something about you being his partner." You tried to keep the accusation out of your voice. She didn't seem like the type to try to cheat on her partner, denying she was in a relationship at all. Gaslighting you for her own ends. And yet, you didn't dare to hope that…

"Oh for fuck's sake! Is this where all of this came from? He's my work partner . Not my romantic partner!"

"Your… oh . Fuck."

"Yes, fuck. And since we're on the subject, when you asked me, I thought it was going to be a date as well, that's why I gave you my number!! But then we were here and you kept avoiding me and you tensed up every time I touched you and when I tried to kiss you you just ran away and I thought…I don't know what I thought."

"Could you maybe…try that again?"

"Try what?"

"To kiss me. I promise I won't run away this time. Or have a panic attack."

"Just like that? That's not how it's done! The moment must be right and mmmmph–"

You didn't let her finish her sentence. You threw yourself at her, lips on lips, slightly smashing your noses together in your haste. 

But neither of you cared, lips moving against each other, her hand tangling in the hair at the base of your neck, and both of yours coming up to cradle her face. You didn’t care, because unbeknownst to the other, each one of you had dreamed of this moment so many times, and yet now that it was happening it was better than any fantasy. 

Comments are always welcome. If you want to read more of my fanfictions, here's my masterlist.

[mryoyo000]

ASOIAF Fanfic: “A Kiss For Stannis” Chapter Three

Chapter Three

"Who can tell me what this is?" asked Professor Unella. She tapped the projector with her laser pointer.

No one raised their hands. Professor Unella rolled her eyes. "No one? Figures. This is a diagram—" she gestured at the image on the screen, "—that shows a decade's worth of data about one of the most destructive recurring events in our society. Every year we're blindsided by the repercussions, and then we do it all over again without ever stopping to consider WHY those repercussions happen."

Brienne looked around the lecture hall. Jaime wasn't in class today. That wasn't surprising. He knows what people would be saying...no, what they are saying. Never to his face, of course, being the son of Mayor Lannister. But the atmosphere at Oldtown State University was tense, even biting. In the newspaper this morning, the headlines blazed about King's Landing where as of today, Valentine's Day was outlawed and any celebrations or commerce even vaguely related to it would be punishable offenses. Fines for wishing someone a happy Valentine's Day, displays of affection like holding hands, and giving gifts. Selling flowers or chocolate or any other products that could be classified as Valentine's Day-related was a crime that could get you arrested.

Mayor Olenna hadn't enacted the same law yet, but Brienne felt grimly certain that the way things were going, the day of love would be outlawed in Oldtown soon enough.

"This diagram," continued Professor Unella, "is a comprehensive analysis of the social and economic devastation caused by an entire business day devoted to hedonistic impulses. People are nearly fifty percent more likely to see their efficiency and productivity reduced, and the studies from the Citadel have indicated that over seventy-five percent of those included in that statistic will see a drastic reduction in efficiency and productivity. More than seventy percent of all national businesses will reduce prices, or even give away products for free, not just on Valentine's Day proper but for the duration of an entire week in some cases. This day also encourages social scissions and is linked to increases in crime and dysregulation of the national soul."

More and more, Brienne was appreciating Jaime's wisdom in staying home today. The grumbling students, and the look on Professor Unella's face, were proof enough. Even though they were in Oldtown, far from the capital, most people were against the law and it had become a notorious topic of discussion. And it didn't help that Mayor Tyrell was so closely in cahoots with Mayor Lannister either.

Today of all days, Jaime Lannister would not be a welcome presence, except maybe among people like Professor Unella, who either agreed with the laws herself (doubtful) or wanted to gain favor with the major political families of Westeros (more likely). After all, Professor Unella had published an article several months ago in defense of the Redwyne family's ruthless monopoly on the production and distribution of wine in the Reach.

And as for Jaime himself? Brienne didn't think very highly of him—who did? He was pretty smug and condescending, and he wasn't shy about flaunting his connections and advantages. He was on the varsity jousting team, and had a bunch of awards for equestrianism and swordsmanship too. He was a jerk to pretty much everyone, including Brienne, although she found herself wondering if some of his arrogance was a mask. Having Mayor Tywin for a father was probably a challenge in its own way, although it also meant that Jaime experienced few of the challenges that his classmates did.

"Brienne!" Professor Unella glared at her, and Brienne twitched at the sound of her name being yelled. Other students were muttering and laughing. Brienne was not popular.

"I can see you zoning out all the way from here," said Professor Unella. "Maybe you can share with us what's so much more interesting or important than today's subject matter?"

Brienne knew that most people thought of her as slow and stupid, but she had an answer ready for this situation. She'd learned from experience that it was helpful to have an answer ready at all times.

"I was thinking about the new law," she said carefully. She didn't agree with it, which wouldn't go over well with Professor Unella, but she didn't want to be ridiculed by her peers for defending it, even insincerely. "I guess I'm a bit unclear what the social detriments are."

Professor Unella rolled her eyes again. "You should say that you're confused, not that you're unclear. The social detriments I'm referring to are the psychological impacts of a holiday that encourages anti-state sentiments, which lead inevitably to problematic and disruptive behaviors. If Jaime were present in class today—I'm sure he has a good excuse, of course—I have no doubt he'd agree. This research has all been generously sponsored by Mayor Tywin Lannister, and Mayor Olenna Tyrell is very interested in these findings as well."

"But what sentiments do you mean, Professor? With respect."

"Sentiments," said Professor Unella. "Mayor Lannister has talked about this at length. I'm going to assign all of you an additional midterm: to read, watch, or listen to a speech given by Mayor Tywin of your choice, and write a summary of his arguments with proposed conclusions." The class groaned, and a few people gave Brienne dirty looks. She felt her face turning red, and tried to shrink in her chair.

"I'll give you an example," said Professor Unella. She spoke more quietly than usual, and there was an odd look in her eyes. "'You cannot eat love, nor buy a horse with it, nor warm your halls on a cold night.' That's a famous line from one of his most important political speeches, the Castamere Conference. We should all take a lesson from those words. Your institutions and governments will provide for you. Love is a fleeting chemical reaction, a stirring of hormones. Laws and order are tangible. They keep things functioning."

With that said, she dismissed the class. A few people roughly elbowed Brienne as they walked past her. They couldn't take out their frustrations on Professor Unella or the absent Jaime, so she was the substitute. Brienne's father would be horrified if he knew, and he'd beg her to come home and take classes at Tarth College. But people there wouldn't be any different, not really.

As she put her laptop into her backpack, Brienne was surprised to be addressed by the one person she'd never have expected to address her.

"Brienne, can I speak with you for a few minutes?" asked Professor Unella.

...to be continued?

[samuhelll]

“Call it a hunch.” Sam leans back in his chair and huffs a laugh, a crackle of air. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Am I right?”

Brienne would surely die sooner than abandon her manners. He sees it in the way she sits, like she'd rather be anywhere else. As though she'd spent all her formative years raised by a nanny and in a prep school's study hall, rigid and prim- that polite Oxford smile bullshit.

She's here, she's watching his hand, she doesn't know it yet. She's unaware that Sam, not long ago, had paid him a visit. That, at some point in the dead of night, the neighbors would have noticed the living room lights were always on. That the car never left the driveway.

If she visits him, there will be no one to answer the door.

“Soak it all in.” He smiles, putting pen to paper. “And for coming all this way, help yourself to some—on me—French roast,” he says, pointing with his pen. “Or tea, if that's more your speed.” He means the Keurig here, as if she'd ever. The sound of scratching paper, the pen setting down. Sam slides over the note.

There is an address on it. A phone number. Two.

“My after-hours," he tells her with a half-smile. "In case I'm not around.” Like that isn't vague at all. Then, he gestures a phone with his hand. "Word of advice? Ring, don't knock. Doubt he's in the mood for house calls.”

“I really appreciate that, Sam.” The financier’s return totters on being no less performative than his; a smidge of stodginess outlines the unprofessional (to her) use of his first name. Exaggeration seems to be the tone and one set by Mr. Croker. She doesn’t have to like it. Still, she will mind the mirroring and hone it in, just as she keeps herself unmoved from her rigid position on the chair. As usual, small hands remain patiently folded in her lap. 

“So, you have talked to him then?” At least that is the only assumption she can take from his assessment. But someone off the map and perhaps for good reason. Lovely. “Well, difficult clients are always a learning experience.” She drawls, a hint of sarcasm lining the closed-mouth smile that forms.

Meanwhile, sight zeroes in on the classic yellow post-it note, the pen about to make contact — a relieved thought that this detour paid off. All she needs is a number or an address, some form of contact, and no personal investigator needed. Though in retrospect, hiring one would have foregone making Mr. Croker’s awkward acquaintance.

“Oh, I tried but didn’t get through with the number I had. But we are willing to go the extra mile for our VIP clients so here I am. The scenic route.”

[152glasslippers]

i just want to feel your embrace

Summary: She didn’t know what to say next, what to tell him to explain her presence in his doorway, her head too full of the truth, a truth she couldn’t say, that she did not want to be without him. That he’d been her first priority the entire night and now the night was over, but that hadn’t changed. She couldn’t find it within herself to change it.

Post-8×03 AU. A quiet moment of tenderness.

I just really love post-battle tropes, okay?

read it on ao3

He was with her for the whole of the battle. There wasn’t a minute she hadn’t been able to see or hear him. It wasn’t a promise made, but it was a promise kept.

When it was all over, they’d had to part, Jaime to his chambers and she to hers. To check for injuries, to have them attended to, if need be, to bathe and to dress. But once she had, she didn’t go to the Great Hall, to eat or to seek out Lady Sansa. Somehow, she knew she wouldn’t find him there.

Wherever he was, that was the only place she wanted to be.

She walked the corridors to his room, small and far away from the Stark family quarters, but his alone. The door was open, Jaime in view, seated on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his right arm bare, no golden façade. He was staring at nothing, at some spot on the floor some feet in front of him, the look on his face distant. She would have paid a fair price to know what he was thinking.

Brienne knocked, a light rapping of knuckles on wood, and Jaime snapped to attention, his eyes finding hers instantly. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, and the thought flickered through her mind before she could stop it. Maybe he’d been waiting for her.

“Ser Brienne.” A smile graced his face like it brought him joy to say it. She blushed at the title, at his undivided attention, at herself for being so presumptuous as to come looking for him.

“Ser Jaime.” She didn’t know what to say next, what to tell him to explain her presence in his doorway, her head too full of the truth, a truth she couldn’t say, that she did not want to be without him. That he’d been her first priority the entire night and now the night was over, but that hadn’t changed. She couldn’t find it within herself to change it. She raised her hand to gesture vaguely down the hall without really knowing what she was suggesting. “Shall we…?”

But Jaime shook his head.

“Come in. Please.”

She did as he asked, shutting the door quietly behind her. He held out his hand to her, but when she stepped forward to take it, he didn’t use her strength as leverage to stand or pull her down to sit beside him on the bed as she expected. He tugged her forward, into the space between his legs, and leaned his forehead against her stomach.

It was shockingly intimate, his right arm curling around her thigh, his wrist pressing into the muscle there, his breath warming her through her tunic. His fingers slipped from her grasp, smoothing over her hip, her waist, until they reached her lower abdomen and stayed there, his thumb stroking the space over her womb.

“You’re soft here,” he said without lifting his head.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“A warrior and a maiden.”

His thumb was still moving, distracting.

“Yes.”

“A lady and a knight.”

Back and forth, so careful, like she was something precious.

“Yes.”

He hummed thoughtfully and drew her closer, both of his arms circling her waist now, something almost desperate in the way he held her to him, buried his face in her. She lay her hands on his shoulders, unsure, and Jaime sank against her even further, her hands on his shoulders rising and falling as he inhaled deeply, breathing her in. She slid her hands up his neck, emboldened, and into his hair, cradling his head against her.

He seemed content to stay there, warm and dear, but she didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know what this was or why it was happening, what would happen next or—

Brienne took a deep breath, Jaime moving with her this time, and tried to quiet her mind. If all she had, all she’d ever have, was this one moment, she wouldn’t waste it worrying. She’d comb her fingers through his hair and marvel at its softness, memorize the strength of his arms as he held her, the rhythm of his breath as it ruffled her tunic. After so many years of fighting, so many years apart, she’d bask in this moment of shared calm and weave it into an eternity.

Eventually, Jaime shifted, lifting his head to look at her. Her hands followed the movement, her fingers on his pulse, her thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. She blushed and dropped her hands to the relative safety of his shoulders. He was looking at her with the same reverence as when he’d knighted her.

He loosened his hold on her enough to stand but didn’t let go, his left hand and ruined wrist keeping her close, his eyes never leaving hers. They were chest to chest, only a sliver of space between them, close enough she could sense that if they took that last step forward, his hips would be nestled perfectly in hers. Heat swept through her—another blush—and settled between her legs.

“Brienne.” From this distance, from his lips, her name felt like a caress. Her eyes fell shut at the sensation. He didn’t speak until she was looking at him again. “Can I kiss you?”

Brienne froze. Every part of her ceased to exist except her pounding heart.

“Why?” she heard herself ask, the question no more than a breath.

Jaime’s eyes lit up, but not with his usual mirth, with something softer. Something like affection, or maybe hope.

“Because we survived.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she felt it then, how close they’d come to never making it here, to never standing in this space, his body and her body, his breath and her breath.

She didn’t want to live with any more regrets.

She nodded, and Jaime smiled. The most beautiful man in the world smiled because she’d said he could kiss her, and then he wasn’t smiling because his lips were on hers, and it was tender and gentle and sure, the heat of their shared breath, the weight of his palm low on her back, the dizzying scent of him. He ran his tongue along her lower lip and she ran her hands over the muscles in his arms, pulling him closer until there was nothing separating them, no last measure of distance however small, just his tongue in her mouth tasting her and the hard ridge of his erection against her—

She pushed him away, her hands on his chest. She was panting, she couldn’t catch her breath. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at the concern on his face or his swollen lips.

They’d survived. And she knew…she knew men after battle. Jaime had never seemed like he’d be one of the them, but there were other reasons… He might have other reasons.

She’d loved him so long. She couldn’t have him once and never again. There was only one way she could do this, and they’d been lucky enough to live. It was unlikely another of her wishes would come true.

Brienne opened her eyes. Jaime hadn’t moved a fraction, hadn’t said a word, waiting for her.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” She didn’t know how to explain without exposing herself, without chasing him away, without losing him forever. “If this is just…If it isn’t…” Real, she couldn’t say. If it isn’t love. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said again. Because she was. She’d always been too much. Asked for so little because she wanted infinitely more.

Jaime brought his hand to her face, stroked his thumb across her cheek, brushed her hair behind her ear.

“Brienne.” He didn’t sound angry. He wasn’t laughing at her needs, her desires. He wasn’t leaving. He was pulling her close, so they were flush together again. He was putting his lips to her ear. “Will you let me follow you through the rest of this war? When it’s over, whatever comes of it, will you take me home? Will you take me to Tarth? Will you introduce me to your father and swim with me in the cool blue waters I’ve only seen from a distance and lay next to me on the sun-warmed sand? Will you spar with me and let me give you children, if that’s what you wish, will you let me give you anything you want, everything in my power to give, so I can learn what you look like happy and at peace? Will you let me gaze upon you as often as I wish? Will you stay tonight and then wake tomorrow and let me spend the rest of my days at your side? Will you let me love you?”

The tears in her eyes spilled over onto her cheeks at his final words, and his lips left her ear to kiss the salt from her skin. She was clutching him tightly, her arms around his neck and her body trembling so hard she might have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her up.

Jaime. Her Jaime.

She put her lips to his ear and told him how much she loved him in return.

“I will.”

[shipping-receiving]

Skeins (pt. 1 of ?)

Notes: This is the first bit of a sequel to my colleagues-with-benefits fic titled Strings, which isn’t the Brienne POV (Knots) that I also started on. I’m not supposed to be writing either story because I’m technically on hiatus, but here I am, writing yet another first date scenario (I’ve written first dates for pretty much every single one of my fics, don’t ask me why). I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to get this one done, so I’m going to throw this up on Tumblr for now.

==========

“This is weird,” Brienne says, lifting her cup of coffee to her lips. They have a table outdoors at the cafe she’d suggested—a quaint place that was able to accommodate them after a bearable fifteen-minute wait—and Jaime wonders how quickly her freckles would darken if they weren’t seated under the awning.

“Is it?” He pokes at his eggs with his fork. “We’ve had lots of meals together. Granted,” he gestures the fork at her, “they’d all happened before we’d seen each other naked.”

This observation earns him a swift blow to his shin. “Seven hells,” he hisses, reaching beneath the table to rub his leg. “Is this going to be a regular occurrence, because I might have to reconsider—”

She ignores his question. “Will you—not mention that in public?”

“We’re on a date,” he points out. “People can reasonably assume we’ve fucked.”

“Jaime!” Brienne exclaims, even redder now than she’d been a few seconds ago. The couple seated at the next table go quiet, and clear their throats.

“I’m just saying—”

“You don’t have to. Say anything.”

“We’ll continue this meal in silence, then,” he huffs. “Like we’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes.”

“So it is weird.”

He shrugs. “Anything new is usually pretty weird.”

She nods slowly, her knife rolling a raspberry across the surface of her pancake. “I haven’t been on many dates.”

“Me neither. Not in a… traditional sense.”

The raspberry pauses. He shouldn’t have said that. He hopes she isn’t thinking of Cersei—he hopes she isn’t thinking that he’s thinking of Cersei. He should distract her with:

“Your first date with Hyle Hunt—was that weird too?”

That was not how he meant to distract her.

“Jaime.” She meets his eyes. “I thought we were over this.”

“We didn’t exactly—” he nudges her knee with his— “talk about it.”

She brings her coffee to her mouth again. “No,” she murmurs, and there’s a different shade to her blush now. “We didn’t… talk.”

He’s tempted to suggest revisiting that talk later, then thinks better of it. But he does let his lips curl upwards, and perhaps Brienne’s lips do the same, just at the rim of her cup. They’ll revisit it, he thinks, in a way that won’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth afterwards. Brienne will stay, after; she’ll let him rip her bra from her chest and her panties from her hips, the way he’d wanted to that night, but didn’t. She’ll scold him, maybe, for ruining her things, but she won’t mean it. He’ll buy as many sensible bras and panties for her to make up for it—or none at all, so he can have her just the way he likes.

“Just now,” she says quietly, interrupting his thoughts of her naked and riding him, “you said—people would assume we’re on a date.”

“I believe I said, people can assume that we’ve—”

He feels a blow to his shin again, though it’s gentler this time. “Yes, that,” she whispers. “But I mean—do you think we—look like it? Like we’re on a date?”

There it is again. That… worry. It reminds him of—you once told me I was much uglier in daylight. Jaime has the vague inclination to turn to the couple next to them—who’ve tentatively restarted their conversation—and ask what they’d thought before they’d overheard his declaration. Excuse me, by any chance, did you assume that the two of us…? But Brienne would be embarrassed, and annoyed, and as much as he’s enjoyed embarrassing and annoying her in the past, he doesn’t want to do so now. Instead, he reaches across the table for her hand, the one still gripping the knife. That’s what people do on dates, isn’t it? Hold each other’s hands?

“What are you—” she starts, then stops. She releases the knife, and lets him slip his fingers into her palm. She flinches, a little, but that is to be expected; Brienne flinches at most things she isn’t used to. What he’s learned is: it’s so much better when she flinches at first, then relaxes later. It means something, that tiny jolt through her flesh, when there’s a softening after.

This bothers me.

But I trust you.

He runs his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles. There is, wonderfully, no slenderness to her hands. Only solidity.

“Now there isn’t any doubt,” he says. “If anyone cares to look.”

She curls her fingers ever so slightly around his, and offers no other reply. But this is a good silence, now. This is how their bodies speak.

[ajoblotofjunk]

Could you do Feb. or Mar. 19th for Jaime/Brienne? love your writing!!

Thank you. <3 Since this fits so well, this is a follow on to the first sharing a bed prompt.

February 19 - fluff with sharing a bed

“Did you want something?” Brienne asked, and Jaime tried to think of anything besides an entirely inappropriate version of you as an answer. He looked around the room and then down at his feet and remembered his dilemma.

“Pants!” She winced and Jaime lowered his voice. “Sorry. I didn’t pack any sweatpants or anything. I was too scattered when I left. Do you have anything I can borrow to sleep in?”

“I don’t,” she said apologetically. “I only brought these, since it’s summer. It’s always hot here in the summer.”

Of course it was, Jaime groaned internally. That meant three days of her in those shorts, and him having to lie next to her in bed in his uncomfortable jeans. Or those dress slacks, he supposed. Or one of his four pairs of underwear. 

“I guess we better get into bed,” Brienne said, edging towards it as she talked. “Do you have a preferred side?”

“No, I usually just sleep in the middle of mine.”

“What about when you have, um,” her cheeks were pink and red, unevenly colored as an apple. “Women over.”

Jaime snorted. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

She was staring at him with such disbelief he was vaguely offended. “I don’t,” he repeated firmly. “Geeze, Bean, how long have we known each other? You know I don’t sleep around.”

Or she did, at least, before they’d both gotten so busy in the last couple of years that they hadn’t seen each other much at all. It was why he’d wanted to come on this trip so badly. He missed her.

“Okay, well, if you don’t care then I, um, I like to sleep on the right side.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jaime said, considering his pants dilemma again as Brienne sat down on the bed. Then a sudden thought hit him and he couldn’t think of anything else.

Did she have a side of the bed because she had men over?

He stared at Brienne as she set her book down, pulled down the covers and slid her long legs under them, then scrunched her face and pulled them both back out.

“Too hot,” she said when she caught him staring.

“Do whatever you want,” he said too sharply, and she narrowed her eyes but didn’t say anything.

Jaime went around to the other side of the bed and sat down, but he was sweating already in his jeans, and lying next to Brienne all night was only going to make that situation worse. Annoyed and frustrated and consumed with a question he knew was entirely inappropriate to ask, he stood and took his pants off. At least his boxers were longer than Brienne’s shorts.

When he turned back to get in, Brienne was gaping, open-mouthed, at him.

“What?” he asked. “Never seen a man in boxers before?”

“No I-I-I,” she grabbed her book and yanked it open, staring intently. “I was just surprised.”

“Surprised that I wear underwear at all?” he asked dryly, and he saw the blush spread down her long neck, across her chest and to her exposed shoulders. He’d missed all of her so much, it took every ounce of willpower not to scoop her into his arms and just hold her. Or more, if she’d let him, but she’d never seemed interested in more than friendship before. She’d certainly never looked at him with quite that wide-eyed look on her face; he would know, he'd been searching for it for years.

Maybe she’d changed in the last two years, too.

Jaime flopped down onto the bed and rolled onto his side to face her. “What are you reading?”

“A book,” she mumbled.

“What’s it about?”

“If you’d let me read it, I could tell you.”

“It looks like you’re halfway through. You don’t know yet?”

Brienne slammed it shut and huffed at him. “What do you want?”

“I’m just talking to you. It’s been a long time, and we haven’t done this in ages.”

“We’ve never done this,” Brienne said, gesturing at the two of them.

“You mean sleep together?” Jaime said, pitching his voice lower to see if it only annoyed her or something else.

Brienne went bright red and bit her bottom lip, but her pupils were dark and she definitely looked all up and down his body before she looked away.

Jaime tried as hard as he could to not get too turned on by it.

“We can talk in the morning. Good night, Jaime,” she said, turning off the light and curling onto her side, facing away from him. The moonlight was enough that he could see the outline of her shape.

“Aw, Bean, come on, at least tell me a bedtime story.”

Her shoulders shook and he heard her snort of laughter. “Once upon a time, there was a handsome and annoying prince who wouldn’t let his royal subjects go to sleep ever. Exhausted and angry, they murdered him and set up a democratic form of government and everyone lived happily ever after. The end.”

“You think I’m handsome,” Jaime said, and as he’d hoped she flopped onto her back to glare at him.

“Still need your ego stroked, I see.”

“I like stroking,” he said. She opened and then shut her mouth several times, before turning back on her side.

“Go to sleep,” she commanded.

“I’m not tired. It’s nine o’clock, who goes to bed at nine at night?”

“People who have early morning jobs.”

“We’re on vacation, live a little.” He scooched a little closer. “Tell me a secret.”

It was a game they’d played since they were little, the two of them talking under tables and bleachers, in closets and bedrooms, over quiet meals and in the middle of loud sports events. One of them - usually Jaime - would ask for a secret, and Brienne would tell him something silly, like she had a pet unicorn no one else could see, and then she’d ask him to tell her one.

When they’d been teenagers, he’d told her about Aerys. A few years ago, she’d told him about Connington.

He had only one secret he wanted to tell her tonight.

"I can't think of any," she said in a shaky, high voice.

"Not one? There's nothing you've been waiting two years to tell me?" he breathed into her ear. She shivered a little, and his attempts at not getting turned on failed spectacularly.

"There's one thing," she said softly, and then she took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "I have a crush on...on someone."

Jaime's pulse sped up. "Someone? Should we play twenty questions to figure out who it is?"

She didn't say no, so he asked, "Is it a man?"

Brienne nodded.

"Is he on this trip?"

Another nod.

He licked his lips. "Is he in love with Renly Baratheon?"

"I don't know," Brienne said, and then she turned on her back to face him. She looked terrified. "Are you?"

Jaime's face split with a wide smile. "No, not since third grade when he gave me a signed baseball for my birthday that I discovered he had signed himself."

Brienne laughed a little, but the nervous terror still had her in its grip.

"It's my turn," he told her. "Ask me."

"Tell me a secret," she whispered, her eyes scanning his face.

"I really want to kiss my best friend."

The movement of her throat when she swallowed distracted him from his own anxiety for a moment. "Is your best friend a woman?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"Yes."

"Is she on this trip?"

"Yes," he said, smiling.

"Is she...in love with you?"

Jaime leaned closer, their mouths a breath apart. "I don't know. Are you?"

"For longer than two years," she said just before rising up to press her lips to his.

The bed-sharing turned out to not be a problem at all.

[lostinmirkwood]

Iambic Pentameter

Catch up from the beginning. Read Chapter 2.

She’s Got The Look

Arya glared down at her notebook, blank except for the pen doodles in the margins. She would love her final period Literature class if only Mr. Dondarrion would let them read something written by someone other than old, dead, white men. Who decided that Steffon Fossoway had more literary value than Nymeria Ny Sar? Nymeria was a Rhoynish rebel during the Valyrian uprisings and her writings reflected the plight of her people as they fled across the Sunset Sea to Dorne. Fossoway just wanted to relive his “glory days” of war through stilted sentence structure and pretentious metaphors about sunlight. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d petitioned Mr. Dondarrion to allow her to take the senior level class as a junior.

She would also love this class even more if there was a seating arrangement that didn’t have Joffrey Baratheon sitting directly behind her. He kept knocking his foot against her chair leg and she was going to lose it on the little snot-nosed southern princeling if he didn’t knock it off soon. She didn’t care that their fathers were best friends, that his grandfather was on the Small Council, and his mother was THE King’s Landing socialite, he was a prick. One who seemed to know just how to push her buttons. If she could keep a lid on her frustration that would be a small victory for her.

Arya tuned back in to the lecture just as one of her classmates was lavishing praise on Fossoway, “His prose is so romantic,” Marella Rosby was gushing.

Arya scoffed audibly, “Romantic? Fossoway? He was a misogynistic alcoholic who spent most of his life trying to shag Aerion Targaryen’s leftovers.”

From behind her Joffrey cut in, “As opposed to a bitter, self-righteous twit who has no friends?”

Arya rolled her eyes. She could see Mr. Dondarrion sigh when she carried on as though she hadn’t heard Joffrey, “I guess in our society being a male and an asshole makes you worthy of our time, Baratheon ,” she could hear his snicker. “What about Argella Durrandon, or Elissa Farman, or Nymeria Ny Sar? Why can’t we read something from-”

The classroom door swung open, cutting her off. The half of the class that wasn’t already facing Arya, and unintentionally the door, to watch her soapbox turned as one to see who was there. Standing in the doorway was Gendry Waters, his unruly black hair falling over his high forehead into his bright blue eyes, scruff decorating his sharp jawline, and the other reason Arya couldn’t enjoy her Literature class. When he even bothered to show up to class he always sat brooding in the back corner smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. He never participated in discussions, she never saw him turn in work, and when it was time for partnered essay editing she always seemed to get stuck with him. He’d flip through the first few pages of her draft before sliding it back to her with a wink and nary a word or a pen mark before slipping out of the classroom as soon as Mr. Dondarrion’s back was turned. It was infuriating.

“What did I miss?” His school bag was hanging haphazardly over his shoulder as he leaned against the door frame, everyone’s attention now firmly on him.

Arya rolled her eyes, and turned back towards the front of the classroom, “Just the oppressive, patriarchal values that dictate our education.”

“Cool,” with a crash the door swung shut behind him as her annoyance returned to whatever it was he did when he wasn’t sitting in Junior Literature, ignoring her essays and winking those blue eyes at her.

Mr. Dondarrion sighed again, his head in his hands. “Miss Stark, thank you for sharing your opinion on Steffon Fossoway and our curriculum. You’re dismissed.”

Arya’s jaw dropped, she hadn’t done anything today to warrant this, “But, Mr. Dondarrion!”

“Dismissed, Miss Stark.”

With a huff, Arya slapped her notebook closed and stood. She made sure to clip Joffrey’s shoulder with her elbow as she stepped past him, fuming, into the hall.

---

Miss Tarth raised a pale eyebrow as Arya swept into the Main Office. “Mr. Dondarrion, again?” she asked, knowingly. Arya nodded before pointing at Ms. Smallwood’s open door with a cocked eyebrow of her own. Miss Tarth sighed and gestured for Arya to enter the guidance counselor’s office. Ms. Smallwood was typing away at her computer talking under her breath as Arya stood in the doorway. Suddenly her head shot up and she shouted, “Brienne! What’s another word for ‘engorged’?”

Arya turned back to look at the secretary. Miss Tarth was staring at the ceiling with a long suffering expression and a slight blush before she replied, “I’ll look it up.”

Arya stepped all the way into the counselor’s office, closing the door behind her, “Turgid?”

Ms. Smallwood cocked her head to the side and thought for a moment. “Perfect!” she chirped before making a few keystrokes and waving Arya into the plain wooden chair in front of her desk. “So, I hear you were terrorizing Mr. Dondarrion’s Literature class again.”

Arya frowned as she sat, “Expressing my opinion is not a terrorist action.”

Ms. Smallwood looked up from her computer and adjusted her spectacles, “The way you expressed your opinion to Elmar Frey? By the way, his testicle retrieval operation went well, if you’re interested.”

Arya faked a concerned smile, “Good for him. I still maintain that he kicked himself in the balls.”

Ms. Smallwood sighed, “The point is Arya, people find you a bit…”

“Tempestuous?” Arya supplied.

“Bitch from the Seventh Hell is the term used most often. You might want to work on that.” With that the older woman gave a firm nod and turned back to her computer screen.

Arya stared at Ms. Smallwood for a moment before standing to leave, obviously dismissed, “As always, thank you for your excellent guidance. I’ll let you get back to Aegon’s quivering member.”

The door swung shut behind her and Arya heard Ms. Smallwood mumble, “‘Quivering member’, I like that. I’m going to use that,” as the frantic typing resumed.

---

The day finally ended and Pod found himself back in the main courtyard with Hot Pie again. Hot Pie was going on about some hostile take-over in the KLP Baking Club that had his croissants branded “store-bought” much to his offense and dismay. Pod nodded along vaguely as he scanned the courtyard for shining copper hair, straightening slightly when Sansa Stark finally made her appearance. He wasn’t the only one who noticed her arrival though, sprawled on a low wall near them was a small group of guys ringed around a smug-looking blond who was clearly their leader. One of the boys nudged the blond as Sansa approached with the same friend from that morning. Both Sansa and the blond made eye contact as the girls walked by, Sansa smiling shyly and tossing her hair as they went. Just as they passed the blond called out, “Looking good ladies.”

Both girls glanced back briefly as he gave them an appreciative once over before they continued on through the courtyard, giggling as they made their way towards the parking lot. Pod felt nearly invisible as Sansa and her friend passed by him and Hot Pie without so much as a glance in their direction. He sighed quietly and turned back towards Hot Pie who was shaking his head slightly at Pod’s reaction.

Before either of them could speak they heard one of the boys in the circle around the blond say, “She’s out of reach even for you, Joff.”

The blond scoffed, “No one’s out of reach for me.”

“Want to put money on that?” the other boy replied.

“Money I’ve got. This I’ll do for fun.” Joff sneered.

Pod huffed in disgust and it was Hot Pie’s turn to sigh. Slinging an arm around Pod’s shoulders he turned them away from the other boys, “That, my friend, is Joffrey Lannister. Richest asshole at KLP, don’t mess with him. Rumor has it he once had a kid expelled for taking the last energy drink out of the vending machine right before he got there. He’s a model too.”

“Wait, he’s a model?” Pod laughed.

“Mostly regional stuff, but word on campus is he’s got a big tube sock ad coming up.”

“Really?” both boys snickered before Pod looked back towards Sansa who had paused with her friend at the edge of the courtyard, “Man, look at her. Is she always so-”

“Vapid?” Hot Pie commented.

“How can you say that! She’s-”

“Totally conceited,” Hot Pie deadpanned.

“No! There’s more to her than you think. Just look at her. There’s something in her eyes. She’s totally pure. You’re missing what’s there!” Pod exclaimed quietly, aware that his voice could carry through the crowd if he wasn’t careful. He wanted to woo Sansa, not have her start off thinking he was a creep.

“No Pod,” Hot Pie sighed, “What’s there is a haughty little princess wearing a strategic sundress that makes guys like us realize we can never touch her. And guys like Joffrey realize they want to. Put her in your spank bank and move on, man.”

“No, no. You’re wrong about her. Well,” he paused for a moment, “maybe not about the last bit but the rest, you’re wrong.”

“Oh I’m wrong?” Pie smirked slightly, “You know, she’s actually looking for a Volanti tutor.”

“That’s perfect!”

“You speak Volanti?” Hot Pie questioned, looking surprised that Pod had jumped on his suggestion so quickly.

“Uh, no. But I will!” Surely it couldn’t be that hard. They could learn it together if he could just stay a lesson or two ahead. He’d just moved here, no one needed to know he’d taken two, broken up, years of Braavosi. The root language was the same, he could fake it, right?

[aviss]

23 for JB?

Hi @beesreadbooks Here we have another one, Meeting in a train ride. It’s set during an indeterminate period of time, vaguely regency/victorian, and it’s definitely not a short prompt. I hope you like it anyway. 

Brienne rushed through the station, one hand clutching the crumpled letter of reference in her hand the other tight around the handle of her suitcase, as the whistle announcing the departure of the train echoed inside the crowded platform. She dodged people moving away from the train, entire families who had come to say goodbye to a loved one and were now in her way as she ran for the train. 

All the good references in the world would be of no help if she missed the train. 

She made it by the skin of her teeth, climbing on board just as a cloud of vapour was released and the machine started chugging along. She took a deep breath, calming her galloping heart, and rested against the wall of the carriage as they departed, leaving King's Landing behind.

She wasn't sad to leave the city, King's Landing had proven to be too big and too noisy and too crowded for Brienne, but she would miss the people. She had enjoyed her time as a governess for Lord and Lady Stark's children, would have stayed with them longer but they were going back to Winterfell, where Brienne wasn't really needed anymore. Still, they had asked her to go with them. Winterfell was too far and too cold, though, and Lord Stark had mentioned some bachelors of his acquaintance he wanted to introduce to Brienne. 

She already knew how that always turned out and would rather spare him the disappointment and herself the humiliation.

"I understand, the north is not for everyone," Cat had said with that soft smile that always made Brienne miss her mother, Sansa hugging her tight enough that Brienne felt her throat closing. She had been lucky to end up with the Starks when she moved to the capital, the spinster daughter of a minor lord who had been driven from her own home by a distant relative as she was grieving her father, friendless and almost penniless, and too ugly to marry. "Don't be a stranger, you'll always be welcome with us."

Cat had been the one who found her a new position and wrote the letter of recommendation. "Lord Lannister served with Ned in the army, he's just resigned his commission to take over the Lannister estate. He's adopted his sister's children after she passed away last month, he's going to need all the help he can get." There wasn't a Lady Lannister to share the responsibilities him, which was why he had eagerly hired Brienne just on Cat's recommendation and requested that she came as soon as possible. "He can be difficult, the Seven knows Ned used to hate him when they were both just privates. He changed, though he's still arrogant as only a Lannister can be." Brienne must have looked doubtful at that. "Don't worry, I know you will be good for them."

"I hope you're right."

"I am," Cat had reassured her. She had also insisted that Brienne took a cabin on the train to Lannisport, not a just a seat. "It's a two-day journey, Brienne, we can afford for you to be comfortable." 

She was now grateful for it, as all the seats were already taken and they looked hard and small. 

Brienne moved down the carriages until she found the one marked in her ticket, and couldn't help the flush of pleasure and embarrassment to see Cat had paid for a first-class cabin for her. 

She could sleep comfortably tonight, no need to worry about fitting her big frame on a normal-sized one. 

The cabin wasn't empty when she opened the door, though. Sitting on the bench were two small children, their golden heads bent together and giggling with the mischief only small children could. They looked up when Brienne entered, their laughter stopping abruptly. A boy and girl, he couldn't be older than six and she was younger, both dressed in what looked like very fine clothes, obviously siblings, with huge green eyes and golden curls and the prettiest faces Brienne had seen. She double-checked that she was in the right place, and looked at the long corridor. All the doors were closed, and there was nobody around. 

"Hello," Brienne said, entering the cabin and letting her suitcase on the floor. They didn't appear to be in distress, so they probably weren't lost, though they were too young to be on their own.

"Hello," the girl said, smiling at her brightly. The boy didn't say anything, just stared at Brienne with narrowed eyes.

Brienne crouched down, she knew she was tall and it was intimidating for children so young. "I'm Brienne, what are your names?"

"I'm Myri, he's Joff," the girl said still with the same smile. 

"Shh, don't," the boy, Joff, said. He grabbed the girl's hand and pulled her closer to him. Brienne smiled at the protective gesture with a sting of the old hurt thinking about her own brother. 

"I'm not going to hurt you," she said, keeping her tone calm and reassuring. "This is my cabin, are you in a cabin like this with your parents?"

Joff shook his head, still with the same mistrustful expression on his face. His sister was much more open. "Our uncle."

"Does he know you're here?" Another shake of Joff's head. "He must be worried about you if he doesn't know where you are."

"He's asleep," Miry said with a giggle. "We're hiding." Brienne had to bite her lips to keep herself from smiling at the pure delight in her voice, there would be a very worried uncle if he woke up without the children around.

"He's always with Tommen or sleeping," Joff said, judgement clear in his high pitched voice. "He's not fun anymore."

Before Brienne could ask who was Tommen and which cabin they were in, a voice called loudly from outside. "Joffrey! Myrcella! Where are you?" The children looked at each other and giggled together. "This is not funny! Joffrey! Myrcella!" 

There was a thread of panic in the voice that had Brienne unfolding from her crouch to open the door. In the corridor and advancing in Brienne's direction was a man who was obviously related to the children. He was stunningly attractive, with the same golden curls and green eyes, though his were dulled with pain and exhaustion, dark bags under them, and sharp features that looked almost gaunt. He had a baby in his arms, Tommen Brienne imagined, probably the reason he looked like he needed two solid days of uninterrupted sleep and a few warm meals. 

"They're here," she said, and his eyes sharpened on her. He crossed the space separating them in fast strides, his bearing martial and focused. He looked her over as he stalked in her direction, not liking what he saw if the furrow in his brow and the thin line of his mouth were any indication. Brienne was undaunted. "This is my cabin, they said they were playing hide and seek?"

He sagged at that, all the menace in his posture replaced by weariness, clearly aware that the children had been playing a trick on him. The baby chose that moment to start fussing, taking his attention from Brienne for a second and the man swallowed loudly, taking a pacifier from somewhere in his person and giving it to the child. Now that he knew there was no danger he appeared even more tired. "I'm sorry they have inconvenienced you," he said and followed her into the cabin. He stood there, hesitating, looking between the children on the seat and the babe in his arms. He looked like he wanted to hug them to his chest and at the same time throttle them for scaring him. He settled for a big sigh. "Come on, we need to go back to our own cabin and let the lady her own."

The children pouted. "You're just going to sleep again," Joff said as if that was the worst sin, the man clenched his jaw in obvious frustration. "I want to play."

"Joff, when we get home--" he began, and Joff pressed his lips together, gearing up for a tantrum.

Brienne wouldn't know what it was that made her speak, but she could see he had been scared for the children and that he was overwhelmed with all three of them, and that if Joff started crying the other ones wouldn't be too far behind. "It's no inconvenience, they can stay with me and play for a while." He opened his mouth, his reticence as obvious as his need for some sleep. "I'm used to children. I'm a governess, I have books and games and they will keep me from getting bored myself. We're not going anywhere, this is a long trip, Mister…?"

"Jaime, my name is Jaime," he said, exhaustion clearly having won the battle. 

"My name is Brienne Tarth." She offered her hand and he took it with a puzzled expression on his face. His hand was warm and calloused, and he held onto Brienne's for longer than what considered appropriate, his thumb moving absently over skin. Brienne flushed deep red and would have snatched her hand if it didn't look like he wasn't aware of his actions.

"Why does the same sound familiar?" he mumbled, taking his hand away and rubbing tiredly at his face. "They can stay for a while?"

"Yes, and you can go back to your cabin or take that cot over there if it would make it easier to be in the same room," Brienne pointed at the empty cot on the other side of the cabin. He looked like he was about to protest some more, though his eyes were almost closing of their own accord, "but you should lie down before you fall."

"It would be inappropriate, Miss Brienne," he protested, blinking rapidly at her to keep his eyes opened. She almost laughed, nobody would think anything untoward had happened between a man that attractive and Brienne the Beauty, even if there weren't three children with them. 

He didn't look like he was joking, though, or like he thought is a ridiculous prospect.

"Your children are with us," Brienne reassured him and he nodded slowly, she turned at an insistent tug on her sleeve to see Myrcella looking at her with wide and eager eyes. "Yes, Myrcella?"

She was rewarded with a toothy grin. "You'll read to me?"

"If your uncle agrees." Jaime had lost the fight with his own exhaustion and was now curled on the cot, Tommen pressed against his chest and arms surrounding the babe protectively. His brow was still furrowed, though his eyes were now closed and his breathing was evening out. "Sit there and let me get a book," she said to the children, lowering her voice. 

"I want to play," Joffrey said, the pout still firmly on his face. She had the feeling he had been very spoiled up till now and was not used to being ignored.

"We'll play after we read the book," Brienne said, not giving him an option and Joffrey nodded, satisfied with that promise. 

She grabbed her favourite one from her suitcase and sat between Joffrey and Myrcella to read, her voice lilting in the beloved phrases and images, eyes lifting to look at the sleeping man in her cot from time to time. Like this, with him sleeping in her cot and the babe in his arms, the children sitting by her side hanging to her every word, they would look to anyone as a family and Brienne felt the usual burn of pure longing for a family of her own. 

One just like this.

Maybe that was what had prompted to offer her help to them, maybe it had been the children's smiles and innocence, or the look on Jaime's face when he had seen them, unharmed, the sheer relief in his eyes. Brienne didn't know, and didn't know why the children had trusted her on sight and why she felt so comfortable with them, and their uncle, but she knew grief and loss, and this family seemed to have gone through their share of it.

The same as the Starks had helped her when she had most needed it, she could help this family until they got to Lannisport.

And if she was very lucky, she would be able to help the Lannister's just as much. 

...

[mattatouile]

👀

"He didn't do anything," she insists. He gives her a disbelieving look. She flinches. "When I asked why I would be dating him if we were together, he said it was because you wouldn't be seen in public with me so I had to take what I could get."

Jaime stares. And stares. And stares. It would be laughable, except for the uncomfortable, resigned expression on Brienne's face. The hurt that lurks there. Like it's not the most ludicrous thing Hyle could have said. The idea of anyone being embarrassed to be seen with Brienne --

"He's a fucking idiot." Jaime's not even surprised by the level of anger he feels.

"Is he?"

If Brienne had slapped him across the face, it would be less shocking. The idea that Brienne thinks he --

"Yes," he says it so vehemently, her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, mouth drawing into an o in surprise. "Wait. Did you believe him?"

She doesn't say anything, just draws her lower lip between her teeth and shrugs.

"We're seen together in public constantly." He can't believe he has to point out something so obvious, but if Hyle Hunt has managed to confuse her enough that she listened to that shit.

"Yeah, but as friends, not…" She gestures vaguely. "It's different."

"How is it different?"

"Because," she says, frustrated and nearly angry sounding, "there's a big difference between being friends with the ugly girl and dating her."

"You're not--" he cuts himself off at the look of fury she directs his way.

"Yes, I am," she says. "I don't need you to lie to me"

"I don't think you're ugly." Jaime says quietly.

Tears fill her eyes. "Jaime," she says miserably.

The thing is, it's true. Ugly implies something is undesirable, something you don't want to see. Brienne -- Brienne is something else. She's not ugly or beautiful or any of those words that people bandy about as easy labels for things they don't care that much about. She's taller than him, stronger than him, with a bigger jaw and broader shoulders. She also has eyes that make his pulse thrum a little heavier, and a smile she tries to hide that makes him feel like he's at least done something right. She's not a thing that can be broken apart into her odd, sometimes incongruous features.

“I don’t,” he insists.

[morganas-pendragons]

Touch | J.L.

Touch is toxic to him. It always has been. Touch is cold and cruel, ruthless and manipulative. But for some reason he has always accepted Cersei’s touch. Craved it. Tommen, Myrcella and Joffrey wouldn’t have been around if he hadn’t.

And then the Gods decided to play games with his heart by having him meet you. The Maiden of Tarth, younger sister to Brienne of Tarth.

The most entertaining thing was that you two were so clearly related, but you were polar opposites. Gentle, compassionate and capable of sassing him straight into the seventh hell.

And oh, how he loved you.

You were the only one willing enough to tend to him after the sacrifice of his hand in the midst of saving you and Brienne. You’d never been more relieved when the men trying to force themselves on you and your sister parted because of The Golden Lion’s demand to preserve your innocence.

“The Sweet Maid of Tarth wants to tend to me?”

He was expecting an equally snarky response and some crass comment about his appearance. What Jaime wasn’t anticipating was the way your fingers gently parted his hair just enough so that you could see the greens of his eyes.

“They say I have a gentler touch.”

And oh, sapphire blue soon began to be his favorite color.

The road to Harenhal had him craving the ability to be sitting near you, to soak in your warmth and lean into your touch. He vaguely recalled your demand to sit him in your saddle after he’d fallen off his own horse and right into the mud. If Cersei had been present she would’ve laughed at how desperate he was. How fragile his heart had become.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I trust you.”

And ironically enough, he did.

You soon learned that the secret to revealing the bleeding heart of Jaime Lannister was by reverent gestures. Soft caresses against skin. Longing looks across the Great Hall and stolen kisses when Cersei wasn’t around.

Oh how he loved you. And the funny thing? You loved him too.

Touch is familiar to Jaime. It’s warm and inviting and never fails in securing him when he needs it most. Touch means he’s home.

Hm.. home. A humorous comparison for the one thing he’d never had to begin with.

[bisexualgendryas]

at winterfell, bran says something about imminent responsibility, and arya brushes it off as him just being weird and ominous. that night she has a dream where nymeria comes into her room, drops one sickly-looking puppy in her bed, gives her the staredown of her life, and leaves. at least she thought it was a dream, until she wakes up to ghost poking his nose at a little squeaky fuzzy ball under her blankets. two days later, she finds out she’s pregnant

[+ ao3]

She stops listening after he says “imminent responsibility.”

Bran might be trying to help, but supper’s already been an uncomfortable affair, and his awkward, ominous attempted warnings were too much; the castle is still in disrepair, Arya’s stomach is still giving her trouble, and Sansa is still far too concerned about everything. Then again, perhaps the concern was warranted - about the war and the winter, at least. Arya was sure her discomforts would pass, just as any wound would heal.

Still, she decides to retire early that night, trying not to think on Bran’s words too much or too soon. Whatever was imminent would come, would it not?

It does indeed, though she’s not certain at first that the responsibility is hers. She dives that night, deep in a wolf dream like she used to have often, the likes of which have been scarce since she’d left for Braavos. She’s in Nymeria again, somewhere vaguely familiar, legs heavy with grey fur rushing over snow and then stone, something small and warm in her mouth, anxiety recognizable in her chest.

Then, she’s in Arya’s room, dropping a pup onto the furs of Arya’s bed, a figure Arya can only imagine is her own wrapped in them. She whines, and Arya herself meets the wolf’s eyes, for what feels an endless moment, and then, in a moment of the slightest consciousness she thinks it mustn’t be a warging dream, but a truer dream, one of her mind reaching for Nymeria, and for answers.

She wakes at first light to squeals, though, Ghost himself curled at the end of the bed with his nose touching a wolf pup. 

“You ought to be guarding Sansa,” she says first, and he whines lowly at her in response. She makes her way around the bed to find that he’s curled around a fuzzy pup, smaller than even Ghost had been, tucked a bit past the edge of her blankets. If the poor thing had stayed outside, when she’d first been Nymeria the night before, it might not have made it to the morning; she’s struck with fear for it, this little black and grey pup.

She bends over to look at the seemingly sickly thing, but has to stand back up and go to her basin to vomit, an unfortunate routine she’s gotten too accustomed to in the past couple of weeks. It had even been keeping her from sparring, which is probably for the better, as with this little pup in her chambers she can only pretend she cannot imagine why. It is not so outlandish to think that any of the Starks could have been so bonded that their wolf might have found themselves a mate about the same time as their human had, and humans were not inevitably more careful with such matters.

She knows not if she could even call them mates, Arya scolds herself. Jon had been cold to Daenerys recently, and she had begun to be much the same towards Gendry, even though her heart ached at it.

She bundles the pup up in a blanket and takes them to Gilly, Ghost trotting behind, concern as clear in him as it is in her. Little Sam is precious, and gentle with the pup, terribly worried when his mother clarifies that she’s indeed never raised a direwolf, but pleased when she agrees to help Arya care for the pup, and they swaddle the little creature like Gilly had Sam. Ghost returns to guarding Sansa along with Brienne, but comes to get Arya at dusk that first day, leading her out through the godswood with the pup wrapped against her chest, all the way to the heart tree.

First, she sees only Bran, seated facing the tree with Podrick close by his side, the only ones visible as she walks the path she’d rushed down during battle, so recently and yet so long ago still, and then Nymeria pops up from behind the tree, closing the distance between them in only a few long strides and then happily accepting being petted, a gesture of trust Arya had not expected.

They were bonded still, for true, and she could cry.

Bran stays silent as Nymeria pulls Arya round the tree, to where three more pups lay, atop a pelt laid on the snow. Arya unwraps the pup on her chest, holding them out for Nymeria to lick, and she does, before tenderly grabbing them and laying them with the others. She lays herself down, posing to let the pups get milk from her, and then she presses her nose against Arya’s belly. It’s barely for a moment, but it’s more than enough.

“Your path is yours to make,” Bran says as she’s leaving, and she acts as though she’s not heard him.

It takes her a couple of days to breach the matter with Gilly. She doesn’t seek out the maester or even Sam, unwilling to explain herself, but she stops by with the pup a couple of times before Gilly asks if something is wrong, based on a nervous but wistful sort of look in Arya’s eye.

She asks how Gilly first realized she was with child, and Gilly smiles before launching into a tale Arya’s all too happy to listen to, though she’s careful to collect what details she can, ones she can use for comparison - the moons on end without any significant moon blood to speak of, the vomiting at odd hours and after moving in ways she used to be able, the desires for foods she’d not had since childhood, the tenderness in her breasts and tightness in her tunic, the otherwise unexplained return of her reflex to cry when emotions rose within her. They don’t speak of the most obvious parts, like how she’d only once made sure Gendry had pulled out from her before he spilled.

Let him, more like, she thinks bitterly. It had felt far too good to have him for her to think of what could come afterward, least of all what should. From what she’d known of the duties and nature, she was no mother, was she? She’d always done her best to care for children if they were her charges in some manner, and she enjoyed training them in the yard, and the idea of some little black-haired wolf-tempered children warmed her heart, but….

The path was hers to make.

She decides she needs to actually speak to Gendry about the matter, as terrifying as it feels. She’s barely seen him in the past month, stopping by the forge on occasion to watch him, but never close enough to let him notice her. She didn’t know how to ask what he really wanted from her without the risk of being told that it was what she couldn’t give, so she kept herself just far enough from him to imagine things would resolve themselves. Part of her knew they wouldn’t, but the idea that she could get so close to a realized dream to have it fall apart right there in her hands was enough for her to leave the pieces waiting for her.

Even before she’s entered the forge, she’s greeted by Nymeria’s whine, and smiles at the sight at the massive wolf curled up against a wall. Gendry interrupts Arya’s gaze with his own smile, and she feels tears brim her eyes in her relief. He’s setting down his work before she’s made her way over, happier to see her than she deserves. There are questions in his eyes, but love, still, and she revels in it, musing that she could forever. He barely manages to wipe his hands before she’s reached for them, and then she pulls him close for a kiss anyway, not caring there will be soot on her when they pull away.

Let it be known, she thinks. Let it be plainly obvious whose I am, before there’s any wonder who put a babe in me.

“Can I have a moment, to talk?” she asks softly, her anxieties coming to her surface now. He furrows his brow, and she bites back the instinct to run and try never to look back again.

“You can have whatever you want from me, Arya,” he answers, ever so gently curling a hand around her neck. “Anything I can give, or get, or…make, that’s yours. I’m yours.”

She doesn’t hold the tears back this time as she pulls his mouth back to hers, no idea what to say and even less desire to let him go, even the littlest bit.

“As I am yours,” she whispers eventually, her voice firm for just that moment, before she moves his hand down to the part of her stomach that had begun to round.

“And so are they.”

[mrsjadecurtiss]

I guess my first ask got cut off so I’m sending this again! 😂😂 Hi Jade, I hope you have had a nice weekend! I really enjoyed reading your takes on Roose, and I was wondering what your most favorite scenes of his are, and why you like them? I’m so excited to work on your gift! -Red Raven ;)

Haha no worries, that happened to me a lot as well x’D

Nice hearing from you Red Raven, glad you enjoyed reading them! :D Some of my favourite scenes of his would be:

The scenes where Arya is his cupbearer (Arya IX + X aCoK); They’re a great introduction to his character, and set in motion a lot of the things that will lead to the red wedding. He also interacts with lots of cool characters there, obviously Arya, but also the Freys (like Aenys, Hosteen, and Elmar) and Qyburn

His scene with Catelyn in Catelyn VI aSoS, where he offers her a piece of Theon’s finger skin as a “token of revenge” - Obv i ship them, and i think its an interesting gesture to analyze, is he completely calculating or does he try to win her affection (considering he is also seated next to her one chapter later during the Red Wedding)... Scenes like these make me think that the original plan might have been for Catelyn to survive the Red Wedding and Walder changed his mind about it later; so Roose sucks up to her in that chapter (maybe so she remembers him more fondly and would support his lies about having no part in the RW), but then during the Red Wedding itself he doesnt even talk to her, maybe because the plans changed? 🤔

His scenes with Jaime (Jaime IV + V aSoS) I read more rarely than the others, but they also have interesting characters in them (like Jaime and Brienne) as well as a cool setting with Harrenhal, so they might be fun to work with :D

And i love all his chapters in Winterfell in aDwD, they have such a great atmosphere and a great setting with all the snow, the claustrophobia, the impending threat of Stannis and the infighting and potential betrayals of his allies... Theres some interesting character development there, always makes me so hungry for tWoW!!

Generally I love scenes where you see his interactions with different characters and how that informs his characterization; Scenes where he is under a lot of stress (the moments at the red wedding before the carnage starts, and the entire situation at winterfell in aDwD); and scenes where we see new developments or backstory to his character (like his long conversation with Theon in aDwD, or the moment where Theon sees him showing fear)

Also he sadly has really few scenes with Barbrey but i obviously love anything with these two interacting :D and i also like backstory stuff, with his second wife Bethany Ryswell or with Domeric, or during Robert’s Rebellion [his age is vaguely given as well past 40 in aDwD, so he is probably in his late 20s-early 30s during Robert’s Rebellion. In the books Ned mentions he was at the Trident and tried to get Robert to execute Barristan for being a Targ loyalist]

Hope youre having a great day! :D

[ninaahelvar]

When Magnolias Fall (1/4)

Summary: When Magnolias start to bloom, Arya is sent to her family’s estate in the country to get her away from her scandal. She is alone, and in need of company. With only the staff to keep her entertained and far from loneliness, she grows increasingly close with the stable master - Gendry Waters. Who’s to say what will happen when Magnolias fall. 

AO3

A/N: what a shitty ending, so here's my take on that post cause i love au's. also, this chapter has not be beta read, so mistakes will be littered everywhere. English is my first language, but can i string a sentence together? no. i want to be a writer for a living. it's going well guys. anyway! enjoy! xx

It was bigger than he expected - far more grand than it had been described on paper, or even in the interview process. The long drive up the street was lined with magnolia trees, fully in bloom, pinks fading into white then back again. Then, the house loomed, higher than four stories, almost white, but weathered by time. At the entrance, lined the staff, all waiting for him. This wasn’t what he expected at all.

~*~*~

It felt like a death sentence - hidden from sight, and away from the invading view of the press. Arya’s scandal wasn’t what her family was expecting. The Stark name was tainted.

And Arya was being blamed.

Stark was a household name, everything from home appliances to cars to their own film studio. The children of Ned Stark were all apart of the family business in some way, both Robb and Sansa were on the board, Bran working small and managing a retail store with Rickon. Even their adopted cousin, Jon, was handling deals to do with car manufacturers.

Yet Arya didn’t have the head for business - not what the Starks were putting out. Their name haunted her - and rebellion was what she lived for. She went out drinking, spent time with her friends and flitted around from country to country. That was until the incident, as it had been so delicately put, that landed her back home, being driven to the countryside and away from prying eyes.

And Ned was furious. That this happened. That he had to make this decision. That he had to do this to Arya.

Arya knew she had crossed a line this time - that this was the last straw and the last remaining ounce of calm that Ned could muster. From the exasperated sigh he held when he told her what was happening - she also knew that he may not be able to handle her anymore. Anything about her. She knew she got away with things in the past - no words on favourites, but Ned held a love for Arya that he did for no one else. He once said that Arya reminded him of his sister.

Perhaps that’s why it broke him to send her away.

Their country mansion was hidden away, shrouded in magnolias that her mother loved. In all, Arya felt trapped by her own decisions. Life could have been simpler, better if she wasn’t a damn delinquent.

“Miss, we’re coming up to the house now. The staff will be waiting,” Brienne said. Arya sighed, falling deeper into her seat, letting her hair fall in front of her face, some falling inside her sunglasses. Her drunken mistake of dyeing her hair pink kept her from forgetting that night, the flashes in her eyes as it swept her vision.  

There were a lot of things that Arya regretted from that night.

The car stopped and Brienne came around to her door. When it opened, Arya stepped out, holding onto the door to support herself. Clutching at her stomach, she hitched her way out of the car and tried not to stumble when she stood upright. It hurt to breathe, her torso tighter than what she was used to.

“Hey,” she greeted with a vague wave to the crowd of staff, before leaning over to Brienne, “do I need to learn everyone’s name?”

“You’ll learn them over time, Miss,” she replied.

“Fun,” Arya said, clicking her tongue, “see you lot around, I guess,” she waved again, forcing herself to move inside. It was more difficult than she thought - at the hospital, she had the wheelchair and people helping her about, here she was alone.

She used the staircase railing to hoist her up, keeping her levelled and avoiding the painful hisses that she so desperately wanted to make. It felt like a lifetime before she made it all the way up and to her room. Standing outside the door for a moment, Arya pressed her hand to the stop - her hand covering the soft paint that marked her room all those years ago, fingers longer and palm wider. Arya was grown now.

Inside, Arya sighed at what met her, the room still decorated from her childhood. It wasn’t as though she hated it now that she was in her twenties, but it was missing something she couldn’t quite define. It was only a holiday home, she reminded herself, it shouldn’t feel like she was returning to her safety of home. It was a place they visited once a year when they were children and teens. But when Robb and Jon stopped coming, the rest refused to go along with it.

Putting her things down, and there was minimal things at that, she made her way to her bathroom, hands on every surface she could. Even after everything, she felt like she’d been through hell. In her bathroom, she took off her sunglasses, showing the destruction that covered her right side. With a black eye and scattered scratches, her face was still a bloody mess, with streaks of bruises that roamed her skin.

Arya wondered if it was cool to have a scar or not.

And when she lifted her shirt to see the blazing red of blood on the gauze, she knew she couldn’t do this all alone.

Placing herself in her bathtub, she remained there for a while, contemplating whether or not to see what lay underneath the bandages. In the end, she called for Brienne, who called a physician to check on what was wrong.

When the doctor came, he looked over her stitches, noting that he would need to add an extra stitch along where one of her wounds was stretching. Arya, being the idiot that she was, just sat in the bath, towel between her teeth and little anesthetic. To be fair, she thought she could handle the pain - she couldn’t.

She didn’t pass out, but she was close to it. The doctor recommended pain medication, but when Arya and Brienne exchanged looks, the meds were given to Brienne. As the doctor left, a new man entered her bathroom, and she perked as she recognised him.

“Davos? Is that you?” she asked. He had a thicker beard, with far more grey in it than she remembered, but when he smiled, she knew for sure it was him. He had always served her father, close friends and maintained the house when the family wasn’t on the property.

“Miss Stark, it’s been a lifetime,” he chuckled, restraining himself and putting his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, but I must confess...it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance again,” he smiled solemnly and she scoffed.

“You heard, huh?”

“I think the whole country has,” he replied, and Arya nodded, “how are the stitches?”

“Popping by the second,” she said, almost going to tap her side, but stopped herself. She was going without her pain meds, she didn’t need more pain.

“Please rest for the next few days, I’ll try and make things as easy as possible. I’ve heard your father is set to join us in a week to check in on you,” he recommended, and the news about her father made her shift uncomfortably in the tub.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, settling herself back into a comfortable position. There wasn’t much comfort in a porcelain cocoon, keeping her trapped there until the pain finally subsided. Davos looked down at her solemnly, crouching beside the bath.  

“In any case, feel free to lounge around. If you need anything, just let one of the staff know and they’ll get right on it,” he nodded.

“Thank you, Davos,” she said as he reached into the tub, helping her out and guiding her to the bed.

Arya stayed in bed for the first few days - doing nothing drove her nuts, she wanted to get out and do anything else, but the stitches caused her more pain than she could handle. And so, she was confined to her bed.

When she was finally able to get up without feeling herself dying, she sat by the windowsill, watching the world pass by without her. Ned had come and gone without seeing Arya, but she saw him come and go. All she could think of was her father’s voice, the boom that radiated from his chest as he yelled at her like he had never done before. Never to her.

You will stay out of the spotlight for a year. You will stay at the country house and you will come back when winter comes. It breaks me to do this, Arya, but I am not letting you destroy yourself anymore. Get clean. Get better. Until then, stay at the house.

Arya pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her temple to her knee as she looked outside. Across the field, a man rode on a horse with four others in his wake. He glanced over his shoulder, gesturing and calling something that Arya couldn’t make out. The horses moved in sync, following directions and changing up their pace, until finally letting them have free reign, trotting about the field as he watched over the scattered horses.

For a brief moment he looked up to the house, and Arya perked, seeing if he was looking to her, only for him to turn back, letting his horse walk the length of the field at its own leisure. Arya watched them for a while until he took the horses back inside and Arya was left to watch the day turn to afternoon, and she returned to her bed.

The next day, she snuck down to the kitchen, grabbing as much food as she could in her hands as she wandered. When the whinnying from the stables became intense, Arya couldn’t stop herself from moving towards it. There was a rush of comotion, people starting to worry as a horse bucked inside it’s pen. Then, as quickly as it had started, it settled down, the crowd dispersing as a gentle shushing held the stables.

“You just have to watch Nymeria, she can get a bit wild when startled.” The man from the day before said, soothing Arya’s horse. She knew better than anyone that Nymeria was a force to be reckoned with. The thought that someone else knew it made her feel protective of the horse.

“Noted, sir,” Podrick replied. Of all the staff, Arya knew Podrick. He was a nice guy, nervous thing when he first started to work with them, his family letting him work and play when he was far younger. He was an all rounder, mimicking much of Davos’ work, if Arya recalled correctly.

“Please don’t go around calling me that, you know my name.” The man rolled his shoulders

“Yes. Of course,” Podrick replied. When he passed Arya, he smiled and Arya replied with her own, making her way into the stables slowly, barely a person about. It was only Arya and the man with Nymeria.

“There you go, been such a good lass lately,” he whispered, stroking the horse’s mane. Arya kept walking, admiring how the stables hadn’t crumbled down - they looked better from when she was a child. Before she even realised it, she ran straight into the man. Arya hadn’t even realised he had moved, but he was like a wall against her, hard on impact and unmoving as Arya crashed into him.

“Wow! Watch it would you!” he snapped, and Arya scrunched up her face at him.

“And who do you think you are to boss me about?”

“Boss you about? You’re in my fucking stable, you need to follow what I say out here!” he barked, and Arya laughed, stepping into his path to keep his attention firmly on her.

“And you’re in my fucking home, so watch it,” she warned, turning on her heels and heading back towards the house.

He scoffed over her shoulder. “You’re a brat, you know that?”

Arya turned quickly. Who the fuck did he think he was, talking to her like she wasn’t the person paying his salary? “Excuse me? I can have you fired for talking like that.” She marched right back to him, standing her ground, but it was difficult when he puffed out his chest slightly, and looked down at her.

“From what I know, and how the rest of the staff talks about you, I don’t think you have the power anymore,” he replied back with a smirk, and Arya’s hands bound. Before she could even register what she was doing, she shoved at his chest and made him stumble back a few steps.

“Fuck you,” she snapped back at him, storming into the house and slamming as many doors as she could before finally reaching her room, ready to trash it all. But the panting enough made her feel weak, strained beyond what she could handle at that point in her recovery.

For the rest of the day, she stewed in her rage, unable to move from her bed, and only seeing other people when she requested things. They all brought her things, with smiles and nervous speech. Did people fear her? Or her family name? She didn’t have people in that house that didn’t have to like her. And that idiot out in the stables yelled at her, and he didn’t fear her or her family name.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Arya stirred all night long. Something about what the guy in the stable said. Brat. She wasn’t a brat. Was she? She knew she had certainly been that way once in her youth - but now? Could she really be that girl, stuck trying to be a toddler for the rest of her life instead of growing up?

Arya had despised those girls - the ones that relied on others to fix their problems, but were needlessly reckless purely because they had no other responsibilities. She always thought she was someone with more responsibilities than most - but she knew better. She excused herself for that reason, but it wasn’t true. She neglected the things she should have - let herself be reckless because she could.

And above it all, she thought of the stable hand, or whatever his job was, and how he stood his ground against her. Not many people did that anymore, letting her get away with murder for the most part. But he didn’t. He knew his place, and worth. And stood there - knowing full well he was right to do so. Arya knew that. She was just...stubborn.

It took her a few days to bring herself to get out of bed and make it to the stables. Being without pain meds took its toll more than she anticipated, and her recovery for exerting herself liked to kick her in the ass. She couldn’t blame it. It was a physical wake up call to everything. She was tired, and so was her body.

At the edge of the stables, she saw him moving hay bales around, stacking some, and simply moving some into the stables for the horses. Arya pursed her lips as she leaned against one of the beams. It provided her with some much needed support.  

“What’s your name?” she asked, and the stable master, as she had learned, jumped at the voice she emitted to an empty stable.

“Waters, Gendry. Gendry Waters,” he cleared his throat, getting back to shuffling hay around. His clothes were loose, like her own, but they had far more wear. He must have worked in them nearly every other day. Whilst Arya’s loose clothes were for comfort, she knew his were for necessity, moving around and having the best motion for the job at hand.

“I don’t have anyone here that I know well,” she said slowly, not meeting his eye. He stopped, looking back at her with his nose scrunched up tight. He stared for a moment, as though he were wondering something - like, was she serious.  

“And what am I meant to do about it? I’m not here to be your friend,” he remarked and Arya shugged.

“You’re also kinda stuck here,” she said and he rolled his eyes, “can I just...follow you around today?” she asked tentatively. He put the pitchfork down into the haystack beside him, resting his weight onto his hip.

“Can you learn some names today?”

“If you let me tag along, then we have a deal,” she said, and Gendry seemed to contemplate it for a moment. He rolled his eyes and gestured for her to follow him. She perked and followed after, watching him walk back and forth between the stables and eventually getting Arya to help him with some of his tasks. It was the least she could do.

Arya helped guide the horses out into the field, letting the graze for the morning as they went back to the stables to clear everything up. Arya wheeled a stack of hay towards Gendry as he unloaded more after clearing out the mess from the night before.

“What’s with the pink hair? From all the pictures in house, you had dark hair,” he asked, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“Just wanted a change. Something new,” Arya shrugged, tugging on the ends of her hair.

“Change can be good. Unless it’s pink hair,” he shrugged, and Arya scoffed out a laugh, trying to keep up with him. He finished with most of it and said for Arya to rest. She tried unsuccessfully to jump up onto the edge of a stable beam, but she wasn’t tall enough - and her torso was rather hindering.

Gendry laughed before moving towards Arya and gave her a look. Arya resigned to the fate that was set up for her. His hands went in at her waist, and she hissed in pain. He looked like he was going to say something, but Arya simply moved his hands down to her hips and nodded to him. Gendry picked her up and placed her on the beam, letting her rest her weight.

Over the course of an hour, Gendry quizzed her on different staff members, describing them as best as he could and told her their names. Eventually he’d circle back and ask again, trying to get her to remember as best as she could. It took her a few tries to get some names, but she felt like she was learning over the course of the hour.

Gendry pulled the saddle off the wall, and Arya asked what he was doing if he wasn’t going to ride. Explaining that the saddles all needed to be checked after a few weeks was important - making sure if it’s used, it isn’t going to toss someone off the back of a moving horse. Arya would have asked more questions, but she knew Gendry may explain things she didn’t quite care about, and instead let him work. She’d ask him later.

As Gendry tested a strap, he asked about different members of staff and Arya took some time to answer. They managed to get through a lot of the staff before the list was running low.

“The kid in the bakery,” he asked, stripping from his long sleeved flannel. He tossed it aside after wiping his forehead, and continued to look over. He wore a tight henley underneath, which hadn’t fared too well over the day, sweat marks and dirt covered the shirt that may have once been white.

“Oh shit, okay, it’s something strange,” Arya chewed on her lip, kicking her legs back and forth. “Hot...hot pie?” she answered cautiously.

Gendry cracked a smile, working hard on the leather. “Right.”

“Yes!” she cheered. “Okay, one more and I’ll let you go do whatever,” she said, waiting patiently to see what Gendry would do. He stopped, looking up to the roof before he glanced back towards Arya.

“Woman that trims the roses.”

“Old or young?”

He clicked his tongue as he looked at her. “Ah, see, you caught on too quick. Old,” he groaned, as though he were going to trick her. He’d tripped her up four times before on those questions. She learnt at that point.

“Easy! Olenna Tyrell,” she said, and Gendry nodded, going back to work.

“Okay, now leave me alone. Go find something better to do,” he said, waving part of the saddle at her. Arya let herself slip from the edge of a stable and go back towards the house. She stopped at the edge of the stable, catching Gendry looking towards her.

“Go get food soon! I’ll eat it all,” she called and Gendry laughed, shaking his head.

“No one that small can eat what the kitchen cooks up,” he said, almost as though it were a challenge. Arya beamed back a smile.

“You’d be surprised,” she said proudly, raising her chin.

“I’ll get right on it,” he laughed, briefly getting to work, only to find himself looking back at Arya, who still hadn’t moved. She wanted him to move, to relax. “I said I would, get back in the house, Stark.” Arya rolled her eyes and went inside.

*

It became routine after that, meeting Gendry most mornings and learning about the place. He was new to the area and to the job, but he caught on quick. He was used to working with horses from his family’s farm, but he was getting used to being a full stable master when he was hired on the country estate. Arya had to admit, she liked spending time with Gendry. He wasn’t a push over, but he did let her push him around a bit.

Gendry also liked to be a pain in her side, urging her to do more and to stop moping around. Since being there, she had to admit, she was more sour than she’d ever been in her life, but he made her be nicer - to be herself amongst people she could consider like her family. She knew some of them, she didn’t have to be the worst version of herself around them.

As she sat in bed one morning, texting Sansa and waiting for the doctor to get in, she heard soft tapping on her window. She furrowed her brow as she looked at it, noticing that the taps sounded when small pebbles from the front walkway were being thrown at it. She walked over slowly, peering out as much as possible before she needed to open it, she saw the messy hair of Gendry below.

She scoffed, opening the window, and peering out the side. Gendry laughed as Arya’s hair fell all around her face. “Stark, how’s the ribs today?” he called up to her. Arya pouted as she inspected her side before giving Gendry a curious look.

“Why? You planning on injuring me some more?” she smirked.

“You should get out and ride!” he said, beaming up. Arya had to admit, it was the perfect day for a ride, and he looked especially keen to spend time with her - which he didn’t normally like to do, and it being the morning, he seemed excited.

“I’ve been told I can ride in Summer, and not a day sooner,” she reiterated. When Arya arrived, it had been a few weeks into Spring, and there were only a few more weeks left before Summer started. She was meant to be getting a check up that day anyhow, so she didn’t mind missing out as long as she knew she could get out of the bloody house eventually.

“When will spring end!” he groaned back out, both of them chuckling at the sentiment.

“Very funny,” she shook her head, “I hope Nymeria bucks you off!”

“Don’t even joke, that girl scares me,” he warned her, a smile still pressed to his lips.

“She better!”

“Get your ass down here and help out when you can,” he said, and Arya heard her bedroom door open. She looked over her shoulder, seeing Brienne, Davos, and the doctor walk in, smiling as she turned. Looking back out the window, she waved Gendry off.

“Later! I do have a life, Waters.”

“I doubt it,” he yelled, laughing as he moved towards the stables.

Arya pushed herself back inside, going back to her bed and sitting on the edge. The doctor examined her stitches, inspecting all her vitals and making sure everything was going the way it should have been. When he gave his final sigh, one that wasn’t exasperated, more as though he was proud after all the examines, and it made everyone perk up.

“Your stitches are looking well. It’s been nearly two months since the accident, so they’ve healed well, in spite of you pulling some out,” he explained and as Arya lowered her shirt, and chewed on her lip.

“Do you think I’ll need to take anything for pain? Or antibiotics or whatever?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head, “but I have noticed from Brienne that you didn’t take any that I prescribed.”

Arya went tight lipped before reclining back slightly into her bed. “I think we all know it was best I didn’t.”

“You could have been careful,” he explained and shrugged.

“I was. I didn’t take any.”

“I’m assuming you have other vices now?” he laughed and Arya shook her head, as Davos and Brienne snickered.

“Maybe. If I can leave the fucking house soon,” she complained and the doctor nodded.

“I think you’ll be ready and active within two weeks. Just take it slow,” he nodded and Arya agreed, letting herself sink back into her bed and relief washed over her.

“We’ll let your father know the good news. Maybe you can go home soon,” Davos said.

Arya sat up quickly, looking at Davos and Brienne, who looked shocked by her quick reaction. “I think...I should stay here until Winter. Like father said.”

“We’ll let him know you said that. He’d love to visit,” Brienne said with a faint smile.

After spending some time in the stables with Gendry that day, she was covered in dirt and grime. After a long shower, hair wrapped up in a towel, she started to wash her face with cleansers and toners, inspecting her face for anything out of the ordinary when she paused.

Ayra looked at her reflection, wondering how only a few months ago, she looked different, battered and bruised. And now, she looked like she had more colour than she did then. Yet, she wondered how colourful she appeared to others. Thinking about it, she came up with a plan, something to feel more in tune with herself again, even with how bright she felt.

Walking downstairs, she wandered the halls, trying to find anyone, until she found one of the staff in the library going through some of the books and pilling things onto a tray. Arya assumed she was an all rounder, and cleared her throat. The woman turned in a start, looking at Arya.

“Gilly, right?” Arya asked the woman in the library. She nodded quickly, albeit nervously.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied and Arya grimaced.

“Arya’s fine,” she corrected. “Can you go out and get me this?” she asked, handing over the piece of paper to Gilly. She took it, and upon reading it, she beamed back, nodding quickly. Arya went back to her room, finding her room a mess. She needed a new breath of life - and this wasn’t it.

Over the course of the next day, she cleaned her room as much as possible.

She needed to breathe again. And this was it. This house was her breath.

~*~*~

Spring felt like it came and went in a breeze, barely letting Gendry register time. He’d spent most if it with Arya, and she made time seem like it was flying by. There was something fun about it, that he could get so lost in her, that time was no issue.

When he was preparing the saddle for Nymeria, he saw the short Stark girl looking at him from the edge of the stables and he couldn’t help but smile. Where her pink hair dully shined not a day or two before, now sat brown hair, like he’d seen in all the family portraits and tabloids before. Arya made her way to him, tentatively smiling towards him before she puffed out her chest and all ounce of nerves he thought he sensed was gone.

“Lost the pink, did we?” he asked, and as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, Gendry had to ignore the fact that his heart was racing.

“Change can be good, don’t you think?” she asked, walking past him, jabbing him in the shoulder with a smirk on her face. Then, she stopped, squaring her shoulders and standing taller than she had been before. She was being cocky and he had to admit, it was a good look on her. “And look at that? Is it Summer today?” she contained her smile, but not very well.

Gendry smiled as Arya went beside Nymeria, gesturing for him to come help her with the saddle on the horse’s back.

[starrynightshade]

Breathe

Formatting is working with me today, so here it is! As requested by @thedesignateddriver, whose prompt was “breathe.” Also available on AO3.

Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe.

In theory, it should have been easy. After all, she had been doing it since the day she was born. Breathing wasn’t the type of thing one typically needed to be reminded to do.

Today, however, she found herself focused on the simple act of taking air in and pushing it back out. Perhaps it was excitement, or nerves, or the simple fact that Sansa had laced her dress so tightly that Arya thought her insides might have been permanently damaged. Whatever the reason, she found herself gripping Jon’s arm a little tighter as he escorted her through the halls of Winterfell and repeating her internal mantra with every step.

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…

Jon paused as they approached the doors to the courtyard and turned to face her. “Are you ready?”

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…

She wasn’t sure how to answer. She knew what was waiting beyond those doors and she wasn’t afraid, but she also knew that if she had any doubts she needed to turn back now. Once they walked through those doors Jon would lead her to the Godswood, place her hand in Gendry’s, and join the rest of her family and friends in witnessing their wedding ceremony.

Was she ready for that?

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…

Arya smoothed her skirt down for what felt like the hundredth time since she’d put it on. Sansa hadn’t let her sew a single stitch on the gown, citing some old superstition. Arya couldn’t begrudge her the honor — not when her own sewing skills were still so abysmal and Sansa’s superstition had proven true once before. She’d worried it would come out flowery and soft-looking like the one Sansa had worn to her third (and final) wedding, but her sister knew her better than that.

Arya's was a simple dress made of pale grey fabric, but Sansa had embellished it with weirwood branches along the hem and neckline. When she saw it for the first time, Arya couldn’t help but think of a different dress from a lifetime ago — one with so many little acorns on it, she’d complained of looking like an oak tree. Even then Gendry had said she looked nice, though she was scrawny and her hair was cut short like a boy’s.

She didn’t look like a boy today. Not with her gown cinched tightly to exaggerate her meager curves and a neckline that dipped just low enough to allude to her modest cleavage without putting it on display. Her hair, which now fell just below her shoulders, had been styled with a few simple braids that swept it away from her face. No, she certainly didn’t look like a boy today.

“You look beautiful,” Jon assured her.

Arya let out a shaky laugh as she fanned her cloak out behind her. It was a simple fur-lined thing with no embellishment, save for the clasp which Gendry had made himself to resemble a dire wolf howling at the moon. Arya had to admit she was a bit sad she would be parting with the garment. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“It’s because you’re not armed,” he chuckled, absentmindedly reaching for the place on his hip where Longclaw usually rested.

“Speak for yourself.” She lifted up her skirts just enough for him to see the hilt of her dagger poking out from the top of her boot.

Now he was laughing in earnest and Arya couldn’t help but join in. “And to think I was worried you’d turned into a real lady.”

“How quickly you lose faith,” she teased.

There was a stretch of silence before Jon spoke again. “Arya, if you don’t want to do this — ”

“I’m ready,” she announced, cutting him off. “I want to do this.”

And in the deepest part of her heart she knew it was true. She wanted to get married. She wanted to walk through those doors and become Gendry’s wife because he was her friend, her lover, her family, and her home all in one.

When she was a girl she had sworn that marriage was not for her and that she would never submit to some fat old lord who only wanted her for her title and her womb, but Gendry didn’t ask her to submit. Gendry never asked her for anything more than she was willing to give, and she loved him for it. Theirs, she had realized, could be a marriage of equals.

“In that case, let’s not keep him waiting.” Jon pushed the doors open and the two of them walked out into the cool evening. A fresh dusting of snow had fallen over the Godswood that day, making every branch of the weirwood tree glitter in the light of the many torches that shone beneath it.

She was vaguely aware of everyone turning towards them as she and Jon rounded the bend in the pathway, but none of them mattered when she found the one face she’d been searching for. Gendry was standing at the base of the weirwood tree in a dark cloak that fell just past his knees. His hair was longer than it had been when he’d arrived at Winterfell and Arya knew from experience that it was as soft and thick as it was dark and unruly. He looked like a man, not the boy she had met so long ago, though the awestruck look on his face did offer him an air of childish wonder.

She wanted to be standing next to him already but Jon’s steady pace and the hinderance of her skirts kept her from running towards him and throwing her arms around his neck.

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…

She kept the mantra up in her head as they slowly approached the base of the tree, stopping when Arya and Gendry were within arm’s reach of each other. Without a word, Jon turned to his sister and cradled her face in his hands as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. John had never been a man of many words, but the gesture spoke such volumes to Arya that she nearly teared up as he stepped away and made a spot for himself next to Brienne. The knowledge that he was there for her, and that his love for her remained despite the years apart helped ease the sting of her father’s absence, just as Sansa’s fawning had distracted her from the acute awareness that her mother should have been the one to help her into her gown today.

There had been some debate over who should officiate the ceremony but the task had eventually fallen to Bran, who slowly wheeled his chair to face the two of them. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“I, Arya, of the House Stark, come here to be wed. I come to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to join me?”

The few people who were aware that she had deviated from tradition kept silent, which Arya took as a good sign. She had always hated the idea of being handed off like property from one man to another, so she had refused. Nobody seemed too shaken by the fact and soon it was Gendry’s turn to speak.

“I do. Gendry of the house Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End.”

Arya could tell the words still felt foreign to him, but he said them clearly nonetheless.

She glanced over at Bran as he  spoke again. “And who gives this woman?”

“I give myself,” Arya announced, earning a few murmurs from the small crowd behind her.

Bran simply nodded. “Arya, will you take this man?”

“I will.”

Taking Gendry’s hand in her own, the two of them knelt before the tree in silence. Arya didn’t know what to pray for, so she simply asked the Old Gods for the same things she always did: health, happiness, and the wisdom to be a good leader. After a few more moments she squeezed Gendry’s hand, signaling that they should stand up and remove their cloaks.

Typically only the bride received a cloak — a symbol of her groom’s protection. Truth be told though, Arya didn’t need Gendry’s protection. Still, she appreciated it and offered him hers in return. They had agreed that their wedding should be representative of that.

She undid the elegant clasp on her own cloak first, missing its warmth almost as soon as she took it off. Luckily, it was soon replaced by the one Gendry had been wearing all night. When he had finished fastening the bronze antler clasp across her chest, he knelt down in front of her and allowed her to return the favor, tossing her cloak over his shoulders and securing it when he had returned to his full height.

It took all Arya had not to run backdown the aisle when he took her hand and led her away from the tree. She felt a sudden urge to jump or roll or somersault across the ground like she did when she was a child. She was overflowing, she realized. She was too full of happiness.

Gendry must have been too because the second they were out of sight, he picked her up in his arms and spun her around, laughing like he hadn’t in years. Arya looped her arms around his neck and laughed too. When he had made them both a little dizzy, he set her down, resting his forehead against hers and letting her steady herself with her hands on his chest.

“You’re finally my family,” she whispered, tracing one of the wolves on his chest with her finger.

“Finally,” he agreed, leaning forward.

When he kissed her, it felt like she was taking her first deep breath all day.

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…

Just keep breathing.

[dancinginthecenteroftheworld]

Nov 30: Frost (Brienne-centric)

It’s not like Brienne is going to go to the holiday party, and it’s not like anyone is going to care but maybe it’s another new thing Brienne can get used to here in Westeros. 

Brienne knew, somewhat abstractly, that Westeros got long, cold winters when she decided to move. Brienne has never had a real winter, only vaguely remembers the year snow fell on Tarth. It’s not the tropics on Tarth, Brienne is used to wearing sweaters and long pants and she’s figured she’d be fine.

But it’s October, now, her feet feel like they’ll never be warm again and now the windshield on her car is covered in ice.

The delight Brienne had felt at the frost sparkling on the grass as she drank her tea and looked out the window evaporates quickly. 

Brienne has been sitting in her car, heater running, trying her wipers every so often and wincing at the harsh scraping noise, when there’s a knock on her window. 

Brienne vaguely recognizes the woman as one of the tenants from her floor. 

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” The woman looks like a fairy tale princess, her long dark hair falling over a pretty pink coat, the blue hat and gloves and scarf she’s wearing matching her boots. 

She doesn’t look like she’s cold at all, while Brienne is shivering in her father’s old peacoat and one of her warmer sweaters and jeans. 

“Yes, from Tarth,” Brienne answers.

“You need an ice scraper.” The woman holds up her hand. “One second.”

She comes back with a long-handled tool and begins chipping away at Brienne’s windshield with surprising strength. The woman, Brienne learns as she takes the scraper and uses her greater height for more reach, is Shireen Baratheon and she teaches at the local school. 

“You need better gloves,” Shireen says, looking at Brienne’s worn fingerless mitts. “And hats and a lined coat. This is nothing for us.”

Brienne groans before she can stop herself.

By the time she’s cleared her car, Brienne has a shopping list for warm clothing, things like a snow shovel even though the landlord is supposed to clear the lot (“He doesn’t,” Shireen sighs, and then uses a word that’s very inappropriate for a schoolteacher to describe Baelish), and a new appreciation for fleece-lined anything and thermal underwear. 

Shireen gives her a wave and insists they must get together for coffee sometime, claiming it’s nice to have a normal neighbor. 

Brienne doesn’t really expect she’ll follow through. 

But Brienne does go shopping on Saturday, shoving her distaste for the chore back and heading to Cregan’s department store. 

She’s surprised to see her head volunteer from the animal shelter working the floor. 

“My parents store,” Sansa explains, obligingly leading Brienne to the men’s section and helping her find most of the things on Shireen’s list. Fleece-lined jeans, heavier sweaters, thermal base layers and boots. 

Brienne tamps down on the brief feeling of regret that she’s stuck with clunky, brown boots instead of something cute. Not that she’d wear powder blue, fur-topped ones like Shireen, but it would be nice to have something pretty and feminine that fits her.

That must be why she allows Sansa to coax her into the woman’s department. 

“We do alterations, and we carry plenty of tall sizes,” Sansa explains. She’s not exactly petite herself, slim but definitely taller than average.

Still not as tall as Brienne, which means there’s at least some hope of things fitting her. 

Sansa seems determined, digging through racks with enthusiasm. 

“Don’t you want something nice?” Sansa asks, piling dresses over her arm as Brienne frowns. “I know your job needs practical clothes, but we do have the town holiday party coming up.”

“I don’t wear dresses,” Brienen says automatically. “I can’t.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow.

Brienne gestures at her shoulders, sighing. She doesn’t know if women like Sansa genuinely don’t understand how large she is or if they’re just mean enough to want to see how grotesque Brienne looks. 

Brienne doesn’t think Sansa would be that cruel. She’s always been kind when they’ve worked together, and Asha has nothing but good things to say about the woman who keeps the volunteers at the shelter running smoothly. 

“Nonsense,” Sansa says briskly.  “You just need the right dress.”

The right dress, if it exists, is not at Cregan’s, though Sansa tries to talk Brienne into a few. Brienne eventually finds herself buying a blue jumpsuit which miraculously does fit, or almost. Sansa assures her the store can let out the hem and fix the inch of ankle showing at the leg. Brienne will need to wear something underneath it, the neckline plunges too low, if she wears it out in public. 

There’s something kind of nice about having an article of clothing so decidedly feminine, even if Brienne never wears it. And Sansa looks so pleased when Brienne says she’ll pick the jumpsuit up later.