#but dear god petyr what was the plan there?

[stars-and-soda]

Can you imagine how fucking mad Littlefinger's dad must have been? Imagine carefully creating a friendship with the Lord Paramount of the Trident to the point he graciously decides to foster your son at his castle. Only for the little bastard to mess it all up by proposing to his eldest daughter whose one son away from heir and is already engaged to another Lord Paramount's heir, who he tries to duel and fails miserably.

[alemoncakelife]

AU: Jon Snow Meets Alayne Stone

“Remember my sweet, he cannot recognise you.”

“Of course, father, for we have never met.”

Petyr smirked at her as the pair approached the party of Northerners. Sansa gripped her reins and held her breath. She had always thought of how sweet it would be to see Jon Snow again. Yet the notion of this reunion taking place among so many people, particularly Littlefinger, simply filled her with dread. Lord Baelish had laid such a careful collection of plots. He intended to have her win the heart of Harry the Heir, along with the whole of the Eyrie and most importantly Winterfell. Home. It was a delicate and treacherous game, as it always was with him. They could not have her half brother reveal her true name before its time. Otherwise more things may be lost than a game.

But all she had to do was remind herself that Sansa was not here. It was only Alayne. And all Alayne had heard of Jon Snow was the whispers from the other lords and ladies of the Vale. And as she drew her horse to a halt, there he stood before her. The awkward boy who sparred with Robb and Theon had gone. Now in his place was a stranger. A man, with hair as black as the midnight sky and eyes that shone like dragonglass. He wore the furs of a lord that reminded her so much of her father. Her heart twinged. Winterfell was so far from here.

“Lord Snow,” Petyr Baelish declared as he dismounted, “I trust your journey was a safe one.” Lord Jon bowed his head before replying that it was, although the bitter winds indicated that winter truly was coming.

“It may be coming sooner than any man can tell.” Baelish continued. When he and Jon were face to face, he gave the lad a smile that barely spread past his cheeks. Lord Snow couldn’t seem to return the expression and his mouth twitched briefly instead.

He never was confident in courtesies, Sansa thought fondly. Then she prayed to the gods that she’d look as much a stranger to him as he did to her, before she slid from her saddle and joined her father. 

“My lord may I introduce you to my daughter. Although her name is not all that dissimilar to your own.”

In that moment she knew she had to speak. But what if Jon recognised her voice? Sansa willed herself to meet his gaze and it was then that she was almost certain he knew. His hands had dropped by his sides and his lips were softly parted. It was as if her real name danced upon those very lips and longed to slip free. But she couldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t allow it! Sansa’s Tully eyes fluttered into a stonier stare. Her mouth curled into a smirk her Lord Father would be proud of. Her false one at least...

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Snow. My name is Alayne Stone.”

She curtsied. (Not as gracefully as Sansa would have.)

“Stone?” he said, piecing it together. His voice was lower and gruffer than she remembered. The longer she lingered on his face she realised just how many scars he bore. Sansa’s scars never reached her face. Each mark sparked a new question in her mind. It had been so long since he left. There was so much she wanted to know. What had he seen? What had he survived? In a way he was the only person of her past that remained to her. A part of her was desperate to know how big Ghost had gotten, but Alayne would have to firstly learn that Jon Snow even had a direwolf before finding that out. Yet all these thoughts vanished when she realised he was smiling at her. Smiling, truly. She knew it was true because his eyes shone brighter while the skin around them creased. He used to smile that way with Arya and her brothers.

“Alayne Stone. That’s a pretty name.”

What? Did she hear him correctly? Sansa had told him to say that. In another life when she was small and full of songs. She told him to give that exact praise to the ladies he’d meet. He remembered! After all this time he remembered! Half her head told her it was a foolish coincidence, but the other half screamed that Jon Snow remembered her lesson even after all this time! It was practically nothing and yet it felt like everything.She wanted so much to throw herself into his arms and weep and laugh and never let him go. Don’t be silly. Be Alayne. Instead she clasped her gloved hands together and tilted her head cooly.

“You are too kind, my lord. Perhaps once my father has shown you and your men to your rooms, you might tell me some tales of your time in the North. I hear it can be quite beautiful”

Jon’s expression darkened a little.

“It is, my lady. But sadly it is now in great danger. We all are. That is what’s brought us to you.”

The bluntness threw her a bit, but Alayne was not so swayed. She glanced at Petyr who was looking at her with what some might see to be pride or admiration, but she knew him better than that. He loved to watch her play.

“The world is indeed a dangerous place. But there is no need for such formalities with me. You may call me Alayne. Everyone does.”

“Thank you. You can call me Jon.”

“Jon.” It felt so nice to say his name. She wanted to say it again. But she really shouldn’t have.

First he blinked. As if he had misheard her. Then he opened his mouth as if to speak but nothing came out. It was a silence that felt longer than it likely was, and suddenly Sansa was all too aware of the Northern men and knights of the Vale that had been watching the three of them this whole time. What a stupid thing to do. She had no different voice. Saying his name must have done something. A wrong move on her part. If Sansa gave him enough time she was sure he’d find her in the woman before him. He made her feel like her brunette wash was fading from her hair with every second. Her cheeks burned. The little girl in her wanted Littlefinger to say something. To intervene. Surely he could see this unravelling like she did?

I must not be a Stark. Not now. Not yet.

What would Sansa Stark not do in this moment? Because whatever that was, Alayne Stone had to do it, and quickly. Then it came to her.

“Jon...Jon, Jon.” She played with his name before licking her lips and raising an eyebrow. This was confusing him. Good. Throw him off the scent. “I think not.”

With that she sauntered back to her horse and climbed up. She prayed nobody could see how her legs were shaking. Once she was mounted Alayne smiled triumphantly. “If it please my lord, I should like to call you Snow. I know so many Jons you see, but no Snows.”

“A-aye. You can call me that.” He tried to hide his fidgeting finger beneath his cloak. That red-haired girl from his childhood was falling out of his thoughts now. Let her disappear.

“Well then, dear father. Perhaps we should all head back to the Eyrie now. As you said yourself winter is approaching and these winds grow less forgiving.”

Petyr was beaming at her. Sansa couldn’t tell if it was that or the breeze that was causing the gooseflesh around her neck. Had there not been so many spectators, Lord Baelish might have tried to steal a fatherly kiss had his bastard daughter not retreated to her steed. 

“Very wise, my sweet.” He turned to Jon. “You must forgive my girl. Her manners are not always what they ought.”

“It’s alright. We bastards are not known for our courtesies.” Littlefinger allowed himself a small chuckle. He’d never looked slimier to Sansa than now.

“Indeed. We shall show you and your men to your rooms. Then we may discuss the matters you conveyed to me in your raven. I am most keen to be of service in any way I can.”

Jon Snow thanked him with a nod and they both got onto their horses. Sansa watched him. He moved with such strength. He must be a magnificent fighter now. Petyr never told her why he invited Jon all this way or how he might fit into his plans. Perhaps he didn’t. There was danger in that. 

“You did well.” He whispered, ensuring no-one else was listening to them. “When we return I will explain why he’s here, and of what value he may be to us.”

You will not make a pawn of him. Not if I can help it.

“Do you know what Jon meant, when he talked of us being in danger?”

“Yes, but do not fret my love. You and I both thrive in perils. Others may fall but we keep on climbing.” With that, Littlefinger galloped ahead, probably expecting her to follow like a good little bird.

But what does a mockingbird know of the winter? Be it wolves or bastards, Jon and I are a pack. If winter is coming, then I will protect him.

Sansa turned to look back at Jon Snow. They were the last of the Starks. She allowed herself to give him a small smile. Alayne Stone would be his friend. She would protect him in any way she could. And when the time came, she would tell Jon Snow the truth.

[j-morgan-fly]

The Mockingbird has his way

So, this is a little something I have been working on. It's not full blown nor do I feel it ready to post on AO3, but I wanted to get it out there. I just wanted to write something where the Lords get called out, even if it's by manipulative Baelish, for abandoning and overlooking Sansa's claim and the role she played in ridding the North of the Bolton's.

___

“House Mormont remembers. The North remembers. We know no King, but the king in the North whose name is Stark,” the young Lady Mormont’s words held the power of her loyalty and conviction. She shamed the seasoned and weathered men, old and young, around her. A girl of eleven standing before them, speaking out for herself and her people with far more honor then any of them. It made Sansa smile for Lyanna Mormont reminded her terribly of Arya and she wished her sister were with them, prayed to the Old Gods she was alive somewhere out there and once news reached her about the Starks occupying Winterfell once more she might find her way safely home. She also smiled because she was happy for Jon.

She took his hand under the table, giving it a squeeze. He glanced at her, and her smile grew a little more. She was proud of him and she wanted him to know it. That he deserved these words of ankowledgment from their people. She was happy that despite his reservations in the beginning about taking back their home, he had fought with her, for their family and people and proved himself beyond a shadow of a doubt their fathers son. Bastard or no, Jon was a Stark to her, and now their lords were starting to see him the same way. As they should.

She could feel it in the air, soon, just in a moment they would rise and name him king. She had made sure of. When she realized Petyr’s plans, when he admitted his pretty dream to her under the Heart Tree, she knew what his scheme was and she had to put a stop to it.

She went to as many lords as she could before this great meeting, campaigning for Jon’s claim over her own. She was a woman after all, twice married to enemies of her family and she had seen already what they thought of her when she went to their keeps with Jon. It would not be a difficult thing for any of them to choose Jon over her when given the choice.

“Queen, you mean,” Sansa felt her throat get tight, her smile fell and she as well as the other lords turned to look at Little Finger. He stepped forward from where he stood in a shadow on the wall.

“The queen in the North whose name is Stark. Lady Sansa, who sits beside her bastard brother, is the rightful heir to the Northern Throne and Winterfell.”

The Knights of the Vale gave grunts of agreement and Lady Mormont's already naturally sour expression turned more so, her lips pressing into a thin line and her eyes narrowing on the Mockingbird as he spoke. “I and the Knights of the Vale rode North at the command of Lady Sansa’s cousin, Lord Robert Arryn, to fight and reclaim his cousin's childhood home and her birthright in her name. Not for Jon Snow.”

Sansa swallowed as Jon looked at her, questions in his eyes. She could see the accusation in his dark grey eyes. Was this her plan? Was this why she begged him to fight again? Why she kept him from going somewhere warm and peaceful? To help make her queen?

She shook her head. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t what she wanted at all. She had assumed Little Finger would act as a puppeteer, using bribed and convinced Northern Lords to speak up on her behalf, but ultimately they would be outnumbered by those who would see Jon as King. Little Finger was not a man to fight and argue his own battles, so he must feel truly desperate if he was speaking out for her.

“Unless, did King Robb change the laws of succession in the North before his tragic death?” he asked the lords in a whole. “Did King Robb send some document back North, signed by his hand, or is there a witness here to such a letter having ever been made by him before his death removing or displacing Lady Sansa from the succession of Winterfell and putting her claim below that of Jon Snow?”

They murmured to one another, discussing it briefly if any who had fought with her brother, who had managed to come home had seen or heard him plan such a thing in regards to succession should he fall. From there frowns it seemed the answer was no. All of Robb’s closest friends and advisors who might have been witness to such a document being made or at least planned, had died. Murdered with their King at the Twins.

“Not one of you can confirm from your time fighting with your king if he ever planned to disinherit or displace his sister, Lady Sansa, from the line of succession?” Little Finger asked, smirking. “Even after she was forced to marry the Imp?”

Sansa thought for a moment this was perfect, he made a mistake reminding them of her first marriage. It would put her loyalties into question, make the lords unsure of her just like how Lyanna Mormont questioned her when she came with Jon, asking for house Mormont to raise their banners and fight for the Starks once more. It had been humiliating and biting, she hated that her loyalty was in question, that she was seen as anything but the Stark that she was. But she didn’t want to be queen, she just wanted to go home, to free it from the monsters that lurked it’s halls and to feel safe again with her family.

In truth, she had not had detailed plan for the long run when she chose to continue pursuing Winterfell’s reclamation into Stark hands again. What she did know was that she would never bow to the Lannister's or anyone who wasn’t family again, but that did not mean she wished to be queen. She would have seen first what the lords desired and go from there. But she would not marry again. She knew at least Jon would support her in that.

If the Lords wanted freedom, then she would support them. She had lost too much family for their freedom, and she had bled as much as any man in battle since the start of the war. Since they took her fathers head and she would not let the pain and loss be for nothing. If they didn’t succeed in claiming Northern independence for themselves, then what was the point in any of it. Every loss would feel suddenly hollow, without meaning, pointless and she could not go on if that was the case. So she had to hold on to this, to the thing that so many had gave their lives fighting for, the reason she had beaten and sold. If she let go she would fall and never stop. So she would grip on tight, and she would keep fighting the battles to come the only way she knew how.

If the lords cried out for independence like she thought they might, then Jon could rule. He could marry despite the strange way the thought made her stomach clench, legitimize himself and produce heirs for house Stark and she would be a loyal sister, an advisor, helping him maneuver and defeat Cersei and someday Little Finger.

She would help rebuild Winterfell, manage it why he ruled, and one day, maybe she would heal enough to marry, to find a nice, simple man and settle down. Let herself have some peace and happiness. But first their was so much work to be done. And she could get more done as anything but a queen.

“As you say, my Lord, Lady Sansa was wed to the Imp. How can we trust that he did not corrupt her? And it is said she is the one who killed the bastard king at his own wedding.” the young Lord Cerwyn stood again to speak.

“And if she did, would you not commend her and say that she helped avenge her family, her brother and mother, the death of her beloved father, your Lord Eddard that Joffrey beheaded?” Little Finger asked.

“If you are questioning her loyalty to the Lannister’s then I think the example you have given is the answer. If she did murder Joffrey and then framed her Lannister husband than she most certainly is not loyal to them,”

“And what of Ramsay Bolton?” asked Lady Mormont, her scowl turning on Sansa.

She watched as Jon glared at Little Finger, having told him how she had come to be in the Bolton’s possession during her time as a refugee at the wall. The mockingbirds shoulders fell and he looked at Sansa with pained regret.

“That was my doing,” he admitted and the Lords in the room. “I was dear, childhood friend to Lady Sansa’s mother. I wanted to bring Cat’s daughter home. Support her claim as she would have if she had survived the Red Wedding.”

He shook his head and cast an accusing eye over the Northern Lords.

“I had hoped that I might help Sansa with a coup against the Bolton's. They thought I was an ally, but I was simply using them to help place Sansa back in her houses seat of power.” he begin to explain the plan, a plan Sansa had no knowledge of until now. “It was my belief that Northerners were more loyal then the rest of the men of Westeros and would come to Lady Sansa’s aide while I gathered allies in the Vale and Riverland's to take back and hold the North from the Bolton’s and Lannister's.”

He sighed then, the room falling silent, some with suspicion and others with guilt.

“Instead, our brave lady was let down by her own people and had to rescue herself with the help of a turn cloak. If only I had known the disrespectful disregard you would show the daughter of your liege lord I would never have brought Lady Sansa back North,”

No man or women in the room had a very good response, all mostly falling back on the excuse of how they believed Sansa’s loyalties to be with the Lannister’s, and that her marriage to one of their allies was her attempt to save her own neck after killing Joffrey in a jealous rage after being put aside for another woman. It hurt Sansa but she did not show it. She was steal cloaked in ice, her expression one of indifference rather than the pain she felt at her peoples words.

“I have heard enough!” Jon stood from his chair, the legs scraping the stone floor loudly. “How dare all of you question Sansa’s loyalty, while you sat in your castles with full knowledge of what Ramsay was capable of and what he had done to girls before her. Where was your loyalty to house Stark then?”

They grumbled but had no answer to give, heads bowed, some glaring, frustrated to be called out as they were, to be told they were disloyal and dishonorable.

Sansa felt her heart flutter in her chest, growing warm at his defense of her. “My sister was a hostage, a prisoner of the Lannister’s to be used against our brother and the North. I will not let you ignore her and brush her aside as I have seen you do up till now any longer.”

“As much as I am honored by what Lady Lyanna was suggesting, Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa. She is the one who wanted to fight for Winterfell when I wanted to runaway, go somewhere warm, far from winter and wars. She is a true Northerner and she is Robb’s heir, your queen in the North.”

Sansa wanted to scream. No. No, she didn’t want this.

She looked imploringly at Jon, but he took her expression for something else, smiling at her.

Stop, you fool, you have no idea what your doing. Your playing right into his hands. This is what he wants.

He took her hand and guided her to a stand beside him, his hand slipping to grasp her risk and holding her arm above her head.

“The Queen in the North!” he announced to the whole room and Sansa felt her heart stop when she met Little Fingers eye.

“The Queen in the North,” he repeated, lowering to one knee for her. The lords looked at one another before slowly men rose, unsheathing their swords and raising them in the air, repeating her new title until the whole room was chanting it.

Sansa closed her eyes and a tear slipped down her cheek.

[friendlyneighborhoodpsyop]

Quotes about Kaz Brekker:

Every act of violence was deliberate, and every favor came with enough strings attached to stage a puppy show.

The boy called Dirtyhands didn’t need a reason any more than he needed permission.

He was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges.

“Who’d deny a poor cripple his cane?” “If the cripple is you, then any man with sense.”

“I’m a business man,” he’d told her. “No more, no less.” “You’re a thief, Kaz.” “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I’m not here for a taste. You want a war, I’ll make sure you eat your fill.”

The boy he’d been talking to had been cocky, reckless, easily amused, but not frightening—not really. Now the monster was here, dead-eyed and unafraid. Kaz Brekker was gone, and Dirtyhands had come to see the rough work done.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you one day, Brekker.” “I will,” said Kaz, “if there’s any justice in the world. And we all know how likely that is.”

“Well I’m the kind of bastard they only manufacture in the Barrel.”

Inej was always trying to wring little bits of decency from him. “When everyone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.”

“Greed is your god, Kaz.” He almost laughed at that. “No, Inej. Greed bows to me. It is my servant and my lever.” “And what god do you serve, then?” “Whichever will grant me good fortune.”

“What’s the difference wagering at the Crow Club and speculating on the floor of the Exchange?” “One is theft and the other is commerce.” “When a man loses his money, he may have trouble telling them apart.”

“You’re a blackmailer—“. “I broker information.” “A con artist—“. “I create opportunity.” “A bawd and a murderer—“. “I don’t run whores, and I kill for a cause.”

“You see, every man is a safe, a vault of secrets and longings. Now, there are those that take the brute’s way, but I prefer a gentler approach—the right pressure applied at the right moment, in the right place. It’s a delicate thing.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.” “Each more grotesque than the last.” Brekker’s hands were stained with blood. Brekker’s hands were covered in scars. Brekker had claws and not fingers because he was part demon. Brekker’s touch burned like brimstone—a single brush of bare skin caused your flesh to whither and die. “Pick one. They’re all true enough.”

Kaz was not a giddy boy smiling and making plans for a future with her. He was a dangerous player who was always working an angle.

“Please, my darling Inej, treasure of my heart, won’t you do me the honor of acquiring me a new hat?”

Brick by brick. It was a promise that let him sleep at night, the drove him everyday, that kept Jordie’s ghost at bay.

Kaz’s servant, greed, luring them South like a piper with a flute in hand.

“Being angry at Kaz for being ruthless is like being angry at a stove for being hot. You know what he is.”

“I wouldn’t trust you to tie my shoes without stealing the laces.”

Matthias knew monsters, and one glance at Kaz had told him this was a creature who had spent too long in the dark—he’d brought something back with him when he’d crawled into the light.

“The easiest way to steal a man’s wallet is to tell him you’re going to steal his watch. You take his attention and direct it where you want it to go.”

“You can’t spend his money if you’re dead.” “I’ll acquire expensive habits in the afterlife.”

“I don’t want to die.” “I’ll do my best to make other arrangements for you.”

“You came back for me.” “I protect my investments.” Investments. “I’m glad I’m bleeding all over your shirt.”

Matthias suspected that Brekker would drag the girl back from hell himself if he had to.

He’d gifted her her first blade, the one she called Sankt Petyr—not as pretty as wild geraniums, but more practical.

“Kaz told me...he said it was my choice, that he wouldn’t be the one to mark me again.”

Because I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to your for two days.

He needed to know she believed in him.

“What to do you want, then?” The old answers came easily to mind. Money. Vengeance. Jordie’s voice in my head silenced forever. But a different reply roared to life inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome. You, Inej. You.

Kaz would always remember that moment, when he’d seen greed take hold of his brother, an invisible hand guiding him forward, the lever at work.

There could be no judgement from a boy known as Dirtyhands.

“Let’s say the mark is a tourist walking through the barrel. He’s heard it’s a good place to get rolled, so he keeps patting his wallet, making sure it’s there, congratulating himself on just how alert and cautious he’s being. No fool he. Of course every time he pats his back pocket or front of his coat, what’s he doing? He’s telling every thief on the Stave exactly where he keeps his scrub.”

It was because she was listening so closely that she knew the exact moment when Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the bastard of the barrel and the deadliest boy in Ketterdam, fainted.

He’d heard there were sharks in these waters but they wouldn’t touch him. He was a monster now, too.

He’d imagined his death a thousand ways, but never sleeping through it.

It was as if once Kaz had seen her, he’d understood how to keep seeing her.

“If it were a trick, I’d promise you safety. I’d offer you happiness. I don’t know if that exists in the barrel, but you’ll find none of it with me.” Better terrible truths than kind lies.

He knew he was being reckless, selfish, but wasn’t that why they called him Dirtyhands? No job too risky. No deed too low. Dirtyhands would see the rough work done.

A good magician wasn’t much different than a proper thief.

She could see it took every last bit of his terrible will to remain still beneath her touch. And yet, he did not pull away. She knew it was the best he could offer. It was not enough.

“Some people see a magic trick and say, ‘Impossible!’ They clap their hands, turn over their money, and forget about it ten minutes later. Other people ask how it worked. They go home, get into bed, toss and turn, wondering how it was done. It takes them a good nights sleep to forget all about it. And then there are the ones who stay awake, running through the trick again and again, looking for the skip in perception, the crack in the illusion that will explain how their eyes got duped; they’re the kind who won’t rest until they’ve mastered that little bit of mystery for themselves. I’m that kind”

“You love trickery.” “I love puzzles. Trickery is just my native tongue.”

“Do you know the secret to gambling, Helvar? Cheat.”

There was no part of him that was not broken, that had not been healed wrong. There was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken.

Her eyes were shut, her oil-black lashes fanned over her cheeks. The harbor wind had lifted her dark hair, and for a moment Kaz was a boy again, sure that there was magic in the world. She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him.

You’ve cheated death too many times. Greed may do your bidding, but death serves no man.

He needed to tell her...what? That she was lovely and brave and better than anything he deserved. That he was twisted, crooked, wrong, but not so broken that he couldn’t pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her.

“Saints, Kaz, you actually look happy.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. But there was no mistaking it. Kaz Brekker was grinning like an idiot.

“I can hear the change in Kaz’s breathing whenever he looks at you.” “You...you can?” “It catches every time, like he’s never seen you before.”

“How will you have me? Fully clothed, gloves on, your head turned away so our lips can never touch? I will have you without armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all.”

“I’m not big on bluffing, am I, Inej?” “Not as a rule.” “And why is that?” “Because he’d rather cheat.”

Inej wanted Kaz to become someone else, a better person, a gentler thief. But that boy had no place here. That boy ended up starving in an alley. He ended up dead. That boy couldn’t get her back. I’m going to get my money, and I’m going to get my girl.

“A proper thief is like a proper poison. He leaves no trace.”

There were no good men in Ketterdam, Kaz said. The climate didn’t agree with them.

“If you don’t care about money, Nina dear, call it by it’s other names.” “Kruge? Scrub? Kaz’s one true love?” “Freedom, security, retribution.”

“It’s pragmatic. If I were cruel, I’d give him a eulogy instead of a conversation.”

“You haven’t been alive long enough to rack up your share of sin.” “I’m a quick study.”

Patience, he reminded himself. He’d practiced it early and often. Patience would bring all his enemies to their knees in time.

“You’ve got the devil’s own blood in you, boy.”

Kaz was going to have to find a new language of suffering to teach that smug merch son of a bitch.

“I would come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together—knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.”

“My mother is Ketterdam. She birthed me in the harbor. My father is profit. I honor him daily.”

Desperate for some sign that he might open himself to her, that they could be more than two creatures united by their distrust of the world.

They could continue on with their armor intact. She would have her ship and he would have his city.

Sure, a lock was like a woman. It was also like a man and anyone or anything else—if you wanted to understand it, you had to take it apart and see how it worked. If you wanted to master it, you had to learn it so well you could put it back together.

He always liked returning to a home or business he’d had cause to visit before. It wasn’t just the familiarity. It was as if by returning, he laid claim to a place. We know each other’s secrets, the house seemed to say. Welcome back.

“When people see a cripple walking down the street, leaning on his cane, what do they feel? They feel pity. Now, what do they think when they see me coming?” “They think they’d better cross the street.”

“We can endure a lot of pain. It’s shame that eats men whole.”

“I don’t hold a grudge. I cradle it. I coddle it. I feed it fine cuts of meat and send it to the best schools. I nurture my grudges, Rollins.”

It was as if Kaz had a secret map of Ketterdam that showed the city’s forgotten spaces.

“I’ve taken knives, bullets, and too many punches to count, all for a little piece of this town. This is the city I bled for. And if Ketterdam has taught me anything, it’s that you can always bleed a little more.”

Was Johannus Rietveld meant to be his Jakob Hertzoon? Or had it been some way of resurrecting the family he’d lost? Did it even matter?

“I wreak all the havoc I can until my luck runs out, use our haul to build an empire.” “And after that?” “Who knows? Maybe I’ll burn it to the ground.”

Tell her to get out, a voice inside him demanded. Beg her to stay.

Kaz thought he knew the language of pain intimately, but this ache was new. It hurt to stand here like this, so close to the circle of her arms.

“These things don’t wash away with prayer, Wraith. There is no peace waiting for me, no forgiveness, not in this life, not in the next.”

Two of the deadliest people the barrel had to offer and they could barely touch each other without both keeling over.

A black glass boy of deadly edges.

A bit of entertainment, the dramatic end of Kaz Brekker, the humbling of Dirtyhands. But this was no cheap comedy. It was a bloody rite, and Per Haskell had let the congregation gather, never realizing the real performance had yet to begin. Kaz stood upon his pulpit, wounded, bruised, and ready to preach.

“You have two minutes to get out of my house, old man. This city’s price is blood, and I’m happy to pay with yours.”

“What is wrong with him,” Nina grumbled. “Same thing that’s always wrong with him. He’s Kaz Brekker.”

“Rich men want to believe they deserve every penny they’ve got, so they forget what they owe to chance. Smart men are always looking for loopholes. They want an opportunity to game the system. The toughest mark is an honest man. Thankfully, they’re always in short supply.”

“Well, Brekker, it’s obvious you only deal in half truths and outright lies, so you’re clearly the man for the job.”

“What do you think my forgiveness looks like, Jordie?” “Who’s Jordie?” “Someone I trusted. Someone I didn’t want to lose.”

He put his gloves back on and didn’t take them off. He became twice as ruthless, fought twice as hard. He stopped worrying about seeming normal, let people see a glimmer of the madness within him and let them guess at the rest.

The rage inside him burned on and he learned to despise people who complained, who begged, who claimed they’d suffered. Let me teach you what pain looks like, he would say, and then he’d paint a picture with his fists.

That was what destroyed you in the end: the longing for something you could never have.

“I will kill you, Brekker. I will kill everything you love.” “The trick is not to love anything.”

“Suffering is like anything else. Live with it long enough, you learn to like the taste.”

She smiled then, her eyes red, her cheeks scattered with some kind of dust. It’s a smile he thought he might die to earn again.

“He doesn’t say goodbye. He just lets go.”

“Ketterdam is made of monsters. I just happen to have the longest teeth.”

[khaleesi-in-the-north]

In the Crosshairs (38/39)

Snow was uncommon in the Reach at any time of the year, even in the winter. It’s a cruel mockery that today the ground should be littered with specks of snow. She had never been fond of colder weather. There was little she hated more than a day where the thermometer dipped below freezing.

                    Funeral arrangements had to be made quickly. She’d been making such progress the Tyrells were positive that she’d battle through just as she always had. On the day she died, it was as though her spirit had given up.

                     She never had the chance to say goodbye.

                    __________

                    Doctors poured into the room in a river of white coats. Sansa slipped into the back corner. She’d stay out of their way but there was no chance in any hell that she was going to abandon Margaery now. If Margaery was waking up, Sansa wasn’t going to let the first thing she saw hovering over her be the cold, scrutinizing faces of a dozen strangers all poking and prodding her.

                    “Her vitals were abnormally high,” the nurse explained over Mace’s hysterical confused mumbling.

                    The doctors simultaneously turned their attention to the beeping machine that read Margaery’s vitals. It was still elevated from the consistent pace of the last two days, but no longer at a frantic pace. One doctor, an older woman with bags drooping so deep beneath her eyes she could hold a coin over the top of her cheek inside of one of them, stepped out amongst the throng toward the machine.

                    Instinct drew Sansa closer, first behind the second row of doctors, then to nudging her way up the ranks.

                    “Dear, how many coma patients have you worked with?” the doctor asked of the nurse.

                    “She would be my second ma’am,” the nurse stammered. Staring at her shoes, arms crossed in front of her body, the woman looked more like a young girl.

                    “Here’s a lesson for you: not all comas are the same. This woman is merely begin to wake up from her coma,” the doctor sighed, clearly irritated and overworked. “Her heart beat raised, but her blood pressure and brain waves are in a stable range.” The doctor was using this as a teaching moment for the rest of the staff in the room. Well intentioned as it might have been, the use of her girlfriends’ current state playing Grey’s Anatomy for a horde of supposed professionals irked Sansa.

                    The lesson was over soon enough. “Return to your duties. Not all of you can play doctor to the famous,” the chief doctor barked. Half the room scattered out, including the poor nurse. To those who remained the doctor said, “We will want to keep Ms. Tyrell under watch to ensure this goes smoothly.” She turned to Mace, not even sparing a glance to Sansa. She dropped into her ‘bedside manner’ that Sansa had learned every doctor had in their arsenal to varying degrees of success. This woman’s was on the better side. “We can’t say how long of a process this will take, Mr. Tyrell. She could be up and chattering within the hour; it could take several hours. She may be fine once she wakes up or she may be in and out for a couple days. It’s difficult to judge. We will begin reducing the amount of medication she’s being fed that way we can reduce the chances of hallucinations and rather unpleasant dreams as she becomes more conscious.”

                    Mace was too overcome to make a proper response. Given the circumstances, Sansa didn’t blame him. Notifying him of the possibility of complications may have scared him, but Sansa brushed them off. Margaery was waking up. Whatever happened along the way or after, they would handle side by side.

                    The gods had never looked kindly upon Sansa. She’d spent years praying, bargaining, questioning them without ever receiving a reply. She wasn’t even sure what hand they may have had in protecting her love. All the same, she thought a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the old gods who had abandoned her father to a cruel fate.

                    The chief nodded for one doctor to remain behind. She led the rest out of the room without so much as another word.

                    The new doctor, a younger man with a clean shaved face that was most popular in the Summer Islands, finally noticed Sansa was also in the room. “This could take several hours. If the two of you have things to do or need to go home for anything, there is some time.”

                    Sansa gave the doctor the warmest smile she could muster. “Thank you, doctor. I’m more than fine remaining here.”

                    “Yes, thank you, sir,” Mace shook hands with the man. His demeanor was more relaxed. Once the doctor left, he didn’t pace or hunch his shoulders as he had been before. For the first time in weeks, he’s received good news.

                    “Would you like me to go to the waiting room and tell your wife the news?” Sansa offered.

                    Mace shook his head. “I will go. I need to call my brother to check on my mother anyway. Are you planning on staying with her?”

                    Sansa turned to face Margaery again. The pale blue of the hospital sheets highlighted the change in her skin tone from a few days ago. When she first came to visit, she was nearly as pale as the sheets. The blood infusions had nearly returned her to her natural color. “I don’t plan on ever leaving,” Sansa murmured.

                    Mace bid her goodbye for the time being and headed off. Sansa tapped out two quick texts; one for Ygritte to come back to the hospital because Margaery would be awake soon, the other a short update to Arya. She ignored the list of messages from Petyr, Karstark and a very confused Shae. She ignored the messages from Petyr and Karstark. They could wait, and if they needed her desperately, they knew where she was.

                    One person did need her relatively immediate attention. Shae had proved sharper than Petyr had assumed when he convinced Sansa to hire her. On Margaery’s first night in the hospital, she had called and asked what happened with Jon and how they got separated in the North. How had Alayne made it back in town without anyone knowing? With Sansa’s mind clouded in her worry for Margaery, an alibi had been difficult to come up with. She finally had one and the sooner she told Shae, the less conspicuous she would appear to her friend. Oddly enough, Sansa did consider the older woman a friend. Deep down she was certain the woman knew her job wasn’t a typical bartending job, but she remained there regardless. She didn’t push to know the truth as long as it didn’t affect her, which was a nice change from her daily demands.

                    She preceded that email with a short message explaining she couldn’t currently talk, then went on to describe how Jon had asked her to return home for personal matters. She had agreed and remained in the North to continue searching. The moment the Tyrell family had called her about Margaery’s state, she chartered a private flight to King’s Landing. The alibi wasn’t ideal—not even close—but Shae would accept it, not because she believed it, but because it was something she could tell police if they came knocking on her door about Jon.

                    Shortly after Mace had left, Alerie stopped in to say that she and Mace were going back to their hotel for an urgent matter. Sansa didn’t push for more information. Between Margaery’s condition, mafia matters and Shae’s ever-growing suspicion of Alayne Stone, she had enough to occupy herself.

                    The latter had only just been brought to her attention through a series of texts from Petyr and Arya. The woman had called Alayne’s home to check in on her after not hearing from her for several days following Arya’s actual arrival in King’s Landing. The last she knew, “Alayne” had been searching for Margaery in the North.

                    The prospect of Shae piecing together the truth should frighten Sansa. Oddly enough, it’s almost a relief. She trusted Shae. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have left Shae in charge of the bar for weeks while she was gone. There was a gut feeling that Shae wouldn’t sell her out if she knew the truth. She would mind her own business, which Sansa respected. Which was why of all her concerns, she was content letting that one continue to simmer.

                    Periodically the doctor would pop in and check Margaery’s vitals. Sansa continued talking to Margaery, leaving longer and longer gaps of silence when she started running out of made up topics to discuss with herself. Her heart skipped each time Margaery twitched, even when she knew the movement was involuntary. Eventually, she even tuned out the short visits from the doctor.

                    By the time Ygritte arrived, Margaery was showing signs of soon waking. She was moving more, becoming more responsive to the things Sansa would say. By the time she was ready to wake, Sansa, Ygritte and Garlan had gathered around Margaery’s bed, flanked by doctors.

                    Sansa’s heart stuttered as Margaery’s eyes blinked open. And sunk to her stomach at the recognition of pain, fear and confusion in Margaery’s wide, soft eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

                    She brushes snow off of the top of the granite tombstone.

                    “Olenna Tyrell”: “I was good. I was very good.”

                    There aren’t better words to describe the matriarch of the Tyrell family. She was fantastic at any task she undertook. She rebuilt the Reach into an economic boon while she was in office. She was a great talker and a great gardener. A great mother and an even better grandmother.

                     And she was good. Just as Renly had been good. And Brienne had been good. She even imagined she was good like Eddard Stark had been. It was just a different type of good.

                    Tears burn against the chill on Margaery’s cheeks. She wipes her gloved hand at the top of her cheeks, careful not to budge her arm still in the shoulder sling.

                    Her grandmother had always been her hero. Not only did she accomplish groundbreaking political triumphs, but she always had time for Margaery. The world knew the Queen of Thorns. Most of the time, that’s how her family knew her too. Not Margaery. She saw through the edge. Aside from her quick wit and sharp tongue, she had also found a confidant in her grandmother. When she had crushes or when she was uncertain how to tell her father she was moving to King’s Landing rather than attending law school, Margaery had gone to her grandmother first. Her grandmother was brutally honest, but always caring and always holding her best intentions.

                     When Willas had died, Margaery was too young to know she should have felt hurt. Now she barely remembered his smile and likely wouldn’t at all if not for the pictures of him her parents kept. Renly’s death had hurt, but Margaery is realizing more and more that the pain stemmed from guilt and sorrow for her brother. Olenna’s death caused its own brand of pain born of love and loss. There was nothing to feel guilty for, because Olenna’s death rested firmly on the neck of Cersei Lannister. With Cersei lying at the greatest depths of the seventh hell, all that was left was to mourn.

                    Margaery isn’t sure how much longer she kneels before the grave before she finally speaks. “I never thought you’d be the one to go first. You always went on and on and on about outliving all those wars, the political scandals, diseases. There were times it felt like you were immortal. And you’ve always been so strong. I always wanted to make you proud. In the end, I know I did. I’m sorry it ended like this, when you deserved so much more. If there’s any justice, any Seven, then your place is reserved at the highest of the heavens grandmother. I love you so much.”

                    Soft snow crunches behind her, growing louder and louder until the noise is just behind her. Sansa squats down beside her, enveloping her with one arm, wary not to touch her injured shoulder.

                    She’d still been in a half-high daze when the funeral was held. When she first gained enough soundness of mind to understand what had happened, she’d been furious that she wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. Being back home now, secure with her family and Sansa, she begins to think she prefer funeral-for-one.

                    The original funeral had been a therapeutic mourning session for the general public. Television crews invaded High Garden and captured every angle of the funeral route. Citizens outlined the Hurst procession like a parade route. Cameras captured the images of young, most of whom had only the faintest idea of what Olenna had done for the Reach during her tenure, and old, whom had never known the woman behind her moniker, crying as her body passed. In the days following her return to consciousness, Margery had envied these people. What right did they have to say goodbye to a woman they hardly knew?

                    Today, the camera crews are long gone. The citizens of Highgarden have moved on. They’ll remember her grandmother in history books and political debate. To them, she’s a relic of  the past. Which leaves Margaery the time and solitude to say goodbye. It won’t be the last time. Unlike the people who never knew Olenna, Margaery won’t forget.

                    Sansa leans into Margaery and Margaery presses back, her forehead pushing into Sansa’s cheekbone. Sansa’s hand rubs Margaery’s side in a soothing up and down motion. Margaery’s eyes shut, allowing her to further appreciate the smell of citrus and something wholly Sansa.

                    “I think I’m ready to go,” Margaery murmurs.

                    “Are you sure?” Sansa asks. “I don’t mind staying longer if you need to.”

                    Margaery shakes her head and pulls forward from Sansa’s grip. “There’s nothing more to say or do here. I’ve made my peace.”

                    Sansa slowly rises. She offers a hand down to Margaery to help her off the ground too. When she walks, Margaery still has a slight hobble in her step. According to the doctor that injury should be healed within a week.

                    She isn’t lying when she tells Sansa she’s made her peace. With her grandmother at least. With the other lives destroyed, with her physical and emotional scars from the shootout, with her role in Jon’s imprisonment and its consequences, with her work life, with her new life bound to a mafia boss? Well Sansa hadn’t asked about that.  

__________

                    “We need to swoop in while the iron’s hot,” Umber barks in the background. “We easily have the manpower and resources to fill in the gaps left by the Lannisters. We’ll be swimming in their filthy riches in two months.”

                    Petyr scolds him for his carelessness, doing Sansa’s job for her. Umber always talks a big game but never knows when to shut up. Like now, when they are on an unsecure line and Sansa is in the middle of Margaery’s hospital room where a nurse could wander in and out whenever convenient.

                    “I think it’s best for us to discuss the matter in person tonight, Ms. Stone,” Petyr says. “The game has changed, and so has our power structure. If we wait too long to decide, we won’t have a say in what direction the game takes next.”

                    “It can wait,” Sansa repeats for what must be the tenth time today alone.

                    “It can’t wait any longer. I understand you’ve been pre-occupied with your…friend in the hospital. Our profits share and opportunity dwindles as long as you insist on playing doctor. Let someone else fix her for a while,” Petyr snaps. Just as she’s trying his patience, he’s pushing her to the end of hers.

                    “It will wait until I say. Every business is scrambling right now. They’re too busy covering their own asses for association to be concerned about a power vacuum,” Sansa replies. “As for what I do in the mean time, that is between myself and whomever I deem necessary. Which, as of right now, does not include either of you. Do tonight’s job, nothing more.”

                    Umber grumbles inaudibly in the background.

                    “Care to repeat that Smalljon? It sounded as though you were asking for a ticket straight to the swamplands to deal with the Reeds,” Sansa leans forward, resting her elbow against her knee. Her back pops from remaining stiff for too long. It’s been hours since she got out of this chair, probably since the last time Margaery woke up.

                    When Margaery’s eyes clench together in her sleep, Sansa quit waiting for an answer. “Keep me posted on our status with Shae. Goodbye.” She hangs up.

                    Margaery tosses her head one way, then the other. It’s another nightmare. The medication she’s been weening off of combined with her emotional and physical trauma is triggering them. From what Sansa has gathered. They’re horrendous and very, very real to Margaery. It’s part of the reason that Sansa has refused to leave Margaery’s side save for a handful of times. She’s hardly left Margaery for more than a few hours at a time since the Tyrells flew home for Olenna’s funeral.

                    Margaery had argued with doctors for hours that she should be able to leave for the funeral. Loras and Mace had backed her, but ultimately the doctors stood firm in their belief that Margaery shouldn’t leave. Sansa shared in that belief that Margaery was better off here, much as it pained her to see Margaery in grief and hurting from her grandmother’s death. But Margaery was hardly in a position to walk the hospital floors, let alone fly to Highgarden. For the first few days she was constantly in and out of consciousness. When she was conscious there were times she had no idea where she was or what was going on, thanks to the heavy doses of drugs she as on. Her blood pressure still wasn’t where doctors would have liked it to be by the time her family left.

                    The coincidence that Margaery woke within hours of Mace learning of Olenna’s death didn’t escape anyone, but no one would dare mention it. Margaery wasn’t in a state in which she could handle more drama than necessary anyway. For someone who was always able to manage her facial expressions under scrutiny and disguise the extremities of her emotions, seeing the utter terror etched on her face when she woke in confusion broke Sansa’s heart.

                    Sansa had made a move forward to comfort her, against the doctors’ recommendations, but Margaery had flinched away. It was as if she didn’t know her. Or worse—that she was stuck in the time before she and Sansa had reconciled.

                    She didn’t realize she had injuries until it was too late. She had tried to lift her arm and couldn’t. She nearly twisted her leg in mid-air, unaware that it was caught in a make shift crane of sorts to leverage her wound. She yelped in pain, adding to her confusion.

                    Sansa takes Margaery’s hand. There’s no longer IV tubes sticking out from it. Her leg doesn’t need to be leveraged anymore. Margaery’s last remaining restraint is sling over her shoulder. Despite the progress that the changes demonstrate, it makes it easier for Margaery to accidentally further injure herself in one of these episodes. She has no control over her actions or reactions. Holding her hand seems to have a soothing effect though.

                    “Sshhh, ssshhh baby. It’s okay. I’m right here,” Sansa hushes her. She strokes her thumb across the back of Margaery’s hand. Margaery stops thrashing, her breaths even out. Sansa is about to pull back, believing Margaery to be back to a normal sleep, but then Margaery’s eyes flutter open.

                    “Sans-,” Margaery slurs from sleep. She winces and reaches her god arm across her body to her shoulder, stopping just short of touching it.

                    Sansa cuts her off before a nurse or one of the Unsullied agents clamoring to interrogate Margaery walk in unannounced. “No baby, it’s me, Alayne.”

                    Margaery’s hair is matted and tangled on the side of her head. Sansa unthinkingly runs her fingers through the mess in an attempt to make it neater. In other circumstances her hair would have been Margaery’s top priority.

                    “This stupid sling isn’t doing a thing to help my shoulder,” Margaery bemoans. Her hand slides back across the bed and feels its way to Sansa’s empty hand. Sansa squeezes her hand. She files away the memory of Margaery’s soft smile blooming on her face.

                    “The sling would work just fine if someone could learn to be still during their dreams.” It’s meant to be a joke, but clearly hits a sore spot when the smile falls far too quickly.

                    Margaery stares at her hand interlocked with Sansa’s. “They don’t feel like dreams. They’re so real.”

                    “They’re not real, okay?” Sansa loosens her grip. “It will get better, I promise. Once they get you off this morphine, it will help. And we can find a therapist or two that we can trust if you feel comfortable with that. I think that will do us both good.”

                    Seven know she could have used one in her teenage years. Therapy could have saved her years of self-blame and stress issues she endured. While she can’t force Margaery to accept any help, providing it is a start. Regardless, Sansa believes that straightening out any residual trust issues she has left buried beneath the layers she’s cultivated will be good for herself and her relationship in the long run.

                    “Alayne,” Margaery whispers.

                    “Yeah?”

                    Margaery squeezes her fingers around Sansa’s hand. “I love you.”

                    She can’t control the ridiculous grin that spreads across her face. Sansa never doubted Margaery’s love for her, even when Margaery did. To know that Margaery was now sure herself though, Sansa couldn’t describe the pure bliss she felt at the words. If she could, she would play them on repeat all day.

                    “I love you too,” Sansa is careful to not put any of her own weight on Margaery’s right side as she hugs her. Margaery’s nose is cool to the touch as it brushes Sansa’s neck. She wants to stay just like this holding Margaery, certain that nothing and no one can hurt her. She’s in control and at peace.

                    All too soon the moment is yanked away from her. The door slams open. Sansa leaps up on instinct, primed punish the intruder who dared disturb Margaery right now. It’s not some sneaky tabloid pap looking for a quick pic to land on the cover of the Red Watch (there’s already been two of those snuffed out by security). No, it’s Ygritte grinning ear to ear in the best mood she’s had in days carrying a box loaded so loaded so full with newspapers and magazines there’s a path leading down the hall and around the corner from Margaery’s room.

                    “Hospitals are sex free zones Alayne, unless you’re a doc or junior doc. Gotta keep your hands off the patients,” Ygritte bounces past her, bumping her with the edge of the box to plop it on Margaery’s right side, the other side of the bed.

                    Sansa rolls her eyes. Irritating as the interruption is, Sansa is grateful to give Margaery these distractions on this day of all days. She knows how close Margaery and her grandmother had been. At some point in the day the brunt of the mourning will surely slam in face first. There’s no reason to linger on that anticipation all day.

                    She watches Ygritte and Margaery go through nearly every publication in the box. They joke about Ygritte’s interviews, the questions she’s asked and her preferential treatment by some of the more desperate news outlets. Every now and then Margaery glances at Sansa and smiles softly in her direction. It’s a confirmation that even though everything is not fine now, it will be.

*********************

                    Before they’d left, Margaery and Sansa had discussed how to make the trip more of a celebration of her grandmother’s life than a grieving for her death.

                    The snow complicated plans, but Margaery had thought of ways around the dilemmas it caused. She walked Sansa through Olenna’s greenhouse again. This time they enjoyed the beautiful lilies and hybrid roses her grandmother had grown. They avoided the back. Venturing there would only spur unwanted memories. After they’d warmed up inside and had their fill of flowers, Margaery took Sansa to her grandmother’s favorite bakery. She and the owner had been friends. Olenna had paid of the elderly man’s bank loan when the bank suddenly demanded their loan back in full. Few people knew that side of Olenna-- the gentle, caring side.

                    From there, Sansa begged Margaery to see the ponds Margaery enjoyed reminiscing on. A quick pit stop at Margaery’s parents’ house for a Loras’s old pair of skates (in case Sansa wanted to do some ice skating) and they’re off.

                    With her leg still not quite at one hundred percent healthy and her arm still locked up in a sling, Margaery opts to sit on the sidelines. Rather than show off her skills on the iffy ice (Sansa claims its only half frozen and could easily break, though none of the eager skaters heed the warning of born and bred Northerner), Sansa stays by Margaery’s side, building a small family of snowmen.

                    “This one’s the baby,” Sansa adds the last stick arm to the smallest snowman.

                    “It’s missing something,” Margaery digs through the snow until she reaches a pebble buried beneath. It’s meant to be a nose for the little guy, but Margaery pushes it too carelessly and its head lops off, obliterating the snow into dust again.

                    “My snow baby!” Sansa feigns melodrama as she clutches at her chest. “He was too young! Too good!”

                    Margaery shrugs. “He was the runt of the litter. The rest of them would have taken him out sooner or later.”

                    “You monster. You’re going to take that back,” Sansa lunges forward playfully tackling Margaery to the ground.

                    “Ow!” Margaery yelps the moment her shoulder makes contact with the ground. It’s a soft landing, but her shoulder is growing more and more sensitive. She won’t be starting physical therapy on it until after they return home.

                    “Shit shit shit shit shit!” Sansa scrambles off of her. She gets a hand under Margaery’s mid-arm and helps her sit back up. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t even thinking. That was so stupid.”

                    The pain begins fading away. “I’m okay,” Margaery sighs. “It was the shock more than anything. No harm, no foul.”

                    Sansa doesn’t look convinced, but she nods her head. The two of them stare out over the lake, watching teenagers on holiday from a school throw snowballs at each other. Some younger kids with their parents make snow angels on the ground. A few brave souls use make shift items like cardboard boxes to sled down the hill half a mile away.

                    “It’s probably nothing like Winterfell, but the  snow here can be nice,” Margaery murmurs.

                    “Oh it’s nothing at all like the North,” Sansa agrees. “Pile another foot of snow and you’re beginning to see what it looks like in early winter. The snow back home is thicker too. Not as powdery as this southern snow. But you’re right. It does have a certain charm.”

                    She misses the North. Margaery hears it more and more in Sansa’s inflection. There’s a hollow longing. Like she’s not unsatisfied and unable to do anything about it.

                    “I dreamt about home last night,” Sansa continues. “It was snowing. A heavy snow with howling wind. Arya and I were outside looking for firewood. But then the firewood and the snow suddenly disappeared and I was suddenly I was in a candy shop and all the candy bars were labeled with different alphabet letters. I had to put them together to make a password and win a prize. The prize was a new collar for Lady.”

                    “Interesting…” Margaery says, confused about where this was going. One of the kids in the distance  cries hysterically after getting hit in the face with a snowball.

                    “So, that was my dream. Feel free to talk about anything you dreamt about last night. If you want to,” Sansa scoots a little closer.

                    Talking is key. The therapist Sansa had arranged for made that blatant to Margaery during every appointment they’d had (four thus far). Initially the vigor with which Sansa approached the topic a therapy surprised Margaery. Yes she had mentioned going, but Margaery hadn’t realized how serious she’d been. It was meant to unbottle her emotions and thoughts. Keep them from getting locked up. Last night though, she had woken in a cold sweat after her dreams. She knew she woke Sansa too, because as she settled back down to sleep again, Sansa wrapped her arm over her back and pulled her closer than she would in a natural state of sleep.

                    It wouldn’t take much to turn it around on Sansa. A little redirection, the right question about Sansa’s past and Margaery would be in the clear. That won’t change the past though, and it certainly won’t build their relationship to the point that Margaery wants it to be.

                    Margaery focuses on the icy pond as she says, “It was Jaime again. I dreamed about the last time I talked to him before his death. And blood poured out of a wound in his chest. His eyes rolled back. The ground opened up to swallow him. He grabbed my ankle to pull me down with him. And then I woke up.”

                    Sansa considers Margaery’s dream, choosing her words carefully before answering. “Have you talked with the maester about Jaime yet?”

                    Margaery shakes her head. “We haven’t quite reached that point yet.” In her first couple of visits, she danced around the topic of the Lannister ambush. Who was to say that this maester Sansa had found wouldn’t flip on them? He’d wanted to delve straight into that topic, but Margaery had convinced to take a longer, more arduous route through Margaery’s benevolent childhood. He felt alike they were making progress, Sansa was satisfied that she was seeing a professional, and Margaery was finally in control of something again. Everyone won.

                    “It’s okay to tell him anything, when you get there. He’s on our side.”

                    Sansa’s phone rings. And rings. Sansa makes no attempt to answer it.

                    “Sweetling, that might be important,” Margaery nudges her.

                    “If it’s important now, it will still be important when we’re back at your place in a couple of hours,” Sansa gestures at the phone in her pocket. “I’m enjoying a beautiful afternoon with my amazing girlfriend and I have no desire to interrupt it with a twenty-minute talk with Petyr about which business he should buy out next. I’d much rather talk about nothing with you.”

                    A southern girl can only last so long in the snow. The next freezing wind gust is Margaery’s last straw. “Let’s go home. I can make some hot cocoa and we can finally watch another episode of Dunk and Egg.”

                    Margaery gets up.

                    “I have a confession to make. I may have watched and episode or two when you were out with your parents last night,” Sansa hesitates to get up.

                    “You’re watching it again, so I hope you at least liked them,” Margaery frowns.

                    “Oh of course. Especially Egg’s new boyfriend. He’s hilarious,” Sansa casually drops the spoiler.

                    Margaery’s eyes go wide with anger and shock. “You little…”

                    Sansa hops to her feet and yanks Margaery toward herself hard for a kiss. Between their chapped lips, the it’s a less than graceful start. Sansa grasps Margaery’s chin though and deepens the kiss, as if trying to apologize for the unwanted information. It’s delightful, but it doesn’t work.

                    Margaery breaks away and glares at Sansa. She folds her good arm across her chest and waits for a response.

                    “So…are we nixing the hot cocoa then?” Sansa asks sheepishly.

                    Margaery turns heel toward the car. “Oh there will be hot cocoa. For me at least. You, on the other hand, will be lucky to even get a hot shower for the rest of the trip.”

                    Sansa chases her to the car, apologizing and dropping more “spoilers” all the way.

                    It’s been months since there had been a shred of normalcy between them. Nearly every conversation had some mention of mafias, jail time, murders, spies. There would never be a true “normal” between them again. What happened with the Lannisters would always linger, never truly being put to rest.

                     Teasing though, that was familiar. So was Dunk and Egg, cuddling on the couch, casual flirting, Sansa knitting all the while. It all came back sitting in her parents’ cozy living room, binge watching a TV show. They could make a new normal.      

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 43

Melisandre floated through one of the reception rooms, chin lifted haughtily and face impassive, though she could feel the men staring and the women glaring. Gods it felt good to get this one tiny twist of revenge. To watch this one petty little plan of Cersei’s go awry. In fighting the tradition of the ugly bridesmaid’s dress, she was striking a blow against the wedding industrial complex, against tradition, against the patriarchy, against stupid weddings themselves! Melisandre spun giddily, and the already short dress fluttered  even higher. Somebody somewhere have a scandalized gasp. She ignored them, riding high as a crusader for social justice, a warrior who didn’t bow to silly things like what people thought, who let nobody stand in her way and... Someone grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. “Ow ow ow stop it!” Melisandre yelped. “Change your dress back,” Thoros growled. “Never!” Melisandre hissed defiantly. Thoros twisted again and began to march her to a side room. “Ow! Where is your—“ Melisandre tried unsuccessfully to stomp on his foot, “chivalry?” “I think,” Thoros broke off to block a flying elbow to the face, “you burned it up with my baseball card collection when I was eight.” He released her into the room, slamming the door and blocking it with his body. Melisandre glared at him. “I’m making a political statement against weddings!” “You’re making an ass of yourself!” “You wouldn’t understand! You’ve never believed in anything in your entire life!” “I believe you’re making an ass of yourself!” “Why can’t you just once believe in a cause bigger than your next paycheck?!” “Why can’t you just believe in things like a normal amount?! Most people would agree that it’s silly to break the bank on a party, but only you would conclude therefore weddings are evil and must be ruined at all costs,” Thoros pinched the bridge of his nose and glared at her. “Cersei must be stopped!” “But can’t you stop her in some fashion that doesn’t get Brienne in trouble?!” Melisandre frowned at the idea than brushed it off. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not her fault.” “And Cersei is so careful to only blame the people at fault,” Thoros rolled his eyes. “Well... well why do you care anyway?!” Melisandre snapped, suddenly feeling like she was holding a losing hand. “Not that it’s any of your business but...” Thoros mumbled something. Melisandre raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t catch that,” she drawled. “I might have accidentally gotten Robert hammered and Brienne promised to fix it up with Cersei if you wear the old dress.” Thoros repeated louder, looking uncomfortable. Melisandre felt the smile tugging her lip upward. “See that sounds like a you problem,” she gave a languid shoulder shrug. Thoros narrowed his eyes at her. “Okay, two things. First, remember how I told you not to fuck with your crazy ex and you ignored me and I ended up in a hospital and we got kicked out of our apartment?!” Melisandre squirmed. “Yes, but you can’t just use that as an excuse to get your way for the rest of your life!” “Watch me,” Thoros leaned back against the door. “And second, I refuse to believe that anyone, even you, feels THAT strongly about the sanctity of marriage being poisoned by capitalism. So what the fuck is going on?” Melisandre opened her mouth to deliver an impassioned harangue on what it meant to pledge one’s eternal love to another human being and the perversion of the oldest oaths known to humanity into a spectacle of sound and fury signifying nothing. “A priest said that Stannis and I were ready to get married,” is what came out instead. “The nerve,” Thoros said drily. “Shut up! It just took me by surprise. Marriage isn’t something I ever thought about being for me.” She had always wanted to be a priestess in the Red Temple, for as far back as she could remember. And then there had been... the unpleasantness... but she had still been sure she was destined for something great. She was going to go to medical school and be a doctor and save lives. She would fight the good fight, and the small domestic blisses of wifehood seemed rather dull and uninteresting in comparison. They were for sensible people like Catelyn Tully. Melisandre didn’t do sensible. “So it’s not for you,” Thoros shrugged. “There’s no law that you HAVE to get married.” “But when he said it, a tiny part of me was happy,” Melisandre admitted, fingers digging half-moons into her palms. It had taken her aback, that little bubble of relief and excitement, just the briefest mental picture of Stannis standing across from her looking nervous and shy and happy, their hands joined forever. “Okay...” Thoros dragged out. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re allowed to change your mind?” “I HATE WEDDINGS!” Melisandre blurted, and pushed past him for the door. “Are you going to change?” “I WILL CONSIDER IT!” She slammed the door in his face. She was of course, but only because she didn’t want Brienne to get in trouble and because Thoros could be so stubborn and unreasonable. With a huff, she returned to her closet where she had abandoned the outer layer of tulle and began the grim work of reattaching it. She didn’t need marriage. She didn’t even want marriage! She and Stannis had never talked about it, and there was no rush anyway, and the fact that the thought of Stannis standing at the altar waiting for her inspired completely unwelcome butterflies meant nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, at all. Melisandre emerged from the closet, once more clad in a pink confetti disaster. She stoically turned from the mirror to avoid looking at her reflection, reached to open the door and nearly got bowled over by Brienne running in. “Ta da,” Melisandre struck a pose. “I need red nail polish!” Brienne blurted, picking up the makeup artists bag and emptying it across the table where she’d been working. “Or like marinara sauce I guess? Something red that splashes?” Melisandre pouted slightly. Didn’t Brienne even appreciate the sacrifices she made for their friendship?! “I changed,” she hinted, just in case Brienne hadn’t noticed. “Yeah that’s great,” Brienne said, moving on to Lysa’s purse and emptying it into the pile. “Like you asked me to,” Melisandre reminded her. Brienne paused and looked up, her normally tentative smile now pressed into a stern line. “I need something red that splashes, four shots of espresso and a bagel, and then I need to convince Lysa that she should invite Petyr to the afterparty. You can help me or not help me, but I do not have time to coddle your ego for doing something you should have already done to begin with.” Melisandre blinked. Who was this girl? Bossy, confident, on a mission.... kind of hot actually. “What I meant to say,” she cleared her throat after a pause, trying to salvage her ego. “Was that I will go find the caterers and get the espressos and the bagel.” She came back with the espressos and the bagel AND a bowl of cold marinara sauce. If that wasn’t worth just a smidgeon of gratitude... She found Brienne in the library, conferring with the bride-to-be in a corner. Robert was chasing Ned around the room, trying to bear hug him, while her brother and Jaime watched in apathy and malevolent glee respectively. “You’re my oldest and dearest friend Ned!” Robert boomed as he vaulted a couch and Ned was forced to make an end run around the far corner. “Careful Stark, I think he’s gaining!” Jaime shouted cheerfully. “You could at least try to be helpful,” Melisandre said disapprovingly to Thoros. “As opposed to running around half-naked?” Thoros yawned. “I changed,” she sniffed. “And look. Espresso and a bagel. The ultimate hangover cure. Very helpful. If we can just get him to slow down enough to take it.” Ned rounded the bend, Robert hot on his heels. As Ned scampered by, Thoros stuck out a discrete foot, sending Robert flying. “See? Helpful,” Thoros grinned. Melisandre rolled her eyes. “Now if you can keep him down.” It took Thoros hanging on to Robert’s right arm for dear life, and Ned doing the same to his right, while Melisandre fed him bits of bagel like a baby bird (a very very large baby bird) to effectuate the Sober-Robert-Up plan. “You know I’ve always dreamed of being hand fed by a sexy redhead,” Robert commented, as he obediently took the next bite. “Didn’t really think it would happen ten minutes before my wedding.” Melisandre gritted her teeth, and forced another sip of coffee into him. “Also when I retell this story, it’s going to be strawberries dipped in chocolate, okay?” Melisandre glared at Thoros to smack his gross friend, but her brother was currently trying to escape a one-armed headlock. She turned instead to Cersei was entirely preoccupied. “Ten minutes before the ceremony? My goodness! Jaime, take over for Melisandre, I need her elsewhere.” Jaime had been lounging on the couch chuckling to himself, but sat upright looking disgruntled. “Melisandre!” Cersei snapped her fingers impatiently. With a shrug, she stood up and handed Jaime the cup of espresso and the unenviable task of force feeding it to Robert. “Wait, this wasn’t in my dream!” Melisandre heard before Cersei shut the door behind them. “So where are we going?” Melisandre asked hesitantly. Twenty minutes later, Melisandre was wearing a caterer’s uniform, and sashaying through the crowd with a plate of tumblers filled with watered down marinara sauce. “The Bloody Marys are for later,” she repeated with a smile as she warded off the seventh guest to make a grab for one. She had her eye on one very specific target. “Don’t you think they should have started seating us already? It’s one thing if somebody like me keeps her audience waiting, that’s to be expected. But for a wedding? Who exactly does little Miss Lannister think she is?” A woman in a white dress with tumble of dark curls laughed. Melisandre took a moment to eye Stannis’ mother, a woman she’d met on only a handful of occasions and had a deep distaste for. Brienne had been worried that Cassandra would recognize her. In a waitstaff uniform, Melisandre highly doubted it. Then she took a few more brisk steps into the crowd and before Cassandra had time to register her presence, she stutter-stepped to mime losing her balance, and tipped the entire tray directly on to the unsuspecting woman. It was as if time froze for a second, the glasses filled with goopy red liquid sloshing through the air, the expression of horror marring Cassandra’s lovely features, and above all, that dress, that perfectly white dress, shining like the very embodiment of everything Melisandre hated about weddings and about Cassandra Baratheon, rolled into one. Then several things happened in rapid succession. There was the sharp crack of glass smashing against the floor, the decidedly unmusical howl of rage from Cassana, and then a rather theatrical gasp from Cersei who had coincidentally been walking by with her brother Tyrion. “My dress!” Cassana shrieked, the pristine silk now spattered with red. “Your dress!” Cersei declaimed, grabbing the nearest fabric at hand (coincidentally Tyrion’s tie) and frantically dabbing at it. “You!” Cassan whirled on Melisandre, who kept a politely apologetic smile fixed on her face. “Maybe some water?” Cersei dunked the tie in a nearby glass before resuming dabbing. “Me,” Melisandre’s apologetic smile became a little wider. “Glak,” said Tyrion, clawing at his throat and trying to release the tie that Cersei was slowing strangling him with. There was a sudden amplified crescendo of wind chimes, and the brief feedback of a microphone turning on. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you could make your way into the Great Sept, the ceremony is about to begin.” Brienne announced, her voice low and confident. “My dress,” Cassana whispered, once more. “My tie!” Tyrion wailed, having finally gotten free of his noose. Cersei absently handed it back to him, now soiled and limp. He tried to click the duckies on, but there was only a sad spark from the wiring. “I believe my Aunt Gemma has something you can wear over it,” Cersei tugged Cassana’s arm gently. “Best just trash it,” Melisandre patted Tyrion on the head. “No tie is a sexier look anyway. And that Stokeworth girl has been eyeing you since she got here.” “Which one?” Tyrion’s head shot up, the tie falling to the floor. Melisandre deposited it and the tray in a garbage on the way back to her changing room. She found the other girls looking ready, if humming with a restless energy. “Petyr said yes of course, but I can’t think why she wants him there after all he’s done,” Lysa was huffing to Catelyn. “As long as you keep him far far away from me,” Catelyn said grimly. “How did it go?” Brienne blurted upon seeing Melisandre. “Perfectly,” Cersei answered for her as she entered the room. Dewey eyed angel she might look, but the effect was rather spoiled by the evil laugh she proceeded to give. “Robert was much calmer when he left to get ready,” Brienne assured her. “I texted what you told me and Petyr is coming to the after party,” Lysa chipped in. “How are you feeling? If you need anything up to and including a getaway car, we’re here,” Catelyn said firmly. “Places everyone!” A wedding minion hurried in, “the music’s starting!” “Get. Out.” Melisandre sent her scurrying. They all turned back to Cersei. Even Melisandre found, to her surprise, that she was holding her breath. Cersei laughed that delicate bell-like laugh that Melisandre had always suspected was fake as hell (and, come to think of it, reminded her more than a little of Cassana’s laugh). “Don’t be silly, Catelyn, this is my dream come true.” Catelyn lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Cersei squared her shoulders. “Fine. It’s not quite how I pictured it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to be perfect. Now do try to tuck those tummies in ladies and let’s knock them dead.” Melisandre, as the least important and least socially connected bridesmaid, was positioned the furthest from the bride, and therefore had the unenviable task of leading the charge. Feeling an unaccustomed pang of nerves (she couldn’t believe she had changed back into this pink monstrosity for Brienne, she was getting soft in her old age) she turned the corner into hall of the Great Sept. Across the entryway, Stannis turned in at the same time. Even with the gray suit and garish pink pocket square, he managed to look sober and serious. Until he looked up and saw her, trying to step daintily as she waded toward him through the thick folds of tulle. There was the barest flicker of a twitch of his lip, and nobody else would have noticed, but Melisandre knew he was fighting a smile. Without moving a muscle of her otherwise pleasant expression, she narrowed her eyes at him. As they met in the center of the hallway, preparing to walk forward past the long benches of guests to the altar, Stannis extended his arm. She took it. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, barely audible above the string quartet playing them in, and she elbowed him. “Where have you been? My brother got Robert hammered, Brienne yelled at me, and I need to avoid your mother for like a year and you can never ask why,” she whispered through her teeth as they stepped forward. But even as she poured out her litany of woes, they seemed to melt away. The afternoon light was streaming through the stained glass windows, casting the entire scene at the altar in a golden glow. Robert, dark hair a little tousled, but otherwise calm and alert, looked like some kind of storybook hero, riding off into the happily ever after. Above them, in the great stone cathedral arches that vaulted overhead, hung a thousand amber orbs, catching the light and imbuing the hall below with an otherworldly feeling—as if they were walking below the night sky of some distant planet. Melisandre clutched Stannis’ arm just a little tighter, to feel more tethered to the here and now. Without looking at her, he moved his other hand on top of her own. They walked up the stone steps to the altar, splitting gracefully as Stannis moved to stand behind Robert and Melisandre prepared to stand alone on the bride’s side. Robert broke his decorum to shoot them both a grin, looking a little nervous and more than a little excited. Melisandre, who mostly felt a tired exasperation with her boyfriend’s brother, couldn’t help but smile back. Lord of Light, he looked happy. Renly and Lysa were next up the aisle, Renly managing to make his outfit look whimsical and stylish as always. Lysa’s fiery hair perfectly set off Renly’s dark locks and Melisandre couldn’t help but notice Jon Arryn, sitting in the second row, practically craning his neck to get a better look at her. Then came Catelyn and Thoros. (Ned as best man, would walk down with Brienne.) Melisandre was amused to see Cat elbowing him to stand up straighter, and it was with visible relief that Thoros parted ways with her at the altar to stand by Renly. Brienne and Ned might have been even more of an amusing pairing—Brienne had at least three inches on Ned but he was gamely holding his arm out and up to accommodate her, looking a bit as if he were miming a winged bird. But they both looked so grave and so terribly earnest... instead Melisandre felt another swell of fondness for the entire gathering. Then at some hidden signal, the string quartet’s music faded away into a hush of silence. From the bowels of the sept to the amber spheres above, the thick air practically vibrated with the sounds of the organ’s wedding march. As one, hundreds of wedding guests rose to their feet. And even though Melisandre had literally seen her like TWO MINUTES AGO, such was the power of the moment that she found herself actually standing on her tiptoes to see. Tywin Lannister escorted his daughter, back ramrod straight and his perpetual scowl eased into something close to neutral. Next to him, one dainty hand on his arm, floated Cersei, a partial veil over her face that gestured at tradition while still allowing the guests to see every perfectly formed feature. She looked every bit as radiantly transformed as she had all day. But as her chin lifted and she saw Robert standing at the end of the aisle, she somehow... brightened? It wasn’t anything of substance, because her perfect smile had never wavered, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Tywin stopped crisply on his mark before the altar, with a posture that would have made a drill sergeant proud. Robert stepped forward to lift the veil from over Cersei’s eyes, with a gentleness that Melisandre would not have suspected his burly frame to possess. They stood there, as Robert reached to clasp her hands, looking at each other like there was nobody there but them. “Who comes before the Seven this day?” The High Septon asked, his voice querulous and thin but still with a reedy strength that carried it through the chamber. “Cersei Lannister,” Tywin answered. “She comes to be wed. She begs the blessing of the gods.” “Who comes to claim her?” The High Septon asked. “Robert Baratheon,” Robert answered, still holding Cersei’s hands in his. “Cersei Lannister, do you take this man?” The High Septon turned to her. “I do,” she said, her gaze never leaving Robert’s. “Very well,” the High Septon cleared his throat, trying to indicate that they should separate. When they paid him no mind, he continued. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity. Now look upon each other, and say the words.” Together, Robert’s deep rumble and Cersei’s silvery laugh sounding utterly unalike but somehow right together, they began. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers” — “his” — “and she” — “he” — “is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.” It was sickening really. All this nonsense about who claims her? Like she was some chattel to be bought and sold? Melisandre swallowed. “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the High Septon intoned. Robert dipped Cersei back to kiss her, one of her hands tangling in his pitch black hair. From around them, a thousand camera bulbs seemed to flash at once. Helplessly, Melisandre felt her eyes slide to Stannis. He was looking back at her, and there was no trepidation in his gaze at all. It was just too sickening for words. But all the same. All the same, if someday it happened to her... Robert hooked one arm around his bride and did a fist pump. The crowd laughed, and Cersei slapped him upside the head. All the same, if it happened to her, Melisandre thought maybe she wouldn’t mind so much after all.

[wendynerdwrites]

@jonxsansaremix

Jon x Sansa Remix - Day 4: Fairytale Couples: Allerleirauh/All Kinds of Fur - Allerleirauh x The Good King

Sansa:

“You’ll be queen,” he whispers, eyes glittering like a toad’s, as he leans over her chair at the dinner table, “There is no higher match in the kingdom.”

Gods, no. No. Sansa squirms in her seat, trying not to vomit up her lamb as his hands clasp about her shoulders. “It’s not right!”

“And what’s not right about it, sweet daughter?” He asks, “Your mother, with her last breath, made me swear to only ever marry a woman as beautiful as herself. You’re the only one, Sansa. I’ve searched every kingdom in Westeros and Braavos as well. None but you surpass your mother’s face. And little Robin needs a mother.”

Sansa glances at her sickly little brother. He grins at her and stares at her breasts, though not with the same intent with which her father currently peers down her bodice. Mother, overjoyed at having a son at long last, fed him at her breast until her final day a year ago. Robin is eight now. My whole family is mad, she thinks, all of them. Rumor was Queen Cersei has cursed every highborn maiden on the continent in some way or another. Sansa had been the woman’s ward, but had thought she’d escaped the black magic. Perhaps not. Will I lose my mind too?

But not even the king can force his daughter to marry him. Well, not technically. He cannot force me at swordpoint, but he can force me to agree. He can throw me into the dungeon for years. He can terrorize the villages until I relent. Sansa tries to think, and think hard.

“I… I have conditions,” she says.

Father strokes her neck and inhales sharply. “Of course, My Darling. Name them.”

“Three gowns, a cloak, and a pet.”

Father grins. “That’s it?”

“I’m not done,” Sansa says, leaning forward and taking a sip of red wine, “The first gown must be as golden and shining as the sun itself. The second must be as bright and mysterious and silver as the moon. The third must be a piece of the night’s sky and all the stars within it.”

Father’s grin wavers. “Is… Is that so?”

Sansa nods, beginning to feel more confident. “The fur must be made of every pelt of every bird and beast in the kingdom, save for one. I want a direwolf, Father. A direwolf of my very own to be my companion for all of my days. Bring me those things, and I shall be your bride.”

Once he’s stormed out of the hall, Sansa leans back in her seat in triumph. Even if he somehow did manage to deliver all she asked for, a direwolf--- a species that has not been seen in the kingdom for over a century--- will be her guard. He’ll never touch her.

Mad though he may be,  her father is clever, and to Sansa’s horror, he begins to make progress. He summons the world’s finest dressmakers, furriers, hunters, goldsmiths, and jewelers to the kingdom. Before long, he presents her with the first gown.

It’s surprisingly simple, yet no less effective with its floating panels of yellow silk and gold brocade. The gold is of every shade --- white, yellow, rose. It catches every angle and flash of light and gleams to the point where it hurts the eyes if you stare too long --- sunlight to wear.

This should be impossible. Sansa swallows. “It’s lovely indeed, but there are two more gowns, a fur, and a friend you must bring me.”

King Petyr grins. “Just you wait, sweet girl.”

The evening he brings her a silvery-white masterpiece studded with diamonds, moonstones, and opals, she cries herself to sleep.

How? How? She wonders to herself when she sees the third one, a cascade of gemstones against the deepest midnight blue. How do they get the jewels to glow like that?

The king takes pleasure in having her personally inspect every inch of the fur he brings her, to check every path against records of the plumage and coats of every creature native to their country. The hood is a grey wolf’s head.

Sansa relents miserably. “And where is my Direwolf, Father?”

He whistles, and to Sansa’s horror, a beautiful, immense, yet leashed and muzzled creature is led in. The only eyes Sansa’s seen as sad as this beast’s are her own. Her heart breaks for the creature. She reaches out to stroke its head, but Father yanks her hand back.

“That’s a wild animal, My Dear. I couldn’t possibly let you touch it until it’s been tamed. And I’m afraid that won’t be until well after the wedding.” The look in his eyes tell her there is no room for argument.

She waits two nights before acting. Just long enough for Father to grow complacent. She plans carefully. Sansa knows she cannot bring much, but she will bring her greatest treasures.

One is the gold signet ring of her House.

The second is a tiny gold spindle her mother gifted her before she died.

The third… The third breaks her heart. A golden fishing reel, from the days before her father turned lecherous and foul, and led her down to the pond and taught her to fish.

In her bag, she also brings the gowns. Moonlight, sunlight, and starlight disappear into her pack, and she wraps herself in the great fur.

With a cry, she cuts open her palm, spilling blood upon her sheets. Let them think her dead. Better her father try to hunt a murderer than a daughter-bride.

There’s only one more thing to do. Sansa sneaks down to the kennels and finds the poor creature her father captured. Holding her breath, she frees the beast, half-expecting it to maul her. Still a better fate than the one my father plans for me.

To her surprise, though, the Furball gives her a long look and at once, Sansa feels something. It’s as if they’ve known one another their whole lives. The direwolf approaches Sansa and presses her muzzle into the princess’s neck.

“You should not be so kind to me,” the princess whispers, “It is my fault you were dragged away from your home.”

The animal responds by licking Sansa’s face before padding towards the kennel exit. And Sansa knows she’s to follow.

Before wading across Wintertown River, Sansa cuts off her braid, leaving her hair to her ears like a boy’s and flings it and her nightdress into the water.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Three years later:

Jon:

There are rare times that Jon wonders whether keeping Ghost is really worth the trouble.

He gasps for breath, cheeks scraped by icy air, as he and his mount finally come to a stop after chasing after his albino direwolf. It’s no easy thing to chase a direwolf, let alone one with a coat as white as the snow that surrounds them. If the hunting party is still trying to keep up, they won’t reach them for a while yet.

They come to leering, cliff-like rock formation in the middle of the woods, and it takes Jon a few minutes to figure out why Ghost appears to be digging and sniffing around the underside. His wolf knocks over some broken branches, and the next thing he knows, his friend is tackled backwards by a snarling grey she-wolf.

Not just any sort of she-wolf a Direwolf. With such a height, there’s no mistaking it. Jon looks on in awe. Ghost was the only direwolf anyone in the kingdom had seen in ages.

One would think that the animal would greet another of her species as a friend, but she fights as if….

Pups! Jon thinks hopefully. A litter of pups, surely. As the wolves fight, he dismounts, crouches down, and crawls towards the den.

He does not find a litter of pups huddled behind the branches. Indeed, he has no idea what he’s looking at. It looked like a wolf at first, until it raised its head and revealed what looked like the face of a woman sticking out from wide-open jaws. It's body was large and round, almost spherical, and coated with furs of every color and texture, along with…. Feathers?!

Jon scrambles back in terror. So does the creature. Its eyes are the deepest blue he’s ever seen, and he feels his heart soften. The prince crawls closer to it.

“It’s alright,” he says gently, extending his hand, “I shall not hurt you, I promise it. No harm shall come to you on my watch.”

The thing turns out to have hands, albeit filthy ones. It lets Jon help it out of the den, at which point the wolves stop brawling. The creature’s body, it turns out, is not quite spherical, but still multi-textured and lumpy. But it stands on two legs.

“Can you speak?” Jon asks it.

The creature coughs roughly. “Yes, though it’s been quite a while since I have.”

Certainly female, by the voice. The face looks feminine, but it is hard to be sure beneath the levels of grime.

To Jon’s astonishment, the thing dips into its own version of a curtsey with a certain, lumpy grace to it.

“What is your name?”

“I have no name anymore. I am a wolf.”

“That’s what you want to be called?” Jon replies, examining her coat, “There seems to be far more to you than just wolf.”

The being’s appearance is so unnatural. But both wolves, the bitch and Ghost, walk up to the creature and lick her hands. Ghost sniffs her and greets her with a wagging tail, like a packmate.

“You said you have no name anymore.”

“That is correct. But you still do, I expect,” Furball responds, “And poor, nameless creature that I am, it is proper etiquette for a lord to introduce himself.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. She is too well-spoken and too bold to be just some wild creature. He likes her boldness, though. He blushes and bows.

“I am Prince Jon of Valyria, Mistress.”

“Second son of King Rhaegar? Eldest of his children with Queen Lyanna?”

“Indeed!” This confirms it to him.

He’s heard of things like this many a time. Stories that he and his family used to dismiss as myths for children, but that was before his aunt hatched a new race of dragons and his younger siblings, Arya and Bran, began seeing through the eyes of animals.

She’s a lady of some sort, probably once very beautiful. She’s been cursed, though. She wouldn’t be the only one of this generation, either. Indeed, many princess of this generation have suffered nasty fates. Princess Shireen of the Stormlands was cursed so her half her body turned mottled and grey. Princess Arianne and her father, King Doran, were cursed so that they could not say anything of true importance to one another. Princess Asha of the Iron Islands was chased from her lands by an evil uncle. Princess Margaery of the Reach was transformed into a rose by the cruel and jealous Queen Cersei of Casterly Rock, and it’s said the witch-queen performed a blood sacrifice to do it, for her own daughter, Princess Myrcella, was disfigured shortly after. Lady Stokeworth’s daughter, Lollys, was gang-raped by a mob, and Lord Hewett’s daughters suffered a similar fate by invading pirates. Lady Mormont’s eldest was butchered at a wedding. Beautiful, young, highborn women all across the continent have died, been cursed, or gone missing that these days most families are unwilling to let their daughters out of the house.

Jon eyes the poor being. “Tell me, what was your name?”

She bites her lip and steps back. Jon thinks of Princess Arianne. She may be cursed not to say. “It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me. Can you tell me how to break the curse?”

The creature shakes her head.

Before he can ask anything else, they’re interrupted by the sound of trumpets and approaching hoofbeats.

“Jon!”

Aegon and the rest of the hunting party stop a little further back than they might normally upon spotting the wolves. His brother looks as if he’s about to inquire after Jon’s condition, but his eyes fall upon Furball and nearly burst out of his head.

“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?!”

Jon blushes at his brother’s rudeness. “It’s---She’s---” He glances at Furball uneasily. What is she supposed to be, really? What exactly has this curse turned her into? She might call herself a wolf, but there’s an actual one here for comparison. Wolves do not have feathers, let alone the feathers of bluejays, cardinals, orioles, canaries, doves, ravens, and peacocks. To Jon, his new friend looked more like whatever witch had cursed her couldn’t make up her mind about what to turn the poor girl into, and ultimately settled on everything.

“She calls herself a wolf.”

“Ha! Wolves don’t have mink and rabbit pelts. More like Furball,” remarks Aegon.

“Aegon---!”

“---Call me whatever you wish, Furball is fine,” Furball responds, with an odd primness, “You cannot make me feel low, Prince Aegon.”

“Well, I imagine I can’t make you feel any lower, than you already do, looking like that.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, I meant what I said. I do not mind having an ugly appearance whatsoever. Physical beauty in my experience causes more trouble than it is worth, even before it flees, but the value and potential of a good soul is everlasting and incalculable.”

“Says the woman raised by wolves.”

“I would not be able to speak to you thus, if that were the case,” Furball answers, “Though I wish it were. Wolves have nobler souls than men.”

Jon clears his throat and walks over to Aegon’s mount, gesturing for his brother to lean over.

“I believe,” he murmurs, “That Furball may be another victim of a curse, like Princess Shireen, Arianne, or Margaery. She can’t seem to say it, but there are signs. She speaks as one who has received the finest education, she knows of our family, of courtly etiquette.”

Aegon’s indigo eyes flick upwards to give Furball another look. “An enchanted lady, you say?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Aegon smirks and slips down from his saddle, approaching the creature.

“Forgive my rudeness, Madam,” he says graciously, “It was highly unbecoming. I swear to you on my honor as a Targaryen, that I shall do whatever I can to help you.”

“I---Mmmmph!”

Jon’s jaw drops as his brother sweeps the creature up into a firm, passionate kiss, eliciting a groan from the rest of the hunting party. Jon nearly tackles his brother when he remembers --- stories about cursed princesses end with them being saved by a prince’s kiss. Or, at least, most of them do.

So Jon watches carefully, waiting for a flash of golden light or a sparkling fog or the arrival of a fairy with a magic wand to change this creature into a fair maiden.

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, the creature begins struggling, pushing Aegon away in horror. The She-wolf hurries forward, prompting Aegon to pull back, wiping his grime-smeared mouth in disgust.

“Foul!” He cries before spitting, “You’re no enchanted beauty! You’re just a freak!”

Tears are streaming down the creature’s face. “Don’t touch me! How dare you touch me?!”

Aegon, enraged and humiliated, looks to his guards. “Men! Cut this thing down! I want its pelt hanging from my wall by sundown!”

“NO!” Jon rushes between the creature and his brother. “Aegon, this creature is innocent! It has harmed no one! And you swore on your honor as a Targaryen to help it! Just because this being didn’t transform into a princess doesn’t render your oath meaningless!”

“You think I’m going to take this freak into my household?!”

“No,” Jon says firmly, “You don’t have to. I will.”

“Honestly, what is with you and strange pets?!” Aegon demands. “Well, we’ll see what Father says.”

Furball informs Jon that her wolf will not leave her side, and sure enough, the creature follows them back to the palace.

Father judges the creature from atop his throne, stern-eyed. “It seems tame, I’ll give you that, but I can’t have it frightening visitors. It would need to be kept out of sight. And it would need to perform some kind of service to us.”

“I can help in the kitchens,” Furball offers.

King Rhaegar wrinkles his nose. “You think I want you shedding in our food, Furball?”

“My coat does not shed, Your Majesty,” Furball responds adamantly, “I am not like other animals.”

“Fine, but if you’re to keep that wolf---”

“---There’s no alternative---”

“---You must sleep in the kennels with it.”

Furball gives that strange sort-of curtsy again.

“And if we find a single hair in our food---”

“---Cast me out, Your Majesty.”

“Good.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Furball:

The cook almost never lets her near the actual food, aside from the occasional tasks shelling peas or peeling potatoes. She mostly gives Furball cleaning work.

That is, until Furball brings fresh salmon far finer than any the fishmonger offers to the kitchens one day, and the cook puts her to that task.

Sleeping in the kennels isn’t bad, either. She’s not considered a dog, she’s seen as a wolf, and the dogs keep their distance from the wolves. Lady --- her wolf--- and Furball have carved out their own corner of the pen and sleep every night wrapped around one another. She has access to clean water and proper plumbing now, and she’s laden their corner heavy with fresh straw.

Every night and every early morning before dawn, Sansa combs out her coat to keep it free of fleas and any fur Lady may have shed. At one point, she acquires a discarded servant’s dress. It allows her to slip out of the fur, cover her hair, and move about the castle grounds unnoticed to bathe properly.

The opulence of the Valyrian Court reminds her of home, albeit the walls and livery are strewn with different colors. She’s yet to see the dragons up close, as Princess Daenerys keeps them in a nest atop the nearby mountain. The castle is of the blackest stone she’s ever seen and some halls have ceilings as high as the moon.

She’d been told growing up that she was lucky, as her family’s palace was one of the only ones with running water. But back home, the water ran through the walls to keep the rooms warm during the winter. Here, the water runs from spigots into basins. Grand rooms are lined with plush crimson carpet and the walls of the ballroom are gilded mirrors. Everywhere one looks there are depictions of dragons in sculpture, moldings, tapestry, and paintings. And that’s not counting the skulls --- some the size of a cottage, others as big as a woman’s fist --- that line the throne room.

Not that Furball spends much time in the grand chambers. Most of the royal family find her disturbing and repulsive, so she’s kept out of sight.

Furball is completely and utterly fine with that. It’s better that way. And even if she wasn’t afraid of being recognized by someone who knows King Petyr, the grandeur of the palace reminds her of home. She doesn’t want to be reminded of home. Indeed, when she does find herself in one of the public rooms or halls meant for highborn, her heart catches every time she turns a corner as she half-expects to run right into her father.

The kitchenworkers, on the other hand, seem to regard her as a sort of mascot or pet. They even reach out and pet her, and their children love trying to ride her. Furball draws the line at eating without utensils, receiving “treats”, or being treated like a dog and expected to do tricks. But she doesn’t mind entertaining the little ones or being petted. It makes her feel less alone.

Furball thinks she could make a life here. There’s only one problem.

The second prince, the dark one with the kind eyes who brought her here. Furball assumed he’d forget about her after a few weeks, but he doesn’t. He drops by the kennels and the kitchens a few times each week, usually to ask her questions. Does she have any parents? How’d she meet Lady? Can she read? Who taught her? He tries to place her accent and, to her dismay, gets as close to realizing she had to be from somewhere in the Riverlands, or the Vale or North. Impressive, as Sansa had spent a chunk of her childhood as a ward in the Crownlands, and had picked up some of their affectations.

She knows what he’s after. Despite that foul kiss from his brother proving fruitless, it seems he still thinks her a maiden beset by an evil spell. He doesn’t ask her to confirm or deny it directly, as he believes she’s prevented from telling him. But he tells her his theories and asks her for whatever details might help him figure it out.

“My brother thinks you’re just some strange beast because his kiss didn’t work, and in stories, princes break spells on princesses by kissing them. But I’ve checked, and it’s more complicated than that. Many times, even though it’s a prince kissing the maiden, the story says it’s actually ‘true love’s kiss’ that breaks the spell. The man being a prince is incidental,” he explains to her one morning as they lug pails of milk from the barns to the kitchen. She’d insisted to him that if he was going to pester her, he should at least help out. And to her shock, instead of having her whipped for her insolence, he readily agreed. It certainly made chores easier. “And not even true love’s kiss is the answer to every story. Sometimes, it’s reaching a certain age that breaks the spell. Or the collection of some magical artifact, solving a riddle, or enduring some sort of trial, like walking over hot coals or reclaiming a kingdom from a tyrannical usurper.”

Another time, while salting meats, he tells her, “I think whoever cursed you must be very, very powerful indeed. My little brother Bran has visions, you know, of the past and future. I asked him to look for the time you were cursed, and what magic is needed to cure you. He couldn’t find either. So the witch or sorcerer who did this to you must be able to repel visions.”

Furball knows she should put an end to this. That she should scream and shout for him to leave her be, refuse to answer one more question, or even leave. But she can’t.

For one thing, she knows he’ll never find her out. There’s no magical curse, no sorcerer, no witch. No one did this to her. Not if his psychic brother finds nothing. My family is just mad without magic.

For another, she’s lonely, and he makes her feel less so. She gets the distinct impression that the reason he takes such an interest isn’t because he wants to be a hero, or learn magic, or even that he wants to marry her if she turns out to be a princess after all. He actually wants to help her. It’s why he also helps her with the milk-gathering, potato-peeling, sweeping, dough-kneading, and dish-washing.

He never tries to pet her, or treat her like an animal. He treats her like a person. An interesting person, not simply someone he pities.

As a princess, Sansa grew up with people wantings things from her. Robin was born when she was eight, and for a long time, she was the heir to her father’s throne and many were sure it would stay that way, given her mother’s rate of miscarriages and stillbirths. People were eager and excited to be friends and mentors to the next queen.

Then, when Robin was born, all of a sudden, her “friends” seemed to lose interest in her. She was no longer heir to the throne, no longer the future monarch. Now her future was to be married off to some foreign prince. All attention shifted to the crown prince. Robin was sickly, too, so he garnered even more time and attention. Mother utterly doted on her son devoting every moment to him, seeming to forget about her daughter entirely. Sansa was sent away for three years to the Crownlands, with the expectation that she’d marry the Crown Prince Joffrey until a war broke out and his family decided the princess of the Reach secured a better alliance for them and Sansa was returned (not that she minded, given poor Margaery’s fate and the fact that both Joffrey and his mother were foul people).

It wasn’t until she reached a certain age that she began to get noticed again. By men.

Over the years Queen Lysa grew stout and wrinkled from her many pregnancies, though she’d been a renowned beauty in her youth. All that was left of that beauty by the time Sansa began to blossom was her thick, blood-colored hair. Sansa had inherited that hair, and her mother’s big, blue eyes (now squinted with age), and high cheekbones. As a child, Sansa would look at portraits of her young mother --- Father had commissioned dozens --- and prayed to be so lovely. But as she came into her maidenhood, people, including Father, had declared her to be even lovelier than Lysa at her prime. And before long, Sansa herself saw what they meant.

Queen Lysa didn’t like this. The passion between her and Father had long since fled, as did her popularity with the courtiers. The lords and ladies were uncomfortable with how their queen never hesitated to unlace her bodice regardless of time or place, and feed her well-past-infancy-aged son at her breast. Even when she wasn’t actively nursing him, the milk seeped into her clothes and clung to her, so everywhere she went she carried the scent of spoiled dairy.

She’d sustained her ego with the attention of singers and poets, but once her daughter started approaching womanhood, those attentions were diverted as well. Songs originally written for Queen Lysa were sung for Princess Sansa, and Lysa knew it. She began ordering the maids to bind back her daughter’s breasts every morning, made sure every gown had a high collar and lacked a proper silhouette. If her daughter responded to anyone’s attention, Lysa would pull her aside at the earliest opportunity and call her a hussy.

It was clear to the whole court that the Queen was poisonously jealous of her daughter. But that didn’t stop any of the men there from trying to flirt with her. Why should they care that they were provoking the queen into punishing the princess for being noticed? There are few prizes greater for a vassal than a bonny royal bride. They didn’t stop, even when she’d plead for them in whispers to step back, not upset the queen… They’d laugh at her, and tell her she was made to be loved, to savor this time and attention as it lasts...

“Please,” she remembers begging Harry Hardyng as he spun her around the dance floor, lowering his hand below her hips, “My mother is watching, and she’ll be furious with me!”

“Don’t worry, Sweetling, I’ll protect you from Mummy’s wrath.”

They never did. No one ever did, except...

“Lysa, Seven Hells, get your hands off of our daughter!”

Father was her savior, for he intervened on her behalf several times. Mother would threaten to whip or flog Sansa for her “wantonness”, but never did, because Father would not allow it. Father seemed proud of her daughter’s beauty, calling attention to it at every opportunity. He’d buy her beautiful things, and insist she wear them to banquets and balls. And if the boys got a bit too enthusiastic, he was quick to step onto the dancefloor, grab her by the waist, and pull her into a dance. He kept her close, kept his hands firmly upon her. The more Mother seemed to hate Sansa, the more Father seemed to love her.

And all he ever wanted from her were kisses, and for her to sit on his lap and…

Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she wonders how much Mother knew, if this was the intent of her dying wish. Promise that you’ll only ever marry a woman as beautiful as I was in my youth, Petyr… Did she realize what her husband might do?

No, Lysa was obsessively controlling of her husband. Anyone having him again, let alone her daughter was her worst nightmare. Something she would not accept even in death. And she thought too well of the king to think him capable of such perversions. She wanted to go down in history as Petyr’s only love, only queen, who mourned her for the rest of his life.

As Sansa, she was only ever desired, only the subject of lust and ambition.

Now, as Furball, well… Yes, most look at her as a freak, or a pet. But no one is ever kind to her with ulterior motives. She’s not beautiful anymore, either.

What she is, is useful and fascinating. Especially to Jon, whose opinion she’s come to value more than anyone’s. He tells her things. How he also feels ill-favored and often unnoticed. How his brother is resentful and jealous towards Jon, his mother, and his younger siblings because their father married Queen Lyanna so soon after his first wife’s death. How he’s not sure what his place is. How he finds nearly everyone at court duplicitous and vapid. Gods, how she can relate.

He’s thoughtful, patient, and kind, not to mention brave. Lady likes him, so he’s trustworthy.

As Sansa, she’d be a princess to him. But as the ugly, freakish Furball, she’s a friend.

Despite herself, though, she finds that she wants to be more. He may not be as gloriously platinum-haired and purple-eyed as his preening brother, but he’s handsome in a dark, dreamy way. Gods, when he smiles…

When he smiles, she must literally bite her own tongue to keep from telling him everything.

But she can’t. Never.

It’s not Jon’s fault. It’s not about him. It’s about his father, and his brother. If Jon knew the truth, he’d want to restore her to the comfortable life a princess is due, he’d want to help her. But he’s the second son of an imperious and powerful king. Rhaegar and Aegon would learn the truth and then…?

The Targaryens had a history of what they called “Divine Blood Matches”. Incest. Rhaegar’s parents and grandparents were siblings. The founder of their kingdom took both his sisters as wives, as did many Targaryen kings since. Some married their nieces. Rhaegar might decide that he wants the support and friendship of the King of the North and Vale, and see no issue with him marrying his daughter. He might deliver her back to Father in exchange for an alliance.

Even if he didn’t, even if he was kind and gallant… Father wouldn’t accept it. One thing both of Sansa’s parents had in common was how extreme they were over people they wished to possess. Father had crafted gowns of the sun, moon, and stars, a coat of every fur and feather, and muzzled a direwolf to marry his own daughter. Not only was Sansa supposed to be his, but if he learned the truth, he’d be humiliated. That was one thing he would not stomach.

He was power-hungry, too. The North wasn’t originally his domain, but that of Mother’s family, and was to be inherited by mother’s brother, Edmure. Father had originally tried to marry Mother’s older sister, Catelyn. However, Catelyn was promised to another and married another lord. There were rumors soon after about Mother and Father. And, in truth, Sansa was born very, very soon after her parents married. Even she’d heard the whispers. Uncle Edmure, her grandfather, and Aunt Catelyn and her family died when Sansa was very, very small, leaving Mother to inherit. And Mother immediately ceded the North to her husband, making him king of two realms.

Sansa was in denial about all this until the day Father said he’d marry her.

If--- no, when--- he learned that his daughter wasn’t dead, but was living in the Valyrian court? He’d accuse them of kidnapping and harboring her all these years and declare war. He’d try to invade and steal their throne.

He’d hurt Jon.

No. Furball cannot tell Jon. As long as Father lives, she remains a freak.

A year and a half passes. It takes half that time for Furball to admit that she’s in love with the prince. For nine moons, she cries herself to sleep nightly.

Ten months in, the Crownlands and Westerlands conquer the Stormlands and officially ally themselves with the Iron Islands. Queen Cersei and King Euron, both powerful sorcerers, seal their alliance with a marriage. Valyria is forced to formally enter the war on the side of the Reach. Dorne does as well.

King Rhaegar and the two princes fly into battle. For three months, the Furball prays to any god that will listen to bring Jon back to her.

The gods do listen, but while Jon returns, arm fractured in three places, his father and brother do not. Jon is crowned King of Valyria. King of Valyria and nothing else. He can no longer be a friend to his Furball.

She wasn’t supposed to be in the council chamber that morning. That was Tessa’s job, but she fell ill and the Festival of the Three Dragons was coming up, so Furball was made to wash the windows as the Small Council met. Aside from a couple of curious glances as she ran a wet rag along the glass, the great lords paid her no notice as they filed in and took their seats. For a moment, she does catch the new king’s eye. He’s never looked so sad.

Furball is no spy, but she was trained in statecraft, and she can’t help taking an interest in their discussions. It’s not as if she’s going to tell anyone. She goes about her task, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

“...The spice trade has become flooded…”

Good, we’ll get some seasonings cheap, at least.

“...Cersei made a mistake. She launched an offensive into Dorne…”

Yes! Wonderful news. Dorne is a death trap to anyone who isn’t native to it. The Dornish were famous for their defensive warfare. All they had to do was barricade themselves in the Sand Hills, and Cersei’s army would die of thirst.

“...King Petyr of the North and the Vale, died last night of pneumonia at age seven-and-forty, leaving his only son, Robin, age twelve, to succeed him, with Lord Nestor Royce as Lord Protector. His Grace Robin of House Baelish and House Stark, Second of His Name, King in the North, King of the Mountain and the Vale, Lord of the Eyrie and Winterfell, Lord of Winterfell, Defender of the Vale of Arryn and Protector of the Realm, Long May He Reign.”

The rag lands right into the pail of water from the top pane of glass, causing half of the bucket’s contents to splash out. The ladder sways, and Furball barely manages to grip the dragon’s head molding at the top in time to save herself from falling.

She clutches herself still, gasping. Every head in the room turns toward her.

“F-forgive me, My Lords!” She cries, “A… A bird seemed to be flying right towards the window. I thought it would collide and I lost my balance!”

“You’re not usually so clumsy, Furball,” the king remarks.

“It was a very large bird, Your Majesty! I’m so sorry!” She begins easing herself down the ladder. “I’ll clean this up at once!”

“See that you do.”

As she scrubs the floor and heads back to the kitchens, Furball processes this news. Father is dead. Robin is king. Father is dead.

I’m free, she thinks, I can tell Jon and…

...No. Now that the king is dead and a sickly boy is in his place, there will likely be scores of imposters expected to appear and lay claim to her title. She’s Heir Presumptive to both kingdoms until Robin marries and produces a child, and that won’t be any time soon, especially if he’s still sickly.

She has the treasures, of course. She’s kept them in a sack tied to her belly for nearly five years now. But people think Princess Sansa is dead, and they know that her “murderer” stole her treasures that night. There’s no reason she wouldn’t be suspected of being a thief.

Robin will need you… He’s king now, surrounded by the same grasping court that once turned deaf ear to Sansa’s troubles. She can’t leave him alone anymore. She’s been selfish long enough.

But to prove herself, she’ll need more than the treasures. She’ll need to prove herself a princess and attain an advocate at court.

...And supposing you manage that. What then? You return home and… what? What’s to stop any of those same lords from taking you as their wife and killing your brother? Your father nearly married you. What’s to stop Royce or Corbray or Hunter or Hardyng from taking you as a bride? Even if Rhaegar believed you, why should he risk anything to protect you? Especially when war is looming?

She can think of one way to prevent that. As long as she plays this right.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

The daytime events of the Festival of the Three Dragons have always been his favorite. The games, the hunts, the competitions… The evening ones… Less so. He’s never been particularly keen on dancing or mingling. Aegon shined during events like these, which only made Jon shrink back more. Even if he tried, he’d be compared to his charismatic god of a father and be found wanting.

Aegon and Father are gone, and everyone can clearly feel their absence. Rhaenys, bless her, tries to entertain. Mother discreetly covers his hand with hers beneath the table.

When he closes his eyes, he sees them fall from the sky. He sees Aegon sink into the Trident River. Jon had tried so hard, ripping off his armor as fast as he could and diving in after him. Every inch of him burned in the effort to bring his brother back to the surface. He did everything --- pumped at his heart, tried to breathe air into his lungs, called the maester. But he wouldn’t wake up.

Those indigo eyes, those eyes that left every lady at court short of breath, just stared up at him blankly. Lifeless.

Father’s eyes were a brighter purple, but just as lifeless.

Now Jon is king. So he doesn’t have time to talk to anyone about this. He doesn’t have the freedom. He has to keep the kingdom afloat. Daenerys and Arya are finer commanders than Father and Aegon were, and the war is going well under their watch. Jon is wracked with guilt that he’s here, at a party while they’re in the fields. The maesters insist he’s not nearly healed enough to return to battle, but he suspects that his mother’s gold might be contributing to that opinion a bit.

“The best thing you can do to keep us safe now,” his mother tells him, “Is use this time out of commission, find yourself a bride, and get to work at providing an heir.”

She’s not wrong. Bran has been crippled for years, he’ll never have children. After him, it’s Uncle Viserys, that mad, grasping toad, on the throne. Jon intends to amend the law to fix that and place Rhaenys and Arya ahead of his uncle, but to do that he has to assemble and persuade a great council, and that’s impossible with the current war. If Viserys inherits, Valyria is doomed. Hell, he’d probably join Cersei and Euron on the promise that they’d share their empire. Viserys would certainly be stupid enough to fall for it.

Damn Petyr, he thinks, not for the first time. If that power-hungry snake had joined the war before he died, they’d have had the North and Vale and the war might already be over. Wars are like fires. Immediate, decisive, intense efforts to put it out work best. Slow, weak response allows it to spread to the point where it consumes everything.

Granted, Father had dragged his feet in response, too, Jon thinks uncomfortably. Rhaegar Targaryen always had a bad habit of sticking his head in the sand until a situation became a crisis.

Lord Royce, King Robin’s Lord Protector, had formally pledged its support and sent men, and it’s certainly made a difference. But so many more lives could have been spared if they’d taken action earlier.

Father had been waiting on the North and Vale to pledge themselves. He insisted that King Petyr was a clever man, that his kingdom(s) had flourished under his rule, and that Valyria should follow that example. If Cersei was truly a threat, then King Petyr would join.

Petyr Baelish was as much a coward and a snake as Viserys. Good with coin, but he’d gained his second kingdom under very questionable circumstances, and he did nothing unless it directly benefitted him. And if even a tenth of Jon has heard about the man are true...

The men from the kingdoms are useful, but their new king is weak and sickly and without close relations. His aunt and uncle died without living issue. And his sister, Princess Sansa, was murdered by the same curse Queen Cersei cast on all the highborn beauties in the continent. His current heir presumptive is a second cousin.

Things are delicate, very delicate. Things will be less delicate if he finds a wife. Problem is, he has no idea how to talk to women.

Truly talk to them, not flatter and flirt with them like Aegon did. Speak to them in a way that allows him to see them, them to see him, and move past all the barriers of politics and rank. Jon has always been solitary, and has issues connecting with both sexes.

Now every woman in this room either wants to be his bride, or has daughter/sister/niece/cousin they want him to wed. He has no idea how to handle such a thing.

Mother, Arya, Ghost, and Furball are the only ones he’s ever felt understood him. His mother, sister, his wolf, and a strange, unidentifiable humanoid creature that calls herself a wolf. What does that even say about him?

Nothing good, certainly.

Gods, when was the last time he even spoke with She- Wolf? Aside from the accident in the council chamber a few days ago.

He misses her terribly.

But he can’t think about that now. He has to get up and dance. It’s the Feast of Vhagar.

He’s not a good dancer, but he doubts the debutantes will care.

As he gets to his feet, the music stills. He thinks it’s for him until he looks up and his stops.

Standing atop the entrance steps is a what is a real-life fairy, goddess, or, at the very least, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

She could be mistaken for the moon itself if not for the waves of blood-colored hair that tumbles about her shoulders. The gown she wears is as rich as any he’s ever seen, a silvery-white brocade studded with gleaming gems.

I know her, Jon thinks, trying to place her face. But how can I? If I’d seen her before, I would remember everything about it. Maybe I’ve met a relative? Or perhaps we were children when we last saw each other?

“Mother,” he murmurs, “Who is that?”

“I… I don’t know. I could swear I’ve seen her face before, but…”

Breathless, Jon hurries over to his elder sister. “Rhaenys, who is that?”

“I can’t remember. I know I’ve seen her face somewhere, but…”

Rhaenys never forgets a face or a name. The footmen don’t announce this woman. Everyone gapes. The silence slowly descends into whispers. Jon finds himself climbing the steps. What else can he do? The closer he gets to her, the more he feels like he’s flying straight towards the moon.

He approaches her and bows, and she sweeps into a curtsey so graceful it looks like a dance.

“Greetings, My Lady,” he says, “I--I am King Jon.”

“Yes, I know,” she replies, lip curling, “An honor, Your Majesty.”

“What?”

“I said, I know who you are. What would I be doing here if I didn’t?”

That’s a good question. He laughs nervously. Her eyes are so blue, and her smile is so sweet. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage then. What is your name?”

“Call me Alayne.”

“Alayne of House---?”

“Arryn.”

Jon is certain he’s heard the name before, but he was never good with heraldry. “I’m enchanted,” he confesses, “Truly. M-may I have this dance? That is, if you can tolerate me as a partner. Honor dictates that I warn you of my incompetence.”

“Might it help if I lead, then?” She asks.

“You can lead me wherever you wish, Madam.”

A good answer, as it turns out. Whatever skills he lacks, Alayne more than makes up for, and they seem to sail around the floor. The song ends, but Jon doesn’t let go. He’s always hated dancing, thinking it frivolous. Now he loves it, and thinks it the most important activity a man can engage in.

After three sets, she leans in, “Don’t you think it would be good manners to ask a couple other fine ladies to dance?”

“It would, but I can’t,” he answers.

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid the moment I let you out of my sight, someone else will sweep you up and you’ll disappear from my life forever.”

Jon isn’t sure where his sense have gone, but he doesn’t miss them. He doesn’t care that he sounds like a perfect love-struck dolt.

She raises a hand to her mouth and laughs. “You’re quite silly, for a king.”

“I wish that were true. I could probably use a bit more silliness.”

Her face falls slightly. “I’m sure. You wear the weight on your shoulders upon your face as well, Your Majesty. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it as surely as I can see your kindness. I hope that kindness is never crushed under that weight.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded. “Lady Alayne, forgive me, but--”

“---Oh, gods, I’m utterly parched!” She exclaims, “Shall we have a cup of wine?”

“Of course!” He fetches two cups from a nearby table and they move to a more quiet corner. “I was going to ask you if we’d met before.”

The lady takes a long sip, then nods.

“We have! Where? When? I can’t believe I forgot!”

She pouts. “Neither can I, Your Majesty. I’m offended. I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Please,” he pleads, wracking his mind, “Give me a hint, at least.”

“I’d rather give you a night to sober up and remember yourself. Maybe you’ll recall once your head has stopped spinning,” she replies, setting her cup aside. “Now, I must go.”

“No, not yet---”

She grins, “Don’t worry, you’ll see me again before you know it.”

She dashes away in a silvery flash. Jon hesitates to chase her, and he hesitates for too long, it seems, as she vanishes into thin air.

The king spends the whole night distracted and retires early. He dreams of Lady Alayne all night.

His only distraction from thoughts of her come from his breakfast. He’s always taken simple porridge in the mornings, but when he dips his spoon into the bowl, he hits something.

Stunned, Jon quickly fishes whatever it is out. At first, he’s not sure what he’s looking at. It’s only when he’s wiped the off-white slime from it that he realizes he’s holding a tiny gold miniature of a spinning wheel.

He demands the cook be brought to him, but the woman is as confused as he is. “Furball is the one to ask, Sire. She prepared your breakfast this morning.”

Surprised, Jon has his friend brought before him. She looks at him imploringly.

“Forgive me, My King,” she begs, kneeling, “The spindle is indeed mine. I dropped it in your bowl, and by the time I realized it was gone---”

“---Where did you get something like this?” It’s not a cheap ornament.

“It’s a keepsake from home.”

“And where is ‘home’, again?” He demands, then remembers. “Right, I see. Well, Furball, accidents happen. Just be a bit more careful next time.” He hands it back to her, and she waddles off.

For the rest of the day, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he knows, floating just below the surface of his consciousness, that he can’t quite get at. It bothers him for hours, until the Banquet of Meraxes begins. He’s going to see Alayne.

She makes another stunning arrival. Her gown is not so sumptuous as the one from the previous night, but it’s deceptive in its simplicity. If her prior dress had been the moon, this one is the sun, flashing every shade of gold imaginable. Jon feels like he’s basking in her light.

Something else flashes in his mind, from the back. What was it she’d said last night? About his head spinning?

“Tell me where we’ve met,” he begs her. She frowns.

“You still haven’t caught on?” She sighs. “Excuse me, Sire. I promise I’ll be back before you realize.”

“No, wait---!”

Gone. Seven Hells.

It comes to him at breakfast. Once again, he finds a golden object in his porridge. A fishing reel.

Not possible, he thinks, but he calls Furball before him.

Looking at her, though, he starts to doubt himself. No. This… This can’t be right. He’s imagining things. There’s no way this strange, fat, round, fuzzy creature is connected to the ethereal Alayne. And yet…

“Furball,” he asks, “Is there something I’m not… catching onto?”

Her mouth twitches, but her eyes remain innocent. “I’m not sure, Your Majesty. But if there is, I have full confidence that you should catch on quick.”

“You know Lady Alayne, don’t you?”

Her face falls slightly. “Yes. But I dare not betray her secrets.”

“Can you give her a message for me, at least?”

“I suppose.”

“Tell her… Tell her that I’m hers: mind, body, and soul.”

“Are you sure, Your Majesty? You’ve only known her for two nights.”

“No, I’m certain it’s been longer, even if I can’t remember how long.”

“Very well, Sire.” Furball rises. “I must get back to the kitchens.”

At the Feast of Balerion, Alayne arrives as a starlit sky. Jon wastes no time in sweeping her into his arms. “Who would have guessed you were hiding such richness beneath those furs all this time?”

Her faces lights up, brighter than any star. “You’ve caught on, Your Majesty.”

“To a couple of things, yes,” he says, marveling at her, “But there’s still so much I don’t understand. Who are you, really? Where did you come from? Why reveal yourself now, like this?”

“It’s complicated,” she murmurs.

“The curse.”

“No--- yes! It’s… It’s not as simple as that. And I can’t tell you everything here, now, surrounded by everyone. But… You will have answers, I swear. In the morning.”

This time, he doesn’t protest when she flees. In the morning, he looks through his porridge and finds a gold ring. Engraved upon it is a bird and a wolf.

Jon knows the sigil, because he’s been reading reports sealed with it for months. It all starts coming together. Frantically, he calls for someone. This time, though, it isn’t Furball. It’s his Master of Whispers.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Varys, do we still have intelligence reports from around five years ago?”

“I archive everything, Your Majesty. Is there a particular place you want to research?”

“The court of King Petyr. Specifically, anything and everything pertaining to the murder of Princess Sansa.”

“Of course, My King, but I should warn you… There are many, many conflicting reports on the matter, as with most intelligence from the Vale. The King was excellent at counter-espionage and obfuscation. Is there anything in particular you want to know?”

“It’s about the circumstances leading up to the princess’s death and things reported missing. She was to be married, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember who she was to marry?”

Varys sighs. “Like I said, Majesty, there are conflicting reports. Some say to her cousin Harrold Hardyng. Others claim it was to Tommen Baratheon. Yet more say it was to Tyrion Lannister, brother to Queen Cersei. Willas Tyrell, Crown Prince of the Reach. A more distasteful rumor says it was her own father who was the bridegroom.”

Jon’s stomach lurches. He remembers that morning in the Small Council chamber. “Varys, aside from speculation that she was cursed by Cersei, was there any motive proposed to the murder?”

“Some say it was theft, Sire. That many treasures were missing from the princess’s chambers, including her wedding gown.”

“What about… say… ornaments?”

~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

She dons her gown of stars and her fur coat open, and lets her hair hang loose when she’s summoned to the throne room. She carries the rest of her things over her shoulder. She’s a bit disheveled, but that hardly matters. If she knows Jon (and she does), he’s worked it all out by now.

There are whispers and murmurs as she makes her way down the aisle. Much of the court was aware of her before: the king’s furry little curiosity that he took in as a young prince. The one with the heads of both a wolf and a woman, the pelts of rabbits and bears, the feathers of kingfishers and cardinals.

Sansa sweeps into a deep curtsey before the throne. She looks at the floor, waiting.

Jon’s voice, that familiar, deep, rasp, thunders out from his high seat. “You have come into our home under false pretenses, Madam.”

“I was brought into your home, Sire,” she says, meeting his gaze, “You took me here, I never asked to come. You and your wolf invaded my den as part of a hunt, your brother forced a kiss on me, and you brought me here.”

There are murmurs. Jon goes red. “But you offered your services to my father when we arrived.”

“I did. And I provided every service promised. I was a loyal and hard-working servant.”

“Indeed. But you were never a servant, truly. You are a princess. You are sister to our ally King Robin of the North and the Vale, Princess Sansa of House Stark and House Baelish, long thought dead.”

“Yes. I was a fugitive, you see.”

“From who?”

“From my Father.”

“And why did you run away from your father?”

“Because he intended to marry me.”

There’s complete outcry throughout the hall. Jon has to shout and stamp his feet for silence. “Your Highness, if you would recount the rest of your experiences since then?”

Sansa does, calmly. She pauses patiently for whenever more murmurs and exclamations break out.  This is often, but when she finally finishes, the hall is silent.

Jon stares at her for several seconds. “Tell me, Your Royal Highness, why is it that you chose to trust me with your secrets, of all people?”

“Because I’m in love with you, Sire.”

His face breaks into a smile. Then, as if he’s not speaking atop an immense throne before a crowd of aristocrats, he says, “Oh, good. I did hope the feeling was mutual. Well, then, it seems I’ve found my perfect bride.”

[queeenpersephone]

requested by @headinclouds-universe: petyr x sansa 💋🍸👶

In the end, it took very little effort to escape her husband.

After all, he was not even expecting her to try. He didn’t see the way that she stood over their daughter’s cradle when he was working late, worried that his machinations might get them killed. She had been empty and loveless when they had started this quest for vengeance. But now that she knew that Arya was alive, that Jon and Bran were alive, she didn’t feel quite the thirst that she had. And now that they had made this precious life together, they had something to lose.

He had brushed off her concerns before, to enamored with the game to listen to the threats she had received beyond killing those that sent them. He never considered that someone could ever make it past their defenses. The Baellshes were powerful, but her husband wanted everything. Maybe once Sansa’s love could’ve been enough, but now even both her and Alayne were second to his plans.

So Sansa piled her essential belongings into the car one night, between bodyguard shifts. She strapped Alayne into her carseat, and tried not to speed from the scene. Her husband owned most of the police force, and she was far too scattered to explain the situation enough for them not to call Petyr.

Petyr. She loved him, she did, but she didn’t want only vengeance and power. She wanted more. In that way, she thought with bemusement, they were similar. They both wanted everything.

They picked up Arya, Bran, and Gendry, and they drove.

But somewhere deep down, Sansa knew that although it had taken little effort to leave Petyr, it would take him far less effort to find them. Maybe it would be enough for him to finally listen.

It took him two days.

They were staying with Hot-Pie, an old friend of Arya’s. Bran had agreed to watch Alayne while they went out for a drink, and Sansa had only taken one sip out of her martini before the near empty bar went silent.

A hand landed heavily on her shoulder, squeezing tightly. Sansa tried and failed to suppress her shudder at his touch.

Arya was the first to speak. “Sansa, do you need help?” Gendry nodded from beside her, flexing his hands.

Sansa saw several men standing behind her husband, whose eyes she still had not met. She could tell from his grip that he was angry. Though she knew he would not permanently hurt her family, he was upset enough that he would not let her leave without a fight.

Before she could speak, her husband interjected. “I would not think that my wife needs help speaking to me, Arya, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Sansa?” Arya prompted, not listening to her husband. God, Sansa loved her sister.

“Just go, Arya,” she said, nodding to the bodyguards.

“Wait,” said Petyr. “Alayne. Where is she?”

“Safe, Petyr,” Sansa replied. “More than she is at home, to be quite honest. Now, would you leave my family alone?”

Petyr’s grip tightened and then relaxed, nodding for them to go. The rest of the remaining patrons scattered as well. “I will have them followed,” he told her. “I will know where you have been hiding.” His voice was like fire.

Sansa rolled her eyes; if he was intent on fire, she would be ice. “Good for you, Petyr.”

Petyr hissed, moving his hand so that he gripped her hair. He yanked back, forcing her to meet his eyes for the first time since he had arrived. “Why did you leave me?” he asked, strained and burning.

Sansa attempted to pull away, but he remained firm. “Why, Sansa?” he repeated, voice breaking.

Sansa sighed, deep and long, before telling him the truth: “I love you, Petyr Baelish, but I can’t live like that anymore.”

Petyr doesn’t look surprised. After two days of research, she is sure that he figured out exactly why she left. “That doesn’t mean you run,” he replied. “Of all the idiotic-“

“You wouldn’t listen,” she said, finally raising her voice. “I’m was worried about you, about Alayne, but you wouldn’t listen!” She ripped away from him, and in his shock, he let her.

“Leave,” he told the guards behind him, waiting for them to file out. Then he turned back to Sansa, the mask of composure, but she could still see that fire behind his eyes. “Then tell me, my dear. I’m listening.”

“You’re going to get us killed,” she tells him, pulling no punches. “You want it all, but no one has it all Petyr.”

“I do,” he insisted. “I have the company, the clubs, the family… I won.”

Sansa smiled sadly, approaching him with slow steps. She cupped his face in her gentle hands, and he let her, closing his eyes. “It won’t last forever, Petyr. I won’t die like my family; for Alayne, we have to do better.” She rained soft kisses on his face.

Petyr’s hands slid up to grip her wrists, holding her hands in place. “I need you, Sansa. That will never change.”

At his words, she reached up and kissed him hard on the mouth. He returned it eagerly, pushing her up against the table, moving to hoist her onto its surface. Sansa pushed him away before he could get a good enough grip on her hips, leaving her lips barely hovering above his.

“Prove it, then,” she breathed into his mouth before gathering his purse and leaving. He let her go. She knew that she had given him much to think about.

She also knew that the next time he came for her, she would go home with him. No matter what.

She loved him far too much.

[lady-alayne]

Game of Thrones: An Angry Recap

Season 7 Episode 5: Eastwatch

Winterfell:

Bran wargs a bunch of birds, sees that the army of the dead are approaching, and concludes that maybe it's time to tell people. Wait, what? The Night's Watch have been trying to tell people this since Season 1 Episode One 0:00:00 sec, but only now that a creepy kid is saying it, people are beginning to believe it? Ugh.

Meanwhile... Ohhhhh, Sansa is ruling the North like a pro! After the King in the North left the North to go shack up with some blonde emo chick with a bunch of dangerous pets, the Northern Lords are not too pleased about their ruler and go to his trueborn sister, WHO SHOULD BE THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH ANYWAY, to complain. They are joined by the Vale Lords, who for some reason 1) are still hanging out at Winterfell (who's holding the Vale at this point??? Shouldn't the hill tribes have taken over the Vale by now???) and 2) suddenly remember that they came in to help Sansa and not Jon, even though they had no problem proclaiming him King in the North last season instead of Sansa, WHO IS NED STARK'S OLDEST LIVING CHILD AND HEIR AND THE ONE THEY CAME IN TO RESCUE I'M STILL BITTER.

So anyway, the Northern and Vale Lords complain about their brand new king leaving them all. It's a brilliant opportunity for Sansa to do what she does best, which is being diplomatic and wonderful and handling explosive situations with charm, but also not taking anyone's shit. I would say Petyr has taught her well, but then I remember that Petyr never taught Sansa in the show because D&D decided to rape her instead, and I am angry again. Ugh. So apparently Sansa just picked these things up along the way, because the FIRST RULE OF STRONG FEMALE CHARACTERS(TM) dictates that being abused and raped always makes you a stronger woman, and is generally a wonderful thing for your character development.

Speaking of empowered abused women! Arya is not really on board with Sansa being the flawless Queen she is. Even though Ed Sheeran and his friends were super nice to her like three episodes ago, she still believes killing people is always the best way to solve problems and wastes no time suggesting just that to Sansa. The two sisters naturally disagree over this, and this ends in a very petty fight that came out of nowhere and made absolutely no sense but I guess the plot commanded it so of course it's perfectly acceptable and yet another reason why D&D totally deserve all the Emmys. Wait here while I go scream into a pillow.

Also screaming into her pillow, I am quite certain, is Random Northern Girl, who is the newest piece in Littlefinger's game. I mean, did you see how she leaned in when she was talking to him? That beautiful face of his will stay in her thoughts for a while, I am sure. Not to mention that she was close enough to smell him. Random Northern Girl, you're living the dream.

It turns out Littlefinger is kind of back to his old self again, and trying to scheme his way onto the Iron Throne and/or into Sansa's skirts. He super discreetly and not suspiciously at all obtains a very mysterious letter and hides it in his room to use that letter... to bring forth the Long Night, probably, because Petyr is so evil, according to people on the internet. (So it must be true.) But oh no! He forgot about Arya! That psycho killer child knows how to lurk! And how to break into his chambers! And how to search his chambers! Whooooaaa!!!! We find out the mysterious and suspicious letter was sent by Sansa wayyyy back in Season 1, asking Robb to come to King's Landing and bend the knee to Joffrey. BUT IT WAS A DOUBLE LURK YOU GUYS!!! Because just as Arya is leaving Petyr's chambers we find out that while he was suspiciously being suspicious and Arya was suspiciously lurking and watching him, he was suspiciously lurking and watching her suspiciously lurking and watching him suspiciously being suspicious! I'm so glad Petyr is back to his old, scheming self before he will inevitably meet his doom in two episodes.

The Reach:

Jaime has survived his fall into the lake, because apparently Bronn dived in right behind him and dragged him out. Seriously? So Jaime's armor does not weigh anything??? After we explicitly read in the books that knights who fall into bodies of water always drown because their armor is dragging them down? Oh, but I forgot, the show and the books are not the same.

A few miles down the road, and...

Oh boy. Daenerys is not done with her humanitarian mission, and rallies the surviving Lannister soldiers to “give them a choice:” Bend the knee, or burn alive. “I'm not here to murder,” she tells them after having murdered a bunch of people. “Now bend the knee before I murder you.”

Most of the soldiers bend the knee because, OF COURSE THEY WOULD, THEY DID NOT HAVE A CHOICE. Not so Randyll Tarly, who politely explains that he has moral concerns bending the knee to a foreign woman who just flew in on a mystical killer dragon and torched a bunch of people. Tyrion, who is... also there for some reason, urges Dany to chill the fuck out and maybe let him go to the wall, but Dany refuses to do so. Classic, and how very kind of her. I can totally see why people would want to follow her!

I wonder what happened to those other people who bent the knee. Did they have to follow Dany to Dragonstone? Or were they free to go home? Is anyone keeping track of the people who have bent the knee? Would it be possible to just bend the knee to avoid getting murdered, and then go back to King's Landing and rejoin the Lannister army?

Not to mention that we kept hearing about Randyll Tarly being a dick for, like, 6 seasons, and now he's the only man who still uses his brain and genuinely cares about his son beyond the “You shall be my heir” minimum. Speaking of his son... DICKON DID NOT DESERVE THIS. Rest in peace, House Tarly. Also, HOW DID DROGON KNOW WHO TO INCINERATE AND WHO TO SPARE???

Dragonstone:

Dany returns from her humanitarian mission of burning people, and it's heaving petting with Jon! Well, he pets Drogon, but close enough; Dany is turned on enough as it is. Jon chides her for murdering all those people, and Dany respons that she only killed them so she could help them. So she murdered out of love! That makes it totally acceptable.

Dany is just about to ask Jon about his res-erection, when Jorah returns AND IT HURTS WHAT WAS THE POINT OF HIM HAVING GREYSCALE ANYWAY AND HE IMMEDIATELY RUNS BACK TO HER AND IT HURTS TO WATCH HIM FRIENDZONE HIMSELF OVER AND OVER. He explains he found a cure for greyscale, one of the most deadly diseases known, and everyone is like, “Read: 2:53 pm.”

Jon Snow's only words to Jorah are that he served with his father, thus once again reminding everyone that he was A MEMBER OF THE NIGHT'S WATCH, and NO ONE thinks of asking him how he could possibly be King in the North, given that, you know, members of the Night's Watch vow to WEAR NO CROWNS AND WIN NO GLORY.

Meanwhile, Tyrion and Varys get drunk in the throne room and bond over their mutual predicament of serving a pretty mad tyrant queen who burns people alive when they displease her. A raven scroll reaches Jon, and he finds out Arya is still alive. ARYA, the girl he gave needle to. ARYA, his favorite sister. ARYA, the one he literally died for. But Jon seems to have forgotten all that, because all he wants to do is catch a wight! Oh dear, that sounds like a very stupid idea. Also, can we please talk about that camera angle? Was that the Dany going down on Jon POV shot? Yikes.

And so Jon and the gang make their way to Eastwatch...

King's Landing:

Jaime returns to Cersei, and the two hold an impromptu war council. “This isn't a war we can win,” concludes Jaime, which makes Cersei wonder about a possible armistice. Jaime also tells Cersei that it was Olenna who killed Joffrey because...... she wanted to be the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?!?!?!?! FOR FUCK'S SAKE. IS EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER ON GOT TRYING TO BECOME RULER OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS????? And thus Olenna sadly joins the other cardboard cutouts of “generic person who wants the Iron Throne because reasons.” Queen of Thornes, you were deeper than that.

A little while later Davos and Tyrion have teleported to King's Landing and Tyrion sneaks into the dungeons beneath the Red Keep for a little brotime with Jaime to convince him to let them have an audience with Cersei once they have caught a wight. For a reason unfathomable by me, Bronn knew all of this before and thus was able to lure Jaime into the dungeons for this. Logic!(TM)

The brothers agree on an armistice, and Jaime brings Cersei the good news that Dany is not planning on incineratingher in the near future. Cersei also shares her good news: She's pregnant, and she will reveal her twincest, and then the family will live happily ever after! Aww, romance is real.

Meanwhile, Davos is on a tour through Flea Bottom looking for someone, and then.... IT'S GENDRY, YOU GUYS!!! He did not row all the way across the sunset sea, he rowed straight back to King's Landing and into his old job! While casual show watchers try to remember who the fuck Gendry was, snobby book readers rejoice when they see his badass war hammer; just like the one his dad good ole King Robert used to fight with (except Robert's war hammer was probably not so obviously made out of plastic).

Gendry joins the band because HE WANTS REVENGEEEE ON THE LANNISTERS, once again underlining the message of Game of Thrones: Violence begets violence, and it's awesome! GRRM would be turning in his grave. What's that, you say? He isn't dead? Then where is The Winds of Winter??????

Speaking of violence, Gendry immediately puts that war hammer to use to mindlessly kill two gold cloaks who are admittedly a bit nose, but in no way nosy enough to deserve such a cruel death. RIP Member of the City Watch #1, and RIP Member of the City Watch #2.

Oldtown:

OH MY GOD. ARE YOU KIDDING ME. WHAT THE FUCK. D&D JUST DECIDE TO CASUALLY MENTION THAT RHAEGAR GOT AN ANNULMENT FROM ELIA LIKE IT'S NO BIG DEAL. OH MY GOD. I THOUGHT THE WHOLE “SAM FINDING A CURE FOR GREYSCALE IN EPISODE 2” THING WAS THE MOST RIDICULOUS PLOT COMING OUT OF OLDTOWN BUT THAT WAS BEFORE THE WHOLE “RHAEGAR GOT AN ANNULMENT FROM ELIA” THING.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????? AN ANNULLMENT. AN ANNULMENT?????? RHAEGAR WAS MARRIED TO ELIA OF DORNE AND THEY HAD CHILDREN AND IT WAS ALSO A POLITICAL ALLIANCE FORGED FOR VARIOUS POLITICAL REASONS. IT'S NOT LIKE RHEAGAR AND ELIA GOT DRUNK MARRIED IN LAS VEGAS TWO DAYS BEFORE. THEY HAD A LEGIT WEDDING CEREMONY AND THEY HAD CHILDREN. YOU CAN'T JUST ANNUL A MARRIAGE BECAUSE, OH, YOU MET SOMEONE HOTTER A WEEK AGO. OH MY GOD. NO. NO. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Eastwatch:

Davos is really teleporting all over the map this episode, and he reaches Eastwatch after a short row in a tiny little rowboat. I guess that was because the sea is generally so smooth in winter, and not frozen at all. Jon and gang sit down to talk to Tormund about Operation Catch a Wight, and he is understandably not convinced, but eventually decides to give them a little help by hosting a quick speed dating round of men wanting to go beyond the wall, which—surprise!—includes the Hound and Beric Dondarrion! Reunion #2556123 in Season 7 alone!

Because they are all breathing, the men decide to set aside their differences, and embark on their next adventure. Let's hope Jon makes it back in time for the epic boat sex.

[trinityvixen]

Littlefinger deserved better

That headline is a little deceiving, but I think it suits the character just fine when one is talking about the last episode. Spoilers for all of season 7 of Game of Thrones below, sweeties.

The most satisfying death on all of Game of Thrones is still the death of Ramsay Snow, and the former bastard of Bolton didn’t do half the damage to as many beloved characters as Petyr Baelish. Why is it sweet justice for Ramsay to be eaten alive by his own dogs but a hollow shade of that magnificence when Petyr Baelish has his throat slit open in Winterfell?

Because comeuppance, narratively, requires sacrifices made to the god of irony. Comeuppance is the arrogant and greedy Viserys getting his crown of gold. It is locking the “Richest Man in Qarth” alive in the vault as empty as his promises. It is bringing the most painful death, without mercy, to slavers who have built an industry on the pain of the enslaved. It is the cowardly Joffrey being killed with the coward’s weapon, poison, right as he sought to assume the power he never earned.

People die on Game of Thrones. This is not news. The show starts with wights killing men of the Night’s Watch and the death of Jon Arryn sets in motion (as the characters have finally learned) everything that happened after it. Comeuppance is different. It can be a bit puritanical in a show written by Americans (based on a book written by one), but it serves a moral lesson. Ramsay’s great crime was barbarity, so his end had to be barbarous.

What comeuppance did Littlefinger deserve? Something spectacular, seeing at Jon Arryn’s death is his doing. The man is responsible for the entire show we’ve seen so far. And yet, the closest Littlefinger got to comeuppance was when Cersei Lannister proved to him that “power is power” to knock down his self-importance a peg or two. That would have been a good time to do it, right as he was smirking and throwing his awareness of her infidelity and incest in her face. It didn’t happen then. So how should it have happened?

The answer is easy to come by because he actually outlined the structure for his own comeuppance himself in season six by confessing to Sansa his secret desire: to be king and to have her at his side. Ironic death, therefore, would seem to demand he be about to ascend to some heretofore unheard of position of power with a promise of Sansa caving to his desires, even just out of her own interest. Double irony: he helped kill Joffrey and he deserves to die in the same way Joffrey did—about to be king, marrying a beautiful lady from a great house. It’s too perfect.

The trouble with accomplishing this is that the events of seasons five and six diminished his sway over Sansa considerably, even despite pledging the Vale to her. Season five walked Sansa’s character development backwards for the sake of yet another sexual abuse plotline. (Hooray.) However, in the end, Sansa was not weakened by that story and she is not at all confused as to who is responsible for the suffering she endured. She has told the audience and him as much—“Only a fool would trust Littlefinger” and “I don’t need your help”—which makes it tricky to walk back her character development again to a position where she is dependent on him. It’s not only been done already for a less-than-appealing plot line, but if it seemed unlikely for Sansa to agree to marry a Bolton (“monsters that murdered my family”), it is almost impossible to think she’d give in to him for any reason. Sans would need to be drawn into a tight corner with no escape. Or, at least, no appearance of escape.

The show tried to make this happen, but it botched the execution. (Pun intended.) All Sansa needs to have him murdered are accusations of treason that no one but she and the viewers know about. While no one standing up for Littlefinger is hardly surprising, one would have imagined that several Northern lords might have wanted, dunno, proof of his treason before his summary execution. Instead, the word of the space-case Bran and Sansa basically recanting her testimony vis a vis what happened to dear Aunt Lysa is all the show thinks she needs to get away with murdering a bannerman in front of other bannermen. This should make the Northern alliance tremble, if not crumble. She should look like a mad queen, trying to overthrow a powerful force with violence to assert her control of it. It should not have worked as it did.

Moreover? The man deserved a death by a thousand slow cuts, just as he has engineered death for so many. The comeuppance is late for him because he’s been so neutered by Sansa abandoning him. The only plotting he manages in season seven is insufficiently worthy of a man who bested Varys at the game of whispers. All you see him do is goad Yohn Royce and Lord Glover to get them to argue for Sansa being Queen in the North (using his threats over the former to help persuade the latter, one supposes). This is supposedly for Arya’s benefit—to convince her that Sansa wants such attentions on herself. Littlefinger is using the lords to make Sansa look bad to drive a wedge between potential support for her from her family. It has the side benefit of making the woman he desires powerful and dependent on him for her power. It’s a solid idea—have him, as ever, playing 4th-dimensional chess on her behalf. Where it falls down is proving that Sansa needs him in any way or would buy-in to this scheme, willing or unwilling. And if I can see that gaping plot hole, so should Littlefinger. (Where are his thousand escapes, his plans to fight “every enemy, all the time, in your mind”?)

How to fix it? Simple: his plan would have worked better and Sansa’s double-cross would have been more satisfying (and surprising) if he’d gotten her to admit she wanted to be Queen. To him, so he could possess the secret wanting of her heart (as she has his) and her weakness. To Arya in his hearing, so he can use it to wedge them apart more effectively. Everything else flows steadily from there, almost exactly as the show did it (minus him crying and begging when he is caught out far too quickly which was so out of character).

So, after all that, what would comeuppance for Littlefinger have looked like? All the elements are there. It can still be the same plan for him and for Sansa’s double-cross. It just needed to be sold differently. The problems and the fixes are, as I see them:

·         1) Time – the greatest mistake the show made was speeding the narrative along without figuring out to have its ponderous character/character interactions make sense on the shorter timeline. The plots could have all the same beats entirely if there were more interactions showing the web Littlefinger is spinning as well as the one Sansa is.

·         2) Without that time, Sansa could have made herself more suspicious for the viewer (and, the viewer assumes, Arya), by admitting the truth: she would make a better Monarch in the North than her half-brother. By saying it aloud, we address the deal with the Devil she made to get the knights of the Vale and the loaded look she cast at Lord Baelish at the end of season six. It also has the benefit of being, like most lies that are both easiest to tell and believe, a little bit (or a lot, gods, Jon is bad at being a king) true.

·         3) Every conversation she and Arya had needed to be had somewhere public or insufficiently private. When the question of Sansa “stealing” Jon’s crown comes up, there are three significant encounters between Arya and Sansa about it and the scroll that shows her previous supposed disloyalty to her family. Two of those conversations are done in a way as to have them easily overheard: they are talking heatedly in Sansa’s room with the door open for one and are outside looking down on the courtyard for the other. The problem is the third conversation that happens when Arya “catches” Sansa snooping in her room for the scroll in her private quarters. This is when Sansa discovers her faces. This is the incongruous scene that does not match the eventual counter-plot against Littlefinger because why would Arya behave like a creep and scare the shit out of her sister for his benefit if the door is closed and their voices are not raised? Put, say, the blonde servant from the courtyard seen to be on Littlefinger’s payroll in the room or coming into it to build the fire, and then the scene makes sense. If every scene is to play Littlefinger, every scene should be staged so that he can see or hear about it.* And we know he is watching.

·         4) Arya should have started her interactions with Sansa with her behaving uneasy, inappropriate, and angry and steadily sliding into being the soulless killer this season made her out to be from the start. It would sell the potential violence of her character much better because Arya, when it comes to killing those who betray her family, tends to grow colder and more cryptic. She is actually a very emotional woman when she is not killing,** so trying to sell her as being uninterested in her reunion with family and her return home was never believable. As such, I was never afraid, even with all the bad decisions characters made this season, that Arya was going to be fooled by Littlefinger into betraying Sansa. If, instead, she slid slowly into the now-familiar calm madness that accompanies crossing names off of her list, we could question whether or not, with greater exposure to the much-changed Sansa, her sister was on said list.

·         5) Maybe Bran just shouldn’t talk to anyone. He’s a tricky character because he knows all (except for those times it is convenient for the show to have him forget that), so he could have ended everything earlier (which is another reason the comeuppance is denied). Have Bran be so tired from, dunno, warging into birds to keep track of the army of the dead. Or, you know, trying to reach Jon about his heritage (another thing left, without explanation, to lie fallow for the entire season). If you’re going to erase his history of angry outbursts and excessive passion***** along with Arya’s, go the whole hog, D+D.

·        6) Sansa needed to be seen talking to Yohn Royce about why he, previously so hostile and mistrusting of Littlefinger, was kowtowing to the man. She needed to hear from him that he was doing so because Littlefinger has Robin Arryn, his Lord of the Vale, believing it was his fault that Sansa was “abducted” by the Boltons. Sansa would not necessarily have had to reveal to Yohn Royce the truth (that she wasn’t abducted and that Littlefinger arranged the marriage).

·         7) Sansa should then let on to Littlefinger that she knows that Royce is being blackmailed into doing Littlefinger’s bidding. It would set the tone between them as equals—as she was starting to do in season six—while understanding the threat his power holds: he controls the man who controls the Vale army. If she wants to be Queen in the North, she needs the Vale. It puts her back in the position of needing him at the same time as he is distancing her from her family through lies and spies. Sansa would be “trapped” coming and going, smart enough to know it and to know that Baelish knows she knows.

·         8) From there, the last obstacle is Brienne, who doesn’t have Sansa’s ability to recalculate what abhorrent people she can tolerate as the situation calls for. Telling her that she should play along won’t work, so Brienne does need to go to King’s Landing (and fix Jamie’s characterization, please and thank you). Sansa can send her off much as she did in the show we got, but I think another scene where Baelish sees her doing it and casually mentions, “hey, isn’t it a bad idea to lose her since she can protect you from your sister who is definitely on the warpath to killing you?” Just to drive the point across.

·         9) That last bit is where she snares him in to be taken down at what he thinks is him reaching the height of his power. She decides to take the lords of the North and the Vale’s loyalty—or, rather, says to Littlefinger that she will. She will have already told him she should be Queen, and Arya’s increasing weirdness means for her own survival, she’s going to take charge. She’ll have the excuse of Jon bending the knee at this point, as she did on the show. Sansa will then prove how smart she is and say she knows Littlefinger has been the one driving the lords to support her claim. If they are weathervanes, these lords, then she’ll reward him for blowing the winds of change in her direction. She’ll give him what he wants if he does: her. She’ll give him everything that he says he wants “for her”—she will be queen, he’ll agree to be consort, not even king or prince. Of course he will. He’ll promise he only wants to keep her safe, have her realize her birthright, all the things he should have been saying louder and louder from last season as Jon proved to be a fuck-up king this season. And he’ll get what he wants: he’ll be king in all but name, with her by his side. (And he’ll already be plotting how to get the title. Fight every battle, indeed.)

·         10) The set up in the great hall will be explained to Littlefinger as follows: Sansa will declare herself queen and then argue her sister is guilty of treason for plotting to kill her. All Sansa has to do to close the trap on Littlefinger is to switch the order of those things. He comes in, cocky as anything—he’ll have made the Queen in the North, he’ll be married to her, and her family won’t get in the way or exist to be a threat to his eventual heirs (in whose name he’ll rule, naturally). When she starts off by marching Arya in and speaking of treason before speaking of her coronation, you can see him confused with growing dread—not for his own life (he won’t have figured it out yet) but that she would start with declaring her sister a traitor before declaring herself queen. Littlefinger should die knowing the noose is closing in on his throat.

·         11) Actual evidentiary procedure that will appease Northern sense of justice should be followed. Accusations should be made, with Bran’s “you betrayed Ned Stark and had Jon Arryn killed, we know this because I can see the past [insert random things only an omniscient character could know to impress the lords of the North and Vale],” Arya’s accusation of his complicity with Tywin Lannister, and Sansa and Lord Royce combining forces on the issue of Lysa Arryn’s sudden marriage and convenient death (or just Sansa, more on that in a bit). But there needs to be proof. The man has studiously avoided being caught with the murder weapon despite handing to Bran a weapon used in an attempted murder. Arya could reveal a face that told him secrets around Winterfell, use the force of her supernatural power added to Bran’s to convince people. Sansa could have had Maester Wolken speak to the nature of her betrothal to the Boltons (the man must have seen Littlefinger in Winterfell—Littlefinger also got a raven from Cersei when he was there, if I’m not mistaken). They need supernatural evidence (Bran), evidence of plotting within Winterfell (from Arya skulking about), legions of his lies recorded in Sansa’s mind, but, most importantly, just one scrap of paper from Maester Wolken.

·         12) As he feels himself falling, Littlefinger should still be trying to escape—not by playing ignorant, demanding the right to leave or begging. None of those really suit his character. He should, perhaps, be outwardly (but with Aidan Gillen’s eyes acting anything but internally) at ease and say that he looks forward to her proving this case (rightfully poking the holes all the places her accusations are leakiest). He could even, in desperation, ask for trial by combat and say Yohn Royce will stand for him against the Northern champion. Royce, liberated from his control by Sansa having spoiled “Uncle Petyr” as a liar for Robin Arryn (being safely away from the boy), can have closure on his random character thread from season six by saying “Fuck no.”

·        13) The person who passes the sentence should swing the sword. The Starks should pass the sentence together, not just have Sansa be the one to call for it. Arya’s arm will be an extension of all of them. He shouldn’t see it coming. It could be his own dagger still. Or Needle, which would be appropriate because he sought to divide the sisters over their loyalty to Jon, and it is the weapon Jon gifted to Arya (that also kept her safe many times) that ends him.

 THERE, I FIXED IT. I will now imagine that this is what happened and now I can actually allow myself some satisfaction that the man is finally dead.

*The obvious counter-argument to this is the theory that Arya was actually contemplating wearing Sansa’s skin until she handed over the knife in this scene. This is an even stupider explanation for Arya’s behavior because it would mean she would have to assume Sansa’s letter written under duress was a genuine betrayal. She spent far too much time around Tywin Lannister for her to be that stupid.

**Arya was kicked out of Faceless Man Murder School the first time for being too passionate about killing a dude and the second time for not being dispassionate enough to kill a nice person. She is a ruthless killer of those who have demonstrably wronged her and hers, but she cares a lot. She could never kill Sansa without substantial proof Sansa was plotting for her own advancement over Jon.*** See the point about making Sansa say she wanted to be queen would have made the ruse that Arya was suspicious of her motives much more reasonable.

***For Arya to throw over Sansa, it has to be about Jon. With Jon gone off on his Bogus Journey, his legacy and importance are less present at Winterfell for Arya to latch onto. We know, of course, that she loves him best of all her family still living. So there may have needed to be some fake talk of, say, banishing Jon from the North for allying with Daenerys**** in order to really sell Arya the turncloak on behalf of Jon.

****Which, when the double-cross is revealed, Sansa and Arya can amend to “kicking his ass for falling for a pretty face.” They’re still his sisters in so many ways.

*****Bran the soulless Three-Eyed Raven has more precedent than Arya the emotionless Faceless Man, but it is still a gross simplification of his character due to the laziness of the writers. The previous Three-Eyed Raven is very emotionally removed from reality. Of course, he had a thousand years of isolation in the frozen north becoming a tree to explain his zen mastery. However, up to and including during the D+D-described info-dump Bran got as the last TER died, Bran is not shown to be detached. He is angry all of season six—probably because his story line got dumped for season five—at how he is failing to learn more and faster about his fabulous new powers. His look of shock upon seeing baby Jon in a vision is his last scene in the last season. Did finding out Jon was a Targaryen short-circuit his brain? That’s what the show went with?

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Ch 24

Cersei was not going to scream. First that... horrid woman had landed her horrid helicopter on the grass, ruining Cersei’s entrance (you only get one shot to make a first impression unless you roofie somebody, and how was she going to drug the entire party?!) and then she had the gall, the unbelievable gall to wear red! Red was the Lannister color! CERSEI WAS WEARING RED!

There would be vengeance. Oh there would be vengeance.

“Cersei, darling!” Cassana Baratheon called, sweeping her into the lightest breeze of an embrace as she air kissed her cheeks. “Don’t you look just like Joanna! A little plumper, but really the spitting image!”

Plumper?! PLUMPER?!

“I love your dress,” Cersei gave her a mega-watt smile. “It’s so refreshing to see women of a certain age embracing today’s fashion.”

Cassana laughed, and hooked her arm into Cersei’s.

“Let’s get a glass of wine my dear. Something better than this dreadful vintage they’re passing around.”

Cersei inwardly seethed. Of course the vintage was rather dreadful, she’d told that tart Tysha Crofter she didn’t want anything younger than her, but STILL!

“Assuming you’re still drinking,” Cassana Baratheon arched an eyebrow and their audience tittered.

“Still drinking,” Cersei assured her, and mentally apologized to the biscuit. “Although in my experience, it’s rather hard to keep up with the Baratheons on that score.”

“Robert does love his vices,” Cassana replied, giving her arm a little squeeze just to be clear which vices she was referring to.

They had gotten to the bar. As Cassana hailed the bartender, Varys hurried over, beads of sweat dotting his bald head.

“Moonboy has backed out,” he hissed in an undertone.

“What?!” Cersei reeled.

“He said his agent got him a gig last minute at the National Theater doing stand up! He’ll be the first stand up comedian in history to perform at the National Theater!”

“Last minute? They book their performers years in advance! And it’s all wrong... they do ballet and musicals and.. what am I missing?!”

“What you’re missing,” Cassana handed Cersei a glass of Merlot. “Is that I’m on the board of the National Theater. Drink up sweetie, you look so pale. I didn’t want to say this in front of everybody, but I’m not sure red is your color. I think you would have been better off in a nice forest green.”

Cersei drained her glass in one go.

“Why I’m rather surprised that Robert can keep up with YOU!” Cassana smiled.

Cersei wiped a droplet of wine from her lip and glared. 

How was she supposed to make front page of the tabloids if she didn’t have a blow out fight? She knew all the classier outlets would carry her party anyway, but for the Daily Raven and Yes! she needed some whiff of scandal that the other papers and magazines would be too refined to mention.

First things first. Steffon and Tywin was a disaster in the making. She went to the treehouse, which was always where Robert and Stannis had retreated when they were grubby little boys who couldn’t handle a girl beating them at laser tag. Saying it was unfair that she had swapped out her and Jaime’s guns for pellet guns. Please. 

Sure enough there they were, along with Renly (unsurprising) and Melisandre (a bit surprising). Maybe Melisandre hadn’t been lying when she said how much she enjoyed helping with the wedding? That one was hard to read. Probably she was just sad that her relationship with Stannis wasn’t as advanced as Cersei’s with Robert’s. Yes that must be it. She was hoping Stannis would propose soon, and had a touch of wistful envy when surrounded by the majesty of Cersei’s wedding. Cersei benevolently decided to give Stannis a kick in the pants by tossing her bouquet to Melisandre. If nothing else, it would spark a conversation.

That problem dispatched, Cersei hurried back to the lawn. Marillion was supposed to serenade Cersei on the steps, just a teaser of his concert before the fireworks (gods she still needed to do something about that helicopter). She artfully arranged herself next to the flowers, waiting for the spotlights that would train on her and the singer at his piano, composing her features into demure delight.

On cue, the spotlights flickered on. Well, not exactly. One spotlight flickered on.

Cassana Baratheon, dramatically illuminated as she sat at the piano.

There was a ripple of applause through the audience and she smiled. 

“As some of you know,” her voice, technologically amplified, echoed mellifluously across the grounds. How the fuck had she gotten mic’ed?! Cersei, alone and abandoned on the steps, clenched her fists.

“As some of you know, I am a classically trained pianist and opera singer. It was actually at my debut as the lead singer in Florian and Jonquil that I met Steffon and he swept me off my feet. The rest, as they say, is history.”

There was again a murmur of appreciation from the assembled guests. Cersei’s expression of demure delight slipped into a scowl. Had she known that? It certainly explained a great deal about Renly. And she supposed that on the few occasions that Robert had broken into drunken karaoke with the car radio, she remembered thinking that he had a remarkably good voice. And now that she was really thinking about it, all of the Baratheons, even Stannis, were quite good dancers. Still, lead singer, big whoop. 

“In honor of my son’s engagement and his beautiful bride,” Was that a hint of sarcasm? SHE WASN’T PLUMP! “I’d like to dedicate this song to them.”

Cassana sat down to the piano and began a beautiful haunting melody.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone...”

Cersei, utterly forgotten, decided to refill her glass of wine. Even if she had no intention of drinking it, it would subtly reinforce the idea that she had been drinking, ergo was not pregnant. 

At the bar, she googled Cassana Baratheon. Just a bunch of the usual philanthropy garbage. Breaking ground on an orphanage? Really? So nineteenth century. She tried to remember Cassana’s maiden name. Estermont, wasn’t it?

Cassana Estermont had been the youngest prima donna in Westerosi history. Her debut, in The Wildling, had broken attendance records for the King’s Landing opera house, rave reviews, world tours, the usual nonsense. Cersei ground her teeth and shoved her phone back in her pocket.

Trying to put as much distance between herself and that... witch as possible, Cersei began to push through the crowd. She was only stopped briefly by Brienne (poor dear looking quite out of her element) and then she was alone, staring that thrice-damned helicopter.

“I thought she sounded rather flat, didn’t you?” Renly sniffed, coming to join her.

“We have to make allowances for singers who are past their prime,” Cersei said haughtily. Renly gave an uncharitable snort.

“I’ve handled Tywin. I suspect Robert’s coming over now to tell you dad has been dealt with.”

“Well it’s a start. Meet me back here in half an hour, I’ll corral Tyrion and we’ll discuss the next phase of the plan.”

“All these potential agents, and of course Mother steals the spotlight! LITERALLY! I saw her having the staff move the equipment!”

Renly stomped off, only to be replaced by Petyr, swallowing nervously.

“Should I even ask what happened to Marillion?” Cersei said dully.

“Gig at King’s Landing Observatory.”

“And Cassana Baratheon is on the board?”

“Chairwoman.”

Cersei nodded absently. Robert had finally arrived and wrapped her into a hug from behind. Petyr took the opportunity to run, the little weasel. Naturally Robert had one thing on the brain. 

“Relax? RELAX?!” Cersei hissed. “Robert, Petyr just told me that your mother poached Marillion to keep him from upstaging HER at MY party! She’s already cancelled Moonboy, and if we don’t get press today, it’s over! This is our last best chance to get Vogue! And Cassana Baratheon is RUINING EVERYTHING!!!”

She paused for a breath. Robert only gave her a pleasantly puzzled smile which meant he’d heard one word in ten. Cersei sighed and pecked him on the cheek. It was a good thing he was pretty.

Having dispatched him to find a way to move that gods damned chopper, Cersei started to leave only to bump into her brother. The brother not in love with a whore.

She assured Jaime she would take care of THAT problem, as she half dragged him into the house. She had very little time here to give Jaime their mother’s ring, but she also could hardly pass up an opportunity like this one. Of course Jaime had to go and get all maudlin on her. It was just the cut of the ring would really look much nicer on Brienne than it would on Cersei. And Cersei had wanted to design her own ring anyway. And yes she knew in every bone of her body that Joanna Lannister would have ADORED Brienne. She didn’t see why Jaime had to make such a big deal of everything and drag Robert into it.

The moment he left, she hurried back toward the wine cellar, positive that would be where the brother who WAS in love with a whore was lurking. Sure enough, she caught him mooning over a text from that sommelier slut. 

“Tyrion, we have to stop father from killing Steffon Baratheon. Can you help?”

The little monster immediately closed his phone and got up to follow her, and Cersei felt a surge of affection for him. A surge of affection that was strongly tied to an all-consuming rage for anyone who might toy with his heart.

“We’re going to meet with Renly and I’ll explain the plain,” she said curtly.

“How’s everything else going?”

“A complete disaster. It’s just too vexing for words! I can’t believe none of the staff here can fly a helicopter! I would have thought that at least Westerling...” Cersei pursed her lips. Westerling had been distraught not to be able to assist, but she really had to put her foot down when he’d proposed dedicating the next two hours to learning how to fly through YouTube videos. Good help was just too hard to find to risk losing the man.

“Just accept that you’re going to have to ask Steffon to repark his vehicle. Maybe you can make an announcement. ‘Will the owner of the corporate helicopter obnoxiously parked on the lawn please move their vehicle?’” Tyrion snickered, mismatched green eyes lighting up in good humor.

“Everything’s a joke with you!” Cersei scolded. Didn’t he understand this was life and death? Vogue hung in the balance! “Look, can I at least borrow your phone?”

“Fine, here,” Tyrion handed it to her. It was a simple matter to open his thread with Tysha, give her strict instructions for a naked rendez-vous, then delete the brief convo and hand the phone back to Tyrion with him none the wiser.

When they emerged back on the lawn, she immediately saw that the helicopter had been moved, thank the gods. Occasionally Robert did surprise her. She gave Tyrion his marching orders, Renly his marching orders, Robert some marching orders for good measure. And then Westerling rang the bells for dinner.

She eyed the crowd moving toward the courtyard broodingly. Everybody seemed to be having a grand time. But Vogue didn’t cover weddings because people were happy and their guests had a grand time. She needed an edge. What was her edge?

Cersei noted with some horror that the Tyrells were moving to the table directly next to their own. She had specifically put Olenna Tyrell as far as humanly possible from their entire family. Brienne had even double checked! And Ned was going toward the Tully family table... she had promised Robert he and Cat would sit with the Starks! What was this... this... chaos?!

“I moved a few of the placecards around a bit, I hope you don’t mind,” Cassana Baratheon placed her hand on Cersei’s shoulder. “I know how... irrationally territorial some people can get about these things...”

Cersei eyed the hand on her person and contemplated what it would look like taxidermied and hung over her mantelpiece.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she smiled sweetly. “In fact,” she plucked the hand off her shoulder, and held it in both of her own. “I had something very important I wanted to ask you.”

Cassana looked nonplussed, but the crowd she’d gathered around her as witnesses to ask whether Cersei would be a territorial bitch about the placecards hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Anything darling. We’re family now,” she said and touched her hair to make sure it fell just right for the camera snap.

“I was wondering,” Cersei bit her lip. “Oh I couldn’t. It’s too much to ask.”

Cassana and her high society minions all looked intrigued.

“Would you... would you consider coming out of retirement to sing at my wedding?”

Cassana hesitated for a second, suspicion clouding her features. Cersei could almost see the gears turning behind her tastefully Botoxed and dermabrased mask of a face. The lure of more attention, all eyes on her, the chance to play the gracious mother of the groom, the accolades...

“I would be delighted,” Cassana squeezed her hands. And Cersei was willing to bet those were the first sincere words to pass her lips all night.

“Oh Cersei, where is your engagement ring?” Cassana suddenly asked. Cersei blinked at her bare finger.

“Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise already!” Cassana tittered.

“Of course not,” Cersei said smoothly. “Just a sizing issue.”

“It’s so hard for women with fat fingers, nothing fits,” Cassana patted her. 

Cersei would have been infuriated if she weren’t busy wondering when in the seven hells she was going to be able to look for her ring on top of dealing with Tysha and meeting with Varys. It must have slipped off in the grass somewhere. Somebody would find it, surely? She would get Westerling on the job first thing tomorrow otherwise. He would be out there with a fine-toothed comb if necessary.

She sat down at the head table still reeling over the latest wrinkle.

Her father and her numerous aunts and uncles and cousins were all present, as was Tyrion. Jaime and Brienne were conspicuously absent.

“Poor girl has probably given him the heave-ho after his disgraceful performance tonight,” Aunt Genna stabbed her filet viciously. “I would castrate any man that did that to me,” she continued, this directed at poor scrawny Uncle Emmon who fairly shivered in his seat.

“Quite right dear,” he said immediately. Cersei was rather fond of her Aunt Genna.

“Where is Tyrek?” Uncle Tygett frowned and looked around. Tyrion sputtered and choked on his wine. Cersei scanned the cousins indifferently. Was that pimply one not Tyrek?

“I’m rather impressed that we’re halfway through his daughter’s engagement party and old Tywin hasn’t smiled once,” Olenna Tyrell’s light laugh floated over from the next table. Her father’s eyes narrowed, and Cersei kicked Tyrion. Best to move up the timetable.

“Father,” Tyrion began hesitantly. Tywin was still glaring at Olenna Tyrell. “Tywin!”

That got his attention.

“Steffon Baratheon was hoping to have a drink with you in the library between courses,” Tyrion said brightly. “I told him you’d meet him there.”

“Really Tyrion, I wish you’d consult me before volunteering my time,” Tywin said, nostrils flaring. “I am the host of this event, I can’t just disappear.”

“Don’t worry father, I have it under control,” Cersei patted his hand. He withdrew the hand and fixed her with a glare as well.

“Well off you go,” she said.

There was a lengthy cold stare. 

“I will return shortly,” Tywin addressed the table. Amidst the hubbub of typical family feuding, Cersei and Tyrion were probably the only ones who heard him.

Cersei looked over to Renly and gave him a meaningful nod. Then she politely excused herself to take a quick look through the grass for her engagement ring.

There was the merest whisper of a rustle and Varys materialized. 

“You texted?” He said smoothly.

“I want you to leak to the appropriate publications that world renowned opera singer Cassana Estermont is coming out of retirement to give a private performance at my wedding,” Cersei instructed curtly, continuing to walk with head bent, scrutinizing the grass. “And tell Petyr to have his camera ready. She’s put Ned at Hoster’s table and he’ll have a front row seat to the show.”

“Of course,” Varys nodded and faded back into the shadows.

Cersei noticed a significant chunk of the trellises had collapsed on the East Wing, and a small army of staff were working to clear the debris. That would be coming out of the Garth Greenhands invoice, she noted to herself. She checked the time. The ring would have to wait.

Exactly three minutes after she had instructed Tysha to meet Tyrion in the cellar, she strolled by and scooped up the girl’s clothing. Including a lacy red thong that had been left hanging on the door handle. Skank.

She shoved her loot into some old chest nobody would ever think to look in and flagged a waiter to initiate the hunt. Then she made it back outside to see Ned Stark landing a tremendous right hook into Hoster Tully’s snarling face, punctuated by a camera burst. Nobody but Lysa noticed Petyr politely excusing himself to touch up the images before he sent them to the Daily Raven.

She allocated Petyr twenty minutes to edit, the Daily Raven thirty minutes to process and post, the world another ten to take the story and run with it.

She sat back down at her table, which had gone rather quiet.

“I heard Stannis Baratheon say that his company is going to beat projected earnings for the third quarter in row,” Cersei mentioned off-handedly to Tyrion.

“Emmon, call our broker,” Genna said.

“Where the hell is my phone,” Gerion patted his pockets.

“I keep telling Tywin we need to expand into shipping,” Kevan announced to the table.

“Mining has been good enough for our family for seven generations!” Tygett pointed at him with his fork, spattering Kevan’s wife Dorna with salad dressing.

“I’d thank you to watch your tone with me!”

“This is silk!” Dorna wailed.

“Blended silk at best,” Darlessa, Tygett’s wife sniffed.

Willem and Martyn seized the chaos to attempt second helpings of dessert, but promptly got into an argument over who could claim the largest eclair.

Cersei sat back and smiled as the volume in the courtyard returned to a dim roar.

Exactly one hour and five minutes after Petyr snapped his photo and thirty four minutes after the Times touted Cassana Estermont’s return, Cersei’s phone buzzed.

Dear Miss Lannister,

We have moved some features in our August edition and are wondering if you would still be interested in a collaboration with Vogue...

Cersei stopped reading and excused herself. Ned had run into the mansion, which meant Robert was doubtlessly somewhere nearby. It was a moment’s work to find him. And as she raked her hands through his shaggy black hair, felt her dress slipping like water off her shoulders, saw the way his stormy blue eyes ignited with a molten heat that she would never not love, Cersei reflected that nothing put her in the mood like winning.