#davos: ah fuck

[luvsfics]

DELICATE TOUCHES — house of the dragon

Davos/Benjicot Blackwood x betrothed!reader

[ innuendo ]

Description: After Davos gets himself into a fight with another, his betrothed helps him clean up his cuts and bruises. Her soft touches only made him fall harder for his beautiful wife-to-be.

Authors note: Thank you so much for 450 followers! I appreciate all of the kind comments I’ve been receiving and I thank you all for the support!

Heavy steps rung through the walls of raventree hall as Davos made his way to his betrothed’s apartments. His nose bled red as well as his lip, A red bruise forming under his eye.

He gripped the hilt of his blade as his stomps grew louder to the ears of his wife-to-be. Her ears peaked up at the sounds of her door swinging open.

Her head whipped from her writing desk to the entrance of her chamber. To her surprise, her betrothed stood bloody at her doorway.

“Davos? Whatever happened?” She rushed over to him, taking his bruised face into her hands.

He winced at her palm connecting with his bruised cheek. She quickly moved her hand to rest on his chest, her eyes roamed over her body as she checked his bruises and cuts.

“Come, my love.” She led him to her vanity, forcing him to sit down on the dark red stool. She stood in between his legs, her bum facing his front as she searched through the drawers for a cloth.

His hands found their way to her behind, giving it a rough squeeze before she swatted his grabby hands away.

He smiled at her response. He was so in love with the woman in front of him, his sweet betrothed. The two had been promised since they were only children and grew to love each other.

Their wedding was only a few moons away and they couldn’t wait much longer. They longed for each other, in more ways than one.

“Ah ha!” She exclaimed and held up a white cloth. She poured water onto the rag from the pitcher on a nearby table, making her way back to Davos.

She tilted his head up with the tips of her fingers, lightly tapping the cloth onto some cuts on his lip. “Do I want to know what happened?” She asked.

He hands rested on her hip as he shook his head at the woman. His gaze fixed onto her features as he took the beautiful woman’s radiance in. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“Everyday, dearest.” She giggled.

“Perhaps I should tell you more often, eh?” He said with a smirk.

Her gentle touches made his skin litter with goosebumps and butterflies dance in his stomach.

She wiped the blood from under his nose and dabbed the cut on his lip. He hissed slightly at the pain. “I’m sorry,” she said.

She placed a delicate kiss on his lips, “a kiss to make it feel better.” She smiled. He breathed out a laugh, “it must be healed already!”

His betrothed took a seat on his thigh, resting her head on his shoulder as she gazed up at him. “You must not provoke people, I hate seeing you like this.” She said softly, her fingers dancing across his cheekbone.

“He shouldn’t have said what he said.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“What did this man say?” She asked. His eyes drew to the wall in front of his, avoiding her sweet stare.

“He said that- if he were me- he would’ve already…fucked you bloody.” He whispered.

Her heart sunk. Davos was nothing but sweet with her, she was glad he wanted to wait until they were wed. He was the most respectful and kind man she had ever met.

He was incredibly protective over her, something she loved about him. “Do not listen to these cruel and disgusting men. I only belong to you. And- I love how soft you are with me.”

His eyes softened and gaze fixed back onto her. A smile was painted onto her face, and she quickly pressed a rough kiss onto his lips, making him wince in pain.

“I’m sorry! I forgot- heavens me..” she cried.

He laughed, “forget about it.” And his lips found their way back to hers, where they belonged.

[crushribbons]

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖍𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 (𝖓𝖔. 𝖎)

prompt: [ AFFAIR ] our muses have been having an affair and receiver tries to stop but ends up having sex again, claiming it's the last time. (source)

char: benjicot (davos) blackwood [house of the dragon] x fem!bracken!oc

warnings: SMUT (18+ ONLY), penetrative sex, thigh riding, infidelity, brief blood ment, toxic/dark ben (not super dark but dark for my candy ass 🤍)

a/n: [meryl streep voice] benjicot blackwood? with a bracken oc? groundbreaking.

"Ben," she plead against his mouth. He knew what he did to her, how all her sense and propriety went out the window whenever he so much as looked at her. She wished he would be kind to her, then, and let her say what she needed to.

Instead, Benjicot Blackwood finished pulling the laces of her dress loose and grabbed her ass. The action made her squeak and squirm her hips against his, and she heard a chuckle of pride.

"Even more desperate for me than last time," he murmured, his fingers trailing down from her jaw to wrap around her neck and steer her back against the stone wall of her chambers. Last time. The words echoed in her head and she had a vague recollection that she'd wanted to tell him something about last time...

She gasped and threw a hand out to grasp wildly at the wall when he pressed his knee up in between her legs and flexed his thigh. "Fuck! Oh, fuck..." With great difficulty, she pulled her lolling head up and tried to clear it. "B-Ben, no, we can't do this anymore."

"But we're going to," Ben sneered, a sticky, sickly, delighted smile spreading over his face as he watched her attempts to protest that were punctuated with her shameless grinding on his leg. "I'm going to fuck you on the bed you sleep in next to your husband just like I always do, and you're going to fall apart on my cock." He leaned forward and snagged her bottom lip in between his teeth, biting down so hard that she cried out, the taste of copper flooding her tongue. "Just like you always do."

Tears watered her view of the crooked-nosed man standing over her and his now blood-stained smile. Her husband wasn't a cruel man, not by any means. On the whole, he ignored her, too shy or embarrassed to call on her to perform her wifely duties unless he'd had a pitcher of wine first. And he never discussed matters of the Bracken council with her, never took his supper with her, never brought her with him to spar on the edge of the riverbank until they were sweaty and breathless and laughing and she had a dagger pressed to his throat.

Never snuck into her chambers during her lord father's nameday celebration and took her roughly from behind until she sobbed into the pillow she was biting to stop from screaming his name out. Her moans of "Ben, Ben, Ben!" were lost to the goosefeathers and linen her face was pressed against. Benjicot's hands held tight to her waist, pulling her hips back and onto his cock. His head suddenly pressed against the back of hers, his body enveloping her.

"Seven hells, do you feel how greedy you are for me? The way you're wrapped around me and taking my cock?" His breath fanned, hot, on her neck, and she held back another cry. Pain shot through her scalp as Ben pulled her hair in his fist and yanked her head back. "Ah, ah, Bracken slut. Let me hear you," he demanded.

His pace was relentless, and with every thrust, he hit a spot inside her that made stars burst across her vision. She sucked in a breath. "The last time, Ben, it's the last t--!" Her voice gave out as Ben grunted angrily and reached around her hips. He rubbed her clit a few times then actually smacked it, and the sheer filth dripping from his mouth as he muttered, "What was that? Say it again while you come on my Blackwood dick, and maybe I'll believe you," made her weep.

[olgalenski]

Tatort Wiesbaden - Murot und das 1000-jährige Reich

also so n mototr mit ner handkurbel zu starten finde ich sehr praktisch können wir das wieder einführen?

yay magda wächter my beloved auch wenn sie grad nicht magda wächter ist. barabra philip halt

dieses haus sah grad iwie aus, als wäre es von ner postkarte abgefilmt worden

alter wtf

ich dachte grad so irgendwie würds ich nett finden zwischendurch in der gegenwart zu sein

dann steht der vor diesem komischen Bildschirm mit den flughäfen

ah ok das war auch alles na dann

verstärkung aus frankfurt fänd ich bissi lustig

die nette dame kann das gerne auch hören bitte

finde ja die leutis könnten mal bitte und danke sagen und nicht direkt befehle erteilen mir doch egal dass es da iwie 1944 is und die irgendwelche offiziere sind. einfach mal bisschen freundlich sein is doch wohl nich zu viel verlangt -.-

das lied hab ich jetzt nicht erwartet. aber ich hab spaß

ich finde ja seit anfang an der offizier is sehr verdächtig. aber kp wieso

wobei doch ganz am anfang der alte mann da im flugzeug is ja dann als rückblende kam zu dem typi da geworden. also joa

was ist dieser typ da

jaa der wars nicht

es ist erst 21:15 und ich verdächtige immernoch diesen von strelow

und dieser komische professor kommt mir bekannt vor ey

ah davos 1917 ich verstehe

aber die papiere waren doch verbrannt?? bin ich blöd oder was

warum. is sie da grad. am fugzeug-einweisen-gedöns?

was war vor 20 jahren? hallo gib mir bitte mehr details dazu?

also schienbar schonmal dieser fall oder so aber hallo????

war das jetzt das mädel oder was?

das jetzt doof

also hat der erste typi da gelogen als er gesagt hat die anderen haben das verbrannt? aber da war doch so n angesengtes stück papier? bin ich komplett dumm? hab ich so schlecht aufgepasst?

alter. was ist dein fucking problem?

niemand hat dich zu irgendwas gezwungen

ja das macht er nicht

ha wusst ichs doch

valide reaktion

yckjbÄJLF der schmied auf dem duty free katalog XDDDDD

ok und alle anderen auch nochmal dabei sehr nice

[melrosing]

Show braime is fascinating because after season 3, Brienne has proved to be an area of hypocrisy for Jaime. His selfish, fuck-everyone-who-isn’t-us attitude is shoved to the side, as he allows her, without turmoil, to actively work against him and his family? Like, he’s definitely committed treason for her a good couple of times. In every way, shape, and form, she should be his enemy. Cersei wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, but jaime won’t. Which is why season 8 often stumps me for hours on end. Was him deserting Brienne entirely for his own selfish gain? Was any of the things he did for her (including losing a hand and jumping in front of a bear lol) just for his own benefit? And if not, and if the emotion, care, respect, and trust was real… why would he sleep with a highborn heir and then leave her to the consequences in store? I often think about how Brienne was already taunted and accosted for even being affiliated with Jaime, and now she deals with the fallout of their relationship knowing that everything meant absolutely NOTHING (according to D&D)… this is positively NUTS. UGH. Sorry for ranting 😭.

honestly anon I mean this kindly but I think it's a waste of your time trying to make sense of Jaime, Cersei and Brienne in the show. they simply aren't cohesive characters, and the result was, as I've said before, D&D had written themselves into a corner where no ending would have rung true for any them because each of their storylines were so self-contradictory. the showrunners wrote according to whatever they were feeling on the day, and what they were genuinely feeling was fuzzy about the lann twins and nothing about Brienne. there's not really anything else to it and I for one will not devote another minute of my time trying to make it all line up or argue for a better ending lol

personally I think we should EMBRACE a 'Jaime and Cersei survive' AU where they make it to the, uh, dinghy Davos secured for them to sail across the narrow fucking sea with a one-handed-man at the oar and an eternally pregnant woman at the prow to what would surely be a delightful retirement from making the same 'we're all that matters' speeches approx. five times a season if only this were a remotely feasible escape. and then I'm like ah yeah that's approximately the level of thought D&D gave this shit isn't it

[sergeant-angels-trashcan]

lmfao davos/kate is a PRIMO couple for a lot of reasons including but not limited to that super uncomfortable sex scene which kate would absolutely pretend to be drunk and need someone to walk her home in order to get davos out of but ALSO because davos witnesses a huge screamo fight between danny and kate about their responsibilities as Rich Ppl and kate’s like well i’ve been legally disinherited and my dad wants to kill me so check and mate, what are YOU doing with your money besides pretending you don’t have any which is when davos realizes he has a Type and that type is Rich White Idiot American Kid Who Experienced Trauma in Their Youth and is Now A Vigilante

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Knights and the Night’s Watch

@the-perfunctorily asked: Can a knight who has sworn NW vows knight somebody else? Or does he no longer have the ability? Similarly, can a Watchman be knighted or would that be gaining a title? Furthermore, can you be stripped of your knighthood if you fuck up badly enough?

A knight who joins the Night’s Watch is still a sworn knight, he's just not sworn to any lord but the Watch (and the gods I guess). And if knights who join the Watch stay knights (see the Shieldhall), I can't see why they couldn't knight others— it's not like a knighthood automatically grants lands or anything. The NW vows say “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory,” but nothing about titles, so whether you’re keeping your ser or gaining one, it shouldn’t be a problem.

As for stripping a knighthood from an unworthy individual, I don’t think so unfortunately? Else Gregor should have lost his ages ago (though yeah, I suppose Tywin would have protected him). And consider what Stannis says about Jaime when writing his slam book letter,

“Make it Ser Jaime the Kingslayer henceforth,” Stannis said, frowning. “Whatever else the man may be, he remains a knight.” —ACOK, Davos I

Like, “he may be a traitorous kingslayer and sister-fucker, but he's still a knight, so you have to call him ser”. And Stannis is so precise, particularly with legal things, so he should know if anyone does. But let me check the wiki just in case...

...ah, hmm, it says knighthood can be stripped? and cites an ACOK Sansa chapter... oh, Dontos, I guess. Looking that up, the wiki editor was probably referring to this part:

“No one, sweet lady. I swear it on my honor as a knight.” “A knight?” Joffrey had decreed that he was to be a knight no longer, only a fool, lower even than Moon Boy. —ACOK, Sansa II

But I’m still not completely sure if this is a usual practice in Westeros. This may be just one of those Joff things, like making a non-knight a Kingsguard and dismissing a KG, flaunting established customs because he's the king and nobody tells him no. And people do still call Dontos Ser afterwards... though mostly just Sansa and Brienne, hyper-courteous and knight-focused... kind of a fuzzy situation there. So let me just check the text to see if there’s any other, better examples elsewhere. I’m particularly wondering about the incident when Ned attainted Gregor... aha.

“...I charge you to ride to the westlands with all haste, to cross the Red Fork of the Trident under the king's flag, and there bring the king's justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane, and to all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him, and attaint him, and strip him of all rank and titles, of all lands and incomes and holdings, and do sentence him to death. May the gods take pity on his soul.” —AGOT, Eddard XI

It does seem like Gregor’s knighthood was stripped! (Although reversed shortly thereafter by Joffrey or Cersei or Tywin.) So it’s definitely a thing in Westeros, not just a Joffrey quirk, albeit probably extremely rare for extremely terrible individuals. I wonder, though, if GRRM got this from something, if attainder ever stripped knighthood in the real world? ...Oh yes, it could:

For a case in the Parliament of 1610 presenting similar issues, see the “bill of particulars” brought against Sir Stephen Proctor, holder of a commission to investigate and collect royal debts. [...] The bill voids Proctor's commission, strips him of his knighthood and right to bear arms, subjects his lands and goods to bankruptcy proceedings to pay complaints against him, bars him from court, and prohibits him from taking future offices, stating that he “shall from henceforth forever stand and be disabled and made incapable forever to have, use, or exercise any office, place judicial or ministerial.”

So, to sum up, a knight sent to the Night’s Watch as a punishment would also have to be attainted before losing his title. And most knights who go to the NW (like the Warrior's Sons after Maegor's war against the Faith Militant, or Alliser Thorne et al after Robert’s Rebellion) just don't have that happen, so they’re free to knight others as they wish. I hope that helps!

[magalidragon]

peak performance | bonus epilogue | a teaser

Boop! I’m losing it, I meant to include a commentary on Jon’s scratches but forgot while writing so decided to do an epilogue drabble and now it is 4K words WITHOUT smut 🤭 Whoops. Here’s a teaser.

"Thank you so much Jon for talking with us today. One final question."

"I thought that was the last question?" he retorted.

"Which medal is your favorite?" She asked, ignoring his comment.

That was easy. He touched the 100-meter gold medal again and grinned. "The 4x100-meter freestyle relay. That’s my favorite. Getting to share the gold with the rest of the team is something special. All about teamwork."

Wyn was pissed. "That's all we have for today folks, thank you so much for chatting with us Jon."

"Thank you Wyn."

The lights dimmed, the red light going off, and Wynafryd yanked on her microphone pack, shaking her head, disbelieving. "You are good Jon Snow, you should go into politics."

He kept his face unmoving, assisting the PA who came up to help him with the mic pack on his hip. "I have no idea what you mean."

"You know bloody well that I and the rest of the world know those marks aren't related to a backscratcher on a stick, more like someone's nails." She smirked. "So who is it? You back with Ygritte Wilde? Didn't she win a bronze this go around?"

His ex-girlfriend from high school had turned into a champion archer, which he knew full well because he had a faint scar across his upper arm courtesy of one of her arrows when he broke up with her. "I think so." He had no bloody idea, he avoided her at all costs.

"I think I read she destroyed her bows after her performance."

"Probably, she can't handle her anger very well." He sighed and got to his feet. "Thanks for this Wyn, I had fun."

Robb stormed over, furious. "Those were bloody gotcha' questions in violation of the contract! No personal questions!"

"I didn't ask him about his personal life."

He smiled, nudging Robb away. "Actually, she didn't. Not directly at least."

Wyn grinned. "The blogs sure are having fun with it. Come on Jon, seriously? You're a swimmer and we're not always watching for your ah...performance." She checked him out obviously when he turned around ,calling to him. "Those pants do nothing for you!"

Aye, I know, he thought, leaving Robb to argue it out with her, his pocket vibrating with an incoming message on his phone. He took it out and smiled at the message from Dany. They hadn't been clear when they shared one last fuck and a kiss at the airport in Dorne. It had been probably the most fun he'd had in his entire life. There was something about Dany, the same competitive and intense drive he had, but in an entirely different package and exhibited in a different way.

He kept his confidence under wraps; Dany's exploded from her in every word and movement. He was quiet; she was loud. He was cool, icy; she was hot, fiery. They matched in the best ways.

And the sex was the most mindblowing and simultaneously energizing thing he had experienced.

The way he'd swam in that 100-meter had been unprecedented. He smashed his personal bests by a full two seconds. The following night, he destroyed the 200-meter freestyle, he collected his 200-meter butterfly and the relay was just icing on the cake. Each and every win, he credited the adrenaline and the fire she had transferred into his body.

His coach, Davos, lectured him on getting a good night's sleep before a race, but he'd never been able to do that. It was even harder in Dorne, with those shitty cardboard beds and the way the races were organized for maximum television coverage. He always struggled to sleep well, too keyed up, and that fateful night he'd wandered into the gym and encountered a certain tiny Dragonstone gymnast, he knew he would never, ever be able to sleep the night before a race again.

[teiasviago]

ASoIaF characters as vines

Joffrey: baby changing station

Joffrey, covering up the “c” in “changing”: baby hanging station

Joffrey’s small council: [clapping]

—

Ronnet Connington: i mean four female ghostbusters? the feminists are taking over!

[“i’m an adult virgin” to Ghostbusters theme]

—

Jaime: what the FUCK is up, Hyle? no, what did you say!? what the FUCK, dude! step the FUCK up, Hyle!

—

Myrcella: when there’s too much drama at school, all you gotta do is...

Myrcella, singing: walk away~

—

Random woman: ...and they were ROOMMATES!

Varys, being inconspicuous: oh my gods they were roommates

—

Arya: [screams]

Sansa: AH! stop, i could’ve dropped my lemon cake!

—

[Jaime and Tyrion having a pillow fight in a hallway]

Tyrion: Jaime don’t — Jaime — Jaime — Jaime, watch the light, dude!

Jaime:

Jaime: [breaks the light with a pillow]

—

[during the Battle of the Blackwater]

Sansa: welcome to the Sept of Baelor, we’re all children of the seven here!!

Lollys: [having a mental breakdown]

Sansa: kumbaya, my lord...

—

Viserys: DON’T FUCK WITH ME, I HAVE THE POWER OF THE GODS AND DRAGONS ON MY SIDE! AHHHHHHH!

—

Olenna: all i wanna tell you is school’s not important. be whatever you wanna be. if you wanna be a dog, [barks]. you know?

—

Shireen: um, Davos, could you read number 23 please?

Davos: no i cannot!

V.O.: what’s up, my name is Davos and i never fucking learned how to read

—

Brienne: [gracefully dives off cliff]

Jaime, turning to Cleos: wow

—

Pod, about Jaime: you are my dad. you’re my dad! (boogie woogie woogie)

[owlsinathens]

A Ghost at the Wall, Part IV

@theon-appreciation

The days seem to get colder, and darker, and still there’s nothing happening, no decision made, nothing to do, and it’s making Theon restless. He spends too much time in his own head, has too much time to think. What will happen to him? Is Jon just biding his time, waiting for an order from Stannis Baratheon to get rid of the turncloak? The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch doesn’t have to obey any king, but if Theon were in Jon’s shoes…

He’s taken out of his musings by a knock on the door, and Jon lets himself in before waiting for an answer. His face is grave, and Theon’s heart starts to beat faster. It’ll happen now. He suppresses the urge to close his eyes and pray, pray with all his might that it’s the noose or the sword that is waiting for him. He could bear anything – anything but being sent back to Ramsay. Even the red priestess’ flames would be a relief over that.

“Davos has come to see me,” Jon starts. He’s looking at Ghost, stretched out on the floor in front of Theon’s narrow bunk. “He brought news.”

Just spit it out already, Theon wants to say, but he holds his tongue.

“The girl – Jeyne Poole–”

“What,” Theon says, sitting upright, suddenly highly alert. “What of her?”

“She seems to be on the mend,” Jon says. “The princess Shireen isn’t leaving her side, Davos says.”

“Oh.”

The relief is strong, and Theon feels his shoulders sagging, tears pricking at his eyes. So it hadn’t been for naught. Even if they execute him today, it wouldn't have been for naught. Jeyne will live.

“Can I see her?” he asks, dragging his sleeve across his eyes.

“Maybe not yet.” Jon isn’t looking at him. “Stannis – I don’t think Queen Selyse would like that.”

“Of course,” Theon mumbles, hanging his head. Of course they wouldn’t want the turncloak in their camp. “I understand.”

“You saved her,” Jon says, and for once his voice sounds gentle. “You could’ve died, but you did it anyway. Are you…?”

“No, not like – I had to,” Theon mutters, still weak with relief. “I couldn’t leave her there. The things he did to her–”

“To the both of you.” Jon crouches down, burying his hand in Ghost’s fur. “I’ve talked to Sam. He thinks he can help you. Do something about – about your teeth. Make it easier to eat. You’re still – you’re too thin. It’s only going to get colder.”

Theon closes his mouth with a snap, confusion taking over. Why would they do that? Why would they try to mend him only to kill him later? His hand wanders to his neck on its own accord.

“You used to be a remarkable archer,” Jon continues, as if he’s been following Theon’s thoughts. “Your skills are going to be needed when the Long Night comes. It would be a shame to waste that.” He briefly glances upward. “And I don’t want to kill you.”

The last part sounds a lot like Jon back then, like the boy Theon had known, defiant and cross. So it’s true then, Theon thinks. Stannis has ordered his death. And Jon refused.

“It’s alright,” he says, surprising himself. “It’s not as if I could – those skills belonged to a different man. He doesn’t exist anymore.”

He looks down on his hands, uselessly lying in his lap.

“I don’t believe that.”

“I haven’t touched a bow in years. It’s–”

Theon sighs at the stubborn expression on Jon’s face. He won’t believe it, not until he sees for himself. So, tentatively, Theon starts to take his gloves off, first one then the other. He hates the sight of his hands, mangled and disfigured, but Jon needs to see.

“This is what I’m left with,” Theon mutters. “I couldn’t – it’s no use.”

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the disgust on Jon’s face. He can feel his eyes on him, burning his skin, and Theon suppresses the urge to hide his hands again.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d let that stop you.”

Theon’s head snaps up at Jon’s words; he stares at him, incredulous. Jon stares back petulantly, his bottom lip sticking out.

“See that?” he says, lifting his right hand and pulling his glove off with his teeth. “I didn’t let it hinder me.”

Theon blinks, staring at the burn scars covering Jon’s hand. Is he really – does he actually think–

“What the fuck, Snow,” he says, too baffled to remember he’s talking to the Lord Commander. “Are you seriously comparing this little thing to missing several fingers?”

“It’s my sword hand,” Jon says, frowning. “And if I remember correctly you were right-handed too?”

“Aye, but–”

“Then I don’t know why you think you couldn’t do it. You still got all the fingers required to nook an arrow.”

“But – but – drowned fuck.” Theon stares at him, unable to comprehend so much idiocy. “I don’t have the strength, Jon! I couldn’t even draw the string back far enough to–”

“Get stronger then.” Jon shrugs. “You certainly won’t when all you do is hide away in here.”

“I…” Theon feels himself deflating, the indignation leaving him. “I can’t.”

“You could at least try. If there’s one thing I learned, it’s that men – humans – can withstand a lot. You already proved that, didn’t you? You saved the girl. You survived.”

“What the fuck do you know about surviving,” Theon mutters before he can stop himself.

“Ah?” Jon snorts, bending forward and pointing to the scar running across his face. “See that? A warg’s hawk almost took my eye out!”

“So what?” Slowly but surely Theon starts to feel angry. “I had my fucking fingers cut off!”

“A girl from the Free Folk shot me full of arrows!”

“Can’t have been too good then, can she?” Theon smirks. “She failed to kill you.”

“She was the second-best archer I’ve known,” Jon retorts, scowling. “She didn’t want to kill me, but I still almost died.”

“Oh?” Theon starts to feel hot in the small room. The whole situation is utterly ridiculous, but somehow he can’t stop himself. “Do you know how many toes I have left, Snow? Six. Six.”

“Don’t tempt me, Greyjoy, I can win this.”

Jon’s eyes are glittering in the light of the fire, his mouth forming a tight smile as he gets to his feet. His right hand, still ungloved, moves to his chest, stopping above his heart.

“Are you – this isn’t a competition!”

Theon frowns, too bewildered to think straight. There’s something about the whole conversation… it stirs something in Theon, memories of times long gone, and it’s as if a door opens in his mind.

You’ll never have my skills with a bow, bastard.

Aye, but the moment we take up swords I’m going to send you into the dirt!

We’ll see about that. At least I don’t collapse after a single glass of wine!

Oh? Well, good for you, but Robb still likes me best!

And then…

Guys, can’t you stop it? I swear I’m going to like none of you anymore if you keep it up like that.

“As if you could ever best me, Snow,” Theon says. His eyes are stinging, but he can’t help the smile. “I’ll beat you anyway.”

Jon’s answering smile is brilliant.

“I see we finally understand each other,” he says. “No more excuses, Greyjoy. From tomorrow, I expect you to earn your food. At least give it a try.” He hesitates, already turning to go. “Even if you couldn’t do it yourself anymore, you could always teach others. But I think you’ll be fine.”

The door closes, and Theon’s still smiling. “What do you think?” he asks the wolf before him on the floor. “Do you think I should give it a try?”

Ghost yawns, turning onto his back and presenting his belly to Theon’s attention.

“Maybe you’re both right,” Theon mutters, burying his hands in Ghost’s fur. “Though it’s a sad thing, to live in a world where Jon Snow is right about something.”

Part I • Part II • Part III

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

How can S7 be your favorite?? Like ok fine its better than S8 but I literally tear my hair out during the conflict between Arya and Sansa. Tyrion develops a brain tumor, characters teleport across the world, and we get to watch Daenerys flirt with her own damn nephew and even though they have zero chemistry he still bangs her at the end?

I shall gladly share my counterarguments, anon!

Among other things, Season 7 made me actually care about the Night King. I got invested in the Army of the Dead, when I had always considered that to be more of a “B” plot behind all of the politics and scheming. Even though I’m pretty sure the show itself wanted me to to feel the opposite. The characters certainly did. And in Season 7, they finally brought that conflict to the forefront and the season finale being all about arranging a ceasefire was kind of awesome. And no, I don’t care that it was all for nothing, or even that Viserion died for nothing. They still had to try, and I dunno, it may have been bleak but that’s just the kind of show that Game of Thrones is. It didn’t feel pointless to me. Cersei’s final betrayal led to Jaime leaving her at long last. I have no complaints about that whole truce storyline. 

I agree that the Sansa vs Arya storyline could have been handled better. Rewatching Sansa sentence Littlefinger to his death gives me so much satisfaction every time, but honestly he’s the main problem in that plot for me: His evil is too on the nose for a character that always worked with subtlety. I could have lived without the shot of him looking on with a nefarious grin as Arya discovered Sansa’s old letter. That was just too much. Like most people, I think it’s ridiculous to hold Sansa accountable for a letter that she was coerced to write as a child, but I guess they wanted to give the old Arya/Sansa rivalry some resolution and give them something to do other than wait around in Winterfell. I definitely prefer this over just omitting them from the season. (Looking at you, Bran.) 

Ah, speaking of that sweet summer child, this was the season that killed Bran. And then everyone in the show and the fandom proceeded to forget it happened. Seriously, it’s genuinely uncomfortable for me in the last two seasons to see everyone just explaining away the Three-Eyed Raven as “Bran is weird now.” when both he and Meera have already flat out confirmed that Bran is effectively dead. In short, I don’t mind this being the end of his story. I just kind of wish the show didn’t act like he was the same person anymore, because he’s not. He is The Three-Eyed Raven, speaking through a body that once belonged to Brandon Stark. That’s about it. 

I truly don’t agree that Tyrion lost his intelligence. I know that’s a common complaint, and I could write essays about why it’s not what really happened, and misses the point of his character arc. It all comes down to one particular line “Faith makes fools of people.” Tyrion expressed this as the reason he never subscribed to faith. Until he met Daenerys. He took a chance on her, he lost his cynicism. He also underestimated Cersei, because he was analyzing her with the mindset of what she was like in Season 4, before she totally went off the deep end. S4 Cersei? Would have kept her word to Jon Snow. If only for the sake of her kids, or because Tywin would have made her. But that’s all over now. Tyrion makes stupid decisions in the final seasons because he’s not the heartless pragmatist he was earlier on, 

Jon and Dany lacking chemistry is another complaint I see a lot, and sure, that’s kind of subjective...but all I have to say is, did you see the boat scene? (No, not the sex scene, the other one.) Dany holding his hand? Seeing his scars for the first time? Pledging that they will fight together? Jon bending the knee was a major fuck-up for his character, but damn if it didn’t melt my heart for these two. That’s not even getting into the scene where Drogon and Jon meet for the first time. You just know Dany is thinking “He’s good with kids, too?” Sorry, I’m Jonerys trash. I don’t really care that they’re related either. This is Game of Thrones, they’re Targaryens, and they didn’t grow up together. They only found out after it happened. It’s far more harmless than Jaime and Cersei, that’s all I’m saying. 

I guess Season 7 just got me really excited for the rest of the show. It was quick-paced compared to the others, it really would have benefited from three more episodes...and the constant fast-travel does get frustrating once you notice it. But seeing Sandor, Gendry, Tormund, and Jon all traveling together...stuff like that, just makes it worth it. The combinations of characters that hadn’t really interacted before, and the emotions they wrought. Theon’s reunion with Jon, Brienne’s reunion with Sandor. The return of Jorah. Viserion’s death. Jaime finally leaving Cersei. Every moment that Davos is onscreen. I appreciate the greater scope story, but also the smaller details. I giggled as much as Missandei during the “Many things…?” scene, I squealed like everyone else when Gendry finally came back from rowing. Season 7’s finale isn’t my favorite in the show (Season 6’s finale is just so hard to top) but every moment was incredible. I still get chills during “He’s never been a bastard…” 

[janiedean]

How is Stannis in the books?

... hahahahahahhaha better than in the show for sure I mean he’s coherent for once

that said honestly... the show turned him into an asshole half of the time and utterly destroyed his characterization with that S5 finale but... god the thing about book stannis again is that he’s such a good example of what happens when you’re not exactly forthcoming with your affections and every time you try to open up to people they make you feel like crap or like you’re ridiculous for doing it or like you’re pathetic or like it wasn’t worth to be vulnerable because they didn’t realize what it took you or didn’t value it enough?

and like... stannis is a poster example for it because every single time he’s there and it’s not a davos pov he’s detached and he never smiles and he behaves coldly so everyone thinks he is and oh hey how fun he’s a lobster without feelings surely everyone else would be a better choice for anything except doing the dirty work he does without complaining because it’s his duty, and you can see that his frankly unhealthy obsession with being fair and just and upholding laws is that he feels like no one was fair or just to him and so he’ll take solace in that, which is also the reason he’s like that about wanting the iron trap. because it’s technically his by right/law and once again everyone is passing over him including his brother who in his eyes can’t be bothered to remember he actually saved his hide at storm’s end (and the fact that renly doesn’t even recall that the others had to eat cats to live says all about how stannis went to lengths to make sure he didn’t want for anything... to get no thanks in return, when he was seventeen on top of that) so why shouldn’t he fight for it? and everyone is there passing him over because he’s not flashy or charming or fun or a social butterfly or a people pleaser but at the same time he’s the idiot who while completely unable to show his daughter that he loves her because he’s emotionally stunted actually gives her a son’s education and regardless from what dnd think wanted her on the throne if he died? and he’s the only asshole who’s not a complete classist in there because his closest advisors are drumroll a former slave and a former criminal and he doesn’t care for that? and then you get to the davos chapters when they’re alone and like... he suddenly stops being detached and he actually gets all soft and so on because wow davos is the one person he feels like he can be himself with up to a degree and when you see that you see that he’s actually not an asshole and he just... wants people to see him for what he is and not hate it? and davos is about the only one who does, which always kills me, but also the fact that he likes/cares for stannis that much when about no one else does and shows it including his brothers or his wife just.. warms me tbh?

and then there’s also the part where stannis is like... also a perfect example of how embittered you get when you always do your job out of honesty/wanting to do the right thing/being competent and no one actually seems to give a fuck about it and takes you for granted all the damned time and you’re just there wondering if someone is ever going to actually put the damned effort to give you some recognition? and at the same time people go like ah yeah he’s a lobster he’s no fun and he doesn’t get it and it just makes it worse, and like... the show completely missed on that angle and failed to show how good the character build was when you have someone who’s that competent at leading/battles/his job but at the same time such a complete emotional wreck who can’t show his feelings healthily if he tries, and I’ll forever hate them for it (and also for not having made him atheist like in the book fuck them tbh) and at this point I made peace with it but I’ll be forever sad that the show version just... wasn’t that. because while he’s not like top ten material to me overall he’s still the #2 person I personally related more in those books so seeing that put on page so well was... just... I mean, I’m this picture and I don’t like it but it still was good to have a character like that who was written as... not an asshole just because he wasn’t forthcoming with showing his feelings you know? sigh. he deserved better.

[throne-of-games]

Thoughts on 8x03

We start off like Sam here, hyperventilating, shaking, wondering how we’re gonna survive this. Right there with you buddy!

All my babies on the front lines...good lord in heaven

Here comes my bitch Melisandre

God damn she really is gorgeous

Highkey thought Davos was about to strangle her for a hot minute

Welp there goes the Dothraki. Look at that. The majority of Dany’s army was absolutely zero help and in fact gave the AoTD more bodies. Who would’ve thought?

GHOST NOOOOO

I have to admit, the subtle extinguishing of the flames was terrifying, like I was kind of shitting bricks at this point

Okay here’s Jorah that’s great I don’t really care WHERE’S GHOST

Honestly who planned this? Jon, Dany, their advisors? Whoever it was really dropped the ball because this is the stupidest fucking plan I’ve ever seen. If the dragons are so god damn important why don’t you fucking use them to thin out the herd first before sending half your god damn army out to get slaughtered. Idiots.

First ten minutes of the actual fighting, can’t see shit

Holy fuck when I saw Brienne go under I FUCKING SCREAMED

And for most of the battle, the dragons can’t see shit. So they’re pretty much useless. Awesome!

This Sansa/Arya scene gives me LIFE. Sansa not wanting to abandon her people (she really is the people’s princess) Arya being concerned for Sansa’s safety, STICK THEM WITH THE POINTY END! I CANNOT

Oh Edd, can’t really say we didn’t see that coming. So long partner

It wouldn’t work between us, that’s my girl destroying Sanrion yaaaas

 Missandei sweetie, I love you but right now you’re hiding out in Sansa’s basement so let’s put some respect on her name, hmm? Besides your qween ain’t doing too hot right now so stick a pipe in it

That “home” speech Bran gave was to Theon and not Dany as the antis claimed, shocker. Her home is not the North, never has been and never will be.

The noises I made throughout this episode were ungodly. Like a wounded moose or something

I really liked that it was Arya who pulled the Hound out of his fire induced terror especially after his “I fought for you, didn’t I?” line last episode

Oh shit, wight Wun Wun

Oh little Lyanna Mormont. That was brutal. But at least she went out like a badass.

This scene with Arya in the library felt very The Walking Dead to me

The shot of Beric holding off the wights was pretty cool. He looked like Christ on the cross, it was all very martyr-y. 

Ah so Beric’s purpose was to save Arya, huh? Interesting

I’m kind of here for an Arya/Melisandre tag team tbh

WOW DRAGONFIRE DID ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO THE NIGHT KING, COLOR ME SHOCKED!

Not gonna lie, I was kinda feeling his smile right then lmao

Lmfao Dany saw that spear and high tailed it the hell out of there

Alright I know the Night King is like, dead and evil and dead but...is it just me or is his swagger kinda hot? *insert eyes emoji*

Nah nevermind. Wight Lyanna and wight Edd? Fuck you Night King

I didn’t see the Sansa/Tyrion scene as romantic, I saw it as being similar to her scene with Theon, two people with a complicated history taking solace in one another right before what they think is their deaths

FUCK YOU VISERION STOP DESTROYING WINTERFELL I’LL WRING YOUR LITTLE LIZARD NECK

Theon’s death was heartbreaking but perfect. Bran telling him he’s a good man, Theon knowing he’s about to die but still charging the Night King head on to protect Bran...Ugh poetic cinema. I couldn’t have asked for a better death for him.

Okay so I’m conflicted here because I actually do really like the idea of Arya being the one to kill the Night King but like it just doesn’t make sense. So what was all the whoopla about the PTWP prophecy then? What was the point of Jon being a Stark/Targaryen? What was up with the long ass look the Night King and Bran shared? What the hell was Bran doing all that time? Just warging around the Night King to see what he was up to like some weirdo outside your window with binoculars? What was the point to Bran’s entire arc? You’re telling me he went through all that crap to become the Three Eyed Raven so he could what? Become bait for the Night King? No way, I call bullshit.

But with that being said IT WAS A STARK THAT ENDED THE NIGHT KING AND I AM VERY HAPPY ABOUT THAT

Lmao Bran’s blank stare, like no good job Arya or anything? Talk about tough love

Damn I think this is the most emotion we’ve seen from Dany ever throughout the course of this series

So after years of listening to all that the dragons are their only chance bull, it turns out that in the end they actually did very little. Not really surprising for the people who were paying attention. They didn’t light the trenches, they didn’t protect Bran, they didn’t kill the Night King, they didn’t kill any White Walkers, they didn’t kill Viserion and half the time they were flying blind so they couldn’t see much going on on the ground. Vindication?

Overall this episode was pretty disappointing. I expected the Night King to go down but I didn’t expect it to be quite so easy. I guess we’ll have to see if this really is the end of them or if there will be some kind of bomb dropped later on regarding Bran’s role or possibly Jon’s. 

Lastly, WHERE THE FUCK IS GHOST?! WHERE IS HE?!

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 5

Okay, I know this chapter is excessively long, but I didn't want to break it up and lose the cohesiveness of it, so yeah, here it is. This one was fucking difficult to write, so I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter Five: Herald of War

“It’s a promise, Sansa realizes.  If we fall, you fall.  Because she figures, one way or another, dead or alive, the North will come for those who abandoned them to winter.”  -  Jon and Sansa.  Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 fin

* * *

“I was under the impression this was a summit for peace,” Tyrion says.

           “It is,” Jon sighs.

           “And yet you’re asking us to go to war.”

           “A war against the dead is not the same as one against the living.”  Jon frowns with his explanation, harsh and deep.

           Sansa can see the frustration in the lines around his mouth.

           “You’re asking for quite a lot on faith,” Jaime points out, lounging quite comfortably in his chair.

           “And do you think I’d be here, inviting some of my house’s oldest enemies into my very home, welcoming their armies North, if I weren’t speaking the truth about this?” Jon barks.  His nostrils flare with his vexation.  He spares a dark look Theon’s way.  “Soon you shall all see the evidence of our claims.”

           Somewhere in the crowd of lords, a scoff is heard, an accompanying snort, a rush of heated murmurs.

           “Let’s say what you claim is true,” Tyrion starts, pacing away from his place beside Daenerys and toward the center of the room, glancing around the other gathered lords.  “Have you even a plan to kill them?  Do you even know how?”

           Jon’s eyes flick to the dragon queen, and Sansa’s gut clenches when he tells them, “We know that fire kills them.”

           Daenerys adopts a smug expression, leaning back in her chair as she eyes Jon.  “You need my dragons.”

           He clenches his jaw, nodding just the once. “Aye.”

           “You already know my demands,” she answers easily, eyes shifting toward Jaime.

           A cruel smile curls along Euron’s face while he sits beside Daenerys.  “Looks like you’ll be bending the knee, after all.”

           Jon ignores Euron with great effort, his hands bunching into fists at his side, and then slowly unfurling.

           Tyrion looks to Daenerys, something calculated in his gaze that Sansa can’t quite identify.  She straightens in her seat, voice echoing throughout the room. “Westeros will need more than just dragons to survive the Night King and his army.”

           Daenerys cocks her head at Sansa, an amused smile playing at her lips.  “’Just’ dragons, you say?” she asks in a tone that sounds nearly insulted.

           Sansa swallows tightly, words measured as she looks at the dragon queen.  “Your might is not to be disregarded, Your Grace, but this endeavor will take from all of us.”  She takes a breath, waits for Daenerys’ rebuke, but continues steadily when there is none – none but a look of mild intrigue.  She looks about the room.  “We will need food from the Reach.  And we’ll need the numbers of the Lannister forces.  We’ll need the forces of the Riverlands to secure safe passage of Northern refugees through the Neck and past the Twins.”  Sansa shares a glance with Edmure Tully, who nods in answer, jaw set. She allows a grateful smile to touch her lips, before she turns her steel-cut gaze back to the other lords. “We’ll need the Knights of the Vale,” she goes on, looking to Lord Royce, and then tentatively to Robin Arryn, an inclination of her head both affectionate and demanding, “The greatest mounted cavalry in the known kingdoms,” she says with a flattering flourish that has Robin beaming with pride.

           “We’ll need dragonglass for weapons,” Davos says. “And we’ll need every blacksmith you can spare working day and night to forge them.”

           Jon nods beside Sansa, a dark look to his face. He stands then, taking in the room. “And we’ll need more than that.  Carpenters and masons to help build the defenses around Winterfell.  Healers and cooks and seamstresses, before, during, and especially after the battle, which means they’ll need to stay in Winterfell while we send the other refugees south.  And we’ll need all our armies marching North if we expect to have any hope at defeating the dead.”

           “What do they look like?”

           Jon turns at Robin’s question, confusion drawing over his face.  “My lord?”

           Robin shifts excitedly in his seat, an inappropriate glee pulling at his features that sets Jon’s jaw to clenching.  “What do they look like, these wights you speak of?” he asks again.

           Silence reigns in the room.

           Sansa shifts in her seat toward him.  “Dear cousin,” she begins gently, “I don’t think – ”

           Jaime’s scoff interrupts her, his scornful chuckle swallowed up by the fist at his mouth.  

           Sansa sends him a glare.

           Sighing, Jaime’s hand lowers from his mouth, a sardonic glint to his eye.  “Not like anything you’ve ever seen before, I’m sure, boy.”  His eyes flick to Jon’s.  “If they even exist.”

           Robin’s face pinches at the insulting address but before he can wail his offense, Lord Royce stands from his seat, chest puffing out. “You will speak to my lord with the proper respect his station demands, Ser Jaime, or this summit will be at an end soon enough,” he nearly bellows.

           Jaime only leans back with an amused smirk, Tyrion sending him a desperate look that seems a plea for silence.

           “They look like the dead,” Jon sighs in aggravation, his temper flaring at the need for such an explanation, “In all the gruesome ways death can take a man.”

           Sansa can see how the frustration builds beneath his skin, rippling the cords of muscle at his neck when he swallows. “Now, can we continue?” he asks gruffly.

           Robin scowls at the answer, disinterested immediately.  “I only wished to know what they looked like,” he mutters.

           Sansa sends an urging look Arya’s way, and with a twitch of Baelish’s lips in her flesh mask, she leans over with a false face of appeasement to the young Lord of the Vale, a pat of her hand to his bunched fist.  “And you will, my lord, when you ride North and take the field alongside His Grace. You’ll look the dead in the eye, and – with the Knights of the Vale at your back, heralding your name – you’ll vanquish them from our lands forever.”  A gratifying smile plants itself along Baelish’s face, and Robin grins in response.

           “Yes,” he agrees, straightening in his seat. “Yes, I shall.”

           Lord Royce grumbles something under his breath when he takes his seat, eyes shifted toward Baelish in a mix of reluctant gratitude and poorly disguised mistrust.  

           “And why should I follow you North like a gullible child, Jon Snow?” Daenerys asks coolly, eyes nearly rolling (if such a motion could be queenly) at Royce’s outrage with the pointed barb.

           “My queen,” Tyrion tries, stepping toward her and then instantly stopping at the subtle motion of her hand to stay him.

           Behind Daenerys, and behind Jorah Mormont and the newly met advisor, Missandei, and the commander of the queen’s armies, Grey Worm, somewhere in the slants of shadows, Sansa catches the flicker of tense deliberation along Varys’s face at his queen’s words.  His hands stay linked through heavy, concealing sleeves, his lips pressed into a perpetual purse, eyes watching the hall pensively.  She shifts her gaze away from him before he can meet hers across the hall.

           She remembers all too well that he’s seen the work of the Targaryens firsthand – some being her own blood.

           Sansa pulls a steadying breath in, focus back on the quickly spiraling summit.

           “Why should I commit my forces North on the word of a bastard king when the people are crying for their rightful ruler to save them right here in the South?” Daenerys asks coolly.

           Sansa’s eyes flutter shut, bracing for the inevitable.

           Lord Glover pushes from his seat so violently that it scrapes against the stone and topples back with a loud clang.  “I would follow any son of Ned Stark to the depths of all seven hells before I swear to some murdering Targaryen whore!” he bellows.

           The room erupts into madness.

           Grey Worm steps forward, a cold wrath lighting his features, and the line of Unsullied along the wall at Daenerys’ back uniformly brace their spears to their shields in a motion of readiness, the heavy metallic clash setting the rest of the hall rising into an uproar.

           Jaime barks a laugh.  “Yes, the people are just clamoring for you, Your Grace,” he throws out at Daenerys with raised brows.

           “Ser Jaime,” Brienne hollers from her place behind Sansa, “This is hardly the time.”

           Several of the lesser lords push from their seats, Lady Mormont shouting for them to sit down and stop squalling like children. Jon braces a hand back at Lord Glover, keeping him from stepping further into the circle.  Davos and Tyrion call for order and are subsequently ignored. Northern and Riverland guards edge around the hall toward the swarm of incensed lords.

Jaime lets out another ragged laugh, arms stretching wide to encompass the chaos.  “This seems exactly the time, Lady Brienne!”

Daenerys shoots a deadly glare at Jaime, Ser Jorah at her elbow instantly. “I should take your head right here, Kingslayer.”

           “Please, Your Grace,” Edmure urges above the shouts from the arguing lords.  “This is a summit for peace.”

           Daenerys stands swiftly.  “Then you all should have remembered that before calling the dragon to your table.”

           Brynden swears at Sansa’s back.  “Oh for the love of – ”

Lord Royce advances on a particularly vocal lord from the Stormlands when he throws a casual insult at the young Lord Arryn.  False-Baelish slips back from the mob, staying at the edge of the ring of seats, Sansa always in sight.

Euron stands from his seat, a sneer along his lips.  “I think a little respect would do these Northern bastards some good.”

“Uncle,” Theon says, firm and reproachful.  He stands from his seat, but Sansa’s hand on his arm stays him.  He looks down at her with hesitance.

“Ah,” Euron laughs, a predatory glint to his eye, “This the Northern cunt that bewitched you?”

Brynden’s hand is on his sword instantly, Brienne moving similarly beside him.  “Call my niece that again, you pissant, and I’ll hang your entrails from your own ships’ bow.”

“You can always trust a Lannister to –”

“ – damn Northern pride will be the death of –”

“ – bloody Ironborn – ”

“And where have you cowards been all this – ”

“ – her and her foreign band of rapists and murderers – ”

“Enough!” Jon bellows, his voice echoing off the stone walls, a deep, resonant growl following the words.  “That is enough!”  There’s something wild to his form then, a murderous glint to his eye that settles anyone who catches sight of it into an instant stillness.  He whirls on the room, teeth bared.

At Daenerys’ raised hand, Grey Worm orders his men down, Missandei calling out similar orders to the Dothraki bloodriders alongside the Unsullied. Lord Glover rights his chair, dropping back down to it with a huff.  Lady Mormont glares the other Northern lords into silence.  The lords of the Stormlands slowly retreat to their corner, Robin tugging on Lord Royce’s sleeve to get him to sit back down.  Jaime sits just a bit straighter, his smile falling. Daenerys remains standing, chest heaving.  Beside her, Euron gives one last leer to Sansa and Theon before he slumps back into his seat, Brynden and Brienne finally unhanding their swords.  Slowly, the hall comes back around to silence, tense and perturbed though it is now.

Jon heaves a labored sigh, rubbing at his chin, eyes flashing dark with his fury. “How can you all sit here and squabble over such pettiness when the dead are practically at our door?  How can you call yourselves lords when you would trade your people’s lives for a crown – a crown that will mean absolutely nothing when the dead wash through your lands?” he bites out, gaze landing on Daenerys. “Because make no mistake, if we fall, you fall.  That isn’t a threat.  That’s fact.” he growls out, glancing at each of them in turn.

It’s a promise, Sansa realizes.

If we fall, you fall.

Because she figures, one way or another, dead or alive, the North will come for those who abandoned them to winter.

           “This is all very riveting, to be sure, but if you’re all done beating your chests, I have a question for the King in the North.”  Lady Olenna interrupts for the first time that afternoon, elbows resting on her armrests, hands wound together in a familiar nonchalance, as she stares insistently at Jon in the center of the room.  

All eyes turn to her in the tense quiet.

She clears her throat, settling more comfortably in her chair.  “This summit isn’t about trying to persuade us that peace is our best option, because we wouldn’t be here in the first place if we believed otherwise.  So you can save your thrilling little speeches, Your Grace.  Anyone unwilling to fight for the kingdoms has no claim to them.”

Mutterings begin among the lords once more, Daenerys slowly returning to her seat, hands curled like talons along her armrests, eyes landing on the Tyrell matriarch like flint to steel.

Jon nods stiffly to her, jaw clenched tight.  “And your question, my lady?”

Olenna huffs impatiently, shifting to tap the nail of her forefinger along her armrest.  “When your war is won, and the dead are defeated, will the King in the North acknowledge the independence of the other kingdoms, or is this alliance simply a ploy to seize power?”

The mutterings throughout the hall stop entirely, a taut silence blanketing the room.

Jon turns fully to Lady Olenna.

Sansa remembers suddenly, the way he looked that last night before the Battle of the Bastards – the heat in his eyes, the desperation lining his mouth (that mouth), the dangerous arch of his shoulders and unmistakable incline of his body, the way he shouted at her, pressed her, the way he instantly folded beneath her admission –

If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive.  Do you understand me?

The way he’d wound his hands through her hair and stumbled her back, a growl at his lips, bracing her back against the beam of his tent, his breath panted against her mouth, her hands winding around his wrists, the ragged exhale that left him when he told her, when he demanded of her –

“Shut your mouth.”  Like a wounded, cornered beast.

She’d blinked at him wildly, indignation splashing across her face, breath hitched in her throat as he bore his whole weight into her suddenly, forehead braced to hers, fingers flexing in her hair.

Her throat was parched, her chest heaving.

“Shut that mouth of yours, Sansa, because I can’t – I can’t – ” And then he’d licked his lips, chocking back a sob, his mouth already so close to hers that she thinks she might have tasted his breath in that moment, shared the heat of him, felt the tremble of his mouth against her own just a moment before he kissed her, desperate and ragged and insistent.

Like trying to eat his own terror.

She’d known in that moment, and every moment after, that she’d never follow through on the promise – not so long as he lived.

His hand was hitching up her skirts, his groan filling her mouth, his own reckless promises painting her flesh, well before she’d finally recognized his demand as the plea it truly was.

Stay with me, his body had begged.

Yes, her own had granted.

           Sansa looks to Jon now, eyes easily catching the sharp line of his shoulders, and the clench of his jaw, and the evenness of his gaze on Lady Olenna.

           It must be so exhausting, she thinks, to live always on the precipice of death – to share an intimacy with it so violent that even to refuse it feels like a betrayal of the self.

           I’m not going back there alive.  She should have known not to say such words to him, after all.

           But perhaps that was the start of it, the catalyst to this dangerous dance between them.  He’s become so vibrant in her hands, so thrumming of life, so very not dead.

           She knows now, what it means to linger –

           Stay with me –

           She knows.

           “I never sought this crown.  And I’ve no intention to seek another,” Jon tells Olenna, low and resolute, his shoulders sagging with the weight of it.

           Never sought, no, but he’s grown covetous of it all the same, Sansa thinks.  And even still, Jon has made it clear where his interests lie.

           With the North, and with her.

           Nothing else can sway him.

           It’s the sort of truth that should trouble her, but she can’t find it in herself to be anything but covetous in return.

           “Well then,” Lady Olenna says, fingers linking together, a barely discernible smile crinkling the edges of her mouth.  “You might be the only one in this room who can claim as such.”  She chuckles, leaning back in her chair.  “I like you. Even if you are rather cross and sullen.”

           Jon blinks at her, mouth parting, but no words follow.

           Sansa ducks her head to hide her unexpected smile.

           “Highgarden agrees to the alliance,” she promises, eyes flitting to Sansa for the briefest of moments, “Granted this ‘evidence’ of yours makes itself known.”

           Sansa’s smile steals from her mouth instantly, eyes narrowing at Olenna.

           The older matriarch only shrugs, a hidden smile playing at her lips.

           “You’d follow this whelp?” Euron scoffs, leaning with one hand braced to his knee.  “Just because he can spin some pretty words?”

           Lord Glover almost upends his seat again, but Sansa’s instant narrowing of her eyes in his direction, chin lifted in a motion to heel, has him grumbling his acquiescence, settling back along his chair.

           Olenna grants Euron an unimpressed look, an amused huff leaving her lips.  “I owe you no justification, Lord – what was it?”  She pauses, considering.  “Are you even a lord?”  And then she waves her hand dismissively.  “Never mind, you’ve clearly already answered that.  I suppose even a dog may be allowed to beg for scraps at its master’s table.”

           Euron stands instantly, face screwed up in an ugly disdain.

           The room tenses.  Jon takes an even step forward.  Olenna smirks triumphantly.  Edmure frets uncomfortably.  Daenerys opens her mouth.  Sansa speaks.

           “Perhaps we should leave it at that today, my lords, my ladies.”  Sansa rises smoothly, hands clasped before her.  “I’m sure we each have much to discuss with our respective advisors.  I look forward to renewed talks tomorrow.”

           Jon glances to her, brows furrowed, his impatience warring with his exhaustion, before he nods imperceptibly.

           “I agree,” Tyrion interjects, turning to his queen.  “We have much to think on.”  His gaze is imploring, his mouth set into a thin line.

           Daenerys takes a deep breath, a dissatisfied expression gracing her features as she meets her Hand’s gaze.  Ser Jorah at her elbow is soft but firm when he addresses her. “Khaleesi.”

           She looks to him out of the corner of her eye, softening somewhat.

           The unexpected shift has Sansa blinking dumbly at them.  Words pass between the two, quiet and short, and then the dragon queen is rising swiftly from her chair, barely giving even the courtesy of a nod in farewell before she’s stalking from the room, her advisors in tow.

           Jon closes his eyes and releases a breath, frown deepening.

           In moments, the hall is all but cleared, and Sansa stays watching the silhouette of Jon in the afternoon sun breaking through the windows.  Her lips purse tight, her words stalling in her throat.

           His shadow stretches long, she finds.  Its edge peters out just before the toe of her boots.

* * *

           Jon finds his way to Sansa’s rooms that night, greeting Brienne at the door with a weary face and a sigh of exhaustion. “Will you announce me, my lady?”

           “Of course, Your Grace.”  Brienne tips her head in a motion of respect.  “Ah,” she says, straightening, voice dipping to a whisper, “My lady is in conference with your sister at the moment.”  Her eyes shift down the hall momentarily, watchful.

           Jon nods, voice low.  “I expected as much.  Announce me, Lady Brienne.”

           Brienne raps on the door, short and expedient. “His Grace to see you, my lady,” she calls through the door.

           “Come in,” sounds through the wood in Sansa’s familiar lilt.

           Brienne opens the door for him and Jon stills immediately upon stepping through.

           Seated across from Sansa in a similar armchair by the fire, leaning closely toward her, is Baelish.  For a moment, Jon’s vision goes white, a sharp breath sucked through his lungs, rage rising in his throat, until he remembers.

           (His slumped form along the snow beneath the wierwood, the wash of blood over his chin, the curl of his frozen, grasping fingers stiffened into claws.)

           Baelish is dead.

           The familiar face turns to him.

           Arya, he has to remind himself, the breath raking from him slow and measured.

           She cocks a brow in Baelish’s face that has Jon’s expression souring instantly, the unease branching through his chest.

           “Jon,” Sansa greets, grabbing his attention.

           He looks to her, shaking his head, shutting the door behind him.  “Sorry, I – I just – ”

           The eerie copy of Littlefinger stands with a sigh and a decidedly un-Baelish-like roll of the eyes.  “Please, Jon, you can’t have this reaction every time you see me like this.”  She plants her hands on her hips and Jon scrunches his nose up at the sight.

           Arya sighs dramatically, hands thrown up in the air as she stalks toward him and the door.  “Gods, what I would give to be back home and out of this skin.”

           The words sober Jon instantly.

           Arya stops just before him, catching the look on his face.  He doesn’t know if he’s any good at hiding it, but then, hiding never did him any good when it came to Arya.

           It’s hardly the first skin she’s worn, he realizes. hardly the first life she’s taken.  His little sister.  His Arya.

           Something constricts inside his chest dangerously like regret.

           Arya seems to see something in his face, because her expression schools back into a keen observation so naturally reminiscent of Baelish’s own attentive eyes that Jon has a difficult time separating the two. It only makes his chest clench tighter.

           A stilted silence passes between them, until Sansa is clearing her throat, standing from her seat with a soft grace that flutters her skirts about her legs.  “Keep clear of Lord Varys,” she warns Arya.  “We cannot know if your act will fool him well enough.”

           Arya turns back to Sansa with a single piqued brow.

           Sansa huffs.  “You’ll be careful?” she presses.

           Lifting her chin, smoothing her hands down the silk front of her robe, Arya nods her acknowledgement, the incredulous expression leaving Littlefinger’s face at the note of concern lining Sansa’s voice.  “As careful as a mockingbird.”

           It’s not the kind of comfort Jon thinks Sansa is looking for, if he’s going by the worried expression on her face, but it’s the only kind of comfort he imagines Arya capable of.  It’s just another piece of truth to mourn.

           Arya turns back to Jon, watching him for a quiet, tense moment.

           The steady stare of Baelish this close is unnerving, to be sure, but perhaps even more unnerving is the subtle recognition of Arya’s own stare through a dead man’s eyes.

           She looks to Sansa for a moment, and then turns back to Jon, frown deepening, brows furrowing.  “Do not disgrace her in our mother’s house,” she tells him quietly but firmly, a slip of her own voice threading through the words.

           Jon blinks at her, the image of Baelish throwing him even now.

           Sansa scoffs indignantly, arms crossed behind Arya.

           But Arya only has eyes for their brother.

           Jon nods, unable to curb the pain that etches across his face, the resentment.  “I wouldn’t,” he answers her.

           Arya nods just the once, lips pursed, thoughtful. “Tomorrow’s going to be another long day,” she says.

           Jon gives her a moment, expecting something further.  When she only stares at him, he rubs at his chin, words coming haltingly and unsure. “Yes, it will be,” he says finally, hesitant to say more.

           Arya’s mouth thins into a line as she clears her throat, a quiet affection coloring her words now.  “You should get some rest.”  And then she’s stalking from the room, shutting the door behind her without a further farewell.

           Jon stares at the closed door for many long moments.

           “She loves us,” Sansa says softly.  “She does.”

           Jon stays staring at the door, a sigh leaving him.

           “Perhaps she isn’t rather adept at showing it but – ”

           “Sansa,” he interrupts, finally turning to her, a hand rubbing at his mouth as he tries to shake off the lingering unease.

           She lifts her brows expectantly, arms uncrossing, the indignation having bled from her instantly.

           (She doesn’t stay mad at her sister for long these days, but Jon is too hesitant to name such a thing as hopeful.)

           He softens his features, catching the thrum of disquiet in her stiff posture.  “I know,” he tells her, attempting a smile.

           Sansa nods, lip pulled between her teeth.  She glances out the window, hands smoothing over her skirts.  “Well then,” she starts, looking back to him far more put together than she had been only moments before.  She motions a hand toward the now vacant seat across from her.  “Your Grace,” she offers.

           Jon takes the chair easily, shrugging off his cloak – her cloak.  He catches the way her eyes follow it when he sets it along the back of his chair and a flare of prideful possession streaks through him.  His hand curls along the furs before releasing reluctantly, settling across from her.

           Sansa takes her own seat gracefully.

           Jon leans his elbows along his thighs, hands grasped between his knees.  An exhaustive sigh leaves him.  “Arya has word about Meereen then?”

           Sansa nods, leaning back in her chair. “Baelish’s sources say the city has fallen into disarray.  Daenerys’ appointed representative, Daario Naharis, and the small council she established before leaving, have been slaughtered.  It’s chaos in the streets, last we heard.”

           Jon nods, gaze dark and considering.  “We can use that.”

           “It’s a fine line to walk.”

           He raises a brow in question.

           Sansa brushes at a wrinkle in her skirt.  “It can sway the other kingdoms to our side if they see that their alternative is incompetent when it comes to governance, but calling out such incompetence could also wound her pride enough to make her withdraw.”  She levels a meaningful look Jon’s way.  “And Bran was adamant we sway her to our side, as well.”

           Jon groans, shaking his head.  “She sees herself as a savior, he said.”

           “Yes.”

           He frowns.  “And how do we use that?”

           Sansa purses her lips, silence overtaking her for long moments while she turns the question over in her head.  He can very nearly see the moment illumination lights her features.  “Give her a target,” she says in answer finally.

           “I haven’t exactly kept the Night’s King a secret, Sansa,” he says exasperatedly.  “If ever there was a target for her, that would be it.”

           Sansa shakes her head, a huff leaving her.  “You’re thinking about this all wrong.”

           Jon’s frown deepens, head cocking like a reminder for caution.

           Sansa sits a touch straighter, her hands curling over her armrests in anticipation.  “She hasn’t gone to King’s Landing yet.  Why?”

           His brows draw down.  “Because her enemies are no longer there.”

           “Precisely.  And yet she claims the people are clamoring for her deliverance.  So why won’t she go?”

           Unclasping his hands, Jon leans back in his chair, huffing his frustration.  “I don’t fucking know, Sansa, I’m hardly privy to her council.”

           Sansa’s nostrils flare with her momentary annoyance. “Think, Jon.”

           “Oh, like I’m not trying to?”

           “Not very hard, it seems.”

           “Sansa,” he warns, a hot expel of breath.

           Sansa shakes her head, hand outstretched to stop his admonishment.  “Listen to me, Jon, please.  Just listen.”

           He gives her a spiteful look, but he does not argue further.

           “Starvation and anarchy are hardly foes she can burn into subservience,” she says.

           Jon blinks at her, the realization slow and half-formed.

           She continues.  “Her crusade for freedom across Slaver’s Bay only worked temporarily because, while crucifying the Masters and burning their ships makes for an intimidating show of power, it doesn’t solve any of the problems still plaguing the cities.  She’s not a ruler.  She’s a conqueror.  It’s what she does best.  So we give her someone to conquer.  We give her a body, a living, tangible foe.  We give her a target in the North and she will go North.”

           Jon stands swiftly, hand swiping over his mouth as he stalks to the hearth.  “Sansa, what exactly are you suggesting?”  He looks back at her with dark eyes, half-shrouded in firelight.

           She swallows tightly, rising from her seat as well. “We need Jaime Lannister.”

           Jon’s jaw tightens at the name, drawing in a deep breath.  “We’ve no indication he even believes us, let alone has any inclination to fight for the living.”

           “Brienne vouches for him.”

           Scoffing, Jon gives her an incredulous look.  “And that’s enough to think he’d join us?”

           Sansa steps closer, hands clasping nervously before her.  Jon eyes the motion with a sense of foreboding.  She makes it to the other side of the hearth, standing across from him, when she finally speaks.  “He knew I didn’t kill Cersei.  More importantly, he knew I couldn’t.”

           Jon stares at her, a tightness in his chest.

           He remembers when Bran told them the news, the raven’s scroll from King’s Landing slipping unread from his still-gloved fingers as the three of them met in Winterfell’s dawn-lit rookery.

           He remembers the harsh laugh that broke from Sansa, streaking through the silence with a brand of delirium so striking he actually took a step back from her.

           But she couldn’t stop, a hand braced to her chest, the other moving to steady herself along the rail, her eyes glistening, laughing and laughing and gasping, chest heaving, face screwed up in sudden pain, fingers curled around the rail, her other hand clutching the hook-and-chain necklace at her throat, and then she’s sobbing so instantly her body actually quakes with it, a laugh choked into a wail, and she’s sinking down suddenly, knees giving way, dragging her form down the rail, gasping, keening, howling.

           He’d been unable to do anything for long, immutable moments but stare – watching the wash of relief and grief and release rake through her like a storm.

           He remembers leaning down behind her and gripping her shoulders, pulling her back to his chest and holding her through it.

           When he’d looked up next, Bran was already gone.

           “That doesn’t mean anything, Sansa,” he grits out. It’s a lie, he knows.  Because it has to mean something.

           Sansa closes her eyes, breathes deep, and something shutters beneath her skin he hasn’t a name for.  It’s gone the instant she opens her eyes again.  “It means there’s still something he wants.”

           Jon steps closer, a growl brewing in his throat, the realization inking into color a moment too late.  “Sansa – ”

           “Tell him we can give him his sister’s killer.”

           Jon expels a harsh breath with a muttered curse, dragging a hand through his hair.  “Seven hells, Sansa, you can’t just – ”

           She closes the distance between them instantly, eyes imploring on his, the heat of the fire licking across their forms.  “I don’t mean giving up Arya.  I’d never – I couldn’t – ”  She stops, swallows, eyes shifting anxiously between his.

           Had she expected him to think that of her? Had she expected him to know her so little?  Jon’s shoulders slump at the thought.  He reaches for her arms instinctively, a familiar measure of comfort between them, his rough palms curling around her elbows.  “Sansa,” he breathes lowly, evenly, “Tell me what you mean.”

           She relaxes somewhat, face softening.  “He’s a remnant of a man, Jon.”  The words come out sad beyond measure and Jon doesn’t know what to do with them.  In the wake of his silence, Sansa reaches up, curling her fingers along the leather of his jerkin, eyes fixed to the motion.  “This grief has unmade him.  It’s plain for all to see.  He has nothing left.”

           Jon’s hands slip up her arms and then slowly back down, watching the curve of firelight dip across the bare edge of her collarbone.

           He doesn’t like to think about what that sort of grief would feel like – what that kind of loss does to a man.

           (He doesn’t like to think that he understands Jamie Lannister, if only a little, if only when his fingertips bare their mark on his own sister.)

           “He has nothing left but vengeance.”

           Jon blinks back up at Sansa.  “You mean to use it.”

           She nods, lips pursed tight.

           “And Arya…?”

           “We have Baelish’s spies, his face, his influence. Let us use it.  Let us offer Jaime Lannister a chance at the vengeance he craves.  Arya will be safest when she’s the one controlling the information he receives.”

           “And when he comes North with us, when he agrees to this alliance – ”

           “It will be the largest threat to Daenerys’ sovereignty.  She cannot take such an alliance lightly, especially when the other kingdoms inevitably fall in line.  She’d never allow such an alliance unless she had a hand in it, and she’d want to keep a watchful eye, work to dissolve it from the inside, rain fire and blood if she had to.  But she would go North.  She would not leave her enemies to treat with each other behind her back.  If we cannot tempt her empathy, then we must tempt her with this.”

           Jon heaves a labored sigh, thumbs brushing along the material of her sleeves, winding slow and unmeasured circles.  His eyes fix to the motion.  “Even if she helps us win against the dead, how can you be sure she won’t turn on us the instant the war is won?”

           Sansa sighs, hands uncurling from his jerkin, smoothing over his chest.  “I have to trust that Bran would not urge us to bring her North if he didn’t have the knowledge we’d need to protect against her.”

           The discontent brews in his chest, releasing itself in a gruff exhale.  “Such a risk…”

           “I trust our brother.”

           Jon clenches his jaw, his eyes roving her face, leaning toward her without realizing it.  He stops breaths away from her.  He lifts a hand to trace up her arm, along her shoulder, dipping down toward her collarbone.

           Sansa sucks a breath between her teeth, swift and quiet.  She does not pull from him.

           Jon’s eyes follow the trail his fingers make along the edge of her dress.  “The lords will not like an alliance with the Lannisters.  I’m not sure I like an alliance with the Lannisters.”

           Sansa huffs, and the sound almost makes him laugh, his smile a worn and weathered thing when it touches his lips.

           “They will follow you if you lead them,” she tells him, and it seems such a simple thing when she says it.  It seems such a simple, indisputable thing.

           His eyes flick down to her lips, his hand around her elbow dragging her to him, bracing her against his chest as his other hand slips back along the nape of her neck.  He revels in the mute gasp that leaves her parted lips, the flex of her throat beneath her swallow.  “You can be so sure?” he asks, not knowing why it should matter so much.  Not knowing and yet –

           Knowing exactly.

           “King Jon of House Stark” she’d called him.

           (How he wants to hear the words again – how he wants to watch them stain her lips when he takes her.)

           Sansa lifts her chin, baring her pale throat in the low firelight.  “They’ve followed you thus far,” she says.  “They will follow you further yet.”

           She’s a slight thing, even for her height – all spine and teeth – but she fills his hands seamlessly, his palms fitting perfectly to the mold of her.

           “Tell me again,” he whispers at her mouth, suddenly ragged with the need, suddenly quaking in his own skin.

           Sansa’s brows dip down in confusion, her mouth parting.

           Jon steps into her, walking her back, past the hearth, its flames spitting hot and unrelenting at their retreating forms through the shadows. Sansa stumbles when she hits the desk, one hand going out to steady herself along the ledge, the other still held at his chest.  “Jon,” she breathes, voice catching.

           “Tell me again,” he demands.  “King Jon of House Stark…”  It’s a heavy pant at her lips.

           Sansa’s eyes flash with understanding.

           He presses his hips to hers, pins her there against the desk.  He braces his mouth just above hers, his hand winding into her hair to keep her to him. “My name,” he tells hers – begs her, teeth clenching behind a desperate mouth.

           Sansa slides her hand up his chest and then along his neck, sinking into his hair.  “Your Grace,” she breathes at his mouth, fingers clenching at the nape of his neck.

           With a throaty moan, Jon’s hand leaves her arm and winds around her waist, fisting in the folds of her dress, digging into her hip with an urgency that sets them both to trembling.  “Sansa,” he pants against her.

           “My king,” she whispers darkly, and he groans in response, hand clenching in her hair, tongue wetting his lips, breath raking from him in ragged, unrepentant bursts – so close, so devastatingly close – and damn Arya’s warning, damn their disgrace – not now, not here – with her so warm and pliant in his hands and he leans in, eyes fluttering closed, a needy sigh already teasing his lips, the taste of her – just there – and –

           A knock at the door.

           Jon groans his frustration, lips half a whisper from hers, hands already fisted in her hair and her dress and the intoxicating, breathless whole of her.

           “Your Grace,” sounds Davos’ voice through the door.

           Jon pulls back from her, just slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.  “What is it?” he barks.

           Sansa hums quietly at his chest, nails dragging at the base of his skull.

           Jon closes his eyes to the lure, smothering his own impulses.

           A quiet shuffle sounds on the other side of the door, and then his Hand clears his throat.  “A raven from Eastwatch, Your Grace.”

           Jon glances toward the door, mouth parting. He looks back to Sansa in his arms, watches the shift of heat in her eyes dim to a familiar cold calculation.

           “Tormund,” he says softly, eyes still fixed to hers.

           She nods, seems to steady herself, head dipping low, breath easing into something slow and manageable, her fingers thrumming just the once along the nape of his neck to return his attention.  “Go,” she tells him, when they finally lock gazes again.

           Jon swallows thickly, hesitating, his chest still heaving, his mouth still aching for hers.

Her hand slips from his neck and he feels the loss instantly.  “Go,” she says again, almost reproachfully this time.

He growls his frustration – with Davos’ interruption, with Tormund’s sudden letter, with her own sense of practicality.  Jon curses beneath a sharp exhale – a heady, breathless thing – but he’s already pulling from her, already disentangling from her enticing heat.  He nods, lips turned into a harsh frown.

           She releases him first, but her touch lingers long after he’s left her side.

* * *

           The summit recommences the next morning. Everyone resumes their places from the day before, and Sansa has to admit to her surprise at every seat still being filled.  She half-expected to find certain lords (and queens) to have abandoned their efforts at peace.  There is hope yet, she finds.

           Or perhaps that is being generous.  Perhaps it is better to say that there are still demands to be made.  Perhaps it isn’t peace that keeps them here at all.

           It is of little matter, she tells herself. Jon will get them North, one way or another.  This she knows, because to accept anything less makes them as good as dead already.

           Sansa glances to Theon beside her, eyes searching. He shakes his head slowly, a grim expression on his face.

           No word from Yara, then.

           Sansa takes a deep breath in, turns back to the floor, to her brother making his way to the center once greetings have been properly addressed.

           “My lords and ladies,” he starts, and then to Daenerys, “Your Grace.”

           She nods appreciatively.

           Jon continues briskly.  “I’ll not waste any more time.”  He raises a hand, an unfurled raven scroll resting between his fingers.  “Last night I received a raven from Tormund Giantsbane at Eastwatch.  The army of the dead is already at the Wall.”

           Murmurs break out amongst the crowd, unsettling them. Tyrion steps out from beside his queen to reach for the scroll.  

Jon hands it to him for confirmation, not waiting to continue.  “I don’t think you all quite understand the level of this threat, the numbers we’re facing.”  His voice is low, gravelly, a strum of anger already lighting it.

           They’ve wasted enough time already, to have come to this.

           “The dead are quite literally climbing the Wall,” he stresses, pacing the room to look each occupant in the eye. “Thousands of them – hordes of them – climbing over each other, body upon body toward the top, cascading over the edge like a waterfall.”

           Sansa closes her eyes to the image, her throat tightening beneath the latent fear.  She smothers it well.

           “A fall like that may kill a man, but the dead feel no such effects.  They topple over the wall in a flood, resuming their march on the other side – on our side.  And they do not stop,” he bellows, looking around the room.  “The dead have no need for sleep, or food, or rest of any sort.  We’re losing precious time.  And we need to be there now.”

           Daenerys bends her ear to Tyrion when he returns to her side, something whispered between them that never makes it to air. Jaime sits straighter in his seat, eyes focused in a way Sansa hasn’t seen before.  Euron stews impatiently in his own seat.

           Jon gives the crowd a moment, but only a moment, and then he’s plowing on.  “The time has passed to argue the North’s sincerity.  You either believe me, or you don’t.  But that isn’t the point anymore.  So, let’s cut all the horseshit and talk about why we’re all really here, hmm?” His eyes grow hard.  “Everyone in this room wants something.  Now, some of those things are in my power to grant, but others,” he says, gaze flickering toward Daenerys, “are not – and neither should they be.”

           “If I may – ” Tyrion starts, never getting the chance to finish.

           “Theon Greyjoy,” Jon calls out, turning to the man swiftly.

           Tyrion stares dumbly at Jon as he ignores him.

           Theon blinks up at Jon, standing swiftly, a measure of uncertainty lighting his frame, even with his shoulders straight and chin raised.  “Your Grace,” he answers.

           “You and your sister want the North’s support for her claim as queen of the Iron Islands, and our acknowledgement of your kingdom’s independence.”

           Theon’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. Finally, he simply nods, hands folding behind his back.

           Jon eyes him darkly, and for a moment, Sansa thinks he may take it all back.  His word, his assurance, his trust.  She sucks a quiet breath between her teeth, wanting to reach for Theon and yet knowing that she shouldn’t.  She stays deathly still – hanging on a precipice.

           Jon’s eyes find hers for the briefest of moments, something passing over his gaze she can’t identify, but then he’s looking back at Theon, and she has to remind herself to breathe.

           “You shall have it,” Jon says finally, jaw clenching after the words.

           Euron scoffs across from them, moving to rise in objection when Daenerys’ upheld hand halts him.  She stays watching the exchange intently, lips dipped into a frown. Euron grumbles his reluctance as he retakes his seat.  

           “Your Grace,” Theon says, half question, half disbelief, his brows dipping low, and Sansa wants to hold him suddenly.  She resists the urge to the point of pain.

           Jon doesn’t forgive Theon, she knows, and he might not ever.  But she has never asked him to, and never will.  She has learned to lay her brothers down in the deep.  She has learned to let them rest.  Not because forgiveness comes easier to her, but because survival does.

           Sansa learned long ago to bury her loves, or they will bury her.  It started with Lady, and then never seemed to stop.  There are holes in her heart dug in the shape of graves, and she knows now that some unearthings can never be.

           She does not ask of Jon what he cannot give.

           “Lady Olenna,” he goes on, turning to the Tyrell matriarch.  Theon sits back down, hands fluttering over his knees in a motion to calm.

           Sansa blinks back the ache, focusing.

           Olenna cocks her head at Jon in expectance, a familiar, challenging smirk tugging at her lips.

           Jon nods to her.  “You want my assurance that I’ll not seek another crown – that the North keeps to the North and does not interfere with the sovereignty of the other kingdoms.”

           Her only answer is a purse of her lips, a lone nail tapping along her armrest.

           “You shall have it.”

           “And your proof of the dead?” she eggs on, smirk still steadily put.

           Jon releases a low chuckle, hand wiping down his mouth.  “And my proof,” he repeats, mumbling the sentiment as though to himself.  He shakes his head, not even sparing Theon a glance. “That’s seeming more and more unlikely as time persists.”

           Olenna steeples her hands together over her lap, considering, but Jon isn’t one to linger.

           “Ser Jaime,” he says, turning to the Lannister knight.

           A single, cocked brow is his only acknowledgement.

           Jon licks his lips, fingers flexing at his sides. “You want your sister’s killer.”

           A thick silence pervades the room.  Tyrion dips his head, shoulders bunching with his unsteady exhale.  Jaime stares unblinkingly at Jon, his one good hand curled stiffly over the armrest.

           Jon takes a breath, jaw grinding.  “You shall have it,” he promises lowly.

           Jaime stands swiftly, pushing from his seat with such a fervency Jon’s Northern guard shifts into a ready stance, the clang of their arms resounding in the room.

           Everything goes eerily still.

           Jaime stands staring at Jon, his face screwed up into a visage of quiet wrath, a dangerously still vehemence.  “What did you say?” he breathes out, the words slipping through bared teeth.

           To her credit, Arya does not flinch a single muscle in Baelish’s skin.  Sansa can see her watching the exchange from her place two seats down from the Protector of the Vale.  Somewhere behind Sansa, Brienne shifts, a barely-heard rustle of armor.  But it’s there all the same.

           Jon turns fully to Jaime.  “The North will pledge to search for Cersei’s killer and bring her to justice.”

           Somewhere behind him, Lord Glover grumbles a curse but Lady Mormont’s sharp gaze silences him.  Sansa sends the girl a grateful look and Lyanna nods in return, chin tilted high.

           Jaime takes a step closer, stiff and warring. “You know who killed her?”

           “No,” Jon lies easily enough, a trickle of pity lining his voice just enough to lend it some truth.  “But we will.”  A short pause.  “Lord Baelish,” he calls, turning to the mock Littlefinger.

           Arya offers a perfectly piqued brow.

           “You are a man of the world.  You must lend your efforts to Ser Jaime’s quest. Commit your resources to discovering Cersei Lannister’s murderer.”

           In Baelish’s skin, Arya takes an expected moment of silence, seeming to consider the request (or command, rather).  She doesn’t spare a glance to either of her siblings, only nodding slowly to Jaime, a twist to her lips with just enough reluctance to seem credible.

           Jaime exhales loudly, staggering back a step, eyes fixed to the false Littlefinger.  There’s a pleading to his gaze that strikes Sansa with its earnestness, its unhindered sincerity.  She tightens her hands over her lap at the sight.

           Jon glances to his Northern guard, motioning for them to stand down.  Jaime drops back down to his seat, glancing over to Tyrion.  They stare silently at each other, and Tyrion is the first to look away, a wet sheen to his eyes that Sansa does not miss.  It is hard for her to fathom anyone mourning the loss of Cersei Lannister, but then she remembers that day long ago in the gilded cage that was King’s Landing.

           “Love no one but your children.  On that front a mother has no choice.”

           It’s perhaps the most honest, the most vulnerable, that Cersei has ever been with her.  The moment wears at Sansa some nights, when she lays awake staring at the ceiling, an unspeakable sadness crashing through her.

           Perhaps Cersei’s greatest mistake was in loving all the wrong people in all the wrong ways.

           Sansa blinks back the sudden wetness at her eyes.

           It doesn’t matter.  It never did.  Because dead is dead, and there is no way to love that into un-being.  

She knows.  She’s tried.

(The muddy steps at Baelor’s Sept will always be the start and end of every nightmare she ever has.)

Jon sighs heavily, shifting to face Daenerys, brows dipping down in consternation.

Sansa turns away from Jaime, ignoring the way he stares blandly at the floor, eyes grievous, jaw tight.

“Your Grace,” Jon addresses, stepping closer.

Daenerys lifts an interested brow, a look of amused curiosity crossing her features.

He licks his lips, taking a steadying breath.  “You want the North – and others – ” he says, motioning toward the room, particularly to the silent, dwelling Jaime Lannister, “to declare you our queen, to welcome back a Targaryen reign – to bend the knee.”

Daenerys looks on smugly, back straight, a regality to her posture that Sansa imagines took years to turn from practiced to intrinsic.  

           Silently, Sansa waits for the break.

           “But I cannot give you that,” Jon says firmly, eyes never leaving the dragon queen.

           The room goes dead for many moments, and Sansa swears she can hear her pulse thrumming frantically in her own ears. She swallows back the trepidation, eyeing the room cautiously for any particular reactions.

           Most telling is Daenerys herself, of course. It takes her a moment, a perfectly groomed eyebrow twitching in displeasure, but the shadow that crosses her face can be called nothing but Targaryen in its darkness.

           Tyrion’s eyes widen, and he glances swiftly to his queen, then back to Jon, stepping forward as though to speak.  Daenerys beats him to it.

           “Just as much as you want me for an ally, Jon Snow, you would not want me for an enemy,” she guarantees evenly, a touch of calm to her voice that tells Sansa she is no stranger to voicing such threats.

           It tightens the ball of anxiety in her stomach.

           Euron smirks beside her.

           Ser Davos tries for diplomacy.  “Your Grace, please.”  He takes a deep breath.  “You’ve come to Westeros at an ill time.  We’ve barely survived the carnage that the War of the Five Kings rained across the continent, and our people are tired of war and subjugation.  A man just wants to till his own soil, to put food on the table for his wife and children, to swear to a lord that honors the protection of his own.  That is the kind of freedom the North – and Westeros – wants.”

           “And you think I cannot give them that?” she challenges, chest heaving with her indignant breath.

           Jon steps forward, standing partially in front of his Hand.  “What I think is that the last city you promised such freedom to has paid that price tenfold in blood.  So, you’ll forgive us our skepticism, Your Grace.”

           Her lips purse, nails digging into her armrests. “Come again?”

           False-Baelish rises smoothly from his seat before Jon can speak further.  “Your Grace, you must know by now the fate of Meereen?  Your last conquest?”

           “Know what?” she snaps.

           Arya lets slip a barely held smirk across Baelish’s thin lips.  “Daario Naharis is dead, Your Grace, as is the council you put in place before you abandoned the city.  The Masters have made war on their former slaves.  The streets run red with the blood of your promised ‘freedom’.”

           Sansa sometimes thinks Arya plays her part too well, or rather that she enjoys it too well.  Either way, it gets them a reaction.

           At first, Daenerys is stiff, hardly moving, her eyes widening only minutely with what seems to be a previously unknown revelation, her nostrils flaring in her outrage.  But then something shifts, a crease to her brow, a quiver to her jaw, the quick blinking of her violet eyes.  It’s gone but a moment after it passes over her face.

           Daario Naharis.

           Sansa’s eyes narrow at the dragon queen.  There was affection there.  Perhaps there still is.  Her heart clenches at the realization, a sliver of empathy bleeding out into the light.  She smothers it instantly.

           Daenerys clears her throat, the momentary exposure shuttered up with cool authority.  “Lord Varys,” she calls, glancing toward him out of the corner of her eye.

           He steps forward gracefully, head bowed.

           “Is this true?”  Her voice is low, a decibel away from being called a hiss.

           Varys glances toward Baelish, eyes narrowed in consideration, a thoughtful breath leaving him.  Eventually, he nods, his face shifting into one of remorse.  “I apologize, Your Grace, for not informing you early.  I thought the news would…detract you from your current goal.”

           Her spine snaps impossibly straighter.  “You are not responsible for deciding what it is I should or should not know, Lord Varys.  You will inform, and you will advise, but you will not omit.  You will not presume to think for me, do you understand?”

           “Of course, Your Grace.”  Another bow of his head, hands still hidden in his sleeves. He keeps his gaze from Baelish this time, flicking toward Sansa instead.

           She sucks a mute breath through her lips, face a blank visage, giving nothing away.

           He only looks just a moment, but it’s enough to prickle her skin with unease.

           “I suppose that’s what you should expect when you leave the running of state to a sellsword,” Lady Olenna throws out, shifting in her seat to a more comfortable position.

           Daenerys gives her an unamused look.

           Olenna rolls her eyes in the most ladylike fashion Sansa has yet to master.

           “My queen, we must continue to look forward,” Tyrion interrupts, stepping up to her seat, just at her side.  He raises his hand as though to settle it over hers on the armrest, perhaps in comfort, but a swift glance from her stills his hand mid-air. He flexes his fist, dropping his arm back to his side.

           Sansa watches the quiet exchange with interest.

           Tyrion clears his throat.  “Your vision takes time.  It takes patience, and endurance, and fortitude.  But Westeros can only benefit from such vision.”  He looks about the room, addressing the rest of the occupants now.  “You say you want freedom?  Well, sitting here before you is the Breaker of Chains.  You want a strong leader?  They call her Mhysa and the Unburnt.  You want a way to win against this ‘Night’s King’?  She is the Mother of Dragons!”  He pauses, takes a breath, steadies his voice.  “We’ve all had our failings – some of us more than most.”  He hardly dares to meet Jaime’s eyes across the way.  “There isn’t a person in this room who can say otherwise,” he says critically, voice hardening.  “But Daenerys is the queen we need.  Now – at the edge of this ‘Long Night’ – and always.”

           Sansa bristles at the words – even more so with the fervency with which he says them.

           This is not the man she remembers.  But then, none of them are who she remembers. Every person in this room is a stranger of sorts – even Jon.

           None of these faces filled her childhood.  It is not something she mourns.  It is just a truth.  Just the way of life.

           (She does not think she could have Jon the way she does now if he still wore the face from her childhood.)

           “You’ll forgive my reluctance to follow a Targaryen, brother,” Jaime says finally, “given my history with the last one I served.  A pretty face is not enough to save you from madness.”

           Daenerys flashes unforgiving eyes his way.  “Brave words from a murderer.”

           Jaime leans forward suddenly, face screwed into something ugly.  “And I’d murder him again, given the chance.”

           Daenerys steals a heated breath through her lungs, eyes darkening dangerously, mouth curling into a sharp scowl.  “Shall I just present my back to you now?  Would that be sufficient invitation?”

           “’Burn them all’,” Sansa says with a dark inflection, the words staining her lips in their heat.

           Daenerys snaps her violet gaze to her, sharp and focused, mouth tipped open as though to speak, but no words come.

           Jaime turns stiffly to her as well, but his gaze shifts quickly to the sworn shield at her back, and she doesn’t have to look at Brienne to know that she’s staring resolutely away from Jaime.  Sansa swallows tightly, meeting Daenerys’ incredulous stare.  “That’s what your father told him.”

           Murmurs break out across the room once more, and Jon swings his startled gaze to Sansa.

           (It’d been a moment of quiet confidence when Brienne admitted to her conversation with Jaime, his confession in the hot pools. She’d vouched for him, and not without reason.)

           This is the man who almost killed their father in the open streets, bringing him to his knees, and back into the Lannister fold, where he eventually lost his head.  

           Sansa swallows down the bile.

           This is also the man who killed the king who brutally murdered their grandfather and uncle, who would have brutally murdered more, had he not acted.

           She is tired of trying to understand Lannisters. She doesn’t want to anymore. She wants nothing to do with them, really.  But she’s played the game long enough to know that sometimes enemies make the best allies, when you know how to shift the board.  She won’t forget that lesson easily.

           Baelish taught it to her well, after all.

           (Some wounds linger, she remembers.)

           “Just before Ser Jaime here stuck a blade in him, that’s what your father said – with caches of wildfire buried beneath King’s Landing.  ‘Burn them all’.”

           Daenerys swallows thickly, eyes riveted to hers.  Her ire bleeds from her slowly, almost imperceptibly, if one wasn’t watching closely enough.

           But Sansa is watching.

           The murmurs around the hall grow louder, shouts interspersing the rush of whispers, a wave of agitation and confusion sweeping over the room.

           “Would you do the same?” Sansa asks her evenly, gaze a frost blue.

           Daenerys opens her mouth, stops, huffs her frustration, clamps her mouth shut tightly.  The words pry beneath her skin, Sansa knows.

           “Would you do the same, Your Grace?” she urges, not letting up.

           Chin raised, Daenerys blinks back the daze.  “I am not my father,” she seethes, voice a tremulous wind, something of pain seeping through.

           Sansa only stares at her.  Jon sighs, wiping a hand down his mouth, looking about the room.

           “Your Grace,” Ser Davos begins, an imploring look on his face, “You’ve given us no proof of that one way or the other.  But perhaps, this is your chance.”

           Daenerys throws a withering look at Davos, but she makes no comment.

           “The last Targaryen to sit the Iron Throne murdered our grandfather and uncle in open court, and then demanded that Lord Arryn of the Vale break guest right and kill our father, as well,” Sansa continues, back straight in her seat.  “King Aerys broke faith with his lordships first, and the Starks have more reason than most to refuse Targaryen rule, yet here we are, asking you for help, putting aside past grievances – justified grievances – because none of this will matter if we don’t stop the dead.  None of this will matter when we are the dead.”

           Daenerys takes a heavy breath, the ire now dimmed in her eyes.

           Jon steps forward, dark eyes steady on Daenerys. “Make no mistake, Your Grace, that’s exactly what’ll happen if we don’t stand together – all of us, every single person here.”  He turns to take in the room.  “I can’t promise that we’ll win.  I can only promise that the North will fight regardless.  Now, I’ve come here to ask the same of you.  You’ve all heard my arguments, and you’ve made your demands.  But it’s time to decide.  I understand if you need your proof, but the North can’t wait any longer.  The dead are already at our door and we leave for Winterfell in the morning, with or without allies.”  He looks pointedly at Jaime, a barely discernible nod sent his way.

           Euron looks as though he’s ready to object when Daenerys’ upraised hand silences him in his seat.  He grumbles reluctantly, but she’s looking at Jon with an expression of serious consideration.  Sansa is too practical to call the feeling that brews in her chest hopeful, however.

           Another silence pervades the room, this one so stilted and heavy that Sansa can feel it in her lungs.  A shuffle of feet here, the creak of a chair there.  A cough, a grumble, the rustle of fabric as someone shifts in their seat.  It’s suffocating suddenly – this stagnation, this utter and useless stillness.

           Sansa wants to howl for it.

           “You won’t be leaving alone, Your Grace.”

           Sansa’s gaze snaps to her uncle, watching wide-eyed as Edmure Tully is the one to rise from his seat, hands tugging his jerkin into place, chin raised even while his jaw quakes.  He nods to Jon, swallowing tightly before speaking.  “The Tullys broke bread with the Starks once, not so long ago.”  His gaze shifts to Sansa, infinitely tender and resolute all at once.  “’Family, duty, honor’.  I’ll be damned if I’m the first Tully who disgraces those words.”

           Sansa’s heart swells.

           Just behind her, Brynden lets a gruff smile grace his features, eyes crinkling.

           Jon’s brows rise in surprise, but only for a moment, before his face softens into a weary gratitude, nodding stiffly.  An appreciative smile tugs at his lips as he allows himself the smallest sigh of relief.

           Sansa cannot hide her smile at the sight, glancing down to her lap.

           “The Vale is with you, Your Grace,” Lord Royce pledges as he stands, glancing down toward Robin, who looks up at him only mildly alarmed before he settles back in his seat at the nod of reassurance both Royce and Baelish give him.  “Aye,” the young lord croaks out, clearing his throat, trying again.  “Aye, King Jon, you have the Vale as well.”  Robin puffs his chest out with the words, shoulders pulled back in a show of confidence Sansa is sure he doesn’t entirely feel, but is grateful for, nonetheless.

           Jon turns to address the rest of the lords but never gets the chance.  The sound of boots thumping on the hard stone sounds just moments before a Northern guard bursts through the door to the hall, panting, eyes wide.  “Your Grace!  Your Grace!” he shouts, taking a large gulp of air after his apparent sprint.

           Davos stands swiftly.  “What is it, man?”

           “At the gate,” he says, bracing his hands to his knees as he tries to breathe.  “It’s – it’s Yara Greyjoy!”

           Theon jolts to a stand, eyes wide, and the room erupts behind him, Euron the loudest of them.

           It’s moments later that Yara breaks into the hall, blood dried at her temple, hair and coat still speckled with snow, kicking a shackled undead into the center of the room, its snarl chocked off by the leash around its neck.

           Daenerys stares on in dawning horror.  Jaime’s jaw sets, his eyes hardening.  Olenna blinks back the shock, glancing toward Sansa.

           “Good thing these fuckers hate the water,” Yara says, wiping a hand under her nose, a brilliant smile breaking across her mud-streaked face as she braces a boot to the back of the scrambling corpse’s neck. “So, when do we leave?”

* * *

           It doesn’t take long for Jaime Lannister and Olenna Tyrell to pledge to the North after Yara’s dramatic entrance, with the lords from the Stormlands following suit shortly after.  Daenerys makes a grand enough speech about fighting for the people, about burning the evil away, and Jon suffers through it as stoically as he can, knowing it’s a small price to pay to guarantee her forces come North.

           Euron Greyjoy, however, has different plans than his queen.  He takes one look at the wight and renounces his support, cursing all of them for fools, ignoring Daenerys’ call to heel when he turns his back on her and makes for his ships at the coast.

           They’re already on their march North when they hear word that Euron hadn’t even made it to Harrenhal, let alone Gulltown.  Daenerys Targaryen doesn’t take too kindly to desertion it seems, having burned him where he stood.

           Jon’s sure it’s as much a punishment for Euron as it is a warning for the rest of them.

           Do not betray the dragon, the warning says.

           Jon feels the sinking dread like a stone in his gut when they pass through the gates of Winterfell and the shadow of dragon’s wings blankets the courtyard, darkening the image of their brother’s face as Bran sits waiting for them in reception.

           He doesn’t have time to think about it though, because they throw themselves into preparations quickly enough, shoring up the walls, building trenches, forging weapons with the dragonglass Daenerys promises from Dragonstone.  Tormund and his people make it to Winterfell days later, and Jon’s war council lasts long into the night that first eve of their return.

Sansa takes to the crypts more often of late, and this is where Jon finds her in the short hours before dawn once the council has let out. He’s been hesitant to breach her solitude, her sanctuary.  She stitches black direwolves to her handkerchiefs these days, and it’s a likeness he wishes he could forget, but the severed head of Shaggydog is as haunting a memory as the arrow-riddled body of the young boy who loved him.

           The brother who loved him.

           Sansa stands before Rickon’s statue with her hands folded before her.  A ring of winter roses lays at the base, slowly wilting.

           She heaves a sigh, and it seems to take all of her, but her voice is steady when she tells him, “We’ll have to burn them.”

           Her admission jars him into movement, a hand coming up to brace at her elbow.  “Sansa.” There’s a question laced through her name he doesn’t know how to ask.

           She turns to him then, just slightly, just enough to catch his gaze over her shoulder.  

           He has learned, after many moons, how to read Sansa Stark’s grief – how to discern it by the lines of her face, the stiffness of her frame, the heady weight of her silence.

           His fingers curl more surely around her elbow.

           “If we want to survive the Long Night, then we will have to burn them.”

           Jon looks past her down the long tunnel of crypts.  It’s a shadow-drenched cavern of memory and stone and deep, still quiet that takes him – an ages-old memoriam of long dead Starks.  It’s a line that stretches far, and he remembers suddenly, that it’s a line he is never to join.

           King in the North he may be, but never a Stark.

           Jon grinds his teeth, the ache in his jaw an easy distraction.

           He’d hoped to be buried here one day.  A child’s dream, perhaps.  A foolish wish.

           Jon wants to laugh suddenly.  To laugh and laugh and choke on it – because what a joke.  The gods have ill humor, and he has little appreciation for it.

           Sansa reaches a hand to his side, fingers clutching at his furs.  He sends a baleful look her way.

“I’ll light the fires myself,” she says softly at his side, and he has to swallow back the tartness, eyes fluttering closed at the breath that stains his lungs.  “With Bran and Arya,” she finishes, voice softer than he’s ever heard.

He reaches a hand to the small of her back, dragging her against him.

She settles a palm at his chest where his heart lies, beaten and floundering.

           “I would not have you buried here,” she mutters against his shoulder.

           Jon grips at her dress, fingers bunching in the material at her back.

           “Not yet,” she finishes, mouth sliding against his throat.  “Not for many years to come.”

           He should take it as the hope it is, as the single, rare confession it is – that she isn’t ready for him to leave this world.

           But something too long festered flares to life at the words.  Something too darkly honed.

           The hand bunched in her dress draws upwards, dragging the material with it.  He presses into her, backing her up against the wall.

           Sansa looks up at him with a flicker of concern, hands bracing at his shoulders.

           He’s silent as he unfastens his cloak, letting it fall to the cold ground at his feet.  He pulls his jerkin free of his breeches, unlacing it with practiced ease.

           Sansa stares at him, breath hitching.  Her hands hover uncertainly in the air above his shoulders, her hips pinned to the wall by his.  “Jon.”

           His jerkin hits the floor alongside his cloak, his eyes never leaving hers. He pulls his tunic free of his breeches, hands moving to the laces at his groin.  Sansa’s hands fumble to stop him.

           “Jon, please, what are you – ”

           “I’m a Stark, aren’t I?”  It’s a guttural rush of air that leaves him.

           Sansa’s hands still over his.  She blinks furiously at him, mouth parting, cheeks heated at his stare.

           “You said it yourself,” he whispers, chest heaving.

           Sansa’s eyes shift between his, tongue darting out to lick her lips in her anticipation.  “Jon.”

           “You said it yourself,” he hisses now, accusingly, a bite behind his words he hasn’t a name for.  And then he’s rucking up her skirts, a hand gliding to the back of her knee, tugging it up over his hip.

           Sansa gasps, arching against the wall instinctively.  She pushes her skirts down frantically, chest rising and falling so fast she’s getting lightheaded.  “Jon, wait, this isn’t – this isn’t – ”

           His mouth finds her throat, his tongue reckless and heated against her flesh. Sansa’s head lolls back against the wall.  “Jon,” she pants, fingers stilling at his shoulders with a fierce grip.  “Jon, what – ”

           He grabs at her wrists, tugging them up above her head, holding them there with a single, calloused palm.  His other hand undoes the laces of his breeches completely.  “I’m a Stark, aren’t I?” he asks again, the heat of resentment and longing and regret flaring white-hot inside him.  It comes out a growl.  It comes out a desperation.

           Sansa’s chest heaves against his, tongue wetting her lips.  “Jon.”

           And he’s just so tired of hearing that name.  Just so fucking tired of it.

           He rucks her skirts up, tearing at her smallclothes, fumbling recklessly for the heat of her, that throbbing, sodden heat of her.

           Jon groans when his fingers find home.  He nips at her lips, catching her hitched breath between his teeth.  “This is where I belong,” he says without repentance, sliding into her on a hissed breath, his head dropping to her shoulder as he shudders against her, a deep-seated groan leaving him.

           Sansa’s sharp inhale sounds against his temple, her hips pushing up to meet him.

           Jon releases her wrists, grabbing for her thighs instead, hoisting her up against the wall as he thrusts deeper, drawing her legs around his waist.

           A sigh of contentment breaks against his ear, his name lost in the space between their pants, and he remembers suddenly.

           He remembers where they are.

           “Don’t stop,” Sansa moans breathlessly.

           He grinds his hips into hers faster, deeper, with a mercilessness that almost scares him in its intensity.  One of her hands reaches out to steady herself, bracing against the base of Rickon’s statue.  Jon looks decidedly away from the motion.

           He only fucks his sister harder.  

           The crypts fill with their ragged pants, their dark curses, the fumble of their forms against the crude stone.

           “This is where I belong,” he groans against her mouth, biting down on her bottom lip.

           Sansa cries out, nails digging into the naked flesh of his hips, drawing him deeper into her, and he feels himself breaking, crashing, barreling into her with a ferocity he’s never felt for anything – anyone – no one but her. “Mine,” he growls into her mouth, fingers bruising on her thighs, teeth etching their mark along her throat.  He braces a single, trembling hand against the wall at her back, the rough stone cutting into his palm as his thrusts grow frantic and uneven.  He curls his bloodied hand along the stone wall, nails catching on the rock, and he anchors himself amidst the tide.

           “Mine.”

           It’s a shadow-drenched cavern of memory that takes him.  A place of no light.  A hollow of stone so entrenched with the dead he finds a familiar home.

           Sansa does not let him go.

           Even when he spills inside her.

           Even when he mars her thighs with the discoloration of his need.

           Mine, he swears.

           The declaration clatters around the stone crypts like a herald of war.

* * *

{“Fire sows no seeds,” he tells her.  “It molds no stones.  It tills no earth.  How could it ever fashion life from death?”

           Sansa stops, looking down at her still brother, knuckles white where her hands grip at each other in their wringing.  She slinks slowly back to her chair, the wind rushing from her in something not unlike defeat.  She is just so lonely, suddenly – so desolate and worn and without him.  

Without Jon.

“You knew all along?” she asks almost plaintively, exhaustion echoing along her words.  “You knew the dragons weren’t…”  She stops, swallows, tries again.  “You didn’t bring them here to defeat the dead.  You brought them here because only the dead could defeat them.”

           Bran gives her a look that could only pass for calculating – foreign and jarring though it is on her brother’s tender features. “She was never the solution,” he answers her.}

[let-love-run-red]

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"Christar, Jon, I'd like you to accompany me." Vaehra said as she walked towards the two men. She'd changed from the red nightclothes into a nicer pair of trousers and a white tunic, her black and red cloak back in place on her shoulders. She'd draped a type of chain over her shoulders. It was thin with silver links, and created a pattern across the back of her cloak. Christar had a matching one with black links that showed wonderfully within the fur of his white cloak.

Jon felt very under-dressed in his simple clothes and his straight black cloak. Although, looking at the chains, he assumed they were a show of status. An easy way for any Valyrian passersby to recognize the Queen and the head of her queensguard at a glance, as there was no other obvious way to tell them apart from another citizen of the city.

The group of three walked towards the doors of the keep, another pair of guards standing at the door. Rather than get in an argument this time, Vaehra produced the scroll Jaerla had given them that documented the meeting request from Bran. The guards took one look at the scroll before stepping aside to allow the three into the castle.

Christar stood just to the right of Vaehra, half a step behind her. Jon walked behind the two, trying to stay in step with them but failing horribly. They must have walked together like this for years in order for it to become second nature.

"Any idea what Bran could want?" Christar asked Vaehra. Vaehra shrugged, the chain on her back jingling lightly at the movement.

"I can't be sure, but I assume it has something to do with our little excursion in the North." Vaehra said. Jon could understand why Sansa was unhappy. Vaehra had humiliated her in front of her guards and proven herself to be more clever than Sansa. And taken what was likely her first prisoner as Queen of the North.

"I hardly feel bad about that. She killed Daeragon, She deserved much worse than what we gave her." Christar said, his voice dropped low. Jon could see the scales on the side of his neck stand on edge.

Vaehra hummed as she approached the council door. She paused, composing herself and knocking lightly on the door. She was much more diplomatic when the life of the head of her queensguard was not hanging in the balance. The door opened to reveal Sir Brienne standing behind it, the rest of the council members seated at the table behind her. There were two empty seats at the table, one for Brienne, and the other, Jon assumed, for Vaehra.

"Vaehra, I see you got my message." Bran said from his seat. Vaehra stepped into the room, her steps soft compared to the mighty thumps from Christar's boots as he walked. Vaehra approached the seat, gesturing towards it. She was seated next to Ser Bronn, who glanced at her approvingly as she daintily pulled the chair out and settled herself in it, the chains across her cloak clinking lightly against the chair. Christar stood watchfully behind her, despite Bran offering him another chair. Jon stood beside Christar, trying to mimic his authoritative pose.

Brienne sat across from Vaehra as Bronn turned his body to face Vaehra and Bran. Tyrion cleared his throat before speaking up.

"Queen Vaehra," He addressed her. Vaehra turned her attention to Tyrion, long brown hair brushing over her shoulders. Christar turned to face Tyrion as well, green eyes glinting in the candlelight.

"I don't believe I've properly welcomed you to Westeros since your arrival two weeks ago. Our time has been so rushed." Tyrion said. He stood and approached Vaehra, offering him her hand. She shook it firmly, and Tyrion's eyes widened at her strength. He had obviously not expected that from her, but the woman wrangled three full grown dragons every day. She had to be strong.

"Thank you Lord Tyrion, however I hardly believe that is what implored Brandon to ask after me." Vaehra said, pulling her attention away from Tyrion to look at Bronn who had been trying to peek down her tunic since she'd sat down.

"You're much more pleasant when you're not in here screaming in the face of my King like a scorned whore. Perhaps we ought to get you fucked out more often" Bronn said. Brienne raised her eyebrows in shock as Tyrion stared open mouthed. Even Bran seemed shocked at his outburst. Ser Davos opened his mouth to bite back when Vaehra held up a single gloved hand. Jon noticed Christar settle back into a more relaxed position and realized he'd been poised to pounce on Bronn for his words.

"Those are bold words Ser Bronn." Vaehra said calmly. Bronn didn't seem to know how to react to her serenity.

"You're much more pleasant with a blade against your throat, yet I haven't resorted to that." Vaehra said before giving him a pointed look and flicking her fingers towards Christar. He unsheathed a large curved blade from under his cloak.

"Yet." Vaehra finished. Bronn sat back in his seat, watching Christar closely as Vaehra turned her attention to Bran.

"Now, can we please address what this is really about." Vaehra said. Bran nodded with a sly smile, unfurling a raven scroll, clearing his throat and reading aloud.

"Brandon, I have written this scroll to discuss with you the occurrences at my Kingdom, your home, yesterday. Vaehra Rahthone arrived in Winterfell with two large dragons, threatening my people with fire if they did not surrender immediately. She then turned her blade to me and threatened my life. Our brother, Jon, did nothing to defend his family or rightful kingdom. Vaehra Rahthone, Jon Snow, and Christar Wrintaris have all been declared enemies of the Northern crown, and are to be returned to my Kingdom at once. If you refuse my request, I will have no choice but to declare the Southern crown an enemy of the North as well.

- Queen Sansa of house Stark, First of Her Name, Queen in the North, the Lady Wolf, the Survivor, Savior of the North, Heroine of Winterfell, The Bastard's Widow, The Defier of Dragons, the Un-kneeling, the Cunning Bird"

Jon was taken aback at the bold words of his sister. Vaehra, on the other hand, didn't seem fazed in the slightest. She remained calm, hands folded delicately in her lap. She raised her chin to Bran.

"Do you believe her words, Brandon?" She asked. Bran rolled the scroll once more, handing it off to Podrick. Bran cleared his throat, looking around to his council.

"I believe the truth. I saw what happened Vaehra, your arrival, the fate of Daeragon, your defense of yourself. What you did was justified, and nobody was killed." Bran said. The corner of Vaehra's mouth twitched upwards and Jon noticed the scales on Christar's neck stand on end. The others noticed the scales as well, and stared quite obviously. Christar shook his hair out, causing the chains to rub against the scales on his neck and make a rattling sound.

"I know Sansa. She was humiliated by you in front of her men. She is still trying to earn the trust of the North, and will see this as a blow to her standing." Bran said. Vaehra said nothing, prompting him to continue.

"She thinks the only way she can regain their respect is by punishing those who spit on the North, which she perceives you have." Bran said. Christar mumbled something about the spit freezing before it left your mouth and Jon had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"Well. I will not willingly place myself and the Lord Commander of my Queensguard in the grubby hands of a petulant child. I refrained from causing any damage to her person, and the only injuries caused were out of self defense. I will not be returning to the North unless I decree it is necessary." Vaehra said, making a move to stand from her seat.

"Vaehra, that's not what I was asking." Bran said. Vaehra turned her attention back to him.

"I was asking you, to consider your next plan of action. Sansa will not stop at simply asking nicely. She will send an army. I respect your leadership Vaehra, but the people of Kings Landing cannot stand another siege." Bran said. Vaehra sighed.

"You're right Brandon. They can't stand another siege. I will lead Sansa Stark's forces away from the Southern Kingdoms. We will be temporarily returning to Valyria. You are welcome to inform her of our whereabouts." Vaehra said. Jon immediately felt a lump in his throat. He didn't want them to go, but he didn't know if he could leave his homeland either.

Vaehra stood from her seat, brushing off her tunic and gesturing for Christar and Jon to follow her. Christar adjusted his cloak, the chains jingling against his scales once again. Jon caught Brienne watching him closely with a soft smile as Christar exited the room. Jon felt a surge of jealousy and was momentarily overwhelmed with the urge to whirl Christar around and press his lips against Christar's own, just to show Brienne that he wasn't for her. Then shook the thought from his mind, Christar was a man, and he wasn't for Jon either. No matter how badly Jon thought he loved him. Looking up through the ruined corridor, he spotted three dragons perched atop the walls. Dragons of gold, blue, and white scales, waiting for their riders to return home.

***

"Get those pots lashed!" Vaehra called from Vilors back as the dragon dropped three large pots amongst the pile of cooking supplies. Jon was curious how they were going to carry everything back with them. The dragons were large, but not large enough to be able to fly long distances with everything weighing them down.

"Where did Baesegon get off to?" Christar muttered under his breath before stalking off into the snowy woods, his white cloak erasing any trace he was ever there. Jon was about to follow him, when Vaehra landed on the ground next to him with a thump.

"Ah Jon, could you help me get the poles for the tent lashed together in a bundle?" She said. Jon looked at her quizzically. They hadn't used any tents, just slept with the dragons. Vaehra seemed to be able to read his mind, or recognize the confusion on his face.

"The dragons are good to sleep with in cold weather, but when we stop to camp in the great sand sea, they are much too warm. We use the tents then." She explained, kneeling next to the pile of supplies and picking a few long stiff poles from the pile and lashing them together with twine. Jon knelt next to her, helping her prepare a few bundles.

They had only been at it for a few moments when they heard a thunderous crashing noise. Jon looked to see Christar emerging from the forest, with a large brown dragon following behind him. The dragon was taller than Vilor, and one wing could stretch from Drogon's nose to his tail tip. The dragon raised it's head, letting out a deep bellow and shaking snow from its horns. Jon felt the ground shake as this dragon walked and watched as it's tail splintered trees at the base.

"There he is!" Vaehra called, standing from where she'd knelt and jogging towards the large dragon. She held her arms open wide, and the dragon lowered his head to press his snout against Vaehra's chest. Her arms barely reached from one side of his nose to the other, and when the dragon opened it's mouth in a happy warble Jon noticed that every one of his teeth were as long as Vaehra's sternum was tall. Vaehra didn't seem phased by this however, and just rubbed the dragons face before walking towards the pile.

Jon noticed that this dragon was wearing a sort of complex harness, with many loops and hooks built into it. It was similar, he realized, to something you would put on a pack donkey for a long trip. This was their pack dragon. He now understood how the Valyrians were able to carry all their supplies.

"My biggest strongest boy." He heard Valyria talking to the large dragon the way a child would talk to a dog they were fond of. He felt the sudden pang of missing Ghost. He wished he'd had a chance to bring the wolf along with him, but he had no idea how he would've brought him with.

"My Queen," Jon heard Christar say. He looked to see Vaehra pull away from Baesegon, looking to the forest to see a dirty direwolf emerge from between the trees, limping slightly and covered in dirt from nose to tail. Jon felt his heart swell as he ran towards the wolf.

"Ghost!" He called. Ghost limped quickly towards him, his tail wagging with joy. Jon dropped to his knees and ruffled Ghost's dirty fur as Ghost licked Jon's face excitedly.

"Good boy, good boy Ghost. How did you get here?" Jon asked as Ghost panted in his face. He heard Vaehra chuckle behind him as she approached.

"Well I'll be." She said, kneeling a respectful distance away and offering her hand. Ghost flicked his ears back, licking his muzzle anxiously and wagging his tail low against his back legs. Vaehra remained still, waiting for Ghost to approach her. Ghost took a tentative step towards her, sniffing her outstretched hand curiously. Vaehra reached slowly into the pocket of her trousers, offering Ghost a bit of elk jerky. He took it gently, licking his lips after he'd swallowed it whole.

"I've only seen a direwolf once before. She was nothing like this one." Vaehra said as Ghost licked her hand gently before returning to Jon's side. Jon stood from the ground as Vaehra approached them. Jon heard a huffing and turned to see Baesegon sniffing Ghost curiously. Ghost whirled around and snapped at the dragon's nose, causing Baesegon to pull back, flaring his wings to keep his balance as he stumbled over his own tail and landed in the snow with a sound like the keep falling in on itself.

Christar rushed to the brown dragon's head, checking his snout for any damage and gently rubbing between his nostrils as the dragon released a sound that was almost a whimper. Christar rested his forehead on the large dragon's snout and shushed him gently.

"Ghost!" Jon admonished. Ghost lowered his ears and ducked his head, tail tucked between his back legs.

"Oh don't worry Jon, Baesegon is only five. It just startled him, dragon hide is tough as iron." Vaehra said. Jon shook his head at the wolf. Vaehra returned to the pile of supplies once Baesegon rolled himself back onto his feet and lay down next to the pile. Vaehra and the other riders began attaching their supplies to the leather harness, leaving out a few extra saddles. The saddles were similar to any other saddle he'd seen, but almost crossed with a side saddle. On either side there was a notch that looked like the riders tucked their legs into, with flat platforms where their feet would sit. The saddle was longer in the front, with two handles on either side. Jon assumed it was for the riders to lay against and hold onto the handles. At the back of the seat, there was a normal saddle back, meant to lean back against.

"Jon, Grab one of those saddles." Vaehra said as she and the riders finished packing the rest of the supplies and armor onto Baesegon's harness. Jon walked towards one, lifting it from the ground and grunting at the weight. These were much heavier than a normal leather saddle. Jon looked towards Vaehra as if asking what to do. She laughed and waved her hand. Jon started as he heard a light thump behind him, turning to see Dessaly behind him. She sniffed at the saddle in his hands before chirping and lowering herself to her belly with her wing outstretched. Jon stepped onto her wing, and Dessaly lifted it and folded it against her back again. Jon settled the saddle in the spot on her shoulders where no spikes grew, letting the short straps poke out from under the edges of the saddle.

"Good! Now," Vaehra approached Christar, handing him a bunch of leather straps. Christar chuckled and walked towards Dessaly, tossing the straps onto her back. Jon barely managed to grab them before they hit him in the face, or sailed over Dessaly's back and landed in the snow on the opposite side of her. Christar scaled Dessaly's foreleg, saying hello to her when she twisted her head around to look at him quizzicaly.

"I'm going to teach you how to saddle a dragon." Christar said with a grin. Jon smiled. He wondered how the saddles worked. Once Christar had gone through explaining where each strap fit and how to tell them apart, he explained how to attach them to the shorter straps on the saddle. He demonstrated one, then let Jon attach the rest, checking his handiwork.

"Great, now let me show you how to make it so your saddle doesn't fall off." Christar said. He slid down Dessaly's side, landing by her back feet with a thump. Jon followed him, landing in the snow and stumbling to a halt. Christar caught him with a hand around his wrist, pulling Jon to a standing position and clapping Jon on the shoulder as he laughed. His scales fluttered in waves along his neck as he laughed, and Jon resisted the urge to reach out and touch them again.

Christar went through the process of hooking the straps together around Dessaly's belly just behind her wings, then the heavy padded strap that went in front of her wing, behind her forelegs, and fastened across her sternum. It was similar to a cinch on a horses saddle, and Christar explained that it was just as important as one as well. He then showed him how to fasten the straps that went diagonally across her chest and met in the middle, the breast collar on any other saddle. Ultimately the straps were similar to what he was familiar with, just much longer and thicker. Dessaly was well behaved throughout the entire ordeal, even when Jon accidentally pinched some of her soft underbelly scales in the strap. She'd just twitched her wings and tossed her head until Christar noticed and adjusted.

"See, not too complicated. Anybody with half a fuckin' brain could do it." Christar said with a grin. Jon looked at Dessaly, who looked unsure how she felt about having a saddle. Jon turned to look at Ghost where he'd been rolling in the snow only to see a now clean white direwolf.

"Why did you have me saddle her?" Jon asked. Christar's grin faltered as he furrowed his eyebrows.

"You, you're coming with us arent you?" Christar asked, his voice sounding slightly disappointed, as if he hadn't even considered the possibility that Jon would stay in Westeros.

"I, I'm not sure." Jon said. Christar's face fell into a frown.

"Oh." He said, before excusing himself and turning on his heel to walk briskly towards Ataim. Ataim saw his rider approaching and stood from his snow nest, turning to nuzzle his head against Christar. Christar patted Ataim's nose before scaling his leg and settling onto his back. Ataim leapt into the air, winging away towards the beach.

Jon heard the snow crunching behind him and turned to see Vaehra approaching him.

"What did you do to my rider Jon Snow?" Vaehra asked with a gentle nudge to Jon's shoulder. Jon sighed and watched as the blue shape of Ataim became smaller and smaller in the distance.

"I just said I didn't know if I was coming with you to Valyria." He said. Vaehra's face remained unchanged.

"What should I do?" Jon asked her. Vaehra hummed, turning to look at Baesegon and Vilor, who were laying pressed together in the snow. She then looked at the rest of her riders, preparing themselves and their dragons for the long flight, then finally to Dessaly, lying obediently next to Jon with her head beside his body.

"I can't make that decision for you Jon." She said. Jon's shoulders fell. He didn't know what to do.

"But," She continued, "I can offer a listening ear." Vaehra said. She pulled her cloak tighter around her, looking to Jon.

"What's stopping you?" She questioned. Jon took a deep breath. There was so much stopping him.

"I don't want to leave my family. Bran is now king, Sansa's a tyrant in the North, I have no idea where Aarya is, Rickon and Robb are dead, my father, both of them, I don't have anybody else." He said. Vaehra remained silent. It was her subtle way of prompting those she was conversing with to continue.

"Not only that, but Westeros is my home. The North, is my home. I wasn't born into this life of, of dragons, and white walkers, I was born a Targaryen, named a Snow, raised a Stark. I don't really know who I am. The Resurrected, the White Wolf, The Lost King, I don't know if that's me." Jon said. Vaehra hummed in thought.

"Well, when we met I plucked you from the wall and brought you here. What if you return?" She questioned. Jon sighed.

"I'd be marked a deserter. And the punishment for deserters is beheading." Jon said. He could never return to the wall again, he'd already deserted once and lived, he couldn't do it again.

"And what will happen if you stay in King's Landing?" She asked. Jon puffed out his lips in thought.

"Either Sansa would send her army to fetch me, or Bran would send me to her in a box. He doesn't want a war." Jon said. He hated to think that his family would betray him that way, but he knew they were only looking out for the best interests of their kingdoms.

"Now, what if you go willingly to the North?" Vaehra asked, taking a step forward and patting Dessaly's nose. The white dragon hummed contentedly and shoved her nose further into Vaehra's hand.

"She would be angry that she couldn't get you and Christar. She'd torture me, if not kill me. She was never a fan of me." Jon said. talking to Vaehra, he realized Valyria was his best choice.

"So Jon Snow, what should you do?" Vaehra asked, resting her hand between Dessaly's eyes. Jon let out a sigh. He knew what he had to do, but that didn't make it easy. He looked to Vaehra, watching the way the wind toyed with her hair and the way she looked at Dessaly with so much love and adoration. He thought of Christar, the way his scales showed his emotions and his eyes glowed even under the stars. The thought of them made him happy. More happy than Ygritte or Daenerys ever could have. More happy than his family, and when he looked at Dessaly, he knew he could never leave her.

"Valyria is the best choice. For everybody." Jon said, stepping towards Dessaly and running his gloved hand over the ridges above her eyes. She hummed deep in her throat, pulling her head away from Vaehra and nudging her nose against Jon's sternum.

"Then you are as welcome in Valyria as Christar or I." Vaehra said, resting a gentle hand on Jon's shoulder. Jon released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, leaning against Dessaly. She hummed at him again, opening her mouth wide. Jon chuckled and rubbed the roof of her mouth the way Vaehra had shown him the day they met. It felt like he'd known her for years, despite it only being three days.

"Now, I'm going to go fetch Christar. Get yourself acquainted with riding in a saddle, we can't have you falling off while traveling." Vaehra said with a chuckle, stalking over to where Vilor was still curled against Baesegon's side. Jon watched as she nimbly climbed up Vilors side as easily as if she were climbing a ladder, and settled herself into the saddle on his back. She placed her dragon helm atop her head, leaning low onto the saddle and gripping the handles, then signalled for Vilor to take off.

Jon watched the smooth movement of Vilor leaping into the air as he beat his wings. It was graceful, fluid, almost gentle in a way. Nothing like how Drogon and Rhaegal looked when taking off. The four legs must make a difference. He waited until Vilor and Vaehra were simple dots in the horizon before turning to Dessaly, pulling his hand from her mouth and patting her nose.

"Alright girl that's enough for now." He said before stepping onto her foreleg and attempting to jump to grab the spikes running along her neck and shoulders. He slipped, landing on his back on her foreleg and Dessaly chuffed at him, before gently nosing at his side. He lay on his back for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He finally rolled himself over, with the help of Dessaly, only to have her grab the collar of his cloak with her front teeth and lift him onto her back. He hung helplessly by the straps across his chest, waiting for Dessaly to set him down.

Looking around, he noticed some of the riders chuckling. He felt a blush cross his cheeks as Dessaly pushed her nose against him, leaving a broad lick across the side of his body. This caused the rest of the riders to burst into laughter.

"What?" Jon called, directing his question to the rider he recognized, Jaerla, on the back of Matanyx the red dragon.

"Vixen's get broody!" Jaerla called. Matanyx slowly approached Dessaly, sniffing at her neck before lifting his head to sniff at Jon. Dessaly flared her wings, hissing at Matanyx as her scales stood on end the way Christar's did when he was annoyed or agitated. Matanyx pulled his head back sharply and let out a clicking noise from deep in his throat, lowering his head and flattening his scales further.

"She's treating you like a hatchling," Jaerla explained as she patted Matanyx's shoulder. He lifted his head and sniffed at Dessaly's mouth before licking the corner of her mouth. "Have fun with your new mother Jon Snow." Jaerla said as Dessaly butted her head sharply against Matanyx. Jaerla and Matanyx walked away from Dessaly, giving her space as she twisted her neck around and nuzzled her head against Jon's chest once more.

Jon patted her nose, taking a risk and nuzzling his head back against her snout. She released a happy trill from her throat, pressing her nose harder against Jon and almost knocking him over. He heard the flapping of wings as Ataim and Vilor landed in the snow on either side of he and Dessaly.

"Didn't I tell you vixen's get broody?" Christar joked from Ataim's back. Ataim sniffed at Dessaly the way Matanyx had, but avoided pushing his nose in Jon's face. Dessaly gave a few warning clicks, her scales standing up slightly. Ataim lowered his head and Dessaly's scales flattened, before she released a soft warble, pressing her nose against Ataim's, then against Jon. Ataim slowly lifted his head to sniff at Jon. Jon patted his nose, looking to Christar on Ataim's back and smiling.

"She's treating you like a hatchling now?" He heard Vaehra ask. He turned to look at Vaehra as Vilor nibbled on a few scales on Dessaly's shoulder. She clicked at him before butting her head against him and shoving him off. She turned and licked at the scales to smooth them down.

"Yeah, I suppose. She picked me up by my cloak and licked me earlier." Jon explained, gripping the saddle tightly as Dessaly shook herself out.

"That's odd, she isn't supposed to go into heat until next week." Vaehra muttered to herself.

"Well, in that case we better get going." She spoke up. She whistled sharply to the rest of the riders. They all settled in their saddles, watching for her command. She raised her voice to be heard across the camp.

"Alright, we're going to travel across the Narrow Sea and stop at the Western-most point of the Dothraki sea. We'll stop there for the night, and continue on tomorrow." Vaehra said. Sedu and Aligosa approached Dessaly, gently pressing against her and nuzzling her face. Dessaly trilled contentedly and allowed the two female dragons to sniff at Jon and nuzzle him gently.

The two dragons pulled away as Vilor stepped forward and lifted his wings, leaping into the air and taking off. Ataim followed closely after Sedu and Aligosa, with Dessaly hot on his tail. Baesegon was next, his heavy wingbeats sounding like thunder in Jon's ears. He glanced back, watching as the rest of the riders waited until he was in the air, before flanking him on either side with one behind Baesegon.

Vilor turned to face the East, propelling himself forward and flying towards Essos, the rest of the flock following closely, back towards their homes.

*In the North*

"My lady Queen," Kean addressed Sansa. He had been appointed lord commander of her queensguard as soon as she'd taken over the North. At first he was proud to be held in such high regard, but after having his nose and ribs broken by that, dragon man, he was beginning to regret his position.

"What is it Kean?" Sansa asked from her seat where she'd been reviewing the stocks of resources left to decide how to divide them. She looked up at Kean, her eyes sharp. Since the Valyrian's had escaped, she had been more harsh with her men. She wanted them dead.

"We've just received word that the Valyrian's have left. They're returning to their homeland." Kean said, awaiting her outburst.

"They what?" Sansa snapped. She was furious. They had yet to discover just where the new Valyria was. All she could get out of Bran was that it was located in Essos, which was obvious as it clearly wasn't anywhere in Westeros. Bran claimed that Vaehra hadn't told him where exactly, but she suspected that was a lie.

"T-they left yesterday, your grace." Kean stuttered out. Sansa planted both hands flat on the table. She didn't know where the new Valyria was, but she had something that did.

"Kean, what is the status of our Valyrian prisoner?" She asked in a strangely calm voice.

"M-my Queen?" Kean asked. Sansa stood from her seat.

"Honestly, do I have to do everything myself?" She snapped, brushing past Kean on her way out. Kean ran after her, following closely as she stalked through the courtyard. The remaining Northern subjects seemed to shrink away from her as she walked with a purpose towards the walled off sept. The sept that was now cleared out to make room for her new toy.

"Is it awake?" She asked the guard standing watch by the door. The guard shrugged. He was too afraid to look inside. She rolled her eyes, throwing the door open and being met with a growl. She stepped inside, approaching the seething black mass of sharp scales and iron bound jaws.

"Oh shut it." Sansa said, pushing the dragon's nose away from her as it tried to bite her. The dragon lowered it's head, pushing itself against the far wall with it's scales bristling and tail lashing back and forth. Sansa looked at the stumps on it's shoulders, covered in dried blood from where she'd ordered it's wings removed.

"You know where they're going, don't you?" She asked the dragon. Kean watched from the door as Sansa approached the chains attaching the dragon to the floor of the sept. The dragon paused in it's angry growls, watching closely. It's bright green eyes followed her as she unchained it from the floor, moving towards the iron clamps around his jaws.

"You can show me where." She said, removing the iron clamps. The dragon shook it's head and opened it's jaws experimentally, turning to Sansa and opening it's mouth wide to burn her to ash. Sansa remained where she was standing as the dragon's throat crackled and nothing came out. The dragon's flame was gone, the fire in it's throat as it crashed to the snow had destroyed it.

Sansa let out a smirk as the dragon huffed and tried lighting her on fire again, until she unchained the last chain around it's legs. The dragon watched her carefully, before surging to it's feet and leaping through the old roof of the sept, splintering the wood as it landed in the courtyard below and leapt the border wall, moving the stumps on it's back as it tried to take off.

The dragon crashed in the snow, tumbling to a halt with a pained squeal. It stood up, shaking the snow from it's scales and turning to look at the nubs on it's back. It let out a howl before turning to look back to Winterfell, seeing the guards ready the scorpions.

"Stop!" Sansa yelled before the guards could launch the spear that would kill the dragon.

"Let it go, it will show us where we want to be." Sansa said. The dragon in the snow took off to the South-East, running at full speed.

"Follow him, but not too closely. We'll find our Valyrian's soon enough."

[daenerysice]

Think what hurts the most after everything is all said and done is that Jon will never get a chance to prove to her that he really did love her, that he should’ve fought for her and listened to her and maybe just maybe it would’ve all been okay. That he has to live every day for the rest of his life wondering what could have been. I think he would be heavily depressed for a long time, and in his heart he knew it wasn’t right. Things didn’t go the way they were meant to, and it’s not okay.

d&d’s writing was so unrealistic.

they wanted to act like dany was never loved and the true fuckery was obviously what happened in the final episode.

they wanted arya to hate dany even though grrm said himself that he thinks they’d get along. arya loves dragons and loved stories of targ badasses (like dany). also, the fact that her favorite person in the world (jon) loves her would be bonus points instead of her taking sansa’s stance which is just unrealistic. 

the scene with sansa/theon was probably supposed to be ‘dAnY hAs No OnE tO lOvE HeR’. it didn’t make any sense because i believe dany has more people in comparison to anyone in the series that loves her (and no i’m not talking about irl fans but in terms of the sheer amount of people in the books and show). she has had a lot of people that have come to fight for her and genuinely care.

then we have the dinner scene. why is she alone? even if jon went to spend more time with the wildlings and stuff dany still has grey worm, missandei, the rest of the unsullied, the dothaki, her fucking dragons, tyrion (who is apparently in love with her too), davos, gendry. compared to any other person she has WAY more people she could have spent time with. 

even after she died you’re really telling me the dothraki, drogon, the unsullied, grey worm, yara and the iron islands & dorne did jack shit?

u n r e a l i s t i c

and jon not being there for her or even talking to her is not realistic either. the ‘ah, i can’t incest’ scenes are particularly frustrating because you either care or you don’t. he didn’t seem to care when he put his tongue down her throat might i add FIRST and after making out for a while all of a sudden it’s not okay??? TALK ABOUT IT. if you want to think on it a bit longer say as such. if you want to be there for her and prove you care TALK, you don’t have to have sex and make out instead of talking. jon’s a pretty blunt person, it’s all bs (in terms of him saying nothing). the most he talked about their relationship was him telling her that ~telling his secect~ to his family won’t break them up (which means he’s still in it). it’s just- the whole thing makes no sense and gives me a headache. 

but that’s just it. d&d didn’t want that. to achieve their ‘end game’ everyone had to unrealistically leave dany. jon had to unrealistically not talk to dany. in no world or dimension of them being in character would this happen. what especially convinces me of this is the fact d&d said to get jorah to go behind the wall with jon endgame they’d have to ‘bend’ his character. jorah having that endgame is laughable and i’m sure this is what they did with everyone else. they thought of the ending they wanted to ~subvert expectations~ and bent the characters to get there. problem is, it’s not realistic. i mean, good on them for not going with  ‘jorah behind the wall’ end game and seeing how unrealistic that was but they should have seen how unrealistic the rest of it was as well.

as far as this jon goes i agree. i don’t think he’ll ever be truly happy again. but to me, that’s payment or what he did. he took away his lovers life only to live but never truly be able to live and be happy (and i want REAL jon to be happy but i can’t say this weird version of jon deserves it because he’s not my jon). 

i still think it’s even out of character for out of character jon seeing him defend her so much to tyrion even after what she did and then somehow tyrion got him to flip and kill her next scene. 

nothing makes sense. 

(and btw i’m not saying dany was never lonely, she was growing up but she found people who loved her and she loved in return later on. at this point it not realistic for her to go to ground zero. and of course, loving jon was what she truly wanted, family & home and even that was ripped away.) 

[gennybfromtheblock]

What lies in a cove

Gendry finds being a lord unbearable it's everything that has rubbed him the wrong way since he was old enough to know anything. The wheel has always been an ugly thing squashing every person in their path. Sitting in a fancy chair as smallfolk barely make eye contact churns his stomach nervousness to disgust for days on end. He isn't a lord not that kind anyhow. It wasn't him. And his mind wanders to her a fierce wolf who once said it wasn't her either. He gets it now. Each day Davos tries his hardest to get him to sleep in one of the chambers but he finds he can shut his eyes when he's in an itchy cot warm embers in the air lulling him to rest no matter where he's been in life the forge has been his home. Gendry hates being a lord but he doesn't hate the people. Living and breathing reminders of a new world starting to form. He's been propositioned more times in five moons than he likes. Every time a woman brushes a hand he quickly removes it. Gendry knows he's not the smartest man but he can tell in their eyes it's not him they want it's the name they seek to lay with a stag merely a notch on a bedpost a story to tell at a tavern. He and Davos have to fob off several attempts of women seeking to pass off their own babes as his. When one of the fishermen asks him if he rows the same waves as his uncle Renly him and Davos finally smile at one another a rumour to create t2o finally quash out greed and cunning.

He misses Arya he doesn't want to. He thinks about her hair the way it easily fell into his fingers how it brought a whimper when he pulled at it. How her breath stuttered after sulking a pulse point on her neck. Despite her strength, her touches were soft and fierce grounding him in a way he never expected. Gendry knew deep down Arya wanted him a boy born and bred in Fleabottom her friend. Arya’s wolfish nature wild and free opened him to a desire he hadn’t previously thought until she was there looking at him sizing him for connection. He asked King Bran about her more times then he'd like to admit. Bran is a mystery often responding with a vacant stare until one time after a moon of no answers and seeing his sunken shoulders Bran stroke his arm a notion surprising most of the council. "She'll come back soon" "You've seen it?" "I can be your family" Davos notices his smile doesn't stop shining for days.

On a drafty day, Davos drags him on a boat.

“You're not sending me to King’s Landing again are you?”

HIs chuckle surrounds the sea.

“No, lad figured your arse could use some splinters after days on end in that fancy chair. It’s a Seaworth tradition to teach the children to fish your just a little taller and sullen. It would have been a sight if Shireen could sit beside you. You’d of liked her”.

Being legitimised has brought many a story of the great Robert Baratheon and he can’t say he ever wants to have his name said in the same sentence quite frankly. An abusive drunk who spent his day's whoring isn’t the model he wants to follow. Ser Davos however there isn’t a day he isn’t grateful for his decency his kindness him and his wife kindly take to him as their own. It’s the first time since a scrappy short girl and a boy with a name after a baked food has truly felt like family. Of course, the moment of happiness is short-lived a haggard long bearded fisherman waits at the dock. His leg taps impatiently.

“Ah Meric for what owes us the pleasure of your sober presence”

“Who said I was sober?”, ruffling his hair he sighs annoyed at whatever inconvenience he has to tell ”A girl tried to break in the castle said she was about to birth your child. Poppycock of course.The mouth of a sailor that one didn’t think a girl so small could say such crass things.Said to tell milord his child was going to come out of her cunt any second and that he could tell the child when older that their father had her squatting them out a fucking cave then”

Gendry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Davos had his eyebrows that raised before.”We sent the maester to her didn't seem right to give birth alone in a cave. Didn't even call you a stag either a stubborn bull. Clearly just wanted your name eh?”

Silence fills space beyond space. Bran’s words in his head finally holding an answer he didn’t think would ever come. Gendry’s feet start sprinting on their own accord sand rubbing against his boots salt on his tongue.He can hear Davos shouting Lad from behind him but if it’s what he thinks what he knows. Arya.

He can already hear her shouting profanity when he reaches the dark enclosed area. The cave is barely lit he’s tripping on rocks left right and centre but he needs to find her he follows the word fuck screamed, to no avail. It was only when the babe's hoarse cries echo the cave he spots her huddled to a corner. A maester beside her and a woman with a torch lighting the sconces of the cave. When the light finally fills around he can see Arya more clearly. Her hairs longer reaching her shoulders she’s huddled in a corner sweat stuck to her forehead cradling a small bundle. The maester passes him putting his hand on his shoulder knowingly with a smile.

“A girl milord” 

Gendry crouches down to her, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight.Arya Stark never one to show vulnerability with a stray tear down her cheek a finger stroking the eyelids, nose and hair of their child.

“You didn’t pull out stupid”.

“You asked me not too so who’s the stupid one?” He can’t help himself he fluffs the hair of their daughter black as the cave with eyes a shade to hers. Gendry thinks at this moment his heart is the fullest it’s ever been that all the hardships all the pain is worth it in this second with them, in a newly lit cave with his daughter holding his finger.

 “Guess we’re a family now?”

Arya’s tired eyes widen immediately she lightly thumps him on the shoulder.

“We were always family stupid, we just got another mouth to feed.I’m never going to be a lady. And I will never be your wife. But you are mine and I am yours and we’re your family”

Davos eventually finds them later in the forge with Ned between them both a featherbed, not in sight.