#even though everyone here likely knows good and well what the context to fortnight is

[merp-blerp]

Gaylor/Kaylor and Oz: Parallels and Theories 🌼🌈❇️

CW: Light Spoilers for L. Frank Baum's Oz book series (books 1-15) and major spoilers for Return to Oz (1985). And this post is very late-stage-Kaylor-specific, so if that's not up your alley, that's chill.

There is now a Vol. 2 with new additions and info! I recommend reading this part first.

Overblown Analysis Under the Cut ↓

As a huge Oz nerd, I and many others have noticed many Oz media parallels in Taylor's music. I wanted to piece together some I've seen mentioned and some I've noticed myself. More things could pop up as time goes on, so I could imagine me editing or making a second part to this post if necessary.

Part 1: Rainbows 🌈

In the 1939 film, Dorothy's home, Kansas, is portrayed as a dreary sepia or greige color, that way the contrast to the gorgeous technicolor of the land of Oz could be even more effective on the audience. Somewhat surprisingly I guess, this sepia color is reflected in the book, with Kansas being described as "the great grey prairie" and even W. W. Denslow's original illustrations of Kansas being colored in greige; the pages don't include more color until Dorothy is swept into the cyclone on her way to Oz.

So many of Taylor's lyrics describe events turning her world from colorless to colorful or vice versa. "The rest of the world was black and white // But we were in screaming color" from "OOTW", "You showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else" from "Illicit Affairs", "If all you want is gray for me // Then it's just white noise, and it's my choice" from "BDILH", "Like a rainbow with all of the colors" from "ME!" turning into "I'm just... in shades of greige" from "The Prophecy", etc.

For TTPD, from a gaylor perspective, the sepia and greige theme of the album is supposed to reflect that for Taylor the closet is colorless and sad. It also invokes old Hollywood and how closeting is an old-fashioned practice figuratively and literally. Closeting is a practice based on outdated mindsets and fears and it's been a practice since Hollywood as we know it today was beginning to be established. MGM Dorothy actress Judy Garland was in at least one lavender marriage and might've been queer herself, but the latter isn't as confirmed as other victims of closeting of the time like, say, her husband Vincente Minnelli. Taylor often utilizes vintage imagery in her music, romanticizing it, but the song "TTPD" (and other points in the album) calls her out for it with her lover having to remind Taylor that they are living in modern times despite being held down by old-fashioned ideals. The Wizard of Oz (1939) film is arguably the epitome of old Hollywood nostalgia, so it makes sense for Taylor to use it as a way to tell the story she wants to tell, especially if it's a queer one since Oz is very special to a lot of queer people.

For what it's worth, Ashley Park performed the film's song, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" on The Drew Barrymore Show in what looks to be the Christian Siriano rainbow dress. Fun! Curiously, I can't find a video of this performance, I just happened to stumble upon this GIF on giphy.com and an article talking about the performance.

As an extra tidbit, in the Oz books, the rainbow is personified in the character Polychrome, the youngest daughter of the rainbow. She happens to be featured in one half of a certain famous quote from The Road to Oz. Polychrome comments, "You have some queer friends, Dorothy," to which Dorothy responds, "The queerness doesn’t matter, so long as they’re friends." This quote is theorized to be the inspiration for the phrase "friend(s) of Dorothy" in queer slang. And it's nice to have a friend like Dorothea, of course. Speaking of which...

Part 2: Dorothy and Ozma 🌪️🌺

Dorothy Gale needs no introduction, but I will give Princess/Queen Ozma one since she's a more niche character. Ozma is the rightful ruler of Oz. The "Wizard", Oscar Diggs, was not meant to rule over Oz. He went to great lengths to usurp the throne from Ozma's father, Pastoria, and hide Ozma away as a baby, dumping her on a witch named Mombi, who enslaves her and disguises her as a boy named Tip so she and others won't know her identity. She learns the truth about who she is and takes back her throne in book 2, The Marvelous Land of Oz (This backstory is why Ozma is a trans icon, along with a sapphic one). Ozma and Dorothy meet each other in book 3, Ozma of Oz, and are inseparable from there on. A common queer interpretation of Oz sees Kansas as like the closet and Oz as being out and free. A part of why the queer interpretations of Oz work particularly well in the books is because in The Emerald City of Oz, Dorothy and her Kansas family move to Oz permanently when Kansas stops being liveable for them. So Dorothy becomes the second ruler of Oz and Ozma's "constant companion" at Ozma's "proposal", as L. Frank Baum describes it. Dorothy is the only person allowed in Ozma's bedroom unannounced, which is cutely domestic. Baum's story and John R. Neil's illustrations of the two often depict them as being very close, holding hands, and kissing. It's not really knowable if Baum intended for it to be seen this way, but many modern Oz book fans see them as a couple.

Naturally, there's the theory that Taylor's song "Dorothea" is about Karlie, as well as the fact that Karlie dressed up as Dorothy for Halloween 2023 and did a partly-Oz-inspired photoshoot in 2010, among other Oz-themed things. Also, after the first book, Baum had a falling out with Denslow and appointed a new illustrator, John R. Neil; Neil's design of Dorothy sports a blonde bob, which reminds me of the "Karlie Kut" a bit, even if that's coincidental. Since the Karlie as Dorothy theory is pretty well established, I want to forward a theory about Taylor taking on the role of Ozma.

For starters, Taylor wears a gingham green dress in her music video for "Karma (ft. Ice Spice)" as she skips and sweeps down a yellow brick road in red shoes, looped braids, and lemon beret. This outfit is a bit perplexing, as while it seems very Dorothy-inspired, it actively makes itself just different enough from how Dorothy is illustrated in the first Oz book and seen in pop culture. It could be suggested that this is for copyright reasons since 1939 Dorothy is not in the public domain yet and using that likeness would require making a payment. However, thanks to the book specifically describing/illustrating Dorothy as wearing blue and white gingham and pigtail braids, these features can still be used, as all of Baum's Oz novels are in the public domain. Oddly, the only potentially copyright-able aspect of Dorothy's costume is the one that Taylor kept, the ruby slippers exclusive to MGM's '39 film, since in the book Dorothy's shoes are silver. So why were all these unnecessary changes here?

My main theory is that Taylor is subtly invoking Ozma in a way that would still be recognizably Oz-ian, as I don't think most people would catch on to the Oz reference if Taylor dressed as a more accurate-looking Ozma. Hence why the gingham and red shoes are present even though Ozma is never described as wearing anything like that. Ozma is often depicted in long flowing white or green dresses. And while Ozma's hair is usually free in Neil's illustrations, her hair is sometimes tied into a bun, and Taylor's looped braids seem to be in the same family as a bun (I don't know how else to say that, I hope you get what I mean...). The lemon beret is hard to explain. As far as I know/can recall, lemons have never played a major role in any Oz media, so my guess is that the hat is meant to match the yellow brick road or maybe slightly invoke the fighting trees from the film and book. Since Taylor's outfit is similar but not the same as Dorothy's, it could be interpreted as Taylor dressing as someone adjacent to Dorothy, or a friend of Dorothy's, and Ozma would definitely fit that title. Ozma is also a fairy, so this also lines up with my Taylor is the beast to Karlie's beauty theory, since a fairy is a creature. And as the small, coincidental cherry on top, Ozma was originally described as blonde like Taylor in the story's text, despite the fact that Neil always drew her as a brunette. Dorothy's appearance outside of her clothes is rarely if ever given, that way anyone could see themselves in Dorothy, her design not mattering too greatly. The only clue to her physical looks is in the illustrations, but the consistency changes over the Oz series when it comes to Dorothy's design, so again it doesn't matter. Kind of like how, whether a song has male pronouns or not, it’s always describing Karlie, the "design" of the muse not mattering. And it actually does make some sense for Ozma to have the ruby slippers, even though she never had them in the books, but more on that in the next part. If Karlie is Dorothy, Taylor is Ozma.

An alternate, more flimsy idea is that Taylor is dressed as Dorothy in her green dress returning to the Wizard with the wicked witch's broom as proof that she melted her. However, this doesn't quite work for me personally, as in the film, Dorothy never got a green dress from the Emerald City. And while book Dorothy did get a "green" dress, she never had to bring the witch's broom to the Wizard and her dress wasn't actually green but white; it only appeared green in the Emerald City due to the green spectacles everyone was tricked into wearing by the shamming Wizard. And of course, book Dorothy's slippers weren't red like Taylor's, but silver. Maybe I'm being too particular, but to me, the details of the two titular versions of Oz make this idea weak.

Another idea is that Taylor is dressed as an amalgamation of Dorothy and the witch, which is definitely an interesting thought. In the 1st book, both Dorothy and the witch have no magic of their own and need to obtain magical items, like the silver shoes or the golden cap. But the difference is that the witch uses her power to do evil while Dorothy doesn't know the power she has, even by the time the shoes get her to Kansas again, as they presumably could do way more than that. The idea of Taylor combining the two is interesting, but again the red shoes put me off.

I think the Ozma theory works the best (and I think it's the cutest).

The story of Ozma being unrightfully taken from her throne and hidden away from everyone and herself reminds me of many stories told through Taylor's music. Lyrics like "I (I) don't (don't) like your kingdom keys (keys) // They (they) once belonged to me (me) // You (you) asked me for a place to sleep // Locked me out and threw a feast (what?)" from "LWYMMD" and trapped imagery in MVs like "Willow" feel somewhat reminiscent of that story.

Taylor isn't any kind of genderqueer as far as anyone publicly knows for sure, but Taylor definitely seems to have no problem with aligning herself with masculinity and taking on male roles. Take things like the wonderland photoshoot (Lordy! 🤭), Taylor semi-confirming she's Folklore's JaMEs, "The Man", "Peter", and maybe etc. Ozma being a girl but forced to present as a guy for years could be seen as similar to Taylor having to paint some of her songs about women as being from a male perspective, or some songs never being officially said to be from a male perspective being assumed to be so anyway, like "Question...?"

One more small parallel between Taylor and Ozma: Ozma is often pictured as wearing two poppies, one on each side of her head, seemingly in her hair or connected to her crown. Reminds me of "Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair" from "The Great War".

Part 3: Return to Oz 👠

Return to Oz (1985) is an unofficial sequel to The Wizard of Oz (1939) made by Disney. It takes the stories of The Marvelous Land of Oz and Ozma of Oz and combines them into an original story. At least in America, this is the only feature-length film to feature Ozma and attempt to vaguely adapt the novels more closely. (Context for RTO photos in the image descriptions, which is the case for every image and GIF on this post because why the hell not)

Return to Oz adds a setting that wasn't featured in any of the Oz books: a mental hospital. Aunt Em and Uncle Henry, concerned that Dorothy isn't sleeping and won't stop insisting Oz is real, send Dorothy to a mental hospital in an attempt to get her help (not out of malice). As we know, TTPD features the theme of asylums prevalently. The treatment chosen to help Dorothy is electroshock therapy, similar to Taylor receiving electroshock therapy in the MV for "Fortnight". In "Down Bad", Taylor says, "They'll say I'm nuts if I talk about the existence of you", just like how Em and Henry thought Dorothy needed psychiatric help when she talked about Oz being real.

When Dorothy stays over at the hospital for treatment, a character named Nurse Wilson (Kansas doppelganger of Mombi) escorts her to her room; Nurse Wilson wears a black dress very similar in style to Taylor's black dress from "Fortnight".

When the power goes out and the electroshock therapy isn't given a chance to begin, a fellow patient revealed later to be Ozma helps Dorothy escape the asylum by freeing her from the bed she's strapped to and bolting with her. Ozma and Dorothy slip into a river while running away, in which Ozma finds an abandoned chicken coop for Dorothy to ride through said river to Oz, Dorothy fearing Ozma drowned during the process until the end of the film. This is similar to Taylor and Post Malone's character escaping the asylum after Post cuts the power in "Fortnight". Ozma unstrapping Dorothy from her bed is similar to the nurse who unchains Taylor from the bed in "Fortnight", theorized to be played by Karlie herself. And Ozma finding the coop for Dorothy to ride away on is reminiscent of Taylor clinging to her piano in "Cardigan". Clinging to something when in rough water is common imagery, so it could definitely be coincidental, but I thought I'd mention it.

In this film, Ozma is trapped in a mirror by the witch Mombi, reminiscent of Taylor depicting herself as trapped behind glass closets in numerous MVs. After Dorothy saves Oz, she is the one to free Ozma from her glass prison by touching her hand and guiding her out of the glass, similar to Post and Taylor in the last scene in the "Fortnight" MV. Ozma in the mirror behaves like Dorothy's reflection, which reminds me of Taylor having Post's tattoos when she wipes her face in the mirror as if to say she's a reflection of his character.

Dorothy gives Ozma the ruby slippers before leaving Oz (Disney paid for the right to use them). That could help to explain why Taylor wears the ruby slippers that Ozma never had in the books if she's truly dressed as Ozma. And notably, when dressing up as Dorothy for Halloween, Karlie wore a full Dorothy costume, except for the ruby/silver slippers, arguably the most important part. As if Karlie was in "Kansas" and gave Taylor her shoes.

Dorothy chooses to return home in the end, but Ozma gifts her a way for them to communicate: through her mirror. This way Ozma can watch over her and when Dorothy wants to return to Oz, Ozma will make it happen. I've mentioned the parallels with the glass closets, but this also reminds me of "A tiny screen's the only place I see you now" from "Dorothea". In the book and '39 film, Dorothy uses her shoes to get back to Kansas, but in RTO, they are presumably going to be used to get Dorothy back to Oz when the time is right. So maybe after Taylor potentially comes out she will use Karlie's ruby slippers to sweep into the rescue and save Karlie from Kansas/the closet and back to Oz/freedom with her. Outside of RTO, it could also work the other way, with Taylor using the shoes to go home, especially with all the lyrics Taylor's had about returning home to/with her lover. Kansas doesn't represent anything bad in the original story, so it's possible that Kansas isn't a debilitating cage/closet, just home where you feel safe with the ones you love. Ozma also encourages Dorothy to keep their communication secret. Dorothy wants Aunt Em and Uncle Henry to know of Ozma, as she calls for Em to come and look as soon as she summons Ozma. But Ozma seems to see it as best kept quiet, no exact reason given to the audience from what I can tell, but it's understood by Dorothy and Ozma themselves. Pretty similar to Kar and Tay maintaining their closet for reasons we gaylors don't fully get to know, at least not yet.

(I didn't know where to put this little factoid, but in this film, the only times Ozma really smiles is at Dorothy. It's not important, just a bit cute and sad.)

And as a bonus for you Spade riddle fans out there, when Dorothy meets Ozma in the hospital, Ozma gifts Dorothy a pumpkin because "it's Halloween soon". The pumpkin is a Kansas doppelganger to an Oz character called Jack Pumpkinhead, who calls both Ozma and Dorothy "Mom" because Dorothy saved him from Mombi and Ozma built him and brought him to life. A bit reminiscent of Karlie and Taylor having Levi and Elijah if you ask me. I'm admittedly not a huge riddles person because it goes a bit over my talents, but I think they're intriguing and I'm curious if the riddles and Oz/RTO together would mean anything.

There's debate on whether Post's character is supposed to represent Taylor working with herself to get free or Karlie. I think it could be either or even both in a convoluted way. I like both theories. If "Fortnight" is based on RTO, the roles of Ozma and Dorthy seem switched, with Dorothy rescuing Ozma from the asylum. However, the tattoo mirror scene suggests that Taylor is mirroring Post's character, or playing him, and if that's Karlie, maybe the MV could be seen as Taylor playing Karlie in a sense since they're "twins" whose pasts are "parallel lines", while Post is either playing Taylor or Karlie; they are one and the same. The MV is really interesting to ponder in general.

Part 4: Miscellaneous Oz Connections ❇️

Lightning round (filled with tons of reaches)! ⚡️

In the "ME!" MV, Taylor and Brandon running up to the green building with a rainbow beam on it whilst in green marching band outfits looks similar to Dorothy and her friends running toward the Emerald City in the '39 film.

The all-pink soldiers in the marching band scene of "ME!" remind me of Glinda's all-female red army in the books.

In "loml", Taylor sings "The coward claimed he was a lion", a reference to the cowardly lion.

The men in the "ME!" MV falling from the sky with umbrellas reminds me of Dorothy and her cousin Zeb falling through the sky with an umbrella down to Oz in Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz.

Taylor might've been in a Wizard of Oz play at her school in 2006. The linked post doesn't give too much evidence admittedly, but I think it's worth saying that the play at least happened at her school.

I wasn't sure where to put this mini-analysis, but I think it's interesting that Taylor associates Dianna Agron with Wonderland and Karlie with Oz and the differences that could suggest. Alice and Dorothy go through similar adventures, but the two go about them very differently. Dorothy adapts to Oz very quickly and loves it there, enough for it to be her second home. Meanwhile, Alice certainly doesn't enjoy Wonderland as much as Dorothy loves Oz, itching to get out and stay out. Dorothy is very active in her role, making friends and changing Oz forever, while Alice passively goes through the motions and lets things happen before escaping to the next thing. It seems like Baum wrote the Oz books to give children lessons on friendship, feminism, and more, while Lewis Carroll wrote the Alice books with the exact purpose of saying nothing and giving birth to the genre of "nonsense writing". And Wonderland is definitely a dream in the original two novels while Oz is a very real place in the books. I know the associations seemingly have to do with the muses’ actual taste in fairytales, but I wonder how the differences speak to the story Taylor’s spun in her music about them. Assuming both Oz and Wonderland are freedom to some degree, does Wonderland being temporary speak to Taylor and Dianna as a couple, while Taylor and Karlie are still ongoing IMO, just like the Oz book series to this day (Canonical Oz books are still being written by different authors. There’s 40+ of them)? Is there something in the fact that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is an English fairytale and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is considered the first American fairytale, and Karlie convinced Taylor to stay in America and live in New York rather than London where Dianna was? Do Alice and Dorothy’s different reactions to their discovered worlds speak to how both Karlie and Dianna feel about closeting vs being out or maybe how they feel toward Taylor in some way? I genuinely have no clue, but it's some interesting food for thought. (This isn't Dianna, Swiftgron, or Alice's Adventures in Wonderland slander btw, I don't know enough about Swiftgron besides the basics to do that.)

In Conclusion 🌼

I have no way of knowing if Taylor has even read the Oz books, seen Return to Oz, and knows all this information, but I think it's fun that these connections are there. If there are more connections you thought of or ones that you think I missed, let me know!

Thanks for reading!

[tkwrites]

Sorry for the length of this but I wanted to go through and find particular parts of your series that I really liked and show how I really appreciate the little things you add. Turns out that list was way too long after just one part so switched it to some quotes that I found funny/made me laugh xxx

“So you're what, 20?” “I hope I look older than that!”

“Were you worried I was going to ask for pictures of your feet or something?” 

She snorted. Every time she saw Quinn, he was in a variation of three outfits: jeans and a jacket, athletic wear, or a game day suit.  Okay but had to bring up how accurate this is, have you seen this man in the past like fortnight? He has worn the same suit to every game, I mean iconic for sure but dude come on aha

The interaction with Quinn and Emma when she asks if he's slept with Sarah yet is also so cute and funny to me aha

They ended with a very off key “Yooooou!” and the camera turned back to the front, showing Elias with a teasing, mischievous glint in his eyes, “Happy birthday, Sarah!” he said. “Thanks for making Huggy bearable!” 

“You keep in touch with everyone who was there that night?” he joked, hoping she would see how ridiculous her worry was. 

“Gee, thanks, Hughes,” she said, flatly. “I had no idea ice is slippery.”

“Can you hold me?” he asked. It came out quieter than he thought it would. Okay this one isn't funny but this was from the first one I ever read and remember this being the point when I was like 'aww this is cute af' 🥹 just how he was clearly so in love with this person and not afraid to be seen in whatever state

“If you want me to go back to sleep, straddling my thigh isn’t the way to do it,” he teased. 

She pointed to the bed, “you want to tell me they're not going to know we weren't just having sex?” Just the pure 'bitch please' tone I read this in aha

Have the best day and thankyou endlessly for this series 😘

Can we know what kind of scenarios you have as wips? All good if you'd rather not xx

I do have a question actually, what do you envision Sarah does with the puck Quinn gave here from her first game? Is it on display or tucked away somewhere?

Well goodnight from me and best vibes sent your way always x

Oh my goodness, Alora. 🥹😢😭 Thank you so much. This was such an incredible message to receive during such a hard week.

I don't even know what to say. I feel so very blessed. Every time I get a message like this - scratch that, this is the first message with so much detail I've received - it just kills my imposter syndrome a little bit more. Thank you for that. I really can't even express how much it means to me.

I'm happy to share my wip list. I've put it below the cut in case someone doesn't want to be spoiled. A caveat, though: some of these pieces are farther along than others. Some are 99% finished, but I'm waiting for a little more context before posting them. Some have barely been started, while others have a good amount of work done on them. I write fics on the side of my regular, full-time job and living my life, so sometimes progress is slow going.

I honestly kind of forgot about Quinn giving Sarah that puck.

She definitely has the puck Quinn gave her out on display. It's on her desk, used mostly to hold her place in/as a weight to hold open her text books when she's studying.

Thank you for asking!

Endless love sent your way! 😘

WIP list:

(These are in no particular order)

Quinn meets Sarah's uncle

Sarah gets bombarded by fan girls on social media and bonds with the other WAGs

The Canucks are eliminated from the playoffs - comfort ensues

Quinn and Sarah discuss no longer using condoms and put that into practice

Golf. Of course. We meet sassy Sarah for the first time.

Sarah meets Jack and Luke during the playoffs

Sarah’s finals

Sarah and Quinn discuss the summer situation

Sarah does a photo shoot for Quinns birthday (I can't decide if this one is super dumb or not. If you'd like to beta read it, let me know)

All of the summer shenanigans including but not limited to :

Car sex

A black bikini

The lake house

Quinn meets Sarah's siblings

And an unnamed Nico Hischier x art student Lena 3 part friends-to-lovers series.

[tealin]

Temperatures

As always, when you see one of these posts pop up you can head straight over to twirlynoodle.com/blog to see it properly formatted and with pictures. Tumblr didn't even take the crosspost last time so I don't know what's going on!

It’s all well and good to share photos of Antarctica – after all, it is a beautiful place, and we are predominantly a visual species. The photos can give you a sense of what it looks like, but not what it feels like. If people know anything about Antarctica, it’s that it’s cold. But how cold? And what kind of cold?

I cannot speak to the full range of Antarctic weather.  I was down for exactly a month, in early summer, and aside from the first week, the weather was unusually calm and mild.  To my great disappointment, I didn't see a single blizzard!  But I did get enough to compare the feel of Antarctica with other places I have been, and I hope that by making those comparisons here, I will bring you a little closer to understanding quite literally what it feels like to be there. 

Temperatures are misleading.  A number can only give you an impression of what one might actually feel when one steps out the door.  Humidity, sunshine, and wind are external factors that affect the perception of temperature; this can be further influenced by how much sleep or food you've had, BMI, resting metabolism, your accustomed climate, where you've just come from – so, 6°C can feel different from one day to the next, or to two different people standing side by side.

There are roughly two types of cold: dry and damp. The influential factor is water, because it takes a tremendous amount of energy to make water change temperature – this is why it takes so much power to boil a kettle, and why we bring hot water bottles to bed instead of hot gravel bottles. In dry environments, there is less water vapour in the air to suck up the heat coming off your body, so you get to keep more of it for yourself. It may be well below freezing, but you will feel the cold merely as a sensation on your skin, where it meets the air, and not something that goes right through you. Damp cold, because of the energy-hungry water in the air, feels a lot colder. It’s not enough merely to cover your skin, you need layers of fabrics that have moisture-repelling properties (wool is key; cotton is useless). Your precious body heat will leak out through any weak point in your clothing. Because of their different properties, dry air can be much colder than damp air and yet feel more comfortable. In my experience, damp cold is the worst when it’s above freezing, because below freezing the air can’t hold so much water. Damp climates, however, tend not to get much below freezing, so when people from damp climates imagine very cold temperatures, they imagine the insidious cold they know, only much much worse. It’s not necessarily like that.

Even the objective numerical value of a temperature presents a problem: my historical sources, and the United States of America, report temperatures in Fahrenheit, while the rest of the world operates in Celsius.  Scientists prefer the metric system, but McMurdo is an American base, so it's functionally bilingual.  I tend to think in Celsius, but as the historical record was in °F and I wanted to be able to compare what I was experiencing with what my guys experienced, I paid more attention to °F while I was down there.  In this post, I will report actual temperatures in both, so you can look at whichever one you understand best. 

When I left Britain in mid-October, we had been having a very mild autumn, after a hot summer.  My hopes for hardening up a little on the way to Antarctica were dashed when Vancouver, though objectively colder, felt merely fresh and delightful, I assume because it was unseasonably dry.  LA is always dry in the autumn and usually hot, so that was no surprise; Christchurch however was much warmer than expected, and because it wasn't as dry as LA, felt even hotter.  After several days' delay there, I feared my blood was much too thin to be hurtled into ice and snow. 

It is regulation to wear one's Extreme Cold Weather gear on the plane to McMurdo.  Aware that I'd just had a fortnight of heat to thin my blood, and that they were just coming out of a cold snap down there, I was only too happy to take this precaution.  When the plane landed, everyone piled on their balaclavas and tuques, and when the door opened, an icy-looking fog formed as our pent-up breaths met the cold air from outside.  Here we go, I thought.  As I approached the gangway I braced myself for the smart of cold air on exposed skin and the stiletto keenness as I inhaled, but . . .   

. . . it was fine. 

In fact, it was so fine that when I was allowed to change out of my ECW, I put on my street shoes, not even my cold-weather hiking boots.  I knew dry cold from Utah and Alberta, but I was coming to understand that in an Antarctic context, “well it was -20, but it was a dry cold” isn't a joke, it's just a statement of fact.  +6°C(42°F) would be miserable in damp Cambridge, but -6°C(21°F) was quite comfortable at McMurdo – if it wasn't windy, one could happily go about without a coat.

One always had a coat to hand, though, because the wind could turn up at any time, and it made a big difference.  The first time I went to Cape Evans it was so mild as to be balmy – I was in snow pants because they were required for the snowmobile, but on top I stripped down to just my base layer and a medium-weight sweater, and was even a bit warm in that.  It was -1°C/30°F, but I could happily have sat down to a picnic. 

Before we left, I wanted to make a quick trip up Wind Vane Hill.  I got hot climbing it, but while on top, a breeze kicked up, and before long I was wishing I hadn't left my jacket at the bottom.  The reason I have my hands tucked in my snow pants bib in the above photo is because they were beginning to feel quite nippy.  I always had a jacket with me after that, even if I cursed its dead weight the whole time.  (It was usually my trenchcoat, not the big red parka, for this reason.  I will go into more depth on clothing in a future post.) 

A similar thing happened on my Basler flight.  I'm afraid I don't know the actual temperatures where and when we landed – we were at the inland extremity of the Barrier, though, so everything I'd read told me it ought to be noticeably colder than McMurdo.  It might well have been.  But the only clue that it wasn't a perfectly warm summer day was that the slightest stir in the air breathed ice on my hands.  It felt much the same at the much higher altitude site of CTAM.  The interior of the continent is even drier than the coast: apparently, in the absence of wind and on a bright sunny day, this makes temperature barely perceptible at all. 

A windless day is a vast exception in the case of Antarctic weather, though, and besides chilling a human body, the direction of the wind makes a big difference to the objective air temperature.  A north wind, arriving from over the open sea, was comparatively mild.  Most of the time, however, the wind was from the east to south, coming cold off the icy interior.  This sends it funnelling through The Gap straight at Hut Point. The Hut Point Wind was infamous in the Heroic Age; even now it can be a pleasant day at the station, but one must remember to kit up just to walk around the corner to the Discovery Hut. 

It did make for some great photos, though, because if the conditions were just right – which they were a few times in my month there – the wind would kick up some freshly fallen snow and things would look so very Antarctic.  The funny thing was, on the days when it looked quintessentially polar, it was actually comparatively warm.  The snow was so powdery that a fairly light wind could lift it, so it didn't have to be brutally windy to look brutally windy.  The cold really sets in when a high pressure system stays in place for a while and keeps the air still; if there is turbulence, there is warmth, and if a weather system moves through – such as the kind that delivers snow – the temperature rises considerably.  So in order for there to be fresh snow to blow around, there will have been a recent warm spell, whereas if it's starting to get cold again, the new snow will have compacted enough not to blow around.  The strongest winds I encountered in Antarctica were at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess it from my photos, which haven't a speck of drift.  I am sure there are exceptions to this, but this was a dependable pattern in my time there. 

Above: two images of light snow blowing off just after a snowfall, when it was comparatively warm. Below: 30-knot winds at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess.

One of my oddest temperature memories was in one of those balmy drifty situations.  I had been asked to give my history lecture over at Scott Base, and I was to wait for the Kiwi truck at a designated pickup point on the road coming over from The Gap.  There are three official categories for weather in Antarctica: Condition 3 is when everything can operate as normal: it can be cold, it can be windy, but visibility is fine and the ordinary precautions will see you through.  Condition 2 is when things are starting to get serious: drift and/or winds are reaching dangerous levels, extra precaution is necessary, and venturing outside is discouraged.  Condition 1 is when everyone is required to stay indoors except on vital business as merely venturing outside is a life-threatening risk.  During my month there it was always Condition 3, but within the hour of my pickup a Condition 2 had been declared on the Scott Base side of The Gap.  My ride said she would be coming anyway, as she would be overwintering and needed the practice of driving in Condition 2, so I went up to meet her.  I was hoping I would finally get a blast of Antarctica, but it gave me a surprise.  For one, it was warm.  And, yes, it was windy, but not desperately so, and the wind had a damp sweetness that, weirdly, made me think of swelling streams and crocuses.  The Condition 2 had been called purely because of the drift, which was obscuring the road and therefore made driving more hazardous than usual.  It was surreal to hear my driver checking in with her radio operator as if she were chasing tornadoes when it was really quite pleasant out.

My first few days at McMurdo were by far the coldest of my whole visit.  When I first visited the Discovery Hut it was -18°C, or just below 0°F, and rather windy on the way back.  That was when I learned that one can be feeling really quite cosy all over but one's outermost extremities can still suffer the cold – I distinctly remember wondering why my fingertips were tingling when I felt so warm, and a little while later my toes went numb and I had to stamp them back to life.  The dryness, not sapping your core heat, can lure you into a false sense of security, and nab your digits while you're not looking. 

After that, daily highs mostly hovered around the freezing point, and lows rarely dipped as low as -10°C/+14°F.  This was really very mild – indeed, the people who'd been down since September could often be seen flitting about in t-shirts – and was an amusing irony for me personally.  Twice in the past I'd visited Calgary in search of 'Antarctic' cold and hit, instead, a relatively mild spell; it turned out that in Antarctica I was getting exactly the same weather that I had thought un-Antarctic in Calgary.  Not only was it the same weather on paper, but it felt exactly the same as well – the light, fresh kiss of frosty air on one's cheeks, surprising warmth in the sunshine but a breeze to keep you honest, and even the same granular texture to old snow.  Altitude can give you the same feeling, as the thinner air cannot hold as much moisture as it can at lower levels, so if you've not been to the Prairies but have been on a ski holiday, you can use that as a reference point as well. 

It is much harder to draw parallels with damper climates.  At home in Cambridge, I have a sort of 'misery zone' between 4°-10°C (40°-50°F) where it's too cold to be warm, but not cold enough to be crisp, and the damp seems to seep through every layer to reach in and chill. As the thermometer plunges towards freezing and below, it is, ironically, more comfortable weather, because the colder the air is, the less moisture it can hold.  In Britain I have sometimes found myself taking off layers as the mercury falls.  When imagining Antarctica, people often extrapolate from their own experience of cold temperatures: If your base measure of cold is the 'misery zone' in a damp climate, such as Europe or the Eastern US, then you may think 'If 6°C feels like this, then -6° must feel that much worse' when in fact all the other factors at play can make it preferable.  Even the cold days on my arrival at McMurdo were nicer, experientially, than a misty morning in deepest February back home.  At one point, Cherry describes Antarctic summer weather as resembling a crisp sunny morning in September, and indeed from a British perspective Antarctica often felt more like a bright and breezy 13°C (55°F) than anything closer to freezing.

This gave me some perspective on the early explorers.  If they had spent their lives on this chilly island, and then travelled to Antarctica over a chilly sea, they would be coming at it with all the assumptions one acquires from experience with humid cold.  Finding not an amplification of your worst experiences, but instead a wonderland where the thermometer seemed to exist in a different reality – certainly the case when they arrived in midsummer – would encourage some overconfidence that we might consider reckless.  Some, like Scott, had been down before and knew how deceptive the weather could be; his journals are full of chiding his team for not taking Antarctica seriously.  But there were many who were new to it, and even after an Antarctic winter, sheltered as they were in an insulated hut by the sea, they did not fully grasp how dangerous things could get inland and how narrow the margins were.  A breeze may be thrilling when it brings the truth of -10 to exposed skin warmed by the sun; when the truth is -40 it's instant frostbite.  While I didn't get temperatures that low, my experience with higher ones can, I hope, help me imagine how that would go. 

The dryness that made the cold so bearable granted me a reprieve from an opposing worry.  Outside of Britain I generally find buildings overheated in the winter – I have to remind myself to pack light 'inside clothes' or else I suffocate.  This is especially the case in the States, and McMurdo being an American base I foresaw having to strip five layers off and put them back on again every time I entered or exited a building.  They may have been overheated, but I don't know – dry air saps the potency of heat as well as cold, so it was as comfortable to wear three layers as one, and that saved me a lot of time in the cloakroom.  Thanks, Antarctica! 

I had got so used to the nip in the air that I thought I'd be inured to cold for the rest of the winter, but once I was back on this cold damp North Atlantic island, the misery zone was as potent as ever.  I may not have picked up thermoregulation superpowers in Antarctica, but I did come back with two secret weapons: merino wool base layers, and an utter disregard for my appearance so long as I was warm.  I highly recommend both to anyone in a disagreeable climate. 

[thesunwillshineonusagain757]

Day 3: MYTHOLOGY AND FAIRYTALES

WARNING: If you are not familiar with the myth someone dies, don’t worry it’s not a gruesome depiction, just putting the warning for someone’s death .

➴————-　♥︎　-————➶

Rhaegar couldn’t describe the feeling of death even if he wanted, as the arrow made from a branch of mistletoe pierced his heart, a feeling of loss, he felt as though he was losing his consciousness, he looked forward and saw his mother, she looked at him in horror. Yet the feeling of absence distracted him from what was truly happening, to Rhaegar that was only that feeling of not being there any more , and pain, a feeling he had never had that feeling before, it had only being described to him before, and to what concerned him none of the way it had been described to him, as he fell to the ground and his consciousness disengaged itself from its body , he felt a strange sense of peace.

He closed his eyes for one last time, feeling himself slip away, he felt his mother shook his body that was now laying on the floor one last time, before he felt himself slipping away completely. He remembered how the sun had shone that morning, how his brother Viserys had told him of going to Miðgarðr and playing with the children of the town one of his sons lived in. Yet now it didn’t matter any more, Rhaegar would only see his brother after the Ragnarök.

After he saw some of his most treasured memories, he opened his eyes again, he was laying on the floor of a different place, somewhere very distant from the party hall he was at before. Rhaegar got up and as he stood on to his feet he looked around, that realm’s sky seemed to be at night, but the silence told him otherwise, Valhalla wasn't quiet place, at days the warrior fought each other and at night they celebrated, the silence told him where he was, Rhaegar was in Hel, that place of darkness his mother always told him about.

He would be lying if said he wasn’t nervous, Hel wasn’t Helheim wasn’t exactly, a realm with a good reputation, people without glory, that died of illnesses and old age were the dead that resided in the realm. It was a cold place, and it felt isolated, Rhaegar looked around and saw no one, not even one soul. The cold of the feeling of loneliness crept up his spine, and that was when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Her tuner around and saw a valid being, he turned away stunned by the sighting of that being who was clearly not one of the souls residing in that realm.

But before he could think on running, the being took the veil covering their face, and that was the first time he saw her, he would always remember, Lyanna the queen of Hel, daughter of the god of mischief, she was anything but what he expected, he expected her to be a decrepit old woman since she was the queen of the dead, yet she was very much young, younger than him, not a child woman but surely younger than him.

“ You are Rhaegar .”- She acknowledged

Her voice was determined but at the same time had some sweetness, an understanding that he would be confused to be in her realm. Lyanna had a pale face, and raven black hair, but her eyes were what caught the eye on her face, giant silver-bluish eyes with one of them being bluer than the other, yet they both were like two sharp blades,that would cut him in half.

“ Yes I am .”- Rhaegar told her, knowing if he wa there now he was a subject of his realm

“ The god of justice, wisdom and beauty. I’d say the beauty part if quite accurate.”- Lyanna said with a mild smirk that gazed her lips

“ Your grace.”- Rhaegar bowed thankful to the queens words but yet nervous to what fate awaited him in this realm

“ We’ve been waiting for you .”- Lyanna said in a very curious tone

“ You have ?”- Rhaegar asked confused

“ Your death was foretold, even if your mother tried to postpone it, death would come, it doesn't discriminate. But you seemed to be in better shape than most people that come here.”- Lyanna

“ Thank you, your grace.”- Rhaegar thanked her still feeling nervous

“ Your grace ? You don’t need to call me that after all, if we are to be friends, I expected us to be equals.”- Lyanna smiled and Rhaegar could have sworn his heart skipped a bit

“ We are to be friends ?”- Rhaegar asked

“ Well, will have to wait around until the Ragnarök and believe me, this place can get lonely,come on I’ll show you around.”-Lyanna said

It took less time than he would have thought for him to get used to Helheim, it was a grim place but the company of Lyanna made it a worth it, he liked her house where she had insisted for him to live, it was full of plants such as beech, elder, elm, ivy, juniper, mullein, willow, yew, blackthorn, jasmine and evergreens, of course the altar with animal fur, animal bones, skulls, horns, skeletons, skeletal hands did creep him out at first, but he got used to it.

He enjoyed her company, she could be funny and good-humoured, her fondness for children made him think she would have been a good mother, but as she once told him,her body was half of the realm as she was also it’s owner, so a child would be something impossible on her half dead, or very ambiguous state.

Rhaegar particularly looked forward to when in the afternoons, they would play board games, drinking mead, and talking about the most banal of things, she would mostly win, Lyanna was good at strategic games, Rhaegar thought maybe that was why she loved playing those games. They usually played for hours on end with the smell of incense or candles like myrrh, styrax balsam, apple blossom, and rose surrounding the house. Rhaegar was happy, happier than he ever thought himself capable to be in such a place, nevertheless something was going to happen, and it did.

A fortnight after he had been in Helheim, he went to his usual appointment with Lyanna, they both started playing Tafl, as they usually did, but Lyanna seemed distracted looking into her cup of mead, she was usually focused in beating Rhaegar in every single match they played, but on that day she was distracted.

“ What is it ?”- Rhaegar asked her

“ What ?”- Lyanna said looking back at him

“ You seem distracted, what is it ?”- Rhaegar

“ I’m not distracted.”- Lyanna denied

“ I’m winning this match, I never won… Why are you distracted ? Did something happen?”- Rhaegar asked

“ People came to me sometime ago.”- Lyanna told him

“ And what is it ?”- Rhaegar asked

The look she was giving, it was sad and sorrowfully, she was pondering something, Rhaegar got more concerned with what might have troubled the queen of Helheim. He had come to like Lyanna, he saw how lonely she could get, and how melancholic she could be, and he didn’t like that, he felt protective towards her even if she was the queen of Helheim he still fell for her. So when she looked shaken as she was he was immediately troubled.

“ Arthur, the brave, he asked me to return you to Aesir. He begged for your return.”- Lyanna said melancholy

“ And what did you say ?”- Rhaegar asked, he regretted immediately not having concealed his excitement in getting, home after he saw the hurt on Lyanna’s face

It wasn’t like he hated being in Helheim, he was happy there, he would have been happy there, with Lyanna he knew that , but he wanted to see his mother, and brothers one last time, even though it was a naive desire. But if his brother Arthur , the messenger of the gods had come to Helheim to ask for his soul, it might happen.

“ I told them, if everyone mourned you and shed tears for you. You would be free to go.”- Lyanna said with her voice tearful

“ This is amazing. “- Rhaegar got out from his sit across Lyanna and ran out of the room,running to the front of her house

She followed him , but as she got there, Rhaegar stood in confusion. If Arthur had come to get him he would be waiting for them on the outside. But there was no sign of Arthur, so he turned back to Lyanna that seemed sad.

“ Where is Arthur ?”- Rhaegar

“ That’s the problem, someone didn’t shed a tear for you.”- Lyanna told him in her tearful voice

“ Who did ?”- He asked mildly angered

“ My father .”- She sighed, it was above a whisper

By that time Rhaegar had been told by Lyanna herself that her father, the god of mischief, was the one to have engineered his death for helping his brother, Viserys, to shoot an arrow made of mistletoe into his heart. He looked very much enraged as he passed by her and strolled back into the house. Rhaegar was Lyanna’s first company so the prospect of losing him was scary. She would have said that was why she ran after him, and not what had become true, that she had fallen for him .

“ Please don’t be angry at me, I didn’t mean for you not go back, I know you don’t like being being here, and that is not a perfect place , but I just didn’t want to go back to being alone.”- Lyanna told him tearfully as she went after him

“ I’m not angry at you .”- Rhaegar turned to look at her

“ You are not ?”- Lyanna asked

“ It’s not your fault I am dead, and I don’t hate this place.”- Rhaegar

“ You like it here ?”- Lyanna

“ Yes. I like being with you, and even if I could go back , I think I wouldn’t .”- Rhaegar said cupping Lyanna’s left cheek

“ Why wouldn’t you go ?”- Lyanna

“ I’d miss you too much… And to be clear I don’t blame you for the actions of your. ”- Rhaegar said with a smirk upon his lips

“ You’d miss me ?”- Lyanna asked with a smirk gracing her lips

“ Lya, I would.”- Rhaegar

“ Well, we better get back to the game, I have your ass to kick don’t I ?”- Lyanna

CONTEXT :

Helheim ⇏ “ The underworld” in Nordic mythology , place were people that didn’t die in battle go ;

Aesir ⇏ Clan of gods that resides in Ásgarðr;

Talf ⇏ Nordic traditional board game

➴————-　♥︎　-————➶

( So this is a unusual take of the mythological au, have in mind I took some liberties because in the myth of Baldr’s death, very little to nothing is told by his perspective , but by putting Rhaegar in his shoes I played with the concept of him dying and encountering Lyanna who fills the role of Hel queen of Helheim. THANKS FOR READING !! ♥︎)

[tacitwhisky]

Jon / Sansa Reread - Jon II, AGOT

< Previous Chapter (Arya I) | Next Chapter (Sansa I) >

In which Jon visits Bran, Catelyn is a horrible person, and he gives Arya Needle.

Like Jon I, this chapter is really complicated and a bit of a beast to get through. It's a critical chapter for understanding Jon though; it's his single on page interaction with Catelyn, and the one that solidifies just how traumatic a figure she is in his life. It’s also a tour of all his major Stark relationships outside of Ned: Catelyn, Bran, Robb, and Arya.

There’s actually a lot more to this chapter than I realized, which is one of the reasons it took me so long to get it out.

Lady Stark was there beside his [Bran’s] bed. She had been there, day and night, for close on a fortnight. Not for a moment had she left Bran’s side. She had her meals brought to her there, and chamber pots as well, and a small hard bed to sleep on, though it was said she had scarcely slept at all. She fed him herself, the honey and water and herb mixture that sustained life. Not once did she leave the room. So Jon had stayed away.

Before we get into Catelyn’s horribleness in this chapter, it’s worth pointing out that this is Catelyn at her absolute lowest emotionally. She also severely sleep deprived and borderline crippled with worry and grief. Unfortunately, much like Sansa last chapter though, we’re not really going to get a sense of just out of her mind Catelyn is until her chapter later: if the order of the chapters had been swapped (ignoring plot considerations for a moment) readers would’ve been more sympathetic to Catelyn as a whole.

Not that her actions this chapter aren’t objectively awful.

Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless.

“I came to see Bran,” Jon said. “To say good-bye.”

Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. “You’ve said it. Now go away.”

Martin has gone on record saying that if he were to write it today he would’ve softened Catelyn a little in this scene or at the very least given it more context. While I get that, nothing Catelyn does or says in this scene (with the understanding that she’s half delirious from lack of sleep) is actually out of character. Jon is an existential threat to her children: not only does he look more Stark than her sons, but he’s also as old if not older than Robb which would make him dangerous if he were ever legitimized.

The thread Jon poses is not an idle one; as she'll mention to Robb later in ASOS the Targaryen Blackfyre bastards led to three generations of brutal civil war and repression. Bastards are, by definition, destabilizing to the westerosi social contract. In a society where everyone has a rigid social role (even their gods are broken into specific societal roles) bastards have none and threaten to crumble the walls between them.

The other threat Jon presents to Jon is to the limited power patriarchal society gives her. As a noble lady, managing her home is one of the few places Catelyn can exert any control over her life, and theoretically has as much of a say in as her lord husband, and Ned deciding Jon will stay with them is a slap in the face to her and a breach of that power. As Catelyn herself thinks in an earlier chapter, the problem isn’t that Ned has a bastard; it’s that he has him live with them and she has no control over it.

Part of him wanted only to flee, but he knew that if he did he might never see Bran again. He took a nervous step into the room. “Please,” he said.

Something cold moved in her eyes. “I told you to leave,” she said. “We don’t want you here.”

There’s a real sense of dread seeping out from Jon when it comes to Catelyn. He’s terrified of her, not so much for material reasons (he doesn’t actually think she’ll throw him out despite how she'll threaten to in a minute), as emotional ones. He’s dreading the emotional backlash he knows is coming, which is a very organic reaction from a child who’s been emotionally neglected or abused in the way he has. This is an old pattern, and he's instinctually flinching from what he knows is the emotional fallout.

Once that would have sent him running. Once that might even have made him cry. Now it only made him angry. He would be a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch soon, and face worse dangers than Catelyn Tully Stark. “He’s my brother,” he said.

“Shall I call the guards?”

“Call them,” Jon said, defiant. “You can’t stop me from seeing him.” He crossed the room, keeping the bed between them, and looked down on Bran where he lay.

Even this early on Jon has started to use his Night’s Watch identity to draw strength from. It makes sense and speaks to why he wanted to join it to begin with: joining it is a clear mark of adulthood, a way of taking his destiny into his own hands, and because of the nobility of the institution, a way of scrubbing off his bastard taint, something Jon has not doubt craved most of his life.

Drawing strength from taking the black is something that will only grow more second nature to Jon as the series goes on. As I wrote in a recent ask, it’s one of the reasons when he’s resurrected I think finding out he was murdered by his brothers will hit him significantly harder than it does in the show. If he's not a man of the Night's Watch, then he's what he is in this scene: small and vulnerable and unloved.

“Bran,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I was afraid.” He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. Jon no longer cared. “Don’t die, Bran. Please. We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Me and Robb and the girls, everyone …”

Lady Stark was watching. She had not raised a cry. Jon took that for acceptance. Outside the window, the direwolf howled again. The wolf that Bran had not had time to name.

“I have to go now,” Jon said. “Uncle Benjen is waiting. I’m to go north to the Wall. We have to leave today, before the snows come.” He remembered how excited Bran had been at the prospect of the journey. It was more than he could bear, the thought of leaving him behind like this. Jon brushed away his tears, leaned over, and kissed his brother lightly on the lips.

Not really important, but still kind of funny: the first time I read A Game of Thrones (fifteen years at this point?) I was very young and the kissing thing weirded me out to no end. It wasn’t until years later I would realize platonic mouth kissing is just a thing white people do sometimes (I’m kidding. Mostly).

“I wanted him to stay here with me,” Lady Stark said softly.

Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at him. She was talking to him, but for a part of her, it was as though he were not even in the room.

“I prayed for it,” she said dully. “He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.”

Jon did not know what to say. “It wasn’t your fault,” he managed after an awkward silence.

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. “I need none of your absolution, bastard.”

Even here, even now, Jon is trying to be kind. He's still, in some level, trying to forge some kind of a relationship, no matter how tenuous it is. It’s what makes Catelyn’s reaction all that much more painful. Even outside of this situation, there’s really no common ground the two could ever have found between them, not without Catelyn being a far different person and one living in a less rigidly patriarchal society. Everything Jon does, no matter how well intentioned, will always be galling and patronizing because of who he is and what he represents.

This doesn’t make how Catelyn treats Jon ok though. Whatever her frustrations or anxieties with the position Jon occupies, she is an adult and he is a child, a child who desperately needed a mother figure and to be treated as equal to his siblings. There’s just no getting around it. At some point early in Jon’s upbringing Catelyn needed to put her big girl boots on, do the right thing, and treat him like a person.

He was at the door when she called out to him. “Jon,” she said. He should have kept going, but she had never called him by his name before. He turned to find her looking at his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

“Yes?” he said.

“It should have been you,” she told him. Then she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her whole body shaking with the sobs. Jon had never seen her cry before.

It was a long walk down to the yard.

That last line (“it should’ve been you”) is a stab in the gut, but can ultimately, like a lot of Catelyn’s behavior in this chapter, be attributed to being half mad from grief and sleep deprivation: the part about how this is the first time she’s ever called him by his name can’t be, and is just chilling. It’s one of the few concrete details we get about how the two of them interacted. Denying someone their name is dehumanizing (Reek, it rhymes with meek), and speaks to just how much distance Catelyn created between her and Jon.

There isn’t really a reason to think Catelyn called Jon “Snow” or “bastard” or anything particular cruel, but ignoring is a special of cruelty all it’s own, though it probably came easy to Catelyn. In a castle as big and gendered as Winterfell, just like with Sansa, there’s the very real possibility that the two of them simply didn’t cross paths much.

We also don’t really get any reaction from Jon here to what Catelyn says. It’s a little frustrating in terms of trying to understand his character, but it fits Martin’s less is more ethos (for this, anyway, he definitely lacks that ethos when it comes to adding Greyjoy and Dorne plotlines).

Outside, everything was noise and confusion. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow had begun to fall, and everyone was in an uproar to be off.

Robb was in the middle of it, shouting commands with the best of them. He seemed to have grown of late, as if Bran’s fall and his mother’s collapse had somehow made him stronger. Grey Wind was at his side.

While not a big part of either Sansa or Jon’s storyline, Robb really grows into being a lord in the absence of Ned and Catelyn. Just another example of how all the Stark children are forced to mature quickly, and a bit of a counterpoint to the idea that Ned didn’t prepare them for the adult world. While he certainly didn’t in certain ways in that all of them start their stories at something of a deficit of where they should be in terms of knowledge of the world, he and Catelyn did raise them in a way where they’re able to adapt swiftly to what’s needed.

“Uncle Benjen is looking for you,” he [Robb] told Jon. “He wanted to be gone an hour ago.”

“I know,” Jon said. “Soon.” He looked around at all the noise and confusion. “Leaving is harder than I thought.”

“For me too,” Robb said. He had snow in his hair, melting from the heat of his body. “Did you see him?”

Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “He’s not going to die,” Robb said. “I know it.”

“You Starks are hard to kill,” Jon agreed. His voice was flat and tired. The visit had taken all the strength from him.

Robb knew something was wrong. “My mother …”

“She was … very kind,” Jon told him.

Robb looked relieved. “Good.”

Robb seems to be well aware just how hostile Catelyn might have been to Jon, which implies that he's very aware of the distance and tension between them in normal life. And the fact that Robb is relieved when Jon says nothing happened is also interesting for its implication of just how much strain Catelyn’s hostility towards Jon put on all the starklings. This is an excellent meta that explores this idea more fully. To quote just a bit from it:

“I don’t often see it acknowledged that Catelyn’s abuse of Jon reverberated through the family and hurt her own children, even though it’s quite visible in a few places. Beyond the strain it puts on the Starklings to be perpetually caught between their beloved mother and beloved brother… I don’t see Robb’s anxiety here that his mother might hurt his brother being mentioned, and how that kind of dynamic puts a terrible strain on both children. Catelyn very clearly did not “ignore” or “avoid” Jon, and her actions didn’t just affect Jon, either, they also hurt her own children. Note that I am not saying that Catelyn is a Bad Mother or siding with the goblins of westeros.org who will hate Catelyn for anything she does, but when a parent behaves in inappropriate ways to one child it affects everyone in a family, especially the other children.”

Trying to navigate the hostility between two people you love is hugely stressful, and triply so when one of them is your parent. Fundamentally Robb is caught in a zero sum game where any affection or closeness with Jon is a betrayal of his mother. This is a dynamic I see attributed a lot to Sansa in fic where she’s the one of the starklings in the family who chooses her mother over Jon. It’s a really rich idea to explore, but unfortunately there’s no way of knowing whether it’s true accurate or not: there just isn’t enough evidence one way or another in the actual books. I tend to prefer the headcanon that the two were just different, but it’s certainly no less valid.

What we do is that this zero sum dynamic isn’t what Bran and Arya experienced with Jon. Neither (as far as I can remember) actually ever think about his relationship with Catelyn, though you can still see the damage in how Arya immediately thinks as a child she must be a bastard because she doesn’t fit in. Like we’ve talked about, Catelyn created and perpetuated the subconscious understanding among the Starklings that to be bastard was to be other. To quote from that meta again (it really is excellent):

“We also see the effects of Catelyn’s treatment of Jon in Sansa’s reflection on both Jon and Arya. Catelyn’s attempt to interfere with her children’s relationship with Jon was most successful with Sansa who internalized that Jon was to be held at a distance because he was only their half-brother. Sansa also thinks of how it would have been easier for her to understand Arya’s nature and the difference between them if Arya was a bastard like Jon, which speaks of Sansa’s view of the proper boundaries of a relationship with a bastard sibling and the kind of behavior she was taught to expect from bastards, an expectation that she displays when she casually comments about how Jon was jealous of Joffrey in a very matter-of-fact way. That alignment of Jon and Arya colors Sansa’s perception of Arya just as much as Jon.”

Speaking of Arya, Jon says farewell to Robb, and then goes to say goodbye to Arya who is busy packing in her room.

Arya glanced behind her, saw Jon, and jumped to her feet. She threw her skinny arms tight around his neck. “I was afraid you were gone,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “They wouldn’t let me out to say good-bye.”

“What did you do now?” Jon was amused.

Though it’s not ever mentioned, Arya is probably the only person Jon has ever gotten any physical affection from. Ned is not the kind of parent to overly shower his children with physical contact, and Jon is even likely to get any from him as both male and a bastard. And Catelyn sure as hell isn’t giving out any hugs to him. It’s interesting he actually isn’t more craving of affection of any kind (like Tyrion is) throughout the series, and speaks I think to how healthy and supportive of relationships he did have with his siblings despite Catelyn.

Her face lit up. “A present?”

“You could call it that. Close the door.”

Wary but excited, Arya checked the hall. “Nymeria, here. Guard.” She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door. By then Jon had pulled off the rags he’d wrapped it in. He held it out to her.

Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath.

The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. “This is no toy,” he told her. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.”

“Girls don’t shave,” Arya said.

“Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?”

It’s here we get our first introduction to Needle, one of the top five emotionally charged swords in the series. Throughout all her travels and hardships Needle will be the one thing Sansa holds on to, and as she thinks years later in Braavos before the House of Black and White, Needle is a symbol not just of her old life, but Jon’s unquestioning acceptance of her nonconformity.

That being said, let’s talk for a moment just how weird it is Jon is arming a child with a deadly weapon. As this meta argues, Jon is remarkably comfortable with violence, and his modus operandi in almost any given situation, whether personal or political, is to immediately empower and arm a marginalized group: Arya here, Sam and the other Night’s Watch recruits against Alliser Thorne at Castle Black , and the Wildlings in ADWD.

This modus operandi is interesting to think about when applying it to his relationship to Sansa. Even if they had been in closer proximity as children, I still don’t think Jon would ever have gotten that emotionally close to Sansa. She’s simply in too much of a position of privilege for him to ever really have anything to offer her. Jon is capable of having relationships with people either at his privilege level or higher, Robb and Ygritte come to mind, but on the whole that really is how Jon tends to develop the majority of his relationships: almost as though he can only be friends with people who need him (Sam, Tormund, Alys Karstark, even Stannis to a degree).

To theorize for a moment, this probably stems from his understanding of the world as an uncertain place where his status is always tenuous. And also from a probably unconscious feeling of having no inherent worth of his own: there’s no reason for anyone to like him just for him, so he only feels comfortable when there’s some material reason for them to. It’s a really subtle expression of Catelyn’s withholding of affection and his bastard status as a whole.

This is all really interesting to think about in relation to what his relationship with Sansa will be when they meet again and she no longer holds the position of privilege that she once did. While she almost for sure won’t be as disempowered when they meet in the books as she was in the show, she will need Jon to one extent or the other. It’s also just interesting to think about in terms of Jon’s future emotional growth or how he’d handle it in an intimate relationship.

She giggled at him. “It’s so skinny.”

“So are you,” Jon told her. “I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”

“I can be fast,” Arya said.

“You’ll have to work at it every day.” He put the sword in her hands, showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. “How does it feel? Do you balance?”

“I think so,” Arya said.

“First lesson,” Jon said. “Stick them with the pointy end.”

Again cute, but to quote from that meta: “[Jon’s] idea of thoughtful gift-giving is to sit around contemplating the best way for a small-sized nine-year-old to kill people and figure out what she needs to do it. “

Arya gave him a whap on the arm with the flat of her blade. The blow stung, but Jon found himself grinning like an idiot. “I know which end to use,” Arya said.

Jon’s grin here is evidence that he really does find fulfillment and happiness with Arya, even here on one of the most emotionally taxing days of his life to this point.

“Who will I practice with?”

“You’ll find someone,” Jon promised her. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong. And whatever you do …”

Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together.

“… don’t … tell … Sansa!”

Despite being one of the few times Jon mentions Sansa, I don’t think his evocation of her here is really about what he thinks about her so much as what he knows she means to Arya. We in general don’t really ever (as far as I can remember) get any real insight into what Jon thought about their relationship, or if he even internally took sides. Considering just how close he is with Arya, you’d think he would have more thoughts on the matter, but it’s yet another frustrating example of the black hole of their relationship.

Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.”

Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. “I wish you were coming with us.”

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?” He was feeling better now. He was not going to let himself be sad. “I better go. I’ll spend my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep Uncle Ben waiting any longer.”

Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and showered him with kisses.

Again we see the dynamic of Jon finding fulfillment and feeling better in himself for arming and thus empowering someone else. It also brings full circle the tour of Jon’s Stark emotional relationships and how they relate to Catelyn: Catelyn herself who he dreads and has the worst with, Bran who’s comatose but is a positive relationship, Robb who is on the whole a positive relationship but one not unaffected by Catelyn, and then Arya who he’s closest to because they’re both nonconforming.

When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. “I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.”

“Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.”

“Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.”

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together:

“Needle!”

The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.

Show Comparison

(I know I’m in the minority, but Jon’s face is oh so punchable in the early seasons. Kit is a fair actor, but the impression of Jon we get is less of an intelligent and occasionally sullen bastard, and more just sulky)

The show changes this chapter in a few really significant ways. There’s two scenes that take place in the same timeframe that are addd. One is Jaime mocking Jon for going to the Wall, which is very Jaime and adds to the theme we’ll see in Tyrion II of Jon not quite understanding what he was signing up for, but otherwise doesn’t do much.

The other scene is Cersei coming to visit Catelyn at Bran’s bedside. This is a weird scene for a couple of reasons (not least of which is Cersei losing a child that will then be totally forgotten a few seasons later in Maggy’s prophecy), but for our purposes it changes what Catelyn’s mental state is for the scene with Jon. Instead of being half mad with grief and sleep deprivation, Catelyn really isn’t that distraught. Sad and worried, sure, but not out of her mind.

Before we get there though, Jon goes to say goodbye to Arya. Switching the order of this scene to before the on with Catelyn and Bran actually changes more than you’d think. I can see why they thought it was a good idea: there’s more of a dramatic progression this way, but it robs Jon and Arya’s scene. Instead of a scene where he draws strength from his relationship with Arya, it’s a sadder and more somber scene. It’s also a significantly shorter scene than it is in the book, with less banter, and combined with the cutting of the scene between the two of them in Arya I, it makes their relationship a little perfunctory. Jon also sasses Arya for not having Nymeria react to her command, which runs completely counter to how supportive he is in the books. In general he’s a little more harsh with her.

It’s not a problem, per se, you still get a sense that they’re close, but it’s the first step in a general flattening of Jon’s character. Speaking of which...

A lot of the dialogue in the scene by Bran’s bedside gets cut. A lot. Catelyn literally has two lines, one at the beginning, and one at the end.

Jon: I’ve come to say goodbye to Bran.

Catelyn: You’ve said it.

And then after Jon says his thing to Bran.

Catelyn: I want you to leave.

It’s fair to cut some of Catelyn’s dialogue here. The way she glares at Jon non-verbally communicates some of it, but it fundamentally changes the scene. While I don’t think there’s a need to keep Catelyn as sharp as she was in the original scene, because we don’t have access to Jon’s inner thoughts, cutting all her dialogue means that for all intents and purposes all the things we talked about in this chapter; the toll Jon’s bastard status takes on him, the complexities in his familial relationships, the way Catelyn’s actions affected all the Starks are just… gone. None of it exists on the show.

It’s the way the show handles a lot of things, and one of the reasons I wasn’t too fond of it back even in season one: really the show is interested only in a surface level reading of the text, and flattens everything, jettisoning a lot of the thematic and character richness Martin fills the books with.

(Oh, also Ned is in the scene now. Do we see how he reacts to Jon and Catelyn’s relationship? Nope, because none of it happens.)

Finally, the scene between Jon and Robb plays out pretty much the same. There’s another added scene after it where Ned tells Jon he may not have the Stark name, but he has his blood and promises to talk about his mother next time they talk. I don’t really have any thoughts about it. It’s nice, but could also have just been cut for time and we wouldn’t really lose anything.

Conclusion

This was a beast of a chapter to get done, much like Jon I. While chronologically the next chapter I should cover is Tyrion II, I’m going to skip it and do Sansa I next (and then Tyrion II). It’ll be the first time we’ll be in Sansa’s pov and get her sense of her relationship with Arya: it also contains the infamous incident between Joffrey and Arya out on the Kingsroad.

Like the last Jon chapter, there’s a lot of really good meta written about the Bran bedroom scene and Jon and Catelyn’s relationship in general. Some I’ve already linked to in this reread series (and this chapter), and some I haven’t, but most of it should be new.

Further Reading

Catelyn’s relationship with Jon drove a wedge through all the Stark children

Jon giving Arya Needle is a sign of how comfortable he is with violence

Catelyn’s animus to Jon stems from her patriarchal disempowerment

Should Ned have fostered Jon elsewhere?

Should Ned have told Jon about his true parentage?

Should Ned have told Catelyn about Jon’s true parentage?

Previous Chapters:

Bran I

Jon I

Arya I

[avatarsarny]

and summer comes again

ao3

The finished version of this. How GoT ended in my head, because D&D's bad fanfic version can go in the dumpster where it belongs. For @gendrie, @gendrywatersseaworth, @gendryadempsie, and @starrynightshade, whose blogs and fics have kept me sane these past few weeks of clownery and terrible show writing lol. Thanks for feeding us so well with that good good Gendrya content throughout!

For context: In my head, everything ended similarly to the show version with some notable adjustments: Jon is not exiled to the (nonexistent) Night’s Watch; he decides against being king and goes to bring the Wildlings back down to the North with Tormund (bc the lands beyond the wall are a barren wasteland wtf) and thereafter settles at Winterfell to be Hand to Queen Sansa. Bran is made King of the 6 kingdoms as he was in the show, with Tyrion as his Hand and ruling with his council. Jaime did not turn on Brienne in the last moment, didn’t erase years of character development, and instead left to kill Cersei himself, finally realizing the disease she really was, and became Queenslayer for the good of the realm. He survives Daenerys’ attack on KL and is serving Bran in the new Kingsguard, under Brienne the Commander. 

Finally, Arya does not randomly decide to become Christopher Columbarya and sail the ocean blue, erasing years of her own journey to finally be home with her family again, no sirs, she finds Gendry after the sack of KL, after she realizes what Sandor was trying to tell her to do, to choose life, and tells him to ask her again. You can guess the rest from what you read below :)

And in keeping with the pack survives narrative (bc that’s what good writing is about!! Consistency!!) the Starks remain closer than ever, visit each other often, and don’t end up alone and separated! Hope you guys enjoy.

P.S. - can you spot the Okoye reference? Definitely not straight outta black panther

“And reinforcements from the Stormlands will arrive tomorrow, Your Grace, if I’m not mistaken. Lord Buckler of Bronzegate sent me a raven saying twenty ships worth of food and supplies will be here just after sunrise.”

Bran nods in approval and looks up at the sunlight streaming in through the windows of the newly - reconstructed Royal Council solar. Daenerys’ rampage had left little of the Red Keep standing, but some of the personal chambers had remained mostly intact, so the new King and his council lived in close quarters for the past three months while they supervised the city’s recovery. There were still many injured and many more starving, so Bran called upon every Lord and leader in Westeros, high and low, to contribute whatever they could to the city’s smallfolk; who had suffered the most.

Bran glances over at the man across him. His blue eyes are bright with belonging and purpose, his dark hair is gradually breaking free of the short crop he had sported when Bran had first met him, and he wears fine leathers in same way his father and uncles had, only this time adorned with clawlike marks on the shoulders of his tunic.

The young King smiles at this observation. Stags don’t have claws. But he can think of another animal that does.

Gendry catches his gaze. “What is it, Your Grace?”

Bran’s smile grows ever so slightly. “When is my sister returning, my Lord? It’s been a fortnight since her last raven.”

Gendry sighs and looks out a window, where the city gates rise from the sea of ruined buildings far out in the distance on one end, and the azure waters of Blackwater Bay lay calm and still on the other. “I’m not sure. She said she wouldn’t leave Queen Sansa at Winterfell until she’s made sure she’ll be well protected.”

“Won’t Jon be there soon?”

Gendry blinks. “Yes - er - I didn’t know that until this morning - got a raven from Tormund. How’d you find out?”

Bran throws him an unimpressed glance. “Well I am the three eyed raven. I flew over Jon and Tormund’s group last night. They’ve settled the Wildlings in some unoccupied lands about a day’s ride from Winterfell. Sansa wants Jon to be her Hand, and it looks like Jon’s agreed to it.”

Gendry nods slowly, trying to process the King’s extraordinary statement in a way he can understand. “I’ve heard of your abilities, Your Grace, but forgive me, I’m not sure how one flies when they can’t even walk. But if what you say is true, then you can see where your sisters are, too, can’t you?” He grins then, and maybe in front of a different King he’d be punished for his audacity, but Bran is no ordinary King. And Gendry has never been one to worship the ground at a highborn’s feet.

But he’ll fight for any one of the Starks. Arya and her family time and again showed kindness and mercy to the common folk, and beneath their ferocious direwolf fangs they shared a gentleness for the innocent that Gendry had rarely seen among the rich and powerful. Even Sansa, the Red Wolf of the North, held a great tenderness concealed beneath her icy, calculating exterior, and people everywhere adored her for it.

Bran’s smile widens into a true grin, then - a feat so rare Gendry thinks he should get Grand Maester Samwell to check on their King’s health.

“Yes, I can see everything. Anything, anywhere, at any point in time. But sometimes it’s nice to put it all away for a while, and be a normal man. Or at least act like it,” he replies. “I did see Arya, by the way. It appears she’ll be staying in Winterfell for a few more weeks before she starts her journey back here.”

Gendry’s face falls, but he catches himself and hopes the King doesn’t notice. The least she could do is send a raven, but she’s been oddly silent since her last message to him, and he’s getting worried. If she doesn’t send more word soon, he’ll go off to Winterfell himself.

Bran quirks a brow at him. “Storm’s End needs someone like you, someone who will take care of the people. Your uncles left the Stormlands in such disarray, but the Stormlords are willing to follow your command. Don’t worry about my sister, she can handle herself.” He smiles serenely at the former blacksmith.

But what about me? Gendry thinks. Does she not understand that every day we’re separated feels like an eternity to me?

None of it will mean anything, if you aren’t with me, so be with me…

It will be nearly four months since Arya left to help Sansa settle into her role as Queen in the North. Four months since he last held her in his arms, since he tasted her on his lips and felt the warmth of her smile, since he saw the heat and tenderness in her gaze she reserved only for him.

She had sought him out after the Dragon Queen had stormed King’s Landing, after Jon drove a dagger through his aunt’s heart and liberated all who would come under her tyranny. She had been covered in ash and blood and he’d never felt more fear in his entire life, that he would have to watch her die like this, but she was mostly unhurt, the blood had not been hers, not all of it.

“Ask me again,” She’d rasped, coughing out grey soot and clutching at him for dear life. “I thought I wouldn’t come back from Kings Landing. I was going to die there, and I couldn’t do that to you, I had to refuse,” She whispered, tears falling from her eyes and down her grimy face. “I couldn’t hurt you.”

And oh, she had never looked more beautiful, he had never loved her more fiercely than he did in that moment, not even on that night they thought would be their last, when she had kissed him down in the Winterfell stores and made breathless, frantic love to him. “You could never hurt me, love,” he’d said, gently wiping her tears away and crushing her to his chest. “I know you don’t want to be a Lady, I’ve always known. We can go wherever you like. Do whatever you want. I’ll follow you anywhere you go, till the end of my days,” he promised, and released her so he could kneel before her in the ash and dust. “My life means nothing without my family. Please be my wife. Please be my family, Arya of House Stark.”

And with that, she’d tackled him into the rubble with all the strength she could muster, and kissed him senseless. “I love you,” She’d breathed against his lips,“I will be your family. Your - your wife,” she broke off in a quiet moan, as he moved to press searing kisses down her throat. She held his face in her hands, stilling his sweet movements to look earnestly up at him. “And I will lead by your side, Gendry of House Baratheon.”

He’d stared at her in shock, his hands coming up to bracket her own. “You - you want to rule the Stormlands with me?”

Arya smiled at him, even though it had hurt to do so and her face was bleeding. “I want to be here for the people who can’t protect themselves. I want to make our world a better place than the one we grew up in…I couldn’t save them in King’s Landing,” she’d paused as more tears tumbled down her cheeks, and he dutifully brushed them away with the pads of his calloused fingers. She would tell him about the girl and her mother, later. The little family that had saved her from the stampede, only to end up burnt beyond recognition in the end. “I have to make sure this never happens again.”

Gendry kissed her forehead, the bit of it that wasn’t cut open. “As M'lady commands,” he’d murmured, threading their fingers together. “Now let’s get you a maester.”

“I also need to teach you how to use a fork, none of those idiot lords will respect you otherwise.”

He'd laughed and scooped her up into his arms. “I’ll need all the help I can get. I don’t know any other rich girls willing to teach me.”

“Lord Gendry?” the King addresses him, drawing his attention away from the cloudless sky, out of his reverie.

Gendry starts. “Sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t catch that. I was just - thinking about how we could allocate the food to the city once it arrives tomorrow. I’m thinking we should just set up the distribution points along the docks, that way we won’t need to spend half a day hauling it all through the streets to get to everyone. Most of the needy are already down there, which makes our jobs easier.”

He said all this rather quickly.

Bran smirks. “Well, I hope this helps you see why you’re the best man for the job. You grew up here. You know the people. And you care, which is the only qualification that matters, in the end.”

Gendry turns to his King. “I still don’t know what I’m doing, not really. I know nothing of ruling or leading people, or throwing fancy feasts, or running castles.”

“But you remember what it’s like to live as an outcast, among the very worst of men, to live in the dirt and the muck, and what it’s like to go hungry for weeks on end. You want a world where the powerful protect the weak.” Bran says quietly. “My sister knows this, too. The realm could use more people like you.”

Gendry lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. “I..well, thank you, Your Grace.” He straightens up then, and smooths out the map of King’s Landing he’d been going over before King Bran had entered the room. “Then I will give the realm everything I have to make it a better place. I won’t hesitate.”

Bran nods in affirmative. “I’ll be depending on you a lot, Lord Baratheon.”

Someone knocks on the doors of the solar just then; Ser Brienne walks through the threshold and bows her head in greeting.

“Your guest is here to meet you, Your Grace. Shall I bring them in?” Her eyes slide over to rest on Gendry, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “It’s good to see you, Lord Gendry. You look well.”

“As well I could be, Ser Brienne,” he smiles at her. He nearly admits that he could look better, much better, if only his little she-wolf were here with him, and not a thousand miles beyond his reach. But given Brienne’s fierce protectiveness over Arya, he thinks better of it. He’s not sure he could best the formidable Lady Knight in a fight, even with a hammer.

He’d only gotten two days, just two measly days with Arya, before she’d gone north with Sansa. When he sees her again (if ever, he thinks just a little sourly, for she may decide to stay in Winterfell for good, and forget about him, and marry a handsome Northern Lord who knows exactly what he’s doing, especially how to eat with proper utensils.)

Seven hells, he is pathetic.

Bran nods, his smirk growing wider than ever. “Please bring them in.”

Gendry takes this as his cue to leave, and starts gathering up his things. Maybe he’ll seek out Ser Davos and convince him to grab a large jug of ale with him. The Onion Knight always knew what to say.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small figure stroll into the solar, clad in a floor-length gown, with a sword at her hip.

“My King,” the young woman says softly, kneeling in front of Bran, before turning to Gendry. “My love.”

Gendry’s jaw drops to the floor, and so do the maps he holds in his arms.

He wheels around to see Arya Stark rushing forward to squeeze Bran in a tight hug.

“I missed you, little brother. Sansa is happy and safe, Jon is with her now.”

Bran seems to lighten up ever so slightly at the sight of her, a ghost of the boy he used to be flits across his normally blank features, the boy who had looked upon his warrior sister with awe and immense pride, who had wanted to be as good a fighter as she was, well before they knew what fighting really was. He wraps his arms around Arya to squeeze her back.

Gendry stands there, taking his betrothed in for the first time in months. She’s wearing a dress, Gods help him, the long skirts billow out from her waist and clings to her petite figure in a way that sharply forces him to remember he’s in the presence of civilized company, and he immediately tries to control his breathing.

Her hair is just a little longer than the last time he saw her, falling loosely down her back, save for the Northern braids woven at the crown of her head. For once, she looks like the warrior princess she is, and Gendry couldn’t tear his eyes from her if he tried.

Bran releases his sister. “I’m happy to hear. It’s been quiet here without you. Although I’m sure Lord Baratheon here felt that more than anyone.”

Arya turns to him then, raising one dark brow and raking her storm - grey eyes over him. Just as she’d done back in Winterfell, watching from the shadows as he worked the dragonglass into weapons against the dead, before she had made him hers forever. Gendry barely suppresses a shiver.

“Have I surprised you, my Lord?” She laughs, her eyes bright and glinting with mischief. “I’ll bet you thought you’d have a few more weeks of peace without me.”

Peace? He thinks incredulously. He’s felt anything but in her absence.

Gendry moves to open his mouth in a retort, but their King interrupts.

“Ser Brienne, I must go off to the upper floors and survey today’s reconstruction progress, and Lord Tyrion has called a council meeting after lunch. If you would be so kind as to take me there?”

Brienne looks from Arya to Gendry to the young King, and valiantly attempts to conceal her knowing grin. “Of course, Your Grace.”

On their way out, Bran pauses and looks to the pair still standing in the solar. “I’ll be waiting to hear all about Winterfell and how Queen Sansa is faring at dinner tonight. For now though, I suggest you take care of the pressing matter before you. See you in the Great Hall later.” He waves his sister goodbye, and Brienne hastily converts her snort into a cough as she pushes his wheelchair out the doors.

Gendry flushes beet - red as he stares after the King. Arya flashes her betrothed a wolfish grin and steps closer to him. As a girl, she’d loved to rile him up and annoy him till he’d chase her through the forest and muss her boyish locks in revenge. Now, she gets an even bigger thrill simply seeing him blush like a maiden, because of her.

She must do it more often.

“I like this,” she says, bringing her small hands up to run along the clawlike marks in his leather tunic. “What inspired this break from Baratheon clothing tradition?”

“What inspired yours?” He breathes, bringing his own hands to circle her waist, and pull her even closer. “Who forced you into wearing this?” He grins, gesturing to the garment that hugs her form and fans out from her hips, embroidered with leaves and direwolf motifs all over the sleeves and skirts.

Arya scowls just a little. “Sansa. She made it for me and ordered me to wear it on my journey home. Does my Lord like it?” She asks coyly, scanning his gaze for his reaction.

She needn’t have asked.

His eyes are dark and wanting as they travel over her form, and she suddenly feels so, so warm. Gendry, for his part, makes a mental note to send the Queen in the North a large pile of gold upon his return to Storm’s End.

“You’re always beautiful,” he murmurs, “No matter what you’re wearing. Or when you’re wearing nothing at all.” She presses herself flush against him at that, and he has to shut his eyes to keep his thoughts coherent. “I’m very thankful to your sister right now. Hail Queen Sansa, first of her name. May she make you many more dresses to wear. I’m a grateful man.”

“I’m glad. I have suffered so in this gown. At least one of us is pleased,” she quips, rolling her eyes.

Gendry can’t quite take it anymore, he moves to capture her lips with his own; he needs to taste her once again, needs to breathe in her scent of wildflowers and leather and the spring breeze of the outdoors. He’s just about to close the gap between them when she suddenly wriggles out of his arms.

Oh, Arya has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the utterly woebegone expression that crosses Gendry’s face as she pulls away.

“Arya,” he nearly whimpers in exasperation. He looks so forlorn that she almost loses her resolve, but she steels herself and moves away.

“Spar with me,” She asks breathlessly.

“What?” He blinks down at her, dumbstruck.

“I’ve gone four months without a worthy opponent. No one at Winterfell is good enough to best me, except perhaps Jon. And I managed to throw him on his back just before I left to come here.” She says, just a little smugly.

Gendry quirks a brow at her. “And you think I’m the one who could best you, my Lady? I’m not a soldier, as you know.”

She locks her dark gaze with his own and moves so that they’re mere inches apart, once again. “No,” She says softly, her hands come to cup his cheeks, stroking the rough stubble that grows there, “But you’re a fighter.”

He smiles at the reference, and leans into her touch. Her hands are soft and cool against his burning skin.

“Meet me in the garden courtyard later. The one with the view of the sea. Bring your hammer. But feel free to leave your leather shirt behind, as lovely as it is.” With that, she pulls his face down to her own, kissing him deeply, her sweet mouth hot and wet, melting against him and causing all sense to leak out of his mind.

Their kiss is over far too soon for Gendry’s liking, and she saunters out of the solar. “I’ll be waiting, Milord,” she says, grinning at him over her shoulder, and then she’s gone.

Gendry sighs and stares up at the high, vaulted ceiling. “I’m a dead man,” he chuckles to the empty room.

The sun is high overhead as Tyrion and Jaime stroll past the balconies overlooking the vast palace gardens. There’s a warm breeze coming off the sea, signaling the winter’s end, and the encroaching summer.

It’s enough to put a spring in nearly everyone’s step. After the wars ended and Bran was made King, peace descended upon Westeros, and people everywhere watched with cautious optimism in their hearts as the summer flowers began to bloom and the winter chills slowly faded away.

The charred remains of the Red Keep’s gardens had been replaced with exotic plants from every known part of the world, and were open to all who wished to enter, be they the poorest smallfolk or the King himself. But today, the paths and courtyards criss-crossing the greenery were mostly empty, with the rebuilding efforts taking up most of the city’s free time.

Tyrion pauses to look over a particularly scenic vantage point. “I’d say winter is well and truly over, brother.”

Jaime smirks, and nods. “Strange that the Starks, who never shut up about winter, would be the ones to end it.”

Tyrion chuckles. “I’m not in the least bit complaining.”

Jaime smiles down at his younger brother. “Neither am I.”

The relative quiet is broken then, by clashes of steel and shouts of triumph. Jaime and Tyrion throw each other bewildered glances, before starting off in the direction of the commotion.

“D’you think someone’s trying to break into the Red Keep again?” Tyrion wonders aloud.

“Just another day on the job,” Jaime drawls.

The Lannister brothers turn a corner before skidding to a halt on a landing overlooking a large circular courtyard.

“Well well! It appears our Lady Stark has returned from the North.” Tyrion pants, bending over to catch his breath. “I’m very glad I was informed beforehand of her arrival.” He deadpans. “I do love being in the know of what goes on in this city.”

Jaime squints curiously down into the courtyard. “It also appears she’s challenged her own betrothed to a duel.” His eyes widen at the sight below him.

A panting Arya Stark, brandishing that skinny little sword she refused to part with, circles a much larger - and barechested - Gendry Baratheon, who wields a warhammer and stares his future wife down, trying to calculate her next move.

Tyrion looks upon them with great interest. “It’s like looking at a pair of ghosts,” he says quietly.

Jaime throws his brother a questioning glance. “What d’you mean?”

“Look at them. Really look. Who do they remind you of?”

Jaime turns back to the sparring pair below them. And then it hits him.

“Robert and Lyanna,” he breathes. He doesn’t know how he missed it before, but now the resemblance is jarringly uncanny.

Gendry - broad shouldered and muscular, looks every bit like young Robert once did, with thick black hair that falls into trademark Baratheon blue eyes. He even wields a hammer in the same way his father did, though he’d never laid eyes on the former King, much less seen the way he’d fought.

Arya, with her dark hair falling wildly about her face, the gleam in her grey Stark eyes, and the grace with which she moves as she swerves away from Gendry’s blows with ease reminds Jaime sharply of how the late Lady Lyanna, the wild Northern beauty, had moved on horseback, with her bow and arrows.

Tyrion smiles sadly at the realization on his brother’s face. “They were a match doomed, and Robert began the war that changed the entire continent for his Lady Lyanna. But the future for these two appears much brighter. This Baratheon isn’t at all like his father, and she possesses the foresight her aunt never had. One generation had thousands die fighting in the wars they started, the next helped save many thousands more.” He says, watching them pensively.

Jaime only hums in agreement, still intently observing the pair below. The play-fight between the young couple is getting more intense by the second. Amid the flurry of steel and limbs, they’re clearly taking care not to actually hurt one another, but they’re just as certainly not going easy on each other, either.

Gendry swings his hammer at the girl with all the famed Baratheon strength he inherited from his father, but Arya is far too quick for him, and she laughs at his attempts to disarm her.

“You’re too slow,” she taunts, darting left and pretending to cut him across the belly with Needle. “Dead.” He swipes at her.

Arya dodges his blows again, then smacks her blade harmlessly against the back of his neck. “Dead again, Milord,” she grins up at him.

Gendry circles her, growling in frustration, catching her eye and nearly making her gasp at the raw desire she sees burning in his gaze.

She focuses her attention on the way his raven hair is long enough now to fall across his brow, and watches the play of muscles in his broad chest, slick with sweat, as he draws in rapid breaths and sneaks heated glances at her when he thinks she isn’t looking.

She’s missed him so much.

Her guard falls just long enough to be her downfall, as Gendry seizes her momentary pause to grab Needle from her hands and toss it aside, and proceeds to tackle her onto the painted mosaic floor of the courtyard.

Up on the terrace, Jaime and Tyrion look on in stunned silence. Arya Stark, the Princess that was Promised, the she-wolf who had slayed the Night King, taken down in a mock fight by non other than a former Baratheon bastard.

“What’s got you two so suddenly interested in the gardens?”

The Lannister brothers whirl around to see the new Master of Ships walking curiously toward them.

“His Grace is looking for you both to take lunch with him. Have either of you seen Lord Gendry? I’ve been meaning to ask the lad to come eat meals with me, he’s been looking a little - er - overwhelmed lately.”

Tyrion chortles. “Your lad has just managed to knock Azor Ahai herself to the ground in a duel, Ser Davos. It was quite a thing to see.”

The Onion Knight’s eyes widen in surprise. “So she’s back, then?” He looks down from the edge of the balcony to see Gendry pin Lady Arya beneath his arms. “I guess he won’t be eating with me, now.” He watches them wrestle with a fond, sad smile.

Jaime smirks down at the pair again. “I’m not sure this match is quite over yet.”

Gendry straddles one of her legs and lays an arm across her chest, securing her beneath him so that she can’t move from his grip. He grins cheekily down at her, pupils blown so wide his eyes are nearly as black as his hair. “You should’ve stood sideface, M’Lady.”

Arya stares defiantly up at him, before the mask is dropped completely, and she breaks into a giggle. “So I’ve heard.”

The sound of her bubbling laughter is the sweetest music to his ears. “Although I’m not sure how much smaller a target I could get than you,” he murmurs.

Their resounding laughter echoes across the deserted gardens, and while Arya’s got him distracted, she twists her hips and flips Gendry onto his back in a swift, deadly maneuver, her Valyrian steel dagger presses up against his throat in a flash.

Check and mate.

He blinks dazedly up at her, mesmerized by the way she straddles his waist, her triumphant victory gleaming in his she-wolf’s eyes. The sight brings back wonderful memories of that first night, when she’d pushed him atop those sacks of grain and made him lose himself over and over in her.

“I win,” she whispers, breathing hard, and she releases her hold on his wrists to sheath her dagger.

“You’ve won,” Gendry agrees. “Show me how you did that.”

She smirks down at him, crossing her arms over her chest, her legs still wrapped around his hips. “Not before I claim my prize,” she says, and the lilt in her voice makes his heart hammer in his chest. He suddenly remembers how long they’ve been apart. Too damn long.

“And what’s that?” He inquires softly, gazing up at her astride him.

Arya hums, innocently tilting her head and shifting her hips just so against him, and his eyes flutter shut in bliss.

Far above them, the three men watching quickly avert their eyes and turn away in varying degrees of mortification.

Jaime snickers, shaking his head. “That wasn’t a fight we were watching. That was foreplay.”

Tyrion loudly clears his throat. “Well, Ser Davos, you’re welcome to take lunch with us instead, seeing as Lord Gendry is rather occupied at the moment.”

The Onion Knight smiles ruefully down at the King’s Hand as the three of them make their way to the Great Hall. “They grow up too fast.”

Arya flicks her gaze up to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Their adoring fans are gone.

Good, she thinks. Not that she will ever be ashamed to show her love for Gendry, to touch him freely in front of others, but this moment, here in the warm sunlight as the sea breeze ruffles through their hair, belongs to them and them alone.

She trails her hands slowly up over the hard planes of his glistening chest, biting her lip as she admires the sight of him flushed beneath her, in broad daylight.

“I missed you, love.” she admits in his ear, emitting a low gasp when Gendry reaches up to grasp her hips and press her down onto him.

He’s firm and throbbing against her belly, and the blush spreading over Arya’s face does nothing to help calm the fire coursing through his veins.

He tenderly brushes her hair away from her face. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back. That you were going to stay at Winterfell and forget me.”

She smiles softly and leans down to press her forehead against his. “As though I could ever forget you. Not even the House of Black and White could erase you from my memory. And they tried, believe me.”

He trails warm fingers against her cheeks, down to her chin, and guides her mouth to his. “My family, my wife,” he breathes against her lips, kissing her as though he were a man dying of thirst in a desert, and she’s the life-giving oasis that saved him.

Arya brings her fingers up to tangle in his hair. “Not yet,” she reminds him breathlessly between kisses. “A whole three months to go until I meet you in the godswood.”

“Aye, that’s true,” he mumbles, his tongue coaxing her lips apart and swallowing her moans, “but you’re my wife, even so. And you’ve been my only family for years now.”

Because Gendry can’t bring himself to give a shit about the ceremonies. He is hers, and she is his, and they’ve been married ever since she stumbled into his arms after the burning of King’s Landing, as far as he’s concerned.

She pulls away from their kiss to regard him with large eyes. Suddenly, Arya seems much more like a shy doe than the fierce she-wolf he’d been sparring with, and a wave of protectiveness washes over Gendry.

Arya swallows. “I never imagined I’d ever get married. I didn’t want to just be a womb for some stupid old lord to produce sons. So many women have been chained into it by our society, I didn’t want to be one of them. I never thought I’d fall in love, not before I met you.” She pauses.

Gendry nods, kisses her knuckles, and waits for her to continue.

She leans in to brush her lips against his. “You always protected me, you could’ve been a bully like all the rest but you were kind and good. I was just a scared little girl, but you made me feel less alone. You were such a stubborn bull, but you were my best friend in the whole world.” She blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears welling up at the memories. “I would’ve died back then, had it not been for you.”

There’s a lump in Gendry’s throat. “Arya,” he breathes, and he surges forward to kiss her more fiercely than ever. “You saved me too, so many times,” he says roughly. “I never would’ve left you on your own, I should’ve listened to your distrust of the Brotherhood. After Davos helped me escape the Red Woman, I tried so hard to find out where you’d gone. A part of me did die that day, when I heard you’d been killed at the Twins. I never forgave myself for my stupidity.”

Arya hugs him close. “I’m here. I have you, now.”

Gendry holds her tight, and he’s never letting her go again. “You have me, now and always.” he promises.

Arya smiles against his mouth, and she pulls away to beam at him. “I need a bath.” She whispers, running her hands down his bare torso. “I’m very sweaty, and tired from my long journey. Help me wash, husband mine?” Her eyes grow large again as she looks at him imploringly.

Gendry moves to stand, but he keeps Arya in place when she tries to climb off him. He grips his hammer and holds his Lady in his arms, and she lets him carry her back to the Red Keep.

Hours later, Arya wakes up to the late afternoon sun streaming through the curtains of the chambers she’d lived in the last time she had been in King’s Landing, when her father was still Hand to King Robert Baratheon, and she and Sansa were still mortal enemies, back when she was still learning water dancing from Syrio Forel. Before her world and family were torn apart by Cersei, before she’d run into Hot Pie and Lommy, before Gendry had come to her aid and asked her where she’d stolen her Needle.

All of it seems like another lifetime ago, like the past few years have been a dream, like she’ll wake up any minute now, in the same bed, and she’ll be 11 again and still have a Father and a Mother, and Robb and Rickon.

Arya turns to her side; the sheets are cool against her bare skin, but she is very warm, thanks to Gendry who is wrapped around her, with his nose buried in her hair as he sleeps on.

Had she been told, years ago when they were still being hunted through the Riverlands by Lannister men, that she would be married to her stubborn Bull, and that she’d be waking up next to him in the Red Keep not as a prisoner waiting to be killed, but as the Princess (however much she loathed that title) of the Six Kingdoms and the North, and that her crippled little brother would be the Sovereign himself, she would have laughed in their face and pushed them into the dirt for spewing out such a nonsensical lie.

That Sansa would be Queen in the North, and love Arya enough to want her little sister to sleep in the same bed as her every night after they reunited, to make up for the years of lost time, the years when sisters become friends.

That she would see her beloved Jon again, her brother for always, no matter whose son he was, and that she’d see him happy at Winterfell, supporting Sansa’s rule as her most trusted advisor.

That Gendry would look at her like she’s his sun-and-stars, with gazes full of awe and love and unending hunger, instead of the grubby little girl he’d spent two years protecting, mussing up her hair and teasing her and perpetually getting on her nerves.

Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle.

Gendry shifts in his sleep, and instinctively moves closer to her warmth, securing her fully in the circle of his arms.

Arya leans back, ever so slightly, so that she can get a better view of him. She reaches out to trace a finger lightly down the bridge of his nose, over his rough, stubbled jaw, over his lips, which are still pink from her kisses hours before.

Blue eyes, bluer than the famous Braavosi canals she’d spent so long near, crack open to regard her, and the lips she’s tracing press a gentle kiss to her fingers.

“Hello,” Gendry croaks, and he stretches a little before smiling tiredly down at her. “Did you sleep well?”

Arya flashes him a satisfied grin. “Better than I’ve had in four months.”

She sighs into his mouth when he leans down to capture her lips for perhaps the hundredth time that day, but it still feels as thrilling as the first time. She melts beneath him as he rolls over to gently press her into the sheets.

He’d been feverishly attentive to her during their bath, taking care to wash every inch of her skin and pressing searing kisses all over her. His strong hands had held her hips still as she sat in his lap and washed his hair for him, trying unsuccessfully to deter her sweet, torturous movements above him, but he’d groaned in defeat when Arya reached down between them.

“Wait,” Gendry had hissed when her fingers closed around him to take him inside her. He kissed down the side of her jaw to suckle her earlobe. “Want to take care of you,” he’d mumbled, his warm breath tickling her neck, his fingers reaching between her legs to stroke her slick heat, rubbing lazy circles around her clit and sending tidal waves of sweet pleasure coursing though her.

“Gendry…” she’d tossed her head back in pure bliss as he slipped a calloused finger into her, and then another. The hot coil in her belly wound tighter and tighter as he worked her, and she whimpered against his lips as he stroked against something that made her see stars.

He’d grinned up at her. “Yes, love?”

“Gendry, I want…” she’d panted, “I want…”

He kissed down her throat, curled his fingers inside her, and suddenly the tight coil deep in her belly snapped, and Arya fell over the edge crying out his name.

Gendry laughed softly, holding her quivering body against him, helping her come back down to earth. “That?”

She’d grabbed his chin to kiss the smirk from his lips, and he instantly melted into her mouth.

“You. I want you,” she’d corrected, “I’ve wanted nothing else but the feel of you inside me and your taste on my lips for months, husband.” She admitted sweetly, and he’d never been so damn hard in his life.

He’d flushed at her confession, and gazed up at her in pure adoration. He couldn’t deny her anything, not anymore.

“As M’Lady commands,” Gendry breathed, and made love to her over and over, until they collapsed into bed hours later, utterly spent and sated.

They’re just reacquainting themselves with each other when a low growl rumbles from Arya’s stomach, and they break apart, bursting into laughter.

“And here I was, thinking I’d finally satisfied you,” Gendry sighs, pushing himself off her and holding out a hand to pull her up with him.

“Nonsense. To gratify me in the way you’re insinuating, you’d have to have me like this three times a day, every day,” Arya smiles, her eyes glittering with mirth.

Gendry’s mouth falls open at her words. “Gods, Arya. Don’t tempt me.” His hands come up to trace the scars crossing her belly, the scars he’d spent ages lavishing his attention and his warm lips upon.

She hums in reply, and kisses his cheek before leaping off the bed to pull on her breeches.

He watches her from his perch against the pillows. “What would you like to eat? I’ll go bring whatever you want from the kitchens.”

Arya pauses to pull her tunic over her head. “Thanks, but I think my brother wanted us to take supper with him.”

Gendry nods, and looks out the windows to see the sun starting to sink closer to the edge of the horizon, casting deep orange bands of light over the sea in the distance. “Then we should get going.” He climbs off the bed in search of his discarded clothing.

He manages to find his breeches and his undershirt, but his leather tunic is nowhere in sight. He turns around to find Arya holding it, she's smoothing it out on the bed, running her fingers over the jagged slashes on its shoulders, an immensely soft expression on her face.

Gendry moves so that he’s pressed up behind her, and winds his arms around her middle. “Those weren’t there originally,” he says quietly, and he dips his head to kiss the back of her neck. “I wanted everyone to know I was yours without actually saying it. I think they got the message well enough, because the other Stormlords haven’t brought up marriage proposals ever since.”

Arya turns in his arms to peer up at him with tender eyes. “I should wear something of yours, then. Make it even.” She whispers.

Gendry kisses her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips. “Always trying to one-up me,” he teases, and dodges when she aims a smack at his head.

“You’re getting better at that, I see.”

“M’lady’s a good teacher,” Gendry quips back. He takes her hands in his own. “I’d give you my cloak to keep, but tradition says I must save it until our wedding.” He grins and tilts his head, considering her. “I’ll make you a new hilt for your Valyrian steel dagger. Make it black and yellow, if you like,” he murmurs.

Arya reaches up to plant one more lingering kiss to his lips. “I’ll hold you to it.” She smiles, and pulls him by the hands out the door.

Daylight still lingers in the sky outside as Arya pushes open the large oak doors to the Great Hall, a clear sign of winter’s final death. The days during the last few years had steadily declined in length, growing shorter and shorter until the entire world had only a handful of hours in which their candles and lanterns remained unlit.

Until the end of the Long Night, when Arya thrust her dagger deep into the Night King's frozen heart, and destroyed Death himself.

Dawn had returned to shine down upon the world, and the warming rays of the sun brought life and greenery and hope back to Westeros.

Arya and Gendry walk in to find the newly-rebuilt Hall deserted, the long tables empty, save for a few members of the Royal court on the far end. Gendry glances at her, his brows knitting together in confusion. She wordlessly shrugs at him.

“Excuse me Milord, Princess Arya,” (the Princess in question grits her teeth at the title) says a kitchen boy carrying a large platter of fruits and cheese. “His Grace wished to take a private supper out on the upper terrace. He wants you to join him there. Please follow me.”

The kitchen boy leads them up through the castle, up many flights of new stairs, until they reach an unfamiliar landing that faces two intricately carved wooden doors.

Gendry pushes them open to help the kitchen boy pass through, and they find themselves standing on a vast open balcony, high over the rest of the Red Keep, with candles and lanterns glittering everywhere as the sunset turns the sky around them pink.

There’s a single long table in the middle of the terrace, and there Bran is seated, along with Brienne, Podrick, Davos, the Lannister brothers, Samwell Tarly and his Wildling wife Gilly, and (to no one’s great pleasure) Lord Bronn of Highgarden. The young King looks up and smiles at the newcomers.

“Welcome, sister,” he pats the empty seat next to him at the head of the table. “And Lord Gendry,” he nods. “We had a bit of a change in dinner plans, so I sent Terry here to fetch you.”

Arya smiles at her brother, and takes her place beside him, and Gendry seats himself on her other side. Terry the kitchen boy sets down the enormous platter with some difficulty, and for his effort, Arya slips him a large strawberry pastry from a nearby plate. “Thank you.” she tells him kindly, and the young lad blushes furiously at being directly addressed by the Bringer of the Dawn herself, taking the sweet from her with slightly shaking hands, and he all but flees from the room.

Gendry watches the exchange with a fond smile. “You highborns aren’t so bad after all,” he concedes. Arya elbows him in the ribs, and he laughs.

The bright orange-pink of the sinking sun fades to pale purple dusk, and the candlelight casts warm glows all around the table as they all tuck into their food, engaging each other in familiar conversation over the clatter of plates and cutlery.

Halfway through the first course of creamy soup Bran inquires Arya about their sister in the North.

“Is Sansa happy, there?” Bran asks slowly. “I know she didn’t want our family separated.”

“She is,” Arya assures him, “She’s already had Winterfell and Winter Town rebuilt, and she’s overseeing the allocation of lands to the Windlings, with Jon’s help. I think,” she pauses, looking out at the city over the edge of the balcony, “I think this is what she was always meant to be. A Queen. She’s never felt more at home than she does now.”

“She was,” Bran agrees. “I try to check up on her when I’m flying as a raven. She looked happy the last time I saw her, but also a little down. I’m sure it’s because she misses you.”

“She misses you too. She worries for her little brother down South, in what she describes as a rotten nest of vipers.”

Tyrion, who had been listening in ever since their conversation turned to Sansa, now spoke up. “She wasn’t wrong, Lady Arya,” he says with a sad smile, “She’d suffered the most while she was trapped here as my sister’s prisoner. It’s because of this that I, and the rest of us sitting here, are trying our best to rid this capital of those very snakes. We want to do our part to leave that world behind us, and amend for our pasts.”

Arya looks out over the others eating at their table. Once upon a time, she would have felt in danger among them, especially with Jaime Lannister, but so much has happened since then, so much has changed, that she not only feels comfortable sitting here with them, but at peace.

With a pang, she thinks of how scared Sansa must have felt, during those years she was held in this very castle, and what horrors she went through. Arya wishes her sister could see the Red Keep now, under their brother’s rule, and how it’s nearly unrecognizable from those days when it was ruled under tyranny and greed, and the Lannister Queen’s insatiable lust for power.

“Sansa didn’t want me to leave,” Arya whispers, then. Bran gives her a small smile, for he’d known this, too. “She didn’t want me to come back down here, she’d wanted me to stay in Winterfell with her and Jon.”

Gendry puts down his fork, and Arya feels his eyes on her. “I told her, that my family wasn’t just in Winterfell. I needed to come back and watch over you here,” She tells her brother softly, and reaches beneath the table to grip Gendry’s hand. “And I made a promise, to be Lord Baratheon’s wife. I’m his family, too.”

Gendry’s heart swells, and suddenly it’s too big for his chest, and he squeezes her fingers in return.

“We know,” drawls Jaime Lannister nearby. “No one here is in doubt of that. Incidentally, when is the happy day? We’re all dying for a bit of merriment, although this afternoon seemed plenty merry for you two.” His eyes flash with a hint of a smirk over his goblet of wine.

“Were you impressed by our fighting skills that much, Ser Jaime, to watch us for as long as you did?” Arya replies coolly. Jaime’s eyes widen in shock.

Gendry nearly spits out his ale. “He saw us?” He sputters. He hadn’t merely sparred with his Lady in those gardens, they’d also… he flushes at the thought. This gods-damned castle really did have eyes everywhere.

“Oh, it wasn’t just Ser Jaime,” Arya informs him brightly. “I believe Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos were present, too.”

Gendry whips his head around to throw Davos a look that could have roasted him.

The Onion Knight feverishly shakes his head in denial. “No no, my boy, I only happened to stumble upon you two by accident, believe me lad, I had no intention of - “

Arya leans across to place a hand on the old smuggler’s arm. “It’s alright, Ser Davos. Don’t worry about it.” When the anxious expression still doesn’t leave the Knight’s face, she smiles. “Come eat meals with us from now on, Ser. Gendry doesn’t admit it, but he’s missed you these past few weeks.” She’s grown rather fond of the man who had taken such good care of her beloved Jon and her Gendry.

Gendry drops the act at once, and nods at his now-father figure. “It’s true. I’ve been so busy running between here and Stormlands, but I’d be lying if I didn’t miss your company and your considerable wisdom.”

Davos bursts out into laughter, smiling at the best Baratheon he’s ever known, after his little Shireen. “Not sure about the wisdom part, but I’d be glad to provide you with my company and bad jokes for as long as you want.”

“Still, you haven’t told us when your happy day is,” wheedles Jaime, who has since recovered from his shock and has now gone right back to being a thorn in Arya's side.

“In about three months, Ser Jaime.” replies Gendry, looking at Arya. He squeezes her fingers again, her hand so small and warm in his own. “We’ll be married at Winterfell. When’s yours?” He shoots back.

The entire table hides their grins, and even the King himself spoons more stew into his mouth to keep his expression neutral.

Brienne turns pink, and Jaime’s face bypasses it entirely to burn scarlet. Arya decides to rescue them, if only because she loves the tall, blue-eyed Lady Knight across her.

“Sansa would be happy to see you married at Winterfell, too.” She gently tells Brienne. “She misses you a lot. Come North with us when we go.”

The Kingsguard Commander looks over at her King. “If Your Grace will allow, it will be my honor to see Queen Sansa again.” She turns to cast Jaime a shy smile, “and if you have no objection to it,” she says softly.

Arya swears she’s never seen Jaime look at anyone so tenderly. “I will go wherever you go, Ser Brienne,” he says simply. “Anywhere, as long as I get to marry you, and call you mine.”

Brienne blushes as red as Jaime does, unable to keep the joy off her face. Podrick pats her hand beside her. “Your Grace, I will be happy to remain here with the other Kingsguard while Sers Brienne and Jaime go North.” He pipes up.

Brienne swiftly turns to her former squire, now a young and capable Knight whom she loves like a little brother. “But I want you to be there too, Podrick,” she says quietly. “You can’t miss your own commander’s wedding, after all,” she declares, and Podrick beams at her.

Bran waves his assent. “You may come with us to Winterfell in three months’ time. The Grand Maester and our Master of Coin will manage affairs here until our return.”

Samwell nods eagerly. “Worry not, Your Grace, Lord Bronn and I will take care of everything.” He wilts a little then, as Bronn shoots him a withering look.

“Yes yes, you all go ahead and run off to your weddings and your celebrations, we’ll do all your work for you and run the Six Kingdoms in the meanwhile,” drawls the Master of Coin. “At least the North will be paying for these things, Highgarden can’t afford to be doling out gold for parties and funding the realm at the same time.” He grumbles under his breath.

The rest of the conversation fades into jumbled words in Arya’s ears, as she leans back in her seat to watch the twilight blanket the city and the sea in the distance in purple hues, and the stars are beginning to wink into existence far above them. The night air is cool, but the numerous candles provide warmth, and the weight of delicious food in her belly is a welcome feeling after nearly three weeks of riding down the Kingsroad from Winterfell.

Arya blinks slowly, her eyelids becoming heavier by the minute. She’s not sleepy, she will stay awake and alert to pay attention to the very important discussions taking place, she’s a damned Faceless assassin for gods’ sake…

Gendry feels something small and warm press into his side, and he looks down see his wife-to-be leaning against him as though he were a particularly comfortable pillow.

Arya’s pulled from her doze just long enough to register Gendry’s arm wrapping around her. “Shall I take you to bed, M’lady?” He whispers, his breath warm in her ear, his smile clear in his voice.

She hums softly in protest, her eyelids refusing to remain open any longer. “M’ awake,” she mumbles, “M’ just resting my eyes for a while.” A yawn promptly betrays her words.

Little Arya Stark would have never allowed herself to fall asleep in the company of anyone but her family, would rather have died than expose such vulnerability, but she isn’t worried tonight. The people at this table are her pack now, too. The Lannister lions sitting nearby are tame.

This place is no longer the den of venomous snakes where her family had suffered so much. It is a stronghold that protects the ones she loves the most, her old friends and new, and as long as she lives, she will honor her promise to Sandor Clegane. She will choose her family, her life, and give everything she has to ensure their happiness. But for now, Arya Stark will rest.

Gendry presses a kiss to the crown of her head, like her Lord father used to, every night before he tucked her into bed.

During moments like these, she can swear her Father sent Gendry to watch over her in his place.

“Awake. Of course.” Gendry chuckles into her hair. “With your eyes closed. Don’t start snoring on us, M’Lady.” Arya mumbles an incoherent retort, aiming a kick to his shin with all the accuracy of a drunken archer firing arrows into the night, and her leg meets nothing but air.

Gendry now laughs in earnest, the sound reverberates deep in his chest and gently lulls her to sleep, nestled in his arms.

The others at the table smile at the sight, and take care to speak in hushed tones for the rest of the evening.

[acenettle]

Pillars Prompts Weekly prompt 0058: Birthday in the context of Deadfire

Features the Watcher, Edér, Bearn, Irrena and Engrim, with appearances by a number of other companions and sailors. Some background Aloth/Watcher shipping.

Rated T for mentions of suicide and of stuff blowing up.

Birthday Boy

Faith made kith do strange things.

Keeping the tenets of your faith even when you knew your god was a mere fabrication, for one. Going for a sea voyage and trying to end your own life in the middle of it, for another. Merely drinking in a cabin and fretting because there was nothing more you could do came a distant third.

Askildr squinted at Edér, who was staring at his tankard as if he might divine the future from the pattern of the foam.

"I just thought it would help, getting Elafa’s boy off that ship,” he muttered. “That he’d just need a couple of days to recover, and then he’d find some kind of normal to fall back to. But it’s been a fortnight, and I’m not seeing any improvement.”

Askildr shrugged. "He’s alive.”

"Yeah, but for how long? He’s barely eaten anything. I’d almost prefer his Hollowborn brother, at this point. At least with the Hollowborn, you knew where you stood.”

"It’s different,” Askildr said, "whether you believe something out of habit and tradition, or whether you believe because it’s your cause. So why, then, would it be the same when it all falls apart?"

Edér mulled her words over, but when he spoke he didn’t sound entirely convinced. "Yeah, I guess you’d know something about that. Me, I just know Elafa wouldn’t have wanted this for her kid.”

Askildr reached out to rest a hand on top of his, searching for the right words. She appreciated all he'd done for her, and felt his kindness had to be repaid, but he was not of the Land and saw things... differently.

She settled for the almost right. "He might still come around. And even if he doesn’t, perhaps in time another path will be made clear.”

Edér nodded and fell silent. She sat and kept him company.

Their reverie was broken by a knock on the cabin door. Before either of them could get up, the door swung open and Irrena poked her head in.

"Sorry to disturb you, casità, Edér, but with your permission Haema and I would like to throw a party.”

"Sure,” Askildr said, and gestured for the sailor to join them at the table. “Will you tell me what the occasion is?

Irrena leaned against the table conspiratorially. "Well, casità, rumour has it Eld Engrim is turning all of seventy tomorrow. Or at least, that’s the number he gives. And I have just the fruit pie recipe! Time to thank him for fixing my leg, ac?”

"I could use some pie, not gonna lie,” Edér mumbled. "And maybe another drink.”

"It would get everyone’s spirits up,” Askildr said. Irrena grinned and clapped her on the back.

"Agracima, casità! It is settled, then!”

And so it was. Next afternoon, the crew put together tables and hung extra lanterns on the deck, and as the sun began to set everyone not on watch duty gathered for as much of a feast as you could manage on aboard a sailing galleon miles from any land. It felt good, Askildr thought, to be in the midst of it all. This wasn’t Caed Nua, but it felt like a community – her community - all the same.

She took her seat at the main table next to Aloth, who gave her a knowing smile. The others sat as well - Edér on the other side of Aloth, Pallegina next to him, Serafen, Rekke, Tekēhu and Fassina on her other side, and their hired guide and  the sailors across the table, or at other tables further down the deck.

Only Bearn was missing. There were some things, it seemed, that simply could not be helped.

Eld Engrim observed the gathering and had to wipe his eyes. "Ye’ve all outdone yerselves,” he said, his voice thick. "Aye, Magran’s blessed me with so many trials I can hardly recall when there last was a feast just for me. Askildr, ye’re a fair captain, fair as the weather, and don’t ye ever let anyone tell ye otherwise.”

The sailors dug into the food; new barrels of rum and ale were opened, and several wine bottles uncorked. The pie was pleasantly moist, and the crust melted in the mouth. The fruit was delightfully sweet.

"This reminds me of home,” Pallegina said, and a rare smile graced her features. Irrena beamed.

"My old Grandma’s recipe, from Selona.”

"We used to have parties like this when I was a boy,” Edér said. "’Course, no one much felt like celebrating birthdays once the Hollowborn curse started. But before then, used to be the whole village would gather, any excuse they had. Heh, they knew how to celebrate.”

"Fye, ye call this a party?” Iselmyr interrupted, before Aloth managed to school his expression. "It may not be the Feast of Feasts,” he said in his own voice, “but under the circumstances it’s perfectly adequate.”

"Ekera, but it seems strange to lift someone on a pedestal just because they were born,” Tekēhu said, his expression thoughtful. "Certainly in a tribe, no one is more special than any other.”

"Postenago,” Fassina muttered. "I have seen plenty of birthday celebrations all over Neketaka’s streets. You should be no stranger to them.”

"I say, foreigners bring their customs with them, and some tribes are quicker to adopt them than others.”

"I thought they were all Kahanga now. Or are they only all Kahanga when it suits you?"

Tekēhu looked taken aback, either by Fassina’s words or her acrid tone. "Of course not, I merely meant –“

"Now now, let’s not allow this to get out of hand quite yet,” Serafen said, and downed the remainder of his mug of rum. Fassina looked away, chastised. "’Course, now that I be thinking on it," he added with a spark in his eyes, "the last time I saw yer cap at a party, she went and blew a man right off his boots. So maybe “out of hand” is just how she likes ‘em."

"He deserved it, though,” Edér said, and got a chorus of "ayes” and a few raised tankards from the gathered crew.

Askildr shrugged.

"It isn’t much of a party unless someone loses an eye.”

"An eye?” Rekke looked alarmed and put a hand over one of his.

"She doesn’t mean it literally,” Aloth said quickly, and then had to bite his lip. "It’s just a figure of speech. A saying.”

Rekke didn’t seem entirely reassured by that. "In Lipasalis -”

There was a creak from the door leading belowdecks. Edér looked over and froze; Rekke followed his gaze and abandoned whatever it was he had been about to say.

Bearn stood in the doorway, unkempt and unshaven, clothes hanging loosely from his thin frame.

"It was my birthday too,” he said quietly. "Two days ago.”

Eld Engrim grinned. "Well, there’s room enough at this table for two. Come and sit with us, birthday boy!”

Edér recovered quickly. He scooted closer to Aloth and patted the spot he’d vacated. "Here, I made room for you.”

Bearn hesitated. Then, with shoulders held stiff and eyes staring right ahead, he walked over and sat down next to Edér. Almost immediately, Irrena put a bowl in front of him, while Engrim handed the boy a tankard and waved at Haema, who came over and filled it with ale. Slowly, carefully, the boy took a small sip.

It was only because she was watching closely that Askildr noticed Edér letting out a sigh of relief.

A table over, Riggere pulled out a harmonica. As the first notes carried over the din of the diners, Engrim got up and offered Irrena his arm. "Care to test that leg of yers, fair maiden?"

Irrena laughed. "Just this once, old man,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

"A dance, I say!” Tekēhu’s eyes darted from Pallegina to Fassina before settling on Rekke. "Might I entertain you for a song or two?”

"Who? Me?” Rekke cast a quizzical glance at Askildr, but got up anyway.

As one pair after another moved away from the tables, Askildr turned to Aloth. "What do you think?”

"Everyone is watching,” he replied, keeping his voice down.

"It doesn’t look like that to me.” Most of the crew seemed preoccupied with food and conversation, or too busy trying not to trip over their own feet to pay them any heed.

"Still, I’d rather not draw attention to us.” His smile was almost apologetic, as if he didn’t quite believe she wasn’t expecting anything of him. "Not until I know what exactly to tell them, at least.” He nodded towards the dancers.  “I think you’d better ask someone else."

She squeezed his shoulder.

"As you wish. Pallegina?”

By the time she returned from a twirl on the dance floor, Bearn was sitting a little less stiffly, and while he’d not touched his bowl, his mug was almost empty. Edér had kept his place next to the boy, and was now turning his pipe over in his hands, deep in thought. Then, as if having reached some conclusion, he fished something from inside his shirt. Askildr recognised the glint of it - the Night Market amulet.

Edér clasped Bearn’s hand and dropped the amulet into his palm.

"Here. I don’t have much to give in the way of presents, but this… this has meant something to me. It’s about using your faith to kith, not just your god.”

The chain ran through Bearn’s fingers like golden sand. Then, just as the amulet itself was about to drop, Bearn’s hand twitched, catching the disc. Edér nodded.

"I hope it does you some good, as it has done me.”

Askildr smiled as she resumed her seat. Serafen cast her an inscrutable look.

"Well, ye be happy, cap,” he said, "and with everyone still in one piece.”

"Well, the party’s not over yet. More rum?”

"I’m always up for more rum, cap, as long as we be having more to spare."

"I wouldn’t worry about that. The gods could decide to finish us all off tomorrow, for all we know.”

Serafen raised his mug. "So let’s live a little, aye?”

“And wait to see if anything makes it worth it.”

This time, she received a raised eyebrow. “Ye be one strange lass, captain Watcher.”

She shrugged. "Faith makes kith do strange things.”

[maybrandon]

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